“You will not hide away in shame. I made certain your stepfather understood you belong to me now and that he is never to raise his hand to you again.”
Clearly, he’d misunderstood her intentions—that she’d planned an intimate supper for them. But then, she reminded herself, he wasn’t attracted to her. So why had it seemed that way when he’d kissed her? She wanted to shake her head in confusion but did not, fearing it would only confuse him as well.
“We will sup together with family,” Cavan said.
So all could gossip over her plight, she thought, but acquiesced with a nod.
“We start tomorrow after the morning meal.” He held his arm out to her when he reached the door, where she stood. “All will know you are protected now.”
And all would know her husband rejected her.
Honora was quiet throughout the meal. Addie attempted to converse with her, but after several failed attempts she simply patted her hand and advised in a whisper that everything would be all right.
Honora did not believe her. How could anything be all right when her husband openly rejected her? And she worried when she didn’t see her stepfather in the great hall for the evening meal. Calum was a boastful man and delighted in the fact that he was the father-in-law of the future clan chieftain. His absence told her that he was off somewhere brooding, and no good came of Calum’s brooding. She would need to be on guard, for her stepfather was a devious man and one who certainly couldn’t be trusted.
Normally, she waited for her husband to announce that they would take their leave. However, she could not bare another moment of sly glances and whispers. She wanted to be gone; off to hide, as most would assume, and wallow in pity. However, she simply wanted peace of mind and heart for the remainder of the night.
She placed a gentle hand on her husband’s arm where he sat beside her. “Cavan.”
He turned, not to stare at her, but rather at her hand where it lay lightly on his forearm. After several seconds passed he finally looked at her.
“I am not feeling well—”
“What is wrong?” he asked anxiously, and took her hand.
His dark eyes filled with concern, and she thought perhaps it was a trick of light from the flames in the fireplace, and so she held his gaze. His concern didn’t vanish, but appeared to grow with worry.
“Honora?” he questioned nervously.
She lowered her head with a barely detectable shake. What was he doing to her? One minute it appeared as if he could care less for her, and the next he looked as if he was worried to death over her.
“I shall fetch the healer,” he said, and would have stood if not for her hand stopping him with a light tug.
“I ache for sleep, that is all,” she said, not wanting to upset him.
“You tired yourself on the moors today,” he insisted.
She didn’t want to tell him that she’d walked the moors too many years to ever tire herself out walking them, but it was easier letting him think what he wished.
Leaning close to him, she whispered, “May I take my leave?”
She near shivered when she saw passion ignite in his eyes, though she chastised herself for even thinking such a ridiculous notion. How then did she explain that glint, the fire that flamed in his dark orbs?
He placed his cheek next to hers so he could murmur in her ear. “Do you wish me to carry you?”
His hot breath fanned her neck, and if she didn’t hold herself stiff she would have collapsed against him. Was he inviting an interlude or he simply being a good husband? If she accepted, would he reject her once they entered the room? Would she once again appear the fool?
Honora did not have the stamina for further rejection this evening. She responded softly, with some regret, “No, I will be fine on my own.”
He moved away from her and with dark eyes that now accused and said, “As you wish.”
She hesitated a moment, for it wasn’t what she wished. She wished for her husband to claim his husbandly rights and seal their wedding vows. He was the one who had made it clear he didn’t want her and rejected her. What did he expect from her?
“Change your mind?” he challenged.
His grin annoyed her. “Have you?” she snipped, and with a huff turned and left the hall.
She thought he might follow, annoyed with her, but heard no heavy footfalls behind her, and Cavan was too large and solidly built for her not to hear him, though he’d informed her earlier how he would teach her to sneak about undetected.
The thought caused her to pause anxiously on the staircase and wait. After several silent minutes passed without hearing anything or without anyone approaching, she continued up the stairs.
She shed her garments, quickly slipping into the comfort of her pale blue, soft wool night shift, and crawled into bed beneath the safety of the coverlet. Why she felt safe in the bed, she didn’t know, although it could be because Cavan had never once attempted to share the bed with her. Since that first day nearly a month ago, he’d slept on the floor.
She had tried to make sense of his preference, and did not want to think that he preferred the floor to sharing a bed with her, though what other explanation would make sense, she could not say.
Yawns attacked her, and her eyes grew heavy. She was grateful that sleep would soon claim her and she would no longer dwell on her worries. For a time, at least, she would be free, she thought, and snuggled contentedly under the cover.
When she woke, it was as if someone had nagged her out of sleep. She lay still for a moment, expecting someone to nudge her further awake. Then she heard the sound, a groaning or mewling of sorts; she was not quite sure how to define it, though there was no doubt that someone suffered.
Surely no animal had crawled in the room, so that meant…
She turned on her side and peered over the edge of the bed. Her husband lay as he did night after night in front of the hearth; only tonight his sleep appeared disturbed. His body jerked and the strange sounds continued in depth and strength.
