by Lisa Torquay
“I must go, Aileen.” A grumble none too happy.
Her lips turned to graze his forehead. “Mm-hm.” The murmur vibrated on him.
Her hands did not stop.
More than that. His started exploring her milky skin.
This was not going to end well.
Not at all. Soft fingers covered his buttock and his cock started claiming its morning fare.
In superhuman strength of will, he disentangled from her.
“Tonight, witch.” He promised. “We will have our second wedding night.” His fingers fished the tartan as he wrapped it around himself.
“Two wedding nights with the same man?” Those calamitous lips breathed a chortle. “I will call it lucky.”
“And I will call the wait torturous.” Especially because the ‘torture’ showed quite obviously. Worsened by her eager attention.
“We can surely spare a half-hour.” Mahogany irises rose from his lower abdomen, sedate, to his stare in a feather caress.
“Do not tempt me, Aileen.” He tied the tartan. “If the McKendrick bears find me here, I may get… crippled.”
“That would be disastrous.” She agreed.
He left the chamber without a look at her. Which would prove even more disastrous.
~.~.~
“I said tell Father Munro to take it out!” She repeated to Drostan not for the first time.
They stood just outside the manor’s chapel waiting for the priest to ready himself. Father Munro presided in the village since the end of last century.
Thankfully, the Scottish proceedings for weddings were simple and uncomplicated which made it possible for them to marry in a matter of hours. The speediness also attracted English couples, eloping or not, to go to Gretna Greens and tie the knot.
“You want him to change a millenary wedding vow?” He grumbled as he smiled to the closest kin to attend the simple ceremony and the rushed feast which would follow it.
“I cannot promise to obey if I will not fulfil it.” She hissed, becoming annoyed.
A myriad of green and black tartans and kilts milled around in a crisp autumn outcast day. Many women wore English style dresses, lending a colourful note to the greyish backdrop. Not Aileen, though. She had opted for the Scottish white underdress and her clan’s plaid spencer and headdress. She liked it against the McDougal’s in their aborted wedding at his manor.
“Cross your fingers behind your back.” He teased.
“Do not be childish.” She reprimanded her eldest brother.
He sighed helpless. “Alright. Only because we are finally marrying you off now.” A playful glint in his old-whisky eyes.
“You, brute.” She teased back.
All laugh fled from her when she devised the groom in the chapel. Monumentally imposing, he stood there, formally attired in his plaid, shirt, hose, shoes. It hit her she was marrying one of the most powerful men in the Highlands and, possibly, Scotland, sealing an alliance a century and a half overdue. An alliance which would influence the whole clans’ network for decades to come.
And she did not give a damn.
The giant mesmerized her uniquely for being him. He, who woke up beside her this morning. He, whose skin she liberally revelled in while he slept. He, who maddened her as the devil and sated her as a warrior. He, for whom her feelings entangled so obscure, she did not discern their complexity. Or even the complex man about to become her husband.
A cold wave flipped her insides.
Husband. The McDougal would be her husband in less than an hour.
And the sole thing that came to her mind was when they would be alone again. When they would be able to touch and kiss and sweat and give. Or take pleasure. Snuggle and talk small nothings as his attentive beacons burned her inside and out. Turned her inside out.
“Done.” Drostan came behind her. “He did not approve it, but I promised a substantial contribution to his parish.”
That must have sweetened the man of the cloth.
“Thank you, Drostan.” She said heartily.
Her father, in formal tartan, took her hand and placed it on his arm. The time had come. “Ready?”
A shuddered breath escaped her when she answered. “Ready.”
A symphony of bagpipes sounded in the chapel, their music filling the air, rapturing everybody.
Her groom turned to her and the world disappeared. Eyes meshed on each other, she floated through the aisle, holding herself not to run to him. Not to abduct him to a quiet place far from the crowd.
Taran wished he had a watch chained to his tartan, so he would count the hours for tonight and the moment he would be with only her. He thought while he followed her progress towards him. Apart from the music and her, nothing else existed. It appeared as if she caught all the light, he saw her alone.
This represented the arrangement he had wished from the beginning with the McKendricks. But it did not matter any longer. She mattered. The both of them mattered. No more, no less. The hurricane had twisted and spun his entire life, to the point of not leaving anything standing.
And he could not care less.
In a question of a fortnight, she turned his life upside down and more. To a measure he did not even want to remember what it felt like before Aileen. Barren, hollow, grey. Lonely.
Her irruption in his world came as a thousand torches brightening each nook and corner of it. With the least meek, least tame of comportments. Which drove him crazy, evidently. And hot. Out of control. Hungry for her. For her presence.
The bagpipes silenced at the same second her hand touched his sleeve. She stood by his side at last.
Grave and eyes fast on each other, they pronounced the vows, holding hands. Only at this moment, the words gained their full meaning. For him, at least. He uttered them and heard her do the same with a solemn trait crossing his guts. He meant every single syllable as he conveyed it to her, staring her deep in her beautiful gaze. Hers on him gave identical impression. Who would imagine he had it in him to marry anew? And a lass like her on top of it all.
