Chapter Eighteen
Again, his reluctant bride was ready to bolt the first chance she could.
Honor was something Jamie valued more than anything else. Without it, nothing else rang true. Without honor, kindness could never be sincere, courage failed, and strength was nothing more than a lie.
And here was his wife already breaking vows of obedience and fidelity spoken only hours before. He stepped into the room, and she scurried back.
“Ye can leave us,” he said to Julia.
Fiona’s gaze darted around the room still searching for escape.
“Ye’re my wife,” he growled, wanting to get the truth through to her. “I am yer laird. God’s Blood, woman, ye’re lady to my people. Act like it!”
Her eyes widened for a moment, then narrowed on him. “By that ye mean ye want me to be silent and submit.”
He raked his hand through his hair. “Nay, I want ye to be forthright and true.”
“True to what ye alone value or else,” she cried, her voice rising with her every word.
“Or else, what?” he demanded
“Or else I will force yer hand,” she said, shaking a fist at him.
What was she talking about?
“Are ye referring to what I said just now in the great hall?”
“Of course,” she snapped.
He crossed his arms over his chest. “’Tis true. If ye had disobeyed me and refused to follow Julia to my chambers, I would have tossed ye over my shoulder and carried ye out, even if it meant shaming ye in front of my people.”
Her nostrils flared. “Aye, and then, when we were alone, ye’d have beaten me to within an inch of life.”
“Aye, then I…” Jamie froze.
What had she just said?
His hands dropped to his sides. He took in her defensive stance, realizing that she was more afraid than angry or defiant. And then he remembered what Julia had said before the ceremony.
Of course she was afraid. Her father’s abuse had taught her to fear men.
“I know about yer da,” he said gently.
She looked confused. “What are ye talking about?”
“Julia told me about the bruises she saw when she helped ye dress. Ye told her yer da beat ye, but—”
Her eyes flashed wide. “My father has never laid a hand on me!” The words blasted from her lips. Jamie took a step back.
“Was Julia referring to these bruises?” she spat as she lifted her arms. The bell sleeves of her surcotte fell away, revealing her forearms covered by the fitted sleeves of her tunic. A screech tore from her lips as she started to yank at her laces from behind. Ripping and tugging, she finally heaved her surcotte over her head. Then she began tugging at her tunic. Her struggles reddened her face.
“Yer mad,” he whispered.
She turned on him with hellfire in her eyes. “I’m mad? After what ye did to me, I’m the one who’s mad?”
Now, what was the little chit going to accuse him of? “What have I done to ye other than save yer life and the lives of yer kin with this God forsaken alliance,” he snapped.
She glared at him before renewing her struggles to undress.
He had never been more confused. Mayhap, he should call for the healer. She was clearly unwell.
But then her tunic came over her head. She stood in her kirtle, her arms bare. Straightaway, he saw the bruises of which Julia had spoken. His fists clenched as anger pulsed through him. He didn’t love her. He didn’t even like her. In fact, he downright despised her, but no woman should be forced to bear the brunt of a man’s anger.
“When yer father arrives, I will make it clear that he is never to touch ye again!”
She froze and looked at him as if he were the one who was mad. Then she held out her wrists, lined with bruises.
“Ye did this.” A rush of tears flooded her eyes. She bared her teeth at him. “This is yer doing, none but yers.”
Her words tore through his flesh to his very soul and he saw her truth.
The events of the evening before pummeled his brain. His fury and grief had taken hold of him, leaving spite and prejudice to guide his actions. Certainly, she had erred as well, coming at him with a poker. But only a fraction of his strength was needed to subdue her.
“I didn’t realize…I…” Nay, he would make no excuses. He had meant to disarm her, to keep her from causing greater mischief, but he could have done so without hurting her. “When ye tried to run away—”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “I did not try to run away. I was trying to escape after hearing the screams of that poor woman when we entered the keep, not to mention yer indifference to her suffering.”
His eyes flashed wide. “I did nothing to bring on her condition.”
“Nay, but ye didn’t stop her pain or interfere.”
“Birthing a baby is always painful, but ye’ll have to take that grievance up with God.”
“Aye, well…” her words trailed off. Her gaze dropped to the floor. “She was having a baby?” she said quietly.
“For the love of all things decent, what exactly did ye think was happening?”
She met his gaze. “I thought her husband was beating her.”
He threw his hands up. “Why the hell would ye assume that?”
She lifted her chin, defiantly. “Because he’s a MacLeod, and that’s what MacLeods do. They beat their wives!”
He stared at her, dumbstruck for a moment. Then he shook his head. “I don’t understand…I would never.”
“Ye’d never what? Hurt a woman, then lock her away in the dark.”
He stepped toward her. Her eyes flashed wide. She scurried back. “Stay away from me.”
He slowly followed. “I’m not going to hurt ye,” he said, his voice gentle.
“Lies,” she shouted, blocking her ears. Her back hit the wall. She lashed out like a cornered animal. He had to get through to her. He gently seized her hands, careful not to grab her wrists.
“Don’t touch me,” she cried.
A pang of guilt cut through him. He wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her close. She struggled against him.
“Forgive me, Fiona,” he said softly in her ear. “Forgive me.”
She beat her fists against his chest, again and again. Slowly, her cries of protest softened. Then she softened, laying her head against his chest as quiet sobs racked her shoulders.