Yet, he never found a reason for the massacre of the Mackintosh. 'Twas a secret his father carried with him to his grave.
My friend has been hurt so much by life, Alastair. You have no idea the depth of her wounds.
Humility settled in his soul. Aye, he had an idea of all Ciara suffered, and the cause of her grief. The loss of her parents and the torture of her self-image were the roots that needed to be slain. He had been blind to this at first, but now he clearly saw the source of her bane.
The two of you share the same soul.
Alastair sighed and lifted his gaze. How very wrong Valerie had been. That was his fault, too. If she had known the truth, she would have seen the error in her judgment.
Movement below captured his gaze. Through the fat flakes of snow that continued to fall, a dark image stumbled through the trees. A pristine blanket silhouetted the vision that moved closer to his keep.
Alarm stirred in his belly. In the midst of the storm, no guards were posted. Any intruder brave enough to face the elements could wander onto his mountain.
Alastair turned away from the opening long enough to grab his boots. With his back pressed against the wall, he tugged on his shoes and continued to watch the progress of the invader.
The cloaked bastard would be at his door in a matter of minutes. Alastair ran from the room and hastened down the stairs. He grabbed his sword from over the mantel and freed it from its sheath.
The echo of the latch chilled his blood. Silently, he crept toward the barrier. Hinges thirsty for a drop of oil groaned through the night. The cloaked figure entered the keep and eased the barrier closed.
Fury licked through Alastair's veins. He shoved the intruder hard against the door. The edge of his sword rested at a lethal angle against the back of the trespasser's neck while his free arm pinned the man's shoulders.
"Identify yourself, or die where you stand."
The figure trembled beneath his grasp and a ragged breath reverberated off the walls.
"I lost my way."
Ciara?
The blind fury of a warrior melted from his veins. Alastair removed his sword and grabbed a handful of wet cloak. He spun the intruder around and ripped away the hood. Blue eyes filled with terror stared up at him.
Shivers consumed her body. 'Twas then he noticed the blue tinge around her lips.
"What the devil were you doing out there, woman?" he snapped. Anger mixed with fear and stirred fury through his veins. "You could have frozen to death."
"I realize that," she whispered, her limbs quaking from the cold. "Now."
Alastair scowled. He propped his sword against the wall, then lifted her into his arms. Christ Almighty. She felt light as a feather, not to mention half frozen. The drenched weight of her cloak penetrated the warmth of his robe and chilled his skin.
"What were you doing out there?" he asked again as he carried her up the stairs.
Ciara trembled and closed her eyes. "I sought Valerie's grave."
Her words chilled his heart. He glanced down at her pale face and frowned. "Why?"
"Guidance," she whispered and opened her eyes.
Alastair didn't pretend to understand. Most likely the walk in a blizzard had made her delirious. For now, he needed to get her warm. He carried her into his chamber.
Ciara's fingers curled in the lush fabric of his robe. "Nay."
At the side of his bed, he paused. "I have no plans to break my vow, but you need to be tended."
She shook her head and her trembling body tensed in his arms. "I cannot rest in Valerie's marriage bed."
Christ. A bed was a bed.
She adjusted her hold on the throat of his robe. Her cold fingers brushed his skin. "Please, take me to my room."
He was in no mood to argue. "I yield this time, woman, only because your escapade has made you senseless."
Some of the tension eased from her body as he carried her across the hall to her room. She continued to shiver, which did nothing at all to ease his mind.
Valerie had trembled like this shortly after they wed. Now she was dead. Alastair would perish before allowing the same fate to befall Ciara.
* * *
Ciara slowly opened her eyes. Comforting warmth seeped into her heart. Her gaze focused on the stones of her chamber. The glow of candles and a low fire in the hearth cast shadows over the walls. The euphoria of peace and safety settled in her veins.
She closed her eyes and snuggled deeper into the mattress. What an odd dream she had! MacDonell scolding her as he stripped away her clothes -- the cold that turned her bones to ice. Then the searing warmth of MacDonell's body pressed against hers. The heat from his muscular legs, strong arms and broad chest melted the chill from her body.
