The Beast of Aros Castle (Highland Isles) Page 8

  She felt Mairi’s gaze and met it. “Ye ran away?” Mairi asked.

  Ava nodded. “In a way.”

  “That’s why ye refused to go back when Tor told ye he didn’t want ye?”

  The reminder made Ava’s cheeks heat. Were others talking about her? The bride that wasn’t wanted? “Yes.”

  Mairi set the kitten down on the swept barn floor, and it scampered off toward several other kittens in a dark corner. “Is someone hurting you? Threatening you?” Ava asked, her voice just barely above a breath.

  Mairi straightened, swinging around toward the barn doors. “’Tis an injury from lifting a heavy kettle,” she replied and slapped at her skirts to knock off cat hair. “Ma will be wondering where I am,” she said and strode out before Ava could say anything else.

  Something was wrong at Kilchoan, but without Mairi saying what, it was just phantom suspicion. Should she say something to Tor? All she knew was that Mairi didn’t want to go back, and she had a bruise on her wrist.

  Ava leaned into the stall door as old memories surfaced like ghosts in her mind. At Somerset, she had kept Vincent’s chase a secret from everyone, even Grace. She’d hidden the bruises around her wrists where he had grabbed her from hiding places, stealing a brutal kiss before she’d wrenched free. Ava absently rubbed her wrist where the scars lay much deeper than skin.

  She left the cozy barn, rounding the corner to a spot on the backside where she could hear the river better. She wasn’t ready to go back inside where she had to watch everything she did and said. The stars blinked into sight in the darkening sky above. It reminded her of hiding in the Somerset gardens, her heart thudding with fear that Vincent would make good on his threats to rape her.

  The sound of pebbles crunching under footfalls entered the barn. Ava held her breath, her hand flat over her thumping heart. But Vincent Ellington wasn’t here on Mull. He was leagues away. Ava leaned back against the stone wall as the footfalls exited the barn.

  “So, creeping around the castle at night isn’t enough for ye,” Tor said, stepping round the side. “Ye’ve expanded the habit to the outdoors.”

  Ava’s tight stomach unclenched at Tor’s voice. Odd that his presence would calm her, a man called Beast. “The stars caught my attention,” she said.

  In the darkness, Tor was a tall, broad shadow that walked with slow confidence toward her. He turned his back to the wall, leaning against it next to her. She felt his arm brush hers, the warmth of it penetrating the light material of her sleeve. He tipped his chin up.

  “They are bright this eve,” he said, his voice a soft rumble. They remained side by side for several minutes. “My da used to take me out at night in his fishing boat. On the water, there are no trees to block the view or woodsmoke to dim their brightness. When I was a lad, I felt that I could reach out and pluck a star out of the air.”

  “Sounds perfect,” Ava whispered. Self-pity clenched her heart. Her childhood, hiding in the nursery, waiting for the countess, Marjorie Ellington, to offer her a sad smile and kiss, had been very different. Ava breathed in and out to dispel the weak feeling. Self-pity didn’t lead to anything good. “You must miss him.”

  “Aye. He died from illness. I know he despised it. He’d rather have died fighting an enemy.”

  “English enemy,” Ava said and turned her head to Tor’s strong profile.

  “He had English associates, like your father, Lord Somerset. But aye, he’d rather have died taking a few of Henry’s soldiers with him.”

  Ava had no fond memories of her father, since both of her parents had perished soon after she was born. She leaned her side against the barn so that she faced Tor. “I’d like to see the stars from a boat sometime.”

  He stared down through the darkness at her, and she felt him draw closer. She shivered as the night breeze blew. “Ye’re cold,” he said.

  “You’re warm,” she whispered. She wouldn’t throw herself at him again, no matter how his strength and protection drew her in. But she didn’t have to.

  Tor’s arms closed around her, pulling her body against his. Instinct drew Ava’s face upward as Tor’s lips met hers. The kiss was full of languid warmth, a mutual taste that kicked her heart into pounding. Power, held in check, rode under the pressure of his mouth on hers. Ava pressed into it, seeking, wanting something…she wasn’t sure what, but something she’d never had before, something she never thought she’d feel. Safety? Acceptance? A real family? But how could she find all that when everything Tor knew about her was a lie?

