by Cosby, Diana
She again skimmed her thumb along the goblet’s rim, a habit he’d noted when she was in deep thought.
Flames wavered in the hearth, casting a wash of gold over her face, highlighting her cheekbones, the softness of her skin, and the lush curve of her mouth. However beautiful, and a lass that would intrigue any man, with his soon rejoining the Bruce, she wasn’t a woman he could ever have as his own.
Her breath exhaled in a soft rush as she watched him, and satisfaction filled Aiden that Lord Balfour would never touch her with cruelty or disrespect.
Although she’d drawn her blade against him, fear had driven the act. She wasn’t a simpering lass, but a woman who held her own, one he could admire and, more, respect.
“Though we are strangers, I swear you have nay reason to fear me.”
At her silence, deciding ’twas a strategic place to end their discussion, he turned and stripped off his forest-green tunic with its band of Celtic designs woven at the end of each sleeve. He folded the top over the chair, settled on the pallet, and then tugged the other blanket up to his waist. “Sleep.” Too aware of her, Aiden stared at the flames, doubtful he’d rest this night.
* * * *
Gwendolyn studied Bróccín’s prone form, unsure whether she was more embarrassed by the ease with which he’d disarmed her or her husband’s decision to leave her untouched.
A simple man, no. With his quickness, the way he made decisions without hesitation, and his attention to detail, he was a warrior who lived and died by his blade. Though he dismissed some of the stories told about him as myth, after the memory of his swift but painless retrieval of her weapon, she wasn’t convinced.
Neither was she swayed by the fine cut of his jaw, the green eyes stunning in their brilliance, or his muscled body as if carved by the gods. Though handsome, to her, a man’s loyalty meant the most.
His claim that he wouldn’t harm her echoed through her mind. Keeping a close watch on him, Gwendolyn walked to the other side of the bed, opposite from where he’d stood moments before.
Firelight shimmered over his broad shoulders as they rose and fell with his every breath, the inherent power of this fierce warrior one he’d sworn never to use against her.
Her gaze shifted to his muscled arms, relaxed at his sides. Arms that had swept her up without hesitation and carried her away from the inebriated knights celebrating their wedding, arms that had held her as he’d twisted to protect her from falling and taking his weight on the hard floor. As well, ’twas concern for her safety that had him hauling her from the mare’s stall during the birthing.
Gwendolyn lay her hand upon the comforter, traced a gold embroidered flower. Her life ahead had been simpler when she had believed Bróccín to be a cold, hard man.
Hard, aye. A necessity as a warrior, but he wasn’t cold, more a man who evaluated his thoughts before he spoke. Fair came to mind, intelligent and thoughtful as well. What else had she missed, and how had she misjudged him so completely? Known for her ability to discern the worth in a person, ’twould seem in regard to her new husband, she had erred.
Or had she?
For the first time in her life, she found herself floundering in her assessment of a man. Did it matter? With their vows given, he now owned everything she loved.
She glanced at the slash of red on the opposite side of the bed, an action to appease those who sought proof of her innocence.
Guilt rose within her. Odd Lord Comyn hadna informed him that she’d been married before. Perhaps embroiled in war against King Robert, her liege lord had forgotten or found the detail irrelevant. Nor, with his short time here, had he gleaned word from her people of her previous husband. As if a man focused on war would find interest in scraps of gossip.
Gwendolyn scraped her teeth across her lower lip. Should she admit the truth? If she did, would her admission bring him to her bed?
Unease ripped through her. No, she’d tell him in the morning, before he departed the chamber. She refused to allow him to be humiliated before those who served him by permitting him to display supposed proof of her bedding.
Was one night too much to ask to regain her much-needed composure? She wasn’t a coward, but she needed time. With an unsteady sigh, Gwendolyn tugged up the sheets, closed her eyes, and prayed that by some miracle she would sleep.
Chapter 5
At the soft scrape of the door, Gwendolyn stirred from sleep and rolled over in her bed, struggling to identify an insistent warning in her head.
Failed.
She forced her eyes open.
A shaft of torchlight streaming through the entry outlined Bróccín.
Like fog lifting, memories rushed in. Their marriage. Bróccín leaving her untouched. How she’d withheld the fact of her widowed state, that she wasn’t an innocent.
Bróccín’s body blocked the light as he shifted to step into the hallway.
Mary’s will, he couldn’t leave without knowing the truth! Frantic, Gwendolyn half-climbed, half-fell out of bed, tugging the covers around her as she scrambled to her feet. “Wait! Close the door!”
His hand stilled, and his cool gaze leveled on her.
Pulse racing, Gwendolyn fought for coherent thought as she held the warrior’s ferocious gaze. Her plans of waking before him, devising a logical explanation crumbled. With her mind blurred by exhaustion, she floundered for even pitiful rationality.
With slow purpose, he closed the door. A muscle worked in his jaw as he leaned his muscled body against the sturdy frame and then folded his massive arms across his chest.
What a mess! “T-there is something I must tell you.”
A drunken shout sounded from the corridor.
Broken laughter followed.
