Return of the Rogue (8 page)

“As often as pleased him.”

“Since you were young?” he asked.

“From the day my mother married him,” she confirmed.

This knowledge brought him a bit more understanding of his wife, and while he sympathized with her plight, he also grew annoyed with her. What if he wasn’t around to protect her? Would she shrink and wail in fear? And if she couldn’t protect herself, what of their children? Who would protect them when necessary?

“You never attempted to protect yourself?”

“Submitting was my only protection,” she confessed.

“Not anymore.”

She looked relieved, and he knew she thought that he meant he would now protect her. While he indeed would let no harm befall her, he was wise enough to realize that he might not always be there when she needed protecting. “Thank you,” she said softly.

“Don’t thank me yet.”

She shook her head, showing her confusion.

He thumped his chest. “I’m going to teach you how to defend yourself.”

H
onora stood staring at her husband. She had heard him, though she couldn’t quite make sense of what he’d said, and his words had also hurt. She was aware that he thought of her as weak, and now he added coward to how he felt about her.

It had taken all her strength to outfox Calum, and she’d learned by trail and error until she was finally able to protect herself the only way she could—by outwitting him. She never thought of herself as a coward or a warrior; her only thought was survival, as was it now.

“If that is what you wish,” she said.

“Do you always comply so easily?”

She heard his annoyance and did not intend to suffer over it. “You’ve made yourself clear. Why argue?”

“Always the obedient wife.”

“I do my duty,” she said, not meaning to sound as if she accused, but he believed otherwise.

“Perhaps if I had a wife worth bedding…”

He may not have raised his hand to her but she felt the sting just as sharply, and for a moment she
thought she caught him wince as if he suffered the blow along with her. Had he regretted his harsh words?

With her astuteness having served her well in the past, she decided to continue to rely on it and said, “Excuse my naiveté, but what makes a woman worth bedding?”

She almost smiled at his stunned expression, and felt as if she had just delivered a sharp blow and without raising a hand.

He cracked a brief smile. “You are shrewder than I thought.”

She bowed her head respectfully. “I but ask a question.” She raised her head, her chin up a bit more than was necessary. “Have you an answer?”

“Do you truly wish for me to answer?”

His distinct challenge caused her innards to tremble, while she surprisingly presented a calm and innocent exterior. “However will I learn to please you if I do not know?”

“You
wish
to please me?” he asked, reaching out to take her hand and slowly drawing her closer to him in front of the hearth.

How could his nearness cause her to feel thrilled and intimidated all at the same time? “It is my obligation.”

He nodded slowly, as if affirming the truth of it, then lowered his cheek to press lightly against her inflamed one. She thought she heard the sizzle of hot meeting cold, and she definitely heard him inhale deeply after nestling his nose in her hair.

He began with a whisper in her ear. “The scent of a woman.”

She barely heard him; she had become lost in the array of feelings that were waging war within her. She wanted to put distance between them and yet ached to move closer. It made no sense.

He brought his forehead to rest against hers as his finger stroked ever so lightly along her jawline, down across her neck, to finally trace circles around her breasts as he murmured, “The feel of a woman.”

Then he nibbled at her lips until they pulsated, moved to her neck to send the flesh quivering, and traveled across her shoulder until she shockingly ached for him to taste her breasts.

“The taste of a woman,” he murmured, and nuzzled her neck with a combination of his lips and teeth until, to her surprise, she moaned from the pleasure he brought her.

He laughed softly in her ear. “And last but by far from the least the sounds of a woman as she reaches pleasure.”

Honora gasped sharply and skittered away from him.

His hand shot out and nabbed her wrist, yanking her to him. “First rule in protecting yourself—never trust your opponent to play fair. Second rule, keep a fair distance or…”

She followed his glance down between them and gasped again. He held his dirk to her stomach.

“You didn’t even know I drew my weapon.”

“I didn’t think you would draw a weapon against me.”

“Never assume anything and be prepared for everything,” Cavan said, returning his dirk to the sheath hooked to his kilt.

It had been a lesson, nothing more. The scent, feel, taste, and sound of her had not aroused him as he had aroused her. He had not in any way found her appealing, and she felt appalled that he had tweaked her passion.

“I will instruct you in defending yourself against all types of foes.”

