Return of the Rogue (4 page)

C
avan walked the moor alone, some areas so thick with heather that they cast a purple glow in the early morning light. He needed time to consolidate his thoughts and deal with his anger. He had thought his arrival home would heal his many wounds, but not so; he seemed to have worsened. He didn’t feel fit to be with his family, let alone a wife.

He came to a spot on the moor where he had often come, a place of solitude and beauty for it had a view of the sea and the angry waves that continuously pounded the cliff as if demanding it get out of the way.

He empathized with the senseless battering for that was how he had felt while imprisoned. His anger would futilely clash with the barbarians and he’d be left like the pounding waves against the jagged cliff, getting nowhere, still imprisoned, still suffering, still longing to return home.

Now that he was home, he felt as if he no longer belonged, had no right to be here, especially since his brother Ronan was still among the barbarians.
The idea that Ronan continued to suffer while he was finally free angered him beyond words. He wanted his brother home with family; maybe then he himself would feel that he once again belonged.

Unfortunately, Artair and Lachlan objected to his plan to search for Ronan. They had informed him last night that search parties were continually sent out in hopes of finding their brother and that Artair or Lachlan, sometimes both of them, would go and investigate claims that Ronan was spotted in a particular area. All that could be done was being done and had been done for him and Ronan, they told Cavan, from the first day of capture.

Cavan had exchanged heated words with his brothers last night, and his father had spoken to him after sending his disgruntled brothers away. His father’s tone was gentle yet firm, letting him know he understood that his capture at the hands of the barbarians could not have been easy, but he had survived and escaped, and if he had, then why not Ronan?

Tavish Sinclare had confidence in both his sons and expected that Ronan would also one day return home; of that he had no doubt. He said as much. He also said that did not mean the search would not continue, but told Cavan he had to understand that Artair and Lachlan were doing their best and felt just as strongly about Ronan’s absence as they had about his own.

Tavish had cautioned his son to take time to know that everyone was relieved and pleased that he was once again home with them. He had also advised
Cavan to take his marriage seriously, treat his new wife well, and waste no time in producing a fine son to carry on the Sinclare name.

Cavan understood the wisdom of his father’s words but found it difficult to take them into his heart and follow them, especially where his marriage was concerned.

He couldn’t say he wasn’t attracted to Honora. She was a beauty, which he only realized when he took the time to consider her. Her face was flawless and kissed by the sun, and her violet eyes were like none he had ever seen, with long lashes that matched stark black hair that fell straight to the middle of her back. Most women he had known possessed endless curls and waves, but Honora’s silky locks held not a single curl or twist.

Then there was her body, which he did not want to think about because every time he did he grew hard with the want of her. While she appeared a meek mouse, she was generous in size and shape, her breasts full, her waist slim, and her hips substantial. She would certainly be able to take a hardy lovemaking without protest, and Lord how he wanted to mount her and enjoy the ride. But she was not simply a wench to ride; Honora was his wife.

She deserved more, and he wasn’t certain he could give it to her.

Cavan stretched himself to a stand, wondering if he would ever again grow accustomed to a bed after spending a year sleeping on a hard, dirt-packed floor. He hadn’t dared look at the bed where his wife slept soundly last night. He’d brought a blanket with
him to the room and lay down in front of the hearth, relishing the fire’s warmth. He had spent too many nights shivering himself to sleep from the cold and often dreamed of sleeping before a fire. Last night his dreams finally come true.

He thought of his father’s words about fully returning home. He was home, and yet he wasn’t, and he needed to do as his father suggested. He had to reconnect with family and friends and find a way to accept his wife, though that would take time. Or was it that he wondered if she could ever fully accept him and, even more so, possibly love him?

But then, could he ever possibly love her?

By the time Cavan returned to the keep, clouds were quickly gathering overhead and the sky had turned a dark gray. Clansmen called out greetings to him as they rushed to finish work before the rain started, and many invited him in for a tankard of ale, which he declined until another time.

He knew that having survived capture, they thought highly of him, admired and respected him. But he didn’t feel worthy of their praise for there had been times during his capture that he’d wished that he had died, and no warrior could admire that.

“The moor is still your favorite haunt?”

Cavan nodded and slowed his pace so his brother Artair could join him. “The moor provides solitude.”

