Aidan urged his mount forward, regretful he could no longer observe Olwyn, but needing to take the lead into the woods.
He took the familiar path that led into the thicket of brambly undergrowth and rotted logs. The naked limbs of the trees spiraled up into the sky, creaking as the winds whistled through their branches. The horses picked their hooves high, stepping lightly through the tamped-down tangle of ferns and vines and bare bushes.
And Aidan felt the peace of the place settle over him, the ancient trees and timeless rocks soothing him as they always did. It made him feel intensely alive, aware that he was a part of life itself, living, breathing, reproducing, dying. He could not enter the woods without it inspiring in him a surge of humble gratitude that he was part of the cycle.
He glanced behind him to check Olwyn’s progress, and was struck by the look of pure wonder on her face. It tugged at his heart, for she wore the expression of the very emotions he felt—wonder, tranquility, and the happiness that comes from appreciating the simple things that make a moment perfect.
She met his gaze, her piercing gray eyes lit from within, the exact color of the stormy, steely clouds that raced in from the ocean.
“I love it here,” she whispered, as if she did not want to disturb the silent splendor of the woods. Her hair was tossed with wind, her cheeks pinked with cold, and Aidan did not think he had ever seen a woman more artlessly lovely. She looked like a medieval portrait come to life, an ancient Druid riding upon a white horse through winter-stripped woods.
A lump formed in his throat and he turned back to the trail. If he would ever be free of the spell she had cast over him, he would need to stop such poetic waxing.
He spoke without looking at her. “Aye. ’Tis a special place.”
“Even with the winds and the storm coming, it remains quiet here with a certain stillness I cannot name. It is unlike any place I’ve ever been.”
His belly tightened at the sound of her tone, her hushed reverence, as if she were on sacred soil.
Aidan remembered the day he’d brought Mira there, and the confusion on her face as to why he looked at her expectantly.
Mira had not felt what Aidan felt.
Olwyn did.
He tried to tell himself that it didn’t matter. He assured himself that there was no deeper meaning. One woman responded to the place and another did not. It was hardly a sign that he would not have a successful marriage.
And he failed to believe his own lies.
The trees thinned into a meadow, and in the center stood a cottage made of sparkling stone and a thick thatched roof. It had a sturdy oak door, and a few windows with mullioned, wavy glass. All around it were studded, sleeping rose bushes, the bare climbing vines still clinging to the stone walls.
Olwyn reined her horse to a stop and looked upon the cottage, transfixed. A strange feeling ached in her chest, and she turned her eyes up to Aidan. He did not look at her.
“Is this where I will stay?” she dared to ask, her voice a hushed whisper.
“Aye, if it suits you,” he answered. “Dismount, Olwyn, and I’ll see to the horses.”
She slid down from the saddle, and still without meeting her eyes, Aidan took the reins and led the horses to a run-in barn that was behind the cottage, nestled in the shelter of the trees.
Olwyn stood rooted there, caught in time it seemed, unable to move. If it suited her, he’d said. Yes, it suited just fine, she thought. The little cottage in the meadow, surrounded by a ring of trees, was, in her estimation, far more welcoming than the stately mansion they’d just left behind. The cottage, humble as it was, lured her to touch its stone walls, to peek through the wavy windows, and to open that thick oak door and enter to find comfort.
The prospect of staying in such a magical place until spring suddenly seemed worth the risk that her father might find her. Olwyn let out a wistful sigh as she wondered if she would get to see the roses in bloom before she left.
The first fat raindrops began to fall, and the wind picked up as Olwyn hurried to the door. Aidan came up behind her and reached across with a key, and as he unlocked it, Olwyn leaned into the sanctuary of his body, drawn by his heat and scent.
He pushed the door open and pulled away from her, his face averted as he entered and put down Olwyn’s bags. The rain began to fall in earnest, and to chase the chilly, dim gloom, Aidan lit a few candles and made a fire.
