Tempt Me With Kisses (31 page)

Her knees buckled and bile rose in her throat. That was why he had led her here—to show her this. To prove how vicious he could be, as if she needed it.

She closed her eyes and struggled not to faint.

“I met her yesterday at an inn near here,” he said as calmly as if he were discussing an old friend. “Very irate she was, and most uncomplimentary toward you. You must have had a hard time with that one in the household. So I thought to give you a wedding gift, my love, by silencing her hateful tongue.

“It was a mistake to leave me, Fiona,” he continued, pressing his body up against her, his voice hoarse with lust, as if her distress inflamed him. “You must have realized that on your wedding night. After me, your husband was surely a disappointment.”

Her eyes blazed open, and fierce vitality returned to her limbs.

“What I realized that night, Iain,” she said with cold and determined disdain, “was that you have very little to brag about, and even less finesse when it comes to using it.”

His face reddened as he drew back and raised his hand. She steeled herself for the blow, when she heard her name being called.

“Caradoc,” she gasped, relief coursing through her.

Iain let go of her, stepped backward and yanked his sword from its scabbard. Before she could move, he put the tip of the blade at her throat. “Make a sound—
one sound
—I’ll slit your throat.”

Nervous now and tense, he glanced again toward the sound of pounding hoof beats, and she saw her chance. She dodged away and around the horse’s rump. At the same time, Caradoc galloped into the clearing and pulled his horse to a halt. As she stumbled toward him, he swung down and unsheathed his sword as he ran to meet her.

When she reached him, he shoved her behind him, out of harm’s way.

“Hold, or I’ll kill you!” he ordered Iain, his face red with rage.

Holding his sword loosely in his hand, Iain strolled closer, not a whit upset as the horses shifted, more nervous than Iain, it seemed. “Well, well, well, Fiona, so this is the man you married. I was told he looked like a bear, and I see the description wasn’t far off the mark.”

Caradoc glanced at her, puzzlement in his eyes, his guard lowered.

“Be careful, Caradoc,” she cried out, pointing. “He killed Ganore.”

Caradoc followed her gesture and stiffened when he saw the body.

“He’s stolen and slaughtered your sheep, too!”

Ominously enraged, Caradoc’s brows lowered. “My men are on the way,” he growled to Iain. “You had best give yourself up.”

“To be hung? I think not,” Iain scoffed, a mocking smile on his face. “Do you think I have come here alone? Fiona should remember that I have plenty of friends.”

From the wood, a gang of men stepped out, their weapons drawn and like Iain clad in
feileadh mor
and
cuarans
. “You remember Fergus and the others, Fiona.”

“You know these men?” Caradoc demanded. He pointed at Iain with his blade. “You know this one?”

Before she could answer, their hunting party appeared at the edge of the clearing. The outnumbered Scots began to move back as Lord Rhys, Jon-Bron and the rest reined in their mounts and regarded the scene before them with surprise and suspicion.

“Hold and stay where you are!” Iain shouted at his men. “Are you cowards, or Scots?”

The Scotsmen exchanged wary glances, but they halted nonetheless.

“Caradoc, what is happening here?” Lord Rhys demanded, walking his horse closer to him. “Who is this Scot and these men?”

“They have done murder and slaughtered my sheep,” Caradoc declared, by the tone of his voice barely containing his rage.

Then, with dismay, Fiona spotted Cordelia in the middle of the group of men, Jon-Bron close beside her, for protection, no doubt. It would not be long before Cordelia saw Ganore’s body, and Fiona’s own heartache increased. Whatever she had felt for Ganore, Cordelia would be grief-stricken.

Iain sauntered toward Lord Rhys, apparently quite calm, but Fiona saw that his grip on the hilt of his sword was so tight, his knuckles were white. “Who the devil are you?”

The mounted nobleman regarded Iain scornfully. “I am Lord Rhys of Wales, Scotsman, and you had best watch your tongue, whoever you are.”

“
I
am Iain MacLachlann, lately betrothed to Fiona MacDougal. I have come to demand recompense for her broken promise.”

Oh, heaven help her, to see such a look on her husband’s face—shock and dismay, and something worse besides in the depths of his brilliant blue eyes.

“Is that true, Fiona?” he asked, his deep voice deathly calm.

She was tempted to lie and deny what Iain had said.

To deceive him again.

