The Shadow 0f Her Smile (Highlander Heroes Book 3)

by Rebecca Ruger

Sliding away from him, from the center of the bed, Ada flipped back the furs and the coverlet.

  Jamie smiled and lifted his tunic up over his head, tossing it onto the trunk near the foot of the bed. His breeches followed, and Ada wished for more light than only that of the dying fire.

  When he climbed in beside her, she whispered, just before his lips met hers, “Thankfully, your bride is awake just now.”

  “It’s verra cold, lass, but I can no be sorry that I’m about to make you naked,” he returned against her mouth.

  “I trust you’ll have me warmed in no time,” she said on a sigh.

  Ada was sure she would never tire of the hunger he showed her, the hunger he’d created in her. She closed her eyes and blissfully gave herself up to her husband’s lovemaking.

  Sadly, these would be the last moments of peace between them for some time.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Ada was at the well, in the center of Aviemore’s yard, fetching a third bucket-full of water for the laundering being done within, when Simon approached her. Chivalrously, he shooed Ada aside and easily carried this load for her. She followed him in and then back out of the keep, needing one more filled bucket of water.

  She’d given up insisting to him that she was perfectly capable of moving water from one point to another. He was sharing with her some tale of his and Peter’s drunken escapades one night in Perth years ago—truly a story more befitting the soldiers’ barracks, Ada thought. She’d not said as much, and smiled and laughed appropriately during the telling, happy that at least he was speaking to her and not bowing before her.

  Jamie found her that way, leaned against the well while Simon reeled in the next bucket, grinning at the young soldier. Jamie walked his horse into the yard, seeming to spy Ada immediately. She couldn’t say that he’d not been frowning before finding her, as she realized his presence belatedly, but he was definitely frowning now. With casual grace, he slid from the saddle and while at least a dozen people watched, Simon included, as he’d just hefted the bucket away from the hook, Jamie strode right up to Ada and kissed her. It was not exactly a chaste kiss, but neither was it warm, nor meant to stir her.

  Awkwardly, Simon excused himself and took the water to the keep.

  “Why do you do that?” Ada asked of Jamie, crossing her arms over her chest. She hadn’t meant to sound so put out by it, had intended for a more casual tone. As it was, she supposed it was her tone that lifted Jamie’s brow.

  “What’s that?”

  “Why do you kiss me like that, in front of everyone?”

  He grinned, though this did not extend to his eyes. “Am I no allowed to kiss my wife?”

  “If it’s kissing you want, then aye. But it....it comes not with any of the things that should come with kisses.”

  His brows creased and he harrumphed. He did not meet her eye, instead busied himself with untying the leather pouches from the horse.

  The reason Ada knew that something was false about these kisses was because she’d spent several weeks in the Kincaid household at Stonehaven. She’d learned there that husbands might regularly show such affection to their wives. Anytime Gregor Kincaid walked into a room in which Anice was, he did exactly what Jamie did, walked directly to her and kissed her. Truth be told, Ada had been made quite uncomfortable by this daily, sometimes hourly, demonstration, until she saw the entire picture and not just her own discomfort. There was warmth and love and peace in there gazes. It then became so obvious to Ada, watching the Kincaid enter a room, watching as his eyes scanned until they found her. And honestly, any witness could discern the change in his expression the moment he spotted his wife. His gaze—indeed, his entire person—softened at the sight of her, as if simply having her near turned out any and all negative, turned away everything but her. It had been truly something very special to see.

  In no way did she compare herself and Jamie to Gregor and Anice. The Kincaids clearly adored each other, their love was a palpable thing to feel and see and know. Ada and Jamie had not that. They had a marriage rather of necessity and a passion that might well be enough for a time. Mayhap that’s what bothered her so much about his kissing her in front of so many people all the time. It wasn’t done with the same intent as Gregor Kincaid kissed Anice, so that it only seemed so dishonest, or at the very least, a matter of pretense. Hence her question: what was the point of it?

