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“Your grandfather and mine tried it already.” Yes, she learned that. “The result being both clans waged war after your grand-uncle broke the truce.”
“Because he reclaimed the cattle your grandfather stole?”
“Exactly.” His eyes trained on his hands on the reins. “Only marriage will stop this.”
Her temper threatened to show up anew. “Abduction and forced marriage will accomplish nothing!”
The barn which housed the harvested oat came in sight, a line of wagons dotted the country lane ahead.
Those long, tanned fingers gripped the reins tighter even if he did not rotate to her. “Marriage contract and fait-accompli will.”
“Not possible to dialogue with you, is it?” No need to hide her frustration.
“Not in this, no.” His strong hands stopped the cart.
Well, nobody could accuse her of not trying. Their working side by side did not help her to forget all about him, but busying herself provided at least a distraction from the incessant awareness he inflicted on her.
~.~.~
He almost faltered there on the cart today, Taran recollected as he prepared for sleep late at night. A glance at her pleading luminous eyes in the sun and he became weak with desire and a pull to agree, make her happy, see her smile. At him, for once. He held back in the last moment, avoiding looking at her, pearlescent skin, hair shining in the autumn light, the colour of the season. The idea of her departing scraped at him to the point of chafing.
In a flash, he remembered what she said before destroying the bluidy document. She would never ‘leave a child of hers, contract or no contract’. This entered him like a kind of balsam, an ointment for long damaged feelings he did not acknowledge to himself, let alone another. The certainty she spoke from deep inside fuelled him to keep her here because she would not hurt a child, any child. His throat clogged with unknown moisture and he swallowed the grit of it.
A typhoon had rocked him since he brought the fire-spitting witch here. The emotional strain took its toll as he felt specially exhausted tonight. Hand raking sable hair, he undressed, bathed and fell in bed, sleep overcoming him in the fire-warmed chamber.
~.~.~
These chambers appeared bigger than hers, Aileen observed while she tiptoed inside them in the small hours. Ancient furniture gave it a cosy touch while the massive bed lined with a fluffy mattress and warm covers gave her the chills.
The fire burned low in the wide fireplace which shed an inviting light in the room. It lit the masculine form lying under the covers.
If anyone asked her if she knew what she was doing, the answer would be a resounding no. Her heart beat so fast it could vibrate the place, skin clammy with cold sweat under her nightgown told this idea may very well go wrong. No other possibility available, in her point of view. Either she did this, or the troglodyte would cave her in and give her no choice. To her and Sam.
Her slippers trod the floor silently when she approached the big bed with reluctant eagerness. The small hours enticed the most feverish images of her and him in it. Images which shook her to the core. Though she never learned the details of what happened between a man and a woman in their intimacy, she heard countless women in the fields refer to it in coquettish ways. So, she acquired a notion, and it did not help cool her fantasies.
With feather-light movements, she lifted the coverlet and slipped beside him, the farthest the space allowed her. The bed revealed to be warm with the heat of him. Earthen scent emanating from the large frame. Were he to awake, everything would go to waste. Tension dominated her, making it impossible to sleep. She did not want it anyway, lest she woke over him, like in the woods the night he recaptured her. She lay flat, thrashing heart, irregular breathing, counting the minutes to dawn.
A lucky thing Sam proved to be a smart boy. He would not make a mistake in their plans, surely
A deafening banging on the door yanked Taran out of his restorative sleep. Unwilling to drop his rest, he sat on the bed, a hand rubbing slumber away from his face.
At that second the door shoved open, three faces filing its width. Sam, Seamus and Gracie, his wife.
“What the hell is going on?” Usually, he awoke in good mood, today being an exception.
“We heard of very inappropriate behaviour taking place in this manor.” Seamus boomed.
Only then did he notice another form filling the coverlet. Diminutive, familiar.
The defiant woman chose this moment to rise, holding the coverlet to her chest as if she was—damn her!—naked.
“Oh, Sam!” The affectation of surprise did not fool him for one breath.
Her head gyrated to him and he became almost blinded by the dishevelled chestnut hair falling all around her, enormous eyes feigning distress, sinful mouth agape. His body erupted in violent arousal nearly overpowering his capacity for clear thinking.
“Taran!” The astute buidseach exclaimed with exaggeration. “Explain to them.”
“This is not what it appears.” Oh, great! Was it not what everyone said when caught ‘in the act’? A declaration of guilt it was.
