His Judas Bride (17 page)

“
What?
”

Callm automatically swung his gaze to the snow-caked giant standing on the heap of boulders above the cave mouth. “Are you having a laugh, Shug?”

Shug cocked a snow-encrusted eyebrow.
“Nah. A crowd of them were fanned out on horseback. Trying to look furtive-like.”

Had Callm just thought the chit took every bannock known to man? Excuse him while he went over that again. Ewen, who, as far as Callm knew, needed his arm broken in several places to agree to the match, had dragged his heifering big backside on a horse, first finding one he didn’t flatten, and was even now, fanned out.

Not that Callm had exactly given the matter much thought. But he’d reckoned if Ewen even noticed his fiancée was gone by suppertime, tomorrow, he’d be doing well.

Who was it that had threatened the turd into behaving toward her though? Him. That’s who. So why hadn’t Ewen simply come directly to him? As for that crowd Ewen would have with him.
Christ.

“Did you put them out their misery?”

“Now you’re having that laugh, Callm. Anyway, I never knew she’d run away. Or that she was here. Though now I do, if she was in my cave. Whooo, whoooo!”

The grotesque pelvic-thrusting sexual parody was something Callm strove to appear dignified about.

The last thing he could operate without was the support of his people. When it came to protection, he even relied on them in lean times for food. And he knew he had everything they could give because he wasn’t like Ewen.

So he knew—knew perfectly—even if the blasted baggage didn’t harbor an ocean of secrets, even if someone wasn’t loose in the glen, even if her ankles were unblemished, he couldn’t let the glen split its sides.

Of course there were options. It would be nothing to keep her. But to do that he would have to marry her. Maybe he’d bedded her last night to see how far she played. Last night she’d been sweet right down to the simple business of falling asleep on his shoulder. He hadn’t known until she did it, how much he’d been starved of such simple contact.

This morning and the cold way she faced him up, the deliberate way she stuck her hand down his breeches to avoid answering his questions, then thanked him, thanked him like he’d given her a cup of water, rancid, full of animal pee at that, after he’d just shagged the bejesus out of her, was another matter. As was a ring on her finger.

Not that he was an expert in such matters, not having had a woman in years, not that the business of her being a virgin troubled him. He hadn’t seen or felt any evidence of a maidenhead. How damned likely was it that women had come to be made differently in that time though?

Not damned likely at all.

The oldest trick in the book and he hadn’t seen it coming. Well, he had. It was just the scent of her deceit was so damned potent he’d preferred to breathe, not see.

Why the hell should he be saddled with some other man’s bastard though? Some man who his men hadn’t managed so far to find?
If
that was what it was all about?

Why the hell should he be saddled with her? A damned smoldering-eyed trollop, a damned whore, if that was the case, tongue like a knife, who played him for a fool? Him? The Black Wolf of Lochalpin no less.

No. He was damned to this. She could get her pretty clothes on just as she wanted and get the hell out of his life. Back to McDunnagh Castle. Wild horses dragging him through this glen would not stop him sending her back there now. This glen would not face its biggest crisis since Morven was murdered.

He looked at Wee Murdie.

“Give me half an hour.”

* * *

Callm glanced around the wine dark cavern, letting his eyes acclimatize to the gloom after the brightness of the day outside. He meant… He knew exactly what he meant. He knew exactly what was going to happen here with regard to her, why he looked for her. But why the hell did she have to be on the bed? Not just his bed, he unwillingly conceded, dropping onto the sandy floor of the cave. But half naked on his bed. Ivory hip and flank offered to the tallow lit air. Silvery-gold tresses spilt around her. Just like a damned fairy tale princess.

Chair or table weren’t good enough for her majesty? As for the fire, making breakfast, that ice-cool baggage wouldn’t know one side of a skillet from the other, even if she burned her fingers on it.

Novel, wasn’t it though?

He glanced over his shoulder. He couldn’t help it. What if he got hold of Archibald and he explained something
of the situation? He was going to have to explain
something
of the situation. No matter how damned tricky. But Archibald was a man to understand that, how Callm stupidly got carried away.

