Chapter 20 A Fountain of Tears
A FOUNTAIN OF TEARS
I roll over in bed. The plush covers rustle with the movement and the doctor’s humiliating diagnosis from last night replays in my waking mind.
Hyperventilation during an orgasm or intense sexual activity can reduce the amount of oxygen flowing to the brain, which may cause a person to faint.
That, along with the fact that I was drugged at the airport, endured high levels of stress, and didn’t drink enough water, were all contributing factors.
Lachlan was relieved it wasn’t my heart or my blood pressure. He truly seemed to care. But then I heard his speech to Wes about investing in the people who work for him. I imagine I fall under a category labeled the people I own.
Of course, Lachlan, being the control freak that he is, issued rules for our sexual activity.
I have to remember to breathe and not hold my breath.
I need to talk to him so he can be assured I’m taking in oxygen.
If I don’t talk, he will force me to.
If I seem faint, he will tie me up so I can’t move and slow everything down, so I’ll be forced to beg and therefore breathe more.
I told him we could do nothing at all, or that I could practice pleasuring myself until I’m better trained. He dismissed the idea, saying if I were alone and passed out, it would be worse, and then he forbade me from touching myself unless he’s there to supervise.
Before obstinately carrying me up the stairs and tucking me into bed, he made me drink a glass of water and had Lorna put an additional one on my nightstand.
Then he locked me in. Literally locked the door from the outside. He told me right before he did it, and I heard the click. I assumed he locked the secret door in the dressing room too. Lachlan is nothing less than thorough.
Despite boiling with anger and mortification, I fell asleep quickly and didn’t wake up until 10:00 a.m., according to the ornate silver clock on the nightstand.
Waves crash faintly outside the windows, and a persistent drizzle falls from the gray sky. It looks cold, but I’m warm under the covers. I almost don’t want to get up, but I fear Lachlan will check on me soon—if he hasn’t already—and I’d rather be showered and dressed before dealing with him.
Still anxious about what happened last night, I slowly get out of bed and take several deep breaths before walking to the dressing room.
Lorna, bless her soul, laid out a few outfits with a note explaining they’d be good options for the weather today. Are the seas ever calm here? The wind less fierce?
She also left a covered tray of food on a rollaway table near the large ottoman. Coffee, orange juice, oatmeal—porridge?—with fruit, toast, and jelly. Jam?
They use different words than we do in America. Last night’s dinner seemed French inspired though, but then Lorna did pronounce the chef’s name with a French accent.
Not really hungry, I nibble on a bit of each then shower, blow dry my pin-straight hair, and dress in my own version of what Lorna laid out. I don’t mean it disrespectfully. She doesn’t force anything on me the way Mom did. I just like creating my own outfit.
A turquoise sweater, black leggings, and matching riding boots—maybe Lachlan will take the hint. With all these acres—over 28,000 Rory mentioned at dinner—there has to be a stable with horses.
I try to open the secret door, assuming it’s the way Lorna came in because I didn’t hear her in my bedroom. For as kind as she seems, she clearly follows Lachlan’s orders.
It’s locked, so I leave for the bedroom and the other door only to find Lachlan standing near the fireplace in my room.
“I was wondering when you’d wake up.” His gaze is on the rainy view out the window.
“Did you check on me after locking me in last night?” I wouldn’t put it past him. He turns and zeros in on my sweater. Yes, the color matches his eyes. “I wore turquoise before I met you. It’s a good color for me,” I add with snark.
“It’s a great color on you.” He shuffles closer, dressed in a muscle-hugging sweater, fitted charcoal pants, and stylish hiking boots that throw me.
“Where are you going?”
“I could ask you the same.” He stares at my boots.
“I want to ride. I’m great at it, and I’m going to guess you have some impressive horses on all this land.”
“You would be correct. And I know you’re a great rider.
Jumping to be specific.” He offers a slight, roguish smirk.
“But I can’t allow it. You haven’t ridden in years, and you’re still recovering from yesterday’s events.
You need to relax, drink plenty of water, and practice your breathing exercises. ”
He was serious about those? “I rode for years without ever passing out, I’ve been breathing fine all morning, and I had a glass of water already.
” More like a few sips, but I also had some orange juice and coffee.
