Page 98 of Auctioned to the Cruel Highlander
Then she rose.
He got to his feet too, but too slowly, as if his body had forgotten how to move at the speed required when the danger was a woman walking away in heartbreak and not an armed man crossing a yard.
“Ava.”
She did not stop.
The coat shifted in the grass where she had left it. Her cloak hung close around her while the comet still marked the sky above her as she started back toward the castle, and the sight of her moving through the pale light felt like a punishment carefully measured to fit his failure.
He could have gone after her. He knew that. He could have caught her arm and turned her back. He could have said the whole thing at last with no shelter left around it.
I daenae want freedom from ye. I daenae ken how to stop ruining what I love. Because I do, Ava. I love ye.
He remained standing where he was.
CHAPTER 28
Ciaran had not slept.
He had lain in the dark until it thinned, staring at stone and hearing the same moments repeat themselves over and over.
Ava’s mouth on his cheek. Her voice, quiet and steady as she offered to tell her father the annulment was what she wanted. The sound of her footsteps retreating while he stood by the loch like a fool who could fight any man alive and still fail when truth had to be spoken quickly.
By dawn, his eyes burned, and his jaw hurt from clenching. He had not undressed. He had not done anything useful at all.
Bruce’s barking tore through the castle before the sun had fully risen, and he sat up at once. That was no ordinary yapping for scraps or attention. It came hard and fast, with a frantic pitch that jolted him to his feet before his mind had caught up.
The dog barked again, then again, each one sharper than the last, as if the small creature meant to wake the dead itself.
Ciaran yanked open his chamber door and stepped into the passageway. Servants were already spilling out of rooms and corners in half-dressed alarm. A maid clutched her apron to her chest, and one of the kitchen lads had flour on his sleeve as if he had run straight from the bakehouse.
What in?—
Bruce shot across the passageway and doubled back again, barking up at every face in turn, then racing a few steps toward the stairs before returning furiously.
“What is it?” Ciaran snapped.
No one answered quickly enough.
That alone sent a chill down his spine.
Bruce whined, barked once more, then scratched at the floor and ran toward the stairs again.
A maid found her voice. “Me Laird…”
Ciaran rounded on her. “Speak.”
Her face had gone pale. “It’s Her Ladyship, me Laird. I just left her room to check in on her after the dog…she is missing.”
The words struck with the clean force of a blade, and for one second, he simply looked at her.
What?
“She is nae in her room and it looked like she had nae been there for a long time. We cannae find her anywhere.”
Ciaran wheezed like he had received the most devastating blow to his ribs. Before he realized it, he was moving.
He took the stairs two at a time, Bruce racing after him and barking still, the sound echoing off stone and wood. Somewhere below, more voices rose, and a door slammed open. Someone called for Hector.
