by Shana Ab
She couldn't disguise what this news did to her, and it was too late to try. She felt his pain go through her, a terrible sorrow for his loss, even though it was for someone who had tried to kill her.
“I'm sorry,” Lauren said, genuine.“I didn't know.”
His eyes became shuttered; he looked away from her, out to his view.“It was years ago.”
She felt her bravery slowly begin to unravel, her resolution faltering. This was much more difficult than she had imagined.
It had seemed the only right thing she could do, the only solution that might spare them both from the unacceptable connection between them. She would let him know, beyond all doubts, that she did not want him. That she could never be anything to him other than someone whom fate had thrown at him for no purpose at all. She had to convince Arion that she cared nothing for him, that her heart and hopes belonged to the man she would soon wed.
What a simpleton, to think it might not be so horrible to fool him. It was worse. It was agony.
“I don't really think she meant to kill you, if it matters,” Arion said indifferently. “Nora was prone to fits and visions. She spoke to voices in her head. I believe that you became something else to her than you really were. She was the most gentle girl I have ever known. She never would have tried to harm you had she been right in her mind. She couldn't bear to kill even a mouse.”
“Yes,” said Lauren, remembering. “She told me that. She had a mouse in her room—”
“—named Simon.” He gave a short laugh, mirthless. “They were all named that. She would not let them set traps in her chamber.”
He looked down at the floor, so like the young boy who had come into the dungeon cell with his uncle, troubled and lost.
“In the end,” he said,“the only living thing she ever managed to harm was herself. She ended her own life, not so very long after you left Morgan. She hanged herself from her bed with one of her gowns.” He indicated Lauren's in a short gesture, his voice rough. “It looked nothing like the one you wear now.”
She had to turn her back to him. She had to hide her face, to disguise the pity and sadness and distress that his words gave her.
This was absolutely not what she had wanted to happen between them. He was trusting her with this devastating news, he sounded almost as if he were confessing to her, asking for mercy, or forgiveness, she couldn't say which. His memories of his sister seemed to explain at least some of the constant ache that appeared to shadow him. She didn't want to share that with him now—or ever. She could not afford that. It would be the thing that broke her.
Lauren pushed off the bower and walked away from him, trying to keep her steps steady and firm.
“So, whose gown is it, then? Not your sister's. Perhaps a friend's?”
She looked over her shoulder at him. Arion stared at her, hard lines and tautness.
“Perhaps,” Lauren suggested, still blithe,“your lover's?”
“No,” he said, tight lipped.“I don't know whose it is. I told a maid to find you something. That's all.”
“I cannot ride home in it,” she said.“I'll need something else.”
“Is that what you're considering? Riding home?”
“Naturally. Our alliance has ended, Earl of Morgan. I'm sorry to say it, but it's true. I must return to Keir, to my clan. To my wedding. My husband will be arriving soon.”
“Your husband,” he scoffed, taking just one step to her.“Not yet, Lauren. You're not wed to him yet.”
“I am, you know. In the minds of all who matter, I already am.”
“Not by any law I recognize,” Arion stated.“You seem to forget something, my sweet. You're not in your own country any longer, you're in mine, and I rule here. I'm not convinced you should be allowed to leave.”
“I am fine now. I thank you for your aid, du Morgan. I am certain Payton Murdoch would thank you as well. But see me walk, see me stand. I am able to leave. Therefore, I must. Your English ways do not suit me at all—not your home nor your clothing—not anything, really. To stay here with you any longer would be … offensive to me.”
He stood silent, an outline of a man, and she could almost feel the anger from him, waves of it rushing at her, cold and menacing. Lauren felt her throat grow tight. She became keenly aware that she had crossed a line at some point, that her words had gone far beyond her intended effect to make him scorn her, to disdain her. She had found a barb and stabbed him with it, and now it was too late to reverse it.
“Offensive?” he repeated, deadly soft.“Do you think so?”
She actually could not say anything. She could not even try. Fear and panic wrapped around her chest, constricting her.
“Is it offensive to shelter a woman in need? Is it offensive to comfort her, to hold her as she weeps?”
He took another step toward her, and Lauren could not move her feet to flee. The fright had taken her legs and rendered them immobile.
“Are those things offensive to you?” Arion asked in a smooth voice, danger in every word. “Because I had thought it would be something far beyond those simple acts. In fact, Lauren, I had something else in mind entirely.”
Again he took a step, and then another, and now he was right in front of her, and she had to tilt her head back to see his face, because she had to see him, even though what was there left the fear running feral through her.
“If I am offensive,” Arion said down to her,“for these innocent things, then I have no reason not to go further. I am already damned, am I not?”
She shook her head—again, too late. He seized her by her shoulders and pulled her to him, enclosing her in an embrace that felt like steel, and his lips were hard against her skin. Lauren tried to twist away but he wouldn't let her, crushing her until she couldn't move any longer, and then he kissed her on the lips with bruising force, nothing loving or calm, only hurt, only pain.
Ye t within her was the spark that still wanted him, still hungered for him, and Lauren felt it bloom and grow in her, responding even to this angry moment, softening her for him, taking her imprisoned arms and wrapping them around his waist, where she could reach him.
