by Cathy MacRae
His voice hollowed, as if all his energy had disappeared. “I drove her away. I tried to be the husband she wanted, but nothing pleased her. Least of all, me.”
“I do not believe all the gold in the king’s treasury would have made a difference.”
A wry grin tweaked the corner of Birk’s mouth but did not reach his eyes. “Och, my grandda brought home two sizeable fortunes when he returned from the Holy Land forty years ago. Rose had access to enough gold to last her lifetime and far beyond.”
Carys tried not to show surprise at Birk’s casual regard for such tremendous wealth. She doubted Prince Llywelyn—God rest his soul—could have boasted such. Her surprise at Rose’s rejection of Birk as a man did shock her. Though he’d earlier confided the woman had been small and he’d likely frightened her, the statement did not ring true to Carys’s ears.
“’Tis not your fault Rose was discontented.”
“Ye dinnae know that. I was her husband. I should have been able to satisfy her.”
“If she merely enjoyed the outer trappings of her marriage,” she replied, her tone a mix of tart and sympathy, “then she did not attempt to discover the man she’d wed. She was too concerned about wealth and position to try to learn who her husband really was.”
His lip curled, challenging her statement. “Then who am I, Carys? Ye see before ye a man larger than all others around me. A man feared by many, obeyed by all. Only Dugan and occasionally Iain dare gainsay me. I am respected though not loved. Tell me who ye think I am.”
Birk stared at Carys, his chest hollow, emptied by the words he’d spoken. Each thought of Rose gutted him, reminded him he was not fit to be a husband. Her scorn. Her accusations. Spoken enough times to make them true.
Carys, the woman he’d bound to him through deceit, gazed at him. Temper rode every line of her body. He knew she would not shout merely to bring him low. Nor would he receive empty platitudes filled with false flattery. After the beating he’d taken at Hanna’s clipped tongue tonight, he wasn’t certain he wanted to face Carys. Yet, he’d asked.
“Ye are one of the largest men I’ve met.” Carys tilted her head, softening her stance. “Yet, I do not fear ye. I only have to look at your daughters, watch how ye deal with your soldiers and clansmen to see respect, not fear, in their eyes.”
“Ye dinnae fear me before ye met the lasses,” he scoffed. “You snarled something that sounded verra uncomplimentary in Cymraeg, and only wed me after ye decided to. I sometimes wonder how close ye came to saying nae.”
“Fairly close.” Humor lurked in her eyes and a longing Birk had never felt before centered itself in his chest. He lifted his hand, then dropped it, remembering how she’d avoided him earlier. She did not want his touch.
To his surprise, she moved closer. Rose had always backed away, leaving him cold and empty. That Carys would approach him whilst angry—or at least out of sorts—with him, intrigued him. She halted, eyes directly in line with his chest.
“I see a man large in size, but I also see a man with shoulders broad enough to accept and manage his responsibilities—and give his daughters shelter when they need him. Birk, ye have the skills needed to be a warrior and a leader. But ye dinnae give people credit or understand how your actions affect them.” She tapped a forefinger against his chest. “I see a heart, but ye hide it away most of the time.”
Birk’s body flushed. Her words confused him. Her touch twisted him inside. “A warrior doesnae have a heart. I cannae give way to such notions. I am a warrior. I know battle.” He snorted. “A warrior with a heart. What next? Picking flowers?”
Her eyes flashed. “Ye do not know battle. Fighting for your life, fighting every day. Not knowing who might betray ye, which of your friends will die next. Inhaling the stench of death so long, ye choke on a fresh sea breeze. Losing everything so ye are forced to flee to a foreign land. Ye are skilled, no one doubts it. But your people live in peace, notwithstanding the occasional brute who is eventually accorded justice.”
He blinked, not only at the passion in her words, but also at the turmoil, brutality and loss she’d endured. The long years of battling Edward, loss of her parents, husband, and brother had left its scars. Her head nearly reached his chin, slim, pale—and so strong. Her shoulders slumped and he caught her hand before she could draw away. She flinched but left her palm in his. Slowly, he pulled her fingers to his lips and kissed each tip before releasing her.
