Return of the Rogue

by Donna Fletcher

  She finally plopped into one of the chairs before the fireplace, too distraught to even consider her needlework. Being a wife was much more difficult than she’d imagined it would be. Or was it because she’d begun to have feelings for her husband? If she had simply regarded her marriage as an arranged one, with nothing to expect from it, she would not be disappointed. But she did expect things from her marriage, she thought, and should say as much to her husband.

  Honora yawned and blamed the walk on the moors for her sudden tiredness, though her worries might have had something to do with her exhaustion. Either way, her eyes drifted shut and she was soon sound asleep.

  Cavan and Lachlan supported each other as they stumbled into the great hall, Artair arriving before them to overflow their tankards with ale. Both brothers suffered similar minor bruises and cuts, nothing serious, but then, they were brothers. Never would they have badly hurt each other.

  “To the Sinclare brothers,” Artair toasted, his tankard raised.

  Cavan and Lachlan cheered the toast and downed the ale.

  Cavan reached for a fourth tankard, its brim overflowing, and Artair stopped him. “That’s for Ronan. He is with us though he is not here…yet!”

  Cavan refilled the tankards and this time it was he who made the toast. “To Ronan.”

  The brothers downed more ale and scrambled over the benches to sit at the table in front of the hearth.

  “We will find Ronan,” Lachlan said, taking his turn to refill the tankards.

  “Just like we did when we were young,” Artair reminded. “Ronan would get himself lost and—”

  “One of us would find him,” Lachlan finished with a slap to Cavan’s back. “One of us, not only you. We each took our turn getting him out of someplace he shouldn’t have been.”

  “That’s what big brothers do,” Cavan said.

  His two brothers agreed with a nod and a snort.

  “Food, my pretty lassie,” Lachlan called out with a smile to a passing servant girl.

  She giggled, nodded, and hurried off to do his bidding.

  “One day you’re going to come up against a woman who won’t jump to your charming commands,” Artair warned with a laugh.

  “It will serve him right,” Cavan said.

  “That it will,” Artair agreed, refilling empty tankards.

  Out of the corner of his eye Cavan caught his father entering the hall along with his mother. Guilt punched him in the gut and he stood and called out, “Father, come join us.”

  His mother’s relieved smile sent another guilty punch to his stomach, and he knew he owed his father an apology. He should never have spoken to him the way he had; his father didn’t deserve it.

  Artair and Lachlan remained silent, though both hid satisfied grins behind the tankards resting at their lips.

  Cavan watched his mother kiss his father and hurry off with a smile. The genuine affection between his parents had been a constant in his life. It was a common sight to see the clan leader kiss his wife, hold her hand, laugh along with her, hug her. Cavan had wanted, hoped, ached, to share that binding love with a special woman one day. At first he had not thought that possible with the mousy Honora, but of late he’d come to admire the wife who was forced upon him by his father.

  He watched his father approach, tall and powerfully built, a man of compassion and strength and honor; a leader to be proud of and a father he loved.

  Cavan didn’t wait for his father to reach him, he went to him. “Forgive me. I am a fool.”

  His father smiled and placed a strong hand on his son’s shoulder. “You are much like me and do me proud.”

  Cavan shook his head. “I don’t know how a foolish son can do you proud.”

  “It takes a foolish heart to be courageous.”

  He thought of a similar remark he had made to Honora. Perhaps he was like his father, thought like his father, and saw in people the courage they didn’t see in themselves.

  Cavan threw strong arms around his father and pounded his back, displaying his love the only way he knew how. “Come share in our toasts,” he declared, and the father responded by joining his sons.

  The men drank and ate away hours. They laughed, joked, argued, and renewed family bonds.

  “What did my wife have to say to you?” Cavan asked Artair while Lachlan and Tavish were locked in a debate.

  Artair laughed. “Ask your wife.”

  “You have a good wife,” Lachlan said, raising his tankard. “She saved my life. She is a good woman. You are a lucky man.”

  Cavan didn’t respond. He was too busy realizing his brothers admired and respected his wife, and he felt proud.

  “I agree,” his father said. “Honora is a good woman, a caring woman. She will make a good mother.”

  “It’s been near two months and we’ve heard no news of a babe,” Lachlan teased.

  “Give them time,” his father urged with a grin. “They are new to this.”

  Artair and Lachlan roared with laughter and Cavan cracked a smile. For the first time since his return home he felt he was part of his family, he felt he had finally come home.

  “You need lessons, brother?” Lachlan laughed.

  Cavan scratched his head. “Who was it who came to me when he didn’t know what to do with a woman?”

  “The hell you say,” Lachlan said on a laugh.

  “I remember that,” Artair said, slapping Cavan’s back.

  Their father joined in the teasing. “You should have come to me, son.”

  “I needed no advice then or now. The women love me,” Lachlan assured all.

  The men joked and teased and drank the night away.

  Cavan stumbled to his bedchamber well after dark to find it empty. It didn’t take him long to realize where his wife was. He climbed the stairs to the sewing room to find her asleep before the hearth. He hunched down in front of Honora and gazed at her.

