Chapter Twenty-Four

"G od help us, please don't kill him!" Jillian cried out from her tortured dreams.

"Easy, love. I'm here." Garrick's deep voice soothed her.

With her face tucked into the crook of his neck, her arms wrapped tight around him, Jillian finally let go of the horror her dreams held.

The feather-soft kiss to her brow, accompanied by a shake to her shoulder roused her from a deep sleep, ending her torment. She groaned struggling to open her eyes, trying to brush the sleep from them. She was so tired; she fell back into a deep, dreamless sleep.

When she woke, her head felt heavy again, as it had of late. She didn't sleep soundly anymore; the nightmares would not let her. It was the same dream, night after night. She and Alan stood facing one another, the sword would rise above his head, and then she would scream, remembering the cold-blooded brutality she alone was responsible for.

Finally able to focus her eyes, she was startled to find she was being observed very closely by not one, but three of her husband's men-at-arms. Their hulking forms sat in a semi-circle around her, watching her. They looked so intent, so serious, she had to smile. When she did, they smiled back.

"'Tis well ye look this morning," Winslow complimented her.

"She looks like she slept in a—" Iain's comment was silenced by his friend's elbow.

"Didn't you sleep at all, milady?" Patrick asked. His eyes filled with worry.

"I think so. Why?" Jillian began to suspect Winslow lied about her appearance.

"'Tis the black circles round yer eyes, lass," Iain said. "They make them look twice as swollen."

"Aneuch," Winslow warned.

"Oh, and why don't we just tell her how fine she looks, when ye know 'tis a lie," Iain bit out. "The lass needs sleep, good food, and a warm bed, and mayhap a wee bit of attention from that brick-headed husband of hers, then she'll look better."

Jillian burst into laughter. The musical sound of it filtered through the clearing. "Winslow, you've not been honest with me. Have you?"

Clearing his throat, he opened his mouth to speak but no words came out. The poor man turned a brilliant shade of red before pushing to his feet and stalking away.

"Well then, Iain," Jillian stood up, "mayhap a splash of stream water would set me to rights."

"I dinna want ye to get your hopes up, lass." Iain and Patrick rose to their feet. "I canna imagine how it would help." Patrick shoved at Iain this time. Iain shoved back.

Sensing a grudge match was in the making, Jillian stepped between the men, effectively stopping it. "It's all right, Patrick. I understand what you and Winslow are trying to do, but perhaps 'tis best if I hear the truth rather than something to simply make me feel better."

Her smile went a long way toward softening the angry warrior.

"We only mean to protect ye, milady."

She laid her hand on his forearm. "I know, and I thank you for it. Please let Winslow know how I feel."

A curt nod indicated he would do as she asked, but she could tell he wouldn't like it. Turning to face the burly Scot, rumored a madman, she grinned. "So, icy water would not help."

"Och no. I meant what I said before. Ye be needin' rest lass, lots of it. Ye've no' been eatin' right. Yer clothes are hangin' loose. Yer tired. It shows."

Iain's concern was covered up by his gruff comments, but she could sense beneath the surface, 'twas just as strong as Winslow's or Patrick's. She wondered yet again, what secrets were buried in the man's past that had others labeling him mad. She had a feeling that it had to do with a great deal of pain, both physical and emotional.

"I'll keep it in mind." Over her shoulder, she said, "Mayhap the water will wake me up."

Iain's loud laughter rang through the campsite, causing heads to turn in their direction. "Ye've got spunk, lass. 'Tis why I like ye."

Smiling to herself, Jillian wondered if she had enough spunk to make her husband change his mind about her. She couldn't seem to help herself where Garrick was concerned. From the first he affected her balance. At one time, she thought it was purely a reaction to his warrior's build and handsome face, but after spending time at his home she realized that was only part of it. The way he made her heart pound and breath sigh, longing for him to kiss her again had her tumbling head over heels.

The way he cared for and about the people who depended upon him had her searching her heart for reasons to keep him from setting her aside. That she wanted him in spite of his lack of need for her was proof that she had lost her heart, as well as her mind.