Her heart sank as she glanced out the open window at the streaks of dawn slicing through the sky. ’Twas morning already? She looked toward him, noted his stern demeanor remained unchanged. Gwendolyn swallowed hard. “The well-wishers are still out there.”
“Unfortunately,” he growled. He unfolded his arms and pushed away from the door. “What is it you wished to speak of? ’Twould seem we have time.”
Legs unsteady, she stepped away from the bed, the setting too intimate for her admission. She halted beside the chair where he’d folded and placed his blankets, proof of his generosity in giving her time to adjust to their marriage in his belief in her innocence.
She braced herself for his outrage. ’Twas far better he learned now than to discover the truth from another. “I was married several years ago. My husband died a month later in battle.”
His nostrils flared as his gaze cut to the smear of blood upon the sheets, then narrowed on her. “Why did you not inform me last night?”
“I wasna aware you didna know until you cut yourself.”
“Yet,” he growled, “you said naught.”
“I…”
“’Tis done!” He curled his fingers into his damaged palm. “Sit.”
Spikes of terror pierced her, yet she straightened her shoulders and walked to the edge of the bed, turned to face him. Her gaze unflinching, she lifted her chin. “Do you wish me to disrobe now, my lord?”
“Just stay there!”
She stiffened.
The steady tap of boot heels sounded as he stalked across the floor.
Confused, she watched him as he paced, his mouth carved into a fierce frown.
She fought back a shiver as her husband reached the hearth for the third time.
He knelt, his back to her.
The size and width of the man’s shoulders took her breath. She envisioned him atop her, his weight pressing her into the mattress. Another shiver swept her, and she drew the blanket closer around her body.
Bróccín tossed several pieces of wood atop the ashes from last night’s fire. Flames wavered beneath the crush of dry tinder and then slowly crept up
the bark. He stood. His shoulders tensed, but he did not turn. “I willna touch you,” he said, “but I shall remain in the chamber.”
An unsteady breath escaped as she raked her gaze down his formidable length. She glanced to the side, where a large curved chest with three forged iron hinges securing the top lay shoved against the wall. Filled with naught but clothes, ’twas easy to move, a necessity if ever she needed to escape into the secret tunnel hidden behind.
In the future she might tell him of the hidden passageway. As her husband, ’twas his right to know the location of every one hidden within the castle. Now, regardless of his title or the kindness he’d shown her, they were still strangers, their marriage vows still raw in her heart.
His vow, aye, but not even a kiss.
She frowned at the thought. Not that she was complaining.
At his silence, tension within her built. His reserve was odd for a powerful noble, one who’d led men into combat. With his battle-hardened body equally designed for war as a woman’s bed, no doubt he’d tumbled many a lass. In truth, if she hadn’t been forced into marriage and had met him some other way, she would have found him handsome to look upon.
Unbound hair as black as a raven’s wing proved a perfect foil for green eyes that could ignite a woman’s desire. She could envision women charmed by his powerful gaze, his confidence, and the powerful play of his muscles. A man like him would know how to make love to a woman, to touch her and make her tremble, not the fumbling touch of a lad.
She couldn’t help but compare him to her late husband, who, while pleasing of feature, did not parallel Bróccín’s masculinity and air of command.
In the bedroom, though she and Luke had been intimate, he’d only touched her at night with the express intent of getting her with child. His gentleness had eased her fears, the expectedness of the act with each joining adding its own relief, more so when, after he was done, he’d always turned away and left her alone.
What would it be like with this man?
Memories of his body pressed atop hers came to mind, of how she’d fit against him with aching clarity, and of how his hardness had wedged intimately against her. With a simple touch he could have…
She gasped. Mary’s will, what was she thinking? He did not care for her. He was a warrior, a noble who’d wed her for one purpose—to claim Latharn Castle.
A fact she must never forget.
Now he was leaving her untouched, the reason brutally clear. After her admission of having shared a man’s bed ’twas naught out of kindness, but irrelevance. To him, like the stronghold she loved and protected, was she little more than a possession?
Regardless his reason, she should be thankful for the reprieve. Nor could she forget that if he changed his mind, he could claim her as his right.
“Gwendolyn.”
At his deep burr, she stiffened. “Aye?”
“Come here.”
“Why?”
Hard eyes held hers with soft warning. “Because we need to talk.”
Relief rolled through her. Talk, not intimacy. From his cool manner, she should have guessed, not that she wanted him. “I can hear you fine from here.”
Dark brows narrowed. “Then, I will come there.”
Closer to the bed? No!
On unsteady legs, Gwendolyn crossed the room and lowered to a chair, wishing she had her dagger. A ridiculous thought. Hadn’t his unarming her with ease last night demonstrated that even if she carried a weapon, she far from posed a threat to him? As well, he’d given his word that he wouldn’t harm her.
With the stealth of a panther, Bróccín strode over, settled in a nearby seat.
Gwendolyn studied his face, the hard plains unsettling, the intelligence in his eyes more so. She knew little about him. What did he know of her? “Did anyone tell you anything about me or my life?”
He shook his head. “Lord Comyn bid me to wed you; a command I followed.”