She nodded, though it wasn’t in approval, but rather because he had already done just that.

“You will learn how to use weapons and…” He scratched his head. “Tell me you know how to ride a horse.”

“Of course I do…”

He looked relieved, though his expression changed when she finished.

“…it is just that I haven’t had much occasion to do so.”

“That will change immediately, and I will show you how to sneak about without being noticed.”

In truth, she had mastered that many years ago, when she learned it was best that Calum didn’t notice her, for then it was less likely that he would find an excuse to hit her.

“And I will teach you how to survive off the woods.”

She didn’t bother to tell him that she could prob
ably teach him more than he her, for she and her mother often had to survive off the forest. It got to where she favored the plants and flowers more than the food slaughtered for the daily meals.

A knock sounded at the door, and Honora opened it to a servant who carried a tray, She remembered then that she had ordered the evening meal be brought to their room. Time had gotten away from her and she hadn’t realized it had grown so late. She’d hoped to speak with Cavan before the meal was brought to the bedchamber.

She stepped aside for the servant to enter. “I asked for our meal to be served in our bedchamber this—”

“Nonsense,” he snapped, and ordered the young woman gone with a wave.

Honora didn’t let him see her cringe as she shut the door behind the woman. His rejection of her was certain to fuel gossip.

“You will not hide away in shame. I made certain your stepfather understood you belong to me now and that he is never to raise his hand to you again.”

Clearly, he’d misunderstood her intentions—that she’d planned an intimate supper for them. But then, she reminded herself, he wasn’t attracted to her. So why had it seemed that way when he’d kissed her? She wanted to shake her head in confusion but did not, fearing it would only confuse him as well.

“We will sup together with family,” Cavan said.

So all could gossip over her plight, she thought, but acquiesced with a nod.

“We start tomorrow after the morning meal.” He held his arm out to her when he reached the door, where she stood. “All will know you are protected now.”

And all would know her husband rejected her.

Honora was quiet throughout the meal. Addie attempted to converse with her, but after several failed attempts she simply patted her hand and advised in a whisper that everything would be all right.

Honora did not believe her. How could anything be all right when her husband openly rejected her? And she worried when she didn’t see her stepfather in the great hall for the evening meal. Calum was a boastful man and delighted in the fact that he was the father-in-law of the future clan chieftain. His absence told her that he was off somewhere brooding, and no good came of Calum’s brooding. She would need to be on guard, for her stepfather was a devious man and one who certainly couldn’t be trusted.

Normally, she waited for her husband to announce that they would take their leave. However, she could not bare another moment of sly glances and whispers. She wanted to be gone; off to hide, as most would assume, and wallow in pity. However, she simply wanted peace of mind and heart for the remainder of the night.

She placed a gentle hand on her husband’s arm where he sat beside her. “Cavan.”

He turned, not to stare at her, but rather at her
hand where it lay lightly on his forearm. After several seconds passed he finally looked at her.

“I am not feeling well—”

“What is wrong?” he asked anxiously, and took her hand.

His dark eyes filled with concern, and she thought perhaps it was a trick of light from the flames in the fireplace, and so she held his gaze. His concern didn’t vanish, but appeared to grow with worry.

“Honora?” he questioned nervously.

She lowered her head with a barely detectable shake. What was he doing to her? One minute it appeared as if he could care less for her, and the next he looked as if he was worried to death over her.

“I shall fetch the healer,” he said, and would have stood if not for her hand stopping him with a light tug.

“I ache for sleep, that is all,” she said, not wanting to upset him.

“You tired yourself on the moors today,” he insisted.

She didn’t want to tell him that she’d walked the moors too many years to ever tire herself out walking them, but it was easier letting him think what he wished.

Leaning close to him, she whispered, “May I take my leave?”

She near shivered when she saw passion ignite in his eyes, though she chastised herself for even thinking such a ridiculous notion. How then did she explain that glint, the fire that flamed in his dark orbs?

He placed his cheek next to hers so he could murmur in her ear. “Do you wish me to carry you?”

His hot breath fanned her neck, and if she didn’t hold herself stiff she would have collapsed against him. Was he inviting an interlude or he simply being a good husband? If she accepted, would he reject her once they entered the room? Would she once again appear the fool?

