Return of the Rogue (3 page)

C
avan climbed the stone staircase to his bedchamber on the third floor, close to the battlements he had often walked on sleepless nights. Tonight, he felt, would be one of those nights, where sleep eluded him and thoughts plagued him, even more so now that he had acquired an unexpected and most unwanted wife.

She followed dutifully behind him on the staircase, quiet as a mouse. He sensed her worry and need to flee, but also sensed her fear to do either. She was not made of strong stuff, and he had wanted, actually expected, to have a courageous wife; no other would do for the next laird of the Clan Sinclare.

Fate had dealt him a cruel blow, returning home only to discover he was married to a weak woman. Would she give him the sons he hoped for, he wondered, or stand strong on her own while he was off to war?

Worst of all were his concerns about how she would deal with him now, after he’d been held captive for a year at the hands of barbarians. He was
different, and most uncomfortable with who he had been forced to become.

Cavan stood at the open door, waiting for Honora to enter before him, and when the door shut with a slam, she jumped, her hand rushing to press against her chest, and there she remained.

He was disgusted that she should just stand there and do nothing, not take the initiative and see to the preparation of his bath. He did not want a wife who needed instructions. She didn’t even look at him; she kept her head bowed and her eyes focused on the floor.

“Do you know how to tend a husband’s bath?” he snapped, irritated with her and the situation.

Her head came up but she avoided his eyes. “I will see to it.”

She made a wide berth around him when she approached the door, but his reflexes had sharpened considerably while captive and his hand snatched her wrist and yanked her to him so quickly that she swiftly braced as if he meant to strike her.

He softened his grasp but held her against him for a moment, allowing her sweet scent to drift around him, to gratefully fill his nostrils and remove the everlasting stench of blood, sweat, and fear that had clung to him for this past year. God, but she smelled so good, so sweet, so pure, and he simply wanted to bury his face in her and get lost in her alluring scent.

Instead he snapped more harshly than intended, “I will not hurt you.”

Her eyes rounded like full moons in the dark
night sky, only they were violet, the color of the wildflowers that grow on the moors, the color that had always managed to capture his attention, as it did now. Only it was not the flower he gazed upon but his wife’s eyes, and he found them beyond lovely, he found them profoundly innocent.

He shoved her away. “See to my bath now.”

She ran from the room, leaving the door to shut behind her.

Cavan growled low beneath his breath. He did not need this extra burden upon his return. He had hoped Ronan had found his way home, but now he planned on finding him no matter how long it took. He would not leave his brother in the hands of such cruel men. He and Ronan had fought side by side and were captured together and then separated, though not before he had sworn to his brother that he would find him. He had to keep that promise. He had to.

Cavan rubbed the stubbles at his chin and knew he must look a sight. He had walked endlessly, and when in safer territory begged farmers on their way to market for a ride in their carts. He had bartered a day’s service on a farm for fresh garments, having been dirt-ridden and threadbare, not that the ones he wore had been as fresh as promised, but they were far better than what he had and fair enough to wear for his arrival home.

Now home, he wanted nothing more than a hot bath and his own fresh clothes. He quickly searched the room for his trunk and sighed with relief when he spotted it under the window. He felt a tug at his
gut realizing that his mother had kept his bedchamber the same; she had expected his return. The confidence she had in his strength gave him more of it, and made him feel all the more pleased to be home with family and—

Cavan didn’t want to think about his wife again. He still couldn’t believe himself married, and to the woman he had once rejected, and for good reasons. However, none of that mattered now; she was his wife, though he felt like no husband.

The door creaked open slowly and Honora gave a quick peek around.

“What are you waiting for?”

She hurried in without saying a word, followed by several servants lugging a wooden tub and pails of water. The tub was filled and Cavan disrobed, wanting to get into the heated water before it cooled. It wasn’t until he was settled in the steaming water, hair soaked wet, that he noticed his wife stiff as a statue standing at the end of the bed a few feet away, staring at him.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never seen a naked man before?”

The two remaining servant girls giggled and his wife’s cheeks grew bright red.

