Chapter Two Chapter Eleven & Twelve
Chapter Three Chapter Thirteen & Fourteen
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven & Eight
Chapter Fifteen
Gwendolen lay in bed in the darkness, waiting for Angus. For a fortnight, she had seen very little of him. Not only did he continue to investigate the failed attempt on his life and sometimes left the castle for hours on end to scout the surrounding forests and glens he also worked with his army in the bailey to improve their fighting skills.
By the time he climbed into bed each night, he was exhausted and had no interest in the playful, extended lovemaking sessions she had grown accustomed to in the early weeks of their marriage. The man she had come to know on those rainy afternoons had disappeared and been replaced by the dark, brooding conqueror who had invaded her home and killed so many of her clansmen. He had retreated into that shadow of violence and cynicism, and had taken with him any hope she might have entertained that there could eventually be more intimacy or affection between them. She knew now that he was a warrior, first and foremost. That came before anything.
She did not complain, however, nor would she ever do so for his leadership of Kinloch and the safety of its people was a primary concern. Deep down, however, she was lonely. Each time she remembered how it felt to be held in his arms at night, she felt a terrible sense of loss.
A key slipped into the lock, and the bedchamber door swung open. Light from the corridor spilled across the floor, and Gwendolen sat up on her elbows, squinting at her husband as he entered and shut the door behind him.
"Go back to sleep," he said, removing the pistol from his belt and setting it on the bedside table. Next he removed the powder horn that was slung over his shoulder, and last, his heavy belt, sword, and shield.
"Where were you today?" she asked. "Did you have any supper?"
"I just ate with the men." He moved to the chair before the fire, sank into it, and stretched his legs out.
Gwendolen tossed the covers aside. Slowly, she moved across the room and knelt in front of him. "Can I do anything for you?"
Perhaps he would ask her to make love to him while he lounged back in the chair-for already, her body was humming with desire. She ran her hands up and down his forearms, stroking the muscle and brushing her fingertips over his large, battle-scarred hands.
He tipped his head back against the chair and closed his eyes, shaking his head in refusal.
Wondering if he simply needed some soothing pleasures to inspire his passions, she slid her hands up under his kilt and massaged his muscular thighs, but he surprised her by lifting his head and grabbing hold of her wrists. His eyes were cold and gray like winter ice, his voice threatening.
"I said no." He tossed his head in a commanding gesture that indicated the bed. "And I told you to go back to sleep. I'll have no defiance from you tonight, lass. Go. Leave me be."
She sat back on her heels, withdrew her hands from under his kilt, and frowned at him. "Did something happen today?"
"It was a day like any other," he said, "but I am weary. I'm in no mood to talk or do anything else. I've already said it once. Now go."
Hearing the sharp note of impatience in his voice, Gwendolen stood and worked hard to suppress the hurt she felt over this rejection which was both sexual and personal. She had begun to hope that she would be a solace for him when the pressures of his position as laird grew oppressive. She wanted to ease the burdens he carried. She wanted to provide him with pleasures outside of the violence and hardships of battle, to be the one who welcomed him home at night, patched up his wounds, and built up his strength so that he could rise again the next day and fight.
But he did not want that from her at least not tonight, when he saw her only as an extra chore that was making him irritable.
Her head throbbed suddenly with indignation, for she was no man's chore. She had only wanted to do something to ease his burdens.
"I'll leave you alone then." She stalked across the room. "I'll go back to my own bedchamber."
"Nay!" he shouted, leaning forward in his chair. "You'll do as I say, lass, and get back in this bed, here in this room. I'll not have you tiptoeing about the castle corridors at night."
"Fine!" She returned to the bed, climbed up onto it, and shoved her feet under the covers. "I'll stay here, and I won't bother you with another sound!"
She wrenched the covers up, wishing she could be more docile, but there was no hope of that. She wanted certain things from this marriage and his complete emotional withdrawal was not one of them.
***
Angus watched Gwendolen from the chair as she shot back into bed like a musket ball. He knew she was angry with him. Hell, it was as obvious as a bucking horse in the kitchen.
He also knew that he wasn't cut out for this. He'd thought he could manage this marriage when he'd claimed her as a wife. He'd thought it would be a simple matter of wedding her and bedding her a few times until she was with child. But the sex had proved far more intense than he'd imagined, and the wife more appealing and intriguing than any woman he'd ever encountered, and that created a problem. Keeping his mind on his duties while she was wandering about the castle in her pretty frocks, smelling like roses was like wading upstream through rushing water.
