by Vonnie Davis
“Yes, I sense his agony. His despair. How sad for him. Did he have any other children?”
“Aye. Me da.”
She straightened and turned toward him. “How traumatic for your dad. Who raised him? How old was he when this happened?” Cupping her hands together she blew a warming breath into them.
He lowered his jacket zipper, took Paisley’s hands and slid them around his waist. Then he enveloped her in his arms and pulled her into his warmth. “Me great-grandparents, Ainsley and Broden, stepped in as his parents. Just as I would fer Colleen if anything befell me brother.” Creighton settled his chin on the top of her head, his voice an intimate whisper. “I’m sorry ye are upset. I promise to tell ye the entirety of it after dinner.”
“I shared with you. I expect the same in return.”
He nodded. “Aye. ’Tis only right to have things open and honest between us.”
She exhaled a long sigh as if she were releasing her annoyance. “Tell me more about your dad.”
“Me da was five and plagued with nightmares for years afterward. No doubt the whispers of the Matheson curse reached his tiny ears and frightened his young soul.”
“What is the Matheson curse? Ainsley mentioned it.”
“When the Vikings invaded our shores, scaling the cliffs of Mathe Bay, our ancestors fought them off.”
She pulled back and looked into his face. “Why do I feel as if I already know this?”
Because ye do, but I’ve erased yer memory of it. I hope ye forgive me when I confess to it.
“What happened? Who won this ancient battle?”
He pressed a kiss to her hair and inhaled her cherry-blossom fragrance. “After days of fierce fighting, me ancestors wounded the Viking’s soothsayer. Before he passed through the veil, he placed a curse on the Mathesons. The eldest child of each ruling generation would die before he reached thirty unless he took a Norse bride and bedded her. Not just any Norse bride, but one with the right percentage of Scottish and Norse blood.”
She pressed both palms to his chest. “What is this mix, this ratio?”
“No one knows. The Viking died before he revealed it.”
“How old was your grandfather when he died?”
“Twenty-nine.”
“But he took his own life. His death can’t be blamed on the curse.”
“ ’Tis true enough. I dinna put much stock in it. I’m not superstitious, like the generations before me. We’ve moved out of the Dark Ages. Accidents happen that canna be the result of some centuries-old curse.”
“Your mother said your father died a month after your sister. How old would that have made him?”
“Me da died weeks before his thirtieth birthday.”
Her forehead furrowed at his admission. “From … from what?”
“A car accident.” Memories of fear and disbelief flooded back. His mother’s heart-wrenching weeping bouncing off the castle walls. His younger brothers sleeping with him fer months, as if they needed the security of their ten-year-old eldest brother.
“How much Norse blood does your mother have? She mentioned she’s Irish.”
He trailed fingertips down her soft cheek. “Aye. She’s from Ireland. County Kirk. She and her family traveled here to see the Highlands. Me da fell in love with her at first sight. He didna give a damn about a curse. All he cared about was her.” Just as all I care about is ye.
She stepped back, her eyes narrowed again. “I see. So now, a generation later, I’ve come to this shoreline. Isn’t that convenient as all get out? Paisley Annika Munro. Half Norse and half Scottish. What do you think? Do I possess the correct amount of Viking ancestry? Are you betting I do? Is that why you’ve been coming at me like a steamroller with gifts and kisses and words of romance?”
Surely she didna believe that. Hadna he laid his heart at her feet? Hadna he shown her courtesy, respect, and affection? Aye, and passion? “Have ye gone daft, woman? I’ve never hidden me attraction to ye. Damn that curse.”
“I’ve seen how you care about everyone in your clan. You’ve told me you put their needs above yours. Well, I won’t be the sacrificial lamb. Either you care for me, the woman, or you leave me alone. I’m not some waited-for heroine. I’m a woman who needs to be loved for herself.” Tears pooled in her eyes and she darted around him, hurrying for the lodge.
Bloody hell. His cell vibrated in his pocket. Time fer dinner. He followed Paisley’s retreating form. Fer the first time in years, he had zero appetite.
