Never Love a Highlander (McCabe Trilogy #3)(34)

The furs he’d brought from McCabe keep covered the bed. Luxurious, thick furs that she’d already grown accustomed to sleeping beneath at night. Even the furs covering the windows had been replaced by his own.

There was a small table with a chair by the fire that housed his scrolls and quill and ink. They roused her curiosity. She’d love to know what was contained in the scrolls, but she hadn’t the ability to read. The fact that her husband was so learned surprised and intrigued her.

Caelen had many hidden depths, which she hadn’t even begun to plumb. He’d certainly shut himself off from others, only allowing people to see what he so chose. It was frustrating for her because she desperately wanted to know everything there was to know about the man she’d married.

She went to the chest that housed the dresses the women had fashioned for her. She stretched her hand behind it, in the small space between it and the wall, and pulled out the tunic and trews she’d hidden there.

The material slid lovingly over her fingers. Worn but comfortable. Familiar. Anticipation tugged relentlessly at her until she hurriedly stripped the dress from her body and began pulling on the tunic.

When she was dressed, she pulled her boots from the corner where they’d rested ever since they’re arrived back on McDonald land. First she pulled on her precious stockings and then the boots over them.

The stockings made the boots a bit snug, but they weren’t uncomfortable. More important, her feet were warm.

She practically danced to the wall where Caelen had hung her sword. She was grateful he hadn’t had it melted down for armor. ’Twas a sin to abuse so fine a weapon.

She slid her fingers over the hilt and carefully lifted it from its perch. It felt glorious in her hand. The weight. The grooves, fashioned just so for her grasp. Light enough that she could wield it with a deft hand but heavy enough to inflict a mortal wound.

She tested the sharpness of the blade, satisfied when the hair she brushed across fell neatly into two.

Now to brave the stairwell and hope she didn’t run into Sarah.

A few moments later, she burst into the courtyard and hurried through the line of men so she could position herself at the fartherest point away from the entrance to the keep. If Sarah came looking, she wanted to be well out of sight.

The mixed greeting from the men bewildered her. A few looked genuinely glad to see her and called out a greeting. Others seemed more reserved and exchanged uneasy glances. A few were more bold and stepped in front of her, though their stance wasn’t in the least aggressive.

No, they looked concerned. And protective.

Hugh McDonald frowned and then swallowed uncomfortably. “Rionna, perhaps ’tis better if you remain indoors. ’Tis cold today. You shouldn’t be indulging in a man’s training.”

Rionna’s mouth gaped open as she stared back at the burly warrior. Hugh was directly responsible for most of her skill. Aye, he’d taught her almost everything she knew. He’d knocked her on her arse more times than she could count and always taunted her to get up and try again.

“He’s gotten to you, hasn’t he?” she demanded. “He’s not been here a week and already he’s turned you against me!”

Hugh put out a placating hand. “Now, Rionna. ’Tis not what’s happened at all. The laird has made us see that ’tis not the best course for you to be fighting. ’Tis not a seemly pursuit for a woman.”

She scowled at him and drew her sword. “How seemly would it be for a woman to put you on your arse?”

Hugh put up his hand to the others. “The man who puts sword to hers will answer to me.”

Hurt squeezed her chest, turning her insides into a knot. “You’ll forbid the men to spar with me?”

Hugh looked as though he’d swallowed a mace. “ ’Tis sorry I am, lass. Aside from the fact the laird would have my hide, I’d not have you hurt. Or any bairn you might find yourself pregnant with.”

She closed her eyes and turned away. Desolation swept through her, leaving her empty and aching. Tears pricked her eyelids and her shoulders slumped in defeat.

“Give me your sword, lass,” Hugh said gently. “I’ll put it away.”

She turned to see the rest of the men standing behind Hugh, their faces set in agreement. None would battle her now. Biting back tears, she slowly extended the sword to Hugh. He took it and then handed it back to one of the other men. She didn’t wait to see what they did next. She turned and hurried out the back of the courtyard, never looking back.

Her chest felt near to bursting.

The wind blew cold over her damp cheeks. Tears she hadn’t registered froze on her skin. Her sense of loss was keen. It cut deep and festered like a week-old wound.

She felt horribly betrayed. Like her life would never again be the same. The people she loved, who loved her, had been swayed by her husband’s firm beliefs about a woman’s place.

How she longed for the days when she’d run free and her only worry had been avoiding her father. She missed the euphoric rush of victory when she bested one of her father’s men with a sword.

Out here, with her blade, her faults fell away. She didn’t feel inadequate. She was just another sword in a sea of warriors. Strong and capable. Not just a woman in need of protection.

She was no good at simpering or playing coy. She didn’t have the social graces necessary not to embarrass herself or her kin. ’Twas why her father had never shoved her in front of the noses of anyone of import.