Amanda Scott (21 page)

The flood stopped as abruptly as it had begun on the realization that her sorrow had twisted itself right around to self-pity—the very self-pity that she despised in anyone else. Had she no pride, no dignity, no self-control?

Using her sleeve, she wiped her face, her gestures jerky, hasty, and impatient. She was pushing wet strands of hair off her cheeks when the door opened without warning.

Hector stood on the threshold, gazing at her in astonishment.

Chapter
11

H
e saw at once that Cristina had been crying, and he felt a surge of guilt, knowing that he had behaved badly. Isobel’s comments and Mariota’s rather naïve prattle made it clear that they had ignored his command, and he could blame neither Isobel nor Cristina for that. He winced as he remembered accusing the latter of jealousy when she had disagreed with him about Mariota’s guilt.

In truth he had not seen any sign of envy, but Mariota had said something of the sort at one time or another and in his annoyance with Cristina for questioning his judgment, he had flung the accusation at her.

Remorse sent him swiftly to her now, catching her by the upper arms and pulling her gently to her feet.

“What is it, lass? What has distressed you so? Was it what I said?”

She would not meet his gaze at first, staring instead at his chest. He wanted to see her eyes, not only to see how distressed she was but also to see if they were as golden when she was upset as they had been the first time he had noted their color. He wanted to pull her close, to hold her so she would know she was safe, and that feeling surprised him.

He told himself he would do as much for anyone in such apparent misery, but he realized he was nervous, afraid she would push him away if he did try to embrace her. She was usually so capable and serene. It occurred to him then that when she had made him feel as if he should mind his manners, he had thought her motherly, which was absurd. Although she was protective, loving, and kind, he had never in his life thought of qualities such as alluring golden eyes and skin like silk as motherly. Gripping her shoulders now, and feeling her tremble, he remembered that silken skin and how soft and inviting her lips always looked, and he wanted to see them again.

“Look at me, Cristina,” he said, his tone brusquer than he had intended.

The tone had the desired effect though, because she looked up at him, her eyes widening as she did. They were as golden as he remembered them, but now he saw green flecks as well, doubtless because her gown was green.

She did not speak, but her lower lip quivered as if she might cry again, and he did not want her to cry.

Speaking more gently, he said, “What is it, lass? Was it what I said before about jealousy? I was wrong. I know you harbor no ill will toward your sister.”

She shook her head and looked at his chest again. “It was not that.”

“Then what? You can tell me. I do not like to see you like this.”

She drew a breath, a deep one, as if to steady herself, and he waited with more patience than usual. At last, gathering herself and looking up at him, she said in a low tone, “Forgive me, sir. I am behaving badly. I—”

“Don’t be daft,” he said more in his usual way. “Something has distressed you, and I want to know what it is. Tell me now, and do not make me ask you again.” So much, he thought, for patience.

To his surprise, she gave a watery smile. “You will think me even more foolish when I tell you,” she said, her voice steadier. “I came here, seeking quiet and a place to think without interruption. Instead, for some reason I cannot fathom, my thoughts turned to my mother, to how she used to give me such sound advice. And then it was as if she were here, only she wasn’t, and I missed her dreadfully, and so you found me awash in a sea of tears.”

He brushed a damp curl from her cheek. She seemed so small and vulnerable that again he wanted to pull her into his arms, but he was still afraid she would dislike it. Although he was her husband, he had done little since their wedding night to assert his rights in that regard, and so doubtless, any such gesture would spoil the present mood. Accordingly, he said, “How long ago did she die?”

“Years ago, when I was eleven. So you see how foolish it is suddenly to feel her loss now so overwhelmingly.”

“Nay, lass. I was fifteen when I lost my mother, and I have felt her loss nearly every day since. A simple cloud formation may remind me that she used to point out animals in the clouds and tell us stories about them. Or someone will look a certain way or use a particular phrase that will bring her face or voice into my head. It is not so strange, I think, and if you were close to yours, even less strange.”

“Were you not close to your mother?”

