by Cathy MacRae
Arbela’s face heated, remembering the way he’d phrased that particular compliment.
Caelen continued. “Bram is my responsibility as well, and I enjoy hearing yer tales. So, attending to his bedtime is hardly a point in my favor. As for sharing my bed, ye were brought here initially for nursing after yer injury, and I fully agreed. Now that yer aunt is here, ’tis only seemly we continue to share the room. There wasnae expectation beyond sleep involved when I made the offer. Ye do remember our agreement, aye?”
Insufferable man! He knows quite well I remember our agreement. Arbela gave a curt nod, not giving him the satisfaction of waxing poetic on that point as well.
He stepped closer. “There is one thing, however, that ye dinnae accuse me of, and I apologize for being so remiss that ye failed to notice.”
“Oh? What is that?” Arbela wracked her brain to remember, unwilling to give him the upper hand.
His fingertips barely grazing her chin, he tilted her face up to his.
“I admit to wanting to kiss ye,” he murmured.
His lips moved softly against hers, questioning, seeking. Arbela drew a shallow breath, all her lungs would hold, and pressed upward on her toes as sparks raced through her body. Though she’d tried to forget, told herself it was futile to dwell on the disappointment of their wedding night, she could not deny the pleasure of his touch.
Caelen’s hands clasped her waist, pulled her close. His lips slanted hungrily, a soft growl low in his throat. Arbela slid her hands between them, palms against his chest. Caelen broke the kiss, but would not let her pull away.
“Where does this take us?” she murmured, relishing the feel of his arms about her despite her misgivings.
“I believe ’tis a grand thing for a husband to love his wife,” he offered.
Arbela leaned back. “Are ye prepared for where this could lead?” she asked.
“I believe I am aware of how this works,” he commented wryly.
Arbela shook her head. “We pledged a marriage in name only. One in which I am free to act and dress as I please. One in which I have your protection, but not your regard. Your authority, but not your presence.”
Caelen winced. “Arbela, I will admit when I first met ye, I thought ye an arrogant young woman who was much doted upon by her da. Yer clothes were outlandish, and ye flaunted a king’s ransom of jewels about yer neck with scarcely a thought to their worth. Ye were outspoken and no one gainsaid ye.”
“’Tis a wonder ye married me,” Arbela quipped, trying desperately to cover her disappointment at the picture he painted.
“Listen well, Arbela,” he said. “Since I have come to know ye, I understand ye arenae arrogant, ye are confident. Ye dinnae lie and ye admit when ye cannae do something. Yer da dotes on ye, but because he is proud of ye, not because he cannae handle ye any other way. The clothes ye wear are part of who ye are. I confess I can sometimes scarcely take my eyes off ye.” He laughed softly and shook his head. “And though ye are outspoken, ye are honest, kind, and use yer words to inspire, not destroy. I would never knowingly do anything to change ye. I am hardly worthy of ye, and yet I ask ye to give us a chance to know each other.”
Arbela laid a hand gently on his arm. “Ye are an honorable man, Caelen. Of that I have no doubt. I will not cause ye grief or shame. However, I am not certain a change of rules at this late date is in my best interest.”
“My attentions are a burden to ye?” Caelen asked, almost keeping the tang of bitterness from his voice. Arbela sighed.
“I have naught to compare your attentions to,” she reminded him. “But I will not sell my freedom for the sake of what is best left in the past.”
* * *
Arbela dropped a large drawstring bag to the ground in the corner of the keep beyond the blacksmith’s forge. The single tree cast a patterned shade on the grass. Bram flopped beside the bag, peering at it in interest.
“I know your father is teaching ye to use your sword,” Arbela said. “He has mentioned more than once what a fine job ye did creating both sword and targe.”
Bram grinned. “Da says I’ll get a real sword when I’m older.”
“Aye, your practice will earn ye that privilege in time. Howbeit, I think ’tis time to teach ye to use a bow.”
Bram’s face fell. “I’m not big enough,” he said. “Da’s bow is twice as big as me. Bigger than ye!”
