Page 19 of Forge of the Highlander’s Destiny

T he next morning, Cohen was awake when the sun was streaming through his window.

He’d barely slept the night before, knowing that he’d acted like an idiot and that Arya was laying naked in a bed only a few doors away.

He could still see her in his mind as he put his hands behind his head and stared up at the ceiling.

He was holding back, and he knew it was because his heart had become even more entwined with her. He was feeling far more than he expected to, far more than he expected to feel about anyone. Closing his eyes, he wished that he could fall asleep again and forget everything.

Before his abduction by Laird Muir, his life had been mostly uncomplicated. There were always clan matters to deal with, and the growing threat from the English and from other clans, but other than that, he’d had no large problems. That was why he hadn’t married.

He wanted a life of focus and determination.

Strength, power, responsibility, those were the ways of a good laird.

He had so many people depending on him, including his men and his clanspeople residing in the nearby villages.

If he fell in love with someone, he knew and had always known deep down, that she would become his entire world. His entire focus.

Arya Donaldson was getting dangerously close, and no matter how hard he tried to push her from his mind and remind himself that she was leaving for a new life, he couldn’t do it.

And now it even hurt to think of her leaving.

She seemed to belong here, to fit in in a way that no one else did.

Even Sienna had seemed sort of out of place on her visit compared to Arya.

“Shite,” he muttered as he wiped a hand across his face, scratching his growing beard. He would need a bit of a shave, he thought, before he faced the day again and faced Arya. What was he going to tell her if she asked him again to be with her, and he refused?

I find ye intoxicatin’, so much so, Lass, and I cannae bed ye or else I will fall in love with ye.

Or perhaps—

I cannae have yer lovely hands on me skin or ye will tear me to pieces, and then ye’ll be gone.

He growled at his reflection as he leaned over the basin of water on his washstand.

Splashing a bit of nearly freezing water on his face, he shivered as he reached for a towel.

None of those idiotic statements would work, no matter if they were true.

He didn’t want to look like a fool in front of her, and she certainly had more ideas about her future life than getting trapped into a marriage with a laird just like her father.

She could have anything, and he’d be damned if he’d get in the way. He took up a small cloth and began to scrub at his bare chest and under his arms, scrubbing a little too hard in his frustration. It was bloody cold, and he was in a miserable mood.

A mood that would be lightened by the sight of Arya’s face at breakfast.

Or the feel of her lips.

“Quiet,” he grumbled to his inner voice and stalked to the door. He needed hot water for a shave, and it was time for clean clothes to be brought. He opened the door only to see his manservant standing there with a kettle in hand and fresh clothes hung over his arm.

“Me Laird, just in time,” the young man smiled. “I have brought ye warm water for a shave and then here are the clothes I just finished cleaning.”

Cohen nodded and let him in to go to the basin. He poured the cold water out of the window and filled it with warm water. He then laid the clean clothes on the bed, including a kilt.

“Thank ye, Lad,” Cohen said.

“’Tis nay trouble,” the man said before leaving. Cohen moved to the warm basin and mixed his shaving soap. Many other lairds had taken to getting valets, as Englishmen were wont, but Cohen didn’t understand that.

He clipped the sides of the beard with a sharp knife while it was still dry, and then put the soap on his face and flipped open the razor.

Leaning his neck back, he began to shave.

It cleared his mind and calmed his thoughts.

He only wanted to clean up the beard, not shave it off completely, and when he was done, he looked at himself again, trying to think of battlefields and nighttime attacks and clan meetings, anything to give himself the courage to go downstairs again.

He dressed and finally left the room, cursing his nervousness the whole way.

Was he always going to be afraid of her?

Or at least afraid of her and what she could do to his heart until she left?

Moving quickly down the steps, he was afraid to stop unless he turned back around and went upstairs again.

Twice now he had been with Arya and pleasured her with his hands and his mouth, kissing and touching her, and last night, he’d seen her completely bare before him.

She offered herself to him and even asked if she could please him too.

The thought of her small hand around his length, rubbing up and down and then her legs opening to take him deep inside her was enough to slow his pace before he reached the great hall doors.

