Grace nearly ran in her desire to vacate the hall, leaving Ava with the two Highlanders and the Beast. “I assume you are Chief Torquil Maclean,” she said, her chin tipped high.
The tall man studied her. “And you are supposed to be the sweet-natured and mild Lady Grace Ellington of Somerset.” He moved closer, squinting at her. “With blue eyes, not gray.”
Ava forced her gaze to the floor before the chief’s feet. Didn’t docile women avoid direct eye contact? “An exaggerated depiction of my demeanor, I use the name Ava, and on certain days they look blue.”
The man snorted. She stood still, her hands folded, head slightly bent as he circled behind and around her, as if inspecting a well-bred horse for flaws. Her stomach churned, and she held tightly to her tongue.
…
Tor considered the woman, who stood rooted to the floor with the countenance of one meaning to become a permanent feature of his hall. Her hair shone darker than the tiny portrait, and the depiction of a sweet-tempered, docile bride-to-be seemed a complete farce. But the portrait hadn’t done her justice. Up close and alive, she was quite bonny. Smooth, unmarred skin stretched across high cheeks and a straight nose, with no evidence of scars or pocks. Finely shaped eyes sat even in her face, fringed with dark lashes. Deep brown hair, shot with gold strands, swept up high into curls, pinned to the crown of her head. He wondered how long it would hang if left to flow free.
He came around to her profile, both chin and gently sloped nose tipped upward despite her gaze being fixed on the floor. Beautiful. And her form… He could imagine running his hands down her neck, along the spread of creamy skin laying over her collarbone, down to the swell of—
“Neigh,” burst from the woman’s soft mouth.
“Excuse me?” Tor asked, his gaze snapping back to her face.
“Neigh,” she returned. “Would you like for me to trot around, canter perhaps?” She tilted her face to his and bared her teeth. “I have a good bite.” She lifted the edge of her skirts. “And I’ve never been lame.”
Hamish coughed while Gavin nearly convulsed, his face contorted in an attempt to smother his laughter.
Tor resisted his urge to grin. She would only see it as some type of victory. “’Tis good things to know if I’m going to be saddled with ye for the rest of my life,” Tor said.
Lady Ava lifted her eyes to his. They were the color of the ocean on a stormy morning, gray with touches of blue. “So, you agree to the marriage?” she asked.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You agreed—”
“My father agreed,” he finished. “And he is no longer alive.”
“I am sorry for that,” she said, the triteness fading from her voice with each word. “Were you close?”
He ignored her pity. “If I am to choose a bride, she would have to be someone I deem worthy. Someone who wouldn’t perish during the first winter storm or hide under the bed if troops came to take the castle.”
“I am actually noted for my resistance to illness,” she said, intertwining her slender fingers together before her skirts. “As well as my reluctance to crawl under furniture.”
He moved closer, an idea forming. The woman was brazen, unpredictable, and she thought she had the upper hand with that bloody camp of English just across the way. But if she thought it best to break the betrothal, he would accommodate her. And the best way to scare off a virgin, even a brazen virgin, was to give her a taste of fire.
“How about passion, lass?” He leaned down to her ear. “Are ye reluctant to crawl under my sheets?” She inhaled quickly as he pulled her against his body, one hand guiding her head while the other pressed against her back. Her eyes widened as he descended for the kiss.
He met her mouth with every intention of being frightening and hard. How dare this Englishwoman come onto his island, demanding he drop his mountainous pile of obligations as chief and sacrifice his freedom to wed her? But the moment he felt the soft warmth of her lips, the ripe feel of her body in his arms, against his length, the kiss changed. She tasted of woman and innocence wrapped together with awakening heat. He threaded his fingers through her hair to cup her face without breaking contact. Her cheeks were smooth against his rough palms, and instead of yanking away, she remained rooted to the ground.
She gave a slight tilt of her face, and their lips melded intimately as she met him with the same intensity, moving in rhythm with him like they’d been tupping for years. The thought made a low growl creep up his throat before he realized it, nearly escaping as a groan. But he wouldn’t give her that triumph.