Kneeling in the spongy moss lining the bank, Jillian dipped her hands in the water. 'Twas clear and very cold. Leaning over, she splashed her face and neck with its icy freshness. Shivers of pleasure gave her goosebumps. Eyes closed, she reached behind her for the linen towel she had placed there. Her hands reached and searched, but to no avail.

"Looking for something?" The depth of Garrick's voice added another layer to the gooseflesh covering her arms, though not from the cold…it was from the heat in his voice.

Jillian's eyes popped open and focused on the face not two inches from hers. His hot look had her tingling from head to toe. "Aye," she choked on the word, frantically trying to think.

At last her brain remembered where she was, what she sought, and whom she was with. "I cannot seem to find the drying cloth I brought with me." Deciding to do without, she shook her hands to quick-dry them, then smoothed the rest of the water droplets from her cheeks and chin.

His nearness made her uneasy.

"Allow me." The deep, seductive timbre of his voice seemed to reverberate through his massive chest. Garrick took his time gently wiping the rest of the water from her face with the soft cloth she'd been searching for with swift, deft motions, not one wasted.

Jillian could not have moved, or protested, if her life depended upon it. She was mesmerized by her husband's touch. Her warrior husband , she thought, tall and proud . His white-blond hair and ice-blue eyes were a testimony to his heritage; there had to be Viking blood mixed with the Saxon. Coupled with the mere sight of him, she was nearly incapable of speech or movement.

"'Twould not do to have you fall ill so soon after your recovery, Jillian." His gaze riveted on her face, slowly caressing it with the warmth of his penetrating gaze.

She trembled as his tender perusal heated her blood, igniting tiny flames, as it sped through her veins. Everywhere his intense gaze touched she burned, and there was naught she could do to control it.

Garrick reached out a hand to help her to her feet. They stood no more than a breath away from one another. His eyes locked with hers. She was powerless to move. He had a control over her no one else ever would. Whatever he wanted, she would let him take. Nay, she'd hand it to him on a hammered silver platter.

He bent his head to sip from her lips. Soft, urgent kisses that built in intensity and length. Dazzled by him, she gave in to need and kissed him back with a boldness that made him groan. Caught in a state of semi-awareness, a dream-like world where everything was surrounded with a soft filmy haze, she felt the searing brand of his hand on her knee through the fabric of her gown.

Her head cleared instantly. Next, he would tell her he was leaving, and she didn't know what to say to him that would make him change his mind and stay.

"Garrick, please stop," she pleaded.

His labored breathing and harsh sound from deep in the back of his throat told her how hard it was for him to do as she asked.

He scrubbed his face with his hands and closed his eyes. When he opened them, they were dark with intensity. "Why did you pull away?"

Tears clogged her throat, making speech difficult. She shrugged.

He grabbed her close, and demanded, "Tell me."

"I cannot."

"God's blood, wife. Why not?" His shout hurt her head.

"I am not your wife."

"You are."

"Nay," she shouted back this time. "You've not seen fit to make me your wife in deed. I am a wife in name only. And I shall remain thus." Fear curdled her stomach, then lay there making it sour. She had no means with which to defend herself against her warrior husband. More than that, she had not the right. Hating her helplessness, she lashed out at him. "I'll not let you bed me only to leave once you've replaced me." Her dark eyes were mirrors reflecting the pain that clutched at her soul.

"One day a man will want what only I can give him. Me. When that man comes along and wants to take me to wife, I'll go with a clear conscience and a glad heart, knowing I've saved the best of me and not given it away in the heat of passion."

Garrick's hands dropped from her arms, freeing her. Still he held his anger and his tongue.

Jillian didn't think it was possible to hold more hurt in her heart, but she was wrong. What she was feeling now eclipsed what she felt when Garrick shamed her by refusing to consummate their marriage, threatening to set her aside. She turned and fled.

Alone she dropped her head into her hands and prayed, "Help me, Mother. What shall I do?"

*

Garrick let her go. He wanted to tell her he'd changed his mind, but he sensed that her anger would not let her believe him.

After what seemed to be enough time to let her reason it out, he followed her. He found her sitting beside the stream with her head tucked into her bent knees. He thought she was weeping, though she made no sound. Needing to tell her of his new plans, he called her name, "Jillian?"

