Highland Vengeance

Chapter 18

When we returned, Banquo and I reluctantly parted ways. Morag and Fleance were with Merna at the great hall. Lulach was sleeping at the longhouse. Ute looked exhausted, her eyes having an odd, wild gleam. Lulach must have been hard on her. I didn’t remember her ever looking so frazzled before. Suddenly I felt sorry for taking so long. Ute appeared to be in desperate need of a break.

Macbeth, must to my surprise, was also at our longhouse. He was drinking wine and looking over dispatches.

“Ah, so my wife returns from the wild. Now that your lady is back, Ute, why don’t you go out,” Macbeth said absently as he looked over a letter.

“Yes, my lord,” Ute said then rushed out of the house leaving the door open behind her.

There was a strange tension in the air. Had Ute and Macbeth quarreled? I turned and watched Ute go. She headed down the hill toward the shore.

“Is everything all right?” I asked, closing the door.

“Hmm? Yes. Why do you ask?” he asked as he sipped his wine, a light smile dancing on his lips.

“It’s just… No reason. Anything news of importance?” I asked, glancing down at the scrolls.

“Nothing interesting. Duncan is Duncan. Malcolm plays games. All is the same.”

Somehow that seemed like a less than specific answer.

“Is Malcolm aware you are in Thurso?”

“Apparently,” Macbeth said, tapping one of the scrolls.

“And?”

“Questions, veiled threats, boasts of power, lots of wind, but nothing to worry yourself over. I’ve already written to him, told him I’m here spying,” Macbeth said with a laugh. “Thorfinn and I are watching and waiting. We will make our plans carefully. Now, tell me, where did you and your playmate run off to?”

His choice of words stung. I bit back my annoyance then said, “There is a family living not far from here. The lady of the house is an old friend.”

“From court?”

“No.”

“From the convent?”

I paused. Already there was too much mistruth between Macbeth and me. Perhaps I was partly to blame for the difficulties between us.

“In truth, I was never at a convent. It was a lie we spread to hide the fact that I was, in fact, sent to study amongst some holy women of the old faith. You know Banquo studied under a druid. So did I. That is how we met.”

Macbeth lowered his paper then looked up at me. For a long moment, he said nothing.

“Macbeth?”

“Malcolm always said your father was a heathen.”

“Malcolm should not breathe a word about my father. My father’s blood is on Malcolm’s hands. Half this kingdom is heathen. And most of the north. You’ve been away from the north for a very long time.”

“As if that was my fault,” Macbeth growled. “It was only after your husband murdered my father that I was sent away.”

“That was long before I had anything to do with Gilla—”

“Don’t speak his name in my presence.”

“So much for your pretty words about that matter.”

“And so much for your honesty, Lady of Moray. So, you spent the morning playing druid while I sat here keeping an eye on my murdering uncle’s son. Very good, Gruoch. Well done.”

“No one asked you to stay with Lulach. Ute was here, and Merna and Morag are close by. Why do you even bother to play father to Lulach when you’ve made it so clear to me how much you despise him? I went with Banquo with your blessing. God knows I don’t dare give Banquo a passing glance without being accused of tumbling him.”

Macbeth rose. Red flashed in his cheeks. “Do not take the Lord’s name in vain.”

“Are you joking? You, who stand there speaking nonsense, mean to lecture me about God?”

“You are the one speaking nonsense. What are you talking about? I’ve never accused you of anything.”

“Yes, you have. When you were drunk, of course, but that seems to be your usual state since we got here.”

“And did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Enjoy a tumble with the good Thane today?”

“Macbeth! He is your friend, and I am your wife.”

“Yes, you are,” Macbeth said sharply. “Don’t you think it’s about time you started acting like one?”

“What?” I stared at Macbeth. His eyes were bulging, and he was breathing hard.

“Do you love me?” he asked coldly.

“Of… Of course.”

“God gave you to me. He showed you to me in a vision. You are my wife, aren’t you?”

“I am.”

“Then come,” he said then grabbed my arm.

I stared at him. “Come where?”

“Come to your bed and do the duty of a wife.” Pulling me along behind him, he led me to our bed.

“Macbeth, this is hardly the right moment,” I protested, but still, he took me to the bedchamber.

Turning, he started untying the laces on my dress.

“Macbeth.”

“If you are my wife, be my wife.”

“Macbeth.”

He yanked on my dress, pulling the bodice down to reveal my breasts. When the fabric did not bend to his satisfaction, he yanked it hard. I heard the material rip.

“Macbeth,” I whispered, my hands shaking. What was happening?

“Have your courses come on you since we’ve arrived?” he asked, moving me onto the bed. Moving, however, was more like pushing. Underneath my gown, I wore simple linen riding breeches. He untied those and pulled them and my boots off at once.

“No,” I whispered, feeling tears prick the corners of my eyes.

Macbeth’s hot mouth closed on my nipples, and he sucked hard. I struggled to move away. My breasts still ready with milk, the sensation confused my mind.

Macbeth stepped back then undid his pants. “No courses. Are you with child?”

“I…I don’t think so. My courses won’t be regular until Lulach is weaned.”

“Then wean him,” he said then grabbed my legs and pulled me toward him.

He put himself inside me and pumped hard, beating himself into me as I lay staring at the ceiling.

My mind flashed back to Duncan who had forced me facedown in the mud, pleasing himself as he liked. But this was not the same, was it? Macbeth was my husband. That made this different, didn’t it? But if it did, why did it feel the same as before?

“Macbeth,” I whispered.

“I love you too,” he whispered between breaths.

He rode me hard, and when he had pleased himself to satisfaction, he let me go.

I lay still on the bed, my legs bare and open, staring up at the ceiling. I heard Macbeth refastening his clothes. As I lay there, half-naked and feeling terribly confused, Lulach started crying.

Macbeth leaned over and kissed my cheek. “Our son needs you. Do you want me to bring him?”

“N-no. I’ll get him.”

Macbeth stroked the stray hairs away from my face. “You won’t go out alone with Banquo again, do you understand?”

“What?”

“You heard me. Now get up and see to that babe,” he said then a moment later, I heard the longhouse bang shut.

Lulach, his needs unmet, began crying in earnest.

My knees and legs shaking, I rose and pushed down my skirts. Crossing the house, I went to Ute’s bedchamber where Lulach lay in his crib, his face red, a pouty expression on his face.

“Oh, my little one, I’m so sorry,” I said, picking him up and pressing him against me.

As I turned from the little space, I noticed that Ute’s bed was unmade, the furs and blankets thereon a tangle.

Lulach squirmed in frustration. “All right,” I whispered, then went back to the fire and sat down. I set Lulach to breast then leaned back and closed my eyes. My head was spinning. Did Macbeth just not know how to be gentle with a woman? Had he been raised to believe it was all right to behave just like Allister? Thorfinn’s words told me my husband was experienced with women, but he was decidedly inexperienced with how to please a lady. He most certainly did not know how to be carnal in a way that felt like love.

I closed my eyes.

Tears streamed down my cheeks.

No. Nothing about this felt like love.