He bent forward, cupped his forehead in a hand, then raked his fingers through his hair. His desires made no sense to him. He wanted her, yet at the same time he wanted to send her away.
Turning in his chair, he looked at her gruffly. She was lying on her side with her back to him. She had the covers pulled up to her ears like an angry child.
He had offended her. She was making that abundantly clear. Was she crying?
Ah, bloody hell. What if she was?
He sat back and rubbed a hand over his face, then rose from the chair and slipped into bed behind her. He snuggled close, tucked his knees into the backs of hers, and leaned up on an elbow. Brushing the hair away from her face, he said, "You want to kick me in the nuggets, don't you?"
"Aye," she flatly said. "You were very rude."
He was quiet for a minute. "I'm sorry, lass. It was a long day. I was tired and grouchy. What can I do to make it up to you?"
God! Was he really saying these things? Did she have any idea that it was bloody earth-shattering? Not once in his rough and hellish life had he ever groveled to anyone, except maybe his father when he was just a lad facing a beating.
But never to a woman. Not once. Not ever.
"There is nothing you can do," she replied, "because you already told me you are too weary for anything, and alas, I have disobeyed you sufficiently by not going straight back to sleep."
The ill-tempered mood that had festered inside him all day cracked a small, reluctant smile, and he shook his head at these unbelievable circumstances for his pretty little trophy bride suddenly seemed to have him wrapped around her finger.
"Sometimes," he said, "you drive me so mad with frustration that I think I'm going to lose my mind, and it's almost comical. Do you know that?"
"You didn't find it amusing five minutes ago."
"Nay, and that's the shock of it. You're the only person in Scotland who can crush my wrath and mash it to wee bits in the space of a single minute."
She rolled over onto her back and blinked up at him with those big, beautiful brown eyes. Something inside him snapped at the sight of her wholesomeness. She was like a fluttering butterfly he wanted to catch and hold in his hands.
Then she pinched him hard on the shoulder.
"Och!"he shouted. "What was that for?"
"You deserved it."
He immediately rolled on top of her. "So I did. Does that mean we are even now?"
"No, we most certainly are not."
He began to slowly pump his hips. "Then I'll ask you again, lass. How can I make it up to you?"
She wiggled beneath him, and his erection increased sizably.
"You can make love to me, Angus. And do your absolute best to pleasure me greatly, and enjoy it yourself, as well."
"There will be no difficulty there," he replied. "I'm already having the time of my life."
"Well, I am not. I am still angry with you. You were a brute just now."
He kissed her softly on both eyelids. "Aye, but you'll soon forgive me when I slide into your warm, sweet pastry and make you tremble with rapture."
"My pastry? Good God, you are without a hope."
He reached down to move his kilt and her shift out of the way, slipped his fingers into the luscious damp haven between her thighs to ensure she was ready for him which she most definitely was then he thrust into her with extravagant, soul-gratifying ease.
She arched her back and closed her eyes. "Ah, yes, that is perfect..."
He moved slowly in and out, deeply and compellingly. "Do you forgive me now?"
She nodded, and he took his time over the next hour, making sure she did not change her mind.
When she finally drifted off to sleep, sated and restful in his arms, he wondered if he would ever be able to sleep like that so soundly, without one eye constantly open, watching for danger, awaiting death in the night, and fearing the loss of her and everything else that he cherished. He was no stranger to loss, and he could not seem to escape the expectation of it.
And so, an hour later, he slipped out of the bed and left the chamber. He headed to the place where he went each night in search of solace. He had never found it before, and sometimes he wondered why he even bothered to try.
But something inside him felt different tonight.
Perhaps it was the awareness of hope.
Chapter Sixteen
Gwendolen sat up in the darkness when she heard the sound of the door open and close.
She was not surprised that Angus had left. There was a discord in his life and heart, and she could feel it in her own. She also knew that he had no interest in discussing it with her. Since the beginning, he had deflected most personal questions in an effort to keep her at a distance, and when he did not want her to press him, he either left the room completely, or reacted with anger and violence, frightening her into a corner. Sometimes he made love to her, which was always an effective distraction.
Tonight, however, for the first time, he had shown some remorse and had apologized for his harsh behavior. It had given her hope that perhaps one day he would open his heart to her more fully.