  It came with no warmth, no promise, seemed only a perfunctory action, and one which she was beginning to resent very much. Mayhap that was the issue, she considered. Maybe she was in love with him and was only bothered by awareness that her husband, while enamored of her body and their lovemaking, was certainly not in love with her.

  Perhaps her prolonged silence wrought some turmoil in him. He lifted his head and asked, “What should come with the kissing, lass? I canna be accosting you in the middle of the yard.”

  Ada shook her head, dismissing the whole subject. She knew she was right but didn’t know how to explain it to him.

  And then a lad, younger than Henry, one Ada had never seen before, came up to Jamie and Ada. With only a passing glance at his laird, he dropped to his knees before Ada, and literally bowed his head to the ground in front of her.

  She stifled the frustrated cry that so wanted to burst forth and managed a tight smile, inclining her head benevolently at the boy when finally he rose.

  Jamie stared, dumbfounded. “What the hell was that?” He asked, when the lad had darted away.

  “That is your doing,” she accused.

  “How am I to blame for—what was that?”

  “That, husband, is the result of your fancy and needless discourse our first night here.”

  It took him a moment to understand of what she spoke. “That was necessary, so they understood what you had sacrificed.”

  “It was not necessary, and it stands now as the basis for all the fawning madness.”

  “It has nothing to—”

  “Aye, it does! And you had no right to tell that tale, by the way. In that moment, you were no better than George Goody.”

  His frown darkened. “Goody used you for the cause—‘twas not right. I did that for you. They needed to know!”

  Since his voice had risen with his vexation, so then did Ada start shouting as well.

  “That is not your story to tell! It belongs to me! I decide who knows it!” She thumped her chest. “I say who gets to hear it!” This rendered him speechless, though well she could see his mind working. Before he gathered his defense, she plodded forward, lowering her voice again, “They stare as if I’m some holy relic, they’re afraid to touch me or talk to me. One man begged a blessing for his sick bairn.”

  “I canna take back the words, lass, nor bend the truth,” he said. “They’ll come ‘round, is my guess, once they ken you.”

  “Jamie, I do not think it’s that easy. I suspect I could light fire to the entire keep and they might only see it as a sign to repent and follow my ways.”

  This elicited a chuckle, but Ada could sense no humor in the sound. She cared not one whit for his dismissive attitude for her grievance.

  THAT EVENING AT SUPPER, Agnes informed Ada that Malcolm was abed with a touch of the ague, which Agnes announced with such lightness Ada imagined indeed it must be a mild case. So when neither Jamie nor any of his officers showed themselves, Ada partook of the meal seated next to Agnes at a lower table. Agnes sat on one side of her and Peter on the other, with Simon and two other men, Duncan and Fergus, across from her. True, the meal began quietly, the soldiers a bit unnerved, no doubt, to have their lady sitting with them. Ada engaged in conversation with Agnes at first, while they grew accustomed to her presence, until Peter asked her if she had any plans for more angling down at the loch.

  She had no plans, she told him, but wouldn’t be sorry if she found herself in that circumstance once again. A banal reply, but it allowed for the conversation to open up to all the table.

  “Did you catch anything, my lady?”
Asked Fergus, who appeared a serious sort, with a constant pensive frown over his dark eyes.

  “I did not. Truth be known, it was Henry who had charge of the pole. I was no more than a happy bystander.”

  “Good eel to be had in the loch,” Peter commented.

  “You’ll no catch them with Callum’s hooks and sinkers, aye?”

  “How do you catch an eel?” Ada asked. “And what do you do with it when you catch it?”

  Many eyes shifted to her face, their surprise evident.

  “What do you do? Aye, my lady, you ken you eat it,” said Simon.

  Agnes said, “It’s sweet and soft, tastier than salmon, you ask me.”

  “But eels are so...squiggly,” Ada said, making a face, which produced several chuckles.

  “Squiggly?” Fergus repeated, as if he’d never heard the word.

