Page 88 of Rebellion's Fire

“Cairistiona, daughter of Rhuadri,” he murmured. “I take you, forsaking all others.” Was this a personal promise? Or the words of the ancient handfast that had married people long before the church had come, and still did where the church was too distant to reach.

He waited a moment, but she couldn’t speak and didn’t want to. That would be giving in…wouldn’t it? She barely knew anymore, and in any case, it didn’t matter. This had only ever been leading to one thing. She didn’t even dread it, since his hand was almost there already and felt so…exciting.

And when he slid his thigh over both of hers and entered her body, there was no pain, only new, shocking fullness and insidious pleasure that deepened with his every move. Maybe because he kept caressing her with his hands, twisting down to kiss her breasts, it all seemed part of the lethargic heat he’d already aroused within her. And when it grew to impossible intensity and shattered astonished joy within her, she turned her face into the pillow to hide whatever it was. She knew instinctively this weakened her, made her vulnerable as nothing else in her life ever had.

But he wouldn’t allow it. “Look at me,” he whispered, cupping her face between his hands, forcing her to look into his hot, clouded eyes as the strange ecstasy took her. Still, he moved above her, in her, trembling now, until he buried his groaning mouth in hers and spent inside her.

Only then did she realize her arms were around him, clutching his neck, his shoulder, maybe in some pointless effort to ground herself.

He lifted his head slowly, trying, she thought, to control his panting breath. She bore his full weight since his good elbow seemed to have collapsed, but he raised himself with unexpected consideration, dragged the blankets up and over them both before he flopped on his stomach beside her instead.

“I took you, Cairistiona,” he whispered. “And you took me.”

Then his eyelids flickered down, covering his dark, dark eyes, and just like that, with one powerful, naked arm still across her breasts, he fell asleep.

Christian gazed at him, actually brought up her hand, and touched his wild hair. A smile rose up, spreading across her lips because it was soft after all. Then she remembered why he was here, why he wanted her, and let her hand fall back on the blanket.

Curiously, she felt those tears in her throat, where they’d been lurking most of the day, but they no longer seemed all sad. Adam MacHeth had given her something. It wasn’t love, but it wasn’t all bad either. She could live with this. She could. Tomorrow, when she was rested, she’d work out how.

*

Gormflaith’s memory ofTirebeck was hazy. She knew she’d been here as a child, with her mother, but apart from Tirebeck Hill and the smell of the sea, none of it seemed familiar, least of all Adam being married, and to that stiff, haughty woman.

The gates stood open as they approached the hall. Gormflaith hoped Cairistiona would notice how the local people, farmers, fishermen, and their wives hung around to welcome them with smiles and gifts of flowers for her mother and herself. There was only one Lady of Ross, and being Adam’s wife didn’t make her that.

The yard and outbuildings were tidy and well repaired, at least, and servants she didn’t recognize, as well as soldiers she did, hurried to meet their horses. Tirebeck was small by Gormflaith’s standards and unused to receiving so many distinguished visitors. Gormflaith’s anxious eyes picked out her brother at once. He seemed to be discussing building matters, his waving hand moving from a pile of charred wood—presumably all that remained of the Frenchman’s castle—to the far side of the enclosure, where he made a pushing gesture.

On the way, he caught sight of his arriving visitors and broke off, striding forward to meet them. At least he looked well, although his happiness was harder to gauge. Dark shadows under his eyes spoke of too little sleep, but she didn’t want to think about the reasons for that.

He seemed pleased enough to see them, coming himself to help their mother to dismount.

“How is she?” the lady asked at once, searching Adam’s face.

“Judge for yourself,” Adam said evasively, standing aside so they could both see Cairistiona coming out of the hall to welcome them. Halfway there, she hesitated, as if wondering if she could make the lady come to her. But Adam held out his hand to her, and she came forward with her head tilted upward, as cold and proud as when Gormflaith had first seen her, and murmured the necessary words of greeting and welcome.

Surely Adam couldn’t have bedded this lump of ice already? There was still hope to save him from this marriage.

To Gormflaith’s annoyance, her mother closed the distance between them, embracing Cairistiona as if she really accepted this. Worse, she fixed Gormflaith with her sternest glance.

Sighing, Gormflaith went through the motions. Only, when she touched the woman’s cold hand did she begin to suspect something deeper was wrong here. Cairistiona felt stiff in her embrace, her cheeks, her lips as cold as her hand. Then she felt the tiny shudder Cairistiona was trying to hide. Shaking. Behind the ice and the pride, the girl was hiding distress. Perhaps she always had been.

Gormflaith’s hostility fell away like a discarded cloak. Cairistiona was no older than she and was expected to bury her husband and marry another on the same day. And not just any other, her husband’s killer. On top of which, to anyone who didn’t understand, Adam could be a daunting, not to say terrifying, prospect. She could have sworn that on their last meeting, Cairistiona had shown anger toward Adam, but surely no fear. Because she’d imagined no intimacy then?

Impulsively, Gormflaith held on to her a moment too long so she could whisper in her ear, “It’s all right. Everything will be all right.”

Another shudder, which, as Gormflaith stepped back, she recognized as suppressed laughter. But it wasn’t scornful.

Cairistiona’s eyes held a kind of desperate humor. “Your mother said the same thing.”

But the formal greetings weren’t yet over. Donald bowed to her and kissed her hand and presented the Bishop of Ross and Father Patrick.

Cairistiona’s head jerked to face Symeon with new desperation. Her stiffness was back, along with a flush of, surely, shame. A shame she expected Symeon to recognize and share. Cairistiona didn’t want this marriage.

Gormflaith’s suspicions were confirmed when she realized that even when they walked together, leading their guests into the hall, Cairistiona did not once look at Adam.

*

Adam kept hismind busy with practical problems, namely the building of a new structure within the stockade, which he planned to push outward to make more room. On occasions such as these, the hall was too small to accommodate both his own men and Donald’s. A barracks would take care of the overspill, but it would mean enlarging the enclosure.

---