“I see.” Except she did not. Gwendolyn looked away. Throughout her life, she’d damned that women were little more than chattel for men’s desires. Never had she considered that men were manipulated in plays of power as well.
’Twould seem that like her, Bróccín was naught but a pawn. Except, by complying with Comyn’s dictate, in addition to taking a wife, he’d received a strategic stronghold. Still, he was a man of war, his life one of wielding his sword, of taking orders and issuing them as well.
She glanced over. The fire crackled in the hearth, creating a cocoon of intimacy around them, casting his features in an almost unearthly shade. His intense gaze held hers, and for a moment, ’twas as if he could see straight to her soul.
Shaken by the sense of connection, she swallowed hard. “There is little for us to say to the other.”
“Why?”
The rumble of his deep voice left her further on edge. “You have every right while I… While I have my home…if even that.”
Sadness flickered in his eyes, throwing her further off balance. “Is that what you believe?”
“Believe?” She gave a cold laugh. “Tell me, what rights do I have in a man’s world? When I married before, my vows were given at my father’s request,” she said, her frustration poured into her words, and she found herself caught in the flow of anger. “Luke and I were friends, our marriage tolerable. When he died, I mourned a friend. After,” she whispered, “I foolishly believed my father when he told me that my life was my own, and never again would I have to marry unless ’twas my choice.”
“What happened to change that?”
She hesitated, confused he would ask or care. “My father died.”
“I am sorry.”
The genuine sincerity in his voice caught her off guard.
In the silence, Bróccín leaned forward, shoved a piece of wood deeper into the fire. Sparks spit out, danced within the curl of smoke, and then disappeared up the chimney. Face taut, he sat back, a pondering expression darkening his handsome face. “’Tis difficult to lose those we love.”
The roughness of his voice, how his lower lip tightened when he spoke, betrayed an inner pain, reminding her of the priest’s disclosure. “’Tis.” Gwendolyn gave a slow exhale. “I am sorry as well.”
His brows narrowed. “Why?”
“Before he left, Father Iames explained that you had lost your family.”
* * * *
Aiden’s heart slammed against his chest. Gwendolyn knew about his family? Had the priest recognized him? Panic churned as the repercussions stormed his thoughts. No. Had the priest known, Aiden would have been arrested prior to the ceremony, much less been allowed to gain access to Gwendolyn’s bed.
Easing the tension from his shoulders, he glanced at her, noted the curiosity in her eyes. “What exactly did the priest tell you?”
“How your father died several years ago, and your brother some years later.” Her gaze slid to the hearth, paused before shifting to him. “And of how your mother became ill and passed away this spring.”
Relief swept him. She spoke of Bróccín’s family.
“Several months have passed since I lost my father,” she said in a broken whisper. “Yet I still grieve.”
A flush slid across her cheeks, as if she hadn’t meant to share. Nor had he intended their discussion to deteriorate into something so personal. Unlike her, he’d lost his family when he was a lad. The years had blurred the pain of his loss. Still, ’twas a mistake to allow the conversation to continue.
Aiden stood and stepped away from her. The last thing he wanted was to find common ground with the lass. At least during her time of strife, she was surrounded by people she loved, those she could turn to.
He, on the other hand, hadn’t experienced the luxury of being with people he knew, those who cared. A homeless lad without family, he’d lived off the land by his quick wit until the Knights Templar h
ad taken him in. A life with the Brotherhood he loved, or had until King Philip had betrayed the men who’d protected him over the years.
He smothered the burst of fury for France’s king. The bastard would pay. Upon the royal’s death, ’twould be His judgment the sovereign would face.
“In time,” Aiden said, his jaw tense, “memories of those you love will fade. Then, you will nay longer feel the pain.”
She frowned. “How can you believe such when your mother died but months ago?”
He silently cursed himself. “I was thinking more of the death of my father and brother. However hard, the hurt at their loss has faded to where I can think of them with warmth.”
Gwendolyn’s mouth pressed into a thoughtful grimace.
Blast it, he did not want to be having this discussion with her, to strengthen their tenuous tie to any degree.
She stood, moved before him. “I shouldna have pressed. I understand how difficult ’tis to speak of those you have lost, those whom you loved.”
Furious at her compassion when he was feeding her naught but lies, Aiden started to move past her.
She stepped before him. “Bróccín?”
Trapped, he faced her.
Shrewd eyes held his, and then she slowly exhaled, as if coming to a decision of great importance. “We are wed, though a choice neither of us wished; mayhap we can become friends.”
A cold laugh welled in his throat. If only she knew their marriage was false. He hadn’t wanted to respect her. Yet like a thorn, she was determined to work her way into his life. An action he couldn’t allow.
But the harsh words he formed to drive her away wilted on his tongue. Last night, he’d pondered how to gain her trust. If he pushed her away now, any bond between them, however tentative, would be severed, and valuable information could be lost.
However much he despised deceiving her, however much she unsettled him in numerous ways, he must continue to use her ignorance to his benefit. With the lives of many Scots loyal to the Bruce at risk, an opportunity he must take.
