by Ruby Duvall
The comment was inexplicably hilarious and Emma laughed.
—
Dinner that evening was louder than usual. Emma might have thought that it was due to their victory against the MacGregors but she decided to blame the abundance of ale. Iain was still rather subdued, considering how much he had already imbibed, but Kenneth and the farmhands were roaring with laughter every other second. Aili’s high-pitched cackles and Beth’s giggles added to the din.
Emma had to admit, though, that their laughter was infectious. Kenneth’s litany of jokes and quick wit had her smiling if not chuckling along with everyone else. He sometimes reminded her of her brother.
“When he sees that Iain’s asleep, Father Patrick jabs him and gives him as evil an eye as a holy man can.” Kenneth made a comical imitation of the minister’s angry face. “He says, ‘Ye dinna want to go to hell, do ye, Iain?’” The redhead then imitated a low, rough voice. “And Iain says, ‘Father, I’m already there.’” Renewed laughter burst from the farmhands. Thomas even had to wipe away a bit of ale that dribbled from his mouth.
“I dinna sound like that,” Iain complained. Unfortunately, a small smile quickly undermined his mock anger. He had apparently enjoyed terrorizing Father Patrick. His comment only made the rest of the men laugh harder though, for Kenneth’s impression had been pretty close to the real thing. Kenneth’s face was red from laughter.
“Well, boys, the burden is ready to sleep in her own bed.” Aili braced her hands on the table and pushed herself up to her feet.
“But Aili, we have nae even started the real drinking yet,” Kenneth bemoaned. The smile fell from Emma’s face. More drinking? “I think I may win this time!”
“Ye never win, lad,” Aili said, shaking her finger at him. “I dinna want to see what may happen if ye ever drank more than Iain. Ye might float home on a river of ale.” Thomas and Malcolm sniggered into their cups, both of them already three sheets to the wind but neither of them old enough to even shave.
“It amuses me to see ye try though,” Iain goaded as he finished off his fifth cup of ale. Kenneth gulped down the rest of his fourth cup in retaliation.
Emma wanted to say something but she had never seen Iain so relaxed and didn’t want to ruin their evening. He was an adult. He knew his limit.
“’Tis a waste of good ale, I say,” Aili said as she turned toward the door. She hobbled away, leaning heavily on her cane. “Not impressing her at all.” The men at the table didn’t seem to hear the old woman. The farmhands were snickering over the rivalry between Iain and Kenneth, who were both refilling their cups from the open barrel. Emma bid Aili good night. The woman grunted in return, waving over her shoulder.
—
With one hand fidgeting impatiently under the table, Iain glanced at Emma over the rim of his cup, his eyes devouring her. Her new dress was a little tighter and hugged the outline of her torso. His hands tingled as he imagined the dress against her skin, cupping her breasts and brushing against her legs. His fingers craved to touch her, to reaffirm that her skin was as smooth as he remembered. Opportunities to stroke that creamy flesh had been so few and far between. Even now, he could barely follow the stream of conversation, his mind filled with fantasies of her body writhing beneath his touch.
Ever since that moment in the pitch darkness after the attack, he had been looking forward to being alone with her again but it didn’t seem that anyone else would be leaving soon. The boys were barely lucid but Kenneth was far too sober for Iain’s liking. The only thing that took the edge off his frustration was the ale.
He took another large swallow.
Emma confused him and he both hated and loved it. Her stubborn silence on her past still made him anxious but when he looked at her, he saw nothing dishonest. She rather seemed anxious as well and he was completely fascinated. Fragile and alone, yet trying to fend for herself. Quiet and uncertain, yet hard-working and capable. Otherworldly at times but also familiar and natural, like she belonged. She surprised him every day and he had no doubt that more surprises were coming. He tipped back his cup of ale.
Her heart was just as much a mystery. He sometimes had hope that she felt the same as he did but too often he saw fear in her eyes or heard indifference in her words. After so many years with only a mother and sister to look after, Iain had thought he knew the secrets of a woman’s heart but the last couple of weeks had taught him differently.
