was wild, reckless, and unladylike appeared. Before she could stop herself, she turned her head towards Finlay, batted her eyes, and said, “I would love to ‘ave ye.”
***
Ailsa skipped supper that night. In fact, she avoided meals where she might run into Finlay at all costs. It occurred to her, somewhere between leaving him shirtless in the field and readying herself for their supper, that she was a gently bred woman. Her father raised her to be the wife of a laird, the wife of a powerful man in a powerful position. And while, at present, there were no suitors knocking down her door, Ailsa was more than certain that there would be.
If she gave herself to Finlay and allowed him to shed her virginal blood and hang their bloodied sheet out as a symbol of their union, then what would she be? Ailsa would not lie to herself or deny the attraction she felt towards Finlay. It was a thing that lived and breathed inside of her, after all; but, she also would not let it rule her. She would not be handfasted to a field hand and become the wife of someone lower than her station.
It was not just for her sake, but also for her brothers’ sakes. It was for the sake of her people, for her father, and for her home. She had a right--a duty to them.
So, Ailsa stayed away from Finlay. She stayed away from his warm eyes and deep, throaty voice. Only the stories her brothers regaled her with kept her tied to the man. They told her how he taught them swordplay, taught them to plant, and taught them to hunt. These were things her father should have taught them, but never did.
***
Ailsa shivered by her desk and pulled her shawl tighter around her. Winter was approaching, but thankfully the crops had already been harvested and traded. They’d earned enough coin to see them past the winter and well into the spring. She knew it was all because of Finlay, since he’d shown the workers newer and better ways to harvest. The man was filled with surprises, a bevy of secrets.
A knock on her bedroom door drew her away from her musings. Ailsa rose from her desk and padded to the door. She was barefoot, since they’d been able to buy new animal skins for part of the room and Alisa loved the feel of the fur between her naked toes. She also loved the smell of the peat smoke coming from her fireplace and the bales of lavender Glenda had recently hung for her. There were still no tapestries on the wall, save one to cover the window; but, for once, things were going well. Ailsa was just happy for that small miracle.
“Glenda, ‘ave ye no' gone to--”
Ailsa froze. The words were cut off in her throat, as she looked at Finlay, dressed in a linen shirt and resting against her doorframe. The man looked dangerous and something more, silhouetted by the small light from her room.
“I’m sorra, Finlay. ‘Tis vera late, and unless ye--” Ailsa began, unsure of how to approach the situation.
“Why ‘ave ye been avoiding me, lass?” Finlay asked. His brow was raised, as he questioned her; yet, he made no move to enter her room or leave.
Worry, anger, and desire warred inside of Ailsa, as she tried to think of a way to answer him. “I ‘ave no’ been--”
“Dinna lie to me, Ailsa. I dinna take kindly to liars.” His voice was deadly soft with a hint of censure. It made Ailsa wish she had the broadsword from the first time she’d met him. Without it she felt naked. In fact--
Ailsa gasped, as she tugged her shawl firmly around her. She had forgotten that she was only in a simple, cotton shift that came mid-thigh and was very thin. She had yet to unpack her winter nightgown and thought she could wear her summer one for one more night. How she loathed that decision now.
Finlay eyed her up and down, lingering on her thighs and the space between them. Ailsa blushed seven shades of red, as she squeezed her thighs together and tried to ignore the heat and butterflies taking over her
***
Ailsa skipped supper that night. In fact, she avoided meals where she might run into Finlay at all costs. It occurred to her, somewhere between leaving him shirtless in the field and readying herself for their supper, that she was a gently bred woman. Her father raised her to be the wife of a laird, the wife of a powerful man in a powerful position. And while, at present, there were no suitors knocking down her door, Ailsa was more than certain that there would be.
If she gave herself to Finlay and allowed him to shed her virginal blood and hang their bloodied sheet out as a symbol of their union, then what would she be? Ailsa would not lie to herself or deny the attraction she felt towards Finlay. It was a thing that lived and breathed inside of her, after all; but, she also would not let it rule her. She would not be handfasted to a field hand and become the wife of someone lower than her station.
It was not just for her sake, but also for her brothers’ sakes. It was for the sake of her people, for her father, and for her home. She had a right--a duty to them.
So, Ailsa stayed away from Finlay. She stayed away from his warm eyes and deep, throaty voice. Only the stories her brothers regaled her with kept her tied to the man. They told her how he taught them swordplay, taught them to plant, and taught them to hunt. These were things her father should have taught them, but never did.
***
Ailsa shivered by her desk and pulled her shawl tighter around her. Winter was approaching, but thankfully the crops had already been harvested and traded. They’d earned enough coin to see them past the winter and well into the spring. She knew it was all because of Finlay, since he’d shown the workers newer and better ways to harvest. The man was filled with surprises, a bevy of secrets.
A knock on her bedroom door drew her away from her musings. Ailsa rose from her desk and padded to the door. She was barefoot, since they’d been able to buy new animal skins for part of the room and Alisa loved the feel of the fur between her naked toes. She also loved the smell of the peat smoke coming from her fireplace and the bales of lavender Glenda had recently hung for her. There were still no tapestries on the wall, save one to cover the window; but, for once, things were going well. Ailsa was just happy for that small miracle.
“Glenda, ‘ave ye no' gone to--”
Ailsa froze. The words were cut off in her throat, as she looked at Finlay, dressed in a linen shirt and resting against her doorframe. The man looked dangerous and something more, silhouetted by the small light from her room.
“I’m sorra, Finlay. ‘Tis vera late, and unless ye--” Ailsa began, unsure of how to approach the situation.
“Why ‘ave ye been avoiding me, lass?” Finlay asked. His brow was raised, as he questioned her; yet, he made no move to enter her room or leave.
Worry, anger, and desire warred inside of Ailsa, as she tried to think of a way to answer him. “I ‘ave no’ been--”
“Dinna lie to me, Ailsa. I dinna take kindly to liars.” His voice was deadly soft with a hint of censure. It made Ailsa wish she had the broadsword from the first time she’d met him. Without it she felt naked. In fact--
Ailsa gasped, as she tugged her shawl firmly around her. She had forgotten that she was only in a simple, cotton shift that came mid-thigh and was very thin. She had yet to unpack her winter nightgown and thought she could wear her summer one for one more night. How she loathed that decision now.
Finlay eyed her up and down, lingering on her thighs and the space between them. Ailsa blushed seven shades of red, as she squeezed her thighs together and tried to ignore the heat and butterflies taking over her
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