He took her breath away. And with that one simple gesture, perhaps a little of her heart as well.
It should be a sin to be so handsome. With his eyes twinkling, his dark ruddy hair slumped over his brow, and his sensual mouth curved in a wide grin, there was no one who could compare. He looked more at ease than she’d ever seen him. She’d never realized how much he was always on guard.
But there was something else. . . .
She drew in her breath. His clothing. For the first time since she’d met him, he was wearing the traditionalbreacan feileof a Highlander—the belted plaid was worn over a fine linen shirt and secured at the shoulder with his chieftain’s badge. If anything, the garb made him look even more impressive. She recognized the plaid as similar to the one he’d lent her the first day they’d met. She was so used to seeing him in court clothing, but it reminded her that despite his worldly Lowland ways, he was, in fact, a Highlander.
She couldn’t help wondering if it meant something.
He strode toward her and took her hand, lifting it to his mouth. “I trust you slept well?”
Aware of the eyes on them, she still couldn’t prevent the heat that rose in her cheeks. “Yes, thank you.”
“My pleasure,” he teased.
Mortified, she stumbled, “I didn’t mean—” She stopped, seeing the laughter in his eyes. “Wretch,” she murmured.
He laughed and drew her hand into the crook of his arm. “If you are ready, we can bid our farewells.”
It was strange. Standing beside him side to side, her hand resting against the hard muscle of his arm, she felt connected. They were connected, she realized, as man and wife. She could never have her old life back, but maybe, just maybe, she could make a new one—not better or worse, but different.
Saying good-bye to her uncle, aunt, and cousins was more difficult than she’d expected. She owed them so much and knew that she could never repay their kindness.
It wasn’t until her cousin John pulled her aside while Jamie spoke privately with her uncle in the laird’s solar that reality intruded on the dreamlike spell woven by their passionate wedding night.
“It won’t be easy for you, lass, married to a Campbell. You’ve made a great sacrifice for your clan, but if you find it more than you can bear, send for me.”
Caitrina lowered her gaze.Sacrifice.It wasn’t half the sacrifice it should be. Still, her cousin’s concern—even if misplaced—touched her. She felt a jab in her chest. It was something Malcolm or Niall would have done. “Thank you, John, but it won’t be necessary. I’ll manage well enough.”
He gave her a hard look. “Don’t be deceived by the pleasure of the marriage bed, lass.” John’s blunt—and too accurate—appraisal of the situation took her aback. “He wants you, but Jamie Campbell is every bit as dangerous and ruthless as they say. I’ve seen him in action. He’ll never allow himself to be swayed by a woman. His first loyalty will always be to his cousin. Don’t let the costume fool you,” he said, referring to Jamie’s choice of clothing. Apparently, she hadn’t been the only one to notice the change in attire. “He’s a Campbell through and through—and as such, will never be a friend of ours.”
Caitrina tried to cover her embarrassment. Was she so transparent? Was her fascination with her husband so easy to see? She thought of her vow to stay distant, of her vow for revenge against the Campbells, and was shamed by her weakness. How easily she’d succumbed. But never had she imagined he could be so tender . . . sweet . . . almost loving. Pride forced her chin upward to meet her cousin’s gaze. “You don’t have to remind me. I know well whom I’ve married.”And what I’ve become.
“There will be grumbling,” he warned.
Her cousin was right. Those who remained of her clan would not like what she’d done. She felt a flicker of unease. Jamie would never tolerate disloyalty or disrespect—how would he bring them in line? “They will see that it is for the best.”
They had to. She would not suffer the same heartbreak of her mother: to be cast out from her clan for marrying the enemy.
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Jamie and her uncle come back into the room. He headed right for her with a dark glower on his face, almost as if he could guess what they were talking about.
John gave her another long look, this one almost pitying. “For your sake, little cousin, I hope you are right.”
The short journey across the Clyde from Toward to Rothesay proceeded without event, and by midafternoon, Caitrina found herself ensconced in Rothesay Castle, the luxurious former Stewart stronghold with its unique design of circular towers that would serve as her home until Ascog could be repaired. It was far grander than any place she’d ever lived and took some getting used to—as did having a husband.
Over the next few days, they established a tenuous truce. One forged in the darkness of the night, where nothing could come between desire and passion. He’d come to bed late, take off his clothes before the smoldering fire, slip into bed beside her naked, and wait for her to come to him. As he’d done the first night, he never let her forget it was her choice—shewas the one in control. And like a moth to the flame she was helpless to resist the primitive calling.
In the darkness, where no one could see her need, she reached for him. Sliding her hands over his big powerful body, savoring the strength flexing under her fingertips, she gave free rein to her desire. She told him with her passion what she could not say with words—of her hunger, of her wanting, for him. And with a tenderness that she would have thought impossible for such a powerful man, he fed that hunger, giving her pleasure beyond anything she’d ever imagined.
But as tender and loving as he was in bed, and as much as Caitrina had learned of his body, in many ways her husband was still a stranger to her. The light moments of intimacy they’d shared after that first night had not returned. He cradled her in his arms, but he never tried to talk to her, never shared his thoughts. They spoke in gasps and groans, in quickness of breath, and in tightening of muscles—the language of pleasure—sharing the secrets of their bodies but not of their hearts. She knew how to take him in her hands and milk him until every muscle in his body clenched with the need to find release, how to tease, how to touch, but nothing of his feelings for her.
And in the morning when she woke, sore and sated, he was gone. It was as if he’d sensed her subtle retrenchment and had decided not to press her.
She almost wished he would.
Watching him organize the men to begin the repairs on Ascog, she wondered whether she’d imagined those brief moments of lightheartedness. He was every inch the chief—every inch the commander. Every inch a Campbell.
Only in the dark, wrapped in his arms, did she wonder if there was something more.
