The Highlander's Crusader Bride: Book 3 in the Hardy Heroines series

by Cathy MacRae

  Her laughter followed her from the room, and Arbela sighed. As much as she enjoyed Agnes’ company, it was proving difficult to hide her arrangement with Laird MacKern. Rising from the water, she quickly dried and donned the velvet robe Agnes left laying across the chair next to the hearth. She sank into the chair and drew her feet beneath her, tucking her toes beneath the generous folds of her robe. Drawing a blanket over her shoulders, she closed her eyes.

  A soft thud awakened her. The fire had burned low, casting little light beyond the stone hearth. Arbela remained motionless as she surveyed the room.

  A few feet away, Caelen stripped away his clothing, his back to her. The side of him turned to the fire glowed like an ancient golden idol, compelling yet forbidden. He dipped a hand in the water then turned to the empty buckets on the floor. A scowl narrowed his eyes, turning them into dark, unfathomable pools in his bronzed skin.

  Dragging her gaze from its wide-eyed wanderings, Arbela focused on her husband’s face. “I did not know where I should set my things and ye were not here to ask. This seemed appropriate for the night, though we can sort this out on the morrow.”

  Caelen grunted, but other than his right hand fisting at his side where his sword should have been, he gave no indication she’d startled him. “Sleep there,” he said, giving a jerk of his head toward the curtained bed. “I will bed down in the stable.”

  “Is that how ye wish to portray our marriage?” Arbela asked. “I am comfortable in this chair, and can have a cot moved to Bram’s room. Mayhap that would draw less attention—and speculation.”

  Caelen stood motionless as Arbela silently urged him to take a step or two back into the shadows. Even one step would hide most of the jutting evidence that he could easily join with her again. Did he truly desire to lay with her? Arbela drew back, hoping the meager firelight did not betray the blush heating her cheeks. She had no wish to become a broodmare, and the consummation of their marriage the night before had been painful and unsatisfying. Certainly nothing resembling the rapture prattled about in the women’s quarters in Batroun. Then why the deep pulsing stirrings in her belly urging her to touch him. To invite him to touch her?

  “As ye wish, wife,” Caelen at last answered. “I dinnae mind sharing my sleeping space if ye are cold.” He motioned to the blanket she gripped tight in both hands. “’Tis a wee bit warmer to share.”

  “I will last the night,” Arbela replied drily. “Sleep well.”

  With a shrug, he turned away. He bent over the tub and sluiced water over his head and shoulders, scrubbing himself quickly with a scrap of linen stacked on a small table pulled close for the purpose. He dried himself and strode to the bed. Arbela’s view was unhindered as he climbed onto the soft mattress, and she wondered about the various textures of his skin, roughened and smooth, firm and soft. Her fingers twitched.

  Suddenly irritated with the drift of her thoughts, she jerked the blanket higher over her shoulders and firmly closed her eyes.

  * * *

  By St. Andrew’s teeth! I’d thought the woman would sleep in Bram’s room. Caelen drew the curtains around the bed partly closed, allowing the resulting box to capture the warmth from the hearth. He sprawled on his back, a plaid blanket pulled to his waist.

  He’d made no special provision for her living arrangements. In his defense, Alex had given him little time for idle thought, pushing hard night and day to repair the wall. Caelen appreciated the effort—he’d no wish for MacGillonay or any other to consider Dunfaileas easy to assault. The work had kept him too busy to consider the fact he was adding a wife to his household. One who would not be sharing his bed.

  He’d failed his wife. Given her less thought than for her horse which had a stall of its own. Arbela slept curled on a cursed hard chair whilst he lounged in cushioned luxury. He eyed the bed hangings. Were they new? He recalled a wagon of household goods arriving several days ago, but he’d paid little heed to the contents. Rising to his knees, he fingered the curtains. Two layers. One heavy and plush, the other silky fine—like the tunics Arbela was fond of wearing.

  He jumped as if stung and scrambled from the bed. Crossing the floor, he gently shook Arbela’s shoulder. Her eyes flashed and Caelen felt something prod his leg a bit higher than his knee.

  A dagger. She held a bloody dagger point at his thigh.

