"I do not know," she said, and folded her arms, frowning still.
Something sparked in him then: hope. He had not felt it in a long while, but he was sure of it. He narrowed his eyes, and the little lights, like fireflies or faeries, danced again in his vision. Intent on her, he scarcely noticed them.
One kiss, and the dice had rolled another way. Hope flickered, and brightened further when he saw how genuinely angry she was with him. He knew the temper, and knew the girl. She was stirred, deep within. Her emotions were like water, full of depth; she had returned that kiss with equal fervor.
Perhaps her feelings for him went beyond friendship after all, as he had once thought, on a beach at Beltane. Perhaps years spent dreaming of her could come to fruition somehow, if she truly did not want that betrothal. He hardly dared to think about it, but he saw the potential as clear as a rainbow.
Her chin quivered. Seeing that, he wanted to draw her into his arms again. Wait, he told himself. If what he hoped was true, if her feelings for him matched or even touched upon his own, the power of it would not be denied.
"I ask your pardon. I was angry, and thought to prove my point—that I can be trusted, even with you in my arms."
"That kiss proved nothing." She lifted her chin.
"You are betrothed already. It was unseemly of me. We were never intended for each other." He made himself say that, though he believed the opposite was indeed true. But if Eva wanted Colin, and preferred the marriage, he had to know.
"N-never intended for each other," she echoed, looking away, a tiny fold between her brows.
"The daughter of a clan chief, and a blacksmith's son—your father would never have tolerated that. He chose the marriage he thought best for you, and of course you must honor that."
"I—I must. And I want what is best for my clan. But I never wanted—I do not—" She gestured vaguely, gasped. He wondered if it was Campbell she did not want, or the blacksmith's son. He gave her time to say, but she only bit at her lip and looked truly distressed.
He tilted his head. "Well, then. You have my apology. It will not happen again."
She glanced at him from beneath dark, doubtful brows. "The kiss, or the apology?" she asked, her voice unexpectedly meek.
He twitched his lips in a quick smile. "Which would you like me to repeat? The apology—or the kiss?"
Eva blinked, and paused. Instead of answering, she went to the far corner, kneeling in the heather she had dumped there. As she began to neaten up the tangle, he walked toward her. She glanced over her shoulder.
"I am sorry about the mess." She sounded mollified. "I lost my temper."
"I know all about your temper. No matter. I will toss a plaid over this, and it will be a fine bed."
"Let me fix it for you, as I meant to do." She spread the plaid and folded one end to reserve for a cover. Setting the heather in careful rows on the plaid, she arranged the fanned sprigs in a neat, springy weaving.
Lachlann dropped to one knee to help her. They proceeded in silence, enveloped by the fresh fragrance. Finally Eva pulled the rest of the plaid over the bed and made it snug.
"I will bring the wolf-hide coverlet from the house for you," she said. "The nights grow colder now."
"You have need of it on your own bed."
"The house has thick stone walls, which hold the heat of the hearth all night. That bed is never cold, even at dawn."
"I know," he said quietly. "I slept there all my life."
She blushed and smoothed the plaid again. Her arm brushed his knee, and her scent, when she reached past him, was a warm and womanly complement to the sweetness of the heather.
Desire rushed through him, and he imagined tumbling into that heathery bed with her. He had dreamed about that more than once. In France, he had survived on dreams that were astonishingly close to what had occurred since his return: Eva in his house, Eva at his hearth, Eva in his arms... Eva with him in a bed of deep, intoxicating heather.
His body sparked like tinder under a flint. But he would not let that natural, powerful reaction sweep him out of control. He had too much to consider, and cautious steps to take.
Hope had bloomed, and it needed nurturing.
"Eva—" He reached out to touch her shoulder, but she bent forward to tuck the blanket around the mattress. Her neatly curved waist and hips swayed with sensual grace.
"There," she said, sitting back on her heels. "It is done."
He surveyed the bed. "That plaid belonged to Finlay," he said. "He wore it for feasts and weddings and funerals."
