by Caroline Lee
“And he does love ye, ye ken.” She didn’t dare touch him again, but her hand itched to reach for his, to urge him to make the right choice, even if he didn’t realize a choice was being made. “He deserves to ken ye love him as well.”
She held her breath, praying he wouldn’t deny his feelings for the lad. Praying he had feelings for the lad, and his obvious dislike of Aileen hadn’t darkened his opinion of the boy.
Finally, he exhaled and twisted toward the loch. When he did, his hair fell away from his scarred cheek, and the reflected sunlight caught in his blue eyes. In that moment, she saw him as the man he’d once been—the man he might be again. Strong. Sure of himself. Beautiful.
Her attention was caught by the pulse ticking under his jaw, as he clenched those muscles. He was thinking, considering her words, and her heart soared with that knowledge. Her sisters had always told her she was the most level-headed of them all, the most logical. Her marriage to David, however, had taught her that a man didn’t want and would never listen to her advice.
Mayhap this one was different. Mayhap Jaimie was different.
“I do,” he said softly. “I’ve never told him. I avoid him.”
Why? The urge to ask was nigh overwhelming, but she dug her fingernails into her palms and just nodded encouragingly. “Will ye tell him?”
“He deserves to ken it.” Jaimie swallowed again. “He deserves a happy home.”
“He deserves a family. An uncle he can look up to.”
Holding her breath once more, she prayed he’d realize what she was saying.
When he turned to her, that cautious hope once more in his eyes, she knew God had granted her the response she’d asked for.
“Will ye—will ye help me?” he rasped out. “Will ye help me fight the drink?”
And in that moment, Agata knew her reason for being here among the Mackenzies. She might have accepted her father’s decision as a way to be close to Callan again, and a way to search for the jewels. But now that she was here, she had one purpose, to help this man regain himself.
She smiled gently as she agreed. “Aye, Jaimie, I’d be honored.”
Chapter Five
The fog was lifting.
Jaimie felt as if he was coming out of a dream, a vague dream of the last three years. Everything was…hazy. But now, today, he could see and think clearer than he had in a long while.
Maybe it was the hot water of the bath he soaked in. Maybe it was the cool breeze through the window. Maybe it was her.
There’d been times in the last fortnight—or had it been longer?—when Jaimie had outright hated the woman. His new wife had seemed to derive real pleasure from torturing him, but after what he’d put her through on their wedding night, he likely deserved it. She’d gotten her revenge well enough; forcing water down his throat, nagging him until he’d eaten enough of the thick brown bread the chatelaine had sent up, and—God help him!—talking to him.
She’d insisted on moving him here, to David’s chambers, so she could be near him. And in the long days Jaimie spent writhing on the bed, or vomiting in the pot, or shivering under a fine sheen of sweat, she stood by, talking to him. Telling him about the most mundane things, like how Callan’s lessons were going or how many times the boy hit the target with his new bow. Or the changes she’d like to make in the great hall or tapestries she wanted moved. Or how her strange alchemy with pigments and dyes magically turned into painted masterpieces.
Although Jaimie had lost count of the days, he knew there was one morning she and Callan had even set up easels in the laird’s chambers and happily chattered as they painted, oblivious to Jaimie’s torment across the room.
He sighed and sunk lower in the water. Aye, she tortured him these last days. But he had to admit, she cared for him better than a man like him could ever hope. She’d been there to wipe his brow, to hold the bucket, and to ensure he ate something. And whenever he’d beg for more ale, she talked to him instead.
Now, as the fog was lifting from around his mind, Jaimie realized the truth; she hadn’t been chattering mindlessly. No, she’d been giving him something to focus on, something to care about. By involving Callan, she reminded him why he was doing this in the first place.
He closed his eyes and rested his head on the edge of the tub. Aye, it would’ve been easier to go on in a fog, letting the drink control his life. But the day after his wedding, seeing Callan’s concern for him… it had been enough to force a change in Jaimie. He’d thought about how hard and unbending David and their father had been. He’d thought about how Callan, God love him, was as open and loving as Jaimie had once been, despite David’s best efforts to crush that side of his personality.