  “Do ye always arm yerself?” he asked, his voice husky—and he didn’t care to wonder at the reason. Her dark eyes, a wealth of expression, rimmed in kohl—he’d been told—met his, the thick braid of her midnight hair draped over her shoulder, glistening in the scant light. She withdrew the dagger.

  “Always.”

  “I came to bring ye to bed.”

  A thick brow arched high. “And what of the agreement?”

  “Damn the agreement. This is about ye not freezing out here simply because ye dinnae wish to sleep next to me.” He drew a breath against the unexpected twist in his gut. “I willnae touch ye. But it willnae look good for my wife to catch a chill her first night here.”

  She eyed his proffered hand and he fought the urge to snatch it away. “I offer warmth, nothing more.”

  Unfolding slowly, gracefully from the chair, Arbela strode to the bed. She motioned for him to precede her. “’Tis warmer on this side, aye?”

  “The far side is safer,” he argued, not liking the idea of her being between him and the door should they come under attack.

  “Ye offered warmth, not safety,” she reminded him.

  “I dinnae wish to bound over ye should we be attacked,” he explained.

  “I should hope not. I am likely to have a blade out. It could prove dangerous.”

  Caelen scowled. He caught a twinkle in her eye and a corner of her mouth twitched. The vixen teased him? No woman had ever presumed as much.

  “I suppose I can trust the guards this night,” he growled, not quite certain how to tease her back.

  “Oh, ye should never trust your guards,” Arbela admonished him. “They can be bought. Your wife, however—this wife—cannot be bribed or coerced. I assure ye, we will be quite safe no matter which of us is nearest the door. But this side is warmer.”

  Caelen gave a curt nod and climbed into bed, moving to the far side, making certain his sword leaned against the far bedpost. A position he was unfamiliar with.

  Arbela waited until he settled, then rose gently onto the mattress, robe and blanket still wrapped about her. Within moments, she burrowed beneath the covers, facing the hearth, her back to him.

  From this view, she appeared as any other woman. Long braided hair, rounded bum. Her scent caught him off-guard, triggering a memory of the previous night, and lust instantly flooded his groin. He stifled a groan and turned away, quite shackled by his unexpectedly desirable wife—and their damned agreement.

  * * *

  Arbela had a cot brought to Bram’s chamber, and within the day, her personal belongings followed. Caelen knew he had no grounds to argue, but something tugged deep within, though he knew she was only a room away. Her maid clearly did not approve, casting speculative looks between Arbela and him. Agnes would be leaving within a sennight or so, and for that, he was grateful.

  Late evenings were often the only time he had to speak of the day’s events with Arbela. Before their marriage, he couldn’t imagine voicing his activities and concerns with her, but now he almost looked forward to this time. Though proximity with his forbidden wife—alone—in his chambers, brought its own perils. He’d risk it.

  Caelen had not spoken with Arbela in two days, and expected her in his room this evening. He poked his head inside Bram’s chamber and found him fast asleep. Agnes slumped in a chair, her gentle snores a whispering counterpoint to the crackle of the fire.

  He closed the door, a grin on his face as he entered his chamber. It was empty. Casting a glance about the room, his gaze lit on the chest against the far wall. A handsbreadth of darkness between it and the wall indicated it no longer remained in place. He approached it
cautiously. The tapestry hanging behind it billowed slightly, exposing the hidden door behind it.

  Arbela stepped through, seemingly unconcerned to find him there.

  “Ye know ’tis a secret passage, aye?” he asked.

  “Aye. But ’twas necessary to discover where the tunnel leads and to ensure nothing blocked it.” She smiled. “After a good sweep, it appears to once again be in working order.”

  Arbela leaned a willow broom against the wall and dusted her skirts with a few quick swipes of her hands. “A few stones had fallen onto the walkway, but I have moved them and added two candles and a striking kit wrapped in heavy cloth just inside the door, though ’tis dry enough inside, I doubt moisture would be an issue.”

  Caelen stared at her, trying to keep up with her list of improvements to the passage—approving, yet wondering why he’d never thought of such.