“I thought you would have had enough of that by now.”

“There are different kinds of solitude,” Cavan said.

“Well, I for one hope to spend more time with you, for I have missed your ugly face.”

Cavan grinned. “Isn’t that Lachlan you’re referring to?”

Artair laughed. “Lachlan does believe himself the most handsome brother.”

“And the most foolish one.”

“I heard that,” Lachlan said, hurrying up alongside Cavan. “And let me remind you both that it is I who all the women favor.”

“You mean it is you who chase after all the women,” Artair corrected.

“Chase?” Lachlan asked with such profound surprise that he had Artair laughing and Cavan’s smile growing broad. “I’ve never chased after a woman in my life and I never will.”

“That’s a challenge to the heavens, Lachlan, you better be careful,” Artair warned with a tease.

“The heavens know the ladies love me. I’m sure they will send me a most beautiful angel when I am ready to settle down and wed.”

Cavan had yet to join his brothers in laughter, though a silent chuckle tickled his throat.

“Ronan would agree with me,” Lachlan boasted.

Cavan stopped dead and turned on Lachlan. “Then you should have found him and returned him home so he could side with your ridiculous notion.”

He turned to leave and caught sight of Honora nearby. “Where have you been, wife? You neglect your duties.”

Cavan did not see his father-in-law nearby
watching the exchange or the way the man glared at Honora, but it was not lost to Honora, and Cavan’s action was not lost on the clansmen and women who mulled about. As a result, tongues started wagging.

“I’m hungry,” Cavan said, snatching Honora’s hand and pulling her along, meanwhile grumbling beneath his breath.

Ronan’s capture tormented him. He could not forget that day, the battle, the capture and the look on his youngest brother’s face when the barbarians dragged Ronan away. He wanted to pound his fists, cry out his rage, and he could do nothing but direct his anger at his innocent wife. He had never before held a woman responsible for feeding him. If he were hungry, he found food; he needed no one to serve him, so why demand it now from his wife?

Servants and warriors lingered around the great hall enjoying ale and conversation and avoiding the inevitable rainstorm, thunder now grumbling in the distance, and they called to Cavan to join them. At one time he would have gladly joined in talk and drink and the heat of the large fireplace. But now he simply wanted to escape from everyone, as he had escaped from the barbarians.

“I’ll get your food for you and the men,” Honora said.

Cavan stopped her with a tug. “I’ll take my meal in our bedchamber.” He grew more annoyed watching his wife pale and assume he wanted more than food in their bedchamber. He lowered his voice, though it was with a snarling growl he spoke. “I want food, not sex.”

He released her, and ignoring the invitations from the warriors, left the hall and took the stone stairs two at a time. He was running and he knew it, but the need to seek seclusion was a wrenching twist to his gut. He slammed the door behind him and dropped back against it, his hands fisted at his sides.

He had imagined his return would set everything right, but it hadn’t. Now what did he do? How did he manage to be the man he once was? Did that man even exist anymore?

A sudden chill descended over him, and he went to stand in front of the hearth, wanting nothing more than to let the fire’s heat warm him and let the silence free his mind of endless worrisome thoughts.

“My lord? My lord?”

It took a moment before Cavan realized his wife was speaking to him. He had finally and gratefully gone to a quiet place in his mind where he had found solace, and had not wanted to leave it, but the intruding voice forced him from it.

“Cavan,” he said sharply. “I am neither laird nor lord of this clan.”

She dipped her head in a respectful nod. “I have brought your food.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“But you said—”

“Do I need to repeat myself?” he snapped, and she jumped back.

With an agitated sigh he rubbed at the back of his neck. He had not meant to bark at her.

“Have I offended you somehow?”

Her question surprised him since she was obviously uneasy around him, looking forever as if she wished to flee or slink into the shadows and hide. So where had she gotten a kernel of nerve to question him?

“Why do you ask?”

Her nerve faltered, delaying her response for a moment. “You seem angry with me.”

Lord, but her violet eyes were beautiful and her rosy lips so plump and her skin looked so very soft. He raised his hand, and when he realized he was about to caress her face, snapped it back and shouted, “Get out!”

She stumbled over her own feet on the way to the door and slammed it behind her.

