Chapter 8 #3
Warmth, and… a touch of wistfulness, gleamed brighter in Lucy’s clear gaze. His eyes, however, were reserved for her.
He needed space from her more than he needed blood in his body.
“Mulled cider?”
Her breath-stealing smile reappeared. “That would be lovely.”
While he went to fetch them drinks, Lucy hastened along with him. Collecting the rest of the biscuit molds and carrying them back without giving Arran another look.
She lay her beloved stash upon the table in an uneven tinny chorus as the biscuit cutters fell unevenly upon the oak table planks.
“I’ve seen biscuit cutters before,” she said.
While she cheerily chattered, oblivious to the riot of dark feelings rooting around inside him, Arran poured himself a mug of mulled cider—a very large glass. “Have you?”
“Aye.”
“I’ve seen them at festivals. Occasionally Rom will pass through, peddling their wares. But I’ve never seen ones like these.”
Arran set the pewter mug down. He made the mistake of glancing back. That carelessness nearly cost him the rest of his sanity.
Lucy’s comely mouth formed another sweet smile.
He thought better of it and grabbed the entire pitcher. Remembering a mug for Lucy, Arran carried his bounty of liquid fortitude to an ebullient Lucy’s side.
She angled her flour-kissed cutter for his inspection. “Did you see this one, Arran?”
His eyes lingered on a tear-drop shaped birthmark in the web between her thumb and forefinger. It was as if she wore the mark of Cailleach, goddess of the winter. “I didn’t,” he murmured.
“It is a fine one.” Lust sapped him of anything and everything but the sight of that mark, one that beckoned him to leave his own stamp upon her. He imagined taking that flesh between his lips and sucking upon her creamy soft skin.
“It must be delicious,” Lucy said—just as Arran took another fortifying swallow from his mug.
Strangling on his swallow, Arran erupted into a paroxysm. A hot flush filled his neck and splotched his cheeks.
Lucy dropped the kitchen gadget and sprung to action. She raised a hand and, with a cupped palm, thwacked him hard between the shoulder blades several times. Until he got himself under control.
Except, with his lungs recalling their reflexive function, his body took note of Lucy’s palm resting upon the thin layer of his lawn shirt.
She moved her fingers in smooth, sure, butterfly-soft circles. “Are you all right?” she asked softly.
No. It took everything within him to angle his gaze to her and force a “lighthearted” grin. “Nothing that a strong mulled cider won’t cure.”
Like his admission turned he and Lucy into kindred souls, a wide-smiling Lucy nodded.
“My mum used to say a Scot doesn’t need any fancy kitchen curiosities to make magical biscuits,” she shared.
Her long fingers, the skin dry, were the hands of a real woman.
A woman who used her hands and did so without shame, but with confidence.
They possessed a natural strength befitting Scathach, the legendary queen of Skye and trainer of hero, Cúchulainn.
What it would be like to have those strong fingers wrapped around his—
Arran took a deep drink—a very deep one.
“Though I do confess, I’ve always wondered if she said that because she knew they were unattainable…” That murmuring came faraway and soft, in the way it did when she accidentally spoke to herself. A trait he’d gleaned after such a short time of knowing her.
Side by side, they proceeded to work.
It didn’t feel like work.
There was a calm to what they did.
Lucy moved with great efficiency.
Arran? Not so much.
The silence with Lucy was as companionable as the conversation with her.
Arran placed a diamond-shaped piece of dough upon the tray next to Lucy’s heart.
Being here with her, who was the only person in this residence removed from the wrong he’d done. At least, it felt as though she was. Arran could not say what, if, or how much Campbell shared with her.
Then they carried the trays to the ovens. Despite her protestations, Arran placed the pans within the high heat, and there was nothing to do but sit, wait, and partake in more mulled cider.
Arran refilled their mugs. He and Lucy sat, side by side, shoulder to shoulder, with their backs braced against the edge of the table and their stares directed at the ovens.
It’d been so long since he’d felt…this. Just warm and at peace.
The quiet crackling of the fire in the hearth along with the effects of the spiced spirits left Arran with a soothing warmth inside.
Is it the fire, or the young woman pressed against your side like it was the most natural thing in the world?
Drawn as any moth to the fire, he glanced at the top of Lucy’s head. “What is your favorite part of the Yuletide Season, Lucy?”
She sighed softly. “Wassailing. Decking the halls.”
There could be no doubting the whimsical, enthralling Lucy LeBeau was devoid of deceit. She was…very much who she claimed to be. Campbell’s future bride.
That revelation left him hollow inside.
And Arran silently railed.
“What of you, Arran?”
What of me? I’m going to hell for so many reasons.
He grunted. “I really enjoy it all.” Or he had.
Until this year.
Until he’d gone and caused conflict and contention in the McQuoid-Smith family.
Lucy turned slightly on the bench.
Feeling her focus on him, he angled his head.
Lucy flicked a small piece of dough from the table, and hit him square in the center of his chest.
Stunned by that boldness and active defiance, he flared his eyes. “What was that for?”
“That is terribly vague,” she charged, a teasing ring to her lyrical voice.
Yes, because he’d never much given thought to the traditions. They’d simply been traditions. So customary as to be rote. He had failed to properly appreciate the moments for what they were.
Until they were no more.
“This,” he said quietly. “I am enjoying this.”
Lucy emitted an incredulous snort. “A hot kitchen without any Yuletide decorations?”
“The quiet.” A kind that wasn’t filled with guilt and regret. Or shame.
Lucy sipped her cider. “Not me,” she murmured contemplatively. “I always loved when the house was fullest, and noisiest.” Her brow scrunched up and the muscles of her upper arms rippled, showing her as a woman of strength. “Maybe we always want the opposite of what we have?”
Sometimes.
Not this time.
“Maybe,” he said.