The Recruit

by Monica McCarty

  She had to apologize for what had happened this morning. A blush stained her cheeks. Well, maybe an apology wasn’t necessary in light of how much he’d enjoyed it, but she knew things could not go on as they had been. She wanted to give him—them—a chance.

  The Hall was a flurry of sound and color as she entered. Obviously, the ale and wine had been flowing freely for some time. People were swarming about the room. She stood on her tiptoes, trying to see where Kenneth was seated but was unable to see over all the heads.

  Finally, after fighting her way through the crowd near the door she saw him. The smile that had become reflexive in such a short time rose and then fell. The blood drained from her face, as everything inside her body seemed to curl inwardly. Her heart. Her stomach. Her hope.

  The sear of white-hot pain across her chest was nearly unimaginable.

  He was surrounded by women and basking in the glow of their adoring light, like some Greek god at a temple. The women on either side of him were leaning so close their bodies were pressing against his. He wasn’t doing anything to encourage them. Yet. But it was only a matter of time. He’d made her no promises. The picture before her was brutally familiar and a reminder that she could not forget that. No matter how much she wanted to. If she’d wanted her eyes opened, they were now.

  Oh God. I can’t do this again.

  “Are you all right, my lady?”

  In a daze, Mary turned, seeing that Sir John had come up beside her. “You look quite pale.”

  “I’m not feeling too well. I-I think I shall return to my room.”

  She could see the concern in his face. “I will escort you.”

  Mary nodded, too numb to object.

  Twenty

  It had been bad enough to learn that his wife had left the castle without telling him and sought out Sir Adam’s assistance rather than his for her errand. Kenneth was irritated, and yes, maybe even a little jealous. But it was nothing compared to the dangerous emotion that surged through him when he heard who’d escorted her back to her room.

  “Felton? You are sure?”

  Lady Eleanor gazed up at him in surprise. “Yes, perhaps an hour ago. I thought that you knew.”

  He’d been trying to have a good time. Trying to bury his irritation with his wife in the celebratory atmosphere around him. But as the hours dragged on, and she still had not appeared, irritation had turned to worry, and finally he’d sought out one of her attendants.

  Kenneth tried to hide his reaction, but he suspected he wasn’t all that successful. “I did not.”

  “She was standing right there.” Lady Eleanor pointed to a place a few tables away. “It was fortunate Sir John was there, my lord. I thought she was going to faint for a minute. She did not look well.”

  Kenneth felt his stomach drop. Dear God, was it the babe?

  Sensing his reaction, Lady Eleanor hastened to explain. “I’m sure it’s nothing for you to worry about. A stomach upset, Sir John said. That is all.”

  But Kenneth wasn’t listening; he was already making his way from the Hall.

  Had something happened? His mind raced with all the mishaps that could occur to a woman with child. Damn it, why hadn’t she told him? He would never have let her go to town on her own.

  By the time he reached the tower chamber, he was nearly out of his mind with an emotion he didn’t recognize. Panic? Fear? The way his heart was racing, it could very well be both.

  He threw open the door, “Are you all ri—”

  He stopped, seeing her standing by the window, her figure backlit by the setting sun. She turned as he entered, her face a mask of serene composure. Serenity and composure that made his own panic and fear fall flat on the floor.

  He didn’t need to finish his question. It was clear that his distress had been for naught; she was perfectly fine.

  “You are back early.”

  There was something in her voice—a hint of sarcasm—that didn’t sit well with him.

  “And you are not. What were you thinking to leave the castle without telling me?”

  She arched a delicate brow. “I did not realize I needed your permission.”

  The cold challenge in her eyes was back. But he was too angry himself to heed the warning. “Well, you do. You will not leave this castle again—you will not go anywhere—without telling me.” He crossed the room in a few strides. Wanting to ruffle that composure of hers, he took her arm and brought her up to him. “Do you hear me, Mary?”

  But she would not be rattled. None of his heat could melt the ice that seemed to have formed a shell around her. “I hear you perfectly well, since you are shouting in my ear.”

  Her very calmness infuriated him. It was everything he was not. He wanted to make her as angry as he was. It was nearly inconceivable that he could be this passionate about a woman and she could be so … not. “And stay away from Felton. Need I remind you that you are a married woman?”

  Her eyes snapped to his, the first crack in her composure. “And you are a married man. But we all know how little that means to you.”

  “What are you talking about? I’ve done nothing—”

  “I saw you at the feast. It must have been interesting—whatever you were talking about—you had quite an audience and seemed enthralled.”

  He’d been worried about her, but hell if he’d tell her that. Not when she thought him so … shallow. But he felt a surprising twinge of guilt. His pride had been stinging. He hadn’t gone to the feast with the intention of seeking out more appreciative company, but he hadn’t exactly pushed the women away, either. It was effortless. They were effortless.

  And she wasn’t.

  It had been a mistake. He could see that now. He knew how sensitive she was about Atholl, but damn it, she had unrealistic expectations. What man in his right mind would want to bind himself to one woman for life?

  He thought of MacLeod. MacSorley. Campbell. MacKay. His brother. Hell, even Lachlan MacRuairi. All men he respected and were sure as hell in their right mind.

