“Campbell and his men are no longer in the vicinity,” the messenger said. “They have taken their leave and plan to visit the Morrison keep in the coming days, once your party has returned. There is no way to deliver your message today, unless you’d like us to follow them to try to seek them out.”
Laird Mackenzie turned to his brother. “Kade? Would you consult with Morrison? Or send a message of your own with these guards? Or leave it lie ’til Campbell dares show his face at Glenlochie? You have access, of course, to all the troops you need. I’ll alert the men now.”
Kade considered the question. “Aye. We’ll take fifty men. And leave Campbell to his idiocy, wherever he may be. The very next time I see that menace, I’ll be more than tempted to spear him through the heart.”
“Aye, ’tis what he deserves,” agreed Laird Mackenzie. The laird dismissed the messenger and took his leave to alert his contingent of soldiers to their new assignment.
Christie and Ailie bid us good-night.
Kade stood so brusquely that he upset his goblet, which rolled off the table and fell to the floor, spraying liquid and smashing loudly. I shrank away from his quick, aggressive movement in an ingrained reaction. If I was close enough to a man to witness abruptnessand anger, it was usually directed at me. My husband didn’t notice. Instead, he said, “Stella. Come with me.”
I followed him out of the laird’s den and down the corridor with trepidation. Had he changed his mind about waiting? Was he so angered and upset that he’d decided to take out his frustrations on me?
As soon as we entered his private chambers, he closed the door firmly. Taking care to get out of his way, I stood near the fire and watched him throw objects from the bookshelves into the remaining trunks, obviously in a state of irate agitation. I had learned that he would only take some of the things he would need. He planned for us to return for a visit to Kinloch in the spring, and this room would be left as it was, for our use whenever we needed it. I’d felt a small sense of relief at this news. I was glad, for my husband’s sake, that his haven would remain untouched. It seemed important to him.
I thought I understood why my husband was upset and I could sympathize. His agitation, to be sure, rekindled my fear of his considerable size and his war-hardened strength. But I took heart from the few affectionate moments we had shared. I remembered his stunning admission. I savored his careful, inspiring touch. And I resolved to stay well out of his way until his ire cooled.
Several gowns had been left in disarray by my sisters, draped carelessly over a table. “Why you have need of so many garments for such a short stay here is unfathomable to me,” Kade said irritably. He grabbed the dressesand walked toward me to fling them onto the bed. Instinctively, I cowered back from him, holding my arm up to shield my face. Terror rose in me in a reflexive surge as I flinched back from the onslaught.“Please don’t—”I cried, knowing only too well the amount of pain a warrior his size could inflict.
But there was nothing. No impact. No pain.
After a moment, I dared to lower my arm and look up at him.
My husband was frozen in place, contemplating me with a mixture of puzzled alarm and grim understanding. He didn’t speak for several seconds. Turning away from me, he began to pace back and forth, as though attempting to control his own temper. This temper, though, was not directed at me, but at something he was considering. He leaned against a far wall, folding his arms across his chest, as though sensing in that moment that the small distance would comfort me.
When he spoke again, his volume was lower, his anger contained. His measured thoughtfulness was tinged with an air of regret. “I saw the red mark on your face the other day,” he commented, and there was an icy gravity in his tone that sent a light shiver chasing up the back of my neck. “Is it your father who beats you? Or someone else?”
I didn’t want to answer him. I didn’t want to infuriate him even more. And it didn’t seem prudent to stir animosity between the laird of our clan and his successor.
“Answer me,” Kade said quietly, and I shrank back farther from him, afraid of the stark ferocity in hisquestion. “Stella. I asked you a simple question. Does your father beat you?”
“Aye,” I whispered, hoping only to calm him by giving him the information he demanded. “Or he orders his guards to do it.”
His expression was measured and contemplative. There was a tenderness to him that was new, a quiet compassion that touched his features, softening his fierceness and causing a sudden pang of inexplicable longing that startled me. He wasconcernedfor me. He understood that I had suffered and this realization was distressing to him. It was the first time I had ever been on the receiving end of real empathy from a man—especially one so vibrantly masculine as Kade Mackenzie—and the sensation of it felt wildly endearing. I had the unfamiliar urge to go to him, to touch him and to feel more of this extraordinary comfort he was offering me. “Is that why you cower away from every man, too afraid to speak or look anyone in the eye? Isthatthe reason?”
