Never Love a Highlander (McCabe Trilogy #3)(25)

Her cowardice made her choke. The food she’d tried to consume stuck in her throat and she couldn’t force it down no matter how hard she tried.

She alternated between wanting Caelen to put in an appearance so she could dress him down for humiliating her in front of her kinsmen and wanting him to stay as far away as possible so she didn’t have to face him. Not until she regained her courage and decided her next course.

Disgusted with her sudden timidity, she pushed aside her food and backed from the table. She wasn’t going to sit around arguing with herself about whether she wanted to see her husband. He could rot. She was tired. Beyond exhausted. It was past time she sought her bed.

She braced herself for the cold when she swung her door open. Her room lacked a hearth for a fire, but there were no windows so no wind blew through the chamber. She collected two candles and returned to the hall to light them from one of the torches lining the walls.

The meager light brightened the tiny chamber and the warm glow chased away some of the chill, although it was all in the perception. The half-burned candles could hardly provide enough warmth to make a difference. But still, they cheered her and made her feel a little warmer.

’Twas cold enough that she decided to leave her clothing on. All she did was remove her boots and then she donned her one luxury. A pair of wool stockings that Sarah had darned for her.

She sighed as the soft, warm material slid over her feet. She flexed her toes and then climbed beneath the furs on her bed.

Her eyes closed immediately but she didn’t fall asleep. Her mind was too occupied with all that had transpired in the last fortnight.

If she were honest with herself, she’d admit to more than just passing trepidation. She was afraid of her future. Afraid for the future of her clan.

No matter that she’d always dressed as a man and indulged in swordplay while other girls dreamed of marriage and children. She harbored secret girlish dreams of her own. She imagined beautiful dresses and a warrior with no equal falling to one knee in front of her to pledge his undying love and loyalty.

She smiled dreamily and snuggled deeper into the covers. Aye, ’twas a nice fantasy. Her warrior wouldn’t only love her beyond reason. He’d accept her faults and he’d be proud of her accomplishments in warfare. He’d boast to his men that his wife was a warrior. A warrior princess with unrivaled beauty and accomplishment.

They’d fight side by side and then return to the keep where she’d dress in fine gowns gifted to her by her husband. She’d serve him a fine meal directed by her own hand. Then they’d sit by the fire and sip fine ale before retiring to their chamber where he’d hold her and whisper words of love to her.

“You’re an idiot,” she muttered, self-loathing suddenly consuming her. No man would ever accept one such as her. A man wanted someone like Keeley. All soft and gentle with traits acceptable to a gentle lady. Like healing. Or needlework. Or a woman who could run a keep and always have a fine meal on the table.

All Rionna could do was cause injuries that required women of Keeley’s skill to patch them up and send them back into battle. Rionna had neither a gentle touch nor womanly softness.

She frowned but kept her eyes shut. So what if she wasn’t as other women? She wasn’t lacking. Nor was she less. She was simply … different. Aye, she was different and a good man would celebrate those differences. If Caelen McCabe couldn’t appreciate his wife the way she was, then he could sit on his sword and have a good spin.

The room was suspiciously warm. And the bed was softer and more luxurious than what she was accustomed to. She was aware that something was entirely different, but she couldn’t force herself awake long enough to take stock of the situation.

Determined not to ruin a perfectly good dream, she snuggled deeper into the warm haven and sighed.

A soft chuckle intruded on her euphoria just as a lingering brush along the swell of her breast sent a shiver racing through her belly.

Her breast? She’d gone to bed with them bound. Indeed, she hadn’t undressed. She’d fallen into bed fully clothed and had been asleep in a matter of minutes.

She cracked one eye open to see her husband undressing a mere foot from where she lay. She wasn’t in her chamber. Nor was she in her father’s. Best she could tell she was in one of the chambers reserved for honored guests. Not that there had ever been many of those at the McDonald keep.

Rather than bolt upward and demand how she’d gotten from her chamber to here, she silently observed Caelen as he removed his tunic.

His back was to her and his muscles rippled as he pulled the material over his head and tossed it aside. He spent a moment stretching before he began to divest himself of his trews.

Her cheeks burned when his bu**ocks came into view. Hard but with enough shape to appeal to her feminine senses. Paler than the rest of his body and supported by two tree trunks for legs. There wasn’t a spare inch of flesh anywhere that she could see. All tight muscles, hair roughened and dark.

She shivered again but it had naught to do with being cold.

He was a beautiful warrior. All that a woman like herself admired. Not perfect. But beautiful still.

Scars ran the length of his body, from his ankles to his nape. She found herself eager to explore each of them with her fingers and her … mouth.

Would he enjoy the same attentions as he’d given her on their wedding night? The idea of kissing and tasting him so intimately tightened areas of her body that didn’t bear mentioning.