The Recruit (36 page)

In the warm afternoon sun, she took her pleasure over and over. She just had to remember
that was all she should take.

Nineteen
 

Mary kept her eyes closed and tried to ignore the slight slam of the door as Kenneth
left their chamber. She told herself she had nothing to feel guilty about, but she
couldn’t quite convince herself of the fact.

The way he’d been making love to her had been so poignant—so sweet—she’d reacted in
fear, attempting the whore’s trick she’d overheard some women talking about once.

It had worked. Mary knew she should be happy. She’d won. Yet it hadn’t felt like a
victory. Increasingly, her attempt to keep herself at a distance, to not let an emotional
entanglement complicate the passion they shared, felt wrong. No, she corrected—it
always felt wrong.

The past weeks had been some of the happiest of her life. She was spending time with
her son, enjoying every moment of the baby growing inside her, and experiencing passion
that she’d never thought could be hers. But she knew that wasn’t all of it. It was
her marriage—or, more specifically, her husband. He’d eased some of the burden she
hadn’t even realized she’d been carrying. With him she felt safe for the first time
in a very long time. It didn’t seem to matter that the war was coming, that he would
be riding off in some not-too-distant future to fight against their countrymen; he
made her feel safe and protected.

Slowly but surely, he was chipping away at her defenses. The passion they shared at
night had spilled over into the
day—and not just because of the romantic gestures like the bath, flowers, sweets,
and ribbons. It was hard to stay distant with a man who knew every part of her body,
who could make her weep with pleasure, and who slept beside her every night. Even
watching him dress in the morning had taken on a new fascination. All these little
things that she’d never shared with a man—with anyone—before were drawing them closer.
It was so different from her first marriage. She had never shared a bed with Atholl.
Never shared a washbasin in the morning. Never helped him with his shirt and surcote.
Never jested with him. Never talked with him. She’d never known him. Not in the way
she was coming to know Kenneth.

She liked challenging him. Liked the combat of wills that had risen between them.
He made her feel bold and strong. Nothing like she’d felt with Atholl; with him she’d
been timid and accepting. Kenneth not only listened to her, he seemed interested in
what she had to say.

More and more, she could see that her new husband was nothing like her first.

He was funny and smart, wicked and passionate, and the fierce attraction was wearing
her down.

She liked him. And it terrified her.

Had she misjudged him?

He’d given her no cause to doubt him. Indeed, he was attentive almost to the point
of doting. It was clear he was trying to win her heart, but why? Was it just some
kind of game, or was it something more?

Could she dare to hope?

But she knew it was too late to ask that question. Hope had been lit that first night
and had been stoked hotter every day since.

She didn’t know how much longer she could keep her defenses up. Perhaps … perhaps
tonight, she wouldn’t.

A slow smile curled her mouth. Buoyed by the thought, she tossed off the covers and
called for her maid. She had
a busy day ahead of her and wanted to make sure she was back in plenty of time to
get ready for the massive feast planned for later today.

With tomorrow being Ash Wednesday and the beginning of Lent, this would be the last
celebration until Easter. Anticipating the deprivations of the next forty days, the
castle inhabitants would be celebrating to great excess. Given Cornwall’s lavish taste
for entertainment, it felt more like a long celebration than a preparation for war.

Though Kenneth had grumbled, she’d extracted a promise from him to dance with her.
She knew it was silly, yet she felt like a young lass at her first dance being picked
by the most handsome knight at the feast, and she was looking forward to it.

Dressing quickly, she hastened downstairs to break her fast and nearly ran into her
son. He was clutching a sword and muttering to himself, and didn’t see her right away.

She clutched his shoulders before he plowed into her. “Davey, where are you going
in such a rush?” He glanced up, and she caught a look at the dark expression on his
face. “What’s wrong?”

He twisted out of her hold, refusing to meet her gaze. “Nothing.”

But it was obvious something was wrong. She’d thought he’d seemed preoccupied the
past week but had attributed it to his duties. Now, she wondered if it was something
more. “Is there something I can do? Does it have to do with your duties? Shall I talk
to Sir John?”

He drew back in horror. “God’s blood, no! That will make it worse.”

“What worse?”

His face twisted with an emotion she couldn’t read, except that he was in turmoil.
She wanted to reach for him and comfort him, but instinctively she knew that was the
last thing he wanted right now.

“I have to go,” he said, pulling away even more as if he
sensed her impulse. “I need to get this done.” It sounded like he muttered “again,”
before he hurried out of the Hall.

Mary watched him go with the familiar sense of helplessness rising up inside her.
Being the mother of a thirteen-year-old lad was like walking through a thick forest.
At night. In the snow. Without a guidepost. Just when she thought she found the path
out, another obstacle blocked her path.

She startled, an idea taking hold. Maybe what she needed was another set of eyes.

That was it! Who better to have insight into the mindset of a young lad than someone
who’d been there? Perhaps Kenneth would be able to help?

Feeling as if a weight suddenly had been lifted from her shoulders, Mary hurried about
her tasks. For more reasons than one, she was looking forward to the night ahead.

Kenneth stormed out of the tower after breaking his fast and headed across the yard
to the armory. For a man who had spent the morning being pleasured in the way every
man dreams of being pleasured, he was in a foul mood. His body might be well sated
from more than three weeks of increasingly passionate lovemaking, but the rest of
him was teeming with frustration.