Cavan closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. What was so wrong in finding his wife attractive? Wasn’t that a blessing for an arranged marriage? But he wasn’t ready to be married. He wasn’t ready for anything at the moment, save one.

Battle.

Cavan was a warrior and proud of it. He could ride into battle right now and fight tirelessly forever. Nothing stopped him from entering a battle, and he wished for one now, a physical battle, not this inner battle he waged. With a shield and a sword, he knew how to defend and protect against an enemy.

The Sinclares were warriors protecting the farthest region of Scotland against marauding bands of barbarians from across the sea for king and country. It had been their duty for generations and would
be for generations to come. But this time his enemy was himself, and how did you defend and protect against yourself? How did you win a battle with yourself?

He shook his head and charged from the room. The hell with solitude. He would seek the company of other warriors and drink, and soon his troubled thoughts would plague him no more.

H
onora did not know what to make of her husband. He was gone when she woke and had not made himself known until hours later, and now, for the past several hours, he sat and drank with the other warriors. He showed no sign of interest in her at all, and she feared gossip was already spreading. A couple of servant girls had whispered and giggled when she passed by.

Her concern was more for what her father would hear, think, and do to her if he felt she wasn’t attending to her wifely duties. But how did she deal with a husband who intimidated her? She kept reminding herself to be patient, but with the day waning on and her husband ignoring her, she wondered if patience would work.

What else was there for her to do?

With no answer to her disturbing question, Honora, not the least bit hungry, she left the hall where all were gathering for the evening meal. She wished it wasn’t raining for she would have walked the moor, breathed in the crisp autumn air and felt at peace. Instead she wandered up the stairs, but rather
than go to her bedchamber, retreated to the small sewing room one floor down, knowing it would be empty at this hour and give her a modicum of the peace she found on the moor.

Scooping up an embroidery piece, a blouse, from the basket she had worked on the past week, Honora settled in the chair before the hearth. In minutes, with her mind concentrated on her stitching, she found the peace she sought.

“Honora! Honora!”

She jumped, her embroidery falling to the floor. She thought she had heard her stepfather’s angry voice frantically summoning her. Thinking it must have been a dream, she wondered how long she’d dozed.

“Honora! Honora!”

She shivered down to the bone. It hadn’t been a dream; her stepfather was indeed searching for her. She heard his quick footsteps grow heavy on the stairs. In no time he would descend on her, and more than likely with a heavy hand.

She hastily searched the room, and with his heavy footfalls fast approaching, hurried to the door and braced herself against the wall so that when the door opened, she’d be safely tucked behind it, hopefully.

In minutes the wooden door swung open, her father gave a quick glance around, and then left, slamming the door behind him. Honora didn’t dare take a deep breath until she heard his footsteps fade down the stairs.

Why did he search for her? Was it later than she thought? Had her husband been looking for her? She
returned her embroidery to the basket and quietly left the room, and just as quietly climbed the stairs, then crept along the hall to her bedchamber and closed the door ever so gently after she entered.

“Sneaking in at such a late hour? Whatever has my wife been up to?”

Honora gasped and stumbled back against the door, her hand pressed firm to her chest as if that might still her wildly beating heart. Her husband had scared the wits out of her.

“Forgive me,” she said, offering a hasty apology. “I was not hungry and sought solace in the sewing room, only to have fallen asleep.”

“You could not find solace in our bedchamber?”

Honora didn’t answer; she stood staring at him. His face was bloody and bruised, and she went straight to his side. “What happened?”

“A disagreement with a warrior worth fighting.”

She didn’t hesitate; she reached out and gently probed the bruised and bleeding areas, his cheek, eye, and lip. “I’ll tend them.” Taking his hand, she led him to sit on the edge of the bed, then gathered water, cloth, and salve to mend him.

“I’m fine,” he protested weakly.

“Nonsense, you need care,” she insisted. “Please remove your shirt so I may soak the blood from it before the stain sets.”

She expected him to ignore her request, but surprisingly, he did as she suggested and slipped off his shirt. While she had seen him fully naked before, she couldn’t say why his half nakedness now disturbed her. Perhaps it was the breadth and width of
him, the muscles so taut that the veins in his arms bugled with the strength that ran through him.

