Always Mine (28 page)

“What?” Damron’s shout caused creatures settling for the evening to scramble from their lairs, and birds ruffled leaves on the trees above them as they made haste in flight. “Have ye fallen victim to the old fables of strange happenings, of people appearin’ and disappearin’ from other places? ’Tis naught but foolish imaginings.“

“Nay, Damron, ’tis no tale I recount.” Bleddyn’s voice rang with truth. “Is she not different from other women? Do you not question the strange words and expressions she uses, though now she has adapted more to our own way of speaking?” Bleddyn waited patiently for him to think about it.

Trying to make sense of it, Damron rubbed his face hard, then ran his fingers through his hair. Brianna was different.

No other lass was as pretty, as clever, as defiant or as headstrong as Brianna. Not even Meghan.

“Aye.” Damron shook his head hoping to clear it. “But how would she change? Would she not still be the same Brianna?”

His heart thudded in his chest, and bile rose to his throat as fear washed through him.

“In looks, aye. But the Brianna we know today as a strong woman will become the bride Malcolm and William told you about. Docile. Shy. Willing to follow your dictates without question.”

Damron shuddered. They were no longer the attributes he wished for in a wife. She would not be exciting. Her voice

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would not fill his soul with longing. Nor could she stir his lust with but a defiant gaze. Far worse, this weak version would not be the helpmate he knew this strong Brianna would be.

His gut twisted. But how was he to ensure Brianna would be faithful and obey him in all things? Sweat trickled down his back.

Genevieve had also been strong-willed. He had the scars to prove it.

Above, in their chamber, Brianna snatched the offending rock from the bed.

“You damned, stinking, miserable, stupid-looking rock,” she hissed at it between her teeth. She flipped it back and forth from one hand to the other, glared at it, spit on it, then rolled it in her hand like her favorite pitcher on the New York Yankees would do.

She wound up for the pitch, stepped forward with her left foot and hurled it as hard as she could at the stone wall. It bounced back and landed at her feet.

“Crap! You were supposed to break, dammit.” She grabbed it back up, marched to the window opening and heaved it out.

“Now, there’s an end of your
Strong Hand
rock, by God.”

She huffed, put on a night garment and crawled into bed.

“I’d better not see that damned thing again.” She pulled the covers up to her chin.

Closing her eyes, she tried to come to a decision on how to manage her life here. Though Gordon had physically hurt her, Damron had wounded her in a worse way. Her pride. She would not give him the satisfaction of knowing how badly.

Below, in the great hall, Damron stood by the window opening, a goblet of strong ale in his hand. He hoped Brianna would soon understand she could not be a proper wife if she

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believed herself equal to her husband. How could any woman be so sadly mistaken about her place in life?

Something thudded onto the ground below the window, interrupting his thoughts. Already suspecting what he would find, he went out to investigate. Moonlight illuminated the rock, and he knew it was not yet time to seek his bed.

He returned to brace himself against the door frame, away from the many sleeping bodies on the floor. He occupied himself picturing faces to match the snores. He did not attempt the task when it came to the varying tunes of breaking wind. In the darkest hours of the night, he took off his boots, went above and slipped into his chambers.

Until the sky started to lighten, he sat beside the bed and studied Brianna’s face, thinking. How could a person change as completely as Bleddyn suggested? His heart lurched, and his hands fisted. What if the Welshman had not told him all?

It was not possible that Brianna’s soul was from another time? Was it?

Chapter 17

For several days, relentless storms raged, driving everyone inside. Grumpy men sat about, tired of idleness, restless and weary of each other. The castle began to feel cramped and too small for them all.

Damron leaned back, arms crossed and shoulders braced against the wall, and scowled at a group of near-drunk men arguing over a game of chance in the hall’s far corner. When the armorer lunged to his feet and stalked over to the blacksmith, Damron’s eyes narrowed. ’Twas likely a brawl in the making. He huffed in disgust and lurched to his feet. In a voice that boomed over the din, he called out, “Meghan, lass, do ye think a lively tune or two can chase the sour moods away?”

