Kiss and Tell

A fingertip gently ran down Catherine’s jawline, then trailed back to her ear. Aidan’s thumb traced small circles against the tensed muscle. She exhaled, the sound too loud in the darkness. There wasn’t even a hint of sleepiness in his voice — he’d lain awake just like she had.

“What is it, bean bheag?”

His hand moved away from her ear. She felt herself pulled closer, both of his arms wrapping around her. His body radiated with a steady heat, the touch of it against her own cool skin made her curl in closer. She rested her cheek against his chest, his warm breath tousling her hair. Her heart sped up a little.

Her own hand brushed over his arm, then settled on his ribs. It earned her a muffled sound, halfway between a breath and a chuckle. Her eyes widened a bit, and she let just the tips of her nails lightly dance across the same spot, causing her husband to squirm.

“Are you ticklish?” she inquired, unable to hide the delight in her voice. A large hand palmed her own, pushed her fingers flat against his body.

“Aye,” he agreed, and buried his nose in her hair. “Doesn’t answer why you aren’t sleeping. You’re so tense, I have sore muscles just from lying beside you.”

Catherine’s breath hitched in her throat. His grip around her tightened, grounding her. “They hate me,” she remarked, trying to make it sound casual. Like it was an observation and not something personal. His chest underneath her cheek widened. She kept talking before he could reply.

“And they make you suffer for it. He spat. At you. That man at the market cross.”

The sigh vibrated underneath her head. “Ian,” he muttered, his voice still a low rumble when he continued. “They do,” he confirmed, not even trying to sugarcoat it for her. “You’re the descendant of the people we’ve been resisting for two centuries now, and you especially are the daughter of the Lord strategising how many of them need to die until they bend the knee properly. And I’m the one who rolled over and showed his belly to him by marrying you.”

Catherine nodded against him. Her own voice was tight. “Why do you let them think so, then?”

Aidan’s fingers let go of her palm and absentmindedly caressed her upper arm. “What do you mean?”

She shifted her weight, rolling to her side so she could look at him while they talked. The mattress dipped underneath her movements. Her knee rose, settling on his thigh, one arm splayed across his stomach while she propped herself up with the other.

“You want us to stand united today — like I meant something to you.”

A disapproving sound right from the back of his throat answered. “You mean something to me. The world, woman!” he interrupted.

Heat stung her cheeks. She buried her face against his neck briefly. “That’s not what I meant,” she protested. “I’m asking if it might be smarter to not stand united. Show them what they need to see to trust you again. The political decision you made — not the enemy stealing your loyalty.”

The words came out smaller than she had intended. Aidan shifted his weight and rolled to his own side, mirroring her posture. His index finger caught her chin, lifted it until they stared into each other’s eyes.

“They grew up with me, Catherine. They’ll come around.”

Matter of fact.

“What if they don’t?” Catherine insisted.

Aidan rubbed his free hand over his face. “They will.”

Her eyes narrowed at him. “Aidan!”

He shook his head, his whole temper flashing in his gaze.

“No. I’m not playing games on my own land, Catherine. Not with them. Not with you. They want to despise the hand feeding them? Fine, let them try. They’ll come around. They’ll see you the way I see you. Because I say so. Because I know it.”

He quieted her protest with his lips, swallowing whatever she had meant to say. It wasn’t a loving kiss — it was wounded pride and anger, defiance, stubbornness, and something deeper. When he withdrew, Catherine’s breath came fast and shallow. Her skin flushed, her heart hammering against her ribs.

A corner of her mouth twitched. Aidan’s eyebrow lifted. His face came closer again, his lips hovering above hers like he truly thought that would scare her. Her pulse still spiked. Something in his gaze quietly shifted. His hand lifted against her neck. Two fingers, lightly resting against the spot where her heart was racing in her throat. He swallowed. Hard.

“We’ll stand united. It’s your call to make, Aidan — I trust it,” her voice sounded breathless, and way too high-pitched.

She closed the gap between them. Three words. Just a whisper against his skin.

“I trust you.”

This time it was her sealing his mouth with her own.

. . .

Catherine’s face was still gently flushed when Aidan helped her into her stays a while later. She steadied herself against the bedpost, feeling the fabric encase her when Aidan carefully laced her in. A smile flickered. Broad Aidan took way more time doing it than tiny Mistress Murphy — her maid — ever did.

The sun was already up. Her husband was vibrating with energy, and Catherine quickly struggled into the rest of her clothing. His fingers laced through hers on the way out, tugging her down the stairs in his usual enthusiasm. He took two steps at a time as usual, Catherine’s heels clacked against the worn stone in an effort to keep up.

Mistress Jones greeted them with a smile tugging at her lips. Aidan helped himself to a bowl of porridge, leaning against the warm wooden counter to eat. The cook glared, then shook her head in silent defeat. She turned to Catherine instead.

“Oat rings, m’Lady? Sweetened them with some honey,” she proposed, and Catherine nodded.

“For the children?” she asked, and then thanked Mistress Jones with a nod. The ring was still warm, the scent tinged with faint sweetness. Catherine broke it in halves, then tugged off a piece, savouring the taste.

The cook shrugged. “The big children as well,” she snorted. “It’s still a feast — even though it doesn’t feel much like one this year.”

Aidan swallowed to reply, but Mistress Jones shook her head.

“It’s not your fault, Tiarna. We know. They know. Whether they like it or not.”

Aidan nodded and finished his bowl. “Please let me know when the Brennans arrive, Mistress,” he politely asked. “I need to talk with Seamus.”

He turned to Catherine. “You grab Mistress Brennan. Talk to her. She’s been sick, I want to know how she’s feeling, right?”

Before Catherine could properly confirm, he had already left the kitchen — doing whatever an Irish Lord did on Lunasa before the arrival of his tenants.