Chapter 14
Aiden lifted his glass to the firelight, watching the way the whiskey clung to it. That was one way a person could tell good whiskey from bad: how it slid back down the glass when one swirled it.
Of course, there were all different varieties of whiskey. Light, almost yellow liquors that tasted of grass and sunshine, and dark amber ones that burned the throat as they went down and left you feeling as if you’d just gone ahead and taken a bite out of a peat heath.
His preference leaned toward the latter. Hannah’s whiskey was somewhere in the middle, carefully balanced in terms of weight and taste, suitable for all different types of whiskey lovers.
Perfect, he thought hazily, swallowing down the burn from his latest mouthful. Just like her.
The thought seemed to land in his head from somewhere else. He gave himself a little shake, drawing his eyebrows together.
Enough whiskey for me, I think. I’ll just finish the glass, of course. It’s only polite. Cannae leave the liquor sitting out for hours, can I?
He took another long sip, closing his eyes. That was another mistake. When he closed his eyes these days, images of her would dance behind his lids, as if engraved there.
That particular problem had plagued him for a while, but lately, the thoughts had become worse. Persistent. Hungry.
I shouldnae have tasted her.
Shuddering, Aiden curled his fingers into fists, keeping them determinedly on the arms of his chair.
The fire crackled before him, a red-orange glow that he could sense even with his eyes closed. The heat prickled over his skin. He was too close to the fire and ought to move back. The room behind him was cold, of course. Such that his back and the nape of his neck were chilled.
He didn’t move back from the fire.
The story of me life, eh? Cannae keep away from the flames. The light, the heat… It’s mesmerizing. Nay wonder I’ve been burned before.
A memory threw itself up behind his eyes, competing with the images of Hannah smiling at him, her eyes heavy with desire and expectation. He saw himself as a child, probably too young to remember the memory. He could see it all playing out before him like a scene in a play.
There was the child, crawling toward the fire, eyes huge and fascinated.
A log had rolled out of the grate, landing with a shower of sparks on the heavy hearth.
It wasn’t ablaze, thankfully, but the wood was cracked and glowed from within, smoldering furiously.
The child didn’t understand. Of course, he didn’t.
He stretched out his hand, entranced. It was only his fingers that were burned, in the end. Just the tips. That mere brush was enough for even a naive child.
Aiden screwed up his eyes, recalling the searing pain that shot through him like nothing he’d ever felt.
There was laughter, too. Through tears and a flurry of frantic servants coming to help him after he screamed, the child turned to see his older brother standing by the door, arms folded, laughing.
He’d watched the whole thing, seen him inch toward the fire, hands outstretched, and let it happen.
Maybe that hurt more than the fire.
Aiden’s mouth curled into a tight smile.
Nay, nae more than that first burn. It was like nothing I’d ever felt.
He rolled his shoulders, feeling the familiar pull in his back, the branded skin refusing to stretch the way skin was supposed to. He was used to it by now, but the strangeness remained.
So did Hannah.
He opened his eyes, blinking in the firelight after the darkness behind his lids.
I cannae get her out of me mind.
There was something inevitable about that thought, as if it had just been waiting for him, laughing at him all this time. As if it were obvious, and he was the fool for not having seen it.
I am a fool.
If he’d stayed too long in her presence, no doubt his self-restraint—or what was left of it—would have snapped. He’d have pulled her to him, kissed her again, perhaps taken her right there and then.
That seems like a fine way to earn meself a punch on the chin.
He allowed himself a tight smile. Oh, yes, Hannah was well able to stand up for herself. She was no fool, no pushover. She could speak up for herself, fearlessly when necessary. She could shove him away if she wanted to, tell him to stop, and he’d listen.
But would she say it?
Sometimes it seemed as though they were on opposite ends of a long string, and that string was slowly but surely shortening, pulling them closer.
I’d say it was fate if I believed in that.
He took another slow sip of his whiskey. It burned again, a pleasant ache at the back of his throat. Closing his eyes, Aiden tipped back his head, letting the heat from the fire play over his face.
The burns on his fingertips from that childish desire to touch the fire had long since disappeared. They left nothing permanent, except, of course, the memory. The pain, the echo of his brother’s laughter, and something else.
The something else, of course, was the undeniable rush of triumph at having done it.
