Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

A ihan woke the next morning in the yellow room he had moved her into, feeling much better. She was still sad, still angry, but she was stronger. Her head felt clearer, her throat less raw, and her lungs less congested.

The urgency to leave, now that the Shaolin had left without her, was gone. Yes, she needed to discover what had happened to Liang, but she could afford to wait until she got her strength back now. And she could spend her time learning as much as she could from Mac. He had invited her to use his given name, Col, but her tongue couldn’t get round the foreign ‘l’ sound, so she resorted to thinking of him as Mac, It was easier.

She couldn’t deny that he had taken very good care of her. Even though she was angry with him for keeping her here, from preventing her from returning to the Shaolin and going home, she was conscious of a certain gratitude. He had saved her life, after all.

He was fascinated with her, too. He wanted her as a man wants a woman—that searing kiss in the cell had told her that. Why he fled from her, why he was so angry with her, she didn’t know. But he wanted her, and she could use that. Her body pulsed with the memory of rubbing herself on his generous manhood. She had to admit the prospect of letting him bed her was an attractive one.

If she spent a little time here, learning the language and customs of this foreign land, it would help her when she was ready to go look for her brother. Liang had taught her the importance of preparation for any endeavour. A woman alone was vulnerable in any environment, even with her skills. In a foreign land with neither money nor resources, when she looked so different, without being able to speak the language or understand how to get along, it would be dangerous and foolhardy.

She would bide her time, learn all she could, and gather her resources. Then she would go. She suspected that Mac hadn’t told her all he had discovered about Liang in any case. Whether that was a deliberate omission or just because of the language barrier between them, she didn’t know. But she would do everything she could to learn his barbaric language so that she could discover the truth. And she would use every weapon in her arsenal to bend him to her will.

A knock at the door jerked her out of her thoughts and she called, “Come in,” in her own language.

The door opened, and Mac stood there with a large metal tub in his hands.

“Bath,” he said, holding it out, and when she nodded her comprehension, he set it down by the hearth. Then he said, “Water,” with a pouring motion into the tub, and she nodded again and smiled. A bath would be very welcome. “Thank ye,” she said, clasping her hands and bowing from the waist in gratitude.

She stayed in the bed while Mac and the boys, whom she concluded by the resemblance were his sons, plus a younger lad and an older man, all filed in with buckets and filled the tub for her.

The boys stared at her much as they had done when she was in the cell. The redheaded one had brown dots on his skin like his father, as did the other lad with the tow-coloured hair. It seemed it was a common look in these parts.

Mac left her soap and towels and shut the door, opening it again a moment later to say, “Breakfast, downstairs.” His gestures made his meaning clear, and she filed away all these words for later use. It was a good thing she had an excellent memory. He shut the door again, and she ventured out to strip and step into the hot water. It was so wonderful she groaned, lying back in the water and letting the heat seep into her bones. After she had washed her hair and soaped herself all over and rinsed it off, she stepped out of the now-cooling water to dry herself off and discovered Mac had left her more than the towels and soap.

A brush and comb for her hair and a gown lay under the towels. The gown was one of the strange high-waisted ones she had seen the other women in this place wearing. It was made of a fine wool fabric in a pretty shade of sky blue and had long sleeves. She measured the gown against herself and found that the length reached to the ground. She would need to lift the hem when she walked to avoid tripping. Really very impractical compared with her sensible trousers, but warmer, she suspected, for this climate.

With the gown was an under-skirt and what she assumed must be another undergarment, a simple cotton sheath dress. There was another weird contraption with lacings that looked very uncomfortable. She wasn’t going to put that on! And under it all was a pretty, cream cashmere shawl, with embroidered roses round the outer edge. As she picked up the shawl, something heavy fell out of it onto the floor. Bending, she saw that it was her little knife. She had dropped it when Mac captured her and thought it lost. He must have found it. Her fist closed round the little ivory-handled knife, tears pricking her eyes. It had been a gift from Liang for her fifteenth birthday. Nice of Mac to give it back to her.

She got herself into the strange clothes and did her best to lace up the gown so that it didn’t fall off her shoulders. The front of it was a bit baggy; it was clearly made for a woman with larger breasts than she had. She had seen no women in this house, so she concluded that whomever these garments belonged to was no longer here. Which might account for Mac’s air of sorrow.

Dressed and wearing her boots, she headed for the door to venture downstairs in search of the “breakfast” Mac had promised. She was famished.

She reached the ground floor and followed the sound of voices to a room containing a large table at which the entire male contingent of the house were seated. She wondered again at the absence of servants in a lord’s house. He was clearly impoverished, which the worn state of the house and furniture supported. The whole place needed female attention.

When she entered the room, Mac, who was seated at the head of the table and facing the door, rose to his feet and coughed. The other males stopped talking and, after a moment, rose too. This was clearly a courtesy paid to females in this country. Nice. She smiled and, holding up her too-long skirt carefully, came towards the chair on Mac’s left hand that had been set for her. The older man sat at the foot of the table and Mac’s boys sat opposite her, with the other young one beside her.

