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

by Cathy MacRae

  * * *

  Cold water sluiced over Caelen’s neck and head. He straightened, shaking his head, sending the excess moisture flying. Dark eyes framed by a mass of midnight hair stared at him from the other side of the trough, the body beneath clothed in a tunic of the shimmering dark red silk his wife favored. He blinked through the prismatic water droplets in disbelief, but Arbela’s form remained.

  He quelled his body’s sudden surge of interest and rubbed the linen square briskly over his head before draping it across his shoulders.

  “To what do I owe this pleasure?” he asked. A swift ripple of concern sent his heart racing, but returned to a normal beat at Arbela’s steady gaze. This isnae about Bram.

  Arbela moved toward him, her body swaying gently at her hesitant step. She paused, a fingertip on the edge of the horse trough as though testing its balance.

  “I have had an interesting discussion with my aunt,” she said. Lifting her gaze to his, he saw something wary lurking in the dark depths. “I have mulled her thoughts over since then, and believe I should discuss this with ye.”

  Caelen swept the linen cloth from his shoulders and gave a slight bow. “By all means, I am anxious to hear what ye—or Zora—have to say.”

  Arbela’s cheeks flushed. “These are my thoughts, though prodded by something she said.” She fell into step with him and Caelen considered yet another aspect of his wife that was unexpected. Other women preceded him, or perhaps fell a pace or two behind. Arbela maintained pace with him, at his side.

  He liked it.

  Rory’s words came to mind abruptly and he halted. Arbela sent him a questioning look.

  “Shall we go someplace private?” he asked. “I deem this is more than a discussion of the state of the pantry ye have in mind.”

  Arbela nodded and turned with him to the gate. He waved off a silent offer of a discrete guard to accompany them, a slight grin tugging at his lips at the thought his wife wasn’t protection enough. He’d watched her closely enough to know she never carried fewer than five blades hidden on her person. Her eye was quick and she would not fall apart at the first hint of danger.

  What could he not accomplish with a dozen men of Arbela’s skills and intelligence?

  They strolled toward the beach, but took the sloping rise to the south, the same route Arbela had traveled nearly a month earlier as she fled—and then returned to—Dunfaileas. Doubling back on the castle, they approached the walls from the southern ridge.

  “I was in this spot with Alex,” Arbela murmured. She paced from Caelen’s side to the sheer drop that overlooked Dunfaileas. She stood there a moment before facing him. “A good archer could pick off the men on the wall.”

  Startled, Caelen moved beside her, judging the distance. A soldier, his body indistinct lines and shadow, walked the parapet.

  “’Tis too far,” Caelen asserted.

  Arbela shrugged. “I do not have my bow or I would test my assertion. As I said, it would take a good archer, mayhap an excellent one. And poor weather would destroy his aim. Something to consider.”

  “Though I appreciate yer insight on the castle’s defense, I brought ye here because it was a favorite place of mine when I was a lad.”

  Arbela sent him an interested look and it warmed his heart. Emboldened, Caelen continued. “My da was a harsh man and dinnae abide idleness. Yet, there were times I needed a spot out of his sight and knowledge, a place that was mine alone.” He jerked his chin toward the small bay. “The view from here is good, aye?”

  Her face lit with the lowering sun’s rays as she faced the vista. Caelen steeled his body against the enchanting sight, her skin golden, the threads in her tunic sparkling as the light wind molded the cloth to her body. He tried seeing the bay through her eyes, the single tower of Dunfaileas rising from behind the wall, reflected in the placid waters of the loch. Framed by overhead boughs, the boats returning from a day’s fishing appeared as no more than a lad’s toys.

  “In autumn, when summer’s heat is gone and the leaves change color from green to an array of red, orange and yellow, ’tis truly spectacular,” he said.

  Arbela shook her head. “I do not know if it is the thought of this being summer’s heat, the idea of such a colorful view, or the fact that I find an artist’s heart in yer warrior’s body that challenges me the most.”

  The awkwardness of speaking his thoughts—those from his heart which he’d hidden deep—slipped away beneath her gentle words. “Tell me of summer in the Levant,” he invited.