She lay back down and stared up at the canopy, but knew she would never be able to sleep. She wanted him beside her, and she wanted to understand why he had left in the first place.
Slipping out of bed, she found her shift on the floor, donned a shawl, and padded across the room. She peered out into the corridor and heard his footsteps at the bottom of the stairs, then hurried out to follow him.
She tiptoed over the cold stones, passed by flickering torchlights, and clutched at her shift to keep the drafts from blowing up under it. She ventured through the arched passageways to the chapel, where she finally found Angus kneeling at the altar, his head bowed low.
Of all the places she expected him to be, this was not one of them.
She stood quietly in the doorway, waiting for him to finish, but before she could think about what she was going to say, or how she would approach him, he spun instantly on his knee and drew his pistol.
"It's only me!" she shouted, lifting her hands as her panicked cry echoed up into the high, vaulted ceiling.
He stared at her for a few seconds, then shoved the pistol back into his belt and rose to his feet. He stalked down the aisle toward her.
"Have you got rocks in your head, lass? I could have killed you!"
"I'm sorry! I didn't think of that. I woke and you were gone. I was worried."
He stopped cold, halfway down the aisle. "You were worried. About
me?" He shook his head with disbelief, as if she were the biggest fool in the world.
For a long moment, he stared at her in the smoky candlelight, then his shoulders rose and fell with a defeated sigh, and he held out his hand. "Ah, lass, you'll be the death of me. Come in, then. It's drafty in the door." He glanced down. "Where are your shoes?"
"I'm not made of sugar," she replied. "I can survive a chilly floor." Though the bones in her feet were beginning to throb.
He led her to the front pew closest to the candles that were burning near the choir stall, and she crossed herself before taking a seat. He sat down beside her, told her to swing her legs up onto his lap, then proceeded to massage her cold feet in his big warm hands.
"You may be interested to know," she said, "that when my father was chief, he did not permit weapons in the chapel."
Angus lifted his eyes. "What's your point, lass?"
"No point. It just occurred to me now, and I thought you might care to know."
"Because I almost committed a terrible sin just now?
'Thou shalt not murder thy wife in the chapel'?"
"That's not a commandment," she said.
The corner of his mouth curled up in a sly grin."Maybe not, but it should be."
She chuckled back at him. "Aye, I suppose it should. But if we're going to add that, we should also add: 'Thou shalt not murder thy husband in the chapel.'"
He continued to rub the arch of her foot. "Aye, I reckon that's only fair."
When he finished massaging her feet, she lowered her legs to the floor, and they both faced the altar, gazing up at the stained-glass window of the Virgin Mary.
"May I ask you something?" Gwendolen kept her gaze fixed on the window, but from the corner of her eye, she was aware of his eyes on her profile. He gave no answer, so she took that as a yes. "Why did you leave our bed to come here in the middle of the night? And I know this is not the first time."
He, too, looked up at the Virgin Mary. "To pray."
"For what?"
She waited patiently to hear his answer, but he seemed determined to take his time. At last, he bowed his head and pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Tonight I started with the usual prayer for my mother's soul, though I doubt she needs it. She was a saint. At least that's how I remember her. Then I prayed for my own sins, for the people of Kinloch who have entrusted me with their safety and prosperity, and when you walked in, I was just getting to my own treachery two years ago, and praying not only for God's forgiveness, but for my father's forgiveness as well."
Gwendolen turned to look at him. "Because you betrayed your friend." She remembered how he spoke of it at his triumphal feast. She had thought of it many times since then.
"You did not approve of his choice of a wife."
"Aye."
"Do you believe now that you were wrong about that woman? That she was not such a bad person?"
"I never thought she was a bad person," he told her. "I just didn''t agree with what she stood for. My friend was a loyal Scot, but she was English and betrothed to our enemy, a despicable redcoat who is burning in hell as we speak, and rightly so. I only wish I had put him there myself."
He glanced at her and seemed to realize that he had spoken out of turn, considering where they were sitting.
Gwendolen cared little about that. This was a place for forgiveness. "Why?" she asked. "What terrible crime did that Englishman commit?"
He faced front again. "He went on a bloody rampage up and down the Great Glen, burning out innocent Scots for their mere knowledge of the Jacobite rebellion."
"Are you referring to Lieutenant Colonel Richard Bennett?" she asked, her brows pulling together.
"You've heard of him?"
"Of course," she answered. "Everyone knows of him. He was a dreadful villain, and he was defeated and killed by the Butcher of the Highlands two years ago."
