Adara paced about the room, circling it again and again, annoyed that Warrick refused to take her with him. She had wanted to hear for herself what the man would say and also see if in any way it was familiar with something Maia had said.

It continued to trouble her that she had been so wrong about Maia. Though, the more she considered it the more she realized it was her own gullibility that had been at fault. You think she would have been more cautious, having been disappointed so many times by people she thought had cared for her.

Should she be cautious of Warrick?

The thought brought her pacing to a halt and she sat down on the bed with a heavy sigh. Would she forever doubt and question? Or should she trust her heart and believe Warrick a good man, not the demon everyone claims him to be?

He killed his first wife.

She had battled with that knowledge since hearing it. She had betrayed her husband by releasing Maia and yet he had not harmed her. If betrayal did not have him taking his wife’s life, what would? Supposedly, he killed her on their wedding night. What could he have possibly learned that would have had him take her life?

She had wondered if he had wed out of love or if it had been an arranged marriage. And if he had only met the woman shortly before they wed what possible reason could he have had to kill her?

Others might not think her husband kind and he certainly did not think of himself as kind, but Adara knew otherwise. He was a kind man… when he wanted to be. He could also show no mercy as he had with Maia.

Somehow she would learn more about Warrick’s first wife and lay this mystery to rest.

A yawn had her stretching out on the bed, pulling the blanket over her and snuggling beneath it. She would wait for Warrick to return. He would tell her about the man and she would tell him what she recalled about Maia.

“We found him by accident,” Roark explained as they walked through the village toward the contingent of Warrick’s warriors camped on the outskirts of the village.

“How so?” Warrick asked.

“He was thought to be one of the injured MacNair warriors left behind after the attack, and another injured MacNair warrior informed one of our warriors that he was not of the MacNair Clan. The MacNair warrior wishes to pledge fealty to you.”

“The taste of defeat will do that to you.”

“He also told me that their chieftain ordered them not to harm your wife and when he saw that this particular warrior was going after your wife he followed after him, but one of your warriors got to the man first. He could not say enough about how your warrior vaulted in the air and threw himself at the man, sending them both crashing to the ground. Your warrior got up and ran to your wife and got her to the safety of the keep.”

“Who was that?”

“Gavin.”

“I will speak to him later and the MacNair warrior as well. How did you determine that this warrior is the one who tried to kill me?”

“He admitted it, but then he is close to death.” Roark said.

“So he has nothing to lose. The only question is how much pain he is willing to suffer before he dies.”

“His pain is already great. He may be more willing to talk if he is offered a quick death.”

Warrick thought on that as he walked through the temporary camp his warriors had set up. Building had begun on permanent structures, the problem with the two opposing clans causing delays. The work would resume soon, since his warriors were well aware of the consequences of facing a winter without substantial structures to house them.

The camp was quiet, though not silent, it never was. His warriors were always on guard, always prepared. It was why there had been little loss of life and serious injuries sustained during the attack. He offered no praise to them and they expected none. Clan was family and in protecting each other the clan remained strong and they reaped the rewards of working together.

His warriors that were awake and those patrolling sent respectful nods to him as he walked through the camp and he acknowledged each one in kind.

Roark stopped a short distance from one of the campfires where a man lay on a blanket on the ground.

Warrick stopped beside him, looking down at the man. Roark had been right. The man was suffering and looked barely alive. His eyes were half opened and he moaned through labored breathing. The blanket covering him was wet with blood at his stomach. A gut wound… a painful way to die.

Warrick did not care that the man suffered, he deserved such a death for trying to kill Adara.

He kicked the man in the leg and his eyes shot open.

“Let the demon take me,” the man begged, stumbling over his words.

“He prefers to see you suffer,” Warrick said.

The man’s words broke in pieces as he spoke. “Li-ke h-is fa-ther.”

“The devil is no kin to me, but I am sure he will welcome you home soon,” Warrick said, knowing he would get nothing from this man whose last breath was near.

The man sounded as if he choked on the words he fought to speak. “Yo-ur demon da.”

