Page 2 of The Laird's Wicked Game
Behind him, he heard some of his men call out to the women, and shortly after, the musical sound of feminine laughter carried through the morning air.
Rae did his best to ignore it, even as an odd ache rose in his chest. His men seemed able to make light of things, to laugh and be in the moment, but he couldn’t. Of late, he’d been easily irritated and often found himself entertaining bitter thoughts.
They rode on, approaching the crowd that had gathered to meet the ferry. Then, swinging down from their horses, they waited for the passengers to disembark. Rae’s warriors drew up a few yards back, their gazes curious as they observed the boat.
As he stood there, the pungent smell of smoking herring from the shop a few yards away tickling his nose, Rae did his best to soften his expression.
Jack was right: when Rae’s mood was sour, his face was forbidding. Even his wayward sons quietened under his withering stare. His brother had spoken true about something else as well. Lady Grant had traveled from her late husband’s broch in northern Argyll to reach him; he couldn’t send her away.
No, he’d offered her a position at Dounarwyse, and he’d go through with it, even if his gut told him he was making a mistake.
The ferry was emptying now—men, women, and horses making their way onto the pier.
And there, amongst them, Rae spotted her.
Actually, he saw her sister first. Makenna swept her way up the wooden dock, her cape fluttering behind her. As he recalled from when they’d met at Moy Castle on Mull’s southern coast, the lass wore a surcote that had been split at the sides for ease of movement. She carried a longsword and a dirk at her hip, and a bow and quiver of arrows upon her back.
Kylie Grant followed a few steps behind her self-confident sister. The widow wore a blue-grey surcote over a butter-yellow kirtle. Her oak-colored hair was twisted in a tight braid that crowned her head; it was a prim, severe style, although Rae’s belly tensed as his gaze lingered upon her.
The woman likely didn’t realize it, but that hairstyle, far from making her look like a stern widow, merely highlighted the graceful sweep of her long neck.
One evening at Moy, he’d caught himself staring at that neck, his rod stiffening as he imagined sinking his teeth into her soft pale skin.
Rae checked himself now as his thoughts traveled in the same direction.
The woman had only just stepped off the ferry, and he was having lascivious, depraved thoughts.
This wouldn’t do.
In truth, the offers from those lewd lasses atThe Barnaclehad tempted him more than he’d ever admit to Jack. What would it be like to give himself over to lust, to havetwolovers in his bed?
He started to sweat at the thought.
The only woman he’d ever bedded in his thirty-four years had been his wife, and these days, frustration simmered withinhim like a pot about to boil over. Jack was wrong—he wasn’t a prude. He’d been a painfully shy lad, and a virgin on his wedding night. However, to his disappointment, Donalda had never welcomed his touch, and had only suffered their coupling so her womb would quicken with bairn. If he’d ever tried to bite her neck, she’d have slapped him soundly.
The memory of his passionless marriage brought with it a clutch of familiar guilt, which doused any lusty thoughts, as if someone had just thrown a pail of cold water over him.
And just as well too, for Lady Grant had spied him.
Her full lips curved, and she lifted a hand, waving to him. Next to her, Makenna also saw him and grinned.
“Interesting,” Jack murmured. “The widow travels with a female bodyguard, it seems.”
Rae snorted before casting his brother a sidelong look. “I told ye Lady Grant’s younger sister would accompany her. She serves in her father’s Guard at Meggernie.”
“She does?”
“Aye … and she doesn’t suffer fools either, so I’d keep yer tongue leashed.”
2: TOO LATE FOR REGRETS
DRAGGING IN A lungful of salty air, heavy with the scent of smoking herrings and the less savory odor of rotting fish, Kylie’s belly fluttered with excitement.
A fresh start.As a childless widow, and at the mature age of thirty winters, she’d thought she wouldn’t get such a chance. But then, nearly three months earlier, Rae Maclean had announced he needed someone to take his sons in hand—and Kylie had offered her services.
Following her sister along the dock, and weaving her way through the knots of crab cages and coils of heavy, tarred rope, she tried to ignore the nervousness that accompanied her anticipation. She hoped she’d made the right choice.
Goose … it’s too late for regrets now.