“Aye.” She bounded to her feet, snatched her pipes from beside the door and shouted above the din. “Listen well, ye blustering louts. I can play louder than ye can carp, so save yer breath.” She squeezed out a screeching note to get the arguing men’s attention and began to play. Blaringly.

The quarrelsome voices softened, then faded away. Bleddyn left the room for a time, then returned with his ancient bodhran.

His fingers rubbed over the round drum and caressed the white leather skin, then slowly traced the Celtic knots and horses he had

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painted there in vivid blues and reds. Catching Meghan’s attention, he nodded.

“Little one, sing for me,” Bleddyn called to Brianna.

He grinned and waggled his brows at her, drawing her to stand beside him. Picking up the beaters, he struck a wild, savage rhythm on the bodhran, and his deep voice rang out in the language of his ancestors. Meghan joined the tune with her pipes, and Mer-rick’s rich baritone rose to blend with Bleddyn’s.

Bleddyn stared intently at Brianna. Memories flashed in her mind of being in woods surrounded by his people, singing and dancing. She knew he had taught her this tune when she was a youngling. She turned her back to the high table. To Damron.

Damron’s heart lurched on hearing Brianna’s beautiful voice soar up and around the men’s words, twisting and turning, a striking contrast to their deep tones. Her arms lifted as graceful as swaying willow limbs. Her hair swirled about her face while she danced around Bleddyn. Her body flowed to the music like a breeze stirring the calm waters of a loch.

Brianna’s voice caressed every part of Damron. ’Twas more erotic than anything any woman could do to entice him.

He cursed himself for causing her vow not to sing for him.

The music softened and faded into the wall’s stones. The sounds floated like a whisper as she disappeared into the hallway shadows.

His chest ached, like she had struck him a mighty blow by her denial.

Not once had she looked at him.

Damron waited. When he finally followed her to their chambers, he found the bathing tub was still full, the water warm and clear. She had bathed elsewhere.

“Mari, where did yer mistress cleanse herself ?”

The woman’s startled gaze met Brianna’s.

“Speak, lass. Dinna look to yer lady for permission,” he ordered.

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“I went with my lady to the baths below, milord.”

“Ye well know men oft go there to cleanse themselves.

What if someone came while yer mistress was unclothed?”

“Nay, milord, I would not let that happen. A man I be seeing stood guard with his sword ready. Protecting us.”

“Never do so again. ’Tis my wish the lady bathes within the safety of our chamber.” Damron frowned and motioned for the maidservant to leave.

With abrupt movements, he grasped his tunic and bent to pull it over his head. Brianna ambled over to the window opening and pretended to watch the waning daylight, while he got into the tub and settled back in the warm water.

“Come, wife. I would have ye wash my back.” His quiet tones rumbled oddly in his chest, imprisoned there, sounds that had yearned to soar with hers in the hall below. He watched and waited for her to do her duty by him. Slowly, she came over, took the cloth he handed her and lathered it with ginger-scented soap. He leaned forward and sighed with pleasure.

Brianna decided it wasn’t such a chore after all feeling his muscles ripple beneath her hands. Her movements slowed and sometimes nearly stopped while she stroked over his bronze skin and the scars there. Most were white, while others were still pink. She finished washing his back and stepped back, only to have him hold up one dripping arm.

“I thought you needed help only with your back, my lord.

Are you not able to tend your own bathing?”

“’Tis what a wife and squires are for, Brianna. In this room I prefer yer hand. A Scottish lass attends not only her husband’s bath, but anyone else he wishes her to aid.” He kept his arm up. Waiting.

“Huh, tough luck on what Scottish women do. I’ll never bathe a sweaty stranger,” she muttered.

Seeing his narrowed eyes glinting at her, she decided to be quiet. She gritted her teeth as she rubbed the soapy cloth over

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his arm and down to his hand. He spread his fingers for her attention. While she scrubbed, she inspected his calluses.

“Huh. You can wield a sword but you can’t wash your own hands?”

Once satisfied even his nails were clean and white, she glanced up to find him studying her.

“My chest, wife,” he murmured. When she hesitated, he studied her face.

