by Caro LaFever
He grunted. “That’s what’s bothering ye?”
No, not really. Not mostly.
But yes. Yes, it bothered her because her brother had never seen her with a man. He’d attended her wedding to Gareth, and then had been immediately sent to a small boarding school in England. Eventually, she’d managed to negotiate with her husband, and Elis had been transferred to Gordonstoun—the school he’d wanted to attend all along. Yet something deep inside her had never healed. Had never forgiven herself.
Her brother had been only six. Only six.
She’d made the deal with her husband, though. The deal that sent Elis away and still kept him at least partially tied to her and her mam. A deal that had also provided the money her mother needed to die in peace and dignity.
“Ceri?”
The present rushed back. “He won’t like that you’re here.”
“Won’t he?” He shifted on his chair behind her, the scrape of his jeans on wood echoing in the room. “Why not?”
Twirling to confront him, she fisted her hands. “Because he’s not used to a man being around me.”
“Is that so.” His gaze never left her. “I’m surprised.”
The old hurts and taunts tumbled into her memory.
She only wanted his money, the poor man.
She did it for all those new dresses, can’t you see?
She’s using her beauty to get what she wants.
Gold-digger.
The last memory hit her like a pike, spearing right into her chest. Because the last memory was his voice, her lover’s voice, saying those words.
Gold-digger.
“You shouldn’t be,” she threw at her lover. Her enemy. “You shouldn’t be at all.”
Fearing another stupid bout of tears, she dashed for the door, only to be stopped by a tough, male grip. Standing, he pulled her struggling body into his arms. “Now, now, lass. What’s gotten into ye?”
You have. Damn you.
His strong embrace encircled her, bringing her close to his lean body, his heat, his scent. The inevitable lust swarmed inside her, but now she knew it mixed with something far more. Something that could crush her for the first time in her life.
In his familiar way, in a way she’d found so odd, and yet, comforting, he merely held her. His hands didn’t move up and down her in a sexual way. He didn’t mouth sweet nothings into her ear.
He just held her.
Leaning her head on his broad shoulder, she cried.
A low hum of surprise came from his throat, but other than that, he didn’t move or make any other noise.
She cried for a long time. She cried for her sick mam and her lonely brother. She cried for those wasted years with Gareth where she felt like she’d been locked in a gilded cage. More than anything, though, she cried for her tough, hard heart that suddenly had turned into a tender, tortured wound.
Because of this man.
“Lorne,” she whispered between her tears.
“Aye. I’m here.” He stood with her, holding her. Solid and strong and seemingly a stable, permanent part of her life.
But he wasn’t.
This was a fantasy she was living.
The court case was still in their future. The castle was still in dispute. And it didn’t matter her heart was now tied into all of this mess.
He was still, ultimately, her enemy.
The tears finally stopped, drying on her cheeks. Yet she didn’t lift her head and she didn’t say a word. The only thing she did was stay in his fast grasp and breathe.
And try not to think of him as her enemy.
“Do ye have the rest of the day off?” His gentle voice drifted above her.
“Yes, I do as a matter of fact.” A sniff ended her words.
“That’s good.” He hummed again, low and masculine.
She didn’t move.
“We could spend some time in your glass house, if ye wanted to.” His hand finally moved, brushing her ponytail off her shoulder and touching her hot cheek. “Ye haven’t had much time to spend there, other than doing the daily watering.”
“No.” Going into her most precious place, walking with him in between her plants once more, would be too emotionally fraught. “I don’t want to go there.”
Because something else, someone else, had become precious to her, too. The reality of that was too near and too close and too dangerous.
His humming stopped.
“Anyway,” she rushed on, not wanting to hurt him even though she ached. “There are those pesky tourists walking in the garden. You wouldn’t want to be near them.”
“True. There is that.” His hand slid under her hair and palmed her neck. But it wasn’t sexual. He offered only his caring in the touch. “What would ye like to do, then? I’m at your disposal.”
She sniffed into his T-shirt again, not wanting to face him and face the future. “You have to work.”
“Not really.” Humor filled his tone. “As Doc has told me time and again, I’m my own boss and I can take time off, if I want.”
“You don’t, though, do you?” she asked the question to his chest. “You don’t take time off.”
“Naw.” He hesitated, his chest rising on her cheek when he took a deep breath. “I didn’t have much to stop working for.”
That confession threatened to bring her to tears once more. Before she wept all over him to the point he was dripping, she popped her head up and plastered on a smile. “Let’s go on a picnic.”
“What?” His eyes widened and doubt filled the blue. “Wouldn’t ye rather go into town to shop or eat?”
“No.” She frowned at him. “I want to go on a picnic. I don’t enjoy going into town.”
“Is that so.” He looked at her.
His gaze penetrated too far in. Too close to what she hid inside—from everyone. From herself. “Do you want to go with me or not?”
His brows rose at her tone, yet he didn’t appear angry. Merely perturbed and curious. “I’ll go with ye, Ceri. Wherever ye like.”
Chapter 23
Whatever was bothering his lass, she was doing a damn fine job of trying to distract him from it.
