For a horrible moment, Christina thought he meant to leave again. But when the cook ordered one of the serving boys after him to fetch soap and a drying cloth, a sigh of relief went through her. He only meant to bathe.
She’d feared that her peevishness had angered him. She hadn’t meant to upbraid him, but perhaps the sting of his leave-taking had not waned as much as she’d thought.
It was just her luck that he would return when she was on her hands and knees, covered in ash and soot. She must have looked a fright. A comical fright. Her mouth twisted, thinking of his expression when he’d seen her. He’d tried to cover up his laughter, but she could see it dancing in his eyes. So much for entrancing him with her feminine charms when he returned; a more un-entrancing welcome she could not imagine.
She hurried back to the solar to clean up as best she could until enough water could be heated for her bath later. She couldn’t wait to see what he thought of her efforts to lighten up the Great Hall and wanted to be there to observe his reaction when he saw it for the first time.
Mhairi helped her out of her soiled gown and used a wet cloth and soap to wash the soot and ash from her face and hands. Thankfully, the cap had kept her hair reasonably free from falling ash. In no time, Mhairi had her on her way back to the Hall, her hair tangle free and tumbling down her back in loose waves, gowned in a fresh emerald-green cotte.
She just made it. Not five minutes after she entered the Great Hall from the small corridor that led to the chambers, her husband entered from the main door opposite the dais.
A crowd of his clansmen immediately surrounded him to welcome him back, including Rhuairi, who started to lead him toward the dais. Though the evening meal was not for some time yet, word had spread of the men’s return, and a few dozen clansmen had come to the Hall to welcome them as they partook of their impromptu meal. Their cold meal, she thought with chagrin.
Holding back an excited smile, she watched Tor’s face expectantly, waiting for the moment when he would notice all the changes she’d made. She was happy to see that some of his weariness had been washed away in the loch. When she’d initially looked up to see him, her first thought—after being horrified to be discovered in such a state—was that he looked as if he hadn’t slept in the four days since he’d left her on the jetty. He probably hadn’t. Not much, anyway.
Her brow wrinkled in a slight frown as he made his way toward her. It was slow progress, as his clansmen, who were clearly happy to see him, stopped him along the way. They stared at him with a mixture of awe and admiration—sentiments she could well understand.
He looked magnificent. His damp hair was brushed back from his face and curled a little at his ears. He’d shaved the four days of whiskers, revealing the proud line of his jaw. Instead of the leather war coat, he wore a finely embroidered leine and a grayish-blue plaid fastened at his neck by a large jeweled pin.
It was the most at ease she’d ever seen him. Here in his castle, amid his clansmen, he could finally let down his considerable guard and relax.
It wasn’t his appearance, however, that caused her to frown. He hadn’t noticed. He’d walked right over the fresh rushes, past the big vase of flowers, the colorfully clad tables, and the extra candles, but hadn’t seen the changes.
Her excitement dimmed a little but didn’t go out completely until his eyes flickered to her. He held her gaze for a long heartbeat before finally noticing something she’d done. His eyes lifted to the large tapestry she’d hung behind the dais.
He stilled, looking as if he’d seen a ghost. The color left his face and a flash of acute pain flickered in his eyes before his expression went completely blank. But she knew he was angry. She could see it in the thin white lines etched around his clenched mouth and in his eyes when the heavy weight of his gaze once again fell on her.
Christina paled, all the excitement draining out of her. Her chest squeezed. Had he cared more for his wife than she’d realized? Of course he had, and her thoughtless attempt to liven up the dreary Hall and show him what a good wife she could be had dredged up painful memories.
She cursed her stupidity, but it only got worse. The dogs had been lying around her feet, but when their master drew near, they bounded up to welcome him. The largest of the three, Bran, jumped up on him. Tor took one look at him, sniffed, and shot her a black look. In two long strides he was standing beside her, icy anger radiating from him. “What have you done to my dogs?”
His voice was low and calm, but she was not deceived. He was furious. Christina fought back the tears that threatened to spill. Her chin quivered as she gazed up into his thunderous expression, aware that more than one person was watching the exchange with interest. She’d only been trying to help. “I g-gave them a bath.”
“In rose water?” he demanded through clenched teeth.
She winced, biting her lip. She thought it had been an improvement. “We used the water left over from my bath.”
She could see the tic under his jaw pulse and knew that he was struggling to control his temper. Over her cleaning his dogs?
Nay, she realized. His anger wasn’t about the dogs; it was about the tapestries.
The anger died as quickly as it had sparked. “In the future, you will leave the bathing of the dogs to me.”
He sat down beside her, and the conversation rose around them dramatically to cover up the awkward exchange between the lord and his lady. It was as if everyone realized, as she did, that something else was at work.
Painfully aware of the man at her side, Christina nibbled a crusty piece of bread, trying to cover up how utterly miserable she felt. Instead of impressing him, she’d made a mess of things. He hadn’t noticed anything she’d done—except for hanging the offensive tapestries.
