Chapter 5

Chapter Five

T he Sceacháin brought her breakfast the next morning, but that didn’t endear him to her. She was furious with him. She was also too smart to let it show. She had spent a considerable amount of the night trying to figure out how to escape. She had to, or the Shaolin would sail without her. She had established that she couldn’t break the bars of her prison. They were a little rusty, but not rusted through enough to be dislodged by one of her kicks. She had tried and bruised her foot and jarred her leg. She needed another way, and that had to involve her captor.

She waited calmly, sitting cross-legged on the mattress while he juggled the tray and the lock, making no effort to help him. She wished she could communicate with him better, but there was no time to learn his outlandish language properly. The few words she had didn’t seem to be helping much because, she suspected, of the local dialect and her own accent making it hard for each to understand the other, even when using words in the same language. She needed to escape today.

He shut and locked the door behind him and turned to her, holding out the tray as if in a peace offering, and said something that she assumed was a greeting of some kind. She listened carefully and repeated it back to him, trying to imitate his intonation.

“Good morning.”

He smiled, nodding enthusiastically, and offered the tray again. “For ye.”

“For ye,” she repeated.

He shook his head and, setting down the tray, tapped his chest and said, “For me.” Then he waved at her and said, “For ye.”

Comprehension dawned and she nodded her understanding. She tapped her breast and said, “Me,” then waved at him. “You. Ye,” she corrected herself.

“Aye.” He nodded, grinning. The smile made him look less tired, younger. It lifted the heavy pall of—what? Sorrow? Yes, sorrow, that clung to him.

He picked the tray up again and set it down before her. She looked at it. A bowl with something pale and gluggy in it, some more of the crumbly offal mixture she had received yesterday on a separate plate, a small loaf of bread, a dish of butter, and a jug of milk. And two small pots with white crystals in them that she suspected were salt and sugar. Also, another mug of ale.

She inclined her head and clasped her hands in a gesture of appreciation.

She had observed him putting the key in his jacket pocket. She waved to the mattress and patted.

He hesitated a moment and then sat awkwardly. It was obvious he was not accustomed to sitting on the floor as she was. She picked up the ale and drank. She was thirsty. Setting the tankard down half empty, she turned her attention to the gluggy mixture in the bowl. It still had steam rising off it, so it was warm. She picked up the bowl and sniffed. Some form of grain? She stirred it with the spoon and tasted a small quantity. Not a lot of flavour, but it would be warming and filling, she supposed. Not unlike sticky rice in some respects.

The man was watching her. He waved at the milk jug and the two pots of condiments. She wet a fingertip and tasted each: salt and sugar, as she had surmised. She added a pinch of both to the mixture and stirred, but she ignored the milk. With the added condiments, the mixture was better. She spooned it up and he grinned.

“Parritch!” he said nodding at the bowl.

She swallowed her mouthful and repeated. “Par-itch?”

“Aye, parritch. Ye like it?” His gestures made his meaning clear, and she shrugged and smiled. She scooped up some of the offal mixture with her fingers and sprinkled it over the top of the par—itch and spooned it up.

She was amused by his apparent delight with watching her eat and wondered how she could turn that to her advantage. He was off guard and relaxed, leaning back on his hands behind him, his legs straight out in front of him and crossed at the ankles. He was wearing breeches and boots today with a loosely tied neckcloth, shirt, and jacket. There was a casual masculinity to him that tugged at her in a disconcerting fashion. She recalled straddling him yesterday, and a pulse of warmth between her legs made her glance sideways at the front of his breeches. When he had flipped her and pressed her to the ground yesterday there had been a definite hardness there, and when she’d straddled him, it had happened again.

She continued eating, turning possibilities over in her mind. She waved at the offal and asked, “Name?”

He frowned a moment and then said, “Haggis.”

“Haggis,” she repeated. She then waved at each of the items on the tray to get their names too. He obliged, seemingly eager to communicate. She finished the bowl of par-itch with the haggis and drank the rest of the ale. And used one of the phrases she had learned yesterday. “Thank ye.” She bowed her head, hands clasped.

“Ye’re welcome,” he responded, and bent to gather up the tray.

She found it odd that he would wait on her like a servant, when he was the laird. He must be poor and could not afford servants. She had certainly seen no evidence of servants, or any females, come to that. Was that why he wanted to keep her here?

She stayed him with a hand. She needed to keep him talking, distracted, while she figured out a way to get hold of that key. So she started pointing to things and asking for the names. He seemed happy to oblige her as she roamed around the cell. She pointed to the lock on the door, and he gave her the word for it.

“Padlock.”

She mimed turning a key in the lock, and he fished the key out of his pocket and held it up in his palm. “Key.”

