Chapter 4
Ryder stormeddown the corridor that led from Meredith’s chamber, barely even noticing which direction his legs took him. His mind was in turmoil. Never before had he known a woman to have such power over him. She infuriated him –– but, as his legs took him in the direction of the kitchen, his senses barely registering the delicious smells wafting from it in his direction, he realized she excited him, too, more than was safe for him.
How confusing she is, he thought, brushing brusquely past a servant, who jumped out of his path just in time. And how ill-equipped I am to deal with her and the conflicting emotions she arouses in me. His mother had raised him never to hit a woman –– it was one of the few things she had taught him, in fact, and he suspected it was something she’d learned the hard way, at the hands of his father.
He would not be like that man. He was determined not to repeat the sins of the past if he could possibly help it. But he didn’t know any other way to be. He would never hit her, but his fists were not the only way in which he could hurt her, he knew, and as his pace slowed, he was suddenly struck by the uncomfortable knowledge that everything Meredith had said to him had been right.
He had left her alone in her chamber, without so much as a fire to keep her warm. He had promised to send up food, a promise he had abruptly forgotten as soon as his estate manager was there in front of him, with what seemed like far more pressing business for him to attend to. But what could be more important than his future wife? He had promised himself he would not think of her thus, but he couldn’t help himself –– something about the woman had seemingly bewitched him, and, angry though he still was at her impertinence, he knew he wouldn’t be able to settle until he had at least made things right.
He had arrived at the door of the kitchen now, and he paused outside it for a second. Ellen, the maid Meredith had so skillfully claimed as her own, had seen to it that her mistress was fed, when he’d forgotten all about it. Perhaps, however, there might be some cake or other sweetmeat fresh from the oven, which he could take her as…
He didn’t like the word “apology.” Ryder had never apologized to anyone in his life. But it might at least go some way towards calming the friction that had sprung up between them and which would not let him rest, so, making up his mind, he pushed open the wooden door and walked inside.
“Well, if it isnae the Laird himself!” Mrs. MacDonald was seated at the table, putting her feet up for a few minutes while two of the maids buzzed around, clearing up the remnants of the dinner she'd just made. “Daenae tell me ye’ve finally remembered the young bride ye brought home wi’ ye and dinnae even bother to feed!”
Ryder attempted a scowl, but it didn’t quite work. Infuriating though his cook could be at times, he found it impossible to be annoyed with the woman. In fact, if he were to think about it seriously — and he tried his best not to — he might find himself coming to the conclusion that Mrs. MacDonald was the closest thing he had to a family. Not just because his own family were long gone, but because, even when alive, he’d never really felt like he belonged with them.
Mrs. MacDonald, by contrast, was as much a part of Millar Castle as the stones which formed its thick walls, and between her and the Murrays — his man-at-arms, Robert, his wife, and their two almost grown-up children — Ryder felt he had everyone around him he would ever need.
But now, there was Meredith. Meredith, who, if the expression on his cook’s face was anything to go by, had good reason to feel aggrieved at the treatment she’d recently received from her betrothed.
“Ye’ve met her then, I take it?” he said now, crossing his arms defensively in front of his chest as he leaned back against the kitchen wall.
“Och, aye, I’ve met her,” Mrs. MacDonald replied. “And fed her too, ye’ll be pleased to know. Poor thing was about to expire wi’ hunger when she showed up in me kitchen. It was good I was here to help her.”
“Aye,” Ryder agreed drily. “And ye have something else to say about the matter too, I can tell. Well, let me have it. There’s nae point putting it off.”
Mrs. MacDonald paused for a second, then gave a quick shrug.
“Well, seein’ as ye asked,” she said, drawing herself up to her full height, short though it was, “what were ye thinkin’ of, bringing that young lassie here and then leaving her all by herself in her chamber, like a prisoner!”
“She wasnae a prisoner,” Ryder explained patiently. “And I left her in a perfectly comfortable chamber…”
“Comfortable?” Cook’s expression was incredulous. “D’ye call that comfortable? That dusty, musty old room that hasnae been cleaned in years? Why, the poor lassie must have wondered what on earth she'd let hersel’ in for when ye left her in there, twiddling her thumbs.”
“I’m sure she wasnae…” Ryder started, then stopped in the middle of his sentence, seeing there was no point continuing. “Alright, Mrs. MacDonald,” he said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “I give in. I shouldnae have left her alone, and I should have made sure she at least had something to eat. Better?”
“And ye’ll tell her yer sorry for being a bampot?” the cook added helpfully.