  Her eyes closed as though to help retrieve the memories. “Heat, enough to dry your bones, seeps through your skin. Batroun is in the mountain passes only a few miles inland, but enough to temper the summer sun. The wind is hot and dry, though the air is quite humid along the coast.”

  “And no rain?” he teased.

  Arbela opened her eyes. “Ye have more rain in a week than we do in a year,” she replied, a smile lifting one corner of her mouth. Caelen’s heart stuttered and he found he could not break his gaze away from the soft curve—so inviting. He stepped closer, fingertips drawing gentle lines down her cheek. Her face tilted upward and he touched his lips to hers.

  So soft. So incredibly soft. They parted, allowing his tongue a small foray against hers. Arbela’s breath caught, but she did not draw back. Caelen slid a hand around her waist and pulled her close, catching fire with a jolt as her body touched his. Battling his flaming response, he broke the kiss on a sigh and touched his forehead to hers, drawing on unknown reserves of strength to keep from encircling her with his arms and crushing her against him.

  “What did ye wish to speak of?” he asked.

  She slipped her palms over his chest. “This.”

  * * *

  The touch of his lips on hers sent her world spinning. It wasn’t an obligatory kiss the bride peck, nor a hesitant fumble between two people who didn’t know each other and were reluctant to take the relationship farther. It fell short of demanding, but Arbela sensed he held back, giving her the power to accept or withdraw. It was her decision where the kiss led, her decision whether to kiss him at all.

  She placed her palms at the points of his jaw and pulled his face closer. She nibbled his lower lip and instantly felt his pulse leap beneath her hands. There was power in the kiss—her kiss—and the knowledge nearly swept her away.

  Heat rushed through her, pooling low in her belly. She drew back, startled at the sensation. A month earlier she’d had no desire for his touch, and the consummation of their vows had driven one point home. She would lack nothing if he never touched her again.

  “What has changed?” she breathed, then stiffened, startled she’d voiced the question aloud.

  “I care for ye,” Caelen responded, his voice a whisper.

  “Why? Ye cared for naught more than my dowry when ye married me.” She truly wanted to know why he sought her favors now. Why he seemed to want her in his life. Why her aunt appeared to be right.

  “I dinnae know ye, and to my shame, decided ye wouldnae change my mind about women—ye were too outlandish for that.”

  “We have ever struck sparks from each other,” Arbela replied. “But they were angry, for I did not want a husband and ye did not want a wife, yet we had no recourse.”

  “I find ye utterly fascinating,” Caelen admitted. “Must there always be an explanation?”

  Arbela smiled gently. “In evaluating an enemy, in planning a defense—aye. It must be explained. In the heart? I do not find it easy to define.”

  “I wish to savor this newness,” Caelen said, brushing the pad of his thumb across her lower lip. “I dinnae wish to spoil what we have before us. Mayhap we should take this one step at a time.”

  Relief swept over her. Relief that a kiss or touch would not end in a distasteful tumble on the bed—or on the ground. It was too soon to consider the fullness of marriage, and exploring their relationship seemed a good place to start.

  Arbela cupped his cheek in her palm. “I would l
ike that.”

  Chapter 30

  “Why can’t I teach Toros to be a war dog?” Bram asked, right on the heels of complaining about weeding the garden. Arbela took the change in subject in stride, as she had all morning.

  “I could teach him to hunt dragons,” he insisted as he unenthusiastically dug a weed from the soil with the end of a stick. Slinging dirt as he modified his garden implement into a dragon slayer, he leapt down the carefully turned row, shouting his challenge to an imaginary foe.

  “Back, ye dragon bastard!” he cried.

  “Bram!” Arbela rapped out. He whirled, question in his eyes. “I have told ye before. That is not a word ye shall use. What do ye suppose will help ye remember?”

  His face fell, and he stared at the ground, swatting his stick back and forth in ill-humor. Finally, he shrugged. “Da uses it.”

  “And I shall speak to him about it,” Arbela assured him. “However, it is not a word I wish to hear from ye again. Do I make myself clear?”

  Bram nodded reluctantly. “It feels good on my tongue,” he admitted.

  Arbela smothered a laugh.

