Highland Groom

by Hannah Howell

  Turning on her side and snuggling comfortably into the feather mattress and plump pillows, she decided to give up on all thoughts of resistance. Ilsa suspected such a tactic would only add to Diarmot’s suspicions even if she could accomplish it. There was no way it would protect her from the hurts he would undoubtedly inflict in the days to come, so it was a battle lost before it had even begun.

  Trying to be always sweet and biddable was also hopeless and, she suspected, would also rouse his suspicions. So she would just be herself. Honesty in word and deed would be her weapon. Although she would not speak of her love for him, she would give it. She had already given him her passion and would continue to do so. All her instincts told her it was the best plan and, after so much indecision and wrestling with plan after plan, it was a comfort of sorts to finally settle upon one. Ilsa just hoped she had the strength to hold to it until Diarmot lost his anger, mistrust, and bitterness. She also prayed that, when he did, she would find what they had shared a year ago, that she would not discover that it had all been a lie.

  She tensed when she felt Diarmot climb back into bed. He moved to press against her back and, before she could act to stop him, tugged off her shift and tossed it aside again. When he pressed against her again, she could feel his arousal, and shivered as her own desire was rapidly stirred to life.

  “I was planning to go to sleep,” she said, not surprised to hear the huskiness of her voice, for he was caressing her breasts and nibbling her ear, sending heat through her veins.

  “Weel, go right ahead,” he murmured and traced the delicate curve of her ear with his tongue. “I will just carry on.”

  She laughed softly. “Ye cannae do that whilst I sleep.” She gasped as he slid his hand between her legs and her body swiftly responded to that intimate caress. “I think I might be able to stay awake for a wee bit longer.”

  Hope stirred in her heart when he chuckled. She was not foolish enough to think such compatibility would last long, but it had to start somewhere. It was a tiny crack in the wall between them and cracks could be widened enough to bring down a wall. She would have to think of ways to weaken that wall, widen that tiny opening until she could slip through. When he cocked her leg back over his and eased into her, she decided she would plot out her battle plan later.

  Chapter FIVE

  “Are all our new uncles as big as ye are?”

  Ilsa smiled when Sigimor lifted up the curious Odo until they were eye to eye and said, “They are all wee, runty lads compared to me. I am the biggest, the strongest, and the wisest.”

  Odo giggled which prompted the other children to deem her brothers safe and venture closer. Ilsa had left the sleeping twins with Fraser so that she and Gay could take the older children outside. It had only taken one look as she reached the bailey to know that her brothers were preparing to leave. She swallowed a brief cowardly urge to ask them all to stay or take her home with them. Diarmot had been her choice. She could not hide behind her brothers simply because everything between her and her husband was not right.

  Diarmot had made love to her this morning, then left. He had barely spoken to her except for the time he was uttering hot words of pleasure and delight against her skin. Ilsa supposed his silence was his way of honoring their truce, but it had quickly chilled her, stealing away all the warmth left by his lovemaking. She still believed her decision to welcome him into her bed was a good one, as was her plan to simply be herself. However, if Diarmot’s plan was to make her senseless with passion every night and ignore her existence all day, building a good marriage was going to be very slow work indeed. So slow that she could easily be past caring when, and if, he ever regained some affection for her.

  Ilsa started to walk around the bailey, intending to explore her new home. She had to smile when Sigimor fell into step beside her, walking along at a steady pace even though he was covered with children. Ewart in one arm, Gregor in the other, Aulay on his shoulders, Odo and Ivy each wrapped around a strong leg, and Alice clinging to his jerkin. Her brother loved children and she had to wonder, yet again, why he was so hesitant to wed. One day she would have to ask him, she mused.

  “And how are ye this morning, lass?” Sigimor asked, studying her carefully.

  Despite her best efforts not to, Ilsa blushed. “I am just fine. Ye dinnae see any bruises, do ye?”

  “Nay, not on the outside.”

  “Ah, weel, the other sort are mine alone to deal with.”

  “Do ye believe his tale?”