“I dinnae understand everything ye have told me. I dinnae wish to be considered a brute, but ’tis what Rose called me, over and over until I believed it. I want to be the man ye see, but I fear I dinnae have it within me.”
Carys offered a half-smile. “Let me help.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Birk wasn’t certain how to answer. Was Carys about to take him to task for being the idiot his ma said he was? He’d lost enough hide from Hanna’s tongue-lashing to look forward to enduring the same from his wife. He held his breath as Carys lifted her hand to his cheek, fought the damning words he could not get out of his head.
Ye are a brute, Birk MacLean, and I dinnae know why I married ye.
Hanna’s accusation still stung.
I am your ma, and I still do not understand ye, elskan mín.
She had quivered with rage when he admitted his subterfuge with Carys, ensnaring her, forcing her on the path to marriage rather than the gallows.
Your wife is strong. I would have chosen her for ye, rejoiced to see ye wed. But I do not understand what compelled ye to act as dishonorably as ye did.
Hell, he wasn’t certain any more. He only knew Carys would have rejected him as Rose had if he’d tried to court her honestly. Rejected him or fled, neither was acceptable, and both foretold the same result. He would have lost her before he’d even had a chance. He knew what he was. Despite Hanna’s well-meaning reassurances to the contrary, Rose’s petty spitefulness had confirmed the kind of man he was. A brute. Too big and too rough to be any woman’s husband.
Carys’s touch somehow calmed the beast in his mind, and he met her gaze.
“Ye now know I can be so much more than simply a woman who gives ye a son,” Carys said. “I will always place the children above all else, but ye must not confine me to the bedchamber. I am intelligent, skilled in running a large household—and I fear very little.”
She is a smart young woman who deserves your respect, my son.
“I wanted ye for my wife like I wanted no other, and I dinnae want ye to slip away from me into the forest.” And the less ye knew of me, the less ye’d see the brute in me.
Her brows knitted together. “Tell me why ye thought I—a woman ye did not know—would be the best wife for ye.”
Birk hesitated, shied from revealing too much. Telling Rose would have . . . Carys was not Rose. He did not want to re-create the marriage with his first wife. He wanted more. He wanted Carys.
“At first I thought to thwart the council,” he admitted. “I wanted none of the women on their list—for verra good reasons. There were ideals I held close to my heart, ideals that I believed were more important than just a pretty face, an alliance, and the power it bestowed.”
“Ye have said as much. I want to know more.”
“There was no woman I thought could embody all of these traits. I wanted a woman who dinnae exist, a woman I couldnae have.” He placed the backs of his fingers against her cheek, sliding them gently across the soft skin. The contact, the fact she did not flinch from him, urged him to give her more.
Ye will not win her heart if ye do not give her something in return, sonr min.
“I wanted a wife who was selfless, who placed the welfare of others above idleness and her next gown. Word reached my ears of a resourceful woman who lived on my lands, without family or home, giving help to those in need. Giving help to my people.”
His fingers traced gently along the curve of her jaw, down her throat where her pulse beat steadily. He recalled the words he’d given his ma. Selfless,
generous, fierce.
“And so fierce. I dinnae believe the tales at first. But I soon saw for myself, and I tricked ye into marrying me before ye knew me.”
A smile flirted with her lips, sparkled in her eyes. “Such eloquence from a man who has much to offer, yet missed seeing the truth of the matter.”
“Would ye have allowed me to court ye?” he demanded, still unable to believe she would have welcomed his advances.
“’Tis difficult to say. I am not a woman who must marry for protection or to have a roof over my head. And I do not desire wealth or power. Sometimes I see in ye . . ..” She sighed and dropped her gaze. “’Tis possible I may have sent ye away and mayhap even traveled elsewhere had ye persisted. Ye are not who I imagined marrying.”
His stomach clenched. She would not have found him worthy. “Might I suggest my way ensured ye married me?”
Carys laughed. The sound startled and amused him. “Might I suggest threatening a woman is not the way to engage her affections.”
