She’d seen that face among the oil portraits inside. “The Duke of Argyll, I presume?”
“Aye.” Finn’s tone was hardly complimentary. Given the conversations they’d had, Aila was well aware of his opinion of the nobleman who’d chosen to support the wrong side of the Jacobite rebellion. Perhaps not the losing side, but the wrong side, nonetheless.
The duke’s horse sidestepped as he approached the end of the drawbridge. Behind him, a flamboyantly dressed — aye, even more garish than the duke in shades of blue and gold — man with a toothsome smile and slashing dimples smoothed back his head of golden hair as if he were a male model in a cover shoot. He was handsome enough if one liked flash, swagger and obnoxious levels of narcissism.
“Who is that with him?”
By her side, Finn stiffened. “That is the Earl of Etteridge.”
Such scathing hatred suffused the words, she looked up at him in surprise. His focus remained affixed to the earl, filled with uncharacteristic malevolence. “The man I’ve been waiting for all this time. The man who raped my wife.” Finn looked down at her and Aila couldn’t help the shiver that ran down her spine. “The man I’m here to kill.”
Chapter 28
“Finn, wait!”
Having turned his back on the crowd lest he act without thought or weapon, Finn strode away at a clipped, furious pace. He shouted for his children to take Rab to the nursery. Spurred into action by his unyielding tone, they scurried ahead of him to the postern gate without argument. Rounding the corner of the castle, out of sight of his nemesis yet far from being able to purge Etteridge from his mind, he ignored Aila’s continued calls.
She’d said her anger with him was misplaced. His with Etteridge was not. Whatever burst of annoyance she roused in him was nothing when compared to the wrath he harbored in his mind and heart for John Addair, Earl of Etteridge. Whatever love he might nurture for her, it was unable to flourish in the savage wasteland of his heart.
This was what held him back. Deep-seated abhorrence for the man who’d in essence killed his wife. Guilt for having failed to protect her. It gnawed at his soul. How could he welcome such a shining light as Aila Marshall into his heart when there was only darkness to greet her? God knew, she wouldn’t like it there any more than he.
Until he purged it by executing his revenge, there was no hope for him. No return to Elgin to rebuild his home, no life where Marta no longer haunted him. No future.
Once this was over, he could move on. He could be happy.
Regardless of what Ian had to say.
Resolve carried him without hesitation to his chamber. To his trunk.
To his destiny.
Aila was right behind him. “What are ye doing? What is that?”
Finn swept a hand over the object in question. The polished mahogany box held the instrument of his revenge. The time had come. He closed his eyes to savor the moment, ignoring the lack of satisfaction the knowledge brought him. Opening the lid, he revealed a basket-handled broadsword cushioned in blue velvet. The same damned shade as the cloak Etteridge now wore. Providence. Soon he would add a blossom of red over the bastard’s heart.
“Oh, my days,” Aila gasped behind him. “Are ye off yer head?”
Ignoring her, Finn lifted the weapon from its bed. He’d kept it polished and honed, prepared for this moment. The time was nigh. All he had to do was reach out and take it.
“Ye think ye’re going to do this thing right now?” A rare moment. Her voice lost the sweet composure it normally bore, rising octaves in astonishment. “Just walk out there and stab this man in broad daylight?”
If it were only so simple. It would take finesse. A rational mind he didn’t possess at this moment.
“What then?” she persisted, grabbing his arm to get his attention. He refused to give it. “Ye think ye’re going to ride off into the sunset? This is what Ian was talking about. Ye willnae be happy until ye’re hauled off to prison, will ye?”
Out of the corner of his eye, he got another glimpse of her…that thing she had become and his lip curled. “Ye dinnae ken a thing about what makes me happy, lass.”
Amid the masculine ruin of her face, blue eyes dimmed and Finn knew a sharp stab of regret for his harsh words. This was what hatred manifested in him. He hardly recognized himself.