Creighton took his place at the head of the table. Paisley ignored her assigned seat next to him, perched instead like a fire-eating dragon at the opposite end of the table. To silently communicate with her, he opened his telepathic shield. Yer place is by me side here in this chair. He jerked his chin toward the vacant place setting.
Look, you arrogant Scot. You might order everyone else around, but not me. Never me!
Bryce choked on the water he was drinking. His eyebrows rose in that quizzical way he had. Creighton forgot his brothers and other shifters would be privy to their argument. Well, so be it. At least his mother and Effie lacked this telepathic way of communicating and would have no idea what was being said.
“I thought we’d eat family-style tonight instead of using the serving board.” His mother glanced around the table. “Creighton, would ye begin by passing the roast duck?”
“Certainly.” He speared a couple slices of meat before passing the platter to Effie on his left. Yer acting like a child, Paisley.
Ronan cleared his throat, shooting Creighton a wide-eyed, warning glance.
Effie accepted the platter he offered and smiled. “You always set such a pretty table, Fiona.”
A child? Why you overgrown bossy galoot!
Galoot, is it? He slapped spoonfuls of mashed potatoes on his plate, never taking his eyes off his blonde Viking.
Both of his brothers sniggered and he shot them each a glare.
“Ronan, Bryce, ye know how impolite it is to laugh at a private joke at the table. I’m sure Cook would enjoy having the evening off from washing dishes.” His mother’s voice, while polite, held a warning.
Bryce bobbed his head. “Yes, Mum. Sorry.”
Hunh. At least your brother knows how to be polite. Paisley slid a drumstick off the platter onto her plate.
His bloody polite brother favored him with a self-satisfied smirk while he chewed a mouthful of duck.
One more word out of ye, lassie, and I’ll drag ye to me study and paddle that sweet arse of yers I had me hands on yesterday.
Bryce choked and Ronan pounded on his brother’s back.
Look, Bozo, before you even think about paddling my behind you’d better grow a new pair of balls. She speared a piece of meat into her mouth, staring at him in silent challenge. The last I heard, your balls were bitten to hell by bugs.
Cook dropped a platter of fruit on the floor.
Ronan and Bryce’s heads swiveled in Creighton’s direction, no doubt to see how he’d respond to her remark.
He snatched a bowl of peas and carrots from his mother and plopped several spoonfuls onto his full plate. Some peas rolled across the ivory tablecloth. I told ye it was the witch’s fault.
His brothers’ heads swiveled in Paisley’s direction.
Look, anyone stupid enough to smear a love potion on his dick and balls deserves to be attacked by bugs.
Creighton slapped his fork onto the tabletop and clenched his fists.
His feckin’ brothers leaned against each other in fits of hysterics.
Cook and the butler stood side by side at the swinging doors to the kitchen, their backs to the room, shoulders shaking with laughter.
Effie moaned. “I love this plum sauce you put on the duck. It’s scrumptious.”
I dinna see what has ye so pissed. I never once said ye were the woman to end the family curse. That asinine thought came from the depths of yer mind.
Paisley flung a spoonful of mashed potatoes onto her plate. No, but
you implied it. Another clump of potatoes flopped onto her dish. You and your threat to toy with me while you were touching me everywhere. What is it with men? More potatoes followed. First Alex romanced me so he could cash in on my gift. Then you put your hands in my pants so you could make me think you cared. When all the while you were just after a special breed of woman to release your clan from some ancient curse.
Ronan and Bryce both lifted wineglasses as they turned toward Creighton.
In Creighton’s red haze of anger, someone handed him a basket full of warm rolls. He tossed one onto his bread plate. I had me hands in yer pants because ye had me so turned on I couldna think. Another roll and then a third landed on the small saucer. ’Course, how could any man think with ye scratching and clawing at his back the way ye were?
Both brothers spewed wine.
Their mother stood and flung her napkin onto the tablecloth. “That’s it! I’ve had enough!” She pointed to the mound of food in front of Creighton. “Do ye think yer the only one hungry tonight? And just why are ye scowling so mean at poor Paisley?” Her angry glower slid to Ronan and Bryce dabbing at the spilled wine with their napkins. “I’ve also had my fill of yer poor manners too. All of ye are acting like adolescent hooligans.” She stood with her hands on her hips. “What is wrong with everyone tonight? Is it a full moon, or what?”
