When a Warrior Woos a Lass

by Julie Johnstone

  He trusted Donald completely. He had been his right hand since Alex had become the MacLean laird at fifteen summers when his father had died. Donald had been his father’s right hand, too. Donald was the only one who even knew Alex had nightmares. Not that Alex had told him. He shared his secrets with no one. He’d merely made the mistake of sleeping too near the man on a journey once, and had nearly choked Donald to death when he’d rolled into him.

  Once Donald had managed to pry Alex’s hands from his neck and awaken him, Alex had steeled himself for Donald’s questions about the nightmare, but the man had never inquired. The only thing he’d ever said in reference to the nightmares that led Alex to believe he might have revealed more that night than he would ever wish, was when they had been at a feast with the Steward and he had mentioned his “honorable brother,” Gillis, who was long dead at the time. Donald had turned his head and spit toward the ground, a gesture they all used to show dislike of a dishonorable man, and then Donald had mumbled, May the sick bastard rot in Hell. Alex had seen and heard it, though no one else had. His eyes had locked with Donald’s, but Alex had not discovered pity or disgust in their depths. He saw nothing there but admiration, and their bond had grown stronger ever since.

  The oars creaked as Alex’s men rowed away from shore, Dunvegan still large against the moonlit sky. The wind blew over his skin and cooled him from the heat of the work it had taken to prepare the ship on such short notice. The night was the coldest they had seen in a while. Summer was at an end, and fall was fast approaching. He looked toward the back of the birlinn to find Lena. She stood over Marsaili, who had offered to come with Lena to Alex’s home so Lena would have a friend. Marsaili retched over the side of the boat as Lena held her hair back. She helped her half sister to stand some moments later, before leading her to a pallet of blankets and aiding Marsaili in lying down. Seconds later, Lena strolled back to the back of the birlinn. She stood alone, her back to him—to them all—as she no doubt watched her home disappear.

  A yearning to go to her, wrap his arms around her, and offer her comfort gripped him, stunned him. The tenderness she was able to bring out in him was strange and new. He was unsure how to handle it, given his past and hers, and he was uncertain if that tenderness could ever extend into the night and into his mind when he slept. His doubts pressed down on him, so he stood watching her from a distance.

  He knew she was sad. He’d seen her lips tremble as she said farewell to her family, but she had not shed a tear. She possessed such bravery, though she often seemed timid around men. She had to be strong to have survived what she had. She was curious about him, too, and that gave him hope. He’d felt her watching him as he exchanged his own tense farewells with her brothers, who he knew were baffled by and angry about what had occurred with the king. He’d hoped to have a private moment with Iain to try to reassure his friend that he would take good care of Lena, but King David had ensured there was no time for Alex to draw Iain away. Moreover, the king had ordered one of his guards to stay by Alex’s side, which Alex suspected was because the king feared Alex might break his earlier vow to keep silent about their deceit.

  David need not have worried. Though the desire to explain all to Iain and his brothers burned in Alex’s gut, he would never betray a vow to the king, who he had sworn to serve for the rest of his life. It vexed him to think those who knew him best might actually think he would forsake his king and his vows, and that he would ever treat Lena as anything other than the gentle creature she was.

  Even his own sister, who he had assumed would support him, had tried to box his ears and snapped at him, telling him he’d have the devil to pay from her if he hurt Lena. Of course, he knew well it looked as if he was being heartless and disloyal, and that pricked him something fierce. His da had always said that loyalty and honor made a man, and Alex always tried to live up to the high standards his da had set. Alex had done his best to watch over Bridgette and raise her well after their mother and father had died. At first, he’d thought to shelter her, knowing from experience the evil men that lurked just outside the safety of their home, but Bridgette had proven too headstrong and determined to be sheltered. He was glad of it, in retrospect. If she’d not been the brazen lass that she was, she’d never have survived the horrors she’d endured at the hands of Colin Campbell. Thoughts of Bridgette’s forced marriage and abuse from the Campbell clan turned Alex’s mind abruptly back to Lena.

