“With all the raids going on so often between England and Scotland, I'll be hurt if I canna defend myself.” She crossed her arms over her chest in a very Bridget-like manner.
His unruly wife was already having an influence on his sister.
“We're at peace,” he reminded her. “It's why I'm wed to her in the first place.”
“Ye and I know peace will no' ever last.”
He knew in his heart what she said to be true.
“I'll train with Rabbie until I get better.” Her voice took on a pleading tone. “Please, Aidan.”
He looked at her, really looked at her, for the first time in a long while. There was more to her than their mother's gentle nature, more than the silly girlhood fancies she had a tendency to fall in and out of. There was a fierce determination to her, the same as their father had. The same as he'd bestowed upon Aidan.
She'd used that determination to keep Rabbie sheltered from the pain of loss and to mother Aidan, a brother over ten years her elder. He knew she would meet the desire to fight with the same level of focused attention. At least at practice with him, her efforts would be under his control, his watchful eye.
And then the idea to barter struck him.
“Ye raise a good argument,” he relinquished.
Cailean's brows rose and her face lit with hope. “I can join ye?”
“If ye help me with something.” He glanced down the hall to ensure no one was within earshot. “And ye canna tell anyone I asked ye.”
Her eyes danced with delight. She moved in closer so he wouldn't have to speak loud to be heard. “What is it?”
An unexpected awkwardness draped over him. “Well, ye're a lass…”
She gave a confused chuckle. “Aye.”
“Well, how - that is…” He looked down at his sister and noted her furrowed brow. He was being ridiculous. This was Cailean. She'd seen him at his worst when he actually shed tears after their ma's death when Rabbie wouldn't stop calling out for her. He could ask her a damned question about his own wife.
He sighed. “I dinna know what to say to Bridget to get her to be more comfortable here, to make her more…receptive.”
Cailean's face softened into the look his mother always gave him when he needed her considerate advice. “What do ye say to her now?”
“Nothing.” Aidan winced at his own reply.
Cailean rolled her eyes playfully. “Is it a wonder she hasna warmed to ye yet then, brother?” She gave a gentle laugh.
His cheeks warmed at his own foolish folly.
“Ach, are ye blushing, Aidan MacAlister?” Cailean grinned at him. “Talk to yer wife and when she answers, listen to her. No' the false way men often do, but really listen, aye? And compliment her. Women like to hear good things about themselves.”
Aidan nodded, absorbing all the information. Things he already knew, of course, but obviously needed a good knocking in to his mind to realize. “And when am I supposed to say these things?” he asked.
Cailean regarded him as if he were daft. “Whenever ye see her.”
He hesitated to confess he never saw her.
Cailean shook her head in dismay, and he knew she'd read the truth on his face. It was a trick she'd certainly inherited from their ma. “If ye dinna see her, then mayhap that's the first thing ye should remedy.”
Speaking to Cailean had truly opened his eyes how very lacking he'd been on his end of the marriage. He had faulted Bridget for her lack of interest when he'd done nothing to encourage any of it.
Cailean squeezed him in a hug. “Dinna worry, Aidan. When she gets to know ye, she'll love ye.”
That was his hope. “Thank ye, lass.”
His sister pressed a kiss to his cheek then grimaced. “And scrape this from yer face, too. It's like kissing a log of rough cut wood.” She laughed and strode off down the hall.
Aidan watched her slight form depart down the hall and rubbed his hand over his jaw. The few days' growth of hair rasped against his fingers. He'd never thought about how it must feel to kiss a beard, of course.
But then lasses were soft things, even Bridget. While she was strong, her skin looked as if it would be tender.
He dropped his hand and strode to his room with determination. Tonight he would be there when she readied for bed. They would talk and he would finally, finally, finally slake his lust for her with the consummation of their union.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Bridget's body was tense with eagerness for morning to come, when she would be able to fight and train with soldiers again. She almost ran to the chamber to prepare for bed. The sooner she slept, the sooner morning would arrive.
She flung the door open and stopped.
Aidan stood there with water dripping from his face. Judging from the way he'd jerked toward her when she opened the door, he was as surprised as she.
The embrace of the quiet room suddenly lost its appeal and near suffocated her with the press of sudden awkwardness.
“I hadna expected ye so soon.” He grabbed a linen cloth from the table, the one she had intended to use, and scoured it over his face. His torso was bare and the raw power of his body gleamed in the firelight.
She tried to look elsewhere in the room rather than at the way his muscles rippled as he scrubbed the excess water from his hair. She swallowed around her dry throat. “I didn't expect you at all.”
He dropped the linen on the floor where it landed in a heap of cloth. There'd be no washing her face before bed now.
“I've no' been a good husband to ye,” he said.
She looked up from the cloth and found his expression earnest. Her heart flinched.
He strode toward her and didn't stop until he was standing over her, tall and impossibly strong. A bead of water dripped from the tips of his hair and fell with a cool, wet splat on her shoulder. He smelled spicy and clean and wholly, wonderfully male.
“Ye're so verra lovely, Bridget.” Her name was almost melodic with the way he spoke it in his gentle burr.