“Whoever heard of a grown man needing a nursemaid?”

He ignored her, closed his eyes and rested his head back against the tub’s rim. Her hands lingered as she washed his bared neck, fascinated by the feel of the blood pounding there below his jaw. No matter how calm he looked, his heartbeat claimed something else. She soaped across his collarbones and soon became engrossed in the thick mat of curly black hair covering his broad, muscled chest.

Well, hell, why not be honest with herself? She enjoyed touching him. He was beautiful. All over. When her cloth moved down to wash the hard slab of his belly past his navel, she again tried to give him the soapy cloth.

He shook his head. “My legs, lady.”

A flush warmed her face while she tended the hard smoothness of his muscled thigh and calf. He lowered his left leg and lifted his right. When she finished with his foot and moved up over his calf to his knee, the soapy water flowed off, revealing a horrendous, jagged scar that began on the inside of his knee all the way up to meet his groin.

“Oh, my God, Damron. How did you ever survive such a wound?” She reached out, wanting to comfort his flesh, but he jerked his leg back and stood. Water sloshed onto the floor.

He shook his head and turned his back to her.

“Pull the stool close and bring the rinse water.”

Her gaze flashed down his body; her arms began to shake.

When she came close, he took the bucket from her and held

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her elbow as she climbed onto the stool and poured the water over him.

He seized a large drying cloth from a short stool nearby, wrapped it tightly around his hips and turned to her.

“I thank ye, Brianna.” His gaze probed her face. “Ye broke yer promise tonight, my lady. Why?”

“Promise, my lord?”

“Yer promise ne’er to sing afore me again. Tonight ye did so.” He paused, his gaze searching her face. “Why?”

“I neither sang for you, nor before you. I gave you my back.”

“If ye will not sing at my request, for whom will ye sing?”

“For my Nathaniel. He favors music as wild and mystical as he is. And it’s a favorite of mine. We went into the woods at special times of the year. His people would join us there to dance and sing the ancient tunes.”

When they sought their bed soon after, Damron attempted to gather her close. She stiffened.

“Let go, Damron. Until our wedding, please keep your hands to yourself.”

Damron drew back and anchored his arms behind his head.

He stared, unseeing, at the bed’s canopy. Was she still angry because of his stupid attempt to curb her? Or, worse, now she had seen what Genevieve had done to him, did she find his body repulsive? Knowing Brianna would not sleep until sure that he did, he forced his breathing to slow and deepen until he snored lightly. Weariness finally claimed her, and she sighed and slept.

Damron fanned her hair out over the pillow and burrowed his face in its silky sweetness. When her legs jerked and her arms twitched, he murmured and ran his hand over her head, much as he would do when Angel was upset, until she stilled.

He knew Bleddyn hid some secret from him. He struggled with believing what the mystic did tell him, and he determined to keep a close watch on Brianna. He brought the covers snugly to her neck, then left the bed, dressed and slipped from the room.

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Guardian lay outside their door and whimpered and tried to barge into the room, but stopped obediently when Damron ordered him to stay and guard her door.

Not long after, Brianna awoke with a fright, sure that she heard a voice cry out. Damron was not beside her. She threw her robe about her as she ran to the door, afraid Papa Dougie was in pain. The blasted door wouldn’t open.

She pounded on the heavy wood with her fists. “Help! Someone help me. The door’s stuck.”

When Bleddyn wrenched it open, she started to run from the room, but he restrained her.

“Please hurry. I heard a man cry out as if in pain.”

“Nay, little one, you but dreamt it. Though now you are awake, I do have a matter we must discuss.” He looked down at the floor.

She followed his gaze to see Guardian wedged between them, quivering. Had he shrunk? Why were his eyes and coat dull? “Has Guardian been ill?”

“He does not eat, and he drinks only small sips of water since you became angry with him. He thought it a game his master played at finding you, and now he suffers for it.”

Brianna’s heart went out to the great, sad beast looking up at her. She sat on the floor and crooned silly words to him as though he was a small puppy. He whimpered and shoved his head against her chest, so she would pat and kiss him.