Chapter 4
Gwendolyn fought for calm at her husband’s alarming reminder of their upcoming wedding night, of his expectations, of the role she must play.
She stared at the celebratory crowd, the blur of smiling faces, toasts, and laughter, wished she was leagues away, anywhere to avoid climbing the steps to her chamber and to her fate.
“Lady Balfour,” Father Iames said, his voice rough with concern as he halted before her, “your face has grown quite pale. Are you ill?”
Lady Balfour, proof of the deed done, confirmation her coveted freedom to live the life she chose was gone. Wanting to shout her outrage, she forced herself to smile at her friend, refusing to add to his concern. “I admit being a bit tired.”
At her side, Lord Balfour’s gaze shifted to her, and his mouth hardened into a frown.
Disapproval narrowed the priest’s eyes as he glanced at him, and her throat tightened, humbled the cleric would, however subtly, dare censor this fierce warrior. Well she understood the expectations of her this night.
“I thought you had left, Father.”
“I went to pack. Before I departed, I wanted to say good-bye.” The cleric slanted his gaze toward her husband, cooled. “Take care of Lady Gwendolyn.”
Lord Balfour gave a solemn nod. “I swear to you that she will be well cared for.”
The elder’s shoulders relaxed. “I thank you. Once my business in Rome is done, I will return.” Father Iames gave her hand a gentle squeeze, then the elder wove his way through the crowd until the flow of his black garb was lost within the mill of bodies.
Moments later, the entry to the keep opened, and her chest squeezed tight as her ally slipped into the darkness.
Her husband took her hand. “’Tis time we went upstairs.”
The hours ahead, secluded with this stranger who now ruled her life, crashed through her in an unnerving rush. Needing a moment more to compose herself, she glanced at the earl. “I would like to remain a while longer.”
He leaned close to her ear. “I willna linger until those well into their cups haul you upstairs like a marital offering to our bed.”
Heat stroked her cheeks at his reference to the drunken escort many a newlywed bride received to her bedchamber.
Lord Balfour tightened his grip and guided her toward the turret.
“They are leaving!” a deep male voice called from behind them.
“Dinna let them go without us!” another man shouted, and the crowd roared with laughter.
Her husband cursed under his breath, and scooped her into his arms.
She gasped. “What are you doing?”
“Saving us both an awkward scene.” Bróccín sprinted up the steps.
Cradled against his chest, she swore she could almost hear his heart pounding through his garb. Was he as unsettled as she?
On the second floor, he paused. “Which chamber is yours?”
“At the end.”
The slap of footsteps and shouts rose from the turret.
On a curse, he bolted past paintings of the castle’s founders, the torchlight scraping across his taut expression without mercy. Once inside, he kicked the door shut, set her down, and then slid the bar into place.
Drunken calls and laughter grew in the corridor. A moment later, banging sounded against the wooden entry.
She held her breath.
So did he.
Their gazes met and she caught a glimmer of awareness in his eyes that made her heart thump anew.
“I dinna think they will let you in, Nigel,” a slurring voice called.
Muffled laughter rang out.
“Did someone bring the wine?” a man yelled. “We could be here for some time.”
* * * *
Amid the calls for drink, the lewd suggestions of the drunken men in the hallway settled into errant shouts, bawdy songs, and laughter.
Silently cursing the pallor of Gwendolyn’s elegant face, Aiden released her, then took a careful step away from the door. As if he bloody wanted to be cloistered with her this night. A role he must play as she believed their marriage was real, and that in the hours ahead he would claim his marital rights.
His gaze lingered on her soft curves, and another burst of heat shot through him. To distract himself, he glanced around the room, taking in the elegance and warmth.
A fire blazed in the hearth. The shimmer of flames entwining with candles placed around the room illuminating the chamber within their golden glow. Several chests carved with intricate Celtic designs sat along the far wall, and drawings of birds hung above. On a corner table lay a basket filled with bottles of wine, a selection of cheese, a variety of apples, and a loaf of bread.
