Song of the Highlands: The Cambels (The Medieval Highlanders)

by K. E. Saxon

  Aye, she’d give him her body, as he was so clearly determined to have. She owed him that. She only hoped she’d not give herself away, give the extent of her experience with other men away. She must remain on her guard. Try to recall how it had been with them before, how innocent and pure, and try to mimic it the best she could. She.... Her brain stopped the thought. Nay, she could not tell him of that time, for she knew him so well. He’d push and prod and not let her be until she’d spilled every vile deed she’d done, she’d had done to her. And truly, she could not bear to speak of it. Not to him, not even to herself. See only how her mind would not form the remainder of the thought just now? That was how ‘twas with her, and she wanted it to remain thus.

  Aye, the key was to tell him their relationship had changed, it had had to change, because of all that had happened o’er the years. But that did not mean they could not build a new, a different, mayhap not better, but certainly a companionable, good relationship from the ashes of their past. Could they not? And, aye, eventually, she would show him the scars, and, mayhap, years from now, she might even find that she could tell him of all that had happened to her. But not now. She simply was not ready.

  * * *

  ‘Twas wonderful and strange how much this wedding night felt like the first, Morgunn thought. Gwynlyan was just as skittish, just as shy. ‘Twas making him feel a bit of the same. He’d attempted to amuse her a moment past, calm her a bit by reminding her of the easy way they’d had between them years before by giving her one of his lusty jests that would, in that time past, have sent her into titters of guilty glee. When she’d not reacted as he’d expected, he’d o’ercome his own embarassment with a laugh. She no doubt thought him course.

  He’d need to take things slower than he’d afore expected. Be more the gentle knight, not the libidinous warrior lover. The habit had grown rusty, as he’d only been with whores these past years since his recovery from his head wound. Women who served as mere vessels to receive his urges, his wasted seed, then sent on their way with ne’er more than five words exchanged between them in the short time they were together. Could he remember how to woo a virgin? For, that was clearly, or at least, nearly what she was for him at this point. He’d best, if he wanted her ‘neath him this night.

  Oh, aye, she’d given him her promise to do just that, after their wedding ceremony. A ceremony insisted upon by King William in order to strengthen the weakened, and now questionable, vows of marriage they’d taken twenty years past, and in so doing, make the transfer of, not only Aerariae secturae, but the vaster holdings that had been Donnach’s as the first son of Comgeall Mór, and as one of the King’s earls, less dubious. And a renewal of wedding vows that left no weak link, no question of lineage for future offspring, so that another might more easily claim and win right to it. Aye, she’d delayed the bedding. And he’d complied, knowing that she feared his seeing the mars on her skin, left by that beast Alaric. For, she still had no notion that he’d seen them on one of their meetings when he’d come upon her at the burn while she still bathed, and he could not find the courage within himself to tell what he’d done, what he’d seen. It seemed as if it might make matters worse between them, rather than better. It seemed as if it might be best for her to willingly reveal them to him instead.

  He had little doubt she would comply, would fulfill her vow, to him as well. But would she do so grudgingly? That would ne’er do. Not for him, not for Gwynlyan, and not for the health of their union. “We’re here,” he said to her, opening the door to their chamber wide and, with a bit of slight pressure to the small of her back, invited her entrance first.

  * * *

  Gwynlyan’s heart was pounding so, she had trouble getting enough air. ‘Twas making her lightheaded, and she could not afford to swoon. The humiliation would simply be too great. She must remain strong. She must remain fully present. She must remain calm.

  And give to him what he expected.

  Quickly, she decided in that instant. Aye. Get the thing o’er and done, and then she might finally find a bit of rest, a bit of peace in her breast. And knowing she’d done her duty to her husband, and had hopefully pleased him, would be all the gratification she would need this night, or ever.

  “The chamber’s still a bit chilled,” she said to him. “I suppose the maids thought we’d stay at our wedding feast a bit longer.”

  Morgunn’s gaze settled on the hearthfire. He walked toward it, saying, “All it needs is a bit more peat, I think. I’ll take care of it. Do you need help with the gown?” He said the last without looking in her direction, which she was more than grateful for. “I can get a maid, if—”

  ”—Nay, I can manage. My thanks.”

