And she was his. Almost his. Until they consummated their vows he felt their union incomplete. It was as though when they finally joined together they would be one and she would then be. . .
Mine.
He needed her to belong to him, not as property or as a wife or mother of his children, but to be part of him and he part of her. She had easily recognized the bond between him and Borg. A brotherly bond that was solid and strong, each knowing they could rely on the other no matter the problem or the circumstance.
He wanted to forge a similar bond with Faith, though it was not brotherly love he had in mind. He wanted, hoped, she would grow to care for him, not out of wifely duty, but out of something more solid, more lasting, more fervent.
Love.
He shook his head again as he continued to circle the area slowly where Faith now carefully applied a creamy substance to the man’s stitched wound.
Was he foolish in thinking that the devil could love? And why suddenly did love matter to him when before he thought it unimportant? And did not one need a soul to love? He had been told so often he had no soul, he had begun to believe it. How else could he ride so many times into battle not caring about life or limb, his only intention being that of victory.
His purpose, though, was firm. He longed to lay claim to the heritage of his birth. He may be part Viking and part Irish, but his heart had always remained in Ireland. He would never forget the day he sailed off on his father’s ship, watching the Irish coastline disappear from view and promising himself—no, swearing to himself—that he would one day return to the home of his birth, to his true heritage and plant his roots firmly in his native soil.
It had been a long, hard battle, too many useless battles with too many lives lost, but for him each one had been a victory. He had achieved his intention—more so than he had hoped—and now his toil would see fruition in his land and in his wife.
Faith possessed many qualities he respected and admired and his choice to take her as his wife had been made without regret, though suspicion remained. He supposed it was his warrior side that questioned her unexpected presence in the great hall that day. While part of him was pleased and satisfied that she would be his, it was the warrior in him that had cautioned his actions. He had realized soon enough that her family held little regard for her and that puzzled him all the more. It also made him want to protect her, wrap her in his arms and ward off any harm or hurt.
Her courage shielded her vulnerability, but not always, and it was at those rare moments when her guard was down and the shield dropped that he felt her deep sorrow. He wondered over its origin, and he wondered why she did not speak of it to him. That was one of the reasons he wished to spend time with her. Yes, he wanted to be intimate with her, but he also wanted to know her. Know her likes, her dislikes, her fears, her joys and her sorrows. Only then would their union truly be consummated.
George, the wounded man, was thanking her profusely and singing her praises, insisting to all who would listen that Lady Faith possessed magical hands and that he had barely felt the sting or pain of the needle.
George wore a huge smile as four men carried him to a wagon where two women waited in attendance for him.
Faith was smiling as she washed her hands in a clean bucket of water.
“You bewitched him,” Eric accused teasingly and snatched a clean towel from the stack in the basket and handed it to her.
Faith took the offered towel and dried her hands. “I used an herb solution that dulls the senses to the needle’s pinch. It is felt, but not nearly as badly as it would be if it were not used.”
Colin joined them, followed close behind by Borg.
“Lady Faith is the talk of the camp,” Colin said with a grin toward Eric.
Borg slapped Eric hard on the back and simply smiled.
She looked with puzzled eyes at both men.
“We have wasted enough time,” Eric snapped irritably. “Order the men ready to leave. Borg, bring Faith’s mare.”
Faith moved to clean up the bloody towels and gather her healing tools and herbs.
Eric grabbed her wrist. “Leave that, Bridget will see to it.”
Faith always saw to her own things, especially her healing basket. “I prefer to gather my personal items.”
The air seemed to still around them. Where only a moment before a soft autumn breeze ruffled the nearby tree leaves and whispered across the land, it now lay still as if in fright. And when Faith looked into her husband’s eyes she understood why the air stilled and why Colin and Borg cautiously stepped away.
Eric’s blue eyes blazed with a heated fury that raced a feverish chill over Faith.
“I meant no disrespect,” she said and shivered.
His nostrils ceased their flaring, his stern frown softened and the heated fury in his blue eyes faded to a tempered passion.
He drew her gently to his side. “I am not angry with you.”
She ran a tender hand up his cheek and into his long hair to tuck a few strands behind his ear. She then pressed her fingers to his temple and with just enough pressure massaged the vein that throbbed there. “You will bring on a headache.”
His eyes closed though he had ordered them to remain open. Useless orders. Her fingers simply felt too good to combat.
“Why are you angry?” she asked, working her other fingers on the opposite temple.
The pressure-filled massage eased his warring emotions and began to dull his senses. He felt nothing but her touch, sensed nothing but her nearness, heard nothing but her steady breathing.
Instantly his eyes sprang open and his hands clamped down on her wrists, pulling them away. He never lost control. Never. Not even when he took a woman did he allow his senses to rule completely. He was always in command of himself and those around him. He never surrendered to anyone and least of all to his emotions.
She looked at him questioningly.
He owed her no answer. He was her husband, she would do as he directed without question or thought, just as his men did.