Creighton stood. “I’m sorry, Mum. Paisley and I have a wee misunderstanding to work out.” He strode to Paisley’s chair and extended his hand. “If ye would be so kind as to accompany me into me office, we’ll air our differences in private.” He hated these cross words between them. How could he convince her how much she meant to him if he kept snarling at her? Perhaps some tenderness was in order.
She refused to look at him. “I have nothing to say to you.”
He lowered his voice. “I won’t be asking ye again, lassie.”
Still refusing to look at him, her chin jutted in determination while she flipped her fork over and over against the tabletop.
“Have it yer way then.” He scooped her from her chair and ignored her shrieks as he tossed her over his shoulder. Full of purpose, he strode toward his office while Paisley beat on his back and hurled insults. “Under no circumstances are we to be disturbed.”
Creighton slammed his office door and locked it. He carried his livid lady to the desk and set her on the edge. To keep her from bolting, he braced a hand on either side of her hips. “Fer the love of God, will ye tell me what has ye so damn mad?”
Her blue eyes snapped with anger. “You’re keeping secrets from me. I wanted you to explain what the stag was talking about earlier, but instead we talked of witches and potions and curses.”
He inclined his head and breathed a kiss on her neck. “Didna I promise ye I would tell ye all of it?” He shifted to the other side of her neck to bestow the same attention to it, inhaling the sweetness of her scent. “I always keep me promises.” His nearness affected her, although she’d probably deny it. The rapid beat of the pulse point at the base of her throat divulged her excitement.
“Yes, but when? Today? Next week? Or when Gram needs a new dye job?”
His lips twitched. God, she was a delight when she was provoked. He kissed a trail up her neck and across her jaw. “Yer skin is so soft. Like sensual silk.” Her lips parted in invitation. He rubbed his over them until they softened in response. Keeping his lips against hers, he whispered, “I dinna care which country’s blood flows through yer veins. Be it Japanese, Italian, Canadian, or Argentinean, I love every single drop of it.” His arms banded around her waist and he lifted her from the desk, holding her to him. “With every breath I take, I love ye more. Ye are the water to me thirst, beloved.”
She slowly shook her head, even as her arms wrapped around his neck.
“Aye, ’tis true. I love ye with a fierceness. Tell me, is it the curse that worries ye? Or the way ye feel about me?” He kissed her well and good, taking his time, enjoying the taste of her and hardening even more at her mewling whimpers.
He pulled back. “Tell me. Tell me, sweetheart.” His phone rang and he ignored it.
“Are you just going to let it ring?”
“Yes, I bloody well am. Ye are more important than any phone call.” His arms tightened and his gaze bore into hers. “Are ye afraid of what ye feel fer me?” Thankfully, the phone finally stopped ringing.
Two tears slipped from her blue eyes and she nodded.
His phone rang again and he muttered a curse as he slipped it from the pocket of his jeans. The display told him it was Kendric. Maybe he had some information about Malcolm or Effie. “Hello.”
Chapter Sixteen
Paisley tugged the hem of her sweater. If only she could smooth her nerves as easily as she did the wrinkles in her top. No man had ever possessed the ability to set her on fire with a kiss or a touch. She slid her gaze to him. What made this Scot so special? Was she afraid of her feelings for him? Creighton’s unanswered questions hung between them like a flashing neon danger sign as he talked on the phone. She swallowed and glanced away. Just how much did she care for this man, who was, by turns, tender and fierce?
“He what?”
She flinched at the anger in his voice.
“Oh, no. I dinna ken she was pregnant.” He ran a hand over his eyes and audibly sighed. “Who’s with her? I dinna want her alone, not fer several days. Him I want in front of me so I can wring his bloody neck. Bloody hell, what got into him? Was he drinking?” He paced around his desk, his empty hand clenching into a fist and opening, again and again. “Cocaine?” He stilled and then slumped. “People in me clan are using cocaine?” The dark timbre of his voice sent a tremor of foreboding through her. “Do ye ken where he is?” Creighton nodded. “I’ll handle it.” He ended the call, his troubled gaze settling on her.