She came towards him and knelt, straddling him, her hand covering his palm, but not attempting to wrest the key from him.

“Key,” she said softly. He drew in an audible breath as she settled on him, her eyes locked with his. She could see his pupils dilate as she watched, and feel the growing heat and firmness where their groins connected.

Her captor closed his fist over the key and dropped it in his pocket, his large hands coming to rest on her hips. She rested hers on his broad shoulders and eased herself against him, with a slow and deliberate forward pressure of her hips.

She could feel the hard outline of his male member as she pressed firmly against him, and it sent a thrill of pleasure through her body.

His hands flexed on her, gripping tightly, as a growl escaped his throat. He said something almost entirely unintelligible. The only thing she caught was her name.

She smiled, moving her hips in a slow, sensuous rhythm that gave her pleasurable thrills. He said something that sounded like a curse, and the next moment, she was plastered to his chest by the iron bands of his arms and his mouth was on hers in a plundering kiss that would have caused her legs to collapse had she been standing. He fell back on the mattress and pulled her with him. The kiss went on and on as she squirmed on him, blatantly using him for her own pleasure.

Good distraction! This man had not had a woman in a while. She could tell by the hunger in his kiss and the hard rubbing of his hands over her body. He broke the kiss with a kind of wrench, closing his eyes and panting for breath. She pushed herself up on her arms and regarded him. His expression was—anguished, that was the only word she could find to describe it. She would assume he was in physical pain if he had been injured. She could only conclude that this was emotional pain of some kind.

Abruptly, he lifted her off him and got up. She scrambled to her feet and tried to reach for him, but he was pushing the key into the padlock and shrugging her off. He shook his head and when she tried again, he rounded on her with a roar. “Nae!”

She stumbled backwards at this ferocity, and he left the cell, clanging the door and locking it with visibly shaking hands. He turned and left with rapid strides that took him out of her sight in moments. She could hear his boots on the stone steps for a few heartbeats and then silence.

Col stumbled up the steps and out into the courtyard, rattled to the core. Tears streaked his cheeks as he crossed the courtyard towards the rose garden and the site of Catriona’s grave. He staggered to a stop at the headstone and sank to his knees.

“Cat!” He gripped the headstone with one hand and wiped his face with the other. “I’m sorry, love! I dinnae know what came over me. She has bewitched me with her seelie ways!”

He couldn’t deny that his violent orgasm last night had been triggered by thoughts of Aihan, and his raw response to her just now underlined it unequivocally. He felt as if he had betrayed Catriona’s memory and the sacred bond they had shared.

Over the years since her death, he’d often come to her grave to talk to her and weep for the loss of her. The sheer raw agony of it had tempered with time, but he still missed her like a lost limb.

“Cat?” he asked softly. “What ails me, lass? Has she bespelled me, with her seelie magic?”

A picture rose in his mind’s eye of Cat, sitting in the rocking chair in their room with Callum to her breast, singing to him. Her dark hair loose round her shoulders, the robe she wore loosened to bare her breast for Callum’s greedy mouth. Those moments were so fleeting and, at the time, perhaps not treasured as they should be. The tears ran down his cheeks as he gazed into his memory, blind to his surroundings.

Cat stopped singing and raised her head to look at him and smiled.

“All will be well, Col, ye’ll see,” she said softly in her lilting tones. She had often said that to him, when he was angry or upset or worried over something. Hearing her say it now in his mind soothed him. Like it always did. His racing heart slowed, and his breathing slowed. The tears dried, and he sat a long time with his eyes closed, just holding the picture of her in his mind and the soothing calm of her presence in his heart.

A shout from the house disturbed him, and he jerked upright, scrambling to his feet as Willy raced towards him, his red hair flying.

“The cellar’s on fire!” he shouted.

Fook, Aihan!

Galvanised, Col ran towards him and the boy turned to join him as they raced back to the house, where, sure enough, smoke was billowing out the entrance to the cellar. Fergus and the boys had formed a bucket chain from the trough and pump into the cellar entrance. Fergus appeared through the smoke just then at the top of the steps, a neckcloth wrapped round his face to block the smoke.

Seeing Col, he blinked red eyes and said hoarsely, “Do ye have the key? I cannae get the lassie oot!”

“Aye, I’ll fetch her,” said Col, tying his neckcloth round his face and diving down the steps. His hand reached for the key in his pocket. The smoke was thick and made his eyes sting as he tried to breathe shallowly, his heart beating hard in his chest. What has the little wretch done? Set fire to the mattress?

When he reached the cell, that was obviously what had happened. Fergus was close behind him with another bucket; he’d been dousing the mattress with water, but hadn’t been able to reach the furthest parts, which were still alight. The cell was filled with smoke, and he could just make out Aihan lying on the floor in the corner.

