7. A Woman Who Wonders
A Woman Who Wonders
Triona
T he soft sound of Marcus clearing his throat breaks the heavy silence that encompasses the room. I feel all eyes on us, yet I remain fixated on how his bright blue eyes search mine.
The tumultuous storm of emotions churning within me is a complex web, too complex to articulate. Desire and doubt war for domain, twisting into a knot that refuses to unravel.
“I was hoping to steal you away for a moment,” Marcus begins, his words hesitant, almost unsure. “I know you only just arrived, and need time with your family, so I am more than happy to return tom—”
My mother’s voice cuts across his, a bright forced note ringing out. “S’no trouble at all! Take all the time ye need.”
Marcus turns his attention to me, gaze searching mine for permission, for reassurance that I approve.
I offer him a reassuring smile, my lips pressed together in a thin line.
His smirk falters for a moment, his eyebrows twitching in a silent apology he does not owe me.
The gentle pressure of his thumb tracing lazy circles on my knuckles registers belatedly, and with it, the realisation he never released my hand after pressing those warm lips to my skin.
“Come now,” my mother calls out, her voice a cheerful facade.
“Best to give these two a bit of breathin’ room.
There’s plenty else that can be done around here.
” She ushers everyone from the room with the efficiency of a sheepdog corralling a flock.
Dealla and Saoirse are the first to comply, but not before they shoot me a furtive thumbs up from just out of Marcus’ line of sight.
Casey saunters out behind them, his hands buried deep in his pockets, a wicked glint dancing in his eye. He’s assuredly enjoying the spectacle of me being ambushed by this unexpected visit.
Marcus releases my hand to offer his own to my father, who meets it with a firm, clenched-jawed shake.
Marcus, of course, misses the subtle tension entirely.
More unsettling is the sudden shift in my mother’s demeanour.
Her smile, though aimed at Marcus, is thin and brittle—like glass stretched too far, ready to crack.
I don’t know why, but it makes my skin prickle.
My parents trail after Callan, whose face is a mask of barely contained displeasure. Callan never approved of Marcus’ involvement in my life, especially not after the incident. The mortification I’d felt that day still feels fresh every time I sit and think about it.
My parents exchange a weighted glance, followed by a lingering look cast back at me, and the anxiety churning in my belly only intensifies.
A shaky breath escapes my lips as I pivot to face Marcus, a chuckle rumbling from his chest, likely to ease some of the awkwardness at the tense exodus of our audience.
I catch myself smiling, my gaze locked on his, and a flush of embarrassment heats my cheeks.
Such apprehension is unfamiliar territory for me; Marcus was never one to fluster me so.
Undeterred by the flush in my cheeks—or perhaps emboldened by it—Marcus steps closer, closing the distance between us with one long, deliberate stride.
His confidence is palpable, unshaken, as if he knows exactly the effect he has on me.
Before I can think to retreat, his hand finds mine, intertwining our fingers with ease .
The moment his skin meets mine, a jolt courses through me, sharp and undeniable, like the static spark of a storm. It’s both startling and electrifying, leaving me caught between instinct and intrigue.
“Are you nervous, Triona?” he challenges, his voice dipping into a gentle murmur that carries more weight than his casual tone suggests. His piercing blue eyes search mine, and though his words are tender, they hold a challenge, as if daring me to deny it.
I can’t. He’s not wrong about my nerves, but they aren’t born of awe. Not entirely. He may look like something divine, but my unease goes deeper—twisted with apprehension, resistance, and the quiet thrum of something I can’t name.
While drawn to his outward appearance—the sharp line of his jaw, the effortless grace in the way he holds himself—those surface attractions do little to quiet the unease stirring inside me.
I didn’t return home just to fall in line with society’s expectations, to be parceled off like a prize, handed to the man with the firmest grip or the most practiced smile.
Yet, his gaze pins me in place, fills with quiet certainty—as if he’s already decided I’m something worth having, worth pursuing.
