by Bree Wolf
As they began to move to the rhythm of the music, Connor watched her closely, again trying to catch her eye. When she refused to acknowledge his presence, he said, “Ye’re an accomplished dancer. I’m not surprised.”
At the daring tone in his voice, her gaze flew up, and a delicate frown settled on her face as she looked at him through slightly narrowed eyes.
A smile on his face, Connor waited until the music carried him closer to her before he whispered, “Would ye rather be sparing with a foil in yer hand?”
Her eyes met his, and he detected the hint of a curl to the left corner of her mouth. Encouraged, Connor asked, “I hope ye did not forget to pack it.”
Again, her eyes narrowed as they slid over him, a hint of suspicion in them.
Connor laughed, enjoying himself. Although she was still a long way from putting her trust in him, they had found a way to communicate, and Connor had to admit he was looking forward to many more days spent with his wife and her sharp tongue.
***
A warm flush burned in her cheeks as Henrietta walked down the corridor toward her bedchamber. It had been a long night, and yet, she had to admit that it had not been the dancing that had put the colour in her cheeks.
Despite her best efforts to discourage his behaviour, her betrothed had rarely missed an opportunity to touch her. Whenever her hand had rested in his, his nimble fingers had massaged her skin, stroking her wrist and sending shivers down her back. More than once his hand had brushed over her back or down her arm as his breath had caressed her neck when he had leaned close to whisper in her ear. Had anyone noticed?
“Good night, my dear,” her aunt said, giving her a quick hug. “It has been a long night indeed.” As her uncle stood by the open door to their bedchamber, her aunt looked at her, a sad look in her eyes. “Do get some rest, will you? Tomorrow is an important day.”
Henrietta nodded, a lump in her throat. “How long will you be staying?”
Her aunt sighed. “Noon.”
“Noon?” Henrietta echoed in disbelief as her eyes drifted from her aunt to her uncle’s disinterested face.
“I’m needed in London,” he explained, his voice void of comfort or understanding, “and once you’re married, there is no need for us to be here. Good night.”
Retiring to her own chamber, Henrietta closed her eyes and leaned against the door.
For a short moment that night, she had been able to forget the purpose of their journey. However, now, it came rushing back, and her stomach began to twist and turn. She could not deny that she felt drawn to her betrothed. He had a physical presence that made her want to swoon into his arms. However, it was that new and unexpected desire that scared Henrietta more than spending her future in this unknown place with people who switched into the Gaelic tongue whenever she was near so that she could not understand a word they were saying.
Around him, Henrietta felt as though she could not trust herself. His presence compromised her own common sense, and she feared to lose herself, her own principles and understanding of the world. What would become of her if she allowed him to break through her defences? What would happen if he ever turned against her? Had her father always been the way she remembered him? Or had he once been a kind and caring man, a man her mother had fallen in love with?
Henrietta didn’t know, and that thought scared her. If there was one thing she was certain of, it was that placing one’s love and trust in someone would only lead to pain, betrayal and ultimately death.
No matter what, she could not risk it.
That night, Henrietta slept fitfully, her dreams assaulted by memories of a past long ago. When the morning came, she rose and dressed and followed her aunt and uncle down to the small chapel that sat to the side of the east wing of Castle Greyston. Her mind, however, remained focused on one thing: her mother’s dead body, beaten and bruised.
As she walked down the aisle, the same disapproving faces met her that she had already seen the night before. Her future husband’s second-in-command, Alastair, eyed her through slits as though she were an approaching enemy and he was taking aim to stop her. His wife, Deidre, seemed to cower by his side while his sister, Moira, averted her gaze, her lips pressed into a thin line, anger radiating off her. Rhona, her groom’s mother, watched her closely, her eyes sweeping over her as though taking stock.
Never had Henrietta felt this small and unwanted. The only one who had ever made her feel like this was her uncle.
Coming to stand by the altar, Henrietta kept her eyes cast down, unable to look at the tall stranger to whom she would be bound from now on. The priest rattled down his monologue, they mumbled their consent and then she was married.
