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Two days would not be enough for him to prepare the feast he wanted his son to have.
Two days would be too many to have her out of the manor. Out of his sight.
Two days would not put her out of his mind. Out of his blood.
Ifrinn!
Sam had a point. “Alright.” He compromised. For the boy. “Two weeks. No more.”
A fortnight of wrenching self-control. He could do that.
Easily.
If they did not kill each other first.
They would kill each other first.
Aileen had been one second away from dumping the extremely large potato bowl on the troglodyte’s pig-headed person.
Luckily, Sam intervened in a surprisingly tactful manner. He had the know-how of dealing with the infuriating giant. He bought them time. Precious time.
Forty-eight hours for an irrevocable destiny? No, oh no!
She refused to abide even in forty-eight years. Or forty-eight centuries.
Which brought her to the inevitable notion she had to flee this manor. As soon as possible.
The rest of dinner evolved in this tense tune, but she forced herself to eat properly, despite the tempest taking place in her middle. When those green eyes locked on her, strange things happened. Hot things. And moist. Her breasts became sensitive, raw, like they had been abraded. Or wanted abrasion, she did not know. Did not want to, it was uncomfortable. More than that. It induced cravings she had no chance of naming. Dared not to; supposed better not to fall in that temptation.
The sooner she found a way out the wiser.
As fast as good-manners permitted, she retired. Solely to face a sleepless night, with sleepless thoughts. And sleepless yearnings.
~.~.~
She took breakfast in her chambers, to avoid the man openly. A shameless expedient aimed to keep her cool head. Though the maid who brought in the tray said the Laird started his day at dawn to encompass his chief’s duties. This put her in a good mood.
A simple high-waist dress on, she left the room in search of a walk. It rained during the night, but the skies smiled a pleasant sunshine this morning and invited the outdoors.
Outside, there was a finely manicured garden scattered with inviting benches. On one of them, sat Sam engrossed in a thick, scholar-looking book.
“Good morning, Sam.” She said approaching him. She realised she had friendly feelings for the boy.
“Lady Aileen.” He greeted with a shy smile.
“I owe you thanks for your tact yesterday.” She sat by his side.
He adjusted his glasses. “Oh, never mind that.”
“You bought us precious time.” Her hands folded on her lap.
“I am as enthusiastic about this match as you.” Those so familiar green eyes wore a tender expression on them. One which would never come to the older ones.
“I wonder what is the hurry.” She probed.
“When my father inherited, he faced strong resistance from his uncle. Fergus believed himself the better man.”
“The one who tried to kill my grand-father?”
