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

Chapter 26

CHAPTER 26

“If that was a dream, it was one of the finest of me life,” Camden mumbled sleepily, stretching his arms and legs, feeling the satisfying ripple of muscle.

When Paisley did not respond, he cracked open one eye and glanced down at the spot where she should have been. He remembered falling asleep holding her, and when he had briefly stirred in the middle of the night, she had still been right there at his side, her head on his chest. Tucked into him, fitting against his side as if she had been made for it.

“Sweetlin’?” He sat up sharply, smoothing his palm over her side of the bed.

It was cold.

One look around the bedchamber told him she was not there, his mind playing a game of ‘what is missing.’ All his life, he had possessed a keen eye for detail; it was what made him a brilliant warrior, a respected laird, and an infamous lover.

Her cloak is gone. It was hangin’ by the door.

He threw back the coverlets that had tangled around his waist and moved quickly from the bed to the window, opening the shutters. They swung outward, caught by the mountain winds that rarely missed an opportunity to huff their biting fury at the castle.

Hopping up on the sill, impervious to dangerous the distance between the tower and the ground below, he unlatched the window. Keeping hold of the handle so it would not butterfly out and smash against the wall, he leaned out and peered downward.

The garden Paisley cherished so much could just be seen from his perilous vantage point. He hoped a brisk walk to blow off the heat of the previous night was the only reason she had left his side instead of allowing him the singular pleasure of waking up to her.

There ye are…

He spotted her crouching in front of a small patch of snowdrops. She seemed to be talking to them, which made him smile—perhaps she was asking them for advice. But what would such flowers have to say about her predicament? What would such drooping blooms have to say about him?

She stood up slowly, her hands clasped together as if in prayer, but Camden was not watching the movement of her lips anymore. His keen gaze fixed on her clothes. Not the finery of Castle Cairn, as provided by him and his mother, but the simple, drab dress that she had been wearing when they first met.

Why is she wearin’ that?

It had clearly been laundered and darned, but there was no mistaking it—it was the same earthy dress, the same habit of her order. The scapular hung around her waist once more, and though she was not wearing her wimple and veil, she looked every bit the novice nun who had tumbled out of the briars.

“Is that yer choice, then?” he said quietly, disappointment drawing him back into the bedchamber.

He perched on the sill for a moment with the wind at his back, the chill of it caressing the nape of his neck like it meant to comfort him. He had thought that last night would make her decide the opposite—to not return to the convent.

Frankly, seeing her in that habit was a wasp sting to his pride.

Did she nae like it? Is this some ironic twist of fate, that I cannae satisfy the one lass I truly want to satisfy?

He shook his head and slid off the sill. That was ridiculous—he had every faith in his talents. Her loud, unabashed, shuddering pleasure was proof enough of that.

If she was still choosing to return to the convent, there had to be another reason. And she would not be leaving until he had a satisfactory answer.

Pulling on his léine, which he had carefully peeled away in the night when he had grown too hot, he headed for the exit, still stuffing the fabric into the waist of his kilt as he wrenched open the door. As such, he did not see the figure standing in the hallway, hand raised to knock, until he had almost flattened him.

Marcus staggered back, out of Camden’s way. “M’Laird. Apologies.”

“For what? Ye’re nae interruptin’ anythin’,” Camden replied, pushing away the image of Paisley restrained on the bed, exposed to him in every glorious way, panting and moaning his name, relishing every touch and taste and gift of pleasure he had offered.

Marcus frowned. “Miss Becker told me ye were?—”

“Miss Becker ought to spend less time eavesdroppin’ and gossipin’ and whisperin’ in yer ear,” Camden interrupted. “With respect, Marcus, I’m on me way to tend to somethin’ important. If there’s a question ye mean to ask, could ye get on with it and ask it?”

Embarrassment colored Marcus’s cheeks. “Of course, M’Laird.” He cleared his throat and stood straighter. “There’s been word from the night watch that a man was spotted. He was first seen in the forest to the west, observin’ the path up to the gates. He was pursued but got away. An hour or so before dawn, he was seen again—up the mountain, this time, on that ledge that overlooks the trainin’ courtyard. There are men in pursuit, but I thought ye’d want to ken.”

