Page 233 of Auctioned to the Cruel Highlander
“Wait.” Laird O’Malley’s voice sounded like thunder. “I would rather throw her myself. T’is the least ye deserve, lassie.”
Ava swallowed as the old man stepped closer and grabbed her dress.
However, at that moment, something else moved in the dark. It was so faint at first that she almost didn’t hear it.Then it grew clearer. A scrape of boots on stone, then another. Then a quiet hiss.
Laird O’Malley heard it too, and his head turned.
The men at her back tightened their hold.
Her breath caught in her throat as the dark above the path shifted and figures emerged from it. More than two.
More thanthree.
One of the men behind her swore under his breath. Another drew his blade with a hard scrape that seemed to crack the daybreak wide open.
Ava did not move. She could not. She listened with every part of her being as Laird O’Malley went very still and the men around him widened their stances.
Then she heardhisvoice.
It was low and cold. It was also close enough that it went through her like the first breath after drowning.
“Let her go,” Ciaran gritted out, “and I might just make yer death quick.”
CHAPTER 30
Ciaran sawthree things the instant he crested the rise: Ava, the cliff, and Laird O’Malley’s hand twisted in the front of her dress with enough force to keep her off balance and close to the edge.
He stopped at once.
The ground between them was open and narrow, and loose stone lay everywhere. One wrong move would send the old bastard into motion before any man could reach him.
Ava’s wrists were bound, and her hair was loose and blown hard across her face. Ciaran saw her trying to keep her footing on the uneven ground and knew with one cold sweep of certainty that there would be no clean strike here. There was no opportunity for a heroic lunge or fast rescue. Only seconds to speak and one chance to choose the right words.
Men spread behind him in a rough line, their blades ready, their feet planted. Hector stood to his left. No one moved farther.
Ciaran kept his voice low. “Hold.”
Laird O’Malley heard it and smiled. “There ye are.”
Ciaran did not answer. His eyes stayed on Ava. She was pale under the dark sky, and the wind had reddened her eyes, though he could not tell how much was caused by the cold and how much was caused by fear. She was alive. That was all that mattered for the next few breaths.
Laird O’Malley tightened his grip and dragged her one step closer to the drop.
Ava stumbled, caught herself, and bit back whatever cry he imagined must have risen in her throat. Her gaze found Ciaran’s. He felt that look like a hand under his ribs.
“Ye move,” Laird O’Malley threatened, “and she dies before ye take a second step.”
Ciaran stayed still.
The cliff fell away at Ava’s back into black emptiness. The wind came up from below in hard bursts. It tugged at her dress and the hem of the older man’s cloak.
Anyone watching from farther off might have thought they stood safely enough. Ciaran saw the truth in the angle of Ava’s feet and the strain in her shoulders.One shove would be enough.
“What do ye want?” he asked.
Laird O’Malley gave a short laugh. “I have wanted the same thing for years—a grave full of Nairns.” His hand tugged again at Ava’s dress. “I shall start with yer wife, then ye.”
Ava went rigid.
