by Bree Wolf
A hint of annoyance in his eyes, her husband scoffed, “No one wants to be alone, and every once in a while, we all need someone to protect us. If ye were not so mule-headed, ye would see that.” As he inhaled slowly, she could see the muscles in his arms tremble with the effort to remain still. “I’m trying my best to be patient with ye, but yer antagonistic attitude thwarts my efforts at every turn. To be frank, ‘tis verra frustrating.” Raking his hands through his hair, he stared at her as though unsure what to do with her.
In Henrietta’s mind though, a distant voice echoed with disgust and hatred as cold eyes looked at her with disdain. Always arguing. Always disrespectful. Always antagonistic.
Her uncle’s words had stabbed her heart in a way she still could not understand. Somehow, they had shaken her confidence, and she had stumbled to her knees, her once unshakable belief to be acting with reason dead at her feet.
As she regarded her husband, her eyes hardened, and once more her defensive walls soared into the air, guarding the precious, little part of her soul that had survived the atrocities of her past. Why would he not leave? Could he not see that his words wounded her?
Swallowing the tears that threatened, Henrietta crossed her arms. “I never asked you for your opinion, and I’d appreciate it if you would keep it to yourself. You know nothing about my life as I know nothing about yours.” She took a deep breath as her jaw clenched. “You made a mistake when you married me. I can only hope that you have finally come to realise that.” Turning on her heel, she headed for the door without a clue where to go.
As Henrietta reached for the handle, a soul-stirring shiver went over her, and before she even felt his hands on her arms, she knew he was there.
Anger edged into his face, he spun her around, and her head snapped up, her eyes drawn to his as though by an unseen force. “I’ve made quite a few mistakes in my life,” he growled, his voice heavy with emotion, “but marrying ye was not one of them. Of that I am certain.” He lowered his head to hers, his penetrating gaze searching her face. “Go ahead, Lass, spit and bite, but ye will not drive me from yer side.”
Henrietta took a deep breath, inwardly cursing his name. How was it that he always knew to tear down her walls with but a few words?
Pulling her into his arms, he swallowed, the anger leaving his face. “I believe ye still owe me a kiss, Lass.”
Determined to keep him at a distance, Henrietta turned her head, offering her cheek. She felt drained and had no more strength left to fight him.
His left hand moved upward and cupped her cheek as he leaned forward, his warm breath caressing her skin.
Henrietta held her breath, willing her heart to still.
When his lips grazed her cheek though, moving sideways and farther down her neck, her knees grew weak and her hands curled into the fabric of his shirt, seeking to steady her. Ever so softly, his lips moved over her skin, nipping here and stroking there.
Chills ran up and down her body at his touch, so light and yet so intimate, that Henrietta gasped for air. Closing her eyes, she leaned against him, her body shuddering as his lips closed over the hammering pulse in her neck, sucking gently.
Then his lips moved upward and playfully nipped her earlobe before an amused chuckle drifted through the hazy fog clouding her mind. “Again, I apologise for taking what ye wouldna give.”
As her eyes snapped open, Henrietta pushed herself off him, her face flushed as she stared at him in shock and humiliation. He grinned at her then, and her jaw clenched. “How dare you? You’re doing this on purpose!”
His eyebrows went up. “Doing what on purpose?” Stepping forward, he held her gaze. “Are ye saying ye enjoyed my kiss, Lass?”
“No!” Henrietta spat. “Of course, not.”
Again, he chuckled. “Liar!” As he shook his head at her, all mischief left his face and his eyes became serious. “Why can ye not admit that ye enjoy my touch? What are ye afraid of? That it will make ye look weak to admit that ye seek another’s embrace?”
Clenching her teeth, Henrietta shook her head stubbornly. “I do not need anyone. I am not afraid to admit anything.”
