Chapter Seven #2
All at once, he realized he was breathing heavily while watching the rise and fall of Raonaid’s ample bosom beneath the covers. It was a beautiful but dangerous thing to behold, so he turned his gaze to her face instead.
She was as lovely in sleep as at any other time, and there was something surprisingly peaceful about her, which contradicted everything he knew and remembered about her.
Strangely, that made him hate her now more than ever for locking him up in these shackles, cursed to a life of isolation, forced to avoid the attentions of any woman who so much as smiled at him.
Another part of him, however, wanted to climb into bed with her, roll on top, and settle himself snugly between her soft, luscious thighs. He would kiss her lips, caress her, and, when she was ready, slide into her womanly depths with a profound and satisfying groan of liberation.
Lachlan shut his eyes and tried to think of something else—anything would do—but the effort was futile. He would have to get up.
He was about to do so when Raonaid stirred and moaned softly.
She inched a little closer to the edge of the bed and wiggled her hips across the mattress.
He could smell her perfume, faint in his nostrils after the storm but still present, nonetheless, and it irritated him further, due to the frustration it caused.
His mind reeled with confusion. For three long years he had dreamed of achieving vengeance against this woman.
He had loathed her with every inch of his being, even imagined watching her die.
He still loathed her now. But despite all that, he had been teasing and flirting, and he wanted overwhelmingly to touch her.
Which told him one thing: the flirting had to stop. It was too dangerous and vexing. He had wanted to punish her, to make her afraid, but as it turned out, he was only punishing himself.
Rising to his feet, he left the pillow and blanket on the floor. For a moment he stood over her broodingly, watching until she rolled onto her back. Then he turned his eyes away, donned his kilt in silence, and quietly left the room.
* * *
Catherine’s eyes fluttered open, and she sat up quickly. A bright, hazy beam of sunlight was shining in through the window. The blanket Lachlan had used was in a jumbled heap on the floor, and his tartan was no longer hanging before the fire. The room was quiet, and he was gone.
Tossing the covers aside, she rose and crossed to the window, drew the drapes, and looked outside at the storm-ravaged stable yard below.
Some of the shingles had blown off the roof, and the muddy ground was littered with leaves and broken branches that had blown down from the trees.
A shimmering cloud of mist rolled close to the ground.
Lachlan emerged from the stable just then, walking purposefully back to the inn, and she was relieved to see him. He had mentioned he would secure another horse. Perhaps that was his task just now.
Catherine hurried to don her skirts and bodice. A moment later, he knocked lightly at the door, then entered without waiting for an invitation and barely looked at her as he spoke. “You’re up, I see.”
His dark hair was tied back with a leather string, and he looked rugged and handsome in the morning light, with his tartan pinned neatly at his shoulder, his sword belt buckled loosely at his hip. His shirt was clean and dry, and at some point he had shaved.
Catherine ran her fingers through her tousled hair, which fell in large bouncy curls to her waist, imagining that she must look a mess.
“I sent for breakfast,” he told her, “but you’ll have to eat quickly and fill up. We’ll head east toward South Lanarkshire today, and won’t stop again until we’re close to Blackburn.”
His tone was brisk and irritable. He would not look her in the eye.
Another knock sounded at the door. He moved quickly to answer it. “Ah, Abby, what a vision you are to behold on this fresh autumn morning.” He spoke with effortless charm as the young maid entered the room, carrying a tray.
Her cheeks blushed pink as she set the tray on the table, then glanced dismissively at Catherine. “Are ye sure there’s nothing else I can do for ye, sir?” she asked Lachlan. “Anything at all?”
“You’re a bonny lass, Abigail. I couldn’t have managed without you.”
The maid beamed a besotted smile at him as he placed his hand on the small of her back and led her out of the room.
He shut the door behind them, leaving Catherine behind to wonder where he was off to now, and for what purpose.
Her curiosity got the better of her, and she tiptoed across the room and pressed her ear to the door.
The sounds of quiet conversation and giggles filtered through the oak panel—
Suddenly the door opened, and she jumped back.
“Eavesdropping, were you?” Lachlan asked with complete disinterest, which came as an insult after his flirtations with Abigail just now. “Why aren’t you eating? Hurry up. We need to go.”
He moved to the tray, picked up a biscuit, and spread butter on it. He stuffed the whole thing into his mouth, then caught her staring at him, and froze. “What’s wrong with you this morning?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t lie to me. You look irritated.”
She moved forward and poured herself a cup of coffee. “Do women always throw themselves at you like that?”
“Aye.” He glanced at her crossly. “Not that it does me much good,” he added. “It’s more frustrating than flattering. I’ve had to give them a wide berth lately.”
“Because you cannot take advantage of the situation, and have your fun with them?”
“Aye. Thanks to you.”
She blew on the hot coffee and carefully took a sip. “Well, for the first time I am beginning to see the merit in the curse I placed on you. At least you are learning to restrain yourself, while hundreds of vulnerable, unsuspecting young women are protected from your awe-inspiring appeal.”
“Dangerous…,” he said. “I’m only dangerous because of you.”
“And you don’t think you were dangerous before? Following through on all those opportunities, no doubt breaking countless hearts without a care?”
He picked up another biscuit, slapped a thin slice of ham on it, and shoved it into his mouth.
“Now you’re starting to sound like your old self.
Always wanting to pick a fight. And you look more like yourself, too, with your hair down, all wild and dishevelled.
We’re making progress, I think. Soon you’ll be remembering how to cast spells and hexes, and we can be free of each other at last.”
He stalked to the door, flung it open, and spoke to her over his tartan-clad shoulder. “Be downstairs in a quarter of an hour. I’ll be waiting for you in the stable. Don’t be late.”
With that, he shut the door behind him.
He seemed especially angry with her that morning, she thought, but she supposed his anger was far preferable to his desire, for at least he couldn’t kill her with it.