by Lisa Torquay
His son had eighteen years of experience with dealing with his father’s short temper and emitted this with a reasonable tone.
Two days would not be enough for him to prepare the feast he wanted his son to have.
Two days would be too many to have her out of the manor. Out of his sight.
Two days would not put her out of his mind. Out of his blood.
Ifrinn!
Sam had a point. “Alright.” He compromised. For the boy. “Two weeks. No more.”
A fortnight of wrenching self-control. He could do that.
Easily.
If they did not kill each other first.
They would kill each other first.
Aileen had been one second away from dumping the extremely large potato bowl on the troglodyte’s pig-headed person.
Luckily, Sam intervened in a surprisingly tactful manner. He had the know-how of dealing with the infuriating giant. He bought them time. Precious time.
Forty-eight hours for an irrevocable destiny? No, oh no!
She refused to abide even in forty-eight years. Or forty-eight centuries.
Which brought her to the inevitable notion she had to flee this manor. As soon as possible.
The rest of dinner evolved in this tense tune, but she forced herself to eat properly, despite the tempest taking place in her middle. When those green eyes locked on her, strange things happened. Hot things. And moist. Her breasts became sensitive, raw, like they had been abraded. Or wanted abrasion, she did not know. Did not want to, it was uncomfortable. More than that. It induced cravings she had no chance of naming. Dared not to; supposed better not to fall in that temptation.
The sooner she found a way out the wiser.
As fast as good-manners permitted, she retired. Solely to face a sleepless night, with sleepless thoughts. And sleepless yearnings.
~.~.~
She took breakfast in her chambers, to avoid the man openly. A shameless expedient aimed to keep her cool head. Though the maid who brought in the tray said the Laird started his day at dawn to encompass his chief’s duties. This put her in a good mood.
A simple high-waist dress on, she left the room in search of a walk. It rained during the night, but the skies smiled a pleasant sunshine this morning and invited the outdoors.
Outside, there was a finely manicured garden scattered with inviting benches. On one of them, sat Sam engrossed in a thick, scholar-looking book.
“Good morning, Sam.” She said approaching him. She realised she had friendly feelings for the boy.
“Lady Aileen.” He greeted with a shy smile.
“I owe you thanks for your tact yesterday.” She sat by his side.
He adjusted his glasses. “Oh, never mind that.”
“You bought us precious time.” Her hands folded on her lap.
“I am as enthusiastic about this match as you.” Those so familiar green eyes wore a tender expression on them. One which would never come to the older ones.
“I wonder what is the hurry.” She probed.
“When my father inherited, he faced strong resistance from his uncle. Fergus believed himself the better man.”
“The one who tried to kill my grand-father?”
“The same.” He nodded. “So, Father is afraid something like that might happen and wants to prevent unforeseen developments.”
“But you are young and got all your life before you.” She contemporised.
“You are right. There is no spare, though.”
The implication crystalline clear. Should the boy fall sick or, worse, suffer an attack from some rival kin bent on the chieftainship the bloodline would die. Question being why the Laird did not marry again. He had been a widower for more than a decade. Inappropriate to ask, so she kept her silence.
“What are you reading there?” She changed the direction of their talk. Enough of the giant hassle.
“A treaty on botanic.” His hand turned the book to her.
Rather complex a subject for such a young mind, she concluded. “You have different interests.”
A proud smile came to his callow stance. “I do. My dream was to go to Oxford and become a man of science.”
Aileen felt sorry for Sam. “What does your father say about it?” Needless to ask, obvious.
A sad glint came to his eyes. “Says my duty is here, for the clan.”
That at such a tender age he must deal with a disappointment he would carry for life imprinted sorrow in her. Oxford meant costly fees, but money was no object here, was it? Pig-headed man!
The mood dispelled as he said, “I have a hot house where I try new breeds of plants. Would you like to see it?”
“I would be honoured.” They headed there.
~.~.~
And that had been where Taran found them after enquires. On their hunches, heads almost touching, hands on a foreign-looking plant, her fingers caressing it in a way which made him wish to be a vegetable.
If even spending the whole morning in the fields preparing for harvest did not wear off the renewed irritation, he did not know what would. And better not to ask, lest he got a very explicit image of the ‘method’. And the woman!
Banging the door none too silently, two heads snapped to him. “What might the two of you be doing alone in an enclosed space?” She certainly heard of decorum, did she not?
“Father.” Sam stood up, a quizzical look about him. “I was just showing Aileen a specimen of Bromeliaceae from South America.”
His son’s enthusiasm for botanic could be admiring, but he found he was incapable to cope with the acid pouring in his guts right now. “Out with you before you set tongues wagging.”
Hurt sat behind Sam’s glasses, adding guilt to the acid. What kind of monster was he becoming?
Without a word, Sam left to reveal an Aileen staring at him hard. “What was that for, anyway?”
“If I come to learn you are doing something untoward, you will have a lot to answer for, you bet.” Taut arms crossed, he shot her a stony stare.
Befuddlement smothered her goddess-like face. “Untoward! Are you crazy?”
