Return of the Rogue (9 page)

His heavy sigh had her retreating into the dark a few inches away. She waited, barely breathing so he would not know she was there, but he didn’t wake. She saw that his sleep had turned content and hoped she had helped him achieve the peaceful slumber.

She wished this man would be a husband to her and that they could have a good life together, otherwise he and she would always be alone and lonely.
But how did she get him to see reason, the wisdom in such a match?

He stirred again but remained asleep.

Honora struggled with what she felt were her inadequacies as a wife and as a woman, and with no one to turn to, she felt completely alone. She missed her mother at that moment, for she had always been there to guide and advise and to love her unconditionally.

Addie was good to her and often attempted to talk with her, but she felt there was only so much she could comfortably discuss with Addie. She was Cavan’s mother, after all, and there was a strong protective bond between mother and son; as there had been between herself and her mother.

Honora’s soft gaze fell over her husband and she smiled sadly before whispering, “We could be happy you and I, if only…”

Cavan didn’t stir; he didn’t hear her, and she hadn’t meant him to, though perhaps she hoped somehow the words would settle over him, seep deep inside and touch his heart and soul.

She stood, stretched the kinks from her legs, and gave her husband one last glance before returning to her bed and slipping beneath the blanket. Then she peeked over the edge of the bed to take one last look at her husband.

C
avan stretched himself awake, rolling his shoulders and arching his back, then suddenly jolted up. His glance went directly to the bed, and sure enough it was empty. How did Honora sneak out without him hearing her? He shook his head and coughed a laugh, recalling how he intended to teach her to move about unnoticed and that she apparently already possessed the skill.

He stood with a stretch, working the stiffness out of his back and legs, and stopped abruptly, glancing down at the blanket. He stared at the crumpled piece of wool and fought to remember.

It hit him like a punch to the gut, and he almost stumbled back from the blow. He had woken in the middle of the night, his blanket pulled up over his shoulders, the fire stoked, and thought he had seen his wife peeking at him over the edge of the bed.

Had she tucked the blanket over him?

He scooped up the blanket and rubbed the soft wool between his fingers. He recalled kicking it off him and shivering, the ambers dying in the hearth. He cursed himself for having forgotten to stoke the
fire last night. He’d drowned his sorrows and his desire for his wife in too much drink. He had given her a choice last night—why, he couldn’t say—and she’d rejected him and it hurt him more than he wanted to admit, more than he wanted to feel. He drank after that with his brothers and father, arguing over the search for Ronan until, in disgust, he had left them and stumbled to his room. He collapsed before the hearth after stripping off his shirt and discarding his sandals, and pulled the blanket over him.

He remembered kicking the blanket off and the dreams—no, the nightmares—of his capture. His time with the barbarians haunted him mercilessly and forever disturbed his sleep.

Why then had he woken with the blanket over him and his wife peering over the edge of the bed at him, and with the fire blazing?

He shook the hazy thoughts from his mind to clear his head for a more vivid recall. His findings startled him, actually had him thinking he was crazy for believing what he remembered.

His wife had seen to his care. She had covered him with the blanket and stoked the fire.

Why?

He had hardly been a good husband to her, and yet she’d tended him.

Why?

He had ignored her, spoken carelessly to her, and still she looked after him.

Why?

She was his wife and that was her duty.

He shook his head. He couldn’t say he knew his wife well, but he felt as if he knew something about Honora—that she cared and had a good heart. She was a good, honest woman. Why then had
he
rejected her?

He growled, the rumble coming deep from his chest until it burst forth like an angry snarl. Why did he fight himself? Why deny his wife? Why deny having a good life?

Ronan.

He felt responsible for his brother’s capture and could not escape the guilt. He should have protected Ronan. He should have saved him from the barbarians. He would never forget the look on his youngest brother’s face as the barbarians dragged him away.

Ronan had been filled with pure fear.

Cavan shook his head, chasing away the painful memory.

He did not deserve to live, to have a good life, until he found his brother and set things right. He didn’t deserve Honora and her kind nature, but she did deserve to be protected. And if he wasn’t around to protect her, then he wanted to make certain she could take care of herself.

Today his wife would have her first lesson in defending herself.

He dressed, though did not hurry. He knew that Honora would not be far, and whether on the moor, in the kitchen, or in the sewing room, she would be alone. In a way, she was much like him of late, seeking solitude, putting herself at a distance from others.