“Oh, aye, I suppose as close as any lad, especially since neither Lachlan nor I fostered elsewhere. Our father kept us under his guidance, hoping that both of us would take to learning as he had. Lachlan did more so than I, but after she died, Ian Dubh sent us both to France to learn more of the world and to study with a friend there. The friend soon saw that I was disinterested in history and such, so he turned me over to a master swordsman to learn weaponry. Lachlan took lessons in weaponry as well, but although his skill is adequate, it does not equal his skill at politics and strategy. Nevertheless, we make a good partnership between us.”

“Mairi said he could not get on without you. She told me that he has a gift for making plans and knowing whenever something is in the wind, because he has developed a network of informants throughout Scotland and beyond that makes him the best-informed man in the Highlands and Isles. But, without you to expedite his dreams and plans, she said, he would never have acquired the power and position that he holds now.”

“Mairi should not say such things,” he said, but he straightened, unable to resist the pride the words afforded him. Lachlan had often said as much, but Lachlan was as likely to tell him he was a dunderclunk as to pay him compliments. Brothers rarely complimented each other. It seemed more natural to compete against each other or to tease, criticize, or otherwise torment each other. “I hope you do not say such things to her about me,” he added.

“What, tell her that you could never get on without Lachlan?” She smiled, clearly teasing him, but then added soberly, “I think you would succeed as well without him as you do with him, sir. You seem eminently capable of doing whatever needs doing. Your partnership does seem to be an excellent one, although I suspect that his grace is the one who profits most from it.”

“Was it just the sudden, unexpected memory of your mother?” he asked, recalling a certain tension during the midday meal and unable to believe that the morning’s events and his conversation with her after the meal did not contribute to her present mood. “Was that all it was, Cristina?”

She looked into his eyes again, searchingly, as if she sought reassurance or something else. He was not sure if she saw what she looked for or not, but she said, “I would be lying if I said that nothing else had upset me, sir, but it was nothing of importance. At least, I do not think so.”

“Will you tell me?” Suddenly, it was of great importance that she should. “I truly want to know, lass. Was it aught that I did or said?”

She nibbled her lower lip, and he could not take his eyes from it. So soft, so plump, so kissable. Even when she stopped nibbling and spoke, he watched the movements of her lips, imagining how they would feel against his own.

“Are you listening, sir?”

He realized that he had not heard a word she had said. “Of course I was listening. Don’t be daft.” He felt heat in his cheeks and guilt at the lie. “Nay, lassie,” he admitted. “I own, I was thinking of something else just then.”

She frowned, saying more tartly, “Doubtless, you have more important things to do, sir. Indeed, I do not know why you came here.”

Cristina fought to regain her calm, but the disappointment of realizing that although he had asked the question, he had not listened to the answer made her want to slap him. She could not do so, of course. For all she knew, he would slap her back, and a blow from a man as large as Hector might well knock her off her feet. Even as the thought crossed her mind, however, she knew she did not fear him. And despite her anger, so ingrained was her habit of peacemaking that she had all she could do not to apologize at once for her sharp tone.

His was easily as sharp when he said, “I came here to find out why my wife had disappeared without a word to anyone.”

“I did not know that you expected me to report my every movement,” she replied. “I will do so in future, however, if that is your wish.”

“Don’t be insolent,” he snapped.

“Faith, sir, is it now insolence for a wife to comply with her husband’s wishes?”

He was visibly fighting to control his temper, and she wanted to reach up and smooth the frown away, to tell him she hadn’t meant to be insolent and did not really think she had been. One moment she wanted to scold him for behaving like a thoughtless boy, for flirting so openly with Mariota, and for making his lawful wife feel as if she had no place at his table. The next, she wanted to apologize for worrying him, to fling herself into his arms and cry until she could cry no more.

She had only been trying to tell him she had been feeling invisible, as if no one had noticed that she was at the table, but even as she struggled for the words to say as much without explicitly blaming him for responding to Mariota’s flirtation, she had realized he was not listening. Instantly, anger and disappointment had swept through her, and she had experienced a strong desire to break or smash something.

