Chapter Sixteen

"J illian." The insistent pounding on her door woke her from a deep sleep.

"Aye?" she answered, her voice husky with sleep.

"'Tis Garrick."

Her hands flew to her mouth a heartbeat too late; her gasp of shock was audible. What did he want? She had been trying to get her husband alone since that day in the garden, but he had been avoiding her.

"Jillian?"

The stark reality of her husband pounding on her chamber door in the middle of the night was sobering. Pulling the covers up to her chin, she called out, "Come in."

The door opened swiftly and closed quietly. The man who stood before her looked haggard, from either too much work or lack of sleep. If the rumors circulating the keep were true, it was likely to be both.

"I must speak with you." He absently ran his fingers along the scar that crossed his brow down to his temple.

It wasn't new, did it still pain him?

Jillian waited for him to say something. His intense gaze had her wondering if he could read her thoughts. Her husband definitely worried her.

"At times, I am too quick to judge," he rasped. "Mayhap even condemn those who are truly innocent."

His clear blue gaze seemed to search her face for signs of what she was thinking. She fought to keep her expression blank.

"In the weeks since we wed, I have watched you. You rise at dawn each day to see to the breaking of our fast. And though there are others to see to the chore, you help haul water from the well. Food is prepared and spread before us in a veritable feast day after day. The sweet smell of fresh bread wafts through the lower hall where it waits, prodding my men and myself to rise. We all know at the end of our days' training, though we be too tired to lift our arms, we will be well tended and fed."

He may have avoided speaking to her, but he had not ignored her presence. "You care for those about you, dear lady. The wound in Eamon's thigh healed with no fever. Though the gash be deep, there was no infection." The look in his eyes softened. "Eamon and I thank you."

Her breath hitched and caught in her chest, the sound of it rattling when she could finally let it go. "Milord—"

"Garrick."

Not ready to be back on such familiar terms, she ignored his plea to do so. "Milord, I only do what my mother taught me. To run your household, caring for all of those who dwell within. Your men are no exception. If they are not well fed, how will they be able to lift their broadswords in defense of our home?"

She could have bitten her tongue. Dear Lord, had she said our ? Hoping her husband had not noticed, she continued, "Besides, Gertie has far too much to do to tend every wound your men inflict upon one another. She is overworked."

Jillian knew the woman didn't need her help as much as Jillian needed to provide it, thereby making her presence at Merewood matter. "I am only trying to alleviate part of her load. She has labored long and hard for your family and deserves a lightening of the burden for her years of service."

Jillian had let the covers slip from her hands as she rose to confront her husband. She stopped when they were toe-to-toe, belly-to-hip and cheek-to-shoulder. His warmth radiated through the thinness of her cotton gown, while his scent pervaded the air around and between them. It was clean and spicy, tinged with a hint of body-warmed leather. She closed her eyes, sighed and leaned into him.

*

Garrick pulled her close, holding her in a grip of iron. He leaned down to rest his face in the softness of her hair. The scent of wildflowers teased him until he lifted his head. With his knuckle, he nudged her chin until she looked up at him. He gave in to need and pressed his lips to hers.

Easing a step back, he saw her eyes mist over. Would she cry? She stood straighter and he knew she wouldn't. His control was slipping with each deep breath she drew in. Her curves taunted him, tempting him to fit his hands around her waist and pull her close.

For long moments they stood facing one another, Garrick wished he could read her thoughts. He needed to do something to distract himself from the temptation before him. He started to pace. It didn't help. He stopped in front of her. "Jillian… I cannot…" shaking his head, he tried again, "I've never wanted a woman the way I want you."

But I cannot have you!

To his horror, his eyes welled up; he turned away from her. "My vow of honor to my family and my people came first. I'm sorry, but it must come before all else." He lifted his shoulders and let them sag back into place. "My people…" spreading his hands, he swallowed the tightness in his throat so he could speak, "…will starve."

She stared at him, and he rushed to say, "I know you do not understand," he paused again. "I am grateful for all you have done for my family and our home, but I have no other choice but to journey to London three days hence."

*

Once again, an oak door stood between them as a barrier. His head pounded as the blood that surged violently through his body cooled. He cared about her, more than he realized. In spite of his vow to his family and their people, he was afraid he cared too much for the bride he could not afford to keep.

