Page 24 of Once Upon A Haunted Castle
Chapter Six
When the sunset that evening, Beiste could have sworn it was hours early, that darkness had won out over the light. Or perhaps, that was simply his mood.
The day had passed by quickly, despite his internal struggles, with preparations for their Viking hunt. The men and horses were rested and upon first light, they would, once more, journey toward Castle Gloom. Only this time, they would be searching the mountains for the villainous Bjork.
Beiste entered the great hall, prepared to sit at the table and eat the evening meal, but Elle was not present. His stomach rumbled as fiercely as his temper. Why did she toy with him? He’d specifically given orders for her to join him for dinner in the great hall, so that all within the clan would see she was accepted by him, not a prisoner. Besides, having had thoughts of her and her luscious lips all day, imagining her body pressed to his, he thought it best to see her in person, to push those thoughts from his mind. Perhaps he’d over exaggerated the softness of her skin, the deep knowing wells of her beautiful eyes, or the lush curves of her body and plush red of her lips. His mind seemed to have made her into a goddess throughout the day and he needed to prove himself wrong.
“Mrs. Lach, where is the lady?” he demanded, trying to roar out the question.
His housekeeper looked perplexed, pursing her lips and wiping her hands on her apron. “She is not coming down, my laird. She’s said she willna be having supper this evening.”
“Why?” he snapped, losing some control on the temper he kept tightly leashed.
“I dinna know. I didna ask.”
Beiste grunted, turned on his heel and headed for the stairs. Mrs. Lach might not have asked, but he damned well would. When he gave an order, he expected it to be heeded. Men died for less.
Upon reaching her door, he paused, hand in mid-air. He’d not spoken to her the entire day. Not since their kiss. And from that, he’d left in a disgruntled temper. Probably hurt her feelings in the process. ’Twas no wonder she chose to remain in her chamber. He’d not meant to hurt her feelings and she should know better. Shouldn’t she? Women were supposed to be the ones who empathized with others, understood them, not the other way around. Why was he even having these thoughts? Aye, she should have come down at his invitation, no matter the way in which they’d parted. In fact, he was certain it was rude of her to have denied his request for her presence.
With that thought in mind, he raised his hand and pounded on the door.
“Who is it?” she called from within in a singsong voice. She’d been waiting for him, he was almost certain of it. A game she was playing.
Beiste rolled his eyes, wanting to simply walk in, but after what had happened that morning…seeing all that white, creamy flesh. Being unable to control himself, reaching for her, pressing his hard frame to her soft curves…zounds, but his body was reacting to it again. Growing hot, hard with need. He wanted her. Needed her.
Like he’d never wanted or needed another.
Not even his beloved.
Saints, but was he betraying his wife’s memory by having these thoughts, feelings, reactions to another? Nay! Men lost wives and took new ones all the time. That wasn’t so new and different. Besides, on her deathbed, his sweet wife had begged him to move on. To love again. But he couldn’t. Never.
Aye, he felt guilty for it. Guilty for what would happen should he allow his feelings for this young chit to sink in and truly take hold. He’d be the death of her. Just like everyone else.
“Come to the great hall,” he demanded to the wooden planks of the door.
“Nay, thank ye,” she called, not bothering to open it.
Beiste let out a low growl of frustration. “’Tis not a request.”
That had her opening the door, fast enough to cause a breeze to swirl around the hem of her blue wool gown. His wife’s gown…
Beiste was silent. Speechless.
He’d told Mrs. Lach to give the clothes to his guest, but he’d never imagined they would look so fine on her.
“Ye…” His mouth grew dry and he couldn’t finish speaking. She looked even more beautiful than he remembered. The color of the wool brought out her eyes.
“I thank ye for thedemand, sir, but I am not hungry. And I dinna feel like celebrating when my brother is likely starving or beaten somewhere.”
Beiste narrowed his eyes, trying for intimidating. “Do ye plan to starve yourself along with him? What good are ye to your people if the both of ye end up dead?”
She frowned, delicate hands going to her hips, mouth pursed. Lord, but that was dangerous. He wanted to kiss her. Again. And again. And again.
Take her swiftly into his arms and claim those pouty red lips for his own.
Nay! Not for his own. Bloody not his!
Beiste scraped his hands through his hair, over his trimmed beard, deciding perhaps it was best for her to remain up here with the door closed and temptation at bay. “Suit yourself,” he fairly growled, then whirled on his heel. Before he’d made it three feet, he tossed over his shoulder, “The gown is verra becoming on ye.”