“You have to go?”
He nodded and wrapped his arms around her. “Aye, sweetheart. A man … nay, a fukin’ bastard … did something terrible. I need to bring him in before I banish him from the clan.” He kissed her forehead and ambled to the door as if the weight of the world hung from his neck. After unlocking it and flinging it wide, he yelled, “Mum, Ronan, Bryce! Quickly!”
She fought the urge to wring her hands. Fear seeped into her heart like spilled fine wine staining a pristine tablecloth. “What do you mean, bring him in? What about the police? Isn’t that their job?”
He shoved his fingers into the front pockets of his faded jeans. “Aye, after I administer some Mathe justice. I am his laird, leannan.”
What the heck did that mean? To hear him talk, he was the ruler of those who lived in this area. Just how much power did he wield? His mother hurried into the office. Fiona’s gaze settled on Paisley. “Is everything all right between the two of ye?”
Was it? She glanced at Creighton. Minutes earlier, he’d kissed away her anger and nuzzled his way through her questions and objections. The man had too much control over her mind and emotions. Oh, girl, face it. You’re falling hard for this guy. “After we’ve had more of a chance to talk, perhaps.”
Creighton’s dark, piercing eyes raked over her and she warmed under his scrutiny. “I willna renege on me promise. Tonight, ye shall know all about me.”
Both brothers entered the room and closed the door, their eyebrows raised in question.
“Kendric just called. Duncan beat Kenzie.” At his mother’s gasp, Creighton turned to her. “She’s in the hospital. She’s suffered a miscarriage, and they’re keeping her overnight. I need ye to go sit with her.”
“Of course. She shouldna be alone.” Worry wrinkled her brow and she shook her head once. “Poor, gentle Kenzie. I love that young woman. I’d hoped—” Her gaze flitted to Bryce, his face beet red, steeled in a mask of rage. “Well, I’ll leave you three to whatever it is you have to do. I’ll gather me knitting and ereader and be on me way.” She hurried out of the office.
Bryce stormed to the bar and stilled, his hands fisted on the edge of the counter, hea
d hanging from tensed shoulders.
Paisley looked at Creighton in a silent question, and he shook his head.
“I need ye two to come with me. Duncan’s on the run. He’s gone to ground. Ye ken how I feel about domestic violence. Once we’ve got him, I’m banishing him from the clan.”
Ronan forked his fingers through his wavy hair. “A bold move, Creigh.”
“About bloody time,” Bryce roared, and she flinched at the uncharacteristic anger rolling off the most jovial of the Matheson brothers. “Hell, it shoulda been done sooner. This is the second time the fukin’ bastard’s hurt Kenzie.” He poured a drink and tossed it back. “Anyone else going to drink with me?”
Creighton lifted a hand in a stop gesture. “Nay, I’ll not have me people thinking I’ve been drinking before meting out justice.”
Bryce downed another glass of Scotch.
Creighton stepped next to him and clasped his youngest brother’s shoulder. “I ken ye care. I ken yer hurting like hell right now. We’re going to protect her—”
Bryce swirled, his jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed. “Aye, and if I’d moved quicker last year, she’d be me wife. Safe, happy, and carrying me bairn. Not grieving over the loss of his.”
“A lesson learned, Bryce. When a man finds a woman he cares for”—Creighton’s gaze swept over Paisley in a possessive way—“he has to swoop in and lay claim.”
Every ounce, every heartbeat, every breath of her femininity chanted Yes. Oh, she was definitely in big trouble when it came to him.
Bryce reached for the bottle again and Creighton wrapped his hand over his brother’s. “Nay. Put away the pain and display the compassion a man should feel fer another clan member’s wife. She disna belong to ye. She belongs to the clan and we’ll take care of her by removing the spineless arsehole who struck his woman.” His voice was low and affectionate, yet commanding. The man had a way of validating the feelings of those he cared for. “I need ye sober to run with me tonight. To capture Duncan and administer our brand of justice.”
