Page 45 of The Laird's Unwanted Wife
Gerald made his way down the hall, doing his best to keep himself calm. Even that brief moment of contact had drawn out such a ferocious urge, one that wanted to take Aileen into his arms and do far more than simply caress her.
Something within him desired to fully understand her, explore every inch of her, and more. Just the touch of her soft hands was enough to make him hard; thankfully, he’d managed to leave the room quickly enough.
He took the corner a bit too quickly, nearly crashing headlong into Ms. Blair. The older woman let out a disgruntled breath, an armful of dirtied laundry tumbling out from her arms as she just managed to catch her balance against the wall. “Oh, me Laird. I do wish ye’d nae rush about the castle like that. I’m far too old to keep meself upright against ye.”
Gerald managed a mumble of an apology, bending on his knee to quickly collect the clothes. He held Aileen’s gown upright, unable to stop himself from staring a touch longer than he probably should have. But, eventually, he gave it a neat fold and returned it to his housekeeper, alongside the rest of the laundry he’d knocked out of her hand.
“If I may, me Laird?” Ms. Blair asked.
To this, Gerald simply chuckled. “I daenae think even I could stop ye from speakin’ yer piece.”
Ms. Blair shifted the folded clothes back into her arm, something gentle managing to slip through decades of hardened lines. “The new lady seems very eager to please ye. Traditionally, it would fall to her to manage the keep as I have for all these years. Yet, I havenae had the pleasure of meeting with her to discuss the transition of responsibility.”
Gerald blinked, genuinely surprised. Had Aileen really not taken up the mantle as lady of the house?
“I suspect, perhaps, that she doesnae wish to step on yer rule, as it were,” Ms. Blair went on. “It may be in yer best interest to sit her down and speak with her. Clarify what ye’d like her to be contributing to yer … relationship.”
She might as well have waved a massive flag in his face. “Why does it nae surprise me that ye’re so keenly in tune with me personal business?” Gerald asked.
“It’s the makings of a good housekeeper to ken what occurs in her domicile,” Ms. Blair replied matter-of-factly. “And to ken when a valuable asset isnae being utilized. I’m sure the new lady would appreciate yer blessing, me Laird. For clarification.”
She added the last of her sentence with such a knowing look. Gerald shook his head with a sigh, rubbing the back of his stiffened neck. “I daenae ken when the opportunity will arrive to do so, admittedly. The defense of the castle is the top priority right now. I’m certain ye understand that.”
Ms. Blair offered a somewhat apologetic curtsy. “Of course, me Laird, and we all are grateful to yer dedication. I ask only that, perhaps, if an opportunity arises, that ye take it.”
Again with the knowing look. “I’ll take it under consideration, Ms. Blair.”
Another curtsy from Ms. Blair. “That’s all I can ever ask for, me Laird.”
24
On the third day of preparations, Gerald found himself inspecting the upper walls of the main gate when the lookout sounded the horn for incoming targets. He was quick to grab a nearby longbow and position himself along the edge, pulling the string back as he waited for the spotter’s go-ahead signal.
“Bold of ye to attack head-on, Carswell,” he growled, a plume of foggy breath escaping his lips. Finally, the unease that had permeated his castle would be put to rest with one, well-placed shot.
Distance didn’t mean much in the wintry north, as the sheer white landscape would cause any oncoming rider to stand out amidst the horizon. Even now, Gerald could follow what looked to be a small band of horses making their way from the south, his arm remaining stiff as he kept the longbow trained at the forward rider.
Then, when he could finally make out the proper shape of the stranger’s horse, he fired a warning shot, an arrow burying in the snow mere feet away. As expected, the beast snorted in slight panic, rearing back and away from the perceived threat.
Unexpectedly, a chorus of howls sounded soon after, with what looked to be a dozen or so hounds of war suddenly appearing from the back lines. Gerald immediately relaxed his hold on the bowstring, his feet starting for the staircase as he hurried down to the main gate. “Hold yer fire! It’s nae Carswell who approaches.”
His men quickly obeyed, lowering their weapons as the rider drew closer. Of course, it wasn’t Carswell. The man could barely control his own warriors, let alone train deerhounds to such an extensive degree. Gerald only knew of one clan whose prowess for hounds matched the sight below, and as he waved a hand to his men to raise the gates, Laird MacDonnell himself came through, riding on the back of a powerful-looking palomino.
“Gerald, ye bampot! Ye lookin’ to take me other eye?” Laird MacDonnell’s scolding was somewhat ruined by the smirk drawn across his face.
“Ye’d finally be symmetrical, I suppose,” Gerald mused, his own stoic look breaking as the Laird offered his arm forward. He embraced it tightly, finally offering a slight grin of his own at Laird MacDonnell’s cheery expression. “Welcome back to MacLiddel, Arthur. Though yer timing’s absolutely awful. I’m preparin’ to take on Carswell in a matter of days.”
Arthur let out a low whistle, pulling his arm back as he ran a hand through his hair. “What will ye do to tick them off? Breathe too loudly in front of him?”
Truly, that might as well have been the reason. A silver-dappled horse soon joined the pair, a woman bundled in a heavy cloak sliding off her saddle. She pushed her hood back to reveal a head of auburn curls, tumbling well past her shoulders like bundles of silk ribbons.
“Arthur!” She had her own bow strung against her back, her hand already moving to free it and take aim. Gerald couldn’t help but be impressed at the sight. It wasn’t often that he met such aggression from a woman.
“It’s all right, selkie,” Arthur assured the woman, who gave a rather cross glare Gerald’s way. “The Laird’s expecting enemies, nae friends. Besides,” he added with a wink—though, with the eyepatch, it read more as him simply blinking—“Gerald couldnae hit the broad side of a stag. Awful aim, this one.”
“Says the one missin’ half his vision,” Gerald replied matter-of-factly.
Arthur’s laughter was boisterous, far more so than Gerald had heard in quite some time. Selkie didn’t seem quite as tickled, though her frown was now a mix of apology and concern. “Ah, right. Gerald, it’s me betrothed, Olivia MacLarsen, only daughter of the late Laird MacCulloh.”