Arbela smiled. “That is true, Bram-jan. But my bow is much the right size.” Reaching into her bag, she drew forth her curved bow. Bram’s eyes grew big and he leapt to his feet.
“I remember!” he exclaimed. “Ye bested Da with this bow! Can I try it?”
“That is precisely why we are here.” She handed him the lightweight bow. Unstrung, it resembled a large ‘C’ and Bram grasped the center, holding it backward as he aimed it at imaginary foes.
“It needs a string,” he noted.
“Aye. Watch as I string it, for it will turn back on itself, making it very strong.” She demonstrated as Bram watched, his curiosity unbound. Showing him the finished product, she then loosed the bow and had him repeat the process until she was satisfied he understood and could accomplish the feat.
She pulled a tattered piece of linen she’d glued to a small wooden square from the bag and propped it against the tree. Giving him a brief lesson on fletching, she then fired a single arrow. Eager to try his hand at shooting the bow, Bram studied her every move. His excitement peaked as she secured a thin leather bracer about his left forearm.
“I’m a real archer!” he exclaimed, waving his arm about.
“Aye,” she agreed. “I made this so ye would not suffer burns on yer arm from the bowstring. That is why real archers wear them.”
With Arbela’s coaching, Bram fired arrow after arrow at the target. And missed every time. He scowled.
“The bow isnae too big, but I cannae shoot it right,” he complained.
“Shooting a bow is not like wielding a long sword,” she agreed. “There is a finesse, a oneness with the bow that only practice will accomplish. Ye must focus on the process until ye no longer have to think through each step. It is a part of ye. The bow will become an extension of your arm, the arrow a reflection of your thought as ye send it to your target.”
Bram stared at her and she waited to hear his decision. As she’d expected, his jaw squared and his eyes glinted as he accepted the challenge. He was so much like his father.
“Can I have a bow like yers?” he asked.
“Ye will tell me what ye think mine is made of, and then we will find the necessary items to make your very own bow.”
Bram was quick to study the strangely made bow. Its size and shape made it perfect for firing from horseback and was fitted for Arbela’s short stature.
“People in the Levant do not use the longbow such as is done here,” she said as Bram traced a finger over the layers of ram’s horn and wood that made the bow strong and flexible. “When ye have mastered hitting the target from the ground, I will show ye how to use it from astride your pony.”
If she’d thought Bram excited with the prospect of making his own bow and learning to shoot it, he could hardly contain his delight at this new treat dangled before him.
“Ye are the best ma, ever!” he exclaimed. “Do ye mind if I call ye ma sometimes?”
Tears clogged Arbela’s throat and she could only nod. With this marriage contract, he would be the only child who ever did.
* * *
Caelen struggled to stay angry. Not that he’d shown his disappointment—which had slowly turned sour—to Arbela’s decision as they’d each sought their rest. But he’d tried to show his interest in her and had spent an entire two days thinking up things Arbela would like. And all for naught. He was completely adrift on how to win his wife’s favor.
He couldn’t compete with her wardrobe—and wouldn’t know where to find such cloth as she preferred—and she had jewels the like of which he’d never seen before. He was slightly mollified to not
e the ring he’d placed on her finger at their wedding was never gone from her hand.
She liked words. And mayhap actions. Certainly, she preferred straight talk to flattery. But when he praised her—she became suspicious. He grunted. It was as if the lass had never heard a compliment before.
“How do ye woo a lass who doesnae wish to be wooed?” he mused.
Rory glanced up from the blade he was sharpening. “Ye speak of the agreement?” he asked, voice low to keep from drawing attention to their conversation. Noises at the smithy tended to drown out unshouted banter, but who knew when an idle ear would make the effort to listen.
Caelen nodded. He slid a look about the area beneath the shed where several men carefully honed their weapons. He rose, jerking his head for Rory to follow. A few curious glances followed them, but quickly returned to their exacting tasks.
“Ye have decided, then, to change the contract between ye?” Rory asked.
It was scarcely a question, and Caelen gave a slight shrug. “I confess the lass has captured my attention.”