Birk tilted his head. “Do ye like me even a wee bit?”
“I will grant ye a wee bit.” She arched an eyebrow and slid her gaze quickly up and down his form. “Mayhap more than a wee bit.”
“Can ye truly manage something as large as . . ..” He cupped one hand slightly below his waist then allowed it drift upward, moving her gaze from himself to the well-appointed room. “As MacLean Castle?”
“So that’s what ye call it?” she drawled, tossing his double entendre back at him. “’Tis a solid edifice as I well know.” She leaned against him, her thinly clad body hot against his chest. “I can handle anything the castle gives me, including your elder council which is dim gwerth rhech dafad.”
Birk eyed her narrowly. “I dinnae speak Cymraeg.”
She shrugged and wrapped her fingers about his forearms, her thumbs caressing the sensitive spot inside his elbow with slow circles. “Worthless.”
He grunted. “A lot of words to mean worthless.”
She flashed a grin, eyes dancing. “Not worth a sheep’s fart.”
* * *
They were good together. The fact—in full evidence as his cock relaxed into sated dormancy—never ceased to surprise and please him. The cool air felt good on his sweated body and he stretched, careful not to disturb Carys who curled at his side. She sighed gently as she shifted against him.
He would apologize to her in the morning for being eldhúsfífl these past weeks. Hanna had been right to call him an idiot. He deserved every Norse insult she’d hurled at him, and perhaps a few Welsh ones as well. Apologizing was likely a good gesture, and though he didn’t wish to enumerate all the ways he’d probably risked her displeasure, eldhúsfífl seemed to cover most of his sins.
“Share your thoughts?” Carys’s breath teased the hair on his chest and he idly scratched the spot.
He remained silent for a moment, his first impulse to rebuff her attempt to entice him to speak his thoughts. I want more.
“Not the best time to think of my first wife,” he admitted with a shrug, “but I was marveling at things I’ll never understand.”
Carys raised to an elbow and leaned against him, trailing a finger across his chest. “Oh? What do ye not understand? Other than this is not a good time to think of her.”
Her touch distracted him from his doubts. Her voice remained calm, sleepy.
“’Tis difficult to speak of such things.” He grunted, hoping to dissuade her from pursuing the topic.
“I understand. Who do ye usually talk to?”
“Och, no one wishes to hear such things.”
“I do.”
Birk sucked in a deep breath and released it slowly. Tested his words before he spoke them. Took a chance. Carys stroked his chest and Rose’s influence vanished.
“I dinnae understand why marriage to ye feels so right when it began with deception. My first marriage began, well, better, and ended badly.”
“I thought ye said the council bought her. Arranged it.”
“Och, she seduced me, and I was besotted enough with her to be led like a sheep to slaughter when my da—with the council’s urging—approached her da for an alliance.”
Carys sputtered with laughter. “She seduced ye? How old were ye?”
Birk rubbed his chin, caught between embarrassment and humor. “I was but a wee lad—not even in my nineteenth summer. I’d bedded a few lasses before, but she taught me things I’d never imagined.”
“Truth?”
He rolled to his side and, sliding one foot over Carys’s leg, pulled her against him. His cock responded instantly to her closeness. “Let’s make up a few of our own.”
* * *
A summer squall peppered the Már with rain and a wind that chased the ship down the coast. Waves rose and fell, tossing the craft about like a child’s toy in a loch, sending Eislyn, Abria, and Dewr inside the single small cabin to wait out the storm. Tully grasped the mast, conquering his fear like the very best of sailors. Birk braced on deck, arms folded across his chest, feet spread, knees slightly bent to absorb the roll of the boards, keeping a wary eye on the far shore.
Hanna and Carys stood at the rail, embracing the sting of salt water, already noting the clouds breaking up on the horizon. The sea settled grudgingly, and the deck subsided to its more accustomed roll beneath her feet. To her surprise, she still had her sea legs.
Carys eyed Birk, mentally running her palms over his broad shoulders, remembering the twist of muscle beneath her hands. His hands, working their wicked way over her body.