“Aihan,” said Mac, gesturing to the other males. “This is Rory, Callum, Fergus, and Willy.” He indicated each of them in turn. She smiled and bowed to them with her hands clasped politely, and they bowed back, but without the hand gesture. She took note of this and all their names. There was a lot to learn. Mac held her chair, and she sat, and he pushed it in for her. Another courtesy, she noted, was that the males only sat once she was seated.

Mac waved at the food, and she helped herself to the “parritch.” She was glad to see more of the crumbly offal mixture. She liked that, what was it called? Haggis.

She filled her bowl and began to eat, then became aware that the men had been silent since she had entered the room. The boys were staring at her, and even the older man was stealing looks at her under his bushy eyebrows. She lowered her eyes and kept eating. Mac growled something at the rest of them, and they resumed eating. But her presence seemed to have stifled conversation.

After a bit, Mac leaned towards her and said quietly, with a gesture to his chest and throat, “Better?”

She nodded, swallowing her mouthful. “Aye, thank ye.”

At the sound of her voice the others all looked up from their plates and the dark-haired boy said, “She can speak English?” English, that was their language. She knew that from Liang.

“She’s learning,” said Mac. “She is a quick study,” he added. The words didn’t quite make sense, but she divined a compliment in them somewhere.

The dark-haired boy uttered a “Humph!” noise and then said, “Are ye a whore ?” She didn’t know what a whore was, but the word made Mac roar at him.

The language Mac used to address the boy was not like the language he had been using to speak to her, and she understood not a word, yet she knew Mac was very angry with his son. The boy flushed bright red with equal fury and stood up, flung down his spoon, and marched out of the room.

Mac bolted after him and the rest of them stayed put at the table. The older man, Fergus, said, “I’m sorry, Lassie, the lad is might trína chéile .”

She blinked at the strange words and just nodded.

A few minutes later Mac came back, leading a tearful, red-faced Rory, and shoved him in front of her. “Apologise!”

“I’m sorry, Miss,” he said. looking at his boots.

Recognising the intent but not knowing the right words to respond, she inclined her head in a nod with hands clasped and said, “Thank ye.”

Clearly a whore was something uncomplimentary. She suspected she knew what it was, but she would ask Mac later.

Rory sat back down gingerly, and she realised Mac must have punished him. She felt some sympathy. Liang had punished her and Caishen for transgressions in their youth. It had hurt, but they had learned and not done it again. It was interesting how much power women had here; Mac was keen to ensure she was shown respect by all the males in this house. She could certainly use that to her advantage.

When the meal was finished, the older man began clearing away the bowls and food remnants, which shocked her. Age in her culture was treated with the utmost respect. She immediately went to help him. The young boy Willy also helped.

Fergus said, “Thank ye, lass.” He led the way to the kitchens, and she could immediately see what she could do to help. She seized an apron from the hook on the wall, put it on, and set about washing the dishes. Fergus disappeared into what was obviously the pantry, coming out with a pile of vegetables.

She nodded to him. “Ye are Mac’s father?” she asked, digging into the meagre store of words she knew.

“Nae, lass.” He grinned, showing crooked teeth. “The old man is dead, these five years gone.”

She sorted that out in her mind as she scrubbed a dirty pot.

Mac appeared in the doorway then. “Ye got her working, Fergus?”

“Nae, milord, she did that all herself.”

Mac approached her. “Aihan, ye don’t have to—” he gestured at the sink full of dirty dishes.

“I want to help,” she said, making an effort to pronounce the words she knew as clearly as possible. She was beginning to get an ear for the accent these people used to speak their English.

Mac paused a moment, then smiled and gave her one of her bows with the clasped hands back. “Thank ye.”

“Don’t let her work too hard, Fergus, she is not at full strength yet. Aihan,” he said, turning back to her, “come to my study when you are finished. Fergus, show her where to come?” The words washed over her, she was catching more and more meaning from them. It wouldn’t be long before she was communicating much more easily.

An hour later she made her way to Mac’s “study” with Fergus’ help. Entering the room, she found him seated at a large desk, the dogs by the fire sleeping. A bay window at the front of the room provided a view of the approach to the house. The room was lined with bookcases, stuffed with books, and there was a portrait of a lovely woman and two children above the fireplace. The woman had long dark hair, and she thought she could detect some resemblance between the children and the boys, Rory and Ca’um. Was this the owner of the dress she was wearing? Mac’s wife? And if so, what had happened to her? The most likely answer was that she had died, which would account for his sorrowful air.

Mac had a big ledger open and a pen in his hand, but when she came in, he looked up and put it down. He smiled at the sight of her, rising and coming round the desk to greet her. He had shaved this morning and tidied his long red hair back into a queue. He was more dressed than she had seen him before, too, with a neckcloth and waistcoat beneath his dun-coloured jacket. He wore buckskin breeches and boots, and despite the unfamiliar style of his clothing, he exuded a masculine energy that tugged at the place between her legs with an enticing pulse.

Seducing this hulking great Scot was going to be neither difficult nor a chore.

“Aihan,” he drew her into the room with a gentle hand and indicated one of the chairs drawn up to the fire. She sat and he took the other. Leaning forward, he spoke slowly with gestures to try to make his meaning clear. “I want ye to know, I am sorry. That yer ship has gone without ye. I feel responsible for ye now. Ye have a home here as long as ye want it. Ye ken?”

