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I t was dark by the time William arrived at Creagdoun, and as a stable lad took his horse, he drew in a deep breath and headed to the castle. By rights, the only thing in his head should have been the question of who the traitor in his midst was. But all he could think of was that his own wife still believed he’d deceived her.

It was more than that, though. He’d been so certain that once they were wed, she’d no longer doubt him. What the hell did she expect him to do to prove how wrong she was?

As he entered the great hall, Isolde came to greet him with a welcoming smile on her face. Warmth flooded through him, thickening his cock, and he swallowed a groan. Would she always affect him this way?

Half of him hoped so. The other half just wanted her to trust him, the way she had when she’d called him Njord.

“Ye must be famished.” She dusted his shoulders of nonexistent snow before patting his chest. Bemused, he gazed at her. Where was the angry woman he’d left this morn? Not that he was complaining. Women were a mystery, but none were so unfathomable as Isolde MacDonald. “I’ll have supper served directly.”

As she turned away, he grabbed her wrist and swung her back. She raised her eyebrows in enquiry, but there was the faintest trace of a smile, too, as though she held a secret close.

His heart smashed against his chest as a possibility for her change in attitude hit him. Could it be possible to know this early that she had conceived his child? He wasn’t sure it was, but then again, Isolde was from the Isle of Eigg and had never made a secret of how she followed the ways of her ancient foremothers. And those ancient foremothers might well have passed down such knowledge through their daughters’ lineage.

“Ye have something to tell me?” He kept his voice low, scarcely daring to believe his suspicion was right. But he could imagine no other reason why she was being so attentive.

She blinked, as if his perception had taken her aback. “I do,” she whispered. “But not here, William. I’m not certain ye’ll want it to be common knowledge yet.”

He wanted to shout it from the tallest tower. But if she wanted to wait, that was fine by him too. Tenderly, he cradled her face, even though she was now giving him a decidedly wary look. “Whenever ye’re ready. ’Tis early days, after all.”

“Early days?” There was an edge in her voice that, bizarrely, reminded him of their conversation this morning. “What are ye talking about?”

His fingers froze against her cheek. It was glaringly plain they weren’t speaking of the same thing, but he had to be sure. “Ye’re not with child, then?”

Her face heated, and while he was silently charmed by the blush that suffused her cheeks, he wasn’t fooled into thinking she’d appreciate him remarking on it. Her next words confirmed it.

“Certainly not.” She kept her voice as low as his, but there was no mistaking her affront. God in heaven, what was there to be affronted about? “Are ye mad? We’ve been wed scarcely a fortnight. Even if such a thing were possible, it’d be far too early to know anything for sure.”

He didn’t appreciate being called mad, but at least no one was close enough to overhear. Unfortunately, he could feel plenty of curious glances arrowed their way, and he’d be damned if he’d give them any more entertainment by responding to Isolde’s insult.

He unpeeled his fingers from her face and gave her a grim smile. “It may be too early to tell, but ye cannot deny it’s certainly possible. I don’t know why ye appear so offended by the idea.”

So much for not responding.

“I’m not offended.” She gave an oddly furtive glance about the hall, as though suddenly aware of their surroundings and how they were the center of attention. Her blush deepened and she didn’t meet his eyes, instead staring with deadly intent at his chest. He wasn’t sure why he found it all so fascinating. “I simply forgot ye’re a Campbell and expect yer wife to be nothing more than a broodmare.”

He recoiled as if she’d smacked him across the face. And was flung back to the first time they’d kissed, on their walk to Kildonnan village, when she’d confided how a future of bearing countless bairns filled her with dread.

Her distress had touched him, and what’s more, the prospect of her bearing another man’s child had silently enraged him. But she wasn’t with another man. She was with him .

There were a great many things he wanted to say to her. But all he could manage was one outraged word. “ Broodmare ?”

She cast another surreptitious glance about the hall before reluctantly catching his glare. “Ye caught me off guard.”

Was that her idea of an apology for slighting his honor?

Now wasn’t the time, and it sure as hell wasn’t the place, but he couldn’t let it go. “Do ye still really think so little of me, Isolde?”

“No. I don’t. I...” Her voice trailed away, and she bit her lip. “Must we discuss this here, William? ’Tis most mortifying.”

Somewhat mollified by her response, he gave a brusque nod, and they continued to where servants were waiting with their supper. But he still couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

He bent his head, so his lips brushed her ear. “I’ve no wish for a dozen bairns if that isn’t what ye want. But I need a son, Isolde. And truth be told, a daughter, too.” Aye, a daughter he would dote upon, with her mother’s incomparable green eyes and fiery temper. “Tell me that doesn’t make ye feel like a broodmare.”

She shot him a frankly startled glance, and despite the scandalous nature of their conversation, he had the bizarre urge to laugh.

“No.” She sounded as though the word all but choked her. “I’ve no, uh, objections to such a reasonable request.”

“Good.”

As they sat down and everyone else took their place at the table, she leaned close. “If ye must know,” she whispered, “I’m willing to give ye four bairns, Just not one a year, like so many men expect. But then, ye’re not like most men, William Campbell, and that’s a fact.”

He choked on his ale. God in heaven, would this woman ever cease to astonish him? He had no idea how she expected to arrange such a thing as to how many children they would have or how often she might birth them, but right now that was of no significance.

All that mattered was she was looking at him with warmth in her remarkable eyes and a softly mocking smile on her lips.

Damn, it was good to be home.

*

After supper, despite wanting nothing more than to carry his bride to their bedchamber, he had his usual daily meeting with Lamond, his seneschal. When they returned to the hall and Lamond took his leave, William wasn’t best pleased when Robert Fletcher and Malcolm MacNeil approached him.

