He leaned close and cupped her chin in his hand. “Aye, but it’s more than that, and you know it. It’s why I’ve become so irritable lately. Sometimes, I need you so bad, I just want to drop my sword in the middle of a training exercise and leave the men to their own devices, so I can take you to bed. But when I think about you coming to any harm, I want to pick up my sword again. You pull me in two directions, lass.”
She shivered inwardly. “Maybe that’s how your friend felt about you and the Englishwoman. He must have been torn between the two of you, and it was probably very difficult for him to choose her, when he knew you did not approve.”
One of the candles danced in a draft, and they both turned to look at the door. There was no one there, so they faced front again, but it took a moment for Gwendolen’s heart to slow down.
“Do you regret your lost friendship?” she asked. “And do you think it might help to contact your friend? You could send him a letter and apologize for what you did, and explain that you now understand the choice he made.”
Angus shook his head. “There is no way to apologize. What I did was beyond forgiveness.”
“Nothing is ever beyond that, not if you truly express your regret. God, at least, will be merciful.”
He gave her a questionable look. “So I should write this letter, just to secure an invitation to heaven?”
She relaxed her shoulders. “Of course not. You should do it for the right reasons—to mend your friendship and honor this man with your apology. Perhaps he regrets the loss of your friendship, as well, and besides that, I would like the opportunity to meet him.”
It was no lie. The Butcher of the Highlands was a famous Scottish hero.
Angus toyed with the hair over her ear, and the light touch of his fingers made her body tingle with gooseflesh.
“You are a wise woman, lass. I’ll be sure to consider it.”
“Will you come back to bed now?” she asked.
“Aye, after I say one more prayer.”
She stood up, but still held his hand. “Do you wish to be alone?”
“Just for a short while,” he replied. “I still need to pray for my father, so that if we meet again in the afterlife, he’ll not thrash me senseless, like he did the last time he saw me.”
Gwendolen gathered her shawl about her shoulders. “I am sure that if he is watching you from above, he is very proud. You reclaimed his castle after all.”
Angus shook his head. “How can you say that, when your own father must be rolling over in his grave, seeing you wed to me? I am the son of his enemy.”
She looked up at the cross over the altar. “I believe he would have understood why I accepted you—that I did it for my clan.”
“You made a great sacrifice, lass.”
“Perhaps. But it’s turning out to be less of one than I first imagined.” She turned to go.
“Wait for me here,” he said. “I’ll be brief, and I don’t want you wandering through the castle alone at night. Someone might kidnap you and hold you for ransom, and I’m beginning to think I’d pay any price to get you back.”
“Anyprice?” she replied, with a spark of hope.
“Aye. I’m your husband, lass. I’d die for you.”
A tremor of emotion shook her, for she was unprepared for such a strong vow of commitment from him, and she found herself wondering: was it duty? Or was it something more?
For her, it was far more than duty that kept her bound to him.
“Let us hope it never comes to that,” she said. She glanced uneasily at the pews directly across from him, then slid into one of them. “But perhaps, just to be safe, I will wait for you here and say my own prayers.”
“And what will you pray for?” he asked.
She thought about it briefly, then cupped her hands together and rested them on the back of the pew in front of her. “I’ll pray that one day, you will be reunited with your friend, and he will forgive you.” She gave him a knowing, sidelong glance. “I’m sure the Butcher of the Highlands has committed enough of his own sins to forgive you for yours.”
Her husband pointed a warning finger at her.
“Don’t worry,” she said with a mischievous grin. “I’ll carry your secret to my grave.”