And Jaimie had known what he had to do.
Callan was his responsibility now, and he had to ensure the boy was raised to know it was acceptable to feel and to show those feelings. But the path Jaimie had been on wouldn’t allow him to raise anyone. He’d been heading for a grave, either because of his own neglect or an ale-induced accident. If he died, the same as David, Agata would go back home again and Callan would be left with no one.
So, he’d made the decision to fight, and God forgive him, it’d been worse than the days following the winter burns.
But now…
He shifted lower in the tub, dunking his head under altogether and soaking his hair, before he eased to the surface once more.
This wasn’t his first bath in the last week. His new wife seemed to have all sorts of opinions about what was good for a man in the throes of torment, and hot baths to leech out the infection was one of them. Of course, she’d been standing by with cold compresses as well, to wipe away the sweat which had made him shiver, and to whisper reassurances. That had been oddly encouraging, to hear that she was proud of him.
It had made the torture easier to bear.
Tonight, though, she’d directed the servants to bring in the tub, had poured in some kind of sweet-smelling oil, and opened the shutters on the large windows.
“Enjoy yer bath, husband,” she’d murmured with a smile, before slipping through the door to her connecting chamber.
Five years ago, he wouldn’t have called himself a weak man. But after what he’d just gone through, after what he was realizing he’d put himself through over the last years of drink-induced stupor, Jaimie decided that being ordered around by his wife wasn’t the worst thing in the world. Her strength, her surety, gave him an anchor, something to rely on when he needed it most.
Besides, one thing he’d learned over the last days was that she might be stubborn and opinionated, but she was usually right.
And again, in this case, she was. The bath was as near to divine as he could remember. Well, the pleasure of a woman’s arms around him, of her smile as she called out his name… that would be divine. But he hadn’t experienced that in long years, and here and now, this hot bath was close enough.
Through the window, the sun was sinking low in the west, and a fresh summer breeze blew through the chamber. His wife had aired out the room, changed the rushes, and placed flowers around, so it was as pleasing to the nose as to the eye, and now those scents brushed across his senses. The combination of the steam from the bath and the cool breeze made him grin in pleasure.
For a woman who’d been forced upon him by an overbearing aunt, then spent the first weeks of their marriage torturing him, Agata Sinclair was bringing him a surprising amount of pleasure.
Agata and pleasure? That thought led to another, and he felt himself growing hard under the water. She’d shown no interest in sharing his bed, but why would she? On their wedding night, he’d taken her like the monster he was, and since then, she’d seen him at his most disgusting.
But still, he couldn’t forget the sight of her, spread out on her bed like some kind of feast. A feast just for him. Her smooth legs, her tight sheath… his cock leapt at the memory, and Jaimie dropped one hand to stroke himself. Despite the heat of the water, he was rock-hard, so he closed his
eyes and rested his head against the edge of the tub and remembered the way her body had felt, gripping his.
His tongue darted out over his lower lip, imagining what she would taste like. She was the first woman in years to meet his gaze so boldly as she took him into herself. He tightened his ruined fingers around himself as he stroked, remembering the way she’d looked at him. Gently, intensely. As if she’d been glad to be fucked by him.
This wife of his, the woman who’d once been David’s, was intriguing.
God Almighty, but it had felt good to lose himself in her, to feel her close around his cock that way. He pumped harder, the familiar pressure building behind his bollocks. She’d taken him—taken all of him, it had felt like—and then smiled when he’d spilled inside her. What would it feel like to lower himself atop her? To take her breast in his mouth? To brush the skin of his cheek against her stomach, to inhale her scent? To skim his palm across her hips and over her curls?
To sink into her once more?
