“James!” Tosia screeched, her head throbbing with a mix relief and joy.
Lifting her skirts so as not to trip on the stone steps, she ran for the yard to the man dismounting and tossing his reins to Tavish.
She slammed into his solid form. His strong arms caught her easily, crushing her tightly to him as if to make sure she was real.
Tosia did the same, trying to convince herself that, indeed, James stood before her — he wasn’t a spirit or ghost who’d ridden in after everyone else.
James released his embrace enough to bend his head low and find Tosia’s lips in an aggressive and claiming kiss. Her hands found the black locks at the back of his neck and curled her hands in them, returning the kiss with fervor.
He lifted his head when the king slapped his back and laughed at the randy scene of the hardened Black Douglas kissing his wife.
“James, I would no’ have believed it if I didn’t see it with mine own eyes. Black Douglas, ye might be the beast of Scotland in battle, but the lass has tamed ye well. Get ye some food and retire with your wife to your quarters.”
James gave the Bruce a light bow and then threaded his arm around Tosia’s waist to escort her back into the main hall.
James lifted the platterof meat, cheese, and fruit from Tosia’s hands in the main hall and led her to their chambers on the second floor of the keep. Though his cock throbbed in anticipation of sliding into his wife’s sheath to the hilt, his fatigue made him ache to the depth of his bones.
In truth, what he wanted was nothing more than to be comfortable in his bedding with Tosia in his arms.
He’d been reckless. For the past several years, with nothing to live for, his behavior in battle, in his strategies, put him in the grip of death. He was more than willing to risk his life for the greater cause. And with Shabib by his side, who was of a similar mindset, they risked much, too much, too often.
But he hadn’t regarded those who fought with him — the king, Declan, Torin — who had more than just themselves. They had wives, families, and whilst they there fighting for Scotland, they were also fighting for the future of their families in Scotland. James’s recklessness could have gotten them killed. What of the future for their wives and families then?
James hugged Tosia tightly as he shoved open the chamber door. Now, he too had something more, a wife and a future. Being reckless didn’t only endanger him, but Tosia as well. Yet he’d still fight with all the passion in his soul for a free Scotland, a Scotland for himself, for Tosia, for their future together.
Before he did that, however, he needed a wash. In their rush to return to Auchinleck, they skipped scrubbing the foulness of their day’s atrocities from their clothing and bodies. James had wiped his hands, face, and sword with his tunic — that had been the extent of him wiping away the mucky English remnants.
Tosia set to lighting candles against the deepening night and rekindled the fire as James set the platter on the narrow table by the window and sat on the stool to tug off his boots. His feet had been encased since the day before, and once freed, he wiggled and flexed his lightly furred toes against the rush mat, enjoying the sense of cool freedom on his weary feet.
Tosia came to him, reaching to remove his tunic over his head when her hand paused at the hem.
“What’s all this?” she inquired, peering closer. She scraped her finger at the dark brown, flaky stain on his tunic.
“Dried blood,” James answered casually. “I tried to wipe away as much as I could, but we did no’ stop for bathing, aye?”
Her hand recoiled as her eyes roved over the ruined tunic, to his stained braies, and even at the creases of his forearms, hands, and neck. He felt rather like a young child under the scrutiny of his mother.
“James, so much blood!” Tosia clutched at her neck.
He gave her a one-shouldered shrug and reached for Tosia’s hip to draw her close. Even with her disdain at his bloodied clothes, she moved toward him.
“’Tis so much blood. How did ye survive?”
“’Tis no’ mine! Here, help me remove this. We can burn it in the fire,” James told her.
She did as James bid, yanking the soiled clothing from his shoulders. At the crackling hearth, she gave him a side-long look, and he nodded. Holding the tunic as she might hold a dead animal, Tosia tossed it into the fire which snapped and popped at the offending kindling.
Not that his bare chest was much better, and she grimaced as she examined him. James eyed his skin, and while he was accustomed to what he looked like immediately after a battle, Tosia did not.
He barely felt the bruises, and she was used to seeing those. Between battles and training, James was often bruised when he took her to bed. The dirt and caked blood, that he typically washed off in a loch or the horse trough before coming to her.
She was silent as she walked around him, studying his body with surprising intensity, as though she were seeing him for the first time though they had been wed for months. The wide swaths of scars across his arms and shoulders, were marred with scrapes and covered with blood, both his own but more that of his fallen enemies.
His back, he knew, had taken a few strong hits, and he could identify every place he was either scored or cut, for her fingertips caressed every wound, every mark as she slowly explored his body. Chills coursed over his skin, and he dropped his head. The weight of the day, the indelible fatigue, the worry of whether or not he’d return to Tosia — he felt a bit like Atlas, trying to support the world.
Her fingers didn’t stop. Undeterred by the horrors of his body, her fingers moved up his neck to his hair and scraped against his scalp. His entire body relaxed under her ministrations.
“Let’s get ye cleaned up,” she said.
