Page 17 of Darro

Why does she haunt me thus? I gave her pleasure. I’ve done the same for half the females who serve the clan.

The brief, passionate encounter with the wee lass had been wholly unexpected. His hands still throbbed with the tactile memory of holding her tight, soft wee arse. Gods, that he had touched her so intimately and she’d only wanted more. He could yet remember too how delicious and firm her chebs had been, pressed against his chest. When she had exploded with bliss he’d experienced a deep, abiding gratification, as if he’d achieved some great feat.

She enjoyed herself, thanks to me.

What made no sense to him was the dread that filled him every time he looked at her. It only grew worse when she touched him. This kiss she’d bestowed on his hand had chased it away, thanks to the passion that exploded inside him, but then it came back worse than before the heady embrace. Thanks to his duties he didn’t often have the time to spend with a female, and it had been almost a year since he’d shared his bed. Yet giving pleasure to a lass had never frightened him.

Why does she make me so afraid?

With her gone, the fear disappeared as well. Now everything inside him made him long to go to the guest room, kick in the door and give her that kiss she had asked him to bestow while he brought her to pleasure again. He ached to kiss her mouth and chebs until she wept with joy. Aye, and use his tongue on her hot wee quim while she watched him lick her, and then play with her with his fingers. As much as he desired her, he expected he would use his mouth on her for the remainder of the night, and through the dawn, and into the next day. Yet what gave him pause was the reason that he still feared her.

’Tis her delicacy, mayhap. If I touch her in passion some part of me dreads I’ll snap her thin bird bones with my brutish hands.

Knowing the spell trap’s enchantment would swiftly heal any wound he inflicted on the wee beauty did nothing to calm Darro, for just the notion that he would cause any lass pain horrified him. Nor had he ever harmed a lover. He’d never used his size or strength to harm anyone but an enemy intent on slaying him; he’d first run himself through with his blade before becoming a brute indifferent to the suffering of others. Yet what had he been thinking when he’d shoved her against a wall as he had? Yet what else could it be but fear of his own loss of control?

’Twill come to me.

Still at odds with himself, he stalked into the kitchens. He wouldn’t permit himself to visit the guest chamber where the lady likely slept now. Esme remained oblivious to his struggle, and he would keep it that way. His pride and dignity demanded that.

“You’ve no’ yet sought your bed, Chieftain?” Doon, the clan’s cook, came into the kitchens where he stood and went to build a fire in the big hearth. She turned her head to squint at him. “Ah, you’re in a mood, then. Need you a calming brew?”

“My thanks, but no. I but chafe over waiting to report to the laird.” He looked at the tall, middle-aged woman who in the past had shared his bed several times. Doon was a generous lover, frank and earthy, and he’d wholly enjoyed every night he’d spent with her. She never dallied long with any clansman, however, and of late had been keeping to her own chamber at night. “I shall leave you to your work, my lady.”

“Ever kind to a fault with your former bed wenches.” She smiled. “I’ve time for you, Chieftain. Come and sit.”

Darro hesitated, and then dragged his manners out of the back of his mind and bowed respectfully to her before sitting down beside her work table. Doon took down a jug and poured a measure of cool water into two mugs before handing him one.

“Slake one of your thirsts, Chieftain.” Her stern face softened with affection. “You ever and always deny yourself, lad.”

The cook had an uncanny ability to read men as if they were but unfurled scrolls, which made many uncomfortable. Darro had always appreciated her candor, which he suspected she used to protect a tender, lonely heart. She would also return to his arms if he invited her, although not for long. She did not wish to become attached to anyone, she’d told him once, just as he had always strived in his affairs. Could he speak of such matters to a female?

“Ask me,” the cook urged.

Darro knew whatever he said that Doon would keep the matter between them, and that decided it for him. “When you shared my bed, my lady, did I please you properly?”

She smiled. “Och, aye, and then some. ’Tis the reason I’m ever willing to come to you when you desire me, Chieftain. Even now, should you wish.”

“’Tisnae why I ask, but you’ve my thanks.” The moment he said that he realized how stupit it sounded, and added, “I’m much occupied with attending to the laird and offering what help I may to our senior men.”

“Make time for yourself, lad, and court the lady you desire,” Doon told him. “’Tis tormenting you but to speak of such.”

That was the other oddity—he’d never tortured himself over a female in all the years since the clan had been cursed. If he had a lover, he appreciated her. If none desired him, he slept alone with no regret. How had a wee lass like Esme Martinez tied him in such knots?

“I dinnae desire any female at the moment.” He wasn’t sure if that was truth or a lie, so he added quickly, “I only wished ken that I pleased you. I’ve no time for a lover at the moment.”

“Aye, right.” She smiled. “I expect you shall enjoy more sleepless nights, then. ’Tis your choice.”

“You didnae choose a husband at the binding ceremony,” Darro said as he watched her take out a number of cloth-covered basins from a nearby cabinet. “Shall you ever?”

“I’ve two of your brothers to keep me warm at night now, Chieftain, and they prefer my bed, so we all sleep together in my chamber.” She uncovered the basins, peering into them and then dumping the mound of dough from one on her worktable. “I’m spoiled for mere mortals now, you ken. Since I’m too big for most of them to love with comfort, ’tis worked out nicely.” She eyed him. “’Tis no’ a worry you alone possess.”

That reminded him. “What of Elspeth and her men?”

Doon grimaced as she floured her hands. “Those fiendish creatures took the healer and hunter before the ceremony. To hold with tradition they must wait until the next to accept her offer to wed, if she makes such again. ’Tis causing the lass much worry, I reckon, but ’tis our way.”

“Why did the vassals decide they might do thus only once a year?” Their rituals usually proved simple enough, but the long wait to marry seemed cruel to him. “In our time they could wed whenever they wished.”

“Aye, and had their pick of males and females from across the breadth of the highlands.” She began kneading the dough in a rolling, folding motion. “Here we’ve the same folk and no’ enough females, so we must act with care. Once married a husband and wife need time to grow accustomed to each other. Then, too, the clansmen suffer even more, for they cannae wed. Should we hold the ceremony more than once a cycle, ’twould be cruel to those who cannae ever expect a marriage.”