“Shall I see to washing you, my lord? After all, we wouldn’t want to get the bride’s dress all wet,” one of servant girls asked with a smile.

Cavan glanced at his wife, waiting for her to advise the servant that it wouldn’t be necessary, that she would see to her husband, but once again she remained silent.

He kept his eyes on her as he answered the lass. “No, my wife will see to me.”

The two girls bowed respectfully and closed the door behind them.

“You haven’t got the slightest idea what is expected of you, do you?” The absurdity of it had his mind reeling, for he couldn’t fathom what would happen if he attempted to make love with her.

She had to clear her throat before she could finally speak. “I wasn’t expecting
you
.”

“Nor was I expecting
you
,” he countered, and began scrubbing his hair with the bar of soap the servant girl had left on the small stool beside the tub along with towels.

“I know you don’t want me—”

“Want you or not, I’m stuck with you,” Cavan said before dunking his head to rinse out the soap and to finally start scrubbing the grime off his body. He gave himself a rough scrub, to rid himself of every morsel and stench of the barbarians.

“I will be a dutiful wife.”

Cavan stopped scrubbing for a moment. “Are you trying to convince me or yourself?”

“I will grow used to you.”

He shook his head. “Again it sounds more like you’re trying to convince yourself rather than me.” He held up the soap. “Start now. Scrub my back.”

She surprised him when she didn’t hesitate; she pushed up her sleeves, walked over to him, took the soap and went behind him to do as he asked. When he heard her gasp, he realized she possessed little strength and he grew angry.

“Scars from the whippings I took at the hands of the barbarians. If you cannot stomach touching them, I will have a servant see to my back.”

He felt the soap against his back and thought that as long as she didn’t have to lay her hands on his scars she was all right; therefore, he was stunned when he felt her hands lather the soap across his back, and was even more stunned when he felt himself grow hard at her gentle touch.

He remained still and silent, enjoying the feel of her hands tenderly massaging across his shoulders, down the center of his back, and along his sides, though she never once went past the water to more intimate territory.

He grew hotter not from the steaming water but in response to her innocent touch. He throbbed like a man ready to explode, and at that moment his only thought was to get out of the tub, throw her on the bed, hike up her dress, and drive into her until he satisfied his raging need.

A barbaric thought for sure and one that made him angry, angry that he could even think like a barbarian much less act like one. Honora was his wife and an innocent, she didn’t deserve his wrath or to be the instrument that quenched his need.

“Get out!” he bellowed, and he heard her stumble and fall. “Now!”

He heard the door slam shut and groaned. It had been long, too long since he’d had a woman, and his hunger was too much for an innocent one to suffer. He could take one of the willing servants, as he had
many times before, but it was his wedding night and he would disgrace his wife if he did.

He groaned and knew he would need to relieve himself if he was ever to get through this night, and when he was finally done, dressed, and walking down the staircase, he realized that his new wife and her gentle touch had never once left his thoughts.

H
onora knew when her husband entered the hall. All the women’s eyes shifted and the servant girls smiled while some cheeks blossomed red. The men cheered, and she had no choice but to look his way.

He was a laird in every sense of the word, tall, broad-shouldered, proud, defiant, and much more handsome devoid of grime. But then, she already knew that, having gotten a full view of him in their bedchamber. If he ever thought to strike her, she would surely suffer pain. Her stepfather had raised his hand to her for years. Was it only a matter of time before Cavan did too? He had told her he wouldn’t hurt her, but her stepfather had promised the same. How would she protect herself against a man the size and strength of Cavan?

And what would it be like to be intimate with him? In her mind’s eye Honora saw her husband naked, and that frightened her. He was much too large and she too small for the likes of him. She was not completely ignorant of men and marriage,
though she’d learned what she knew from listening to other women in the village.

She knew her duty, though not how she would carry it out. Cavan was more, much more, than she ever imagined. Oddly, the thought of intimacy with Artair had not disturbed her, but then he had been kind and gentle with her; not so Cavan.

“Where is my plate, wife?”

Honora jerked her head up to see Cavan towering over her on the dais. His dark eyes remained fixed on her, as if delving deep inside her soul, and she quickly reached for the empty pewter plate in front of her and began piling it with food from the platters spread on the table.

