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The heat of him burned her skin, threatening to set fire to the whole of her. Lashes pressed shut, a sigh fought to escape her lips. One hand involuntarily touched his muscled shoulder, the most delicious mistake of the last hour. For the mistake of the last century she had made earlier by kissing the man like her life depended on it.
“Why did you save my life?” The husky question caressed her ear as he advanced closer to her.
That made her snap her attention to him. And when she did, their lips came a breath from reconnecting for the second time that morning. Both stopped moving, hung in the moment. Their breaths on each other’s lips, her insides melting more by the second. Heart pumping, body going gooey, she tried to remember why this could not happen. Her foggy brain whispered broken sense into her. This would be disgraceful for her weak will where he was concerned.
In a last attempt at resistance, she sprang from the bench and returned to the counter for more unnecessary cloths. If he only knew she had been straining to save his life for four long years. With a knife-twisting sacrifice she never thought herself capable of. At which she disastrously faltered at this exact minute.
What was that he asked? The effort to clear her mind took several seconds to come by it. Oh, yes. “No human being deserves to die on a roadside.” The vague answer rang artificial even to her ears. Uttered as she looked out of the window at Ewan throwing pebbles in the loch.
“Berserkers would envy your noble heart.” He taunted.
Her body twisted to him at that. A mix of amusement and perplexity smothered his remarkable eyes. “Are you calling me a fierce warrior?”
“You surely fought like one.” He watched her pacing to the table. “Thank you.” He added.
She sat, putting a reasonable distance between them. “There is nothing to thank.”
“Of course not.” He mocked.
“Rest your elbow on the table for me to dress the wound.” She oriented, and pretended the task completely absorbed her, unwilling to answer more difficult questions.
She managed to complete said task without ogling his magnificent person overmuch. Though managing not to imagine the trip her hands and lips itched to make was one demand too much.
“I do not think your servants have packed a spare shirt.” She commented. The one he wore displayed a patch of stain over the upper arm.
“I did not instruct them on it for obvious reasons.” He retorted, implying he had no use for clothes change if they would not…
A violent blush surged on her face. Turning from him to hide it, she busied herself on the counter. “I will prepare luncheon. Surely Ewan would like it if you ate with him.”
“And you?” His low voice came right from behind her. She rotated to him abruptly and clashed with him wrapped on the upper part of his tartan which ill-concealed his very noticeable torso.
“I do not have an opinion on the matter.” She affirmed, forcing her eyes up to his.
She did not. If he left, she would be able to breath relieved with the removal of the source of her dire tension. And who needed relief when his presence filled her life with so much meaning? The contradiction tore at her and robbed her of an ‘opinion on the matter’.
Ewan poked his head through the threshold. “Papa, you have to see how many fish I saw in the loch!” This was his son requiring his attention and care.
Drostan and Freya exchanged a knowing glance before he accompanied the boy to the shore.
The Laird McKendrick dismounted and gave his horse to the stable hand before heading to the manor. He left the mare with Freya, so she would be able to move around with more ease or ride to the manor should mother and son require something.
After the raid, he toyed with the possibility of Freya and Ewan returning here for protection. Worry nagged at him at the idea of them alone in it. But having seen the fight she had put to leave yesterday, he doubted she would accept to ride back. Even though he would be on tenterhooks with it. The cottage sat safely not far from others. He chose it because he was sure she would like it and Ewan would have plenty of places to play. Only keeping an eye on them would ensure everything ran smoothly. That was what he intended to do. Very, very often. Never mind it would be the perfect excuse to see them, her, frequently. Despite the fact she and her actions were tying him in tangled knots. Who cared? Not him, for sure. Four years’ separation proved to be quite enough. After that explosive kiss, excessive.
Harvest had ended weeks ago which meant less work for the months to come, with only the keeping of the livestock and little else. So the McKendrick men sat calmly in the study when Drostan came in.
He knew he must bathe and change, but he was in dire need of a whisky after the ‘hectic’ morning he had.
As soon as he stepped inside, Wallace frowned at him. “What happened?” Shirtless, the white bandage peeking from under the tartan enough for any father to ask.
Lachlan, with his favourite dog, sat on an armchair. Fingal, by the table, read a paper. Both lifted their heads to him, becoming worried.
“An attack on the road.” The eldest supplied as he poured a generous dose of whisky in a glass.
“You mean, on that road?” Lachlan’s voice pitched with the strangeness of it.
His nod came swift. “We were set upon by a trio of thugs.” He tossed the whisky and waited for its warm soothing effect.
A strange expression passed through Fingal’s eyes. “Bluidy Hell!”
