The Recruit (34 page)

He lowered the blade from where it had been scraping against his jaw—a very hard,
very masculine jaw—and grimaced. “I wish I had. I sent my squire to find them. My
squire who has yet to learn to keep his mouth shut.”

She tried to bite back her smile. “Damaged your fierce reputation, did he?”

“More than you can imagine,” he said dryly.

Mary sobered. “You don’t have to do this, you know—whatever it is you’re doing.”

Their eyes met and held. For longer every time. Just as it was becoming harder to
drag her gaze away.

Had he taken her words as a challenge to give up? It wasn’t how they were meant.

“Aye, I do,” he said softly, and then more lightly, “Don’t worry, I’ve had my share
of needling; I can take it.”

“You? What do you have to be teased about? From where I sit, you’re infuriatingly
perfect.”

A cocky grin spread across his face. “Do you think so? I wondered if you were ever
going to notice.”

“Nauseatingly, I meant.” She tossed the pillow at him.

He laughed, catching it in the air and tossing it right back at her.

She rolled on her back, staring up at the ceiling as he finished getting ready. As
they did every morning, she pretended
not to watch him, and he pretended not to notice her doing so.

How long could this game go on? That was all it was, a game … wasn’t it? But it didn’t
feel like a game; it felt real.

At night it was easy to pretend she was in control of her feelings. She could lose
herself in passion, go to sleep, and not have to think about it—not have to face how
every time he held her in his arms, every time he touched her with heartwrenching
tenderness, every time he looked into her eyes as he entered her, it was getting harder
and harder to tell herself it meant nothing.

She was running out of ways to fight back. She was a novice competing with a master
in the art of passion. How many more ways could she find to distract him? To bring
it back to lust?

In the daylight it was worse. In the daylight there was nowhere for those feelings
to hide.

He rubbed his hand over his jaw, feeling for any places that he’d missed, and then
wiped his face with a damp towel. When he was finished, he came to stand beside the
bed, looking down at her. “Your water is getting cold.”

She shot him a glare. Though his expression was blank, she knew he was laughing at
her. “I don’t mind. A cool bath can be … uh, invigorating, don’t you think?”

“I think I deserve to watch after arranging to have a bath brought up to you every
morning without waking you.” He shook his head. “You sleep the sleep of the dead.”

She hadn’t until recently, but she decided not to mention that. “I’m shy, remember?”

But he knew what it was really about. She was embarrassed.

“I want to see you, Mary.
All
of you.”

She looked away. “There is
much
to see.”

He laughed, sat down on the edge of the bed, and tilted her chin to him. “You’re beautiful.”

“Men always say that when they want something.”

He chuckled. “Maybe you are right. Take your bath in privacy, then. For now. But you
won’t hide from me forever. I will see you—soon.” He stood. “What are you doing later
today?”

She sighed, anticipating the long hours until she saw—

She stopped. Sweet heaven, how had it happened so fast? Could she already be measuring
the day by the hours until she saw him next?

Her chest squeezed. It was true. During the day he was busy with his duties. She would
see him in the yard sometimes, when she was able to watch Davey, and at meals, of
course, but it wasn’t until they were alone at night that he belonged to her.

Except that he didn’t belong to her.
Eyes open
.

“The usual,” she said. “Between prayers and meals, I will work on some embroidery
with the other women and listen to the castle gossip, attend to some correspondence
with the clerk, and if Davey isn’t away from the castle today, watch him practice
in the yard.”

“Ah, that’s too bad. I was hoping you might have some time.”

She perked up, hoping she didn’t look as eager as she felt. “Time?”

“Aye, to go on a ride with me. I’m getting tired of looking at these same stone walls.”

“But can you?” She blushed. “I mean, have they granted you permission to leave the
castle alone?”

His mouth curved. “Aye, I guess Percy has determined I’m not a threat.”

Mary scoffed. The man was nothing but a threat.

“What’s that?” His eyes glinted with amusement.

She scowled at him, realizing she must have spoken her thoughts aloud.