Warrick dropped down on his haunches beside the man. “My father? You speak of my father?”

“Dea-th to th-e de-mon’s son,” the man said and his eyes bulged as he coughed and struggled for breath.

Warrick watched him die, no sympathy for the man who tried to kill his wife. What disturbed him was mention of his father. What had his father to do with anything?

“Strange that he should mention your father,” Roark said as Warrick stood.

“My father was a victorious warrior, his love for battle renowned. He conquered many clans and lands, some for the King and others for his own pleasure. Many admired him, more feared him, and even more hated him.”

“Perhaps the sins of the father return to punish the son,” Roark suggested.

“If that is so, then many more will follow.” Warrick looked down at the dead man, angry that death had taken him before he could learn more. “Dump his body in the woods for the animals to feed on and for his cohorts to see what happens when they go against the Demon Lord.”

Warrick walked back to the keep alone, thinking about what he had said to Roark about his father and wondering if he had also described himself. But had that not been what his father wanted? For Warrick to exceed his father’s reputation? For him to be even more admired, feared, and hated than his father?

His father cared or felt for no one and he had taught Warrick to do the same, to shield himself against everything and everyone. To let no one, interfere with what must be done, must be accomplished.

His father had given him everything he needed to be an outstanding warrior, but both he and his mother had never given him an ounce of love. So through the years, he had given it no thought, until he met Adara.

She had touched something in him that had never been touched before and now that she had, he could not get enough of it. For the first time in his life, he believed he felt what just might be love and he feared losing it.

He took the stairs quickly, eager to return to his wife and when he entered the room and found her sleeping, he was disappointed. He wanted to make love to her slow and easy, tasting and touching all of her, joining with her as one—loving her.

He slipped into bed and settled himself around her warm, soft body that smelled of lavender from their recent bath. He almost smiled at the thought that he probably smelled as delightful as she did. He thought how wise that Roark had made no mention of it.

After laying there comfortably wrapped around his wife, she wiggled her way around in his arms and he was surprised to find her awake and more surprised at her words.

“I cannot believe you return to our bed to do nothing but sleep after making love to me only once after your lengthy absence.” Adara said, poking playfully at his chest. She saw it then, a smile, not huge, not lasting long, but a smile none the less and she delighted in it.

Warrick caught his smile to late and after chasing it away, he was sorry he did. It had felt good to let it free and enjoy the intense pleasure it brought him.

“You are a hungry one, wife,” he teased, taking hold of her poking finger.

“Famished,” she said, her eyes bright with passion.

“Then a I better make sure you get all the sustenance you need.”

“And then some,” she whispered before bringing her lips down on his.

Warrick sat in the Great Hall with Adara the next morning enjoying the meal and their conversation. There was no talk of battle or pain and loss that came with it. Nor was there talk of future battles or clans that posed a threat. He could not ever remember when a discussion ever pleased him. There always seemed to be a problem he needed to settle. But at the moment, there was only the two of them and the possibility of a future filled with more than hate and greed.

“This one will need many brothers and sisters,” Adara said, patting her stomach, then spooning some of the porridge that she had added honey to.

“You are a dutiful wife to give me many bairns,” Warrick said but preferred it not be from duty that she did so.

Her cheeks flushed and she lowered her voice to a whisper as she brought her face close to his. “It is not out of duty I will give you many bairns, my lord.”

Warrick felt a jolt to his heart. “If not duty, what?”

Her cheeks flushed a deeper red and she lowered her head not believing she had said what she did to him. Where had she gotten the courage. Or had it been foolishness that made her so bold?

Warrick slipped the back of his fingers beneath her chin and lifted it. “Tell me, wife.”

With no demand in his voice and a spark of gentleness in his eyes, Adara whispered, “I love the intimacy we share.”

Love.

No one had ever used that word with him and here she was admitting that she loved the intimacy between them. Her words were like a gift he had long wanted to open. Once, however, was not enough. He wanted to hear her say it again. Or was it that he wanted to make sure he had heard her correctly?

“I love how you make me feel,” she whispered again not knowing where she got the courage to speak so brashly to him.