“I trust all’s well with the earl,” Malcolm said.

“Aye.” He wasn’t in the mood for idle talk, even if the subject hadn’t been about the earl. He wanted to seek out his bride.

“William.” There was a concerned expression on Robert’s face that caused him to draw in a long breath and push his impatience aside. It was obvious the man had something of importance to share. “’Tis not my business, I know, but I can’t help but be wary. Lady Isolde and her man, Patric, were seen sword fighting earlier this day. We thought ye should be aware.” He glanced at Malcolm for confirmation, who, with some reluctance, nodded.

Irritation flared through him, and before he could stop himself, he said, “Are ye spying on my wife now, Robert?”

Robert reeled back as though William had struck him. “’Tis no secret. Half the castle saw what happened.”

In which case, half the castle had witnessed Isolde’s skill with the sword. “And yer problem is?”

“The problem is Lady Isolde only narrowly escaped dire injury,” Malcolm said.

Incredulous, he shot dark glares between both men. “What?”

“The weight was too great for her. ’Twas a damn claymore. Who gives a noble-born lady a claymore?” A frown slashed Malcolm’s brow as though he took it as a personal insult.

“The timing seemed suspect, with ye gone from Creagdoun,” Robert added. “As though Patric knew ye’d never grant permission for him to engage Lady Isolde in such a dangerous pastime.”

He conceded the sight of Isolde fighting Patric must have been alarming, since neither man was aware of her prowess nor had seen her expertise on Eigg.

And yet . . .

That wasn’t what they were saying, was it?

The weight was too great for her. What in hellfire was Malcolm suggesting?

Before his attack, he would have demanded clarification and corrected their assumptions. But now he had to watch every word he uttered, even if Isolde’s actions had nothing to do with what had happened to him.

“Leave it with me,” he said, instead, knowing full well how both men would interpret his words. Let them. They’d soon discover his wife’s skill with the sword with their own eyes. But for now, he needed to hear Isolde’s side of the story.

He found her in their antechamber with her serving woman, who took one look at him and made herself scarce. Isolde gave him a smile, and he strode across the chamber and pulled her into his arms.

She sank against him, her arms winding around his back, and her elusive scent of lavender teased his senses, causing him to all but forget what he needed to ask her.

“Now we’re alone, can ye tell me what news the earl has for ye?”

The earl had sworn him to silence. But Isolde was his bride, and outside the purview of such edicts the earl might issue. Besides, if not for her, he’d be dead.

“It appears Torcall MacGregor’s son is still alive.”

She drew in a sharp breath, clearly instantly grasping the situation. “And he wants Creagdoun back.”

“Don’t be afraid.” Hell, he should have held his tongue, pretended all was well. The last thing he wanted was to alarm her. “Now we know who the enemy is, the earl’s network will soon hunt him down.”

“I’m not afraid for myself. Promise me ye’ll take care, William.”

Despite knowing how real the danger was with Alan MacGregor after his blood, Isolde’s concern on his behalf caused heat to encase his chest. It seemed she finally believed he’d told her the truth about being smashed over the head on his ship. “I will. And ye must do the same, Isolde.”

“I don’t have a choice, seeing as I can’t even leave the castle.” Her smile was brittle, but it was also clear she was trying to be reasonable. While he’d like to know what had changed her attitude since they’d last spoken about it this morning, he didn’t want to rouse her ire, and besides, there was something else he wanted to talk about.

“I hear ye and Patric practiced yer swordplay earlier.”

Her arms slackened about him, but he held her close, and she couldn’t escape. “Aye.” She sounded reluctant, and his senses went on alert. Was there truth in what Robert and Malcolm had said? “It didn’t go well.”

“How do ye mean? Ye’re a fine swordswoman.” The word tripped up his tongue, but he wasn’t certain what else to call her when the term was so apt.

She drew in a ragged breath. “I was, on Eigg. But here...” Her voice trailed away, and a shudder rippled through her. “My skills have deserted me, just as I feared.”

He recalled a conversation they’d had on Eigg when she’d said a similar thing to him. He’d thought it far-fetched then and hadn’t changed his mind. “Ye’re a little rusty. That’s all. If I’m not mistaken, it’s been more than two weeks since ye last picked up yer claymore.”

“I’m not rusty.” There was an edge in her voice, and she flattened her hands against his chest, although she didn’t attempt to push him. “I told ye what would happen as soon as I left my isle, but ye wouldn’t believe me.”

“A skill doesn’t desert ye simply because ye live elsewhere.”

“’Tis the skill of my foremothers, and their blood is the heartbeat of the isle that gives me my strength. How can I channel their power when I’m so far from home?”

Her words stung, but it was the pain in her voice that stabbed through him like, God damn it, the blade of her beloved claymore itself. Yet she was wrong, and not just about her skill with the sword.

“This is yer home now.” Why couldn’t she see that? But she didn’t, and instinctively he braced himself for the scathing response she’d undoubtedly fire his way.

“I know that, William. Truly, I’m not blaming ye for any of this. But ’tis just the way things are, and I must reconcile myself to it.”

He hadn’t expected her to agree with him. Or absolve him from blame for her current situation. By rights, he should be glad she’d finally accepted her new life, yet all he felt was oddly deflated.

Because he didn’t want her to reconcile with anything, least of all the fact she was the mistress of Creagdoun—and his wife. He wanted her to embrace it. To embrace her life with him .

“It won’t always be this way.” His voice was gruff. “Once we’ve caught Alan MacGregor and his followers, ye’ll have the freedom ye crave. I don’t keep ye within the castle walls on a whim, Isolde.”

Her smile was unexpected, a glimmer of sunlight in the growing gloom of the chamber, and it fairly took his breath away. Would he ever understand how his bride’s mind worked?