Olwyn glanced around, taking in the rustic perfection of the interior. A cavernous fireplace boasted a thick hewn mantel where bottles of scotch were lined up, some full, some only half so. Two comfortable chairs sat in front of the fireplace, a table between them. Across the room a tester bed was beneath the single window, thick with quilts and plump pillows. There was a table and chairs, and shelves above them with glasses and mugs, tins and plates, and beside a fat-bellied stove Olwyn saw there were pots and a kettle.
“I stay here sometimes. I sleep better here than most places,” Aidan said.
Olwyn didn’t know what he meant, for he’d slept like a babe beside her.
He gestured to a small armoire by the bed. “I’ll remove my things to make room for yours, but I’ll leave the books. You enjoy reading, aye?”
“I do.” Her mother had seen to it, and Olwyn had spent more than half her life with her nose in a book, happily lost in the story, removed from her reality. She’d read every book she owned more than ten times each. The thought of having new stories to dive into made Olwyn so happy she could not quite speak.
“Good, well, you’ll be busy then. I’ve got quite a few of them in the bottom drawer there. Shakespeare, Milton, Marlowe.” He glanced at the fireplace, and she thought she saw the rise of a blush on his cheeks. “I have a distillery just down the path, if you follow it through the woods by the run-in barn. ’Tis comfortable, I think, and a nice quiet place to be alone.”
Olwyn watched him as he pulled out a cloak, a coat, and a thick sweater, and rolled them together. He was ready to leave, she sensed, chased away by his desire for her.
Aidan kept talking as he walked toward the door, his things under his arm. “There’s firewood in the bin, and more in the run-in. I keep the candles in the box under the table. There’s a well around back, so you’ll have water, and I’ll pull you up some before I go. In the tins you’ll find some tea, and please do enjoy the whiskey if you’d like some.
“I’ll have the staff bring your meals, if you don’t want to join us at the main house, and I’ll also have them stock the cupboard with fruit, cheese, and biscuits. I’ll assign a servant to you, who’ll come several times daily to see to needs as you might have them.
“But know that you’re welcome, anytime, to come and sup with us and enjoy some company. We’re a genial bunch, and not too difficult to get on with. The exception of one, of course, but I’ll deal with that.”
And as he put his hand on the door, his back to her, his face turned away, he said, “If you change your mind, you’re free to come to the main house to stay. Please remember, we only want you to be comfortable. You’re not banished here.”
“I couldn’t be happier with the arrangement, my lord,” she said softly. “’Tis a magical place, and I am deeply grateful that you’re seeing to my comfort in such a way.”
He hesitated, and Olwyn noticed the tension in his body, the flexing muscle in his jaw. Why wouldn’t he look at her?
“Is there something more, my lord?”
“I’m sorry about Mira. She had no right to treat you with such derision, and I want to assure you that I will take her to task for her behavior.”
“Her opinions are meaningless to me.” Olwyn tried to sound offhand, but really, she appreciated that he cared for how she’d felt about it. “Your betrothed is quite beautiful, and obviously privileged. Perhaps she is unaccustomed to people of my…lack of station.”
“Nothing excuses her actions, Olwyn, and I found it very unbecoming of her. I wanted you to know that, and to know that she will not get away with i
t.”
Olwyn laughed lightly. “What will you do, my lord? Climb into her heart and create compassion there the way you just built a fire?”
“I’ll make it clear that no wife of mine would ever treat someone in such an untoward manner, and that she’ll comport herself or find she is one groom short come June.”
And he still didn’t look at her. Olwyn pressed further, hoping to get him to turn around. “Such a threat, my lord. I wouldn’t think a few snide comments would disintegrate the foundation of a relationship. Doesn’t love forgive, endure, and abide?”
Aidan cleared his throat, and she saw that his hands were fists. “Aye. It does.”
He seemed to notice it as well, for he uncurled his hands and rested his right on the doorknob. He was going to leave. Knowing that, Olwyn said what she really thought, afraid that it might be her last moment alone with him.