But Aileen would not promise to obey him, damn the witch! He concluded after the ceremony as her clan surrounded them with well-wishing platitudes. How did the diminutive woman manage this? He shrugged mentally. Nothing to do now but go with the flow.
“What do you say I abduct you and take you somewhere quiet?” She proposed mutely by his side.
A scoff escaped his lips. “I would go willingly, if it would not mean a declaration of war on the McDougals.”
“Oh, drat.” She exclaimed mutinously. “I guess we must stay then.”
“Be patient.” He advised against his own inclination. “I will make it worthwhile.” He assured her.
“I can hardly wait.” On his arm, her thumb caressed him disguisedly, causing him to take her hand and kiss it with gallantry.
Much much later, in his appointed chamber, he busted the wildest of her expectations.
CHAPTER THRIRTEEN
“I will wait outside while you talk to your father.” She said to Sam a week later when he entered the study to meet his sire and she left closing the door.
“Father.” He called the man reading a sheaf of papers by the hearth.
Taran turned to his freckled son.
“I am leaving.” He continued.
Suddenly, his son came closer to becoming a man. He lost that boyish air so typical of him. “Did you pack everything you need?” He placed the sheaf on the desk.
“Yes. Do not worry. You gave me enough money to buy anything I need twice over, I guess.”
The boy who had been his sole family for the best part of two decades would spread his wings. Far from his father. “If you require more, just ask.”
“I will not.” Frugal, this son of his.
The Laird tried for a smile, but he was not very good at it. “I believed the both of us were a complete family and never realised how badly you missed your mother.”
“You need not do this.” Sam responded, moved
by the other man’s efforts.
“I do.” He said, coming nearer. “I closed myself. Took refuge in the clan’s affairs and did not pay attention to what really happened to you.”
“You did. You provided me with the best you could afford.”
Taran nodded. “The material side, probably.” His hand raked his hair. “I failed emotionally.” He looked at his son’s identical green eyes. “And it is unforgivable.”
“Do not say such a thing, please.” He made a vague gesture. “We were both striving to cope.”
“It fell to me to guarantee your well-being.” He admitted painfully. “It took a stubborn McKendrick lass to show it.”
He sketched a faint smile. “She makes all the difference.” The fondness shone through him.
“She does.” He admitted.
“Take care of her, father.” That an eighteen-year-old saw right to the core of him amazed Taran.
“I will.” He hoped he proved to be up to the task.
“I do not blame you for anything.” His son said. “Life just dished this to us.”
“Thank you, son.” Aiming to dispel the sombre mood, he changed the subject. “Are you taking the documents they requested?”
The boy smiled. “I am. I applied earlier this year only to check what they would answer.”
Had the Laird any doubt as to his son’s brightness, it would be cleared now. “Good.”
“And I have been corresponding with a botanist professor.” He boasted. “He assured me a place in his team would be mine, should I decide to join it.”
“A full academic life awaits then.”
“It does.” His face expressed his hopes and dreams.
“Let us get down to it.” Taran encouraged.
Father and son embraced warmly and walked to the door, joining Aileen.
“Oh, Sam!” She exclaimed. “We will miss you.”
“I believe I will be back for Christmas.” He cheered her up a little.
“Be sure you do.” She admonished, taking his hand and Taran’s as the three of them headed to the front door where a carriage parked.
Taran took her hand and, for the first time in his adult life, he felt part of a family. A true family, not merely the leader of a clan with kin scattered around the land.
Since he and his wife came back from the McKendrick’s manor, they had been in a rush of activity to prepare for the departure. Aileen helped in everything she could.
The best moments came when they all sat in the drawing room in the evening in agreeable conversation as Sam explained the academic details to them. The familial atmosphere made him content. He had been home at last.
All because of a wee lass who gave him torrid nights and cosy days.
Aileen embraced Sam and Taran clapped him on the back.
“Take care, Sam.” She advised before he climbed onto the carriage and it drove away.
Side by side, Taran and Aileen waved as the vehicle disappeared around the curve of the drive.
~.~.~
Aileen spent those first days as Lady McDougal in a bustle of chores. She learned the specific routines of this manor and met with its staff to understand what requirements they listed.
Naturally, the housekeeper and the butler undertook their responsibilities and did their best to keep it all running smoothly. They lacked guidance though. And that should be her role. As the manor did not witness the presence a lady to it for a generation, many chores needed attention to put the household back on track.
Taran’s mother passed when he was ten of childbirth. His father followed soon after he married from a cut foot that evolved into gangrene.
After talking to Taran, she transformed the smallest drawing room into an office to obtain a place where she could gather the paperwork and carry out to her tasks. She made herself at home and, apart from the fact that she was now married, her daily life continued basically what it had been at the McKendrick’s. The management of the manor, overseeing the preparations for winter supplies in autumn, for spring in the fields, the garden, the orchard, the herb garden. No news for her. She had been doing this since her mother passed from consumption. Aileen had been sixteen.
