Chapter 13

13

M agnus stalked through the stone corridors of his keep, his mind as turbulent as the storm brewing over the Highlands. He had seen the beauty of his wife's body. Her toned thighs opened for him on his command, her silky soft skin glistening under the candlelight. She had followed his instructions with such trust and devotion. She had driven him to completion with the merest touch, and then he had kissed her. The thick and cold walls had witnessed many a McCormack battle, but none so confounding as the one he now faced within his own soul. He would have to double down on his efforts to avoid his wife, to counter his weak will.

"Ye look like ye've been kissin' thistles instead of yer bonnie bride," Scarlett's voice cut through the din of his thoughts, every bit as sharp as her fiery hair suggested.

"Mind yer own affairs, Scarlett," Magnus grumbled, trying to sidestep his sister, but she matched his stride with an ease that irked him.

"Yer bride seems to be doin' just fine makin' herself at home," she observed, a glint of mischief in her eyes. "I saw her helpin' Josie's bairns with their readin'. And they quite fancy her."

"Is that so?" Magnus couldn't care less about Erin's appeal to the children, but the knot in his stomach tightened at the thought of her getting closer to Scarlett. He didn't need two clever lasses conspiring under his roof. Especially with his ability to resist Erin running at an all time low.

"Indeed," Scarlett confirmed with a nod. "But 'tis not the young ones I'd worry about if I were ye, brother. 'Tis the wife who's got ye dancin' on hot coals."

He stopped abruptly, turning to face his sister with a glare meant to silence her, but she merely raised a brow in defiance. Magnus continued down the hall, knowing he couldn't escape the truth in her words.

In the great hall, Erin awaited him, her presence commanding despite her calm exterior. Her wavy brown locks cascaded over her shoulders, framing blue eyes that sparkled with unspoken challenge.

"Good morn, Laird McCormack," Erin's voice danced across the table, laced with a teasing lilt that made the muscles in Magnus's arm tense as he carved into the venison before him.

"Erin," he grunted, acknowledging her presence with a nod but little more. He flushed at the memory of her naked body before him, the sound of her moans as she neared completion. He had never planned for these shared meals to become an exercise in restraint, nor had he imagined that his bride's company would prove so... disconcerting.

"Ye look as if ye've seen a wraith this fine morn," she observed, her eyes narrowing playfully while she sipped from her watered wine.

"Perhaps I have," Magnus retorted dryly, taking a bite of his food—a traditional bannock, still warm from the hearth. The meal should have been a simple affair, not a verbal joust.

"Oh, and here I thought 'twas only beauty that could tame the beast," Erin quipped, leaning forward just enough to let the light kiss her features, casting shadows that played upon the contours of her curvy form.

Magnus's hand stilled, his fork pausing midway to his mouth. Aye, she knew exactly what she was doing, baiting him with the tale as old as time itself—the beauty and the beast—yet their story was twisted, their roles uncertain.

"Ye ken nothing of beasts, lass," he said, his voice low and steady, meeting her gaze with an intensity that sought to remind her of the vast chasm between them.

"Maybe so, but I am willing to learn," she replied, her voice a whisper of silk against the rough-hewn stone walls.

"I have a way with the sword, me laird," she said, gesturing to the blade at his side. "'Tis a pity ye daenae use it to cut through yer own broodin'."

"Would ye have me turn the blade on myself then?" Magnus retorted, the corner of his mouth twitching involuntarily at her audacity.

"Perhaps 'twould free whatever beast ye keep chained inside," she shot back, stepping closer, her gaze never leaving his.

"Careful, lass," he warned, his voice low, his defenses straining against her proximity. "Ye might not like the beast ye find."

"Or perhaps I'm the only one who can tame it," Erin whispered boldly.

Their eyes locked, and for a moment, the world fell away—the stone walls, the distant clash of swords in training, the whispers of intrigue—all faded before the intensity of her gaze. Magnus felt the beast within stir, eager, hungry for the challenge she presented.

Then, the spell was broken by the hurried footsteps of his councilman, Reggie Hogg, approaching with a furrowed brow. "Laird," he panted, bowing hastily. "I bear ill news."

Magnus turned sharply, his protective instincts flaring. "Speak."

"Upon the day of yer weddin', a significant amount of crops were destroyed in yer tenant's land. 'Tis a heavy loss."

"Destroyed? By what means?" Magnus demanded, his gut clenching.

"'Tis yet uncertain, me laird," Regie replied, a note of hesitance in his voice, as though he held back a grim ‘I told ye so.'

"Then find out," Magnus ordered, his tone brooking no argument. He could feel Erin's eyes on him, but he refused to meet her gaze.

"Tis it nae the duty of the laird to-"

"Ye seem rather pleased to be the harbinger of doom, Reggie. Does me misfortune warm yer heart?" Magnus's voice was ice, his gaze piercing.

