Come to me

Elle wrapped Milo’s hoodie closer around her, shaking uncontrollably. Never had she had such a vivid violent dream. She had turned on all the lights in the room, and was now sitting at the window box, feeling the fresh cold breeze against her face. She felt like vomiting, her skin was crawling, she could still see his face, looming above hers when she closed her eyes. Taking several choking breaths, Elle forced herself to banish the image. 

She couldn’t even look at the bed, and the room felt too small. She kept breathing in the scent of the hoodie, focusing on it to calm herself, it was the only thing that felt safe to her at the moment. She got up and began to pace the room, restless and panicked. Finally no longer able to handle being in the room for another moment, Elle walked out and tiptoed to the kitchen, trying her best not to wake anyone up, as it was after midnight. She wasn’t sure how her screams hadn’t woken everyone up, but she concluded that the rooms must be soundproofed, or else they all slept like the dead. 

She walked soundlessly to the kitchen, pushing open the swinging door, and stopped dead in her tracks, barely managing to stop herself from screaming a second time. She saw Milo sitting at the kitchen counter,and he abruptly jumped up.

“I’m sorry,” She began, placing a hand against her chest, “You startled me, I didn’t think anyone was up.”

“Are you alright?” He asked, concerned, “You seem a bit jumpy.” Elle swallowed hard, not ready to talk about her nightmare, and certainly not willing to cry on Milo again.

“I’m fine,” She told him, “I’m not used to so many people being around, it's a little overwhelming.” She improvised, which was not a lie. Elle lived on her own, and rarely had night-time company. Her usually midnight forays into her own kitchen never had unexpected guests.

“Tell me about it,” He agreed, “I moved out at 17, this is the most family I’ve had around me outside of the holidays, in 10 years. I hate this.” She smiled despite herself. “Come sit, would you like something to drink? I have tea, and hot cocoa, definitely don’t take the tea, it tastes like piss.” He told her holding up his own mug.

“Why do you have piss tea?” She asked, taking a seat.

“Well I didn’t buy it, I mean I paid for it, but I didn’t buy it. I hired a personal shopper ahead of coming down here, she…in a word, sucks.” He told her. “I mean it’s probably my fault, I only wrote tea on my list, I didn’t specify I wanted a tea that didn’t taste like piss.” 

“It can’t be that bad,” She said, stifling a giggle. He tilted his head at her, and wordlessly handed her his mug. Elle gingerly took a sip, and about spat it back up. “Oh my god, that is foul!”

“She had to have gone out of her way to find this dreadful tea, like going from store to store finding essence of piss tea, calling other provinces, shipping it in, it feels pretty deliberate.” He said, taking the mug back. He swirled it, before taking another gulp of it.

“Why are you still drinking it?!” Elle asked incredulously.

“This is my life now Elle, drinking piss tea, and living with my twin.” He told her seriously.

“You can throw out the tea,” She offered.

“I could do that, but the hot cocoa is probably inexplicably worse.” He told her. “Besides if I leave the tea out on the counter, tomorrow morning there’s a slight chance that one of my trash relatives will make a cup, and then I’ll get to watch them experience the horror, shock and surprise of a warm mug full of piss tea. It’s really worth it, to be honest.” 

“Do you have coffee or...maybe water? I don’t know anything besides this?” She asked, gesturing toward his mug.

“No, probably my fault again, I’m sure my handwriting led her to believe the coffee and 75% of the groceries I’d ask for were optional.” He told her, nonchalantly. “We had pizza for dinner, and leftover pizza for breakfast, and probably my tears and piss tea for lunch.” 

“I hope you got your money back,” She said, feeling a bit bad for being amused at his predicament. 

“Seeing Max drink a cup of this,” He said lifting his mug, “will be all the compensation I need.” He assured her. “There is almond milk in the fridge, even though that was not on the list, if you’d like a cup of something else.” 

“Can I get you a mug of that, or atleast throw away that tea for you, please?” She asked, reaching for his mug, he pulled it back.

“It’s sort of growing on me,” He told her.

“It is not growing on you.” She retorted, “You wince everytime you take a sip.”

“I like tea, that is the face of enjoyment.” He informed her stubbornly.

“That is the face of an idiot.” She replied, “Hand me the damn cup, you are being ridiculous.” He arched an eyebrow at her, before he reluctantly handed her his mug.

“The almond milk tastes like vomit, don’t ask me how I know,” He warned her, as she dumped out his tea.

“So to be clear, there is nothing edible in your kitchen right now?” She asked, placing his mug in the sink.

“Leftover pizza,” He told her.

“Anything sweet?” She asked.

“No, probably my fault, I clearly should have been more specific when I wrote down ice cream, maybe drawn her a picture.” He replied.

“I’ve got candy and ice wine upstairs, would you like some?” She asked, “You look like you could use a drink.”

“What kind of candy do you have?” He asked interested, resting his chin in his hand. The pose made him look like an eager child, she smiled at him charmed.

“Wine gums, gummy bears, m&ms, and skittles.” She told him.

“Fork them over, liefje.”sweetheart, He said, rubbing his hands together. She laughed lightly.

“Wine too or no?” She asked, turning to head upstairs to bring down her goodies. 

“Oh for all that is holy and merciful, yes please.” He replied, sighing dramatically. “I’ve never wanted to be less sober in my whole life.” 

“I’ll go get it, do you have wine glasses or are we drinking this out of mugs like sad winos?” She asked, teasingly.

“No wine glasses, probably my fault…”He began.

“Mugs it is, I guess.” She said, laughing.

“I do have martini glasses, you know, for all the martini’s I don’t and have never drank.” He offered.

“Stem wear is stem wear.” She retorted walking away.

****

Milo sipped his icewine daintily out of the ridiculously small martini glasses he’d found for them, as Elle tried desperately not to laugh at the image. She leaned back into the couch, trying to at least feign interest in the movie they were watching. 

“Wine gum me,” He asked her, holding out his hand.

“I thought you said they were terrible,” She retorted, handing him the bag.

“They are, I don’t know what act of mutiny the Canadian’s are trying to demonstrate by pissing on the British version of Wine gums, but this feels like a war crime.” He said as he popped two in his mouth.

“Still eating them,” She pointed out.

“I’m dutch, we love disgusting candy; we eat salted black licorice.” He told her easily. “Hand over the skittles, they wash down the flavor of disappointment so well.” She handed them to him dutifully. “Are you warm enough, do you need another blanket, I can start the fire if you’d like?” He asked, looking at her huddled at the far corner of his couch.

“I’m good thank you,” She told him, she already had two blankets on her, and he had turned up the heat in the living room for her, as soon as he’d perceived her discomfort.

 He leaned back into the couch putting his feet up on his coffee table. Elle watched the way his body moved admiringly, he was graceful in a way that was ethereal given his size. The way the light from the tv cast upon his face, highlighted the sharpness of his jaw line, and the straightness of his nose. His piercing blue eyes seemed to sparkle in the low light, Elle was transfixed. In a word he was beautiful. As if feeling her eyes on him Milo turned to look at her, their eyes locked, and he felt his breath leave his body at the intensity of her gaze, before she caught herself and quickly looked away. 

He didn’t. Her face was upturned now toward the tv pretending she was watching when it was obvious she wasn’t. Milo took his time looking at her, drinking in her features, her high cheekbones, and bedroom eyes, her full lips, the way her thick dark hair framed her face in soft messy short waves, her petite fine boned limbs, her elegant dainty hand, resting against her delicate neck, the way her shoulders rose and fell with her breath, her small perfectly formed ear holding back a lock of her dark mane. 

