“If you say so.” A pathetic response, but the best she could think of. “Oh, is that a buzzard?” Daft statement, she knew fine well it was.
“Yeah.” He nodded. “So be it. You’ll sort out things in your mind when you give yourself time to think about them. Decide what you ought do, what you want to do and then what you’re going to do. Which is as it should be.” He turned away, letting her take her fill of the scenery without having to pay attention to him.
Something she appreciated, because every time she came home, Marcail’s heart gave a lurch as the outline of the castle showed stark against the sky.
Her heart missed a beat, then sped up. Castle Bearradh. For centuries there had been a castle on that site. Rebuilt, and restored over the centuries, it still reminded people that at one time the distance from shore and enemies had been a necessity. The sole landing area was tight and only those who needed to know were taught how to line up the three trees to essay a safe entrance. She guessed Paden was now one of the chosen few.
It irked her. Why? He’d been nothing but kind, accepted he was an interloper, explained why and…and she somehow understood there was more to it all. More than he appeared to be prepared to share with her.
Marcail turned towards Paden, her red-as-carrots hair flying in the wind and hitting her cheeks as it escaped its confines.
The words she’d been going to utter disappeared, forgotten as she stared, dry mouthed, and…and wondered just who he was.
He stood, legs apart, braced ready for any bump or jolt. His long-fingered hands were sure as he caressed the wheel like a lover. She could imagine him as a pirate, a brigand or a buccaneer almost home with his plunder. Even more, she could imagine those hands on her. Stroking, arousing…
Like last night? Stop it now, not him, nothing to do with him. She had enough to think about without adding how to jump his bones to the mix.
“No, do go on.”
“Sod off.”
Laughter echoed in her mind. She’d heard that tone before.
Paden grinned and waved one hand in the direction of the distant mountains and took her mind off sexy laughs. “Grand, eh?”
Pity his voice gave her erotic thoughts of sexiness. She’d be a quivering wreck if she were around him for long. The timbre was arousing, made her wonder what if and…
“Don’t you just love it?” she said impulsively. “That sense of coming home. Where nothing can harm you, where you’re safe with your loved ones. It’s like a comfort blanket, ready and waiting…” She stopped speaking, aware of how maudlin she might sound. “Anyway, it’s good to be home.”
“Even if it’s only for a few weeks?”
“Will you stop saying that?” she said indignantly, all her soppy sentimentality vanishing. “What makes you think so?”
“Ah, mo ghaol, you and I know so, but if it pleases you to deny it to me, so be it.”
“Men,” Marcail muttered, as something dawned on her. Mo ghaol. “I am not your love.”
“If you choose to think that, far be it for me to dissuade you.”
The word ‘yet’ hovered between them. Marcail ignored it. She’d had enough of his knowing attitude. A pity, because she’d be the first to admit he was sex on legs, hot as Hades, one hundred percent full-bodied male.
“We both know the truth, mo ghaol, however much you want to deny it.”
She firmed her lips and counted to ten to stop herself voicing the hasty words she knew she would immediately rue. “I think we better agree to disagree and change the subject before one of us utters something we may regret.” Or not. “At this moment in time, you are annoying me. And yes, I also know that to tell you that is bloody rude, and for once I do not care.” She turned away again and narrowed her eyes. On the bank, next to a red-painted landing stage two females stood, waving.
Her mum—Margaret—and her sister, at that distance indistinguishable.
As the boat drew closer, they morphed into individuals. One she knew to be in her sixties, but by the way she was jumping up and down you’d never have guessed it.
Her mum, always on the go. Her red curly hair, no different from Marcail’s, streamed out from her head like a spiralling halo. Long legs encased in a flapping multi-tiered skirt, and what looked like Marcail’s old Uggs, at that distance she could have passed for Marcail’s twin. On closer inspection, perhaps a slightly older sister.
The other, smaller, more slender and waving in great big semaphore sweeps, was Bonnie. Pint-sized and with spiky brown hair and big grey eyes. “My wee sister by six years,” Marcail murmured. “And by five inches in height and three round the waist.”
Paden overheard and laughed. “She bemoans the fact you’re five inches taller but not a bean pole. She wants your curves. Are we ever satisfied, I wonder?”
Marcail shrugged. “I was.”
He slowed the boat in preparation for landing. “Lie to yourself if you want, Marcail, but not to me. You’ve not been happy in a year at least. Why do you think I’m here, now?”
“That’s something I’d like to know,” Marcail said as the boat pulled alongside the jetty. “Are you going to tell me?”
“If you look into your heart, you’ll find out.” The glance he gave her made her feel cherished. Strange, as she knew she was— her family were close. Nevertheless, that feeling of family togetherness was different, and she had no idea how or why.
Or if it was a good thing or not.
“Tell me,” she begged as Paden threw the painter to Bonnie and prepared to get off the boat. “Show me, please.”
“You can find out if you really want to. If you choose not to, well, I’ll show you
