Page 67

MALCOLM SUTHERLAND yawned, his jaw cracking. “It’s time we retired, wife.”

A few feet away, seated upon a stool before a flickering brazier, Greer nodded.

Indeed, it was getting late, and outside their pavilion, the camp slumbered as warriors took to their sheepskins, while others took their turn at the watch around the perimeter.

Husband and wife were alone in their tent; Morven had retired to the one adjacent.

Rising from the stool, Greer rubbed her back. It had started to ache whenever she was seated for a while.

Watching her, Malcolm’s heavy brow furrowed. “Ye look tired,” he observed. “Are ye well?”

“Aye,” Greer reassured him with a tight smile.

Her husband didn’t appear convinced. “Maybe I should have left ye behind in Dunrobin.”

“I’m glad ye didn’t,” Greer replied with a shake of her head. Indeed, being left alone with her blade-tongued parents-in-law and a household of sniping servants hadn’t appealed in the slightest.

“Mother said the journey south would tire ye, and maybe it has.”

Greer gave a soft snort. “I don’t need to take to my bed for another month yet, at least.” Guilt tugged at her once more then.

In her heart, she wished Brodie was the father—yet it would be easier for all if the bairn turned out to be Malcolm’s.

Pushing the uneasy thoughts aside, she moved away from the brazier, drawing aside the heavy tapestry that provided a barrier between the sleeping and living areas of their tent.

During the day, Malcolm often held meetings with his men in this pavilion, so it was important to keep them separate.

Greer’s husband followed her into their sleeping area. A wide cot piled high with sheepskins greeted them.

Halting next to the bed, Greer waited while Malcolm undid the laces of her surcote.

Wordlessly, she disrobed. And then, she turned to her husband and helped him undress. Firstly, she unlaced the bracers on his lower arms, before undoing the stays on his gambeson so he could pull the quilted garment over his head.

It was their ritual these days, helping each other get ready for bed.

Malcolm had a powerful body. When she’d met him, she’d thought some of his bulk was fat, yet the first time she’d seen him unclothed, she realized that wasn’t the case.

However, his body left her cold.

No desire flickered low in her stomach now as they climbed into bed, naked, together.

They lay in silence for a while, and Greer waited for Malcolm to turn over and go to sleep.

They didn’t converse much, they never had—right from the beginning.

And since her belly had swollen with bairn, he didn’t reach for her at night, which was a relief.

These days, Malcolm treated her as if she were fragile.

His concern was oddly touching. After everything that had happened, she’d expected him to be cruel at worst, uncaring at best.

Staring up at where shadows played across the ceiling of the pavilion, Greer’s thoughts drifted back to the nightmarish days following the scene in front of Glenkindie kirk—to her return to Druminnor, and the shame her kin had heaped upon her.

Most of the time, she tried not to think of it, yet the day’s events had brought the past bubbling to the surface.

Greer had hoped that Sutherland would spurn her, yet he’d surprised them all by announcing that he would honor his promise. And not only that, but he would wed her that day and take her away with him on the following one.

And Greer had no choice but to comply. If she didn’t wed Sutherland, she would be cast out. And so, she went through the wedding ceremony in a daze, barely hearing the words the priest uttered. There was no feasting to celebrate the day, and she and Malcolm retired early.

And that was when he’d surprised her for the second time.

She’d expected him to take what was then by rights his, by force if necessary. However, Malcolm had merely climbed into bed next to her and gone to sleep. The next morning, they departed for the north.

Greer hadn’t heard from her family since—not that she’d expected to. On the day of her departure, none of them had come out to see her off.

Malcolm didn’t touch her on the journey north either.

They shared a bed, yet he never once tried to consummate their union.

His behavior was perplexing. The man could be crude and brutish.

His warriors feared him, and servants cowered whenever he strode into a chamber, yet with his bride, the warrior was gentle.

Greer didn’t understand it.

It was only when they arrived at Dunrobin that they finally consummated their union.

Greer permitted it—even as tears stung her eyes, despair crushing her chest. She didn’t want him; she wanted no man except Brodie.

She’d braced herself to be taken roughly, yet Malcolm hadn’t.

Mercifully, he didn’t linger over the act either, and once it was done, he rolled over and fell asleep.

And when they discovered she was with bairn, he’d been pleased, almost as if it didn’t occur to him that the babe might not be his.

Greer wasn’t foolish enough to bring the subject up either; they both danced around it, pretending otherwise. And as her belly grew larger, Malcolm became increasingly protective.

She was careful around him though, for any mention of the Mackays turned his mood black. Greer wasn’t foolish enough to bring them up in conversation. She hadn’t written to Bonnie either, for fear he’d think her disloyal.

The bairn she carried had to be kept safe.

She appreciated that Malcolm had brought her with him on campaign. He knew his family disliked her and would likely mistreat her if she was left with them alone.

“The Mackays arrived today.” To Greer’s surprise, for she’d thought he was asleep, Malcolm did speak then, his low, gravelly voice waking her from a doze. “Did ye know?”

“Aye,” she murmured. “Morven told me.”

“All of the Highland clans have come,” he went on, his voice flattening. “We met earlier in the evening.”

Greer didn’t reply. Indeed, her husband had disappeared after supper for a while. She’d wondered where he’d gone, although he hadn’t volunteered any details when he returned. He’d only poured himself a cup of tart plum wine and sunk into a pile of sheepskins near the brazier.

“Ye are to stay away from them,” Malcolm said then, breaking the silence once more. There was no mistaking the steel in his tone. He was a man used to being obeyed.

