Chapter Twelve
Ronan didn’t understand the change in his wife as she turned her back to him and promptly moved to the far corner of the room. In the shadows where the light didn’t touch her, he heard the soft swish of fabric over skin as she disrobed.
Somehow, hearing her nakedness rather than seeing it still enticed him.
He was growing mad from his increasing need.
He’d enjoyed the evening with her. Making her smile and laugh.
Her witty sparring. He’d hoped to continue their easy banter until they drifted asleep.
But she’d turned cold. Did she think he planned to push himself upon her?
He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought of how much he’d enjoy making love to her. His body ached for release after years of loneliness but for his own hand. And that was only done on the rare occasions when he found himself alone. Tonight, her smile alone had made him swell with interest.
She was his wife. She was his. But as she slipped under the blankets, keeping her back to him, he knew she didn’t welcome his touch.
He’d never force her, nor would he beg. He’d waited five long years; he could wait a bit longer.
Tonight hadn’t been about sex, though his thoughts had gone there.
He’d only wanted to get to know her to better determine the truth.
What he knew so far was that his people and his warriors respected her.
She didn’t sit around all day casting orders for people to see to her whims. She was nothing like his mother.
Or if she was, she’d found a more effective way to get the power she wanted.
It hadn’t gone unnoticed how the men in the hall hadn’t stood down until she’d given a nod—her silent order to stay.
Ronan’s order had not been enough.
He removed his belts and kilt and slid under the covers beside the woman feigning sleep.
Her breathing was much too quick to be at rest. He stroked two fingers down her arm and watched as gooseflesh sprang to her creamy skin.
She was interested in him, yet she denied him and herself the pleasure of a proper reunion.
That could only mean one thing. His wife was angry at him.
He didn’t need to think long on why. He’d left without so much as a note. He’d been overwhelmed with excitement and anticipation the first few days after he’d left, but before he’d even made it to France, he’d started to think of Brenna each night before falling asleep.
He’d wondered what she was doing. At first, he thought she wouldn’t have minded he’d gone and had even convinced himself she was likely glad since a stranger was her husband.
And she had been a stranger to him. This was why he felt he didn’t owe her anything more than his fidelity.
But when her first letter arrived, he felt the first stirrings of guilt.
He’d wondered what words waited for him inside.
Would it be a scold or angry threats? Or would it be worse than that?
Would she wish him well and pray for his safekeeping?
He didn’t think he could bear to read her words of comfort or understanding.
He surely hadn’t deserved them back then.
And he didn’t deserve her kindness or patience now.
He wanted to apologize. To speak the words that would ease the way toward whatever life they might have together. But that was yet another thing he didn’t deserve—her forgiveness.
What must she have thought that morning when she woke to find he was gone? Had she come down that first morning looking for him? Who had told her he had gone to France? It could have only been Geordie as he was the only one who’d known. How long had it taken for her to settle in here?
All these questions… She was right to hold on to her anger. He was surprised she hadn’t run him through with the dirk she kept on the nightstand.
He didn’t like to think she felt so unsafe in their home that she needed to sleep with a blade at hand. But the threat she’d made that morning in the forest seemed to prove that Ewan had hurt his wife.
He put out the light and settled just a little closer to her, feeling the heat of her body. He needed to know the truth. He wouldn’t stop until he found out who was lying to him.
***
It took Brenna too long to fall asleep after she and her husband settled in bed.
She’d allowed her anger to grip her and ruin the pleasant evening.
She’d let her guard down as they shared a meal and the children’s entertainment.
It was so easy to let go when he was smiling with those warm brown eyes open to her.
She wrestled with the strange feelings long into the night until she eventually fell asleep, only to be roused again what felt like minutes later in the worst of ways.
She woke to pain, unable to pull in a breath.
She scratched at the hand crushing her throat, but it didn’t move.
The weight above her pushed what little breath she had left out of her chest in a gust. Her only thought was that she’d been a fool to fall asleep without barring the door.
Ewan would undoubtedly kill her this time.