Finishing off his cup, he realized as his head went back that he was drunk. The room went awry and he had to grip the edge of the table to keep from falling off the bench. How many cups had he drunk? Seven? Eight? He hadn’t been paying attention. Swallowing and leaning forward to set down his cup, he tried to focus his eyes again. Something Kenneth said set the boys to laughing again.
Looking across the table at Emma, he saw her eyes on him. With the fire behind him, it was easy to see the concern on her face…and the disapproval.
“I can hold my ale,” he said, though not as clearly as he’d have liked. Malcolm and Thomas both guffawed, half lying on the table as if they would take a nap. “Pick yer heads up, boys. This isna a bed.” It was only a second or two after the words left his mouth that Iain realized how foolish he sounded.
“I think the girl’s beauty has gone to yer head,” Kenneth said. “Otherwise this is indeed some fine ale!” He cheered, raising his cup high. The farmhands joined in. They tried to tap their cups together but missed.
“I am nae drunk,” Iain insisted.
“You are,” Emma said in a hard, even voice, “and killing brain cells with that poison.”
Brain what? “I’m fine, woman. Get me another.” He held out his cup to her since she was a little closer to the barrel than he was. Who did she think he was? He was no child, clinging to his mother’s skirt. He ran his own house and would do what he liked.
“Get it yourself, if you can.” Emma got up, taking an empty plate with her. What was her problem? Just because she didn’t drink ale didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy drinking it. He had earned his rewards.
Kenneth unsteadily set his cup next to Iain’s. “One for me as well.” The boys had crossed their arms and laid them upon the table as pillows for their heads. “No sleeping! Wake up! Drink to our victory!”
“No victory yet,” Malcolm mumbled, raising his head only a few seconds. Thomas looked up as well, his eyes barely open. “Aye, the war party ha’ nae come back.”
“We dinna know if they found the MacGregors,” Iain said. He tried not to think of what might happen if the rival clan had already gone into hiding. Standing up, he fumbled for Kenneth’s empty cup and, with no small amount of satisfaction, successfully made it to the ale barrel a couple of paces away.
After refilling the two cups, he turned back to the table. Emma stood on the far side and was whispering into Beth’s ear. The child was listening closely and nodding her head. He slammed the cups back on the table, not caring that some of the ale sloshed out.
“Hey, careful!” Kenneth warned. Emma looked up at him, frowning.
“Dada, I’m tired,” Beth said with a pout while tugging on her father’s sleeve.
With his cup in hand, the redhead looked down at his daughter. “Are ye?” He glanced at the sleeping farmhands and then out the open door at the dark sky. “I suppose it is late. Ye’re usually asleep by now.” The man gulped down his last cup of ale. “Let’s go home then.”
“Boys, get out of my house.” Iain didn’t care how rude he sounded. Leaving his drink on the table, he walked behind the two farmhands and gripped their arms to haul them up.
“I feel sick,” Thomas groaned. Malcolm managed to step over the bench but Thomas needed help. Beth was already walking hand-in-hand with her father to the door.
Emma was standing by the fire, her arms crossed. “Drink some water before you go to bed, Thomas. Sleep on your side, in case you throw up,” she said. The younger boy nodded as he and Malcolm leaned on each other for support, both stumbling to the door.<
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“Say good night, sweeting,” Kenneth said to his daughter. Beth waved as they left the house. The boys soon followed. Malcolm was trying to get Thomas to sing with him but the younger boy groaned petulantly in resistance.
“The same goes for you.” Emma grabbed the water jug from the table, poured a cup and set it down next to a plate with a hunk of bread. “Eat that and drink the water.”
“I can hold my ale,” Iain maintained. Just to prove it, he picked up the cup he had just filled and downed it all. Quite satisfied by her livid glare, he was tempted to go refill his cup and gulp that down as well, just to see what she would do to stop him.
“You asshole.” Iain blinked, astounded by her language. “Do you think that’s supposed to impress me? Does it make you a man? It seems you have a problem knowing what makes a man and what doesn’t.”