Rory grinned. “’Tis about time ye realized it. She can scarce keep her eyes from ye, and ye have been hanging about like a moonstruck calf these past weeks.”
“Weeks? Nae. Mayhap a few days.”
“Ye have been making eyes at her since before the debacle with MacGillonay,” Rory declared.
“Do ye believe she can be convinced to give up this notion she has?” Caelen asked.
Rory’s eyebrows shot up. “Not if ye take that position,” he declared. “Ye told me ’twas a mutual agreement, that neither of ye cared to involve yerself with the other. Simply because ye have changed yer mind doesnae mean ye can now deem it a poor idea.”
Caelen scratched his jaw. “I dinnae know how to make things different. I gave her flowers, complimented her. What does a lass like her want?”
“My guess is respect,” Rory replied. “Though that will only make yer life easier, not necessarily get her in yer bed.”
“My life is already easier because of her. I want her willingly in my bed.”
“Give her something no one else has,” Rory advised.
Caelen sent him a scathing look. “Ye have seen our coffers. They dinnae lend themselves to extravagant purchases. And I cannae top my wife’s jewel collection. She has stones the like of which I’ve never seen. A few appear to have been laid by a rather large, garish bird.”
Rory laughed. “She willnae blink an eye at gems, unless they adorn the hilt of a new sword. And I’ve seen her weaponry. ’Tis matchless.” He halted and Caelen swung about to face him. Rory turned serious.
“Spend time with yer wife,” he said. “Ask about her life in the Holy Land, what the world is like there. She has seen things ye and I can only dream of and has likely seen more of battle, as well. Share with her more than simply the clan problems. Tell her of yer life as a lad in the Highlands. I’d wager she’ll be interested to hear the tale.
“Make her understand she’s of more value to ye than her dowry and ability to keep yer home. A man who seeks only his wife’s joining in the bedchamber but not in the rest of his life, soon will receive the same half portion he gives.
Caelen grunted. “And where did ye gain such knowledge of women, my unmarried friend?” He recognized his sarcasm was a poor way to hide his own ignorance of keeping a wife, but the obvious difference in Rory’s advice and his own experience humbled him.
Rory offered a sanguine smile. “The men in my family value their women as more than a ready vessel to slake their lusts and bear their children. They are careful who they tie themselves to, then commit to forging a true partnership much like a smithy combines iron and coal in his forge.” He arched a brow. “And I will be as careful when it comes time for my wee sister to marry,” he added.
Caelen realized the truth of Rory’s claim as he recalled the couple he’d considered a second set of parents, now cold in the grave. An odd sensation clutched the center of his chest as he recognized the grief of not being able to consult the wisdom of his elders. Their clan had lost more to the epidemic than he’d initially realized.
“How do I go about forging such a bond when I’ve nae but bitterness to draw upon from my past marriage?”
Rory shook his head. “Ye ever see a goal and plow ahead, not minding the tender plants ye trample along the way. The men call ye Bull of the Highlands for good reason, my friend. In wooing yer wife, move a only step at a time. Give her something ye value and have never shared with another,” Rory advised. “Give her something of yerself.”
Chapter 29
Zora unfolded her feet from the seat of the wide chair, stretching her toes toward the hearth. Arbela sent her a questioning look, reluctant to retire to her room even if her aunt showed signs of restlessness.
“Ye have married a thoughtful man,” Zora murmured. “I wonder why ye linger by the fire when your husband awaits ye.”
Arbela sighed, dragging herself from the pleasant drowsy state she’d fallen into after she and Zora had put Bram to bed. “My husband will not miss me.” The admission stung.
“Those are not the words of a woman in the first weeks of marriage,” Zora noted. “I understand these things can take time, but it pains me to see the two of ye have drifted so far apart.”
“Do not make an issue of this, please,” Arbela bid. “Ye cannot see my heart.”
“No, that is true. But I can see the sadness in your eyes, and I think the two are not unrelated. Is there a reason ye have not spoken of what keeps you from his bed?” Zora leaned closer. “I see no signs of physical abuse, and I have had the care of ye for nearly a sennight. Though ye collect bruises as most young women collect embroidery thread, I did not see anything unusual. Has he berated ye unjustly? Words can create deeper wounds.”