  “More and more. There are new scars upon his body. Lady Gillyanne and Fraser both support his tale. My doubt is bred from his claim that he doesnae remember me yet our time together came before the attack upon him. Then again, our time together was short and there is no glint of recognition in his eyes.” Ilsa shrugged. “It will take me some time, I think, to decide what I believe. It didnae help Diarmot’s cause when I discovered he ne’er told me he was married once, nor that he had six children. It was a lie in many ways, so one has to wonder if this is but another lie.”

  “Aye, I think the same.” As they entered a sadly neglected garden, Sigimor divested himself of the children. “Tait and I will be staying. If naught else, a danger still lurks in the shadows. A threat to Diarmot could be a threat to ye, too.”

  “Do ye think ye can discover what it is?” Ilsa asked as she and Sigimor sat together on a stone bench while Gay meandered through the garden with the children. “I am sure Diarmot and his family have been trying.”

  “They have, but they also have lands to tend and people to care for. That means they cannae spend all their time trying to uncover this enemy. For months after the beating, their greatest concern was helping Diarmot recover. Tait and I can take up the hunt and hold fast. I may be the laird of Dubheidland, but I have a small army of kinsmen who can tend to the land and its people whilst I tend to this. Diarmot’s brother Nanty intends to do the same.”

  “Do ye think ye can uncover his enemy?”

  “It willnae be easy, but, aye, we will find the bastard.” Sigimor gently brushed a stray lock of hair from her face and tucked it behind her ear. “Do ye still love the fool?”

  “Aye.” Ilsa grimaced. “I would rather I didnae, but it isnae an easy feeling to cast aside.”

  “I havenae seen much of the fool this morn, but it didnae appear as if your wedding night changed much.”

  “He conceded that we must have been lovers. Tis a start.” She blushed faintly. “The passion is still there between us. That, too, is a start. We have also agreed to a truce within the bedchamber.”

  “How gracious of the mon,” Sigimor grumbled.

  “If he truly has lost all memory of me, then, aye, it is. And, as Diarmot said, whether he believes my tale or nay, I am his wife now and should accept that responsibility. That is exactly what I have decided to do.”

  “I am nay sure I understand.”

  “Weel, after thinking of and tossing aside several plans, I have decided to simply be his wife, to simply be what I am. I intend to try to shield my poor battered heart in whatever way I can, but, in all else, I will deal honestly with the mon. No plots, no games, no tricks. I think that is the only way to deal with a mon as suspicious and wary as Diarmot MacEnroy.”

  Sigimor rubbed his chin as he considered her words for a moment, then said, “Tisnae fair that ye must prove yourself.”

  “Nay, it isnae, but that is what I must do. Again, if he truly has no memory of me, then he doesnae ken anything about me. Since he is in danger, tis only right and wise that he suspects me, and is wary.”

  “Mayhap, and, aye, the best way to change his mind is to be honest in all ye do and say. He has to learn to trust in ye again. Of course, if he but plays some game with us—”

  “Then ye can beat him into mash and toss him on the midden heap.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “What are ye looking at?” asked Nanty as he entered Diarmot’s ledger room and moved to stand next to him by the window he stared out
of.

  “Sigimor Cameron covered in children,” Diarmot replied, never taking his gaze from the group entering his garden.

  Nanty grinned as he watched the children climb off Sigimor and skip through the garden. “Your bairns trust the mon.”

  “And so I should?”

  “Ye should at least note that they have no fear of the mon despite his great size. One should always take notice of how a child reacts to someone. They can oftimes sense things we cannae.”

  That was true, but Diarmot felt no inclination to admit it. When he had first seen how his children had accepted Sigimor, he had felt a pang of jealousy for he was not close to his children. Since he had to accept the fact that that was his own fault, he then felt guilty. Uncomfortable with both emotions, he was not feeling very kindly toward Sigimor Cameron, the man who had inspired that brief, damning moment of reflection.

  “The Camerons appear to be a closely bonded family,” Nanty murmured.

  Diarmot glanced at his brother, irritated by the false look of innocence upon Nanty’s face. “Ye trust them, dinnae ye. Ye believe their tale.”

  “Nay need to make it sound as if I betray ye in doing so.”

