The Beast of Aros Castle (Highland Isles)

by McCollum, Heather

  Tor grunted softly.

  “And we,” Cullen said, standing, “are about to inspect the fields. Oats and barley are nearly ready for harvest. And apples are ripening nicely.” Cullen frowned, a quick glance at the missive again. “Aye, I think I need to be getting back to Islay for our harvest. Properly filled bellies squash rebellion.”

  “Rebellion?” Grace asked, her eyes wide.

  Cullen smiled. “No worries, fair lady. Just amusing man talk.”

  She laughed, and Ava smiled, though her gaze kept drifting back to Tor. He walked to her and bent to give her a quick kiss. It wasn’t a good-morning kiss, because he’d given her plenty of those just before dawn. “Ye feel well?” he said in a breath by her ear and inhaled her soft, floral scent.

  She shivered slightly and met his eyes. “As sturdy as a Highland pony,” she said, referring to the declaration she’d made last night about her favorite tupping position. He waited, an open look across his face. If she neighed, even on a whisper, he’d snatch her up and carry her back to bed, but she just smiled, a promise in her gaze. “You have a harvest to see to?” she asked.

  He exhaled the breath he’d been holding and backed away. “Aye.” The poor lass probably needed to rest her delectable body. Despite being a virgin just a few weeks ago, Ava had taken to their lovemaking like a sensual sprite, often reaching for him as soon as they were alone. And her ferocity and passion held almost desperation, as if she meant to leave a permanent mark upon him. Maybe Cullen was right, and she was trying to make him fall in love with her.

  The thought tightened his stomach. He touched her cheek and cupped the side of her jaw, feeling the bone there. She did seem thinner in the face. He kissed her hand where their wedding ring sat and strode away with Cullen. Tonight, he would feed her tarts before he let her continue to bewitch him.

  Cullen and Tor stepped down into the bailey as a wagon from the ferry boat rolled through the gates, pitching and rumbling with its load of young pullets for the hen house. Hamish jumped off the seat before the driver could pull around the corner.

  “Is there news?” Tor asked and spotted a bound letter in his second-in-command’s hand.

  “This is for Lady Grace Ellington of Somerset,” Hamish said.

  “Lady Grace?” Cullen asked. “Not Ava?”

  Hamish looked at the name on the front. “Nay, it says Lady Grace Ellington.” He looked to Tor. “And yes, there is news. William MacCallum told me that MacInnes has been asking about the Camerons’ tie to the English and planning a raid on them.”

  “Mairi’s husband?” Cullen asked.

  “Aye,” Hamish answered.

  “Just what the English want, Scot against Scot,” Tor said, his voice low.

  Chapter Eleven

  5 September 1522

  Dearest Sister,

  I write to inform you that our father, Lord Somerset, Edgar Ellington, drew his last breath on the eve of 11 July, the year of our Lord 1522. I have inherited the full estate of Somerset, including all the business holdings, tenants, manors, and domestic help. As we discussed prior to your journey to Aros, Aveline Sutton owes the Somerset estate a debt topping one hundred pounds. Although, I have come across a bit of information that might ease this debt. Therefore, it is necessary, due to this precarious information and my lawful right as the new Earl of Somerset to maintain my domestic help, Aveline Sutton is ordered to return to York with all due haste.

  I offer my blessings and regards to you and your new husband, Torquil Maclean of Aros on Mull. May God keep you well.

  Your brother, Vincent Ellington, third Earl of Somerset

  Grace handed Ava the letter. “Bit of information? Like a bill of sale that shows Mother only spent half a pound on ribbons for you instead of one hundred pounds?” she scoffed and paced by the hearth in her small bedroom. “Does he really think dangling a bit of information before you will bring you running back to York?”

  Ava held the letter between her thumb and finger pads. She didn’t want to touch the same spot where Vincent’s fingers had idled, somehow reaching her through the ink. “What am I to do?” Ava whispered.

  Grace stopped and placed her arms along Ava’s shoulders. “Nothing. You are wed to the Beast of Aros. Tor isn’t going to let you go back to York.”

  Ava looked up into Grace’s firm stare. “You think Vincent will come here?”