If the vision had not been a dream, Ciara would be mortified.
The click of a latch drifted to her ears. Her eyes inched open. MacDonell entered the chamber, a tray in his hands. Secretly, she watched him push the barrier closed with his foot before placing the tray on the table.
Her gaze slid over him. Dressed in a shirt and kilt, Ciara couldn't help but admire the beauty of the man. He glanced her way, then approached the hearth.
Still she remained silent and observed his every move. His legs drew her gaze as he knelt before the fire. The hem of his kilt slid up his thigh as he adjusted the logs.
Ciara felt heat rise to her cheeks. She should be ashamed of herself, watching him like this. But there was something very appealing about Alastair MacDonell.
He used a poker to slide a brick from the fire. When he climbed to his feet and turned her way, Ciara closed her eyes.
The quiet fall of his steps made her heart thunder against her ribs. At her feet, she felt the covers being moved. She peeked and saw him remove a folded blanket from her bed and return to the hearth.
Ciara frowned. What the devil was he doing? She watched him remove a brick from the blanket and replace it with the one he withdrew from the fire. He returned to the bed and slid the blanket-wrapped stone beneath the covers.
Glorious warmth spread through her. 'Twas then she remembered her walk through the snow. The cold, the wind, the press of a sword against her back.
Ciara trembled. How much of her dream was real?
MacDonell lifted his gaze as he tucked the covers back around her feet. A relieved smile touched his lips.
"'Tis glad I am to see you back among the living." He stepped around the end of the bed and seated himself beside her. One strong hand covered her brow. "The fever is gone." He climbed off the bed and approached the tray.
Ciara's heart dipped to her belly. Nay, the images that flitted across her mind had to be a dream. Her nudity, his, the bed. Dear Lord, it had to be an illusion.
With dread, Ciara lifted the covers. The erect tips of her breasts stood tall for her inspection. Embarrassment lodged her breath in her throat. "I-I'm naked!"
"As the day you were born."
The covers slid from her grasp. "How -- why -- who --" God, she wasn't sure she wanted to know the answers to the questions that tumbled through her mind.
MacDonell sighed and returned to his seat on the edge of her bed, a bowl cupped in his hands. "I am the one who disrobed you and tucked you in bed, wife." He guided the bowl to her lips. "Now, drink."
Ciara stared at him over the rim and sipped the warm broth. What else had transpired between them while she slept? Her body was sore yet that could be from her trek through hampering snow.
"For some reason, you decided to brave the storm and seek Valerie's grave."
The timbre of his voice twined its way through her soul and coiled around her heart.
Ciara turned away from the bowl and groaned when he tried to lure her into drinking more. She felt as weak as a newborn kitten. MacDonell placed the vessel on the table, then braced his hands on each side of her ribs.
"You scared me, Ciara. Promise that you will never do such a foolish thing again."
"I promise," she whispered, and stared into
his eyes. "MacDonell, did you -- did we -- sleep together?"
A slow, teasing smile curled his lips. "Aye, I shared this bed with you."
Ciara tightly shut her eyes. She must have been out of her mind with fever to have allowed such a thing.
The tender brush of his fingers against her cheek lured her gaze. "Sleep is all that transpired. I may be a lowly MacDonell to you, but I do have my pride. I would never dishonor an incoherent woman."
Confusion touched her brain. She was almost afraid to look at him. Would he mock her for her faults?
"Why did you sleep with me? That is, 'tis embarrassing enough to know you saw me unclothed, but why did you share my bed?"
A weary sigh escaped his lips. He withdrew his hand and climbed from the bed.
"Naught I did eased your shivers. Blankets, warmed bricks, they all failed." He shoved a hand through his hair and approached the window. "I was terrified you would catch lung fever and perish as Valerie did." He shook his head. "I could not allow that to happen."