His lass.
Lorne lurched over the end of a tree trunk, drunk with the two words flitting inside his head.
His lass.
“I was thinking about going to your rock.” Ceri turned and gave him a sardonic glance as she emphasized his ownership. Then she swung back and distracted him again with the movement of her hips. “But I’ve changed my mind.”
“Have ye now.” His gaze latched onto the provocative swish of her arse, and an inevitable erection surged. His eager cock made it hard for his brain to process what bothered her.
Because something still did.
Even though he’d asked her what was wrong as they packed for the picnic.
“Nothing is wrong, Lorne,” she’d trilled.
His name hadn’t sounded the same, though. Her furrowed brows and tight smiles told him differently, too. Hell, he could see her tension now if he would only draw his gaze away from the sway of her hips to the stiff line of her shoulders.
He forced himself.
Flipping her hair over one of those stiff shoulders, she marched along the forest path in front of him, a large tartan blanket in her hands. For once, she hadn’t tied her hair up in a ponytail or a tight bun. Instead, she let it hang down, a long, lovely trail of black curls. She’d changed, too. From her work uniform into simple jeans and a T-shirt before they left the cottage. Both items of clothing bagged on her, but couldn’t quite conceal the lush body beneath.
The female body he’d come to know very well during the course of the last few weeks.
His cock went completely rigid. For once with Ceri, he ignored it.
He could easily assume from her loose hair and loose clothes she was all carefree and easygoing.
She was not.
Something was bothering her.
“Aye.” She mocked him again, dra
wling out the one word in his accent with a teasing flick. Trying to make him believe everything was fine with her. “I have changed my mind. I think we should go to the big meadow.”
The big meadow. The largest of his heaths, it angled down from the ancient pines to the edge of Loch Ross. It was the place where he’d made a fool of himself as a young lad. In front of his disappointed da. “Naw, I don’t—”
“Come on.” Turning to him once more, she bopped back to his side, a plastered smile on her face. “You’ll enjoy it.”
He would not enjoy it. He’d avoided it on every one of his morning runs, preferring to stick to the paths winding through the forest. The paths that didn’t hold any memories, other than good or benign ones. Swinging the basket filled with smoked salmon, fresh raspberries, and wine from one hand to another, he frowned. “I won’t.”
She stopped bouncing in her pretend excitement at his cold statement. Her fake smile fell as she stuttered to a stop. “What’s going on?”
His pace didn’t slow. Instead, he picked up his gait, heading for his rock and the stream. An ache bloomed in the center of his chest. A combination of frustration that she wasn’t willing to tell him what was going on with her and the old toxic memories of when he’d been a sorry disappointment to his da. “Nothing.”
“Not true.” Racing to his side and grabbing his hand, she tugged him to a reluctant stop. “Tell me the truth, Lorne.”
Lornnnne.
This time his trilled name sounded right to his ears.
He sighed. Perhaps if he gave her his truth, she’d do the same. Plucking his pride from his chest, he tucked it away. “My da liked to hunt.”
“Yes, Will did.” Her expression turned wistful.
The look on her face made his heart twist. He hadn’t let himself think of his da with Ceri during the last two weeks. He’d managed to seal those thoughts off into a separate chamber in his brain. But the emotion she showed when talking about his father made all those thoughts break free, swarming inside him like a nasty swirl of bees. Along with that nasty swarm came nasty emotions.
Like jealousy. Like resentment.
Like hurt.
The fact she hadn’t shared what was wrong. The fact she wore loose clothes to hide herself and wouldn’t tell him why. The fact she wanted to drag him to a meadow where the memory of his failings still lingered…
His temper blasted to life. “Aye, I’m sure ye knew everything about my da, didn’t ye?”
“Everything?” Her brows furrowed and she took an abrupt step back, dropping his hand. “Not everything.”
“No?” He followed her, looming over her like one of the brownie goblins his mum used to tell stories about.
He was ashamed of himself. Yet, he kept coming at her. The jealousy and frustration and hurt ran too strong in his veins, and he didn’t know what to do with the rage.
“No.” Planting herself at the edge of the path, her frown went to a glare. “What are you implying, Lorne?”
This time, again, she didn’t trill his name.
For two weeks, they’d been lovers. Lovers in bed and out. They hadn’t fought, they hadn’t questioned, they hadn’t gone too deep. But now, it wasn’t enough. Now, for him, he wanted more. More truth, even though it might break this string of something between them.
The thought of losing this, her, the sex, and the something more he didn’t want to define, struck him in the center of his gut. That made the ache and the anger inside him intensify until he found it hard to breathe. “I’m implying nothing,” he growled. “I’m demanding.”
“Demanding?” Her lilting voice rose in outrage. “Demanding what, you arse?”
“Did ye sleep with my da?” he yelled. “Did ye have sex with him?”
His loud, accusing questions rang through his Caledonia Forest, rolling through the pines and shrubs. The chattering call of a red grouse went quiet.
Ceri scowled at him, her eyes that ugly, red-dirt color, her lush mouth hanging open, her white skin suddenly pale instead of porcelain.