They were a pair, the two of them, an unlikely pair but matching nonetheless. He almost chuckled at the thought. If he was honest with himself, he’d admit that Honora had brought a smile to his face on several occasions.

He quickly lost the smile. There was no time for frivolity. He had his search for Ronan to concentrate on, and to make certain his wife knew how to protect herself.

Artair was at the table in front of the hearth when he entered the great hall, which was near empty. The few who remained quickly took their leave when he joined his brother. It was obvious that Artair had purposely waited for him.

“Do I get to eat before you pounce on me?” Cavan asked, sitting across from him.

Artair grinned. “Now you sound like the brother I knew.”

“He is no more,” Cavan snapped.

“I disagree. My brother may battle foes unknown to me, but he is still my brother, and I would fight to the death beside him, whether asked or not.”

“I can fight my own battles,” Cavan argued.

“I recall fighting more often together than separate.”

“What do you want of me?” Cavan asked irritably.

“I want my brother to return.”

“I have,” Cavan said curtly.

Artair shook his head. “No, you haven’t. You keep to yourself and sulk—”

“I do not sulk—”

“You sulk like a spoiled child.”

“I warn you, Artair, watch your words.”

“Does the truth hurt?”

“What do you know of the truth?” Cavan snarled, his fisted knuckles turning white.

“Enlighten me,” Artair challenged.

Cavan near snorted with anger. How dare his brother disrespect him? How dare he judge him? How dare he…

He released a deep breath, and with it went some of his anger, though not all, for that would take time. And then there was the beast inside him, which could very well reside there permanently. What he did know was that Artair didn’t deserve his anger, that he sought an explanation. However, he wasn’t certain yet if he could give Artair an adequate one, or if he was even ready to discuss it with him.

Artair had always been the sensible one. The brother who reasoned and found solutions on many occasions when others thought there were none. Cavan had counted on his pragmatic nature many times, and Artair had never failed him, had never failed anyone. How then would Artair understand that he thought himself a failure?

“You wouldn’t understand,” Cavan said, returning his attention to his brother.

“I have before. What makes you believe this time would be any different?”

“Because it is different.”

“Why, because you say so? Share this burden that so obviously weighs on your shoulders with me so that I may help you carry it.”

That was Artair, taking on everyone’s problem and solving it, and damned if he didn’t find solutions. But it wasn’t always for him to solve. This burden was his and his alone, and only he could ease the weight.

“This time it is for me to do, brother.”

“Hear what you say,
brother
. Brothers help each other. We may argue, even throw punches on occasion, and sometimes not like each other for one ridiculous reason or another, but brothers we are and that means always looking out for each other.”

“Like I did for Ronan?”

“You did what you could and—”

“I should have done more,” Cavan snapped.

“You are not Ronan’s keeper.”

Cavan laughed gruffly. “In one breath you tell me brothers always look out for each other and in another you say I am not my brother’s keeper.”

“You forget I said I would always stand by your side whether asked or not. I did not say I would stand in front of you or behind you, but
beside
you. You never stopped seeing Ronan as your youngest brother who needed protecting. Ronan is a warrior and he will do what he must to survive and return home, just as you have. So stop pitying yourself and be a brother once again.”

Artair stood with a shake of his head and walked out of the great hall.

Cavan didn’t follow his brother’s departure; he turned instead to gaze aimlessly at the hearth. What did Artair know? He wasn’t there to hear the crack of the whip and know in a second that the leather
would split the flesh open. He didn’t know of the filth and stench he had to endure, or what he’d been forced to eat to survive, or of the never ending cold that crept into your bones and caused your innards to shiver. And then there were the screams and pleading of the tortured ringing endlessly in your ears long after they had died, and wondering if one of them could be your brother, though praying it wasn’t.

Cavan shook the memories out of his head. They always brought anger with them, and while one day he would use that anger to seek his revenge, he knew it did him no good now to dwell on it. It only caused him to feel alone, removed from family and friends, from everything around him. And for the first time since his return, he didn’t want to feel removed. He wanted to find his wife and teach her to survive in case he could not be there for her, in case he failed her, as he had his brother.

Cavan found her in the stable with a litter of pups about five weeks old. She laughed as they scampered over her crossed legs and tumbled around in the hay. Their tiny tails wagged joyously and their brave barks were nothing more then a squeak.