Angus stared at her for a long, tense moment, and again, she wondered if he was keeping something from her. On the night of his invasion, she had asked him if he was the infamous Scottish Butcher, but he had denied it.
"It was your friend, wasn't it?" she said, putting two and two together, and reeling inside with this new knowledge of her husband. "The man that you betrayed he was the Butcher of the Highlands."
Angus immediately shook his head. "The Butcher is naught but a ghost and a legend. But even if I did know him, I would never say so. Not even to you, lass."
Gwendolen gazed into her husband's pale blue eyes and saw, for herself, the truth. She had guessed correctly that he once rode with that famous Scottish rebel, and that he had betrayed him. She knew the story well. Someone had informed the English army about the Butcher's whereabouts, which was why he was caught and imprisoned.
This was why Angus was banished two years ago.
This was why he harbored such guilt. He was the one who had revealed the Butcher's hideout.
Angus faced the window. "But I'm beginning to see now that what existed between that Englishwoman and my friend was something I did not understand, and I had no right to judge him."
She did not push him to confess any more than he already had, for that would only press him to betray this friend further, and she did not wish to do that.
"What has changed, to make you see that now?" she asked, believing she already knew the answer, but she wanted to hear him say it.
"Because since the first day I met you, I would have done anything to keep you safe and make you my own. I now know that what exists between us is the same as what existed between them. I was your enemy at first, and you were just a political pawn to me, but it wasn't long before none of it mattered." He turned his eyes toward the altar again. "It was the same for my friend."
"But you tried to make it matter with us," she said. "You are still trying. You don't want to care for me, Angus. Admit it."
"I am the son of a clan chief," he shot back quickly. "I was raised to be a warrior, for the purpose of serving and leading the MacDonalds, who have honored me by placing themselves in my care."
"Loving me will not change that."
She realized too late what she had said, and dropped her gaze to her lap. She should not have used the word "love." He did not want to love her. She knew that.
"You are a good wife," he said. "I have no regrets."
She felt a rush of heat in her cheeks. "Because I please you in bed?"
He leaned close and cupped her chin in his hand. "Aye, but it's more than that, and you know it. It's why I've become so irritable lately. Sometimes, I need you so bad, I just want to drop my sword in the middle of a training exercise and leave the men to their own devices, so I can take you to bed. But when I think about you coming to any harm, I want to pick up my sword again. You pull me in two directions, lass."
She shivered inwardly. "Maybe that's how your friend felt about you and the Englishwoman. He must have been torn between the two of you, and it was probably very difficult for him to choose her, when he knew you did not approve."
One of the candles danced in a draft, and they both turned to look at the door. There was no one there, so they faced front again, but it took a moment for Gwendolen's heart to slow down.
"Do you regret your lost friendship?" she asked. "And do you think it might help to contact your friend? You could send him a letter and apologize for what you did, and explain that you now understand the choice he made."
Angus shook his head. "There is no way to apologize. What I did was beyond forgiveness."
"Nothing is ever beyond that, not if you truly express your regret. God, at least, will be merciful."
He gave her a questionable look. "So I should write this letter, just to secure an invitation to heaven?"
She relaxed her shoulders. "Of course not. You should do it for the right reasons -to mend your friendship and honor this man with your apology. Perhaps he regrets the loss of your friendship, as well, and besides that, I would like the opportunity to meet him."
It was no lie. The Butcher of the Highlands was a famous Scottish hero.
Angus toyed with the hair over her ear, and the light touch of his fingers made her body tingle with gooseflesh.
"You are a wise woman, lass. I'll be sure to consider it."
"Will you come back to bed now?" she asked.
"Aye, after I say one more prayer."
She stood up, but still held his hand. "Do you wish to be alone?"
"Just for a short while," he replied. "I still need to pray for my father, so that if we meet again in the afterlife, he'll not thrash me senseless, like he did the last time he saw me."
Gwendolen gathered her shawl about her shoulders. "I am sure that if he is watching you from above, he is very proud. You reclaimed his castle after all."
Angus shook his head. "How can you say that, when your own father must be rolling over in his grave, seeing you wed to me? I am the son of his enemy."
She looked up at the cross over the altar. "I believe he would have understood why I accepted you that I did it for my clan."
"You made a great sacrifice, lass."
"Perhaps. But it's turning out to be less of one than I first imagined." She turned to go.
