Page 41 of A Promise of Love

T he candles flickered in the darkness, casting long shadows in the room .

Judith hugged herself against the chill and stared into the black opening of the massive fireplace in the laird's room. Its cavernous depths could hold a six foot length of tree trunk, but now it lay bare and cold; the last fire blazing in this room had been the one sparked by the Duke of Cumberland’s troops .

But Judith wasn’t thinking about her ties to the Duke’s army, of Bennett or Anthony. She was thinking of Granmere’s words in the keep, of the duty she’d asked of Judith, of words spoken about love .

Alisdair thought her smile sad and strange.

He had been right, those months ago, to think that this English woman would bedevil him.

She charmed him, too, promising secrets not quite revealed and hints of passion never quite released.

He’d suspected much about this accidental bride of his, but he hadn’t realized that he would wish to protect her, that one of her uncommon smiles would cause a rush of joy through his veins .

Since Meggie’s rape, he’d been careful of his wife, recognizing in her a great and borderless grief she would not share with him.

Did she think him so unaware that he would not know?

All anyone need do was look into her eyes, see the old pain there, and know that what had happened to Meggie had once happened to Judith.

It made it all so clear, the nightmares, the stifled screams, the terror.

It was more than a bad marriage Judith feared, but a man’s domination itself .

The knowledge of it singed his heart. Yet, he could do nothing to ease her, if she would not share her secret.

Nor would he rush the pace. When the time was right, she would tell him and he would listen.

And when she told him, he wouldn’t betray by word or expression how much he wished her long dead husband alive simply for the joy of killing him again .

“I'd not thought you the type to seek out self-punishment, myself," he said now, brushing aside his rage for gentle humor. “It is a cold place, our room .”

She looked at him over her shoulder, met his smile with a small one of her own .

"Are you practicing for winter, then?" he asked noting her shivers and the fact that both her arms were wrapped around herself. The breeze from the open window was not chilly to a Scot, but raw to one accustomed to English climes .

"I'm not sure I can take one of your winters, MacLeod," Judith confessed, "I'm nearly freezing now ."

"Then, let me warm you," he coaxed, coming up behind her and putting his arms around her, holding her fiercely in a tight embrace. It was the first time in a long time she'd accepted his touch and he was not going to let her go so easily .

So a bear must feel, she thought whimsically, as she leaned back against his chest. His head nuzzled the top of her chin, and for a perfect moment, they stood, untouched by the cares of the day, unaware of the half-burned room, each immersed in thoughts of the other .

“Did the lambing go well ?”

“We have yet another wool producer, my sweet. All matted and wet and bleating like hell for its mam .”

He thought she smelled of open air and rare English roses, that her hair was as soft as the downy thatch on Douglas's head, that her skin was like satin against his callused palms .

Judith melted into his tenderness, an emotion she would not have ascribed to another living male. But the MacLeod was a different sort of man, wasn't he? This was the same man whose hand effortlessly assisted Geddes up a steep set of stairs, or who lifted Douglas until he shouted with glee .

She cared for this man, in a way that surpassed anything she'd ever felt before.

When he coughed in the night, it woke her and she would lay there for long seconds before falling back to sleep herself, calmed that he was not suffering from the ague or from some other swift and deadly illness.

When he sweated, as his large body was wont to do under even a thin sheet, she checked him for fever, as though he were no older than a two year old child.

She cosseted him, protected him, nurtured him, and if those gestures went no further than her mind, at least there, she could fuss and flutter and be concerned and none would know .

She wanted to hold Alisdair within her arms, kiss his broad back and trace words of possession upon his warm, bare skin. The depth of her emotions scared her, as Anthony had never been able to frighten her. As Bennett, despite his attempts, had never accomplished .

But was that what Granmere called love? Judith didn't know. How could you recognize it, if you’ve never experienced it before ?

Judith suspected that to love Alisdair MacLeod was to surrender herself. To trust, wholly and completely. To believe in goodness and right, nobility and honor .

So easy, and so difficult for someone tinged by guilt and touched by evil .