  The thought chilled her more than the wind, and she leaned away. “I…I should go in. Grace will be looking for me.”

  Tor dropped his arms. “Certainly,” he said and turned, walking up beside the barn. Darkness had always been a comfort for Ava, but suddenly it felt cold and lonely. Tor looked back at her. “Come along, then.”

  She fisted her skirts, ignoring the tremble in her hands, and followed him out from the small space between wall and barn. He waited but did not offer her his arm as they walked to the steps into the keep. At the top, he paused. Behind them, men moved about the bailey, finishing their daily duties. The portcullis lowered like a maw closing for a sleepy night.

  Tor didn’t look at her but out on the bailey. “So, have ye decided? Two out of three is acceptable? Ye could live with that?”

  Ava swallowed, knowing instantly that he referred to the number of live hearts he insisted he still possessed. She wet her lips. “Yes,” she said, and realized with the dropping of her stomach that her answer was yet another lie.

  Chapter Eight

  “A wart then on the end of her nose?” Cullen Duffie, the MacDonald chief from the Isle of Islay propped his crossed boots on a wooden stool before the hearth fire. He’d arrived less than an hour before, after a nighttime crossing of sea and land to reach Aros.

  “No wart,” Tor replied and took a sip of the fine whisky Cullen had brought, letting the fiery drink slide down his throat.

  “Crossed eyes, then, or rotten teeth? Och, but I hate the smell of brown teeth. That would certainly make me refuse to wed.” Cullen threw back his whisky. The pewter cup clanked as he set it down and stood to refill it from the small cask. It was well past midnight, and the great hall flickered with shadows. Tor kept his resting gaze on the dark staircase, but so far, no lace had slipped by.

  “Her teeth are white,” Tor said and rubbed the back of his neck. “And she smells like some flower. I think it’s the soap she brought from York.”

  “Ah, Yorkish soap,” Cullen clipped with a wry smile and a slow shake of his head. “Enough to drive a man to celibacy, then?” He sank back down in his seat.

  Tor rubbed his mouth to hide the smile Cullen always brought forth in people. The Highlander could make a man laugh at the top of the gallows. Which was part of why the old MacDonald had made him the new chief, even though his father was a Duffie.

  “Nay, it’s a fine fragrance.”

  Cullen leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his eyes wide as he pulled at his short, neatly cut beard. “God’s bollocks, Tor. What’s the bloody problem? She’s female and has an English title. Wed her before I do.”

  “Marriage can lead to disaster. I tried it once, and it was.” Tor threw back the rest of his whisky, letting the smooth fumes out on an exhale. The Duffies crafted bloody fine whisky.

  “It can also lead to a warm bed, children, and in the case of an English bride, a more comfortable place—off King Henry’s traitors list.”

  Tor leaned his head back and ran his gaze along the wooden beams above. “I blame my parents.”

  “Most people do,” Cullen said. “But what exactly are ye blaming on Joan and Angus?”

  “All my life I watched them chase each other about, laughing, Da catching Ma for a kiss. They had no shame in loving each other openly, and I grew up thinking that’s what I wanted, not some cold agreement to form alliances like poor Mairi.”

  Cullen let loose a heavy sigh. “Aye, Fergus Mac
Innes is not an easy husband for her.”

  Tor lowered his gaze to his friend. His gullet washed with fine whisky added to the darkness of the room, pushed the words slowly from his mouth. “And I thought wedding Matilda was for love, but now I know it was for duty, duty to her because she said she carried my bairn.”

  Cullen nodded with long, slow tips. “So, ye need to love a lass before ye marry her?” Cullen sipped from his cup.

  “Which is not likely to ever happen,” Tor said.

  “Why do ye think—?”

  “No matter what was going on between my parents, I know they trusted each other,” Tor said. He looked down into the depths of his empty cup, wishing for more. He rubbed his chin and looked at his friend. “And that’s something I don’t think I will ever have again.”

  A low sound came from the back of Cullen’s throat as he shook his head. “Shame.”

  Tor stood and refilled his own cup. “So why haven’t ye wed yet?” he asked, shifting the topic away from him.