He'd never said her name like that before. Something hot and exciting sizzled through her, and she found herself suddenly unable to breathe with as much ease as before.
She looked up into his face. He'd shaved the shadow of his beard. His jaw beneath was hard and smooth and so very tempting to reach up to stroke.
Her mind tangled with her heart. She didn't want him to look at her like that, with the softness of affection. She wanted him to be her enemy. She wanted to hate him.
He killed Richard.
The thought alone turned her to stone.
“Do ye want to talk?” he asked.
His body was close enough for her skin to burn with awareness. Their space was shared, their breath was shared, their world was completely encompassed by the other.
It was all too close, too much.
She wanted to back away from him, but didn't dare give in to the temptation lest he think her weak.
“Talk about what?” She turned her face away from him, unable to stand the depth of his stare any longer.
He was quiet for a moment, and the tension near strangled her into madness. Still she did not face him.
“Whatever is it ye like to speak of,” he answered finally.
It was such an unexpectedly strange thing to say, she lifted her head. “What?”
His jaw flexed, an impressive show in the absence of his beard, and he backed away from her in a wide, forceful step. “Women like to talk. I was trying to get ye to do it so I could listen to ye.” Frustration was tight in his voice and set her on edge.
She shook her head. “I don't understand. You want to listen to me talk?”
“We're married,” he growled. “For a fortnight ye’ve avoided me. Ye live around me, no' with me. I want to talk to ye, to learn more about ye, to lay with ye the way a man should lay with his wife.” He clenched his fists. “I want to know why ye hate me so much.”
The tension from the prior weeks built up within her, swelling beneath the f
ragile layer of her control. She stared hard at him and tried to force herself to calm.
“What is it about me ye dinna like?” he demanded. “Is it the way I talk? The way I look? Ye dinna think my home as fine as Castle Quelling? What is it?”
She glared at him. In her mind, she was not in the large chamber with their shared bed. She was on the battlefield. Richard was on his knees with crimson red blood pouring onto the shimmering gold and silver of his armor.
“You've killed my people,” Bridget said softly.
The axe raised.
“And ye've killed mine.” There was an edge to his voice.
The axe sailed through the air.
She locked her gaze on him and let all of the hostility shoot from her.
The axe cut through armor and sank into bone and muscle and life.
Her hands shook with the force of her resentment, her rage.
She slammed her fist on the table so hard it knocked over the ewer. Water rained down on the floor from the tipped decanter. “I know who you are. I've seen you before when you came to Quelling and attacked my home.”
He raised his marred brow.
The world around her tinged red with the surge of her loathing. “What would you have done if you'd gotten in?” she demanded. “Would you have killed the children and raped the women like the savages you are?”
“Savages,” he repeated, his voice raised.
“Yes,” she bit out. “Savages.”
She grabbed the tipped ewer. The metal was cool against the blazing heat of her palm. She hefted its weight and flung it across the room toward his head. He jerked out of the way so it sailed past him before clanging against the wall and clattering to the floor.
“Are ye trying to kill me?” he asked.
“If I was, you'd know,” she hissed.
Her eyes lit on an object on the small table near her side of the bed. Her dagger.
She glanced at Aidan and found his gaze on it as well. Together they both lunged over the bed in an attempt to get the blade first.
Bridget reached toward the table, only to have one of Aidan's strong hands grip her wrist and pull her back. His hold on her was like iron. She wriggled against him, to no avail.
She pulled back her leg and brought her heel down on his shin. The sharp impact jolted through her own leg, but his reaction was enough to cause him to loosen his hold on her.
She shot forward toward the table when his hands caught her hips and jerked her backward by her rump. He flipped her before she could stop him and she ended up flat of her back, looking up at him. His hands closed over hers and his legs lay atop her. Try to escape though she might, she was trapped beneath his considerable weight.
“We fought ye to stop yer men from attacking us.” His chest rose and fell with his labored breath, much like her own. “It was war, Bridget. There are no innocents in battle. No' ye, no' me, no' anyone in our families. Ye can either hate me forever or ye can learn to live with me.”
Bridget wrenched her hands free and shoved at his naked chest. His skin was warm and soft, but the muscle beneath was hard. She wanted to rake her nails down his pliable skin. She wanted to physically scar him the way he'd emotionally scarred her. “Are those my only options?”
“Ye can kill me.” He met her gaze. “But I wish ye luck in trying.”
He shoved off her and flopped down on his side of the bed with his back facing toward her. Bridget rolled onto her side and stared at the wall. But while his breathing turned deep and even with sleep, her mind churned with the poor decisions she'd made the last few weeks. She didn't know which had been worse - declining Thomas' request to marry or not killing her husband.
#
Sleep wasn't restful when one had to keep an eye open on his mad wife. Aidan stalked down to practice the following morning. His body was stiff from keeping locked in one place all night long and his head ached from lack of proper sleep.
“How did it go?” Cailean's bright voice sounded from the other side of the hall.
He turned toward her as she joined him. She took in his face and raised her brows. “That good, huh?”
“She tried to kill me,” Aidan said candidly.
Cailean's mouth fell open. “What did ye say to her?”
Aidan jerked back, affronted. “Ye assume it's something I said.”
