Circle of Honor (14 page)

Marriage. How could she bear to suffer a man's touch? She could never allow it. Ever. Unless . . . Perhaps . . . Adam's touch was gentle, and his kind heart gave promise. But it could not be.

Marriage to Edward and the royal house of Balliol awaited. Her children would be the future wives and husbands of the rulers of Europe. Perhaps even king of Scotland.

Children.

The conception of children required certain duties. Eventually, she supposed she would have to endure those duties in order to conceive these royal heirs.

For a moment she wished she hadn't sent the message to Daron. Scotland and Adam appealed far more than England and a man whose caress might not be as tender, who wouldn't croon words of comfort in the Gaelic of her childhood as her father had.

Papa. His death had shaken her world.

As had Adam, in a different way, with his warm smile and gentle soul. In any other time and place she could have easily loved him.

Gwenyth gave herself a mental shake. Foolish fantasies. It must be the moonlight playing with her, agitating her with such senseless notions. Gwenyth glanced to where her escort stood at the far end of the narrow walkway. As she was about to wave him toward her, the murmur of voices told her others had taken advantage of the beautiful evening. Wishing to avoid interrupting a tryst, she turned the corner, away from the guard.

Within moments, she heard footsteps behind her. The man couldn't have reached her so quickly. She ducked into a crenelation, hiding in the shadows as Nathara whisked past, anger and frustration clear in each step. Gwenyth breathed a sigh of relief at avoiding a confrontation with the woman. To be safe, Gwenyth remained hidden to ensure she wouldn't encounter her.

From her hiding place, she watched the moon play tag with the mist rising from the loch. The sight captivated her, and it was several minutes before she stepped back into the moonlight. She collided with a huge, male body.

Slow-witted guard.

The collision nearly sent her crashing into the wall, but strong hands set her upright and a familiar voice said, “What are you doing here at this time of night?”

Adam and Nathara.
Had he sent her away because of Gwenyth? Or was there truly something between them? He stood just inches away, hands resting lightly on her shoulders, while she stared and struggled to speak. Words wouldn't come.

Moonlight silvered his hair, and his skin shimmered as if lovingly caressed by individual moonbeams. The planes of his face acquired stronger definition from the shadows, and his eyes captured the very color of the moon's luminescence. Long-limbed and well-muscled, he was altogether too handsome.

Out of nowhere came the unshakable conviction that the God she thought had abandoned her had brought them together for a reason, that theirs was no chance meeting. Had she, through an act of self-preservation, unwittingly bound herself to the one man whom heaven had chosen for her?

Nay. That can't be.

Perhaps she was to help him in some way, as he had helped her. She had saved his life and he had given her refuge. Surely their purpose was accomplished and she was free to pursue her plans for the future.

He removed his hands and waved her guard away. Turning back to her he asked, “Lady Gwenyth, are you all right?”

She shivered, pulling her
arasaid
closer about her shoulders. “Aye, my laird. I . . . you frightened me.” And indeed it was true, but not because they'd bumped unexpectedly. “I could not sleep and came out for some air.”

He stared at her, as if he thought she might reveal a secret.

Then she remembered Nathara and knew he had been with her.
Why were you with Nathara at all? And why do I care?
“I should go in; it grows late.”

“You must be glad to leave your room.”

“Aye,” she agreed, all the while wishing she could escape his presence by returning to that very sanctuary. She raised her gaze to meet his and found him regarding her closely.

“I sent word to Daron.”

“Thank you, my laird.”

He continued to study her as they faced each other on the narrow passage. He blocked her way to her room, and she grew increasingly uncomfortable in his presence. She wished he would have his say and let her retire. But apparently he was not one to rush into anything.

Finally he spoke. “Why do I believe that your gratitude will exact further price?”

She looked into his eyes and immediately regretted it. There was no mistaking the warmth that resided there.

Gwenyth broke eye contact. “What price?”

He looked out over the castle wall, and she studied his profile, watching in fascination as he masked his emotions. “You will leave as soon as arrangements can be made?”