“Borg, bring her mare,” he called out, keeping his eyes on her.
She waited, saying not a word.
Borg appeared shortly and Eric swung her up in the saddle, his fingers biting into her waist.
“Ride with her,” he ordered and marched off toward Colin who sat mounted and waiting with Eric’s stallion. Eric seated his horse and the two men rode off together.
Faith looked to Borg, confused.
“Bridget promises to be careful with your healing basket.”
She was grateful for his reassurance but remained upset with her husband. “I do not understand what I did,” she said, after riding for a few minutes in silence.
“It is nothing you did.”
“But—”
Borg stopped her protest with, “Care for him—that is all you need to do.”
“I thought I was caring for him,” she said, still puzzled.
“Care for him,” he repeated without explanation.
“How? When he will not let me,” she said with annoyance.
Borg simply repeated, “Care for him.”
That evening Faith intended to do just that. She spent part of the afternoon’s journey talking with Borg about himself and his plans and the remainder of the time planning the evening.
Faith learned that Borg wished to marry and raise a family, but he wished his marriage to be founded on love rather than being an arranged one. He described the type of woman he searched for and oddly enough her description fit Bridget perfectly. The man definitely was smitten. She intended to see what she could do to bring the two together.
As for herself, she counted on the tent being already in place on her arrival in camp. She then had plans to spend a quiet evening caring for her husband.
Her plans did not at all proceed according to her design.
A line of men waited at her tent as she approached with Borg and before he assisted her off her horse, he grinned and whispered, “Thi
s is why Eric was angry.”
o0o
It was very late into the evening when Faith finished tending the last ailing soldier. She was bone tired and needed sleep. She had not seen her husband but once after entering the camp. He had been in conversation with Colin just outside the tent. Moments later Bridget had appeared and had begun assisting her. Several times throughout the evening Bridget had insisted she stop and have something to eat, but she had adamantly refused and continued treating the men.
Most ailments were minor, though one or two were near to infection and the men were lucky she had seen to their wounds. Bridget had seen to cleaning up and had brought her a simple fare since she protested that she was not hungry any longer.
Eric walked into the tent just as she lay down on the straw palette. He joined her, draping a wool wrap over their fully clothed bodies. He hooked his arm around her waist and pulled her to nestle against him and she did, her head resting comfortably on his chest.
“Sleep,” he ordered in that rough yet tender tone she was growing accustomed to.
She snuggled against him, wrapping her arm around his waist.
“Tomorrow, Faith,” he whispered, his arm hugging her fiercely to him. “Tomorrow there is nothing, absolutely nothing that will stop me from making you completely mine.”
Chapter Eight
Eric swore beneath his breath.
Colin laughed heartily.
Borg shook his head.
“Give up,” Colin said seriously, though he could not prevent his laugh from punctuating his advice.
Eric ignored him and kept tight rein on his stallion that appeared to be as temperamental as he.
Colin continued even though Borg sent him a silent warning to hold his tongue. “We will be at the keep in three days’ time and then your wife will be all yours.”
“One more word, Colin,” Eric cautioned firmly, “and I will take my frustration out on you. Now go find a place for us to stop and rest.”
Colin wisely remained silent and did as instructed.
“If you are thinking of offering me advice, do not,” Eric said to Borg without glancing in his direction.
Borg kept his eyes fixed on the road in front of them. It was a clear road, the men traveling along it without difficulty or delay. The weather was clear as well, the sun bright overhead and the day warm with a touch of an autumn breeze. A good traveling day, though Borg grumbled beneath his breath.
“You have nothing to complain about,” Eric snapped.
“Foolish and stubborn.”
“I assume you are referring to yourself,” Eric said, finally turning his head to look directly at Borg.
The large man met his stern look with a smile. “She is your wife.”
“Not exactly.”
Borg snorted in disgust. “Your own fault.”
His accusation rose Eric’s temperament several degrees, especially since he did not at all agree with him. “My fault? My fault when I allow her to birth a babe, my fault when I allow drenched women in our tent, my fault when I allow her to see to the men’s care, my fault when—” He suddenly ceased his tirade and shook his head, swearing beneath his breath.
Nature had interfered with Eric’s promise and after five days of waiting, his patience had vanished and his temper took rein. He glanced back at the cart where Faith sat with Bridget. They talked and laughed and looked to be having a delightful time, which irritated him all the more.
“You swear, grumble and snap at the men,” Borg said. “Go talk with your wife.”
“Why? Are you depleted of conversation?” Eric asked, fighting to keep a firm rein on his stallion, which had grown more irritable.
“He senses your displeasure, as do all of us. Go do what you do well—command.” With his challenge thrown, Borg rode off to join Colin.
Eric stared after his back, a large target and one he could not miss, and was sorely tempted to take aim at, but sensibly discarded the idea. Borg spoke the truth. He always spoke the truth, even when no one else would and even when he knew his words would anger Eric.