“I thought yer bairns made ye happy. I thought yer friendship with Ian made ye happy.” She crossed her arms over her manly chest without including herself in the short list.
Another pang struck him that she felt the need to exclude herself. Because of his thoughtless words. More guilt to weigh upon him. Nay, he couldn’t let sentiment stop him now. Not when the end was within reach.
“Do ye think sitting in a prison cell for the remainder of yer days is going to make ye happy? Or even better, a hangman’s noose? That’s what ye’ll get. Murder is generally frowned upon in any century.”
Reason leaked through a chink in his infuriated urgency to see his mission complete. “What I do is none of yer concern.”
“None of my concern? How can ye say that?”
Nay, he could not be swayed. Not after all this time. He raked her with a harsh look. “When ye’re ready to explain yerself, lass, then ye can question me.”
“Ye want to talk? Fine, let’s talk.”
She shrugged off her coat and grabbed the greying hair on top of her head, pulling it back until it peeled away in a gruesome manner. Her fingers curled into the flesh below her eyes and ripped her entire face away. Like a mask. It was a bloody mask? Och, she had his attention now for sure. Questions ricocheted through his mind. How? Why?
Bits of it stuck to her face around the edges, her lashes and eyes painted to match the florid skin of the guise she’d donned. Hair freed from a tight cap, it fell down her back in a thick rope. She didn’t stop there, shedding her waistcoat and shirt in frantic tugs to reveal a padded body beneath. Up and over her head it went while he marveled at the transformation to bare her upper body. Nay, not bare entirely. Two scraps of cloth covered her breasts, bound by straps around her ribs and over her shoulders.
“Aila, lass…”
“Nay, ye wanted the whole truth? Let’s bare everything, shall we?” Her flat stomach flexed as she unfastened her breeks, kicking them off along with her shoes and hose until she was naked below the waist as well but for a wee covering of her privates.
He’d never seen her so riled, nor so stunning. If it had been her intention to distract him, she had done so magnificently. With her pirouette, his diversion was absolute. A garden of tangled vines and vivid flowers bloomed on her bare hip and trailed down to mid-thigh. On the side of her ribs, a fox outlined in black and partially filled in with watercolors with the words Stay Strong following the curl of its tail. Below the binding around her ribs, a series of flourishing symbols followed the line of her spine. On her shoulder blade, a series of swallows in flight and three stark words: I am enough in bold black lettering.
Finn sat back on his heels, simultaneously repulsed and fascinated by the tattoos. For that’s what they were. He’d seen sailors with such marks upon them, though none so elaborate, colorful…or large. The sailors of the Orkneys couldn’t be so different from the rest, could they? Or somehow induce a lass descended from a long line of them to mark herself like this?
He didn’t know where to begin. “Ye’ve been keeping secrets from me.”
“Hello, pot! Ye seem to have a few yerself,” she shot back.
She pulled her shirt back over her head and he blinked away the image emblazoned on his mind. Aila regained her composure faster than he. When she spoke again, her voice was once again the light, throaty brogue he’d come to adore. “Let’s finish with mine first, if that’s what it’s going to take to get ye to listen to me. There’s a fair chance I’ll shock ye into a coma and we’ll no’ have to worry about this rash course ye’re set upon.”
“There’s more than this?”
“Oh, aye.” Aila went to his chest of draw
ers and removed the flask he kept in the top most. Taking a seat on the edge of his bed, she held it out to him. “Ye’ll need this.”
Rocking back to sit on the floor, Finn set his weapon aside and armed himself with the whisky. As he was still reeling from the sight of her body, an ominous foreboding suggested she might be right.
“Why would ye defile yerself like that?” He drank from the flask and gestured with it in her general direction.
“I prefer the term ‘body art’ to defilement. They’re an homage to things that are important to me,” she told him with a shrug as she bent one leg to hug her knee while the other swung free over the side of the bed. “I wisnae purposefully hiding them from ye. It would be more accurate to say, there was never an opportunity in our haste to show them to ye. Do they…? Are ye…? Nay, I dinnae want to ken yet. At any rate, that’s no’ what I meant when I said there was more to tell ye. I wanted to tell ye the truth about me and why I’m here.”