“Aye.”

He faced her, his expression unreadable. “I could hold you to the full term of our agreement—a year and a day.”

“That would not be wise,” she whispered, wondering why he would want to keep her, and fearing that he would do just that.

“Nay, it would not.”

She could swear she heard regret in his speech. “Then we must hope Daron arrives quickly.”

ADAM COULDN'T EXPLAIN WHY her offer to leave didn't cause his spirits to lift. One less obstacle to his tenure as the Chattan chief. One less problem with which he must deal.

She seemed so calm and controlled; her face betrayed no emotions. But her gaze penetrated his very soul. She was at once frightening and intriguing. He appreciated her offer to leave, to sever this unwanted relationship. But he was drawn to her, to her fire and intensity, to her deep, mysterious beauty. To the fragile vulnerability she tried to hide.

A time to embrace.
This was not such a time. But could that time come? Had God brought her here, not just to be healed, but to heal?

He feared he was staring and shook off this feeling of being spellbound. “You are free to roam the castle grounds, Lady Gwenyth.”

She tilted her head. “Why do you call me lady?”

“You are Lady Mackintosh, wife of the laird of clans Mackintosh and Chattan. I would hope you'd take pride in the title, for however long you have it.”

“I do, Adam.” For his sake, not because she honored his clan.

“Good. When you feel up to it, you have my leave to use my horses as well, as long as you take your guard or the man Morogh with you for protection.”

“You trust me?”

“Where would you go?”

“Aye, where would I go?” Her voice trailed off, and he fought the urge to wrap her in his arms and offer comfort. But she drew her own arms about her. Which was just as well, he reminded himself.

Head bowed, she murmured, “My laird, I fear I have wronged you in more ways than I thought possible.”

“What ways, other than lying?”

Her head shot up, and she truly feared him. He didn't like that at all.

Why do you need to find this cousin? Dare you tell me? Does he own your heart?
Part of him wanted to demand she tell him it wasn't so. But part of him didn't want to know, didn't want to give her reason to tell another lie. Didn't want an end, even though it was inevitable.

“You and Nathara.”

Her answer caught him unaware, and for a moment, he couldn't form a coherent thought.

Recovering he answered, “You have spoken with her?”

“She visited me and made it clear I am not welcome.”

“I'll talk with her.” He swallowed hard. “Nathara would like to return to my good graces.”

“She said you care for her, that you are close, and yet you have turned her away. Because of me.”

“Nathara overstates our friendship. 'Tis a matter of honor. Of vows taken and promises made.”

“But you made them unwillingly.”

“So I did.” He rubbed his injured shoulder. “My word is all I have.”

Her face lost its calm composure as she touched the damaged arm. “Does it pain you?”

“Only when moved a certain way. But it lacks strength as well as motion.”

She withdrew her hand, seeming uncomfortable with the contact. “How long since the injury?”

Relieved to be rid of the subject of Nathara, he replied, “More than a year and a half.”

“Dalry?”

He nodded. He told her how he was wounded, even admitting his drunken stupor. What he didn't mention was that he'd been wounded by her kinsman's warriors, although she surely must suspect it.

“So, that is why you drink nothing stronger than watered wine.”

“Aye. I may make my share of mistakes as I live out my life, but I won't make that particular one again.” Despite these confessions, the silence that followed felt companionable.

Gwenyth broke it. “The wound has had time to knit sufficiently.”

“Are you a healer?”

“I have some skill. May I feel the wound, my laird? Perhaps I can help.”

What harm could such a slight girl do? “Aye, but let me sit so you can reach.”

He made his way to the stairs and sat down on the top one, giving her access to stand below him and thus reach his shoulder more easily. After a moment's hesitation, her hands gently but efficiently probed.

“The bone was broken?”

“Aye. My arm was a mess.”

There was no fear in her touch. She grasped the arm and with surprising strength, moved it about to test it. He yelped when she pushed it beyond its limit.