"Oh! I did not know. I will fetch another. Mairi keeps a store of plaids in the house for blankets and curtains."
"It is a comfort, not a distress. Leave it."
She looked up, her face near. He leaned closer, thinking about kissing her again—with tenderness this time, not in anger and hurt, as before. Her gaze slid to his mouth, and he was sure she shared the thought and the desire. Awareness of that intimacy stretched taut between them. Inclined toward her, he felt the spinning inside of him that only she could cause.
She closed her eyes, tilted her head. The curve of her neck was long, slender, and smooth. He rested his fingers lightly upon her jaw, slipped his hand into the cool silk of her hair.
"I am sorry," he murmured, "for what I did at the house."
"Sorry?" she echoed. "I am not."
His heart slammed. "God, Eva," he whispered, leaning toward her. "What is this between us?" He should not have acknowledged it so directly, but the words were out, husky and sincere.
In the exquisite gray-green depth of her gaze he saw the softness of true caring, along with sparks that hinted at anger, hurt, and caution—mirroring what he felt himself.
She was part of him, and he knew it; he wondered if she felt it too. She was not promised to him, though in a good and perfect world, she would have been. What existed between them felt strong and pure, as if angels had promised them to each other before they were born. But men had broken the bargain. He wondered if he could right it again.
Foolishness, he told himself. Just the yearnings of a lonely man, deep in love for a long time and never free to express it.
He leaned forward and kissed her, slow and deliberate this time. The choice lay in the balance now, and he waited for her measure.
She returned the kiss in full, slanting her mouth under his, so willing that he nearly lost his breath, his reason, his hard-won control. So sweetly that he almost took her down into the heather, then and there.
Only their mouths met, but that simple union held a completeness unlike any he had ever felt. Heat bloomed in the layer of space between their bodies and their still hands.
Then she pulled back and tucked her head on his shoulder. A sigh slipped from her like a sadness released; he heard, on her in-breath, the sadness recaptured. He stroked his hand over the cool, tousled silk of her hair.
"What is this between us?" Eva asked, as if he had just voiced the question. "I do not know. But I think it has been there a long while." She lifted her head.
He touched his brow to hers. "What do you want to do?"
She sighed, then sighed again, and got to her feet abruptly. "Nothing," she said. "What is there to do? It stays as it is."
She crossed the room on sure, final feet, leaving him kneeling alone beside the luxury of the heather bed, its fullness and fragrance perfect and undisturbed.
Chapter 13
Rain drizzled on the thatched roof as Eva added oats to a kettle of simmering water and left them to cook. By the time she had fed the chickens and raked fresh hay into the byre for Mairi's cow, a downpour had begun. Water sheeted down with such force that she took her time milking the cow under the shelter of the byre's thatched roof. Finally she ran, bucket in hand, around the house toward the door. Her gown was soaked, her bare feet chilled and coated with muck, and the milk somewhat watery.
She heard a shout and paused to look toward the smithy through the slanting, gray rain. Hoping that Lachlann c
alled to her, she was disappointed to see the smithy door closed, though light flickered behind the window shutters. She wondered when she would see him again.
He had been occupied in the smithy for several days, cleaning and shifting things about, and making repairs to the roof. The sight of him standing on the slate roof one sunny afternoon, shirtless and plaided, had nearly taken her breath away. He had waved to her, smiling, and she had returned it, quick and hopeful. Later he had gone inside the smithy, but that bright moment, and his smile, lingered with her.
He had worked in the stable, too, repairing the doors and replacing the straw, and doing the heavy chores that she did not like to do. Their brief conversations centered on what needed attention in the stable and the smithy. Although she helped when she could, Lachlann seemed to prefer working alone, and she left him to it. He rode his garron daily, and she knew he went into the hills. She wondered if he looked for Simon.
Of course, she thought to herself, Simon would not be found until he wanted to be found. Her brother and kinsmen were clever at hiding to survive.
