Circle of Honor (25 page)

He felt his heart go still.

Da.

Ignoring Morogh's shouts of warning, Adam spurred his horse and galloped across the causeway. As his mount slid to a halt in the bailey, the grief-filled faces of the men-at-arms confirmed his fear.

Angus Mackintosh was dead.

EIGHTEEN

T
HE DEATH OF HER FAMILY, destruction of her home, and Leod's cruelty had crushed Gwenyth's spirit. Daron's betrayal had seemed to be the final blow. But the death of Angus Mackintosh proved to be more than Gwenyth could bear alone.

On her knees in the chapel where she'd been married just this morning, she cried for all she'd lost. The tears came out in racking sobs and she could not hold them back. She cried not only in grief for the dead, but also for the chasm she'd created between herself and her Savior.

As she prayed she sensed that she could no longer hide from the God she had mistakenly blamed for her misfortune. In the midst of this new pain and grief, she prayed for his strength and comfort, and as the tears subsided, his peace enveloped her. God had not abandoned her, nor would he ever do so.

Father Jerard, the priest she'd refused to talk to, found her in the chapel.

“Here, lass.” He offered her a scrap of cloth to wipe her eyes and blow her nose, and she took it gratefully.

“Thank you, Father.”

“I sense that you were as fond of Angus as he was of you.”

Gwenyth sniffed. “He was so very kind to me.”

“Aye, even after he learned your true name.” He looked at her thoughtfully. “Perhaps your grief today has as much to do with your other trials as it does Angus's death.”

Another tear escaped. Gwenyth swiped it with the back of her hand and nodded.

“Would you like me to pray with you?”

“Aye, please.”

Father Jerard's prayer eased Gwenyth's heart and she began to pray for Angus, for Adam's safe return from the village, and finally for forgiveness for doubting God's faithfulness.

Saying good-bye to Father Jerard, she went to her room. Just before sunset she heard Adam return. Thoughts of her promise to accept him as husband crowded her prayers even as she hoped that his grief would delay the evening.

ADAM LEAPED FROM HIS HORSE and went straight into the keep to find his mother. Eva's face showed strain and the telltale signs of tears, but she embraced her son and patted his back, crooning as if he alone bore the grief of Da's death.

Adam led his mother to a chair by the hearth in the great hall, sitting her down and holding her hand.

“I went to his room to tell him about yer marriage. He was resting quietly, but, must have sensed me there. When he opened his eyes, I knew the time had come.”

“Did you have time to say good-bye, then?” Adam forced the words past a lump in his throat.

“Aye, we did. Yer father wanted ye to know he was proud of ye. He said to take good care of the lassie. And he asked me to give ye this.” She held out a parchment with his father's seal. Adam put it inside his plaid, tucking it under his belt for safekeeping.

Fearing his voice would betray him, Adam gazed at his hands.

Eva laid her hand on his arm. “Angus was a wise and wonderful man. And his son shows every promise of being the same.”

At the moment, he didn't feel worthy of such praise. He could find no words of consolation, and so he simply sat with her until the need for solitude overwhelmed him and he left her for the sanctuary of his room.

Once inside his chamber, he barred the door and laid the letter on top of the chest where he stored his weapons. Adam dropped onto a stool, staring into the fire, fighting the grief that washed over him. Head in hands, memories flooded him, and he wept. He thought of his last meeting with Angus and praised God they had not been shouting at one another.

Aye, they had clasped hands and wished each other well. Man to man. He found consolation in the image.

When the tears stopped, Adam rose, feeling weak and ragged. He splashed water on his face from the pitcher and bowl on the table, dried off, then moved woodenly to pick up the letter and broke the seal. When his vision cleared, he read his father's shaky handwriting:

I know your mother will tell you this, but I wanted you to hear it once more from me. I am proud to call you my son, and I have faith that you, and someday your son, will lead Clan Chattan well. Remember all I tried to teach you, and take care of your mother.