The realisation hit her with such force that Henrietta felt as though she would sink to her knees, unable to carry the heavy weight resting on her heart and soul any longer. How could she have let this happen? All her life, she had wondered about her mother’s choice to stay by her father’s side. Deep down, she had always blamed her for what had happened because she had stayed, because she had not left. And deep down, Henrietta had always been certain that she herself would rather make her own way than be forced into a marriage with a man she did not trust.
And yet, here she was -- married.
How had this happened? Why had she not forced her uncle to make good on his word and allow him to send her from his house? Maybe Tristan would have stood by her after all? And even if he had not, had she not chosen a worse fate?
With a sigh, Henrietta remembered the unfinished letter she had written to Tristan before coming to Scotland. All night, she had sat over it, writing a few lines and then crumpling up the paper and tossing it aside to begin again. Words had eluded her, and in the end, she had given up. She had never finished the letter and, therefore, never sent it to her brother. If she had, would he now be standing beside her? Or would he have come for her? Would he have stood up to their uncle and protected her the way she had protected him when he had been a mere baby? Now, she would never know, and she cursed the coward that lived in her heart for robbing her of an answer.
Locked in her own doubts, Henrietta barely noticed what was happening around her. Occasionally, she caught a glimpse of her husband’s face, his brows drawn down in concern as he looked into her eyes. However, Henrietta was unable to focus, and he quickly slipped from her mind.
Only when her aunt and uncle took their leave did Henrietta wake from her trance, and her eyes brimmed with tears as she watched their carriage draw out of the courtyard and head south, home.
Now, she was alone among strangers.
“Would ye like to take a stroll with us?” a soft voice asked beside her, and Henrietta turned her head, her gaze coming to rest on Deidre. A gentle smile on her lips, the slender, young woman looked at her with compassionate eyes, and Henrietta’s heart ached for the comfort she offered.
Nodding, she blinked back tears as her eyes shifted from Deidre to Moira. The anger had vanished from the woman’s face, replaced by a slightly strained smile.
“Come with us,” Moira whispered as they drew Henrietta away from the festivities and toward the tranquillity of the rose garden. Passing through the main gate, they found themselves in a small oasis of peace and quiet, the sounds of the festivities only a distant echo.
“Ye must be sad to see yer aunt and uncle leave,” Deidre observed, her gentle hand guiding Henrietta to the stone bench in the shade of the outer wall. “Are ye fairly close to them?”
Sitting down between Deidre and Moira, Henrietta sighed, “No, I’m not.” Their brows drew down as they regarded her. “But they’re all the family I have left.”
Except for Tristan, her mind whispered.
“I canna imagine being that far from home,” Moira admitted, her light hair blowing in the soft breeze. While Moira’s skin tone and hair colour resembled Henrietta’s, it was Deidre’s slim built that had Henrietta wonder about her own attributes. She knew she wasn’t beautiful, and yet, she couldn’t help but
wonder what it was that had generally driven away her suitors. Why had her husband chosen her? What was it about her that appealed to him?
Deidre gently squeezed her hand. “Do not worry. I know it must seem strange, but we are a friendly people.” She smiled at Henrietta encouragingly. “And Connor seems fairly taken with ye. He is a kind man, and he will be a good husband to ye.”
Feeling a blush heat her cheeks, Henrietta averted her gaze. “Thank you for your kind words,” she said, meeting Deidre’s eyes again. “But…”
“Ye need a moment to yerself?” Moira asked, her bright blue eyes smiling at Henrietta as she patted her knee. “We will see ye to yer room and tell Connor not to bother ye for now.”
“Thank you,” Henrietta replied, grateful beyond words for their understanding. She could not have explained herself had they asked for details.
As Henrietta climbed the stairs to her bedchamber, Moira’s words echoed in her mind.
For now.
Chapter Nine − An Honest Liar
As the sun set over the horizon, Connor decided it was time to seek out his wife.
