Return of the Rogue (7 page)

H
onora watched her husband stomp through the great hall swearing, people moving out of his way, the women quick to huddle in gossip. She’d been so busy keeping to herself that she had not paid attention to the wagging tongues and the damage they were sure to cause.

She adjusted her blue shawl on her shoulders and made her way to the kitchen, alert now to the whispers around her while appearing lost in her thoughts. Her husband had left the hall, leaving the door open behind him, men rushing to close it against the cold wind or perhaps against Cavan. From the grumbling she overheard, it appeared the clan was concerned with Cavan’s strange behavior since his return. She even heard one woman refer to him as a barbarian, and another made mention of Cavan constantly arguing with his father. She knew that since everyone in the clan respected their laird, a son who disagreed or failed to show him respect would always be the subject of much gossip.

Honora berated herself as she exited the kitchen, the servants glaring at her and whispering as she
went past. They lay the blame on her, as Cavan’s wife. She had a duty to her husband, and it was obvious that she had been neglecting him.

She could only imagine what her stepfather must be thinking. She had to make things right or no doubt he would show her the error of her ways.

She returned to the kitchen and spoke with the cook, giving her directions for the evening meal she wanted served to her and Cavan in their bedchamber. The cook’s sour expression didn’t change, though she nodded forcefully, as if letting her know it was about time she tended to her duties.

Honora rushed through the great hall and up the stairs to her bedchamber. She wanted to gather the last of the heather on the moor and needed her cloak, since the day had turned blustery. As she ran back down the stairs, she recalled Lachlan’s words about her being a warrior and smiled. Perhaps she did have a little bit of a warrior in her.

“Honora.”

Addie’s sharp call caused her to stop abruptly and wrap her cloak around her like a protective shield.

“I haven’t seen much of you—or my son—lately.”

Honora stumbled over her words, not knowing how to respond and not wanting to offer an explanation. It was enough trying to cope with a husband who kissed her yet didn’t want her, much less express her own misgivings about the situation.

“I—I’ve be-been—”

“Staying to yourself,” Addie accused.

Honora lowered her head, feeling guilty.

“I’m sorry,” Addie said.

Honora raised her head, her eyes wide.

“My son, who always talked with me, ignores me…and my new daughter, whom I admire, seeks solitude rather than speak with me. I merely wish to help, to be a shoulder for you to lean on when necessary. It is not easy marrying a stranger, and even harder marrying a stranger who never approved of the union.”

“I must admit, it has been confusing,” Honora said.

“Then we should talk.”

Still, she was hesitant to ask Addie to join her. She had only shared the moors with her mother. But then, in a sense Addie was now her mother and had only been kind to her. “I was just about to gather heather from the moor. Would you like to join me?”

Addie smiled. “I would love to.”

“Mother.”

Both women jumped and turned to see Cavan making his way to them.

“I wish to speak with you,” he said.

All eyes turned as his strong voice boomed off the walls of the great hall and remained fixed on him. He was a sight to behold, his stance proud and confident, his demeanor commanding, the scar on his ruggedly handsome face reminding all of his bravery and also of his time spent with the barbarians.

“Another time?” Addie said to her. “My son needs me.”

Honora nodded and acknowledged her husband
with another nod as she passed him, eager to retreat to a place she felt safe and hoping that one day she would feel that way about her husband.

His hand shot out and grabbed hold of her arm. “Where are you going?”

“To gather heather.”

“Be careful where you step,” he cautioned, and released her arm to take hold of his mother’s hand.

Honora hurried away, annoyed with herself. However was she going to grow at ease with her husband when he so often intimidated her?

Honora lost track of time and her worries while picking the last of the heather before winter turned it dormant. There were several uses for the fragrant flower, but at the moment she intended to scent her bedchamber with it. She was trying everything she could to get her husband to accept her as his wife in every sense of the word.