For a couple of seconds, he could see only red, slapped in the face by her gelding insult. His body shook with anger to hear her questioning his manhood. “I do know what makes a man,” he ground out. “Perhaps ye’re the one who has a problem. We were all having a good time.”
“You think you need ale to have fun? Poison is still poison. Everyone has a limit and very few are smart enough to stop when they reach it. I had thought you were a smart man. Maybe I was wrong.”
“What is this hatred ye hold against drinking liquor? Ye treat it as though it were a sin.” His vision suddenly became blurry and he had to blink to focus his eyes.
Something in Emma’s expression seemed at a loss. “N-not a sin! Just stupid!” she yelled.
“S-stoo-ped?” he shouted back. What the hell did that mean?
“Yes, stupid! Did you think that drinking something until you can’t walk right is good for your health? Drinking so much that you pass out? So-so much that you stop breathing?” Her voice broke and she abruptly sat down on the bench. “What kind of logic is that?” He noticed the slightest change in the tilt of her eyebrows and realized she was on the brink of tears.
Through the haze of anger and ale, a realization struck him. Punched him right across the face. “That’s how yer brother died,” he said. Emma dropped her head to hide her face behind the fall of her hair. Guilt overwhelmed him. His anger bled away, leaving his stomach in knots and his head aching.
Careful to watch his balance, he took a seat next to her, both of them now facing the fire. She was quiet for a long moment and he wondered if she didn’t want to say anything more, didn’t want to share this with him. Lifting his hand to touch her shoulder, he softly called her name. She recoiled from him, hugging herself.
Putting his hand back in his lap, he cursed under his breath. It was maddening how he couldn’t do anything right when it came to her.
It seemed he couldn’t have any part of her. It was like trying to look inside a house but there were no windows and the door was locked. He imagined himself knocking at the door, only to have no answer. He then imagined her sitting alone in the dark, listening to a stranger testing the lock and demanding entrance. It was a strange exercise but he wondered if there was another way to lure her out.
He took a steadying breath.
“Gwen appreciated the Church far more than I ever did. I didna have faith the way she did. She and—and some others helped Father James at the kirk when the sickness reached us. Kenneth forbade her from going but no one could ever tell Gwen to do aught.” A fleeting smile tugged on a corner of his mouth. “When she first became sick, my mother tended her. She insisted that Kenneth and Beth stay here with me. Gwen started to get better but then my mother fell ill as well. I tried to help them—Kenneth and I both did—but mother wouldna let us. I begged but she didna let either of us stay longer than a few minutes. She didna want to give it to us.”
He gripped his knees, knuckles white. “Then a man came through, selling some sort of potion that he said would cure the sickness. Smelled like bad ale to me but Kenneth and I were in such great need. We gave the bastard my father’s sword, and his ‘cure’? It only made them worse, made the last days of their lives more painful. If I’d had the courage, I would have ended their misery.” He could still hear their moans of agony, both knowing that nothing could save them and both wishing for death. “But even in that, I failed.”
Iain started when cool fingers touched the back of his hand. He looked at Emma, his vision blurry but blinking a few times cleared his sight. The tail of a single tear slowly sliding down her cheek glistened in the firelight. Had that imaginary door cracked open? He turned his hand over, lacing their fingers together.
“I worshiped Jack,” she whispered. Iain tightened his fingers around her hand, his attention fixed upon her words as the door slowly began to open. “He was very popular. Tall, charming, talented. We had our own secret language. Just hearing him laugh made me smile, even if I hadn’t heard the joke.”
Her forlorn and lonely expression bespoke of many treasured memories but strangely, Iain felt a surge of jealousy. He had never had that kind of friendship, not even with Kenneth. Moreover, his greed for Emma was becoming irrepressible. He craved something deeper than any kind of friendship either of them had ever experienced. He wanted it so badly that impatience chewed at his insides, biting and clawing. The aggravating sensation pulled his mouth into a deep frown.