  “Then we shall come up with ten other words ye can use in its place. I will start.” She tilted her head. “What about, back, ye foul swine?”

  Bram giggled. “Back, ye cowardly beast!”

  “Back, ye craven lizard!” Arbela shot back.

  “Back, ye….” Bram huffed a breath, at a loss. His eyes lit as inspiration struck. “Ye big poop!”

  Arbela rolled her eyes. “I think we’ll go with one of the others, aye?”

  Bram laughed. “Aye. I will try not to say bastard again.”

  Arbela leveled a stern gaze at him. His hand flew to his mouth, covering half his face.

  “Why don’t we take Ari and Voski for a ride?” Arbela asked, redirecting his attention from his indiscretion. Immediately diverted, Bram nodded vigorously.

  “Yay!” he shouted, dropping his stick to the ground.

  Arbela surveyed the half-weeded garden. “As soon as this row is finished, we will go to the stable. We cannot leave all of the work to Cook’s helpers. I’ll race ye to the end.”

  Bram snatched up his stick and dug up the remaining weeds with gratifying speed and at least some attention to the garden plants. “Hurry, Bela!” he said. “Ari is waiting.”

  Arbela gathered the handful of weeds into a pile to be collected later and darted after the excited boy. She felt Garen and Toros’ absence acutely, but they had gone out again with Rory and the shepherd after reports of another missing sheep.

  Bram struggled with his saddle, lean muscled arms not quite up to the task of heaving the chunk of wood and leather up to his pony’s back. Arbela gave him a quick hand, then tacked Voski. The golden horse nipped at her with his thick lips, ears flattening in challenge when she scolded him.

  She sent Bram to the small pen for a brisk warm-up, taking Voski to the larger paddock to give him space to stretch his legs at the end of his lead rope before she matched him against the pony. Bram quickly grew bored with the confines of the pen.

  “Can we ride to the loch?” he asked.

  Arbela considered the risk. No boats had been seen on the loch since MacGillonay’s defeat, but it was still the best approach for an attack. They’d ridden there several times in the last week, but always with Caelen and often two or three other soldiers in attendance. Today, the men worked to barrel whisky for the Dunfaileas portion of MacLean’s first shipment abroad. Privately, Arbela doubted the whisky would make it as far as the Mediterranean, and would likely create a market much closer to home. But it was the first of many such shipments, and Caelen had worked hard to get it right, even to the stamp which the blacksmith had created showing a castle and its mirrored image, adding impact to the name Dunfaileas—reflection fort.

  “We cannot ask your father to go with us today, Bram-jan. Mayhap we could ride to the burn instead.”

  His puckered lips said he’d rather race Ari in the lapping waves of Loch Linnhe, but he agreed without further protest. With a quick glance to the sky and a short prayer to keep the gathering clouds at bay long enough to give Bram a bit more time outside, Arbela led the way through the gates of Dunfaileas.

  Ari was in a bright mood, kicking up his heels as he gave his young rider a lesson in balance and tenacity. Full of energy, Bram whooped his delight as he clung tight to the pony’s back.

  Her thoughts drifting far from the boy and his pony, Arbela lifted her face to the elusive sun, relishing its furtive touch. Not as much as she found herself enjoying Caelen’s caresses, she admitted to herself with a secret smile. Who knew he could be so patient? So interested in what pleased her, what she had to say. Warmth stole through her as she remembered the stroke of his fingertips as they lay abed the night before, speaking softly of Voski’s ancestors, how he would fit into the bloodline Caelen wished to create. She’d described the horses of her homeland, something she fortunately could do without much concentration, for Caelen’s lazy fingers had completely destroyed her line of thought. With a laugh and a brief kiss, he’d bid her sweet dreams before tucking her beneath his arm and falling asleep.

  At least, she thought he slept. She certainly had not as the lingering sparks he’d ignited took what seemed like hours to fade. His chest had risen and fallen rhythmically, a light snore on his lips, but the tented sheet below his waist had remained, tempting her to explore, though she hadn’t been ready for the potential consequences.

