Chapter 8
In the courtyard below, Boyd was having a very different conversation with Thamas.
"The mistress seems well enough," Thamas observed carefully. "Handled the journey better than I expected."
"She always was stronger than she looked," Boyd muttered, then cursed himself for the slip.
Thamas's eyes sharpened with interest. "Ye knew her before? Before all this?"
"Leave it, Thamas."
"Just saying, laird, she doesn't seem the scheming type. Quiet, aye. Proud, certainly. But there's a sadness about her—"
"I said leave it!" Boyd snapped.
Thamas raised his hands in surrender. "As ye say. Just be careful. Whatever happened between ye in the past, perhaps ye can try to make peace with it."
Boyd said nothing, but Thamas's words echoed in his head long after the man had walked away.
He'd been so certain of his anger, his righteous fury.
But watching Bella these past few days and lord did he watch her, he could not keep his damned eyes off her, he could not help but admire her quiet dignity, her resilience.
Most noble women he knew would not have borne the journey as well.
He had come across his share of them at court who carried on like banshees at the slightest discomfort.
But not his Bella.
He wondered what had happened to her in those ten years? More importantly, why did he care?
Boyd looked up at the window of their room and saw her silhouette against the candlelight.
His body tightened with want so fierce it nearly brought him to his knees.
He'd been harsh with her earlier, cruelly so, about not bedding her. But it had been self-preservation.
With a growl of frustration, Boyd turned and headed back into the inn, this time to the scullery where the cook mentioned a hot bath had been readied for him.
The bath was quick and efficient, several buckets of hot water, a rough cloth, and lye soap. Not luxurious, but it served its purpose. Boyd scrubbed away the day's grime and sweat, trying not to think about his beautiful, maddening wife awaiting him upstairs.
Afterwards, he dressed in clean clothes and joined his men in the common room for a meal. They ate in companionable silence, exhausted from the long day's ride. But Boyd barely tasted the food. His mind was upstairs with his wife. He prayed he had the strength to keep his hands to himself.
"Ye should go to her," Thamas said quietly, interrupting Boyd's brooding thoughts. "The mistress has been alone long enough."
Boyd wanted to argue, but Thamas was right. He couldn't hide down here all night like a coward.
Finally, when he could delay no longer, Boyd climbed the stairs to their room. He paused outside the door, his hand on the latch.
He took a deep breath and opened the door as quietly as he could.
The room was warm from the fire, bathed in soft golden light. Then he saw the bed.
Boyd stopped short.
The bed was empty. Made up neatly, undisturbed.
Where was she?
His eyes found her then, and his breath caught.
Bella lay curled on the small trundle cot that had been positioned at the far end of the room. She'd wrapped herself in her thin cloak, using her travel bag as a pillow. Her dark hair spilled across the makeshift bedding, and in the firelight, she looked impossibly vulnerable. Impossibly beautiful.
Boyd's jaw clenched. He wondered what she was doing sleeping on the cot like a common servant when there was a perfectly good bed.
Without thinking, Boyd closed the door then moved toward her. She looked exhausted. There were dark shadows beneath her eyes, her face pale even in the warm firelight. He shook his head at his bonnie, maddening wife who refused to complain or bite back.
Carefully, so as not to wake her, Boyd bent down and began to slide his arms beneath her. He decided he'd lift her to the bed where she belonged, where she'd be comfortable. But in a heartbeat, everything changed.
Bella's eyes flew open. Her body moved with a speed and precision that left Boyd no time to react. She planted her hands on his chest and used his own momentum against him, pushing hard as she simultaneously swept his legs.
Boyd stumbled backward, directly toward the bed. He hit the mattress hard, bouncing slightly, and before he could even process what had happened, Bella was on him.
She straddled his hips, her thighs bracketing his body, one hand pressed against his chest while the other held a blade, a wickedly sharp knife, poised at his throat.
Boyd went completely still.
Not just because of the shock.
But because Bella was on top of him, her body pressed intimately against his, her shift riding up to reveal the soft skin of her thighs, her unbound hair falling like a dark curtain around them.
And his body, damn him, his treacherous body, was responding with undeniable interest.
"Bella!" he hissed, trying to ignore the way his hips fit perfectly into the cradle of hers. "'Tis me!"
Her eyes, wild and unfocused with sleep and adrenaline, slowly came into focus above him in the dim light. She blinked once. Twice.
"Boyd?" Her breath smelled like mint and her voice was a breathless whisper. But the way she said his name, breathy, confused, her lips parted in surprise, sent heat straight through him and he hardened instantly.
She was straddling him. Her weight pressed against him in all the right places. And she was wearing nothing but a thin garment that had shifted dangerously low on one shoulder.
Boyd felt himself growing harder by the second.
"Aye," he growled, his voice coming out rougher than he intended. "Yer husband, in case ye've forgotten."
"Oh!" Bella's eyes widened in horror as she seemed to realize their position. "I'm sorry. I thought, I thought ye were an intruder."
She started to move, to climb off him, and Boyd knew that if she shifted even slightly she would feel exactly how much his body wanted her.