Cailean scoffed in a mocking manner. “What did ye say?”
“I told her she was lovely,” he said.
She had liked that well enough. Looking back, he had to confess he'd enjoyed her reaction, the way she'd softened and looked up into his eyes. Her gaze had even swept over his chest several times, as if she'd wanted to see it naked.
“Then?” Cailean prompted.
Aidan shrugged. “I asked her what she wanted to talk about.”
“Aidan.” She sighed his name.
“What?” He put his hands out defensively.
She shook her head as if he were a lost cause. “While it's no' a real reason to try to kill ye, it wasna welcoming. Ye have to talk and let her join ye.”
They exited the keep and the gray light of a rainy day met them. He kicked a stone and sent it skittering across the cobblestones. “She's no' easy to talk to.”
“I disagree.” Cailean folded her arms over her chest with a smug tilt to her slender face. “Talk to her like ye'd talk to me, ye oaf.” She hit him playfully on the arm. “Dinna force a conversation. Make one, aye? And trust her. Women like to be trusted.”
Her gaze lit on something across the way and she grinned. “Good luck.”
He followed the direction she stared. Bridget stood among his men wearing her masculine clothing and brandishing her ire. “Go off with Rabbie to learn to shoot, lass. Once ye've learned that, I'll teach ye more.”
Cailean nodded. “Remember, have a conversation with her and trust her.”
“Enough.” He pushed at her back, propelling her gently toward a very excited Rabbie.
“Go on, men,” he bellowed. The men broke off into pairs of two and began swinging their weapons at one another.
He nodded toward Bridget in greeting. “I trust ye slept well, wife.”
“Not nearly as well as you did.” Her voice was hard and pockets of darkness showed under her beautiful blue eyes.
Rain flecked down at them and the wind blew in great gusts.
Aidan looked up at the darkening sky. “It's no' too late to change yer mind. Ye could go up and rest now if ye'd like.”
Her back straightened. “No.”
He swore the wind chill grew colder near her. “We'll have to find ye someone to fight.”
“I'll fight her.” His uncle stepped forward with a large battle axe in his hand. Though dulled, the weapon could still do considerable damage. Especially when hefted by someone as brutishly strong as Donald.
Aidan shook his head. “It's her first day back at training in several weeks. Let her go with someone else.”
“Ye think she's too weak?” Donald asked, looking pointedly at Bridget. She stiffened.
“I'm not too weak. I can take any one of your men.” She jerked a nod toward Donald. “Even him.”
Donald ran his nose near the blunted edge of his axe and inhaled deeply. “It's been a while since this blade has tasted English blood.”
Bridget's eyes narrowed into slits of hatred.
Aidan stepped between them and held his hands toward each of them. “I said nay.”
“Let me do this.” His wife's face relaxed into a pleading expression. “Please, I can do this. Trust me.”
Cailean's words echoed back in his mind. Women like to be trusted.
Everything in Aidan's gut screamed against allowing the battle, but he stepped back anyway and nodded.
A rumble of thunder sounded overhead, low and ominous.
There was little clearance between Bridget and Donald before the two lunged at one another. She swung her massive broadsword at the same time Donald lifted his axe to bring it down on her. Both at
tackers were out for blood.
The weapons connected with one another before either could strike flesh. Bridget grunted with the effort and her leg lunged deeper to absorb the hit. No sooner had she blocked the blow, she spun away and attacked Donald from the other side.
She skidded on the slick cobblestone, but her footing remained as true as her hit.
Donald whipped his axe around and deflected her attack, then struck out with his large fist. It connected with her face in a resounding thwack so hard her head jerked to the left. She shifted backward, as any good warrior would do after getting a hard knock.
Aidan knew she was trying to recover. He also knew the hit was extraordinarily strong.
She slung her head from side to side to reorient herself and blinked her eyes at her opponent. A trickle of blood ran from the corner of her mouth.
She tucked herself low and leapt into the air with her blade extended for an attack.
Donald brought his own weapon down hard, knocking her from the air. She landed on her side and the breath shot from her chest with a hard grunt.
A flash of lightning flickered above and the rain came down with a vengeance, soaking them all immediately.
“Enough,” Aidan said over the roar of the storm.
But Donald did not stop. He lifted his foot and brought it down hard on her left shoulder. She screamed through gritted teeth.
Aidan flew at his uncle and knocked him away from Bridget. “I said enough.”
Donald staggered back and wiped moisture from his brow onto the back of his forearm. “Guess she wasna as ready as she thought, eh?” His laughter was not joined by the others.
Aidan bent to help Bridget to her feet, but she was already staggering to her knees. Rain pelted them and left her hair plastered to her face. The trickle of blood from the cut on her mouth was runny with rain. A spot on her jaw was already starting to redden into a nasty bruise.
“I can still fight.” She grunted and pulled herself to a standing position. Her arm hung limp at her side. “I can still fight.”
Aidan held a hand out to stop her, but she pushed it away and strode toward Donald.
“Enough.” Aidan's voice was loud enough to carry over the storm.
All the men had stopped to watch his mad wife.
A Warrior's Heart Page 81