Claimed by the Highlander (19 page)

“Go back to sleep,” he said, removing the pistol from his belt and setting it on the bedside table. Next he removed the powder horn that was slung over his shoulder, and last, his heavy belt, sword, and shield.

“Where were you today?” she asked. “Did you have any supper?”

“I just ate with the men.” He moved to the chair before the fire, sank into it, and stretched his legs out.

Gwendolen tossed the covers aside. Slowly, she moved across the room and knelt in front of him. “Can I do anything for you?”

Perhaps he would ask her to make love to him while he lounged back in the chair—for already, her body was humming with desire. She ran her hands up and down his forearms, stroking the muscle and brushing her fingertips over his large, battle-scarred hands.

He tipped his head back against the chair and closed his eyes, shaking his head in refusal.

Wondering if he simply needed some soothing pleasures to inspire his passions, she slid her hands up under his kilt and massaged his muscular thighs, but he surprised her by lifting his head and grabbing hold of her wrists. His eyes were cold and gray like winter ice, his voice threatening.

“I said
no
.” He tossed his head in a commanding gesture that indicated the bed. “And I told you to go back to sleep. I’ll have no defiance from you tonight, lass. Go. Leave me be.”

She sat back on her heels, withdrew her hands from under his kilt, and frowned at him. “Did something happen today?”

“It was a day like any other,” he said, “but I am weary. I’m in no mood to talk or do anything else. I’ve already said it once. Now
go.
”

Hearing the sharp note of impatience in his voice, Gwendolen stood and worked hard to suppress the hurt she felt over this rejection—which was both sexual and personal. She had begun to hope that she would be a solace for him when the pressures of his position as laird grew oppressive. She wanted to ease the burdens he carried. She wanted to provide him with pleasures outside of the violence and hardships of battle, to be the one who welcomed him home at night, patched up his wounds, and built up his strength so that he could rise again the next day and fight.

But he did not want that from her—at least not tonight, when he saw her only as an extra chore that was making him irritable.

Her head throbbed suddenly with indignation, for she was no man’s chore. She had only wanted to do something to ease his burdens.

“I’ll leave you alone then.” She stalked across the room. “I’ll go back to my own bedchamber.”

“Nay!” he shouted, leaning forward in his chair. “You’ll do as I say, lass, and get back in this bed, here in this room. I’ll not have you tiptoeing about the castle corridors at night.”

“Fine!” She returned to the bed, climbed up onto it, and shoved her feet under the covers. “I’ll stay here, and I won’t bother you with another sound!”

She wrenched the covers up, wishing she could be more docile, but there was no hope of that. She wanted certain things from this marriage—and his complete emotional withdrawal was not one of them.

*   *   *

Angus watched Gwendolen from the chair as she shot back into bed like a musket ball. He knew she was angry with him. Hell, it was as obvious as a bucking horse in the kitchen.

He also knew that he wasn’t cut out for this. He’d thought he could manage this marriage when he’d claimed her as a wife. He’d thought it would be a simple matter of wedding her and bedding her a few times until she was with child. But the sex had proved far more intense than he’d imagined, and the wife more appealing and intriguing than any woman he’d ever encountered, and that created a problem. Keeping his mind on his duties—while she was wandering about the castle in her pretty frocks, smelling like roses—was like wading upstream through rushing water.

He bent forward, cupped his forehead in a hand, then raked his fingers through his hair. His desires made no sense to him. He wanted her, yet at the same time he wanted to send her away.

Turning in his chair, he looked at her gruffly. She was lying on her side with her back to him. She had the covers pulled up to her ears like an angry child.

He had offended her. She was making that abundantly clear. Was she crying?

Ah, bloody hell. What if she was?

He sat back and rubbed a hand over his face, then rose from the chair and slipped into bed behind her. He snuggled close, tucked his knees into the backs of hers, and leaned up on an elbow. Brushing the hair away from her face, he said, “You want to kick me in the nuggets, don’t you?”

“Aye,” she flatly said. “You were very rude.”

He was quiet for a minute. “I’m sorry, lass. It was a long day. I was tired and grouchy. What can I do to make it up to you?”

God!
Was he really saying these things? Did she have any idea that it was bloody earth-shattering? Not once in his rough and hellish life had he ever groveled to anyone, except maybe his father when he was just a lad facing a beating.

But never to a woman. Not once. Not ever.

“There is nothing you can do,” she replied, “because you already told me you are too weary for anything, and alas, I have disobeyed you sufficiently by not going straight back to sleep.”

The ill-tempered mood that had festered inside him all day cracked a small, reluctant smile, and he shook his head at these unbelievable circumstances—for his pretty little trophy bride suddenly seemed to have him wrapped around her finger.

“Sometimes,” he said, “you drive me so mad with frustration that I think I’m going to lose my mind, and it’s almost comical. Do you know that?”

“You didn’t find it amusing five minutes ago.”

“Nay, and that’s the shock of it. You’re the only person in Scotland who can crush my wrath and mash it to wee bits in the space of a single minute.”

She rolled over onto her back and blinked up at him with those big, beautiful brown eyes. Something inside him snapped at the sight of her wholesomeness. She was like a fluttering butterfly he wanted to catch and hold in his hands.

Then she pinched him hard on the shoulder.

“Och!”
he shouted. “What was that for?”

“You deserved it.”

He immediately rolled on top of her. “So I did. Does that mean we are even now?”

“No, we most certainly are not.”

He began to slowly pump his hips. “Then I’ll ask you again, lass. How can I make it up to you?”

