‘But why would you extend the hand of charity to him?’
Callum came closer and took hold of her shoulders gently. ‘Don’t you know, lass?’
Tara looked up at him, wiping tears away with the back of her hand. ‘I…I do not.’
He frowned down at her, his face fierce in its intensity. ‘Aye, you do, but it embarrasses you to acknowledge my regard.’ He shook his head. ‘In truth, it embarrasses me. But here it is. I esteem you, Tara Hennaut, and I offer my friendship and protection with no motive other than to see you safe and happy. Beware of others with murkier motives.’
‘How can you esteem a woman with mud on her skirts, who is scared of her own shadow. I can’t even milk the cow. I am good for nothing.’
‘I don’t see you that way at all. You make the best of what you have and go on, regardless of what life throws at you. You are stronger than you know, Tara, and more beautiful too.’
‘You should not say such things to me, Laird Ross.’
‘I know full well I shouldn’t, and it is Callum. How many times must I say it, lass? My name is Callum,’ he said quietly. Tara became lost in the grey depths of his eyes. They were fine and earnest. He came closer and put a hand on her cheek. It was hot and smelled of milk and was comforting and terrifying all at once. Her mouth fell open in surprise and her face flooded with heat. By instinct, Tara took his hand as though to remove it but paused. ‘I should not be so familiar with a man,’ she whispered.
‘Aye, you should, lass. I am your friend, and you can trust me,’ he said
‘Can I?’ Her breath quickened, making her chest heave up and down.
‘Aye,’ he gasped as his eyes slipped to her mouth.
She desperately tried to divert him ‘I cannot take the chickens, Callum,’ she said.
‘Take them as a loan from a friend then.’
‘A loan I cannot repay.’
His face hardened with desire. ‘Can you not?’ he gasped.
Tara glanced at his mouth, and he seemed to lose all restraint, pulling her gently to him.
Unsure of what was happening, Tara she lost herself to his embrace. Callum was all warmth and strength, his arms a comforting cage as they came around her and pulled her close. When his mouth pressed to hers, everything in the world slipped away. It was as if their two souls merged and became one. It breached her loneliness and set an ache in her loins. And beyond that lay pleasure of the most sinful kind.
Tara gave herself up to Callum as heat pooled in her belly, and her heart galloped. The tight ache in her throat was a longing so powerful it stole her breath. Callum groaned into her mouth, and Tara slid her hands around his neck to hold herself up, for her knees almost buckled. His splayed fingers slid up her back and into her hair, holding her head to his.
He broke free and kissed his way down her neck, breathing into her hair, ‘You are so beautiful, Tara. So very lovely. I have thought of nothing else since I saw you that day on the road. You consume me, lass.’
‘We must not,’ she breathed, but as she said the words, she clutched him tighter. There was a hard throb of sin between her legs as if her heart had started beating there and a hunger in her breast as she let him devour her mouth. Kissing was nicer than she had dreamt it could be – slippery, sensual and exciting - and it was impossible to stop now that she had started.
‘Mistress Shaw would chastise me for being a strumpet,’ she gasped against his mouth, taking in his quickened breath.
‘Mistress Shaw can go straight to hell,’ he gasped.
‘What is this?’ came a furious voice.
They both leapt away from each other to see Ralph Hennaut standing in the doorway with a riding crop in his hand.
‘Rutting in the barn with the animals like a common strumpet, is it?’ he growled at Tara before rounding on Callum. ‘Get your filthy Scots hands off her. I will not suffer a dirty scoundrel to put his mouth on my niece.’
Callum rushed forward. ‘She is no strumpet. Do not speak to her that way.’
‘I will speak to her any way I like. And she is a strumpet, and a whore, too, wriggling against you in lust and fornication. I will have you horsewhipped for this.’
Uncle Ralph raised his crop to strike Callum, but the Scot grabbed it and snapped it in two over his knee. ‘Never raise a hand to me again, Englishman,’ he said slowly, and somehow his icy control was more intimidating than her uncle’s loud outrage.
‘Get off my land, you villain,’ said Ralph, going puce in the face and storming out. Tara stood in silence, and Callum hung his head, his hands in fists at his side. They both flinched when they heard the sound of the cottage door slamming.
Callum broke the awful silence first. ‘He is drunk. I can smell the whisky on him.’