"And I’ll tell her I’m... look, can ye just give me some cake to take to her?” Ryder pleaded. “I think I get the message.”
“Ye better have,” Mrs. MacDonald said, her voice fierce. But nevertheless, she got up from the table and cut not one but two large slices from the cake she'd finished baking earlier.
“Here," she said, handing it over to him, wrapped in a cloth. “And daenae forget to tell her the bit about ye bein’ a bampot, will ye?”
* * *
“A peace offering.”
The bedchamber Ryder had given Meredith was not much different from when she’d arrived earlier that day, but somehow she seemed to have filled every corner of it, bringing a light and warmth that even he could see had been sorely lacking.
“Ye want to make peace with me?”
Meredith looked at him warily from where she sat at the little wooden table. She did not appear to be frightened, but something in her demeanor forbade him from approaching her, so he simply stood at a distance and showed her the bundle of food in his hands, which cook had wrapped in a warm cloth.
“Cake,” he said, holding it up so she could see it. “I thought we might eat it together, and perhaps it might go some way towards making up for our… misunderstanding… earlier.”
“Oh, I think I understood ye perfectly well, sir,” Meredith replied, her green eyes challenging him. “Ye wish for me to remain in me room at all times, a prisoner in all but name. I, on the other hand, prefer to decline yer suggestion.”
Her words were sharp, but her voice was soft, and, as he watched, he saw a smile curl the edges of her lips upwards, giving him the courage to draw a little closer.
“I will, however, accept yer offer of cake,” she said now, smiling fully this time. “I must admit, I do love sweet things!”
As do I,thought Ryder, noticing the swell of her pale breasts below the open neck of her blouse and then chastising himself quickly for the thought. This was not part of his plan, he reminded himself. Then again, as he stepped closer to the table she sat at, realizing as he did so that hers was the only chair in the room, a new plan started to form –– one which would surely have the desired effect of scaring him off her, and allowing him to escape his promise to her father without any blame on his part.
Meredith, however, appeared to have had the same thought he had regarding the insufficient seating arrangements and sprang up from the table as he approached.
“Here,” she offered, pushing the chair towards him. “There is but one chair, so it’s only fitting that the Laird of the castle should be the one to sit in it. I’ll warm meself by the fire.”
She made to move off, but Ryder was too quick for her, and, springing quickly forward with a deftness that belied his stature, he hooked one strong arm around her waist, pulling her back and onto his lap before she had a chance to object.
Object, however, she did. He might have guessed.
“Sir!” Meredith gasped her voice unusually high. “Let me go, I beg ye!”
“Why?” asked Ryder mischievously, his single eye wide in mock innocence. “There’s more than enough room for two, and it would please me if ye’d keep me company, rather than standing over there, on the other side of the room. If it pleases ye too, that is.”
Her eyes were wary, but she submitted to his request, settling herself on his lap in such a way that he was immediately aware of how perfectly her body fit his, her soft curves complimenting his taut muscles. As she shifted slightly on his knee, he felt himself start to grow hard and instantly adjusted her position to lessen the friction between them. His reputation may be fierce, but he would not touch her unless she made it clear that she wanted him to, just as he had not forced her to sit with him.
The thought of her actually wanting him to touch her, however, simply excited him more, making it hard for him to concentrate on the slice of cake which she now offered him — twisting around in his lap, her face mere inches from his, as she held the plate out invitingly.
“This is good,” she said, her voice muffled from the large mouthful she had just taken, the wariness of earlier apparently forgotten. “Here, try some.”
Ryder opened his mouth obediently as she fed him a mouthful of warm cake before taking another bite for herself.
“One for ye, one for me!” she laughed, repeating the process. “Or maybe two for me, rather!”
He smiled in spite of himself. Meredith was a woman who unapologetically enjoyed her food. That much was apparent. He liked that about her. It was a welcome contrast to some of the simpering ladies of his acquaintance, who’d make a big show of their apparently tiny appetites, modestly refusing anything other than a few bites of food.
But why deny yourself something that would bring you so much pleasure? Ryder never had and, if the way in which Meredith tucked into another slice of cake was anything to go by, she was entirely in agreement with him on that score.
He shook his head as if to dislodge the thought. This will not do, he thought, removing his hands from her waist, where he’d been keeping her balanced on his lap, and placing them firmly by his sides instead. He wanted to scare her off, he reminded himself, and, that being the case, he must not think of her thus — not even for a second. This was a bad idea, he thought, moving her a little further away from him. I should not have allowed me conscience to force me to make amends with her. I have a feeling I’m going to regret it.
Or would he?