Return of the Rogue (16 page)

She deserved more
.

His own harsh voice intruded with a jolt, though not enough to separate them, just enough to keep him from going any further.

He pulled away from her and stood, and damn if he didn’t feel her hurt of rejection. He paced by the side of the bed.

“I am not what you think.”

She stared at him, perplexed. “You are my husband, a good man, a brave warrior—”

“No!” he shouted, then released a heavy breath and more quietly repeated, “No, I am not.”

“But that is how I see you,” she said softly.

“Then you are blind!” he snapped.

“No” she said firmly. “I am not blind. I know the nature of my husband.”

“You know nothing of me.”

She shook her head adamantly. “You may try to hide from me, but I have seen the truth.”

“How can you claim to know me, see me when I do not know myself?”

“It isn’t that you do not know yourself; it is that you refuse to see yourself.”

He stopped pacing. “You speak in riddles.”

“How can you show me kindness if you are not kind? How can you teach me to defend myself if you do not care? How can you continue to punish yourself over your brother when you risked your own life to try and save him?”

She spoke without an ounce of annoyance and with such sincerity that it made his heart ache, for her, or the truth of her words, or just because she made sense. He didn’t know the reason. He did know that his wife, the woman he had first denied, understood him better than anyone, even himself.

The woman before him with the silky long black hair, enticing violet eyes, melodious voice, and gentle manner was not the little frightened mouse he once thought her to be, but perhaps she never was. Perhaps there had always been strength to her that he’d been too blind to have seen, and could only now detect and finally acknowledge.

He knew he should speak, say something, re
spond to her words, which were all too truthful, and yet speech failed him.

She smiled at him as if she understood his confusion and offered him even more. “Come share the bed tonight with me.”

All he had to do was join her in a night of passion that would easily ease his tortured mind and free his troubled soul. It was that easy, that simple to forget.

But while he lost himself in making love with her, his brother could very well be suffering the tortures of hell. What right had he to know pleasure while his brother suffered pain?

Without a word to his wife, he turned and left the room.

H
onora woke with a stretch and a smile and wasn’t surprised to find herself alone. She couldn’t be certain if her husband had ever returned to their bedchamber last night, though it didn’t matter. She didn’t feel rejected by his absence as she once had; she now understood, and it would be up to her to set things right between them.

Cavan blamed himself for far too many things, and until he could see the truth and admit it, he would forever punish himself. She probably would have done the same in her own situation if it hadn’t been for her mother’s wise talks. Her mother had made her realize that Calum was not a good man, though he had tricked her into believing otherwise. However, once they wed, it had been too late, and the only thing to be done was to be wiser than he. Her mother had insisted until her dying breath that one day Honora would meet a man trustworthy and loving and that she would live a happy life.

Honora stretched herself out of bed, reaching up as far as she could, perhaps somehow wishing to reach out to her mother.

“I have found the man you spoke of, Mother. He requires some of your wisdom and I will generously share it with him.”

She laughed softly and fell back on the bed. Life suddenly seemed good as she felt her own strength, her own self-worth. Not that she was completely courageous, but she had gained a modicum of confidence, and with its growth, courage was sure to follow.

She jumped off the bed and dressed quickly in a dark blue wool skirt and long sleeve gold tunic top that she belted at the waist with a strip of Sinclare plaid. She used a smaller plaid strip to tie her hair back after running the comb through it several times and slipped on her soft boots. She was ready to face the day and her husband.

She laughed walking out of the room. She doubted he was ready for her.

Her quick glance found him as soon as she entered the great hall. He sat with his father, mother, and Artair at the table before the hearth. Lachlan was absent, a sure indication that he had found a woman to spend the night with, since he would never rush from her bed the next morning. The rest of the tables were empty, since most warriors had gone home, recovering after a night of feasting or seeing to their duties.

Cavan caught her approach a few feet into the room and she held his gaze until she reached the table. She smiled and gave him a kiss on the cheek before slipping in next to him. “I’m starving.”

Honora reached for a slice of honey bread, her favorite, and Cavan poured her a tankard of hot cider and slid his plate between them. She grinned and eagerly picked at his food, pleased that he wished to share it with her.

Talk was general until one after another was called away, leaving her alone with her husband.

“I have something to show you,” she said, dusting crumbs from her fingers.