“But if you’re too busy—”

“I’m not,” she interrupted, far too quickly. But she couldn’t hide her excitement.
She, too, was feeling cooped
up. “I should love to go on a ride with you.” She frowned, her hands instinctively
going to her stomach. “Though I’m not sure I should.”

He seemed to understand her fears. “Don’t worry. You’ll be perfectly safe. I won’t
let anything happen to you.”

He said it with a look that made her wonder what he was up to. Knowing him, she suspected
it was something calculated to wear her down. If she’d learned anything about her
fiery husband, it was that he did not give up.

Kenneth was running out of ideas. Having never gone to this much trouble to win a
woman’s heart before, he didn’t exactly have a repertoire of romantic gestures to
work from. He’d operated on instinct (which sounded better than accident), which thus
far seemed to be working well. She’d delighted over the bath—even if she wouldn’t
delight him by using it in front of him—as well as the ribbon and the sugary buns.

But the woman was stubborn—and too damned suspicious of his motives. Which made her
too damned smart.

This wasn’t turning out to be as easy as he’d expected.

Although he had to admit there was one place he wasn’t minding her challenges. He
almost looked forward to finding out what she would do next to make his control slip
at night.

But while she might win a few battles, he knew he would win the war. His lust wouldn’t
be roused like this for long, and he would be back in control. Eventually, he knew
the novelty would wear off and his interest would wane as it always had before.

He frowned. Wouldn’t it? It sure as hell hadn’t waned yet. He had an unsettling thought:
what if it never did?

Of course it would. Just because Mary wasn’t like any woman he’d met before didn’t
mean his life—his entire way of thinking—would change.

He liked variety. And simplicity, for that matter.

At least he used to. But sparring with his very
un
simple and-not-so-eager-to-please wife was proving interesting.

He frowned, pushing the disturbing thought away as he opened the door.

He was glad to see her alone. Some of the ladies were less than subtle in their interest
in him, which made him uncomfortable—and angry. They were her friends; they should
try to act like it. Having learned of the pain of her first marriage, the last thing
he wanted to do was remind her of Atholl.

He took in her hooded cloak, gloves, and sturdy boots. “Are you ready?” He grinned,
suspecting she’d been ready for some time.

She nodded and he took her hand, leading her out of the chamber, down the stairs,
and out into the yard.

She waited outside while he went to retrieve his destrier. He was only gone a few
minutes, but it was long enough for Felton to find her.

Kenneth felt his temper prick hot. If he’d hoped the marriage would put an end to
Felton’s interest in his wife, he was to be disappointed. The bastard was furious,
but he hid it well, aiming his venom toward Kenneth. To Mary, he was the soul of English
chivalry, as charming and solicitous as he could be.

Kenneth, on the other hand, was feeling every ounce of his barbarian blood. When he
saw Felton’s hand on his wife’s arm, his first instinct was to reach for his axe.
The surge of possessiveness that hit him was both primitive and undeniable.

He was jealous, he realized. Deeply and pathetically jealous, and he couldn’t do a
damned thing about it.

If Felton had chosen that moment to press him, Kenneth didn’t think he would have
been able to back down.

Mary must have sensed something and carefully extracted her arm. Only then did the
red haze begin to recede.

“Where do you think you are going?” Felton demanded.

Obviously, anger was still clouding Kenneth’s judgment a bit, because he couldn’t
resist snapping back sarcastically but all too truthfully, “To leave a message for
Bruce with all the English secrets. Where the hell does it look like I’m going, on
a ride with
my wife
.”

He knew he’d put too much emphasis on the last two words when Mary’s eyes widened.

Felton’s, however, narrowed. “You don’t have permission to leave—”

“I sure as hell do. Check with Percy. Not that it’s any of your damned business.”
Only because he knew it would antagonize the bastard, he couldn’t resist pointing
out, “You might be champion for now, but I don’t take orders from you.”

As the heir to the earldom, Kenneth outranked him.

Felton’s face turned florid. “For now? I thought you might have tired of losing—having
done so many times at the point of my spurs, but when you are done hiding behind that
injury, I’ll be happy to oblige you again. We’ll see if the barbarians have taught
you anything.”