  Cullen leaned back and crossed his arms. “I just might if this English lass’s teeth are truly white. I know ye have a priest on Mull.” He winked, his grin breaking the tension of Tor’s confession.

  Cullen Duffie could hold his whisky and a broadsword. No doubt he had lasses chasing him with a priest in tow, especially now that he was clan chief. But he’d been busy over the last few months, securing his clan’s stability and his leadership. He could be serious about wedding, and he hadn’t even seen Ava’s long, silky hair and well-proportioned frame yet.

  “I think ye should ask her to show ye her teeth when ye meet her,” Tor said, his mouth softening at the thought of Ava’s reaction.

  Cullen narrowed his eyes, not believing the treasonous advice, but nodded anyway. He crossed his arms, his face growing serious. The fire crackled on the peat beside them. “The bloody English keep rising up into our lands. The isles aren’t immune. They’ll bully their way in and say they’re hunting for French, but they’ll stay. The Duke of Albany is too busy trying to keep King Henry’s soldiers out of Edinburgh and their hands off the wee lad of a king, until James grows into his crown. It’s up to us to keep the English bastards from settling in. We fight, but Henry sends more troops.”

  Tor crossed his own arms, his thoughts moving to more important matters than the smell of Ava’s hair. “I’ve increased the number of Aros archers,” Tor said. “And scouts at night. We’ll shoot them as they land.”

  “The sound is narrow between Mull and Kilchoan. Is MacInnes prepared to light warning fires or send word if soldiers come near?”

  Tor huffed. “I don’t even know where the bastard is right now. Mairi showed up a few days ago, without escort. Says he hasn’t been at Kilchoan for a fortnight. I increased patrols on the north shore.”

  “The north shore’s your weak link,” Cullen said. His face tightened. “So Mairi left Kilchoan? Why?”

  “She won’t say.”

  “Your sister doesn’t run from anything, Tor. She’s a brave lass.”

  Tor nodded. “I hate that Da tied her to that clan.”

  “Ye could untie it with a slice of your sword,” Cullen said.

  “Without proof of wrongdoing, killing MacInnes will start a war to my north, and the English will smell blood and distraction to strike.”

  Cullen nodded. “I’ll keep a group of warriors on Mull to help ye watch the north until we talk to MacInnes, see where his loyalties lie. I left a dozen men where I landed.”

  “Thank ye.” Tor inhaled deeply and stretched his shoulders.

  Cullen raised one side of his mouth in a sardonic grin. “I just don’t want all the Macleans of Mull running to Islay if the English burn red across this isle. We have enough problems of our own without ye.” He scratched briskly through his hair, lowering his head into his hands.

  “MacDonalds giving ye problems?” Tor asked. The man was only a few years older than Tor and had the weight of proving himself as the strongest chief to an isle of warriors. His mother was a MacDonald, but his father had been a Duffie.

  “Disapproving uncles with hot blood and wagging tongues.” Cullen stood, cutting off the discussion. He yawned. “Any willing widows that have a bed open for me tonight, or shall I sleep on the rushes?”

  “There’s a bed or two in the soldier’s quarters by the gate. We can see ye comfortable in an open cottage in the village in the morn.”

  Cullen nodded and stepped forward to clasp Tor’s arm. “Unity. That’s what the isles need.”

  “To unity and strength,” Tor said.

  “And English brides with pretty, white teeth.” Cullen smiled broadly and strode toward the entryway.

  …

  “And you said yes?” Grace clasped her hands together, peering at Ava’s reflection in the polished metal mirror.

  “Of course. Although he didn’t actually propose, but it was close,” Ava answered and finished tucking up one of the curls that fought to break away from her braid. A cap of woven gold ribbon sat at the back of her crown, covering the top of the braid and capturing most of the small curls that liked to escape around her face. “Once I’m married we will figure out a way to keep you safe as well. Either here at Aros or off Mull under the protection of the Maclean name.”

  “So,” Grace started slow. “You still think you could leave Aros after the wedding?”

  Ava turned in her chair and met her friend’s anxious eyes. “I won’t abandon you, Grace. I’ve promised it in my heart, and now in my oath. If that means hiding you away or securing you in a convent so Vincent can’t force you back to York, we will leave Aros.”

