An Awakening of Need #2
As ever, the wind blew against his face.
Overhead, hawks soared on the wind. He passed through the eastern guard tower and out the other end, and then paused a moment to inspect the stables.
In the grasslands behind the stables, he could see the horses grazing, his among them.
If only he were riding home. Aye, he belonged in the Highlands, not dancing to the tune of a fickle queen—and that of a weak king, as well.
He missed the call of the moorland birds, the smell of the wild heather, and the spring of the moss and peat beneath his feet.
He closed his eyes. The Highlands beckoned—the king and the queen, be damned.
“I knew I’d find ye here,” Euphemia murmured by his side.
Taran didn’t have to look to know she stood there with her simpering smile and her bodice pulled far lower than propriety allowed—as if that could stimulate his interest in her.
A fleeting glimpse of Moll’s lace-edged shift inflamed him far more than if Euphemia stood naked, revealing every inch of her flesh.
Euphemia brushed his sleeve. He did look then, in order to place a decent distance between them.
“I miss the Highlands,” Euphemia said in a low voice. “Home. The wind on the moors. The selkies.”
Between each word, she paused and thrust her breasts forward, her bodice—as he’d predicted—pulled down low. He didn’t bother to respond and turned back to the wall instead, locking his gaze over the hills.
Euphemia mistook his response as an invitation. Her fingers brushed his arm.
Irritated, he stepped back, but she stayed him with a hand on his arm.
“I understand why ye would go to her,” Euphemia said in a low voice, her face tightening. “But she is no longer necessary, my lord.”
Of course, she spoke of Moll, but ‘necessary’? ‘Twas an odd word. He arched a puzzled brow.
Euphemia stepped into him, brushing her breasts against his arm. “My lord,” she panted in a breathy sort of way. “I’ll keep ye fair interested in my bed. Ye willa need to seek comfort elsewhere. And ye need an heir, my lord. As your wife, only I can give ye that.”
Was she exceedingly iron-willed or immensely dense? Surely, she could read his distaste? Irritated, Taran shoved himself from the wall.
“Save your wiles for another. They willna work on me,” he grated.
He turned, but she threw herself in front of him, blocking his path.
“My lord, ye canna deny the advantages our union would bring,” she said with a passionate determination. “It matters little what ye feel for me, aye? Love is not required. Indeed, it can come later.”
Taran paused. He’d often said such things himself, that in a marriage, love was the last thing required, but now, looking at Euphemia, he realized what a fool he’d been.
Love was the only thing that mattered.
Without a word, he stepped around her and strode away.
He spent the remainder of the afternoon with his men, lounging on the large window ledge of the western guardroom, above the castle armory. The MacKenzie clansmen had taken the queen’s tidings in stride and had instead, turned their attention to a tournament of dice.
Taran hadn’t joined. His body ached, and even more than that, Moll marched through his mind, again and again. The flash of her eyes. Her fingers clenched in fists, defending children she’d picked up from the streets. And, of course, her slender figure wrapped in rose and gold.
“Ach, ye should soak that shoulder of yours,” Doughall’s rough voice barged into his thoughts. “A bath, piping hot.”
Taran looked to where the man sat, balanced back on a three-legged stool and with his legs propped on the table. ‘Twas hard to deny the appeal of the suggestion. A hot bath would do him good.
“Aye,” was all he said.
The gray-braided man dropped his feet to the floor. “I’ll have the lads fetch a tub from the castle laundry, straightway. North tower?”
“Nay.” Taran shook his head. “I’ve a mind to bathe there.” He much preferred the silence and peace of the empty laundry room than a place where others might roam.
“As ye wish,” Doughall replied with a nod. He whistled and jerked his head at several of the younger clansmen. “On your feet, lads, we’ve a task afore the sun sets.”
As they left, Taran closed his eyes.
They roused him near sunset. ‘Twas surprising he’d fallen asleep. The morning’s drubbing had exhausted him more than he’d thought. With a nod of thanks, he pushed himself off the window ledge and made his way to the castle laundry, alone.
‘Twas a large room—enticingly empty—with low-arched ceilings and several windows on the northern wall that offered a fine view of the courtyard and the great hall to the left.
On the hearth, a fire merrily crackled beneath a large, black cauldron, and a long, wooden table took up the center of the room.
To his left, an open door revealed a smaller chamber filled with barrels of ash, boxes, and tubs. ‘Twas behind a stack of wooden crates that Doughall had filled the largest tub in the room. Steam rose from the water in inviting clouds.
‘Twas fair difficult to divest himself of his clothing and even harder to remove his boots. No matter how great the care, his tortured muscles complained until at last, he stepped naked into the water and settled back with a sigh.
Peace descended as the water’s heat sank into his bones, soothing the stiffness, but playing with the pain. Still, ‘twas relaxing. He stayed there in silence, enjoying his solitude until finally, the water cooled, signaling ‘twas time to leave.
With a sigh, he hefted himself out of the water and standing by the tub, rolled his shoulders back, closing his eyes.
It was then he heard a woman’s shocked gasp.
He opened his eyes to see her in the evening light, standing by the stack of barrels with her lips parted in shock.
Moll.