Body art? Her explanation made no sense. “Ye said ye were here because ye were looking for something new to give ye purpose,” he recalled. “If I recollect that moment correctly, ye claimed it was the truth. Are ye saying it wisnae?”
Aila lowered her head and shook it. Fine strands of hair fell from her plait to catch the faint light from the window. “I love that ye actually listen when I say something. Ye have nae idea how rare that is. Nay, that wisnae a lie. There’s more to it, though. I want ye to ken the whole truth, yet once ye do, ye may no’…”
The words drifted away. Seeing her like this, so soft and troubled, it was difficult for Finn to even remember why they were here, beyond the magnitude of the visual reveal of her body. Beyond the inexplicable disguise and the reasons for it. Even past Etteridge’s arrival at the castle. His bold, brash lass was gone. Drawn inward. She seemed almost defeated. The last of his ire seeped away. He longed to pull her into his arms and comfort her.
“Ye can trust me with the truth, lass.” The words brought back a memory from the night before Effie had taken ill. To the last time he’d said those words and knew Aila was hiding something. There was an unknown truth there that had been gnawing at him. “Why no’ start with yer former suitor. Did ye love him?”
Blue eyes met his, round and wide. “Och, Finn, there are far more important things I want to tell ye.”
“Yet this is the one that has troubled me.” He hadn’t realized how much until this moment. Suddenly he had to know that truth above all others. At least those he dared to ask. “Let’s start there. Did ye love him?”
She shook her head again. “I thought for a while that I did, but nay, no’ like…. Nay.”
The admission was gratifying. “Ye broke it off with him for that reason? Or was there another?”
“Finn!” Her shoulders lifted with a heavy sigh. “It willnae make any sense to ye until I get to the rest of it. And no’ even then.”
“Tell me anyway,” he insisted.
“My relationship with him was a waste of time.” She flicked its significance aside with a dismissive gesture. “It ended because I dinnae dust the blades on the ceiling fan. There are multiple reasons I dinnae do it, most of which he was well aware. See that makes nae sense to ye, so let it lie.”
“Dusting?” He snorted with a burst of comprehension. “Aye, I ken how ye dinnae like to be relegated to womanly tasks.”
“Tasks men are also perfectly capable of!” She shot him a hot glower. “First of all, it makes zero sense that fans even need to be cleaned. No’ philosophically but physically, aye? I mean a propeller can generate enough air movement to lift a helicopter and these things cannae spin fast enough to shed a few specs of dust? By rights, they should be self-cleaning.”
She warned him that her words would make no sense and indeed, they did not. Part of him wanted to interrupt and ask for an explanation. Another part insisted he not ruin this moment of openness and let her talk. He’d weed through her words later to better understand them. For now, he was curious what more he’d learn about this enigmatic lass.
“At any rate, we had a rather drawn out argument about the bloody thing. And then it hit me.”
Her voice went from thin to thread before it trailed off, leaving Finn hanging. “What hit ye?”
“His fist.”
Her flat response sent fury pounding in his veins.
“Who was he?”
* * *
Merciless vengeance hardened his handsome features, more fierce than when he spoke of killing that earl, something she still had to convince him not to do. Despite the trepidation that suffused Aila with everything she had yet to reveal, Finn’s protective response triggered a jolt of amusement. Oh, but he was a man true to his name.
“A white knight.” My white knight. And she’d told Brontë they didn’t exist. “Come down from yer high horse, Finn. Ye cannae kill him. Good thing for him, ye’d never be able to find him.” Her fingers swept along his clenched jaw. “Dinnae fash, I hit him back so hard I sprained my wrist. More importantly, his fist wisnae the only thing that hit me in that moment. I realized I had become the exact thing I’d feared. As awful as it was, it was the best thing that could’ve happened. I woke up and left him. And I came here.”