“No,” Arbela replied, a ghost of a smile warring with her morose thoughts. “I believe he understands raising a hand to me would be a very bad idea. And his words are ever polite.”
“Only polite?” Zora asked. “His actions speak of more.”
“I am happy ye see him so,” Arbela said, not wishing to enter into this conversation with her too observant aunt.
“Arbela, I believe there is more to this than ye will admit. Though it has been many years since I shared my life with a husband, mayhap I have a modicum of advice to share. Or at the very least, a sympathetic ear.”
Arbela sent a glance to Bram’s bed, reassuring herself he slept. “I have a perfectly agreeable marriage, morak’uyr.” Aunt.
“That would explain why neither of ye spend any time in the other’s presence,” Zora mocked softly.
Arbela sighed, wishing she was not tempted to share her dilemma. But the thought of extending her vows to a marriage bed chilled her aching heart, and she knew of no one else to whom she could speak. She could not explain the sinking feeling as she discovered her husband’s changed attitude. Many women would enjoy Caelen’s attentions. Why could she not accept what he offered?
Because she did not know how deep the hook was buried.
“Caelen and I agreed to the marriage for two reasons,” she began. “He needed my dowry as well as someone to care for and protect Bram.” She sighed again. “I wished for a marriage where there was no expectation for me to change. He had no desire for me, nor I for him, and we promised to live amiably, though separate.”
Zora remained silent as Arbela waited for the disagreement she felt certain would follow her admission. When Zora said nothing, Arbela added to her defense.
“I have seen women swallowed up in their husbands’ expectations. No longer free to do anything other than submit to a common list of broodmare, household chores and being available for their husbands’ whims.”
“Some women crave children and their own household, though I see this does not interest ye.” Zora shifted again in her chair, leaning a bit closer. “But what of relationship? A marriage based on nothing more than fulfilling a shallow role often leaves the heart cold. But if a wife
and her husband care for each other—and tend this relationship with affection and trust—all else will fall into its natural place.”
“Isn’t natural place another phrase for women’s work?” Arbela drawled. “I have been accused of many things, but desiring woman’s work is not one of them.”
Zora’s soft laugh confused Arbela. An impression plagued her…one that told her she’d missed something important in the fight to maintain her freedom. The sensation was not a pleasant one.
“There is a time and a place for everything, im dustry. Giving of oneself grows your heart. Caring for someone else enlarges your capacity to receive love. If a husband and wife truly have regard for one another, raising children and caring for the home offers many opportunities to show their esteem. Simply because ye and Caelen have some of the same strengths does not mean neither can offer help where a weakness is perceived.”
“Nowhere in my marriage is there a place for that sort of regard,” Arbela noted. “Merely an understanding that each will perform their duties, negating the need for interference from the other.”
Zora’s head tilted sadly to the side. “My poor child. Have I not loved ye enough over the years? Has your father or brother not shown ye how much they respect the skills ye have?”
Arbela gave Zora a startled look. “Of course ye have loved me—cared for me and given timely advice. Father has always loved me—with only a small dislike of some of my more suspect skills,” she added with an attempt at humor. “And Alex—he is my brother and prone to teasing, but he has always championed me.”
“Then why do ye assume your husband cannot also do these things?”
Arbela laughed to cover her unease. “My husband was nicknamed Bull years ago for his stubbornness. He loves Bram in his own way, and has applauded my skills, though as they were used in his defense, that is only fair. But he steadfastly refuses to give a woman a role in his life. And after hearing rumors of his first wife, I believe there is just cause.”
“He cares for ye, Arbela,” Zora insisted softly. “I had no illusions he married ye out of love, and I am certain ye did not think such a foolish thing. Stubborn he may be, but I do not believe he is hard-hearted. My only experience in his presence has been since I arrived here nearly three weeks ago. I have observed many small acts of kindness on his behalf. Unless there is more I do not see, I would suspect your husband is falling in love with ye.”
