Page 46 of The Lone Wolf's Bride

He could have merely overseen the work, but he enjoyed labouring, the dirt, the dust, the sweat, as it concentrated his mind and allowed him a respite, however brief, from thinking about Ilene. It took him out of her presence too. Every day these many weeks past, he had left her behind, isolated, a virtual prisoner at the cottage, while he roamed about the country gathering support for Duncan and the cause of restoring the King, sniffing out treachery and disloyalty and building for the future, which he now clearly saw, was here. He loved this place. It’s wildness suited him.

Some nights he had stayed at Cuan Dubh as the rooms were slowly cleared of debris and filth. Having spent a lifetime sleeping out in the open, the cold and draughts were no real hardship to him. Other nights he had spent staring at the bottom of a tankard of ale, drinking himself to oblivion. In an effort to deal with the hunger gnawing at him, he had even ventured to a local whorehouse, but that had just made things worse. Ending up alone, with a willing woman draped all over him, pretty and eager, all he could feel was disgust with himself. Murray had not felt the faintest stirrings of attraction looking at her and had been unable to do anything other than offer his excuses, toss her a coin for her trouble and leave.

But whenever he looked at Ilene, despite the anger boiling inside him, he felt nothing but white-hot lust, and it was all he could do not to drag her to bed and take her. Despite the disastrous end to his wedding night, he could not forget the way her soft curves had melded to his hard body, her passionate response to his touch, the feel of her under his hands and, above all, the overwhelming affection he had felt for her, which had hinted at the possibility of something deeper. For a moment that night, he had thought she desired him, and that is what bound him to her like some evil spell had been cast. But that seed of love had been well and truly starved before it could reach the light.

Murray was at a loss to understand why he still wanted her, why this unwanted lust consumed him. It wasn’t as if he was a green youth, in the flush of first love, naive and adoring of women, grateful for their favour, no matter how they treated him. There had been a vast array of them, over the years. Whores, camp followers and common girls alike found his rough charm and winning smile irresistible. Even the fine ladies in London had not been able to resist taking such a strapping, virile man to bed for a few hours of amusement as an antidote to their paunchy, in-bred husbands.

If he had not put Ilene on a pedestal, if he could only think of her as he thought of them, as an amusement, a diversion. But he had idolised her and the contrast between the woman he thought he was marrying and the lying, conniving little whore she had turned out to be, was too great. Stubbornly, he clung to his anger, while inside he seethed with frustration and loneliness, longing for its end.

The light was beginning to fade from the sky, as a red glow turned the horizon to fire. Murray threw down the stone and sent a man off to bring his horse, for he was done with feeling sorry for himself.

***

As he approached the cottage, he saw Ilene outside at the chopping block, raising the heavy axe over her head. She brought it crashing down onto a sturdy block of wood. It sank a good way in, but it was too hard.

‘Ow’, she exclaimed jumping back and grabbing her shoulder. He heard her as she sucked her breath in through her teeth and turned to try to get the axe back out.

‘Enough,’ he shouted, rushing towards her. ‘What on earth are you doing?’

‘We are low on firewood, so I am chopping some,’ she said angrily.

‘Aye, and you’re doing a very bad job of it too. This axe is too heavy for you, you could hurt yourself.’

‘The fire is out, I am cold, I need wood and there was no one to do it for me,’ she replied, her teeth chattering in the brisk wind which swept in off the ocean, laying flat the long grass along the dunes.

‘I told you I had affairs to manage and would be late home. Now, give me the axe, go and stable my horse and then get in out of the wind woman.’

‘I can do it myself,’ she snapped, as, despite her resisting, he tore the axe from her hands.

In that moment, Murray felt she was quite capable of using it on him, judging by the look on her face. ‘No, you cannot. Think about how you might injure yourself, or the bairn. Now go,’ he shouted, tearing off his plaid and pulling loose his shirt from his kilt, as she glowered at him.

Ilene had slowly started to defy him, which was brave of her, in the circumstances. Of course, he could have punished her for it, with the back of his hand, as many men did to their wives, but he didn’t have the stomach for that. In a way, he even admired her courage. For some perverse reason, her defiance only made desire rise up in him. Every time she talked back at him she was arousing some beast within.

In this instance, she obviously realised it was pointless to resist his order and stomped over to his horse, leading it to the stable. Was she wondering where he might have been all day, a tavern or worse? He did not discuss his actions with her, he did not share, and she had no right to ask him, given her own dishonesty. If he told her that is where he had been, would she even care? He doubted she would be jealous about his having another woman, just grateful he had spent his lust on another, and not her.

Ilene took her time settling the horse. She was angry but a lot of other things too. Strangely, she was relieved Murray was home tonight as, though a he may be a grudging companion, at least it meant she would at least have someone to share supper with. And there was something else confusing her, which she needed to hide from him, at all costs. When he had appeared, she had wanted to run to him and beg him to hold her, like a fool. Loneliness was getting the better of her it seemed, her kindness too, for though he was always angry with her, she often had a strange desire to comfort him.

When she emerged from the stable, it was to see Murray attacking the woodpile with vigour. He wielded the axe as if it were a toothpick, effortlessly, brutally, bringing it down onto the wood with a dull whack which echoed over the howl of the wind. There was anger and frustration in the way he worked, relentlessly and quickly. His shirt flapped in the gusting wind, first billowing outward, then deflating, moulding itself against the muscles swelling along his broad back and ribs.

When he bent to place a new piece of wood on the block, where his shirt gaped, she could see his chest, firm, muscular, beautiful. She put her thumb to her mouth and bit hard on her nail, as admiration swelled in her chest, and she felt a need to touch him that was almost uncontrollable. How he would snarl at her if she did, if she just walked up to him and ran her fingers, slowly, down that smooth skin.

Just then he broke his intense concentration and looked up, breathing heavily from his exertions. He seemed to see the lust in her eyes plain as day, returning her look with one of his own. He dropped the axe.

Ilene rushed away, around the corner of the cottage. She stopped to lean her cheek against the cold stone wall, heart thumping.

Oh God, she couldn’t want him in that way, it was too wicked, after her betrayal. It made no difference anyway because he did not want her. He had made it plain that, in his eyes, she was ruined. But oh, how she wanted to be ruined, over and over, not by Aidan any more, for these days she could scarce remember his face. Instead, she wanted Murray to take her in his arms, to make her sin, as she had before. Ilene realised she wanted this more than anything, she yearned for it and she had begun to dream of it. Whore he had called her, and she must be, to have such thoughts.

Why could she not be content? Murray had spared her family shame and danger, by keeping her secret safe? He had given her his name, legitimised her unborn child, surely, that was enough? It wasn’t fair to ask more of him, and what was the point, anyway, for would never forgive her, she would never get close to him again. Every bad name he had called her, every bit of disdain and disgust he showed her, she richly deserved. And as to Murray, he deserved a truer, kinder woman than her. To Ilene that was the very worst of it, that she was not, and now never would be, worthy of him.

***

The crack of the axe continued until dusk crept in and Ilene called for Murray to come inside.

‘Aye, I will be in soon,’ he shouted back, bending down to pick up a stump of wood. He dropped it immediately, cursing. ‘Damn these splinters,’ he shouted in frustration, looking at the pad of his thumb.

Ilene went out to him. ‘What have you done?’

‘You distracted me, it went right in.’

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