He wanted to move closer to her, to reach out and touch her thick glossy hair, to run his fingers against her jaw, and down her throat, to bury his face into her neck and sweep kisses along her collar bone, to pull her into his arms and slowly deeply kiss the breath out of her. But he also desperately wanted to make her feel safe, to get to know her, to have more than just attraction between them. So he looked away, breathing deeply, giving her space, letting her drive the pace as his sister in law had suggested after dinner. 

“Let her come to you, try being her friend first, and see where that takes you Milo. She’s not okay right now, she doesn’t need men throwing themselves at her, she needs a friend, so be a friend first.” Maeve’s advice rang in his head.

Milo could be her friend, he could be the best friend she ever had. He could give her space, and time, whatever she needed. If friendship was all she wanted and needed, then he could do that for her, forever if that’s what was best for her. 

Elle could feel his eyes on her, she had that hot and cold feeling again. Wanting to hide from his gaze and at the same time to preen for him. It was disconcerting, in her mind she knew she had no business having such a handsome man look at her at all. She turned to face him again, his expression utterly indiscernible to her, if you can’t seduce, you must amuse. 

“Are we going to talk about the elephant in the room?” She asked him gravely, he blinked in surprise. “Vis-a-vis, the fact that your mom is playing dress up with me using her favorite Ken doll accessories?”  She finished, gesturing to his hoodie that she was definitely still wearing. 

“Ken doll?” He asked, quirking an eyebrow.

“Listen, your mother should be getting royalties from Mattel, I’m fairly certain I had the ‘Max and Milo’ Ken doll twin set growing up.” She informed him.

“And you definitely liked the ‘Milo’ doll better, because the “Max’ doll’s hair is stupid for a grown man with a job?” He offered.

“The ‘Max’ doll has lovely hair, very beach bum, surfer chic.” She retorted, to which Milo rolled his eyes.

“You have the bum part right at least.” He countered. “Do you really think we look like Ken dolls?” 

“Not an insult, who didn’t have a thing for Ken dolls growing up you know?” She told him, “disconcerting as fuck to meet two in person though, even worse to be caught wearing one of their clothes.” 

“It looks better on you than it did on me,” He told her soothingly. She tilted her head and gave him a droll look.

“Oh yes, I’m sure clothes in general look terrible on you,” She replied, her eyes widened a second later when she realized what she’d said. “Not that I’m implying you shouldn’t wear any…wear more if anything…not that you don’t have a great…oh my god.” She hissed, her face flaming.

“A great what?” He asked in sham innocence, “Personality?” 

“I genuinely hate myself right now,” She muttered. He barely contained his glee, and it made the moment all the more humiliating for Elle, but despite herself she couldn’t help but be amused as well. “You are too good looking for me not to make an ass of myself around.” She finished, sighing. His heart thudded in his chest but he kept his face neutral, the feeling is so mutual…

“Oh I think you’re doing swimmingly, being compared to a ken doll, AND told to wear more clothes,” He sighed dreamily, “Be still my beating heart,” he clasped his chest dramatically. Milo genuinely could not remember a time where he had so enjoyed pleasant banter like this with anyone. 

“Believe it or not, I actually am a fantastic flirt, shocking I know.” She replied sarcastically.

“You should start your own show, give tips on picking men up,” He agreed. “I’ve never been closer to swooning in my life, thank God I’m sitting down!” It was all he could do refrain from grinning like a moron, he could feel her relaxing with him, enjoying herself as much as he was. 

“I’m not trying to pick you up, if I was you would just be beside yourself with my excellent seduction skills.” She informed him.

“I’m not judging, my seduction skills are shoving eggs I prepared badly in front of a woman, and then forcing her to stay in a cabin with my family, no food, drink and only 1 horrifically boring DVD of whatever this movie is,” He gestured to the tv, “Frankly I feel like if I was just a little bit uglier this entire situation would be an episode of Criminal minds.” 

“It does help that your face is painfully symmetrical,” She offered, smirking. 

“I don’t know if that’s a compliment or you’re mad about my facial symmetry?” He replied, arching an eyebrow, smirking.

“I’m definitely mad about your facial symmetry. Hardly seems fair, and you have lovely teeth.” She told him in fake aggression.

“Will it make you feel better if I tell you I was overweight as a child, and I had braces?” He asked her soothingly.

“No, that actually makes me feel bad for what I can only presume was cute pudgy teenage Milo.” She said smiling. “I had braces too,”

“For 6 years?!” He asked her, drolly.

“You did not have braces for 6 years! How bad were your teeth?” She retorted, covering her mouth in sympathy. 

“I did, and they were bad. Worse,Max, that klootviool had perfect teeth, didn’t even need a godverdomme retainer.” He told her savagely. 

“What is ‘klootviool’?” She asked him, he scrunched his handsome face in mild embarrasement.

“Scrotum violin…” He muttered under his breath.

“What?!” She exclaimed.

“It sounds better in Dutch,” He informed her sheepishly.

“Does it make more sense in dutch?” She shot back, “Because it makes zero sense in english, like is this a violin for a scrotum, or violin made of a scrotum? Why would either of these things need to exist? Is there a whole genre of music dedicated to and about scrotal violins, or is it more of a nuanced philharmonic thing, like you have first chair scrotum violin? Or more like a scrotum violin soloist?”

“You are asking a lot of follow up questions that I was not anticipating, and also I am now picturing both a violin made of a scrotum and a violin specifically for a scrotum and both images are in fact repulsive, in summary I wish to stop speaking about scrotums, scrotum violins, and also violins permanently.” He retorted, looking disgusted, though his eyes were twinkling with good humor. She was so damn quick, her mind practically whirring with her witty responses, and he felt he couldn’t think of anyone else he could speak with like this, who made him feel so…young.

“That seems fair,” She agreed, “Let’s also never speak of music, to be safe.” 

“Fuck music.” He said, “and Max and his perfect fucking teeth too.”

“Oh definitely fuck Max and his god damned lying teeth.” She seconded.

“And his stupid hair too,” He added.

“His hair is stupid,” She agreed, “he is absolutely a klootviool!” Milo cringed at the word.

“I am sorry I taught you that gross word, because I now hate it.” He told her.

“It felt gross saying it,” she acceded. “Let’s agree to never say it again.” She said holding out her right hand with the pinkie finger out toward him.

“Uh? Why are you pointing your little finger at me?” He asked her, genuinely confused.

“Do they not have ‘Pinkie promises’ in the Netherlands?” She asked timidly. 

“What is a ‘Pinkie promise’?” He asked her, tilting his head an amused indulgent smile on his face.

“It's like when you’re a kid, you promise your friend some meaningless bull shit, like ‘neither of us will ever eat pink bubble gum, or kiss boys’, and then you promise that by entwining pinky fingers, like this,” She demonstrated using both her pinkies. “You know, like with your best friend, when you’re like 6 years old?” She explained awkwardly, feeling stupider by the second. God could she be anymore beautiful…he thought hotly. 