“How do I make you feel?” he asked, his voice a soft murmur.

Loved.

The word whispered softly in her head and she turned away, her chin slipping off his hand. She could never admit that to him. She barely was able to accept the possibility that she loved him. And what of the Demon Lord? Could he come to love her? Was he even capable of loving? But then no one would suspect that the Demon Lord could ever smile.

Adara turned her head to look at him and brought her lips near his to whisper, “Cared for. You make me feel that you care.”

He felt a kick to his heart and gut this time. He was under attack and his shields were failing him. She was making her way past them and if he was not careful, she would see victory. He wondered if this was one battle he would not mind losing.

“Of course I care, you are my wife,” he said, keeping his tone neutral.

She brushed her lips across his ever so lightly. “I am grateful, my lord, for no one has ever cared for me.”

He felt his shield crack and shatter completely and she plunged forward and stole his heart. “No longer is that so,” he said and was shocked when she threw her arm around his neck and hugged him tight.

“You are a good, kind husband,” she said, after hugging him senseless.

“I am not kind,” he said as if he commanded her to believe it and she shocked him again when she pressed a finger to her lips briefly before speaking.

“I will tell no one,” she whispered as though promising to keep a secret.

He could not let her believe this falsehood about him. He was not a good, kind man. He was ruthless like his father and like his father he had no heart, so while he hoped she loved him… was he even capable of loving her?

“I should tell you about Maia,” she said.

He was glad for the change of subject. She did not need to know how cruel he could actually be. That had him wondering how she would feel about him when she learned that he had killed his first wife.

“Tell me what you remember,” he encouraged and listened as she spoke.

Adara told him all she recalled and what she thought of the information she had remembered. “Maia was not born of this land and where she did come from she believed the women stronger than here. She was knowledgeable of many things and I believe fearless. I do not believe she was a woman who kept a hearth and home, though she was accustomed to chores, having brought garments to the stream to wash.”

His wife was more observant than she realized. “How long did you know Maia?”

“A few short months, maybe six or less.”

“What area of the Highlands was this?”

Adara scrunched her brow in concentration. “I believe the crofter family I served paid his share to the Clan Macomish.” Adara saw the noticeable change in her husband’s dark eyes. “You are familiar with the clan?”

That he had failed to keep that knowledge private irritated him. “The clan is not far from my ancestral home. How long ago was this?”

Adara appeared to concentrate. “Time was continuous for me, one season going into the next just as the days did until I thought of it no more. There was no marking of time for me. No birth date to celebrate or remember that a year had passed. That Maia had aged and I did not recognize her at first would have me believing it had been many years since I last had seen her.” She shook her head. “But her face was aged when I met her and her hair was beginning to gray so I would say maybe five or six years.”

This time Warrick kept his surprise to himself. That Macomish land sat close to his land and that about five and half years ago was when he wed could not be a coincidence. Maia was in that area for a reason and that reason could have something to do with his first wife. He encouraged her to tell him more of her visits with Maia, anything of what she may have said to her.

Adara thought of some of the things she had discussed with the woman and she did not know if she would feel comfortable repeating the conversation with Warrick.

She was spared for the moment when Roark appeared and told Warrick he was needed.

“We will talk more later,” Warrick said and left the Great Hall.

Adara gathered her cloak and made her way outside and to the kitchen garden, wanting to talk with Burchard. He had been here a long time and she was eager to find out if he knew anything about her mum.

She was making her way to the kitchen garden where Burchard was busy at work when she saw her husband approach the woods alone. If he was needed, why was he going into the woods alone? What could be there that required his attention.

A quick glance around had her wondering why she did not see any of Warrick’s warriors. Why would that be? They were everywhere. Why not here? Had he ordered them away from this area? Curiosity poked at her, but good sense warned her not to follow her husband. The woods could hold danger. Maia and her group could be near. But what of her husband, he was alone. Who would protect him? What if something happened to him? What if he never returned to her?

Her thoughts so disturbed her that she lifted the hem of her garment and rushed off in pursuit of her husband.