Guilt tore through Ciara's heart. While the thought of lying naked with MacDonell was disturbing, it paled in comparison to the fear he must have suffered during her sleep.
"I am sorry I frightened you. 'Twas not my intent."
Her whisper drew his gaze. Across the distance that separated them, the pain in his eyes was clear.
"Why did you do it, lass? Do you detest me that much, to inflict danger upon yourself?"
Ciara shook her head and tore her gaze from his. "I meant only to pray over Valerie's grave. I needed guidance."
"You sought advice from the dead?"
Tears stung her eyes. "Loved ones live on as long as they are remembered." Her voice cracked and she turned away from his gaze. She would not let him see her cry.
The echo of his sigh tugged at her misery. What had she done to deserve such a fate? She had watched both her parents die, then was condemned to the family enemy by her closest friend. Now, to make matters worse, she found herself concerned over his feelings.
"Ciara, I did not mean to snap or belittle your beliefs."
Tears seeped through her lashes. She adjusted her hand and wiped her eyes. "Nor did I mean to frighten you or harm myself."
"I know."
The hush of his voice lured more grief from her already wounded heart.
The bed sank beneath his weight. Ciara said a silent prayer that he would not touch her. If he did, she would burst into sobs and never stop.
"I am a warrior, Ciara. I have fought in battles where blood flowed around my feet like a river. I stared into countless faces of some of the most feared men in the land."
Ciara dried her eyes and took a deep breath. "Do you boast, MacDonell?"
"Nay."
The palm of his hand curled around her shoulder. Ciara closed her eyes and shuddered.
"I tell you this so you will understand me a little better."
Unable to keep her back to him, Ciara turned and stared up into his handsome face. "What do you wish me to understand?"
A sad smile touched his lips. His fingers stroked her cheek. "All the wars and battles I have faced pale in comparison to the anxiety you placed in my heart these two days past. I have never met a woman like you."
"I see once again I have caused someone pain." Ciara lowered her gaze to his chest. "I am sorry I hurt you."
MacDonell swore and lifted his gaze. "You have missed the issue here, Ciara. I want you, woman. Do you comprehend that? I want you so badly, I can think of little else. Sleep eludes me, my body screams for you. Christ Almighty, I want to make you my bride in every sense of the word." He leaned over and stared into her eyes. "You want me, too. I dare you to deny it."
A tremor scraped her belly. "I deny nothing, MacDonell. Yet, the thought of sharing myself with you scares me beyond belief. The woman in me longs to surrender. The daughter in me struggles to resist the enemy."
He slowly shook his head. "I am not your enemy, Ciara. I am your husband."
"Under duress --"
"We spoke our vows under pressure to fulfill a dying wish. But now, the feelings you stir in a soul I thought died long ago have naught to do with duress."
He was confusing the hell out of her. Was that his plan, or had he shown her a piece of his heart? Desire from him would be too much to hope for.
MacDonell sighed and placed a chaste kiss upon her brow. "Just consider my words, and think of our future."
He stroked her cheek. The expectation in his eyes made her heart flutter in her breast. What she wouldn't give to believe him! MacDonell or not, if what he said was true, it would be worth the risk to her heart.
"I want to honor the vows we spoke, Ciara. All I ask for is the chance to be a proper husband to you."
He climbed from the bed, gathered the tray, and left. Ciara stared at the closed door, her heart in her throat.
Was this the guidance she had prayed for? Did Valerie and her mother use MacDonell to relay their wishes? Should she dare the risk of falling in love with her husband?
She closed her eyes and prayed whatever decision she reached would be the right one. For as God was her witness, if she surrendered to the enemy and he betrayed her, she would kill him in his bed.
Chapter Eleven
"MacDonell!"
Alastair paused beyond the barrier to Ciara's room. Her mighty roar echoed through the hall and tugged a smile from his soul.
Her door slammed open and he found himself face to face with his wife. Nostrils flared, irritation clear in her marvelous eyes, she planted her hands on her robe-clad hips and scowled.
