by Lisa Torquay
Face to the side, arms braced beside her head, lips ajar sucking oxygen, eyes shut, in her world of pleasure. Her awareness solely of him glued to her back, triumphantly naked. She did not see where his tartan went. And did not care.
“Put your right foot on the chair, Aileen.” The ineluctable behest weakened her even more and she hurried to comply.
The position availed her flooding femininity to his looting fingers and the pure agony they sowed. Her moan a manifest of nothing short of a clamour for more.
With zero finesse, his solid erection slid in her sure and complete, filling her with the mirage of repletion together with the torment of the wait.
“You are mine.” A flinty rumble on her nape. “Only mine!” His hips whacked on her with his extreme invasion.
He took her hard, fast and unerring. She wanted nothing less than his undivided focus on her, on them. On this.
Those fingers in her middle still perpetrated a tragic capitulation aided by his merciless ramming. “Say you belong to me.” The hoarseness of his utterance, the grazing of his stubble on her delicate tissue incinerated the wispy remnants of her lucidity.
She just wished him never to stop. “I am yours.” She submitted impenitent.
His hair peppered torso grazed her back, its large frame engulfing her at the same time it pressed her against the panel.
What he wanted, she would give. What he demanded, she would yield. What he took, she would not miss. This man, his touch, the way he looked at her, the way his presence spread into her life—like tumbled wine on a table cloth—made her weak. Made her strong. Made her desire him more. And more. So, she denied nothing, for he would reward her with this and everything else. Again and again.
Then his thrusts sped, his fingers sped, his breath sped. And she thrashed against him, incited him, impelled him. Until the catastrophe became too fatal to be deterred.
The combustion burned everything to ashes. Her unrestrained scream, his implacable grunts left nothing standing. He rode her sharp contractions to the last drop of his delivery.
When their bodies resumed a semblance of normalcy, Taran took Aileen in his arms and carried her to their bed, where he enfolded her to him and did not let go the rest of night.
Taran awoke to the incipient light of dawn and looked at the woman circled by his arms. He remembered last night, their fire, her surrender, the absolutely wrenching satisfaction he found in her. With her.
His guts tied in knots.
He did not want to think. He did not want to look for answers. He did not care for them.
This woman here did something to him. And he did not understand what it was. Should she express a wish to go from him one day, he suspected it would destroy him. Too much power for this diminutive lass.
He could not even contemplate the possibility.
And did not.
Stubble mouth started caressing hers, palms grazing her skin, tangling in her hair.
She moaned before she opened her eyes. When she did, they merged in his in silent and long communication before his mouth locked on hers thirsty.
He just craved her, stay with her, join their bodies, feel the smoothness against him.
For that, he stroked every single inch of his wife, from glossy hair, to delicate feet, not leaving any part unattended. He learned her, he memorised her. Worshipped her. With a desperation too alien to give him pause.
As he took her, their arms held fast, their legs entangled, their mouths clutched, steamy. In the faint light of dawn, cloaked in that diffuse luminosity. Cloaked in the warmth they gave and received. Enclosed in their world, their sensations, their emotions.
When their passion finally reached its pinnacle, it was more than their bodies that had found fulfilment.
And Taran did not want to think about that either.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The morning room displayed a truly Scottish fare as Aileen came into it. Taran sat there with a hearty plate in front of him.
Her face acquired every shade of red when her eyes alit on him. The night had been—oh, drat!—it had been scalding. Green beacons clasped knowingly on her, nearly reducing her to ashes. Vapourish, surrendering ashes.
Swiftly, she diverted her treacherous attention, murmuring a good-morning and serving a plate for herself.
At the table, she met his inspection fast on her. Emotions squirmed through her, undefined, contradictory. This time she was incapable of interrupting the contact.
Intense emotions jumbled nameless. Not shame, not embarrassment, not even bashfulness. Nothing of the sort.
She wanted to go back and do it all over again. Twice.
No, three times.
Four. Five.
Whatever.
Damn it!
The man proved to be addictive.
Said man seemed to understand it, for his green beacons sauntered over her simple dress and plaid spencer with calculating appraisal. As if she sat there nude, at his mercy, for his appreciation.
“Did you sleep well?” He asked in that low growl that induced her to think about anything but sleep.
Blast the giant!
New furious colour surfaced. This time it had nothing to do with memories and everything to do with… arousal.
“As well as you, I suppose.” Though tart, it came silky, almost an invitation.
He understood it because his green irises darkened, lowering to her cushioned lips. And they tingled.
This should not be. Either she should discover herself insatiable or this blasted husband of hers held unfathomable powers. Over her, that was.
She did not wish to learn which.
Her stomach needed nourishment as she forced herself to concentrate on food. A lot of energy spent, she reckoned.
Glen, the butler, entered the room with a tray, a letter on it. He presented it to her.
The content alarmed her. “Oh.” She exclaimed, forgetting herself.
Taran’s regard snapped to her. “What is it?”
