Winter roared in like a lion, bringing frigid temperatures, icy winds, short days, and endless swaths of gray mist and clouds. As the sun slumbered, the skies poured.
All Saints’ Day came and went, as did St. Martins. Soon Christina would begin the preparations for Yule and Hogmanay. The cook’s grandchildren had gone. There was little cheer between these somber stone walls, but she intended to do her best to change that.
She was discouraged but not defeated. Patience, she reminded herself.
The wind howled and the rain pelted against the Hall’s narrow shutters. What a horrible night! She finished arranging the ferns—the only thing that was still growing in abundance around the castle other than heather—and stepped back to admire the varying shades of orange and brown.
She took a quick look around the room, satisfied that everything was ready for the evening meal, and started back to her chamber to change. She never knew when Tor would join her, but she tried to look her best for the few occasions on which he did.
The days had taken on a certain rhythm. Most days he left the castle at dawn, returning well after dark—and sometimes not at all. But he always kept his promise and told her when he would be away “for a few days.” She no longer bothered to ask him where he was going, knowing she would only get the same reply that he was attending to clan matters—single-handedly, it seemed.
She couldn’t help noticing that Lady Janet was often gone as well.
She didn’t want to think it was anything but a coincidence. But it was getting harder and harder to convince herself that her husband might harbor a special feeling for her.
In truth, she didn’t know what to think. It wasn’t that anything was wrong … precisely. She had nothing to complain about. But her marriage was not progressing the way she’d hoped, and she didn’t know what to do about it.
She’d been at Dunvegan for well over a month now, but in many ways she was no closer to knowing her husband than the day she arrived.
She’d learned what he liked to eat and drink; that his clan revered him as a living legend, a godlike king and warrior hero rolled into one; that he kept his household ordered and running with military precision; that he rarely relaxed; that in addition to a brother he had a sister (this she learned from the clerk), and that he could make her fall apart with a touch.
She knew the hot feel of his skin on hers, the way the pine scent of his soap intensified as his body heated with passion, the rough scrape of his jaw against her skin, the small “v” of silky-soft hair on his chest, the press of his lips on her breast, and the exquisite sensation of his hands covering her body.
She stepped into her chamber, her eye going to the bed—the one place they connected. Heat washed over her with the visceral memories.
She knew the way the muscles in his arms and shoulders flexed when he held himself above her to push inside. She knew how hard those muscles felt bulging under her hands. She knew the weight of him on top of her, the fullness of him inside her, the rhythm of his lovemaking as he moved in and out of her. She knew the way his stomach muscles clenched into tight bands right before he cried out his release. She knew the sound of that release—the sharp grunt and deep groan echoed in her ears long after he’d gone. And gone he was, every time, no matter how much she hoped he would want to stay. To wake up in his arms just once …
Her chest tightened as she turned away from the bed.
She knew his lovemaking, but she knew nothing of the man. He kept his thoughts to himself. No matter how hard she tried to break through the wall he’d erected around himself, nothing worked. Perhaps she should ask King Edward to borrow his infamous siege engine “Warwolf,” she thought ruefully.
Tor was so used to being alone, to keeping his burdens to himself, that she didn’t even think he knew what he was missing. Or that his efforts to keep her out hurt. On the rare occasions that he joined her for a meal, her attempts at more intimate conversation were politely, but definitively, rebuked. Her attempt to make the household more cheery and bring a little warmth to the dreary Hall had been for naught. She tried to be helpful. To do nice things for him, like having the cook prepare his favorite meals or keeping his clothes spotless and freshly laundered. But he seemed too busy to notice.
She’d begun to feel like one of his dogs. An adoring pup, following him around at his heels, looking for any show of affection. A tender touch. A look. Anything to show he might care. Even another kiss on the head would give her hope.
It wasn’t that he was cruel. Cruelty would require some flare of emotion. Perhaps that would be easier. At least then, she would know where she stood.
She had thought she’d sensed something special between them, but what if she was wrong? What if there were no cozy nights before the fire? What if this was it?
Tor seemed to have two emotions when it came to her: polite indifference during the day and passion at night. The latter gave her hope. The passion between them had only grown as she’d gradually become more comfortable with her body’s desires and started to let go.
At least it had for her. She wanted to think it was mutual, but then again, she didn’t have anything to compare it to. Not the way he did.
But even in bed, she couldn’t help feeling that something was wrong. That he was holding back. She felt a sharp pang in her chest, fearing that she was a disappointment to him.I must be doing something wrong.
Desperately, she wanted to please him. But how? Impressing him with her wifely skills certainly wasn’t working. He’d taught her passion, how to sense the desires of her own body, but she still knew so little of his. What did he like?
He always seemed so under control, except for—
That was it! The first time. There was something raw and real about the first time. Maybe that was how he liked it?
Her cheeks heated at the wicked memory of how he’d entered her from behind.
Warmth settled low in her belly. She had a plan. It required boldness, but modesty would not deter her. To knock down the wall of distrust and isolation that he’d built up around himself, she would need to strike hard. Warwolf was nothing compared to what she had planned.
The wave crashed over him, dragging Tor down and holding him under for long enough to make most men panic. Lungs on fire, he broke back through the surface of the water, sucking in air in big gulps.
“Anyone ready to quit?” he yelled, his voice dulled by the roar of the wind and the hammer of the rain.
