by Karen Ranney
"Why?" was the only question she could think of. Her only thought was the memory of the English soldiers, their presence in the courtyard, only feet from this room.
"There are those in the clan, child, who would wish a return to the old days. To days of glory," Sophie said sadly. "Perhaps my grief allowed me to believe that their dreams had substance. Perhaps, though, I was simply a foolish old woman. When they came to me, I showed them this place, and now its contents threaten my peace. I would ask one more thing from you, child," she told Judith somberly.
In the darkness of the keep, amid the flickering shadows created by the lone candle, Sophie carefully instructed the young woman she had come to know and love in her last request. Judith listened, and nodded, and although her heart beat quickly in her chest and her breath halted as she heard, finally, she agreed. Sophie placed her hand upon Judith’s cheek and then bent with a fragile gesture and placed dry lips against the warm skin of the younger woman.
“It is not an easy thing I’ve asked of you, child. I know this.”
“I will help if I can. But they may not listen to me.”
“They will listen, Judith. They will know I would never have trusted you without cause.”
“Why have you?”
“You would ask why, Judith? Because of the look in your eyes when you see my grandson. Because of the smile on your lips when you think no one is looking. Because your cheeks flush when he announces that it is late and time for bed, and yet, your eyes light up with expectation and eagerness. That is why, child. Because of the great goodness of your heart and your capacity to love.”
“How do I know if I can love, Granmere? How does anyone?” There was a world of pain in her voice, Sophie thought, a world of disillusionment.
Sophie cupped her hand around Judith’s cheek. Her voice was soft, her smile as misty as Judith’s. “When you wake in the morning and anticipate the day, Judith, or ache to talk with the one special person in your life, when circumstances no longer look hopeless, when things can happen this side of miracles, you’ll recognize that love has changed it all. There is a promise to love, Judith, something bright and sparkling and as brilliant as the most radiant of stars. Look for the promise, my child, and you’ll recognize love.
“I bless the day you rode into our courtyard, my child," Sophie said softly.
“Are you happy to have come to our land?"
"I hadn't much choice," Judith said ruefully.
“And what would you say if given that choice, now?”
There was silence, a lengthy uncomfortable one, in which Judith pondered the danger she’d brought to Alisdair and the clan MacLeod. She could not think of love. How could she ever render herself worthy enough for it?
"Do not fight against love when it comes to you, child," Sophie said gently when the younger woman didn’t answer. "Alisdair needs your love, child. He will especially need it when I am gone."
Judith hugged the older woman. Although Sophie felt so frail and tiny, she seemed to glow with vibrant life.
"Do not plan to leave me so soon, Granmere," Judith said softly, feeling her eyes mist over again. "I may need more advice."
"Whatever God wills, child," Sophie said, smiling gently. "Remember, always, that I loved you as if you were my own child. My love will be with you and Alisdair long after my bones have become mixed with the earth of Tynan."
How could anyone love her, knowing the truth?
CHAPTER 28
The candles flickered in the darkness, casting long shadows in the room.
Judith hugged herself against the chill and stared into the black opening of the massive fireplace in the laird's room. Its cavernous depths could hold a six foot length of tree trunk, but now it lay bare and cold; the last fire blazing in this room had been the one sparked by the Duke of Cumberland’s troops.
But Judith wasn’t thinking about her ties to the Duke’s army, of Bennett or Anthony. She was thinking of Granmere’s words in the keep, of the duty she’d asked of Judith, of words spoken about love.
Alisdair thought her smile sad and strange. He had been right, those months ago, to think that this English woman would bedevil him. She charmed him, too, promising secrets not quite revealed and hints of passion never quite released. He’d suspected much about this accidental bride of his, but he hadn’t realized that he would wish to protect her, that one of her uncommon smiles would cause a rush of joy through his veins.