She was feeling better.
"Where are my clothes?"
"I gave them to the women to use as rags, which is all they were good for."
A vein throbbed in her throat. Fury colored her cheeks and matched the tempting flames of her hair.
"How dare you!" she hissed and shoved him hard in the chest. Alastair didn't budge, which only fueled her temper. "For your information, husband, those items you so freely disposed of were all I owned."
Alastair loved seeing her like this, all thistle and thorns. It made his conquest of her so much sweeter.
"You are now my wife, Ciara. I dare say I can afford to clothe you properly."
Hostility flashed across her eyes. "I never asked you for clothes. Nor do I approve of you going through my chest without my permission."
His gaze swept her bosom and again he smiled. Evidently she understood his silent glance, for she turned her back on him. God, she was beautiful when she was angry. And he savored being able to use her words for a completely different meaning.
"You have a lewd mind, MacDonell."
Och, he was truly enjoying this. "I said not a word --"
"There was no need," she spat and turned a glare on him. "Your thoughts were quite clear."
"Apparently not." He stepped into the room. Ciara backed away from him, yet the rage in her eyes told him the dispute was far from over. He looked forward to another victory.
"I've had days to think about what I would like to do with you, ways to create our bairns." With purpose, he let his gaze travel the length of her desirable body before returning to her eyes. "Alas, you are still chaste, so clearly you cannot read all my thoughts."
Color stained her cheeks. "You are incorrigible."
She turned away from him and shoved slender fingers through her wild tresses. "Can I dare to hope a seamstress is on her way?"
Alastair watched her move to the windows. The sway of her hips and the tilt of her head stirred the lust he found more and more difficult to keep at bay. When she turned heated blue eyes on him, he suddenly remembered her question.
"Nay," he said and averted his gaze. The woman was a temptress, and the wonderful part about it was, she didn't know it. "The snow is too deep for travel."
"What am I to wear, then? I cannot roam the halls dressed in naught but a robe."
If he had his way, she wouldn't need clothes for the remainder of the
winter. His gaze slid over her once more. He wondered if she could read his thoughts now? If so, she showed no sign.
Alastair sighed. "There is a storage room on the top floor of the keep. Surely, we can find something for you to wear until the snow melts and passage can be gained to the village."
Ciara's jaw dropped open. "Do you mean to say that I am stranded here until spring?"
Irritation stirred in his belly. "Did you plan to travel somewhere soon, wife?"
Ciara averted her gaze. She stared out the window, her back tense. "Am I your prisoner, MacDonell?"
His aggravation increased a hair. "Do not tempt me, wife."
"As if that were possible," she snorted and glanced at him from over her shoulder. "And I asked you not to call me by that name."
"I gave you my terms on that issue already."
A deflated sigh escaped her lips and she shook her head. "You are one stubborn male."
A frustrated chuckle escaped his lips. "Och, and I suppose you are the most agreeable female who ever drew breath?"
Ciara turned to face him, hands resting on her hips. "I did not say that. Cease putting words in my mouth."
"Cease acting the witch with me, then." Lord, she would try the patience of a saint. "I have done naught to deserve the venomous side of your tongue."
"Nay?" she asked, one delicate eyebrow raised. "You pilfered through my things without my consent --"
"Christ Almighty!" he snapped, his tolerance gone. "The next time I hear the word consent, I want it to be in my chamber!"
The echo of his voice rang in his ears. Across the space that separated them, he saw trepidation touch her eyes. He was sorry he yelled, but Christ's blood, he had been indulgent longer than most husbands would.
"That cannot happen, MacDonell," she whispered and avoided his gaze.
His heart sank in his chest. He had shared a piece of his heart with her the other night, yet still she refused to yield. With all that had passed between them since her arrival, he thought her defenses were weakening.
'Twas a bitter blow to realize he was wrong.
"That chamber is where you laid with Valerie after your marriage."
The forlorn tone of her voice dispelled his anger and allowed promise to seep into his veins once more.
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