I touched the fire. Just for an instant. Less than an instant, really. A splintered second. Perhaps Hannah is a little like that. A rush of flames that warms me skin, a desire to touch, even though I ken in me heart that it’ll hurt.
His eyes opened slowly.
Nay. That’s nae right. She’s nae the fire. I am. I am the one who’s going to burn her. And neither of us can do a thing to stop it.
Hannah had to admit a hot bath was a luxury she hadn’t had in quite a while. She was fascinated by the soap they had and the way it didn’t sting her skin, and delighted by its scent—roses.
This is much nicer than I thought it would be.
And she definitely, absolutely, certainly did not mean the way Aiden had touched her, pressed his mouth against her, and moved her body around in that easy, delightful way as if she weighed no more than a kitten. No, she only meant the bath. Absolutely. The bath.
She dried herself off and returned to her kirtle and stockings, feeling pampered.
Shortly after she dressed, a knock sounded at the door. “Aye?”
The same maid who had escorted her to see Aiden opened the door and smiled at her politely. Hannah returned the smile. “Dinner is ready. I can show ye the way if ye like.”
“Oh.” Hannah wondered if Aiden had planned on her staying already or if he had an impressive cook who could prepare an extra portion on the fly. “That was fast.”
The maid just smiled.
Hannah followed her down the stairs, still marveling at the size and appointment of the place, trying not to be too obvious about it. “Have ye worked here long?”
“Aye, two years, me Lady.”
“Ye can just call me Hannah. What’s yer name?”
“Sarah,” the maid said, glancing back at her. “Me Lady.”
Hannah got the point and just smiled at her. She didn’t want to get the girl in trouble with anyone, even if being called Me Lady made her feel like an imposter.
When she entered the dining room, she paused, impressed. It was appointed beautifully, and the carved wooden table was bigger than it had any business being. She supposed that was because it was meant to be used for a group, not just two people.
She admired the beautiful craftsmanship on the table and chairs, which had likely been carved before she’d been born. A beautiful chandelier flickered overhead, made of wrought iron. There were two place settings next to each other on the table, and after a moment, she made her way to one of them.
She hesitated, unsure if she should sit or wait for Aiden.
Mercifully, he saved her from having to make that decision by arriving just a minute after her. He was fully garbed now in a belted kilt and tartan, cutting an impressive figure and making her feel like she was underdressed.
“Did ye wait long, lass?” Hannah shook her head, and he pulled a chair from the table. “Here ye go.”
She lowered herself into the chair, and he moved to the other, sitting down and watching her.
As if his taking a seat had rung some kind of bell, the door opened, and two footmen came in bearing trays. They set down bowls of thick soup in front of them and glasses of whiskey, which Hannah immediately recognized as her blend. The soup she didn’t recognize at all, so she glanced up at Aiden.
“What is this?” she asked curiously, scooping up a spoonful.
“Cock-a-leekie,” he said. “Which is a fun way to say chicken-and-leek soup. I think ye’ll like it.”
He was watching her closely, and she supposed he was waiting to see if she was impressed.
After a couple of spoonfuls, she nodded. “It’s good.”
That seemed to satisfy him, and he dug into his own soup. He lifted a spoonful to his lips and slid it into his mouth.
Hannah had probably lost count of the number of times she’d watched someone eat a spoonful of soup, or eaten it herself, but this time she could see nothing except him. More specifically, his mouth. His lips wrapped around the smooth wooden spoon, throat working as he swallowed.
I wonder what I tasted like. Is he thinking of that now? Of me?
Nay, of course he wouldnae. Of course nae.
“Taste good?”
His voice made her flinch, and she nearly dropped her spoon. “What?”
His eyes crinkled with a smile, and he nodded at her bowl. “Yer soup. Ye havenae touched it. Does it taste good?”
“Uh, aye. It does.”
“Good.” He nodded, spooning up another mouthful. “So, I have something to ask ye.”
She studiously focused on her soup, able to feel his eyes on her. “Aye?”
“Ye run a distillery.” She glanced up at him. “Nae sure I’ve ever seen a lass so confident in such a craft. How did it happen?”
Hannah smiled, albeit sadly. “Me da passed shortly before me ma of a sickness much like this one, a little over a year ago,” she explained quietly. “I inherited the distillery and chose to continue the family business, as I’d been taught since I was a wee bairn.”
“Surely the man I saw in yer distillery could have taken over?”