Kenneth lunged, ready to show him exactly how much the barbarians had taught him.
He would have thrown his fist right through Felton’s sneering grin if he hadn’t felt
the press of a hand on his arm.

His wife’s hand.

The idea that something so small could hold him back was patently absurd. Except that
when he looked down and saw her tiny gloved hand on his arm, he knew it wasn’t so
absurd at all.

How the hell had she done that? When he lost his temper, nothing penetrated. He didn’t
think, didn’t hear reason, just reacted. That was what made it so difficult to control.
But with one gentle press of her hand, she’d restrained him. He was so stunned he
couldn’t speak.

“I’m sure my husband is looking forward to meeting you
on the practice yard, Sir John. But surely it would be a Pyrrhic victory, at best,
if he is not fully healed.”

Had she just used “Pyrrhic victory”? She had, he realized. His wife had also succeeded
in shaming Sir John.

The knight stiffened. “Of course. I only meant—”

“I know what you meant,” she said sweetly. Felton held her gaze for moment, then gave
her a curt nod and moved off as if he had a pike up his arse.

Kenneth’s blood was still pounding when she turned to him. “You shouldn’t antagonize
him. Sir John is not a man you should wish for an enemy.”

He stiffened. “Felton doesn’t concern me.”

“He should. He is Percy’s best knight, reputed to be one of the best in England.”

He felt a stab of something like disappointment, except that it was harder and more
acute. “You think he would best me?”

Her brow furrowed. Something in his voice must have alerted her. “I wasn’t thinking
about it that way. Who wins is immaterial. I simply don’t think it’s wise to make
an enemy of a powerful man. Nor would I wish to see you hurt.”

Her answer mollified him somewhat, but it still stung of a lack of faith. “Who wins
always matters.”

She looked up at him, studying his face, perhaps seeing more than he wanted her to
see. “So you’ve said. Shall we go?”

Kenneth motioned over the stable lad to bring the horse forward.

Mary looked around. “Where’s my mount?”

He smiled. “Right here.”

“You can’t expect me to ride that beast!”

He patted the big black destrier fondly on the rump.

“Oh, he’s as gentle as a lamb.”

She looked at him as if he were mad.

He laughed. “Besides, I’ll be riding with you.”

Immediately grasping his intent, she narrowed her gaze. “Perhaps it’s not the horse
I should be worried about.”

As he’d said before, smart lass.

Alas, Kenneth’s plan to take advantage of having her in his arms while they rode was
not to be. No sooner had he settled her before him and snuggled her up against his
chest than she promptly fell asleep.

Instead of teasing her with the gentle motion of her bottom rocking against his cock,
instead of “accidental” brushes of his hands over her breasts and thighs until they
both were squirming with need, he had to make himself content with the warmth of her
back against his chest and the soft floral scent of her silky hair under his nose.

Surprisingly, it wasn’t difficult. He was content—very content. In her sleep she forgot
to be wary. There was something inherently trusting about her position curled up against
him, her cheek nuzzled into the leather of his
cotun
like a child rather than a woman of six and twenty. She was so small, her pregnant
stomach making her seem that much more vulnerable, that he felt a fierce wave of protectiveness
swell inside him.

He would die a hundred times over before he let anything happen to her.

The intensity of his reaction took him aback. What was she doing to him?

They rode for about an hour, traveling southeast over the gently rolling hills of
the Northumberland moorlands. The Cheviot Hills, the range that straddled the border,
dominated the not-so-distant landscape. They passed a few villages, and a number of
farms, but otherwise the road was blissfully peaceful. Though he would not have brought
her had he not thought it safe, this close to the border it was always wise to take
care, so he kept a cautious watch on their surroundings.

As they drew nearer their destination, the countryside
became even more desolate. The English—like the Scots—were a superstitious lot. They
kept a distance from the ancient stones that peppered the landscape, believing they
held magic.

For Kenneth, the stones were a means of communication. He would leave a message here
for the Guard. As the son of an earl, he’d had some formal education—at least enough
for a rudimentary note about his wedding and his plan to bring Mary with him and the
young earl. He’d also written the name of every lord and knight and the number of
men-at-arms who’d gathered at the castle so far. It wasn’t much, but it was something.