Tearloch himself was anxious for an heir. He wanted to pass on his father’s wisdom to his own sons before he began to forget it all. He also longed for the happiness he had seen between his parents. He wanted a woman to worship as his father had worshipped his mother.
He would often catch his father smiling to himself, then shake his head and resume his task. His mother, he observed, had a skip to her step and she hummed continually. But what had struck him most of all was the way they looked at each otherfrom across the bailey or the great hall. His father would smile at her for long moments at a time. She would smile back and then blush and turn away. He also noted how little they spoke to each other some days. Even when retiring to their bedchamber together, they went mutely on their way.
This is what Tearloch wanted in a wife, besides wide hips that would help the woman survive the baring of his bairns. He wanted to feel at peace with her when neither of them spoke. He wanted a smile from across a crowded room.
He tried to imagine that with the woman to whom he had been betrothed, but he saw only the face of his lass smiling down at him from that window in Gowry’s keep. He imagined taking his new bride into the woods, to love her in private, but only saw Fia lying in a field of flowers.
He forced his thoughts back to his parents. His father had been the trainer of warriors and leaders, a hard man who pushed every man to his breaking point and beyond. But Leith MacPherson was also an honest man who was eager to admit when he had made a mistake—on the rare occasions that he had done so.
He was slow to make decisions outside of warfare. If decisiveness were a virtue, he would be quite the sinner, for he mulled over every choice he made. The longer he took to rule on a matter, the more sound his judgment proved to be, however, as if he could see every possible effect of each possible choice, even far into the future.
In physical clashes, though, he was a different man entirely. He and his men were trained so well as to let their instincts take over on the battlefield. Their movements were automatic. React and follow through. Hesitation was death, and there were few losses in his numbers.
Tearloch studied his father on the practice field as well as off. And to the older man’s credit, Tearloch had also lost few men inhis company, and had gained nearly the same reputation as his father for his ability to train exceptional warriors.
When he pictured training his own sons, he saw them with his same dark hair, but they had the warm brown eyes of Fia...
With the memory of his strong but sweet mother it was no wonder Tearloch had not married sooner. With Fia, though, he had found a glimpse of his matriarch and had taken heart.
What fluff-minded woman from court could have the wisdom and spirit of a Highland lass? His mother had been a Chatten, but more basic than that, her head was held high by a fire within, a knowledge of something that Tearloch had felt eluding him, until recently.
The closer he got to Edinburgh, the harder it would be for his betrothed to impress him. Deep in his heart, where he did not wish to look, he knew, princess or not, she would fail.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
King Malcolm III sat in an arbor with a red-haired woman clutched closely to his side. Their heads were bent together as the king talked on and on, gesturing wildly with his free hand. Tearloch watched from a short distance as a man went to announce his presence.
Malcolm pulled himself away from the girl and rushed to meet his freshly bathed comrade. His face was alight with excitement and relief.
“Tearloch. These have been the longest days of my life, waiting on you.”
“Forgive me, yer Majesty.” Tearloch bowed, and reluctantly straightened, knowing what would come next.
Malcolm frowned when he saw the feebly hidden scowl on his face, and said, “Are ye just a nervous bridegroom, or do ye have news?”
“Neither, yer Majesty. I am content to marry, and I am eager to meet your Kenna. But I beg of ye to let both duties wait for a while.”
“Nonsense. I am through with waiting, my friend. Ye will marry in four days’ time, I have already announced it.” Malcolmacted as though it was now out of his hands, so there was no sense discussing it. “Now, allow me to introduce my sister.”
Tearloch set aside his complaints and followed his king across the patio, his heart beating wildly in his chest. Did women feel the same when they were about to swoon?
The girl stood at their approach. Tearloch’s heart slowed immediately. It wasn’t because he was relieved that the girl was as pretty, as the king had claimed, for she was beautiful. His heart slowed from a sudden lack of interest. At the thought of meeting this Kenna, he dreaded feeling some attraction, worried he might betray the woman he loved. But there was none.
An odd reason to be relieved, but relieved he was. Enough to offer a genuine smile.
“Sister, this is my Champion, and soon to be yours, Tearloch MacPherson.”
“Pleased to meet ye, Lady Kenna.” Tearloch noted she had little interest in him as well, as she turned her attention immediately back to the king. He thanked the heavens that this had not been the woman standing at Gowry’s window. He would have had an easier road home, to be sure, but how dull his life would have been for the past fortnight.
There was no fire in her eyes, no silent communication. The sudden urge to go home was powerful.
That night, at banquet, Tearloch sat beside his betrothed. He made little conversation, as did she. For the both of them, it became the same business arrangement as most weddings were. There were no pressing alliances necessary, just a king to please. A few times, Tearloch glanced at her to judge the size of her hips and almost found hope in the fact that they were small. But wishing the girl an early death was beneath him, and he forced such uncharitable thoughts away.
More than once, he felt her assessing gaze on him throughout the meal but chose not to face her. Could they possibly go through life together without truly looking at each other?
The meal done, Tearloch leaned toward the woman and kissed her on the cheek. He may as well have been kissing a horse for all he felt, and he suspected she sensed the same.
That night, Tearloch slept well enough…because he dreamed ofhisKenna.