Since Meggie’s rape, he’d been careful of his wife, recognizing in her a great and borderless grief she would not share with him. Did she think him so unaware that he would not know? All anyone need do was look into her eyes, see the old pain there, and know that what had happened to Meggie had once happened to Judith. It made it all so clear, the nightmares, the stifled screams, the terror. It was more than a bad marriage Judith feared, but a man’s domination itself.
The knowledge of it singed his heart. Yet, he could do nothing to ease her, if she would not share her secret. Nor would he rush the pace. When the time was right, she would tell him and he would listen. And when she told him, he wouldn’t betray by word or expression how much he wished her long dead husband alive simply for the joy of killing him again.
“I'd not thought you the type to seek out self-punishment, myself," he said now, brushing aside his rage for gentle humor. “It is a cold place, our room.”
She looked at him over her shoulder, met his smile with a small one of her own.
"Are you practicing for winter, then?" he asked noting her shivers and the fact that both her arms were wrapped around herself. The breeze from the open window was not chilly to a Scot, but raw to one accustomed to English climes.
"I'm not sure I can take one of your winters, MacLeod," Judith confessed, "I'm nearly freezing now."
"Then, let me warm you," he coaxed, coming up behind her and putting his arms around her, holding her fiercely in a tight embrace. It was the first time in a long time she'd accepted his touch and he was not going to let her go so easily.
So a bear must feel, she thought whimsically, as she leaned back against his chest. His head nuzzled the top of her chin, and for a perfect moment, they stood, untouched by the cares of the day, unaware of the half-burned room, each immersed in thoughts of the other.
“Did the lambing go well?”
“We have yet another wool producer, my sweet. All matted and wet and bleating like hell for its mam.”
He thought she smelled of open air and rare English roses, that her hair was as soft as the downy thatch on Douglas's head, that her skin was like satin against his callused palms.
Judith melted into his tenderness, an emotion she would not have ascribed to another living male. But the MacLeod was a different sort of man, wasn't he? This was the same man whose hand effortlessly assisted Geddes up a steep set of stairs, or who lifted Douglas until he shouted with glee.
She cared for this man, in a way that surpassed anything she'd ever felt before. When he coughed in the night, it woke her and she would lay there for long seconds before falling back to sleep herself, calmed that he was not suffering from the ague or from some other swift and deadly illness. When he sweated, as his large body was wont to do under even a thin sheet, she checked him for fever, as though he were no older than a two year old child. She cosseted him, protected him, nurtured him, and if those gestures went no further than her mind, at least there, she could fuss and flutter and be concerned and none would know.
She wanted to hold Alisdair within her arms, kiss his broad back and trace words of possession upon his warm, bare skin. The depth of her emotions scared her, as Anthony had never been able to frighten her. As Bennett, despite his attempts, had never accomplished.
But was that what Granmere called love? Judith didn't know. How could you recognize it, if you’ve never experienced it before?
Judith suspected that to love Alisdair MacLeod was to surrender herself. To trust, wholly and completely. To believe in goodness and right, nobility an
d honor.
So easy, and so difficult for someone tinged by guilt and touched by evil.
She sighed, heavily and he caught the sound, spun her in his embrace as if she were no lighter than a feather. His brandy eyes sparkled, a finger tipped her chin up so that he could inspect her face, his lips tilted in a restrained smile.
So might a wolf have looked before stalking the sheep.
"Did everyone adore Anne?"
The question so surprised Alisdair that his mind froze in mid-thought. He glanced down at his wife.
"Anne?"
"Yes, your wife."
"I'm aware of her identity, Judith," he said, irritation swamping his senses. She never did what he expected, did she? She was always full of surprises. He smiled, then, at the thought that the next twenty years would not be boring with her.
Judith felt something inside her twist at the tender reminiscent look. She looked down at her clenched hands and wondered why she dared to ask. Except for that one day, when he'd held her so gently upon his lap, Anne's name had not been broached between them. A picture of her had grown in Judith's mind. A gentle sweet face, filled with patience and kindness, a Madonna glow of purity around her. She would have been the beloved wife of the laird, a fitting mate.