She wiggled beneath him, and his erection increased sizably.

“You can make love to me, Angus. And do your absolute best to pleasure me greatly, and enjoy it yourself, as well.”

“There will be no difficulty there,” he replied. “I’m already having the time of my life.”

“Well, I am not. I am still angry with you. You were a brute just now.”

He kissed her softly on both eyelids. “Aye, but you’ll soon forgive me when I slide into your warm, sweet pastry and make you tremble with rapture.”

“My pastry? Good God, you are without a hope.”

He reached down to move his kilt and her shift out of the way, slipped his fingers into the luscious damp haven between her thighs to ensure she was ready for him—which she most definitely was—then he thrust into her with extravagant, soul-gratifying ease.

She arched her back and closed her eyes. “Ah, yes, that is
perfect
…”

He moved slowly in and out, deeply and compellingly. “Do you forgive me now?”

She nodded, and he took his time over the next hour, making sure she did not change her mind.

When she finally drifted off to sleep, sated and restful in his arms, he wondered if he would ever be able to sleep like that—so soundly, without one eye constantly open, watching for danger, awaiting death in the night, and fearing the loss of her and everything else that he cherished. He was no stranger to loss, and he could not seem to escape the expectation of it.

And so, an hour later, he slipped out of the bed and left the chamber. He headed to the place where he went each night in search of solace. He had never found it before, and sometimes he wondered why he even bothered to try.

But something inside him felt different tonight.

Perhaps it was the awareness of hope.

Chapter Sixteen

Gwendolen sat up in the darkness when she heard the sound of the door open and close.

She was not surprised that Angus had left. There was a discord in his life and heart, and she could feel it in her own. She also knew that he had no interest in discussing it with her. Since the beginning, he had deflected most personal questions in an effort to keep her at a distance, and when he did not want her to press him, he either left the room completely, or reacted with anger and violence, frightening her into a corner. Sometimes he made love to her, which was always an effective distraction.

Tonight, however, for the first time, he had shown some remorse and had apologized for his harsh behavior. It had given her hope that perhaps one day he would open his heart to her more fully.

She lay back down and stared up at the canopy, but knew she would never be able to sleep. She wanted him beside her, and she wanted to understand why he had left in the first place.

Slipping out of bed, she found her shift on the floor, donned a shawl, and padded across the room. She peered out into the corridor and heard his footsteps at the bottom of the stairs, then hurried out to follow him.

She tiptoed over the cold stones, passed by flickering torchlights, and clutched at her shift to keep the drafts from blowing up under it. She ventured through the arched passageways to the chapel, where she finally found Angus kneeling at the altar, his head bowed low.

Of all the places she expected him to be, this was not one of them.

She stood quietly in the doorway, waiting for him to finish, but before she could think about what she was going to say, or how she would approach him, he spun instantly on his knee and drew his pistol.

“It’s only me!” she shouted, lifting her hands as her panicked cry echoed up into the high, vaulted ceiling.

He stared at her for a few seconds, then shoved the pistol back into his belt and rose to his feet. He stalked down the aisle toward her.
“Have you got rocks in your head, lass? I could have killed you!”

“I’m sorry! I didn’t think of that. I woke and you were gone. I was worried.”

He stopped cold, halfway down the aisle. “You were worried. About
me
?” He shook his head with disbelief, as if she were the biggest fool in the world.

For a long moment, he stared at her in the smoky candlelight, then his shoulders rose and fell with a defeated sigh, and he held out his hand. “Ah, lass, you’ll be the death of me. Come in, then. It’s drafty in the door.” He glanced down. “Where are your shoes?”

“I’m not made of sugar,” she replied. “I can survive a chilly floor.” Though the bones in her feet were beginning to throb.

He led her to the front pew closest to the candles that were burning near the choir stall, and she crossed herself before taking a seat. He sat down beside her, told her to swing her legs up onto his lap, then proceeded to massage her cold feet in his big warm hands.

“You may be interested to know,” she said, “that when my father was chief, he did not permit weapons in the chapel.”

Angus lifted his eyes. “What’s your point, lass?”

“No point. It just occurred to me now, and I thought you might care to know.”

“Because I almost committed a terrible sin just now?
‘Thou shalt not murder thy wife in the chapel’
?”

“That’s not a commandment,” she said.

The corner of his mouth curled up in a sly grin. “Maybe not, but it should be.”

She chuckled back at him. “Aye, I suppose it should. But if we’re going to add that, we should also add: ‘Thou shalt not murder thy
husband
in the chapel.’”

He continued to rub the arch of her foot. “Aye, I reckon that’s only fair.”

When he finished massaging her feet, she lowered her legs to the floor, and they both faced the altar, gazing up at the stained-glass window of the Virgin Mary.

“May I ask you something?” Gwendolen kept her gaze fixed on the window, but from the corner of her eye, she was aware of his eyes on her profile. He gave no answer, so she took that as a yes. “Why did you leave our bed to come here in the middle of the night? And I know this is not the first time.”

He, too, looked up at the Virgin Mary. “To pray.”

“For what?”

She waited patiently to hear his answer, but he seemed determined to take his time. At last, he bowed his head and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Tonight I started with the usual prayer for my mother’s soul, though I doubt she needs it. She was a saint. At least that’s how I remember her. Then I prayed for my own sins, for the people of Kinloch who have entrusted me with their safety and prosperity, and when you walked in, I was just getting to my own treachery two years ago, and praying not only for God’s forgiveness, but for my father’s forgiveness as well.”