Stolen Vows (22 page)

Isla sighed and tried to concentrate on keeping her seat.  She couldn’t help but think back to the last time that she had ridden Roan’s large bay gelding.  She couldn’t forget how Roan had swung himself up behind her, and then wrapped an arm around her waist, holding her tight and helping her to keep her balance and how strangely safe that she had felt.

That wouldn’t be happening today.

Isla tried to convince herself that she’d rather walk than share the horse with her husband, but she didn’t trust herself to put that vow into action if the time came to prove it.  She was still amazed that she had managed to push Roan away when he had first found her and was faintly horrified that she’d struck him.

She was justified, of course.  Roan’s treatment the night before, combined with the terrifying hours that she had spent wandering in unfamiliar woods until she found the road, more than justified the slap.  She still couldn’t quite believe that she’d done it though. Nor could she believe what he’d said. 
I love you.
  He couldn’t mean it!  Isla didn’t dare let herself hope, but why would Roan have said it then?  He had nothing to gain by the declaration apart from her forgiveness.  With Isla gone, Roan’s position in the clan was safe.   Why did he want to bring her back?

Why, why, why?

There were so many questions racing through Isla’s tired brain, not least of which was why Roan had bothered to come and find her.  He could have been rid of her so simply.  Wasn’t that what he wanted after all, to escape from the clutches of his scheming Cameron wife?  Isla was too exhausted, emotionally and physically, to give the matter very much more thought.

“It looks like the rain is about to start again,” Roan muttered. 

Isla licked her lips.  “We will nae need to stop though, will we?” she asked.  “We’ll make it back to castle before it starts?”  She didn’t imagine that sheltering in a barn with Roan would do either of them any good. 

Isla watched her husband look up at the sky.  He ran a hand through his hair, obviously weighing their options before he shrugged his broad shoulders.

“I doubt it lass,” he grumbled

They kept going in silence for over an hour before the rain started.  Isla glanced up and was splashed in the face by several large raindrops.  She blinked, surprised by the coldness of the droplets.  It wasn’t long before the rain started to come down in sheets.

Isla’s cloak had partially dried in between storms and the heavy fabric was at least able to block the wind, but in only a few short minutes, Roan was soaked to the skin.  The thin white fabric of his shirt was saturated.  It turned transparent, molding itself to the rippling muscles that were flexed beneath the material as they walked.  Isla caught herself staring, felt the blush that spread over her skin, and gave herself a mental slap.

She didn’t want to lust after her husband, but she did. She had to overcome it. She was walking a path of self-destruction if she didn’t.  Still, that didn’t mean she wanted to see him catch his death of cold. Isla’s heart softened a fraction.

“Roan?” she shouted over the pounding rain.  He turned and looked up at her.  Rain was streaming off his face. Isla couldn’t keep her eyes from dropping to his chest, where the shirt was plastered like a second skin.

“Aye, lass?” he called.

“Do ye think we should stop?” she asked, jumping as lightning flashed across the sky. 

Roan hesitated.  Isla was able to read some of the expressions that crossed his face.  He looked torn between reluctance and agreement, but he eventually nodded.

Roan led Fiadhiach on for another five minutes before turning off the main road toward one of his uncles’ barns.  He had wanted to look for shelter before the rain began, but he was worried that Isla would resist any delays.   

Just another failing to add to the list of things that made him such an awful husband,
Roan supposed.  He wondered if it would be better to simply press on for home, now that were both soaking, but if Isla felt that she needed to stop he wouldn’t try to push her.

Luckily, the barn wasn’t much further down the road.  Roan fumbled awkwardly with the barn door in the rain.  He caught his hand on a splinter and cursed under his breath as he tore open his palm.  Ignoring the sharp, stabbing pain, Roan pressed his shoulder against the door and forced it open before leading Isla and Fiadhaich into the warm, dry barn.

“Here ye are, lass,” he grunted, offering Isla his shoulder and good hand to help get down off the horse.  She hesitated for a moment, but eventually accepted his offer of help.

“Thank ye,” she muttered, moving away from him immediately. 

Roan felt his heart clench painfully as he watched her retreat.  He wanted to follow, but didn’t dare.  Frustrated, he balled his injured hand shut to try and stem the bleeding, and then tried to loosen Fiadhaich’s girth with the other as they prepared to wait out the storm.

“What’s the matter with yer other hand?”

Roan looked
at his wife.  It was on the tip of his tongue to say ‘nothing’, but something warned him against it.  Instead, he shrugged his shoulders, and muttered: “Naught.  Just a scratch.” 

He watched Isla out of the corner of his eye.  She looked like she was battling between the desire to investigate and the desire to leave him to suffer alone.  Eventually the former urge triumphed.  Roan couldn’t quell a flicker of hope.

“Do ye think I should take a look?”

“Tis naught,” he said again, but when his wife seemed to accept this answer, Roan quickly added: “although a second opinion would nae be amiss.”

Isla narrowed her eyes suspiciously, but nevertheless got up from her seat on the hay.  She walked to where Roan was resting against a stall door, and caught his large hand between her much smaller ones.  She gasped when she saw the bloody, raggedly torn skin of his palm. 

For his part, Roan simply reveled in the feel of her tender touch.