Christ, how did this damned bitch, lying there like that, know Morven always liked candle kill? Complete darkness. Clothes on. Everything over quickly. This wanton now, she seemed to know everything.

“So, Princess?” While it was startling he found his voice—nothing less than a miracle in fact, when he was fully occupied biting back not just one, but several groans—miracles did occur. Archibald would just be glad the chit had been found alive. As for Ewen, well he’d probably find it novel.

“You didn’t get dressed as I instructed, then? Hmm?”

Silly question. Obviously she hadn’t or she wouldn’t be lying there like this and he wouldn’t be straightening his shoulders and striding across the shingle.

“I mean you were told.”

If she wanted to play a little game, hell, no one was better at games than he was. But he’d played earlier. It had not improved the situation. In fact he might even say it would have been more beneficial if he had kept his breeches shut. Which was why that dress and that chemise and these stockings were coming down off this line. He gathered her boots, one of which had to be pried from Dug’s jaw. And he put them all down on the bed. Dumped them down actually.

She made a faint protesting sound.

“What’s wrong? Are you having a nightmare there or something? Pleasant dreams at the thought of me maybe? Well, I’m sorry to disturb you.”

No. He wasn’t about to notice her tits were even more indecent than usual. That she clutched her petticoat, as well as his tunic, the one he’d torn earlier, as if she liked it and it meant something to her. She didn’t like it. And it didn’t mean anything. She just wanted him to think so.

“But I want you out of here.”

“Please, I’m going to be—”

Indeed she was. Back in McDunnagh Castle within the hour that was. He gripped her arm to tug her off the bed. Her skin felt warm, hotter to his touch than it should have been.

Great. She took ill and
died
on him now, wouldn’t that cause more problems than it solved?

With his reputation, people outside this glen would think he killed her. They wouldn’t believe she had seduced him. And hell, with these marks on her ankles, no doubt they’d think he’d strung her up first.

It was all the more reason to get her out of here.

“Clothes.” He reached up to the line and tugged down her chemise. “You wanted them, remember?”

“Please.” She flickered her eyes open.

“Earlier? Hmm?”

Ribbons and ties. It was one thing getting a woman out their clothes. But into them? That was a sweating torture. Clothes just weren’t made that way. Neither were men.

“Please…sir…I—”

At least she jerked upright so he could get the chemise stuck down over her head. Back to front. With her head through the sleeve and her arm going through the neck. But better than nothing.

She parted her lips. “I’m going to be—”

“We know what you’re going to be. Out of here is what you’re going to be. I’ve got the escort organized.”

“
Sick
.”

How could she be? Down his tunic front too? His clean tunic front he’d only donned twenty minutes ago because she’d already messed up the other one? Why couldn’t she use that one? He leaped back, even as she bent forward, in a panic. And as if she knew what he was thinking she obligingly snatched what lay on the bed and buried her face in it, before he could snatch it back. Instead of her damned chemise for that matter, because it was around her neck wasn’t it? Even if she wasn’t actually sick, just distressed enough to think she was.

“I’m s-sorry.”

She clawed a rasping breath, her shoulders heaving. Although, Christ, she was still so beautiful crouching there he couldn’t haul his gaze from the soft line of her thigh. And not just her thigh. Look at her derriere. Even tastier than he’d imagined when she’d beguiled him this morning over that petticoat business.

“You must understand. I—I just don’t want to be sick. On you.”

Wasn’t that good to know in the middle of everything else? But it wasn’t as if she was, he recollected, snatching the tunic back. Not at all. This was just another game. Pretend to vomit. Show him her thighs and her derriere while she did it.

The lying, the shagging, the cool disdain, he could take no more of this. Damn her. He canted his jaw, trying to fix her with his best glare.

So why did this desire take him to dunk the tunic in the ice-cold water lapping a few feet away? Then fish it out and dump it on her head?

He cursed, drawing a breath. Very well, last night she had caught him when he fell. He admitted it. And he imagined she wasn’t the sort to make a fool of him, even if she hadn’t. So what right had he now to judge her? Believe she lied when just maybe she didn’t?

