Chapter 13 #2
At the water's edge, a group of artists had set up easels, their brushes dancing to capture the play of light across the bay.
Kadian paused, feeling the low hum of inspiration in her chest, and Leon's arm slipped around her waist, drawing her close.
They stood together, silent but content, watching the gulls wheel and dive, their cries carried off by the wind.
When at last she tucked her camera away, their arms full of small treasures and laughter lingering between them, the village seemed to glow with the promise of the day—a tapestry of new memories waiting to be woven.
Turning from her scrutiny of the people wandering around, she studied him as he was engaged in conversation with an old, wrinkled man with a flowing white beard.
He was wearing faded jeans and a thick angora sweater.
His thick blonde hair was tousled by the stiff wind, and he looked anything other than the busy executive and multi-billionaire he was.
His lips quirked as he listened to whatever the man was saying to him.
He looked so relaxed and at ease that she felt the heat coursing through her body.
His head lifted just then as if her thoughts had been transmitted, sending a message straight to his brain.
The look in his beautiful eyes had her melting.
She saw when he murmured to the man and made his way over to her.
"I think it's time we call it a day." His voice was strained, and she could feel the desire pumping off him.
It was the same desire pumping off her and making her edgy.
Nodding, she linked her fingers with his as they threaded through the throng of eager tourists, who did not give them a second look.
*****
It felt decidedly decadent and more than a little naughty to make love in the broad daylight, but such was the freedom that had them rushing home from their sightseeing tours to tumble into bed.
Sometimes they did not make it to one of the bedrooms but would lie on hand-woven quilts in front of a blazing fire and while away the afternoon exploring each other with a thoroughness that had the blood sizzling and the heart pounding.
They went for long walks along rolling hills and uneven paths.
People—simple folks wearing knee-high wellingtons—called out a cheery "howdy" in their thick Scottish brogues.
Mrs. McDougall would wait until they were out of the cottage to whisk by and do her housekeeping, making a meal and leaving it inside the warmer for them to eat whenever they returned.
They ate at the local restaurant, where she tasted Cullen skink—a delicious soup made of smoked haddock, potatoes, and onions. She got a taste for stovies and could not get enough of it. The only regret was that the time seemed to be whizzing by too quickly.
One evening, as dusk glazed the windowpanes with lavender shadow, Kadian curled up in a weathered armchair and watched Leon tend the fire.
The flames danced, painting gold along the lines of his face and the curve of his shoulders, and for a long moment she simply studied him, the hush of the cottage broken only by the occasional crackle.
Outside, the wind carried the distant song of the sea, weaving it through the garden's wild roses and along the stone path to their door.
Leon caught her gaze and smiled, warmth flickering in his eyes. "You look miles away," he said, his voice gentle, as he crossed the room with two mugs of strong black tea. She took one, their fingers brushing, and pressed it close, letting the steam rise to her lips.
"Just thinking how rare it is to feel this... unrushed," she replied, her words soft, almost lost in the hush. He nodded, sinking beside her, and they watched the fire together, shoulders touching, letting silence stand as conversation.
Later, they wandered outside beneath a sky stippled with stars.
The village lay hushed, doorways aglow with lamplight and laughter muffled behind thick walls.
They walked without needing to speak, hand in hand, boots crunching over dew-wet grass, their hearts lit by the unfamiliar joy of belonging—if only for these luminous days—to a world that seemed suspended outside the ordinary.
When they returned, they read aloud to each other from a battered book they'd found on the cottage shelves, voices blending with the wind and the far-off hush of the waves.
That night, they slept with the windows cracked open, cool air carrying in the promise of another day.
And in the quiet between dreams, Kadian thought how every hour here had become a keepsake, a memory stitched into the very seams of their lives—something to carry home long after the village had faded behind them.
They did not venture into anything personal. Their conversations were mainly superficial, but they did not mind. Somehow, they had come to a tacit agreement to leave the heavy stuff behind.
But time was running out, and the closer it got to their departure time, the more they could feel the tension mounting. Desperate to cast it aside, they packed several activities into the last two days.
Museums, galleries—he bought her a whimsical painting of the charming fishing village—which included visits to the Eilean Donan and Duncraig castles, as well as the Attadale gardens, where her camera was always clicking.
