Highland Hunger (15 page)

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Authors: Hannah Howell

BOOK: Highland Hunger
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Chapter Six
Time stalled, encased in candlelit wonder. Tira didn’t hear his approach. She only knew one moment she was standing while he entered, and the next he was right before her, his eyes holding hers, while every heightened gasp she made seemed to reverberate through him. He had his head tipped down, lashes shadowing the curve of his cheek, and then he smiled, revealing a flash of pearl white.
Tira’s body pulsed, lunging into the space between them in a barely perceptible move that startled her. And then it looked to move through him, even as he reached for a numb hand and took it to his lips.
“Leannan.”
Candles from the chandelier glinted on shiny black strands of hair he’d pulled into a neat queue that looped over the white material about his neck. Now that she saw him dressed as fashion dictated, she realized the truth. He wasn’t handsome in the accepted way. He was more. He was absolute masculine beauty, framed incorrectly. MacAvee’s brawn and strength wasn’t encased in velvet and muslin and satin; it was barely restrained. He should be free of encumbrance, attired as his nature hinted, in a kilt, sleeveless shirt, doublet, sporran, a plaid.
And then she heard a rip.
Iain lifted his head, sending a whispered curse into the air before he swiveled, looking himself over for damage. Tira barely kept the amusement from sounding. That was the expression on her face when he stopped, moved his gaze back, and sent a solid thump of a heartbeat all the way through her.
“What does that mean? That name you call me?
Leannan?
”
She didn’t think he’d answer for a spell as his cheeks pulled in and he avoided meeting her eyes. And then he looked to have decided something, for his chest enlarged and he sent the sigh of air into the space between them. He met her look again, and that sent a whoosh of sound so strong through her ears that she had to guess at his words.
“ ’Tis Gaelic.”
“And the . . . meaning?”
“ ’Tis an endearment. Of sorts.”
“Sorts?”
“Pester me with this after our wedding, lass. And the consummation that will follow. Immediately thereafter.”
Tira swallowed, controlled her eye width with force of will, and regarded him. “You don’t know me well enough for such a comment.”
“I doona’ need to.”
“Well, I certainly do. This is what the acquaintance time was to remedy. The acquaintance time you failed to provide.”
“Forgive me, lass. I could na’ attend to you as required. Because of what else you required.”
“You make little sense, Your Grace.”
“Iain. Always. Iain. We’ll be wed within hours, lass.”
“I have another day.”
“Oh nae. You have three hours. And na’ one moment more. Exactly as you bargained.”
“But you failed your part.”
“I’m here. Escorting you. In Sassenach frippery.”
“Three days overdue.”
“ ’Twas na’ possible sooner. There’s a dearth of tailors in this town that can fit a man proper.”
“You look proper enough.” And more.
Stunning
. She finished it in her thoughts.
“After three days of trying. You little ken what dragons were slain in order to accede your wishes.”
“Dragons?”
“ ’Tis a metaphor. For the curse of trousers. And the poor lads forced to wear them.”
Tira glanced down. Her thoughts stalled. Her eyes went wide, then her mouth. And then she blushed. Severely. She moved her view to the wallpaper-covered wall over his left shoulder.
“And this is the best fit. English tailors are an untalented lot, or a Sassenach is nae match for a Scotsman. You tell me.”
“You could have worn your kilt thing.”
He sighed. She felt it. “I’m here now, lass. And you’ve three hours. ’Twould be a powerful shame to spend the time with words of dissent.”
“That would be a cheat, Iain MacAvee.”
He didn’t answer for so long she had to look at why. He was regarding her with a set jaw and an aura of danger about him that frightened and yet thrilled, causing goose bumps to ripple over her arms.
“Were you a man, I’d have your throat.”
Tira gulped. “I need . . . another day.”
“Give me one fair reason.”
“We could have vast differences. Our union could be doomed from the start.”
“You’re the woman fated for me.”
“I don’t believe in fate.”
“You doona’ believe in destiny?”
“The only thing I believe is the ability to reason. That and solve problems. This is what I believe. The future is not fated. It’s open. Changeable. Adaptable.”
“I swear it to you, lass. We’ve been fated. From birth. Perhaps farther back than that. You’re my mate. Soul to soul and flesh to flesh. Or we verra soon will be. Did you na’ read my note?”
He was trying to shock her. Tira moved her attention to the room behind him for several heart-calming moments, watching Ophelia and Aunt Adelaide and his men . . . then the three manservants posed in Coombs family uniforms, ready to serve refreshments. They were in the act of chatting. Smiling. All of it in the same room, yet nothing penetrating through to where the duke stood, taking her focus into some fantasy realm. She shook her head and met his gaze without blinking.
“How are you doing that?” she asked.
“What, lass?”
He smiled, his lips gapping slightly to allow tips of teeth to show: wicked-looking, sharp teeth. Tira moved her glance from there to his eyes and kept them there. She couldn’t control anything.
“It feels like we’re alone. Encased. While surrounded by others.”
“How do you ken ’tis me?”
“The same thing happened at the dress shop, didn’t it?”
“Pester me with this as well. Once we’ve wed. And have consummated our union.”
He wasn’t answering her questions. None of them. Tira tried another tack. “How old are you, Iain?”
His smile disappeared. He drew straight. “Auld. Verra.”
“Give me a number. In years.”
He moved his eyes from hers, brought them back. Looked away again. “Twenty-five at last count,” he finally told the wall behind her.
“That is not very old.”
“To some.” He shrugged, there was another ripping sound, and he did another check of his clothing before returning his attention back to her.
“Why do you want . . . me?” Tira pulled in a breath and asked it.
“Ah,
leannan.
I doona’ fully ken why. All I ken is the fates have delivered on a promise. When I least expected it. Within this small hand lies my happiness.”
He encased her hand in both of his as he spoke, rubbing his thumbs along her skin without thought. Or if he gave it thought it didn’t show, although the vibration he put in play should be entirely noticeable, perceived, detected.
“Can you na’ feel it as well?”
She was feeling plenty. Starting with a shiver of emotion making him blur and ending with a deep thump of pulse from where her heart felt like it had fallen. Surprisingly, she still stood. Her legs hadn’t one halfpence of strength, but they still held her, upright and spellbound.
“I . . . need more time.”
“Why?”
“I don’t even know where you live. Where we’ll live.”
Tira pulled her hand free and he let her. He didn’t react as she stepped back a step and then another, until she sensed the wall. He just watched her with an unfathomable look, and then he answered.
“In a castle.”
“Truly?”
“Aye. MacAvee Hall. Or Castle Strathmore. Or there’s Blannock, Avendale. Glencairn. You have your choice. ’Tis all the same to me. As long as we wed.”
“That many?”
“As long as we wed.”
“Which do you prefer?”
Murmurs of voices were starting to resonate in the air about her, giving the impression of a crowd, speech, the tinkling of goblets.
“You stall and I will na’ allow it. We wed tonight. Midnight.”
“Can we not simply travel to one of these castles . . . and then wed?”
“Nae!”
His eyes flared. The candles all about the room seemed to have the same affliction, sending light that blinded for a moment before it subsided.
“How did you do that?” she asked.
“I’m done with words, lass. I warn you.”
He had his head down, his shoulders forward, and was breathing so harshly she felt each of them launched across the gap, sending wisps of hair flittering about her forehead. It was far different for Tira. She couldn’t breathe. She didn’t dare blink.
“Oh, there he is! And looking fairly discomfited at conversation with my niece. Your Grace.”
Aunt Adelaide split the space, separating him from Tira with her curtsy. She was joined the next moment by Ophelia, granting Tira a reprieve from him and the intent evident all over him.
 