  “I have a waterskin on a small table I moved next to the door in Bram’s room,” she continued. “’Tis where we wash of a morning and ’tis replenished daily, yet ’tis handy should we need to escape. I do not suppose ye have noticed the tray of snacks in his room? Doubtless Bram sleeps too deeply to be bothered with hunger during the night, but an apple or two, cheese and chunk of bread could be useful if we were forced to flee.”

  Her head tilt challenged a reply. His mouth opened once or twice, uncertain whether to praise her or berate himself for not believing she could mount such strategy. Curious about the wisdom of maintaining food in the sleeping quarters, he settled on a question of his own.

  “Mice?”

  Her withering look assured him nothing escaped her notice.

  “Cat.”

  Chapter 18

  Bram dashed about the yard, circling the lone tree near the wall before racing back to Arbela. She smiled indulgently at his youthful energy.

  “I am fast as Toros and Garen!” he declared, eyes bright with energy. “Fast as Voski! Fast as a dragon!” He darted away.

  “Ye are indeed the fastest young man I know. But can ye tell me how many rocks I have placed beside me?” Arbela tossed a small, rounded stone in the air and caught it in one hand, snagging Bram’s attention. He whirled about and glared at the line of rocks arranged in the dirt. Storming over, he scattered the stones with two swift kicks, then nailed Arbela with a fierce look.

  She returned his glower evenly. “There will never be a time when it is appropriate to destroy someone else’s work. Such behavior marks ye as a brute, and an unlettered one at that. If ye do not know the answer to my question, ye may say so. But such a childish display will not be tolerated.”

  “I dinnae wish to do lessons,” Bram declared. “Why must I learn things I dinnae wish to? I wanna learn how to kill dragons!” He leapt about, jabbing his arm about as if he wielded a sword, his war cries filling the air.

  “We shall slay dragons, Bram-jan,” Arbela replied. “We will require two sturdy sticks, a length of sinew—which we will measure later—several thin strips of wood, a narrow length of leather, a scrap of linen, and hide glue.”

  Bram sent her a dubious look. Arbela arched a brow, challenging his response. “Do ye wish to learn how to aim a sword at a dragon? Or would ye think it wise to also learn to use a shield?”

  The boy’s eyes widened. “Truth?”

  Arbela shrugged. “For practice only, as ye would need something much sturdier should a real dragon arrive. But ye must begin somewhere. Do ye know where to find these items?”

  “I can find two sticks!” Bram exclaimed. He frowned as Arbela held her hands a short distance apart. “That isnae a verra big sword.”

  “No longer,” she confirmed. “We will make larger swords as ye grow. This will do for now. What of the other items?”

  Bram rattled off the places to look for the rest of the required objects as he bounded down the path to the cooper’s shop. Arbela followed along as he wheedled the items from the indulgent clansmen, giving an approving nod to the cooper who requested Bram sweep up after himself in return for cutting the thin boards into shape.

  “When there is a job ye cannot do for yourself, it is proper to pay or exchange labor for the work.” Arbela praised his decision to accede to the cooper’s request, pleased Bram did not simply stomp his foot and remind him he was the laird’s son.

  The sun dipped toward the horizon and after promising Bram to spend the following day creating his sword and shield, Bram agreed to dinner, a bath, and a bedtime tale.

  Once he was abed, Arbela slipped outside, a cloak wrapped about her as clouds hastened the day’s end. A brisk breeze promised an evening rain, but a few minutes to herself was worth the risk of a sprinkle. She was growing used to the persistent rains and the crisp air, though she frequently longed for the warmth of strong sunlight and bone-searing heat. She sighed. Such a thing was in the past, for she did not think she would see her beloved desert again.

  “Might I have a moment?” Caelen’s voice rose to her ears.

  “Aye,” she replied evenly. They’d hardly spoken in the past sennight, though they’d spent the required hours together before the clan at meals, pleasantly tolerating each other with words and small gestures. It was doubtful there were any who thought their marriage a love match, but at least none showed animosity toward her. Indeed, they’d listened to her prompts regarding items from the larder to the privy, and she noticed a discreet crowd gathered by the hearth each night as she told Bram a tale. Small, progressive steps as lady of the clan. Acceptance. It was enough.