“I'm sorry, Adam. I just wanted to see how well it moved.”

“Now you know,” he said through gritted teeth.

When her fingers pressed where the sword blade had cut deepest, he winced, determined not to call out again. She stood close and he was aware of her scent, lavender and woman. A groan escaped him as her fingers massaged the tender spot.

Her hands stilled and withdrew, so hastily it was as if she'd touched something hot. “I did not mean to cause you more discomfort. The muscle wasn't severed, my laird. 'Tis a wonder you didn't bleed to death, though. I think if you were to move the arm beyond where it pains you, you might extend the amount of activity it will tolerate.”

She must have become uncomfortable with their closeness, because she retreated up the steps even as he rose so quickly he nearly knocked her down.

He steadied himself and reached for her, but she shrank from his touch. Adam wondered if her aversion resulted from the attack she'd suffered, or if she avoided him for some other reason. He softened his voice in an effort to reassure her. “I will try your suggestion.”

Although she stepped back, still she pinned him with an unflinching gaze. “You would honor our vows even if you weren't injured.”

Not wanting to see the conversation take this turn, he tried to divert her. “How do you suggest—”

“It's true, isn't it? For that is the kind of man you are.”

She spoke with such conviction. What had he done to deserve such allegiance?

“You honor me, Gwenyth, with your confidence in my character.”

“Then know that while I appreciate your character, I would not deny you Nathara's company, my laird. Since we two are married in name only.”

“As it must be.”

She nodded. “Oh, aye. It must. Then we are agreed?”

“Agreed on what?”

She looked at him as if he were thickheaded, which of course, was exactly how he was acting in order to prolong the verbal joust and the pleasure of her company.

But when she bowed her head, his enjoyment ceased. He saw her shiver and draw the shawl closer.

He raised his hand, thinking to touch her chin and bring her head up, but at the movement she startled, and he quickly withdrew. “Look at me, Gwenyth.”

When she did, he saw pain and confusion in her eyes.

“You need not fear me, Gwenyth. I do not wish to be your enemy, nor to have you cringe at an innocent touch. I know well enough that you'd not welcome any man just now, and rightly so.” Shifting his weight, he studied her a moment. “Come, it is late.” He followed her down the stairs, escorting her to her chamber.

At the door, he placed his arm across the opening to halt her. “You are safe with me. And I will keep the vows, Gwenyth.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. He hadn't told Gwenyth, or anyone else for that matter, about the tavern wench that night in Dalry. But he would never again cheapen that sacred act just to satisfy his needs. “I told you, my word is all I have right now. And to be honest, I was glad for a means to break off with Nathara.”

Her eyes grew wide at his confession. And a wisp of a smile caressed her lips.

He forced his features to be stern. “You find that amusing, do you?” By the saints, he wanted to kiss her, to make that smile ripen and bless him. But it would only frighten her and cause him frustration. Because one kiss would not be enough . . .

“Try swimming, my laird.”

“What?”

A warm but tentative smile graced her face. “For your arm.” With a whispered goodnight, she entered her room, and he breathed a sigh of relief that the encounter was over.

She is your wife, you fool. Why will you send her away?

The question hung in the air, unanswered.

CROUCHED UNSEEN in a corner of the hall, Nathara watched as Adam stared at Gwenyth's closed chamber door.

Unable to hear the conversation, still she'd seen for herself that he slept alone this night. Nathara stormed to her small cottage, cursing Adam and his blasted sense of honor. She'd been so certain there on the parapets that the lure of moonlight and her charms would make him succumb. But instead he'd sent her away.

Then he'd showered his attention on the wench, even allowing her to touch his wounds, the very wounds Nathara had healed. And from her hiding place at the bottom of the stairs, she'd watched Adam stare at her with longing, with hope, with desire. Enough. The wench must be driven from Castle Moy.

ELEVEN

A
DAM PAID LITTLE ATTENTION to the food placed before him as the castle inhabitants broke their fast the following morning.