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

Chapter 14

CHAPTER 14

“M’Laird!” Paisley yelped, dropping her quill and shooting up from her writing desk, where she had been in the middle of writing something.

Something that was not at all suitable for Camden’s eyes.

She grabbed the pages and flipped them over, perching on the edge of the desk so that her backside pinned the paper to the wood. Her heart raced like a wild animal in a trap, scared and relieved in equal measure.

“Did I interrupt?” Camden’s keen eyes flitted toward a leatherbound book that she had not managed to hide.

A book from a certain section of his library that he probably thought a novice nun would not dare to investigate. At that moment, she deeply regretted letting her curiosity get the better of her, praying he would not notice the other tomes she had tucked away.

Reading those books had whiled away the days that would have otherwise stagnated into boredom, but to be caught red-handed—and likely red-cheeked—by him made her wish she had chosen tedium instead.

She huffed and puffed, her face growing hotter by the second. “Where have ye been , M’Laird? Have ye any notion of what I’ve endured?” Anger replaced her embarrassment, and she jabbed her finger in his direction. “I have had to pretend like I’m nae here because ye decided to venture off without a word!”

“Nay one said ye had to hide, sweetlin’,” he pointed out, letting his gaze drift around the bedchamber. “But ye must tell me where ye hid. Me maither said she couldnae find any sign of ye. Were ye hidin’ under the bed? In the armoire? Behind the drapes with yer feet pokin’ out?”

“This isnae funny, M’Laird!” Paisley huffed, moving to block his view of the book she had selected. “I’ve been jumpin’ like a frog at every footstep in the hallway outside for nigh on three days! Rowena is afeared for the state of me heart—I’m so nervous all the time.”

What would I do without her?

The maid had become more and more like a friend, and she made an exceptional watchman too, keeping an eye on the hallways in case Camden’s mother came knocking again. Playing her ‘part’ was one thing, but Paisley was not prepared to perform alone, without Camden there as prompt and script.

“Yet, ye didnae hear me approachin’.” He grazed his teeth across his lower lip, moving closer. “I suppose ye were too invested in whatever ye were readin’ or writin’. Is there anythin’ in there ye’d like me to elaborate on?”

She narrowed her eyes at him, her entire body thrown back into the fluttery, flustered condition before his departure. She had hoped that when he returned, she would be able to face him with firm dismissal and indifference—at least in private—but it seemed that was not to be. If anything, the butterflies in her stomach had awakened with a vengeance.

“Nay,” she said as curtly as possible, “but if I could find a book on manners, I’d hurl it at ye. Ye’re supposed to knock before enterin’ a lass’s chambers. I might nae have been decent.”

“I might have been countin’ on it,” he replied, slowly closing the distance between them.

She had plenty of time to shoo him out or tell him to stay back or find something to throw at him. Nothing came out of her mouth, her hand refusing to reach for the poker in the fireplace that would have made an excellent weapon. Her heart skipped several beats as he placed his hands on the desk, on either side of where her buttocks were holding down her illicit writings.

She leaned back as he leaned forward, her eyes widening as he gazed at her plump lips and licked his own.

What manner of devil are ye that ye can stride in and render me voiceless, actionless?

“It was cold out in the woods,” he told her softly. “But thinkin’ of ye kept me warm.”

She swallowed. “Yer note said ye were… leavin’ to hunt. It didnae say what ye were huntin’.” She hesitated, her chest rising and falling as if she were the one who had just charged up countless staircases. “Did ye… hurt someone else?”

Her question seemed to perplex him, his gaze searching her face.

“Nay one was hurt,” he replied, the faint frown on his brow softening. “It did evoke some memories, though. I really ought to make sure that yer knee is healin’ properly.”

Slowly, he sank down to his knees, and Paisley gripped the edge of the desk. He shot her a sultry look as he slipped his hands beneath her skirts, finding the smooth skin of her slender ankles. She tried not to gasp, just as she tried to wrestle with the ‘necessity’ of what he was doing. It was permitted, was it not, if he was just tending to an injury?

The weighty fabric gathered on his wrists as he slid his palms upward. She half-willed herself to kick him and tell him to go, half-hoped he would keep going.