She, on the other hand, noticed everything. Right when he sat down, his spicy, masculine scent assaulted her with memories. The clean, fresh scent of his soap reminded her of his arms around her, holding her, touching her, arousing her. The erotic memories of that night washed over her in sharp, visceral awareness. Every time his broad shoulder or heavily muscled thigh brushed against her it grew worse. Even the briefest physical contact made her skin jump and nerve endings flare.
She wanted more contact. Wanted to feel the heat of his body again. To have him touch her in all those wicked ways. Surely, it must be a sin to want such things. But it was as if the anticipation of their wedding night, building since the ceremony, had finally reached its breaking point. Her body felt sensitive, each touch a shock that made her senses explode.
Being this close to him was torture. But he seemed blissfully unaware of her torment. In truth, he hardly seemed aware of her at all.
She didn’t want him to be angry with her. “I’m sorry,” she said when he finished speaking to the man on his left—Gelis, his Sennachie. “I didn’t mean to interfere. I wanted to surprise you.”
His dark eyebrows drew together. Her heart deflated a little more. It was obvious he had no idea what she was talking about.
Her gaze swept around the room. “The candles, the tablecloths, the flowers, the new rushes.” She paused. “The tapestries.”
He stiffened almost imperceptibly, but then followed the direction of her gaze, noticing for the first time the changes she’d made. Realizing he needed to say something, he said evenly, “It looks nice.”
Nice. Her shoulders sagged a little. Hardly the enthusiastic reaction she’d been hoping for.
Perhaps sensing her disappointment, he amended, “Very nice.”
Christina pursed her lips together, feeling a spark of anger. First he’d left her without even a good-bye, and now he barely noticed all the hard work she’d done in his absence. A previously unknown streak of sarcasm rose in her voice. “If you wish, I can take the dogs outside and let them roll around in the mud like they’ve been wanting to do.” She smiled sweetly. “They’ll stink just as they did before.”
His mouth twitched. “I don’t think that will be necessary.” He leaned down to ruffle Bran’s head, his strong, battle-scarred fingers rippling through the soft, clean fur. “I’d forgotten what color they were.”
His hands were big and powerful, just like the rest of him. She remembered the feel of his callused palms caressing her bare skin. Of his hands on her breasts, his fingers teasing her nipples. Heat rose to her cheeks and she shifted her gaze. What was the matter with her? Could she think of nothing else?
He gave her an appraising look over his goblet, and as he took a long drink of ale, heat simmered in the dark blue depths. She squirmed a little in her seat, wondering whether he could read her mind.
“I almost hesitate to ask, but other than cleaning ovens and brightening my Hall, how else did you keep yourself busy while I was gone?”
Her mouth curved in a small smile, grateful for the distraction. “That’s all, I’m afraid. It was only a few days.”
He laughed. “I guess I should be glad I was not away longer.”
Her voice grew more serious. “I heard what happened in the village. Were you able to find the men who attacked?”
He shook his head. “Nay, I needed to return to Dunvegan. But they will not be able to hide forever. I will find them, and when I do, they will pay for what they have done.”
The dead certainty in his voice left her little doubt that he would do as he said. She almost pitied those men when he caught up to them. She thought about something he had said. “Why did you need to return?” She didn’t dare hope that it was to get back to her.
“Some business I must attend to,” he waved his hand dismissively. “It’s nothing.” She felt his gaze on her again. “You were well taken care of in my absence?”
She nodded. “Aye, Rhuairi did as you instructed.”
He looked at her as if he knew there was something she was not saying. “It’s not the welcome I would have wished for you.”
Her eyes lifted to his. “Or the good-bye.” She hadn’t meant to say anything; the words just slipped out.
His brow furrowed in genuine masculine confusion. “There wasn’t time.”
“To say good-bye?”
“Every second I delayed made catching them more difficult. I had to go.”
“I know that,” she said, studying the tablecloth and feeling suddenly silly for the hurt she’d unintentionally revealed.
She chanced a sidelong glance at him from under her lashes, seeing that he was frowning.
“Saying good-bye is important to you?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Then I will endeavor to remember to do so in the future and let you know when I leave.”
She smiled up at him brightly. “Thank you.” Buoyed by the way their conversation was proceeding, she decided to apologize herself. “I’m sorry if I overstepped my bounds with the tapestries.” His mouth fell in a flat line, and she hurried to explain. “I found them in a trunk and thought they were too beautiful to be packed away. I can remove them if you wish.”
His gaze shuttered. “How you decorate the Hall makes no difference to me. Do as you like.”
He acted as if he didn’t care, but she knew something had caused him pain. “It was thoughtless of me not to realize that they would bring back painful memories. You must have cared for your wife a great deal.”
“Wife?” He shook his head. “They did not belong to my wife; they were my mother’s.”
She paused, digesting the information. She knew so little of his family. “Your mother, she died?”
