The Recruit (Highland Guard #6)(81)

He frowned. Wouldn’t it? It sure as hell hadn’t waned yet. He had an unsettling thought: what if it never did?

Of course it would. Just because Mary wasn’t like any woman he’d met before didn’t mean his life—his entire way of thinking—would change.

He liked variety. And simplicity, for that matter.

At least he used to. But sparring with his very unsimple and-not-so-eager-to-please wife was proving interesting.

He frowned, pushing the disturbing thought away as he opened the door.

He was glad to see her alone. Some of the ladies were less than subtle in their interest in him, which made him uncomfortable—and angry. They were her friends; they should try to act like it. Having learned of the pain of her first marriage, the last thing he wanted to do was remind her of Atholl.

He took in her hooded cloak, gloves, and sturdy boots. “Are you ready?” He grinned, suspecting she’d been ready for some time.

She nodded and he took her hand, leading her out of the chamber, down the stairs, and out into the yard.

She waited outside while he went to retrieve his destrier. He was only gone a few minutes, but it was long enough for Felton to find her.

Kenneth felt his temper prick hot. If he’d hoped the marriage would put an end to Felton’s interest in his wife, he was to be disappointed. The bastard was furious, but he hid it well, aiming his venom toward Kenneth. To Mary, he was the soul of English chivalry, as charming and solicitous as he could be.

Kenneth, on the other hand, was feeling every ounce of his barbarian blood. When he saw Felton’s hand on his wife’s arm, his first instinct was to reach for his axe. The surge of possessiveness that hit him was both primitive and undeniable.

He was jealous, he realized. Deeply and pathetically jealous, and he couldn’t do a damned thing about it.

If Felton had chosen that moment to press him, Kenneth didn’t think he would have been able to back down.

Mary must have sensed something and carefully extracted her arm. Only then did the red haze begin to recede.

“Where do you think you are going?” Felton demanded.

Obviously, anger was still clouding Kenneth’s judgment a bit, because he couldn’t resist snapping back sarcastically but all too truthfully, “To leave a message for Bruce with all the English secrets. Where the hell does it look like I’m going, on a ride with my wife.”

He knew he’d put too much emphasis on the last two words when Mary’s eyes widened.

Felton’s, however, narrowed. “You don’t have permission to leave—”

“I sure as hell do. Check with Percy. Not that it’s any of your damned business.” Only because he knew it would antagonize the bastard, he couldn’t resist pointing out, “You might be champion for now, but I don’t take orders from you.”

As the heir to the earldom, Kenneth outranked him.

Felton’s face turned florid. “For now? I thought you might have tired of losing—having done so many times at the point of my spurs, but when you are done hiding behind that injury, I’ll be happy to oblige you again. We’ll see if the barbarians have taught you anything.”

Kenneth lunged, ready to show him exactly how much the barbarians had taught him. He would have thrown his fist right through Felton’s sneering grin if he hadn’t felt the press of a hand on his arm.

His wife’s hand.

The idea that something so small could hold him back was patently absurd. Except that when he looked down and saw her tiny gloved hand on his arm, he knew it wasn’t so absurd at all.

How the hell had she done that? When he lost his temper, nothing penetrated. He didn’t think, didn’t hear reason, just reacted. That was what made it so difficult to control. But with one gentle press of her hand, she’d restrained him. He was so stunned he couldn’t speak.

“I’m sure my husband is looking forward to meeting you on the practice yard, Sir John. But surely it would be a Pyrrhic victory, at best, if he is not fully healed.”

Had she just used “Pyrrhic victory”? She had, he realized. His wife had also succeeded in shaming Sir John.

The knight stiffened. “Of course. I only meant—”

“I know what you meant,” she said sweetly. Felton held her gaze for moment, then gave her a curt nod and moved off as if he had a pike up his arse.

Kenneth’s blood was still pounding when she turned to him. “You shouldn’t antagonize him. Sir John is not a man you should wish for an enemy.”

He stiffened. “Felton doesn’t concern me.”

“He should. He is Percy’s best knight, reputed to be one of the best in England.”

He felt a stab of something like disappointment, except that it was harder and more acute. “You think he would best me?”

Her brow furrowed. Something in his voice must have alerted her. “I wasn’t thinking about it that way. Who wins is immaterial. I simply don’t think it’s wise to make an enemy of a powerful man. Nor would I wish to see you hurt.”

Her answer mollified him somewhat, but it still stung of a lack of faith. “Who wins always matters.”

She looked up at him, studying his face, perhaps seeing more than he wanted her to see. “So you’ve said. Shall we go?”

Kenneth motioned over the stable lad to bring the horse forward.