  He focused on her once more. Her shoulders were hunched forward, whether against the wind that had increased or out of sorrow, he didn’t know. He moved to go to her, to give in to the urge, but hesitated. Would she welcome his comfort or would it make things worse for her? He wanted to touch her, but he knew it scared her. She had shown some signs of finding his touch pleasing, though.

  “Dunnae let yer demons put a divide between ye and yer new wife.”

  Alex turned to find Donald standing behind him. The man was a few inches shorter than him, with silver hair and a silver beard. His sharp gray eyes studied Alex.

  “It is nae just my demons, Auld Man,” Alex replied, using the teasing moniker he often did when speaking to Donald, who was fifteen summers his senior. It was one of friendship and not contempt.

  Donald scrubbed a hand across his beard. “What happened to her?” he asked, jerking his head to indicate Lena, his deep voice almost a grumble.

  Alex’s chest squeezed. “She was married to a man who abused her something fierce.”

  “So was yer sister before Lachlan, and it did nae stop her from wanting to be near him once they were married. What makes ye believe yer new wife dunnae wish for yer company?”

  Alex glanced around to ensure no one was near. All his men were concentrated on their assigned tasks on the ship, all the men except Broch MacLeod, that was. Iain had insisted Broch join them, no doubt because Iain was unsure what was going on in Alex’s head that made him behave so unlike himself. Alex wasn’t angry that Broch was there, even if the man was staring a hole through him. It was good he would be accompanying Lena to Alex’s home. It may be that he’d need to send Lena back to the safety of her brothers if anything went wrong once he went to the Steward’s home, and Broch could take her for him.

  “Did ye hear my question?” Donald demanded, twisting his face with an impatient look.

  Alex fought against a smile. He liked that his men were not afraid of him. He’d striven for it to be that way. One of the most valuable lessons he’d learned from his da—and that also played out before his eyes during his time as an apprentice to Gillis Stewart—was that fear did not earn true loyalty. Fear gave a man obedience until the men that feared him grew strong enough to defy him. Fear did not create bonds but severed them. His da’s men had been loyal through good and bad, certainty and uncertainty, because Da had been fair and just, and had treated them with respect. Gillis, however, had treated those he’d apprenticed as worthless animals who were there for his pleasure and bidding, and Gillis had died by the hands of one he sought to use.

  “Alex?” Donald asked, concern threading his tone.

  “She fears a man’s touch,” he finally answered, rubbing at the knots in the back of his neck.

  “Ahh,” Donald said, drawing the word out. “Then touch her with care, but touch her ye must.”

  Alex nodded. He knew it well. They were not bound in the eyes of the church nor the king until Alex joined with her, and if they were not true husband and wife, other men, such as the Campbells, could still try to lay claim to her. Though, they would have no way of proving Alex had not joined with her since she’d been with a man before. The reminder filled his mouth with the bitter taste of hatred for Findlay.

  “I’ll make her my wife by God’s law, but nae tonight,” Alex said. “I fear she’d sooner throw herself into the loch than allow me to make her mine.”

  Donald quirked his bushy eyebrows. “Sounds like ye need lessons on how to properly woo a lass, then,” he teased.

  Alex chuckled, but then i
t suddenly occurred to him that he actually never had attempted to woo a lass. The longest relationship he’d had—though it was more of a torrid, repeated joining than a relationship—had been with Euphemia, Gillis’s widow and now the Steward’s wife. There had been no wooing between them, only a recognition of a mutual darkness and desire. The other women he had taken to his bed had come there not by wooing, but by seduction. To him, there was a distinct difference. Wooing seemed to inherently involve tender feelings, and he’d never had those emotions for a woman before. Dark carnal desire, yes, but the wish to kiss a lass gently, run his hands through her hair, or simply hold her hand had never been something he’d had thought to do. But now…

  “Are ye contemplating how to woo yer wife?” Donald asked with his usual bluntness.

  “Aye,” Alex admitted. “I do believe I’ll start now,” he murmured as he pushed away from the side of the ship and walked toward Lena.