She had bought a beautiful photo album to display her photos and would make it a definite project for when she returned.
Trying her best to ignore the ache in her heart, she put on a bright smile and was determined to enjoy the last couple of days.
They told Mrs. McDougall not to bother coming in on the last day, and the woman understood they wanted to be with each other. They spent the day indoors, where a fire was blazing in the large stone hearth and a soft rain was sweeping down the windowpanes.
Bundled up in thick terry robes, they drank hot chocolate and watched the flames throw shadows around the room. Kadian had found several fat mood candles in a drawer and lit several. It lent a cozy ambience to an already perfect setting.
As the afternoon waned, the rain softened to a mist that blurred the garden into watercolor.
Kadian moved to the window, tracing absent shapes across the cool glass, watching droplets chase each other in winding rivulets.
Leon joined her, his presence anchoring her as much as the gentle press of his hand at her back.
"If we could stay longer," he said, almost to himself, "I'd never tire of this.
" She smiled, though the echo of parting already weighed at the edges of her mind.
To distract themselves, they played old records on the gramophone, tunes crackling and sweet, filling the cottage with a nostalgia that belonged to people who'd lived a dozen lifetimes together.
They baked scones, flour dusting their sleeves, laughter rising as the aromas of butter and jam mingled with woodsmoke.
For a time, the ordinary tasks—washing dishes, folding blankets, simply straightening cushions on the worn sofa—felt like rituals, small defenses against the world waiting beyond the village.
Dusk settled once more, lilac and blue, and as they sat curled on the hearth rug, Leon traced idle patterns on Kadian's palm.
Overhead, the beams creaked companionably, and the last candle guttered in its glass.
"Sometimes I think we're only ever passing through places like this," she whispered, "but maybe that's what makes them matter.
" He squeezed her hand, holding her gaze until the fire burned low, and outside, the rain finally ceased, leaving the night washed clean and full of quiet hope.
Much later, after he had finished making love to her, they wrapped around each other, limbs entwined, moisture glistening on their skin.
They had not moved from the living room to go into the bedroom but stayed where they were.
His fingers wandered down her back in a soothing motion that had contentment stealing over and through her.
They had to talk. They really should, and several times she opened her mouth, but the words would not come.
Burying her face against the wide expanse of his chest, she drew him in, holding her breath as if to memorize the scent of him.
Not that she needed reminders, she thought whimsically.
She would always identify his woodsy cologne.
She knew his body intimately, every contour, shape, and the flexing of his muscles.
She knew the scar from his removed appendix and another just below his heart where he had gotten into a brawl somewhere in Italy.
It had sent anxiety flooding through her to realize that he could have lost his life.
She loved him. No matter what happened when they left here, that would remain constant. Her love for him.
The hush that followed was thick with all the words unspoken, each heartbeat echoing with what neither dared voice.
Kadian listened to the rise and fall of Leon's breath, the steady drum anchoring her to the present, though her mind drifted ahead to departures and distance.
In the uncertain space between now and goodbye, she surrendered to the comfort of his arms, letting her fingers trace idle circles over his shoulder, mapping out a memory in flesh and warmth.
Eventually, the fire dwindled to embers, painting their skin in soft flickers of gold and shadow.
Outside, somewhere, an owl called—a lonely, distant sound that seemed to sum up everything Kadian felt.
She pressed her lips to Leon's jaw, gentle and lingering, and finally let the silence spill into words.
"Promise me we'll remember this," she murmured, voice low.
"Not just the places, but how it felt. All of it. "
Leon's response was a quiet, "Always." His thumb brushed her cheek, as if sealing the vow. For a while they lay there, the world reduced to shared warmth and the faint scent of rain-soaked earth drifting in through a cracked window.
Night pressed on, and eventually they rose—reluctant, moving as one to tidy the room, replacing cushions, folding the woolen throw, tucking away the traces of the day and their closeness.
Kadian found herself laughing softly at nothing, and Leon caught her hand, spinning her into his arms for one last slow dance across the rug, music supplied by memory and the steady hush of the wind.
In that fragile moment, the future seemed far away, and the only thing that mattered was the promise of another dawn, however uncertain.
When sleep finally claimed them, it was tangled together, hearts unguarded, dreams braided with longing and the stubborn hope that love, once spoken or not, could bridge whatever distances tomorrow set before them.