Discomfited?
The woman had no grasp of men. Iain gripped both hands into fists, lifting his chest with breaths that had a ripping sound accompanying each one, and struggled with an emotion that had nothing discomfited about it. It was elemental, feral, immediate. And vast. Such full-vein rage belonged to his past, when once he’d walked the earth filled with the same lusts other men enjoyed. He was experiencing rage? Him? Iain MacAvee? And all because one woman told him nae?
It was incomprehensible. He didn’t know why the fates meant this one woman for him. And he didn’t know why every moment with her kindled long-dead emotions. All he knew was it happened and it was difficult to control. Iain shook in place with it, glaring over the other women at
her
.
“Your Grace?”
It was Grant at his right side, his twin on the other. Iain ignored both of them.
“We’re fair certain it meets with your betrothed’s approval. Miss Tira?”
“Wh-wh-what?”
She stammered when she spoke. Iain narrowed his eyes. She appeared to tremble, too, her eyes wide and dark while her lips parted to gasp in air. As if he’d harm her. The sight sent the oddest cooling sensation through him, tamping the burn. And that pulled him from the challenging stance he’d assumed without any awareness of it.
“The journey,” Grant continued, speaking for him.
“Journey?” the older woman asked.
“His Grace dinna’ tell you ladies?”
“Tell us what?”
His Tira shook her head. She didn’t take her eyes from his. The women separating them might as well be nonexistent, despite their chatter. Like little twittering birds.
“His Grace is needed at his estates. The journey takes four days.”
“That’s ridiculous. No coach travels that quickly.”
“And we’ve nothing packed.”
The women were answering again and Grant continued speaking for him. Tira didn’t move. She just stood there regarding him with that deep green gaze of hers, unblinkingly, sucking all of the anger away.
“His Grace’s yacht stands readied.”
“How extraordinary. We’re to travel by sea?”
“I’ve never been at sea. I hope I’m not the seasick type.” Iain shook his head.
“We’re not going by sea?”
“You’re na’ going.” He forced his attention to the other ladies with an act of will before he lost all scope of reality and found his existence riddled with cloying, twittering women.
“You can’t possibly expect my niece to travel with you unescorted.”
“And without me,” Miss Ophelia added.
“Tira has nae need an escort. Or companion. Or a maid. She’ll have me. All of me. On the morrow.”
He didn’t look to see what reaction Tira gave. It was enough the ladies before him gasped in unison.
“Tomorrow?”
That was the older one speaking. The younger hadn’t managed to shut her mouth enough to form words.
“Once the sun sets, we’ll wed. As bargained and now agreed. Tira?”
“Y-y-yes?”
She was still stammering, sending a tingle through the area where a heart had once been. Iain concentrated and set it to memory for enjoyment later. He’d never felt such a thing. Or if he had, he’d forgotten it. Another first . . . because of her.
“You have one more day. For readying.”
She looked at him for long moments before smiling with such a sweet expression, the instant stab of joy nearly unseated his head. Iain couldn’t contain it and forgot everything, until the smile faltered and disappeared. That’s when he realized he’d been grinning like a fool, displaying his fangs. He slammed his jaw shut with a motion that opened two slits in his lower lip, and he couldn’t meet her eyes. It was too soon. She was too skittish and he’d nearly forgotten centuries of training in hiding, protecting, lying.

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