The way he’d been making love to her had been so poignant—so sweet—she’d reacted in fear, attempting the whore’s trick she’d overheard some women talking about once.
It had worked. Mary knew she should be happy. She’d won. Yet it hadn’t felt like a victory. Increasingly, her attempt to keep herself at a distance, to not let an emotional entanglement complicate the passion they shared, felt wrong. No, she corrected—it always felt wrong.
The past weeks had been some of the happiest of her life. She was spending time with her son, enjoying every moment of the baby growing inside her, and experiencing passion that she’d never thought could be hers. But she knew that wasn’t all of it. It was her marriage—or, more specifically, her husband. He’d eased some of the burden she hadn’t even realized she’d been carrying. With him she felt safe for the first time in a very long time. It didn’t seem to matter that the war was coming, that he would be riding off in some not-too-distant future to fight against their countrymen; he made her feel safe and protected.
Slowly but surely, he was chipping away at her defenses. The passion they shared at night had spilled over into the day—and not just because of the romantic gestures like the bath, flowers, sweets, and ribbons. It was hard to stay distant with a man who knew every part of her body, who could make her weep with pleasure, and who slept beside her every night. Even watching him dress in the morning had taken on a new fascination. All these little things that she’d never shared with a man—with anyone—before were drawing them closer. It was so different from her first marriage. She had never shared a bed with Atholl. Never shared a washbasin in the morning. Never helped him with his shirt and surcote. Never jested with him. Never talked with him. She’d never known him. Not in the way she was coming to know Kenneth.
She liked challenging him. Liked the combat of wills that had risen between them. He made her feel bold and strong. Nothing like she’d felt with Atholl; with him she’d been timid and accepting. Kenneth not only listened to her, he seemed interested in what she had to say.
More and more, she could see that her new husband was nothing like her first.
He was funny and smart, wicked and passionate, and the fierce attraction was wearing her down.
She liked him. And it terrified her.
Had she misjudged him?
He’d given her no cause to doubt him. Indeed, he was attentive almost to the point of doting. It was clear he was trying to win her heart, but why? Was it just some kind of game, or was it something more?
Could she dare to hope?
But she knew it was too late to ask that question. Hope had been lit that first night and had been stoked hotter every day since.
She didn’t know how much longer she could keep her defenses up. Perhaps…perhaps tonight, she wouldn’t.
A slow smile curled her mouth. Buoyed by the thought, she tossed off the covers and called for her maid. She had a busy day ahead of her and wanted to make sure she was back in plenty of time to get ready for the massive feast planned for later today.
With tomorrow being Ash Wednesday and the beginning of Lent, this would be the last celebration until Easter. Anticipating the deprivations of the next forty days, the castle inhabitants would be celebrating to great excess. Given Cornwall’s lavish taste for entertainment, it felt more like a long celebration than a preparation for war.
Though Kenneth had grumbled, she’d extracted a promise from him to dance with her. She knew it was silly, yet she felt like a young lass at her first dance being picked by the most handsome knight at the feast, and she was looking forward to it.
Dressing quickly, she hastened downstairs to break her fast and nearly ran into her son. He was clutching a sword and muttering to himself, and didn’t see her right away.
She clutched his shoulders before he plowed into her. “Davey, where are you going in such a rush?” He glanced up, and she caught a look at the dark expression on his face. “What’s wrong?”
He twisted out of her hold, refusing to meet her gaze. “Nothing.”
But it was obvious something was wrong. She’d thought he’d seemed preoccupied the past week but had attributed it to his duties. Now, she wondered if it was something more. “Is there something I can do? Does it have to do with your duties? Shall I talk to Sir John?”
He drew back in horror. “God’s blood, no! That will make it worse.”
“What worse?”
His face twisted with an emotion she couldn’t read, except that he was in turmoil. She wanted to reach for him and comfort him, but instinctively she knew that was the last thing he wanted right now.
“I have to go,” he said, pulling away even more as if he sensed her impulse. “I need to get this done.” It sounded like he muttered “again,” before he hurried out of the Hall.
Mary watched him go with the familiar sense of helplessness rising up inside her. Being the mother of a thirteen-year-old lad was like walking through a thick forest. At night. In the snow. Without a guidepost. Just when she thought she found the path out, another obstacle blocked her path.
She startled, an idea taking hold. Maybe what she needed was another set of eyes.
That was it! Who better to have insight into the mindset of a young lad than someone who’d been there? Perhaps Kenneth would be able to help?
Feeling as if a weight suddenly had been lifted from her shoulders, Mary hurried about her tasks. For more reasons than one, she was looking forward to the night ahead.
Kenneth stormed out of the tower after breaking his fast and headed across the yard to the armory. For a man who had spent the morning being pleasured in the way every man dreams of being pleasured, he was in a foul mood. His body might be well sated from more than three weeks of increasingly passionate lovemaking, but the rest of him was teeming with frustration.
Nothing about this mission was going well. Bruce was furious that he’d married Mary without his permission; Kenneth hadn’t been able to offset his anger with any information of value; they were annoyed at him for straying from his task (apparently, someone was watching him and had informed them of his little journey to Roxburgh with Clifford); each day without practice he felt his battle skills withering like a grape in the sun, Felton lost no opportunity to give slight and offense, making MacKay look subtle by comparison; and to top it all off, his wee wife was proving infuriatingly resistant to his attempts to woo her.