Her basket was full when she entered the village, though it grew lighter after she shared a few sprigs with the women she stopped to speak with along the way. She was nearing the keep when she heard her name shouted, and she cringed before daring to turn and face her stepfather. He approached her with rapid strides, his face splotched red, a sure sign of his anger.

He grabbed her arm so tightly she winced.

“You embarrass me,” he said in a harsh whisper, and dragged her around to the side of the keep where no one could see them. “People are saying you are no wife to Cavan.”

“I am doing my best.” She knew nothing she might say would please him, not when gossip told him otherwise.

He shook her. “It isn’t good enough.”

“I will try harder,” she said, only to appease him so he would leave her be and she would suffer no more than a sore arm.

“Try harder?” he said, enraged, spittle spraying her cheek. “You should have done your duty from the start. I warned you, and you foolishly ignored me.”

“I did not, I did my best,” she said, trying to free herself from his vicious grip.

“Liar!” He yanked her arm hard and she stumbled, which dislodged his grip.

She staggered away from him, but not far enough. He delivered a stinging blow to her face that sent her sprawling to the ground, her basket of heather spilling out around her. Then grabbing her arm, he yanked her up before she had a chance to catch her breath. Instinctively she braced herself for another blow.

“Tend to your husband, daughter, or you will know real pain,” he said roughly, and shoved her to the ground once again.

She remained there watching him march off, still feeling the sting to her cheek and the ache to her heart. She had never understood why her stepfather hated her so very much.

Her father had died when she was a baby and all she knew of him had been from the stories her mother had told her. He had smiled often, her
mother told her, and walked the moors with her. She thought her new father might do the same, and at first when her mother married Calum, she was happy. But it hadn’t taken long for Calum to show his true nature, by then it was too late. He made her and her mother suffer for too many years, and Honora often wondered if her mother had simply given up and died, being unable to withstand his brutality any longer.

Now, in the keep, when Calum disappeared from sight, Honora stood up, brushed the dirt from her garments, and picked up the scattered heather. She had not seen Calum of late and assumed he was busy enjoying the honor and privileges her marriage had afforded him. Why had he suddenly come after her? He had to have been aware of the gossip, and yet hadn’t approached her until now.

She adjusted her cloak, hooked the basket on her arm and, before turning the corner of the keep, placed her cool hand to her cheek. The heat near stung her palm, and she realized that her cheek must be bright red. Would people assume her husband had struck her? And what would Cavan do when he saw her flaming cheek?

A bit of time and the heat would fade and no one would be the wiser, she told herself. She just needed to get to her bedchamber before anyone noticed. She bowed her head and draped her long black hair around her face. People would think she was busy watching her step or deep in thought and leave her be. Or so she hoped. Keeping her head bent, she hurried away.

Cavan sat at the table in front of the fireplace talking with his mother. His father was right—he’d ignored his mother since his return. But then, his father usually was right. It was what made him a great leader, though he credited his wife’s wisdom and guidance for his leadership qualities, and Cavan could understand why. His mother listened more than she spoke, and when she did speak, you heard more than you realized.

He reached out, took her hand, and noticed that though she had aged since his absence, it was not with lines and wrinkles, but wisdom.

“I am glad to be home.”

She squeezed his hand tightly. “I am so relieved to have you home. I have missed our talks.”

He could not help but ask, “Do you miss Ronan?”

Her smile faded and she nodded slowly. “As much as I missed you.” Her smile returned. “He will return as you did, I am certain of it.”

“You do not believe we will find him?” Cavan asked anxiously, for he wanted nothing more than to find his brother and return him home safely.

“No, I believe Ronan will return home without any help from his family. I believe it is his destiny.”

“To suffer?” Cavan shook his head. “That makes no sense.”

“You see your brother as someone you must protect.”

“He is my youngest brother, and have you forgotten how many times I have protected him?”

Addie laughed and clapped her hands together. “How could I? You were forever carrying him home wounded or frightened from nasty tricks your brothers played on him. But he is a young lad no more; he is a man.”

