Page 18 of When a Warrior Woos a Lass
“I imagine yer sleep will be like a bairn’s tonight when ye finally get yer bonny bride alone in yer bedchamber.”
A flash of anger cut through Alex, but at Baldwin’s silly grin, Alex reminded himself that the boy was but ten summers and pushed his anger aside. “I imagine that will help,” he replied, as expected, then turned his face toward his home once more. Baldwin meant no harm or disrespect. All the lad knew was that his laird had yet to join with his wife, and he likely thought that was causing Alex’s surly mood. It may have been part of it. He ached for Lena something fierce. He’d never experienced the likes of it in his life. The moments of holding her in his arms so innocently this past fortnight had been eye-opening, sweet torture.
Never had he held a lass as he had Lena. The pull he felt toward her and the need to care for her was unlike anything he had ever known. None of his dark yearnings had surfaced with her yet; it was almost as if she had washed him anew. Except for the dreams, of course. When she fell asleep, he would lie by her and watch her as long as he dared, hungry to learn all he could about her. He had never wanted to be close to anyone, but Lena had unleashed a desire in him he’d not known was there. Mayhap it was because of what she had suffered in her own past. He craved a connection, an understanding he would never ask for, yet he could give her that understanding. When he kissed her, he felt as if they were two ropes tying into an unbreakable knot. He now knew the pattern of her breath when she slept, her favorite side to lie on, how a smile would sometimes pull at her lips in her sleep, and how throwing her arm and leg over him was the signal that the deepest sleep had overcome her.
Thinking back on his time with the women before Lena, most especially Euphemia, he felt nothing but shame. There had been nothing gentle or loving with any lass he had ever joined with, yet he honestly did not think he could have offered any of them anything more or allowed them to share more with him. And none had asked for it, except for Euphemia, who had once asked him to sleep the night with her. Falling asleep beside her had taught him his limitations.
“Ye’re made of stone, Laird,” Baldwin said. “If I’m ever so lucky as to have a wife that looks as yers, I think I would nae be able to help myself from ravishing her, even on a birlinn full of curious men.”
A feminine gasp from behind them had Alex gritting his teeth at the bad timing and the lad’s foolish tongue. Baldwin’s face turned white as he glanced behind Alex to Lena. “My lady,” Baldwin stammered.
Alex turned to her, not shocked to see her eyes shining like twin daggers. “Lad,” he said gravely to Baldwin, “apologize to my wife.”
“I’m sorry, my lady,” Baldwin blurted. “Truly.”
“Aye. I can see that,” she said in a surprisingly gentle and understanding tone. Alex had half expected that she might rant at the clot-heid lad for his unthinking words. “From now on—” She paused mid-sentence, a thoughtful look coming to her face. “What’s yer name?”
“Baldwin, my lady.”
She smiled. “’Tis a fine name. From now on, Baldwin, be sure to taste yer words before ye spit them out.”
Baldwin nodded. He was staring at Lena with a look of utter adoration. Alex scrubbed a hand over his face, fighting his smile. Lena was changing. The gentleness that used to define her as a young girl, the openness that always drew people in, was returning. He liked to think he had something to do with that. He may not be able to banish his own darkness, but he was going to banish hers.
He waved Baldwin away, wanting to prepare her before his entire clan descended upon her and demanded her attention and time.
He could clearly see his people awaiting them on the shores of the Isle of Mull.
“Yer home is verra beautiful,” Lena said, shifting her gaze from Duart Castle to his bandaged hand. He moved it from the rail he was leaning on to his side, though he could feel her unanswered questions about his nightmare heavy in the air between them like a thick mist.
He stared at his castle, trying to see it as she might. The castle stood atop a tall hill and rose high in the sky, appearing almost to touch the heavens above. It was surrounded by sharp rocks toward the top of the hill, but there was thick green grass lower near the shore, which covered the ground more than halfway up to the castle. It beckoned to one to lie down on its plush blades. His home was intimidating and had been built that way purposely. The thick walls of gray stone looked impenetrable, and they very nearly were.
“’Tis nae beautiful,” he murmured, sure she’d only said it to be polite. “It looks threatening, as if anyone who dares to approach that is nae a MacLean or an ally will be risking their lives.”
“Aye,” she said softly. “It’s in the looming ferocity of yer home that I find beauty. “’Tis a castle that I can feel safe in, I think.”
A moment of perfect clarity settled upon him. She was finally feeling secure. All she’d done in the past, her rages, not washing herself for weeks on end so that she looked like a dirty hound, was so that no one—no man—would want to look at her or touch her. A lump hardened in his throat as he took in her appearance. Her rosy cheeks and sun-kissed skin made her look particularly fetching and healthy. Her beauty, coupled with the lovely green gown she wore, was certain to make many men in his clan besotted with his wife.
Hellfire. He was besotted with her. He wasn’t sure when it had happened or how, but his wife had his full desire and attention, and he wished to protect and shelter her always. Other emotions simmered below the surface, and when he prodded them with his mind, a dull ache burst in his chest. He caught Lena’s fingers with his own, pleased when she did not flinch or tug away. She’d grown accustomed to this sort of touch and his soft kisses, and he looked forward to helping her grow accustomed to the rest of him.
“What happened to yer hand?” she demanded. He had unthinkingly taken her hand with his injured one.
“Och,” he replied with as much nonchalance as he could. “I dreamed I was beating an enemy.”
She regarded him with probing eyes. “And when Donald tried to wake ye, ye thought him to be the enemy?”
“Aye,” he said. “Sometimes I dream of foes,” he continued slowly, understanding that now would be the perfect time to tell her that he could never sleep the night with her. “If I’m awakened, sometimes I strike out at whomever is near.”
Her mouth parted.
He nodded. “’Tis why I’ll nae be sleeping the nights with ye, but I’ll sleep just across the hall from ye in a bedchamber.”
“Ye kinnae stay away from our bed because of nightmares,” she said, her tone wounded.
He gritted his teeth. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt her, but if he slept the night with her and was gripped in one of his dreams, he could very well try to kill her. He had to make her understand that it was not her. Tugging his good hand though his hair, he watched for a moment as his men scampered about the birlinn, bringing it to shore. There was not much time to explain, and he’d not even prepared her for his boisterous clan yet.
“I dunnae trust myself when I am in the grips of a dream, Lena.”
“I’ve nae had a bad dream since I spoke of Findlay to ye.” She cocked her head and stared at him expectantly, and he knew with certainty that she was suggesting that he speak to her about his dreams. That, he could not,would not, do. Ever.
