Suburban Cyborg

by Gloria Martin

  The pup in Lyla's arms yawned loudly and pressed his little nose against Lyla's neck. She carried him from the kitchen and began to go from room to room, searching for her soon to be husband. The determination that filled her felt strong and focused her mind on things other than the ones she wanted to avoid thinking of.

  She found Lachlan on the ground floor in a small parlor, sitting at a desk and composing a letter. Or at least trying to. The glimpse she caught before she loudly cleared her throat to catch her intended's attention was a line of tight script that had been repeatedly crossed out.

  Lachlan looked up at the sound Lyla made, pushing his fingers through his hair when it fell over his face. For a split second his brilliant eyes were on Lyla's face and her throat tightened, and then his gaze dropped to the puppy squirming in Lyla's arms and she remembered why she had sought him out to start.

  "Your man left this dog t' die," she said firmly.

  Lachlan's strong brow furrowed. "And? I've no need for another. No doubt 'twas an accident."

  "It was not," Lyla said with a certainty that made Lachlan sit back in his chair and regard her closely.

  "What would ye have me do?" he asked. "Punish Angus?"

  "Ye knew?" Lyla asked.

  Lachlan shook his head. "He commands the hounds, not I. 'Tis nae business o' mine what he does, so long as the dogs are strong. Tha' one looks the runt."

  "I'm keeping him," Lyla said abruptly, startling both herself and Lachlan with her announcement. "Ye can consider it a wedding gift."

  Lachlan folded his hands over his stomach, his gaze raking up and down Lyla's body in a way that made her shiver and her knees tremble.

  "As ye wish," he said. "Now, if ye don' mind," he gestured to his unsuccessful letter, "I need t' figure out what t' say t' my chief."

  "Th' truth," Lyla replied. "Nay? 'Tis better than him catching ye in a lie."

  Lachlan tilted his head, and a smile graced his lips. "Aye, th' truth." He straightened up and picked up his quill. "I'll see ye for supper," he said, and bowed his head over a fresh piece of parchment.

  Lyla left him there, taking her puppy up to her room. "What t' call ye," she wondered to herself, scratching behind the dozing dog's ears. She mulled the question over as she searched around in her room for something she could use to make the dog a bed, settling on letting him sleep on her bed until the maid returned. The name came to her suddenly as she watched the pup explore his surroundings with the enthusiasm that only his kind were able to muster. Conall, for her father.

  Supper was later than Lyla was accustomed to, and by the time she was summoned for it her maid had come and gone to help her change into a dress not dirtied by travel ,and bring food, water, and bedding for Conall. Lyla adjusted the pins in her hair and looked herself over in the looking glass that had been brought up to her room when she had been elsewhere. There were butterflies in her stomach, beating their wings in a furious attempt to break free, and her heart was fluttering just as badly. She scolded her reflection for being ridiculous and stood, her skirts swishing pleasingly about her feet. She had worn the green that her mother had bidden her take, and though she was far from vain, Lyla had to admit that she looked rather fetching in it. She may have been placed in a less than ideal situation, but she would use everything she had to her advantage to keep what control she could over Lachlan, and that included using whatever feminine wiles she could muster up.

  Lachlan himself was waiting at the foot of the stairs. His hair was damp as though recently washed, and a day's worth of stubble had been scraped off his jaw. He wore the Cameron colors and a fresh shirt, and looked incredibly dashing. So much so that Lyla's heart leapt up into her throat at the sight of him. She was lucky, she supposed. He could have been a terrible, ugly man, but he was fetching and respectable, as far as she could tell. Never mind that he had been sent to burn her village down. He had refused, which could very much cost him dearly. And he had done it for her.

  His eyes widened as she descended the stairs. Lyla saw him stand a bit straighter, one hand emerging from where he had them hidden behind his back to reach out and take hers when she was close enough and assist her down the last two stairs. It was unneeded aid, but the feel of his warm hand in hers made her blood race, and she accepted his escort without hesitation.

  "Ye look ravishing," he said, slowly beginning the short walk to the dining room. Lyla horrified herself by blushing at the compliment, obviously enough that Lachlan smiled and let out a breathy laugh that sounded almost anxious. "'Tis a... a very flattering dress."

