“Ah.” She took a deeper breath and squeezed him with her inner muscles. His softening cock slipped out, and he rolled sideways off her.
“Ye like that position?” He watched her flop over onto her back.
“Oh, aye.” She grinned at him and reached for his hand with hers. “You have very nice cock, Mac.”
He laughed and kissed her hand.
“Ye make me come easy,” she said, rolling towards him. “Want ye all day.”
“Me too,” he admitted. “Thinking about ye all day.”
She nodded.
He pulled her in close and kissed her, then rearranged the covers. “Comfortable?” he asked.
“Aye,” she said drowsily. “Good fook.” She buried her face in his shoulder, and he tightened an arm round her.Aye, good fook.It felt like more than that to him.But was it for her?He couldn’t tell, and was too tired to puzzle it out right now.
Chapter Fifteen
Aihan was in the kitchen when she heard the scream from upstairs. She raced into the front hall and met Mac at the bottom of the stairs, drawn from his study by the scream and now ongoing bellowing sobs emanating from upstairs.
“Fook! It’s Callum!” he said, bolting up the stairs. She followed him to Callum’s room, which was to the right of the stairs. Mac pushed the door fully open to reveal Callum on his knees in the middle of the floor, bits of burnt paper in his hands. The boy’s face was blotched red and white, his freckles standing out sharply and his eyes red and streaming tears.
“What the devil is the matter, Cal, are ye hurt?” asked Mac, going to his son and checking his hands for burns. Aihan held back a bit, watching, her heart beating heavily and quite wrenched by the boy’s distress.
“My sketchbook!” he said between sobs, holding out the burnt fragments. The outlines of drawings could be seen between the charred bits.
“How the hell did that happen?” asked Mac grimly.
“R-Rory!” sobbed Callum. “L-look!” He held out a scrap of paper on which was scrawled, in bold uneven letters, “REVENGE.”
Mac took the piece of paper and frowned at it.
“It’s fer the e-escutcheon!” sobbed Callum, wiping his face with one sooty hand and smearing charcoal on his cheeks.
“Aye, I realise that,” said Mac slowly.
“I said was s-sorry. I th-thought he’d forgiven me.” Callum gulped, and Mac handed him a handkerchief.
“I told him I’d punished ye for that. But ye’ve brought it on yerself, lad. Ye shouldnae touched the bluidy escutcheon!” Mac’s voice was rough, but not harsh.
It made Callum sob harder. “I had drawings of M-Mama in that book!” he wailed.
Mac’s face twisted at that, and he put a hand on Cam’s shoulder and squeezed. “I’m right sorry, lad. And surprised he would have destroyed them.”
Callum continued to sob, and Mac threw Aihan an anguished look. It was clear he didn’t know how to deal with the boy’s tears. She dropped to her knees beside the boy and put her arms round him, wondering if he would shake her off. But he didn’t. Instead, he subsided into her embrace and let her stroke his red hair, soft and curly like his father’s.
Mac rose and said gruffly, “I’ll go speak to Rory, Cal. But ye’ve got to stop this war between ye.” He left the room, and Callum snuffled into the handkerchief.
It took Col some time to find Rory, as he’d had the sense to make himself scarce. But he eventually ran him to earth playing cricket on the village green with the local lads. Rory was at the crease with bat in hand and ready to receive a ball from Toby MacPherson when he saw Col and, flinging the bat aside, took to his heels and ran.
Swearing under his breath, Col took off after the lad, hoping he could catch the little sod before he got away from him,because he was fairly certain his son could outrun him if he got enough of a head start. Fortunately, Col’s legs were longer, and he caught up with Rory as he tried to duck down an alley. Catching the boy by the jacket, he hauled Rory round and pushed him up against the wall.
“Not—so fast,” he puffed, holding the boy still while he caught his breath. Rory wriggled and almost got away. “Calm yourself, Lad, hold still. Running will not fix the problem. Ye’ll have to come home eventually and face me. May as well do it now.”
Rory, presumably seeing the sense in that, subsided and stared at the pavement.
“Well, what have ye got to say for yerself?” prompted Col, staring at the bent dark head. Rory was the spit of his uncle Alex, taking after his mother, and would be a handsome man when he was grown. It wouldn’t be long before the lasses started noticing, and he started noticing them, if he hadn’t already. And that would bring a whole other raft of trouble in its wake.
