Page 26 of Beyond Dreams

He supposed it couldn’t have been easy, returned from a convent after seven years gone, only to be told you were to wed not only a stranger, but the enemy.

By the saints, though, she was a puzzle. Dreamed of him, had she? Was this true? Was it possible? Or had she invented this simply to gain—what? Solidarity with him? Kindness?

Inside his chamber, Duncan tossed his belongings onto another chair and strode to the window, peering out into close darkness and the distant moon-dappled sea. He hadn’t intended that his marriage took any more time or effort than he was willing to give—not so much as he had already and to so little effect. This was exactly why he’d avoided marriage until now! He had neither the time nor the inclination for coddling and attachments. Aside from the creation of bairns, he’d always pictured his marriage rather being in name-only. His house was already well-established and run, his base needs were met regularly in towns or by the camp followers when his army was on the move or occasionally, years ago, by Marjory in the village when he was home, before she’d wed Thallane’s carpenter. He had no need of a relationship with his wife.

But damn if he didn’t feel some inexorable pull toward Ceri MacHeth.Holly, he corrected himself. Holly MacQuillan now. Still, he was bitter and angry presently, and not only for her relentless and pathetic weeping which had sent him from her bed. She’d made a fool of him, would have him grovel and bend over backwards simply to bed her, might well have expected that he would have soothed her moments ago when her sobbing had become evident to him. He would not coddle his wife, he resolved, would expect instead that she learn how to adequately equip herself to deal with change and misfortune, as she might imagine it, and not wallow in grief not yet known.

Ah, but then, the bitterness might well have been stirred by baser longings and his own ordeal, for having been denied his rights as a husband and then summarily shown what he could not touch. Ceri—Holly, dammit!—in her shift had been nearly as seductive as she in that daring gown. The thin shift revealed a slender but shapely figure, with high and firm breasts and lean bare arms, the sight intensely arousing despite the many scowls she’d worn during their short conversation. Having touched her, though only in an attempt to subdue her, to keep her from fleeing, having caught the scent of her as she lay next to him, having skewered every visible and breathtaking inch of her with his hungry gaze, Duncan wanted to bed her for reasons that had nothing to do with a want to make the union official, was indeed left almost at the edge of madness for want.

Pivoting on his heel, he took himself away from the window, his mood further embittered. By the saints! That was the last thing he needed, to be attracted to his wife, to be bewitched by her beauty and his own want to possess her, to know her intimately.

Chapter Eight

When Holly woke thenext morning, she felt hung over. Her head pounded and her mouth tasted like a sewer. She’d slept little and thus was neither rested nor restored. Her self-indulgent crying jag had gone on for a while, longer than she’d expected, having been invigorated by her husband’s abrupt departure.

Still, she decided she would not—could not—hold it against him, his coldness.

Even though he’d proven himself incapable of any type of sympathy or had been simply unwilling to offer so much as the tiniest shred of compassion, and even though he had acted a cold and heartless brute, leaving her to cry herself to sleep, he wasn’t seriously evil, Holly determined, since he hadn’t forced himself on her. And because she did feel bad that she was, essentially part of a plot to deceive him, she decided she would try to be nice to him. She owed him that much at least. He didn’t ask for any of this, not any more than she had. But oh, what a little compassion from her husband would have done for her last night.

She’d rolled over onto her back upon waking, waiting for either purpose or resolve to find her. With her arm flung over her head, she considered the room with fresh eyes, finding it not so much different from the chamber in which she’d been imprisoned at Hewgill House, stone walls on the exterior and paneled walls in the interior, the furniture rudimentary, more utilitarian than attractive. At the thought of her prison at the MacHeth house, her eye skipped toward the door, finding the latch unengaged, which rather bolstered her, but not enough that she jumped out of bed. Swiveling her head on the pillow, she considered the indentation left by her husband, finding the pillow he’d used as he’d left it, looking as if it had been beaten with his fists before he’d rushed away from her.

While no bright sunshine streamed into the room from the lone slit of a window, there was enough light from outside to say the day was well under way and perhaps she should be as well. Groaning, she rose from the bed and used the same pitcher of water and cotton cloth to scrub her face and teeth, wondering what people did for toothbrushes in this time period.

When she’d first been brought to this bedroom yesterday by the sullen-faced maid, the trunk that had come from Hewgill House, pretending to be hers, had come with her and remained there in the corner of the room. Once more, she bemoaned the loss of her personal belongings, still not entirely sure if she believed Sidheag’s callous assertion that her purse, phone, and clothes had all been burned. Though whether true or not, it mattered little, since they were not with her, were no longer hers.

When she was done washing her face, she did bolt the door and made use of the chamber pot she’d found under the bed yesterday. She was convinced there must be a chamber pot fairy, who bippidi-boppidi-booed the pot clean after each use, since it had miraculously been empty here and at Hewgill House each time she’d needed it, though only once had she ever seen a maid disposing of its contents. Afterward, she lugged the heavy trunk out from the corner and rifled through its contents, hoping to God that all the gowns would not put her boobs on such grand display while she was here.

No, apparently daring decolletages were reserved for virginal brides, likely as a means to either ensnare or entice any recalcitrant grooms. Holly found a nice high and square-neck gown of blue cloth, which felt like wool but was decidedly lighter, and hopefully would not see her sweating before midday. She threw this over her head and promptly decided she would not suffer those hose and garters today. They’d driven her nuts yesterday—not because they’d fallen down with annoying frequency but because all day long they felt as if they might. She considered her own shoes, the sneakers she’d been wearing when she’d so rudely been swallowed by time and expelled into the medieval era, which somehow, miraculously had been stuffed into the trunk. But even as a hostage to time, she didn’t want to look like an idiot, wearing sneakers and no-show socks with a long gown. Thus, she threw on the soft leather-soled shoes she’d worn for the last few days, and then approached the door.

Gingerly, she lifted the latch to unlock the door and then drew in a deep and strengthening breath before she pulled it open and faced whatever might come her way on this day. And then she spent the next five minutes lost in a series of passageways before stumbling unwittingly onto one that led her below stairs. But the narrow spiral staircase she’d happened upon did not deliver her to the big dining hall but brought her to another warren of chambers and hallways, where eventually she landed in the kitchen.

A dozen faces turned her way when she appeared in the doorway of the low-ceilinged room, the air thickened by a heavy scent of grease and smoke. The room was floored in dark tiles that might have never seen a good scrubbing but peopled by women who appeared very neat and tidy. Waving her hand before her face, she offered a grimaced smile to one and all, but saw that none of the more-curious-than-friendly expressions showed much evolution.

“I think I’m looking for the dining room,” she said haltingly.

A robust woman with shocking bright red hair, who might have been in charge if such appointments were decided based on size and however tough a person looked, eyed Holly suspiciously, narrowing her vivid green eyes as she spewed something unintelligible. Holly immediately sensed an un-welcome, though it was not necessarily barked and snapped at her. The woman stood tall and motionless, cocking her head to one side, almost as if she challenged Holly’s presence in her domain.

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