Chapter 23

Chapter Twenty-Three

W hen Alex returned from Edinburgh, he called to let Col know he had put out the request from information on ships going to China and hoped he might have something next week when he went back to Edinburgh.

By the end of the week, Col was so much better he decided to take Rory on a tour of the tenant farms. The day was an unqualified success; Rory was a hit with the tenants, who were delighted to welcome him and treated him with a deference that made him blush, much to Col’s secret amusement. Not that he let it show that he had noticed his son’s embarrassed delight. The boy was too young to be teased about such things, and Col was afraid to bring back the truculence of earlier. He liked being on good terms with his heir.

He was pleased to see Rory eager to lend a hand when it was needed, too. The lad lifted a heavy burden for a tenant’s wife and helped her into the cart she was off to market in, and then pitched in to raise a fence blown over in a squall a week ago and aided with its restumping.

When they returned tired and hungry, it was to find Aihan and Callum in his study surrounded by books. Callum was teaching Aihan to read and write, for which his old wax tablet and slate had been pressed into service. He’d kept his, whereas Rory had lost his, probably accidentally on purpose.

With their arrival home, Aihan headed to the kitchen and Callum tidied away the books. After dinner that evening, they did something they had never done before: play cards. All of them, including Fergus and Willy.

Aihan came to his room when he was washing and rubbed oil into his back to stop the healing wounds from itching.

Slipping sideways off his buttocks, she lay down beside him. “Roll onto your side.”

He obeyed, rolling towards her, and she took his cock in her oiled hand and stroked it slowly. He closed his eyes and moved his hips. “That is so guid,” he said on a sigh that was half a groan.

Her hand slid up and down, twisting round the head exposed from his foreskin, her thumb rubbing along the sensitive rim of the crown. She leaned forward, her lips connecting with his, and he put out a hand to cup the back of her head and kissed her deeply. This , he thought muzzily, this is heaven. What have I done to deserve this?

He moved his other hand down to touch her between her legs, stroke her, give her pleasure. She lifted her leg over his hip to help him, and they lay face to face, pleasuring each other with their hands and kissing. Their hips moved in synchrony with the stroking of their fingers and the exchange of increasingly passionate kisses.

Finally, he moved to get her under him and slid inside her, and they both continued the movement of hips in a silent accord. A slowly building symphony, their eyes on each other, palm to palm. They had done this before, and it was intimate, but it felt even more intimate this time.

He kissed her again, pausing his movement to hold still inside her and savour the moment, the sensations, the being.

“Aihan,” he said softly.

“Hm,” she responded, her expression soft, almost dreamy.

He kissed her again, swallowing the words that wanted to burst forth. He knew what he was feeling, and he hadn’t felt it in six years. But he couldn’t, not when she was leaving. So, he kept the words inside, but he felt like they were leaking out his pores anyway and soaking into her. That she knew without him saying anything, because he could feel the same thing coming back to him from her.

It was a perfect bubble of love and contentment. A waking dream.

He rolled them onto their sides and began to move in her again. Slowly. She responded and they moved together, arms round each other, mouths locked, bodies joined, holding onto a blissful pleasure.

Gradually it built, moment by moment with each sensual sway and grind of hips, slide of flesh, grip of muscles, touch of lips, caress of tongues. It was all-consuming, the rising flame of passion, desire and need, a building conflagration about to consume them and burn them away to ashes.

Yet when the moment of absolute pleasure arrived, it held for long moments outside of time before sending them cascading down the slope of pulsing joy and into a pool of warm, boneless bliss. Bodies stilled and heartbeats and breathing slowed, but neither of them moved.

Col couldn’t. He felt like he would shatter if he moved. Or shatter her. The sense of unity he had felt in that moment had removed the barrier between self and other, and he was no longer sure where he ended, and she began. And he didn’t want to know. He just wanted to stay like this forever. He felt as if he had touched heaven or looked upon the face of God. Felt something akin to universal all-encompassing love. The sense of beatific love was so overpowering he wasn’t even sure if he was breathing.