  She did not turn as he approached, so he cleared his throat in an effort to break into her thoughts but not scare her. She swiveled sharply, her eyes wide in the darkness. “I wondered if ye would come near me tonight,” she said clearly, surprising and pleasing him with her candor. He’d never had much use for subterfuge, which made his current assignment all the more ironic.

  He frowned. “Why would ye believe I’d nae come to ye?”

  She bit down on her lower lip as she tilted her head. “I ken ye felt ye had nary a choice but agree to marry me.”

  “The words ye speak are true,” he said, wincing when she hissed in a breath. “But,” he rushed on, “I dunnae find ye displeasing, Lena. I—” He scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck, searching for the words. “I dunnae feel I will be the best husband for ye.”

  A half smirk twisted her lips. “And what sort of husband do ye feel would be best for me?”

  “A gentle one,” he said immediately, relieved to have some of his fears out in the open. Some would always remain hidden, though. Never would he reveal his darkest secrets to her. He could imagine her horror, or even disgust, and he could not bear to see that on her face.

  Her brows drew together, and she frowned. “Ye seem gentle to me,” she said softly.

  Her admission didn’t surprise him. She knew not the demons that haunted him in the night. He needed to warn her, though. “Men are nae always what they appear, Lena.”

  She shuddered as she moved a step away from him. “I ken that well, Alex. Or do ye forget I was married to Findlay? He could simper and fawn in front of others, but alone in his bedchamber—” She shook her head almost violently.

  Driven by rage at Findlay and a need to make her understand he would never deliberately hurt her, Alex reached out and grabbed her arms to pull her near. She let out a guttural cry and drove her knee up toward his groin. Thank merciful God above that her heavy skirts hampered her speed. He stopped her from connecting with his manhood a whisper from his skin.

  Holding her knee, he looked into his wife’s frightened eyes. “My bollocks just ran and hid for survival.”

  Her lips parted, but then she snapped her jaw shut and turned her face from him. He gently released her, studying her stunning profile as she stared out at the loch. The water lapped against the birlinn, and the breeze gusted around them, a warning of turbulent weather to come. Seeing her shiver once more, he stripped off his plaid but did not dare lay it on her shoulders. He’d not been joking about his bollocks. They’d tightened painfully in defense of being struck, and he’d not chance fate again.

  “I’m glad to see ye’re nae afraid to guard yerself,” he said as a way of breaking the silence and hopefully easing her embarrassment.

  “I was nae ever afraid,” she said in a hard voice. “Just nae a clot-heid. I kenned well my limits against Findlay, and I learned when to simply submit to the abuse he wanted to heap on me.”

  “If he were still alive, I’d rip out his heart with my bare hands,” Alex said matter-of-factly.

  She turned to him, eyes gleaming in the moonlight. “That’s rather barbaric of ye, but I find I like that ye would do so. I wonder,” she said, “does that make me barbaric?”

  “Nay. That makes ye long for justice. Lena?” he asked, when she looked away again.

  “Aye?”

  The one word was cold, and he could sense her withdrawing from him. “Look at me, please.”

  Again, she slowly turned her face to him, and the sight of her filled him with wonder. She was exquisite in her vulnerability and her defiance as the two combated for dominance over her. He could see it in the stubborn tilt of her chin and the way she nibbled on her lower lip. “I will nae ever knowingly hurt ye. I vow this upon my life.”

  She pursed her lips for a moment before speaking. “There’s hurting the heart and there’s hurting the body. Which are ye vowing to nae do knowingly?”

  He smiled at his very exact wife. He had not known she possessed that trait until now, but he liked it very much. “Both,” he said. Yet as the word left his mouth, he knew it partially false. His mission for the king would hurt her, and he knew it. But he had no choice, and he could not tell her because of his vow. Somehow, he had to make her keep faith in him when the time came that she would surely lose it. Guilt washed over him, and he held up his plaid to both offer her warmth and garner time to decide how to proceed.

  When she nodded her consent, he stepped closer to her and slowly brought the plaid around her with one hand, using the other to situate it. Her silky hair slid against his fingers as he covered her delicate shoulders. He was acutely aware of every time his hands brushed against her, and his body responded with swift desire. Desire, he was painfully mindful, that could not be acted upon tonight. When his plaid was in place, she grasped each side and wrapped it more tightly around her.