Aiden fisted his hands as he caught sight of the sturdy oak bed. Swaths of green satin fell in luxurious folds from a polished circular mount overhead to accent an intricately carved frame. An ivory comforter, embellished with gold flowers woven around the rim, draped over the bed, the corner near the pillows turned down in silent invitation.
Bawdy laughter had him glancing toward the entry. With a slow exhale, he unfurled his fingers. “’Twould appear our well-wishers are settling in for the night.”
Wary eyes held his. “So it seems.”
He dismissed the slight quiver in her voice, her nerves expected. God’s sword, with the door blocked he couldn’t leave, and given the falsehood of their marriage, neither would he bed the lass. Somehow, he needed to find a way to calm her without straying too far from Bróccín’s demeanor.
Aiden walked to the table and poured two goblets of wine, brought one to her. “’Twill ease your nerves.”
Her gaze flickered over the breadth of his shoulders, and her fingers tightened around the crafted gold stem. If possible, her face paled further.
From the rumors he’d heard about the callous man Lord Balfour had become, the earl would have slaked his lust without care of Gwendolyn’s feelings. Bile twisted in his gut at thoughts of such brutality. Never would he touch the lass without her welcome.
A fact she didn’t know.
In one gulp, Aiden downed the spiced liquid, shoved the cup onto the nearby stand, then crossed to the open window. A soft breeze tinged with a hint of the sea washed over him as he stared into the night.
Beyond the full moon, stars glittered in the heavens like flickers of hope, although he found naught encouraging about this entire situation. All for king and country. A mumbled curse tore from his lips, mingled with the faint rumble of waves below.
In the distance, where the sea met the sky, the sail of a departing cog shimmered beneath the moonlight. How he longed to be aboard, or anywhere except trapped in Gwendolyn’s chamber on their supposed wedding night.
Still, this wasn’t the first time he’d been forced to complete a task through unconventional means.
A rueful smile tugged at his lips. So caught up in the chaos, an important point he’d overlooked. This was a hindrance, no more.
In regard to the mission, naught of importance had changed. This unfortunate pretense would last but days, and throughout he would leave the lass untouched.
The runner he would send to announce Lord Balfour’s death would give her freedom. At least until the Bruce seized Latharn Castle.
Tension ebbed from his body, and he focused on the benefits of the situation. He could ask questions of the servants without raising suspicion, and view the castle and ledgers as he pleased. As for the lass, instead of dreading the upcoming hours, he’d use the time to nurture her trust.
Aiden turned.
Gwendolyn hadn’t moved, but watched him with suspicion from the opposite side of a table topped with candles, the shifting of light exposing the concern in her eyes.
And why wouldna she be unsettled? She was a virgin. God knew what tripe the women within the castle had told her about the marriage bed. Her believing him a hard, callous warrior wouldn’t ease her disquiet.
To calm her fears and play true to who she thought he was, he must know what she’d been told about Balfour. “What kind of man do you think I am?” Aiden demanded.
Gwendolyn’s brows drew together. “Why?”
He strode to the table and poured himself another cup of wine. Aiden took a sip and met her eyes over the rim of his goblet. “We know little of each other, except what we have been told, rumor or otherwise.”
“’Tis said you are a fair man.”
The stubborn admission tempted him to smile, which he smothered. “And…?”
She slid a finger along the goblet’s rim as if coming to a decision. “That your men trust you.”
“Anything else?” he asked, frustrated that each bit of information she gave him was like a battle won.
She shot a quick glance at the bed, and her expression darkened with dismay.
God’s sword, he would end her worry. A few drops of blood would appease the crowd outside when they inspected the sheets in the morning. Aiden stormed to the bed, unsheathed his blade. At the slide of steel in his wake, he whirled.
Gwendolyn stood before him, proud, defiant. Nerves darkened her eyes, but the grip on her dagger remained firm. “I know my marital duties and will yield to your touch, but I will have your promise that ’twill not be done with a brutal hand.”
However much he admired her spirit, he doubted Lord Balfour would have tolerated such defiance. “Sheath your blade,” he ordered.
On a hard swallow, she again slanted a wary look toward the bed before leveling her gaze on him.
Frustration chipped away at his calm. “I told you to secure your weapon.”