“But if you’re insisting that I take it easy, I’ll have to extend the same rules to us.
No sexual activity until further notice. ”
His nostrils flare. He crosses his arms, his biceps stretching the material of the sweater. “I hadn’t planned to.”
I rub my lips together to keep from cackling in disbelief.
“Okay.” We’ll see how long that lasts. I rock back and forth on my feet.
“You should know I get bored easily and distract myself with reading romance novels.” I draw out my next words and lower my voice to a seductive whisper, “Hot… steamy… toe-curling romance. Porn for women. It’s my favorite and quite the turn on. ”
Along with classics like Jane Austen, but he doesn’t need to know that. I twist my hair around my finger and bite my bottom lip, my chin tilted down as I gaze up at him with innocent seduction.
Desire flares in his eyes. I do love how easily he reacts to me.
He closes the distance between us, grabs my chin, and forces me onto my toes for a searing kiss. His lips smash into mine and his tongue greedily sweeps into my mouth with raw passion. His hand moves to the back of my neck, anchoring me to him.
I moan, melt, grow dizzy.
He breaks the kiss and rests his forehead against mine so his words fan my lips. “Breathe in.” He waits until I do. “Breathe out.” I do, and he joins me. “In… out. In… out.”
My head clears, and my equilibrium returns.
“Good girl.” He straightens and tucks an errant strand of hair behind my ear. “You need to practice, and you need to recognize the signs so you can do this for yourself.”
“So what if I pass out? People choke each other during sex for the same effect.”
His brows hike up. “How do you know about that?”
“I read porn, remember?”
“People also die from it and can suffer brain damage.”
I cross my arms and roll my eyes. “You know this from experience?”
He rubs the scruff on his chin, his silence and the glint in his eyes answer enough.
“You’ve choked someone during sex?” I ask, aghast.
“I’ve choked several people for different reasons—only once was it consensual.”
My eyes spread so wide they hurt. “What else do you do for a living?” I no longer believe he’s just a shrewd businessman.
“Come with me.” He strolls past me toward the door to his bedroom.
I hesitate for a second then follow him.
We cross the room and exit into the hallway. He opens the door directly on his left. We enter a stone stairwell, similar to the spiral one he carried me up when we first arrived, only this is straight and narrow. It’s cold and smells musty. At the top, he opens a gate-like door.
My jaw drops to my feet. Bookcases line the walls of a circular tower that’s two stories high with a spiral staircase to a metal second-floor catwalk.
The only break in the bookcases is a small fireplace with a wood surround and a narrow window.
A round rug warms the stone floors. In the center, an oversized recliner looks inviting with a plaid wool blanket and a throw pillow that has the family crest. The colors of each are turquoise, cream, and burnt orange.
Several stacks of books rest on the floor. The space feels cozy and magical.
Lachlan eyes me. “You’re speechless. Are you breathing?”
Shallowly, but yes. “I love it,” is all I can say. The room is more than I ever could have imagined.
“This was my mum’s favorite place in the castle.” He touches the blanket that lies haphazardly on the chair as if it were left that way after someone got up.
“It’s beautiful.” I turn and tip my head, taking it all in.
“This was the only place that made her happy after Ewan’s death.”
“Your dad?”
“Rory’s dad. My stepfather. He was murdered too.”
My gaze jerks to Lachlan. “Too?”
“The feud I told you about between the full-blooded MacReids and the imposters, as they call us, was reignited by Angus’s father.
For the last two centuries, there had been tension, but also peace.
When my mum married my dad, Angus’s father had him killed because he was English and set to inherit the castle and title through my mum.
She moved back here afterward and married a Scotsman, hoping to placate Angus and his dad, but it wasn’t enough.
They tried to kidnap my mum, but Ewan protected her and died as a result.
So Angus’s father had an accident that left him dead.
” Did he just casually admit to having a man killed?
“Angus became even more hell-bent on reclaiming Duhnill. He can’t stand the idea of me—a polluted half-Brit, half-Scot—having ownership of this place. ”
To my surprise, a defensive ball forms in my stomach toward anyone who dares to challenge Lachlan—that and a good amount of fear about him interacting with Angus.
“I cannot believe they still live with this mindset,” I say. “It’s medieval. Can’t they let it go and move on?”