“Nay, but I was only a child.”
Kendra glanced down and smoothed her cranberry-colored skirts, then lifted her head to meet his gaze. “If your father and she were at odds, why do you believe everything he told you about her?”
“For the longest time, I didn’t want to,” he admitted. “But then so much time passed and she never, ever came for me…”
“There are two sides to every story, Trick.”
If his sudden silence wasn’t agreement, at least he was man enough to consider she had a point. The only sound in the chamber was that of the flames that danced in the fireplace, until at last he said, “But I’ll never hear her side of it, will I?”
Pain radiated off him in waves, but she knew that now was not the time to talk about that. It was too fresh. “What is a Covenanter?” she asked instead. “I know English history by rote, and Greek and Roman, but I’m afraid I was never taught much of Scotland’s past.”
“I cannot say that I’m surprised,” Trick said dryly, but the remark didn’t sound at all disparaging, merely resigned. He leaned back in the chair and began untying his cravat. “Many men, including my mother’s father, signed a document known as the National Covenant. When the Civil War broke out, the Covenanters sided with the English Parliament against the king, in return for Cromwell’s promise of a religious reformation in England and Ireland, based on the Scottish Kirk.”
“And Cromwell never followed through.”
“Nay, he did not. But it took a long time for the Scots to realize they’d been duped.”
“They’d thrown their lot in with the devil.”
With a grimace, he nodded and slowly drew off the cravat. “I’m afraid this castle was instrumental in Cromwell’s victory. My father never forgave my mother for that.”
With a flick of his wrist, the cravat landed on the desk in a flurry of frothy white. She stared at it. He was undressing. Whether or not he’d spent the whole day thinking about it, she was sure he expected her to share his bed—really share his bed—tonight.
A little ball of anxiety lodged in her middle.
She tore her gaze from the lace-trimmed linen. “My father fought with King Charles, too. And died, along with my mother. He would have sympathized with your father’s stance.”
His expression hardened. “Father was no saint, believe me. I liked him no more than I did my mother. I’m well rid of them both.”
“Trick—” She bit her tongue, reminding herself his parents had both hurt him terribly—and both were dead. Perhaps this harshness helped him to cope with the loss.
She forced a gentle smile. “How does it feel having a brother?”
He smiled in return—perhaps the first smile she’d seen from him today that wasn’t tainted with cynicism. “He’s quite pleasant, isn’t he?” His eyes softened as his fingers worked to loosen the laces on his shirt. “I find it hard to believe he came from my mother, and—and that man.”
She wasn’t surprised to find he didn’t care for Hamish, either. “Niall looks just like you.”
“I know. It’s amazing.” Leaning forward, he pulled off a boot. “I wish I could stay longer and get to know him. Maybe he’ll come visit us at Amberley.”
“That would be nice.” The more of Trick’s clothes that came off, the more her insides turned to jelly. Too nervous to just sit there and watch, she pulled her own shoes and stockings off, then stood and wandered over to a small arched door. “Where does this lead?”
“To another staircase, if I remember right.” In bare feet, he padded over and unlatched the iron bar that secured the door, poking his head into the darkness beyond. His voice echoed back. “Aye, another winding stairwell. To the roof above. Prisoner’s Leap.”
“Prisoner’s what?”
“Prisoner’s Leap.” He turned to her, the stairwell gaping blackly behind him. “In the old days, prisoners were brought up from the dungeons once a year and allowed a chance to gain their freedom by successfully jumping from one tower to the other. Twelve feet, with their hands tied behind their backs and a hundred-foot drop to the bottom. And no running start.”
“My heavens. Did any of them make it?”
“I expect not.” His lips turned up in a half-smile. “Maybe that’s why the villagers were practicing their long jumps today.”
A little shiver ran through her. “I’m not sure I like this place, Trick.”
“Why? Because I had barbaric ancestors?” Although reserved, his grin did seem to lighten the room somewhat. “There’s no one in the dungeons today, so far as I know.”
“So far as—”
“I’m jesting.” He shut the door to the stairwell, and she relaxed a little. “Come here.”
“Not until you bar that door.”
With a strangled laugh, he did so. “There, we’re safe. Come here, Kendra. I need you tonight.”
No one had ever said anything like that to her before, and they were certainly words to melt a girl’s heart. Frightened as she was, she walked to him.
When his mouth met hers, an unfamiliar emotion welled up inside her, one that washed away her doubts, soothed her nerves, relaxed her tense muscles. She was a warm puddle of contentment, wanted and cared for and safe.
That’s what it is, she realized. For the first time, she felt completely safe in her husband’s arms. Tonight he wasn’t some distant, imposing stranger. He was a boy who had been afraid of the dark, a son who missed his mother.
A man who needed her, Kendra.
Her body humming in anticipation, she wrapped her arms around his neck and threaded her fingers in his short, silky hair. His kisses were soft and sweet, flavored with the faintest trace of the whisky he’d sipped downstairs. He planted little kisses on her cheeks, her nose, her forehead, and finally the sensitive hollow of her neck. He lingered there while his hands went to work unlacing her gown. Her own hands tugged the bottom of his shirt from his breeches.
He pushed her dress down and off, leaving her in only her chemise. She