Cavan took the vacant seat between her and his brother Lachlan and tapped at his plate. “Whose plate do you prepare?”

“Yours of course,” she answered, and swapped his empty plate with the full one in her hand.

“What of you?”

She couldn’t eat a speck of food; she knew her stomach would not tolerate it.

He seemed to read her thoughts with his question. “Not hungry?”

She shook her head.

She thought he would force her, but he simply turned away to speak with his father, who sat on the other side of the table. Relieved that he would not torment her with demands to eat, Honora remained seated at the edge of her chair with a sharp eye on her husband’s plate and his tankard, to make sure both remained full.

Her stepfather walked by and leaned down to reprimand her, “Tend your husband, daughter, or you’ll feel my hand.”

Honora froze, not believing her ears. She thought marriage would free her from her stepfather’s brutality, but with a husband who didn’t want her, would he care how her stepfather treated her?

“Honora.”

She heard her name being called far in the distance but couldn’t answer.

“Honora, what’s wrong?’

She shook her head, realizing her husband was speaking to her, and quickly made an excuse. “Deep in thought.”

“You often turn ghostly pale when deep in thought?”

Was that concern she heard in his query? She could not be certain since his scowl made it appear otherwise, and yet, she was almost certain he had sounded as if he actually cared. Perhaps it was simply wishful thinking on her part, to have a husband to worry over her.

“She pales for what she knows she must face tonight, brother,” Lachlan said with a laugh and a slap on Cavan’s back.

Honora was grateful for the distraction since she had no truthful answer for her husband.

“You have not changed, Lachlan,” Cavan said.

Honora was surprised by Cavan’s accusatory tone. His brother jested with him, while he appeared so serious.

“Why change when I am perfect the way I am?”
Lachlan laughed and gripped his brother’s shoulder. “You’re home now. There’s nothing more to worry about.”

“There’s Ronan.”

Lachlan took a deep breath. “We have searched endlessly for him as we have for you.”

“Do you continue to search?” Cavan asked.

“Every day,” his father answered. “Perhaps it is time for us to talk. That is, if your wife does not mind your absence.”

Honora was not surprised when Cavan turned to her and said, “I will see you later in our bedchamber.”

He stood, as did his brothers and father, and left her alone, though she was immediately joined by Addie, who scooted past the empty chairs to sit beside her.

“This must be difficult for you,” her mother-in-law said, placing a gentle hand on Honora’s arm.

“Cavan is a stranger to me. I at least had gotten to know something of Artair.” Honora shook her head. “I know nothing about Cavan.”

Addie sighed. “I would tell you of my son, but I do not know if the son I knew is the son who has returned home.”

“He appears different to you?”

Addie nodded and leaned closer, keeping their discussion private. “I believe his capture has left him with scars.”

Honora shivered.

Addie squeezed her arm, her eyes glazing over with unshed tears. “Visible scars can leave remind
ers of scars that cut far deeper than the flesh. Be patient with my son, he is a good man.”

Honora simply nodded, not knowing how to voice her own concerns.

“I know this is not easy for you, Honora. You woke this morning ready to start a new life with Artair, and here you find yourself wed to Cavan. At least you and Artair held no feelings for each other. With time you will come to know Cavan and establish a good life with him.”

“Do I have a choice?” As soon as she spoke, Honora gasped at her own audacity, then quickly apologized. “I am sorry.”

“Nonsense, you have a right to question and doubt. I only attempt to advise that you give your marriage a chance. If from the start you fear, then you will never find happiness. And unfortunately, the truth is you do not have a choice. Cavan is your husband, you his wife, and that will not change. You will either make the most of it or suffer the arrangement.”

“You speak the truth, and I appreciate that and will give your advice consideration.”

“Then at least it will give you a chance at some happiness,” Addie said with a smile.

“I never considered happiness.”

“What did you consider?” her mother-in-law asked.

“Being safe,” she whispered too low for anyone to hear.

