Highland Warrior (Campbell Trilogy #1)(58)
Caitrina tried to cover her embarrassment. Was she so transparent? Was her fascination with her husband so easy to see? She thought of her vow to stay distant, of her vow for revenge against the Campbells, and was shamed by her weakness. How easily she’d succumbed. But never had she imagined he could be so tender . . . sweet . . . almost loving. Pride forced her chin upward to meet her cousin’s gaze. “You don’t have to remind me. I know well whom I’ve married.” And what I’ve become.
“There will be grumbling,” he warned.
Her cousin was right. Those who remained of her clan would not like what she’d done. She felt a flicker of unease. Jamie would never tolerate disloyalty or disrespect—how would he bring them in line? “They will see that it is for the best.”
They had to. She would not suffer the same heartbreak of her mother: to be cast out from her clan for marrying the enemy.
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Jamie and her uncle come back into the room. He headed right for her with a dark glower on his face, almost as if he could guess what they were talking about.
John gave her another long look, this one almost pitying. “For your sake, little cousin, I hope you are right.”
The short journey across the Clyde from Toward to Rothesay proceeded without event, and by midafternoon, Caitrina found herself ensconced in Rothesay Castle, the luxurious former Stewart stronghold with its unique design of circular towers that would serve as her home until Ascog could be repaired. It was far grander than any place she’d ever lived and took some getting used to—as did having a husband.
Over the next few days, they established a tenuous truce. One forged in the darkness of the night, where nothing could come between desire and passion. He’d come to bed late, take off his clothes before the smoldering fire, slip into bed beside her naked, and wait for her to come to him. As he’d done the first night, he never let her forget it was her choice—she was the one in control. And like a moth to the flame she was helpless to resist the primitive calling.
In the darkness, where no one could see her need, she reached for him. Sliding her hands over his big powerful body, savoring the strength flexing under her fingertips, she gave free rein to her desire. She told him with her passion what she could not say with words—of her hunger, of her wanting, for him. And with a tenderness that she would have thought impossible for such a powerful man, he fed that hunger, giving her pleasure beyond anything she’d ever imagined.
But as tender and loving as he was in bed, and as much as Caitrina had learned of his body, in many ways her husband was still a stranger to her. The light moments of intimacy they’d shared after that first night had not returned. He cradled her in his arms, but he never tried to talk to her, never shared his thoughts. They spoke in gasps and groans, in quickness of breath, and in tightening of muscles—the language of pleasure—sharing the secrets of their bodies but not of their hearts. She knew how to take him in her hands and milk him until every muscle in his body clenched with the need to find release, how to tease, how to touch, but nothing of his feelings for her.
And in the morning when she woke, sore and sated, he was gone. It was as if he’d sensed her subtle retrenchment and had decided not to press her.
She almost wished he would.
Watching him organize the men to begin the repairs on Ascog, she wondered whether she’d imagined those brief moments of lightheartedness. He was every inch the chief—every inch the commander. Every inch a Campbell.
Only in the dark, wrapped in his arms, did she wonder if there was something more.
By unspoken agreement, they assiduously avoided any mention of his family—or of hers. But it hung between them: his cousin who ruled the Highlands with an iron fist and his brother who’d killed her father and destroyed her home—not to mention Jamie’s own fearsome reputation.
As her cousin John had suspected, Caitrina had been overly optimistic in her kin’s understanding of her predicament. She knew Mor and the other servants who had been with her at Toward had done their best to explain the situation to the others, but the Lamonts would never welcome a Campbell into their midst, and the resentment toward Jamie and his men by her Lamont kin who descended on Rothesay Castle once it was known that she had returned was palpable. They took his orders, too intimidated to do otherwise.
His power was undeniable. As she’d noticed from the first, it seemed to surround him. He held himself with the bearing of a king. They were all aware that there was not much he couldn’t do; he was limited only by his own forbearance. His authority might be unquestionable, but it was deeply resented.
It wasn’t until the third day when she’d finally made her way to Ascog, however, that she realized just how precarious the situation could be.
The morning was already half gone as she strolled along the short path that led from Rothesay to Ascog—nary a half mile separated the two castles. The sun was masked by a heavy layer of clouds, and an autumn chill permeated the air. Her step slowed as she drew near. Though returning to her home had been all that she could think of at Toward, it had proved much more difficult than she’d expected. It was, after all, the place where her father and brothers had lost their lives only a few months before, and she wasn’t sure she was ready to confront the emotions that seeing the destroyed castle would provoke. Seeming to understand her turmoil, Jamie had not pressed her but told her that when she was ready, she should send for him.