Chapter 9
“Damn the woman to hell,” Magnus muttered into the night.
He could feel sweat pouring down his chest as he swung the axe over and over again. He must have cut up fifty logs, and still, he hadn’t been able to get the kiss out of his mind.
She was as fiery with passion as he had imagined. As soon as he had taken her in his arms, he had known it was wrong, but he could not prevent himself from having her.
Given that she was an English lady who likely had little to no experience with men, she had kissed like a demon, her soft lips parting willingly to allow him to explore her mouth, her fingers gripping him so tightly, pulling him into her.
He could still taste her on his lips, could still feel the weight of her legs around his waist as she had allowed him to thrust his hips against hers.
He threw down the axe with a cry of frustration, stretching his arms above his head as his shoulders screamed at him from overuse.
He wanted to lose himself in the darkness of the forest behind him and be forgotten for a time, shedding the burdens of his duties as a laird—freed from his worries and emotions.
He glanced up at the castle, looking at the dim light from Leah’s room. He wondered what she would do if he broke down her door and came to claim her. He would throw caution to the wind and take her as he had never taken a woman before.
He could picture her startled expression as he woke her from her dreams, her hair tumbling over her shoulders as she sat up in bed.
The member between his legs throbbed as he imagined her shock turning into lust as he stormed into her room and lay down on top of her, feeling her body beneath his as he stripped her bare, her hands exploring his skin, her soft sighs of pleasure bursting from her lips as she surrendered to him, body and soul.
He shuddered at the thought.
She is in yer care. Ye promised to protect her from the people chasin’ her, nae ravage her on yer dinner table.
With that frustrating thought, he grabbed his sodden léine from the floor and marched toward the sea, stripping away his remaining clothes as he went, carelessly bundling them all together.
His servants knew him well enough not to bother him when he was in this kind of mood. After his wife and child had died, he had been a monster to everyone, and the only thing that would quell the turmoil in his mind was physical activity.
As he reached the beach, he felt the grit of the sand beneath his toes. Stripping down to only his underclothes, he stood under the softly falling rain, hoping that nature would do her work and cleanse him of the burning needs within his body.
He strode into the water without hesitation, the bite of the cold waves a welcome contrast to the heat in his skin.
He dove beneath the surface, resolving to swim to England if it would clear his mind of thoughts of the phoenix woman.
He kept swimming for a long time, and the continuous concentration required to manage his breathing helped to steady his thundering heart.
He did not quite make it to England, but he did manage to reach a large rock out at sea some distance from his lands. It took almost an hour to swim there and back. He half hoped a sea monster lurked in the depths beneath him. He could do with a fight to relieve the tension.
The water turned shallow again as he finally returned to shore, exhaustion heavy in his bones from hours of relentless movement. He felt the sea bed under his feet and stood up, shaking the water from his long hair and wiping the salt from his face.
“It’s just a few more days,” he said to himself, “nay more than that, and ye’ll be rid of her.”
As he trudged up the beach to retrieve his clothes, he was surprised to see a figure standing on the shore before him.
Betty was watching him with a familiar spark in her eyes, leaning on the cane he had carved for her, her head cocked.
“Yes?” he barked.
She knew his temper well, there was no pretense here.
“Och, ye think I have come to speak to ye, do ye?” she asked, her casual stance never changing. She was not afraid of him, never had been.
“What do ye want then, woman?” he asked.
The rain had stopped, and a cool breeze blew between them. The light folds of her dress billowed behind her like a fairy’s wings.
“I’m in search of a flower,” Betty said, glancing down the length of the beach and back.
“A flower?” he echoed, rolling his eye. “And what kind of flower could ye possibly find on these shores?”
“Och, ye must ken them all, I’d wager, what with all the attention ye pay to the beauty of the world.”
Magnus scoffed as he stopped to pick up his léine, pulling it over his shoulders and feeling the fabric cling to his wet skin.
“It is a rare flower. It only blooms at night,” Betty continued, the white orb on her cane seeming to glow from the moonlight, even though the night sky above them was pitch black.
“Can yer apprentice nae fetch it for ye? An old woman shouldnae be out here alone at night,” he remarked, knowing that the comment would infuriate her.
“An old woman? I’m more capable than ye, lad. Ye’re one to talk, never leavin’ yer castle save for a pile of logs or a war ye cannae win.”
“Och, aye? Well, I can find ye a better laird if it’ll help ye.”
“Ah, ye can never be rid of me, Master Magnus. We both ken that.”
He stomped past her. Her words were true enough, but he didn’t need to hear them just then. She had been part of his life for so long. Despite her strange counsel and cryptic prophecies, he valued her point of view.
“It’ll need protectin’,” she called to his back.
Despite his determination to return to the castle and ignore her bizarre warnings, he came to a standstill, and he found himself turning back to face her.
“What’s that?”
“The flower,” she stated. “It’ll need protectin’ before it can bloom. Special care must be given for it to reach its full potential.”
Her wrinkled face was lit by the distant torches of the keep, her eyes almost black as she looked at him.
“Much sought after is the flower,” she continued. “Many predators might steal it away for their own use. It must be sheltered at all costs.”
Magnus frowned at her, not so much of a simpleton as to miss her meaning. “The lass will be gone in a few days, and then she will nay longer be me problem.”
Betty smiled. “I was talkin’ about a flower, Magnus. Ye have the lass on yer mind, then?”
He threw up a hand and dismissed her, turning angrily to walk back to the keep. The usual activities that he had always relied on to calm his mind had ceased to work, and he was beyond frustrated. He wondered if an entire bottle of whisky might do the job.
As he walked back inside, he found his man-at-arms waiting for him, leaning casually against a wall.
Kenneth looked him up and down, raised his eyebrows, and frowned. “Ye havenae needed a late-night swim for some years, M’Laird.”
“What would ye ken about it? Up through the night, are ye?” Magnus bellowed, happy to take out some of his annoyance on his friend.
“Did it do ye any good?” Kenneth asked, entirely unphased by Magnus’s foul mood.
“It wasnae needed for anythin’ more than exercise. I have been cooped up too long, that’s all.”
“Did ye nae travel to the mainland only yesterday?” Kenneth asked but backed up a step as Magnus advanced on him.
“Ye would be wise to keep a civil tongue in yer head, man.”
“And what have I said that’s offended ye? The truth?”
Magnus growled at him, stalking through the halls and up to his room. He threw his clothes onto the floor and ran his hands over his face, trying to dispel the feeling of unease in his gut.
Why is it me job to protect the lass? She’s survived this long without me—she’s capable enough to defend herself once I’m gone.
But he did not believe it. Despite his mind emphatically trying to dismiss the lass as beyond his concern, his heart remembered her speech in the carriage.
What kind of father could entrap his daughter in such a way? She had described an utter lack of choice in the proceedings, as though her opinions were unimportant and irrelevant.
How could a man raise a child from infancy, watch it grow into a strong, independent woman, and then callously dash all of her hopes so completely, selfishly choosing what aided his family’s reputation over her happiness?
He slumped in front of the fireplace, his mind dredging up memories of the last time he had encountered a father’s love.
Sometimes, it could be a burden, and often, it could be a curse. Many fathers doted on their daughters—as they should. It sounded like her father wanted to use her to advance his status in the world, anything she wished for be damned.
Magnus regretted his decision to avoid drowning his sorrows in the bottom of a bottle. His thoughts turned dark and melancholy as he considered what influence he might have on the girl.
Who’s to say she wouldnae be better off with who her faither picks for her? It would be better than being saddled with a cursed man who doesnae deserve happiness.
He’d do anything to protect her from the men in her life… and especially from himself.