Page 59 of The Laird's Wicked Game
Storm gave another whine and pushed his nose insistently against his master’s thigh, and in response, Rae huffed a bitter laugh. “Ye know I’m lying, don’t ye?” He pulled a face then. “I’m not hiding this well.”
No, Jack wasn’t the only one in his household who’d noticed something was amiss. Both his sons had been unusually quiet at mealtimes, watching their ill-tempered father with worried gazes. No doubt, they thought they’d done something to make him that way. His grumpiness had also made the servants jittery, and he’d caught Kylie giving him a probing look once or twice.
He was miserable—and yet she appeared unmoved. She was different these days though, a little withdrawn.
Rae swallowed and pushed himself off the window ledge. He then moved to the sideboard and poured himself a large cup of plum wine. He never drank this early in the day, but today, he’d make an exception.
Things couldn’t stay as they were.
Something had to be done.
“I must speak to ye, Lady Grant.” The rumble of the laird’s voice made Kylie glance up as she rose from the table. The noon meal had just ended, and around her, the hall was emptying out. Tara had just gotten to her feet and was struggling with wee Grace, who squalled unhappily in her arms. The bairn was getting her first teeth and wasn’t herself.
Meeting Rae’s gaze squarely for what felt like the first time in weeks, she forced a smile, even as her pulse took off. “Aye, Maclean?”
He nodded, his mouth compressing into a stern line. “Join me in my solar shortly.”
And with that, before she could say a word, he moved away from the chieftain’s table and left the hall.
Kylie watched him go, marking the tense set of his shoulders, even as her belly sank.
She’d been waiting for this—the moment that the laird would realize he didn’t want her residing in his broch any longer—but even so, nausea washed over her.
“I won’t join ye in the solar this afternoon, I’m afraid.” Tara cast Kylie an apologetic look as she carried her squalling daughter away. “Grace needs me.”
“It’s no bother,” Kylie called after her. “I might take a rest in my chamber instead.”
The women had fallen into a pleasant routine over the winter, where Tara would leave her daughters with a maid for an hour or two while she and Kylie embroidered, wove, orsewed in the lady’s solar. It was something they both looked forward to—although Tara’s distraction today was a blessing. Kylie wagered that after her meeting with the taciturn laird, she wouldn’t be in the mood.
Instead, she’d be packing her bags.
Heart in her throat, she made her way from the hall, past where the men were donning their sealskin cloaks to venture out into the driving rain once more. The air inside the hall was musty with the odor of wet wool and leather, and despite the rise and fall of voices, Kylie could hear the hiss of rain against the walls.
But it was difficult to pay attention to her surroundings, not when Rae awaited her upstairs.
She climbed the stairs slowly, prolonging the inevitable, and found the solar door ajar when she arrived on the landing. It was clear she was to enter.
Clearing her throat, she pushed open the door. “Maclean?”
Rae turned from where he’d been standing by the hearth, while Storm rushed to her, tail wagging.
“Close the door,” the laird said softly.
Patting Storm’s head with one hand, Kylie pushed the door closed behind her with the other. “Ye wished to talk to me?”
He nodded, his face the most severe she’d ever seen it.
Mother Mary, hewasgoing to dismiss her.
Her heart started to kick against her ribs then, panic bubbling up. Curse her, she’d really made a mess of her new start. Dounarwyse felt like home these days, but it wouldn’t for much longer—and she only had herself to blame. She’d let lust addle her wits and cloud her judgment. Rae had enjoyed their game, but now her presence here clearly chafed him. He didn’t like that she hadn’t wished to continue. Like most men, he liked to be the one in charge.
“I can’t go on like this.”
She started to sweat, even as her mouth went dry. “Excuse me?”
He moved toward her, halting when they stood around three feet apart. Meanwhile, Storm sat down between them. The dog had gone still; he’d even stopped wagging his tail, as if he sensed the gathering tension in the solar.
“I’m miserable,” he said roughly. “Every morning, when I wake up, I have a blessed moment of relief before it feels as if a mule has just kicked me in the guts. I then force myself to go about my day … but all I can think about … isye. We’re worse than strangers now, lass, and I hate it. This longing is killing me. I—”