  Her fingers trembled so, she twisted the laces in her hurry and fear. One of them got a knot in it and would not come through the hole. A tight ball of anger at herself, at...herself, and at the lace itself brought on a show of temper and she began to tug and pull on it, determined to rip the thing out of its place. ‘Twould not come, and as she continued to try to force it, her vision began to swim. She blinked the tears away, but still more came. Her throat throbbed with the unuttered shout she craved to emit. Her nose began to drip, so she swung around, allowing herself a barely audible sniffle before she took in a deep, calming breath and wiped her eyes and flushed cheeks with the hem of her gown. You will not master me! With one last, vicious yank, she at last got it free. Then, more determined than ever to get this thing, this duty, o’er with, she slid out of the gown, tossed it o’er the trunk at the end of the bed, then turned.

  Her heart leapt into her throat. Morgunn was not more than three paces from her now, and he simply stood there, with a brooding, helpless look upon his countenance, his arms limp at his sides, as if he knew not what to do with them where she was concerned.

  “I am ready for you now,” she said, and climbed up on the mattress, scooted into place at the far side of the bed, then patted the space next to her in, she hoped, a coy, but clearly willing, invitation for him to join her there.

  “I want you bared to me, Gwynlyan, as before....”

  She swallowed the terror that rose up in her throat, but there was still a quaver in her voice when she said, “I cannot.”

  * * *

  Morgunn bit back his first instinctive response, which was to tell her aye, she could, and she would, reminding himself instead of his vow to himself only a small time past that he’d treat her with gentle care. So, instead he said, “All right,” and he knew he’d said the exact right thing when he saw her visibly relax, saw a small glimmer of a warm glow return to her hazel eyes as she gazed upon him.

  He’d not remain thus, however, and in moments he was bereft of clothes, standing before her with not a barrier, not a defense between them—except, of course, her own.

  “My scars are many. More, and more terrible, than last we shared our bodies,” he said, hoping that the sight of the wide, raised white slash across his chest and abdomen, as well as the newest, smaller, yet still blueish red in color, from the stab wound he’d received at Alaric’s hand a few moons past, would make her more easy in revealing to him her own.

  But, he was mistaken, for all she said in reply was, “So I see.”

  Did she find them repulsive? He’d not spent time worrying about what her reaction to them might be these past moons, but now he had to wonder.

  “I’ll wear my shirt, I think,” he said, stepping o’er to where he’d laid it atop her gown on her clothing chest.

  “Nay!”

  She startled him with the vehemence behind the word and his movements halted.

  “Stay as you are, if it please you.” Her head dipped, but not before he saw a wash of color o’er her cheeks. “I...I like you well that way,” she murmured.

  She liked him well? His chest swelled with both pride and relief, and he dared not utter more, instead going with steady, quiet, purposeful steps toward the bed. His goal: her body. His ultimate purpose: to get their lives, their marriage ba
ck to that place it had been before the ambush. To forget the horrors of their past and embrace only what had been beautiful.

  He settled on his side on the mattress and immediately pulled her toward him. She did not resist, but she did not melt into him either. A worry, but he dismissed it, thinking he’d soon have her trembling with need, all her fears forgotten for the moment.

  His own hand shook as he lifted it to comb back the silken mass of amber hair that had fallen o’er her shoulder and hid from him half of her lovely countenance. He dipped his head and placed a gentle kiss on her soft mouth. His heart raced when she returned it with some of the fire he was used to receiving from her. After a moment, he broke away, his breath coming in more rapid spurts than before, and said, “You are so beautiful, my love. More so, even, I think, than you were when first we wed.”

  She stiffened in his embrace, and he could see in her eye that she thought he lied to her, yet still she remained rooted where she was, allowing him what e’er touch he craved to give, what e’er brush of his lips he craved to bestow.

  In the next moment, she lifted her hand to the back of his head and, as she brought his lips down to meet hers again, said, “I am ready for you, Morgunn. Do not make me wait more.”

