Page 18 of To Love a Scottish Lord (Highland Lords #4)

H is tray was brought by Brendan, who didn’t badger him to appear at dinner. Brendan understood, more than most people. Still, he didn’t know everything, and if Hamish had his way, he never would. There were some secrets meant only for dark nights filled with howling winds, or for nightmares.

Hamish closed the shutters against the night, before lighting a small fire in the brazier set against one wall.

He pushed the cannon to the side of the circular chamber before moving the table out into the center, arranging the two chairs, and lighting a succession of candles.

Setting up the board, Hamish wondered if she would appear after all, or simply, and wisely, stay away.

He placed his right hand flat on his chest. Beneath his shirt was a design he knew only too well.

He’d watched as they’d cut into him, refusing to flinch or show any outward expression.

Mary, however, had not looked away. Not once, and he’d been watching her eyes carefully.

She’d appeared interested rather than repulsed, fascinated rather than horror-struck.

The design didn’t stop at the waist, but traveled around his buttocks and down his thighs. Even the soles of his feet had been the target of their knives and needles.

A unique method of torture, and one that was perfect in its execution.

He could almost admire the venal architect of his pain.

He’d never known who it was, had not been able to separate one person from the crowd of captors to blame more than the other.

Even in this, they’d been clever. He wasn’t able to simply hate one man but was forced to hate a group, a task he’d found more difficult than he’d anticipated.

Each needle was tipped with a painful mixture, each inch of the design tattooed on his body represented thousands of tiny pinpricks.

As he was passed from village to village, they’d all had their turn, marking him as if he were no more important than a parcel to be stamped.

He’d realized, early on, that the entire process was designed to dehumanize.

In that, they’d succeeded. For months, he’d simply existed, a creature who knew he was alive, was hungry, felt pain.

He moved to his bed, rearranged the crimson and gold coverlet atop it.

The fabric was a reminder of an earlier time, a better memory than most. A crowded market, an aged vendor, a beautiful length of silk he’d purchased, sent to Brendan’s ship for transport back to Nova Scotia.

His brother had kept it safe, along with a few other trinkets, never realizing that they would become remnants of a former life.

Could a man be born again? Could he live two lifetimes?

Hamish felt as if he’d done it, becoming a different man from the one he’d been reared to be.

Certain physical traits were the same, such as the color of his eyes and hair.

But his voice was different, a rasp when he spoke too long.

A result of screaming for months. He was as tall, but his slenderness was a result of months of near starvation.

The greatest changes were not so easily seen.

He no longer possessed the easy optimism of his youth.

Nor did he accept that tomorrow was guaranteed.

Time itself had become precious to him. His thoughts dwelled not on adventure or the next voyage as much as on his beliefs and what he might expect from himself.

Just like the tattoos on his body, his thoughts had been slowly reshaped, forming a pattern he was still trying to unravel.

He wondered if Mary would come. He needed the company of someone who didn’t know him as he had been, someone who could accept him as he was now. His family and friends didn’t understand that the changes he’d undergone had been to far more than his appearance. He was, simply put, not the same man.

The sound of her shoes on the steps ended the waiting. She was here. Glancing behind him to ensure that all was in readiness, Hamish opened the door.

She’d changed her dress. This one, in the same modest lines, was dark blue. Instead of a kerchief adorning her bodice, however, only a brooch of gold and silver rested at her neck.

“Did your husband design that?” he asked, reaching out to touch the intricate design of silver thistles.

She nodded, smiling lightly.

Do you wear it to remind yourself that you’re a proper widow? A question he decided not to ask. There were some answers he didn’t want to hear.

Mary wasn’t wearing her kersch. The headdress had been left behind with the kerchief.

She was less modest now, the Widow Gilly, but infinitely more approachable.

What would she do if he reached out and took down her bun, uncoiling the braid and spreading her hair over her shoulders?

Would she murmur a soft complaint or bat his hands away with a censorious look?

She remained on the threshold, and he waited patiently for her to come inside. She tilted her head, surveying him wordlessly, and then entered with as much caution as a virgin sacrifice. He let the door swing shut of its own volition, only flattening his hand against it when the latch clicked.