Dainty-but-strong fingers curled into his shirt, holding her to him as he bent to surround her on three sides. Yet he gave her room to escape. If she’d just step back, surrender to the contest, but she didn’t. Were her heels dug into the floor?
His pulse thrummed as fire swept through his body, and thoughts of victory turned to smoke. Tor’s fingers loosened pins and curls as he slid his fingers through her bound hair.
A gasp. “Tor, unhand that lass this minute.” His mother’s voice doused his desire with ocean spray.
As if breaking through the surface of the sea, Tor released Ava’s lips, but he still held her body. Her eyes were closed, her lips damp, cheeks flushed, hair tumbling free around her shoulders. She blinked, waking to stare straight into his eyes. But instead of fear, or better yet, barely controlled passion, he saw something that cooled his blood more thoroughly than his mother’s scolding.
Contempt.
Her words were a soft issue from kiss-swollen lips. “So then,” Ava whispered. “You are a beast.” Simple words, yet they cut mortally, and he knew she’d won the contest. And the one thing Tor hated more than anything was losing a battle. He stepped back, leaving her standing exactly where she’d been rooted the entire time, like a queen dictating the movements of her pawns around her.
His mother strode up beside Ava, taking her arm. “God’s teeth, Tor.” She smacked him in the chest with the back of her hand. “Treating a lass like that.” She thumped him again, with her pointy fist this time. “I’ve taught ye better than that.”
Tor pivoted, dismissing Ava to rejoin Hamish and Gavin where they stood watching the little war with Duky, who’d come into the hall. Did they sense his loss? The thought made him clench his fists.
“Come now. I’ll take ye to yer room,” his mother said. “I’ve already placed yer maid there. She said ye wished to share.”
“Thank you,” Ava said, and Tor heard a slight tremor in the words. Had the kiss affected her like it had him? He stared at the flames in the hearth. Bloody hell, he had no time for guilt or for convincing a young Englishwoman that she should flee.
Ava’s boots clipped across the room toward the stairs. He turned in time to see her straight back as she followed his mother. Light brown, unbound hair reached her hips.
“Well, that was…” Hamish started and shook his head.
Gavin’s easy smile was gone. “I have to see to the stable boys.” He strode across the room, his boots thudding with obvious judgment.
Only Duky smiled his black-toothed grin. “I’ll make sure the lass and her maid get a meal.” He cackled darkly. “It’ll make them flee our isle by morn.”
Chapter Three
Ava tugged the bone-white comb gently through Grace’s damp hair where she sat before the fire. Joan Maclean had graciously sent up a hot bath, and they were once again clean.
“Horrendous,” Grace snapped. “He kissed you, right there before his men?”
“Yes,” Ava answered softly. Her heart sped at the memory of the passion that had flared instantly within her when Tor had pulled her close. Had he been able to tell? Just the thought flushed her cheeks. Maybe she was wanton instead of the cold fish Vincent called her.
Grace looked over her shoulder. “And Heavens, Ava, did you really think I would have embarrassed myself by peeing on the floor?”
Ava forced the sensation of Tor’s lips from her mind. “No. I g
ot carried away. The man is infuriating.”
“You don’t seem much like a mild, sweet maiden,” Grace said, her lips pulled back in a toothy grimace.
“He already asked about that, and I told him the reports about my demeanor were exaggerated. So far he seems to accept that I am you.”
“Do you think you can really marry him?” Grace whispered.
Ava’s heart did a little flip, but she kept her voice firm. “It seems the only possible means of escape at the moment. Sailing off Mull on our own is impossible without being spotted.” She tapped her lip. “I need to change his mind. After we wed, we can find further safety for you, either here or somewhere else where Vincent can’t reach you.” She pasted on her calm smile. “We will be safe and happy.”
Grace ran a hand over her stomach as it growled. “If we survive the food here. Perhaps he means to starve us out.”
Ava glanced at the untouched grayish stew that looked like slop for the pigs. Its odor had made Ava set it near the door with a rag over it. “They must have cheese and bread down in the kitchens. I’ll find us something.” Ava set the comb in Grace’s hand and plucked her cloak from the bed.