  "My mother made it," Lyla replied. "She insisted I bring it."

  "I thank her for it," Lachlan said.

  "Perhaps one day ye'll say so to her in person," Lyla said just as they reached the dining room, giving Lachlan no chance to reply.

  His companions surrounded the table, their plates empty but their glasses full, and they were loudly talking and laughing with one another. Two seats had been left open, the one at the head of the table, which was undoubtedly Lachlan's, and the one directly to his right. Lachlan put two fingers to his mouth and whistled, immediately calming his friends, who stood when they saw Lyla. Lachlan escorted her to her seat, pulling it out for her, then seating himself at the head. His friends settled back down and the talking resumed, though at a much softer volume.

  A servant stepped out of the room, most likely off to tell the kitchen staff that everyone was seated and waiting to be served. That, at least, was a familiar scenario for Lyla. Dinner had been much the same at her home, especially when her father entertained travelers. Lachlan filled her glass with wine and lifted his own to her, his eyes more black than blue in the candlelight.

  "To my new bride," he said, his gaze never leaving Lyla's.

  His men cheered loudly and drank. Lachlan threw a wink at Lyla that made her cheeks grow warm. She quickly sipped from her glass. The sooner she could pass off any embarrassment as simply being flushed from too much wine the better. The problem was, of course, that the more she drank the giddier she became, and even with good food filling her belly she still found herself staring at Lachlan more often than she liked.

  For the most part he ignored her, having plenty to talk about with his men and little with her, but as the evening wore on he paid more and more attention to her. At first it started with little looks and smiles, and then it was tender touches of his fingers to the back of her hand, none of which Lyla was in the right state of mind to properly react to.

  You'll be his wife in the morning, she told herself, her chest clenching at the sight of him smiling and laughing, completely unreserved in his happiness. Would that truly be so terrible? A small ceremony had been what she wanted after all, and Lachlan was more attractive than Niall on all counts, and his physical appeal was only one. Niall... Niall had lands, to be sure, but Lachlan had... this, all of this, everything as far as Lyla could see. And he bent easily to Lyla's will. Perhaps too easily, but Niall had always been so stubborn, trying to look after her when Lyla was more than capable of taking care of herself. The lad meant well, but his constant worry had always been grating. That was not to say, of course, that Lachlan would not care what happened to her. Watching him, catching his eye and feeling the warmth of his hand covering hers, Lyla had the distinct impression that he would care very much.

  *****

  When dinner ended, Lachlan offered Lyla his arm. She leaned gratefully into his solid weight, her knees weak from the wine, or perhaps from his closeness. She lifted her skirts with her free hand as they mounted the stairs, the other clamped tightly around Lachlan's arm. He escorted her down to her bedroom and stopped them outside the closed door. Lyla turned to face him, tilting her head back to meet his eyes. Her hand still lingered on his arm.

  Lachlan leaned down, and for a heart-stopping second Lyla was convinced that he was going to kiss her, and her fingers tightened around his forearm. She held her breath, but his lips merely brushed the corner of her mouth, as if he had been aiming for h
er cheek but misjudged the distance.

  It must have been the drink that made Lyla turn her head to properly join their lips together. His lips and tongue tasted sweetly of wine. Lyla parted her lips to allow her own tongue to brush against his and twisted her fingers firmly into the sleeve of his dinner coat. His hand came to rest on her waist, just above the curve of her hips, and even through the layers of fabric that separated her skin from his, the touch burned as hotly as if she was standing by an open flame.

  He pulled her close, hand snaking around to press against the small of her back until their fronts were completely touching, Lyla's chest arching against his and his hips pressing into the base of her stomach. He raised his hand to cup her cheek, her fingers remaining latched to his jacket, and deepened their kiss, his head tilting to find a better angle.

  A moan stuck in the back of Lyla's throat. She knew what pleasure felt like, though she had never felt it at the hands of another, and recognized the pool of heat gathering between her thighs. It would be so simple to pull him into her room, to do something about the growing ache. Her wine-muddled mind was considering it when Lachlan abruptly pulled away.