"Anne suffered as well during the winters," he said. "Is that what you wished to know?" His forehead wrinkled in confusion.
"I never said I wanted to know anything, MacLeod."
"I'll not argue the point, Judith. I'm not yet as addled as Geddes. I heard the question. I just can't comprehend why the answer is so important to you."
"It was but a passing comment, MacLeod, as insubstantial as inquiring about the weather."
"I think not," he said, not allowing her to escape from his embrace despite her wriggling. "As far as affection, I never heard any ill words spoken of her."
"Not even from Fiona?" Judith mumbled, her forehead pressed against the great expanse of Alisdair's chest. Not for the world would she have looked up into those too knowing eyes.
"Not even Fiona," he said. The words held no mocking humor, only a depth of understanding she recognized and which made her jealousy feel childish.
"I think you would have liked Anne," Alisdair said, his wish to ease Judith's discomfort giving voice to words which should have been better left unsaid. "She was sweet and kind, with never a thought for herself. She was too gentle for life at Tynan, though, I see that now. Sometimes, I think she was too good for life at all."
It had been difficult living with a saintly wife, Alisdair remembered. Anne never spoke above a whisper, her smiles were tremulous and timid, she never reached out to touch him, or to initiate their love play. She lay docile, sacrifice not so much her aim as to retain a ladylike and demure pose while engaged in the least polite of human occupations. Yes, everyone at Tynan had loved her, but it was the gentle natured affection of those who care for one in their midst not as strong. Judith, for all her travails, had the soul of a survivor, not an angel.
It was a real woman who stared back at him, eyes darkened to nearly black, an unrecognizable expression molding Judith's features into a mask of perfect, polite, unrevealing restraint.
Too good for life. Not like a slightly used English wife with a soul destroying secret. Not sweet, nor kind. Certainly not selfless. Anne would not have been racked by guilt, by a culpability which sickened her.
Who wouldn't have loved such a paragon of virtue? Who wouldn't have adored such an angelic personage? It was a wonder the MacLeod didn't have a statue erected in her honor or a shrine built with her name inscribed on it.
Saint Anne.
"Excuse me," Judith said, feeling all too human at this particular moment. Her words were clipped and very English, her tone cold as she slipped from his arms and would have escaped. Except of course, that one left the MacLeod's presence only when the MacLeod allowed it. She tugged, he pulled. She jerked, he only drew her closer. She tensed, he tumbled her onto the bed.
She lay where he placed her, not moving when he lay beside her. When his arm reached out to pull her close, she did not demur but lay stiffly against him, her head cradled reluctantly on one of his arms. His fingers idly traced a path against her temple. She sighed, a grumbling sound of surrender. He reached out one hand and twisted a tendril of her hair around his wrist.
"What is it, my little English wife?"
"Do not call me that," she said fiercely, "do not ever call me that, again." Her eyes were level on his, the look direct, so filled with remorse and pain that he brought her hard against him.
"It is not your fault." His words were fierce, his tone muted, as if the room had somehow become a hallowed place where he must whisper. "For all the sins of the English, you are blameless."
Would that I were blameless, Judith thought, but the words were not spoken aloud. She was too much the coward for that. Instead, she allowed him to envelop her in his embrace, as if his warm flesh could block out the world. She snuggled closer to him, wishing that she was as pure as Anne, as gentle, as unused by life as Alisdair’s first wife.
Life had used her too well.
Almost of their own will, her hands curled against his skin, seeking the tactile reassurance of him. He kissed her on the nose, a non-threatening gesture of affection. Judith lifted her lips for a fuller kiss, leaned into him.