“To me.” He caught her fingers.
“Aye.” How could she deny it? More and more it seemed all roads led to him. “There’s so much more I need to tell ye, Finn.”
He leaned forward and caught her bare foot. “I will let nae one hurt ye again, lass. I swear it.”
The only one who possessed the power to hurt her right now was running his rough palm up her calf. The light caress sent a quiver straight to the juncture between her thighs. For him, it had been but a day since they were last together. For her it had been twelve. Twelve long days without him had been much harder to bear than the mere five days they’d been stuck in the nursery.
Rising to his knees, he knelt before her. He pulled her other leg down and spread them wide enough to accommodate him. With a single finger, he lifted her chin until she stared into his fierce hazel eyes. “Ye are mine, lass. Nae man will ever touch ye again.”
The stamp of ownership should have chafed. Lord, it did not. Aila wanted nothing more than to be his. To never be touched by another, because she’d never want another man. No touch would ever match his. No arms could ever hold her like his. And no one could ever touch her heart as he had.
Because she loved him.
Auld Donell had sent her to find a treasure. Beyond gold and silver, had she found the richest treasure of all? The admission both warmed and chilled. They were both stubborn people. On paper it might appear impossible. They clashed. They fought. Aye, but the anger never lingered. Resentment did not reign. Outside moments ago, he’d even found humor amid his confusion. He’d conceded her point and asked for rather than demanded her confession. He wasn’t inflexible.
Neither was she.
She could bend for him without breaking. Love wasn’t blind no matter what people said. How could she have expected Finn to completely accept every aspect of her character without question? Blind adoration would be boring. It was their differences that lit the spark between them. Differences of opinion. Differences in ideology. What was important was that he love her completely, faults and all. Love was compromise. Give and take.
For the first time, she understood that. Because for the first time, she truly loved.
Now her heart was in the hands of a man she wasn’t confident harbored affection of the same depth. Aye, she knew she was more than the bedmate she’d so rudely referenced in the hall earlier. His protectiveness toward her, his claim that she was his and even twice professing to adore her, indicated he cared. The question was, would those feelings persist once he knew the truth about her and how she’d come to be here? The revulsion in his eyes when he saw her tattoos would be nothing compared to how he might look upon her then. A true anomaly.
A witch. A liar. Or worse.
She couldn’t lie to him. Nor coul
d she withhold the revelation and pretend it didn’t exist. That would be just as bad. The truth needed to be exposed before this could go any further.
When his lips touched hers, hard and possessive with a hint of Scotch, the struggle to keep her resolution in mind was nearly insurmountable. One didn’t need alcohol when he was around. He was far more delicious. More intoxicating. Finn was his own particular brand of whisky, one she wanted to savor.
Forever.
Chapter 29
Forever?
Was that what she wanted? When Brontë had asked if Aila would consider staying in the past with Finn, she’d reacted as if her friend had invited her to jump into the mouth of an active volcano. Moreover, she’d reacted the same way when Brontë suggested that Aila loved Finn. Adamant denial. A proper defense mechanism as a result of the multitude of issues they’d hashed out that night. For the past two weeks she’d refused to pin a definition to what she felt or what she wanted.
Look how quickly that had been cast to the wayside the moment she saw Finn again. She did love the caring, complicated man. And aye, she wanted desperately to make a go of it assuming he felt the same. She’d survived the shark-infested waters of the twenty-first century dating pool for some time now. Surely she could navigate those of the eighteenth century for a while.
If he felt the same.
Aila wished she had the nerve to confess her love. The oft-rejected coward in her wouldn’t permit it. Nor could she summon the courage to turn the tables and find out if she were alone in the uncertain maelstrom of emotion. If his answer were no, it would devastate her.
A Good Scot is Hard to Find (Something About a Highlander Book 2) Page 25
