Trapped with the Devil of the Highlands (Falling for Highland Villains #3)

Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12

“And this is Cairn Hall, where ye could choose to have yer breakfast if ye’d dare to leave the sanctuary of yer room,” Camden said, leaning against the edge of a long, large, timeworn table.

Paisley had already seen the Great Hall, the Minor Hall, the Council Hall, the Shield Hall, plus a number of smaller annexes that seemed to serve no purpose.

“Why so many?” she asked, keeping distance between herself and that treacherous man with his soft lips and hungry eyes.

“So many what?”

“Halls. With respect, it’s a woeful waste of valuable space.”

Camden chuckled. “Do ye realize that whenever ye say ‘with respect,’ yer tone suggests the exact opposite?”

She did not answer him, wandering down the side of the feasting table, her gaze trained on the diamond-hatched windows. The view beyond revealed the glittering flow of the river she remembered from their approach to the castle, and lustrous woodland that swayed in stormy gusts. Gray clouds muted the daylight, promising rain.

“I have news of yer friend,” Camden said.

Paisley halted sharply. “She has been found? Please, tell me she has been found.”

“Aye, she was found, though me rider seems to wish he hadnae happened upon her.”

Paisley turned on her heel, hurrying back to where Camden was still leaning against the table, the angle of his body drawing her eye to the ridged muscle of his abdomen and broad chest.

“What do ye mean? Is she hurt? Is she unwell?” she asked, forcing her eyes up to meet his.

He shook his head. “It’s nae her who’s hurt.” Amusement sparkled in his eyes. “She lobbed a conker at me rider’s head as he was passin’ by, callin’ for her. Quite the aim she has, apparently—had half a mind to enlist her to join me archers.”

Paisley almost grabbed his hands, her heart doing somersaults. “But she is safe? Is she comin’ here?”

“I’m sorry, Paisley,” he said quietly.

“Sorry? Sorry for what?” She did grab his hands then, as if she was trying to squeeze her anxieties right into his palms, so he might take the burden from her.

Camden paused, glancing at her hands gripping his, before he raised his gaze to hers once more. “She has decided to return to the convent. Me rider gave her the choice, and she chose to go back. Said she’d done her duty if ye were in safe hands, with folks who’ll take ye where ye want to go.”

“What? Nay, that cannae be right.” Paisley dropped his hands the way she would drop a hot pan, stepping back with wariness in her heart. “She wouldnae abandon me to strangers. She’d have demanded to come here. Dinnae try to tell me otherwise—I ken me friend, M’Laird. Either yer rider did somethin’ to her, the news is bad and ye dinnae want to tell me, or ye never sent a rider out in the first place.”

She stepped away from him, making her way back up the wide aisle to the left of the table, halting before the diamond-hatched windows once again. The sky had blackened, the clouds bruised and angry, the trees in the distance tossed more violently as the first patter of rain struck the panes.

An omen if ever I’ve seen one.

Cecilia would have done everything in her power to reach Paisley, had she known where Paisley was. There was nothing in this world that could have compelled Cecilia to return to the convent voluntarily. Her dearest friend had not said it explicitly while they were planning the escape, but Paisley had suspected that Cecilia had never planned to return at all.

Paisley jumped as warm hands came to rest on her shoulders.

“Dinnae touch me,” she muttered, her eyes closing at the fleeting brush of Camden’s muscular body against hers.

If she leaned back against him, she knew she would feel every ridge and contour of him. He might put his arms around her as he had done on the horse, holding her tightly in a comforting embrace.

He did not move his hands, but his body did not brush against hers again.

“It’s the truth, Paisley,” he told her, both of them staring out at the stormy sky. “The rider is one of me most trusted men. He was instructed nae to return until he had news of yer friend. He also has the bruise on his head where the conker hit him.”

“She wouldnae do that to me!” Paisley insisted, her throat feeling as if she had swallowed cold porridge again.

Camden’s thumbs lightly stroked the nape of her neck. “There was more,” he said. “Yer friend said she had to return for ye . Said ye deserved this, but ye wouldnae be allowed back if there was nay explanation for yer sudden disappearance. She has gone back to tell the nuns a tale that’ll make ‘em welcome ye with open arms when ye return. With… certain vermin runnin’ rampant across the Highlands at present, it willnae be a hard tale to conjure up—they’ll be relieved to see ye again, instead of suspicious.”