So, when she requested one of McDougal’s chieftains to come talk to her, she received him in her study.
Quinn McDougal, a strapping man in his forties, thinning blonde hair and expansive mood. He owned a property on the northern border of the McDougal’s lands and supplied firewood.
In times past, a chieftain held more power than they did now. But with English rule, they got reduced to land work and trade. Exactly what Quinn did these days.
As he passed into her study, she closed the door. After he respectfully bowed over her hand, she offered him a seat.
“We need to see to the firewood supply through winter, Mr McDougal.” She explained.
“I see, my lady.” He smiled. “I ken the Laird would request it soon.”
“As his wife, I oversee the manor and will order the supplies for the foreseeable future.”
“Of course, my lady.”
They continued talking about quantities, prices and transport.
She lost track of the time and startled when someone rasped the door. It opened to bring Taran in the room.
Despite the fact they lived in the same house, ate at the same table and—blast it—slept in the same bed, the sight of him caused a heatwave to wash over her. Colour flooded her skin as she lowered her gaze to appease her jumping heart.
“Laird McDougal.” Quinn leapt from his seat to greet the clan leader.
Taran frowned, his stare going cold. “Quinn.” He devolved. “What are you doing here?” He asked throwing his wife a suspicious glance.
“Yer new lady wanted to plan the firewood fer winter.” He explained cheerfully.
“You are giving her the fire.” He commented in a flinty way.
“Ye could say, my Laird.” The strapping man fidgeted with his hat.
Aileen observed the interaction a tad intrigued. Taran well understood she took over the manor management.
“I think we are settled, Mr McDougal.” She ended the meeting. “I will send you a letter with the details and the dates for the transport.”
“Good evening, my lady.” He bowed and left, closing the door.
As soon as Taran caught her with another man, something tore at him. Boiling acid burned in his guts. There had been this fiery urge to punch the other man to an inch of his life.
“What was that about?” His wife crossed her arms and lifted her satiny chin to him.
“The scoundrel is a flirt.” He devolved, an edge lining his growl.
“He behaved with perfect respect.” She defended the chieftain.
“I do not want him near you.” He issued.
“What you want or not is of no importance.” She kept her ground. “The manor requires firewood.”
“I said to keep him away.” Legs braced, he shot her a commanding glare.
“I must bring firewood from the McKendrick’s perhaps.” Her mahogany stare faced him in full.
“Send it written. He needs not come personally.”
“The point is to meet the people I am dealing with in these lands.” The emphasis came sound, but his rational mind malfunctioned at that moment.
“I do not care.” He ground with finality. “Obey me in this.”
“Well, well.” Her hips met the desk rim and his gaze followed them. “Little over a week to start ordering me about.” Irritation smothered her beautiful face. “A record by all accounts.”
“You had no illusions what you were marrying into when you accepted it.” He reinforced.
“As it happens, I cannot obey an order that makes no sense.” No one would blame her for her clear logic.
He had no means to explain this to himself, let alone her. Fury burning, he turned and left before he did or said something he would regret later.
~.~.~
As the days passed by, the manor became eve
n busier. Harvest drew to an end and the preparation for winter consumed time. Thus, Taran spent the whole day in the fields and Aileen had countless chores to accomplish. They met for dinner, having spent the time away from each other.
Around tea time, when the butler came to inform of the visit of a Mrs Newton, Aileen looked at him blankly.
“Mrs Shannon Newton, my lady.” He completed.
She remembered the widow from that day she worked in the fields. “I will receive her in the big drawing room, Glen.”
What could Taran’s former paramour want with her? Aileen at least hoped she was a former anything.
As The McDougal’s wife, she dressed his plaid. She checked her underdress and red and black spencer before entering the room.
The widow in her thirties stood looking at a portrait over the fireplace. Whitish blond hair, pale blue eyes, not so tall, a simple dress, Aileen had to admit she was fetching. To think her husband had… lain with this woman wrenched her insides into a thousand knots.
Under fierce self-control, she told herself Taran’s past played null role in her life.
“Mrs Newton.” She greeted, announcing her presence.
The other woman turned and curtsied slightly. “Lady McDougal.”
“Have a seat.” The blonde sat on a settee and she chose a chair right in front of her. “What do I owe your visit to, Mrs Newton?”
“I wanted to meet the woman that broke the spell and led Taran into another marriage.”
Did she detect a ring of ‘you stole my place’ there? “An arrangement between our clans.”
Shannon smiled without any humour. “An arrangement that was supposed to involve his son, I heard.” The pale blue eyes assessed her in an uncomfortable manner.
Of course, she did. It had not been a secret. Though she was grateful Seamus and Gracie did not spread any other tales. Even if Aileen’s artifice to evade said arrangement made her fall in the giant’s trap all the same.