“Is that what we are going to be Elle? Best friends?” He asked her softly, his expression full of intensity as he faced her. I could be your best friend, I could be the best godverdomme friend you ever had, I could be the best godverdomme man you’ve ever had or will have, I could take such good care of you…

“Maybe…” She breathed. He leaned in toward her, linking his pinkie with hers, never taking his eyes off her.  Her rose and vanilla scent filling his nostrils, a tendril of her raven dark hair laid across her cheekbone, he wanted to brush it from her face, slide his fingers through those dark thick depths, grasp a handful of her lovely hair and pull her toward him…Has any man ever been this desperate to touch a woman? Milo didn't think so. 

Elle felt her breath leave her for a moment, her hand tingling from even this most innocuous of touches. She stared into his unfathomable expression, his eyes dancing with unknown emotion, his face mere inches from her own. Seemingly of their own volition they inched forward toward each other, still holding pinkies. His lips parted slightly, Elle lowered her gaze to them, fascinated, the edge of his perfect white teeth were just showing, and she wondered what it would feel like to feel them rasp against her lip, over the sensitive skin of her collarbone…against her… Her breath coming out ragged, as her mind zeroed in on the singular thought screaming in her head, kiss him!!Kiss him!!KISS HIM!

Milo wanted to pull her toward him, to close the few inches between them, more desperately than he could ever recall wanting to be close to anyone before. With his several lifetimes of memories that was really saying something. It didn’t help that he could remember what it had felt like to kiss her in their past lives, what it had felt like to hold her in his arms, what it was to love this woman. And when her eyes fell on his lips, it was all he could do not to give in to what they both clearly wanted. To pull her into his lap and kiss her as she had never been kissed before…at least in this lifetime. Put you in my lap and kiss you until your nails dig into my shoulders, and we share breaths, slide my hands under my hoodie, take your breasts into the palm of my hands, put my mouth on you, would you taste like rose and vanilla too?… But Maeve’s warning came back to him, restrained him, she needed safety, not lust. Inhaling deeply, summoning whatever will power he had left, he disentangled his finger from hers, and moved back from her, trying hard to keep his face neutral.

To Elle his face looked unbothered, expressionless, completely unaffected. She mentally reigned herself in, admonishing herself for her fanciful thinking. A man this attractive would never be as attracted to her as she was to him, she told herself harshly. Ken dolls end up with Barbies, look at Maeve. And for a second her heart broke as she thought about beautiful, tall, statuesque Maeve who looked perfect next to Max, while she would look ridiculous next to Milo. More than a foot shorter, and nowhere near as beautiful as him. She had better get back to the real world, a man this fine, would never want her physically, would never even look her way in any other circumstance. Friendship was all they could ever really have, and even he knew it. Schooling her features, She met his eyes.

“I already have a best friend, David, you could fight him for the privilege but he’s a wily bugger, and would absolutely emotionally cripple you with his savagery.” She told him, even managing a smile, though it did not reach her eyes. “I should go to bed,” 

Milo noticed it, he could almost feel her pulling back from him, her guard going back up. He could curse himself, he had messed this up somehow, made her feel uncomfortable. She got up from the couch, looking toward the staircase.

“Don’t go,” He said before he could stop himself, a shade of desperation in his tone, “I…the movie isn’t over.” He offered as way of explanation. Elle looked at him first, then the movie that had been playing the entire time they had been speaking, that neither of them had even attempted to pay attention to.

“I don’t even know what this movie is about,” She told him. 

“Neither do I,” He admitted, “but you should stay anyways” 

“Why?” She asked him confused.

“Because,” He started awkwardly, “Because I like being around you,” He said finally. Understatement of my life there…I want nothing more than to be around you… he thought harshly. She blinked, surprised. 

“Oh,” She said lamely.

“Sit with me,” He asked gently, “eat candy with me, pretend we are interested in this movie, just…stay with me for a while. Please.”  She looked at him unsure, a moment passed between them. Elle sat down slowly, closer to him than she had sat initially. They sat in silence for long minutes, Elle trying to decide what his motives were, Milo fighting the urge to pull her to him.

“Do…do you want your hoodie back?” She asked finally, awkwardly. He turned to look at her pinning her with his intense gaze. 

“No.” He said simply, firmly. He tilted his head watching her thoughtfully.

“Maeve said it was your favorite,” She replied barely over a whisper. He smiled softly at her, wondering how he could possibly explain to her that it did something for him to see her in his clothes. That he wanted to raid his closet right this minute and find her more things of his to wear. That he wanted to share every single thing he had with her.

He reached out his hand, and lightly touched the fabric of the hoodie, barely containing the thrill he felt to be able to touch her at all. She shivered slightly at the contact, and it made him ache with wanting to hold her. She looked at him with big lost eyes, confused and if he hadn’t missed the mark…desirous. He ran his hand up her arm slowly, cupping her delicate shoulder pressing lightly before drawing it down to her fine boned wrist, stopping short of her exposed skin, his eyes following his hand. At her wrist, he looked up at her, snaring her with his penetrating gaze, never taking his eyes off her, he slowly moved his fingers down her wrist to entwine them with her petite elegant fingers. He ran his thumb in slow small caressing circles over hers, gently, slowly and oh so sensuously. And all the while he watched her, studying her breathless face, her honey skin blushing prettily over her cheekbones and nose. Milo wanted to kiss her there, to follow the trail of her blush, down the column of her throat and to the blush he could see above her collarbone. Where else do you blush, where else can I make you blush? He wondered. 

 He watched her raise her other hand slowly unsure toward him, he held his breath as he watched her, not daring to move lest he frighten her away. He almost willed her to touch him, as her fingertips grazed the edge of his jaw, he closed his eyes in pleasurable surprise. Waited an eternity to feel your hands on me…He felt her run her fingers down his jaw, stopping short of his lips, he opened his eyes and peered at her, her eyes were intent on his mouth as if in a trance.Her fingers wavered as she considered what to do. He could see her hesitance , the unspoken question in her eyes, as if you would ever need permission to touch me, when I would die to have your hands on me…Milo turned his face into her hand, lightly kissing her palm. Startled, she withdrew her hand from his face, blinking rapidly as if coming out of a daze. Her face flushed with desire before now turned red with embarrassment, She moved to pull back from him, attempting to take her hand back. He held on, clasping her small hand firmly, in his.

“Easy,” He whispered soothingly, leaning in toward her slowly, giving her time to adjust. He peered into her eyes, a gentle smile on his face. “I just want to hold your hand, will you let me?.”

“Why?” She breathed, never had a man ever asked for such a thing from her. In answer he continued his light caressing touches with his thumb, drawing small circles on the outside of her hand. She looked down at their linked hands, her small one completely engulfed with his much larger one. “We fit together so well,” She murmured under her breath sarcastically.

“You are so perfectly made, like fine china.” He whispered, absently, as if he had not realized he’d said it aloud. She looked up at him stunned, but he was looking at their hands, with an expression she could only describe as adoration. He, this beautiful perfect specimen of a man was looking at her with ADORATION! Well granted he was only looking at her hands, which objectively she knew were lovely and elegant, she often received compliments over them. But to have any man, let alone this particular man look at any part of her with such admiration…her heart thudded in her chest. 

“Okay,” She answered, not certain he even heard her. He looked up at her again, ice blue eyes dancing with warmth and…desire? For her?! She was dreaming, there was no way, any man would look at her like that! She had to look away, she felt as if, if she kept looking at him she would drown in his piercing eyes. Her hands shook from reaction, her whole body felt like a powder keg one touch away from explosion. Never in her life had she felt more out of control of herself, of her body. She inhaled deeply, closing her eyes, desperate to reign in her body, but never once did it occur to her to let his hand go. In fact she gripped it tighter unconsciously, wanting to hold on to him and this moment for just a second longer.