  “Aye, Fergus,” teased Simon, “as any lass you’d be wanting to—”

  He stopped abruptly, jerking upon the bench. Ada suspected he’d been kicked under the table before any bawdy words had come. She bit her lip to keep from laughing.

  Peter bent toward her and whispered, not nearly soft enough that it went unheard, “My lady, you may not believe this, but ol’ Fergus toils nearly in vain with the lasses.”

  Gamely, Ada asked, “Because of the squiggling?” She winked at Fergus, to lessen her teasing, but it did not diminish the loud chuckles and guffaws that followed.

  And then Jamie appeared, standing at the end of the table, looking pleased about nothing at all. The advent of the laird effectively silenced the entire table, completely and abruptly, that one might think he’d tossed a gauntlet onto the wooden tabletop.

  His gaze swept all those seated, seeming to linger on Peter, when came a curl to his lip.

  And suddenly Ada understood.

  She wasn’t sure how. She had no experience with jealousy, however misplaced. As quickly as that idea had come to her, she amended her theory. It wasn’t jealousy at all. Just as Jamie settled a decidedly dark look onto her, she realized it was, in fact, distrust.

  Agnes’s tale of his first wife’s faithlessness rang in her head.

  It had nothing to do with love, of course. Likely, it was more entrenched in concepts such as masculinity and pride and power—not insecurity, she quickly considered and abandoned. Jamie MacKenna might well suffer the quirks and foibles of many a man, but insecurity was not one of them.

  Ada stood, having to climb over the back of the bench, as she’d sat in the middle, and asked of her husband, “Will you take your supper now? And your officers as well? I’ll get to the kitchen and inform Joanna.”

  He nodded and walked with her, in the same direction, tossing his leather gloves with some annoyance onto the head table, while Ada continued to the kitchen.

  AND THAT EVENING, AS Jamie found their chambers at nearly the same time as Ada, as he rarely did, she hoped to address with him his misplaced cynicism.

  But Jamie spoke first, standing just inside the door, his hand still on the handle.

  “I dinna like you keeping company with the lads,” he said, with nary a prelude.

  Of course, the complaint came as no shock to Ada; his tone, on the other hand, most certainly did, being given in that low, controlled voice that bespoke of a seething, simmering anger.

  “Yes, I gathered as much,” was all she allowed. It was his claim to state, and she would allow him to make his case fully before she let him know how ridiculous he was being. She was perched on one side of the bed, brushing out her hair, having already changed into her night rail.

  She waited, watched Jamie close the door and begin to remove his belt and sword. The brush stopped, mid-motion, when it seemed he would say no more.

  Ada swallowed and asked, “Might I know why?”

  “No, you dinna need to ken why.” He leaned his sword against the spot where the headboard met the wall, then lifted his gaze to her, showing a challenge as he said, “’Tis similar, in fact, to me no questioning decisions you make, lass, like sacking the cook.”

  “God’s blood,” Ada groused. The brush dropped to her lap, and she laughed sharply. “That is the most childish thing I’ve heard—”

  “I’ve said I dinna want you keeping company with my soldiers,” he barked out at her, “and that is that.”

  Ada stood and faced him, only the bed between them, planting her hands on her hips. “Well, that is not enough. You cannot just—”

  “I just did!” he shouted. “I dinna want them eyeballing you the way they do!”

  “I think you are overreacting,” she suggested softly, as this had escalated with greater speed and far more derision than she had expected.

  Through gritted teeth, he said, “I am no overreacting when I come into my own hall to find a man leaning so close to my wife as to be offensive and my own bride tittering back at him like some taproom jade, while the rest of them are gawking at you, only waiting their turn.”

  She was so stunned by this unbelievable and unprovoked attack, she could only stammer. No words came, so that he must have considered the discussion ended, that he sat on the side of the bed, facing the door, and began to remove his boots.

  Ada finally recovered. She laughed, sounded almost hysterical. “You’ve got to be kidding me! Nobody—no one!—is looking at this face and thinking about—”

  He shouted again. “You’re the only one who sees the fucking scars, Ada.”