“Ye are completely sodden,” Hanna remarked with a grin.
Carys startled. “Besotted?”
Hanna laughed. “With my son, aye, but what I said was, ye are sodden. Drenched.”
“Aye. That, too.” Carys wiped her hand over her cheek, brushing a strand of hair behind an ear. Her cheeks warmed despite the wind that chilled her wet skin.
Hanna moved closer. “I did not expect to see ye on deck during the squall. I thought ’twas only the Norse who relished Thor’s antics.”
“Thor? Are ye not a follower of the Christ?”
“Aye. But the old tales are life’s blood to the Norse. Stories we tell our children. Why does it thunder, móðir?” she warbled in a childlike voice. “Thor is angry, my child.” She smiled. “So many tales for a long winter’s night.” Bracing her forearms across the rail, she stared at the calming sea, and her voice dropped to an intimate level.
“The children will be on deck soon. Tell me, what keeps ye from walking away from my son after the way he treated ye?”
“Or plunging a dagger into his treacherous heart?”
Hanna gave her a startled look, then nodded slowly. “Aye. I admit I was tempted the other night when he told me how ye wed.” She sighed. “Rose changed him. He grew up very aware of who he was, and who he was expected to be. Yet, he was my third child, born to a man I loved very much, and I . . ..”
Carys placed a palm gently on Hanna’s arm. “Your first son died in a raid. I am terribly sorry.”
Hanna blinked rapidly and tilted her head away. “My last sight of him was sword in hand, his face so grim, so young. He and two of his friends placed themselves at the doorway to the great hall, protecting the women and children. He did not wish to be there—wanted to fight the Scots beside his father. I persuaded him this was as heroic as meeting the enemy on the beach—and hoped it would be far safer.” She sighed and tilted her head toward Carys.
“In the end it did not matter. I escaped, and later discovered a few of the young girls—my daughter Signy among them—had been taken as slaves. Thankfully, Alex—Birk’s father—discovered her and brought her home.” She managed a wan smile. “She lives on Mull with her husband and daughter. I do not see them often, but such is the way of life. I am grateful she survived and lives a full life with a man who loves her.”
Carys joined Hanna’s study of the sea. Land drifted near as Birk allowed the Már closer to shore once the storm d
ied away. Sun broke through the clouds as if in apology for the discomfort of the squall, sending brilliant rays streaking down, touching the bruised earth, sparkling on the rolling water. The scent of rain gave way to the tang of saltwater. A gull glided overhead.
“Alex was not harsh with Birk, but Birk understood he was the only surviving son, and was rarely satisfied with anything he did. He pushed himself far harder than necessary, and to be honest, I was relieved when I discovered he and Rose had begun meeting each other in secret. I’d missed his funny, teasing boyish nature that had died over the years. For a time, he was my son again, not the hardened warrior, driven to master every subject his da or tutor gave him.”
“I know what happened,” Carys murmured.
“No, I do not believe ye do. For even Birk will not see the truth and shoulders all the blame. After he and Rose married, they began bickering. Birk’s father fell ill, and Birk took on the burden of the clan. He once again became driven, and unfortunately, Rose felt the lack of his attention.”
“And acted according to her nature?”
“Aye. I tell ye this, not to demean her, but because I sense ye are nothing like her. Ye seem strong, tolerant, and very loving. My son needs ye to help him become the man he was born to be.”
* * *
Tully danced about, his loping gait thumping the boards as they approached the harbor.
“There’s Cap’n Anderson’s ship, and the tabby cat that lives on the dock.” He turned to Dewr. “Dinnae chase the cat, Dewr. He eats the rats,” he confided to Eislyn and Abria.
Abria clenched Carys’s plaide in one fist. “I dinnae like rats. I’m glad I dinnae bring Tegan.”
Carys patted her head. “I do not like rats, either, bychan. And this was not a good trip for Tegan.”
“I’m not so little.” Abria frowned.
“Oh, so ye are picking up a bit of Cymraeg? Do not worry. Ye will always be my little one. It means ye have a special place in my heart.”