In three days’ time they would arrive at Shanekill Keep and this endless journey of delays and frustration would be over. He had seriously considered waiting until that time to consummate their vows, but unfortunately his body was demanding gratification. Not that he could not control his desires. He had on countless occasions; this occasion, however, was different. Faith was his wife and copulating with her was his duty.
He grumbled harshly and his horse snorted. “My sentiments exactly.”
He could convince himself of all the nonsense he wished, but the truth of the matter was that he desired his wife. She was like a precious gift. The more wrappings he stripped away, the more desirous she became. The only thing left was to lay claim to her.
Eric directed his stallion to turn, halted him one moment, cast a glance at the cart and rode straight for it.
Bridget caught sight of his approach and blessed herself as she prayed. “Sweet Lord in heaven, help us.”
Startled and thinking them under attack, Faith followed the direction of Bridget’s wide, fearful eyes. Her breath caught and her own eyes widened fearfully.
Eric rode straight for them. The wind fanned his dark hair, his deep red cloak flapped like giant wings behind him, his black and dark red tunic hugged his muscular frame and his blue eyes blazed like the hot fires of hell.
He was the Irish devil.
Faith and Bridget instinctively moved closer to each other.
Eric directed his horse next to the rolling cart. “You will join me for the noon meal.”
Faith nodded, her voice lost somewhere beneath the lump in her throat.
“You are well?” he asked, causing Bridget to blush a startling red.
Faith nodded once again.
His eyes coveted her as only the devil’s could, intimately and sensually, and both women shivered.
He rode off without a word or a nod, his command issued, her obedience expected.
“A bold one he is,” Bridget said, finding her breath, though it was raspy.
“He is my husband,” Faith said in his defense, though shaken by his blatant demand.
“Forgive me, my lady,” Bridget apologized with a quick bob of her head. “It is just that I have never heard a husband ask his wife if . . .” Her words trailed off and her face heated to a shiny red.
Faith ignored the flustered young woman and stared after her husband. He was bold, but the desire in his boldness spoke clearly. He wanted her and cared not that Bridget was there when he spoke.
Though in many ways he still remained a stranger to her, in other ways they had become familiar with each other and it was that familiarity that would make their first time together less frightening to her.
She had discovered his tender side, though many would refuse to believe the devil possessed any tenderness at all. But she had seen it with her own eyes and that quality had endeared him to her. He cared as well, though he rarely showed it and only if one was diligent and watched him carefully could one catch those rare moments. She had, and it was another quality of his she admired.
He possessed another quality that few people did and it was one she had always respected and held firm to, though of late it had proved difficult to maintain. He spoke the truth.
Over the last few days, while she rode in the cart, she had given great thought to telling him the truth. She realized the more time that passed the worse the situation would become. And if she consummated her vows without revealing her past she could very well destroy any chance of a future with him.
Truth also brought with it risk… the risk of losing him; and strangely enough, that thought disturbed her more than she cared to admit. He made his intentions perfectly clear. He wanted her and intended no further delay.
What was she to do?
The cart rolled into camp and Borg was suddenly there helping them. Faith took delight in watching the large man lose his tongue around the gregario
us Bridget. He simply trailed after her like a lost puppy, his eyes full of love and admiration.
Faith brushed aside the straw, which had provided a cushion in the cart, from her dark blue tunic and shift. She left her cloak in the cart; ran her fingers through the massive curls of her long, red hair, making certain to conceal her scar, and smiled down at Rook who sat patiently waiting by her side, his large tail thumping the ground behind him.
“Come on, boy, let us see what plants we can find in the woods.”
Faith left the camp preparation to the servants, having been warned numerous times by her husband that her care would be seen to by others, not by herself. She used the time to take walks with Rook, search for plants and spend time alone.
She missed her solitary time, having grown used to being on her own and depending on herself over the last few years. And when she could, she sought a few moments of that cherished solitude. The time refreshed her, clearing her head and filling her with a sense of peace.
Rook led the way and Faith gratefully followed. She had hoped this time would give her pause to consider her dilemma and finally reach a decision that would benefit all.
Eric caught sight of Faith, disappearing into the small crop of woods after Rook, as he dismounted his stallion. He carelessly threw the reins to Colin, who stood nearby and took off after her.
Colin turned to one of the men a few feet away from him and said, “Tell the men not to rush. We will be here longer than planned.”
It took Eric mere moments to catch up with her, his long, powerful strides accustomed to chasing down men, therefore finding his wife easy prey. Even with the heavy growth of spruce saplings and dense bushes her trail was easy to follow. She stood in a narrow clearing. Her glance wandered over the ground around her and Rook sniffed and pawed at anything that caught his interest. The dog’s head rose; he cast a quick identifying look toward Eric and returned to the clump of greens that had caught his fancy.
The two made a strange pair. The beautiful woman with the flaming red hair and the big, ugly dog who faithfully guarded her.
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