The wedding celebration was still in full swing when he excused himself and headed upstairs. After Deidre and Moira had drawn her aside, she had not returned to the main hall but retreated to her bedchamber instead. Although he had missed her presence more than he would have expected, his cousins had suggested he give her some time alone.
Grudgingly, Connor had complied, seeing the wisdom in their words.
For a moment, he hesitated outside her bedchamber, arm lifted to knock, before he changed his mind and silently slid open the door.
Her bedchamber was dark; only a single candle burned on the small table in the corner.
His wife stood before the windows like a dark silhouette, staring out at the last rays of the setting sun. The far window was open, allowing in a cold breeze that played with the soft tendrils on her temple, and momentarily, she shivered, wrapping her arms about her.
Had she sensed his approach?
When he had come upon her in the rose garden, she had not been aware of him until he had come to stand behind her, and Connor had to admit he had been rather pleased with her unguarded reaction.
Stealthy as a feline circling its prey, he moved closer until the back hem of her dress carried by the soft breeze touched his legs. Gazing down at her as she stood quietly before him, Connor wanted nothing more than to reach out and draw her into his arms.
However, he knew that she would object, and so he remained quiet, savouring a rare peaceful moment.
She sighed then before her whispered voice echoed through the dark. “I know you’re there.”
Surprised, Connor frowned. “Did ye hear my approach?” he marvelled, thinking that he should hone his skills if a city lass had noticed him.
“I did not,” she said, and a deep breath lifted her shoulders.
“Then how did ye know I was here?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered, then turned to face him, her bright blue eyes meeting his in the dimly lit room. “I just knew. I sensed that I was not alone, like before in the rose garden. Only now, I knew what it was.”
Mesmerised, Connor stared at her. She had sensed him?
“What are you doing here?” she asked. “The music is still playing.”
“I came to find ye.” Unable to help himself, he reached out, cupping his hand to her cheek.
Immediately, she shrank back, her eyes widening before they grew hard.
Regretting the change in her mood, Connor smiled at her. “Ye’re waiting in the wrong bedchamber, Lass,” he said, his tone light.
Her eyes never wavered from his as she shook her head, taking a step backwards.
“Ye needna be scared,” he whispered, keeping his distance so as not to alarm her.
“I am not scared!” she snapped, and a hint of the fight he had seen there before returned to her eyes.
Connor chuckled. “Are ye not? Ye look frightened though.”
“I am not!”
Holding her gaze, Connor shot forward, pushing her back and trapping her between the wall and his body. “Liar!” he snarled, his head bent down to hers.
Gasping at his sudden attack, she stared up at him, a mixture of defiance and anger in her eyes. Her body, however, trembled in his arms, her pulse hammering in her neck proved him right. “Release me!” she demanded, her voice sounded almost pleading.
“Are ye scared?” Connor asked once more as his arms encircled her waist, pulling her against him. “Tell me, and I swear the truth will set ye free.”
With her lips pressed into a thin line, she stared at him, and he could see that she was in two minds about how to reply. He knew that she was scared, and yet, she could not admit that, could not admit to a weakness. Instead, she glared at him. “Do not forget that I possess the skills to kill you,” she hissed. “Nor do I lack the determination to do so.”
Holding her gaze, Connor could see the desperation in her eyes. “Why would ye threaten me? Have I ever harmed ye?”
She remained still.
“Tell me, why do ye feel the need to attack me?” he asked, doing his best not to appear too threatening while neither allowing her to escape the confrontation. “Are ye scared I will force myself on ye?”
At his words, a shiver went over her, and she swallowed. “Isn’t that what men do? They take what they want because they can.”
Wondering about the reason for her negative outlook on men, Connor nodded his head. “Some men do,” he said, looking at her imploringly, “as do some women. Let me assure ye though that I have no intention of taking something ye’re unwilling to give, Lass, and I promise ye that I shall respect yer wishes,” a soft smile curled up his lips, “if ye’re willing to grant me a request.”