But as she reached for the dirk on the bedside table, her hand found nothing but an empty bed.
Warm from where Ronan had slept. Where was he?
Had Ewan killed Ronan? Giving up on the dirk or trying to dislodge the hands at her throat, she moved her fingers up the arm and found a face.
Pressing viciously on his eye, she heard a roar of rage.
The weight lifted, and the man rolled over.
Enough moonlight came through the window to see the man gasping beside her; it was not Ewan but Ronan.
Good Lord. Her husband was trying to kill her. Did he genuinely hate her that much?
She coughed and wheezed while he thrashed next to her, his eyes closed as he shouted out for help. As her breathing became easier, she realized he hadn’t intended to hurt her at all. He was obviously in the throes of a nightmare.
She took some comfort in knowing he hadn’t intentionally tried to murder her in her sleep.
“Ronan—” She tried to speak, but it came out as a hoarse croaking sound.
She nudged his arm and ducked when his hand came flying out as if holding a sword to slay an enemy.
Twisting to the side, she used her legs and pushed him off the bed.
He fell to the floor with a loud thump. A groan of pain had her out of the bed on the other side and around to light the lantern so to assess the damage.
He’d fallen on his side but had been spared more injury by the pile of clothes he must have discarded there before joining her in the bed.
Again, she tried to speak but could not utter more than a whisper.
She went to the pitcher and poured a glass of water to quench the burning in her throat, but she could barely swallow.
“Brenna?” her husband said, sitting up and watching her. “Why am I on the floor?”
“You— You were hav—” She tried swallowing again and forced out, “A bad dream.”
He was up off the floor and standing before her in a flash. “Did I hurt ye, lass? What did I do?”
She pointed to her throat, and he moved her so he could see her better. Or perhaps worse was the more accurate term for his face crumbled. “Bloody hell. I could have strangled you to death.”
“You’re bleeding.” She pointed to his temple, where a small cut oozed down his cheek.
“I don’t care. Are you harmed? I could have crushed your throat and killed ye,” he repeated, though she was well aware of how close it had come to being the case.
He paced away only to return to her immediately. He was having trouble reckoning what had nearly happened.
“I’m so sorry, Brenna. I didn’t mean to—” He reached for her, but she pulled back on instinct, not because of what he had nearly done minutes ago, but because he was a man and thanks to Ewan, any such movements caused such a reaction.
And in truth, the memory of his attack was too fresh in her mind. She was rattled and didn’t want to be touched. Not while her throat still burned.
“I’ll get Moira. She’ll know what to do.” He stood and headed for the door in only his shirt.
“Nay.” Brenna managed to stay him with a hand after taking in the enticing curve of his buttocks through the thin linen. She shook her head. “Sleeping.”
“I don’t care if she’s sleeping. You need a healer right now. She’ll come if I call.”
Brenna rolled her eyes as he rushed out of the room.
He came right back, snatched up his kilt, and hastily pulled on his boots before leaving again.
She knew Moira wouldn’t be able to do much.
Some willow bark tea for the pain or honeyed mead to coat her burning throat was about all that could be done.
She heard Ronan’s cursing before he entered their room again. “The woman is out helping with a birth in the village. I’ll take ye to her.” He moved to scoop her up from where she sat on the edge of their bed.
Brenna shook her head again and said, “Kitchen.” She stood alone and went toward the door, picking up her robe. While he didn’t move to try to lift her again, he quickly supported her when she wobbled. The stones were cool under her feet.
Despite the warmth of the July days, the castle still turned cold at night.
Together, they made their way down to the kitchens, where she made her drink, adding extra honey to sweeten the bitterness of the willow bark.
The first sip burned a little, but she could swallow without discomfort after a few more.
Either the honey was working, or the mead was dulling the pain. Whichever, she didn’t much care. “Do ye have nightmares often?” she asked, her voice a bit stronger.
“Aye.”
“What are they about?” It must have been the mead. She wouldn’t have asked him something so personal without the extra courage. Her defenses were low while her curiosity was in full force.