Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Colin learned long ago that silence was often more dangerous than shouting. A shouting woman had a grievance she wished heard. A silent one had already begun arranging the knives in her mind.
Elspeth had been silent from the hall to the chamber. She walked beside him with her chin lifted and her hands clasped before her, every inch the insulted lady, though he felt the tension in her even through the space between them.
At dinner she fought with smiles, parried with courtesy, and left half his household wondering whether they had been challenged or entertained.
She did not once ask him for rescue. She did not once look at him as if she expected kindness.
Now, within the privacy of their chamber, she stood near the bed as if it were an execution block.
Colin shut the door. The latch had barely settled before she turned her head toward it, quick as a hare hearing a hawk.
She tried to hide the movement at once, pretending instead to examine the fire.
But he saw it. He saw everything tonight: the high color in her cheeks, the stiffness of her shoulders and the way her fingers worried a fold of her sleeve until she caught herself and folded her hands again.
He crossed the room and began unfastening his belt.
Elspeth went still. Colin drew the leather free and set it upon the chair.
He had no intention of terrifying her. He wished only to remove his boots, his doublet, and the day’s noise from his bones.
Yet when he glanced at her, she had the look of a woman watching a wolf take polite steps toward the fold.
He pulled his doublet from his shoulders. Her face turned crimson.
“Ye may breathe,” he said dryly.
“I am breathing.”
“Nae well.”
Her mouth tightened. “I was unaware ye had appointed yerself steward of me lungs.”
He almost smiled.
He laid the doublet aside. “I am merely concerned they may surrender before ye dae.”
Something fierce flashed in her eyes, but beneath it was fear and not the useful sort, sharpened by danger and made ready to strike. This was an older fear, an instructed fear, one seemingly placed into her hands by someone who had thought herself merciful for warning her.
His amusement cooled. He sat to remove one boot, then the other.
When he stood again, Elspeth moved. At first, he did not understand what she was doing.
She had gone to one of the chests, taken a strip of linen from it, and now stood with the grave determination of a woman preparing for siege.
Her hands shook only a little, which somehow made the sight worse.
“Elspeth?”
She ignored him. She placed the cloth between her teeth, climbed onto the bed, and lay down flat upon her back.
Colin stared.
There were few sights in his life that had ever robbed him of speech. Battle had not. Death had not. A priest trembling through a forced wedding while knives flashed outside the church had not.
His wife, biting a linen strip with the solemn courage of a condemned saint, very nearly did.
She arranged herself stiffly, with her arms at her sides and her eyes fixed upon the canopy above her. The cloth made one cheek bulge slightly. Her blush had spread to her throat.
Colin looked at her. Then, at the cloth. Then back at her.
“What,” he asked slowly, “are ye daeing?”
Her eyes slid toward him. She took the cloth from her mouth just far enough to speak.
“I should have thought even a barbarian would ken.”
He folded his arms. “Enlighten me.”
Color burned hotter in her face. “Ye are taking off yer clothes.”
“Aye. A habit I have before sleeping.”
“Dinnae make sport of me.”
“I am trying nae tae.”
That, apparently, was the wrong answer. Her eyes narrowed with wounded dignity, though the effect was somewhat diminished by the strip of linen clutched in one fist.
“I ken what ye want,” she snarled.
“Dae ye?”
“Aye. Ye mean tae claim yer wife.” Her voice faltered only on the last word, and he hated that he noticed.
“And since ye have already bought me, dragged me from a church, carried me about as though I were a sack of grain, and announced often enough that I belong tae ye, I have little confidence that me unwillingness would prove a mighty obstacle.”
Colin’s jaw tightened. She did not see it. Or if she did, she mistook the cause.
“So,” she continued, with the air of someone walking bravely toward a cliff, “I am ready.”
“Fer what?”
Her chin lifted. “Fer the terror.”
Silence fell. Then, despite himself, despite the anger that had risen cold and black at the thought of what had taught her to expect such things, something in him gave way. It wasn’t laughter, but rather an astonished breath that might have become it if he had not held it back.
Elspeth saw. “Dinnae laugh.”
“I’m nae laughing.”
“Ye wish tae.”