  When she gasped at his vulgar language, and at his tone, he sighed brutally and softened it. “They dinna see them, lass. They see what I see: a beautiful woman looking to be loved.”

  This rocked Ada, dropping her shoulders. He still sat on the side of the bed, with his back to her. A boot dropped to the floor.

  Barely above a whisper, she said, “Only by my husband.”

  Dully, with near rudeness, he squelched any hope in that regard. “That is no why we wed.”

  Ada blanched. “But surely—”

  “I canna let you be everything to me,” he insisted, with a fair amount of fervor. “That will no happen.”

  “What does that even mean?” She strode around the bed, to face him, as he seemed disinclined to do so. Her hands found her hips again. “Why did you bring me here, then? Why marry me?” Shaking her head, she swished a hand through the air, telling him not to bother with an answer. She knew what words would come—to give her the protection of his name, to bed her more at his leisure. “Yes, I recall the reasons,” she said curtly, disbelief warring with a surprisingly painful knot in her chest, that had come with his declaration that he would not allow himself to love her. “Are you saying that was an absolute? Our marriage can never evolve or...become something more satisfying?”

  “I see no need,” he said, without meeting her fiery gaze.

  “How is it that I can forgive you, the man who left me behind, but you can hold against me crimes committed by another?” It was a stretch, she knew, accusing him now of something she’d offered vindication for before, but thus was her state right now, flustered and frustrated, and very, very wounded.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m not your first wife. I did not betray you.” She could also make an argument out of the fact that he hadn’t told her he’d been married previously. But that annoyance seemed to pale when measured against what befuddled her now. “Yet you treat me as if I have. Or will.”

  “I dinna ken that you will no.”

  She stared at him, aghast by this foolish reasoning. With a strong sense of how important this conversation was, she worked to bring herself under control, considering her words carefully. Ada went to her knees before him, put her hands onto his thighs. “Jamie, I know you wed me out of pity, or guilt. It wasn’t ideal, but I truly imagined that more—respect, trust, companionship—would come. I was so very heartened by our beginning, before we reached Aviemore.” He was very still, unmoved. Ada dropped her hands from his legs, sat back on her heels. “You’re telling me you will not
allow it. You will choose to hold me at a distance, even as I tell you I want to be closer.” He said nothing. Ada stood, felt the heat of tears gathering. “I don’t want that. I can return to the house in the wood and have that.”

  Ada returned to her side of the bed and picked up the brush from where she’d left it and set it on the table. She slipped her feet into her slippers and managed still to keep the tears at bay.

  “You, of course, understand how newly come I am to the lovemaking.” She couldn’t help it—nonetheless, did nothing to correct it—that the word lovemaking emerged with a snarl of mockery. “But I swear to God, I assumed all that tenderness implied some affection between us.”

  Jamie had stood, faced the bed now, and regarded her. Yet he said nothing.

  Ada walked to the door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going away from you,” she said evenly over her shoulder. She stopped near the door and pivoted to face him. “You don’t deserve me, or even this very insignificant ‘us’. If you change your mind, if you...want anything other than...this, I will behave as your wife. But not until then.”

  His frown was heavy but still, he said nothing.

  The part of her that was so very undone with sadness over his rejection, for that’s exactly what it was, made her lash out at him, with some final thoughts. “If you plan to throw the point of my argument back in my face, kindly recall all the parts of it.” Yesterday, defending her decisive action against Baldwin, she’d told him that if he could not trust her judgment, then she must suppose he deemed her an idiot. And just so there was no question as to the difference between what they’d discussed yesterday and just now, she clarified, “You are an idiot, Jamie MacKenna.”

  Finally, he spoke, just as she stepped through the doorway. “You canna leave Aviemore.”

  She turned one last time, met his fierce glare with her own. “I’ll not leave. Not unless you actually do not come to your senses.”

  “My wife will not—” He began, thrusting out a pointed finger.