  “Surely not before spring, and hopefully not at all. Not if he hasn’t a reason,” Grace said, but Ava could see the bubbling of panic in Grace’s eyes. Hadn’t Grace just asked her the same question that morning?

  “But he doesn’t know I’m married,” Ava said. “And if he knew you were not, he’d summon you back to Somerset to marry off.” Or worse, keep her there as a plaything. From what the kitchen maids at Somerset had told Ava, he used every female in the residence that he could catch. And the ones he couldn’t catch became his obsession. “He’s obsessed with us, Grace. And obsessions don’t end until someone is dead.”

  Dead? Ava’s breath caught in her chest as her heart fluttered with hope.

  “We need to write him back,” Grace said. “But what do we say?”

  Ava smiled slowly. “That I’m dead.”

  “What?” Grace shook her head and stopped. Ava could almost see the plan illuminating in her friend’s head.

  “One dead. One wed,” Ava rhymed.

  “And no reason to come all the way to Mull,” Grace finished. “It’s perfect.”

  They hurried to the small writing table near one of the thin open windows that let in light. A small box held parchment, quill, ink, and sand.

  “It must be in your hand,” Ava said. “Tell him that you can send the death certificate once it is released.” She rested her teeth on her bottom lip. “I will pen something that looks official.”

  Grace sat and filled the quill tip. “Lord Somerset. Dearest brother.” She snorted at the title. “Dearest bloody cod,” she whispered.

  “Grace,” Ava said with a short laugh. Who knew gentle Grace Ellington could speak such language? Maybe her friend could run with wolves.

  “I have the most terrible news,” Grace went on. “The trip to Scotland proved too much for Ava, and she caught an ague along the road. It is with a terribly heavy heart that I tell you Aveline Sutton is dead.”

  …

  “I don’t know anything about your life in York,” Tor said as he banked the fire in the bedroom. “Was it easier living down in England on your estate?” He stood, turning toward her.

  Ava stepped lightly across the wool rug to rest her hands on his broad, naked shoulders. She reached up high on her toes to tug his face down, her lips meeting his for a soft kiss. “I’d rather talk about what we can do to each other tonight,” she whispered.

  And it was the truth. Ava had started out this marriage with numerous goals. One of which was to fulfill her promise to Tor and get pregnant with his heir before finding a safe place for Grace. Now that she didn’t have to leave Aros, the goal had changed to making sure her past life, and her true identity, remained a secret. The weight of her lie sat on her heart, and she’d rather not continue to create a fictitious past for herself.

  So, each time Tor asked about her history, she distracted him to avoid another lie. Sex was a mind-numbing distraction for them both, and she’d found that she craved his touch. Maybe she was a wanton, but Tor seemed to like her adventurous nature and willingness to try all his whispered suggestions.

  A grin played seductively around Tor’s lips, lips that could illicit all sorts of wild moans from her when they roamed her body. “Aye, and we will definitely get to that, but I want to know about tarts.” He clasped her hand and tugged her to the bed.

  “Tarts?” Ava nearly tripped as she kept up with his stride. He sat her down on the edge of the bed in her thin linen smock, her feet dangling off the side. She couldn’t help but admire the sleek muscles in his bare back as he padded barefoot to the door, opening to retrieve something set to the side in the
hall. Shutting the door, he turned and, with a flourish, pulled off a square of cloth.

  “Tarts?” Ava stared at the plate with two triangular pastries, golden and flaky looking. Her mouth began to water.

  “Apple tarts,” Tor said. “With…” He sniffed the tops. “Cinnamon and nutmeg. Cook’s best.”

  They looked fabulous, and Ava’s stomach grumbled slightly.

  “Grace says that ye used to risk the night shadows to find them for the two of ye at Somerset, that ye love them so much, but I’ve yet to see ye eat one.”

  His unasked question hung between them. “They look delicious,” she said, swallowing, and met his gaze. “You asked Alyce to make some apple ones?”

  He sat beside her on the bed, his bulk making her roll slightly toward him as the mattress dipped. “Grace said they were your favorite. I want to see ye eat.” He frowned, taking her hand. He turned it this way and that. “Ye seem to be losing weight, and we are about to head into winter. Ye need flesh on your bones.”