“That looks awful,” Isla gasped.

“Tis just a scratch,” he reiterated calmly, staring down into Isla’s worried face.  Having her this close without being able to reach for her was agony.  He had to find a way to earn her forgiveness. Roan didn’t think he could go back to living as he had done before he’d known his wife. 

His eyes swept her figure reverently, drinking in every lush, heavy curve.  Roan was glad of the icy water that had soaked its way through to his skin.  He never would have been able to stop his body reacting to the innocent provocation of his wife’s touch without it.

What if she chose to go away?
  Roan honestly didn’t know how he would live.  His need for her felt just as essential as his need to eat or to breathe.  

“Roan?” Isla brushed his arm lightly.  “Are ye all right?” she asked, catching his glazed expression.  Isla bit her lip, as though she’d spoken the words without meaning to.  She stared at him, and then let her eyes flicker to the puddle he was leaving on the floor.  “Yer going to catch yer death if ye stay in those wet clothes.”

And would that be a good or bad development, as far as she was concerned? 
Roan wondered, but didn’t ask. 

He waved off her remark as though it didn’t matter, not trusting himself to remove the sodden garments in front of his wife.  However, Roan did thank her for binding his hand, and asked her if she was feeling quite warm enough herself.

“I’ll manage I’m sure,” Isla replied stiltedly. 

Roan wandered around the barn, looking for a discarded mantle or a cloak to offer his wife while they waited out the storm.  He could feel her eyes watching him as he moved and found the scrutiny strangely unnerving. 

Fortunately, it wasn’t long before Roan found a dusty, but serviceable, blanket for Isla to wrap herself in, and was able to escape from such thoughts, albeit briefly.

“What about ye?” she asked quietly, allowing him to drape the blanket around her shivering shoulders, and then picking at a hole in the faded wool.  “Ye really
are
soaked, Roan,” she pressed.

“I’m fine,” he grunted, sitting down on an opposite bale of hay, but his teeth had started to chatter.

“Yer stubborn is what ye are!” Isla snapped crossly.  She stood up and marched towards him, tossing the blanket over one arm, while resting the other angrily on her hip.  “Now take that shirt off this instant!” 

Roan gaped up at his wife, unable to quite believe what he had just heard.  His mouth opened and then shut again silently, as he searched in vain for something to say - the trouble being that he
couldn’t
think of anything to say. The only other option seemed to be to obey Isla’s command.  He reached for the bottom of his shirt, moving slowly to give Isla time to stop him.

Isla didn’t appear to have any intention of stopping him.  She watched him closely, but it was in the same kind of strict manner as one might watch an errant child.  Feeling duly cowed, Roan pulled his wet shirt off over his head, and tossed it over the stall door that he had been leaning against earlier.  It had to be his imagination, but for just a second he thought that Isla had shivered slightly once he was stripped to the waist.

..ooOOoo..

It wasn’t Roan’s imagination.  Isla couldn’t help but swoon at the sight of her husband’s naked body, at the way the rain had made his skin slick and damp.  She couldn’t
believe
that he could still do this to her.  Not that he
was
doing anything, Isla had to admit to herself, ashamed of the direction that her thoughts were travelling.  She had ordered him to remove the shirt, and now he was just sitting there watching her warily.

Would it always be like this?
She wondered fearfully.  Had Roan triggered a hunger in her that was never going to be fulfilled until she knew what it meant to truly be his wife?  Her eyes wandered disobediently over his chest.  Her fingers itched to rake through the smattering of dark hair that was scattered there.  Her traitorous body seemed ready to forgive, or at least forget, the humiliation and anger in return for the simple pleasure of burrowing into his arms again.

Fortunately for Isla, her heart had a longer memory than her body.  She wrapped the blanket around her husband’s broad shoulders gingerly, not wanting to run the risk of touching him, and then retreated to her corner of hay.

“Isla,” Roan sighed. He followed her and sat down next to her.  “Ye need this as much as me,” he said firmly, throwing his arm, and half the blanket, around his wife and then drawing her defiantly against his side.

Isla stared up at him open mouthed. 
How dare he? 
Then she caught sight of the uncertainty in Roan’s eyes.  He was probably worried that she’d try and strike him again, Isla thought.  She shouldn’t have done that.  She had half expected him to strike her back.  Isla didn’t think that any other man would have let her get away with such rebellion.

And why had she done it? Because he’d said that he loved her. 

Isla sagged against her husband’s side without really realizing what she was doing.  She wished that Roan could have said those three little words before everything had started to spiral into such an awful mess.

They sat in silence waiting for the rain to stop. It was over an hour if Isla judged the time correctly.  She noticed (to her horror) that she nestled closer against Roan’s side as the time drifted by.  She was scared that pulling away would draw more attention to this fact than if she just stayed still and so she remained where she was, clasped snugly against her husband’s body.

It was Roan who moved away first.  Isla didn’t understand why she felt so bereft; she should have been
glad
to escape the contact.

“We’re going?” she asked.  Roan hadn't said anything.  He simply walked to Fiadhaich and began to tighten the girth of his saddle.

“Aye, the rain’s letting up a bit.  We’ll have to try and make it back to Erchlochy between the worst of the showers.”