She nodded. “Aye. Thank ye.”

“Will ye stay, at least until ye are better?”

She smiled. This was so easy. He was offering her everything she wanted. “Thank ye.” She bowed, hands clasped.

“Good.” His shoulders relaxed, and he smiled. His strange features were becoming more attractive to her as she grew accustomed to them. His large, open blue eyes gave her a mirror into his heart. Was he aware of how transparent he was? How much he wore his heart on his sleeve?

“I want to learn Eng’ish!” she said. “Ye teach me?”

“Gladly, lass, and the Gaelic if ye’ve a mind.”

“Gah’ic?”

“Aye, that’s my native language.” He waved. “The local language of the Scots. I’m Scots, ye ken?”

“Ken,” she said, nodding. “Scots,” she added. “Ye’re Scots.”

He grinned. “Ye’re quick, lass.”

“What is whore ?” she asked.

He frowned at that. “It’s nae a nice word to apply to a woman. Ye’re a woman, ye ken. I’m a man.” He tapped his chest.

“Woman.” She tapped her breast. “Man.” She tapped his knee. “Whore?” She queried again.

“A prostitute. A woman who sleeps with a man for money.” His gestures made his meaning clear.

“Ah! Jìnǚ!” she nodded. As I thought.

She pointed to the portrait. “Who is she?”

A shadow fell across his face as he looked at the portrait, and his expression softened into longing and pain. “My wife, Catriona.” He linked his fingers. “My wife, ye ken?”

She nodded. “Wife.” She touched his knee gently. “She die?”

“Aye. Six years gone.”

Aihan’s heart leapt and pulsed with a sympathetic ache at the patent sorrow in his tone and expression. He must have loved this woman very much.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured.

“Aye, thank ye,” he said with a shake of his head.

She gestured to the portrait. “Sons, Rory, Ca’um?”

“Aye, they miss her too.”

She nodded. The boys need a mother. Mac needs a lover. The house needs cleaning. Perfect. She would start with the house. She rose to her feet, which drew Mac to his feet also. She didn’t miss the bulge in his breeches. An answering pulse tugged between her legs. “I clean, you teach,” she said, firmly repressing her desire to reach out and touch him. She would leave that until his need of her was so strong it would overwhelm his reason. It shouldn’t take long. He was ripe already. And so was she.

He stared at her a moment, an expression in his eyes she couldn’t interpret. Then he did something that startled her. He took her hand and kissed it. “Thank ye, lass.” The jolt of his touch made her catch her breath. Yes, soon. Very soon.

She bowed her head in acknowledgement and left the room to go in search of cleaning cloths and a bucket.

Col watched her leave with a strange ache in his chest and a hot bloom in his breeches. There was something about her that cut to the quick of him. She looked fragile, yet she was as tough as leather boots and strong as tempered steel. He’d been plagued again last night by a rush of desire that wouldn’t be denied. Fortunately, he was alone and could assuage it with his hand. It left him wrung out and wanting. For the first time since Cat passed, he wanted physical touch with a ravening hunger that scared him witless.

When Aihan touched his knee just now, his cock had stiffened like a poker in his breeches. Her clean scent, with a hint of lavender from the soap he’d left her, curled into his blood and made it course hot and heavy in his veins. He couldn’t pretend to himself he didn’t want her, fiercely. Equally, he couldn’t pretend he wasn’t glad she was staying. He’d promised himself if she chose to go, he wouldn’t try to stop her. But he acknowledged he’d have been hard-pressed not to.

He’d walloped Rory for his whore comment, but if he was honest, he was thinking of making her one with his lewd desire. His leman, anyway, for as long as she’d stay. Taking her to bed and assuaging his hunger. Making her feel good. He swallowed the saliva in his mouth at the notion and groaned aloud. Fuck, he was a mess! He turned to look up at Cat’s portrait. “I’m sorry, love,” he whispered.

Her warm dark eyes smiled down at him. The artist had captured her luminous beauty, her creamy skin, and her dark wavy hair that fell like a curtain round her shoulders in bed and enveloped them both. Her luscious lips and enchanting smile. How could he think of anyone but her?

Could any two women be more different? Cat was small of stature too, but much more sturdily built, with generous curves and a ripe, luscious beauty that had felled him practically on sight. There was nothing fragile about Cat; she had dominated a room with her graceful presence, her sunny laughter, and her peaceful demeanour.

And yet—there were similarities. Both were strong women, physically and emotionally. Both were practical and hardworking. And both pulled at him with a desire that threatened to bring him to his knees. He sat down abruptly, those knees giving out as he contemplated just how strong his attraction towards the tiny Chinese lass was. He didn’t want to admit it, but it was stronger than anything he’d felt for Cat. But surely that was just the effect of abstinence? I’ve been without so long . . . .

He closed his eyes and breathed, trying to beat back the waves of desire battering at him. It was no use: He had to do something about it, or he couldn’t function sensibly. He got up, locked the door, and sat down again to take himself in hand and fix it, for the moment at least.