  “I have a strong constitution. No need to worry about me getting ill.” She pulled her hand from his grasp.

  “It happens,” he argued, his face drawn, pinched as he set the plate on the bed. “Matilda grew thin and became ill. I would have ye warm and plump.”

  She touched his arm. She was going to say that she wasn’t Matilda, but stopped herself. Wasn’t she just like his first wife who lied to get him to marry her?

  Instead she picked one of the tarts off the plate and took a bite, the buttery, spiced sweetness flooding her mouth. She chewed and hummed an appreciative moan. It was as good as it looked, so incredibly delicious and perfect. A treat for the best of people, not her. The thought curdled down into her stomach, making it ache. Yet she managed to chew and swallow, even taking another bite of what had always been her guilty pleasure.

  “What’s wrong?” Tor asked. Damn, the man was observant.

  “It’s delicious,” she said. “Just makes me thirsty. It’s hard to eat a whole tart without fresh milk or water to wash it down.”

  “Be right back,” he said and moved out of the room before she could think of anything else to say.

  Ava looked at the gooey treat. It truly was her favorite. A perfect, delectable tart, and she was exceedingly not deserving. The lie she continued to allow Tor to believe twisted in her stomach. She could throw the pastry out the window and tell him she gobbled it.

  Ava stood, but Tor threw the door open. “There was still fresh water in the great hall,” he said. He looked so happy to see her holding the apple tart that she took another bite around the outside. She would indulge, for Tor, for to deny it would cause more questions. Questions for which she didn’t really have an answer.

  “Thank you,” she said and bit into the flaky crust.

  Tor took up the other one, his mouth devouring half in two bites. She laughed. “I’ll have to learn to bake Cook’s tarts.”

  She turned hers in a circle, nibbling the outside until only the middle remained. Tor drank some water from a pewter cup. He nodded toward her remaining bite. “Ye eat the outside first?”

  “The soft, warm middle is always the best. I save it for last.” She popped the morsel into her mouth.

  His grin turned teasing. “I could say the same about ye, lass.” He held the water cup to her lips and she drank, her gaze never leaving his. How could he spark her blood just by staring into her eyes? The now-familiar fire he ignited within her pressed an ache deep in her core. “You are a sorcerer,” she whispered.

  “Nay, just a simple beast,” he replied and kissed her. When he pulled back she touched his tight jaw.

  “I don’t like that title,” she said. “It was given to you in bitterness.”

  He turned away, walking toward the fire. His kilt sat loose on his narrow hips, and the firelight painted him golden. “The title was warranted,” he said.

  “She lied to you. She should be called beast,” Ava said with conviction, guilt smothering the passion that had leaped up in her just seconds ago.

  “I sent her away, banished her to a cottage on the far side of the village.” He turned so his back lay against the wall between a locked closet and the hearth. “She wasn’t proud. She pleaded to return to try to make a baby, but I said no. She became ill and died. The title is justified.”

  Ava stared at him there beside the fire, his face stony but his soul bared.

  “It wasn’t your fault she died, Tor.”

  “If she’d been in the castle, my mother would have tended her. She would have been warmer. I should have checked to see if her pleas were true. I assumed she told more lies to manipulate me.”

  Ava walked over to stand before him, wanting to ease the pain he held. But what could she say? She could one day bring him even more pain. The thought made tears press hard behind her eyes. “We all have regrets,” she whispered. “Things we did because, at the time, they seemed the right course. Honest remorse makes you the man and not the beast.”

  He touched her chin, and brushed the hair back from her face, searching her eyes. Jaw working behind his tightly closed mouth, his brows lowered. He inhaled. “I would show ye something.”

  He slid his hand over the hewn mantel and lifted a key she hadn’t known was there. It fit in the iron lock set in the closet door. He turned it, and the hinges squeaked from disuse.