“Puh! Ye mule-headed woman! Can ye not see that this is the same as believing ye’re invincible? Admitting to a weakness doesna make ye weak!” Raking his hands through his hair, he stared at her for a long time before his shoulders relaxed and he inhaled slowly. “Sleep on it, Lass, for I willna walk away from this.” For a second, his eyes held hers before they dipped lower and touched her lips. “Tomorrow, ye’ll owe me another kiss, and I swear I’ll make ye feel something.” Stepping forward, he leaned down to whisper in her ear. “Remember that, Lass.”
Then he opened the door and left, his receding footsteps echoing to Henrietta’s ears as she sank to the floor, shaking with his threat to challenge her once more as well as his promise to touch her heart.
Chapter Twelve − Comfort & Counsel
My dearest Anna,
Sighing, Henrietta stopped, unsure how to put the confusion that raged in her heart and mind into words. However, if anyone could understand, it was Anna.
A hint of guilt washed over Henrietta as she remembered the harsh words she had spoken when her friend had come to her seeking comfort and counsel. Back then, Henrietta had been unable to give what she was now hoping for herself. Never before had her heart been touched by a man in such a way that she could have imagined Anna’s predicament at finding herself wanting to believe that her husband cared for her. To Henrietta, it had been clear that that was not possible.
Now, she was not sure.
If you tear up this letter without reading it, I cannot blame you. However, if you read this, please know that I am deeply sorry for treating your heart’s desire with such stubborn disregard. I assure you that I only acted the way I did because I truly believed my advice to be in your best interest.
As you know I never spoke about my parents and what happened to them. However, I wish to confide in you now in the hopes that it will allow you to understand the reasons behind my actions.
As far as I can remember, my mother had always submitted to my father’s every wish. Without complaint, she always did as she was told, never standing tall, never demanding respect for herself. My father used her compliance, her powerlessness to exact his authority, and it cost her dearly.
I would have had a little sister had she not been stillborn after my father subjected my mother to another beating. I will never forget her little face, a shimmering bruise on her perfect little head.
Deep down, I thought losing her daughter would finally allow my mother to stand up for herself, for me. However, it did not. Nothing changed. I suppose her will had been broken before I was even born.
When I was five years old, my father killed himself, but not before taking my mother’s life. That day, I swore to myself that I would never allow myself to be treated the way my father had treated my mother, that I would fight no matter what, and that I would never allow myself to be fooled into believing someone trustworthy.
Anyone.
And now, I cannot change. I am who I am, and I spoke to you the way I did because I feared you would one day wake up and find yourself trapped in the same hell. I never wanted that for you. I hope you can forgive me for not trusting your instincts.
Tears ran down her cheeks and dropped onto the letter. As the lines blurred before her eyes, Henrietta sat back and closed her eyes, remembering the hurt look on her friend’s face. And yet, upon hearing of Henrietta’s betrothal, Anna had come to see her, offering comfort and counsel.
Are you happy? I apologise for being so blunt, however, this is the question that plagues me. Is your husband the man you thought him to be? Has he ever made you regret that you put your trust in him?
Hesitating, Henrietta drew in a deep breath. She knew she ought to write more and speak about the questions that lived in her heart with regard to her own husband. Surely, Anna would counsel her wisely. However, she could not even admit the budding emot
ions in her heart to herself, let alone put them into words.
And so, she simply signed the letter and folded it up, handing it to her maid to be sent out immediately.
Feeling restless, Henrietta left her chamber and headed downstairs. However, when she crossed the great hall, all eyes came to rest on her, even if only for a moment, and Henrietta steeled herself against the disapproval pelting her soul from all sides. Her head high, eyes focused, she slipped out the side door to the courtyard.
Coming to a halt, she found her husband standing by the stables, discussing something with Ewan, the stable master. Not too far stood the old man, Angus, leaning on a cane, his pale eyes narrowed as he observed her husband, lips distorted into a sneer.
A shiver went over Henrietta at the sight, reminded once again of her uncle’s snarl. How often had she seen him stare at her brother that way? She didn’t know, and no matter what Tristan had done, it had never been enough. It had never pacified her uncle or changed his opinion.