“Damn,” he muttered before opening them to see Arya already sitting down and eating. She turned to him with a smile.

“Och, good mornin’ to ye. Sorry, I thought I would start without ye since I didnae ken when ye would be awake.”

Cohen’s heart ached with happiness when he saw her sitting there at the table, a knife and fork in hand, smiling at him as if happy to see him. It looked like a scene he wanted to look upon for the rest of his life. And he knew that he’d fallen in love with her. It was beyond him now.

“Nay trouble, Lass. Good mornin’ to ye.” He grinned, walking toward her when a servant called to him.

“Me Laird, a message. Just come this morning from a rider. Foreign colors. Didnae ken ‘em.” Frowning, Cohen took up the letter. He glanced over at Arya, who was watching him earnestly, and he knew what they were both thinking.

Laird Muir.

He ripped open the letter, and his heart sank to the pit of his stomach that he had been right.

He moved to sit down next to Arya, and he read aloud,

Laird Sinclair,

Me hearty congratulations on yer escape.

I had nae idea about the penetrability of me walls, but now they have been tended to.

I have heard that me daughter was yer rescuer, and that ye have her with ye now.

Ye may have yer fun with her now, but I swear to ye that she is of more value to me than to ye.

Ye will bring her back to me, or there will be war.

I willnae stop until I have me daughter back in me possession.

Ye have five days to decide before I march me men.

Laird Muir

Cohen felt sick as he looked at Arya’s pale face. The silverware in her hands had clanged down to the table, and she looked like she was on the verge of tears.

“Possession,” she said, her voice thick with pain.

“That is what he thinks of me.” She stood, and Cohen could tell a tear had slipped down her cheek because she raised the back of her hand to wipe it away.

Her face was turned away, but he knew, and he wished that he could tear her father limb from limb.

“Let him come, the bastard,” Cohen said. “Me men will tear him to shreds.”

Arya stood and shook her head. “Nay, I couldnae ask that of ye. I couldnae ask that of yer men. What am I to them? What am I to ye?”

So many things.

She slid out from behind the chair, and he rose to his feet, afraid of her walking away. She said, “I will leave ye and ready meself at once. I will ride, and ye may tell him that I have gone. He willnae need to come for ye, then.”

She gave him a quick nod and started to walk away, when he reached out to grab her wrist before his mind caught up with what he was doing.

“There is another solution, Lass, but I daenae ken that ye will like it. However, it will keep ye safe, and it will keep yer faither from me lands.”

“What is it?” she asked, her lovely face tilted up toward him, her blue eyes moist with unshed tears.

He kept his grip on her wrist and stared deep into her eyes as he said, “Marriage.”

Arya froze. She kept her gaze on Cohen long after he’d said the words. “Marriage?” she asked, her voice almost hoarse. “Ye must be jokin’. Surely ye daenae mean that.”

“I mean it.” His grip tightened on her wrist, and he pulled her closer, making her heart thump faster.

“Listen. Just for a moment.” He dropped her wrist, making her feel suddenly cold.

But he did not move away. His eyes were bright with energy.

“If ye marry me, then yer faither nay longer has any claim on ye. He can dae nothin’, and ye can remain here safe and dae as ye please.

He can also nae wage war, since ye are nay longer ‘his’. ”

“But I am yers?” she asked, her voice light, her heart open and waiting.

He swallowed, clenching his jaw. She turned away, knowing that he was uncomfortable with the question.

She too was uncomfortable with the answer.

Hadn’t she sworn never to trust a man? Never to come under the control of one?

And now here she was, moving from one sort of power relationship into another.

“I wouldnae consider ye a possession if that is what ye are askin’,” he replied.

“Ye would be my wife and free to dae as ye like. That is all. I mean only to keep ye safe.” He reached for her hand and lifted it to his lips.

A pleasant shiver rolled through her as she felt his lips on her skin.

It was exactly what she wanted to hear and to hear from him.

“Think on it.” He chewed on the inside of his cheek for a few seconds. “Meet me. On the battlements. This afternoon. In two hours. We can discuss it then.”

“The battlements. What will happen there?” she asked innocently, but he shook his head with a grin.