If Alisdair had not studied her so avidly for the past months, if he had not come to know just when those loch shadowed eyes of hers hid what she felt, and when they revealed her emotions, Alisdair would have said that Judith was feeling the same singular lust he was now experiencing, that what she wanted was mind-numbing pleasure, a respite from the world around them. But there was something more urgent in Judith’s eyes than simple passion, something desperate that demanded satiation, some wild emotion which caused his heart to skitter in his chest and made him hold her even closer, an embrace comprised of fear and loss and something even more precious.
At this moment, with the silence of night falling about them, with the activity of Tynan fading below stairs to a simple muttered goodnight greeting, a scrape of boot against a stair, the screech of the bronze doors as they were closed, Alisdair MacLeod recognized that there was a new emotion in the lexicon of his feelings. He knew its name and all its myriad facets. He appreciated its strength and its demands, but knew its rewards were worth any sacrifice. He loved Judith Cuthbertson Willoughby Henderson MacLeod, and the barbarism of it, the sheer melodramatic protectiveness of it rolled his stomach and curled his toes.
They were held together by the savagery of a kiss too quickly ended, by the tenuous bond of her hands clasping his shoulders.
And by words spoken by a man who had always been gentle, but whose tenderness brought the spiking of tears to her eyes.
"You have the softest lips, Judith," he said, and his tone made her shiver. It made her want to move her lips against that finger, capture it in her mouth, taunt him as well with words spoken as if they were the greatest truths in a voice meant to seduce.
One long callused finger touched her cheek, following the path of her skin to the edge of her nose and then to the top of her upper lip. He watched his own finger as if it had a will of its own, not empowered by his mind's wishes.
"My beautiful Judith."
She said nothing, her eyes fixed upon his mouth, upon the way he framed his words. How could a man's mouth be so alluring? How could he speak and she want to touch her tongue to the full contours of it, to taste his speech?
He rolled off the bed and removed his clothes, oblivious to the cold, to his own nakedness illuminated by candle light.
“With that wicked smile, MacLeod, you look more like Pan, than a Scots laird.” She lay on her side, watching him.
“The Greek god of woods, fields, and flocks? Except that Pan had a goat’s legs, horns and ears. I prefer my own, thank you.” He lay down again and pulled her fully clothed astride him. She looked down at him, at ease beneath her, hands now propped beneath his head. Without
thought, she brushed back a tousled curl of black hair which fell against his forehead. Her fleeting smile made his breath catch.
She leaned down against his chest, her chin in her folded hands. Both his large hands were involved in slipping free her garments, one lace at a time, one stocking at a time, her nakedness sweetly and unabashedly accomplished inch by inch.
"I know better than to claim duties or chores," she said, to hide the fact that his fingers were tracing a pattern upon her skin that made her shiver. He could rouse a dead woman with his touch, she thought.
"Then you have learned something during your tenure in the Highlands, my love. There is nothing more important than this."
She didn't know if it was him calling her 'my love' or the feel of exploring fingers which caused her flush. It prompted his gentle laughter, a teasing sound from such a large man. She squirmed, and moved from him, but he only followed, his ease at changing her mind not at all surprising. She had long suspected her husband had once been a rake.
When he rooted between their bodies to grasp her hand, she did not flinch. He touched her fingers with gentle reverence, a large man who knew his own strength and yet never abused his power.
He levered her hand up to his mouth, blew gently on her palm as a stallion might nuzzle a trainer's hand. He had it backwards, did the MacLeod. It was submission from her he wanted. Trust. He wanted her to believe in him, and that she did already. What he did not understand was that she could not believe in herself.
"I can lift timbers to a rooftop, Judith," he said, refusing to look anywhere but at the palm of her hand. A hand which carried it own scars, softened over as they were by the lanolin from the sheep’s fleece. "I can lift a broadsword over my head, walk for miles without tiring." He looked up, finally, at her face, and his eyes seemed licked by flames like a snifter of brandy backlit by a glowing fire. "Yet, here, in this room, in this bed, I am equal in strength to you."