Frowning at the gray view, Paisley realized it was the first time she had heard Camden hesitate with his words. She thought back to the man in the glade, the man that Camden had dispatched against her wishes, and wondered if the two were connected.

Does he mean Clan MacNally?

They were the only ‘vermin’ in the Highlands that she knew about, though that dispute was over a decade old now. Now that she thought about it, she was not certain what had caused the enmity between her clan and Clan MacNally in the first place—something to do with taking land or stealing livestock or destroying trade routes.

“Does that sound like somethin’ yer friend would do?” Camden asked, his hands lightly squeezing her shoulders to remind her he was there.

She turned around, her breath catching at his closeness. “She would do anythin’ for me.”

“I ken ye dinnae trust me, sweetlin’, but I dinnae lie often,” he told her. “And never about aught serious.”

“Being betrothed to someone isnae serious to ye?” The words came out before she could stop them.

The left corner of his lips quirked up in a lopsided smile. “ Avoidin’ marriage is more serious to me.”

“Ye truly believe this will placate yer council—that they’ll just give up on the notion when I leave in three weeks and four days from now?”

Camden snorted. “Are ye keepin’ a tally on yer wall or somethin’? Countin’ down the days?”

“I dinnae need a wall.” She tapped her temple. “But aye, I’m countin’ them down.”

He shrugged and wandered back to the door, where he turned and offered his hand. “Shall we?”

“Shall we what?” Paisley hesitated.

“Continue showin’ ye what ye can pretend will be yers, now that ye’re betrothed to a fine, upstanding laird,” he replied, his eyes twinkling with mischief that, for the life of her, she could not seem to resist.

She flashed him a scowl, hoping he could not sense the flutter in her stomach, and began to make her way toward him. “Do ye promise me that me friend is safe and well?”

“I promise.” He grinned. “Me rider himself took her back to the convent. So, when ye return in—how many days was it again?”

She tutted under her breath, coaxing a chuckle from him.

“When ye return,” he continued, “all will be well, and ye can take yer vows and be a nun as ye’ve planned. If that’s what ye end up wantin’, of course.”

Standing beside him, deliberately ignoring his proffered hand, she narrowed her eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Ye wouldnae be the first lass to change her mind before takin’ her vows,” he replied, taking her hand and weaving it through his arm. “So, come on—let me show ye what sort of thing ye’ll be missin’ when ye lock yerself behind those convent walls.”

She should have wrenched her arm free, should have argued that she would be taking her vows and no one would be able to change her mind, should have told him off for being so flirtatious with a novice nun, should have insisted that he would not be showing her anything.

Before she could utter a word, he leaned in and whispered, “Dinnae blush, sweetlin’. I was talkin’ about the castle.”

Stunned into silence, Paisley allowed herself to be led out of Cairn Hall and down a wide, cavernous hallway. Camden pointed out this and that, explaining some of the history of the mountain stronghold, but she said nothing more.

Talking to him seemed to be the root of her discomfort and the ebbing and flowing tides of temptation. So, absolute quiet would be the solution for overcoming the challenge of him—she was certain of it.

“Down that hallway, right at the bottom of the stairs, ye’ll find the kitchens and the cellars in case ye find yerself wanderin’ at night again,” he continued regardless. “That’s the ceremonial hall over there. Aye, another worthless hall.”

As they walked, Paisley’s mind drifted back to an earlier question she had asked, one that he had somehow avoided answering. He had been so discreet and clever about it that she had not noticed, until that moment, that there had been no satisfactory response.

“Ye truly believe this will placate yer council—that they’ll just give up on the notion when I leave in three weeks and four days from now?”

They could not be very determined if they would agree to Camden remaining unwed after one failed betrothal. Unless there had been others? Was she one of a long line of fake or jilted fiancées?

Having been holed up in the convent for so long, she was oblivious to the goings-on in the outside world. Now and then, Cecilia would rustle up a juicy morsel of gossip or rumor, but Paisley could not recall Laird Cairn ever being mentioned.

“Why are ye so convinced that this will make yer council relent on the idea of marriage?” she blurted out.

