Page 70 of The Highlander's Virgin Widow
He had promised himself to never get married, and for the past few years, he had managed to succeed in that regard. His mission in this aspect had been simple. He could bed a lot of women, and all he had to do was not fall in love with them. It was a simple method, and it had never failed him.
Until now. Untilher.
He drove the blade into the wood, splitting the log in only two strikes this time. He couldn’t tell if this was working or not, but he was certain that he wasn’t done cutting logs.
He dropped the axe and walked to the pile of wood for another log. He made sure to pick a sturdier one this time.
“M’Laird?” The familiar voice had come from his left.
His eyes snapped up, and he could see his man-at-arms running toward him, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword and the other flailing back and forth.
“Rory?” he called, watching him approach as sweat trickled down his brow and into his eyes.
“M’Laird, what are ye doing? We have men for this,” Rory pointed out, a mixture of concern and utter confusion in his voice.
“I wanted to do it,” Evander explained, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
He could tell Rory wanted to say something else in that regard, but something on his face must have frozen all the words in his mouth.
Rory shuffled his legs and watched Evander place the log in the right place, then reach for the axe.
“What I wanted to tell ye this morning? What ye said could wait?” he started.
“Aye,” Evander muttered, lifting his axe.
“I wanted to tell ye—” Rory broke off as the sound of shattering wood rent the air. “I wanted to tell ye that the other Lairds had arrived and were currently in the village.”
Evander wiped the sweat off his face and leaned on the axe, before turning to him. “The other Lairds?”
“The ones ye asked me to send invites to. Laird Marsden, Laird MacKimmon, Laird MacDonnell, Laird MacLiddell and Laird MacGunn. They intend to visit the castle by morning tomorrow.”
Evander nodded. “That is quite fair. I dinnae think I will have the energy to attend to them anyway.”
“Do ye need me to do anything for ye?” Rory asked, his voice soft and filled with severe calmness.
Evander tightened his grip on his axe. “Nay. I’m all well and good here,” he grunted.
“Och. I understand, M’Laird. I just dinnae think?—”
Evander ignored him and swung the axe against the heavy log of wood that rested strangely against where he had securely placed it. Rory swallowed thickly, his throat bobbing. Evander raised the axe again and brought it down on the log, ripping it in half.
He could feel the gaze of his man-at-arms burn holes into the side of his head. There was something else. Something Rory wasn’t saying. Something that, under normal circumstances, Evander would have pried out of his mouth.
But he couldn’t be less bothered at this moment. He said nothing and watched Rory continue to study him, study the routine inwhich he had placed himself. He must have cut at least seven or eight logs, and save for the way his face glistened with sweat, he was nowhere near tired.
Ye did this to me.
The words almost formed on the tip of his tongue.
Rory shuffled his feet as Evander grabbed another log and secured it in place.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Huh?”
“What more do ye have to say? Why are ye still standing there?”
Rory shifted his weight from one foot to another. “I thought we could pay them a visit—the Lairds, at least, before they arrive tomorrow. We dinnae want them to come unprepared.”