Honora sat alone in Cavan’s bedchamber, having snuck away from the festivities when no one was paying attention to her, but then, few did pay her heed. She had always remained obscured, in the background, too fearful or distrustful to stand up for herself. She had grown accustomed to not being seen or heard, and actually preferred it. Her stepfather never questioned her solitary walks on the moor or her retreat to her corner of their small cottage where she could be relatively safe and free in her own thoughts.

She would have that no more, not with a husband. She was answerable to him, and it appeared that her stepfather intended to see that she remained a dutiful wife. She would never be free, though she had hoped her marriage to Artair would have granted her some sense of freedom. He’d seemed willing enough to allow her it when they talked. He had not voiced any objection to her request for solitary time once wed and had encouraged her to pursue her interests; after, of course, she had attended to her duties.

Honora knew nothing of what Cavan expected of her, and she wasn’t in a hurry to find out. She also wasn’t in a hurry to consummate their vows, but that was another choice that wasn’t hers. Her life had been filled with choices that weren’t hers, and she’d managed to survive. She would survive this night and all the nights to follow.

She decided to prepare for bed and wait on her husband’s return, as was expected of a dutiful wife.
She slipped into a pale blue night shift, the wool so soft that it felt as if it whispered against her skin. It fell to her ankles. The sleeves skimmed her wrists and the neckline scooped so low that it barely covered her breasts. She combed her long black hair, took some dried lavender leaves from the bowl on the stand near the bed and crushed them between her fingers, and after discarding the remnants, ran her fingers through her hair.

She would look presentable and smell sweet for her husband and hope for the best.

After several hours passed with no sign of Cavan, she crawled into bed on a yawn and snuggled beneath the green wool coverlet. Soon the bed linens took on her body heat and the steady warmth and comfort of the soft bedding lolled her off to sleep.

A strong pop and crackle of a log in the hearth woke her with a start. She sat up, realizing she was alone in the bed, and searched the room. Still, there was no sign of her husband. She wondered if she should see what kept him, but then, was it her place to question his absence from their bedchamber? And didn’t she truly prefer him to remain as absent as long as possible?

She snuggled once again beneath the blanket, thinking Cavan would arrive any moment and she must be ready to receive him. Time passed without his arrival and sleep once again claimed her.

The next time she woke for no apparent reason at all, though perhaps something had alerted her to a change in the room. She knew she was not alone; she felt his presence. It was strong, overpowering, as
if there wasn’t room enough for anyone but him. She lay silent, trying not to tremble when his shadow loomed large, like a bird of prey, over the ceiling.

She shut her eyes tight, fearing he would swoop down and descend on her like a mighty bird on the hunt, and after several anxious moments passed and nothing happened, she slowly opened her eyes to have a peek.

No shadow hovered over her, and she briefly wondered if she had dreamed it all, until she once again felt his presence. He was in the room. What should she do? What was expected of her? Did she sit up, acknowledge him, welcome him?

Honora wanted to cry out in frustration, but instead remained silent and waited. When Cavan did not make himself known, she grew curious and inched herself up slowly in the bed. She stared with confusion at her husband, who she now could see was sleeping on the floor in front of the fire, a single blanket over him, his arm a pillow.

Relief rushed over her, though she quelled it fast enough when she realized their vows would not be sealed tonight, which meant their marriage was not valid. Why would he deny himself his husbandly rights? Did he not find her attractive? Did he think to somehow rid himself of her?

Honora lay back down and pulled the cover up to her chin. What would happen if her father found out? If anyone found out? Surely she would be to blame.

She shivered. Her wedding day had turned disastrous and her wedding night had become a night
mare she would have never imagined possible. She felt ashamed, as she knew her father would if he learned that her husband rejected her. She had no idea what she should do.

Perhaps the morning would offer new insights. She would rise early and see to her husband’s breakfast and her duties. If he saw what a respectful wife she was, perhaps then he would want her.

A yawn interrupted her worries, and before she could dwell any longer on them, her eyes closed and she fell fast asleep.

She woke with a slow stretch and a smile for the sunshine that fell across her face, then jumped up, realizing it was well past sunrise. When she looked to the hearth, she gasped.

Her husband was gone.