He clasped her hands in his own. They were suddenly warm and huge, as if she were back to being a little girl being guided by his unyielding hands. “I promise to be a better father to you from this moment onwards. I promise this to you, Violet.”
Violet wrapped her arms around him, and they wept into each other’s shoulders. She felt the subtle tears that his weakness over the years had left in her heart begin to heal and knew that with time, their relationship would grow stronger.
She yearned to see Ruaridh again, if only to tell him about this new development, but in this moment, she was content with being a little girl in her father’s arms.
23
Ruaridh wanted nothing more than the hands that rested in Violet’s lap to be splayed across his chest as they had after he had brought her pleasure.
She was sitting with Grannie Ava and Sienna, holding court with a few of the ladies who came to pay their respects, looking resplendent in the golden glow of the candles lining the Great Hall. She was exquisite in the wine-red evening gown she had worn, and already he had spotted a few men eyeing her.
She laughed, and he saw the men’s eyes widening in rapture as his would if he wasn’t too busy glaring at their heads. He was already regretting standing to mingle with the guests. He could have been sitting beside her, breathing in her lovely scent and hearing her laughter.
Raking a hand through his hair, he forced his gaze back to her face and damned himself to hell when she stood. He eyed her shapely legs through her gown and wanted those thighs strongly delineated by the light fabric wrapped around his waist.
A scowl creased his face as he was forced to tear his gaze from her heaving bosom and respond to a guest with feigned diplomacy. He couldn’t attest that he succeeded.
Laird Kemp greeted him with a geniality that he found nauseating, considering he would rather be on the receiving end of a smile from the beauty he could not take his eyes off.
“Why do we always attend these events just to lose?” Laird Kemp was flanked by two other men, his son and a Lowland chief whom Ruaridh could not recall having participated in the games.
He could not fault him; the chief was stout with a belly that required the support of both hands. Laird Kemp’s son, on the other hand, was tall and burly, which was impressive, considering he was no older than seventeen. At seventeen, Ruaridh had been worried his stickily stature would lead to an uprising against him.
“Hope?” He shrugged casually.
“Now, ye really insult us,” Laird Kemp laughed.
Ruaridh was ready to dismiss him, and he was greatly tempted to really do so. “Enjoy the banquet,” he could have said, knowing the Laird very much intended to formally introduce his son and the fat lickspittle who was eyeing him like a pot of gold. He hated small talk more than anything, especially when the other party was expecting a favor.
Violet leaned down and stretched her hand toward her wine chalice, and from where he stood, he could see her breasts strain against her bodice.
His appreciation turned sour when he suspected the men in front of him were also graced with the sight. He regarded them with a glare.
Laird Kemp was too busy staring at his son to notice, his gaze warm with adoration as he praised him for his caber toss performance. And the boy, abashed, stared down at his feet.
Ruaridh pressed his lips into a thin line. Violet had maintained an appropriate posture, but then she turned away, engaging in conversation with her father, exposing the length of her svelte neck that was never long enough to contain his kisses.
As soon as Laird Kemp and his party left, Ruaridh marched to the high table. But before he could take his seat, another laird marched to the table, loudly announcing his presence, and promptly deepening his scowl.
A snort sounded beside him, but he could not investigate, as the boisterous man grabbed him by the forearm, nearly yanking him over the arrangement in front of him. The man’s knees harshly met with the dais, knocking down his tankard, but he did not seem to notice.
The warm liquid rolled down the table and dripped onto his boot. Just when he thought he could not hate the evening any more…
His gaze instinctively searched for his grandmother. She was the reason for this fiasco.
All he wanted was to have a little fun exercising his old bones with little games, but his grandmother always insisted on hosting these arduous feasts after each game. His muscles were well worked and required a nice warm soak, not stiff stances and endless handshakes.
The Great Hall was packed and stifling hot that the lancet floor-to-ceiling windows could not let in enough air, echoing loudly with conversation and music that he could barely hear himselfthink. It was impossible to find his grandmother in the crowd, and her chair beside him would not be filled anytime soon.
Ruaridh regretted trying so hard to win in the games, but he had done it for Violet. He wanted to give her no reason to tear her gaze away from him. He wanted her to watch him, to be filled with pride, lust even. Lust,most especially.
He had watched her the whole day, the arousing look on her face whenever she frowned in concentration, the dexterity of her fingers when she worked her bow and arrow. He had been particularly fixated on her grip on the stave.
It was only fair that the woman who had spent the entire day torturing him experienced the same torture, but not only had she yet to congratulate him, she had also found it better to pay attention to the father she had never gotten along with.
Sometime later, the boisterous man quit his presence, and Ruaridh was finally allowed to relax, albeit in wet boots.
The snort sounded again, and he turned to find Violet watching him, her eyes twinkling with glee.