  “Why not? They could be the ones behind all my troubles, the ones who tried to kill me.”

  “If her brothers had wanted ye dead, ye wouldnae be here now to wonder on it. They wouldnae have left ye near death; they would have made sure ye had breathed your last ere they walked away. And, we talked to every mon, woman, and child in Muirladen, yet gained verra little useful information. I doubt that would have been the way of it if a small army of giant redheads had been in the area at the time ye were attacked.”

  There was another truth he could not argue with, one he dearly wished Nanty had not set in his mind. Men like Sigimor and the other Camerons were ones people noticed. It would have required only one person catching sight of them for the tale to have spread throughout the village. Since Muirladen was close to Campbell lands, the villagers would undoubtedly have recognized them, but no one had mentioned the Camerons. It was certainly something to consider as he weighed judgment on his wife and her kinsmen.

  “Since the Camerons must ken how recognizable they are, they might have hired others to do the deed,” Diarmot offered in argument and scowled when Nanty rolled his eyes.

  “Why are ye so intent upon marking them guilty?”

  “Because I dinnae have anyone else to blame.” Diarmot sighed and shook his head. “Aye, I may be too hard on them, but better that than to be too trusting right now. Someone wants me dead. That beating was but one incident. There have been a few others, all of which could also have been nay more than ill luck. If the incidents before the beating were only accidents, that means the Camerons could be the ones trying to kill me. If those incidents were actually attempts to kill me, then it cannae be the Camerons. Clouded though my memory is, I am fair certain I didnae ken a single member of that family until a year ago.”

  “If ye ken ye didnae meet them until a year ago, then ye must be getting your memory back.”

  “Nay. I dinnae recall the meeting or anything else about that time. I do have a mostly clear memory of the time several months before that and they werenae kenned by me at that time.”

  “So, do ye feel certain Lady Ilsa isnae your wife.”

  “I feel certain she and I were once lovers. I was certain of that the moment I kissed her. I kenned the taste of her, the feel of her,” he added softly.

  “Then ye must ken that she speaks the truth when she claims ye were handfasted.”

  “Nay, I just ken that we were once lovers. I dinnae recall any of the times we spent together, if any promises were made, or e’en if she was a virgin.”

  Diarmot watched Sigimor, Ilsa, and Gay wander through the garden, the children skipping all around them. From the way they studied the garden, were obviously deep in a discussion, and occasionally stopped to study a plant or two, Diarmot suspected they were intending to resurrect the sadly ignored garden. He was not sure why or when it had fallen into disrepair. When he had inherited Clachthrom, he had brought the garden his uncle had neglected back to life. In the first days of his marriage to Anabelle, he had thought she had enjoyed its beauty, only to discover she used it to cuckold him repeatedly with any man willing to betray his laird. Diarmot suspected that was when he had ceased to care about the garden.

  In fact, Diarmot had the uncomfortable feeling that was when he had ceased to care about a lot of things. What little had been done to soften the starkness of Clachthrom’s keep had mostly been done before his marriage and some in anticipation of it. He now did what was necessary to keep himself out of debt and his people safe and fed, but little else. It surprised him somewhat to realize he had done next to nothing to prepare his keep for Margaret, the woman he had intended to marry. He did not like to think his wretched marriage had caused him to lose all joy and interest in life.

  “She was a virgin,” Nanty said after a few minutes of consideration.

  It took Diarmot a moment to realize Nanty was referring to Ilsa. “Ye were there to examine the linen, were ye?”

  Nanty gave him a look of disgust. “Ilsa has fourteen brothers and two score and seven cousins, mostly male. She was undoubtedly verra weel guarded. I am surprised ye managed to seduce her.” He looked out the window to see Sigimor tickle a laughing Ilsa, then chase her around the garden obviously threatening to tickle her some more, much to the delight of the children. “She is the cherished only sister. Tis plain to see.”

  Even though he had to agree, Diarmot said, “If she is so cherished and protected, why has that girl Gay been allowed near her?”