“Drostan suffered an accident with his horse.” Her face expressed concern. “They are asking me to go and help him.”
“No.” Dry, final.
Her head snapped to him displeased. “What do you mean by no?”
His brows elevated as if his command was the law. “You are not going.”
“Of course, I am. He needs me.” She pulled the chair back to stand up and go prepare for the trip.
He held her arm on the table. “And this manor needs you.”
His drawl rang with much more than a manor’s routine. What it encompassed, she did not fathom.
“Are you suggesting me to deny assistance to my own brother?” Her glare took his fully.
He took several seconds to answer. “I am saying we are at a busy time.”
Her lungs inhaled deeply for patience. “I will be a day away. You can send for me if necessary.”
“Your place is here.” He replied irreducible.
Would the man listen to reason? “I learned the herbs with my mother.” She emphasised. “I can try to heal him.”
“I will send the healer from the village.” He countered unmoved.
“We have a healer in the village, too.” Her hand rubbed her brow worried. “But I am good at it. And father sounds quite serious.”
“I say you stay.”
Pulling her arm from his hold, she stood up straight spine. “You can say what you like.” Anger tainted her tone. “I will not sit here and do nothing.” With that, she strutted from the table to pack.
On the way, she requested the carriage from Glen.
~.~.~
The excuse for her to leave him availed itself rather soon, Taran realised, irritation eating at him. As a wolf in a cage, he paced the front steps, self-control slipping from his hold.
Why would she come back, anyway? He did not present himself as the easiest of creatures to deal with, he was aware of it. Did Fiona not say the same?
His guts twisted and re-twisted while
he waited for her to come down from their chambers. He barked orders for two of his sturdiest footmen to accompany her. At least he must make sure she travelled safely.
Aileen came down with a sack and a box of healing supplies, and Taran tamped down his reactions. Her attention flitted from him to the carriage and the footmen, avoiding longer contact.
“Send me a message if you deem anything amiss.” She recommended before climbing in the vehicle.
Her absence would be the ‘anything amiss’. Bluidy Hell! Did she not realise it? Obviously not, you pig-head! You did not tell her!
A frowned expression watched the carriage drive away. He hurried inside to bury himself in the study. To tell her about what went on in his mind involved a whole chain of hazards he was not prepared to acknowledge.
The difficult part would be to get used to loneliness anew. Head on his hands, sitting at his desk, he mulled. With the difference of Sam’s absence, whom needed no care this time. Which made the solitariness even more arduous than before, he perceived.
How the devil did he find himself in this mess for the second time?
Work. Work provided the answer. The manor involved the sheep, the tenants, the distillery and tens of other chores to see to at this period.
Springing from his chair, he marched out of the study.
~.~.~
Aileen jostled in the carriage worried with her brother. But also, discontent with Taran and his outrageous behaviour. Not that she considered leaving at this moment the most appropriate course of action to take. After the gathering at the church and Taran’s brooding or the consuming night they spent together, she pondered they would require more time to sort this out.
Not possible to deny help to her brother though. A tight situation to be in, no doubt. She would make sure she came back as soon as the circumstances allowed. For now, she must take it as it came.
~.~.~
Wallace assisted her as she went down the carriage, heavy expression on his face. “He has been unconscious for four days.” He informed her.
Alarm rang in her with this information.
“What happened?” As the heir to the McKendrick clan, Drostan was pivotal in the family. Though her brothers gained the necessary training to undertake the task, should there be need.
“We do not know for sure.” They entered the manor hurriedly. “A villager here who recognised the heir found him on the road and brought him.”
The village’s healer sat by his immobile large form when she neared his bed. A doctor from Aberdeen made himself also present, but seemed at a loss what to do.
At his side, her attention fell on a boy of about four at the corner of the room. He exhibited Drostan’s exact old-whisky eye colour and hair.
Fingal came in at that minute. She eyed him, inquiringly. “We do not know who the boy is.” He stated.
The brothers often exchanged confidences. If Fingal did not have information, no one would.
She checked her elder brother for fever and injuries, to identify nothing. It looked something more like shock. Not much to do, just feed and give him fluids.
Attention turning to the boy, she approached him as his big eyes widened on her. “What is your name?” She asked simply.
“Ewan, my lady.” Solemn, the wee bairn.
“We need you to tell us your mother’s name, Ewan.” She probed delicately.
“Freya, my lady.”
The McKendricks exchanged an astonished look, for it was Drostan’s wife’s name. Might Ewan be the McKendrick’s heir?
It should have been his wife’s name that made her eldest brother grunt on the bed. A second later, he sprang up to a sit. “Ewan.” He boomed in an alarmed tone.
“I am here, my Laird.” The solemn boy answered, causing Drostan to expel air from his lungs.
“Drostan.” She hurried to him. “What happened to you?”
His big hand on his head, a confused expression on his handsome face. “I do not remember.”
“You will when you are better.” She assured him. She saw it before. “Do you feel any pain?”
“No.”
“What do you remember?” Lachlan forced out.