His lips tightened into a straight line, and she wondered if she had gone too far by standing up to him. If she had, nothing she could say was likely to assuage his anger—if he was even angry. A frown creased his handsome face, to be sure, but she suspected that his anger rarely resulted in silence. Perhaps he was merely thinking how best to punish her for her acid tongue. She recalled then that she had reminded him she was his wife. He certainly did not think of her so, and who could blame him?

On that thought, she felt the prickling of tears again, and to her horror, one spilled over and ran down her cheek.

Instantly, he caught her shoulders again and pulled her hard against him. “Please don’t cry, lassie. I am truly a beast to add to your sorrow. I should not have said that, or any of it. I came to find you because I could not find the spurs I wore earlier and thought you must have put them somewhere. Lady Euphemia told me you had taken this chamber for your own, so I came here to find you. That’s all. ’Tis a most comfortable-looking chamber, I think,” he added, glancing around at the cushioned benches and the basket of needlework beside the back stool.

“I have not seen your spurs,” she said, ignoring his compliment, certain that he had offered it merely to divert her thoughts. “Did you go anywhere after we returned—to supervise the careening of your boats perhaps?”

“Aye, but nowhere else, and I did not have— Nay, I stopped in the steward’s chamber,” he said. “Sakes, I remember now. I took them off whilst he was showing me some accounts. I can’t think why I did that, but I’d better go and fetch them. Will you be all right here whilst I do so?”

“Aye,” she said.

He continued to hold her as he said quietly, “I mean to ride with the lads when they go to bury those two louts who attacked your sisters, but we should talk more of this. To that end, I want you to share my chamber tonight. Will you do so?”

“Aye, sir, of course,” she said, wondering at the emotions that instantly filled her. Doubtless, he wanted only to exert his husband’s right to share a bed with his wife when the mood struck him to do so. That the mood had struck at last should not, she thought, fill her with such eager delight.

Reminding herself that, in her experience, delight usually presaged disaster, she decided she would be wiser not to read more into his request than he intended.

The afternoon passed swiftly. Isobel came to find Cristina at last, dusty but smiling widely. “Stacking wood proved not to be such a tedious penance as I thought it would be,” she announced.

Astonished to see that the child’s gown was soaked to her knees, Cristina said, “How did your skirt get wet?”

“I waded into the water to help Fin land his salmon.”

“You went fishing with him?”

“Aye, with him and Hugo. They said I could, so I did.”

“Isobel, did you not understand that Hector does not want us to leave the castle without armed men to guard us? I thought he’d made his orders clear to you.”

“But Fin took his dirk,” Isobel said. “That is a weapon, so he
was
armed.”

Cristina shook her head. “I don’t know what to do with you. Surely, you must know that Hector would not consider two boys only a bit older than you are capable of protecting you against danger.”

Isobel cocked her head. “Do you really think anyone would harm me? Fin said it was daft to think anyone would, since no one would even guess I’m a lady.”

“Well, that much is true,” Cristina agreed dryly. “Anyone seeing you now would take you for a common child of no sense or dignity, and a filthy one at that.”

“But don’t you see that if that is true, I was in no danger?”

“Do you remember what Hector said about defiant women?”

Isobel looked down. “Aye.”

“What do you think he would say to that last remark?”

Isobel grimaced. “Must you tell him?”

“I don’t know,” Cristina said. “I don’t want him to punish you again, because I’m afraid he’d be more severe this time. You know what he said he’d do to you.”

“That was if he caught me listening at doors again.”

Cristina sighed. “Go and change now. It will soon be time for supper.”

Looking utterly unchastened, Isobel skipped away, and with a sigh, Cristina went to tidy herself for dinner. The slender, middle-aged maidservant Mairi had found awaited her in her bedchamber, and as the woman was smoothing her hair before replacing her caul, Cristina said, “I should like a bath after supper, Brona. Pray have the lads bring up a tub and hot water.”