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When had he ever begged a woman for anything? Yet here he stood doing exactly that to the one who uttered so many vows before a priest. And broke all of them.
Her body went lax and leaned on his. If this was not his wife wanting him too, he did not fathom what it was. His bunched biceps registered fingertips reaching them as if reluctant to give in to it. Satisfaction invaded him when her whole palms rested on his shirtsleeves, his muscles reacting to her touch. His head lowered to the point their breaths mingled in the warmed room.
Triumph and anticipation dominated him with her possible capitulation. All the signs displayed there with her puckered full breasts, separated lips, half-mast lashes. And a slight, almost imperceptible, moving of her middle to cradle his tented tartan and what lay, or rather stood, beneath it.
His scrutiny took in every tiny detail of her flawless face. The silky skin, the perfect eyebrows, the upturned little nose, the delicate jaw. To zero in on her cushioned rosy lips begging for his. Yes, begging, no doubt remained. His mouth aimed at them, going for the kill.
“You can find solace with your mistress.” The satiny attack came low, but sure.
Reflexively, he released her and stepped back to a distance she would not affect him. If that would ever be feasible.
Not that a reasonable number of women did not offer to regale said solace to the poor, abandoned Laird, by the by. In many ways, in many places, in many subterfuges. He found, to his misfortune, they did not tempt him. Not even for a romp his body was so much in need of. One of those “candidates” called him a lonely wolf.
Wolves matted for life.
Frustrated and vexed with yet another rejection, he stuck his right hand up in the air, and held it there until her gaze found it, quizzical. “This is my mistress.” He barked, unconcerned to hide his response to her.
Deep, intense vermillion stormed into her face and spread over visible skin. Arousal, he would bet, more than embarrassment. There would be two sexually aroused people tonight. Why she insisted on distance was a mysterious question.
“You?” He dared her to admit to unfulfilled desires.
She seemed to awaken from a trance. “Me?” The breathy retort did little to cool him down. “I am sleeping in the lady’s bedchamber.” None too steady, she headed to the chamber she never used.
Freya sat side-saddle on her mare following the lazy pace Drostan set while he rode his bay stallion, Threuna, next to her. Their breaths fogged the crispy air, and the sky sported a watery mid-morning sun. The woods siding this empty back road presented bony trees bare of leaves. A little snow had announced the impending winter a little before Samhain, but it would return in earnest soon.
Her husband sat imposingly on his horse impeccably dressed in his fine green, black and white tartan, pristine shirt, sword and sporran on his waist; tall, muscular frame oozing masculinity.
For an hour, Ewan rode with his father chatting non-stop about riding for the first time. As the boy showed signs of needing a nap, Freya took him to lay him more comfortably on her lap, in the folds of her cloak.
Not that she herself slept spectacularly at night. Amazing that she could drowse for a few hours though.
The talk with her husband took a significant chunk of her emotional energy. At first, she thought she would not be able to disentangle herself and Ewan from the manor. The Laird had been mostly obstinate and for a moment there seemed to be no way out other than slipping away undetected. The consternation of having to stay and transform her husband in a target had almost reduced her to hysteria.
When he insisted Ewan stay in the manor, she saw the sense in it. She agreed her son would need an education and orientation towards matters of the clan he would lead in years to come. And she intensely wished she could leave him in the McKendricks’ care as she faded in the shadows. But that would not do, would it? Father and son together would become an easier target. One shot, two lives. At the possibility, her heart nearly stopped. Hence her insistence in taking her son with her. Good thing Drostan had been amenable to their installing in another cottage.
Which led her to remember what came next. His bone-melting invitation to spend the night with him. The images the simple request bombarded her mind with had been enough to weaken a bronze statue. And she was not a bronze statue, not even close. His pulling her to his taut, missed body drove it to a hairbreadth from undoing her. All she wanted to do was melt into him and forget about everything else. One night. One single, simple night. What harm would it do? Her blood rushed feverish, heat accumulating everywhere and his rock-hard promise between them. She would never understand how she did not disintegrate on the spot. It took a cycloptic strength to refuse him one more time.
Just for everything to crumble to ashes when he raised his right hand and evoked forbidden images of him pleasuring himself. That alone made her ready for him in less than five seconds. The scalding flush which had speared her almost succeeded in shutting down her brain before she grabbed him, the rest be damned.
What saved her was the thought of mistresses, despite his very eloquent denial. Having not allowed herself to even bring the word to her mind, her taunting had astounded her. The nefarious jealousy that bubbled her insides would have suffocated her, had she not blatantly run to the lady’s chamber. In effect, she deserted her marriage without a word. Years ago. A man with her husband’s stamina certainly needed to assuage his high-level energy. Work did not do all the job. She knew it for a fact. If he had taken a paramour, who was she to object? She did nothing but condemn him to loneliness. Physical loneliness. That he had not resorted to that—and she believed him when he said as much—attested to his commitment to a broken marriage. And that alone would have been enough for her continued love for him.
Of course she also got needs. Especially after experiencing intimacy with her Laird. Her right hand had something to say about it. She blushed at the thought. Drostan had been nothing short of addictive. Exceedingly so. And the way she had missed him in the first months away bore witness to it.
Therein lay the crux of the question. If she accepted just one night with him, it would be her downfall. Complete and irreversible. Which sentenced her to this endless, unfulfilled desert spreading in her body.
“The wagons with supplies started to your new cottage before dawn.” Drostan dragged her from her musings.
Her eyes blinked several times before she managed an answer. “I hope you did not overdo it.”
“I will not see my heir lacking anything.” He stated adamant.
Meaning he overdid it, the overprotective father. “Books will be very welcome.” She admitted.
He turned to her with a side-smile that mesmerised her. “I wonder how you managed without them.”
“Sometimes I succeeded in getting one or two in the fair and exchanged them back afterwards.”
“Resourceful of you.” He conceded.