Was that what I did? Now that he described it that way, I suppose one might have had something to do with the other. If I looked at the wrong man, I was punished. And it was always the wrong man.
“I’d wager, too, that he beat you into agreeing to marry me, is that right?”
I couldn’t reply, but my silence seemed confirmation enough.
“How long has this been happening?” he asked.
“I—I don’t know. A long time.”
It was several minutes before he spoke again. “Is that why you always look at me as though you’re expecting me to hurt you?” His voice had taken on an entirely different character, and one that reached into me, beyond my fear to some part of myself I barely recognized. Kade Mackenzie, whom I hardly knew beyond these past few days of turbulent intimacy, was genuinely affected by the information I had just given him. Our gazes met, and the connection was disconcertingly visceral. “Let me assure you of this, wife,” he said softly. “If any man threatens to lay a hand on you ever again, he will be exceedingly sorry for it. You’re my wife now and you have the protection of my body and my sword.”
Here he was, this lethal warrior husband of mine, offering not threats, but protection, delivering the most reassuring words I had, quite possibly, ever heard in my life. He looked more dangerous than any man I had ever laid eyes on, even now, as the flickering light of the fire danced in a fluid motion along the gold-tinted strands of his dark hair that he wore loose, without the braids at his temples that most men wore. Yet it was clear by his manner, his expression and the emotion in his wolflike eyes that hecaredabout my confession. Deeply. And he would do anything within his power to stop it from happening again. This stirred something in me. It made me feel closer to him than I ever had before.
“You don’t need to feel afraid of me, Stella,” he continued. “Or anyone else. I understand now why you would be. But you’re not to fear me. I’ll never hurt you. I swear this to you on my life.”
Along with several degrees of comfort, his reassurances delivered something more. I felt charged with a rising urge to be closer to him, and to feel his protection in a more profound and absolute way. And the look of him touched a base compulsion deep inside me. The hard line of his jaw, his sensuous, arrogant mouth, the coarse stubble of his days-old beard. The unashamed, brazen virility of him was magnetic. I felt his layered beauty to the pit of my stomach.
I took a step forward, holding his fingers very lightly in silent appreciation. I was touched that he would want to defend me in this way. I felt, in a wider sense, safer and more secure than perhaps I ever had. For the first time, his size didn’t intimidate me. I found that in this moment Ilikedthe way he towered above me. My fingers weaved through his and he leaned to me, barely tilting his head as though he might kiss me. The scent of him, of leather and smoke and vitality, flooded my awareness. His dynamic presence closed around me, cocooning me and taking me back to a recent, shaded memory of a private, forbidden garden: the intoxicating scent, the sultry anticipation. In my mind I could feel the late-summer breeze. The festive sounds of the night-lit manor floated in the rose-scented air. And he was here with me, my phantom guardian, my shrouded guide. I closed my eyes, allowing the impulse to take hold. His arm wrapped around me and pulled me against the hard textures of his body. His hand stole to cup my jaw and he turned my face up to him. My eyes opened to his dark intensity, his stoic appeal. His lips so close andthe light, intimate brush of his hair on my skin stoked the mellow glow in the low pit of my stomach, settling and blooming lower to where he had touched me and painted me with his silken caresses. I remembered the sensation, the feverish intimacy of it, and a sweet, innermost warmth began to unfurl.
I reached to curl my hand around his neck, pulling him to me, bridging the divide. As though caught off guard by my fervent invitation, he took the offering with a low groan. His lips eased over mine, parting me to his succulent invasion, flooding me with recognition and undiluted lust. My hands reached to wander his chest, searching for and finding the confirmation of his lean, solid shape. The belt and the knife. The taste of him and the feel of him: Iknewhim, from night after dream-soaked night. I knew who he was. My garden lover, who had stalked my vivid fantasies for weeks. Shocked and overwhelmed, I pulled away, gasping, holding fistfuls of his shirt.
“’Tisyou,” I whispered.
