“Has anyone been able to identify the assassin?” Gwendolen asked.
“No. There was not a single MacEwen, or MacDonald for that matter, who recognized him. It was as if he flew into Scotland from some foreign land, like a migrating bird of prey.” She took another sip of whisky. “Speaking of birds, I believe that tiny swallow in the Great Hall has departed for good. She flew out the door on your wedding day, and no one has seen her since.”
“Is that right?” Gwendolen asked, hiding the fact that she already knew. She was extremely mindful of the little bird’s whereabouts, for she had dreamed of her death in the jaws of a raven on the eve of their nuptials. Gwendolen had told no one about the dream, not even Angus, for it seemed like a bad omen, and now she was beginning to think that’s exactly what it was.
She decided she would pay closer attention to her dreams in the future. And perhaps she would tell Angus about them.
But for now, she would focus on getting Madge released from the prison.
Chapter Fifteen
Gwendolen lay in bed in the darkness, waiting for Angus. For a fortnight, she had seen very little of him. Not only did he continue to investigate the failed attempt on his life—and sometimes left the castle for hours on end to scout the surrounding forests and glens—he also worked with his army in the bailey to improve their fighting skills.
By the time he climbed into bed each night, he was exhausted and had no interest in the playful, extended lovemaking sessions she had grown accustomed to in the early weeks of their marriage. The man she had come to know on those rainy afternoons had disappeared and been replaced by the dark, brooding conqueror who had invaded her home and killed so many of her clansmen. He had retreated into that shadow of violence and cynicism, and had taken with him any hope she might have entertained that there could eventually be more intimacy or affection between them. She knew now that he was a warrior, first and foremost. That came before anything.
She did not complain, however, nor would she ever do so—for his leadership of Kinloch and the safety of its people was a primary concern. Deep down, however, she was lonely. Each time she remembered how it felt to be held in his arms at night, she felt a terrible sense of loss.
A key slipped into the lock, and the bedchamber door swung open. Light from the corridor spilled across the floor, and Gwendolen sat up on her elbows, squinting at her husband as he entered and shut the door behind him.
“Go back to sleep,” he said, removing the pistol from his belt and setting it on the bedside table. Next he removed the powder horn that was slung over his shoulder, and last, his heavy belt, sword, and shield.
“Where were you today?” she asked. “Did you have any supper?”
“I just ate with the men.” He moved to the chair before the fire, sank into it, and stretched his legs out.
Gwendolen tossed the covers aside. Slowly, she moved across the room and knelt in front of him. “Can I do anything for you?”
Perhaps he would ask her to make love to him while he lounged back in the chair—for already, her body was humming with desire. She ran her hands up and down his forearms, stroking the muscle and brushing her fingertips over his large, battle-scarred hands.
He tipped his head back against the chair and closed his eyes, shaking his head in refusal.
Wondering if he simply needed some soothing pleasures to inspire his passions, she slid her hands up under his kilt and massaged his muscular thighs, but he surprised her by lifting his head and grabbing hold of her wrists. His eyes were cold and gray like winter ice, his voice threatening.
“I saidno.” He tossed his head in a commanding gesture that indicated the bed. “And I told you to go back to sleep. I’ll have no defiance from you tonight, lass. Go. Leave me be.”
She sat back on her heels, withdrew her hands from under his kilt, and frowned at him. “Did something happen today?”
“It was a day like any other,” he said, “but I am weary. I’m in no mood to talk or do anything else. I’ve already said it once. Nowgo.”
Hearing the sharp note of impatience in his voice, Gwendolen stood and worked hard to suppress the hurt she felt over this rejection—which was both sexual and personal. She had begun to hope that she would be a solace for him when the pressures of his position as laird grew oppressive. She wanted to ease the burdens he carried. She wanted to provide him with pleasures outside of the violence and hardships of battle, to be the one who welcomed him home at night, patched up his wounds, and built up his strength so that he could rise again the next day and fight.
But he did not want that from her—at least not tonight, when he saw her only as an extra chore that was making him irritable.
Her head throbbed suddenly with indignation, for she was no man’s chore. She had only wanted to do something to ease his burdens.
“I’ll leave you alone then.” She stalked across the room. “I’ll go back to my own bedchamber.”
“Nay!” he shouted, leaning forward in his chair. “You’ll do as I say, lass, and get back in this bed, here in this room. I’ll not have you tiptoeing about the castle corridors at night.”
“Fine!” She returned to the bed, climbed up onto it, and shoved her feet under the covers. “I’ll stay here, and I won’t bother you with another sound!”
She wrenched the covers up, wishing she could be more docile, but there was no hope of that. She wanted certain things from this marriage—and his complete emotional withdrawal was not one of them.
***
Angus watched Gwendolen from the chair as she shot back into bed like a musket ball. He knew she was angry with him. Hell, it was as obvious as a bucking horse in the kitchen.
He also knew that he wasn’t cut out for this. He’d thought he could manage this marriage when he’d claimed her as a wife. He’d thought it would be a simple matter of wedding her and bedding her a few times until she was with child. But the sex had proved far more intense than he’d imagined, and the wife more appealing and intriguing than any woman he’d ever encountered, and that created a problem. Keeping his mind on his duties—while she was wandering about the castle in her pretty frocks, smelling like roses—was like wading upstream through rushing water.