“Sounds to me like ye have it all in hand,” Camden said, already impatient.

“Aye, M’Laird, but I came to ask if ye want him brought in or killed?”

Camden paused, sweeping a hand through his messy hair. “I’d wager he’s one of MacDunn’s men. Just kill him. I’m nae in any mood to play games today. If he’s anythin’ like the last one, interrogatin’ him will be futile—and will only put me in a fouler mood.”

“As ye prefer, M’Laird.” Marcus dipped his head, but not before Camden saw the confusion on his face.

I cannae exactly blame ye for bein’ bewildered.

Until Camden had spoken with Paisley, he would not be able to settle. So, until then, everyone would have to deal with his odd behavior. There were very few things that could compel him to refuse a hunt, especially one that required men with a knack for climbing the mountains that protected the castle, but Camden had another pursuit on his mind.

Add to that the early hour, and any man could be forgiven for being a little out of sorts.

“Is that all?” Camden asked brusquely.

Marcus nodded. “Aye, M’Laird.”

“Then skewer the bastard and let me ken when it’s done.”

Camden marched off with a dark cloud over his head, eager to get to the bottom of why Paisley was wearing her habit again, hopefully before he said or did something that would have the council chomping at the bit to replace him with someone ‘more reasonable.’ Or rather, easier to control.

But fate had apparently seen fit to punish him on that brisk, frost-dusted morning, throwing every hurdle of divine intervention at him as he attempted to make his way out to the garden.

“Camden!” a familiar voice called out from the other end of the hallway, stalling him at the top of the staircase that would lead him down to Paisley.

From the doorway of another guest chamber, Jack waved at him, calling for his attention.

Stifling a groan, Camden walked to his friend and fellow laird. “If ye need yer breakfast in bed because ye cannae bear to leave the warmth of yer wife, ye’ve got a maid assigned to ye for that.”

“Breakfast? We had it hours ago. Some of us are used to wakin’ up before noon, though I see it still doesnae agree with ye,” Jack teased in his gruff fashion, eyeing him with curiosity. “Actually, it’s lucky ye were walkin’ by so I didnae have to come and find ye.”

Lucky for ye, maybe.

Camden tried his best to be courteous, but his mind was too restless. “Can I do somethin’ for ye?”

“Nay, I just wanted to tell ye that Amelia and I must leave. We ought to be departin’ shortly.”

“Truth be told, I didnae even ken ye were still here,” Camden replied.

Even he could hear that his voice did not carry the usual humor, the words as frosty as the crisp grass in the garden outside, where he should have been by now.

Jack leaned against the doorjamb, his eyes narrowed as they assessed Camden from head to toe. “Who poured vinegar in yer blood this mornin’, eh?”

“Bein’ bothered while I’m on me way to tend to other things,” Camden replied curtly. “ That’s what’s irkin’ me. I’d wager I’ll knock into me maither, half the council, and maybe even the ghost of me faither before I’m allowed to get to where I need to be.”

Jack clicked his tongue, deep in thought. “I cannae remember a time when I’ve seen ye like this.”

“Like what?”

“Restless, grumpy, discourteous, petulant—take yer pick. Ye’re almost like me. Or Murdoch, even.” The irritating curve of a smile pushed up one corner of Jack’s mouth. “It’s every man’s right to have a tryin’ day, but I’m curious to ken what’s the cause of yers. Might it be a lass?”

Camden rolled his eyes. “Ye’ve gotten soft since ye married Amelia, and I couldnae be like Murdoch even on the worst day of me life. Though I’m glad he’s nae here to take offense at what ye just said. Now, if ye’ll excuse me—safe travels home and all that. I’ll see ye whenever I see ye.”

He turned and began to walk down the flagstone hallway to the narrow, curved door that would finally take him to Paisley.

A hand on his shoulder and the cheerful start of a taunt held him back.

“Dinnae tell me ye finally—” Jack only got that far, cut off by a look so savage that Camden felt the burn of it in his own eyes.

Frowning, Jack had the decency to take a step back and put up his hands in a confused gesture of peace. “I’ll let Amelia ken ye bid us a friendlier farewell,” he said as Camden wrenched open the door and hurried down into the gloom of the spiraling staircase.