Grace twisted in the chair. “You’re not traipsing about at night in the Beast of Aros’s lair?”
“Just like finding tarts at midnight at Somerset,” Ava said and stuck her feet into slippers. “I eluded Vincent. I can surely outwit a simple beast.”
“Pish. I don’t think there’s a single thing about the Maclean of Aros that could be labeled as simple.”
Ava’s forced smile relaxed into an authentic grin. The most wonderful things came out of Grace’s mouth. She was completely right. It was the challenge of beating Tor Maclean that had Ava so riveted. It wasn’t his firm kiss or the memory of his fingers raking through her hair, sending her pins plinking to the floor. It wasn’t the hardness that molded so perfectly to her body or the way his blue eyes dove into her gaze. It was the simple fact that Ava liked a good challenge, something to puzzle through like their adventures back in York. It’s what had gotten Grace and her into so much trouble growing up. So, it wasn’t that she was wanton or utterly seducible—Ava just liked a good contest.
“You’re right, Grace,” she said and lit the wick of a glass-enclosed lamp from a thin taper. “The Beast of Aros is complicated, but so were the best of our battles against the world.”
“Truly,” Grace said, sitting back in her chair to stretch her wool-clad toes toward the fire. “We certainly have tumbled into a number of skirmishes.”
“And I haven’t lost a single one yet.” Ava stepped into the shadows of the dark hallway, closing the door behind her. The lamp shed a round glow to light her footsteps.
Feeling the edge of each step with her toes, she descended the circling stairs to the bottom. All silent. She paused just inside the great hall, the hearth fire had burnt down to glowing coals. The kitchens were most likely in another building.
Like a shadow, she flowed along the floor, raising the light just high enough to stop herself from bumping into walls. With each turn, she formed a mental map of lefts and rights so she wouldn’t get completely lost. Her talent for traversing dark corridors had been honed to perfection evading Vincent at Somerset.
Palm pressed against the smooth wood of a stout door, she pushed it to swing outward on silent hinges. She stepped out into the cool night and treaded along a stone walkway toward an outbuilding surrounded by herbs and plants of varying heights. A full moon painted small leaves of thyme silver and illuminated hairy stalks of comfrey alongside feverfew and other herbs.
Shadows covered her in the kitchen entry where the door was ajar, firelight spilling from the room. Warmth wafted out through the wide crack, making her realize how low the autumn night temperature had plummeted. She set the lamp down on the walkway with a small clink of metal on stone and stepped inside. Ava stilled completely.
At the large kitchen hearth, Tor stood, shirtless, his kilt dipping low around his narrow waist. His back was to her, the muscles moving under his skin as he worked a large wooden paddle around a cauldron chained to hang over a glowing fire.
His skin looked bronze in the glow. Broad shoulders led down to a sculpted back, his large biceps bunching as he stirred. Pungent smells of thyme, comfrey, elm, and onion permeated the kitchen, along with some others she couldn’t readily identify.
He looked over his shoulder without halting his stirring. “Trying to find the privy?” he asked.
Ava stood, her mouth half open. “Good Lord, you’re a witch,” she said, half jesting.
The edges of his mouth turned up, transforming his face into that of a sinfully handsome rogue to rival any of the dandies she’d met in York. “A devil perhaps,” he said, withdrawing the wooden spoon to set against the side of the hearth. “But I leave the witchery to my mother.”
His gaze moved to the door as Joan Maclean rushed in, her arms laden with glass vials and bowls. “Can’t ye sleep, Lady Ava?” she asked, whisking by to set her load down on a tall worktable beside Tor.
“Please…just call me Ava.”
“Your decoctions are ready to strain,” Tor said, his loosely wrapped kilt dipping along the hard plane of his abdomen. “And I’ve mashed your potato and onion poultices.”
Ava stepped farther into the warm room, her mind muddled. “I…uh…I was just trying to find something to eat. Are you making…cures?”
“Tor, did ye forget to send the lass and her maid some food? God’s teeth, she’ll think I taught ye nothing about being civil.”