He released her hand as he felt her tremors in surprise, he took in her demeanor with growing disquiet. She was shaking, HE had made her shake…from fear, discomfort? Had he come on too strong, upset her somehow? He looked at her carefully now, gauging what her reaction meant. Inwardly kicking himself, this was too soon, he was being too much, too fast. Had he no godverdomme control of himself? I can barely stop myself from tossing her onto the couch, what the hell is wrong with me?!

“Elle,” He said her name, barely keeping the alarm from his voice. “Are you alright?” She dragged in a breath, her face flushed with embarrassment. Well Milo, you’ve made me half crazed with lust by simply holding my hand for a few minutes, so NO, NO I’M NOT ALRIGHT! She thought raggedly, trying hard to compose herself.

“Fine,” She retorted in a clipped voice, barely containing her desire to screech at the shameful display she was making of herself. Why can’t I stop embarrassing myself in front of this luscious man!? 

Her clipped tone sent warning bells off in his head, he had crossed the line with her. He about groaned in frustration, wanting to throw his face in his couch cushions and scream. Slow for fuck sakes, SLOW. It’s like you want this woman to run away from you!! But what to do now? How was he supposed to come back from this?

“This movie is definitely picking up,” She said lamely, now refusing to look at him as her face burned.

“Yeah, the story is…interesting.” He offered awkwardly, inwardly cursing himself, the director, the actors and whichever asshole wrote this trash script. 

“Can…can you hand me another cushion,” She asked him, holding her hand out, and still refusing to look at him. He dutifully passed it to her outstretched hand, feeling like the worst kind of creep. You are 10 bags of shit in a 5 bag container, you absolute asshole! He raged at himself. As she propped the cushion up several feet away from him on the far end of his couch, she subtly moved herself out of his grasp, pulling the piled blankets around herself. I can not be trusted around this woman for any length of time without throwing myself at her. Fantastic! He growled inwardly, genuinely wishing he could dig a hole in which to quietly die. He didn’t dare look at her, absolutely certain he would find a way to make this now incredibly awkward situation much, much worse. Literally cock-blocking myself at this point.

“Do…uh you want…more wine?” He asked finally, just to break the tension. She shook her head no, now not even willing to speak with him it seemed. “Another cushion?” He ventured, again she shook her head no. He turned back to the movie, miserable. I’ll just smother myself with this one then I guess.

****

Bringing her here had been a mistake, but what other choice did he have really? It is bad enough that his king thought it fit to send him as an errand boy to this savage and wild place, but to make him negotiate, treat even with this…mongrel! Who knew how long this would take, who knew how long he’d be away from her if he’d left her at the estate. No she had to accompany him, not just for her healing magic, not just for the protection her presence offers him…no he simply can not go this long without seeing her. 

The problem of course is that every man who sees her reacts much the same to her, no matter how he covers her face. It is as if she gives off a sort of scent, an attractant that draws them to her like flies to honey. And the Laird Aiden MacReith is no different, he thinks irately, watching him stare at her, from his stone throne. The arrogant prick sits like a king, staring down at the two of them, clad in his clan’s tartan, his claymore in his left hand, a goblet of gold in the other. At least other men have the good grace to steal glances at her, to respect his claim on her, but not the great Laird, he stares at her openly, with fucking relish it seems. Surely this is simply to anger him, there can be no other reason for such open appraisal of his property, the whoreson is not even trying to mask his lustful curiosity. For long moments as they stand before the Laird, he says nothing, not even acknowledging him, his eyes roving over her, slowly. Finally when he can stand it no longer, his fury and indignation at being ignored peaking, he loudly clears his throat. Aiden spares him a cold uninterested glance.

“Richard,” He greets with an amused smirk, as if he’s won some sort of contest between them. Richard grits his teeth furious.

“Aiden,” he hisses back, though his smirk never waivers, the Laird’s eyes flash for just a second at the disrespect. Richard doesn’t miss the slight tightening of his grip on the hilt of his sword. He glances away from Richard, almost dismissively, turning his silvery blue eyes upon her again. Undoubtedly admiring her unusual whiskey colored eyes, as that is all Richard allows to be seen of her exquisite face. It pleases him greatly knowing that the great Laird will never know what lies beneath her veil, of the face so perfectly formed. His amusement dies when he catches the shift in Aiden’s expression, so minute he doubts anyone else might have caught it…The Laird isn’t looking at her with simple lust, or want no…this is…longing, aching, raw longing…He grits his teeth in fury.

He stands to his full height finally, and Richard’s anger mounts. Already the Laird was gazing down at them, sitting up his throne on the dias, but standing to his phenomenal height, he towers over them, over Richard. Making him feel small and insignificant, on purpose no doubt, a reminder of his station, of who and what he is. Scot though he may be, the Laird is relative to a king, and evidently friend to another, to say nothing of his terrifying reputation. They don’t call him Aiden the Ferocious as a jest after all. Richard chances a glance at the Laird’s face expecting to see a sneer or smirk, but instead…he had never taken his eyes from her, looking at her with an indescribable softness that sends spikes of alarm down Richard’s spine. What in the name of holy God is this?! Then he politely inclines his head in greeting to her, as if she were a person, as if she were more than his property…acknowledging her as if she were separate from him entirely! She curtsies, and while he concedes that is in fact the proper response, it fills him with rage, makes him feel as though there were some sort of secret moment between the two of them. He digs his nails into her exposed arm, grasping her tightly, wrenching her back up. Aiden’s face twitches for just a second, raw and irate.

“You hold your companion as one would someone he fears would run Richard,” Aiden says harshly, his tone unmistakably antagonistic. 

“What I do with my property is hardly your concern,” Richard sneers, annoyed at the audacity of this savage to comment on how he treats what is his.

“We do no’ permit abuses upon servants in Tri Briste Aibhnichean,” He informs Richard, his expression one of challenge, he WANTS him to resist, to argue, he wants an excuse to turn this into more, Richard realizes. He is provoking him, on purpose. 

“And how do you enforce such a foolhardy demand?” Richard scoffs. Aiden tilts his head, expressionless, his eyes boring into Richard, as if demanding he reconsider his question, as if it were the stupidest question even a small child would not think to ask.

“The lady of the keep insists,” Aiden says finally, “Lady MacReith gets whatere her heart desires,”  Richard barely restrains an eyeroll…of course, the Laird bows to the whims and wiles of a mere woman. 

“How is your mother?” Richard askes slyly, his tone needling and cruel. “She still mourns your father?”

“True love nae dies,” Aiden replies simply, “She will take his mourning with her to the grave, but she keeps well. A Scots woman weeps at night, but gets up in the morn to fight.” 

“Mustn’t upset Mumsy,” Richard says smugly, releasing her arm, “Would not wish to quarrel over her care,”

“And you are cared for? You are nae English, where are you from, lass?” He directs this to her, his tone softer, less harsh with her.

“That is of no concern to you, she is my servant, not your guest.” Richard interrupts, his rage barely contained. 

“You are no’ my guest Richard, but a burr in my arse sent by your English king,'' Aiden retorts, a muscle twitching in his cheek, “While you reside in my keep, on my land, you abide my laws, else you may return to your king, hat in hand, no better for wear, minus a finger or two for your insolence.”  