At his open words, she had relaxed. Now, however, her eyes narrowed, and suspicion returned to them. “What request?”
Holding her gaze for a moment, Connor’s eyes dipped down to her lips, and she drew in a sharp breath. “I would ask ye to grant me a kiss, one every day.”
She exhaled slowly, and he could see that his request was not unwelcome. “I thought you would not take what I am unwilling to give?” she asked stubbornly, unable to meet his eyes.
While his right arm held on to her, his left moved upward, tilting up her face and forcing her to look at him. “Ye’re not willing?” he whispered against her lips. “Ye could’ve fooled me, Lass.”
***
As his mouth hovered above hers, Henrietta thought she would go mad. While her own desire urged her on, begging her to surrender, her fears screamed at her in warning.
She wanted him. Desperately. And she wanted more than just a kiss.
However, fear lived in her heart, reminding her of the price she would pay for love and trust. A kiss was not merely a kiss, but a sign of submission. If she gave herself to him, he would dominate her life from then on, and she would be caught in a web that would force her to submit to everything he demanded because she had relinquished every sense of self-worth in order to be with him.
Had her mother once had the courage to fight her father? Had she ever denied him anything?
As her fear triumphed over her desires, Henrietta met his eyes, her own hardened by the memory of her mother’s fate. Knowing that she did not have the strength to fight him on a physical level, Henrietta allowed her tense muscles to relax and forced them to cease their resistance. Instead, she put all her strength and determination into her voice. “Believe what you wish,” she said, her voice quiet and yet sharp as a blade. “But know that it won’t change what is.”
He sighed, regret marking his face. “D’ye always expect people to betray ye? To hurt ye? Or is there anyone on this earth whom ye trust, Lass?”
For a moment, Tristan’s face flashed before her eyes before she shook her head and it disappeared. “There is not.”
“It must be a lonesome existence,” he whispered before taking a step back, his arms looseni
ng their hold on her. “I’m certain ye have yer reasons to only expect the worst of people, and while I do not wish to prove ye right,” his eyes, although soft, drilled into hers, and a fierce determination came to them that had her breath catch in her throat, “I canna sit idly by and watch ye spend yer life in fear.”
“I am not−” Henrietta swallowed. “I do not understand.”
“I am yer husband, and as such I am responsible for yer health, yer well-being and yer happiness,” he stated, his eyes tracing the frown lines on her face, “as ye are for mine.” He nodded, holding her gaze, before he stepped back, his arms releasing her. “I promise I shall always keep ye safe and protect ye even if it is from yerself.”
Frowning, Henrietta stared at him. Although his words soothed the ache in her heart, she could not trust them. Men always made promises they would forget the next day, and she would be a fool to believe him. “I have always taken care of myself. I do not need your protection.”
A rather indulgent smile came to his face. “That’s where ye’re wrong, Lass. I know that ye canna believe me now, but I shall prove it to ye.” Taking a step forward, he took her hands in his and held on as she instinctively tried to yank them back. “Ye will share my room and my bed.”
As his words washed over her, panic spread through her heart, and Henrietta stared at him in shock.
Softly, he squeezed her hands, his eyes gentle. “However, I promise to respect yer wishes. All I ask is that ye grant me a kiss, one for each day.” For a long moment, he held her gaze openly, allowing her to see the sincerity with which he spoke, and despite her best efforts, Henrietta could not help but believe his words. “I shall always be truthful, and I would ask ye to do the same. Speak yer mind. Allow me to see who ye are. And do not fear me.” A soft smile came to his lips. “I may not always like what ye say, but I shall never deny ye yer right to voice yer thoughts or punish ye for them. Again, I would ask ye to grant me the same right. Are we in agreement?”
Did she have a choice? Henrietta wondered. If she did not agree, would he still feel bound to honour her wishes? She could not be certain, and so she nodded her head, hoping against hope that he would not make her regret her decision.