“Should ye nae fetch the healer for that?” she asked in a breathy voice.

“Nay need, when I can see for meself.”

He had just exposed her calves, the hem rising over her knees, when she said quietly, “I thought ye might nae come back. Ye might’ve been warmed by things ye shouldnae have thought about, but I havenae slept properly since ye left.” She paused, uncertain of why she was saying such things. “I kept havin’ nightmares, seein’ that MacNally man on the ground.”

“MacNally?” Camden frowned, splitting his attention between her worried expression and the healing wound on her knee.

The healer at the village had done an excellent job, the gash showing no sign of suppuration or spreading redness that would bring on a fever. It would leave behind nothing more than a neat scar, or so Paisley hoped, though the touch of his fingertips had her feeling like she needed to press a cool cloth to her forehead.

“He wasnae a MacNally man, sweetlin’. He was somethin’ far worse,” Camden told her, wearing a confused expression as he dipped his head and placed a tender kiss on her injured knee.

Goodness…

A delicious shiver rippled upward from the spot where his lips had touched her skin, tossing a spark onto a tinderbox of nerves that thrummed back and forth between her thighs. An unfamiliar pulsing sensation twisted the muscles of her abdomen into knots. It remained peculiar to her, how a touch in one place could make another part of her body respond with such potent immediacy.

Her legs trembled, and she hated that he could tell.

“Worse? In what way?” she asked a tad too fiercely, understanding that there was more to what had happened in that clearing than she knew. That was what she needed to concentrate on.

He might have told her the true details had the loud shout of “M’Laird!” and the startling boom of a fist pounding on the door not sent her running to the opposite side of the room. She practically trampled over him to escape what would have otherwise been a compromising scene for whoever was so desperate for Camden’s attention.

There must be a guardian angel watchin’ over her, intervenin’ when things are gettin’ interestin’.

Camden would have laughed were it not for the intense frustration coursing through his veins. Paisley had placed herself at such a titillating height on the desk’s edge, and he sensed that she would not have stopped him if he had continued to trail kisses upward to that sweet heat between her thighs.

He could have shown her how much he had thought of her over the past three days, in the cabin where he had dreamed of her each night. He could have reenacted those sumptuous dreams, but alas—he should have known better by now than to try and steal such a pious woman for himself.

“What?” he growled, throwing open the door.

Marcus stood on the other side, raising an eyebrow as he peered over Camden’s shoulder. Camden did not know what Paisley was pretending to do, but judging by the sudden darkening of Marcus’s expression, it must have been suspicious.

“A letter came for ye, M’Laird,” the man-at-arms replied. “It’s awaitin’ ye in yer study.”

Camden huffed out a breath. “Ye disturbed me for a letter?”

“It arrived with some urgency, M’Laird. Stobart brought it in.”

Frustration turned into intrigue. “Why did ye nae lead with that?”

Camden glanced back at Paisley, who stood before the armoire, mindlessly flipping through the gowns that hung there—beautiful creations of rich, emerald green, just as he had requested. As much as he would have liked to suggest helping her try on those gowns, whispering to her that she would look better wearing nothing at all, the letter could not wait.

“Have Miss Becker practice some styles for yer hair before the cèilidh tomorrow,” he said, heading out.

“Cèilidh?” Paisley gasped, her eyes bulging. “What cèilidh?”

Camden smiled. “Ye’re to be an honored guest. I’ll explain everythin’ to ye when I return. I dinnae expect that I’ll be long.”

And I might have good news for ye, so it’ll be worth the wait.

Closing the door on Paisley’s alarmed expression, Camden led the way down the endless array of staircases, cavernous hallways, narrow passages, and imposing archways until he reached the underground realm of his private study.

There, a young man with a shock of blond hair and the mildest trace of a first beard stood with his head bowed, his legs and kilt splattered with the result of six days of near-constant riding.

Stobart was one of Camden’s best messengers, and the eager Laird could not wait to read the letter in the young man’s hands.

“Ye reached the castle?” Camden asked, holding out his hand to receive the message.

Stobart nodded. “Aye, M’Laird. Three days there, three days back.”

On Nyx, carrying Paisley too, Camden knew it would have taken him at least five.