Shite! He fumbled with the lock and got it open. Swinging the door wide, he dived through and gathered her up. Leaving Fergus to deal with the mattress, he headed for the stairs up to the kitchen and thence to his bed chamber, where he laid her on his bed and checked her pulse.

She is still alive! The relief that coursed through him made his knees go weak. He dropped onto the bed beside her and patted her face gently.

“Lass, wake up, ye’re safe. Wake up lassie!”

She took a sudden deep breath and coughed, opening her eyes and blinking up at him. He fetched a glass of water and offered it to her as she continued to cough helplessly for several minutes. Eventually she took it and sipped as the coughing subsided.

“What were ye thinking, lass?” he asked, not expecting to be understood. His heart had settled back into his chest, but the fright she’d given him was still causing ripples over his skin. He ought to be furious with her. If the fire hadn’t been stopped so quickly, she could have burnt the house down, as well as killed herself. But his predominant emotion right now was just relief that she was alright.

Fergus appeared at the door, wheezing. “The fire’s oot!”

“Thank ye, Fergus. Are ye well, man?”

“Aye—when I’ve coughed up a lung—no doubt I’ll be—fine!” he said, his words punctuated by hacking coughs. When he could speak again, he nodded at the bed. “She do it deliberately, ye think?”

“Almost certainly.” Col looked down at her, exasperated. “Ye coulda killed yerself, lassie!”

The only response he got was more coughing. Her eyes and nose were streaming, and he fetched her a handkerchief which she took with a grateful half-smile.

“Where are the lads?” he asked Fergus.

“I left ’em cleanin’ up the mess.”

“Good. If they find her satchel intact, have it brought up here. It is all she has.”

“Aye.” Fergus frowned. “What ye meanin’ to do wi’ her now?”

“I’m not sure,” murmured Col.

“Humph!” Fergus’s tone of disapproval wasn’t lost on him. “Best let her go, lad, she’s trouble,” he grumbled.

“Aye, ye’re nae wrong, Fergus,” he admitted. Trouble I can do without, yet . . .

How he could respond to Aihan’s blatant seduction with such visceral desire, he couldn’t fathom. The tender passion he felt with Cat had not been like that.

Whether it was because Aihan had such an otherworldly allure, or he had just been alone for too long and his body was craving touch, he didn’t know. But he couldn’t deny the powerful need she evoked in him; she was as dangerous as she was fascinating. And he was fascinated by her, he realised.

He should let her go. She wanted to leave. Let her. Let her walk out if his life and leave him in peace. Yet he knew the damage was already done. The lid was off Pandora’s box. His body was awake in a way that wouldn’t leave him in peace. She had snared him like a rabbit.

And he still feared what her intentions towards his brother were. He would not allow her to hurt Merlow. The man might be mystifyingly strange to him, but he was his little brother, and he loved him.

He sighed and wiped his face with the neckcloth he’d pushed down round his neck. It came away sooty.

Aihan was sooty too; she would need a bath.

Fergus had gone, leaving them alone. He went to the basin and soaked and wrung out a cloth, then brought it back to the bed and he offered it to her. She took it and wiped her hands and face.

“Thank ye,” she managed in a hoarse whisper. Even that made her cough some more.

Col sat on the side of the bed, wondering what to do. The language barrier was frustrating.

“Did you set fire to the mattress?” he asked with gestures. Not hopeful he would be understood.

She cocked her head and stared at him fixedly for a moment, then nodded.

“Why?” he put up his hands.

She smiled that twisted half-smile and put up her hands as if grasping the bars of her prison and shook them. Then she held up her palm and made a walking gesture on it with the fingers of her other hand.

“Of course. Obvious.” He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck.

She grabbed his other hand, and, beseeching him with her eyes she said, “Please?”

Where she had learned that word he didn’t know, but the effect of her hoarse tone and her dark, red-rimmed eyes, combined with her touch, was powerful. Heat swarmed his groin again, and he shook off her hand, rising and backing away from her. She was a fae , he was convinced, and she had ensorcelled him. There was no other explanation for the power she seemed to have over him.

He should let her go, yet if she could do this to him, what damage could she wreak against his innocent brother? What if she could tempt him away from his precious Hetty and destroy him and his happiness? Goddamn it to hell , he was not going to allow that!

He had to find some way to resist the lass and ensure she couldnae harm Merlow before he let her go free.

Another wracking cough from the bed brought his attention back to her. She was lying slumped against the pillows with her eyes closed, and her breathing was ragged.

“Ye didnae look in a fit state to be going anywhere right now in any case, lass,” he muttered.

Should he fetch the doctor to her? But what could a leech do for her? He’d rather not advertise the fact she was here. This was a small community, with everyone nosing out everyone else’s business. He didn’t fancy being the butt of more gossip than he already was.