Reggie bristled, affronted by the accusation. "I am naught but loyal to this clan. But I warned ye?—"

"Enough!" Magnus cut him off, his hand clenched at his side. "I'll hear nae more of yer veiled 'I told ye sos'. If yer loyalty is true, work to aid those affected, else hold yer tongue."

"Of course, me laird," Reggie said, bowing again, though the disapproval in his eyes spoke volumes.

As Reggie departed, the silence hung heavy between the wedded couple. Magnus's jaw tightened, the news of the destroyed crops another blow in a never-ending siege. Yet, amid the turmoil, Erin's image danced mockingly at the edge of his thoughts—a siren among the wreckage, her laughter the only sound in the deafening silence.

"I'll leave ye to yer work, husband."

Magnus clenched his jaw as Erin sauntered across the grand hall, her wavy brown hair cascading over her shoulders like the tumbling waters of the River Spey. She was a vision that unsettled him more than any battle ever had. At the lengthy wooden table, she took her seat across from him with the grace of a fawn settling in a meadow, yet the mischief in her blue eyes forewarned of storms on the horizon.

Magnus stormed through the shadowed corridors of the castle, his mind a tempest as fierce as the Highland gales that battered the ancient stones. The scent of peat from the hearth fires did little to soothe the tumult within him; it was as though Erin's mischievous grin had etched itself into his very soul, igniting a fire he could not quench.

"Brother," Hayden called out, trailing behind Magnus with a lightness in his step that belied the gravity of their situation. "Ye look as if ye've been wrestling with the devil himself."

"Would ye please speak not of things ye do not understand," Magnus growled without breaking stride.

Hayden caught up, matching his brother's pace. "Come now. Ye cannae tell me there's naught but fire and brimstone between ye and yer bonnie wife."

"Yer jests are ill-timed, Hayden." Magnus' voice was a low rumble, his patience fraying like the hem of an old battle flag.

"Ye ken she is nae enemy, Magnus. 'Tis time ye let go of the shadows of the past," Hayden ventured, his tone earnest, daring to tread where few would.

The words struck a chord deep within Magnus, resonating with a truth he loathed to admit. He halted abruptly, his broad shoulders rigid, eyes blazing with an anger rooted in pain long buried. "Mind yer own affairs, Hayden. Do nae presume to ken what haunts me?"

"So it is not a certain lady who-"

"Nay." Magnus snapped, his hands clenching in to fists. "Tis the crops destroyed on the tenant's farm that vexes me."

"Crops?" Hayden replied, taken unawares by the news. "Apologies brother. I would nae jest at such a time."

"Ye were nae to ken." Magnus nodded, his frayed temper soothing.

"Ye should speak with her, Magnus," Hayden said softly, breaking the hush. "She might offer comfort."

"Comfort is nae what I seek," Magnus muttered, though in his heart, he knew it was a lie.

But he wouldn't find what he sought. There was nowhere in the castle that seemed to be free of Erin's cheerful laugh. The sound drive a feeling of despair through Magnus, not because he wanted to avoid his wife, but because he knew the feelings her presence would stir in him. She glanced up, her eyes meeting his, and a knowing smile crossed her lips as if she could see the turmoil within him.

"Brother, yer wife is a bonny one and clever too," Hayden remarked, half in jest, though the observation hung in the air like a challenge.

"Observant, are ye?" Magnus responded briefly, feeling the weight of Hayden's scrutiny. His brother had always been keen at sensing the undercurrents of tension that Magnus strove to keep buried.

"Only when there's a storm brewin'," Hayden replied, his gaze flickering between Magnus and Erin. "And methinks there's more than just the Highlands' weather to worry about."

"Mind yer own affairs, Hayden," Magnus growled, directing his attention back to his plate as if the food held the answers to the riddle that was Erin.

"Ah, but when the laird's heart is caught in a tempest, 'tis the clan's concern as well," Hayden said softly, almost too low for the servants to overhear.

"Enough!" Magnus's voice thundered through the hall, causing even the most seasoned warriors to pause and glance up from their meals.

Erin, however, remained unfazed, her smile never wavering, as though she found delight in the storm they created together. Magnus could feel the beast within clawing at the surface, yearning for release. But he would not grant it the satisfaction—not here, not now.

"Ye have a strange way of showing concern, brother," Magnus muttered, his words clipped as he pushed away from the table, leaving his meal unfinished.

"Perhaps, but sometimes 'tis the strange ways that lead to truth," Hayden replied, his voice barely reaching Magnus as he strode out of the hall. The echo of his boots against the stone floor was a testament to the fury he fought to contain.

With each step, the walls of Dunmore Keep closed around him, a fortress meant to protect, now a prison of his own making. And as he vanished into the dim corridor, his mind reeled not with the matters of crops or coups but with the enigma of a wife who seemed to draw him ever closer to the edge of reason.