The Recruit (Highland Guard #6)(94)

She was what was between them. But she didn’t see it.

“Why not?” Her face fell. “Sweet mercy, I thought he was going to kill you.”

“You should have more faith in me.”

She frowned, picking up on something in his voice. “I do, but …” She looked away. “Your arm is still injured.”

But. They both knew it wasn’t just his arm. He stiffened.

“You’ve nothing to worry about. I have no intention of locking swords with Felton.”

She looked at him quizzically. “You don’t?”

He forced a smile to his face that he didn’t feel. “I’ll not make you a widow so easily.”

She frowned. “That isn’t what I meant.”

“Isn’t it?” He shrugged as if it didn’t matter to him, although it did. Very much. He was surprised how much he wanted her to believe in him. He didn’t know when it had become important, but it had. Damn it, he thought he was done with this. He’d been proving himself his whole life; he’d just never thought he’d have to do so with his own wife.

“Did your argument have something to do with Davey? I’ve wanted to speak with you, I’ve been worried—”

“Leave the boy alone, Mary. He needs to work this out himself.”

Her eyes widened in alarm. “Work what out? I knew something was wrong. He’s been so quiet lately. Even more quiet than normal. Is it Sir John? One of the other boys? You must tell me if you know something.”

She was fierce in her defense of her son, if only she could feel the same intensity of emotion about him. She would be a good mother to their child, but mothering wasn’t what Davey needed from her. Not now at least. “He’s too old for coddling, Mary.”

Her eyes shimmered with dampness. “I know that.”

“He will need you again. Just give him time.”

He turned to leave.

“Wait, where are you going? Are you leaving again?”

“I’m afraid not. Percy is waiting for my report.” He held her gaze. “Was there something more you needed?”

She flushed and looked away. “No.”

He held her gaze. What had he thought? “I may be back late. Don’t wait up for me.”

“Oh,” she said, a strange look on her face. Disappointment? He didn’t know. He was too full of his own emotions to try to decipher hers.

As Kenneth escaped from the room that was beginning to feel like a torture chamber to him, he knew he was going to have to do something. He wasn’t going to last another four days, let alone the thirty-three that remained of Lent, if he didn’t find a way to rid himself of the frustration teeming inside him.

Twenty-one

Mary had made a mistake, and she knew it. The stiff, awkward conversation a week after her husband had taken her against the wall in an explosion of lust—and nothing else—had been a precursor of what was to come.

In the nearly forty days since she’d sent him from her bed, there had been no more ribbons, flowers, or buns, no more rides, and no more long conversations. She arranged her own bath, she couldn’t think of an excuse for riding, and their conversations were brief and impersonal.

It was as if she were married to Atholl all over again. The only difference was that Kenneth collapsed beside her at night when he finally returned from whatever it was that kept him away from the castle so late, reeking of whisky and damp from a dunking in the river.

Her heart stabbed. At least he had the decency to wash the scent of his liaisons from him before coming to her bed. But she couldn’t be grateful for his discretion, when the very idea of him with another woman made the misery she’d felt with Atholl seem like a pittance in comparison.

Despite her best efforts to approach this marriage with open eyes and a hardened heart, she’d failed. Miserably. She’d fallen in love with her husband. Not the starry-eyed young girl’s infatuation based on a myth, but the mature love of a woman who appreciated the flawed man as much as she admired the hero.

She loved the young boy who’d always had to fight to prove himself and had the confidence and belief in himself to become the best. She loved knowing that beneath the seemingly impervious shell of the fierce warrior was a man of surprising depth and—yes, Sir Adam was right—sensitivity. She loved his passion. Envied it. Was drawn to it. Even when he lost his temper. She loved going toe-to-toe with him—challenging him. He brought out her fight and made her feel bolder and stronger than she ever had before. He’d never treated her as an afterthought or as chattel, but as an equal. He listened to her. Cared about her thoughts.

Ironically, by trying to protect herself from having another marriage like her first, she’d all but ensured the second turned out the same way. She’d sent him from her bed; why was she surprised that he’d found another?

She regretted so many things. She’d been a fool to think it had only been passion. The hollowness in her heart when he’d left her that night told her that. She shouldn’t have let her pride and jealousy prevent him from telling him she cared. And she shouldn’t have interfered in his argument with Sir John. Although Davey refused to discuss what had happened, she suspected Kenneth had been protecting her son.

He was also right to urge her patience. Her son wasn’t used to having a mother around to love him. It was no wonder that Davey was uncomfortable and defensive. Knocking down those barriers would take time—especially when his attention was focused on trying to become a knight. She needed to think of him as the man he would become, not the boy she never had a chance to know.