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“My estate is not the matter.” He informed, bracing for what would come. “You and Sam are signing the marriage contract.”
Fury lit her eyes, dyed her silky skin crimson and brought her fists to her slim waist, which his hands could span to turn her to the table and bend her back onto it and…
“You must be out of your mind!” She hissed, lifting her head to glare at him.
Legs braced, he stared down at her with his Laird’s expression. “I assure you I am not.”
“Have you not heard anything I said the other day?” She defied.
The other day was something he did not want to bring up in a thousand years.
“A bunch of nonsense.” He deliberately dismissed.
“You will force an arranged marriage on your son, at the same age as you?” The words thrown at him like the stones from these walls. “The one which made you unhappy?”
Her question fell in his guts like hundreds of burning nails cast in rapid succession. Trust this woman to bring all his darkness into light and force him to stare it in the face. Another reason to go through with this.
“Sam has been talking, I see.” The quip attempted to duck the main subject.
Hands on the table, she inclined her delectable torso to him. “But he did not need to do it.” Her glare attacked him full on, with varied effects on his person. “Anyone can see he is a lonely boy trying hard to tackle his mother’s rejection.”
Taran never reckoned the diminutive witch would perceive so deep into his family’s issues. And in such a short time. It also demonstrated that only paid governesses did not provide his son with the necessary emotional support his boy needed. The one Taran found himself unable to give, perhaps because he might have needed it, as well.
He steeled himself against these thoughts. “Our past has nothing to do with you.” An offensive had a better chance of producing a smoke screen.
Her flaring nostrils sucked in air to inflate her chest and divert him of clear thoughts. “Yes, it does, if you are forcing me to be part of this family!”
The woman did not care for smoke screens, obviously. Too intelligent. Too perceptive. Too—
Bluidy hell!
“My study at eleven.” He decreed as he turned and left before his state of constant frustration led him to do something he would regret later. Like kissing those fire-spitting lips until it got swollen. Again.
~.~.~
The more she sought to untangle from the troglodyte’s raving plans, the more he made her slud
ge in it. She fumed along the corridors in the way to the blasted study. The place she had not been in since the day she discovered a kiss could be as lethal as the deadliest of weapons.
These past days, she immersed in intense activity aiming not to remember said study and what transpired in it. Little did she accomplish in this regard, she must admit. The nights had been pure agony of memories and a yearning too intense for her to understand in its whole extension. Then she would work doubly as hard to become as tired as possible to fall in bed exhausted and numb. Still, wisps of thoughts and remembrances flashed in the most unexpected windows of distraction.
The need to devise an effective way to travel back to the McKendrick’s manor more urgent than ever. There had been no clue where her servants stayed, or the carriage. She heard nothing of them. Sam must find something out. She would talk to him.
Hand on the door-knob, she filled her lungs with air, another battle in store. Silence smothered the room as she entered and clicked the door shut.
Sam sat on a chair, a helpless glint in his gaze. A small green leaf specked his wrinkled shirt, spine straight and tense. He conveyed the wish to be anywhere but here. Her heart stretched out to him.
A grey bearded man stood not far from the sturdy desk, short and round-bellied, he held a sheaf of papers in his hand.
But the intractable giant dominated the room. Impeccable white shirt, carefully wrapped tartan pinned to his broad shoulder with meticulous attention, his muscled frame dwarfed the solicitor. Shaved, coal hair in place, his green eyes found her like a fire storm as her cheeks burned. A god a foolhardy would worship in the altar of… despicable yearning.
“You must be Lady Aileen.” The solicitor broke the shouting silence, heedless of the heavy atmosphere. “I am Bruce Fleming.” He bowed.
“Good morning, Mr Fleming.” Her feet advanced into the room unwilling. She avoided glancing at the spot he had pressed her against, but her body remembered everything with a richness of detail she did not believe attainable.
“Take a seat, Aileen.” Sam offered, and she chose the chair beside him intending to transmit him a modicum of hope. The same she began to lose.
“Here is the contract, my lady.” Mr Fleming gave her the paper.
