Page 63 of The Chief's Wild Promise

Thoughts churning, she set about washing her hair, combing out the knots with her fingers. The warm water soothed her as she worked now, and she was tempted to linger in the bath for a while, to soak until her fingers and toes turned wrinkly. But Bran was waiting, and she didn’t want him to have to wash in cold water.

She looked around for a drying sheet, her pulse stuttering when she realized she’d forgotten to bring one over to the tub.

“Bran,” she said, ensuring her voice remained light. “Can ye fetch me a drying sheet? They’re on the bed.”

A pause followed before she heard his footfalls moving across the wooden floor.

A moment later, she glanced over her shoulder to see him emerge around the edge of the screen. She noted then, how he’d deliberately averted his gaze, his face turned away as he handed her the drying sheet. She also marked the faint blush that now stained his cheekbones.

God’s troth … were they back to awkwardness between them now?

“Thank ye,” she murmured, taking the drying sheet from him.

Nodding, he disappeared back behind the screen.

Makenna watched him go, her brow furrowing. After the things they’d said to each other on the journey home, she’d have thought he wouldn’t be embarrassed to be alone with her like this—yet he was.

Gnawing at her bottom lip, she rose to her feet in the tub. She then stepped out, her feet sinking into the soft sheepskin, and dried herself off before wrapping the drying sheet around her.

When she emerged from behind the screen, she found Bran seated by the hearth. Although it wasn’t a cold evening, the servants had lit a fire. The castle was made of cold, damp stone, which meant that even in the summer months, the air grew chill at night. One booted ankle rested on his knee, he leaned back, cradling the cup of wine he’d been nursing for a while now.

“Yer turn,” she said, flashing him a shy smile.

“Ye didn’t take long,” he replied, his gaze still averted.

“Aye, well … I wanted ye to be able to enjoy the hot water too.”

Bran did look her way then. A moment later, his eyes darkened, his lips parting as he dragged his gaze down the length of her body. Makenna swallowed, nervousness fluttering up. Although she was wrapped in the drying sheet, she still felt exposed. Still pink and damp from the bath, her hair falling in wet strands over her shoulders, she was sure she wasn’t the most attractive sight, yet Bran stared at her as if a siren had just emerged from behind the screen.

Realizing what he was doing, her husband blinked, closed his mouth, and nodded. “Aye.” His voice sounded odd, strained. “I certainly need one.”

He then rose swiftly from his chair, fetched himself a fresh drying sheet, and disappeared behind the screen.

Makenna retreated across the room, retrieving her comb so that she could untangle the stubborn knots that had formed in her hair over the past days. She then sank down into the chair opposite where Bran had been sitting.

Moments later, she heard his sigh as he lowered himself into the tub. “That’s better.”

“There’s soap,” she called.

A snort followed. “Rose … great … I shall smell like a lass.”

Makenna laughed, a little of the tension between them easing. “I won’t mind.”

He muttered an oath, yet splashing followed as he began to wash.

And as the sounds went on, Makenna couldn’t help but imagine him sitting there, running that slippery cake of soap over his lithe, hard-muscled body. Her pulse fluttered, heat pooling in her lower belly.

They’d been through much in the past days—starting as enemies and then forging a bond of sorts during their wedding night, before the hunt had set them back once more. But during their ordeal at the hands of the Campbells, something had shifted. Their lives had all been at risk. Suddenly, the things they’d quarreled about seemed petty. When he’d been hauled from the pit to be executed, a weaker man would have pleaded for his life. But instead, Bran had held fast.

She was proud to be married to such a man, and she wished him to know it.

Her husband was as skittish as a colt around her this evening, but he didn’t need to be.

She needed his closeness. Grief and anger had been her companions since they’d escaped Finlarig, but she didn’t want them to consume her. Instead, she longed to forget, at least for a short while—to embrace life and reassure herself that despite the ugliness, pain, and loss, beauty existed too.

And so, as the moments slid by, and she finished combing out her hair, she gathered her courage. The truth was, she wanted Bran. Badly. Even so, she hesitated.

What are ye waiting for?