Now that he had intruded on her thoughts again she found him harder to dismiss than she would have liked. He had told her that he had never forced a woman, but she wasn’t naïve enough to think that would hold good for marriage too. It was a husband’s right to take his wife whenever it pleased him. She knew full well that it would please him. Involuntarily her mind returned to the great fur-strewn bed. How would it be to lie with him, to yield completely to his will? The memory of the hayloft returned with all its startling intimacy: the warmth of his body against hers, his kisses hot along her throat, the touch of his hands on her naked flesh…
Ashlynn forced the thoughts away even as her mind reiterated the truth. She was not indifferent to him. That was the worst of it. For men the marriage bed was not about emotion, only a necessity for the getting of heirs. For a woman it was different. Where there was any kind of initial attraction, such intimacy would invariably lead to stronger feelings; in this case, feelings that were not reciprocated. Iain had married her at the king’s command, but the human heart could not be commanded. She would be the means by which he sired his heirs, nothing more. Her wishes had counted for nothing in the face of the king’s will. She was effectively Glengarron’s prisoner but, unlike other prisoners of rank, no ransom would ever buy her freedom. She was tied to this man and to this God-forsaken place for good. In any case, even if she did have her freedom, there was nothing to go back to. Whichever way she looked at it the future seemed every bit as bleak as the landscape around.
* * *
Just then the subject of her thoughts was checking on the comfort and condition of his injured men. Iain had made it a rule never to leave an injured man behind to die of cold or wounds, or to fall victim to scum like William’s mercenaries. A long and bumpy journey in the back of a wagon was painful and undesirable, but not as bad as the alternative, and all the injured had received good tending at Jedburgh. Iain guessed that if they had survived so far they’d likely live to tell the tale. He stood now looking down at the face of the young man on the pallet before him. For all the waxen pallor of cheeks and brow the Saxon was a good-looking youth and well made too.
‘How is he?’
The old woman, who had been examining her patient carefully glanced up for a moment, regarding the laird with cool grey eyes.
‘He’s lucky to be alive with those wounds and such a bad knock on the head withal. ’Tis small wonder he has a fever.’
‘Will he pull through it?’
‘He’s young, and clearly of a strong constitution or he’d not have lived thus long. God willing, he may yet survive.’
‘Tend him well.’
‘Depend on it, my lord.’
He nodded. If anyone was going to save the youth it was she. None in Glengarron knew more about healing than Meg. He just had to hope his faith in her would be justified now as it had been so many times before. He continued his round of the injured, stopping here and there to have a quiet word or to put a reassuring hand on a shoulder.
* * *
By the time he finished it was dark and the courtyard covered in glittering rime. In a day or two the snow would come in earnest. They had returned to Glengarron just in time. Fitzurse was lost to him for the moment, but there were compensations: a less arduous regime, hot food, roaring fires and a comfortable bed.
That last turned his thoughts in another direction and he sighed. The immediate future was hardly calculated to fill him with unalloyed delight. His new bride was angry and resentful and, behind that brave front she wore, more than a little afraid. He could well understand the reason for it. However, he was her protector now whether she liked it or not. God knew she needed one. As he recalled the bruises on her face his anger resurfaced. He had no time for the kind of brutality that entailed. No man worthy of the name indulged his strength in such a way against a woman. If nothing else their marriage had put an end to that. No man would ever touch her again, save he.
He had arranged for them to dine alone together in a private chamber prepared for the purpose. It was much warmer than the hall and permitted of greater intimacy. Besides, he knew that his wife wasn’t ready to run the public gauntlet just yet and there would be time enough to let the inhabitants of Glengarron see their new lady. Stories would be circulating like wildfire as it was for many of his men had wives and families all too eager for the latest gossip, and the laird’s unexpected marriage was the juiciest morsel in years.
For a while he warmed himself by the fire in the hall holding his hands to the blaze. The light shone on the gold thumb ring, giving the metal a reddish lustre: the colour of passion. He grim-aced. A forced match was hardly likely to be the precursor to passion and yet twice, briefly, there had been a spark between them. For a moment the memory of the hayloft returned to tease him. He could not deny the attraction he had felt. Could the spark be rekindled? In a little while he would know the answer.