He believed he was. Or got excessively near it. He did not understand in fact. “He is young and inexperienced. You should be careful.”
Her chin lifted and her mahogany beacons attacked him full on with varied weapons. Anger, indignation. And that volcanic thing he did not fathom what to do with, too. “In your own words, he is of age and we are to be betrothed!” She hissed vehement.
The hothouse became… hot. “You accepted him then?” And why he took a disgust for his own idea, he did not reckon.
A derogatory laugh breathed out of her illicit-thought-inducing lips. “You are forcing us into it.”
So he was. “An heir is in demand.”
One fist on her slim waist, the sway that brought her to inches from him had vexation lining it heavily. Aniseed and woman’s scent dumped on him like a wheelbarrow full of fragrant leaves. The hothouse seemed to have gone up in flames as his guts responded to her with fiery eagerness.
“I.” She stabbed him with an elegant forefinger. “Am.” Second stab. “Not” Third stab. “A.” Another “Brooding.” Yet another. “Mare!”
By then, her stabs had taken him to the deepest hell of famishment. Unable to have a clear mind, he grabbed her hand.
And the deepest hell became the highest celestial revel. Bad. Too bad. Silky. Smooth. Warm skin. Perfect to saunter over certain parts. Of him. The sensitive parts. Shameful parts.
Shameless need!
Since blood fled to unmentionable confines, there was none in his head to coax clear thought. That said, he pulled her to him. Bodies clashed.
Her eyes flared, her skin flushed. Tongue darted out to moisten those full lips, just to complete the torture. Worsened by her aniseed perfume mixed with woman.
Heavy breaths mingling, their stares combated.
“You will fit whatever role is required of you.” Guttural, too guttural, an order.
Procedures which excluded him. That acid feeling overflowed, and he came close, so close, to doing something wild, age-old. Regretful.
Delicious.
Like tasting her strawberry lips.
Damnation!
The most ragged, painful step backwards of his life: this one. The second most painful act: letting her hand go. With an inadmissible sense of loss.
No words would ever pass through his constricted throat. The sole option, to turn and leave. Fuming and silent. And burning with depthless crave.
Frantic paces, hand over her mouth, Aileen’s thoughts whirled. He could have kissed her. Could have caressed her. Ravished her. And she would have let him.
She had wanted him to do it.
So breathless, she almost panted, every single nerve wired. Something sizzled inside her incomplete, unfinished. Demanding. What it was she did not need to learn, just to get rid of—immediately.
The door threw open with a pull and she fled the enclosed place which still held his earthen scent, too disturbing. Too tempting.
CHAPTER FOUR
It had been some days Aileen sat in the garden on a strategic bench to observe the comings and goings of the manor. Carts entered and exited in constant traffic, to pick up or deliver supplies.
Sam often accompanied her, which helped as an excuse for her to be outside, attention alert on the gates.
The time had come.
Her brothers thought she visited with her aunt. Her aunt did not expect her, for Aileen sent no word. Nobody would help her out of this. She relied on her own resources.
Before dawn next morning, she dressed warm clothes and armed herself with the dagger she put in her stocking that first day and hidden afterwards. A cloak, pin money and food kept from breakfasts to go with, freedom beckoned.
The shadows for cover, she tiptoed to the patio to spot the miller’s cart delivering the flour. No one milling around at such a time, with careful movements, she sneaked under the cart’s canvas and waited. In question of minutes, the cart jerked into motion and hope smiled. Had she known it might be so easy, she would have done it on the second day.
Alertness on high, she conjectured she would have to gauge the stops and jump out and hide before jumping in again and continuing her trip far from the troglodyte. As it was, the cart never stopped, maybe for being empty. It rode for several hours. Peeks through the canvas told her they headed south. Just as she needed, the McKendrick’s manor nearer Inverness as the McDougal’s, sat northwards.
New peeks showed the mill yards ahead, delineated by sunset. It meant the miller would stop soon. So, she must get off her ride. Head covered with the cloak’s hood, she set her walking boots on the dusty road, southwards, expecting to find an inn that could offer any transport on the side.
~.~.~
Taran perceived how tired he became as soon as he prepared for dinner. The near-harvest fields demanded his attention from sunrise and he did not take a break even for luncheon. A rumble in the stomach’s vicinity told of his need for nourishment.
In the dining room, only Sam occupied the long table. The place set for that woman still vacated. Her absence gnawed, transforming the place in a frosty ensemble.
“Is Lady Aileen coming down for dinner?” He asked casually enough and expected it to fool his son.
Her presence pulled at him. In the end of a hard working day, the expectation of having her at dinner lay in him, like the sun on the horizon guiding him home
The boy shrugged, not looking at him. “I cannot tell. I have not seen her the whole day.”
Sam had been avoiding him since the tableau in the hothouse. No wonder. Air stifled in his lungs, he forced himself to talk to the boy. “Look, son, I am sorry for the other day.” A pair of green eyes mirrored his. “It has been hectic here and my behaviour could use a little improvement.”
“Your temper, you mean.”