He had not stopped the kiss. It was as if he couldn't feel her beyond the ire in him, beyond the way he held her, rough and untamed, hot and masculine.
“Am I offensive now, Lauren?” he asked against her cheek, and one of his hands slid down to cup her buttocks, pulling her against him, allowing her to feel the hardness of him. He did not let her answer, he claimed her lips again, sucking at them, his tongue invading her in a way that sent mindless chills all through her body.
The room slipped and tilted; she found herself on her back on the floor, the rug beneath her. Lauren gasped out loud but Arion had covered her again that quickly, his body demanding over hers, ardent. He was resting between her thighs, boldly moving there with his body, making the gasp turn into a whimper at the back of her throat. A new fire was burning through her, confusion and passion becoming mingled in a heated song that came from him, from his touch, the way he held her, controlling her, mastering her.
It was too strong to resist. This was Arion, the man she had been dreaming of for what seemed forever, and so the wound in him had to become her own, or else she would perish in this fire alone.
So Lauren held on to him and kissed him back, not caring about anything else, and this at last was the thing that made him stop, held in place as she pressed up against him, every bit of him rigid.
His breath was rapid and shallow, rasped in her ear. She felt a wetness on her face and thought it might be her tears, reflection of the passion that had taken her.
Arion leaned back, looked into her eyes.
“You can't leave,” he said, intense.“I won't allow it.”
“Am I your prisoner, after all?” she asked softly.
“Is that what you want?” His words were harsh and broken.“Is it?”
Yes! shouted her mind, but she kept her lips pressed together.
Ye t her h
and moved without her will, coming up to slide through the ebony of his hair, feeling the softness of it, so appealing. It was her hand that pulled him back down to her, as simple as that, just her hand, a very slight pull, and then the desperation around him broke away, and he found her lips again.
This kiss was different, tender and achingly sweet, a pledge of something she was afraid to name. It matched the song still beating through her, it made the sparks of his touch turn wanton, leaving her defenseless, open to him. Arion slowly dragged his mouth across hers, tasting her again with his tongue, and Lauren felt a cry rise and catch in her.
It was he who moaned instead, who took his hands and held her face as he ravaged her lips, each touch like fire, like lightning, bright and fierce.
“Is it what you want?” Arion asked again. He moved to kiss her throat, then farther down, to the crescent of flesh that showed at her chest, soft and hard at once, his fingers tugging at the bodice, pulling it lower, lower, licking her skin, and Lauren thought she might go mad with the pleasure of him.
He found her breast through the gown, his hand palming it, squeezing gently, then he placed his mouth over her nipple and scored his teeth across the cloth.
She cried out, hushed and excited, and his hand came up to cover her mouth, cutting off the sound. Then he did the same thing again, but to her other breast. Lauren closed her eyes and tried not to scream.
His hand left her mouth, replaced again by his lips, a sensual caress against her, and she felt the stiff amber gown bunched up and pushed aside, the roughness of his palm on her bare leg, gliding up, finding her thigh.
He lifted himself from her and came back down in one swift move, only now the gown was around her waist, and there was nothing between her and him but his clothing, which felt appallingly thin. He held her tightly, fighting her new tension, and her eyes were wide and stunned, her lips parted on a protest that would not come.
Arion began to move, the same rhythm as before, and it surrounded her and wrapped around her even tighter; it was liquid fire and light, it was essential and unsatisfied, but oh, it felt so good.
“Is this it?” he asked, panting against her, moving his hand between them to touch her in her most intimate place.“Is this it, Lauren? Tell me.”
She gave a breathless cry, and again he smothered it, closing it off with his kiss, not releasing her, building the sparks, the fire, building….
“Tell me,” he grated against her.“Say it.”
“Yes,” Lauren said, trying to feel more of him, helpless to prevent the words from escaping her. “Yes, oh, please …”
“Yes,” Arion agreed, triumphant, and she felt him press even harder against her, his fingers covered in her wetness, teasing her, and she knew then that she would have sold her soul to let this feeling go on forever, never to stop, but if it didn't, she would surely die from it.
“Yes,” he ground out.“Yes, you're mine.”
The end came with shattering strength, a dissolving of light and sound and all that she was, the pulse of the ocean coursing through her, drowning her until she lost everything, all her senses, to him, to Arion.
She was crying. She couldn't stop, silent tears that were all she could express of what had just happened to her, the loss of her security, of her world.
Arion remained over her, tense and, she knew, battling his own will right now. And she lay there beneath him as open as a flower, yet still he did not move.
When she could, she raised her eyes to his and found his faced closed off, remote. He lifted himself off her with controlled suppleness, standing to straighten his tunic and hose, hiding his arousal.
Lauren sat up as fast as she could to push the amber skirts down again, though they were now hopelessly wrinkled. From there she stood, unsteady, then took a few blind steps over to the bed, away from him. He had not looked at her again.
“Would you go to him now?” Arion asked, his voice uneven.“Could you, Lauren MacRae?”
