The Chief (Highland Guard #1)(68)

He was hurting her, and it bothered him. She’d pinned hopes on him that he couldn’t possibly fulfill. Her vision of marriage was a romantic bard’s tale—like the one he’d overheard her telling the children of the knight devoted to his lady. He would clothe, shelter, and protect her—give his life for hers without a thought—but the kind of closeness she wanted from him wasn’t possible.

Even if he didn’t have a duty to his clan, he wasn’t capable of those emotions. He’d been a chief and a warrior for too long. Surrounded by death and gore for most of his life, he’d seen things that would make her toes curl. Early on he’d learned not to get attached to anyone. He’d seen too many people die: his parents, friends—hell, even his first wife.

Detachment gave him the edge he needed for his clan to survive and prosper, to be able to make life-and-death decisions, to achieve victory on the battlefield. He could not afford to be any other way. He was what war and duty had made him—cold and ruthless.

He could still see the light blazing in the Hall as he approached, though the evening meal must have ended some time ago. He muttered an annoyed curse. Even half dead with exhaustion, he still felt the unmistakable stirrings in his groin, knowing he would see her soon.

The newness wasn’t wearing off. He was beginning to wonder whether he would ever get enough of her. Night after night, he couldn’t stay away. Even when he forced himself to sleep at the broch for a few nights—proving to himself that he could—he thought of her. She’d invaded his thoughts, his dreams, even his damned senses at the most inopportune times. He’d been in the middle of a sword fight with MacRuairi yesterday when he’d lifted his arm to swing his sword and caught a whiff of her flowery scent on his skin. He’d taken a blow on the shoulder for the lapse.

It wasn’t working. No matter how many times he took her, his lust for his wife was not dying. It was only getting fiercer. More intense. Drawing him back to her, no matter how hard he fought the pull.

But not tonight. Tonight he was just too bloody tired. No matter how entrancing she looked curled up on the bed, her dark hair tumbling around her shoulders and her soft cheek pressed against the pillow, he would bid her good night and collapse around the fire with the rest of his men. Where he belonged.

He entered the Hall, inhaling the rich, spicy scent that mixed with the peat from the fire. Cloves and nutmeg, he realized. Warmth settled over him. Despite his exhaustion, he felt his body relax. A memory buried in the farthest reaches of his mind teased. Stewed fruits. The scent reminded him of his childhood. Of his mother. Of another time.

What was it about his young wife that roused these strange memories in him?

Though Rhuairi had assured him that Christina wasn’t burning extra peat, it still felt warmer in here. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but Dunvegan felt different. The air was softer, the aura more comfortable. He noticed it more each time he returned. He feared he was beginning to like it too much.

Most of his clansmen were still enjoying their drink, but a few had already rolled up in their plaids to sleep. Rhuairi walked with him to apprise him of the goings-on around the castle that day, including more problems with the rents. By the time Tor left the hall he was even more exhausted, weighed down by the demands of his dual responsibilities. Training the men was putting a strain on his duty to his clan.

But he couldn’t lie to himself: He liked training them. They were different than any other team he’d ever trained before. Usually, he felt the divide between captain and soldier, but these men were his equals. Not just in rank, but in skill. He felt like he was part of something significant.

Seeing the sliver of light coming from under the door, he knocked. He heard a gasp and shuffling before he opened it. Christina was on her knees, putting something away in the trunk when he entered. Snapping the lid down closed, she turned to him with an unmistakably guilty stain on her cheeks. He saw the empty dish by her bed, noticing the sugary residue. What was she doing? Squirreling away figs for the winter?

They were costly enough. Still, when he’d noticed how much she’d liked sugared plums and figs, he’d told Rhuairi to purchase extra for Yule. Perhaps that would bring a smile to her face. He liked it when she smiled.

“You came!” she exclaimed, leaping to her feet and rushing toward him.

As much as he liked the enthusiastic welcome, he got the feeling she was trying to distract him. His gaze shot to the chest and then back to her. “Did I disturb you?”

She shook her head. “Nay, I was just putting away some leines that needed mending.”

His brow shot up. “While eating figs?”

Her cheeks pinkened adorably, and he felt the familiar swell in his chest. Her sable hair was loose and had fallen across her face in a thick, satiny veil. Without realizing what he was doing, he reached out and gently tucked it behind her ear. Something he’d seen her do often enough.

She sucked in her breath and their eyes locked. He didn’t know which one of them was more surprised by the gesture. It was just like that time he’d kissed her on the head. Unfortunately, this time she wasn’t asleep.

Quickly, he dropped his hand and shifted his gaze.

The strange feelings for his young wife disarmed him. He’d never met anyone like her—sweet, kind, thoughtful, and too damned eager to please. She was always touching him—a light touch on his arm, a gentle squeeze. Not since his mother had anyone touched him so freely. Something about her invited closeness.