Highland Warrior (Campbell Trilogy #1)(66)
Seamus took the hint. “Aye, my lord,” he said, and climbed back up the ladder to oversee the men moving the wood up the tower.
Jamie didn’t miss the subtle dig—the English “lord” rather than the Scots “laird”—and neither did Caitrina. She looked as if she were going to say something, but Jamie took her arm. “Don’t. I can handle him.”
“But—”
“It’s what he wants. His taunts do not anger me. I’m just as much a Highlander as he is, though he might like to pretend otherwise.”
The young serving girls Caitrina had been standing with had quickly made themselves scarce, but not without first peeking at him as if he were the devil incarnate.
Their fear appeared to upset Caitrina.
“Doesn’t it bother you?” she asked.
He shrugged.
“It must.”
He sighed, having learned something of his wife’s persistence this past week. She would not stop until he answered. “Long ago I stopped trying to change people’s minds. They’ll believe what they want. Whether I’m a villain or a champion depends on whose side you are on.”
She wrinkled her nose. A tiny, not-so-crooked nose that was currently smudged with soot. “I never thought about it like that.”
“Not everyone despises me, Caitrina. I do have my admirers,” he said dryly.
Her eyes narrowed. “What kind of admirers?” He shrugged. “The female variety, by any chance?”
He grinned at her expression, realizing she was jealous. “Oh, there’s lots of variety,” he teased, and laughed when her mouth drew together in a tight line. He ached to soften that mouth with his lips and tongue. “One day I’ll take you to Castleswene to meet a few of them.”
He waited for her reaction. He’d spoken of a future, though it wasn’t at all clear whether they had one.
She nodded, and he let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
He took a step toward her. “Caitrina, I . . .” He dragged his fingers through his hair, not sure what he wanted to say.
“Yes?”
How could he tell her he wanted her back in his bed? He’d vowed to give her time. . . . Oh, hell. “We need to speak,” he said instead.
The edge of wariness in her eyes told him he was right not to press. “About what?”
He took her hands in his and turned them over, palms up. They were red and dry, with angry-looking blisters and jagged scratches. “About this.” She tried to pull her hands away, but he held firm. “It has to stop,” he said gently. “You are working yourself to the bone. If you don’t slow down and get some rest, you are going to collapse.”
She turned her eyes from his gaze, and he could see the stubborn set of her mouth. “I’m fine.”
“You are my wife, not a scullery maid.”
“Is that what this is about? Appearances? There is work that needs to be done, and it doesn’t care by whom. This is my home. You’ll not force me to sit by and let others work while I embroider and play the lute.”
The picture of domesticity sounded fine to him. He would love to hear her play for him. But he did not think she would appreciate his honesty at this point, so he tried a different tack. “It’s not safe with all the dangerous work on the roof going on. You could be hurt.”
She lifted her chin a little higher and met his gaze, not giving an inch. “If it’s safe enough for the others, it’s safe enough for me.”
His mouth fell in a grim line. “I don’t—”
He stopped, stunned by what had been about to come out of his mouth. Love. I don’t love the others.
Was that what he felt for her? At one time, Margaret MacLeod had accused him of not knowing what the word meant. Perhaps she’d been right, because he’d never felt this irrational intensity of emotion for anyone. He’d never had to fight to keep such a tight rein on his emotions, because emotions had never been a factor for him at all. Until he met Caitrina.
She must have read the shock on his face because she was giving him a strange look. “You don’t what?”
He knew she would not welcome his feelings. They would terrify her. Send her running from him like a startled hare. Masking his expression, he shook off his disturbing thought and said, “I don’t want to have to order you back to Rothesay.”
Her eyes sparked like wildfire. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Wouldn’t I?” She would soon find out that he could be every bit as stubborn as she was.
The mutinous expression on her face said it all, but wisely she chose not to give voice to her thoughts.
He gave her a long look, taking in every inch of her tousled, tired appearance. “I’m willing to be reasonable.”
She uttered an unladylike snort. “How gallant of you. And what, pray tell, is your definition of reasonable?”
“You are the lady of the keep, and you will act accordingly. You may supervise, but that does not mean you will be on your hands and knees scrubbing floors. And,” he said, looking pointedly at her dress, “you will gown yourself as befitting your station as my wife.”
She was furious. “So you can chop wood like a common laborer, but I am not accorded the same privilege.”
Privilege to scrub floors? He couldn’t believe they were arguing about this. He took a step closer. “I saw you watching me.”