“The Laird didnae invite ye to stay?”

That surprised Camden, for though most of the old ways had fallen out of favor, there were very few in the Highlands who did not still abide by the sanctity of guest rites.

Stobart shook his head. “I had the reply within a few hours, M’Laird, but I was fed and watered and given a fresh horse.”

Wandering over to his desk, letter in hand, Camden sank down in the high-back chair and put his feet up on the mahogany surface. He opened the letter and began to read.

“What does it say?” Marcus asked, but Camden ignored him, wondering if his eyes were playing tricks with the words on the cream-colored paper.

Dear Laird Cairn,

I was surprised to receive your letter. Displeased, in truth. I cannot profess to know what has inspired my daughter to leave the confines of the convent, for she is well aware that she is not welcome here.

I have no desire to see her. It would not be of any concern to me if I never saw her again. That being said, it is against my wishes for her to be out of the convent where I placed her. You must take her back to where she belongs. Write again when it is done, and I will send a reward that is appropriate for the capture and return of a runaway.

Yours Sincerely,

Bruce Callum, Laird of Clan Morris.

Camden’s lip curled, his hands crumpling the offensive letter into a spiky ball of sharp edges and even more cutting words. He had no inclination or desire to sire children of his own, and, as of yet, he had no children that he knew of, but if he ever were to become a father, he would have burned his own heart before he cast his flesh and blood aside like that.

Ye’d make me yer minion, doin’ a task ye dinnae have the nerve to do yerself.

It appalled him. What was worse, despite Laird Morris’s assertion to the contrary, Camden suspected that Paisley had no idea she was not welcome at her family seat. Nor that her presence would be so viciously unwanted. She would not be so desperate to reach home, willing to do whatever it took if she thought she would be sent away—he was certain of that.

“M'Laird?” Marcus prompted. “What does it say?”

“It says ‘none of yer business, ye nosey devil.’ This is why I didnae send ye in Stobart’s stead.” Camden gestured to the messenger. “ He doesnae pry.”

Marcus folded his arms across his chest. “As yer man-at-arms, is yer correspondence nae somethin’ I should ken about?”

“Nae in this instance.” Camden nodded to Stobart. “Ye can go. I thank ye for yer exceptional work, as always. I’ll inform the quartermaster to give ye and yer family an additional cut of meat for yer efforts.”

Stobart’s boyish face brightened as if he had just been propositioned by his first lover. “Thank ye, M’Laird! Och, thank ye!” he cheered, hurrying out the door.

“What’s goin’ on, M’Laird?” Marcus sounded as frustrated as Camden had when his man-at-arms had banged on the door.

Camden shook his head, squeezing the ball of paper tighter and tighter in his hand, as though he could squash it out of existence. Paisley was not some wayward hellion. She was not some disgrace to the family name if she had been in the convent for eleven years. She was not deserving of the disregard and disdain that she had unknowingly received.

And she willnae ken either.

He would not hurt her with her father’s unkindness, not until he knew why the man had written such cruel words.

“It must be somethin’ if ye’re starin’ like ye want to rip someone’s head off,” Marcus pressed.

Camden smiled. “Maybe I do. It might be yers if ye keep botherin’ me about matters that dinnae concern ye.”

“It’s that lass, is it nae?”

Camden’s smile dropped.

“I’ve kenned ye long enough to ken what worries ye, and this behavior isnae anythin’ I’ve seen from ye before,” Marcus said. “I wouldnae be much of a friend or a man-at-arms if I didnae fret over a change in ye.”

“A change in me?” Camden snorted, but it did nothing to dislodge the odd feeling in his chest. The same feeling that had plagued him during his three days in the woods. A feeling of being in the wrong place—an invisible string inside him tugged on by the woman who was not there.

It’s because I cannae have her. I cannae satisfy me curiosity.

And now, there was nothing to delay her return to the convent. No reason for her to help him with his marriage issue. The question was, did he tell her the truth immediately or wait three weeks before breaking her heart with the letter crumpled in his hand?

I have a better idea.

“Marcus, fetch Stobart back here,” Camden said firmly, tossing the ball of paper onto his desk. “It seems I have another task for him—one that’ll keep his family fed for months.”