by Lisa Torquay
In this pace, she would reach the McKendrick’s by morning. And who knew she would manage to retrieve her son from her bear of a husband? In secret, to keep him safe by her side.
The moments of their year together still lived vividly in her memory. So much so, a shiver ran through her every time she indulged in remembrances. Which she avoided like the fires of hell.
The night quieted anew, and she exited the bush to continue her journey. Racing through the darkness, she more fumbled than saw the way. Good thing she walked it often.
Five years. This simple ruse could destroy five years of careful concealing. Five years of bitter isolation. Bitter loneliness. When she lived in fear for her son, in longing for her husband. The frugality did not bother her, she learned to enjoy it. But missing a family, a home would never sit comfortably with her. She must struggle to keep things as they were, or the consequences would be dreadful.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“My Laird.” Glen curved over Taran’s body sprawled on the settee in the study. “My Laird.” The smell of whisky reached the butler as a nauseous wave. He shook the leader of the McDougals slightly.
“Hm.” The man on the settee grumbled, turning to the other side.
“A footman came ahead, My Laird.” Why did the servant have to hassle his non-existent sleep? Taran thought in a fog of ethylic slumber. “The lady is an hour away.”
This got his attention. As lightning, he sprang up, eyes opening to a blindly obfuscating bright afternoon. Late afternoon at that. The blood-shot irises closed hurtfully. His large hand tapped his skull which threatened to crack with pain. He groaned helplessly.
“I saw to a bath in your room and fresh clothes, my Laird.” Glen added as he went picking a wine bottle, splintered pieces of a whisky bottle and glasses. “Oh, and mint tea. For the breath.” This in a mildly reproaching way.
Not giving himself time to awake completely, he hurtled from the study to his chambers, still disbelieving the message.
In half an hour, he had bathed and drunk what seemed an ocean of strong mint tea, which helped with the skull-splitting pain. Fresh tartan, shirt and hoses made him feel marginally better.
He prepared to put on a show, reaching his study—now tidied—piling ledgers on the desk and placing one open before him.
It was when he heard the carriage stop at the front door. He had yet to trust it would be really her. Ears sharpened, he heard her greeting Glen. The melodious tone wafting to his ears. He closed his eyes tight, nostrils flaring with a forceful intake of air. Not under torture would he admit to relief.
Light steps sounded on the wooden planks, approaching. He opened his lashes and positioned as if he sat engrossed in a ledger.
The door rasped and opened. He counted to three. And lifted his head to her.
A caber-toss-like sentiment pummelled his chest. Air impossibly robbed of him.
His wife came back. For real.
His too avid eyes clasped on hers. Hers on his. Little hand forgotten on the handle. The universe arrested in this unique second. Nothing moved. No wind. No clock ticking. No trees swishing. No birds singing. Time arrowed on her, on them.
Hauling himself from the chair, he came to his feet. He wanted to lock the door, spread her on his desk, and take her hard and fast and total. Several times. Until the servants ran away with their savage noises. He fastened his feet to the floor and made his stance look mild. Very mild.
“Aileen.” He said, as if he saw her this morning. As if he never doubted her return. As if he did not despair at her imagined abandon. As if he did not care one way or the other. “Did you have a nice trip?”
The question seemed to shake her off their trance. “As nice as the roads allow.” Dusty boots, breeze-streaked chestnut hair, wrinkled dress and plaid spencer, she was the most beautiful woman on Earth.
“Good.” He responded casually. “I will tell Glen to delay dinner, so you can refresh.”
Mahogany inspection took him from the top of his damp hair, down his broad chest, his neat tartan, bare knees and shoes. A squint with that edge of hunger on perfect features he recognised so well, the wee hurricane sensed something wrong.
It meant trouble.
He did not give a damn. She had come home.
A faint smile sketched on her disastrously tempting lips. “Thank you.” She carried herself out and closed the door delicately. Too delicately for the Aileen he knew.
~.~.~
Aileen strutted to the chambers uncertain whether irritation or disappointment ran in her. She left the McKendricks eager to return to her home—yes this was home for her at present—to him. She missed him, blast it!
Dawn had not broken when she left, intent on being back for dinner. And for what?
To find the man sitting almost, almost placidly—placid being a word she would not use in relation to him, ever—at his desk and have him look at her as if he did not even notice her absence. His words cold, but his features, his eyes burning with something she could not catch. Not only that. His skin a tad… wan, without the healthy glow his outdoor life afforded him. As though he had been…
Drinking!
Irritation won the day. Why would the implacable giant be in his cups? She had not seen him taking drink in excess up to today. Moderation his measure as far as she realised. It begged the question and she should ask it.
Disappointment did not lay far behind though. She wanted to run to him, hold him, smell his manly tang and kiss him until they came up breathless and ready for one another. A wall of controlled civility met her at the study. Civility being the second word surrealistically linked to the man.
What was going on, for pity’s sake?
Less than a week away should not have changed the scenario so drastically.
Her husband proved to be a vault of secrets. Strange behaviour manifested in him since the gathering at the church grounds. It necessitated attention.