Afraid her presence would only serve to anger the old man further, Henrietta turned and headed around the front entrance. In need of solitude, she entered the rose garden. However, as her eyes swept over the green oasis, dotted with brilliant reds here and there, she felt too restless to appreciate its calm beauty. Her heart thudded in her chest, and her feet forced her onward.
With a longing gaze at the water fountain, Henrietta walked down the cobblestone path until she reached the end of the small garden, her path barred by a tall-growing hedge. Reluctant to turn back, Henrietta followed a soft noise that echoed through the thick, green barrier, finding herself intrigued.
Someone was humming a melody.
Curious, Henrietta stepped up to the hedge, her eyes gliding over its leaves, seeking a hole in their midst that might allow her a glimpse at the other side. Unsuccessful at first, she soon came to the point where the hedge connected with the outer wall…leaving a small gap in-between.
Smiling, Henrietta stepped forward, pressing her back to the cold stone wall as she squeezed through. When leaves scratched her face, she closed her eyes until she had reached the other side, and the warm rays of the afternoon sun touched her face.
As her eyes swept over the sight before her, Henrietta sighed.
Scarcely the size of her bedchamber, the small garden seemed to be another world. Locked in by the inner and outer wall as well as tall-standing hedges, it harboured a number of carefully tended vegetable patches. The smell of wet earth and sunshine hung in the air, mingling with the aromatic scents drifting up from the small plants to her feet.
“So, ye’ve found my sanctuary.”
Eyes snapping to her right, Henrietta found herself staring at the small, dirt-stained figure of Deidre Brunwood.
A smile on her face, Deidre stepped forward, brushing her hands on a large apron that did very little to protect her dress from the wet soil beneath her feet.
“I’m sorry,” Henrietta said. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“Do not worry,” Deirdre laughed, a warm glow on her face as she met her eyes. “I don’t mind.”
“What is this?” Henrietta asked as her eyes swept over the small space. “This does not look large enough to provide enough vegetables for the castle.”
Deidre laughed. “’Tis not. This is just…,” she shrugged, “…my favourite place in the world.” Taking Henrietta’s hand, she drew her forward, and they walked the length of the garden with Deidre pointing out the different kinds of vegetables she was growing.
“It’s peaceful here,” the young woman elaborated. “Sometimes the noise of the castle overwhelms me, and then I come here and I feel better.”
Henrietta nodded. “I understand. However, I admit I was surprised to see you here. I suppose as Alastair’s wife, you do not need to tend the gardens, do you?”
Deidre laughed. “I do not, no. I am not here because I have to, but rather because I find it enjoyable. In fact, Alastair does not like it,” she admitted, “but he would never deny me something that makes me happy.”
Henrietta frowned, remembering the scene she had witnessed the day before. “Why would he mind?”
“He always worries about me,” Deidre said, a hint of sadness in her eyes.
Remembering her mother’s expressionless face, Henrietta felt her hands ball into fists. “Does he ever…?” She swallowed, hoping she would not offend the young woman. “Does he ever get angry with you?”
Deidre’s eyes met hers, then narrowed for a second before she nodded. “Ye saw us, didn’t ye? I thought I’d heard something.”
“I’m sorry.”
Deidre shook her head. “Don’t be. I have nothing to hide.” Stepping forward, Deidre met Henrietta’s eyes. “Aye, he does get angry with me sometimes, but he wouldna lay a hand on me if that’s what ye’re thinking.”
“I didn’t mean to pry,” Henrietta said, an apologetic smile on her face. However, deep down, she felt reminded of her mother and how she had always laughed at people’s concerns whenever someone happened to spot a bruise and had provided a perfectly reasonable explanation. “I need to go,” Henrietta said, determined to help Deidre whether she wanted her help or not.
“Ye’re welcome to come back anytime,” the young woman said, a smile on her face as she turned back to her plants.