He'd never felt this way toward any woman; he had not lied about that. He had to get away, to clear his head and think. It hadn't been enough to simply avoid being near her. She not only transformed his home, but his life as well and that scared him to the very depths of his being.

He shook his head as he walked away. God's breath, the woman sang when she cleaned, hummed when she cooked. He had come upon her performing both tasks, captivated by her lilting voice. When he asked why she'd been doing either task, when he had Gertie and other servants to perform such menial duties, she said she didn't mind the chores and enjoyed helping.

Another memory was tugged from the shelf in his brain as he remembered the soft touch and angel's face that tended the infirm or injured Gertie had not the time to care for. Aye, he thought, his wife was a complex woman.

The crofters loved her, everyone who met her loved her. As does that damned Scot I've assigned to protect her. It was past time to tell her that he had seen her in his vassal's arms. That he watched her pull out of them too, professing her love for her husband. The direction of his thoughts bothered him, as his heart badgered him to recognize what was staring him in the face.

"King William must grant me an audience. Merewood will not last the winter without the added stores a wealthy wife would provide."

Garrick strode down the steps and through the quiet hall. He needed to find MacInness. Patrick was in the hall and reminded him, "He's to take over the watch from me. I suspect you'll find him cuddled up to a warm, soft body right about now." Amusement glinted from his eyes.

Garrick clenched his teeth. "Which serving wench is he with, then?"

"Well now, I don't rightly know if it be a wench he's with. I said he'd be cuddled up next to a warm, soft body, 'twas you who suggested it be a woman." Patrick laughed out loud at his own jest.

"Where is he?" Garrick bit out.

The look in Patrick's eyes hardened as he said, "You'll find himself in the stables currying down his mount."

Garrick turned on his heel and stalked outside across the moonlit bailey toward the stables. Soft torchlight glowed warmly when he opened the door. The scent of fresh cut hay mixed with horse manure, blending together to form a familiar odor that surrounded him, comforting him, as he stepped in through the opening.

True to Patrick's prediction, MacInness stood with his back to the door brushing down the powerful black horse he called Duncan. Garrick's own mount nickered to the left of him, catching the scent of his master.

He cleared his throat. MacInness whipped around and stood silent for a moment watching him, waiting for him to speak first.

Garrick decided to get right to the point. "I'm leaving for London three days hence. I trust that you will watch over my wife while I am gone."

"Have ye made her yer wife in deed, then?"

Garrick's hands itched to punch the man in the face, but he fought to control the murderous bend his mind had taken at the Highlander's words.

MacInness paused then shrugged. "Will ye be gone long, then?"

"As long as it takes to be granted an audience with our king."

The Scot took a threatening step closer and got right in Garrick's face, shouting, "And what in God's name do I do with her when ye come home, freed from yer vows, sportin' another wife on yer arm? I wilna hurt her, mon. I'll wrap my hands about yer scrawny throat first!"

"I would like to see you try."

Both men stood like two rival dogs with the hair on their backs bristling, standing on end, teeth bared, ready to pounce, the air surrounding them was thick with tension.

Duncan pushed his muzzle into the small of his master's back, as if to knock some sense into him. The spell had been broken. Both men realized now was not the time. Later.

"I'll send word as soon as the king comes to a decision. Until then, guard her with your life."

"She'll no' suffer at my hands, that I pledge on my sword and in the name of my Clan."

Garrick nodded, accepting the oath.

*

"But, Father, what will Jillian do if Garrick sets her aside?" Owen's youngest daughter seemed frantic at the thought of her friend coming to such an end after the promising beginning when she had wed the Lord of Merewood Keep.

"'Tis not your worry, Maddy dear." Owen reached a hand out and brushed a stray white-blonde wave off his youngest daughter's face.

"But, Father, will she come back here?"

He watched her blue eyes fill with tears.

"Nay. Your mother will not have her back under our roof." Tilting her chin up, he said, "I have enough to do planning marriages for your sisters. You do understand since they are older I have to see them settled first?"

At her nod, Owen patted her hand. "Well then, I'm to meet our new neighbor, Henri du Guerre."

"Has he Loughmoe Keep, then?" Madelyne asked.

"Nay, but he soon will. 'Tis past time to join the others in the hall. Tell your sisters to make haste."