  His blood rushed and, as their lips met in a fiery kiss, he hauled the hems of both their garments up to their waists. Gratification doubled as she spread her thighs for him, gripping his hips and helping him to unerringly find the center of her.

  She’d not lied. She was slick and warm and he easily slid the full length inside her. A warning bell clanged in the back of his brain, some odd, cold feeling threatened the edges of his heart, but the need for her was too great, and those things were quickly ignored as waves of ecstasy rolled o’er him.

  “ ‘Tis just like before, aye, my love?” he said, less as a question for her than a statement of reassurance for himself, yet she grew still beneath him, and after a blink of time responded with: “Aye, just as before.”

  * * *

  What was it that you did—and did not—do before? ‘Twas best to keep it simple, she decided. Let him lead. But the feel of him moving inside her was near more than she could bear. She wanted to move as well, rip at her clothes, force his mouth to her breast. She wanted to cry out her delight, she wanted to scrape her nails down his back, she wanted to push him deeper inside her. She’d not expected to ever feel such thrills of desire again, and certainly not to this degree. Not with the burden of her guilt, not after the trove of men she’d been forced to pleasure, whom she’d barely been able to stomach, yet who’d sometimes still managed to bring her to completion. She simply could not bear for him to know of it. So, she must somehow please him in the way he expected. As a bride who’d e’er had but one lover: him. But, God in Heaven, how was that? She could not remember. So, she erred on the side of caution and remained pliant (she hoped) beneath him, keeping her responses soft, and to the minimum, and prayed he thought ‘twas her years of near chastity and shyness that were the reasons for such a demeanor.

  On the cusp of that thought, Morgunn rolled his hips a certain way and began a swifter gliding motion that stroked a place in her womb, making it throb, making her unable to control her reaction, making her strain and buck beneath him, making her cry out, “Aye, fuck me like that, just like that!”, making her claw at his back, making it hard to take in a breath, making her see black spots behind her eyes.

  All at once, she was lighter. Her body was bereft of his warm, straining weight, and in its place, cold air wafted o’er her hot skin, making it tingle. She gave a shudder and opened her eyes, searching for the lover that had only a second before been working her and himself toward the ultimate bliss. ‘Twas not a long trek her gaze took to find him. He stood, lungs heaving, beside the bed. For as long as she lived, and until she took her very last breath, she would ne’er forget the look she found upon his countenance. ‘Twas the exact look she’d hoped, prayed ne’er to see. ‘Twas accusation. Pure, and simple, and brutal in its scope.

  “How many?”

  She knew what he meant by the question and struggled to swallow back the cry of crushing heartbreak it engendered. Slowly, she raised herself up to a sitting position, resting her back against the headboard, and pulling the linen sheet up to her chin at the same time (although, why she felt it necessary to do so, she did not know, as her chemise covered the worst of her). ‘Twas an even graver betrayal that her sex still throbbed with the need for completion, the need for the completion only he could truly provide. But he didn’t know that.

  “More, no doubt, than you,” she said. It hadn’t been what she’d planned to say, but somehow, when she’d opened her mouth to speak, the venom came forth instead.

  * * *

  Morgunn stormed over to his shirt, threw it on, and then swung around and stormed as far away from her as he could go in the chamber, which was not far enough. Only about sixteen paces, only to the area beside the hearth. He stood in a turmoil of anger, wrath, and intensely painful heartbreak. His arms crossed over his chest, he fumed in silence. Tho’ his gaze was upon the licking flames, his mind ran a riot of lewd, perverse images of his wife across his imagination. A wife whom he’d first thought dead, then hoped against hope lived, then prayed was safe in Alaric’s tower dungeon, living as the man’s captive and, aye, possibly concubine, he’d admit at least that, and then, once found, believed had been maimed because of that man’s perverse urge toward violence against women, which Morgunn had long heard of in the years prior to the ambush.

  Not once, however, had he e’er conceived that she would have been giving her body to a host of men. Whether of her own consent, or against it, at this very moment, in his heart—in his soul—it mattered little the difference.

