Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Finally, he’d caught the intruder who’d been creeping around his kitchen.
From the footsteps, the shadows, the faint sense of wrongness prickling at the back of his neck, Kenneth had known someone was sneaking about.
He slammed the figure to the ground, somewhat taken aback by the familiar sweet fragrance suddenly filling his nostrils.
The intruder struggled fiercely beneath him, small but wild. He tightened his grip, ready to subdue a raider—only for the struggling creature beneath him to bite his finger.
Hard.
“Ow. Bloody hell—” He jerked back, pulling his hand away.
The figure froze. He knew that scent now – the same delicious aroma of lavender soap that had drifted in the air of Selene’s chamber the night before.
“Selene?”
The cloaked creature underneath him blinked, hair gypsy-wild, eyes wide. Holy hell, it was Selene.
He released her and opened his mouth to apologize, but before he could speak, she delivered a fierce kick that landed right between his legs.
The world went white, stars fluttered through the void and he collapsed to the floor in an agonized sitting position.
Groaning loudly, he curled himself protectively. “In the name of God, lass,” he managed, his voice a rough, pain-filled croak. “It’s me, damn it. I’m nae trying tae hurt ye.”
She scrambled back two steps, giving an indignant huff, glaring down at him as he slowly hauled himself to his feet.
“What was I supposed to think?” she snapped. “You jumped on me like… like some sort of barbarian.”
Sucking a slow breath through his teeth, he tried not to whimper. “Aye, very well. Ye might have mentioned earlier that ye’ve a bite on ye like a ferret and a kick that would cause jealousy in a mule.”
Despite his pain he noted her cheeks flushing pink most prettily. “I thought ye were an intruder,” he muttered.
God’s blood. He could swear she was trying to hide a giggle.
He looked her up and down and gestured with a weak wave of his hand. “And what in God’s name are ye wearing? Ye look like a wandering hedge dweller. What in the name of every last saint were ye daeing, rummaging through the kitchen like a hungry badger?”
She scowled. “I was hungry. And I couldn’t sleep.
And you don’t get to insult my… my cloak while you’re attacking me.
” Then, drawing herself up, she snorted disdainfully.
“Like a badger, I was searching for something edible amongst all this… this… impossible collection of what you Scots mistake for food.”
Their eyes met and they glared at each other for just a moment too long. His heart flipped and, through the ache and discomfort he felt a faint twitch in his groin.
The storm crackled outside and a giant peal of thunder split the air. Selene jumped, glancing up nervously, and for one delightful moment he thought she might fling herself into his arms.
She clutched the table instead, her hand drifting to her necklace. From observing her, he’d learned this was a gesture of hers that afforded her courage and reassurance. Comfort.
Then she spoke softly, her voice holding a slight tremor: “I’ve always been afraid of thunderstorms. This one isn’t too terrifying but… old stone walls make everything louder.”
Something in him loosened and he found himself smiling at her.
“Aye. Our Scottish castles can be unforgiving places, especially fer someone unused tae them. Such as yerself.” He straightened – slowly, gingerly – and reached for a pot.
“Come then, lass. I’ll prepare ye something proper tae assuage yer hunger pangs. ”
“You cook?” She sounded altogether suspicious.
He shrugged. “Just because I’m the laird daesnae mean I dinnae ken how tae take care of me people.” He flung a handful of oats into a pot, poured in some water, added a pinch of salt, and stirred the mixture over the fire. “If it ever came tae it, I’d feed them all.”
She watched him, seemingly entranced, as he stirred, and he couldn’t help the enjoyment of basking in her unabashed attention.
As they waited for the porridge to cook, he filled the silence between them by launching into a tale about a ghost that inhabited the east tower. “’Tis a lass…”
Selene gasped, her eyes widening.
“Many have seen her. She walks the halls on stormy nights, clad all in white. She’s even been seen in the kitchen.”
Selene gasped, looking around, pulling her cloak tight to her shoulders. “Here? On nights like this?”
Kenneth reached for the big spoon to stir the porridge but Selene’s hand flew out seizing his. Her fingers held him tight.
Despite his wicked teasing, warmth stole up his arm where she clung to him. He placed his other hand on hers, lightly stroking her soft, smooth skin. She gazed up at him, eyes wide.
“Aye.” He met her grey-blue gaze and something inside him wavered with delighted mischief. “She walks in peals of thunder and flashing lightning just as exactly on nights such as this.”
Still clutching his arm, Selene leaned a little toward him. For one glorious moment he wished for nothing more than for her to fling herself into his arms so that he could embrace her and whisper into her hair that he would keep her safe.
“‘Tis said she moans and cries the name of her lost lover, searching fer him.”
Her eyes grew wider and wider still, so that she looked like a small child enlivened by a tale of fantasy. Holding him fast with one hand she raised the other hand to the curve of her throat. She was utterly entranced by his tale.
Hardly able to contain a chuckle he gave her delicate hand a reassuring squeeze.
“Oh, the poor wandering soul. Crying for her lost love. What was the name of this lover?”
He grinned, unable to resist her. “Why, Kenneth, of course.”
She gave him a hard, disbelieving look and snatched her hand away.
“You, Laird Kenneth MacDonald, are an awful tease.” She swatted his arm lightly, though a smile hovered on her lips. “I do not believe one word of yer silly tale.”
“Aye. But ye trembled at the thought she might come tae the kitchen.”
She harumphed and folded her arms, but the smile remained.
By now the porridge was done and he spooned some into an earthenware bowl, added cream and sugar and passed it to her along with a spoon while he filled another bowl for himself.
She tried a spoonful cautiously, while he waited for her reaction.
Looking up, she smiled. “This is… actually rather good.”
“All that’s required for Scottish food tae taste splendid is the right pair of hands in the making.”
She hesitated smiling. Then came a shy admission.
“It is strange. I can understand what you say. At times you almost sound like an Englishman. But, by and large, your people’s accents are so strong. Half the time I have no idea what anyone is saying.”
He grinned. “I’ve spent time at court and been around the English enough time to learn to speak the language. I’ll translate for ye when ye need it.”
She beamed at him. “Thank you. That would be most kind.” All at once the kitchen felt warmer than before. The air swirling about him seemed softer; charged with something as sweet as honey.
He watched her scrape up the last of the porridge from the bowl and, as she delicately licked her plush red lips, his mind flashed to thinking of how those lips might taste.
Christ almighty. Now he could scarcely breath for picturing his tongue tracing her shapely mouth. An unholy twitch started in his groin.
He proffered his arm, doing his best to dismiss the lusty thoughts from his mind. “I’ll happily walk ye back tae yer chamber lass.”
Shaking her head, she opened her mouth to speak but he pressed a finger to her soft lips.
“Lady Selene. I shall accompany ye along the darkened passages. Ye dinnae ken what ghost ye might encounter on yer way. I’ll keep ye safe.”
She laughed, a soft tinkling sound that he found quite intoxicating, and took his arm.
He walked her back through the quiet corridors, enjoying the feel of her arm tucked into his. Outside her door they hovered a moment longer than necessary – too close, breathing the same air.
“Goodnight, Lady Selene,” he murmured.
“Goodnight… Laird Kenneth.”