Drostan looked at the boy and at his youngest brother blankly, and shook his head, helpless.
“But he is your son.” Lachlan insisted.
“Yes, he is.” Drostan said with pride.
“But how…?” Fingal started.
“Let us not press him.” She advised.
They all left Drostan’s chambers, except for Ewan.
~.~.~
“What did the villager say exactly?” She asked to no one in particular while they took tea in the drawing room.
Lachlan came first. “Drostan lay on the road, the boy sat beside him.”
“Drostan said he ordered the boy not to move from there.” Fingal supplied.
“Ewan is his image when Drostan was the same age.” Wallace mused, a smug smile on his wrinkled face. Could it be a happy sentiment to see the next heir to the McKendricks?
“Impossible not to notice it.” Aileen interposed.
“This is too strange to absorb.” Lachlan commented.
“A woman who stayed here for one year and then vanished in thin air.” Fingal remembered.
“Drostan must not have known she was with child.” Aileen concluded.
“Or he would have kept her here, no doubt.” Wallace said.
It came as no secret to anyone her oldest brother could be very… inflexible at times. And Aileen did not discard that as a reason why her sister-in-law might have left. Did Aileen not have her hands full with her hot-tempered husband? Freya displayed a rather suave disposition but no less fibre in her, Aileen had occasion to witness.
“The man has the right to his heir.” Defended Lachlan.
“Do not come with this nonsense that women have to be at your beck and call.” Protested Aileen vehemently. “She may have left because she was not happy here.”
“The heir to the McKendrick belongs with us.” Wallace’s hard opinion found echo with her brothers.
“Separate a woman from her child is pure cruelty.” Exclaimed she.
“So, she must not have disappeared.” Fingal agreed with the men in her clan.
The civil law followed this principle, with which Aileen did not agree. The men in her family would pay no heed to a different conception, naturally.
She did not want to start a discussion—and possibly a squabble—over facts she knew nothing about, anyway. She had never seen Freya after she abandoned the manor. Never a hint of what exactly happened. Until it came to light, she would reserve judgement.
~.~.~
Taran sat at his dinner table with a hollow sense surrounding him. He would not admit to missing her for the life of him.
And it had been only three days.
Plate untouched, the wine bottle half gone. How come his manor echoed so… empty? It had been little more than a month since she stepped here for the first time. He swallowed the whole content of his goblet. She was not supposed to be so… absent! Not in such a short time.
It dragged like a lifetime.
He tried to write it down to Sam being away. But his son engrossed so constantly in his books and plants, his presence seldom remarkable.
As to his wife— The woman who ate meals by his side, the woman who worked by his side. The woman who slept by his side. Sometimes on him, damn it. The hollowness loomed as an uninvited guest in the manor. A guest who would not go away with the most thrashing shoving.
He did not even enter his chambers these days. It would be like a death sentence. The memories, the tang of her. He had been sleeping in his study. Sleep was a way of putting it. Tossing and turning. Desiring.
New content sloshed in his goblet, filling it. He drank deeply.
Was there any way of getting used to this… distance?
Of course, he might send for her. Better, he should even travel to the McKendrick’s.
And do wha
t? Throw her over his shoulder and drag her home? She would certainly not accept it meekly, the wee hurricane.
Aye, home. This heap of stones registered like home only when she stayed here. Since day one.
Before, it had been a half-hearted residence.
He tossed the wine, swallowing it, the taste lost to his musings.
He needed whisky.
His pride forbade him to beg. The Laird? It meant humiliation. For any man to beg a woman was unthinkable. For the Laird, it was inadmissible.
Out of question.
The sole choice to pull through the days and wait until they dulled into indifference to her, to her distance.
The possibility of her coming back, null. Escaping must have been her goal. She had done it twice, had she not?
A hand raked through his hair as he stood up none too steady.
For the whisky, then.
~.~.~
Freya hid her auburn hair in the hood of a cloak which had seen much better days. A present from her husband. The green hue faded, it displayed mending on many spots.
The moonless night gave her cover, despite the dangers she exposed herself to in the dark. Ewan must not remain at the McKendricks. This was imperative.
Eyes fraught with distress surveyed the road for the hundredth time. If she could hide in the shadows, so might anyone, good or bad intentions.
No one, absolutely no one should acquire the faintest notion she had the McKendricks heir. Or Ewan and, worse. Drostan, would be in dire danger.
She promised, she grovelled, begged, traded every asset she could muster to put the two people she loved most in the world out of harm’s way. And live a split life. A half-life. No life at all. Nobody noticed she had a son. She had been tremendously cautious to hide him. To the point of obsession.
And her bull-headed husband—estranged husband—had to put them all in danger. His brothers, his sister, his father. Everyone. By sniffing at them in her isolated cottage, which she left when absolutely necessary to sell her meagre produce in the market.
Something swished in the woods. Possibly a night animal walking. A wolf. Not taking any chances as she hid in the bushes and waited, peering at the side the noise came from, she saw nothing.