And Adam. Marry the lassie. It is time to find ways to bring peace to the highlands. We must learn to forgive and to forge new alliances such as the one you've begun with young Daron. Show the way, Adam, for the good of our people and Scotland.

Peace.

THE FIGHT AT DALRY had taught Adam all he ever wanted to know about war. He would fight to defend what was his, but he would also do anything in his power to keep the peace.

As he'd proven by marrying Gwenyth. Of course, when he was honest with himself, he admitted that he cared about her and hoped she would one day return his feelings. It was foolish to nourish any resentment, because if Robert hadn't placed her well-being in his hands, Adam would have sought some means of persuading her to remain for the full year and a day. And beyond.

How he wished he could ask his father for advice. And yet, hadn't Angus given his final say?
Marry the lassie.

I did, Da.
And in a few hours, he was supposed to do his best to bind her to him.

Adam folded the letter and placed it in his writing chest, wishing grief could be as easily locked away.

He spent the next hour overseeing the sending of messengers far and wide with the news of Angus's death.

GWENYTH CAME to the great hall for the very subdued evening meal and took her seat beside Adam. She appeared pale, and he suspected she had shed a few tears as well. He pressed her hand in greeting, and was rewarded with a return squeeze.

Neither ate much, and when the last of the meal was cleared, she turned to him. “I will await you in my chamber, my laird.” Adam hoped the sadness in her voice was from grief and not anticipation of his company. He nodded, not at all sure he wanted to have a wedding night under the circumstances.

After what he hoped was an adequate length of time, Adam rose to bid his mother good night. “I don't wish to leave you here alone. May I escort you to your room?”

She patted his hand. “Thank ye, son. I shall stay here before the fire, as is my custom. I find it comforting to see that life does go on.”

He hesitated, not sure if he should stay or go.

Eva smiled at him. “Go to her, Adam. Nothing would please your father more than to have ye sire his grandson tonight.”

Adam felt his face grow warm. “Well, I can certainly try.” He managed a grin. “For his sake.”

Eva's eyes sparkled, and Adam knew his father's love embraced her still, even from the grave.

And he envied them.

Foolishly, he prayed to find that same abiding love with Gwenyth. Yet when he found himself standing outside her door a few minutes later, it wasn't hope or love, nor even duty or desire that held him there.

Just a bone-deep need to be consoled. To find respite from the guilt of his trespasses at Dalry. To find peace in the healing connection with another soul. The peace that could be found in the embrace of a cherished lover.

He braced his hands against the wall and hung his head as disappointment and grief crashed through him. Gwenyth was not a willing wife, but a reluctant one. How could he ask her for comfort when he must be the one with patience and understanding? She needed him to teach her the way of a man with a maid, and he wasn't sure he could do that tonight.

Slowly he turned and walked down the short passage to his own room where he sat before the dying fire and wept.

Sometime later, while tears still wet his cheeks, he heard the door latch lift. As he watched over his shoulder, the door opened, and Gwenyth entered his room unbidden. Traces of apprehension shone in her golden eyes, yet she walked with purpose to him.

Without a word, she cradled his head against her body, crooning words of comfort. After a few minutes, she released him and wiped his tears with the hem of her chemise. Then she held out her hand to him and said, “Come with me, Adam. Your room is cold and we are meant to sleep together this night.”

With joy that she had come to him and apprehension for what lay ahead, he placed his hand in hers, stood, and followed where she led.

GWENYTH'S HAND TREMBLED as she closed the door to her chamber behind Adam, leaving it unlocked. For she couldn't bear to lock herself in a room with a man who meant to . . . no, she refused to believe Adam's touch would be anything but gentle. She had gone to find him, thinking he'd changed his mind, hoping he had. But when she'd seen him sitting there, head in his hands and full of sorrow, she knew she must give him comfort. She had promised to accept him willingly, and she would honor that promise.

The willing part was not so hard. He stood there facing her, tall and strong, his golden hair burnished by firelight. He held his damaged arm more naturally than when she'd first met him. Deep-blue eyes still held his sorrow, yet a sense of wonder also stole over his face as he stared at her. Aye, it was far too easy to be willing when faced with his physical beauty.