She would permit herself to speak to Camden, but, from that moment on, it would be a matter of necessity only.

He groaned in the back of his throat, the rumbly sound having a peculiar effect on the butterflies in her stomach. “I should’ve kenned ye wouldnae miss that.” He cast her a sly sideways glance. “I’m convinced of it because there’s one thing that is bound to trump their harassin’ and haranguin’.”

“And what’s that?”

He smiled a wickeder smile than usual. “Heartbreak, sweetlin’. Terrible, gut-wrenching heartbreak.”

“Pardon?”

Paisley’s blood ran cold, her shoes squeaking to a standstill on the foot-worn flagstones of the drafty hallway. It took her longer than she cared to admit to note the humor in his eyes—such a dark shade of brown that even in daylight, they appeared black.

“For pity’s sake,” he said, sweeping his hand through his equally dark hair. “I already told ye that I’d take ye back to the convent meself. I’m nae goin’ to get rid of ye, lass.” He lowered his voice to the breathiest whisper. “When the month is through, ye’ve done all ye need to do in the real world, and I’ve returned ye to where ye came from, I’m goin’ to tell such a tale of woe that nay member of me council will ever suggest marriage again.”

She stared at him in abject horror. “Ye’re goin’ to pretend I died?”

“Aye, I reckon so. Unless, of course, ye do change yer mind about bein’ a nun. Then, I’ll have to think of somethin’ else. But I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”

She could not believe his nonchalance in matters so serious, but the more she stared at him and the brighter his smile became, the more she decided not to question it. After all, it would not actually affect her. It would not affect her parents either if they happened to hear that a ‘Miss Nunford’ was to marry Laird Cairn.

She did not like it, but once her month was finished and he had fulfilled his end of the bargain, it would not be her concern what he said or did. She would be far away, forgetting all about him with any luck.

“I hope ye realize ye’re goin’ to Hell for this,” she mumbled instead.

He recaptured her arm and tugged her down the hallway. “Aye, well, Hell is a clan council, so I’ll have plenty of practice. Besides, as long as I live a satisfyin’ life while I’m here on earth, I’ll go down with a grin on me face.” He glanced down at her. “The thing is, sweetlin’, I’m one of a rare few.”

“A rare few what?” She cursed herself for taking the bait instead of remaining quiet and indifferent.

His smile was sadder than she was used to. “People who dinnae believe in any of that. I ken ye willnae like that and ye’ll call me a heretic and ye’ll likely wish ye had some holy water to splash me with, but I’ve seen things that would steal even yer belief in a higher power. A person’s life is luck and experience and what they make of it, nae some divinely guided thing.”

There was a vulnerability in the revelation that astounded her far more than the words themselves. She once knew of others with beliefs like his—or a lack thereof—and they had never seemed any less godly to her. So, who was she to judge?

“I shall pray for ye,” Paisley murmured.

He laughed at that. “Aye, ye probably should.” He gestured to a door on the left. “This is the council chamber—a room ye’ll never want to walk into—and on the right is the library. Up ahead is?—”

“A library?” Paisley gasped, forgetting everything else.

Camden raised an eyebrow. “That interests ye? Be warned, there are books in there that arenae fit for pious eyes. Ye might find yerself corrupted by the pages if ye step over the threshold.” He bent his head, his lips close to her ear. “There are tales of lovers and trysts and entanglements, so vivid that even I have blushed a time or two.”

Paisley held her breath. His whispers, his flirtations, his discreet and not-so-discreet touches, along with the memory of the tingling, delicious shivers that each one of his fluttering kisses had wrought on her tipped her toward a ruinous kind of madness.

She wanted him to lead her into that library and show her the tales that he spoke of, so she might read the blush-worthy stories for herself. Perhaps the library would provide new fodder for her dreams to feed from, instead of conjuring up images of him every blasted night.

Or it might make those dreams worse…

“I’ve seen enough of the castle for today,” she said stiffly, feeling rather lightheaded. “I think I will retire to me chambers again.”

Camden was not looking at her, his eyes pinched around the corners as his gaze rested on something down the hallway. “Aye, and nae a moment too soon, sweetlin’.”

“Pardon?”

He met her worried eyes with a smirk. “Me maither is comin’.”