  From what seemed a sea away, came the sweet timbre of her voice, this time gentle, this time soothing. “I thought you were dead, and inside myself, I felt the same. Aye, I breathed—and God knows I tried hard not to do even that, but it proved a greater force than I could win against. And so, I breathed. And so, I took my mind somewhere else—back to the time with you, the time with my daughter, the time when naught filled our heads but our youth and what next bit of enjoyment, what next journey, might fill our days. I did this and more, what e’er I might, just...just gave up my body to what e’er Alaric wanted of it, or who e’er Alaric wanted to give it.

  Morgunn’s hands fisted under his arms, his wrath grew until he shook with it. Without knowing he was going to do it, he swung to his side and, with a ferocious snarl, hurled one of the chairs against the door of the chamber. For a breath of time he stood staring at his work, sucking in deep lungfuls of air. Until, and again, as if from some great distance, came her voice again.

  “Our relationship has changed, it had to, do you not see? Because of all that happened—to both of us—o’er the years. But it does not mean we can not build a new, a different life together from the ashes of our past.”

  Everything within him balked and he was about to say so, when a knock came on the door. A low rumble of frustration exploded from his throat, but he stormed over to the portal and opened it a crack. When he saw ‘twas his daughter on the other side, he forced an blithe smile to his lips and said, “Aye, daughter? What brings you to your mother and my nuptial chamber at this late hour?”

  His daughter’s brows were furrowed with worry, and her eyes moved past him, and he knew she was straining to see within. “I heard a crash. Is aught amiss?”

  Morgunn put on his best grin and said, “Nay. ‘Tis just a bit of.... Well, let us just say, ‘tis of no care of yours, shall we?” and he moved his eyebrows in a way that let her know ‘twas the result of the more amorous pursuits he and Gwynlyan were engaged in. He opened the door a bit more, allowing her to see Gwynlyan in bed with the sheet covering her, so it seemed as if she were naked beneath, and said to Gwynlyan, “Is that not right, my love?”

  Gwynlyan gave him a shy smile and nodded.

  The ploy worked, for his daughter’s
cheeks went up in flames and she said in a rush, “Well, I bid you a good night then,” and swung around and headed on swift feet back in the direction of her own bedchamber door.

  When she was well away, well out of earshot, Morgunn quietly shut the door and moved back to the hearthfire. This time he sat down on the remaining chair, sat forward with his head down, and twined his fingers together.

  “Tell me how many others, tell me their names, tell me what they did to you, tell me what you did to them, tell me if you enjoyed it, tell me if they enjoyed it. Tell me.”

  * * *

  Gwynlyan’s lungs seized as terror gripped her. The desperate need for air finally forced her to suck in a breath, but she could no longer face him and she could no longer remain as a lamb to the slaughter, lying there helpless and weak in the bed he’d abandoned her in. She rose to her feet and walked to the washstand. She knew, she could feel, the wall of impatience behind her, yet she refused to answer immediately, nor would she answer the specific questions at all, not until she’d soothed her heated cheeks, washed the dried tears from her face, cooled her swollen eyes.

  When she at last turned to face him, he’d stood up and had walked back to brood at the hearth once more. But he’d evidently sensed her eyes on him, for he turned and looked at her, waiting for her to speak, and breaking her heart with the pain she saw reflected there.

  “I am not able to tell you of those times. Mayhap, if our marriage lasts, someday I will be able to, but not now. I cannot bear to think of it myself, much less share it with you.”

  “I have to know.”

  She turned to the side, and rubbed her hand across the corner of the washstand, focusing her attention there as she said, “Then I am truly sorry for you, for it is something I am unable to give.”

  She heard him take a step forward and rumble, “Gwynl—”

  Her heart quivered in her breast, threatening to crack in two as she let go the glimmer of a dream she’d had that they might just make it. Understanding now the only possible thing that could work for them, she said, “I know ‘tis of utter import that we two seem happily bound in marriage, but I also know that you feel betrayed by me. A thing that is, in your estimation, worse than any other sin between man and wife. So, here is my proposal: We live apart.” Her voice cracked on the last word.