But it was far too easy to be frightened when faced with his size and strength. A shiver coursed through her at the memory of his bare chest and powerful sword strokes in the lists. Memories of Leod's rough hands and brutality reminded her of what she faced.

She panicked, afraid she would not be able to give him what she'd promised despite her fervent prayers earlier in the chapel.

To steady her failing resolve, she clung to Adam's recent assurance that loving should be different than what she'd experienced. Saints knew it must be, else she doubted there would be so many children born.

His eyes revealed his sadness, and she could feel his distress. A need to be comforted. And another craving she didn't understand and couldn't signify. His gaze roved over her, and the sadness was slowly replaced by a gleam of anticipation, and her heartbeat quickened in response.

“Thank you for bringing me here.” Adam held his hand out to her. “Do you trust me?”

“I want to.”

And then he smiled. “We have had this conversation before.”

She smiled in return and gave him her hand.

He led her to sit before the fire and they talked of Angus. He seemed to want to remember his father, to tell her events from his childhood and of his father's stern but loving parenting. She shared with him her brief times with Angus, and they were content and easy with one another, despite occasional tears.

Still, she did not sit back in her chair, and she startled when he stood and stretched his hands in front of him. He lowered his arms slowly, and his earlier ease disappeared.

“We need not . . . I understand if you wish to postpone this, Gwenyth.” He glanced at the large time-keeping candle on the mantle. “I've been here long enough to accomplish what is expected, and none will be the wiser.”

But she could see the longing had returned to his eyes, and it struck her that he needed more than just to do his duty or satisfy desire. He needed comfort. Her comfort. Yet how could what she'd endured with Leod possibly provide comfort for either party?

There was only one way to find out, and she could think of no other man she would trust to show her.

He started toward the door.

“Wait. Adam, wait.”

She stepped to him, and laying her hand against his back, gently urged him to face her. “Tomorrow—who knows if we will even have it? We can only be sure of this time, this night.”

As he cradled her face in his rough hands, he smiled a smile that promised tenderness and laughter. Adam tugged her hand. “Come. Let's use this time to become comfortable with each other.”

She followed him until they were once again in front of the fire. He sat down, handed her a comb, and laid his head back against the chair and closed his eyes. “I thought perhaps you might like to comb my hair.”

“Comb your hair?”

He opened his eyes. “I used to love it when my mother combed my hair after a bath. I thought it might help you feel more easy about touching me. And it would ease my spirit tonight.”

Amazed by his thoughtful gesture and his admission of need, she took the comb and he closed his eyes again. She glanced down at his woolen stocking and the dirk strapped to his shin.

He trusts me.

She could slit his throat and be gone before anyone disturbed the newlywed couple. But she wasn't even tempted, for the thought of any harm coming to this compassionate man tied her stomach in a knot.

Ignoring the knife, she touched his flaxen hair, something she'd often thought of doing. From the tightness of the curl, she'd expected it to feel tough and wiry. But it was surprisingly soft, and the curls sprang back into place.

Tonight she would learn what drew a man and woman together and the secrets that bound a husband and wife. Somehow, she would force her mind to forget Leod's actions and think only of Adam. And the ways he touched her heart.

But Adam kept his word and Gwenyth learned yet again that this man was a man of honor. They talked deep into the night and gave each other consolation without becoming lovers.

Sometime near morning, Gwenyth awoke to the unfamiliar feeling of Adam's big body—her husband's body—curled around her like a protective shield. As she dozed back to sleep, she knew she had never, in all her life, felt safer than she did in this man's arms.

NINETEEN

S
LEEPILY, Gwenyth pulled her head from under the pillow and answered a knock on the door. No doubt a servant bringing breakfast. “Come in,” she responded. She had slept like the dead, and yet languidness filled her this morn. For the first time in a long while, she was tempted to remain abed and take a late meal in her room.