A shiver runs through me as the truth sinks deep into my bones.
They set expectations for me. They made decisions in my absence.
And the weight of it crushes against my chest, heavy and unrelenting.
I manage a shake of my head, my words tumbling out in a rush.
“I haven’t stopped moving from the moment I arrived home.
I’m overwhelmed, but if I’m being honest,” I confess, my voice barely above a whisper, “after our last encounter, I’m surprised to see you so comfortable. .. so much in your element.”
My words trail off, the path forward uncertain. But Marcus, ever the trailblazer, has no qualms about pressing on, undaunted. “You mean when Callan caught us lip-locked behind the stable house?” he asks, a hint of mischief dancing in his eyes.
Heat blooms across my skin, spreading to my ears, my cheeks, and down to my chest, as the memory crashes over me in vivid, unrelenting detail.
The feel of his hard body enveloped me, pinning me to the stable’s immoveable frame.
His chest melded to mine, rising and falling with a hunger that matched my own.
One hand tangled in the hair at my nape, his fingers threading through the strands as though they belonged there, while the other splayed possessively on my hip.
The weight of his grip grounded me, even as it hinted at his struggle to contain his own baser impulses.
I’d never felt so uninhibited before; my hands roaming his body, tracing the rugged lines of his neck, the defined ridges of his waist, delighting in the sharp hitch of his breath my touch was eliciting.
When mere lips no longer seemed to suffice, he’d taken control—his hand at my hip, pulling me until his front was flush against my own, leaving no space between our bodies.
The unmistakable press of his arousal had been a heady thing; burning into me with a hunger that left me wanton.
His forehead dropped to mine, his breaths ragged, his voice a low rasp that ignited every nerve in my body. “You taste like heaven above. I am burning for you.”
Reason had fled in the face of such words, and I pressed closer into his thick length, seeking to rejoin our lips. The guttural groan that escaped from deep within him had driven my hunger forward. But before I could form a response, I was torn from his arms–or rather; he was torn from mine.
Callan.
I’d never seen such a rage in his eyes before that day.
Without a word, he dragged Marcus back and landed a blow to his face, knocking him to the ground.
Callan moved to strike again, but I’d stopped him with a firm grip on his arm.
The pure hatred swimming in his eyes was still burning when his head whipped toward me.
“Callan, what is wrong with you?”
“Wrong with me?” his voice so sharp I flinched. “What were ye thinkin’?”
I started, “ Callan, it ’ s not — ” but my words were interrupted.
Marcus tried to speak over me, only to be silenced by Callan’s snarl.
His body language conveyed he was seconds from pouncing on him once more.
The grip I had on his arm tightened, nails digging into his flesh to keep him tethered, if only for a moment.
“Feckin’ save it, ye gods-damned wee shite!
” Callan spat, yanking free from my hold.
He glared at Marcus, his gaze venomous. “ I ken what Sassenach scum like ye are capable of.” Then he turned on me.
“I willnae tell Ma and Da ‘cause they may force yer hand in marriage, and I willnae have you locked to this one for the rest of yer life.”
“Ye’ll not say a word either,” he said, staring holes into Marcus, voice, low and menacing.
“Callan, you’re wrong!” I shouted, but even as the words left my mouth, a doubt stirred.
“Are ye prepared to wed?” he demanded, words cutting into me like a sharp blade. I went to speak, but the statement had caught me off guard, and I was unsure what to say.
“Are ye prepared for him to take what he wants and leave ye with a bairn?”
Marcus scoffed. “I would never do that to her.”
The tension in the air crackled, heavy with unspoken fears and unresolved emotions. I felt trapped between two worlds: Callan’s protective fury and the connection I’d just had with Marcus. My heart raced, torn between the loyalty to my brother and the fierce desire I was feeling in that moment.
“Ye think this is a game, Triona?” Callan’s voice was strained, his anger barely contained. “Ye cannae be so na?ve! This isnae just about ye and him; it’s about everything that comes after!”
