Ennead

Patricia agrees to a holiday trip to Scotland, Christopher’s ancestral. The two of them alone, strolling the streets in between bouts of lovemaking.
“I know what I want for Christmas,” he’d said. “You and a story written solely for me.”
So how do they end up in the MacLaren castle, mere hours after landing on Scottish ground, amongst his dysfunctional brood? And let’s not forget the ghosts, old and new.
“A bath, some wine, and a massage were all I wished for, Big guy. Can’t I, just once, go a-travelling without encountering neither corpse nor family? This is all on you, Big guy.”
With all the goings-on at the castle, Patricia doesn’t know which part’s real and which is fiction. Either way, what’s a wee murder amongst kin, right?

Kester snaps his fingers in front of my nose, yanking me back to the present and the man in flesh and blood glaring at me. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Dark frowning expression. Stubborn jawline. Clenched fists. His smell is incredible. Male and cologne and soap and camphor (is the formidable laird injured?) and musk and horse. I could have done without the camphor scent, but on him, it’s not entirely unpleasant.
“Speak up, boy!”
I have a sudden urge to kiss him. That would shut him up on the spot. Especially considering I’ve concealed myself in men’s clothing, and nothing in my spying so far leads me to believe Laird MacLaren inclined towards males.
“I’m looking for employment,” I belatedly blur out in a suspiciously high voice. I clear my throat in what I hope is a manly fashion before repeating, “I was a-lookin’ for empl’ment. Heard your Lairdship was hi-e-ring.” I’m lousy at fake accents, let alone fake male accents.
The dark eyes travel up and down my body, then stare pointedly at the thing lying in the straw with marked scorn on his severe features…

“Did you have to kill a man right from the start of the tale?” the Big guy chastises.
I frown at Christopher. Hard. “I do not handle criticism well when I’m hungover and jet-lagged.”
“You can’t be hungover if you’re still drunk, Princess.”
He has a point. We came straight from the airport to drop our luggage at the hotel. Downtown Edinburgh is snowy. I wrote the beginning of Christopher’s gift story while he gathered our suitcases, rented a car, drove us to the hotel, showered, and ordered a breakfast-lunch-hangover cure meal instead of resting. “I want to take a nap.”
“No naps, we have a city to explore.”
“We could practise the sex scene,” I offer as I stretch out on the bed as an incentive. Closing my eyes might have betrayed my ulterior motives, though, since I’m yanked by my ankle, then my waist, until I find myself looking into dark eyes laughing at me.
“I know you too well, Pussycat. My scenes require you being awake.”
“Scenes? I did not agree to more than one. It ain’t that kind of novel, Big guy.”
“It’s about me and you, right?” Seeing as I neither confirm nor deny, he takes it as he wishes. Of course. “Then, the story should describe plenty of sex. You could spend a couple of chapters naked.”
I should never have agreed to this. Normal couples give each other ties, cigars, and jewellery. “You get to read, Big guy, but I never said you’d get to decide or even comment.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t know where this story is going, and if you remark on every single word, we’ll never get it done!”
“Let me rephrase that. Why did you kill a character on the first line?”
“How should I know!”
“Try.”
“I honestly have no idea how my mind works.” Ain’t that the truth?

**Kester and Patrea’s story, as well as Chris and Patricia’s, continue in Denary**