How long he drifted in this state, he wasn’t sure, nor could he recall who moved first or how he came back to himself eventually. But something changed to bring him slowly back to reality, and they settled to sleep. Her face tucked into his chest and their legs entwined, arms round each other. And he kissed her hair. The scent of it, spice and roses, sent him into slumber.

When Col woke in the morning, he was alone. The realisation sent a chill through him, causing his skin to prickle with alarm. He sat up and looked around. Her robe was gone. She had retreated to her own room.

A sharp pain stabbed him in the chest. Was I wrong? Was it only me that felt that communion of souls last night? Was it some form of dream, a mental aberration, brought on by my desperate desire for it? Did I imagine the whole thing?

A heavy lump in his stomach made him feel sick. He rose slowly, washed, and dressed and, calling the dogs, he headed downstairs and through the back to the courtyard, passing the kitchen. He poked his head in, but there was no sign of Aihan. S he must still be in her room?

He set off across the fields, letting the dogs roam while his thoughts chased themselves round in circles. He was glad he’d swallowed the words he’d wanted to utter last night in the throes of his delusion. What reaction would he have got if he had? Recoil?

His chest ached. His throat felt tight and his eyes stung. He was far too vulnerable. How had this happened? He’d been absolutely convinced there was no other woman in the world for him but Cat. That she had taken his heart with her to the grave.

Then Aihan exploded into his life and caused all sorts of chaos and got under his skin and inside his heart. But she didn’t feel the same way he did. That was obvious. She enjoyed the sex, but that was all. He had thought—well, it didn’t matter what he had thought, he was wrong. So wrong.

She had seduced him for her own purposes, her own reasons. Was it revenge for stopping her from going home? Surely not. She seemed to care, after all. She fussed over his wounds and took care of the boys . . . . He shook his head. None of it made any sense.

Well, he had taken some steps to perhaps find a way to send her home. If that was what she wanted, he would make sure she had the opportunity. Even if it broke his heart all over again. Because, he realised, her happiness meant more than his own.

With this noble resolve in mind, he called the dogs and headed back to the house, resolutely swallowing down the lump in his throat. Cat had been the only woman for him, because she had loved him. It was fairly obvious to him after last night that Aihan did not. Not in the way he understood love to be. Well, he would find a way to get her home and be grateful for the bit of happiness he’d had with her. It couldn’t last much longer, but he’d take what he could get.

Aihan was baking bread, but nothing was going right this morning. The oven had gone out overnight and needed to be relit, a process that proved extremely difficult and resulted in her getting covered in soot and charcoal before she got the flames at last to take.

Then she mistook the sugar for salt and had to start over and discovered the milk was sour.

Fergus, finding her staring hopelessly at the curdled milk, sent Willy to milk the cow and get some fresh. With a nod at her grubby apron and face, he said, “Ye should ha’ asked me to light it fer ye, lass. She’s a stubborn old besom, that oven.”

She shook her head. “It’s alright, Fergus, I mastered it in the end.”

“What ails ye, lassie? Ye look peaked.”

“Nothing. I didn’t sleep well.”

“Aye, that’ll do it.”

Willy came back with fresh milk, and she started on her third batch of dough for the morning. Kneading the wretched stuff with ruthless efficiency, she gritted her teeth and tried to push down the feelings that were bubbling up and destroying her peace of mind. Last night.

She had never experienced anything like it. And it terrified her. She had to leave, and soon. Because if she didn’t, she feared she never would. She wouldn’t be strong enough to tear herself away from the man who eclipsed all others. Who had stolen her heart out of her chest and threatened to tear her in two between her loyalty to Liang and her desire for him.

She sighed, pounding the dough mercilessly. There would be no bread for breakfast this morning; it wouldn’t be cooked in time. Just parritch, eggs, and salted ham. She set the dough aside to rise and put the oats on to cook in the big pot with salt and sugar, and got out the ham to carve off slices to fry up with the eggs.