She sighed, heavily and he caught the sound, spun her in his embrace as if she were no lighter than a feather. His brandy eyes sparkled, a finger tipped her chin up so that he could inspect her face, his lips tilted in a restrained smile .

So might a wolf have looked before stalking the sheep .

"Did everyone adore Anne ?"

The question so surprised Alisdair that his mind froze in mid-thought. He glanced down at his wife .

" Anne ?"

"Yes, your wife ."

"I'm aware of her identity, Judith," he said, irritation swamping his senses. She never did what he expected, did she? She was always full of surprises. He smiled, then, at the thought that the next twenty years would not be boring with her .

Judith felt something inside her twist at the tender reminiscent look.

She looked down at her clenched hands and wondered why she dared to ask.

Except for that one day, when he'd held her so gently upon his lap, Anne's name had not been broached between them.

A picture of her had grown in Judith's mind.

A gentle sweet face, filled with patience and kindness, a Madonna glow of purity around her.

She would have been the beloved wife of the laird, a fitting mate .

"Anne suffered as well during the winters," he said. "Is that what you wished to know?" His forehead wrinkled in confusion .

"I never said I wanted to know anything, MacLeod ."

"I'll not argue the point, Judith. I'm not yet as addled as Geddes. I heard the question. I just can't comprehend why the answer is so important to you ."

"It was but a passing comment, MacLeod, as insubstantial as inquiring about the weather ."

"I think not," he said, not allowing her to escape from his embrace despite her wriggling. "As far as affection, I never heard any ill words spoken of her ."

"Not even from Fiona?" Judith mumbled, her forehead pressed against the great expanse of Alisdair's chest. Not for the world would she have looked up into those too knowing eyes .

"Not even Fiona," he said. The words held no mocking humor, only a depth of understanding she recognized and which made her jealousy feel childish .

"I think you would have liked Anne," Alisdair said, his wish to ease Judith's discomfort giving voice to words which should have been better left unsaid.

"She was sweet and kind, with never a thought for herself.

She was too gentle for life at Tynan, though, I see that now.

Sometimes, I think she was too good for life at all . "

It had been difficult living with a saintly wife, Alisdair remembered.

Anne never spoke above a whisper, her smiles were tremulous and timid, she never reached out to touch him, or to initiate their love play.

She lay docile, sacrifice not so much her aim as to retain a ladylike and demure pose while engaged in the least polite of human occupations.

Yes, everyone at Tynan had loved her, but it was the gentle natured affection of those who care for one in their midst not as strong.

Judith, for all her travails, had the soul of a survivor, not an angel .

It was a real woman who stared back at him, eyes darkened to nearly black, an unrecognizable expression molding Judith's features into a mask of perfect, polite, unrevealing restraint .

Too good for life. Not like a slightly used English wife with a soul destroying secret. Not sweet, nor kind. Certainly not selfless. Anne would not have been racked by guilt, by a culpability which sickened her .

Who wouldn't have loved such a paragon of virtue? Who wouldn't have adored such an angelic personage? It was a wonder the MacLeod didn't have a statue erected in her honor or a shrine built with her name inscribed on it .

Saint Anne .

"Excuse me," Judith said, feeling all too human at this particular moment.

Her words were clipped and very English, her tone cold as she slipped from his arms and would have escaped.

Except of course, that one left the MacLeod's presence only when the MacLeod allowed it.

She tugged, he pulled. She jerked, he only drew her closer.

She tensed, he tumbled her onto the bed .

She lay where he placed her, not moving when he lay beside her.

When his arm reached out to pull her close, she did not demur but lay stiffly against him, her head cradled reluctantly on one of his arms. His fingers idly traced a path against her temple.

She sighed, a grumbling sound of surrender.

He reached out one hand and twisted a tendril of her hair around his wrist .

"What is it, my little English wife ?"

"Do not call me that," she said fiercely, "do not ever call me that, again." Her eyes were level on his, the look direct, so filled with remorse and pain that he brought her hard against him .

"It is not your fault." His words were fierce, his tone muted, as if the room had somehow become a hallowed place where he must whisper. "For all the sins of the English, you are blameless ."