“What is it?” he asked, skeptical yet smiling.

She looked around the room, leaned in close to him and whispered, “It’s a surprise.”

“No one knows?”

“Me and one other.” She pressed her finger to his lips before he could speak. “No questions, you will see for yourself.”

She took his hand and tugged him off the bench, then grabbed one of the wool cloaks that Addie kept on the pegs near the door. Her husband wore no cloak, his wool shirt, plaid, and boots sufficient protection against the chilled air. He actually seemed impervious to the cold, and she assumed he had become accustomed to it during his capture, since the barbarians’ lands were steeped in winter a good portion of the year.

Honora caught the surprised look on Cavan’s face when they walked around the back of John the bow maker’s place. He looked even more surprised when John, a man of bulk and with little patience for anyone but warriors, greeted her with a wide smile.

“You stand here,” Honora said to her husband, and positioned him in view of the target range that John kept for the warriors to practice and try out their bows.

She took the bow John had fashioned especially for her and saw Cavan’s brow furrow. He couldn’t hide his surprise when she took an arrow, skillfully placed it in her bow, and with a quick aim released it, to hit a few inches from the middle of the target. She repeated the process twice more to show him it wasn’t a fluke, that her aim was good and her skill natural.

Then Honora turned to him with a smile. “I begged John to teach me. I wanted to surprise you.”

His face turned grim and his eyes narrowed, and for a moment she thought he was angry, but then he shook his head and smiled.

“My wife is a natural with the bow,” he said proudly to John.

“That she is, sir, that she is,” John agreed.

“Soon she’ll be filling the coffers with food for the clan,” Cavan boasted.

Honora gasped. “I could never kill an animal of the forest.”

John’s expression turned serious. “An arrow is for killing, keep that in mind.”

Honora looked to her husband as John walked off, leaving them alone. “He’s right,” Cavan said to her. “A bow is used to hunt, whether it is man or beast. If you are not ready to kill, then do not shoot a bow. It is the same with a dirk or a sword.”

“I have never killed anything,” she admitted, the very idea making her stomach turn.

He took her arm, and Honora followed his lead. She was glad when he headed to the moors. Even though the day was crisp, the sun shone and the sky was blue with a plethora of white clouds; a good day for a walk on the moors, and a good place to talk.

“I have taught you to defend yourself without teaching you the sacrifice such an act would cost you,” he said once they were at a distance from the village.

She took hold of his hand and walked to the outskirts of the small woods, plopping down to rest against a sizable rock and tugging him along with her. “Tell me what battle is like.”

He sat close beside her, and she snuggled even closer, tossing her cloak across his legs, certain he must be feeling the chill and wanting to share the warmth. And if she were honest, she realized, she also wanted to be close to him, to feel his heat and tempt the flesh.

“You don’t want to know that,” Cavan answered.

She placed her hand over his, a hand she was sure had killed many men in battle but also had lovingly held her close and touched her gently. “I want to know more about you.”

He hesitated.

She admitted aloud what of late she had been feeling. “I trust you. Won’t you trust me?”

“Why do you trust me?” he asked, lacing his fingers with hers.

She liked the feel of his hand against hers. Though callused, it was strong and firm. “You’ve shown me no reason not to trust you.”

“I called you a little mouse,” he reminded.

“And I thought you a brute.”

“The little mouse squeaks up.”

Honora laughed and gave him a quick kiss, though it was no more then a brush of her lips across his. “Thanks to you.”

She wasn’t certain if it was the kiss or her appreciation that startled him, or perhaps it was both that turned him speechless.

“Will you tell me of battle?” she requested once again.

He hesitated as if weighing his decision, and then, resting their joined hands in his lap, he began. “Fear is friend and foe to a warrior in battle. It is fear surging through your blood that gives you strength, propels you forward without thought or consequence, and once in the throes of battle fear allows you to feel nothing. You simply defend and survive. It allows you to ignore the screams of the dying and the horrid smell of death, not once caring that this could be the day you meet your maker.”

Honora remained silent. knowing he was lost in memories of battles fought. She placed her other hand over their clutched ones, giving it a comforting squeeze and reminding him that he was there with her and not in battle, and knowing she would never again be able to see him off to battle without being afraid that he would not return.