She placed a ceramic basin of warm water on the small bench she had moved near the bed and dropped cloths and the salve on the bed beside him. She wet and rinsed a cloth and began cleaning his wounds with tender strokes.

As she’d suspected after first examining them, they were not bad, and she let him know. “Mere surface abrasions. You’ll suffer no scars.”

“It makes no difference. What’s one more scar to the many I’ve already suffered?”

She dabbed gently at his bloody lip and wished to offer him sympathy but somehow knew he would not take kindly to it. She worked diligently on him and noticed how his hard, angry glint turned soft with time and touch.

He reminded her of a wounded animal who at first refuses help, until the one who helps him has proven trustworthy. Did she need to prove trustful to him? But then, wasn’t she looking for the same from him? Didn’t she hope that instead of fearing him, she could count on him to protect and care for her?

She lingered, applying soothing salve over the wounds, enjoying the feel of his warm skin, and the strength of his defined bones and the scent of him haunted her, sweeping around her, permeating deep inside her. She had thought he would smell of nothing but ale, but that odor merely tinged the nostrils while a more potent scent emerged. She couldn’t quite define it, but then how could she, since it be
longed strictly to him and no other? Earth and fire came to mind and suited him well, and while she wished she could remain lingering in his pleasing scent, she knew it wasn’t a wise idea and backed away from him.

“Finished,” she announced, and reached for the cloths and the jar of salve on the bed beside him.

He grabbed her hand and placed it flat against his chest. She near gasped but contained herself, though not for long since the heat of his flesh rushed up along her arm and raced through her entire body, setting her toes to tingle and the spot between her legs to dampen with a strange ache.

“Thank you.”

Honora was struck by the sincerity in his eyes and voice, but it didn’t last. He sprung off the bed and moved her aside as if discarding her, as if she meant nothing, and strode out of the room.

She stood there staring after the closed door. For a brief moment she had gotten a glimpse, she believed, of the man Cavan had once been, and she liked what she had seen. He seemed kind, thoughtful and appreciative.

Could she dare hope to possibly have such a husband? Perhaps the patience Addie advised her of would actually work given time, and she had more than enough time.

She was Cavan’s wife until death parted them.

She sighed and shook her head. She wasn’t officially his wife, since their marriage had yet to be consummated, and she wondered if others knew. Could they tell? Did they wonder? And if tongues
began wagging, would her stepfather hear and question her? Berate her? Strike her?

A shiver ran through her. While at first she had preferred that her husband keep his distance, now she wished he would seal their vows properly so she need not worry about the consequences of her stepfather finding out.

She wished she had the courage to discuss the matter with Cavan, but knew she didn’t. She could never bring herself to approach him with her worries. He would probably laugh at her, remind her that he’d never wanted her as a wife.

Would he ever want her?

Tears welled in her eyes, but she didn’t cry; she rarely cried. She had learned a long time ago that tears never helped, and usually made matters worse. The last time she’d cried was when her mother died, and afterward she never cried again, not even when her stepfather beat her or lashed out at her with hurtful words. And she would not cry now.

Her only option was to make the most of her circumstances. Somehow she would need to learn to get along with her husband. They had been wed for no more than a day, and if she asked herself what she’d learned about him in that brief time, she would say perhaps that he kept his distance from people; not only his wife, but his family as well.

Was he a man who preferred solitude?

That certainly would be an asset, since she enjoyed the same herself.

A gentle knock at the door had her opening it without fear it would be her stepfather. He would never knock so gently.

Addie entered the room with a concerned smile. “Is everything all right?”

Honora responded with her own question after shutting the door. “Why do you ask?”

“It is only your second night as husband and wife, and my son is in the hall drinking alone at a late hour and you are here alone in the bedchamber.”

Honora shook her head slowly as if any answer wouldn’t be the correct one. “Cavan does as he wishes.”

“True enough, but his dark eyes tell me a different story. Something disturbs him, something he refuses to speak of to anyone.” Addie took Honora’s hand. “My son is a good man.”

Honora slipped her hand free of Addie’s anxious grasp. “Good, bad, or indifferent, he remains my husband. But I don’t know what to do for him.”

A tear glistened at the corner of Addie’s eye. “Be his wife.”