“I believe Duky took care of the evening meal,” Tor said and carried a large bowl from the side counter to the table with the vials. “And yes, my mother is making her medicines.”
Ava inspected the bowls and pots on the table as Joan checked the consistency of the pulp. “Has there been a battle or natural disaster?” she asked. From the look of the concoctions, Tor and his mother were making enough medicines for an army.
“Once a quarter, I spend the night making cures for the villagers, well, really all the islanders,” Joan said. She sniffed, blinking, the ghost of a sad smile on her face. “Usually my Gus would help me.”
“Gus was my father,” Tor said. “His absence is still keenly felt.”
“I’m sorry,” Ava said. Joan nodded and went back to lining up the open jars. “So…” Ava started and paused, watching Tor scoop potato mash into the first vessel. “You are forfeiting sleep to help your mother?”
“He isn’t all bad,” Joan said with a smirk, apparently cheered by her work.
Tor shrugged, making Ava momentarily forget exactly what she’d asked when his chest muscles flexed. Did he even realize he was standing there—completely bare—down to his navel? She had only seen children and ailing people so unclothed, and none of them had looked like Tor Maclean.
“I’m really helping my people,” he said. “Just like a chief should.” He frowned as if his labors somehow made him seem like a caring son. Heaven forbid.
“I’ll get this poultice over to Old Ewan in the morning,” Joan said. “Can ye see if Mistress Ann still needs more onion mash for the bairn’s poor breaking gums?”
“I am inspecting the docks and movement of the English along Oban’s shoreline tomorrow,” Tor said. “Send Fiona,” he grumbled, running a hand through his hair.
Really, couldn’t he put a shirt on? Although the high temperature in the kitchen was proving uncomfortable for Ava as well. Or was that her blush?
“I can help,” Ava said, purposely turning her gaze on Joan and away from her near-naked son. “Grace and I tended many people around Somerset.”
“See, the lass has another use,” Joan said with a huff directed at Tor. “Besides bringing me grandbairns.”
“Mairi will bring ye grandbairns,” he grumbled, his frown back in place.
“Mairi is my daughter,” Joan said. “Tor’s sister. She’s recently married and living off Mull.”
At the mention of babies, A
va’s face flamed. Tor didn’t seem to notice as he continued to scrape mash into vessels. “There are cheese and oat patties over there,” he said dismissively and gestured toward the cupboards off to the side.
Ava slid between the tables to the stone chest used for cold storage. “I would stay to help, but Grace will be worried I’ve gotten lost.” Or mauled by the shirtless chief who gives up a good night’s sleep to help his mother. She took a small, cloth-wrapped hunk of cheese, two patties, and a jug of what smelled like ale.
“Find yer bed,” Joan called. “Ye can help me deliver these around tomorrow.”
“I would like that,” Ava said and headed toward the open door. The chilled night air was exceedingly refreshing after the stifling cook fire. A tingle shivered up her back, and she glanced over her shoulder. Dark eyes, which she knew were a deep blue, stared after her. With a slow turn back to the night, she walked away. Ava stooped to retrieve her lamp and found the path to her room, tapped, and walked in.
Grace stood, brandishing the fire poker. She lowered it with a long exhale. “I was getting worried,” she said. “What happened?”
“I found Tor Maclean.” Ava set the lamp down numbly.
“I knew it. Did he ravish you?”
Ava sat on the edge of the fireside chair and set her bounty on the small wooden table. “Grace,” she said, leaning back to let the chair hold her up. “I’ve had the most unusual night.”
…
“Ye should have seen the look the maid gave the bowl when I set it down,” Duky said and cackled. “I swear there was a pig’s hoof floating in it.” He slapped his leg.
Gavin frowned. “They must be starving. Ye old goat. That poor maid. She hasn’t done anything to any of ye.”
“Ye like the English?” Duky asked, appalled.
“They are beautiful lasses, fed, clean, refined,” Gavin argued. “What’s not to like?”
“What’s not to like?” screeched Duky. “They’re bloody English!” He spat on the ground as if the word coated his tongue with soured milk.
The Beast of Aros Castle (Highland Isles) Page 3