If Merlow were here, he’d know what to do. Whatever his opinion of his brother as a Scotsman, he respected his medical knowledge; the man was a wonder. He wished for Merlow for other reasons too. He could speak the girl’s wretched language and sort out this coil. Perhaps the best thing was to write to him?

I’ll do just that .

Aihan seemed to have slipped into a doze, so he left the room and locked it behind him, heading down to his study.

He penned a long letter to Merlow, telling him as much as he could about Aihan and this Ming Liang. He omitted, of course, any mention of his seemingly uncontrollable physical attraction to the wench. That, Merlow didn’t need to know about. Letter written, he decided to take it to the mail office himself, as Fergus and the boys were busy with the cleanup, and Aihan was, for the present, safely locked in his room and hopefully asleep. Rest would do her the most good.

He returned an hour later and ventured back upstairs to check on his prisoner. He opened the door quietly and found the bed empty. And the leaves of the casement window were open, the curtains blowing in the breeze. Damn and blast!

He raced to the window and looked out. It’s a hell of a drop to the ground, how did she— then he spied the sheet tied to the central strut of the window. Of course, she is small enough to squeeze through one side of the window, and lithe enough to shimmy down the sheet. And drop the rest of the way to the ground from the end of it!

God, she could be halfway to Edinburgh by now! Not likely, unless she stole one of the horses. Were there any missing? He hadn’t noticed.

He was about to withdraw when he noticed something in the grass about fifty feet away. Shite!

He bolted out the door, down the stairs, out through the kitchen exit to the courtyard, and round the side of the house that his bedroom overlooked. He ran towards the flash of blue he had seen from above and found her lying face down on the ground.

He bent and turned her over gently onto her back. Her face was bloodless, her eyes closed. But she was breathing, with difficulty. Laboured breaths that rattled in her chest.

“Lassie, what have ye done to yerself?” he muttered, picking her up with care and carrying her back to the house.

She struggled a bit, but he just gripped her tighter to his chest and murmured, “dinnae fash yerself. I shan’t hurt ye, lassie.”

She subsided with something gasped out in Chinese.

He laid her back down on his bed, covered her with blankets and went to the window and shut it, frowning at it. Glancing back at her and trusting she wouldn’t venture out of bed again in the next ten minutes, he went in search of a hammer and nails.

He was right: she hadn’t stirred when he returned and nailed the window shut. It’s now a case of protecting the wee lass from herself. She seems determined to kill herself, and I’m having none of that! There’s been enough death in this house.

Assured she could not get out of his room now, he locked the door and went down to the cellar to see if the boys had found her belongings. They had. In fact, they were sitting on the floor looking at them.

Callum had unrolled the portrait of Ming Liang from its tiny case and was looking at it, fascinated, and Rory had found her purse and was counting out the coins.

“Eleven guineas, Cal! It’s a bluidy fortune!” said Rory excitedly. His back was to Col, so he didn’t realise he was there, but Callum did. Rory went on, “Best hide ’em before the old man sees ’em.”

“Too late, lad,” said Col, reaching over his shoulder and snatching up both coins and purse.

Rory sprang to his feet, red-faced. “I found them!”

“They belong to our guest,” said Col mildly.

“Can I just have one? What does she need with all that money?”

“That’s none of your concern, Rory. Are ye a thief now?”

“It’s reiving, nae thievery!” muttered Rory.

“Who taught ye that?” asked Col, gobsmacked.

“Grandpa! He told me about the border reivers.”

“Cattle thieves!” snapped Col, his temper flaring at last.

“I was born in the wrong bluidy century,” muttered Rory.

Col shook his head at him and bent to retrieve the portrait of Ming Liang, its case, and Aihan’s satchel.

“Lawless brigands is what they were, all of ’em. Scots and Sassenachs alike.”

“I thought she was a prisoner, not our guest,” piped up Callum, climbing to his feet.

“Aye well, she’s inhaled a deal of smoke, and it’s damaged her lungs, so she’ll be biding awhile until she’s better.”

“Where is she?” asked Callum, ever the nosy one.

Col flushed faintly. “In my room,” he admitted.

“Oh! Like that, is it?” said Rory, rounding on him. “How dare ye bring a whore into the bed ye shared with Mama!”

This hit Col on the raw so badly, he had to physically restrain himself from clouting Rory.

“She’s nae a whore!” Is she, though? She behaved with the boldness of one, riding me the way she did.

Rory threw him a look of contempt and shouldered past him to the door. Callum frowned and, after a puzzled glance at his father, followed. Col leaned against the bars of Aihan’s erstwhile prison and rubbed his face tiredly. He had let those boys down so badly, and every time he spoke to them it seemed to make bad worse.