“The night he died,” she went on, looking down at their tangle of fingers, “he was at a party with his friends. Most of them were seniors—I mean, older than him. One had an older brother who brought the beer. Jack was trying to impress them, I guess,” she shrugged. “Probably thought that someone his size could handle it. When he passed out, his friends thought they were taking care of him. They put him on a bed and left him, assuming he would just sleep it off.” She looked up at him again with pinched, upturned eyebrows and a slight frown. “The doctor said that he went peacefully. After he passed out, he never woke up.”
Eyes fluttering closed, she took a deep breath and he watched her throat move as she swallowed, as though gulping down the pain. When their eyes met again, she had herself under control.
“For a while after he was gone, I found myself remembering only the good things about him, forgetting that he hadn’t been very studious, that his confidence was often arrogance, that he was sometimes mean to other kids. He was perfect in my memories but truthfully…” she trailed off, looking off to the side and squinting as though searching for the right word. “I was angry at him. I didn’t want to be. I wanted to be angry at his friends, at the alcohol…even at God.”
Not sure if it was the silkiness of her hand, the heat of the fire, the ale, or all three, a sudden wave of dizziness swept over him. His body stilled as he waited for it to subside, which it eventually did.
“I’m sorry for ruining your night,” she said.
“Thank ye,” he mumbled.
Her eyebrows twitched and he thought he saw a little smile sitting on the corner of her mouth. “Thank you for ruining your night?”
He shook his head. “For telling me. For listening.” Her thumb brushed the back of his, making his heart trip.
“You’re welcome.”
The heat of an ale-born fever finally overwhelmed him, rushing up and rocking him back on the bench until he hit the table. Drowsiness came next. His eyes lost focus but blinking to get it back didn’t work this time.
“Iain?” His eyelids were at half-mast, his body careening in every direction. His hold on her fingers had gone limp. Standing up and leaning over him, she held his face in her hands, marveling for a second at the coarseness of his beard. “Iain, look at me. Look at me.” She lightly slapped his cheek and he looked up.
“Hey,” he complained, wincing at her.
“You need to stay awake.” Wrapping her fingers around the cup of water, she brought it to his mouth. “Here, drink this.” Satisfied when he got half of it down his throat without spilling it all over himself, she set the cup back on the table and grasped his shoulders, if anything to hold him up. “Maybe you should lie down befo
re you fall down.”
He nodded, though it was more like his neck nodding than his head doing it. She watched him closely as he stood up, grateful that he was able to do it on his own, for he was much too heavy for her to even drag him, let alone carry him.
He walked toward his bed with great care, one step at a time. She pulled stools out of his way, worried he might trip over one. What she didn’t think of was that he might trip on his own feet.
Iain pitched forward. “Whoa!” he said. She darted to catch him, wrapping her arms around his bulk. His arms clamped around her as he tried to find his footing. She sagged under his weight, her body shaking with effort. God, he was heavy!
Some of the weight lifted as his feet found purchase and together, they got him to his bed. The frame creaked as he sat down with a huff.
“Take off your shoes. You still need to eat that bread and finish the water.” She started toward the table but his hand grabbed her wrist.
“Stay,” he murmured, tugging on her arm.
Warmth rushed to her cheeks and she found out just how strong he was when she was inexorably pulled between his legs, even though she dug her feet in. He brought her flush against his chest and she braced her hands on his shoulders to keep from falling on him. One of his arms held her close and his other hand roamed over her backside, squeezing and rubbing. His deep, satisfied sigh was followed by a swift inhalation through his teeth.
She gasped, stiff with shock. Softly crying out when he pressed his face against her chest and groaned, she watched with wide eyes as he nuzzled the valley between her breasts. His nose nudged aside her locket as his lips kissed the flesh above the square neck of her dress. His beard was rough against her skin. Her cheeks burned and her heart was pounding so fast that even she became a little dizzy.
He moaned her name, his voice muffled against her body. “I want ye,” he said. “I need ye.” His hands were dragging her skirt up and when she tried to slip from his grasp, he snatched her close again and wrapped his legs around hers. “I need ye, Emma.”