Said temper constituted another problem, for it ignited due to certain circumstances. Or people. Or a person. Or a woman.
Buidy hell!
For someone so young, he comported with maturity beyond his years. Never displayed a rebellious attitude, like so many at his age. Perhaps, losing his mother so early made him more introspect. He cared not for remembering Fiona if ever he did.
“You are right.” He answered. “I will try not to repeat it.”
“Thank you.” He took a sip of his water.
Since he remembered, Taran enjoyed his son’s company, even if his heir displayed a rather intellectual disposition, utterly foreign for a clan’s chief. The father neither encouraged it nor stanched it, realising how important studies were to him.
Oxford proved to be one request too many though. Taran had given the boy the books he asked, the research material he coveted and the hothouse. Quite sufficient, he determined. Sam’s place was here to lead his people and not studying any abstract subject in a dusty classroom somewhere. Of course, the boy was not happy about it. A father must put limits. Taran was merely six and thirty, but things happened and he wanted to make sure Sam would learn what to do if he found himself unable to perform his duties.
In his study, after dinner, something nagged at him. The manor seemed too quiet even if everything was the same, except for her skipping dinner. She did not always attend. The day they met in the hothouse an example.
That listed as another thing he cared not to remember.
Her appointed lady’s maid summoned. “Sent word she did not feel well, my laird.”
The fact did not satisfy him. At her chamber’s door, he knocked. No answer. Again. Still silence. Door shoved, no one inside it.
Damn the buidseach, the witch!
Like a bullet, he flew downstairs, stopping at the library. “She is gone.” He informed his astonished son before he had his horse readied for a trip.
Unmeasurable rage burned his guts. How did the madcap launch into the roads alone? Danger lurked everywhere! The possibility of her harmed maddened him. Foul language escaped him while he placed provisions on his horse and set a breakneck speed, the sun just disappearing in the horizon. Southwards he rode, naturally.
~.~.~
No inn around here, she concluded after walking for more than two hours. Complete darkness would befall soon, she must find shelter. Few people crossed her on the road, none posing a threat. She did not ask for anything for fear of a trap.
Extremely dangerous to travel at night though it would be a precious time to advance. Safety being more important.
In the distance, she devised a building. Possibly a farm. Feet headed in its direction to find it empty. The barn would have to do. The hay inviting enough, she ate and lay down for the night, dagger on the ready. Hours after a restful sleep, she waited for dawn.
She had been walking for about an hour when hoofs beat furiously on the ground. No doubt it would be the troglodyte. The woods would shelter her, she ran to them.
Too late. He saw her in the distance and yelled her name. On that magnificent horse, he made it in one night, she concluded.
She turned and waited. Right, next round.
The man jumped from the horse before it had stopped. Dishevelled sable hair, morning dark stubble on his angular jaw, wrinkled shirt and messy tartan, a wolf gone astray from its pack. There came that insane urge on her to hold him as if he intended to save her. Absurd. He abducted her, for pity’s sake!
“What do you think you are doing?” He shouted, marching on her, moss-green eyes darting not daggers but a whole bunch of lethal swords.
As he moved, his undone shirt went agape dishing her with the view of broad shoulders and an expanse of wide chest sprinkled with the blackest of fine hair.
She crossed her arms defensive. “I would reckon it obvious.”
He did not deign to answer this. Large hands gra
sped her tiny waist and placed her on the horse as he mounted behind her. The touch unleashed an intense flutter somewhere below her stomach.
Here they were again, mimicking the first day. She wished she could throttle him!
As he turned the horse, she looked back longingly. Would she ever make it home again? A disheartening emotion threatened to take over her. She would not allow it. She would find a way sooner or later. Unmarried.
Silence dominated their ride. She tried hard not to be too conscious of him touching her, with little success. It become more and more difficult to suppress this… this thing he fomented in her.
After a quick luncheon, they continued in a sedate pace for the horse carried two. They still avoided talk.
A breeze wafted from north announcing a chilling night.
The sun was not warm, but it illuminated the highland landscape. They left the last village behind and now prairies, lochs and brooks embroidered the road side with that fresh grassy tang. Her gaze took in the scene, moved by how beautiful it could be. Never in her life would she be able to live far from this land.
Hours elapsed when the horse faltered. Instinctively, he held her safe as he pulled on the reigns. His arms around her yet again produced a nefarious effect. Infinitely worse than on that first day. Getting off, he helped her down to the road.
He bent to examine the horse’s hoof. “The shoe is damaged.” He said, putting the hoof back on the ground. “I rode too hard.” His hand raked his sable hair with tension.
“We will walk in that case.” She started along the road, carrying her small sack. A childhood spent with brothers in a manor made her an agile lass.
Not hearing him move, she gyrated back. He gazed at her quizzically. “You do not mind?”
“I see only prairies and woods on this part.” She waved her hands. “Nothing else to do.” She set foot on the road again, this time he followed her pulling the horse.
The sun approached the horizon. Soon they would need to stop for the night. The manor lay not so far, half a day’s walk, she calculated.