Page 90 of The Highlander's Auctioned Virgin
She looked up to hear his response, but it was evident he had not been listening to her.
He was not even looking at her. His eyes were focused on their surroundings, sweeping across the walls and the floor.
“Ciaran,” she called.
He did not respond.
Her patience snapped right there and then. She kept her voice low enough so that only he could hear.
“Listen to me. This is starting to get on me nerves. I daenae ken how much more of this I can take.”
That got his attention.
He looked straight at her. “What?”
“Are ye serious?” she hissed. “I understand ye daenae want me, but ye could at least pretend to look at me when we’re dancing.”
His gaze settled on her then, sharp enough to cut. The weight of it pressed down on her chest.
For a moment, she wished she had held her tongue.
He did not answer. At least not yet. His hand curved firmly around her hip. She tried not to think about how natural it felt, the way he held her, as if the room and the music and every other pair of eyes had fallen away.
The music shifted. He turned her in a slow arc, guiding her closer to the long table where Fergus and his soldiers were drinking. She opened her mouth to say something else, but hewas already looking over her shoulder. She followed his stare, her confusion rising.
“We’re being watched,” he muttered, his voice barely audible above the din.
“Well, I would hope so; there are people everywhere. Ye’re their Laird. Of course, they’re all watching ye.”
“Nay. Ye daenae understand,” he insisted. “Something is wrong.Reallywrong.”
Elinor swallowed, growing nervous. She could feel the tension in his muscles now, as if he was expecting something but did not know where it would come from.
The sound was what she heard first. A low whoosh that came out of nowhere. Then, Ciaran’s arm tightened around her back.
The tray was in his hand before she could blink. His arm shot up, the polished surface lifted just above her head.
A hard, metallic crack cut through the music. Her ears popped, and she felt pain in the back of her head as her heel slid across the floor.
But Ciaran didn’t let her fall. The tray dropped from his hand, hitting the floor with a loud clatter. An arrow flew off it, the shaft spinning to a stop against the toe of her boot.
Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. The whoosh still echoed in her ears.
What in God’s na?—
She could not finish the thought before Ciaran’s body shifted again. He pushed her behind him, the motion controlled but rough enough that her shoulders hit his back. Her hand reached for the leather strap across his chest as she scrambled to regain her balance.
The hall had gone quiet. She felt every pair of eyes boring into her—into both of them—waiting to see what they would do.
WhatCiaranwould do.
“Who fired that arrow?” he asked flatly, his back as stiff as a rod. “Who dared to challenge me in front of me people?”
Silence.
No one stepped forward. The musicians had frozen. A child near one of the tables began to cry.
Elinor looked over his shoulder. A blur of faces stared back, none willing to claim the arrow.