  She propped a shoulder against the parapet, one eye on the land surrounding the castle, the other on her husband. “What is it ye wish, Caelen?”

  “I received a report from the cooper, tanner, fletcher and blacksmith today,” he stated.

  Arbela sighed. So much for acceptance. But such intrigue had been common at Batroun. Why had she not expected it here?

  She gave him her full attention, without replying as she waited to hear what the craftsmen had told him.

  “It seems my son is now a sweeper for the cooper to repay him for wood, a water-fetcher for the tanner in exchange for a scrap of leather, feather-collector for the fletcher in exchange for bits of sinew, and will clean stalls for the blacksmith for a handful of iron nails and a shallow metal cup.” Caelen cocked his head. “Do ye care to tell me why my son has hired out to these men?”

  “He did not care to learn his numbers,” Arbela replied, stifling a grin.

  Caelen ran his palm over his shorn head. “What has learning his numbers have to do with these chores?” he demanded.

  “When asked to count rocks I lined up for him, he not only refused, he kicked them, scattering them across the yard. Rather than punish him outright, I set him a task that will not only teach him to count, but will also teach him to expect to return service to those from whom he gets supplies.” She allowed a small smile. “And he will have crafted his own small shield—to better fight dragons.”

  “Dragons?”

  “He is rather fond of the tale of St. George and the dragon.”

  Caelen pondered Arbela’s words, a frown tugging at his lips. “The stable master tells me Bram cleans Ari’s stall each morn.”

  “And feeds him before he breaks his own fast. He will learn to care for others before himself,” Arbela said. “A good quality in someone who will one day lead his clan.”

  His gaze took on an approving gleam, and something warmed inside Arbela. “I forget he is growing,” Caelen admitted. “One day soon, I will allow him to practice with the young lads. Swords and such,” he added, as though Arbela wouldn’t have known what he meant.

  She stifled the urge to roll her eyes, afraid they’d pop right out of her skull. He still does not believe my skills have worth. He has gained a woman he can trust to watch over Bram and keep order in his home. Naught else.

  “Was there aught else ye wished to discuss?” she asked, her words clipped.

  Caelen’s eyebrows rose. “Has what I said offended ye?”

  �
�I find myself quite weary this eve,” Arbela evaded. Weary of being ignored. Weary of being nothing more than a housekeeper.

  “The hour grows late,” Caelen said. “I agree with yer actions with Bram. Thank ye. He thrives in yer care.”

  Taken aback by Caelen’s unprecedented praise, Arbela stared at him, silent for the moments it took her to gather a response. “Ye are welcome. ’Tis good to know I have yer support.”

  With a curt nod, Caelen spun on his heel and hurried down the parapet stairs.

  * * *

  Sounds of scuffling, punctuated with shouts and grunts, burst through the open kitchen doorway. Arbela glanced up, instantly alert, aware she’d sent Bram outside to play only minutes earlier. Setting the ladle beside the pot, she strode to the door, the pitch of the voices telling her this was a youthful spat, not one between adults—or an invasion of MacGillonays.

  It was not difficult to discover the source of the commotion. Four or five youngsters Arbela knew as Bram’s friends surrounded a pair writhing in the dirt. She stepped closer to see Bram sprawled atop the other lad, using his weight to keep the larger boy pinned. Hands fisted in the lad’s hair, Bram shouted above the noise of the gathering crowd of youngsters.

  “Ye will take it back!” He smacked the lad’s head against the ground. “Ye willnae say that again!”

  Arbela stirred the other boys aside and planted her feet next to the combatants.

  “Ye will stop this instant,” she barked.

  Voices fell to a murmur then halted. Two lads hauled Bram and his red-headed foe to their feet, avoiding Arbela’s stern gaze. Bram glowered at the ground as he swiped a sleeve across his nose and mouth. His lower lip sported a cut from which trickled a tiny line of blood, the skin already beginning to swell. His opponent’s left cheek was scuffed, the back of his tunic coated in bits of dirt and grass. Neither appeared seriously injured. Arbela glanced from one to the other.

  “Explain yourselves.”

  The boys exchanged looks, then dropped their gazes to the ground.