Her fingers whitened on the handle.
With predatory steps, he crossed the room, his ire building with each step. “Do you believe displaying your sgian dubh will scare me?” Before she had a chance to reply, he seized her wrist.
She twisted hard to break free.
Aiden reached out to catch her, but she turned her body, throwing him off balance. They started to fall. Keeping a firm hold of her arm, he shifted to place himself between her and the floor, grunted as he hit, her landing square on top of him.
Outrage flashed in her eyes. “You bastard!” Her knee took precarious aim.
With an oath, he flipped and pinned her, securing her wrists. “Release the dagger.”
“You willna take me like an animal!” she hissed.
“Had I wanted to bed you,” he said, his voice icy, “the deed would have been done.”
Her breaths coming fast, she struggled against his hold.
The stubborn fool. He pressed the weight of his full length against her, ceasing her ability to move. This close, the scent of woman and night teased him. Too aware of how his body fit against hers, Aiden hardened beneath her soft curves. As if of its own will, his gaze slid to her mouth a breath away. The soft lips seemed to beckon him, and he wondered at her taste.
What was he bloody thinking? He tore her blade free from her grip and shoved to his feet.
Eyes wide, she scrambled back.
Aiden let her go, more than ready to put distance between them. Furious that she had the power to tempt him, he turned to the bed and his original intent. With a quick slash, he cut a small line in his palm, tossed the sheet back, and smeared blood on the fine linen.
After wiping his blade clean, he secured his weapon, turned. “The deed is done.”
The crackle of flames melded with the soft breeze tumbling into the chamber, playing cadence to the moment as Gwendolyn stared at him in disbelief.
Blast it! Aiden strode over and refilled his goblet, shoved the spirit aside. He downed the cup, doubting he could drink enough to blur his mind from his unexpected and unwanted thoughts of her this night. He grabbed the bottle and poured until wine gurgled to the brim.
“W–why did you do that?”
At the shocked disbelief in her voice, he shot her a cool look, his gaze traitorously straying to her full breasts. A spike of desire slammed through him, and he emptied the goblet. If the situation wasn’t so serious, he would have laughed at his adolescent inability to control his body’s urges. “Which one, tackling you or smearing my blood on the sheet?”
Though trembling, she held her ground. “The first.”
“You drew a knife on me. In the future, never pull your blade on me, or any warrior, unless you are prepared to defend yourself.”
On an unsteady breath, she wet her lips.
Aiden’s gaze narrowed on the slide of her tongue, cursed the spear of heat.
“And the blood on the sheet?”
“I dinna take an unwilling woman,” he snapped.
“I see.”
By the skepticism in her voice, he doubted she did. Nor would he explain further. “I suggest you finish your wine and then retire to your bed.”
“What of you?”
“I will make a pallet by the fire.”
She watched him for a long moment, her eyes guarded, as if trying to assess the situation.
A fate they shared. Turning, Aiden crossed to where a stack of blankets lay folded, grabbed two, and knelt before the hearth.
“I heard you were a ruthless man.”
He looked back, oddly amused that she would find the need to reply to his earlier question. Mayhap a peace offering? Doubtful. Regardless the reason, her initiating the dialogue bode well.
He spread out the first cover. “I can be, given the right incentive.” As when he’d witnessed unarmed Christian pilgrims being slaughtered for their faith in the Holy Land. Outraged by the barbarians’ heartless act, he’d cut them down without hesitation, their spilled blood a fitting penance for the peaceful travelers they’d murdered.
“And ’tis said you rule with an iron fist.”
Frustrated, he again glanced over, too aware of her blamelessness in this blasted situation. She held naught but fears and rumors of the man she now believed her husband. Neither could he forget the softness of her body beneath his, of how her blond hair had spilled out to frame her face, her mouth slightly parted.
He smothered the dangerous memory. Though he must remain in Bróccín’s character, she did not deserve to fear him. That he could give her.
“Many things are said about warriors who achieve power,” Aiden said. “Some are true, others fables that grow with the telling.”
“Either way, know this,” she rasped, her voice cool, “I willna be cast aside in my own castle, treated like I am a scullery maid fit only for bedding.”