Uncertain as to how to proceed, Henrietta wandered the castle. What could she do? She needed to help Deidre, but how? She was a foreigner. No one would believe her if it was her word against Alastair’s, and Deidre seemed unwilling to tell the truth, hiding behind lies. Did she have bruises on her arms from when her husband had grabbed her? Would that be enough to convince others? But who could she tell? Would her husband believe her? From what she had gathered, he and Alastair were good friends.
Moira. Henrietta thought. She and Deidre were close; maybe she would listen. However, Moira was Alastair’s sister, was she not?
Before Henrietta had made a conscious decision about what to do, she found herself outside Moira’s chamber. Taking a deep breath, she raised her hand and knocked on the door.
Footsteps echoed from inside, and then the door was opened. “Henrietta,” Moira greeted her, surprise evident in her large eyes. “Is something wrong? Ye look flustered?” Stepping back, she ushered her inside.
“Thank you,” Henrietta said. “To tell you the truth, I am not certain.” Seating herself in the armchair Moira had indicated, she folded her hands in her lap. “I am worried about Deirdre.”
“Deidre?” A confused frown on her face, Moira sat down across from her. “Has something happened?”
“I saw her last night,” Henrietta began, entirely uncertain whether or not she was doing the right thing. “Alastair was angry with her for speaking to me.” She swallowed. “Very angry.”
Moira sighed. “Aye, he’s been a bit irritable ever since Connor was named tanist, and when Connor brought home an English bride, I suppose he thought his own doubts justified.” She shrugged. “’Tis difficult to explain, but everyone, including Alastair, has always assumed that he would be next in line. The title of clan chief is passed on by vote within the blood kin of a generation before it moves on to the next. After Uncle Hamish died, Alastair as the oldest ought to have been named,” she explained. “It came as quite the surprise when Connor was chosen instead.”
“Could Connor not have refused?” Henrietta asked, finding herself intrigued with the inner workings of clan life.
Moira shrugged. “’Tis a high honour. I don’t think he wanted to offend anyone. So he accepted and named Alastair tanist in order to show good faith.”
“But why was Alastair not named? Did something happen?”
Moira shrugged. Her eyes, however, wouldn’t meet Henrietta’s.
In that moment, the door flew open, and in walked no other than Alastair Brunwood, his face tense, his eyes burning with anger. “Moira, I−” As his gaze fell on his sister’s visitor, they narrowed and the muscles in his jaw tensed. “What is she doing h
ere?” he growled at his sister. “Did I not tell ye to keep yer distance?”
Jumping to her feet, Moira glared at him. “Ye canna tell me what to do, Alastair. I told ye that before.”
Drawing in a slow breath, his eyes shifted to Henrietta.
Rising to her feet, Henrietta fought to keep her composure as the anger seeping off him hit her like a punch in the gut. Her head up, she met his glare, her own unflinching; her heart, however, was hammering in her chest, torn between alarm and outrage.
As he stepped closer, Alastair’s calculating eyes swept over her face, and Henrietta swallowed. Then he took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, seeking to control the anger that burned within him. “I would ask ye to stay away from my wife,” he hissed through clenched teeth.
A cold shiver went down Henrietta’s back. “Why would you ask that? Because I’m English?”
A snort escaped him, and the left corner of his mouth curled up into a sneer. “Do not presume to know anything about me,” he whispered, his voice low and threatening.
“Alastair, please!” Moira said and stepped forward, placing a calming hand on his shoulder.
Her brother shrugged her off though, his eyes not veering from Henrietta. “My wife is a gentle soul,” he said, a hint of emotion echoing through his anger, “and I don’t want her poisoned by yer anger.” He leaned closer. “Stay away from her, d’ye hear me?”
“What is going on here?”
While Henrietta’s eyes widened at the sound of her husband’s irritated voice, Alastair’s face betrayed no emotion at all.
Walking into the room, her husband eyed the situation before him with care. As their eyes met, Henrietta thought to see an unspoken question in them, and without thought, she nodded her head.
Instantly, his shoulders relaxed, and he came to stand beside her, his eyes fixed on Alastair. “Explain yerself, Cousin,” he demanded.
