Shrill squealing suddenly rent the night air, making him flinch and turn. Three fat piglets came running into the hall on stiff trotters, followed closely by his manservant, Greaves, and two dirty lads, Niall and Colban.
‘The piglets have got loose again, Laird,’ said Colban, wiping an eternally snotty nose on his sleeve.
‘You don’t say,’ snapped Callum, grabbing the dog by the scruff so that it didn’t give chase and rip the piglets’ throats out. ‘You lads round them up and make good the sty fence in the morning, and properly this time, or it won’t be just the piglets for the pot.’
Both lads merely grinned at his threat, and Niall said, ‘They are impish little buggers, Laird, and cannot be contained.’
Callum cuffed him lightly round the head. ‘So are you two, and don’t swear. Do your work now.’ He tried to keep a straight face but could not help but grin back.
Greaves gave them another clip about the ears just for good measure. ‘Aye, Laird, I’ll see that they make a good job of it,’ he said, glaring at them.
The chase began again, and Callum’s foul mood lightened as the pink little monsters slipped through the lads’ fingers repeatedly. Finally, after much cursing, the piglets were chased out of the hall, and the squealing died down.
‘A thousand pardons for the ruckus, Laird. ‘Tis a cold bitch of a night, to be sure. Can I fetch you warm ale with honey to take the chill out?’ said Greaves, wiping greasy hands on a filthy apron.
‘No. I thank you. Leave me be, and find your bed. Solitude is all I require.’
‘Aye, as you like, Master. I lit the fire in your chamber,’ he said and shuffled off, then he turned and said with a wink, ‘What you need is a nice, soft lass to warm your bed. ‘Twould take the chill off better than a fire.’
‘Goodnight to you, Greaves,’ said Callum. Damn the man. Was he a mind reader? He must be, for all Callum wanted at that moment was to be alone, to indulge in the luxury of remembering the lass on the road. Throughout the long gallop home, the cold and wind had helped turn his mind from her soft loveliness, but now she crashed into his thoughts. He drew her likeness into his mind and, for a moment, had her all to himself. Callum laughed wryly and turned to Monk.
‘Am I some hopeless, green lad whose head is turned by a bonnie face and a smile?’ he said. The dog yawned and pushed its wet, whiskery snout against his hand, seeking affection. Callum rubbed its broad head. ‘Aye, there is a tempest in my soul, Monk, as if it has been struck by a bolt of lightning. And a yearning, too, all for a lass I will probably never see again. And I confess that there is worse I must recount to you.’
He raked his hand through his hair, and the dog whimpered resentfully and pressed closer. ‘She is English, Monk. And that is the worst thing to be in these times.’ Callum smiled into the hound’s liquid brown eyes as sleet clattered against the windows. ‘Aye, you crave love, as do I. Are we not two sad, wretched souls together?’
It was getting colder, so Callum grabbed a candle from the mantle and headed upstairs to his chamber. The dog followed at his heels, and when he had thrown off his kilt and boots and heaved himself into bed, Monk leapt on and plopped down beside him.
That lass had been heading to Inverness with her parents. What a pompous fool the father was. It was plain she was a dutiful daughter and supported her mother, for the matron had clung to the girl’s arm for all she was worth, no doubt judging him a ruffian of the first order. That fat, fussy woman was nothing like her daughter, for the lass was not only tall and lithe, but she had enough good character to thank him for his efforts. And she had been concerned for him when the carriage had almost rolled over his foot.
He shook his head, chiding himself for his foolishness. He was bestowing all kinds of virtues on a stranger just because she had a bonnie face. For all he knew, the lass could be a vicious, deceitful shrew or a haughty English prig. Yet he could only know for sure if he tracked her down. Aye, a lass as beautiful as she would stand out, even in a crowded town like Inverness.
Callum pulled his furs and blankets over his shoulders and sank into a restless sleep, planning how he would make enquiries about the lass the next morning. To what end, he did not rightly know, yet his mind would not be turned from her. With a vision of wide brown eyes and a sweet smile swirling in his head, he sank into a fitful sleep.
Strands of blonde hair blew across his face, caressing it, as her hands trailed down his chest. Her mouth, so plump-lipped, pressed to his like a heavenly cushion. He could taste her smooth tongue, duelling with his own as he sank it further inside the warm cavity of her mouth, dominating, taking, owning. She opened like a flower beneath his gentle fingers and spread herself wide for him, gasping his name as he entered her moist, hot, fragrant body.
Callum awoke with a start and a gasp to find himself clutching onto Monk. The dog’s meaty breath assaulted his nostrils, and Callum sat up, rubbing his hair out of his eyes. His palm came away slick with sweat. God’s teeth, that dream had been so real that he felt the lass was still under his hands.
Breathing heavily, he lifted up the bedsheets. They were damp between his legs. Callum clapped his hands over his eyes and groaned. He had not had a night-time emission since he was a young lad, and now here he was, shaming himself and all over that bonnie blonde lass.
‘Damn her eyes,’ he said aloud, but there was only Monk to hear, and the dog just curled into a tight ball, nose to tail up against Callum’s hip and sighed back to slumber.
Chapter Two
Tara paced the creaking floorboards of their lodgings. Having spent two weeks cooped up in attic rooms that her uncle had rented, she was desperate for fresh air and freedom. Aside from a couple of quick strolls, she had been caged like a bird and could not free herself. Uncle Ralph had forbidden her to walk the streets of Inverness on account of them being prowled by ‘ruffians and disreputables.’
The rooms were cramped, dark and reeked of damp, and Tara had been dismayed that they could not get anything more suitable. But Uncle Ralph had dismissed her concerns.
‘This is the best to be had in Inverness, for these Scots live like barbarians and totally outside of comfort, my dear. What folly possessed my cousin to marry into Scotland, I cannot fathom,’ he had said.
‘The great wealth of his wife,’Tara had wanted to reply, but she had bitten her tongue as her uncle considered any talk of money to be vulgar. But it was uncharitable of her uncle to question his late cousin’s choice of wife, seeing as how he was inheriting the wealth the woman had brought to his family. Cousin Walter’s Scottish wife had not provided with him any children, and so now he had passed away, his estate was to go to Uncle Ralph in its entirety. It was a stroke of great fortune to which Ralph Hennaut believed he was entitled. This was in spite of the fact that Walter’s wife had been a wealthy merchant’s daughter, which, according to Uncle Ralph, had ‘brought the taint of trade to the proud Hennaut name.’
Tara sighed and looked out the window at the throng of busy townsfolk rushing about their business. Some were poor folk scraping by, and some were richly-dressed ladies promenading. Oh, to have such purpose, or to have a destination and not this unmoored existence. If only she could slip out and explore.
She was sorely in need of a distraction, for her mind was constantly drawn back to that Scot they had encountered on the road. Why could she not shake the memory of his broad hands on the carriage, the intensity of his grey eyes insolently joining to hers, and the flutter in her heart at his brief, but winning, smile.
‘Do come away from the window and stop fussing, Tara. Your needlework needs attention.’
Ah, no, she could not go outside, for there was her eager chaperone to consider. She cast baleful eyes to Mistress Shaw, the vicar’s wife.