The brazier gave off enough heat to render the room comfortable now that the window and the archers’ slits had been closed against the wind. He took the candle from her, setting it on a small, curved shelf.

“What is that?” she asked, pointing to a brass statue mounted on a heavy pediment of bronze.

“Shiva.”

She looked shocked. “Why would you keep such a thing?”

“Why not?” He fingered the bronze ring that surrounded the figure shown in a stylized dance.

“Lord Shiva is the lord of mercy and compassion, representing the supreme reality that dissolves and recreates the universe. He’s the third deity in the Hindu triad of Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva, and considered the most fearsome of the Hindu gods. ”

He heard his own voice, almost a monotone.

He wouldn’t tell her that it seemed strangely right to have the replica of the god there; its presence was a solid reminder of battles Hamish had won.

There were times, especially in the deep darkness of night, when he needed to recall something good about himself.

“Why is he dancing?” she asked, narrowing her eyes. Shiva’s foot was raised, arched to mimic the same angle as his knee. His hands were likewise as bent as if he were in the midst of a dancing to a tune only he could hear.

He smiled. “Because he represents the source of all movement in the universe.”

“So if he does a jig in India, a wave crashes on the shore in Scotland?”

He chuckled at the derisive expression on her face. She evidently didn’t think much of the Hindu god. “Perhaps.”

“I would think you’d want to forget all about India.”

He sent her an amused look. “Just because a bee stings you, Mary, is no reason to hate all living things.”

She studied him intently. “How can you excuse them?”

“Not easily,” he said. “Or even well. If I’m ever going to forget that time, then I must dispense with my hatred.”

“Can you?”

“I’ve had to work at it, for more hours than I care to admit.”

“I admire you for that. But I don’t think I could.”

He didn’t respond. What could he say to her? His own sins outweighed what the Atavasi had done to him.

“It’s a very cozy place,” she said, looking around his room.

She deliberately didn’t look toward his bed, however.

He’d taken a cot and adjusted it for his height, adding a little more width for comfort.

What he really wanted was a creation of pillows and soft silk sheets, piled high with furs and surrounded by bed curtains of intricately woven wool. But his cot would have to do.

She stared at him with those soft brown eyes of hers, blinking slowly at him as if she could not quite understand where she was or why.

This is a dream, Mary Gilly , he wanted to say.

Anything might happen in this place, in the candlelight, with the sound of the blustery winds just outside the window .

What do you require of me? She might say anything, she with her fingers pressing lightly against her throat as if to measure the pounding of her own blood.

Did her heart beat rapidly in her chest?

Her breathing was quick, her gaze fluttering from his trunk, to the window, to the table.

She would have been wiser to hide what she felt. Hadn’t he learned that it was safer to reveal nothing?

He was a man who’d been pushed beyond his limits. Rules that had once applied to him didn’t seem to matter anymore. They might pertain to other men, but suddenly it didn’t seem that great a sin to lure her to his room. He’d done worse than he did now, standing here immersed in lust.

“Lie with me,” he said softly, reaching out with one hand and brushing his fingers over her cheek. “Let me love you tonight.”

She simply blinked at him, as if not quite understanding the words he’d spoken. In case there was any doubt, he repeated them again. “Let me love you tonight.”

“I’m not willing to go to any lengths to treat you, Hamish,” she said.

An almost humorous rejoinder and one he saluted with his smile. “A pity,” he said. “Think of the patients you’d have if you offered the promise of physical comfort. You might dole it out as a reward.”

“If you take your medicine, I’ll offer a bit of love?”

“It’s not love I want from you.” There, would she flinch from such directness?

She didn’t. She pulled herself up straighter, clasping her hands in front of her. A moment later, she pressed the fingers of both hands inward as if to still her stomach or quiet her breath. She’d passed one trial he’d set for her. Would she pass another?

“I want to feel your skin,” he said softly, moving one step closer to her. He bent his head, breathed in the scent of her. Pressing his lips against her temple, he fingered the brooch at her neck. “I want to taste you.”