  The absurdity of her situation hadn’t struck her until she’d woken alone this morning, curious about the cautious path to which she found herself clinging. As a young girl, she’d wondered what it would be like to have a man admire her for herself. Not for her father’s wealth, or for her ability to strike a target with an arrow at fifty paces. Nor for her thick hair or full figure—things her friends assured her drew a man’s eye. But simply because she made someone’s heart sing.

  She’d finally come to the realization she’d married a man who showed true interest in her, though that had certainly not been his original intent. In the past few days he’d given her his time and attention, spoken to her as if she was his equal, and kept his promise of not pushing her into marital duties faster than she was willing to go. If he was not what she’d originally expected in this marriage, was it a bad thing?

  Why did she dig in her heels? Was she a coward? Granted, she had been unimpressed with her wedding night, but did that mean it could not be improved upon? Her heart tripled its beat as she considered pairing the actions of lovemaking with the shivers and sparks of his exploring hands and kisses.

  Dappled shadows trailed across her face and arms, pulling her attention to the treelined path as they entered the forest. Bram rode ahead, bouncing lightly on Ari’s plump back. Voski’s ears twitched side to side. The hairs on the back of Arbela’s neck prickled. The warm lassitude vanished, replaced by the cold awareness that something was amiss.

  Green leaves rustled. The scent of water rushing over stones and damp soil and mosses assailed her nose. Light bounced across the ground, leaping between the leaves dancing in the breeze. Bram’s chortles of glee rushed back to her. She looked up sharply, seeing the swish of Ari’s dark tail as he rounded a curve in the trail.

  “Bram!” Arbela called, sudden concern shrilling her voice. Hooves thudded on the trail ahead. Ari jarring to a stop? Or another horse and rider? She thudded her heels against Voski’s side, sending him racing over the ground, her ears straining, seeking Bram’s voice. Silence.

  Voski closed the gap in moments, dropping his shoulder as he rounded the curve at speed. Arbela clung to his back, hands fisted in the pale golden mane that whipped her face, her body tucked against the curve of his neck and withers, eyes glued to the trail ahead.

  Ari braced motionless, legs locked, head lowered to the boy at his feet. His front hooves all but cradled Bram’s head. Reins trailing, he nuzzled Bram’s cheek. Arbela pulled on Voski’s reins, dropping to the ground before
his hooves skidded to a stop. She checked her speed, shoving her anxiety deep inside to keep from spooking Bram’s pony.

  Ari flicked his good ear and nuzzled the boy again. Bram rolled his head and coughed once. Instantly, Ari stepped gingerly away, leaving Arbela a clear path to the boy’s side. Bram sucked in a deep breath and turned wide eyes to Arbela, his lips working to form words.

  Arbela fell to her knees at his side, touching soothing fingertips to his cheek. “Took a tumble?” she asked mildly, surveying his body for obvious injury. Relief sliced cold through her as she noted straight limbs and clearing eyes. Bram struggled to sit and she placed a palm on his chest.

  “Let’s check ye over, first,” she said as Bram settled back to the ground. One by one, she had him move his limbs, watching for any flicker of pain. Satisfied he was whole, if a bit winded, she helped him to his feet.

  “I fell off,” Bram admitted, his voice a bit hoarse.

  “Tell me about it,” Arbela invited.

  A faint blush tinted Bram’s cheeks. “I heard ye call me, and it startled me, so I pulled back hard on the reins. Too hard,” he admitted. “Ari stopped and I dinnae. I think I flipped over his head.”

  “It happens to the best riders,” Arbela said. “Though I am certain Ari would appreciate less of a tug on his delicate mouth in the future. And I am sorry I startled ye. Something has me worried.”

  “What?” Bram asked, peering into the forest. Arbela’s gaze lit on Ari. The pony stared into the shadows, ear pricked forward, the lines of his sturdy body poised for flight. He stamped a hoof.

  “I’m not certain,” Arbela hedged, not wanting to alarm Bram further. She placed her hand on the hilt of her sword. Wolf? A stranger on a horse unfamiliar to Ari? Voski’s alert gaze followed Ari’s. Arbela listened for an answering stamp to Ari’s challenge, an action nearly impossible for a rider to quell.