“As you wish,” He hisses, his jaw clenched. “She is from India, a bauble purchased for her abilities, I did not realize that you would have more interest in my servant than in the treaty I come to present.”  Aiden smiles, his eyes flashing, a cruel humorless smile, exposing his goddamn perfect teeth. Richard wishes he could smash them down his worthless throat.

“One does no’ bring a creature of such rare beauty to behold, to no’ be the center of attention, I am merely giving you what you want Richard.”  Aiden tells him perceptively, “You drape her in silks and cover her in ivory and silver, because you do NO’ want me to notice her?” He asks, arching an amused eyebrow. His irritatingly handsome face bright with his sardonic humor.

“I did not drape her in anything, this is her people’s dress,” Richard spits at him in disgust, the lie falling from his tongue with such indignant ease. Aiden tilts his head and looks at Richard, an expression of deep amusement on the younger man’s face. 

“Is it now?” He asks, a tone of knowing in his deep voice. “If you say so,”

“Enough of this,” Richard barks angrily, making a sweeping gesture with his hand that narrowly misses Simrin’s face, she does not react, as she’s been trained to. But Aiden moves forward, barely catching himself before he lunges at Richard, who tenses in stunned surprise…what the fuck?! The tension in the room is palpable, Aiden vibrating with malice, watching Richard as a hawk watches a chickling it wishes to feast upon. “She…she is to dance for you and your court.” Richard says finally, his voice a tad higher than normal, though he thinks he’s masked his sudden fear well. 

“Dance?” Aiden retorts, his jaw set. 

“It is customary to provide gifts to your host in England,” Richard informs him patronizingly, recovering. “ In addition to the many gifts I bear from the King, I offer you a rare and unique experience, the dancing of a trained bharatanatyam dancer. A once in a lifetime entertainment.”  Aiden glances from Richard to her, disquieted by this change in tactic. Richard tries not to smile, tries not to give away his game. She is no trained dancer, certainly not in any form of classical dance, instead what Richard uses her for is more…base. Loathe though he is to share even this part of her seductive beauty, it can not be helped. He has to use her to lull and seduce men into submission, an unspoken promise that he would never fulfill but that he would use as a carrot…In most cases, but not this time, no this is but a means to humble the arrogant asshole, to humiliate him.

“We do no’ come together with such frequency during the harvest time,” Aiden says finally, “But my counsel meets shortly, this dance may be performed then.”  Richard barely stiffles his annoyance, he wants an audience for this…but he’ll take what he can get.

“As you wish,” Richard agrees, with a cold smile. “Do have your mother attend, she would not want to miss this.” She will have to perform this sordid affair in front of his mother, the precious Lady MacReith to see such a display, sanctioned by her own son! Deliciously vile.

“Sit, enjoy some repast,” Aiden says, turning fully to Simrin, not even attempting to look as if he were inviting the both of them to sit. “We will assemble shortly, do you require anything for this dance?” 

“I shall call in the drummers to arrange themselves, she needs no repast,” Richard retorts coldly, his anger making his voice shake. Without waiting for the Laird’s leave he heads to the doors at the entrance of the hall, pushes them open and barks orders out. He hears the Laird mutter angrily in Gaelic, Richard grits his teeth in fury.

He returns quickly, not liking the idea of the two of them alone for too long. He can hear the Laird whispering something to her, but she does not respond, and that gives him some measure of comfort. Though he is infuriated at the presumptuousness of this mongrel to speak to his chattel. Though of course he is not foolish enough to pick a fight with this favored brute of his king.

“Whenever the Laird’s counsel assembles and wishes, we can begin,” Richard says, he inclines his head to Aiden, taking his leave. Richard grasps her arm and all but drags her to the doors of the keep, he takes particular pleasure in digging his nails into her arm. How dare she be so beguiling, how dare she attract his attention in such a manner? He hears a low growl from behind him, before he can even react Aiden grasps his arm and yanks him as if he weighed nothing at all, tossing him away from her. Richard stumbles, but rights himself as Laird Aiden releases him a foot away from her. Aiden formidable and massive poised to attack stands between them, his back to her, shielding her…from me?! He thinks to stand between me and mine?! He can see every muscle in his body, tauten, ready. Fraught silence falls in the hall, no one moves.

“You. Do. No’. Put. Your. Hands. On. Her. “ Aiden hissed, rage coming off him in waves, like heat. 

“She is my servant!” Richard yells back, his voice a squeaky whine. Aiden does not repeat himself, he looks through Richard, his expression is truly terrifying. For one harrowing second he is sure the Laird will kill him with his bare hands, here and now. Richard acquiesce immediately, nodding his head lamely. “Your keep, your rules.”

“Aye,” Aiden retorts.  Richard slowly, never giving Aiden his back moves around the larger man, without placing a hand anywhere near her, he directs her forward and toward the doors of the keep. As they walk, he can feel Aiden’s fierce gaze upon them, warning him. As soon as the door closes behind them he whirls on her, humiliation and fear turning to dark rage. She flinches, backing away from him, and that pleases him. I am all powerful here, your life is in my hands, you are mine to do with as I fucking please!

“I don’t know what spell you cast on that whoreson, but you will pay for this!” He hisses at her, twisting the knife, drinking in her delicious terror. “You belong to me, me alone, never forget.” He whispers the last part as he inhales her scent, “Intoxicating, enchantress,” He breathes, lust, hot and strong fills him suddenly. “Soon your magic won’t matter, and I will have you as god intended.” He says this more to himself than her, a reminder, a thing to hold on to. He stays close to her for several moments longer, while she shivers uncontrollably, a cruel smile tugs his lips. Finally he moves back, looking at her carefully. He adjusts her veil slightly, moving the fabric that surrounds her frame just so, to be even more provocative. Exposing a shoulder, her collarbone, her midriff slightly, more of her long legs. “Dance for that animal, give him a show he won’t forget, but,” He hisses “Show him no more than this, never more than this, you are mine!” He catches her chin in his hand and jerks her face up to his, “What the fuck did he say to you?” He demands, she swallows her eyes wide.

“He…asked if…you hurt me.” She manages, voice wavering. “If you would hurt me…for his provocation…” The audacity, the fucking nerve to try and circumvent his rights! She shrinks back from him, as if she can sense the roiling anger building within him. He just barely tamps it down before he strikes her, would have if not for the warning the Laird had given him. Suddenly furious over it, he grasps a handful of her hair and yanks her face to his, staring into her fearful eyes, for long moments, before casting her back and away from him. 

“Prepare yourself,” He growls, not sure himself, if he means for the dance or for his own volatile temper. She inspires such strong, uncontrollable feelings in him, the most prevalent of late is violent jealousy, a need to possess every single part of her, not just her body, but her mind, and her soul too. He suspects it’s because she has been tempting and teasing him for so long now, and the strain from keeping himself away from her has come to a boiling point…Gently he reaches a hand out to her face, brushing back her long hair, she stiffens but otherwise does not react. “So lovely…” He whispers absently. 