  “To help feed your greedy sons. And, I think ye ken what happened to that poor lass as weel as I do. One doesnae need to hear her tell the tale. Ye can see the truth in the way she shies away from any mon. Aye, and trembles so pitifully when she is in a room crowded with men. She nearly burrows into Ilsa. I think the lass was blessed when the Camerons took her in and, if she wasnae so terrified of men that she can barely speak to one, she would probably tell ye the same.”

  “Ye make them sound like cursed saints, as if I blaspheme by e’en considering them liars or, worse, my enemies.”

  “Ill tempered for a mon who spent last night in the arms of a fair lass, arenae ye?”

  “The woman appears at my wedding, claims things I cannae remember and none of ye ken aught about, waves some papers I dinnae recall signing under the priest’s nose, and, next I ken, I am married to her. Aye, I feel certain she and I once made love. That isnae any reason to trust in her or her kinsmen. Neither is a kindness to children or a poor abused lass.” He walked away from the window, tired of watching Ilsa and her brother act in a way more befitting Nanty’s opinion of them than his own.

  “Ye cling to your doubts and suspicions then,” said Nanty as he turned to face Diarmot. “I may nay agree with them, but I can understand why ye have them. Ye go ahead and try to prove the Camerons your enemies. I will work to prove ye are wrong.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I believe their tale. I trust in Gillyanne’s feelings about them. When ye made your suspicions about them so clear, I saw only righteous anger in the men and hurt in the lass. And, when ye presented her with your brood, only one of whom is legitimate, I didnae see calm, sweet acceptance. Nay, I saw the anger any woman with wit and a spine would feel. The lass didnae seem to then forget ye had all those bairns, either, but has taken on the care of them. She didnae refuse ye her bed, either, despite how poorly ye behaved and I would wager she warmed it most satisfactorily. What I think,” Nanty said as he walked toward the door, “is that one year ago ye finally pulled yourself free of the misery Anabelle had drowned ye in and found yourself a fine little wife. My intention is to see that ye keep her.”

  “Weel, ye best work fast then as ye will only be here for a few more days.”

  “Oh, didnae I say?” Nanty paused in the open doorway to smile sweetly at Diarmot. “I hav
e decided to bless ye with my fine company for a wee while.”

  Diarmot stared at the door that Nanty shut behind him as he left. He told himself it would be childish to throw something at that door. A heartbeat later, he picked up a heavy tankard from his writing table and hurled it at the door. That was not satisfying enough so he pulled his dagger and threw that at the door as well. He then moved to slouch in the chair facing his worktable and glared at the knife stuck in the thick door.

  It was foolish to feel somewhat betrayed by his family who obviously believed Ilsa. That was their right. They also understood why he did not, could not. Unfortunately, that understanding felt a little too much like pity or sympathy for an injured man. That was difficult to tolerate.

  He sighed, closed his eyes, and rested his head against the high back of the chair. It was difficult to admit it, but his family was right. A man with such large holes in his memory was injured. His abysmal marriage had left him wounded in many ways as well. He did not want to trust Ilsa because he was afraid to, an admission that made him wince. Anabelle had shown him that he could not trust in his own judgments about people, especially women he lusted after. This time a bad judgment could do more than tear at his heart; it could kill him.

  There were a few faint similarities between Ilsa and Anabelle. Ilsa was emotional, as had been Anabelle, yet he had only seen temper, passion, and humor. He thought he had seen pain as well, but dared not make any assumptions upon the truth of that or the cause. When he tried to think of other similarities between his late wife and his new one, he found none, but stoutly told himself they would appear as time passed.

  Despite their short acquaintance, the differences between Anabelle and Ilsa were far more distinct. He only had to look out into the garden to see one clearly and that was Ilsa’s open acceptance of his children. Anabelle had not even paid attention to Alice, her own child. Ilsa’s temper had been hot, but not the screaming rage Anabelle had often displayed. Even Diarmot had to admit that Ilsa had had a good reason to be angry. Anabelle had never needed a reason. Ilsa was a passionate woman, but that passion lacked the darker emotions that had tainted Anabelle’s passion. Even his wary heart and mind could not foresee that happening with Ilsa, either.