Chapter 15 #3
And still, she tried to tell herself, it was, at the least, a respite.
The thought didn’t soothe her; she simply felt empty.
And he no longer seemed amused or pleased with his own quest for the evening.
His temper seemed sharp, ragged as the edge of a saw.
Perhaps it was time to retreat with a final word, if possible.
She stared at him coolly, determined not to show her fury, or any emotion regarding him whatsoever.
She smiled.
“Fine, m’laird. You’ve had your amusement. You’ve mocked and teased me, and taken revenge. Tormented me, when you knew the outcome of this evening from the beginning. As it happens, you’ve arranged the very marriage I wished, one in name only. Good night, Laird Waryk. Sleep well.”
She spun about, not bothering with her gown.
She was furious, bizarrely hurt, and close to tears.
But it was her turn to taunt his senses, if nothing more.
He had taught her much in a matter of moments.
She walked slowly through the doorway to the bedroom and straight to bed, swaying her hips confidently as she did so.
He would not touch her again. Not tonight.
She lay upon the bed, closing her eyes tightly in the near darkness. She brought the furs around her then, as she shivered with the cold. She closed her eyes. She feigned sleep. She should have been so glad, happy enough to lie here gloating …
She wasn’t happy at all. She had gotten what she would have wanted most, had she been asked, but she felt strangely bereft, and she found herself wondering what it would have been like had he been lying beside her, had she slept in his arms, felt his strength, his warmth, his protection.
Far from pleased, she was keenly aware of being alone, cold, and wretched.
He hadn’t wanted to marry her; he had done so because he was the king’s man, and because he wanted Blue Isle and the power and position that went with it. He had never lied.
She lay very still, and was more wretched when she heard him go out and whistle for Mercury. Sarah’s words came back to haunt her, and she wondered where he was going, and in whose bed he would spend his night.
When she was certain he was gone, she rose. A fur wrapped around her, she walked to the outer room. She moved the heavy skin that covered one of the window vents and looked out onto the moonlit night, wondering why she still felt so tumultuous, so wretchedly awake and unhappy.
She wasn’t alone, she saw. Good loyal Angus sat out by an old oak, chipped at a piece of wood. Was he protecting her from whatever dangers might lurk in the woods?
Or was he her prison keeper, seeing that she didn’t disappear into the forest, seek a different escape?
She silently returned to the bedroom, desperate to sleep.
Such sweet oblivion would not come.
She was still awake, hours later, when he returned, though she continued to pretend to sleep when she heard him cast off his sword and boots, and walk quietly to the bed to look over her.
She couldn’t see him. She felt him watching her. Felt his eyes. Felt the strange warmth that invaded her, and again, she could too vividly remember the taste of his kiss, the scent of the man, the vital heat of his body.
She nearly jumped when he touched her, his fingers light, moving down the length of her hair. Somehow, she remained still.
She didn’t dare breathe.
With a brush of his knuckles, he smoothed a lock of her hair from her face.
And strangely, again that night, his touch was so gentle it might have been tender.
She wished that she had curled more deeply beneath the covers.
He watched her, and she didn’t know what he saw in her, and she wished that she could hide far more of her body, her mind, and her soul.
She had made him her enemy, and it was too late to go back. He didn’t trust her, she couldn’t trust him. She had said and done things that she couldn’t change now. She had meant to hurt him at times, and she had hurt herself.
What did he see? Why did he stay so long, his eyes upon her, just the brush of his fingers touching her still …
At length, he turned away. The door to the bedroom closed, and she heard him moving in the outer room. Pouring wine, drinking it, pouring more.
He remained in the cottage. And still, she lay awake.
Eventually, she did sleep, and it was in the midst of the peace and rest she had so desperately craved that a nagging realization woke her.
He knew too much about her. In her anger and rebellion, she had given away far too much.
He knew that the man she had wanted as her husband was Ewan MacKinny. Someone had told him. She had always thought that it would be bitter enough, painful enough, to see Ewan again as it was. And now …
Oh, God. What would he do with Ewan?
He had threatened to kill at the slightest provocation.
She suddenly felt very alone.
And very afraid.
She was coming to know him so well.
She didn’t know him at all. Yet it was disturbing to realize that the evening would have ended better if only she’d slept in his arms.