The dance goes precisely as it should, a beautiful body dancing to attract sexual attention, not for her, but for her master. The drums beat, and she moves and undulates with them, moving sensuously, provocatively, emulating movements of bedsport. She drops to her knees, arching her back, throwing her head back, with practiced movements so as not to dislodge her veil, or clothes. She slides her hands teasingly over her body, skimming fabric carefully so that not a ripple occurs.  She is not permitted to show any more than he allows, even the smallest inch of flesh not granted by him would result in steep punishments. She is flexible and limber honed from years of practice, she contortes herself to create specific imagery, to illicit reactions, Richard finds that he is not pleased as he normally is, instead he wishes to tear the eyes from the MacReith. His own furious jealousy makes him seeth as the men leer at her, even the horror of the female guests does nothing to temper his growing rage. He glances at Aiden, expecting to see lecherous intention but instead he sees…disquiet and…

“Stop this,” He booms, his voice firm, angry and startling. “This…this is no’ right.” 

“Oh whatever do you mean?” Richard asks coyly, taking advantage of the moment, putting aside his own roiling emotions, he had done all this for a purpose after all. “This is the dance you approved.”  This directed more to the woman sitting beside Aiden on the raised dias. Aiden was standing shaking with rage, on his left side was an older woman with the same unmistakable silver and blue eyes, and white streaked blonde hair. She could only be his mother. Seated to his right are two younger women, in their teens one with red hair much like Aiden’s and the other with blonde hair, but the resemblance between the girls and Aiden made it clear these have to be his sisters. Richard tries to hide his glee, Aiden had essentially invited his entire family to a sex show. Seating below the dias at a secondary table were roughly 15 men, who were openly ogling and leering at her. His counsel. 

 His face is a mask of dismay and outrage, as he glares at Richard. He felt this for her…not at her, a fact that erks Richard, but he’ll take what he can get.

“You wanted her to perform, and she has,” Richard tells them all coolly, “granted I wouldn’t want my young sisters nor my mother to see such a…exotic tribute but to each their own, no?” A muscle in Aiden’s cheek twitches. 

“Did you ken Lord Denibegh, that my son spent almost a full year in India as a we lad?”  Lady MacReith asks softly, dangerously. Richard pales at her words…what?! “He saw the great masters perform Yoga, and bharatanatyam on the steps of temples,” She continues, her brogue soft and lilting “You may think we at Tri Briste Aibhnichean are savage and uncultured, but my late husband, God rest his soul, took great pains to educate his children, so you appreciate that when Laird Aiden MacReith of the clan MacReith tells his sisters and mother that there is to be a performance of bharatanatyam, he did so in good faith knowing what a beautiful appropriate dance we would witness, so tell me Lord Denibegh, why you would you lie to my son about this performance? Surely you did no’ intend to embarrass my son in front of his family and trusted counsel?”  

A pregnant pause, as everyone turns their attention to Richard, caught in his lie. A variety of thoughts pass his mind before he turns to look at her, a cruel unmistakable look crosses his face. He turns back to face Lady MacReith, a cold calculating smile in place now, he does not miss his servant’s terrified glance at Aiden, nor the subtle narrowing of his eyes in response, bewildered. He clenches his jaw, resolved in his resolution now, did she really think to seek Aiden MacReith’s help?!

“This worthless servant of mine told me she knew the dance, “ Richard begins, turning his cold visage upon her, all the color drains from her face but she does not move, or say a word, so strong is her training. “I myself have never seen the dance performed, and now she has shamed me and you with her mindless lies.” He finishes, striding towards her, before anyone can react he backhands her, hard causing her to fall backward. She hits the rush covered ground, she makes no sound, even as her nose begins to bleed. Richard is upon her slapping, kicking and punching her, everywhere he can reach. She does not scream out, does not make a move to cover herself or protect herself in any way, she lays still and limp, knowing it will only enrage him further. 

A roar rings out, so filled with indignant rage it pains his ears. He’s pulled violently from her body, as Aiden wraps both his arms around Richard in a brutal choke hold. He could feel the Laird’s rage seep from him, his strong body thrumming from it. It takes him a moment to comprehend the precarious situation he is in now, the sheer powerlessness. Try as he might he can not break the hold, the beast behind him is furiously strong, and worse filled with righteous indignation. He realizes with panic that Aiden could so easily snap his neck here and now, would there even be any real consequences for the Laird? Would Richard’s own father ask for more than financial recompense for his 5th son? Surely…surely he wouldn’t murder the King’s envoy?!

“Aiden,” Lady MacReith warns, her tone low and careful. He does not even react, instead tightening his grip. Richard is sure it’s over for him, that he is about to be murdered.

 Aiden hesitates, seeming to wait on something, and it takes Richard a moment to understand that he is looking directly at the ground, at her, waiting to see what she’d have him do. She glances away, and Aiden tosses Richard away from him in disgust, as if he were little more than a bag of garbage. It is as if everyone takes a collective breath, and Richard realizes no one knew what the Laird would do.

“My word is law here, you will get no more warnings,” Aiden growls at Richard, “We. Do. No’. Permit. Abuses. Upon. Servants. Here.” He enunciates clearly and slowly to Richard, rage vibrating off his words. Richard is shaken, his breaths coming out of him in harsh gasps as he tries to catch it. 

“Perhaps Lord Denibegh is tired, and wishes to retire for the eve,” Lady MacReith says softly, “As our esteemed guest, we’ve no wish to keep you, our stewards Seamus and Alasdair will show you to your chambers.” She says with the appearance of utmost politeness, but the frosty tone of her voice and the curling of her lip are unmistakable. The lady is as furious and repulsed by Richard as her son is. 

Richard’s jaw sets with unbridled, impotent fury, but he says nothing simply inclining his head to the Lady and then reluctantly to the Laird. He turns and fixes a glower at her, his expression unmistakable, it was time for them to leave. She rose gingerly, her body protesting the movement, clearly in pain. As she stands he hears Aiden make a noise of concern under his breath, he glances at him, gritting his teeth in disbelief. The impudent prick had reached out his hand, before wisely quickly withdrawing it, at the subtle shake of his mother’s head, no. Richard would only take so many indignities before he exploded into carnage. Another man touching her would likely be the match to his powder keg. He clenches his jaw, as he reaches to grasp her upper arm, the sound that comes out of Aiden advises against it, and so reluctantly, furiously, he drops his own hand and lets her limp out ahead of him. Using his body to block her from view of Aiden…

“One more mark upon her, Richard…” Aiden calls after him in warning, his voice shaking in barely subdued rage. Richard swallows his own burning fury, saying nothing he leaves the keep, and rushes past her to their lodgings, lest he completely lose his mind and beat her senseless. How dare they make him feel so small and insignificant? How dare they steal his power from him, so publically?! Enraged he sets upon destroying her possessions, tearing her clothes apart, destroying everything of hers he can see, even her bedding. She softly limps in behind him, and stands there as he tears apart her things. Her elderly companion quietly watches with her, both of them eliciting no reaction. He throws things at the wall, beside them, but careful not to hit her, god forbid he leaves a mark on her, she doesn't even flinch. Being well versed now in his dangerous temper, knowing any reaction with only fuel is fury. Once he’s done he storms from her room, kicking the door shut behind him. He feels no remorse, none for his actions, even thought for the merest of seconds when he broke the little clay doll she took with her everywhere, the only thing her father had given her…he felt a pang in his chest. He pushes that thought away, everything she has, everything she is, is his to do with as he pleases, when he god damned pleased!

****

He woke up startled, confused and discomforted, feeling like…Richard, before he came back to himself. Did I just…dream a past life?! He had never had this happen to him, certainly not with such…vividness. He could still feel her skin under his hands, her scent, the pain in his neck from the chokehold…What is happening to me?! Somehow this was her doing, she had induced this…this psychosis onto him. Being in her presence, being in her world, it was bringing back lifetimes of confusing thoughts and feelings, and now apparently he was dreaming about it?! He had to find her, had to stop history from repeating itself yet again, he would not let him have her first, not fucking again!