  Grace nodded, the corners of her lips rising in a little smile. “I know you’d never abandon me. Just thought…it might become hard for you to leave Mull…leave him after the kiss last night.”

  Leave him? The thought made Ava’s heart dive too low inside her. Not for any foolish girlish reason, but she was growing to respect Tor Maclean. When he realized he’d wed a servant girl from England instead of the daughter of an earl, would he hate her? The thought curdled her stomach, and she rubbed a hand across it even though she smiled encouragingly at Grace. If he hated her, it would make it easier to leave.

  “You are like my younger sister, Grace,” Ava said. “And sisters help one another. If you run with wolves, I run with you.”

  Grace laughed and grabbed her woven shawl. “Shall we go down for breakfast? I want to look at the gardens, but I’m not walking with you near the river.”

  Ava took a deep breath. Would Tor propose today? The thought made her giddy despite the darkness of her lie. Her excitement dimmed. Was disaster still a disaster if you planned to walk into it from the beginning?

  Grace tilted her head, studying her. “You certainly aren’t going to entice him with a look that says ‘I’m walking toward the gallows.’”

  “Sorry.” Ava placed her familiar serene mask over her worry. She took a light shawl with her, and they headed toward the steps. At the end of the corridor a door stood ajar, a breeze whistling in around the heavy oak slats, held together with iron. “Up there is the walkway where Hamish was patrolling the other night,” Ava said. “It must have a lovely view.”

  “I can’t walk next to you by the river without falling in. Do you think I’m foolish enough to walk on the roof with you?”

  Ava sighed. “I didn’t make you go across that rock, and I’ve already apologized with pastry.”

  Grace waved the incident off. “Plus, I’m starving. I never finished my meal last eve. Go on.” She shooed Ava toward the door. “I’ll find us some breakfast.”

  Ava had to raise her skirts to take the deep steps upward. The breeze turned to a chilly wind as she rose above the stone flanking the sunken doorway on three sides. A chest-high wall encircled the roof with rounded turrets on each of the four corners where guards could stand protected while searching for enemies out of the thin open windows.

  Ava clutched her shawl around her shoulders and walked
the length of the deserted roof, avoiding the periodic puddles of rain water. Strands of hair pulled and twisted around her face, so she stepped into one of the turrets to dodge the breeze. On tiptoe, she could see through the archery slot. The sound of male voices shot up on a gust of wind, and she looked down toward the Aros River.

  Good God! There, in the deepest part, two men stood waist high in water. Ava had never seen the dark-haired man, but the other was Tor, his naked torso exposed above the waterline. A scar lay across the back of his broad shoulders, a slice she hadn’t seen in the dimness of the kitchen. She held a hand to her mouth while watching him slap the surface to splash the other man. The other man ducked under, surging up with a huge wave, his hands shooting water at Tor, who sent a torrential volley right back. After helping Grace from that very river, Ava knew how cold it was, but the two men seemed to have no problem with the iciness.

  Even from way up high, Tor seemed large and powerful, his muscles bunching with each throw of his arms and stretch of his back. Ava stood rooted to the spot, her own chill forgotten as she remembered the feel of his body, how it warmed her, how it made her ache.

  Tor ducked under the surface once more with his fingers raking through his hair. He came up and shook his head, spraying droplets outward. Ava’s eyes widened as he waded through the deep water toward shore. Did she dare spy on him, undressed? The waterline inched down Tor’s chest as he trudged up to a shallower spot, revealing his narrow waist and ripples of enticing muscle.

  “Ye know, lass, the cold makes a man crine.” Hamish’s voice behind Ava caught her breath as she pivoted. The bushy-faced Highlander stood on the outside of the turret near the wall, with a playful frown. “Just in case ye worry.”

  “Crine?” she asked, her breaths coming through shallow, fast inhales. Her face ignited with a blush. Had he seen her watching the men swimming naked?

  “Aye, crine,” he repeated, tilting his head toward the river. “It’s Gaelic for shrink.” He scratched behind an ear. “The cold makes a man’s member shrink. In case ye saw something.” He shrugged.