  He looked at her bundled in his plaid, her hair bunched up under the material, her eyes luminous, her lips parted, and the sculpted angles of her face shadowed by the night, and his heart tugged. He stilled with the feeling, unable to tear his gaze from her. This woman, this intelligent, proud, wary woman, was his wife. He was responsible for her happiness and her safety. He felt choked by the realization. He could not help but feel he’d been given a gift he did not deserve, yet she was his to keep and he intended to take as much care as possible with her.

  Swallowing, he reached toward her. When he saw her flinch, he said, “I’m just going to release yer hair from being trapped under my plaid.”

  She regarded him quizzically for a moment, but then she nodded.

  “I feel like I’ve achieved a small victory,” he admitted with a smile, gently sweeping her hair out of his plaid.

  When she looked up at him and smiled, warmth spread through him. “I dunnae mean to flinch,” she said, so low it was nearly a whisper. “I hope—” She started to turn her face away, but he caught her under the chin with a single finger.

  “It would please me greatly if ye would look at me when ye talk to me,” he said taking care to temper his tone.

  When she nodded again, he released her immediately. “I hope,” she said once more, “that someday I will nae flinch. It is nae ye. I believe ye when ye say ye would never deliberately harm me in body or heart.”

  The guilt from moments before resurfaced like an enormous wall of water rising from a stormy ocean. “About that,” he said.

  She frowned. “Aye?”

  “I ken I may be harming ye soon in the heart,” he spit out, not seeing any delicate way of putting it.

  “And how is it ye would be doing that?” Her hands came to her hips in an irritated gesture he recognized from his own spitfire sister. He didn’t mind it. He was actually glad to see some of the grit he knew was inside Lena finally being directed outward.

  He could not offer her the truth, but he would get as close to it as he could. “I need to go see the Steward.”

  “Why?” she fairly growled, but then her eyes popped wide. “Alex, surely ye are nae planning to take up with the Steward because King David took
away yer castle. Ye kinnae do such a thing!”

  “I’m nae taking up with the Steward. I vow it,” he assured her.

  She looked at him with a distinctly suspicious look. “If ye are nae joining him, then why do ye need to go see him?” It was an accusation as much as a question.

  “I kinnae tell ye the why of it, but ye must trust me.”

  “Why, pray tell?” she demanded.

  He opened his mouth to answer but realized he did not have a reason he himself would believe if it were given to him. Still, he needed her trust. “Because I ask it of ye as my wife,” he said simply.

  “Do ye give yer trust so easily?” she asked, her words calm and steady.

  “I have nae ever before, but to ye,” he said, struck by the certainty of what had come to him only now, “I will give all that I possibly can, whatever ye ask of me.”

  “Ye have a clever tongue, Laird,” she said, rolling the l of his title in a way that made him want to tug her to him and slant his mouth over hers. He held himself in place by sheer will. “What say ye to that?”

  “Some say I do,” he replied, as the notion to voice what pleasure he could bring her with his tongue danced at the edge of his self-control.

  “I’ve heard the lasses talk about ye.” She gave him a worried look.

  “And what did the lasses say?” he asked, certain he did not want to know but equally as certain he needed to discover what she had heard.

  Gillis’s abuse had left Alex with such a deep feeling of being powerless that Alex had only ever joined with lasses who wanted him to have all the control in the bedchamber. The joining had often involved binds and submission to orders he gave, and always involved pleasure that danced on the edge of pain. He’d been careful with the lasses and chosen ones who he knew were above discreet. Even with them he had restrained himself, not taking the control as far as his tortured mind had screamed for him to.

  Only with one woman, Euphemia—Gillis’s young wife at the time—had Alex fully unleashed the need to dominate that dwelled within him. He regretted it immensely, despite the fact that she was the very one who had first encouraged him to explore that need, telling him to bind her and not to be gentle with her. Flashes of the last time they were together years ago filled his head. She had begged him to whip her, and he had surrendered to her pleas. He flinched with horror at the memory.