Cassian (The Immortal Highland Centurions #2) - Jayne Castel Page 0,50

Cassian. And I’d do it again, a hundred times over.”

He shook his head, his jaw clenching. “I’ve taken something you should have kept for a husband,” he rasped. “But since I cannot father children, you will be spared an unwanted bairn at least.”

Aila flinched at his bluntness. She hated the cold way he was addressing her. This wasn’t Captain Gaius—the honorable warrior who’d spoken to her so gently, who loved her last night like she was the only woman alive.

What reason could he possibly have for treating her so callously?

“I d—don’t understand,” she stammered. “This doesn’t make any sense. Last night ye—”

“Last night was madness.” Once again, he wouldn’t let her finish her sentence, and somewhere deep inside her, deeper than the shock and hurt, the heat of anger kindled.

“No, it wasn’t,” she shot back, her fists curling at her sides. That was better—rage felt stronger than tears. He’d stood there, as cold as a carven marble effigy, and ruthlessly ripped her heart to pieces—but she wouldn’t let him get away with it. “Ye are lying. I know ye care … I saw it.”

Cassian shook his head. “You’re comely and sweet, Aila De Keith … few men could resist you. We had an enjoyable night together, but it ends here between us. You aren’t to visit me again. If you do, I shall turn you away … and I’d like to spare both of us such a scene.”

Comely and sweet?

Aila’s churning belly clenched. She stared at him, fury rendering her immobile. She was so angry that it literally stripped her of the ability to speak. She didn’t have her mother or Heather’s quick, fiery temper. Instead, she was more like her father. Her anger was difficult to rouse, but when it did stir, it was a dark beast ripping at her insides, snarling to get free.

Aila’s fisted hands clenched. If there had been a suitable object within arm’s reach, she’d have grabbed it and hurled it at his face.

How dare he tell me last night meant nothing?

“Liar,” she finally gasped. But he merely stood there, his gaze upon her, his face stony. She was looking up into the face of a stranger.

“No,” he murmured. “I was lying before … this is the real me.”

Aila fled then. She had to, before she flung herself at him and raked her nails down his face.

To think she’d believed him a kind and decent man. To think she’d imagined he cared for her.

She’d been living a fantasy—one he’d just rudely woken her from.

She flew up the stairs, away from the kitchens, and sprinted across the wide entrance hall, nearly colliding with a group of English guards who were exiting the keep.

One of them laughed and made a grab for her, calling out something in French.

Aila ducked, avoiding being caught, before she snarled an insult in Gaelic and lunged for the stairs.

Male laughter followed her, although the guards didn’t.

Aila took the steps two at a time, her pulse vibrating in her chest. Reaching the landing to the guest apartments, she sprinted past the bemused guards standing watch there and fled along the hallway.

Inside her tiny chamber, she flung herself face down upon the bed and let the full weight of her humiliation and grief hit her. Raw sobs ripped at her chest, tearing at her throat.

The agony of it made her want to die.

Cassian lingered in the alcove after Aila fled.

He let her go, listening as her hurried footsteps disappeared above, before he emerged. He didn’t go down to the kitchen to get himself some bannock, and he didn’t go up to the solar where De Keith would be breaking his own fast this morning. The laird was expecting him, for they were supposed to go over the plans for the day.

Instead, Cassian went outdoors. He needed to walk, to be alone for a while.

He left the keep and strode across the inner-bailey to the walled garden beyond. Despite the warm breeze that stirred Cassian’s hair, ominous-looking clouds hung overhead. Bad weather was likely on its way.

Cassian walked into the garden, his feet crunching on the pebbles that covered the network of paths. At the center of it all was a carven statue of a kelpie head—a horse-like, shape-shifting water spirit that inhabited the lochs and pools of this wild land.

Cassian paused before the statue. The creature’s head was thrown back, its wild mane flowing behind it. Kelpies were just one of the many spirits and mythical beasts of Scotland’s folklore. After all he’d seen