As she entered their chamber, a warm bath awaited thankfully. She washed away the weariness and the doubts and dressed for dinner.
~.~.~
After dinner, they sat in the drawing room, she with her needlework and he with legal papers. The meal had elapsed in an apparently normal way with so many currents running underneath she did not figure out how the servants made it between the kitchen and the dining room.
Her blabber about what transpired in the McKendrick’s the sole talk in between the clinking sounds of the dinner ware.
Frustration bleared in her. Her spine sang with the tension which vibrated in the air. Jerky fingers held the needle, and she had already jabbed her hands too many times to count.
Surprisingly, he followed her here with those documents and sat absorbed in them. Her husband was usually a very energetic man. This sedate version of him totally unfamiliar to her.
The footmen were finishing serving tea.
Her insides wrenched with this unexpected behaviour. “I would like to know why you have been drinking.” She shot close-range.
His green eyes snapped to hers, vexed. “Leave.” At the dry order, the footmen hurried out of the room.
Long muscled legs stretched on the carpet, pulling his tartan up, his elbow resting on the armchair’s arm, a study in casualness. “What makes you think I have been drinking?”
If she talked about his appearance, he would deny it. So, she played the other card. “Your study reeked funny this afternoon.” It was not like she wanted to control his every move. This episode made up for an exception in his attitude though.
He crossed his taut arms. “I drank a few glasses of whisky yesterday, yes.”
She respected it he did not lie, even if it did not favour him. His big frame draped on that armchair did little to dispel her… keenness. “I hope nothing bad prompted you to it.”
At the remark, he uncoiled from the chair so quickly, one imagined how his large body did it. “What is this, an interrogation?” Irritably, he strode to the escritoire on the corner and plopped the pape
rs there.
Her hands let go of her needle, alarm accumulating in her. “No, not that.” Fingers groped for the sewing again. “I just want to learn if something is wrong.”
Those long fingers raked his sable hair. “No, it is not.” He paced to the hearth. “Does this satisfy you?”
He said it as if everything scrambled out of place, in a gelid, clipped tone to that gorgeous voice of his.
“If you say so.” She replied and bent back to her work. His reply had not satisfied her, clearly.
“You ask me what is wrong, but you see nothing untoward in dangling to and from your family’s.” She lifted her eyes to witness powerful legs braced, flaming eyes and overstrung shoulders.
Anger grew on her. Up from her chair, she neared him, raised her stare to his with a diamond blink. “I explained why I must go.”
“Oh, yes.” Mock on his rugged features. “This time, almost a week. Next time, a fortnight. And then what?”
“Are you jealous of my family?” She asked, brows pleated, unable to believe such a thing.
“Jealous of the McKendricks?” He sketched a gesture which imprinted the far-fetched-ness of it. The old rivalry still in place. “You left against my will.”
Oh, there it was. The dictatorial troglodyte. “They had a good reason to ask me to go.” Her hands flew to her hips, followed by his attention. “I am not going to apologise for it.”
He prowled to her in long steps and took her shoulders. “Apologise?” He pulled her to him, unleashing a chain reaction of sensations in her. “I want you in my bed. Every night.” His skilled mouth neared hers, almost touching. “You hear me?” He growled hoarse, his ragged breath teasing the pink sensitive skin.
Her thirsty lips sucked in air as her tongue darted out to moisten them. Green eyes darkened on her. “As if I ever wanted away from it.” Weak, the sentence hung between them, her insides climbing to a boiling state in a matter of seconds.
His breathing accelerated, body wiring. “Hell, Aileen.” He rasped before his mouth ravened hers.
What took him so long? Arms twined around his thick neck, length glued to his steel muscles, she opened for his invasion, no barricades. In a blink the kiss soared beyond the crudest carnality.
And she was beyond any cool thought. For her feet snatched the lead and directed backwards to the escritoire.
As her back touched it, one of her hands bunched her skirts to cradle him. That a single kiss of his would set her in flames had to be worrisome. Right then, she did not give a fig.
The papers scattered on the carpet, forgotten.
“Let us go to bed, Aileen.” He invited on her mouth, not doing much for it.
“No.” She murmured hot. “I cannot wait.” Her spine lay on the solid piece of furniture, arching for him.
Strong hands bared her breasts, and he bent to sabotage them in a way which transformed her in a river of lava.
His erection met her centre like a granite sculpture, deepening her hunger. “See if I can wait.” He unwrapped the lower end of the tartan.
No, he could not.
“Taran.” She breathed. “Take me, now!”
“Woman!” But he was there at her entrance. “You are going to finish me before we start.”
And thrust deep through her drawers’ slit. His stubble face pulled back with a grunt at the intensity of the pleasure.
She moaned, throwing her head back at the supreme delight the torment caused. “Rough. I want it rough.” Urgent demand uttered as her arms and legs tangled him like a vice.
He needed not any more impelling. His raw movements showed no restraint while his bristle mouth grazed her neck, mounds and collar bone erratic, uncontrolled.
Wringing under him every which way, she starved for more not caring if she maddened him further.
The air filled with moans and rumbles and the sounds of their middles clashing briskly.
