Had she and Seamus made the right decision in setting their eldest to wed the lass? Or had the match been a grave mistake?
“At least sleep in your own chambers. If ye dinna sleep with the lass, ‘tis your choice. But dinna give rise to more rumors that might suggest she’s no’ truly wed to ye. ‘Tis unfair to her, and to the MacDonald name.”
Reade’s chin dropped to his chest. There it was – she had brought up his alliance to his clan, the one thing that might sway him. And Sorcha believed in her heart that if he spent some time with his wife, even a little bit, he’d see what a kind soul she was. A bit lost, a bit frightened mayhap, but not the traitorous harpy that she was rumored to be.
And if he managed to make the lass love him, then if shedidharbor any secrets, she’d be more willing to share them with a trusted husband than someone she didn’t trust.
With her hands clasped in front of her and a level gaze, Sorcha waited for her son to respond. He could be hard-headed at times, ‘twas no secret there, but the willful childishness had passed and now was the time for her son to behave like the proud Highland man she knew him to be.
The stable was quiet but for the sound of Motcha chewing the dried apples. Finally, Reade half-turned to her, his face stoic but not angry. His shoulders were relaxed, not tense. Sorcha bit back a smile that threatened to burst forth on her lips.
“Aye. Ye and your suggestions will be the death of me, Mother. I am sure of it. But ye have wisdom and experience, and ye speak the truth about Camden. I have no’ respected his memory well as of late.” Reade exhaled and stepped toward her. He took one of his mother’s hands in his. “And I have no’ respected ye or my family or the MacDonald name. I will do my best to be better.”
Sorcha’s lips pressed into a slender smile, and she embraced her son.
He might be hard-headed, but he always did what was right and proper in the end.
She wasn’t surprised. Hewasa MacDonald, after all.
Reade kept his promiseto his mother, and that night, instead of retreating to the stables, he entered his chambers after the evening meal.
He hadn’t seen Blair until the meal, and even then, she sat next to his sister while he sat at the larger head table with his mother and father. Her hair gleamed in the sconce light, uncovered by any kerchief so it fell over her shoulders in a wave, like water over dark rocks. She wore a gown that fit her slight curves well, and he noted the MacDonald tartan of the skirts. His sister must have helped her in her morning routine, dressing her in the tartan of her new clan. Claiming her for the MacDonalds — which was what he should have done.
She didn’t look over at him at all. Adaira kept her entertained with her amiable chatter, and if Reade wasn’t mistaken, was that a hint of a smile on Blair’s lips?
Sorcha glared at him over a platter of dried herring and venison, and Reade understood that look – it was her way of telling him to remember what he promised and to behave. The Glenachulish children knew that well, having seen it since early childhood. And Reade knew he was going to obey that sharp glare.
He waited until Blair departed the hall before leaving. Sorcha grabbed his wrist as he walked past her chair and crinkled her nose at him.
“Have a bath before ye join her. Ye stink of horse.”
Reade bowed his head slightly, and she released his wrist and patted his plaid as he left the table and strode toward the kitchens.
The maids were more than happy to give him several buckets of warm water and a linen cloth, giggling as he took the buckets and stepped out the kitchen door. He moved to the edge of the low stone building, not wanting an audience. The giggling kitchen maids were over eager to help him wash, and he wasn’t in the mood to entertain.
Not that he hadn’t in the past, but if he was going to make his wife fall in love with him, and try to fall in love with her, he needed to keep his focus. He slipped his tunic over his head, and with as furtive look around to make sure no one could see him in his hidden corner, he unwound his kilt, so he stood naked as the day he was born.
The evening air was still chilly, and steam rose from the buckets and his body as he wiped at his dirt-caked skin. His mother hadn’t been wrong, but then, when was she ever? He hadn’t scrubbed himself down since the night before his wedding, and though it had been merely two days, sleeping in the stables added a layer of dirt. Once he had scoured himself clean, he dumped the rest of the water over his head and shoulders, then shook his head to wick off the rapidly cooling drops.
Satisfied he no longer reeked of horse and stables, he redressed, gathered the buckets and cloth, and returned to the kitchen. The cheery kitchen maids accepted his bathing implements, and Reade graced them with a grateful smile before he headed to the stairs.
He had enough confidence to get him to his own chamber door. Then he paused, standing before the door to his own rooms, gathering his wits. He ran his fingers through his damp hair to smooth his unruly locks and took a deep breath. Pressing the memory of Camden from his mind, he tried to focus on his mother’s sage advice.
And on the image of Blair. The woman roused a heady desire in Reade – of that he had no doubt. He’d been randy and more than ready to plunge into her depths on their wedding night. Her firm breasts bulging above her fitted bodice had kept his rapt attention. His body betrayed him every time he thought about her, his cock stiffening like a sword despite his apparent dislike for everything she and their marriage represented.
Mayhap if his body could respond to her so readily, his mind could follow.
He raised his hand to knock, then paused. Why was he knocking? ‘Twas his own chamber!
A darker thought came on the heels of the first one — what if she had barred the door?
Reade needn’t have worried. He pressed the latch, leaned his weight against the door, and it swung open easily, his rooms welcoming him back.
The same could not be said for the wide-eyed lass sewing by the hearth. Blair froze when he entered, her hands gripping the pale cloth as her blue eyes seemed to take over her face. She said nothing. She didn’t rise. She was like prey in the sights of a predator.
Was she wrong in that? Perchance not. Reade felt like a predator as he strode toward his wardrobe.
They didn’t speak. What did they have to say to each other? What was he supposed to say to her?