I had no argument after that, so I listened to what Callan had said. In the weeks leading up to me leaving for Edinburgh, I hadn’t spoken to Marcus, nor had he attempted to make contact.
It was the biggest fight we’d ever had, but had Callan been wrong? Had things progressed with Marcus, would I be where I am today?
Marcus’ voice tugs me from the haze of memory and intrusive questions. “It seems Callan has not yet seen fit to forgive my impudent act.”
To mask the sensual thoughts roaming freely in my mind, I respond with a dismissive roll of my eyes.
“It takes two to partake in such an act, Mr Murray .” His name rolls playfully off my tongue, and a flash of pure desire ignites in his gaze before being swiftly smothered by his customary lightheartedness.
The smile he offers now is practiced—a mask he hides behind.
“I would never alter a single moment of that day,” he declares, his body inclining ever closer to mine. “I would gladly endure another of Callan’s rebukes,” his tone softened, suffused with earnestness, “because I meant every word I said.”
The way his eyes are set upon me has me practically panting as I speak, my question barely audible. “And what was that?”
Marcus dips his head, his lips grazing the sensitive shell of my ear. “I burn for you… I have not tasted nearly enough of you, and I have thought of that kiss every single moment since I last beheld your beautiful face.” A tingling sensation dances along my skin, electrifying every nerve.
He pulls back, shifting with effortless control as he guides my hands to his shoulders, his touch deliberate. I don’t hesitate. Accepting his silent invitation, I splay my fingers wide, pressing into the firm muscle beneath my palms.
A subtle shudder rips through him, so fleeting I might have missed it—if not for the way his grip tightens.
His hands settle, heavy on my hips, fingers flexing before he tugs me closer.
Closer, until I’m caught in his gravity, until the space between us disappears into something charged, something inevitable.
“Marcus, someone could walk in at any moment,” I say rather pointedly, though I make no move to pull away. His gaze holds me captive.
“I shall not kiss you—not yet, and not here,” he counters, his voice low and sure.
Relief washes over me. His restraint feels necessary; I’m all too aware that my inability to push him away is driven by the pull of my body to his.
Sure, many women are likely to swoon over his words, but something about this doesn’t feel right.
“But I will return within the week,” he continues, his tone tinged with certainty. “This will afford you ample time to rest, and I would like more of your company—if, of course, you will indulge me.” His words carry a confidence that suggests he has not entertained the possibility of refusal.
He draws back, his eyes still burning with unrestrained longing. “Marcus,” I say, trying to diffuse the tension with humour, “If you stare at me any longer, your eyes are sure to dry out.”
His smile softens, but instead of retreating, he lifts his hands, cradling either side of my neck. His thumbs trace slow, deliberate paths along my jawline, sending another tremor through me.
“I cannot fathom what I have done to deserve the attention of someone as breathtaking as you, Triona,” he states, his voice quiet but brimming with conviction. “But I will not squander another moment pretending you are not what I want. I wish to resume what once was before you left.”
His words land heavily, each one clawing its way past my carefully constructed defenses. This was not the homecoming I’d envisioned—not by a long shot.
I can’t find the words to respond, so I lean into his touch instead, hoping the gesture doesn’t betray the whirlwind of trepidation coursing through me. My heart pounds in my chest, and I manage only the faintest of nods.
He sighs, a sound that carries the weight of some invisible burden being lifted.
His arms stay a moment longer, his hands firm yet gentle, before he brushes his lips lightly against my forehead.
The touch is brief but tender, leaving a warmth in its wake.
His arms fall away, the reluctance in his movements almost palpable .
“I will do whatever it takes to prove that I am worthy of you—and that you are meant to be mine,” he murmurs, his voice laced with a newfound determination. Before I can gather my thoughts, he turns and strides from the room.
As the door closes behind him, the silence presses in. I’m left standing there—heart racing, breath uneven.
The realisation settles over me, cold and inescapable—nothing will ever be as simple as it once was.