  But he wasn’t like them. He didn’t confuse duty with emotion. She was just his wife, damn it.

  It had to be anger making his chest feel so damned tight.

  But any apology he might have made was silenced by her next words. “Is the game over, my lord? Is that it? Have you grown weary of playing the doting husband? Or perhaps I am not adoring enough or whispering enough platitudes in your ear?”

  His mouth thinned. “Not all women are as hard to impress as you, my lady.”

  “I think you confuse flattery with respect.”

  He stiffened. It was clear he didn’t have hers. Why the hell did it bother him? He shouldn’t care. “I thought you didn’t care what I do.”

  She stiffened, pulling her arm away as if his touch scalded. “I don’t.”

  Heat was pounding through his bones. “Then stop acting as if you want more.”

  She lifted her chin. “I wasn’t aware I had a choice.”

  He heard her challenge but was too angry to take it up—or make promises he wasn’t sure he could keep. All he could do was stare at her, seething, his jaw clenching as tightly as his fist. “What the hell do you want, Mary?”

  Their eyes held. He felt something tighten, almost as if a winch was drawing them together. He thought she felt it too, but then she looked stiffly away. “Nothing more than you promised,” she said. “Of course, your ‘duties’ will not be required for some time.”

  His eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about? I warned you I would not be kept from my wife’s bed.”

  “Have you forgotten? Tomorrow is Ash Wednesday and the beginning of Lent. It is a sin to copulate during Lent.”

  Kenneth saw red. He knew what she was doing. He knew it wasn’t piety but merely an excuse to keep him from her bed. Hell, the church considered it a sin to enjoy pleasure or passion in the marital bed at all!

  But he was too damned angry to care. If that was the way she wanted it, he would do this her way. God knows,
he hadn’t been able to win her heart in her bed; perhaps it would grow fonder in his absence.

  But he wasn’t going to let her win without a fight. Not without leaving her something to think about. He would give her exactly what she wanted, damn it. If she thought he was nothing more than a stud for hire, that was exactly what she would get. “As you wish.”

  He took her in his arms and flipped her around, pushing her gently against the wall.

  “What are you d-doing? I thought you said—”

  He buried his face in her hair and neck, ravishing the soft skin with all the fury of the emotions surging through his blood. “It isn’t Lent yet.”

  Mary saw the anger flashing in his eyes and knew she’d pushed her hot-tempered husband too far. She should have known better than to try to provoke him, but she’d half hoped—perhaps more than half—that he might give her the answer she wanted to hear. That he might make promises she had no right to expect from him.

  Would she ever learn?

  Heat washed over her as he took her in his arms, molding her back to his chest and hips. His mouth and jaw tore across the soft skin of her neck. The pain and hurt that had been simmering so close to the surface erupted into a different emotion. Into lust, need, and a desperate attempt to hold on to him.

  He was kissing her with a punishing hunger and a frenzy he’d never shown before, and she responded with a desperation of her own. She melted against him in complete surrender, letting him take whatever he wanted. He was gripping her breasts, cupping and squeezing as his mouth devoured every sensitive inch of her neck and shoulder.

  Carefully, he planted her hands on the wall in front of her. “This is what you want, isn’t it?”

  There was an edge to his voice she’d never heard before. But she was so hot, her skin on fire. He tipped her hips back to meet the bulge of his erection, moving it against her suggestively.

  Images of the stable returned.

  She knew what he was going to do. And for a moment, she thought about stopping him. But whether it was shock or lust, she was powerless to escape the sensual web he’d spun around them both.

  She moaned, pressing her hips back against him and arching her back to give him even more access to her neck.

  He groaned and swore, one hand caressing her breast as the other fumbled with his breeches. She could feel the cold air hitting her legs and backside as he tossed up her skirts.

  She was already wet when his fingers slipped inside her. “Should I give it to you, Mary?” That edge to his voice should have alerted her, but she was too lost in the haze of lust to exercise caution.

  He nudged the blunt head of his erection between her legs, teasing her with long strokes over her dampness. He was so big and thick between her thighs, the wicked sensations he was arousing drove her to the very peak of need.

  She could hear her own frantic moans in her ears, feel her body begging him to ease the restlessness he’d built inside her.

  He held her hips, positioning himself at her entry. “You want to come, don’t you?”

  The crude words made her shiver, touching the dark, wanton part of her that responded to the wickedness. Not with revulsion but with desire. This was wrong. She knew it was wrong. But she was too far gone. He’d stoked the fires too hot. And there was something about this fierce, aggressive side of him that made her feel reckless. That tricked her emotions, making her think that this mattered. That if he was this out of control he must care.

  She could feel the hot, steely flesh against her, the thick club nudging at her entry. Her legs were shaking, her body throbbing with need. She rocked back against him, wanting him inside her so badly she could weep.

  He circled himself against her, and she rocked her hips back to meet him.

  But he wouldn’t give her what she wanted. He was teasing her. Dragging it out. Forcing her to face the depths of her desire for him.

  “Tell me,” he whispered in her ear.

  “Yes!” she cried. “Please, yes.”