Nothing about this mission was going well. Bruce was furious that he’d married Mary
without his permission; Kenneth hadn’t been able to offset his anger with any information
of value; they were annoyed at him for straying from his task (apparently, someone
was watching him and had informed them of his little journey to Roxburgh with Clifford);
each day without practice he felt his battle skills withering like a grape in the
sun, Felton lost no opportunity to give slight and offense, making MacKay look subtle
by comparison; and to top it all off, his wee wife was proving infuriatingly resistant
to his attempts to woo her.

He didn’t understand it. He—one of the most elite warriors
in Scotland only months away from what might be the biggest battle of his life—had
been dancing attendance on her for more than two weeks like some lovesick swain from
one of the troubadours’ songs. The worst part was that he didn’t even mind. He
liked
spending time with her. Which was odd, as he could hardly characterize her as uncomplicated
and eager to please. Complicated and constantly challenging was more like it.

“Maybe they would hold your attention longer if they had something more interesting
to talk about?”
Her words came back to him. Well, she sure as hell had his interest.

Women weren’t supposed to be this difficult, damn it. But every time he thought he
was getting close to breaking through the wall she’d erected around her heart, she
countered with a bold, sensual attack guaranteed to make him lose control.

Like this morning. He’d woken to see the sun streaming across her sleeping form and
felt an unexpected wave of tenderness strike him. She looked so young and sweet. So
peaceful and uncomplicated. Unable to resist, he’d started to make love to her while
she was still half asleep. Slow and lazy, he stroked her with his hands, with his
mouth, with his tongue. He’d felt her resistance slipping away, damn it. He’d seen
it in her eyes. She was falling for him.

But then she turned the tables on him.

She’d kissed his chest before, so at first he didn’t realize what she meant to do.
It was only when her mouth slid to his stomach that he had the first inkling, and
by then it was too late.

His mind shut off and base instinct set in. With her mouth hovering inches from the
tip of him, she could have had anything she wanted from him. He didn’t think he was
the type of man who could be led around by his cock, but she’d proved him wrong.

The feel of her lips brushing him, her tongue darting out to lick him, and then—God
help him!—lips wrapping
around him and taking him deep into her mouth was more than any hot-blooded man could
withstand. He’d been so out of his mind with lust—as no doubt was intended—his slow,
tender lovemaking went to hell.

It was obvious that the skill was a new one to her, but she’d taken to the task with
such enthusiasm that he had no doubt she’d be a master in no time.

Wonderful
.

He should be counting his blessings, damn it. A wife who took to the marriage bed
with all the passion of a harlot was every man’s dream, wasn’t it?

But he didn’t want just her passion; he wanted her heart.

For his mission, damn it.

God was sure as hell having a good laugh at his expense. The first woman he’d ever
set out to woo wanted only one thing from him. And blast it, it grated.
Stud
.

His mouth tightened. It was a good thing he had no intention of letting emotion interfere
with his marriage. He wasn’t like his sister and brother. He was different.

Except he didn’t feel so different right now.

He was so irritated, he barely noticed the other soldiers gathered in the yard readying
for practice. But when he caught sight of Felton and David near the door to the armory,
his irritation turned to full-fledged anger.

The bastard was berating the lad again.

Though he hid it well around Mary and the others, Felton was taking out his anger
at their marriage on the lad. But Kenneth knew it would only be worse if he interfered.
Until he was awarded David’s wardship—which could take some time—Percy, and through
him, Felton, was David’s lord and master. Still, he couldn’t stand to see the strong
prey on the weak. Kenneth already bore the bulk of Felton’s ire, but he wanted all
of it directed toward him.

With a few more harsh words, Felton stormed off. Shoulders slumped, David slipped
dejectedly into the armory.

Kenneth would have gone in after him, but Percy intercepted him. “Ah, Sutherland.
’Tis good to see you in armor again. I’d begun to fear your arm would never heal.
Or perhaps you just have a hard time tearing yourself away from your pretty new wife?”
He laughed heartily and slapped him on the back. Kenneth tried not to frown, realizing
there was more truth in his words than he wanted to admit. He needed to focus on his
entire mission, not just turning his wife and her son. “We need you, lad,” Percy added,
still smiling, “if we’re ever to get this campaign moving.”

Kenneth showed no reaction, but his senses pricked. “Has a date been set, then?”

Percy hedged. Kenneth knew his former compatriot was beginning to trust him—but only
beginning. “More than one. The king was supposed to arrive after Easter, but now there
is word he may be delayed.” His mouth hardened. “Cornwall is eager to show off his
military prowess and has written to Edward asking to let him proceed without him.
I have urged the opposite. We need a king to rally the men, not a pretentious peacock.”

It appeared that the chasm between Cornwall and the other barons was deepening. Percy
could barely hide his disdain for the king’s favorite. Kenneth filed the information
away for the next time he could manage to get a message to Bruce and the Guard. Division
in the ranks was good for the Scots. As long as the English were fighting each other,
they would not be able to unite their strength against them. Perhaps they could even
find a way to take advantage of it?

“I assume Clifford agrees with you? I haven’t seen him around as much of late.”

Percy gave him a look that was hard to characterize. It wasn’t suspicious, but he’d
taken more note of the question than Kenneth would have liked. “There has been trouble
with the rebels in Douglasdale again. But he agrees with me, of course.”

It was a logical explanation. There was always trouble in Douglasdale. But was that
all? “Has the king given an indication of how long he will be delayed?”

“Not long, I hope.” Percy slapped him on the back again. “Time enough to get your
strength back. I know Felton is looking forward to meeting you on the lists again.
I’m afraid my champion has not forgotten the last time you nearly bested him.”