Page 46 of The Falcon Laird
“So much devotion?”
Christian laughed. “So much.” She sighed. “You will likely wonder if you have a barren wife, since I was wed for years and have no child of my body. But that I cannot tell you.”
He was surprised she mentioned it; he felt a spark of hope that she might accept him as her husband. “You do not know?”
“I never had much chance to discover it. Henry did not want a Scottish wife or a Scottish child. He made that clear enough.” Pulling her cloak tightly around her shoulders, she turned. “It is cold out here, and I am growing tired. I will go back. Thank you for stopping with me.” She stepped away.
Gavin moved after her. “Christian—”
*
When he tookher arm, drawing her to a stop, she sighed and turned. “What is it?”
“Hold, my lady. I think we have more to say.”
For a moment, she was pleased he had come after her, had not let her go on that. Her old anger toward Henry had resurfaced with the painful reminder of how poor her marriage had been. Talking to Gavin about Henry and her daughter, eventhe state of her marriage, had felt good. He cared. No one but Fergus—and her brothers, before they had died for Scotland—had listened or cared about her.
“Come out of the wind for another moment. I know you are tired but let me ask.” He drew her back into the shelter of the doorway, his tall, solid body blocking the breezes. “Will you say such things and then run off, leaving me to puzzle them out? Just tell me. Did my cousin mistreat you?”
“Not as such. Henry and I were wed—it was arranged by my family, in a bid for a helpful alliance that went wrong. And shortly after, King Edward issued an order that knights owning Scottish land should have English wives and not intermarry with the Scots. Henry was very angry that he had agreed to marry me. He even tried to get an annulment.”
“But he never did.”
“Though he spent good coin in the attempt, he could not get loose of me until the day he died,” she blurted, and then tried to push past him.
He pulled her back. “Listen to me. I am not like Henry,” he said firmly. She saw intensity in his gaze, something near anger. “Do not put Henry’s feelings in my heart, or Henry’s sins on my soul.”
“English knights do not desire Scottish wives. I know that well. I imagine if you could grab the gold the king sent you to find here, you would soon free yourself of the Scottish wife.”
His fingers shifted on her arm. She winced at the grip. “Surely you cannot believe that.”
“It is what I expect from an English husband.”
“Because Henry was like that, I am as well? May I say, for all your intelligence and beauty—aye, beauty, lady, including your hair—you have the temperament of an ox. When have I given you cause to think I am like Henry in any way but surname? And fair hair,” he muttered, shoving a hand through his.
“I have seen English rule here since I was fourteen,” she said. Her voice began to tremble. “When I was sixteen, my father promised me in marriage to Henry, and then my father died, and my brothers too, all for reasons laid at English feet—”
“I am sorry,” he began, but she rushed on.
“And I was forced to pledge my own oath to King Edward to keep my right to Kilglassie. And then Henry stepped in and took it over. And took over my life. I cannot change quickly when one English knight shows me kindness”—here Gavin reached out to touch her shoulder, then her cheek, causing her breath to falter—“or has gentle hands,” she finished.
AndO Dhia, she thought, he had such soothing hands. When he touched her, she could forget he was English. It did not exist. She was the one who forced it back into her mind. She would not trust a Sassenach knight. Yet her heart, and now her craving body, told her to try. Just try. With Gavin, trust felt possible. She felt it like a warm glow, a tiny flame that she could allow to flourish.
“I want to trust you.” The words slipped out before she could stop them.
“Then do it.” His hand, warm along her cheek, slipped into her cloak hood to cup the back of her neck. She inhaled and closed her eyes, wanting to give him. “Or are you too stubborn?”
“I might be,” she whispered. It was not easy to admit a change of heart. She knew that.
“Let us find out.” He leaned closer, breath warm on her cheek as his fingertips caressed her neck, slid into her hair, his thumb finding her ear. She sucked in a breath as shivers cascaded down her spine.
She sighed, felt herself surrender a little—just a little—as she tilted her face up to his. He was like a lodestone, she was like a bit of iron. She laid a hand on his chest, feeling his heartbeat thump there.
“You despise my Englishness. But you do not shrink from my touch.” He tilted his head. His breath flowed over her cheek, her lips.
“Your hands—are—I forget you are English,” she whispered.
“Just a man,” he said. His fingers trailed like warm sunlight down the nape of her neck, brushing over her shoulder toward her upper chest. “Did Henry touch you like this?” His voice was husky, slipping like rough velvet over her senses.
