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body very slowly, but still he noticed her wince. It was then he saw the stain of blood on her thighs. Rising, he went to find a cloth and soaked it with water.
    She slept like the dead, for she made no protest when he made her more comfortable by washing her. Keeping the blanket over his hands, he worked deftly in case she awakened. His wife was extremely modest. She turned over in her sleep, lying on her belly.
    Roderic sucked in his breath in an angry hiss. On her back was a black bruise the size of his fist. He was instantly furious and wanted to shake her awake to demand who had done this to her, but he did not. She was exhausted, and he did not wish to disturb her. It was not necessary, for he knew the answer to his question. Mackay. Trying to fathom any man capable of slamming his fist in her back with such force, he lightly touched her silky skin near the discolored spot.
    Roderic had been taught about honor and justice by a man that believed such was not an opportunity, but a responsibility of all men. Alexander took Roderic into his household long before he was the King of Scotland. The man made every effort to instill in him virtues that included seeing to the safety of women and children. Any man who would beat a woman was a despicable coward. Yet, Mackay was also a murderer, so that sin would hold no fire to his conscience.
    He bent down, placing a kiss on the dark patch of her skin, and pulled up the blanket, folding her in his arms, his hand resting under her breast. Intoxicated by the scent of her hair as it lay in a swirl upon his chest, he picked up some of the silky strands and brought them to his nose and inhaled.
    His thoughts were a chaotic tangle, and Roderic could not put a name to the anxiety he felt. His gentle little wife was responsible for the most overwhelming session of love-making he had ever experienced. No timid virgin, she did not weep and expect to be cosseted, but was a woman who reached out to touch and build his own desire with her every movement. He had just discovered that her virgin’s pain must have been worse than he had known, considering the injury on her back, yet she said nothing, and even tried to ease his guilt at inflicting it. That concern inspired a deep and abiding tenderness for his bride. The lady was beginning to mean too much to him. He could not allow it.
    Women served a purpose. A truly wise man kept his emotions far removed and safe from any woman, even his wife. Warriors did not permit a woman more power than she should wield. Roderic was a warrior, and he would not allow one small female to turn him into a lovesick squire.
    The sound of rain awakened him. Sitting up to find himself alone in the bed, he looked about restlessly. His sword was in his hand and he was up making ready to defend her before his gaze fell on Brianna across the room. Taking a deep breath, he relaxed. It was raining, and she had pulled back the leather on the window. Wrapped in a blanket, she sat on the floor there, her head in her hand, silently listening to the rain. He put down his sword and went to her, kneeling down beside her.
    â€œBrianna … what is it?”
    She held up her hand in protest.
    â€œI’m feeling slightly dismayed. I am not accustomed to being … married.”
    Sitting down, he pulled her into his arms so she sat on his lap instead of the cold stone. She pulled the blanket over his chest.
    â€œYou need not fear this marriage, Brianna. I want your happiness. I will take care of you.”
    â€œWill you do something for me, Roderic?”
    He stroked her hair and cupped her face, brushing her cheek with his thumb. “If I can, at all cost, little one. What is it?”
    She looked away from him into the rainy night. “Would you call me Catherine?”
    â€œCatherine?”
    His dark eyes were full of compassion, confused at her request. The sound of her pain, though it was a small worry, was intolerable, and he wished nothing more at that