MacArthur's Challenge - Laird's Love Vol. 2

The Promise

Aimil noted the presence of the Laird with a sigh, her brows furrowed as she peeked around the edge of the hall. It had been two months since the lad McIntyre had left for the Cameron lands. In that time, Aimil had noted that Iain MacArthur had become curious. The good Laird was so curious, in fact, that Aimil had spent much of her existence over the last eight weeks skulking in corridors and tucked into the shadows. 'Twas frustrating, but a necessity.

"Aimil," Dùghlas said from behind her, causing Aimil to jump. The warrior folded his arms as he cocked his head at the lass. "Pray tell," he demanded. "What yer doing?"

Aimil shook her head and raised a finger to her lips in caution. Dùghlas was one of a handful of people to whom Aimil would speak easily, but she was not so inclined with the Laird in hearing distance. The last thing she wanted was for two months of successful avoidance to go to the slop bins.

Dùghlas frowned and shifted, looking to where he'd seen Aimil watching. When he spotted MacArthur, he gave a grunt and then caught Aimil's eyes. The lass looked at him guilelessly, as if it were not strange that she would hide from their Laird.

"Does 'e frighten you, lass?" Dùghlas asked. Aimil shook her head, her gold-flecked eyes wide.

"No," she said softly.

"Then why do you conceal yourself from me, lass?" Iain said from behind her. Aimil looked at Dùghlas with betrayal in her gaze, but he shook his head. Whatever the problem was, it was best sorted.

Aimil turned to face the Laird of the MacArthur clan, her eyes cast down from him. Iain looked at her posture with displeasure. She was not cowering, but she was not standing as she had when speaking to Dùghlas. It bothered Iain.

"Walk with me," MacArthur ordered, his voice brooking no argument. Aimil nodded and turned to measure her steps with his, but continued to remain silent. MacArthur, meanwhile, struggled internally.

He hadn't thought it would take much to get the lass' attention. When the McIntyre lad had scoffed at the idea, Iain had been pleased. He anticipated a challenge, but not a near impossibility. However, that was exactly what he'd gotten.

Aimil Crawford, as Iain had learned was her name, was nearly a ghost upon his lands. She had come to the clan with her ma when the woman had remarried. Iain had learned that Aimil was talented in the kitchens and had often appeared to assist with meals when her work for her mother was done. Her touch was found in the meals he ate and the food grown in the gardens near the keep, but she maintained a distance. Everyone liked Aimil, but few were her confidants.

"Why have you been hiding, Aimil?" Iain asked as they stepped into the evening air. It was early night yet, the cold of the darkened air just beginning. Aimil shivered slightly and Iain stopped and pulled at his plaid, reaching out to bring her close and wrap her in it next to him.

It was a miscalculation.

With her body so close, he could smell the wildflowers that grew near the loch on her. Her body heat seemed to seep into him, warming his bones better than the plaid that he was now sharing. Although there was nothing sexual in his hold, his mind nevertheless flew to an image of her beneath him next to the fire in his chambers. It dried his mouth to dust.

"I'm sorry, m'Laird," Aimil finally said, surprising herself with her even tone.

MacArthur was a large, towering male. His scent was warm and enticing and the feel of his arm around her was enough to seize the air in her chest. It was a wonder she'd been able to speak at all.

"I doona want your apologies, Aimil," Iain said, stopping them near a spot that looked over a rise in the lands. The stars were beginning to sparkle above them and the fires from the keep were at their backs. It was romantic, the Laird realized, though more because of his thoughts than because of his intention.

"What I wan' to know is why," he reiterated. Aimil's lips twisted as she looked over the grounds and then, on a heaved breath, finally met the dark eyes of Laird MacArthur.

"Because those in power are dangerous to those who are not," she replied. Iain scowled as he turned her to face him, catching the plaid and wrapping it further around her as he did. The action brought her chest near to his as he watched her gaze.

"I doona abuse my people's trust, lass," he stated, his temper engaged. "You told Dùghlas that I doona frighten you," Iain continued, his question clear. Aimil nodded, her face serious as she replied.

"And you don'," she confirmed. It was the truth, though only partly. The Laird himself did not cause her fear, but what he brought did. MacArthur picked up on the nuance, though.

"Then who does?" he asked softly.

In the light from the fires over his shoulder, Aimil looked exquisite. Her eyes shown, the golden flecks bright. Her freckles dusted over her nose in a way that bade him to kiss them and her hair, which had come loose in the day, flowed in a barely together braid that he wished to loosen further.

"Women can be vicious, m'Laird," Aimil responded.

It had not gone unnoticed that the Laird had expressed an interest in Aimil. Although she had long thought that those in control were the worst of the potential threats to one's safety, the two months since McIntyre had left had proven otherwise. Aimil had become the target of those who sought to capture the eye of the clan's leader.

"Tell me who," Iain demanded. "An' why," he added.

"Your curiosity abou' me," Aimil answered, unwilling to lie in the face of his intense expression. "It has been observed. An'," she continued quietly. "'Tis no' appreciated by the lasses who would capture your heart."

Anger slid up Iain's spine on hearing Aimil's words. He'd begun this in order to satisfy his curiosity and get the McIntyre boy to heel, aye, but it had become more than that. In the two months of his pursuit, he'd learned bits and pieces about the bonnie lass. She'd become more than a novelty he wished to learn. She'd become something that his mind had been unable to leave be.

"I'll protect you, love," Iain promised, the words coming unbidden. The very idea of her harm was enough to cause him to go to war.

"But why the need?" Aimil asked, her soft voice sliding into his ears and settling in his chest.

"'Twas because of the boy at first," he admitted, unwilling to begin their relationship with falsities. "He thought that we could ne'er be friends," Iain explained.

"An' tha' is what you seek, m'Laird? Friendship?" Aimil asked, oddly feeling ice chipping at her heart.

"Nay, lass," Iain said, his voice cast low. "'Tis more I hope for," he admitted. Aimil's eyes searched his for a moment before she nodded.

"Then," she said on a smile as she stepped back from his embrace. "I'll no' hide from you again, m'Laird," she promised.

"Iain, love," he demanded, reaching out for her again. He liked having her close. As he did, though, man's voice cut the air.

"Aimil, yer mother has need of ye."