She brought her hands up to her lips and felt the aftermath of his kisses—tenderness, swelling. She took a deep breath and inhaled his scent, intoxicating.
There were no words to soothe him. There was no truth she could say to him without wounding him again, or her. There was no painless answer to the devastating problem her life had become.
Lauren could only say hopelessly: “My clan. My people.”
It meant so much to her, yet she knew it would be almost nothing to him. So she turned around to see him, to let him see her, so that he could understand what he was asking her to sacrifice.
“My family,” she said, and felt those odious tears rise again.
He stared at her, his mouth turned to something bitter and awful, his eyes stark green. She saw that he wasn't ready to give up yet, that although he could guess what it meant, he was stubborn, and he was proud. He would make her declare it beyond all doubts.
“They need me,” Lauren said. She had to sit on the edge of the bed for support, because her legs refused to hold her up any longer. Arion didn't release her from his gaze, ruthlessly honest, brutal.
Lauren lifted her hands in the air, a supplication to him to free her from that severity. The tears were in her throat.“Please understand. I made a promise.”
Sunlight came loose suddenly in the room, a pale golden wash that flared up around him, obscuring him, the tempest of his emotions, the anger and suffering for her.
A knock sounded on the door. Neither of them moved, neither of them spoke.
It came again, then the door eased open to reveal Hannah, stepping forward into the room, her eyes bright and sharp. She looked to Lauren and then to the earl. Her manner remained smooth and tranquil, and she stopped near the bed.
“There is a storm approaching, Earl of Morgan. I would like for Lauren and me to depart before it hits.”
Arion did nothing for what seemed an eternity to Lauren. The sunlight around him had not changed; he remained a man of shadow and darkness.
“Yes,” he said finally.“It would be wise to leave before the storm blows in full force. I will have your mounts ready for you in a few minutes, and an escort for you back to Keir. Do not tarry. Or you will be forced to remain here.”
Hannah nodded. Lauren could only close her eyes, trying to shut out some of the light and dark that was him.
Chapter Eleven
HE HAD RIDDEND HOME IN the gown of gold, after all.
In the end there had been no time to change, and Lauren had thought it prudent not to ignore Arion's veiled warning. They left as soon as they could—she and Hannah and some of the earl's men, and he had not even come out of Elguire to bid them farewell. She had not seen him again. And now, Lauren supposed, she never would.
Her heart was cold steel, her soul the shade of gray that matched the clouds that hung low above them, threatening winter. But she had kept her back straight, and she had not cried again.
It had caused quite a stir, the group of them approaching Keir, an English guard for one woman in a tartan and another in bright sapphire and gold. Arion's men had halted before they had actually reached the gate of Keir, as had been previously agreed; now that the alliance was over, they would not find a likely welcome from the Scots. She and Hannah had ridden alone up the final path to the castle.
People had flocked over to see her, to touch her, to eye the gown and the bruise on her head, to help her off her steed and usher her back into the walls of her home.
Lauren moved through them in a blur, trying to smile and talk to them as they were to her, trying to appear as normal as she could. There were happy faces and sterner ones, women and men who each and all had an opinion about her, about what had happened outside of Dunmar, and where she had been for the past few days.
She tried to remember that they cared for her. That they did love her, and they did need her, as she had claimed to Arion. But for the first time ever in her life, Lauren found herself doubtful, examining them carefully, seeing things she had not noticed before.
> How eyes met over her head, and silent messages were exchanged.
How words became fast and furious when she moved away.
How they watched her. How closely they observed her.
Lauren realized, walking with them into the keep, that she was no longer completely in their confidence. That since the Vikings had come, and Da had died, and Arion had first kissed her hand, she had grown into the thing she had always privately feared she would—a creature of two worlds and of none, a woman with no true home, because her spirit was so impossibly torn.
It seemed laughable in sane daylight. It seemed ludicrous, to think that her people would not trust her.
But stepping into the cradle of the castle, the shadows crept over her eyes and her heart, and Lauren could more easily believe all the whispers that trailed her, a cloak of public caution that followed her.
If only they knew … if only they had any idea of what had actually happened between her and Arion … She prayed to God they never would.
She asked of Quinn and was told he was resting, he was better—but nothing else.
More than a few of her clan were viewing the golden gown with plain hostility, and it was James who finally growled down at her,“What is this thing you wear, lass? Yo u look like no proper MacRae.”
“It was just for the ride,” Hannah assured them all, her hand on Lauren's elbow. “We go to her chamber now, to change.”
Her room was her haven, sweet silence and no lasting stares, only Hannah, busy finding and setting out one of Lauren's regular gowns, and the square of blue and teal and emerald that was her tartan.
“You had best change,” suggested Hannah mildly, when Lauren made no effort to do so.
“I know,” Lauren replied. But still she didn't move.
“I will assist you.” Hannah came forward and began to untie the laces of the English gown, and Lauren allowed it, numb, letting this dress from Arion peel away from her body, and then the sapphire one, until she stood shivering in her bandages on the stone and Hannah wrapped her up again in the softness of what she had always worn, and always would—sturdy Scottish clothing, everything fit and fine and seemly. The brooch of rowan was again at her shoulder.