Chapter 25 #2
She was not shy; he understood that. But her natural innocence appealed to him, and he realized he was perfectly content with what they were doing. He was fine with just stroking her temple, watching her squirm because she could not help but be adorable in such a situation.
“Is the time not proper, or do you wish for me to invite you into my room?”
He smiled. “Neither of those.” Then he planted a tender kiss on her lips. “Good night, Violet.”
“If you want to come into my room, I would not mind.”
Ruaridh’s eyes flew open for the third time that night. He took two pillows and pressed them over his ears, a ritual he believed dispelled one’s thoughts, then squeezed his eyes shut for the fourth time.
“If you—”
He bolted up. He was bewitched, bewitched by the woman who had clung to his body and invited him into her bedroom to ruin her. His cock throbbed against the fly of his breeches, and he cursed himself.
Violet had not cared about any silly promise or propriety. She had only known her lust and passion and invited him to sate them. She had beckoned him with glazed eyes and supple lips, and he had left her at her door.
He cursed himself again.
He rolled off the bed like an undead recently risen from the grave.
His body needed something to bring his temperature down.
He had put out the hearth and thrown open the windows, yet his body still burned for her.
It worsened when he pulled off his shirt, for his desperation created a phantom in her image that kissed down his torso all the way to his breeches.
Alcohol was a good distraction (and a good motivator on some days), and he was depending on the distraction part.
The jug on his nightstand was empty. A walk to the kitchen could provide some relief, so he threw on his shirt and headed into the darkened corridor…
only to find himself standing outside her door.
He pressed his forehead against the wood and fought the urge to slam his head against it.
He was only torturing himself. He could go in, throw out the little morals he clung to.
But how would she react? Surely finding a horny beast looming over you was a terrifying sight, regardless of the proposition that was made to said beast earlier?
He could not disturb her sleep to satiate his curiosity. But what if she had yet to close her eyes? What if she sincerely waited, knowing he would succumb to his lust sooner or later? How was he to know at all if he didn’t go in at the very moment?
He didn’t want to disappoint her. He was also sure he was being deceived by the dastard sitting atop his shoulder. He flicked it off and watched the little man with horns squirm underneath his feet. When its mewls faded, and he still was of those hot-brained opinions, he reached for the doorknob.
The coolness of the iron ball shocked him to his senses. It suddenly seemed perfectly logical to pleasure himself. He doubted his cock’s ability to differentiate the real thing, given the state he was in, so he turned away.
He was hidden by the shadows, so the anxious silhouette that hurried past the corridor in which he stood was unaware of his presence. He was instantly alert. It was too late for anyone to roam, especially without the aid of a candle. The stranger who wanted his presence to remain inconspicuous.
Ruaridh’s footfalls were silent. In five wide steps, he reached the end of the corridor. Horace should be in bed. He looked over his shoulder, and Ruaridh flattened himself against the wall.
His heart misgave for the worst. A man sneaking around in the middle of the night was never up to any good, and Ruaridh had foolishly defended him against Logan.
The man’s anxiety was obvious in the constant way he glanced over his shoulder. Every five steps, without halting, he would check the space behind him.
Ruaridh was forced to keep a distance, tailing him only by the sound of his footsteps. Horace was heavy-footed, prioritizing speed over quiet.
Soon, they burst out of the side of the castle.
Cold air kissed Ruaridh’s face, scented with the smell of damp soil, and the ground beneath his feet cradled his feet. He recognized the path. Up until the castle became as visible as a dingy hut atop a hill, the squelch of his boots would carry into the night. He could not risk being discovered.
Panic settled at the base of his spine. He could not defend this. Horace had no business knowing these paths. He had no reason to steal away into the night undeterred by the faint falls from the sky.
Ruaridh pressed himself against a wall and watched Horace trudge up a rocky plateau. Only when the man disappeared behind a copse did he follow.
He found him by the yelp he let out when he slipped on a patch of algae.
Horace braced himself on a boulder and brushed the brown slime against the jagged surface.
Something must have caught his ear, for he jerked his head up.
Ruaridh would have thought himself discovered as a branch broke beneath his feet, but Horace stared ahead of himself.
From where he stood, Horace was only partially visible. Whatever he saw was silhouetted by the darkness. Horace continued ahead, and Ruaridh lost sight of him until he didn’t.
At the peak of the hill, illuminated by the silvery light of the moon, Horace stood with another man. The buff man towered over him, and Horace shrank timidly beneath his gaze. He looked absolutely wicked, and that practiced scowl betrayed years of a hard life.
Horace spoke first in a tone so muted it carried to Ruaridh as a hiss.
Ruaridh wanted to edge nearer, but the buff man looked as alert as a fox, and he didn’t want to interrupt the two men as they talked until he was sure he understood what he was seeing.
Any sudden movement would no doubt send the buff mab fleeing if it didn’t startle him enough to hurt Horace first.
The time was not right; Ruaridh needed him less aware. He wanted his hands out of his cloak, which had to be concealing a dagger. Only then could he set up an ambush without risking his life or Horace’s.
The first thing he heard loud and clear was an angry yell by the man.
“We had a deal!”
Ruaridh felt a twisted sense of relief. He had witnessed such a scene multiple times. Horace was in debt to that man. It could be a bargain he had failed to fulfill or a debt he had yet to pay. Whatever it was, Horace had not betrayed him.
As Horace spoke, the buff man grew more annoyed. His spine was noticeably stiff, and his mannerisms showed more grit than Ruaridh had ever witnessed. When his irritation reached its peak, he suddenly fisted the lapels of Horace’s coat and made to hit him.
Ruaridh was quick to act. He made himself known, and both men froze. He took advantage of that and restrained the buff man by grabbing his arm and pinning it to his back.
“What’s going on here?” he barked.