The Devil in Plaid(30)

She pulled away slightly and looked up at him, her puffy eyes still unsure. Slowly, he reached for one of her hands that gripped his plaid. She flinched. But he didn’t release her. He brought her wrist to his lips and gently pressed a kiss to her bruised skin. He turned her other hand over. He pressed his lips in a grim line when he saw his angry thumb print. “Damnation,” he cursed out loud.

She recoiled.

“Nay, lass,” he said quickly. “My fury is with myself.” He cradled her hand and lightly grazed his thumb against her mottled skin. “I will never forgive myself.” He leaned down and once more pressed a kiss to her hurt. Straightening, he sought her gaze. Still, he saw her fear, and now confusion, but mostly he glimpsed her fatigue. Without hesitation, he scooped her into his arms and cradled her. Then he sat down in one of the highbacked chairs near the fiery hearth. But her eyes flashed wide again with fear when she looked at the flames and hid her face in her hands. “Why demons?”

He turned her away, shielding her from the sight. Then he stroked a hand down her hair, rocking her. “My grandmother,” he began in a soft voice, “feared the fairfolk. She worried they would creep down the chimney in the night and take her babies from their cradles. My grandfather carved the faces to scare the fairies away.”

She peeked through her fingers at him. “Is that true?”

“I swear it to ye.” He crooked his thumb under her chin. “I’m not a hard man, Fiona. I ken some men think it is their husbandly right to strike their wives, but I think that barbaric. Now, mind ye, I do expect yer obedience, and I will punish ye if need be, but it will not be with my hand.”

“But downstairs, just now, ye said if I did not listen to ye that I would force yer hand.”

“I didn’t mean to imply that I would hit ye. I meant that if ye refused to walk, then I would have to carry ye.” He cupped her cheeks in his hand, brushing away at one of her tears with his thumb. “Let me speak plainly. I have never, nor will I ever hit a woman or child.”

She looked at him skeptically. “I want to believe ye, but I’ve been told my whole life of the cruelty of MacLeod men.”

“But why?”

“When my grandmother came here newly betrothed to yer grandfather, she didn’t run away as ye’ve accused her of doing. She fled out of fear, escaping for her life.”

He shook his head. “Fear of what? My grandfather was a strong man and a powerful chieftain, but he was a gentle soul to his kin.”

“It was not yer grandfather who filled her with fear but his sire. My grandmother heard him abuse his wife, night after night.”

“Tavish MacLeod?” he said, his eyes wide with surprise. “Ye mean to say, ye believe my great grandfather abused his wife.” He shook his head in disbelief. “I hardly remember the man. I was but five when he died, but his strength and goodness have been what every MacLeod laird since Tavish has striven for. His compassion is legendary. He certainly never raised his hand to a woman, least of all, his beloved Glenda. In fact, in old age, he cared for her himself, even as her mind failed.”

“I want to believe ye, Jamie, but my grandmother said that she heard Glenda screaming night after night, pleading for mercy.”

“She did scream,” he said. “Even I can remember. It used to terrify me. But she had a sickness of the mind, which made her confused and violent. She lost her memories. Everyone became a stranger to her, even Tavish, although that never stopped him from loving her or caring for her. I can still remember him coming down to the great hall to break his fast with a black eye or some such injury.”

She was silent for several moments, her gaze downcast. “How could my grandmother have been so wrong?”

Jamie shook his head sadly. “I suppose it can all be blamed on our constant feuding. Like ye, she came here expecting the worst. Likewise, when yer grandmother fled in fear, my kin assumed she had run away because she had no honor.”

He crooked his thumb under her chin. “I admit, those very prejudices have colored every exchange ye and I have had from our first meeting in the woods. I’ve made assumption after assumption.”

She sat back and studied him. Slowly, the tension in her shoulders eased. “I have done the same. We have centuries of bad blood between our clans informing our judgments of each other.”

They sat in silence for several minutes. He felt as if he were seeing her for the first time, except that she was his wife, barely clad and sitting on his lap. He knew not how to proceed. And said as much, “How do we move forward?”

She pulled at a loose thread in his plaid. “We cannot go back to that day in the forest when we first met.”

“True,” he said, sitting straighter. “But it is not too late to start again. First, I would make a vow to ye.” He gently caressed her bruised wrist. “I will never hurt ye again. Ye do not need to fear my temper.”

She took a deep breath. At length she met his gaze. “I vow to honor our union, and ye as my laird. Despite what ye may have thought about me, my clan has always and will always come first.” She paused, looking at him cautiously before she continued, “which now includes ye.”

He rested his head back against the chair. “Ye’ve surprised me. That I don’t mind telling ye, and I’m seldom surprised by people.” He looked at her profile as she stared into the flames. He realized in that moment what a fool he truly was. His judgment of her character had been made before they even set eyes on each other. And, although they couldn’t go back to the beginning, he vowed, in that moment, to make things right.