“These woods, this meadow, and this cottage—it is Lóchrann’s place, isn’t it?” she asked softly. “This is where you feel the most like yourself, where you feel your own essence.”
Aidan slowly turned and faced her, wordless. His eyes met hers across the small space, electrifying the air between them.
A thousand unspoken words were in his expression, and in the lines of his face she could see his restraint and his desire. He swallowed, and Olwyn watched the movement of his throat with the attention of a woman who wished to press her lips against it.
He took two steps toward her. Her belly clenched with anticipation. Aidan stopped, glanced from the bed to the floor and then back to Olwyn.
“You understand me in ways I cannot explain,” he said roughly, his voice angry, his eyes hard. “But what good is that knowing? What are you after?”
The rain slapped against the windows and a flash of lightning lit the dim room for a second, bathing him for the briefest moment in otherworldly light, a silvery statue, an Adonis. Thunder rolled above them, and Olwyn felt the answering vibration of it beneath her feet. And inside herself, she felt the quaking of her own brewing storm.
“I told you once before, I want nothing from you,” she said.
“That’s not entirely true, is it?”
And she saw the desire in his eyes. Indeed, she felt it, too, a palpable burning.
His demand for the entire truth made a thrill of lust curl through Olwyn’s body, so powerful it shocked and ashamed her. She did want something from him—his body. And he knew it, and he wanted hers in return. Olwyn’s voice came husky and quiet as she answered him, “Not entirely, my lord.”
Lord, but he was beautiful, she thought. Tall and strongly muscled with a face from a Celtic fable, his dark blue eyes full of sensual promise, and a mouth full of mysteries she longed to solve. And his hair, thick, dark, burnished gold, an alchemist’s fantasy.
But it was not just his appearance that drew her. It was something indefinable, a current that moved between them, unexplainable, indescribable. As he stood there before her, she could feel him the way she’d felt the vibration of the thunder, tension, sexuality, and aching desire that pulsed in the air.
And Olwyn couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to make love to him, nearly frightened of the idea of surrendering to the passion that she felt for him. The fire that burned inside her might be fanned into a conflagration that would consume her soul, leaving nothing in its wake but cinders.
“This wanting between us is dangerous,” Aidan said, as if reading her mind. “It cannot continue.”
Annoyance rose like her passions. How dare he make it sound as if she controlled the wanting? “If you’ll recall, I tried to stay away from you. It is you who kept coming to my tent, and you who keeps me here, in England, when I planned to leave straightaway. And now, keeping me in your cottage. In the bed you’ve slept in.” Olwyn’s hands shook, and she longed to touch him. She twisted them together. “I wanted to stay in an inn.”
“’Tis not safe.”
“Neither is this,” she pointed out. “I will stay here in this cottage, but it’s up to you to keep away from me.”
He held her gaze, silent for a long moment. “Do not play the woman wronged. You begged me to hold you.”
“Only once did I do that. And when morning came, you pretended you did not know me.”
“I am engaged to be married, Olwyn.”
“To a sharp-tongued woman with a superior air. I wish you good fortune, my lord.”
“You’re not so sweet-tempered yourself, aye?”
“My temperament, my lord, is hardly your concern, as I am neither your betrothed, nor your lover.”
Thunder rumbled again, farther away this time, and the rain that had pelted the cottage slowed to a gentle patter. But the storm inside the cottage was not even close to spent.
Aidan’s eyes narrowed, and his hands curled into fists once more. His eyes were two hard, hot sapphires, and his slashing brows drew down into a dark scowl. A muscle twitched in his lean cheek, and he bit out, “I’ll stay away from you.”
The anger that had risen inside her swirled and blew, not even close to passing, and for Olwyn, was easier to manage than her appalling lust. “Try to remember that when you’re in your cups, Lóchrann.”
“Aye, I drank to drown the wanting,” he admitted. The look in his eyes was inscrutable, and his tongue passed over his bottom lip as if in memory. “But the whiskey tasted of you.”