  He had not thought much of her when years ago her stepfather approached Tavish concerning marriage. Honora had none of the qualities he’d wanted in a wife. He smiled, recalling how he hadn’t liked her straight dark hair. What he hadn’t known was how silky soft it was or how sweet smelling. He loved when lessons required closeness and he could rub his cheek against her hair and sniff its sweet scent.

  He rose to brace his hands on the arms of the chair and leaned over his sleeping wife, burying his nose softly in her hair. He didn’t want to wake her; he simply wanted to breathe in her familiar scent.

  Its sweet richness was more intoxicating than all the tankards of ale he had drunk. He reluctantly moved away, but then returned to hunch down in front of her. He rarely got the opportunity to just drink in his wife’s beauty, or perhaps he had finally discovered her beauty, or was it that she had simply crept into his heart before he could stop her?

  He fought his attraction to her, didn’t know where it came from and didn’t care. He liked the tug he felt toward her. It seemed natural, as if they belonged together.

  How could he feel so strongly about a woman he barely had kissed? Barely knew? Yet he felt as if he had known her forever.

  Cavan ran a gentle hand over her dark hair and placed a tender kiss to her cheek, whispering, “I could fall in love with you.”

  His utterance disturbed him, though not unpleasantly, and he smiled. He wouldn’t mind falling in love with his wife.

  Honora yawned, stretched, and sighed mournfully before settling once again into the uncomfortable chair.

  She belonged in his bed, and he thought to join her, but not yet; he wasn’t ready, wasn’t prepared to share such intimacy with her. He needed to know more, feel more, and understand more about her.

  Leaning over her, Cavan brushed his lips over hers, pressed his cheek to hers, then lifted her gently into his arms. She stirred, snuggled against him and wrapped her arms around his neck.

  He stood breathless. His wife instinctively felt safe without even opening her eyes, and from what he’d learned about her, he had be
en the only one to embrace her, hold her in his arms.

  She knew he held her. She knew she was safe. She trusted him, and his heart soared with the thought. If she trusted him, then she could possibly love him.

  Chapter 19

  Honora woke with a start in the middle of the night. She was surprised to find herself in bed, her garments intact. She peeked over the edge and saw her husband sleeping as always on the floor in front of the hearth. He had to have been the one who placed her in bed.

  Even in sleep she would have fought against a stranger touching her. But her husband? She would have responded willingly to him, therefore he had to have been the one to move her here, which meant he’d searched for her.

  She rolled on her back to stare at the ceiling. She wondered how he had fared in the altercation with his brother and why he’d felt the need to find her. He had never worried about her whereabouts. At first she’d thought he cared less about where she went and what she did. Obviously, she’d been wrong.

  She stilled, hearing a strange sound, heard nothing, but then it came again. It sounded as if someone was in pain, and she listened. There it was again. Hastily, she peered over the edge of the bed.

  Cavan’s body jerked and trembled. He looked again to be in the throes of a nightmare. Dare she help him, or should she leave him to fend for himself?

  Honora pulled the blanket up under her chin like a protective shield, not certain how to proceed. Stay as she was, safe and sound in her bed? Or go to her husband in his hour of need?

  She didn’t need time to think it through; she slipped out of bed and padded barefoot across the room. Her husband wore only his plaid, which fit him loosely. His blanket had been pushed aside and yet he hugged his trembling body, though it was warmed by the heat of the hearth.

  He looked vulnerable, his face grimaced as in pain, and her heart went out to him. He needed comfort and she didn’t hesitate to give it to him. She scurried quietly back to the bed, snatched a blanket, and returned to him. She arranged his blanket over Cavan, added her own, then slipped beneath to join him, snuggling against him, burrowing herself to him until he instinctively wrapped his arms around her and settled comfortably into an easy embrace that chased his tremble away.

  Her husband was warm, his heartbeat steady, and his scent all too familiar.

  He belonged to her.

  The thought quivered her soul. How could she think he belonged to her?

  Simple. They were wed. He was her husband.

  Could it be that simple? She didn’t believe so. He could only belong to her if he wished to belong to her, just as she could only belong to him if she so chose. Otherwise it was an arrangement between families.

  He shivered, and she hugged him to her, pressing her cheek to his and whispering soothing words. He quieted in no time, his arms tightening around her as he settled against her, burying his face in her hair.

  She snuggled her face in his bare chest, her lips gracing his nipple. She thought to taste more of him but contained herself. He needed comfort, and so she placed her cheek to his chest and eased him with soothing words and promises to look after him and to be there for him whenever need be.

  It felt so wonderful being there in his arms, snuggled beside him, comforting him, loving him. Did she dare love him? What if he didn’t return that love? She felt confused and wished there was someone she could confide in, share her worries and doubts. There was Addie, but once again, she knew it would be awkward discussing the matter with her husband’s mother. And she couldn’t very well speak to her brothers-in-law about love.

  She felt isolated, so very alone, though there were so many around her, and who truly was the one person she had confided in?

  Her husband.

  Since Cavan began teaching her to defend herself, they had spent more time together, which allowed for more conversations, getting to know each other better, and beginning to build trust between them. Cavan was quickly becoming her best friend, and she had quickly learned to relish the relationship, especially since such friendship had long been denied her.