“How is a man supposed to survive?” He growled, panting. One hand embroiled in her hair, the other arm locked on her waist, also far gone.
But when he dived again, she broke in an unladylike scream while clenching around him repeatedly.
As their bodies clanged once more, Taran threw his head back with a wild rasp as he poured his lust to the last drop.
His head rested on her bosom and they remained entwined for long minutes.
~.~.~
The darkest hour blanketed their chambers when Taran opened his eyes to register Aileen sleeping on him, under the bed’s coverlet. An arm circled her and his other hand caressed her glossy chestnut hair spread on his chest. Tonight, like this, he could welcome her home. The reality of her presence complete, concrete. Replete.
He should be awarded a Royal medal for smoke-screen tactics, he pondered bluntly to himself. At her questioning him about his drinking episode, he had the undeniable obligation to a sincere exposure of his fears. Aye, fears. As a human being, he possessed fears like anybody else. He saw it crystalline. As the clan chief, he never admitted such feelings to a soul. Not even to his son.
His people expected him to show a fierce, decisive, unfailing side of him so they might trust his decisions. As the leader, owning to weaknesses or doubts would get his hands full with contestation and possible rebellion. Not something to risk, surely.
Obliged to be the paragon of fortitude and assertiveness did not favour actions countering it. The result being it built pressure in him, her trip for instance. A pressure he relieved with strenuous labour or—well—sex. Tonight not an exception.
Which made it extremely difficult to expose himself even to his wife. Hence, the artifice of the previous evening. The sole fact he proved to be capable of expressing was his passion. It came easy. And her reaction surmounted the most fantastical expectations.
She enthralled him with her responsiveness. Always did. Because it felt not only physical. It was as if with her body, she surrendered a lot more. Though he could not fathom how much. He preferred not to as his possessiveness would escalate sky-high.
Why complicate the situation by posing those fears in the open if he got the possibility of… going around it? He wondered guiltlessly.
At that precise moment, these issues counted as resolved. And it was what mattered, he terminated his ruminations.
Early morning, she stirred in his arms. Her tousled head came up, she looked at him in the grey autumn light. “I cannot be so weightless that you are comfortable with me scrambled on you.” Breathy and sleepy, the single concept he must be the luckiest man in the highlands to wake in such a manner crossed his mind.
He rumbled a laugh. “I may be on my belly and you find a way over me.”
A delicate index strolled his stubble jaw. “It is unusual.”
Long fingers trailed down her dainty spine. “My penance, no doubt.” He joked lightly.
“Yes.” She answered. “For being slow.”
His features turned quizzical. “Slow?”
The naughty index drew a beeline on his hair-peppered chest. “I should have ravished you the minute I arrived.”
Amused green irises focused on her. “That would have been… entertaining.”
“Entertaining, hun.” Her beeline circled a dark nipple.
Those irises changed colour. “What are you about, woman?” The question rhetorical, naturally.
Mahogany eyes watched him from under thick lashes. “Seeing if you are getting a tad more… entertained.” Her lips substituted her index with an audible response from him.
“I am already very entertained.” And he moved his hips for good measure.
They did not even see the sun go up in the morning.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Alistair.” Aileen greeted her cousin as she came in the drawing room. “What good winds bring you here?”
“Cousin Aileen.” He neared her and took her hands in his. “I was on the way to Aunt Bridget.” He directed her a mischievous smile. “The one you have not seen in a very long time.”
&n
bsp; Aileen would visit Aunt Bridget when Taran crashed into her life. She tilted her head in understanding. A small smile acknowledged his jest.
“I decided to stop by and see how you are faring.” Not tall as her brothers, with brown hair and eyes, he was something of a dandy in English style attire.
“Last I heard, you were in London.” They sat down, and she ordered tea.
“Indeed.” He adjusted his cravat. “I came to Scotland for Samhain.” Her kin also shed the Scottish way of speaking for the more fashionable London cut-glass accent.
Aileen had been busy preparing Samhain, which marked the end of harvest and the start of winter.
“if you want, you can spend it here.” She invited. “We are going to have a big celebration.”
“Hm, not a bad idea, to tell the truth.” The smile that accompanied it amenable. “Aunt Bridget is not expecting me for days yet.”
Alistair had been a constant presence in her childhood as his father and hers were brothers. “I am happy you came, Alistair.” She served the tea. “It has been a long time.”
“I am happy to be here.” He devolved.
Their chat came easily during tea and, as they finished, she invited him to walk the grounds. An autumn wind blew across the garden, but the overcast sky was clear despite the cool temperature. Both walked arm in arm.
Taran strode from the distillery to find his wife in the arm of—who was the bluidy Sassenach? He wondered with a thread of vexation at seeing her with another man.
Aileen sighted him. “Come meet my cousin Alistair.”
A McKendrick who renegaded on his roots more like it.
“Laird McDougal.” The renegade bowed, English fashion.
“McKendrick.” He replied stonily.
“I invited Alistair to stay for Samhain.” She informed her husband.
A renegade McKendrick in his lands? Bad news. He nodded silently.
Her cousin drafted a side smile. “I hope you do not object to host the enemy.” The jest not particularly appreciated.