Chapter Sixteen
“You are quiet tonight, Wife,” Dougal observed casually, resting one booted foot on the curb before the simmering fire. Outside, the snow still fell, an accursed, early show of winter. He and Isobel sat alone in the drafty, high-ceilinged hall.
He had roamed far this day and taken a heavy load of silver off a fat merchant. All the while, he had thought only of returning home to his wife and the sweet reception she would give him in her bed. He had been nearly too hard to ride comfortably.
And now that he was here and the hour passing late, she began with women’s games—the withdrawn gaze and prolonged silences. He had not expected Isobel, so fiery and honest, to lower herself to that petty level, and it annoyed him.
“Have I done something to displease you?” he asked ironically.
That persuaded her to look at him, a searing, blue stare. “How could you, my lord, when I have barely seen you this day?”
“Ah, so that is it? You fancy neglect? Well, I cannot be in your bed all day long, more’s the pity. But surely we can repair there now.” He had an accounting, in his mind, of the things he wanted to do to and with her—a long accounting.
She got to her feet and glared at him. “Is that all I mean to you? A warmer for your bed?”
Dougal sighed inwardly, letting none of his aggravation show. Women—almost more trouble than they were worth. Perhaps her mood had swung due to her monthly cycle.
Evenly, he said, “You are my wife and as such deserve respect. And aye, your duties do include warming my bed.”
“Duties?” She nearly soared off her toes, in anger. He had never seen her truly enraged, though he had tasted her other passions; it might prove interesting.
He let his gaze travel over her slowly. “I thought, Wife, it was a duty you enjoyed right well.”
Her cheeks heated. “That is neither here nor there. Why did you wed with me?”
Dougal got to his feet, a deceptively lazy motion. “If you mean to rant at me, let us go upstairs. The servants will be listening.”
“There are no servants.”
“I speak of my men, who do for me about the place. Have some dignity.”
Her eyes opened in surprise, and then she turned and led the way from the hall.
She ascended the stone stairs ahead of him, and Dougal found himself admiring her taut backside, the focus of a large part of his fantasies earlier in the day.
His palms itched to touch, yet he could wait and hear her out—he possessed at least that much self control.
The chamber they now shared felt warm and cozy; she had made a few changes these last weeks—chairs, and an upholstered bench before the fire, a rug on the cold, stone floor, and a hanging blocking the cold air from the window.
Part of him appreciated that, desired the comforts almost as much as he desired her.
She spun to regard him, wild-eyed. “Now we are alone, will you speak to me?”
“Aye.” Damn it, he was still hard; being in her presence acted on him like black magic. “But I will tell you ahead of time I do not appreciate a woman’s moods, nor being held victim to them.”
“Moods?” she echoed, outraged.
He examined her briefly. “I apprehend this unfortunate display is born of your...monthly sensitivities?”
“No! I am not—” In an effort to control her anger, she paused and drew a breath. “I assure you, I am not in the habit of suffering from ‘sensitivities,’ monthly or otherwise.”
“Well, I do no’ appreciate this ill temper.”
“And, am I supposed to worry about what you appreciate?”
Dougal felt his own anger—a dark and terrible thing—sharpen. “Presumably.”
“Think again. Because you care not for my feelings—shut up in this terrible place virtually alone, fated to provide you comfort, and you will not even answer for me one question.”
“I will, if you ask it in a sane manner.”
“Sanity? He asks for sanity, in this madhouse? Why did you wed with me?”
Dougal turned away from her and poured a cup of whisky from the flask that stood ready. “You know why. The King decreed—”
“That is not the reason! A man like you—a robber, an outlaw, a thief of cattle and women—cares nothing for what the King bids him. You hate MacNab, and you wed me to get back at him, to hurt him, did you not?”
Dougal drank deep. “Why ask me questions, if you already know the answers?”
“So. It is as I said before, I am nothing more than a weapon, like a sword or a dirk. Why sleep with me, then? Why not just keep me prisoner, kick me into a corner? Would it not serve the same purpose?”