Then something flashed across her face.
Unlike other times, when he’d never been able to decipher another person’s emotions by their expressions, this time he knew immediately.
Hurt. He’d hurt her.
Exactly as she’d hurt him.
Before he could move, she dropped the tartan and dashed off, down the path, away from the stream and his rock. Toward his meadow and his memory.
“Ceri,” he shouted. “Stop.”
She didn’t. If anything, she ran faster, her hair flying behind her like a black flag.
Sweeping the rug off the ground, he plodded after her, discouraged and sullen and still fighting the drag of disillusionment. Somewhere during these past two weeks, he’d let himself dream of Ceri for himself. Not tied to any other man. Including his father.
Yet she hadn’t answered his question. Wasn’t that an answer in itself?
The path led him out of the forest and into the place he didn’t want to be.
His meadow.
Before he could stop himself, his gaze latched onto the corner of the heath where a ridge ran along the edge of the forest. He’d stood there, right there, with his da. And vomited. The dead pheasant lying at their feet. Remembered embarrassment heated his skin.
Then another thing caught his eye.
She moved through the meadow’s flowers, the primrose and myrtle, the hawthorn and bergenia. Her hands floated over the tops of the fauna, like she were swimming in a sea of beauty. Lifting her face to the hazy sun, she closed her eyes, yet kept walking.
“Ceri,” he whispered.
To himself. To his heart.
Lorne stepped out into the sun, into his meadow, keeping his eyes on the lass.
His lass.
“Ceri,” he called.
She stopped, keeping her eyes closed, half facing him, half not.
“I’ll give ye a truth about me,” he said.
She turned to him, but didn’t open her eyes and look at him.
Taking his quivering heart in hand, he let her in. “As I was saying before, my da liked to hunt.”
Not moving, she gave him the impression her interest had been caught though.
“He took me here, once.” He kept on with dogged determination. “To this meadow.”
This time, she tilted her head.
“We were hunting here and I killed a bird. A pheasant.” He kept his gaze on her, and tried for a tease. “Phasianus colchicum.”
To his relief, the Latin made her open her eyes. Her skin was still pale and her lips were still tight, but he had hope, now.
“My da was excited.” His mouth twisted around the words, remembering. “I wasn’t.”
“No?” She gave him something. One word accompanied by a black brow lifting, but it was something.
“I threw up. Vomited. Puked.”
Her eyes widened and the dark goldenrod of her irises went soft. “Did you?”
“Aye, I did.” He started off, into his meadow, through the flowers and fauna, through his past and into his present.
She didn’t move or run. She merely stood and watched him come to her.
When he got to her side, he dropped the tartan and the basket on the ground and took her limp hands in his. “I was embarrassed.”
“I can imagine.” Ceri kept her focus on his collarbone.
“What was far worse, though, was what I’d done to my da.”
Her gaze flashed to his.
“I disappointed him.” The words choked in his chest, but he forced them out. “I did that a lot, actually. All the time as a lad.”
Her mouth softened.
Clutching her hands in his sweaty ones, he pushed out the last. “He never took me hunting again.”
“Did you want him to?”
His heart tripled in tempo because he had her now. He had her back. He could tell by the easing of her shoulders and the warm well of acceptance in her eyes. “Yes. Quite a lot, honestly
.”
“Oh, Lorne.”
Lornnnne.
The trill of his name washed over him like a benediction. Unlike other times, when he’d been sexually thrilled by her voice or excited to reach in and take her up on the implicit invitation, this time he did nothing.
He merely stood and stared at her. And gave himself. Just himself.
Ceri stared back at him.
A long moment, filled with hushed hope and fierce fear, wrapped around them.
Then she stepped into his arms and laid her head on his shoulder.
Lorne felt something inside him break free of the past and accept his future had this woman, his lass, in the center of it.
She had to give him truth, too.
Except her truth required him to believe. Believe in her.
It had hurt him to confide in his boyhood disaster. She’d seen that in his eyes and expression. But she’d had no reason to disbelieve what he’d told her and he knew it. The story was entirely in character for both the father and the son.
William Ross had lived a life filled with surety and rules. A life where things went well for the most part, and he was accepted wherever he went.
Lorne Ross lived a much more perilous life than his da. A life where he was viewed as odd. A life lived on the fringes, a place he’d found a way to make his own.
So telling her his story had been embarrassing, but not potentially devastating.
Telling her truth, however, was a much bigger risk.
The Scottish breeze blew the smell of peat and heather around them, like the tender touch of a lover. Instead of making a decision, Ceri curled into his embrace and drank him in. Because if he didn’t believe her, then this fragile trust, this delicate connection between them that wasn’t built on sex alone anymore, would break.
“Tell me.” His hand moved into her hair, threading through the strands, tugging her closer. “Tell me the truth about what’s wrong, lass.”
He wanted to know what had bothered her before. But her worries about the future really boiled down to what he’d say to her now. In the next few minutes.
Was she living a fantasy?
Or did she have something here that was truly precious?
“I’ll tell you a truth.” Taking her courage in a tight grip, she lifted her head and met his gaze.