In some ways, knowing women as he once had, knowing their little secrets, their lives among men, what was it to him that he let her stay here a day or two? If there was anyone guaranteed to overlook her lies in favor of finding out her truths, it was him, not Ewen. Especially with a woman as pretty as this.

When had it got so he couldn’t?

Five years ago when he’d been unable to walk back into the house he shared with Morven. Unable to look after Fallon. Unable to do a damned thing. That’s when. And he’d crumbled. Like a sand man. Made a total titting arse of himself. Because he’d loved her.

The red dress. The snow. The bruises. That night at Fen’s. He might as well admit there were places he couldn’t go again.

Because that would mean admitting the threat this woman posed. Not to this glen. To his heart.

And she didn’t.

What had he said to Wee Murdie? Half an hour?

Ten minutes was long enough.

Kara’s fevered gaze examined the furry expanse in front of her. That was her dress there, not to mention her stockings and petticoat, wasn’t it? It meant one thing.

He didn’t want her.

“You’re not going to be sick.” He even told her, when even if she was, the sight of these things arrested any vomit in its tracks. “You’re just hotter than a stove in hell. Probably because you’ve not eaten or drunk anything this morning. Then there’s the matter of the little hike you took through the glen last night.”

There was, wasn’t there? But that wasn’t what made her chest heave like this. Why could she not have been standing at the fire when the Wolf came back into the cave, trying to fix a little oatmeal bannock? A fish even? There must be some in the water there. Why, she couldn’t even be amenable for Arland’s sake.

“No!” How awful when her power over cruelty lent her strength, to have to muffle the shriek, but if the tunic ripped in half because she now tried to grab it, as he pressed it to her cheek, he might put her out all the sooner. Then where would she be? “I mean I am so sorry my presence is such an unfortunate inconvenience to you, sir.”

He grasped her chin and continued dabbing, such irritation glinting in his eyes she could tell he was completely unable to determine which was worse, her being amenable, or her being downright awkward. It made it very difficult for her to continue, when her body already contracted in protest, but she did so anyway.

“That you have come in here today and found me unwell. But if you would just let me, if you—”

“Uh.” His hand stilled its dabbing, as he turned his blazing glare on her for a second. “After what you tried to do to my clean tunic, do you think I’m letting you anywhere near this one? Well?”

She shook her head. “No.” Although she was hardly a child to be spoken to like this, it just did not seem wise to say so, if she was somehow to save this. She just should have known that only a damn fool would risk his wrath when she could barely walk and now a fever gnawed.

“Well then.”

“It’s—it’s just…”

Another still. This one accompanied by a deep sigh. The slightest melting of his glacial stare, if only by a drip. “What?”

“You are being fierce.”

“I am, am I?” He raised his brows. Not a smile. Not a smile exactly from those sensuous lips of his and yet those grooves in his cheeks dinted. “Maybe if I am it’s because you need it. Here.” He reached around the side of the bed. “Drink this.”

She wasn’t going to argue. The consequences would be a disaster if she did. She held the cool lip of the water flagon to her lips as if she were a heathen who’d wandered in the desert for forty years. He was right, about this much anyway. Her throat was dry as a crisped leaf. Drier.

“Steady, Princess.”

He grasped the flagon. Now that other thing, about her needing to be kept in line? By whom had always been the rankling issue. Yes. She snagged a breath, mindlessly, her gaze flitting to the knitted brows, so furrowed, to her way of thinking. What would they be like if he didn’t have any concern for her? They would be smooth.

She needed something other than the way he held the rim of the flagon to her lips, easing it back carefully so she didn’t gulp too much, to dilute his effect on her, didn’t she? Certainly with regard to these words. That her first thought that she’d like to see him try was not her only thought.

For the sake of her father’s plans, she must put such thoughts aside and sit quietly watching as the Wolf knelt on the shingle. She shouldn’t think as he busied himself with the sticks Dug fetched him for the fire, him saying she needed to be kept in line was different from the way other men had said it. He was different. Because he gave. So anything would only be with the best of intentions.