Annoyance blossomed in Dougal’s head. He sneered, “I sleep with you, woman, because it is my right. Because your body pleases me, and because MacNab will eventually discover you are here. When he does,” Dougal let his gaze flick her again, “I would make sure you already carry my son.”
She gasped and wrapped her arms about herself in a defensive gesture. “That—that is your aim?”
“He will not want you back, if you carry the black devil’s get. Neither will your father, if he turns up looking.”
“My father?”
“Had that no’ occurred to you? I figure ’tis but a matter of time. Someone in this household will talk, and word will get abroad that my new wife looks remarkably like Catherine Maitland.”
“So—” she sounded as if she had been struck, “you sleep with me to…to stake your claim?”
He shrugged with indifference he did not really feel. “Aye, and will you complain of it? You were willing to give yourself to Bertram MacNab for your sister’s sake. Him, or me—where, in your view, is the difference?”
Eyes burning, Isobel stared at him and said nothing.
“You know full well MacNab wanted sons. Should I be any different?”
“So I am naught but a…a breeding sow, am I?”
“A valuable sow, aye.” His eyes were on his cup, so he nearly missed it when she flew at him and aimed a blow with one hand. His instincts being what they were, however, he caught her wrist before the blow could connect, and glared into her eyes.
“Ah! I will not take abuse from you,” he snarled.
She refused to back down. “Yet I am fated to accept abuse from you?”
“How and when have I abused you, Wife?” He had been right; her anger inflamed him and made him want her more than ever. He now felt so hard he might burst. “By giving you my kisses, which you returned full well? By removing those garments you could not strip off quickly enough?”
“Curse you!” she spat.
He stared into her eyes. “Too late! I was accursed long before ever I met you.”
“Take your hands from me!” She strove to pull away from him.
For an instant he thought about holding her, kissing her as he had longed, feeling her melt against him into a pool of desire, as he knew she would. But no. He would not force her. Let her ask him for it.
He released her as if touching her burned—as it did. Turning away, he began stripping off his clothing—leather tunic, soft wool shirt, overly-tight trews and, finally, the kilt. When he’d finished, he turned toward her, flagrantly displaying his manhood, which surged to attention.
She looked her fill and swallowed hard. “What are you doing?”
“Going to bed, Wife. Surely that is permitted?”
“Here?”
“Have I not the right?”
“Yes, but—I thought you only stayed here when we… I warn you, I will not agree to accommodate you this night.”
He lifted a brow. “You complain when I stay only to ‘use’ you, and then you complain when I stay to sleep.”
She flushed again, the color staining her beautiful skin.
“Sleep where you will. I care not. I only want you to understand what will and will not happen this night.”
“Oh, aye, you have made yourself clear.” He climbed into the bed, taking up as much space as possible. He closed his eyes, feigning weariness. In truth, he felt anything but tired.
Isobel stood where she was for several moments, as if rooted, then went and sat in the chair by the fire.
Time slowly drew out, and Dougal’s body relaxed. The long miles ridden that day began to catch up with him, and his thoughts drifted toward sleep.
He nearly slept when he half heard, half felt Isobel move about the room.
Peering between his lashes, he watched as his wife removed her clothes and donned her night rail, some of his drowsiness leaving him as a consequence.
He knew that body of hers now, could declare the soft weight of those breasts, the silk of her long legs wrapped around him. Desire pricked at him like a fever.
She climbed into the bed, her long hair loose around her. Carefully, she strove to make herself small and assure her body avoided his.
He thought of the many mornings this fortnight past when he had waked to find her limbs twined with his, and the delectable feelings thus occasioned. He had only to reach for her now…
Yet he had vowed he would make no such move until she showed her desire—and a woman locked into a tight ball at the edge of the bed showed none such.
He was a grown man, was he not? A man who had endured tremendous pain in his life with stoic resistance. Surely he could endure this.
Yet he swore at himself bitterly before he closed his eyes again, and he had to force himself to form the mild, ironic words, “Good night, Wife—and be sure to sleep well.”