“Stop saying such things,” Olwyn whispered, at once further aroused and angered by his words. How dare he plant such things in her mind? Olwyn would never recover. For the rest of her life, she would remember the incendiary things he’d said and would long for him.
And still tormenting her, he continued talking as if he needed to say it all before he turned and left. “It is like some spell has been cast over me, and I cannot understand it. I didn’t want it, and I don’t know how to break it. I have spent my entire life trying to do the right thing, but with you, honor is the last thing on my mind.”
Her breath came fast and shallow. If he did not leave soon, she would launch herself on him, drag him down to the floor, and ravage his mouth with her own. Olwyn clung to the sanity of her anger.
“You are only curious about that which you cannot have, my lord. The proverbial forbidden fruit.” But really, she was speaking about herself, her only hope that the intensity of the longing was the age-old attraction to something that could never be had. That perhaps, once away from him entirely, the fascination would dissipate.
“Aye, maybe ’tis curiosity,” Aidan agreed softly. “The sort that kills cats.”
“Get out then, if you truly want to be free of me. If you want to kill the wanting, you need to smother it, bury it.”
Aidan dropped his things and strode toward her, closing the gap between them in an instant. He grabbed her around her waist and pulled her to him, holding her against the full length of his body.
Olwyn struggled against him for a second, hating him for making it so difficult, hating herself for the heat that leaped in her blood as if she’d been touched by lightning.
And just as quickly, she surrendered. Held to his body, her defenses crumpled. Her head fell back, and she knew that no matter what surrounded their circumstances, her desire for him overwhelmed all else. Her arms slid around his neck, her fingers sank into his thick hair, curving around the shape of his skull.
“Witch,” he muttered, and he pulled her up so that her feet only skimmed the floor, her body against the long length of his.
His mouth came down to claim hers, his kiss fierce, savage, all take and no give. He held her tight, his arms like iron bands around her, binding her to him. It hurt, but it was also a pain that felt good, for it was the intensity of his passion that she felt, frustration and longing and unwilling capitulation.
And Olwyn burned for him, in her heart, her soul, and deep in her body, a hot, wet, visceral wanting that didn’t respond to reason.
He carried her to the bed and he leaned her down upon its softness, laying on
top of her with the full length of his body pressed into hers. She could feel his manhood full and hard against her, a hot throbbing that her own body answered in turn.
“Lóchrann,” she said aloud, but in her heart she cried out for him, words she dared not release. Love me, want me, never leave me.
A knock sounded on the door.
Aidan looked down on Olwyn for a brief second before he whispered, “Kiss me good-bye.”
She did, a quick, soft press of her lips to his, her tongue touching his in a mating that was as old as time. He tasted of urgency and desire, and when he pulled back, his eyes looked sad. He brushed his fingertips over her cheek. “I’m sorry, Olwyn.”
And then he stood, adjusted his garments, and crossed the room to open the door. Olwyn leaped up, smoothed the bedcovers, and put her hands through her tangled hair, raking the worst of the snarls.
“I saw the horses and thought it was you,” the man at the door said, and he grabbed Aidan in a hard hug, slapping his back. “Good to see you, lad. You gave us the hell of a scare.”
“Grandda, I’ve missed you,” Aidan replied, and as he pulled back from the embrace, he gestured to Olwyn. “Let me introduce the woman who saved my life. This is Olwyn Gawain of Wales. Miss Gawain, this is my grandfather, Patrick Mullen.”
Olwyn noticed Patrick’s height—he was as tall as Aidan, and was without a doubt the sire of the brood. He had auburn hair streaked with silver, and his face, though craggy with age, was handsome and purely Celtic, and his stormy blue eyes were kind.
“My lord,” she said, dipping deep into a curtsey. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“Stand, Miss Gawain, I beg you. I’m not a lord, but am as common as the Irish soil on which I was born.”
Olwyn remembered that Aidan had told her that his grandfather was an Irish sea merchant, and then realized that Camille had abandoned wealth and the aristocracy to be with this man.
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