  He held her hips steady and drove inside, possessing her in one hard stroke that shook her to her core. He slid her hips back against him, leaning her against the wall until she was at the perfect angle, and then he thrust again, sinking into her even deeper.

  He held her there until she moaned. Until she thought her body would come apart just from the sheer force of him inside her. He filled her completely. Deeply. And then he sent her flying. Pounding into her with long, deep strokes that were every bit as frantic and hard as the cries of pleasure he tore from her.

  It was rough. It was frenzied. It was lust in its most raw and primitive form. Her body was still spasming when she heard the hard grunt of his own pleasure a moment before a rush of heat pulsed through her.

  But like a violent storm, when it was over, there was only destruction in its desolate wake. The room was painfully quiet. He pulled out of her and a blast of cold swept over her exposed skin. She was still bent over and supporting herself on the wall; otherwise she would have stumbled.

  She stood, immediately grasping the front of her dress, which she’d just realized had been ripped apart at the bodice. Her skirts dropped back over her bare bottom, but the damp chill between her legs was a brutal reminder of what had just happened.

  Shame washed over her. How could she have let him do that to her? And worse, how could she have liked it?

  She wobbled, and he reached out to catch hold of her arm. “Jesus, Mary, I’m—”

  “Thank you,” she said, forcing her eyes to his, when all she wanted to do was collapse in a ball and cry. Protect youself. “That was exactly what I wanted. The woman in the barn was right. You are every bit as good as they say.”

  She thought he flinched. But perhaps it was only the flicker of firelight. His eyes burned into hers with something raw. Something that made her throat hurt and chest burn.

  She wanted to take the words back, but it was too late. He turned on his heel and left, the door slamming definitively behind him.

  He never looked back.

  If he had, he would have seen her slide to the floor in a pool of horror and despair. If he had, he might have guessed the truth. He’d given her exactly what she wanted—lust without a hint of tenderness—but it wasn’t what she wanted at all.

  What have I done?

  Kenneth stayed away for as long as he could. He volunteered for anything and everything that would take him from the castle. Scouting missions, escort duties—hell, even helping to repair a wall at a nearby castle that had been damaged in an attack by Bruce’s raiders.

  But if he thought that absenting himself from the castle would take an edge off the dangerous emotions clamoring inside him, he was wrong. No mission, no task, no amount of physical labor could make him forget what had happened. Nothing could penetrate the black rage that hovered around him like a dark, forbidding cloud. He was a man on the edge, and he knew it.

  He’d lost his temper. He’d wanted to force her to acknowledge there was something between them, but all he’d succeeded in doing was proving her right.

  Maybe MacKay was right. Maybe he wasn’t cut out for this. How much longer before he did something rash? The mission that he’d hoped would establish his place in the Guard wasn’t turning out as he’d planned. He wasn’t impressing anyone. Sticking close to Percy had yielded little information of value, he hadn’t been able to confirm the castles the English would use on their campaign, his hopes of turning his wife and her son voluntarily to Bruce were dwindling, he hadn’t lifted a weapon in combat in weeks, and the steely control he’d fought so hard for was deserting him.

  Sangfroid! Hell, he’d settle for anything below boiling right now.

  It wasn’t until a week had passed that he trusted himself to return. It turned out a week was not long enough.

  He’d barely had a chance to wash the dust and grime from him when he walked across the yard from the sea-gate (a cold swim in the River Tweed had seemed preferable to a warm bath in his chamber) and saw som
ething that set off every instinct in his body to fight—and he had a hell of a lot of them.

  Felton was in the yard practicing with some of his men. “Again!” he shouted.

  Percy’s champion knight appeared to be demonstrating some swordsmanship techniques, but the unfortunate target of this lesson was David Strathbogie.

  The young Earl of Atholl was on his knees, apparently having been knocked down. From the amount of dirt on the lad’s armor and the difficulty he seemed to be having in dragging himself to his feet, it probably hadn’t been the first time.

  Perhaps it was because Kenneth had been the one to drag himself out of the dirt more times than he wanted to remember, but seeing Felton humiliate the lad struck every raw nerve, going against every ingrained sense of fairness in his body.

  David managed to get himself upright, but Felton came at him again, shouting orders at him to get his sword up, to defend himself like a man, before knocking him back down with a complicated and highly skilled set of swings of his sword. Moves that no green squire could hope to defend against.

  Kenneth’s blood boiled. He clenched his fists again and again at his sides. This was a lesson all right. A lesson in humiliation. Felton was purposefully making the lad look bad in front of the other men.

  “Get up and fight,” Felton said, with a nudge of his sword in the boy’s side. “We aren’t finished.”

  Red swam before his eyes. Kenneth could almost taste the lad’s humiliation and feel the sharp sting of his young pride. Before he could stop himself, he pulled his sword from his scabbard—in a moment of sanity using his left hand, as he was still claiming his injury prevented him from fighting full force—and strode forward, bursting through the circle of men. All he could see was Felton’s sword, pointed at the lad. With one sharp flick of his blade, Kenneth sent the knight’s sword sailing from his hand.

  The shattering clash of metal seemed to echo through the shocked silence.