Jaimie’s breaths were coming faster as he stroked himself closer to completion, picturing his wife spread out for him once more. Blindly, he groped for one of the cloths stacked on the chair beside the tub, knowing he would put it to use for what it hadn’t been intended for.
As he dragged the cloth into the water, he pictured another use for it, to wash her. If she were here in this tub with him right now, he’d pull her down atop him, not caring how much water they spilled over the edge. As she lowered herself onto his cock, she’d be smiling into his eyes again, and he’d use the cloth and the soap to lather her smooth skin until she squirmed.
The thought of having her on top of him, her large breasts level with his mouth, was what set Jaimie over. He closed the cloth around his cock, arched his back, and spilled his seed with a groan.
God in heaven.
He was still panting when he opened his eyes and stared at the distant sunset. He wadded up the wet cloth and tossed it over the side of the tub, then flexed his fingers. For the first time in a long time, he felt… caged. God, he should be wiped out by that climax, but instead, he wanted to run, to get outside, to enjoy the summer evening.
And maybe he would have if the door to her chamber hadn’t opened at that moment.
He swallowed and lowered himself into the tub once more, thanking God she hadn’t come in a minute ago. Or would that have been a good thing, to have her there as he stroked himself? The question brought a little smile to his lips as he watched her move about the room.
“Yer bath seems to have agreed with ye, Jaimie,” she said in a pleased voice.
Jaimie. He’d told her to call him that, rather than the ridiculous “milord.” And while Aileen used to say his name cajolingly, connivingly, it sounded like a blessing on Agata’s lips.
And he couldn’t deny she was right. “Aye,” he all but sighed, sinking down into the warm water once again. His stomach still clenched at the thought of climbing out of the tub, of doing something wild, of really living… but at the same moment, he felt his earlier energy slipping away into a languid lethargy. It was pleasant to lie here in the water, to watch her putting away signs of his infirmity, making things right again.
“Heat is just the thing to leech out the last of the poisons,” she said, her back to him as she arranged a shelf to her satisfaction. “Ye should be up and about in no time.”
He’d been up mere moments ago, but he was certainly feeling leeched now. “Aye,” he agreed again. “Mayhap I’ll go fer a ride tomorrow.”
“A ride?” She was smiling as she turned to him. “That sounds lovely. Might Callan and I join you?”
Lovely. His eyes raked her, impressed by how good she looked with the Mackenzie plaid crossing her heart. Did she ride as well as she painted?
His nostrils flared at the thought. “Aye, lass. That sounds… nice.”
He was rewarded with another one of her smiles as she crossed the room toward him. It wasn’t until she reached the chair that he had an inkling of what she might do, and as she moved the stack of clean cloths to the floor, he had a moment’s regret that he hadn’t thought to grab one to cover his nudity.
On the other hand, they were married. He had bedded her, even if she hadn’t enjoyed it. And God knew she’d seen enough of him during his torment as he fought to overcome his dependence on ale. Seeing him in the bath surely wasn’t enough to frighten her away.
Still, he sunk a bit lower in the water as she moved the chair behind him and reached for the soap.
But when her fingers brushed against the top of his head, he jerked away from her. “What are ye doing?”
“Washing yer hair,” she responded matter-of-factly. “’Tis filthy, and I havenae been able to clean it.”
“I donae…”
He wasn’t sure what he was going to say, but when she trailed off, she hummed quietly.
“I ken, Jaimie. Ye donae like to be touched. So ye say.” Her fingertips came to rest on his shoulder, as if urging him to relax once more. “I promise, it willnae hurt. I willnae hurt ye.”
“Ye couldnae possibly,” he growled, but allowed himself to be pulled back. It was easier than trying to explain the truth.
I donae like to be touched because it reminds me of what I’ve lost.
He desperately needed to be touched, but it so rarely happened anymore. That any mere brush was torture. This woman, this wife of his, had touched him more in the last weeks than anyone had in years.
And tonight was no different.
