Chapter 4: The Announcement
The polished mahogany table stretched before Hamish like a dark, still river. Sunlight, weak and watery, slanted through the tall mullioned windows, catching dust motes dancing in the air. It illuminated the silver service, the bone china, the damask napkins – all meticulously arranged, sterile. And it illuminated her.
Fiona sat directly across from him, the vast expanse of the table feeling like an uncrossable chasm. Six months. Half a year since the stables. Half a year since the metallic clang of the bridle and the sight seared into his brain: Lachlan’s seed spilling from her onto her thigh as she begged him for his child.
Now, that child swelled beneath the thin, expensive silk of her dress. Her breasts, previously round but not big, were now fuller and heavier, straining against the fabric, the deep V-neck revealing the upper curves, flushed and veined. Her stomach was a taut, undeniable dome, a grotesque monument to her betrayal that pushed against the edge of the table when she shifted. She moved with a new, deliberate slowness, a carefulness that felt like mockery. She raised a delicate teacup, steam curling faintly. Her green eyes, when they flickered to him, held neither warmth nor fear. Just a watchful, unnerving stillness.
Hamish gripped his heavy silver fork. The intricate pattern bit into his palm. He hadn’t touched his roast lamb. The rich smell of the meat, the rosemary gravy, the steamed carrots – it all churned his stomach. All he could smell was the phantom reek of the stables: hay dust, horse sweat, and the thick, animal musk of their fucking. Her words echoed, louder than the tick of the grandfather clock in the corner. ‘Put a baby in me!’
He stared at the portrait of his great-grandfather, Alistair MacMillan, hanging on the far wall. The painted eyes, stern and unforgiving beneath bushy brows, seemed to bore into him. Weak, they accused. Letting your whore wife breed a bastard in your own house. The other ancestors flanking the room seemed to lean in, their collective judgement a physical pressure.
Fiona set the cup down with a soft clink. The sound was obscenely loud in the silence. She smoothed a hand over her belly, a gesture that wasn’t tender, but possessive. Triumphant. “The lamb is excellent, Mrs. Gowan,” she said, her voice smooth, conversational, aimed at the housekeeper hovering near the sideboard. “Please pass my compliments to Cook.”
“Aye, Mistress,” Mrs. Gowan murmured, bobbing a curtsey, her eyes carefully avoiding Hamish. The whole household moved like ghosts now, sensing the abyss that had opened between the Laird and his Lady.
Hamish took a long, deliberate swallow of whisky from the heavy crystal tumbler beside his plate. It wasn’t the cheap stuff he’d drowned himself in after the stables. This was the 25-year-old single malt, smoky and complex. It burned going down, a familiar anchor in the silent storm of his fury. He refilled the glass, the amber liquid glugging loudly.
“Thirsty, Hamish?” Fiona asked, her tone light, almost amused. She speared a piece of carrot, bringing it slowly to her lips.
He didn’t answer. His knuckles were white on the glass. He focused on the swell of her belly beneath the silk. His mind, unbidden, rejected the present and slammed him back into the dark, reeking stall, the sound of flesh slapping flesh deafening.
Lachlan’s powerful body drove into hers, pinning her against the splintered wood. Her burgundy dress was shoved up around her waist, the black lace thong ripped aside. Her exposed arse cheeks glistened. Lachlan’s thick, ruddy cock pistoned in and out of her cunt, the swollen head disappearing completely with each brutal thrust before pulling back slick and glistening. Her pussy lips clung to him, stretched obscenely wide.
“Fuck! Yes! Like that!” Fiona screamed, her face mashed against the wood, saliva slick on the timber. “Harder! Use me! Breed me, Lachlan! Fucking breed me!”
He grunted, an animal sound, one hand fisting in her hair, the other reaching around to claw at her breast, pinching her nipple viciously. “Take it, you greedy slut! Take my fucking cock! Gonna pump you so full… make your belly swell…” He slammed home, grinding his pelvis against her arse, burying himself impossibly deep. She shrieked, her body convulsing around him. “That’s it! Milk my fucking seed, you bitch! MILK IT!” He roared as he came, his hips jerking, emptying himself directly into her womb with primal force.
Hamish flinched, a sharp intake of breath hissing through his teeth. The memory wasn't a thought; it was a physical assault, vivid and nauseating. The smell of sex and hay filled his nostrils again, overlaying the roast lamb. He saw the thick ropes of Lachlan’s come spurting deep inside her, the very moment this… thing… began.
Fiona was watching him. A faint, knowing smile played on her lips. “You’re very quiet tonight, Hamish. Is the whisky not agreeing with you?” She took another slow sip of tea. “Or perhaps it’s the company?”
The casual barb, delivered with such cool precision, snapped something. The careful dam holding back his fury cracked. He slammed his tumbler down on the table. Whisky sloshed over the rim, spreading a dark stain on the pristine linen. Mrs. Gowan jumped.
“The company?” Hamish’s voice was a low rumble, like distant thunder trapped in the high-ceilinged room. It vibrated with suppressed violence. He leaned forward, his large frame casting a shadow over the table settings. His eyes, bloodshot and burning, locked onto her swollen stomach. “Aye. The company is… remarkable.”
Fiona didn’t flinch. She met his gaze, her green eyes challenging. She placed her hand flat on her belly. “He’s particularly active tonight. Kicking like a little stallion.” She tilted her head. “Would you like to feel?”
This charade had been allowed to continue since - on the night of the stable encounter - he had made love to Fiona, and she had told him soon after that she was pregnant. Hamish knew the baby could not be his, since he had not cum. He had faked it. And they had not made love before or after that night...