He was in the throes of a nightmare. He had tossed his covers off and looked to be shivering. The room did feel chilled, and she noticed that the fire had dwindled more than usual. Had Cavan forgotten to add a log before he fell asleep? He always made sure to stoke the fire before bedding down for the night. Had his mind been so overwrought that he paid no heed to the fire? And if so, what was on his mind?
She wished they could talk. She had not had a trusted friend since her mother died. Calum chased away any lad who showed interest in her, and frightened away any young girls who had attempted to befriend her. He had been successful in keeping her isolated.
Now she longed for a friend, a good friend, a trusted friend, and thought how wonderful it would be for that friend to be her husband.
His sorrowful groan caused her to bolt up in bed, and she saw that his shivers had turned to a constant tremble. Quitely, she eased out of bed and slowly made her way over to her husband. She picked up the wool blanket crumbled at Cavan’s feet and gently placed it over her husband, covering him from his bare feet to his bare shoulders, his kilt covering what lay in between.
His shivers eased though didn’t entirely dissipate, and she crept around him and as quietly as possible added a couple of logs to the fire. She jumped back when one popped and cracked loudly, not wanting Cavan to see her if he should wake, but the sounds did not disturb him.
She hunched down a fair distance from him, as he had warned her to do earlier when facing a foe. And at the moment she wasn’t sure if he was friend or foe, so if he should wake, she didn’t want to be in arm’s reach of him. His eyelids fluttered and his mouth twitched, and though he’d stopped trembling and grown silent, his sleep still appeared disturbed.
The scar on his face appeared red and sore from the fire’s light, and she cringed thinking what he must have suffered. He never spoke of his capture by the barbarians. She assumed he shared the details with his father or brothers, though she’d noticed that he had
n’t spent much time with any of them since his return. He seemed to isolate himself, as she herself had.
While the scar on his face attested to his suffering, she wondered if it was the scars no one saw that caused the most damage. She knew all too well about invisible scars, for she had suffered with them for years.
She edged a hand out to softly brush stray strands of hair off his cheek, and wished she could touch him and help ease his ache, just as she wished for someone to ease hers. He didn’t wake, and she daringly stroked his hair. It wasn’t soft or coarse, but thick and strong, like him.
His heavy sigh had her retreating into the dark a few inches away. She waited, barely breathing so he would not know she was there, but he didn’t wake. She saw that his sleep had turned content and hoped she had helped him achieve the peaceful slumber.
She wished this man would be a husband to her and that they could have a good life together, otherwise he and she would always be alone and lonely. But how did she get him to see reason, the wisdom in such a match?
He stirred again but remained asleep.
Honora struggled with what she felt were her inadequacies as a wife and as a woman, and with no one to turn to, she felt completely alone. She missed her mother at that moment, for she had always been there to guide and advise and to love her unconditionally.
Addie was good to her and often attempted to talk with her, but she felt there was only so much she could comfortably discuss with Addie. She was Cavan’s mother, after all, and there was a strong protective bond between mother and son; as there had been between herself and her mother.
Honora’s soft gaze fell over her husband and she smiled sadly before whispering, “We could be happy you and I, if only…”
Cavan didn’t stir; he didn’t hear her, and she hadn’t meant him to, though perhaps she hoped somehow the words would settle over him, seep deep inside and touch his heart and soul.
She stood, stretched the kinks from her legs, and gave her husband one last glance before returning to her bed and slipping beneath the blanket. Then she peeked over the edge of the bed to take one last look at her husband.
Chapter 13
Cavan stretched himself awake, rolling his shoulders and arching his back, then suddenly jolted up. His glance went directly to the bed, and sure enough it was empty. How did Honora sneak out without him hearing her? He shook his head and coughed a laugh, recalling how he intended to teach her to move about unnoticed and that she apparently already possessed the skill.
He stood with a stretch, working the stiffness out of his back and legs, and stopped abruptly, glancing down at the blanket. He stared at the crumpled piece of wool and fought to remember.
It hit him like a punch to the gut, and he almost stumbled back from the blow. He had woken in the middle of the night, his blanket pulled up over his shoulders, the fire stoked, and thought he had seen his wife peeking at him over the edge of the bed.
Had she tucked the blanket over him?
He scooped up the blanket and rubbed the soft wool between his fingers. He recalled kicking it off him and shivering, the ambers dying in the hearth. He cursed himself for having forgotten to stoke the fire last night. He’d drowned his sorrows and his desire for his wife in too much drink. He had given her a choice last night—why, he couldn’t say—and she’d rejected him and it hurt him more than he wanted to admit, more than he wanted to feel. He drank after that with his brothers and father, arguing over the search for Ronan until, in disgust, he had left them and stumbled to his room. He collapsed before the hearth after stripping off his shirt and discarding his sandals, and pulled the blanket over him.
He remembered kicking the blanket off and the dreams—no, the nightmares—of his capture. His time with the barbarians haunted him mercilessly and forever disturbed his sleep.
Why then had he woken with the blanket over him and his wife peering over the edge of the bed at him, and with the fire blazing?
He shook the hazy thoughts from his mind to clear his head for a more vivid recall. His findings startled him, actually had him thinking he was crazy for believing what he remembered.