She lathered up her hands. As she dug her strong fingers into his scalp, Jaimie couldn’t fight the groan of pleasure that rose in his throat. Instead, he exhaled in surrender and rested his head near her.
It was a moment before he realized his new wife was humming as she massaged his head, a peaceful little tune. The way she kneaded his scalp caused the remaining tension to drain from his shoulders and back. The heat, the cool breeze, the aftermath of his release, the song, and her touch… they all combined to relax him in a way he hadn’t felt in many, many years.
Probably since before he’d met Aileen.
She raked the soap through his hair again and again, cupping her hands to pour water across individual strands, before moving, satisfied, to the next section. He knew he should just cut the whole mess off, but he’d never been able to stomach the thought. For years now, his hair had hidden the wreck of his face.
The wreck which was now exposed to his wife.
The realization came a moment before her fingertips brushed against the ruined skin of his face.
He was too peaceful to do aught more than flinch, but he did open his eyes to find her staring down at him.
“What happened?” she asked gently.
His brow twitched skeptically. “Ye haven’t asked Jean already?”
Her smile was gentle as she turned her attention back to his hair. “When I lived here with—with David, he only ever spoke of ye as a courtier at the King’s court. When I met ye, I didnae think it right to hear the story from anyone else.”
Really? He felt his lips pull down in consideration. She hadn’t relished the chance to gossip about him the way Aileen had?
He closed his eyes on a sigh and accepted the truth. This new wife of his was nothing like Aileen. Nothing like the wife he’d once wanted.
The wife David had claimed.
“’Tis no great secret,” he finally said. “It happened here, so anyone could tell ye.”
Her fingers were gentle now as they worked in his hair. “I donae want anyone to tell me, Jaimie.”
This woman had shown him such kindness, such acceptance. Was it any wonder he loved the way she said his name?
He licked his lower lip again. “’Tis winter burn. Frost-bite, I’ve heard it called. I was visiting for Yuletide celebrations when Callan was five years old, and I left—I left the keep at night without a cloak.” Swallowing, he refused to say her name. “When they found us—me, David didn’t think I’d live.”
With
a bitter laugh, he held up his ruined hands, opening his eyes to stare at them in hatred. “I lost the tips of my fingers and…” He raked one set of ruined fingers down his cheek. “And the skin here. Aunt Jean refused to let me die, although when I realized what I’d lost, I wished she had.”
He’d deserved to die, after what he’d done. What he’d failed to do.
Agata didn’t respond to that claim, but hummed again. It was a long time before she spoke again.
“’Tis why ye drowned yerself in drink, aye? No’ because of this…” She paused in her motions to gently brush against his cheek once more. “But because ye felt ye deserved it.”
Stunned, Jaimie shot forward and twisted in the tub to stare at her. How had she known that?
Agata sat demurely, the Mackenzie plaid across her breast marked with water. But when she smiled, Jaimie knew she was right. And knew she knew it, too.
With a muttered curse, he turned forward once more and dunked his head under the water, digging his own ruined fingers into his hair to rinse out the soap. Maybe if he stayed under, with the muffled sounds and pressure building against his skin, he could block out her words.
I drank because I survived.
Aye, she was right.
Finally, when he couldn’t hold his breath any longer and he knew the soap was rinsed out, he pulled his head upright once more, wincing at the way the long strands slapped against his skin.
“I need a drink,” he muttered.
And just as the hundred other times in the last weeks, Agata was there beside him in a moment, holding out a cup of cold water.
He glared at the cup, then at her, while she smiled in encouragement. With another curse, he grabbed the cup and downed its contents.
It wasn’t what he wanted, but it tasted better than he’d expected.
When he lowered the cup, she nodded and handed him a drying cloth, then crossed to the pitcher with the cup.
Still scowling, Jaimie stepped out of the tub onto the sweet-smelling rushes and began to dry himself. When he was finished, he pushed his clean, damp hair back over his shoulder and wrapped the cloth around his waist. He was holding it in place when he turned to find Agata staring at him.