But more than that…he truly feared if he let this go on too long his tenuous at best grasp of reality might slip…yet again.

****

She sits in a corner in the dark and dank stable. She has piled a quantity of soft hay here, just enough to be comfortable without drawing attention to itself in the daytime, when the stable boys were about. She moved her face closer to the candle light, keeping the book just far enough away so that no wax falls on it, but so that she can still read the letters. She is engrossed in the words before long. Her clever mind filling in spots of letters she can not see, a smile on her face, for the first time in days.

She hears a rustling, but thinks nothing of it, rats probably, but she has no fear of them. If one wishes to escape his lordship Richard Denibegh, one has to be creative and fearless of small critters. She had long since lost any disquiet she felt over seeing or feeling a scurrying rodent. As long as she didn’t stay still for too long, or accidentally kick one, they usually let her be in peace. She presses her face closer to the book engrossed, her back to the outside world. 

Suddenly a lantern shines on her from above, she gasps horror struck. Not waiting to see who has caught her, she grabs her book and runs past them, as quickly as she can. Covering her face with her veil as she goes. She feels a man’s strong hand grasp her, pulling her to a stop. She’s been caught, terrified and panicking as she looks up to see her captor. All air escapes her lungs as the lantern light reveals Laird Aiden’s handsome face. Up close it’s even more beautiful than she could have dreamed, angular and symmetrical, his dancing silver blue eyes gazing at her in…curiosity, not anger. She holds her breath all the same waiting for his reaction, expecting him to lash out as her master does. Her body trembles in fear.

“Easy lass, I won’t hurt you, Calm yourself, you can nae be running around here in the dark.” He tells her, his voice deep and rich, but so gentle as if he were cooing to a small child.

He smells of pine, lavender and clean fresh air, and standing so close to her she can feel the heat from his strong formidable body. He has his big calloused hand on her shoulder still, holding her from running from him. His other hand holds the lantern. It takes her a moment to realize he is staring at her, and another for both of them to realize he is touching her bare shoulder. They glance up at each other at the same time, whiskey gold eyes meeting dancing silver blue, the force of their gaze sending shivers down her spine. She feels as if the breath has left her body.  His thumb begins to move in slow sensuous circles seemingly of its own volition on the hypersensitive skin of her exposed shoulder, gentle feather fine touches. She watches his face helplessly, his mien one of confused wonder. She is still shaking, but now it isn’t with fear…

“Ah Christ…you likely do nae speak English….parlez vous français?" He asks her, his tone so gentle and calm. No man has ever spoken to her in such a manner.

“I speak English, French and several other languages,” She quietly replies, her voice a soft accented contralto, throaty and sultry, he furrows his brows at the sound.

“Well, that helps matters,” He responds with a faint smile, “What are you doing in my stables lass?

All the color drains from her face, anguish and panic marring her visage, but he can only see her eyes, the veil preventing naught but else.

“Please…I mean no offense, I will never come here again…only…please my master…” She pleads, her voice breaking in her fear. 

“Lass, I will no’ tell a soul. But satisfy a man’s curiosity,” He says kindly, with a reassuring smile on his face. “It's no’ every day I find a woman by candle light in a stall. Go on then,” He encouraged.

Panic stricken she gathers the book out from her clothes, hands shaking she hands it to him, the instrument of her doom. He looks at it, turning the book over in his hand, then looks up at her bemused.

“You were reading lass?” He asks quietly.

“He…he does not permit…” She stammers out. If word gets back to her master…not only caught reading, but by Laird Aiden…she shutters to think of the consequences.

“He does no’ allow you to read?” He questions, a note of outrage in his voice.

“He...does not know I can read.” She tells him, revealing her most dangerous secret.

“Why would…” He begins, indignantly.

“Please…you must not…he will hurt…” She interrupts, her body shaking violently.

“He would hurt you for reading?” He asks incredulously, rage crossing his handsome face.

“Not just me…he hurts those I care for. Please. My companion, she’s old, if he hurts her she might not...survive it. Please…” She begs, her voice shaking.

“Lass,” He whispers, his brow furrows with concern, and agitation.

“Please! I won’t read here again! She’s…she’s all I have…” She whimpers, a single tear running down her face.

“Alright Lass, you have my word,"  He agrees, sighing deeply. "Only…"

“I have to go, he comes to check on me.” She interrupts him. A measure calmer though still frightened, she pulls from his grasp running away, back toward the keep.

“What’s your name?” He demands, to her retreating back. But she is gone. Leaving behind her book, the latin one she had so painstakingly bargained for, and so expertly hidden from all of Richard’s various rages over the months she’d had it. She sneaks back in through the open window that her companion has left unlatched for her. She lays herself down on her shredded bed, breathing heavily, his scent still in her nose, his voice in her ears. She allows herself to smile for just a moment at the thought of Aiden the ferocious, and his strangely gentle manner.

In the morning Richard is still seething with rage over his failed attempt to humiliate  Laird Aiden, the night they’d first arrived. Only now his wrath is firmly directed at Aiden and not her. A relief to be sure, but somehow she finds herself fuming at his cruel, callous disregard for the Laird, his people, family and rules. He had decided this morning that the Laird’s uncivilized tendencies were the cause of his vehement reaction to Richard abusing her. 

“Only a savage would think to impose upon a man to not discipline his chattel.” He told her this morning, idly running his hands through her hair, she had worked very hard indeed not to flinch away in disgust at his touch. “And to allow his mother to speak to me with such disrespect, imagine a man needing his mumsy to fight his battles.” He gloated, she had to choke back her retort burning in her throat to remind him that the lord Aiden, had fully held him in a choke hold, that could easily have broken his neck, and if his mother had saved anyone that night, it was Richard not Aiden. 

But she would never dare to say such to him.  Not necessarily because she feared personal harm, that had long since lost its sting, but Richard had a way of destroying things and people she cared for, often making her watch. She had sat through his nonsense tirade, but in the end she had somehow managed to convince him to allow her leave to the marketplace with her elderly companion, a woman she calls Nana. Convincing him that she needed new clothes after all, wearing the borrowed dresses of other servants would only do for so long. 

She and Nana are enjoying their sunny trip through the marketplace, always careful to keep her face covered as Richard demands, today he has allowed her to wear a warm dress instead of the draped raw silks he normally insists she wears when they are away from his estate;having destroyed them all in his pique. He also permitted her to wear  soft leather boots  instead of the uncomfortable sandals he had made her wear for the disastrous performance. Grateful for these small comforts she is in a jovial mood today, speaking in hushed excited tones with her companion. 

“Excuse me ladies,” Aiden’s deep honey rich voice says as he dismounts his horse in front of them, “might I borrow, the young miss for a few moments?” He asks Nana, his tone friendly, but they both know this is not a request, it is an order. She exchanges a worried look with her companion, both panicked, for they can not rightfully deny the Laird, but there will be hell to pay if Richard finds out. “She won’t be gone but a mo’, I will bring her back right here,” He told Nana, not unkindly. He reaches his hand out for her, she turns to give Nana one last worried glance, before she accepts it. Her hand all but swallowed in his much larger calloused one, her body jerks as if struck by lighting at his touch. He smiles as he helps her onto his horse, climbing up behind her, his arms wrap around her to hold the reins. He heads back toward the keep. 