  Tor grabbed a lit taper and walked into the small room Ava had assumed held old tapestries and curtains. She followed, her steps slow and silent, wrapping her arms around herself to keep in the heat. Tor lit a torch left on a wall, its oiled wick catching the flame to illuminate a small room with one boarded window. It was furnished with a narrow bed, chest, and washstand, but what caught Ava’s heart, twisting it, was a cradle. It sat near the bed with a carved rocking horse, the wood painted with happy colors of red and blue.

  Tor retreated to stand near the door as she walked in, her steps carrying her to the cradle. She bent to run a hand along the curved headboard. Flowers and birds were carved into the oak, a touch of color pressed into them to give them life.

  “It’s…beautiful,” Ava said.

  “I carved it, made the cradle,” he said from his stiff position.

  Ava looked over her shoulder at his hard expression. “For Matilda’s baby,” she guessed.

  “My parents moved to another room when I wed, saying that we would need it because the nursery was attached. I spent time refreshing it then, when she told me. Made the cradle and horse.”

  Ava noticed the dust swirled around on the bare floor, a pile of throw sheets in the corner. “Did…did you just pull off the covers?” she asked, walking around the room. A carved set of soldiers lined the mantel, an old doll sitting on the end.

  “Aye,” he said. “Thought something might need to be mended.” He walked over to the cradle, stepping on the edge of the curved foot to start it rocking. “But it seems to be fine. Ten years without proper care doesn’t do too much damage inside a castle.”

  Ava noticed that Tor’s hands remained as fists at his sides. Ten years without proper care could certainly do a lot of damage inside a man. She turned back to the dusty hearth. “These toys look older.” Ava held the doll, tugging gently on its simple cloth dress to smooth it.

  “The soldiers were mine and the doll was Mairi’s. This was our nursery, and my father’s before that, and so on.”

  Ava set the doll back in place and walked to stand before Tor. She lay her hands flat on his upper chest near his shoulders. “A beast doesn’t build a cradle, nor carve a rocking horse for his unborn child.”

  He didn’t say anything but continued to stare into her eyes. She slid her one hand up to cup his cheek, prickled with a day’s growth of beard. There was pain behind his gaze, and condemnation. She stroked his cheek. “Tor Maclean,” she said low. “I’ve known a beast, and you are not one.”

  “I want to know who this beast was,” he said, just as low. “He hurt ye, held your wrists.”

  Ava lowered
her hand back to his chest and patted it there. “The past has haunted us enough tonight.” She took his fist and kissed the knuckles. “Let’s forget for a while.” She touched the tip of her tongue to the back of his hand, and it opened. She rose up on her toes to tug his head down for a kiss.

  His arms encircled her, drawing her in to mold her body against him. He was already enlarged beneath his kilt, the press between her legs making her blood molten, melting through her like strong wine.

  He ran one hand through the waves of her hair and lifted her to bring her back into their bedchamber without breaking their kiss. With the slight elevation, Ava wrapped her arms fully around to Tor’s back, giving her the leverage to lift her legs. The linen smock rucked up to allow her bare legs to twine around to his backside as he walked.

  Tor growled low, and the vibration in the press of his lips caused Ava to slant her mouth over his in a wild kiss, abandoning all thought of the past and future, of the pain and worry. She raked her fingers through his soft hair as she clung to him, the rhythm of her pelvis against him, making him hold her tighter. With a tug, she felt, and heard, his kilt drop to the floor. She pulled back, her legs tight as he held her in place with a hand intimately under her bare rump and yanked her smock off over her head.

  Totally nude, they clasped together, as if afraid to be pulled apart. Skin sliding against skin. Hot, wet, wild kisses. Hands, lips everywhere, the touch of a tongue, the nibble of teeth. Ava focused solely on the pleasure she could bring to Tor and the ripples of sensation he expertly coaxed within her. For entwined together, the ghosts of the past couldn’t reach them, and the shadows of future pain dissolved into the here and now.

  Chapter Twelve

  “The day is bright, the air good,” Tor said to Ava as they stood in the barn. “Let us ride out. I would have ye see the beauty of Mull.”

  Ava studied the horses. “Which one is the gentlest?”

  Tor chuckled. “I thought all English ladies were taught to ride.”

  “I know how to ride,” she defended. “I just chose not to do it often.”