His wife had seen to his care. She had covered him with the blanket and stoked the fire.
Why?
He had hardly been a good husband to her, and yet she’d tended him.
Why?
He had ignored her, spoken carelessly to her, and still she looked after him.
Why?
She was his wife and that was her duty.
He shook his head. He couldn’t say he knew his wife well, but he felt as if he knew something about Honora—that she cared and had a good heart. She was a good, honest woman. Why then had he rejected her?
He growled, the rumble coming deep from his chest until it burst forth like an angry snarl. Why did he fight himself? Why deny his wife? Why deny having a good life?
Ronan.
He felt responsible for his brother’s capture and could not escape the guilt. He should have protected Ronan. He should have saved him from the barbarians. He would never forget the look on his youngest brother’s face as the barbarians dragged him away.
Ronan had been filled with pure fear.
Cavan shook his head, chasing away the painful memory.
He did not deserve to live, to have a good life, until he found his brother and set things right. He didn’t deserve Honora and her kind nature, but she did deserve to be protected. And if he wasn’t around to protect her, then he wanted to make certain she could take care of herself.
Today his wife would have her first lesson in defending herself.
He dressed, though did not hurry. He knew that Honora would not be far, and whether on the moor, in the kitchen, or in the sewing room, she would be alone. In a way, she was much like him of late, seeking solitude, putting herself at a distance from others.
They were a pair, the two of them, an unlikely pair but matching nonetheless. He almost chuckled at the thought. If he was honest with himself, he’d admit that Honora had brought a smile to his face on several occasions.
He quickly lost the smile. There was no time for frivolity. He had his search for Ronan to concentrate on, and to make certain his wife knew how to protect herself.
Artair was at the table in front of the hearth when he entered the great hall, which was near empty. The few who remained quickly took their leave when he joined his brother. It was obvious that Artair had purposely waited for him.
“Do I get to eat before you pounce on me?” Cavan asked, sitting across from him.
Artair grinned. “Now you sound like the brother I knew.”
“He is no more,” Cavan snapped.
“I disagree. My brother may battle foes unknown to me, but he is still my brother, and I would fight to the death beside him, whether asked or not.”
“I can fight my own battles,” Cavan argued.
“I recall fighting more often together than separate.”
“What do you want of me?” Cavan asked irritably.
“I want my brother to return.”
“I have,” Cavan said curtly.
Artair shook his head. “No, you haven’t. You keep to yourself and sulk—”
“I do not sulk—”
“You sulk like a spoiled child.”
“I warn you, Artair, watch your words.”
“Does the truth hurt?”
“What do you know of the truth?” Cavan snarled, his fisted knuckles turning white.
“Enlighten me,” Artair challenged.
Cavan near snorted with anger. How dare his brother disrespect him? How dare he judge him? How dare he…
He released a deep breath, and with it went some of his anger, though not all, for that would take time. And then there was the beast inside him, which could very well reside there permanently. What he did know was that Artair didn’t deserve his anger, that he sought an explanation. However, he wasn’t certain yet if he could give Artair an adequate one, or if he was even ready to discu
ss it with him.
Artair had always been the sensible one. The brother who reasoned and found solutions on many occasions when others thought there were none. Cavan had counted on his pragmatic nature many times, and Artair had never failed him, had never failed anyone. How then would Artair understand that he thought himself a failure?
“You wouldn’t understand,” Cavan said, returning his attention to his brother.
“I have before. What makes you believe this time would be any different?”
“Because it is different.”
“Why, because you say so? Share this burden that so obviously weighs on your shoulders with me so that I may help you carry it.”
That was Artair, taking on everyone’s problem and solving it, and damned if he didn’t find solutions. But it wasn’t always for him to solve. This burden was his and his alone, and only he could ease the weight.
“This time it is for me to do, brother.”
“Hear what you say, brother. Brothers help each other. We may argue, even throw punches on occasion, and sometimes not like each other for one ridiculous reason or another, but brothers we are and that means always looking out for each other.”
“Like I did for Ronan?”
“You did what you could and—”
“I should have done more,” Cavan snapped.
“You are not Ronan’s keeper.”
Cavan laughed gruffly. “In one breath you tell me brothers always look out for each other and in another you say I am not my brother’s keeper.”
“You forget I said I would always stand by your side whether asked or not. I did not say I would stand in front of you or behind you, but beside you. You never stopped seeing Ronan as your youngest brother who needed protecting. Ronan is a warrior and he will do what he must to survive and return home, just as you have. So stop pitying yourself and be a brother once again.”
Artair stood with a shake of his head and walked out of the great hall.
Cavan didn’t follow his brother’s departure; he turned instead to gaze aimlessly at the hearth. What did Artair know? He wasn’t there to hear the crack of the whip and know in a second that the leather would split the flesh open. He didn’t know of the filth and stench he had to endure, or what he’d been forced to eat to survive, or of the never ending cold that crept into your bones and caused your innards to shiver. And then there were the screams and pleading of the tortured ringing endlessly in your ears long after they had died, and wondering if one of them could be your brother, though praying it wasn’t.
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