When she looked up, his gut twisted. Stark pain left shadowed lines of hopelessness etched upon her beautiful face. To know that he was the cause of such pain added yet another black mark on his soul. He didn't know what to say to her, where to begin to apologize for hurting her. Would she believe what he had to say?

In the end, he turned from her, walking back to their camp. "MacInness," he shouted. "Dunstan."

"Aye?"

"Brother?" Dunstan's face mirrored MacInness's concern as they stood before their overlord.

Garrick knew his temper was high. 'Twas all he could do not to strike out with his fists to cool the rage that boiled inside of him. She wanted him, but couldn't trust him. Years of training took over. He reined in his black thoughts and crimson rage with every shred of control he could muster, wiping all trace of emotion from his face.

"Make ready for the last leg of our journey. The rebels will not remain docile much longer. I've a bargain to keep."

"Bargain?" MacInness echoed. "With whom?"

"'Tis none of your concern." Garrick's clipped reply seemed to bring the Scotsman up short. For once, the man remained silent, lifting a brow in question.

His brother, however, would not be left in the dark. Dunstan asked, "What bargain? Have you made plans for your wife, then?" His stance became rigid. "If not, I will take her to wife myself."

"Well now," MacInness drawled, "if memory serves, 'twould make that three offers for yer lovely bride. How will ye decide who gets her, then?"

"I will decide my own future." The husky reply coming from behind the men shocked them as much as it did Garrick.

Chin raised, she glared defiantly at him. "I am not without means, and will have a say in what is to become of me."

"But ye've no family, lass," MacInness reminded her.

"No dowry," Dunstan further commented.

The hair on the back of Garrick's neck bristled at the look in her eyes. Whatever she planned, he was certain she would accomplish it. He had seen that look thousands of times, facing an enemy in battle. Kill or be killed. All of a sudden, he was afraid to ask just what she planned, and afraid not to.

Thousands of questions danced on the tip of his tongue. He wanted to ask her what she would do. How she would secure a future when she was a woman without means. On the heels of those questions lingered a dozen more, all centering around his need to profess his growing love for her. He had never felt like this before and didn't know how to handle these feelings—let alone give voice to them. In the end, he decided to wait. He barked out the order, "Pack your things, Jillian. You ride with MacInness."

Taking one step closer to the maid who ignited a fire in his gut and love in his heart, he waited for a touch, a word of explanation.

Jillian's whispered reply was barely audible. "I am ready." She walked stiffly to where the horses were tied.

She refused to confide in him. Could he blame her when his trail of broken promises followed in her wake? He had sworn to protect her, and he'd failed.

The hand on his arm gave him a start. A look over his shoulder at MacInness did nothing to ease his conscience.

"I canna think the lass would have anythin' of value hidden away at Sedgeworth, and I wilna believe if she had any coin she would keep it from ye. It maun be somethin' ye have yet to grasp."

"Mayhap the ride will loosen her tongue." Garrick hoped it would. "'Twill be a fair distance before we stop again."

"I will do my best to get the lass to open up. I'm verra good at talk."

"Aye." The half-hearted attempt at a smile felt stiff to him. He hoped no one would try to get him to talk on the ride ahead.

*

"There's nothing left of the barrels, milord," Aaron dutifully reported. "We've brought the pieces with us for your inspection."

"Nothing? No salted pork? No grain? Nothing?" Owen was incredulous. Not only had the women escaped from the rebels once, but twice. Worse still, no ransom had been paid. Nothing had been gained for all of his planning.

"That was to be our food for winter," he ground out between tightly clenched teeth.

"But milord… there was no sign of spilled meat, nor flour. Not a trace."

"What of Harald?"

"There were signs of battle, low hanging branches broken. Dirt churned up."

Owen's eyes narrowed. "Anything else?"

"Aye." The man hesitated.

"What then?" Owen demanded. For all his girth, he was apt to move quickly.

His man-at-arms stepped to the side in a bid to avoid his overlord, leaving his back protected by the stone wall. "Three freshly dug graves."

"And did you not think to uncover them?" At Aaron's grimace of disgust, Owen asked, "How else are we to know the outcome of the skirmish? I need those supplies, and I need to know what happened." Leveling his vassal with a look, he added, "Do not fail me."