Love by the Stroke of Midnight by Raven McAllan (best historical biographies .txt) 📗

“Woman, you’ll be killing me.” His gravelly tone made her body tighten and sent tingling shivers down her spine.

Hold on. How could he speak?

“I’m in your mind.”

Okay then. She might as well start to accept that she could hear him, that maybe she did have some of those attributes her family had. But why only now? She’d ask about that later.

Killing him? Did he mean the little death? Did men have that as well? Marcail tilted her head to stare at him.

“You’re killing me,” she replied. Was that throaty voice really hers? “In a good way.” She put her hands around his neck and made sure their lips locked once more.

Paden deepened the kiss and slipped his hands around Marcail to caress her breasts. Even through her clothes his touch affected her more than she would have thought—if coherent thought were possible. Her already throbbing breasts felt heavy, her nipples hard and aching, and her inner self, ready, waiting, wanting more.

Marcail scrabbled at the hem of his T-shirt and had begun to lift it when another noise penetrated into her foggy brain.

Talk about an arousal douser.

The creaking noise was the one the bottom tread of the main staircase made when someone stood on it. Marcail’s heart missed a beat as she stopped what she was doing and batted Paden’s hands away.

“Shoot. Move. Now,” she whispered. “Someone’s coming. Main stairs. What do we do?”

Paden blinked as if he were coming out of a trance then his eyes cleared. He tugged his T-shirt into place and adjusted the hem of her top. “Drink our wine and talk about something innocuous.”

Innocuous. What the hell was innocuous? Easier said than done. Marcail nodded, tried to gather her scattered thoughts into one logical and sensible one and slow her rapid breathing. The heightened colour she bet she had she could do nothing about, and would have to hope whoever it was put it down to the warmth of the kitchen—or the wine. With that in mind she opened the lid of the Aga and put the kettle on the hot plate. The increased gush of heat might make her sweat but it was in a good cause. That of explaining her heated cheeks.

Footsteps sounded on the flagged hall floor. Paden took a deep breath and picked his wine glass up. “Can’t beat a full-bodied red, can you?” He turned the glass round in his hand and winked as the door opened. The contents sparkled in the light. “I remember a bottle someone gave me years ago. It looked lovely, smelt like vinegar. I used it for cooking just once, and you’d have thought I actually had cooked in vinegar. Mind you, it cleaned the sink beautifully.”

Marcail giggled just as her father came into the room. “Dad? What’s up?”

Ruari Drummond blinked. “You two, it seems. I saw the light shining on the lawn when I went to the loo. I thought I’d forgotten to turn it off.”

Does he appear shifty?

“Turn the loo off?” Marcail said and sniggered. “That’s a new one on me.”

“Smarty-pants,” her dad said. “What’s that you’ve got?”

Marcail showed him the bottle. “I couldn’t sleep. Met Paden in the hall. He couldn’t sleep. So we thought wine and chocolate. Or I did, he was probably after coffee and cake.”

“Tea and toast,” Ruari said. “Taken upstairs to share with your mum. You’ve made me hungry now.”

Marcail moved the kettle onto the hob, warmed a teapot and made a brew whilst her dad put bread in the toaster.

Five minutes later Ruari had made his way upstairs, and Marcail and Paden were alone once more.

Paden glanced at Marcail and rolled his eyes. “That was a phew, saved by the creak moment, eh? I take it as a don’t rush, wait until it’s time hint.” He drained his glass and stood up. “I’m a great believer in taking hints. So, mo ghaol, I’ll not love you, just leave you and go back to my cold, lonely bed.”

Marcail stood up as well. “The lonely I can’t do anything about, but I can offer you a hot water bottle for the cold.”

He laughed. “I’ll pass. A cold bed will do instead of a cold shower. See you in the morning. Dream of me?”

“I don’t dream.”

“Liar.” He kissed her cheek. “Not long to wait.”

However long was too long, Marcail decided as she tidied up, switched off the light and made her way back to bed.

Chapter Five

Marcail spent the following day alone, reconnecting, as her dad had tactfully said, with the island and her heritage. He still wasn’t happy, but when Marcail questioned him, he sighed.

“I’ve been overruled. For once, grudgingly, I’ll do as I was told. But remember, I didn’t agree and still don’t. Love you though.”

Which told her precisely nothing except that someone had insisted her dad didn’t share his knowledge of what was about to happen. Or was that not happen?

Clear as mud. Marcail walked on, skirted an outcrop of rock covered in bracken, took some photos and decided to try to not think about the future, but enjoy the day.

It wasn’t until lunchtime, when at the tip of the island, where over the centuries a steep cliff had provided safety from invaders, she sat behind a hedge to keep out of the wind and opened the food pack her mum had given her, that she was ready to think about things.

As she looked out over the choppy water, at the grey lowering sky that hinted of rain or more, she acknowledged her parents were right and she needed to re-establish those links to the island, her heritage. Or, if she were being totally honest, establish some of them in the first place. Other things, such as her proposed trip, what Paden had to do with her, and just why she’d been so wrong with Roddy, could wait.

Marcail poured some soup into a mug and sipped it slowly as she let her mind wander over her life. When had she become so intransigent and unwilling