“Desperately.”
She sat up at once, looking offended. “Then perhaps ye should, and we may both be done with humiliation at the same time.”
Colin studied her. There she was, his unwilling bride, wrapped in silk and fury, armed with nothing but pride and a strip of linen, having decided that if terror must come, she would meet it with her teeth clenched and her dignity bloodied but alive.
He ought to have been irritated. He ought to have reminded her who he was, what his name meant, how little patience he had for insults in his own chamber.
Instead, admiration moved through him so sharply that he did not trust himself to speak. She mistook his silence and put the cloth back between her teeth. That finished him.
Something inside of him burst open and he laughed.
It wasn’t the short, unwilling sound that sometimes escaped him before he could kill it.
A true laugh, pulled from somewhere low and forgotten.
Elspeth’s eyes widened over the cloth, first in horror, then outrage.
She looked so deeply affronted that he laughed harder.
She tore the linen from her mouth. “I fail tae see the merriment.”
“I dinnae doubt it.”
“If this is how ye begin ravishment, Laird MacKenzie, I must tell ye, it lacks solemnity.”
That nearly undid him again. He crossed the room. Her expression changed. The humor did not vanish from the scene, but fear returned to her body in one swift tightening. She tried to hide it by lying down again, as rigid as a plank and twice as stubborn.
Colin stopped beside the bed and looked down at her.
“Ye think I would force ye?”
“I think men take what they want and call it right.”
It was too calmly said, too well taught.
His amusement receded. “Who told ye that?”
Her eyes flickered. “Nay one.”
“Elspeth.”
Her lips pressed together. He lowered himself over her slowly, giving her time to curse him, strike him, flee him, or all three. She did none. She only watched him with wide, furious eyes, as if determined not to blink first before the monster devoured her.
He braced one hand beside her head and brought the other to her cheek. She flinched, so he stilled. A moment passed, then another. When she did not pull away, he touched her again, lighter this time, with the backs of his fingers grazing the heated softness of her cheek. Her breath caught.
“There,” he murmured. “Nay terror yet.”
“That is hardly proof of innocence.”
“Nay. But it is a beginning.”
Her hair was still pinned too tightly from dinner. He found the first pin and drew it out. Another one followed. Dark red-gold strands slipped down over the pillow, loosening beneath his fingers.
“What are ye daeing now?” she whispered.
“Untying ye.”
“I am nae a parcel.”
“Nay,” he agreed, watching her hair spill over his hand. “Ye are far more troublesome.”
She ought to have snapped back. He saw the answer rise in her eyes and fail upon her tongue when his fingers brushed the side of her throat.
Interesting.
He leaned closer. Her body went still again, but not in quite the same way. This stillness had listening in it. He lowered his mouth near her neck, not touching at first, only breathing her in. Lavender, smoke, wine from the hall, and beneath it something warm and clean.
Her pulse leapt beneath the delicate skin.
“Elspeth,” he said softly, “why were ye biting the cloth?”
She turned her face away a little, though there was nowhere to escape. “So I wouldnae scream.”
His hand paused in her hair.
“Who told ye tae dae that?”
Her lashes lowered. “Me maither said it was best nae tae scream, that tears may anger a husband. Skye said she had heard some women bite something, so I thought…” She stopped, with mortification flooding her face. “It daesnae matter what I thought.”
Colin stared at her. Then laughter rose again, quieter this time, helpless and dark with disbelief.
She glared at him. “Ye are vile.”
“Aye,” he nodded, still smiling. “But nae fer the reason ye think.”
He bent and pressed his mouth to the side of her neck.
She gasped. The sound shot through him with dangerous speed.
He felt her hands clutch at the coverlet, not pushing him away, nor drawing him closer, only holding fast, as though the world had tilted beneath her and she did not know which direction was safe.
He kissed her again, a slow touch beneath her ear.
“Colin,” she breathed, and he did not think she meant to say his name at all.
“That,” he murmured against her skin, “is closer tae what I prefer.”
“What?”
“Willingness.”
“I am nae willing.”
“Nay.” He lifted his head and looked down at her. “Nae yet.”
Her brows drew together. “Yet?”