Honora scooped up an all black pup, a plump one that she seemed to favor as the pup did her. She cuddled it in her lap, and it jumped up against her chest, licking her face, and she cuddled the dog to her breasts and planted kisses on his face.

Cavan waited in the shadow. When the pup scampered closer to him, his little backside raised
in the air with tail wagging, small paws stretched out in front of him while he challenged Honora with a bark, Cavan scooped him up.

The little fellow was so shocked it took him a moment to attack Cavan’s fingers with tiny teeth that could not break the skin. He squirmed and protested with barks, but his efforts were futile. He was captured.

“You’re upsetting him,” Honora said, hurrying to her feet, the other puppies sensing danger and running off to hide.

“Be still,” he ordered the puppy harshly, and the animal froze with fright.

“You’re frightening him,” Honora accused, and rushed Cavan. “Let him go.”

In a second Honora was captured as the pup had been. Cavan had his arm tight against her neck and another arm tight around her waist, her back plastered tight against his body. The pup was on the ground bravely trying to help Honora, nipping at Cavan’s sandals and barking.

Cavan gave him a gentle shove with his foot and the little fellow cried and ran off.

Honora elbowed Cavan in the rib and hit her mark.

“Brave but stupid,” he said in her ear. “Now you’ve angered your captor and he will retaliate by punishing you.”

“You were going to hurt the pup,” she accused.

“You cared nothing for your safety, you merely thought of the pup, and that was why I was able to
capture you so easily. You didn’t think it through. You simply charged forward in anger. First rule of battle, do not let anger rule. It is an unwise leader.”

He felt her relax against him once she realized his actions were meant to teach.

He gripped her more tightly and she gasped, yanking at his arm at her throat. “Never let your defenses down when in the presence of your foe,” he said, and released her abruptly.

She stumbled away, the black pup appearing at her side to bark at Cavan, though from beneath the safety of Honora’s brown skirt.

“Quiet!” Cavan commanded, and the pup vanished beneath the skirt.

“When he grows, the pup will protect me,” Honora said in the little dog’s defense.

“Only if you teach him as I teach you.”

Honora hesitated. “I would like that, to teach the pup.”

“To make him yours?” Cavan asked with a ridiculous twinge of jealously. How could he be jealous of a pup?

“If that would be all right with you?”

He wished she was strong enough to claim the pup as hers no matter what he said, then realized that had been her intention all along. She merely wanted him to believe she sought his approval.

He smiled, realizing he knew his wife better than he’d thought. “You would do it anyway, wouldn’t you?”

She reached down, scooped up the pup from
beneath her skirt and hugged him against her breast. The little fellow delighted in the attention and cuddled closer to her. “Yes, I would. He’s irresistible.”

“Teach him to protect you and he is yours,” Cavan challenged.

“He will learn along with me,” she said with confidence, though the kisses she rained over his face had Cavan doubting and that twinge of jealously nipping sharply at him once again.

“We start now. The pup is too young. Once weaned off his mother there will be time to start training him.”

Honora nodded and smiled at the pup, which was too playful for her to continue to hold. She placed him on the ground and he scampered off to join the other pups in play. “My lesson for today?”

“Know that an enemy will use whatever means he can against you.”

“You refer to my love for the pup.”

“Correct. Once I saw how you cared, it was easy to use him to get to you,” Cavan said, her violet eyes intent on his, which wasn’t good since the strange color always stirred his senses.

“How do I free myself from the hold you had on me?”

He’d had a good hold of her. She had been so firm against him that he could feel her every breath, sense her fear, smell her womanly sweat, which instantly intoxicated him. It was all too familiar to him now, and all too appealing. That was why he’d released her abruptly; he couldn’t chance keeping her that
close, so near that he could almost taste or want to taste her.

“Does your silence tell me that the question challenges you?” She teased with a smile, and he liked it. It showed she had courage.

He grinned. “It is you who are challenged. How do you think you could extract yourself from such a situation? The man is larger, stronger than you. How do you escape his binding hold?”

She paced the stall for a moment then stopped. “Can we resume the positions of my capture?”

“Certainly,” he said, and within seconds she was once again flat up against him, his arm not as tight to her neck or her waist, which he told himself was for his own sanity not her comfort.