He held her gaze, her bravery stealing his breath. God’s sword, the lass was a woman to admire. “Except for the duties the lord of the castle holds, your place at Latharn Castle willna change. When I vowed to the priest that I would take care of you, I meant what I said.”
She again skimmed her thumb along the goblet’s rim, a habit he’d noted when she was in deep thought.
Flames wavered in the hearth, casting a wash of gold over her face, highlighting her cheekbones, the softness of her skin, and the lush curve of her mouth. However beautiful, and a lass that would intrigue any man, with his soon rejoining the Bruce, she wasn’t a woman he could ever have as his own.
Her breath exhaled in a soft rush as she watched him, and satisfaction filled Aiden that Lord Balfour would never touch her with cruelty or disrespect.
Although she’d drawn her blade against him, fear had driven the act. She wasn’t a simpering lass, but a woman who held her own, one he could admire and, more, respect.
“Though we are strangers, I swear you have nay reason to fear me.”
At her silence, deciding ’twas a strategic place to end their discussion, he turned and stripped off his forest-green tunic with its band of Celtic designs woven at the end of each sleeve. He folded the top over the chair, settled on the pallet, and then tugged the other blanket up to his waist. “Sleep.” Too aware of her, Aiden stared at the flames, doubtful he’d rest this night.
* * * *
Gwendolyn studied Bróccín’s prone form, unsure whether she was more embarrassed by the ease with which he’d disarmed her or her husband’s decision to leave her untouched.
A simple man, no. With his quickness, the way he made decisions without hesitation, and his attention to detail, he was a warrior who lived and died by his blade. Though he dismissed some of the stories told about him as myth, after the memory of his swift but painless retrieval of her weapon, she wasn’t convinced.
Neither was she swayed by the fine cut of his jaw, the green eyes stunning in their brilliance, or his muscled body as if carved by the gods. Though handsome, to her, a man’s loyalty meant the most.
His claim that he wouldn’t harm her echoed through her mind. Keeping a close watch on him, Gwendolyn walked to the other side of the bed, opposite from where he’d stood moments before.
Firelight shimmered over his broad shoulders as they rose and fell with his every breath, the inherent power of this fierce warrior one he’d sworn never to use against her.
Her gaze shifted to his muscled arms, relaxed at his sides. Arms that had swept her up without hesitation and carried her away from the inebriated knights celebrating their wedding, arms that had held her as he’d twisted to protect her from falling and taking his weight on the hard floor. As well, ’twas concern for her safety that had him hauling her from the mare’s stall during the birthing.
Gwendolyn lay her hand upon the comforter, traced a gold embroidered flower. Her life ahead had been simpler when she had believed Bróccín to be a cold, hard man.
Hard, aye. A necessity as a warrior, but he wasn’t cold, more a man who evaluated his thoughts before he spoke. Fair came to mind, intelligent and thoughtful as well. What else had she missed, and how had she misjudged him so completely? Known for her ability to discern the worth in a person, ’twould seem in regard to her new husband, she had erred.
Or had she?
For the first time in her life, she found herself floundering in her assessment of a man. Did it matter? With their vows given, he now owned everything she loved.
She glanced at the slash of red on the opposite side of the bed, an action to appease those who sought proof of her innocence.
Guilt rose within her. Odd Lord Comyn hadna informed him that she’d been married before. Perhaps embroiled in war against King Robert, her liege lord had forgotten or found the detail irrelevant. Nor, with his short time here, had he gleaned word from her people of her previous husband. As if a man focused on war would find interest in scraps of gossip.
Gwendolyn scraped her teeth across her lower lip. Should she admit the truth? If she did, would her admission bring him to her bed?
Unease ripped through her. No, she’d tell him in the morning, before he departed the chamber. She refused to allow him to be humiliated before those who served him by permitting him to display supposed proof of her bedding.
Was one night too much to ask to regain her much-needed composure? She wasn’t a coward, but she needed time. With an unsteady sigh, Gwendolyn tugged up the sheets, closed her eyes, and prayed that by some miracle she would sleep.