The shout sounded again, and she looked toward the loch. Heavy rain would keep Alpin and the garrison soldiers at Innisfarna, although Eva had seen them often recently, when the soldiers rode out on patrol. As usual, she had avoided them. She had practiced with Alpin, and visited Margaret and Angus to offer her help and to tell them of the blacksmith's return. Another day, she had collected late apples and found a sheltered place to practice swordplay with a sturdy stick.
The days passed quickly, filled with the peacefulness of simple tasks and few visitors. Keenly aware that Lachlann was around, Eva saw little of him. Even when she invited him to the house for meals, their discussions stayed upon small topics.
Neither of them mentioned rebels, or weapons, or king's messages. No one talked about dreams, or kisses, or yearning, though Eva's thoughts tumbled, and her heart felt entangled. She was grateful for the respite that gave her a chance to sort through her feelings—if only she could have done so.
In such rain, she doubted Lachlann would venture out of the smithy if he had work there. He had a fair supply of provisions now, and had set up comfortable quarters at one side of the spacious room. Thus he came to the house less often, and she found herself missing him greatly.
She looked toward the smithy, lost in her thoughts and still hoping the door would open, while the rain streamed down, curling her hair into tendrils, soaking her simple woolen gown. Solas and Grainne sat by the hearth, watching her through the open door with cocked heads, as if they thought she was a fool to stand there when she could come inside and be warm and dry.
Hearing the shout again, she looked at the meadow. A man and a woman walked toward the house, leading a garron pony between them. The woman held a plaid over her blond head, and the man held a plaid over the pony's back, which was hung with two panniers. Inside the baskets, two small covered heads bobbed. The woman waved then, and Eva waved back, laughing.
"Margaret!" she called, putting her hands to her mouth. "Angus!" The couple must have started out from their house, a league or so away over the hills, before the rain had grown so heavy. Now they ran, heads ducked under the plaids, while they protected their children from getting wet.
Eva set the bucket of milk inside and ran toward the smithy, heels sinking in mud once she reached the yard. She pounded on the door, and Lachlann soon opened it.
"Eva, what is it?" he asked with concern. She grinned and slicked back her wet hair. Lachlann chuckled, shook his head. "Ochan, girl, you look like a selkie come out of the loch. Come in and get warm." He stood back to allow her entrance.
She laughed and took his arm, loving the feel of his hard strength, warm and dry. "Come out into the rain with me!" she insisted, pulling. He looked at her as if she had gone mad. "Come up to the house! Margaret and Angus are here!" She pointed to the stable, where the couple now led their garron.
He nodded, then went inside the smithy, returning with a length of plaid, which he tented over both his head and hers. "Run, girl," he told her, and she put an arm about his waist and launched with him into the cool, dashing rain, feet slapping in the mud.
By the time they reached the house, they were soaked and laughing. Waiting on the doorstep for Angus and Margaret to come out of the stable, Eva looked up at Lachlann, who still held the plaid over their heads, shielding both of them from the rain.
Smiling, he combed her wet hair back from her brow. "Look at you, selkie girl," he said in a teasing tone.
"And you, selkie man," she returned, and slicked her fingers through the dark, damp waves that fell over his brow.
Under the dripping shelter of the plaid, his smile faded, his eyes deepened to a compelling blue. Desire simmered there, and emanated from his hand upon her head. She sensed it as clearly as if he had touched her in a more provocative way. Her hand stilled on his firm cheek, the whiskers pricking her palm, and a little throbbing thrill ran through her.
"Lachlann MacKerron!" Margaret called. He looked around, and the moment vanished, though the warmth between them lingered. Eva dropped her hand and turned with Lachlann.
"Do you remember me?" Margaret said, laughing as she approached.
"Margaret MacArthur, how could I forget you?" he replied in the light tone he had always used with Eva's cousin. Settling the plaid over Eva's shoulders, he guided her through the doorway and out of the rain. Then he turned to greet Margaret with a kiss for her cheek and a handshake for her husband.
* * *
"This day needs a good hot brose," Eva said. She went to the hearth to stir the contents of a small kettle on a low grate over the embers. With a poker, she coaxed the peat fire to a brisk glow, so that it snapped and smoked. "Margaret and I started making this while you and Angus were down in the smithy," she told Lachlann over her shoulder.