He pressed his forehead to hers, lingered for a moment as if needing to feel close, then turned away to look over the moors. “The worst is discovering the cost of the battle. Seeing family and friends who have fallen or hearing the cries of the wounded you know cannot be saved.”

“But trying nonetheless?”

“You speak of my brother,” he retorted quickly.

“You risked your life for him.”

“And failed,” he reminded.

“And suffered greatly for your attempt.”

He turned away from her.

She refused to be ignored. “The barbarians must have treated you horribly. I have seen the scars on your back and watch you writhe with nightmares.”

He turned his head sharply. “Why do you think I want so desperately to find my brother? He is being treated worse than an animal, and I cannot bear the thought.”

“What happened, Cavan? What happened that day in battle?”

Cavan shook his head as if denying her, or perhaps denying himself. Did he wish to relive that day? Hadn’t he relived it over and over since it first happened? What good would it do to repeat it all over again? And how could she truly understand?

He looked at her and saw determination in her violet eyes, and something else, compassion, em
pathy; she cared. It startled him that she could really care for him. Was it that he felt he didn’t deserve it?

He sighed heavily, not sure how to answer, or if he should, and continued to shake his head.

“Why do you refuse to share your pain?”

“Why do you wish to share it?” he argued.

“You are my husband. I do not wish to see you suffer needlessly.”

“Perhaps I deserve to suffer.”

“Nonsense,” she said sternly.

“You don’t know,” he quarreled.

“Then prove to me why you should suffer.”

He almost laughed. She had wisely backed him into a corner without him even realizing it, and he admired her tactics. She truly was a warrior.

He reluctantly related the battle to her. “The barbarians overwhelmed us. They had more men than we believed, and it was obvious from the start that we were outnumbered. Every man fought bravely, but the onslaught continued and I called for the men to retreat.”

He stilled and looked off in the distance, visualizing the scene that remained imprinted on his mind forever. “It was when I had ordered the last of the men to leave the battlefield that I heard my brother’s cries for help. I didn’t think twice, I charged forward, slicing down men as I went, until there were too many and I fell not far from Ronan. I reached out to him; he was covered with blood. I could see the fear in his eyes, and felt it
as I did when he was but a young lad and needed rescuing. I never failed to rescue him then, but this time…”

He shook his head. “I reached out to him. If we were to die, at least it would be together. I would not let him die alone. Just as our fingers touched, we were ripped away from each other.” He closed his eyes. “I still hear his screams.”

“You did what you could.”

“It wasn’t enough,” he said through gritted teeth.

“How could you ever believe that?”

He glared at her. “Because Ronan is not home.”

“But you are?”

“Right.”

“And you have no right to be here, because Ronan isn’t.”

“Now you understand,” he said.

“You were willing to die to save him.”

“Whatever it took.”

“Are you willing to live?” she asked.

He stared at her and shook his head. “What nonsense do you speak?”

“Dying would not have helped your brother, living does.”

He continued to glare at her.

“You warned me to not let the enemy know I care, for they will use that against me. You let the enemy know you would sacrifice for your brother, and so they used it against you. Tell me, did they taunt you with tales of your brother’s suffering?”

Cavan wrinkled his brow. “The barbarians forever reminded me that my brother suffered because of me. They never let me forget it.”

“So the only true way to help your brother was to survive, eventually escape and find him. And while the barbarians didn’t believe you capable of it, your brother did, or he would have never reached out to you for help. Hope will never die in Ronan, knowing you remain alive.”

“How do I know he believes me alive?”

“If someone told you that your brother lives, then your brother must also know that you live,” she said confidently. “Which means Ronan knows you will come for him, and he will do whatever is necessary to survive, just like you did.”

Cavan cringed. “It is no way to live.”

“And yet you did.”

Cavan turned silent, recalling his capture, then found his voice again. “They made me live like an animal. I can still smell my stench.”

Honora kissed his cheek. “You smell good to me.”

He grabbed her chin. “I have become like them—a beast.”

She yanked her face from his grasp and pressed her cheek to his. “You are not a beast. You are a good, loving man, and I am proud to call you my husband.”

He rested his cheek firmly against hers. “You do not know what you say.”

She moved to brush her lips over his. “I know you are a man worth loving.”

“Don’t,” he objected, turning his face away from hers.

She grasped his chin and forced him to look at her. “Make love to me,” she told him. “Be my husband.”