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So insufficient!
She did not believe she would ever have her fill of him. Not in a lifetime. Which stood unattainable, obviously.
Futile to dwell on it. Reality called. Her life had to go on, for sure. A choice of suitor lay ahead, either she continued to be a maiden or not.
Their clans wrote a history of enmity though her brothers opted for ignoring it and getting on with their lives, apparently followed by Taran. Their generation did not skirmish as yet. And she hoped it stayed so. Times changed, and it proved to be easier to change with them, something her brothers seemed to understand. The sole course of action to forget the whole thing ever happened. Try to forget.
She would never forget.
But she shou
ld leave it aside and carry on with her duties. It started tomorrow, she promised herself before she turned to her side and allowed sleep to give her repose.
~.~.~
The five McKendricks gathered for luncheon in the dining room, next day, when a loud banging sounded on the front door.
Aileen’s heart jumped to her throat and begun thrashing unruly. She must place her silverware on the table or they would rattle in her unsteady hands.
A footman must have opened it. But did not manage to come make an announcement, for footsteps pounded on the wooden floor, marching in their direction.
No need for an announcement where she was concerned.
Blood rushing first cold and then boiling-hot, she waited.
“What the h—“ Drostan started, but had no chance of finishing.
For The McDougal warrior emerged in the room.
Magnificent.
Large, wrinkled shirt and tartan, mud-spattered hoses and boots, morning stubble, wind-mussed coal hair.
And a ferocious look in those moss coloured regard.
Everybody stood abruptly from their chairs at the sight of his red and black plaid.
His green flashing eyes sieged her burning with fury and one other thing that made her want to grab him and take him somewhere quiet. Very quiet. And wear off the fury in a… heterodox way.
“A McDougal?” Her father exclaimed. “Is this any kind of invasion?”
The giant sketched a slight bow. “I am Taran, The McDougal.” As he straightened, his unrelenting attention bored into her again. “And this is not an invasion.” A meaningful glint in his expression to her. “Yet.”
Would the troglodyte not leave her be?
“What is this, then?” Questioned Fingal, a belligerent stance.
This might become bloody really fast, she feared.
“I came to propose marriage to Lady Aileen.” The man prompted, legs braced, muscled arms crossed, jaw jerking at her.
At this, Drostan looked the McDougal up and down, silent.
“You are an unforeseen suitor.” Lachlan’s mild tone did not deceive her for a second.
That mouth which did the most wicked things to her curved in a smirk. “You think so?”
“We received no written proposal, as is usual.” Drostan finally interposed.