Fergus brought in the pot of parritch and jug of ale, followed by Willy with the mugs, bowls, plates, cutlery, and condiments. Then Aihan appeared with the plates of ham and eggs. Col was standing at the head of the table when she came in, and his heart did a kind of flip-flop at the sight of her. Her hair was dishevelled, and she had a smut of soot on one cheek. Her apron was smeared with grey patches, too.

She set the plates down on the table, but she didn’t look at him. Normally they would exchange a glance, a smile, even a word or two. This morning, she refused to meet his eyes, although he stared at her with hunger, willing her to raise her eyes and look at him, to smile. Her face was set, almost grim, her usual sunny smile completely absent. What the fook is the matter?

She sat beside him and ate, but he felt as if there was an invisible wall between them. She didn’t look at him, not once, nor address him. Fortunately, the boys’ chatter covered her unusual silence. But Fergus noticed and raised his eyebrows at him. His conclusion was, no doubt, that they’d had a row, but nothing could be further from the truth.

He ate some parritch and an egg and a slice of ham, but he wasn’t hungry and barely tasted the food.

When Aihan rose to help Fergus and Willy clear away the remains of the meal, he said, “Boys, help clear the table.” He snagged her arm to stop her leaving and waited until the others left the room.

“Aihan, what’s wrong?”

Her hands clenched, her apron twisting the fabric. She glanced up at him and away, but not before he caught the glimmer of tears in her eyes. “I can’t!” she said with such anguish, his heart contracted in sharp pain.

“Can’t what, mo ghràdh?” My love.

She shook her head and turned away.

He pulled her back against him. “Ah, dinnae run from me, Hana!” Wrapping his arms round her, he held her close against him, his face buried in her hair.

But she was stiff in his embrace, none of the yielding warmth she usually displayed. Sensing that, he loosened his hold on her and stepped back. His heart felt cold with dread, and his breakfast roiled in his stomach.

She ran then.

“Aihan!” he called after her, but she ignored him and disappeared from his view. He wanted to go after her, but her stiff unresponsiveness in his arms stopped him. She didn’t want him. He was causing her distress. The anguish in her eyes was real. Whatever this was, it was causing her pain. He was causing her pain.

A restless ache possessed him, and he left the house, desperate for air. He started walking, not mindful of his direction, just the need to escape from whatever had just happened.

He walked into the village, past the Speckled Hen, and down to the beach. The tide was halfway out, revealing a generous strip of sand and rocks. He turned right and walked along the beachfront. The cold wind tugged at his jacket and blew his hair in his face. The smell of salt and seaweed filled his nostrils. The sky was studded with cloud, half-white, half-grey with the odd chink of blue. They’d have rain before the day was out.

What could be wrong? She did care, but not enough? She wanted to go home? They hadn’t spoken of her brother in a while. Was this to do with him? He would have to ask her. Get her to explain what was wrong so that he could set it right. He couldn’t bear to see her so upset. His thoughts chased themselves in circles for an age as he mulled and recalled, and his chest ached.

He looked up from the sand at his feet and realised he’d come further up the beach than he thought. Above him towered the headland, upon which the dark stone towers of Ravenscraig Castle stood. And to his right, cut into the rock, was a dark hollow. He smiled, remembering exploring the cave as a boy with his brother Merlow. The entrance was partially covered during high tide, but parts of it inside were above the high-water mark, and he and Merlow had taken shelter when the tide caught them, penning them into the cave. They had thought that great fun as lads, imagining they were pirates with their booty, sheltering from the excise officers. He wondered if Rory and Callum had found the cave. Had he ever told them about it? He couldn’t remember.

He looked up at the cloudy sky. Rain was likely soon; he’d best turn back. He’d been out here close on three hours, he thought. It was a long way back.

As he turned, he caught a glimmer of red and green in the trees of the escarpment above his head. He frowned, scanning the area, and saw the slender form of a lass with red hair climbing the steep slope up the headland towards the Castle. With a shock, he realised it must be Isa, the Chief’s daughter. She slipped behind a stand of trees on the thickly wooded slope and was lost to his sight. He shrugged and turned to walk back the way he had come. The tide had gone out much further now and was on the turn.