“When I take ye,” he said, letting each word settle, “ye willnae be lying beneath me like a martyr awaiting the axe.”
Her mouth parted in outrage. “I was prepared with dignity.”
“Ye were prepared like a woman expecting bad weather and worse manners.”
“I was prepared fer terror.”
He touched her cheek again, gentler than any instinct in him found wise. “Then ye were prepared for the wrong man.”
Her throat moved. He lowered himself closer, letting his weight rest carefully, not enough to trap her, only enough to make her aware that he could, that he chose not to. Her eyes searched his face as if this restraint were another form of trickery.
“When I take ye,” he promised, “ye will want me tae.”
A disbelieving sound escaped her.
His mouth curved. “Aye. Just so. Ye will be willing. Ye will be warm and soft and furious with me fer kenning it. And if ye beg, it willnae be fer mercy.”
Her face went crimson. “I will never beg ye fer anything.”
“Nae even fer pleasure?” he asked.
She looked as though he had begun speaking in Latin. “Women dinnae—”
“They dae.”
“Nay.”
“Aye.”
Her certainty faltered, and he saw the exact instant curiosity slipped through the crack fear had left behind.
He let his hand drift from her shoulder to the front of her gown.
He touched her over the fabric, slowly, giving her every chance to stop him.
Her breath caught again when his palm shaped the curve of her breast through silk and linen. Her eyes flew wide.
Colin held still. “Say nay, and I stop.”
Her lips moved, but no sound came. He brushed his thumb once, lightly, feeling her pebbled nipple through the dainty fabric.
Her body answered before her pride could forbid it.
A tremor ran through her, small but unmistakable.
Confusion filled her face so sweetly, so fiercely, that desire hit him harder than he liked.
“This is impossible,” she whispered.
“What is?”
“That.” Her voice had gone thin. “Whatever that was.”
“That was yer body telling ye yer maither didnae ken every truth.”
“The marital bed isnae about pleasure fer women.”
The words were spoken as fact, but her eyes pleaded with him to contradict them. So he did.
“It can be.”
She stared at him.
“It should be,” he added, more roughly than he intended.
For a moment neither moved. The fire snapped softly. Outside the narrow window, the castle settled into night around them, all stone and shadow and guarded doors. In the bed beneath him, his wife looked up as if he had placed an impossible country before her and told her it had always existed.
Colin drew his hand away.
She blinked. “What are ye daeing?”
“Sleeping.”
He rolled off her, stood, and walked to the other side of the bed. Elspeth pushed herself up on her elbows, with her hair loose around her shoulders, her lips parted, her face flushed with fear, anger, and a bewilderment so complete he nearly smiled again.
“S-sleeping?” she repeated.
“Aye.”
“But ye—” She stopped.
He pulled back the covers and got beneath them. “Ye sound disappointed.”
“I am nae disappointed.”
“Good.”
“I am perplexed.”
“That sounds more like ye.”
She stared at him in open disbelief. “Ye are simply going tae sleep?”
“I was, before ye arranged yerself fer sacrifice and made the evening memorable.”
She remained upright a moment longer, clutching the linen strip as though unsure whether to use it as a weapon, a gag, or evidence in some future accusation. Then, with a stiffness that attempted dignity and achieved indignation, she lay down beside him… far beside him.
Colin turned onto his back and closed his eyes. For several breaths, there was only quiet. Then the bed shifted as Elspeth turned her head toward him.
“Colin?”
“Aye?”
“If ye tell anyone about the cloth, I will murder ye in yer sleep.”
His mouth curved in the dark.
“There she is,” he murmured.
“What daes that mean?”
“It means I feared terror had made ye dull.”
A pillow struck his shoulder. Colin laughed once, softly, and let it remain between them. But after the chamber quieted again, he kept his eyes open in the dark.
He had bought a bride to settle a debt. He expected resentment, inconvenience, and perhaps a woman who would weep until he learned to ignore it.
Instead, he had been given Elspeth Fraser: sharp-tongued, frightened, brave, and lying beside him with a strip of linen still clenched in her hand as though she might yet defeat marriage by strangling it.
He ought to have found that troublesome.
He did.
He also found it far more dangerous than he had expected.