Page 39 of Forbidden Dark Vows

“We’re looking for a room.” Harry gestures to his suitcase. “We noticed the card in the grocery store window.”

“Come a long way?” She peers behind us as if we might be carrying a sign announcing that we’re from the States.

“Chicago,” Harry says at the same time as I say, “New York.”

The woman’s smile grows wider. “Come in. It’s blowing a hoolie out there.” She opens the door wide and gestures us through to the kitchen.

The room is warm and filled with the aroma of baking bread. The table in the middle of the room is rich pine, a vase of heather sitting in the center. The work surfaces are scrubbed clean, and I notice freshly washed towels flapping on the washing line outside the window.

It’s cozy, and it feels instantly like home.

“How long are ye wanting to stay?” The woman fills a kettle with water and switches it on to boil. Then she takes three large mugs from a wooden stand and drops a tea bag into each.

“We’re not sure,” Harry says. “A few days maybe. Is that going to be a problem?”

“Ach, not this time of year. Sit yourselves down while I make ye some tea, and then I’ll show you to your room.”

We both do as we’re told.

The woman tells us that her name is Eileen. She and her husband, Alastair, manage the farm and take in guests to make a bit of extra money.

“The pub in the village does great food if ye’re wanting to eat out in the evenings. I’ll provide a full Scottish breakfast—do ye like haggis? But ye’re welcome to use the kitchen in the meantime. I want ye to treat it like home while ye’re here.”

She smiles at us and slurps her tea while it’s still scalding hot.

“Alastair will show ye round the farm if ye’re interested.”

I wonder if she’s starved of company while Alastair is out on the farm all day because she barely stops to draw breath while she’s talking.

The bedroom is just as clean and cozy as the kitchen. The bed has a floral comforter, and a faux fur throw on top, with plumped up pillows and cushions, and fluffy white towels folded to resemble swans. It’s hard to believe that this woman has welcomed us into her home as if she has known us all our lives, and I hope that we can find a way to repay her kindness.

“Settle in,” Eileen says, from the threshold. “There’ll be fruit cake in the kitchen whenever you’re ready.”

She closes the door behind her, and I flop backwards onto the bed. My muscles ache. My brain is scrambled from traveling andrunning from the police, and all I want to do is sleep, but Harry lays down beside me, his hand slipping underneath my sweater.

“Are you ready for fruit cake, Mrs. Heathcliff?” His fingertips find my nipple and his tongue pushes its way between my lips. “Or…?” He leaves the sentence hanging.

“Or…?” I can’t help smiling at his use of the fake name.

“Or shall we work up an appetite first?”

“Hmm, what do you suggest, Mr. Heathcliff?”

His hand snakes a path down to the waistband of my jeans, and he opens the button easily with a flick of his thumb. My body is instantaneously throbbing.

“I’m sure I’ll think of something.” He kisses the tip of my nose before sliding my jeans over my hips and spreading my legs wide.

His fingers stroke between my legs, sending a shiver down my spine, and I grab his arm, guiding him inside me. “Can you think about it down there?”

“Hmm…I’ll try.” He kisses my lips while he slides two fingers inside me, opening me up. My body is instantly wired, my sex already wet.

I nibble his bottom lip, catching it between my front teeth. “Harder, Harry.”

“Harder … Heathcliff. Say it, Ruby.”

A gasp escapes my lips as my favorite quote slides into my mind of its own accord:Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.

“Harder, Heathcliff.”

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