"Wait for me here," he said. "I'll be brief, and I don't want you wandering through the castle alone at night. Someone might kidnap you and hold you for ransom, and I'm beginning to think I'd pay any price to get you back."
"Any price?" she replied, with a spark of hope.
"Aye. I'm your husband, lass. I'd die for you."
A tremor of emotion shook her, for she was unprepared for such a strong vow of commitment from him, and she found herself wondering: was it duty? Or was it something more?
For her, it was far more than duty that kept her bound to him.
"Let us hope it never comes to that," she said. She glanced uneasily at the pews directly across from him, then slid into one of them. "But perhaps, just to be safe, I will wait for you here and say my own prayers."
"And what will you pray for?" he asked.
She thought about it briefly, then cupped her hands together and rested them on the back of the pew in front of her. "I'll pray that one day, you will be reunited with your friend, and he will forgive you." She gave him a knowing, sidelong glance. "I'm sure the Butcher of the Highlands has committed enough of his own sins to forgive you for yours."
Her husband pointed a warning finger at her.
"Don't worry," she said with a mischievous grin. "I'll carry your secret to my grave"
***
The following day, Angus sat down at his desk, picked up his quill pen, and dipped it into the porcelain ink well:
September 13, 1718
Dear Lord Moncrieffe,
I wonder if you will even break the seal on this letter, once you recognize the Kinloch crest. Perhaps I am about to waste a quantity of ink, but I must make the effort, for I owe you that at least, and so much more.
It has been two years since we last spoke, and no doubt you learned of my banishment and my father's death soon after. While I was exiled, Kinloch fell to the MacEwen clan, but I have recently returned and reclaimed my father's home. I have taken a wife, the daughter of the MacEwen chief, in order to unite the two clans.
But I am certain you are well aware of my return, and the status of Kinloch. That is not why I write to you now. My only purpose is to express my heartfelt regret over what occurred when last we spoke.
Duncan I was wrong in every way. I have spent the past two years repenting my unspeakable treachery, and will never forget, or forgive myself, for what I did to you.
My lessons are now even more deeply ingrained upon my tarnished soul, for I have found myself in a position not unlike your own, when you first encountered the woman who was to become your wife. I did not understand the complexity of your predicament, but I see the world more clearly now, and I cannot possibly express my remorse over the events of 1716.
I close in penitence and despair over my ruthless and brutal actions. I pray for you and your countess, and wish you every happiness. And let it be known that as long as I am Laird of Kinloch Castle, you will have allies here.
Yours truly,
Angus Bradach MacDonald
He took a moment to reflect upon the ache of regret that had settled in his chest two years ago, and resided there still. Especially now, as he wrote this letter.
There had once been a time when he was indifferent to the pain of others, but he had taken that callousness too far. His closest friend was the Butcher of the Highlands, and he had revealed his hideout to the English army as a punishment for taking an English bride.
He'd had two years to think on it and contemplate his shame. Two years alone on the edge of the world, pummeled by wind, rain, and ice, and the harsh, biting spray of the ocean...
But that was another life. He was home now. Everything was different.
He sprinkled sand on the letter, blew it clean, sealed it, and rose from his chair. A knock sounded at his door, but when he answered, he discovered it was not the courier he had sent for twenty minutes ago.
"Lachlan. What are you doing here?"
His friend's cheeks were white as a sheet. "You have a visitor."
"A visitor? Who is it?" He tucked the letter into his sporran.
"It's that woman you kept in the Hebrides the one who predicted your time would come, and that the MacEwens would hear your roar, and all that silly witchy babble."
Angus felt a rush of dread in his gut. "Raonaid is here?"
God! A sickening wave of nausea rose up inside him instantly. What was she doing here? There could be only one reason.
"Aye," Lachlan replied. "The oracle. But you better hurry. She's breaking all the crockery in the kitchen. The staff is scattering like rats, and the cook has locked himself in the wine cellar. It's not a good situation."
Angus headed for the stairs. "What the hell is she doing in the kitchen? Who took her there? You should have brought her to me straightaway."
"She was hungry," Lachlan explained. "And someone made the mistake of telling her you took a wife. That's when she started breaking things."
"Aye. That sounds like Raonaid. You better follow me, Lachlan, and stay close." He glanced over his shoulder when he reached the bottom of the stairs. "Is she armed?"
"Damned if I know. No one could get close enough to search her."
Geen opmerkingen:
Een reactie posten