Surrounded by his warmth and delicious smell, her head swims, he carefully directs her hands to hold onto the pommel of his saddle wordlessly. She doesn’t question why his touch does not repel her, why indeed she wishes he would linger a moment longer. He rides smoothly, allowing her to adjust to the movement. Which is good as she has never ridden on the back of a horse in her life! Her back presses against his chest, and she can feel the comforting beat of his heart there, and the rise and fall of his breath. Her body tingles with hyperawareness, even as she feels herself relaxing against him.She closes her eyes for a moment allowing herself to savor this. For a moment she can pretend she is not a slave, but simply a young woman out and about for a ride with a handsome man she fancies. She smiles at her fantasy, only allowing herself to linger for the length of this ride. 

“Almost there lass,” He says by her ear, the deep sensuous sound sending shivers of warm sensation down her spine.

He comes into the keep, heading to the stables. Dismounting, he helps her off, handing the reins of his horse to a young stable boy. He takes a moment to ruffle the boy's hair, and comments on how big and strong he’s growing, the boy glows with the praise. Her heart warms at the sight.

 She watches him covetously, watching him stroke his horse’s face, nuzzling him gently, whispering to the animal in Gaelic, she mourns that she knows not this language, and so has no idea what sweet tenderness he imparts to the beast. He turns to her then, his eyes shining with mischievously light, no hint of embarrassment to show himself to her in this compassionate kind light. 

“Come lass, I have something to show you.” He tells her, leading her toward the great hall. She notices as they walk that he is keeping pace with her, rather than forcing her to keep pace with him, easy strides to match her. He walks beside her, not in front, and when he thinks she is not looking he sneaks glances at her, she smiles secretly behind her veil, glad for it so that he can not see her wild blushes. She is used to being stared at, but the way the young Laird looks at her is unlike any other gaze she has ever felt. Equal parts fascination, and curiosity. 

He leads her through the great hall, up a flight of stairs, and through the inner chambers where only the Laird and his family keep rooms. He leads her up a turret, past massive double doors, that she is certain must be his personal chambers. Up and up they walk, him patiently keeping her much slower pace, finally they reach the top blocked by a locked door. He reaches into his tartan and pulls out a key, carefully putting the key into the lock and then turning it, pushing it open for her. He steps from her way, allowing her to see the view unencumbered.

The breath leaves her body as she stares at the sight before her, the largest, most packed library she has ever seen. She walks in gazing around her, every square inch of wall is covered with bookshelves, filled to the brim with tomes. Ladders on sliders dot several spots around, allowing access to the higher shelves that reach all the way to the vaulted ceiling. She spins around in awe,before turning to look at him, grateful beyond words that he would allow her to step foot in such a magnificent space. He smiles at her as if he is pleased with her reaction, and then places the key in her hands.

She exhales sharply in stunned disbelief, as his big hands close around hers, pressing the key into the palm of her hand. 

“No one comes here, I am the only one with a key to this library. No one will bother you here.” He tells her warmly, releasing her hands, leaving them tingling and cold for his touch,

“Why,” She breathes in confusion, no one has ever given her anything without strings attached. Surely for something this incredible he would exact a large token.

“There is no greater pleasure than to be lost in a book, no one should fear punishment for it,” He told her sincerely,her heart aches with tenderness for this man. And still…still she is suspicious.

“You don’t even know my name,” She says, looking at him confused.

“Aye, a quick remedy to that though, lass.” He tells her.

“What…what do you expect in recompense for this?” She asks him, worried. She has naught that would ever be worth as much as the use of this library.

“Ahh, a heavy tole I exact for the use of my library,” He tells her in sham-sternness.

“I have nothing to give you…” She whispers alarmed. Certain that he will ask for the one thing that seems to drive all men, the only thing that keeps her safe from Richard’s depravity…

“A name,” He says “Yours will suffice.” She blinks in surprise and a slow smile comes unbidden to her hidden face.

“Simrin,” She whispers.

“Tis a unique and beautiful name. Well worth the cost.” He tells her. “I am Aiden,” 

“The ferocious,” She says softly, awed. 

“Ah Christ, they are no’ still calling me that are they?” He hisses self-effacingly with vague embarrassment.

“They say you are a savage, possessed of the strength of ten men,” She whispers reverently.

“Oh Aye, and I can fly no doubt.” He retorts with a snort.

“They say you eat babes and kill women for sport,” She continues, gazing at him disconcerted. The legends do not seem to match up with this beautiful man before her.

“Nay, can no’ get past the squalling and the stink, and my mother would box me about the ears for the attempt,” He says dryly, she laughs then, the sound of bells.

“There now lass, laughter becomes you,” He says warmly, smiling at her flashing her his beautiful , even white teeth. His dancing eyes are even more captivating in his amusement. Their eyes lock, a jolt like lightning passing between them. He watches her bemused, his big hand resting absently on his chest, over his heart. Unconsciously he seems to reach his other hand to her, Simrin flinches back, weary of anyone reaching for her. He immediately drops his hand, as they both gaze at it. For a moment she is filled with regret, never has she sought the touch of another, but now…now she considers what it would be to feel his touch. The direction of her thoughts frighten and confuse her, making her take a step away from him. She does not miss the disappointed hurt expression on his face, before he quickly wipes the look away. 

“I have to go, he will be looking for me before long,” She says finally, she has lingered too long as it is.

“Aye, he keeps you in his sights as a hawk does its prey,” He agrees.

“I am his property,” She tells him sadly.

“No man or woman should own another…tis no’ right.” He tells her vehemently, the force of his conviction apparent in his tone.

“It hardly matters what I think is right or wrong,” She whispers, glancing away. She knows her place, she knows they are not of the same station, but in this moment it becomes so clear to her, it is almost painful. For a moment she had allowed herself to long, to want, and now the reality of the situation sinks in for her, she can never have a man such as Aiden the ferocious, never.

“Does he hit you regularly like he did that night?” He asks her, concern and outrage in his tone. How she wishes to calm him, to uncrease his brow from its worry. She wonders what he would say if she ran her finger tips against his furrowed brow, her lips…

“Not so much anymore, rarely in the face anyways,” She tells him soothingly.

“He should no’ be hitting you ever,” He spits indignant. Now she frowns, surprised.

“How do you control your servants?” She asks, remembering him vehemently informing Richard that they did not permit corporal punishments on servants here.

“I barely control anything, my mother is the lady of the keep. Lady Aiobheal has a manner in which brokers no arguments,” He informs her a smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he speaks of his mother, “As a child my mother never had to raise her voice, she had a way of looking that conveyed her displeasure with disconcerting accuracy,”  He tells her clearly amused. “But come lass, I embarrass myself by going on like a fishwife. Best that your arse of a master find you where he expects Aye?”

“Yes,” She replies, charmed at this baffling dichotomy of a man, so strong and powerful, but warm and kind, and gentle too. He directs her to the door, and as they descend the stairs, she chances a glance at him.

“Laird Aiden,” She says softly.

“Just Aiden, lass” He tells her.

“Aiden…I…thank you.” She says, her heart overflowing with gratitude.

“Say no more on the subject, mo ghràidh” He replies. A shiver runs down her spine, she does not know the language well, but this word she knows. The great Laird Aiden, the ferocious, had just called her his dearest one…