Honora did not have the stamina for further rejection this evening. She responded softly, with some regret, “No, I will be fine on my own.”

He moved away from her and with dark eyes that now accused and said, “As you wish.”

She hesitated a moment, for it wasn’t what she wished. She wished for her husband to claim his husbandly rights and seal their wedding vows. He was the one who had made it clear he didn’t want her and rejected her. What did he expect from her?

“Change your mind?” he challenged.

His grin annoyed her. “Have you?” she snipped, and with a huff turned and left the hall.

She thought he might follow, annoyed with her, but heard no heavy footfalls behind her, and Cavan was too large and solidly built for her not to hear him, though he’d informed her earlier how he would teach her to sneak about undetected.

The thought caused her to pause anxiously on the staircase and wait. After several silent minutes passed without hearing anything or without anyone approaching, she continued up the stairs.

She shed her garments, quickly slipping into the comfort of her pale blue, soft wool night shift, and crawled into bed beneath the safety of the coverlet. Why she felt safe in the bed, she didn’t know, although it could be because Cavan had never once attempted to share the bed with her. Since that first day nearly a month ago, he’d slept on the floor.

She had tried to make sense of his preference, and did not want to think that he preferred the floor to sharing a bed with her, though what other explanation would make sense, she could not say.

Yawns attacked her, and her eyes grew heavy. She was grateful that sleep would soon claim her and she would no longer dwell on her worries. For a time, at least, she would be free, she thought, and snuggled contentedly under the cover.

When she woke, it was as if someone had nagged her out of sleep. She lay still for a moment, expecting someone to nudge her further awake. Then she heard the sound, a groaning or mewling of sorts; she was not quite sure how to define it, though there was no doubt that someone suffered.

Surely no animal had crawled in the room, so that meant…

She turned on her side and peered over the edge of the bed. Her husband lay as he did night after night in front of the hearth; only tonight his sleep appeared disturbed. His body jerked and the strange sounds continued in depth and strength.

He was in the throes of a nightmare. He had tossed his covers off and looked to be shivering. The room did feel chilled, and she noticed that the
fire had dwindled more than usual. Had Cavan forgotten to add a log before he fell asleep? He always made sure to stoke the fire before bedding down for the night. Had his mind been so overwrought that he paid no heed to the fire? And if so, what was on his mind?

She wished they could talk. She had not had a trusted friend since her mother died. Calum chased away any lad who showed interest in her, and frightened away any young girls who had attempted to befriend her. He had been successful in keeping her isolated.

Now she longed for a friend, a good friend, a trusted friend, and thought how wonderful it would be for that friend to be her husband.

His sorrowful groan caused her to bolt up in bed, and she saw that his shivers had turned to a constant tremble. Quitely, she eased out of bed and slowly made her way over to her husband. She picked up the wool blanket crumbled at Cavan’s feet and gently placed it over her husband, covering him from his bare feet to his bare shoulders, his kilt covering what lay in between.

His shivers eased though didn’t entirely dissipate, and she crept around him and as quietly as possible added a couple of logs to the fire. She jumped back when one popped and cracked loudly, not wanting Cavan to see her if he should wake, but the sounds did not disturb him.

She hunched down a fair distance from him, as he had warned her to do earlier when facing a foe. And at the moment she wasn’t sure if he was friend or foe,
so if he should wake, she didn’t want to be in arm’s reach of him. His eyelids fluttered and his mouth twitched, and though he’d stopped trembling and grown silent, his sleep still appeared disturbed.

The scar on his face appeared red and sore from the fire’s light, and she cringed thinking what he must have suffered. He never spoke of his capture by the barbarians. She assumed he shared the details with his father or brothers, though she’d noticed that he hadn’t spent much time with any of them since his return. He seemed to isolate himself, as she herself had.

While the scar on his face attested to his suffering, she wondered if it was the scars no one saw that caused the most damage. She knew all too well about invisible scars, for she had suffered with them for years.

She edged a hand out to softly brush stray strands of hair off his cheek, and wished she could touch him and help ease his ache, just as she wished for someone to ease hers. He didn’t wake, and she daringly stroked his hair. It wasn’t soft or coarse, but thick and strong, like him.