In one swift movement Boyd caught her wrists and rolled them both. Now he was on top, pinning her to the bed beneath him, his hands bracketing her head, his body covering hers.
The blade clattered to the floor, forgotten.
They were face to face now, mere inches apart. Boyd could feel every curve of her delicious body beneath his. Could see the rapid pulse at her throat. Could smell lavender and soap and something uniquely her that made him want to bury his face in her neck.
"Where the hell did ye learn to do that?" he demanded.
Bella stared up at him, her chest heaving, making her breasts press against his chest with each breath. Her eyes were wide, her lips parted.
This close, Boyd could see flecks of amber in her brown eyes. Could see the way her pupils had dilated. Could feel the heat radiating from her skin.
"I thought ye were a mercenary," she whispered. "Trying to rob me."
"'Tis my room as well," Boyd growled, trying to ignore the way her body felt beneath his. Soft and warm and perfectly fitted to him.
"I ken that, but I did not think ye'd actually share it with me."
"Why not? I'm yer husband."
"Aye, but ye took so long to return—" She broke off, her cheeks flushing that beautiful pink that made Boyd want to trace the color with his lips.
Boyd knew he was in danger. Yet here he was, pressed against her on the bed, his body hard and aching, every instinct screaming at him to lift up her shift, loosen his trews and consummate the marriage until neither of them could think straight.
He could feel her heart racing beneath him.
Boyd forced himself to roll away, putting distance between them before he did something unforgivable. He sat on the edge of the bed, his back to her, trying to get his breathing, and his body, under control.
"Then why were ye skulking about?" Bella demanded behind him, her voice shaking slightly. "I sensed a shadow hovering over me and assumed the worst."
Boyd rubbed his jaw where she'd landed a surprisingly solid hit with her elbow during their struggle. "I wasn't skulking. I was going to carry ye to the bed, ye stubborn wench."
"Oh."
Boyd turned to look at her and immediately regretted it.
Bella sat in the middle of the bed where he'd left her, her shift askew, one shoulder completely bare now, her hair a wild tangle around her face. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips swollen from being pressed together, her eyes bright.
She looked thoroughly rumpled. Thoroughly kissed, even though he hadn't laid a finger on her in that way.
She looked like every fantasy he'd ever had in the last ten years.
Boyd's body tightened again, and he had to look away.
He heard her rustle, heard the soft sound of fabric as she wrapped her shawl around herself.
"Damn it, woman," Boyd said. "Ye never used to be so violent."
"And ye never used to be so surly," Bella shot back, some of her spirit returning. "Like a bodach who lost his prize bull." She got off the bed, picked up her knife and stowed it away.
Boyd felt his lips twitch despite himself. It was such a ridiculous image that he almost smiled before he could catch himself and hide it.
They were silent for a long moment, the tension in the room shifting into something different. Awareness.
"Why are ye sleeping on a cot, Bella?"
"'Tis the safest position. I can hear anyone trying to enter."
"Well, sheath yer claws and get on the bed," Boyd gestured to the bed. "We've a long day ahead tomorrow. Get some sleep, and I'll keep watch."
"Ye'll keep watch?"
"Aye. 'Tis what I said, isn't it?" Boyd moved toward the cot that Bella had vacated. "Now go on. Get some rest."
"Boyd—" Bella started, then stopped. "The bed is large enough for two. We could share it. I can keep a respectful distance."
Boyd's hands clenched at his sides. The offer was so tempting. But he did not trust himself.
"No," he replied curtly.
Boyd settled himself on the uncomfortable cot, already regretting his chivalry. The damned thing was far too small for a man of his size, and his body was still humming with arousal from their encounter.
Bella finally settled on the bed as they lay in the semi-darkness, the fire casting dancing shadows on the walls. The tension had eased slightly, but the air still felt charged.
Finally, unable to help himself, Boyd broke the silence. "Who was the warrior that taught ye that move, Bella?" There was an edge to his voice he couldn't quite hide. A touch of jealousy. "I thought no men were allowed in the abbey?"
There was a long pause.
"No man taught me," Bella replied truthfully.
Boyd waited for her to elaborate, but she said nothing more. Just turned on her side, facing away from him, clearly signaling the conversation was over.
But Boyd's mind was racing. If no man had taught her, then who? And where had she gotten that blade? The move she'd used on him was sophisticated. The kind of thing that came from serious training.
"Bella, I want the name of the man who taught ye. Was it a lover?"
"I told ye, no man taught me and there was no lover."
"Bella," he growled.
"Sister Beatrice at the abbey taught me."
"A nun taught ye?"
"Aye, she taught me to defend myself in case of attack."
"So, it wasn't yer lover?"
"Good night, Boyd," she replied, ignoring his question.
Boyd stared at the ceiling, listening to her breathing and tried to ignore the discomfort of the too-small cot.
Boyd tried to ignore the way his body still hummed with awareness from having her beneath him, and then on top of him. He tried to ignore the growing suspicion that everything he thought he knew about Bella Sutherland might be wrong.
***