“Aye, husband,” she whispered, heeding the warning.

She wondered if Malcolm had seen Brodie. She wagered he hadn’t. His mood would be foul if he had, and Iver would be canny enough to keep his brother away from meetings.

Greer cleared her throat. “What happens now?” she asked softly. “With the war?”

“The final battle is close,” Malcolm replied.

“I can feel it in my bones. The Black Douglases have suffered a few losses now … especially after the king besieged and sacked Abercorn Castle.” Her husband’s voice sharpened then.

“James Douglas is on the run … but he’ll turn and fight like a cornered dog soon enough. ”

The quiet violence in Malcolm’s voice made Greer shiver. He liked battle and killing and had been looking forward to answering the king’s call.

Greer couldn’t understand it, this lust for blood.

A sliver of ice slid down her spine then, as something occurred to her.

What if he sees Brodie on the battlefield?

Once, Iver had been his enemy, yet his hate for Brodie had eclipsed his hate for the chieftain of Dun Ugadale. In the heat of battle, what would stop Malcolm from getting his reckoning on the man who’d cuckolded him?

Oblivious to Greer’s worries, her husband continued, “We will move out tomorrow … although the camp followers will remain here, near Lockerbie … where it is safe.” His voice softened then before his large hand rested on her belly.

“This campaign will be over soon enough, Greer … and we shall return to the north … together.”

Greer’s throat tightened. “I don’t understand,” she said huskily.

“Understand what?”

“Why ye don’t hate me.”

Malcolm snorted, although when he replied, his voice had gentled further. “I save my hate for my foes, wife … not for the likes of ye.”

The night was eerily quiet, so silent that Brodie could hear the whisper of his own breathing. Standing on the southern perimeter of the camp, staring out at the darkness, he kept his senses alert.

Word had reached them that the Black Douglases were nearby.

Iver had returned from a war council that evening with news that the Red Douglases, headed by George Douglas, would be leading their army. Their force wasn’t a huge one, no more than four hundred warriors camped out here, yet with the Black Douglases scattered now, they hoped it would be enough.

Brodie’s jaw tightened. Battle was drawing close, and despite that nerves tightened his gut, there was a part of him that longed to throw himself into the fray.

Months of rage, frustration, and grief needed a focus. He itched for a fight.

It didn’t help that he’d spied the golden Sutherland banner earlier in the day.

The sight of it was a knife to the ribs.

Somewhere in this camp was Malcolm Sutherland, the man who’d taken Greer as his wife.

Aye, Brodie had heard about their wedding.

After he’d returned to Dun Ugadale, he’d wondered what had become of Greer.

Had her family cast her out or banished her to a nunnery—or would Sutherland marry her, despite the humiliation he’d suffered at her hands?

It had been the latter.

“All quiet?” Iver’s voice at Brodie’s shoulder made him startle.

Recovering, Brodie cut his brother a sidelong glance. Iver’s profile, gilded by the light of a nearby brazier, was inscrutable. He might have asked Brodie to accompany him on this campaign, yet relations hadn’t thawed between them.

On the journey south, they’d spoken little. In truth, Brodie did his best to avoid Iver during the day, riding at the rear of the column rather than up front with the laird.

In return, Iver hadn’t sought him out.

However, he did this evening.

“Aye,” Brodie said tersely. “It’s that watchful quiet though … the kind ye get right before a storm.”

“The Black Douglases have been spotted near the banks of the River Esk,” his brother replied. “Word is they’re rallying their numbers. We shall meet there and have it out with them.”

“That’s good news,” Brodie said, glancing away, his gaze sweeping the darkness. “I don’t want a long wait.”

Silence fell between the brothers then, growing heavy before Iver finally shattered it. “I owe ye an apology.”

Brodie stiffened and cut him a surprised look. “What?”

Iver grimaced. “Months ago … I said things I shouldn’t.”

“Aye,” Brodie replied warily. “As did I.”

His brother dragged a hand down his face then, muttering a curse under his breath. “I acted in the best interests of our clan … our family … but I treated yer feelings for Greer callously. I also suggested that ye weren’t worthy of the lass … and I’ve cursed myself for it ever since.”

Brodie stared at him, momentarily at a loss for how to respond. “Aye, well … it’s all done with now.”

“No, it isn’t,” Iver replied quietly. “Matters of the heart aren’t easily mended … I should know.”

Brodie huffed a humorless laugh. His brother had a point. Before meeting Bonnie, Iver had been unlucky in love. Years earlier, he’d been spurned by two women—and he’d grown bitter about it indeed. Disappointment had soured Iver’s life, but Bonnie had changed all that.

“No,” Brodie admitted after a pause, “but the seasons continue to turn, and I’m still breathing … so I have to accept things.”

Brave words, indeed. If only he could.

Iver stepped closer to him then, their gazes fusing. “Promise me one thing, will ye?”

Brodie inclined his head. “It depends on what ye are asking.”

“When we go into battle, don’t do anything deliberately reckless. Don’t throw yer life away.”

Brodie was tempted to snort, to dismiss his brother’s words with a wave of his hand, to mock them even—yet something stopped him.

It hit him then that he was approaching the coming battle with a certain fatalism. He hadn’t realized, yet Iver had.

His throat thickened as his and Iver’s stare drew out. Moving nearer still, Iver reached out and put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing firmly. “Aye, ye lost her, brother,” he said roughly. “But ye still have three brothers who’d lay down their lives for ye. Never forget that.”