He sat on a stool beside the hearth, running fingers briskly through his still-damp hair; he and Angus had just run back from the smithy, with rain soaking them thoroughly again. He stretched his damp, booted feet out to the heat of the hearth, and glanced at Angus and Margaret.
The couple sat on a bench at the table, speaking quietly together as they tended to the feeding of their two small children—a girl who spooned oats clumsily into her mouth, refusing her father's help, and an infant who nursed discreetly at his mother's ample breast, beneath the drape of her arisaid. Angus bent his head, sandy and reddish, close to Margaret's smooth golden-blond head, his wide, brawny shoulder pressed to hers.
Lachlann patted Solas, who lay beside him. "Brose sounds fine just now," he told Eva. "Although the Eva MacArthur I once knew could not have made a good brose."
"She has changed," she replied in a clipped tone that made him glance at her quickly.
"And she will be a wife soon," Margaret added.
"And a fine one," Angus added. "She keeps a good house here while Mairi is away."
Eva sat on a stool opposite Lachlann, extending her bare legs and feet toward the warmth of the glowing peat bricks. With a subtle glance, Lachlann admired the fine shape of her ankles and feet, as elegantly aligned as the rest of her.
He slid his gaze slowly upward with delight: long legs and lean hips, flat abdomen, firmly curved breasts and square shoulders, a graceful throat, and the pale curve of her face, bright in firelight. She was soothing to the eyes, he thought, even when sparks shifted unpredictably in his vision.
Eva leaned forward to stir the kettle. "It is done, and will warm us nicely," she said, and stood to fetch some cups.
I am not cold, he wanted to say, not while I am looking at you. And not while he sat here with her like a couple long married, content and at peace in each other's company, as his foster parents had been, as Angus and Margaret so clearly were.
Ladling a thin, steaming mix of oats and water into four cups, Eva poured in fresh cream, added honey and uisge beatha, and stirred the blend before handing the cups around. Thanking her, Lachlann inhaled the good scent, vivid with uisge be
atha.
"Slainte," Eva said, health, and smiled at Lachlann and the others, lifting her cup.
Lachlann returned the toast to all and sipped. The warmth radiated through him, pervading and comforting. The rain sheared on the thatch, the wind howled, and he glanced up at the raftered ceiling. "There was plenty of rain in France, but no brose to warm a man," he remarked, and sipped again.
"What was there to warm a man?" Eva asked, laughing.
He tipped his head, and wished her damp hair did not curl so sweetly around her face, wished her cheeks did not blush so easily, because he could not look away from her.
"Not much," he finally answered. "Sunshine in the days and pinewood fires at night. We slept outside more often than not, or we crowded into rooms or tents that held too many men on too few pallets and blankets."
"Sleeping in clusters would warm a man," Margaret said.
"Or give him fleas," Angus drawled.
Laughing with the others, Lachlann sipped again.
"Now that you are back, I am glad I will not have to ride all the way to Glen Brae for nails for my carpentry work, or to have my horse and ox shod," Angus said. He grinned at Lachlann.
"And thank God you came back safe and sound," Margaret said. "You will have more work than you can handle now. That other smith cannot make anything properly. He goes at the smithing like a troll."
Lachlann chuckled. The little girl, called Maeve, clambered down from the bench and toddled toward Eva, who caught her up in her lap. The child, as blond and lovely as her mother, watched in fascination as Eva took a long string from a basket and wove it into a cradle game.
"Lachlann, I will need some ladles and a new poker, and kitchen knives when you have the time," Margaret said. He nodded in agreement. "Oh, we missed you more than you could know!"
He glanced at Eva, unable to stop himself. She watched him soberly over the child's head.
"I hope my wife did not miss you too much, for she liked you well, years back," Angus said. Lachlann smiled and shook his head, while Margaret elbowed her husband. "Which reminds me, I owe you thanks for what you did, years ago." Angus lifted his cup in salute.
Susan King - [Celtic Nights 03] Page 12