  "I'm sorry," he said, his voice rough and low and his pupils wide and dark. "I should nae have..." He stepped back, pulling away from Lyla's touch, and put his arms behind his back. He cleared his throat and looked away. "Th' ceremony will be in th' morning. I hope yer ready."

  "As I'll ever be," Lyla replied.

  Lachlan's mouth opened and closed, and then he touched her cheek again with his fingertips, thumb brushing against the ridge of her cheek bone. "I'll be a good husband t' ye," he said. "Ye have my word as a Cameron."

  Lyla turned her head away from his touch. "Th' word of a Cameron is not worth much."

  "More than that o' a MacKintosh," Lachlan said stiffly, "but less than my own. So I give ye my word, as Lachlan. Not Cameron." Lyla's chest clenched. Lachlan dropped his hand away. "Good night," he said, and proceeded down the hall.

  Lyla watched him slip into the room at the very end and shut the door behind him. She stood outside her own room a moment longer, her fingers hovering over her still trembling lips, before she fumbled behind her for the door handle. Conall was sleeping soundly in his bed, flopped on his side. He was already looking better than when Lyla had found him, his water bowl half full but not even crumbs left of whatever food Mary had brought.

  Lyla had plenty of practice undressing herself for bed, and even managed to do so with drunk, fumbling fingers. She took a deep breath when she was free of her corset and gratefully let her hair down, fluffing it gently to knock out any kinks left behind by her pins. She had just enough will to drape her dress across the back of the chair by the small desk near the window. Her sheets were warm when Lyla climbed in. Mary must have put a pan beneath them during dinner.

  The worst of her intoxication had subsided, leaving behind a bone-deep tiredness that still failed to distract Lyla from the dull ache between her legs. She pressed her thighs together, knowing it was inappropriate to pleasure herself no matter how much she wished to, and it followed her into her dreams. They were dark and abstract; a touch at her waist, a cheek pressed to hers, warm breath washing across her ear.

  When she was woken by the sun illuminating her room in the morning, she was startled to find that she felt a profound sense of safety in the lingering aftermath of her dream, but less so that her first thought was of Lachlan.

  She remained in bed, watching the room slowly lighten as the sun rose, until a knock on the door signaled the true start to her day. At Lyla's call, Mary slipped in, a friendly, polite smile on her face. In her hands she carried a bowl and pitcher for Lyla to wash.

  “Ye must be excited,” Mary said. “Laird Cameron's quite a catch.”

  “Aye,” Lyla muttered, distracted by thoughts of the wedding to come. She had been mentally preparing herself since her father died, but never in her life had she expected it to be like this. At least her family would be safe, and she would have a good life. It was all she could truly ask for. She only truly wished that both of her parents were there to see her. She knew she should have felt excitement, but instead she was anxious. It churned sickeningly in her stomach. Her hands trembled as she brushed her hair. Mary practically cooed over her dresses before Lyla pointed to the one she had intended to wear for her marriage to Niall.

  Mary let out a tiny gasp as she held the dress up. “Ye'll take Mr. Cameron's breath away, miss, I'm sure o' it.”

  “Truly?”

  “Aye,” Mary said. “Now turn round so I can dress ye.”

  The ease with which Mary prepared Lyla for the service, if there was truly going to be one, made her wonder how many other women she had performed similar services for. Had the estate always belonged to Lachlan's family or had others held it before him? It was so close to the border between the lands belonging to Cameron and to MacKintosh that Lyla would hardly have been surprised if the house had changed hands several times over.

  When Lyla was dressed and as ready as she was likely to ever be, Mary patted her hand in a manner designed to try and calm Lyla's nerves and led her from the house to the chapel. The morning was clear, the air cool and crisp, the breeze bringing the promise of warmth later on. By all accounts it was a splendid day for a wedding, if only Lyla could manage an ounce of happiness.

  All of that changed when she set foot in the small kirk and saw Lachlan standing at the end of the aisle, his hands clasped in front of him and his eyes on the door. Anxiety was in the set of his shoulders and the way he shuffled his feet, but all movement ceased once he set his eyes on Lyla.

