Page 15 of The Laird's Unwanted Wife
“Ye think he cast her out?” Rory asked.
Gerald nodded, though the act fueled a red-hot fire in his stomach. A smaller clan, such as Carswell’s, wouldn’t want to involve themselves in a possible feud with the major clans.
Still, to imagine he simply threw the woman out of his keep—threw achildinto the dangerous wilds—it was infuriating how much the answer made sense. He dug his wooden knife back into the bookshelf, furiously carving away against the grain.
“I’ll … go and prepare me horse, then.” Rory’s footsteps quickly left the study, and as the door closed shut behind him, Gerald allowed his anger to work through his fingers and onto the wood.
He wanted nothing more than to be carving into Carswell’s head, to have Aileen and Mollie back behind the safety of his walls. He wanted to hear the excited squeals of the little girl as she explored his keep, of the gentle care Aileen showed her sister through subtle cues and acts.
He wanted his arms around her waist, just like the night before, their faces sharing but a fraction of space between them. He could have kissed her then, touched her in places beyond her waist, her lips, and it all made himburn.
But, instead, he was in his study, carving away at a bookshelf as if his very sanity depended on it. All because of his promise. All because of the walls he hid behind. All because of a vow he made so very, very long ago.
8
Aileen was certain that Laird MacLiddel’s study door was simply broken. She had knocked so gingerly this time, and yet, it still swung open on its own, much to her distress.
All she had wanted to do was let the Laird know they had come back from town, that she’d chosen a few gowns and wanted his opinion. And, of course, Mollie was desperate to show off her new wardrobe, having already brought in a small audience of servants to one of the reading rooms to show off.
But instead, the door seemingly swung open on its own, almost forcing her to look inside and marvel at the sight within. The Laird stood beside his bookshelf, the outer layer of his tunic draped against his desk chair, with his linen shirt sleeves rolled well past his forearm.
His muscles strained as he continued to carve into the bookshelf with a woodcarver’s knife, the makings of what appeared to be a woman’s face with long, swirling hair running vertically againstthe shelves. In between strands of hair were detailed carvings of snowflakes, with a massive flurry condensing around the corners.
“Gracious,” she gasped softly.
This finally seemed to catch the Laird’s attention, and he turned to face Aileen, looking equally surprised to see her.
“Ah, sorry, me Laird!” Aileen bowed her head in apology, her chest fluttering as the image of his toned arms remained in her mind. “I … I mean, Gerald. I think yer door’s latch is broken, I promised I knocked first!” She heard him cross the study as her heart skipped a beat, only for his hand to gently settle against her chin and tilt her gaze to meet his.
“Ye ken, I’m used to me orders being followed,” Gerald said.
Now it was Aileen’s turn to look surprised.
“For someone who promised to stay out of me hair,” Gerald continued. “Ye’ve certainly made it yer goal to bother me as often as possible.”
“I’m … sorry, me Laird.”
“Gerald,” he reminded her.
“Gerald … aye.” Aileen swallowed nervously, watching as Gerald made his way back to his desk. He shifted his tunic aside, using it to clean his face of wood shavings and sweat. It was almost as if his own visage had been carved from wood, expertly crafted by the Gods themselves.
“What is it ye wanted to show me, Aileen?”
Aileen blinked, having completely forgotten why she’d come. Her eyes darted around the study, as if hoping something in there would jog her memory. Instead, she found herself staring at the bookshelf, the half-carved visage of a woman’s face, and the incredibly detailed snowflakes. “Um … that’s a beautiful piece of work, Gerald.”
Gerald’s gaze followed hers, letting out a gruff grunt as he shook his head. “It would be better if I had started properly. There were …” he paused, seemingly contemplating his next words more carefully than Aileen expected. “It was an older piece of wood. Some of the sides were startin’ to chip. Couldnae leave the surface splintered.”
“I suppose nae,” Aileen agreed. She continued to stare at the carving, wanting nothing more than to run her fingers between the grooves of the snowflakes.
“Yer brow looks like it’s tryin’ to knit a sweater,” Gerald said.
Aileen gave him a bewildered look.
“It’s very furrowed,” he explained. “Ye look like ye’re concentrating awfully hard.”
“Nay, it’s just …” Aileen’s attention turned back to the bookshelf, her face flushing warm for having looked so ridiculous in front of her soon-to-be husband. “The woman’s face … is she meant to be the winter goddess, Cailleach?”
“Aye.”
