Chapter 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 himself think.
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.
“What’s caused yer mirth?”
“You!” She laughed.
Maybe she had been paying attention to him.
His forehead creased. “What have I done?”
It was so loud that she had to speak into his ear, and every time she did, she nudged him downwards by his shoulder, and each time, her breasts pressed against him.
“You have such an odd personality. Do you know you have such an expressive face?”
“I didnae ken this.” He watched her lips.
“I find you so entertaining to watch. Your face betrays everything you’re thinking.”
“Nae everything, I hope?”
She nudged him once more, and in a voice she used only when she was begging him not to stop, she breathed, “Everything.”
Searing heat shot through him. When she pulled away, she was grinning like she did not just make an attempt on his life.
He thought back to the few salacious encounters when he had been sure he had hidden his desire so as not to scare her. All those times, had they been written all over his face?
Then why hadn’t she come to him during the caber toss when he had invited her so openly to their hidden spot?
He had watched her leave, and images of what he had intended to do flashed through his mind in vivid colors and sounds.
He had rounded the corner, expecting to sneak her momentarily into his chambers, just to be met with an empty space.
He had waited and waited, thinking of ways to punish her, fantasizing about how she would beg for him, but she never showed. When he rejoined the crowd, she had taken her seat and was intently watching another man.
Sir Horace drew her attention. A few words were exchanged, which drew her lips downwards. He then rose and turned to Ruaridh.
“My Laird, I fear I have to retire now. My old bones can only handle so much joviality for one day.”
Ruaridh nodded at him, and Violet escorted him to the exit with a gloomy expression. She seemed loath to let him leave.
From the start of the banquet, they had been joined at the hip, which was unlike them. Last Ruaridh knew, Violet harbored a silent animosity for her father over her upbringing, and he greatly disapproved of her choices and independence. Now, they seemed amiable.
Did nothing stand in the way of their marriage anymore?
Ruaridh had to find out.
“Your relationship with your father seems greatly improved,” he noted once she had returned, barely keeping his eagerness out of his voice.
“We… talked today.”
Hesitation? That was not a good sign.
His throat went dry, so he took a swig from his mug. The bitter liquid seared sensitive flesh, and he had to take a moment to compose himself.
“Did that fix everything?”
“Not everything,” she replied somberly, “but most.”
Most was good. Most could include their relationship.
“Does he approve of us now?”
God, he felt foolish.
Yes, his intention was to inquire about her father’s stance, but the subject required tact that he did not employ.
Firstly, he should have been more sensitive and shown a little elation at the progression of their friendship, then he should have been more inquisitive about the outcome of the conversation, and only then broached the subject he intended. Now, he just sounded selfish.
Violet’s lips curved, and he felt his heart… fluttering?
No, his heart had dropped to the ground the moment he uttered those words. He watched the thing beating at his feet as a carcass would, deaf to the outside world and immobile against his wishes.
Violet brought him back from the spell when she shook him. “What are you thinking about?”
She must have been talking for a while. Still, her smile remained unfettered. Even though he had not heard her, he assumed everything said must have been positive.
He instantly felt a burst of elation.
It was real; he was marrying her. He would get to make her his wife, to make her his and only his.
He leaned in and took her hands. “Ye wish to marry me?”
“How many times do I have to agree?”
“You swear nae to change yer mind?”
She nodded enthusiastically.
“Then ye daenae mind if I officially announce our engagement right here?”
Her eyes scanned the room. “I doubt you could get this crowd to stay still for that.”
“If I have yer permission, I can do anything.”
She looked over the crowd again. Doubt was overturned with a challenge, and now she seemed more excited about him quieting the crowd than their engagement.
If she wanted a show, a show she would get.
Ruaridh rose and gave a signal to the head minstrel. He alerted the band, and the members played a skewed tune that turned the room towards them, then he clapped to capture their attention. He cast a cocky glance at Violet as the room instantly fell quiet. She looked impressed.