  Cavan even let her have a puppy of her own. He’d seen how much she cared for the pup, and instead of denying her the animal, encouraged their kinship. Her stepfather had not even allowed her that. He’d dictated every part of her life, all the while telling her it was for her own good so she would be an obedient wife who would never even think of defying her husband.

  She was beginning to realize that all men did not expect extreme obedience from their wives. And seeing Addie’s strong nature and how she spoke her mind, that all women needn’t be compliant.

  Cavan groaned again and hugged her tighter before loosening his grip on her, though he didn’t release her, didn’t push her away, didn’t deny her. But then, he didn’t know she was there. To him the feel of her was probably just a dream.

  She settled once again comfortably against him and thought to remain with him for a while until she was certain his nightmares had passed before returning to her bed. He needn’t know that she’d comforted him. It was enough for her to know it.

  His warm body, his familiar scent, the heat from the hearth all served to relax and lull her to sleep.

  Cavan woke with a tickle to his nose, and just as he was about to brush the annoying speck away, realized his arms were wrapped around a warm soft body. He almost released his wife with a start until common sense—or was it a spark of desire?—stilled him.

  What was she doing in his arms?

  Her cheek rested against his chest, her arm was draped across his waist, and one of her legs was tucked between his two, while his arms were wrapped protectively around her. His heart thudded madly and he grew hard in a flash.

  “Damn,” he mumbled.

  She felt good in his arms, much too good, her breasts pressed against his chest, her knee resting just beneath his manhood, which sprouted in full-blown passion.

  He wanted her, Lord how he wanted her.

  He had been too long without a woman, and while he had every right—it was actually his duty—to join with his wife, he hesitated. He didn’t want to ravish her out of need. He wanted to make love with her from his heart.

  He was about to groan but managed to keep it silent, its ripple reverberating down his throat. How had he allowed his arranged marriage to become so complicated? He didn’t like his own answer.

  Stubbornness.

  He had been stubborn about too many things since his return, only one deservingly so—his brother. His guilt would never be assuaged until he found Ronan.

  He would never feel whole until then, and his wife didn’t deserve only half of a man. She was entitled to a warrior, a true future chieftain.

  She stirred in his arms, nestling closer, her body rubbing intimately against his.

  He looked down to see that she still slept, her innocence obvious in her movements, as if she simply wanted to cuddle as closely as possible to him. He let her settle herself, though nearly swore aloud when her leg brushed his swelled manhood.

  It would be so easy to have his way with her, and he had no doubt she would submit willingly, and their vows did need to be consummated. So many sound reasons to join with her, and yet one solid reason stopped him.

  His wife deserved more.

  “Are you all right?”

  Her soft voice startled him, as did her sleepy violet eyes. She had barely woken, her eyes still droopy with sleep, her lashes fluttering, fighting to come fully awake.

  “You had nightmares.”

  He had his answer as to why she was there with him, and it disturbed him. She had sought to comfort him; in a way, to protect him. He stilled suddenly.

  She rubbed her cheek against his chest. “You are so very comfortable.”

  He groaned inwardly and knew that it was imperative that they separate soon or else he’d be in trouble. But damn she felt so good and so right in his arms. He’d hold her just a few more moments and then let her go. He had to let her go.

  She sighed soft
ly, then abruptly stilled.

  He realized why. She had felt the swell of him, and no doubt it frightened her.

  Surprisingly, she glanced up at him and with a smile said, “We are husband and wife.”

  She all but submitted to him. All he had to do was reach out, touch her, kiss her, love her. He had moved his mouth down, nearly covering hers, when the door burst open.

  “We have word of Ronan,” Artair said.

  Cavan jumped to his feet. He scooped up his wife and deposited her in the bed, then grabbed his shirt and boots and was out the door with his brother.

  “The bed isn’t good enough for you,” Artair said, grinning.

  “Ronan?” Cavan asked sternly.

  His brother’s grin vanished. “A prisoner escaped from a barbarian raid to the east. It may be Ronan.”

  Cavan didn’t want to hope, but he prayed. “We ride now,” he ordered, though knew it was his father’s choice.

  “Father agrees.”

  Cavan almost roared with relief, though his relief was quickly replaced with the anticipation of who would lead the troop of warriors.

  Artair settled it for him. “Father wants you to take charge of this mission.”

  Cavan halted, looked at his brother and knew. “You convinced him to give me this, didn’t you?”

  “I didn’t have to convince him.”

  His words told Cavan much. His father trusted him, believed in him, and knew him capable and ready to do his duty.

  He entered the great hall with Artair, the sun barely breaking the horizon, his father waiting along with Lachlan and his mother. The men were quick to huddle at the front table and plan decisive action. It was decided that Lachlan would accompany Cavan while Artair remained behind to keep Sinclare land secure.

  He turned, reaching for his tankard of hot cider, and was surprised to see his wife at the next table with his mother. She had changed into a simple dark green skirt and yellow blouse. Her long hair was twisted and pinned to her head with a bone comb she favored and he knew had once belonged to her mother. She looked worried, though she smiled at him.