Cavan wanted badly to tell his mother of the last time he saw Ronan, how his brother cried out to him for help and how he had failed Ronan, but he knew it would only break her heart.

Addie patted his hand reassuringly. “Ronan will return home.”

“I pray you are right, Mother.” He prayed all the time for Ronan, and prayed he would forgive him for not having saved him.

Cavan caught a rush of someone entering the great hall from the corner of his eye and turned to see his wife, her steps hasty and her head down, her long dark hair obscuring her face. He had seen her many times walking while deep in thought, noticing no one around her, but never had she appeared to be hiding.

But what did she hide?

He stood and called out, “Honora.”

She acknowledged him with a wave and kept going.

“Honora,” he shouted again, and his mother quietly took her leave.

Cavan was surprised and annoyed when she simply ignored him. It wasn’t like her; she had been a dutiful wife even though he’d paid her little heed, especially since he had kissed her. It had affected him more than he was willing to acknowledge. He
didn’t want to remember how much he’d enjoyed it. The memory always managed to stir his loins.

She had reached the staircase when Cavan caught up with her, grabbed her by the arm turned her about. Her long dark hair swung around her face as she hastily faced him, and when the silky strands settled, he saw what she’d been hiding.

He reached out and gently touched the red welt on her cheek, unmistakably made by a rough hand. Fury mounted inside him, that anyone would dare touch his wife. “Who did this?”

She placed her hand over his on her cheek. Her touch was tender, her flesh cool, and the combination ran a shiver through him.

“It is nothing.”

He touched her other cheek, cupping her face, and leaned down until his nose almost touched hers. “You are my wife,” he declared, his voice rumbling with anger. “No one—
no one
—touches you, but me.”

Her violet eyes, which always managed to stir his soul, pleaded with him to let it be, but that was not possible.

“Answer me, Honora.” He was surprised how calmly he spoke, for within him he boiled with anger.

She hesitated several times before she finally answered. “I angered my stepfather.”

Cavan felt his gut tighten. “Go to our bedchamber and wait for me.”

She grabbed hold of his arm as he turned to leave. “It was not his fault.”

Cavan cupped her injured cheek. “It does not matter. He raised his hand to you, and that I will not tolerate.”

She gripped his arm tighter. “But I was at fault.”

“Then he should have come to me with his grievance. He dishonors me by raising his hand against you. Now do as I say. Wait for me in our bedchamber.”

He turned and left the keep, and with each step, his fury mounted.

Cavan found his prey not far from the keep. Calum looked to be sweet-talking a young woman, plying her, most likely, with falsehoods of his importance. Cavan hadn’t liked the man from the very first time Tannach approached him years ago about a union with Honora. It seemed he wished to sell his only child, and he only spoke about how obedient she was and would be to a husband. Cavan hadn’t wanted strict obedience in a wife; he wanted a woman who would stand by his side equal in strength and intelligence.

His thoughts fueled his already raging temper, and by the time he reached Calum, he descended upon him with fury. Grabbing him by the scruff of the neck, he tossed him to the ground and planted his foot firmly against Calum’s throat.

The man wiggled beneath his heel like a squealing pig, his hands frantically trying to push Cavan’s foot off while he gasped for breath.

“You dare strike my wife?”

Calum’s eyes bugged wide and he choked, trying to speak.

“Do not bother to try to offer an explanation, for there is none. You had no right. Honora belongs to me.”

Calum nodded as best he could while his hands clutched Cavan’s ankle, still trying to break free.

“Strike her again and I will kill you.”

Calum gagged on what little breath he had left when Cavan freed him, and he crawled off choking and coughing, no one daring to help him.

Cavan returned to the keep, gossip already spreading about how he protected his wife, and the people taking it as a good sign. He went straight to his bedchamber, his wife jumping out of the chair she sat in near the hearth.

“How often has your stepfather raised his hand to you?” Cavan asked, unable to keep the annoyance out of his voice. “And don’t hesitate or make excuses. I want the truth.”