  As Lyla closed the distance between them, the sharp notes of a bagpipe escorting her, she saw Lachlan's jaw twitch and clench. When she stood before him and he took her hand in his and smiled, all of Lyla's nervousness melted away. There was something in Lachlan's eyes; respect perhaps, or devotion, but whatever it was it put Lyla's mind at ease. She trusted him to keep his word, both concerning her village and herself. Now it was her turn to keep hers. She hoped her father would have been proud.

  The ceremony, if it could be called as such, was short and to the point, but Lachlan's entire household had gathered to bear witness to the union. Lyla knew that her parents had planned a large feast for all the village to enjoy, but Lachlan had only arranged for a small breakfast, and in many ways Lyla found that it was what she preferred. The ring on her finger felt surprisingly light, and though it was a simple band, she could tell it was finely made. She spun it gently with the pad of her thumb. She had thought marriage would make her feel... different somehow, but the only change was that her nerves had faded, replaced by the same sense of security she had felt following her dream.

  "Is... there anything ye would like?" Lachlan asked. "As a wedding present?"

  "I thought th' dog was my present," Lyla replied.

  Lachlan shook his head. "Nay. I was only irritated, and... well ye'd have kept the mutt even had I said nae to. I mean a… a proper gift."

  Lyla thought for a moment, twisting and twisting her wedding band around her finger. She could ask for anything she wished and Lachlan would give it to her. All she had to do was say. Of all the things she could have asked for, only one stood out enough in her mind to merit voicing.

  "I want ye t' swear t' me, on God, on this union that binds us, that no matter what The Cameron says ye'll keep my village safe."

  Lachlan sat back in his seat, a flicker of surprise in his eyes, before his gaze turned serious and he nodded sharply. "I swear," he said. "Is that truly all ye want?"

  Lyla began to nod but stopped herself, her only other fear suddenly rearing its head. "Tonight, if I don' wish for ye t' touch me, ye won't."

  Something else crossed Lachlan's face, disappointment, perhaps? Still, he nodded, and Lyla felt relief flood through her. She wondered how long it would last, or if his patience would inevitably wear thin. He had said he was in need of a wife, after all. Lyla could only assume that meant he needed al
l the things one could provide as well, including heirs. Her wedding band was warm from her constant fiddling. Lachlan covered her hand with his, stopping her twitching, and smiled warmly. Lyla felt herself returning it, her heart fluttering against her ribs.

  "Ye needn't worry," Lachlan said. "I'll respect yer wishes. I promise."

  "Thank ye," Lyla said, putting as much of her gratefulness into her words as she could. "It... it means much that ye would sacrifice so much."

  "From where I stand," Lachlan said, "ye sacrificed far more than I did. This is the least I can do t'... repay ye for that."

  A smile plucked at the corners of Lyla's lips. Lachlan kept his hand over hers for the rest of the meal, and continued to touch her throughout the day whenever they were in the same room. Lachlan had gifted her the books in his study, still feeling the need to give her a proper present to celebrate their wedding. Lyla was happy for the distraction from the homesickness that still rose up in her chest from time to time.

  *****

  When the time came for them to retire, Lyla stopped by her room, only remembering when she was half in the door that it was Lachlan's room she should be sleeping in. She could give him that much, even if she refused any advances he might have made. Mary was there, waiting, and helped her out of her dress. When Lyla stood in naught but her shift, Mary left, and Lachlan came out from the small wash room attached to the main body of the chamber.

  The two of them stared at each other, both fidgeting, until Lachlan gestured at the bed. Lyla fidgeted with her shift and moved to her side of the bed. Lachlan pulled down the blankets for her. She felt him watching as she climbed in and laid on her back, groping for the covers until she could pull them up to her chin.

  Lachlan ran a hand through his hair, succeeding in nothing more than messing it up even more, and climbed in next to her. Two candles burned on either side of them, casting enough light for Lyla to clearly see Lachlan's profile when she turned to look. He cleared his throat and rubbed at his chest.