“Many years ago. With my father in a raid on Skye.”
He said it without any hint of emotion. He could have been talking about the weather. But she knew there was something he was not saying. Something terrible had happened. “How old were you?”
His fingers tightened around his goblet, and there was a guarded look in his eye. “Ten.”
Only a child. Her heart went out to him. All she wanted to do was throw her arms around him and comfort the boy who still missed his mother. It was clear he did not want to talk about it, but she couldn’t help saying, “You must have loved her a great deal.”
But her gentle tone was a mistake. This fierce Island warlord did not want comfort from her. He was like a big, angry lion with a thorn in his paw.
His gaze met hers, cold and impenetrable. “I barely remember her,” he said flatly. “I was seven when I left to be fostered.”
But Christina was not fooled by his harsh response. She was getting used to his blunt talk and brusque manner—it was just his way. He might think himself without emotion, but she knew that it was there, buried deep inside. She’d seen his reaction to the tapestry. He had loved his mother.
And if he’d loved once, he could love again. He just needed someone to remind him how, someone to care about him. Tenderness lurked beneath the hard, icy shell, and she intended to be the one to uncover it.
There it was again, Tor thought. The expectant look in her eye that made his defenses flare.
He was used to people looking at him as if they wanted something from him, but with her it was different. Christina Fraser was the only one who’d ever made him feel lacking for not giving it.
He’d never felt beholden to anyone, but this tiny girl made him feel like a churl for not saying good-bye or noticing the changes she’d made in the Hall. The first had never occurred to him and the second was something he didn’t concern himself with—a warrior didn’t care that the room was bright, clean and smelled fresh.
Except for the tapestry. Seeing his mother’s treasured tapestry, depicting the Boyhood Deeds of Finn MacCool, had shocked the hell out of him, bringing back memories he’d thought long forgotten. Of the mother he’d adored, who’d been raped and then murdered by the men following the orders of the Earl of Ross—her own kinsman.
He bit back the reflexive surge of hatred. Thirty years ago, when the Isles became part of Scotland, Skye had been placed under the sheriffdom of the Earl of Ross. Ten years later, Ross ordered an attack on the MacLeods that had claimed both his parents’ lives and those of so many others. Not even the children had been spared. He and his sister and brothers, home for the Yule and Hogmanay celebrations, had escaped death only by hiding in the nave of the church.
It was the past. Tor didn’t dwell on things he couldn’t change, but seeing the tapestries had reminded him of the lesson learned from his parents’ murder: the importance of keeping his own counsel. His clan’s safety rested on his shoulders and his alone. He didn’t like being questioned, and his young wife would have to look elsewhere for shared confidences.
The good-byes, the womanly touches, the questions. His first wife hadn’t troubled him with such expectations. He knew where this was going, and it was exactly what he’d feared. He didn’t have the time or inclination to navigate the dark maze of a sheltered young woman’s tender feelings. He had other things to worry about, such as who was behind the attacks and how to keep his part of the bargain of training Bruce’s secret army without endangering his clan or being arrested for treason.
He had no wish to hurt Christina, but neither did he want to encourage the fantasy that she was building around him. First rescuing hero, now doting husband. Neither one was a mantle he wished to don. He was a warrior chief—a man who led his clan in battle and in peace, and nothing more.
“If you’ll excuse me,” he said, standing up. “My men are waiting for me.”
Her face dropped. “But you’ve only just returned. I thought …”
She lowered her gaze, the long, sooty lashes brushing against the pale curve of her cheek. Fragile. Delicate. Seductive beyond measure.
He steeled himself against the urge to say something to comfort her. He knew what she wanted. But he was not a man to dance attendance upon his wife, and it was better for her to learn how it would be from the start. He had duties and responsibilities, which right now included making arrangements for the arrival of the warriors who could appear at any time. “I have matters I must attend to.”
“Of course,” she said with a wobbly smile, making him feel like even more of an ass. “I understand. I will see you at the evening meal?”
She gazed up at him expectantly with those dark, entrancing eyes, and he felt the force of her plea straight in his groin.
In the space of one long heartbeat—when the blood rushed and swirled inside him—he almost changed his mind. That the lure of pleasing one woman could so easily override his duty sent a chill through his blood. If he didn’t know better he would think it was something akin to fear, which was laughable. He was fearless. But this lass wielded more power in one seductive glance than an entire army did on the battlefield.
“I don’t know,” he said, turning away before he saw the disappointment in her gaze.
She reached out and caught his hand. He felt as if a ball of fire was exploding in his chest. The soft press of her fingers unleashed every animal instinct inside him. He wanted to feel her hands all over him.
“And later?” she said softly.
A siren’s call.
His cock and his bollocks tightened hard against his body. He felt the blast of heat as desire flooded his senses. “Aye,” he said roughly, his gaze burning into hers. “I will see you tonight.”
He would make her his. He would make her no other promises, but that she could damn well count on.