He did not deserve to be lied to. He never had, and if Iain had been evil to mislead her, so she had been not to tell Caradoc the whole truth about why she had sought him out.

Iain was right. She had behaved no better than he. She, who had come here silently denouncing Iain, had acted no better, and the realization utterly humbled her.

But she would be honest with her husband now, come what may. He deserved no less. “Yes, I was betrothed.”

“I knew it!” Cordelia cried out from the midst of their soldiers. “And Ganore knew it, too! I told you not to trust her, Caradoc. She’s a lying
slut
!”

Caradoc didn’t so much as glance at his sister and the others. Fiona likewise ignored them as she faced her husband. She stood before him, guilty, full of remorse, and as she looked at him, the light in his eyes seemed to change to something brilliantly bitter, like ice glittering on a freezing yet sunny day, or the way a loyal man regards a traitor.

Oh, God, what had she done? Whatever shame and distress she had felt the morning Iain left her, it returned a thousand fold, and more. She had lost nothing when she left Iain. She would lose all if she lost Caradoc.

“Yes, I agreed to marry him, until I learned he wanted my money, and not me,” she desperately explained to her stoic husband, his lack of response terrifying her more than being on the runaway horse. “When I did, I left Dunburn and came here.”

“Of course I wanted you, or there would be no money,” Iain jeered. “Wasn’t that why this man wed you, Fiona? For money?”

“I
offered
it to him. He did not think to take it from me—and he never claimed to love me, as you did.”

Not until after. Not until last night
.

“How can you say that, Fiona?” Iain demanded, his voice mocking. “You know I
loved
you.”

She saw the triumphant gleam in his eye. Felt him as good as raise his sword to strike her dead. He was going to tell Caradoc everything.

As she should have done.

As she must do now, regardless of who would hear. “Caradoc, we made love, this blackguard and I, to my eternal shame. He wanted to be sure of me and my money. Afterward I realized that I had been a fool.”

“Whore!” Cordelia screamed. “Harlot! Deceiving him with the blood on the sheets!”

So, Ganore had looked and talked of it, too, Fiona thought, too numb to be more upset. She had expected it, and it had come to pass.

Cordelia’s outburst appeared to have no effect on Caradoc. He might have been carved from stone, so still did he stand. Even his eyes—he looked at her like she was a stranger to him.

Then he moved at last, shifting his weight as if life were returning to his limbs before he pivoted to glare at Iain. “I am going to kill you, MacLachlann, as I will be well within my rights to do, for you have murdered my servant and killed my sheep, too.”

It was then Cordelia saw Ganore. A great wail burst from her throat, and she dismounted despite Jon-Bron’s attempts to make her stay with him and the soldiers.

Fiona watched with dismay as Cordelia ran to the chestnut tree and threw herself on her knees beneath Ganore’s body. Sobbing, she begged someone to cut her down. None of the men moved, for their attention was fully on the two men in the center of the clearing, and their hands were all on the hilts of their swords.

“I did not kill that woman or his sheep,” Iain retorted, not a whit disturbed by Cordelia’s grief. “I found her hanging here the same as you. And a kinsman of King William of Scotland would never have to stoop to stealing sheep.”

She had known he was a clever actor, but this was brazen beyond anything she had ever seen or thought to.

“He’s upset because he’s just found out his wife was supposed to marry me,” Iain went on over Cordelia’s keening wails, “so he’s made these foolish accusations. Why on earth would I murder an old woman? What would I want his sheep for?”

“My lord, he himself told me he killed Ganore,” Fiona declared. “And the sheep. He wanted me to pay for his silence about my broken betrothal and to prove how serious he was, he killed Ganore. As for why he killed the sheep, I expect he and his men ate them, for Iain MacLachlann has barely two coppers to his name.”

“She lies, my lord,” Iain said—but his knuckles were whiter yet.

“So it is the word of Lady Fiona against yours, MacLachlann,” Lord Rhys declared.

“The word of a merchant’s daughter against the word of a kinsman of King William?”

That was why he was so bold. He thought that even if Lord Rhys believed him guilty, he would not want to risk offending William.

Oh, God
, she fervently prayed,
do not let that be so. And please, please, oh, God, let Caradoc see that I am sorry for what I have done and forgive me
.

“I believe my wife, my lord,” Caradoc said, coming to stand beside her—but not close enough to touch. “I accuse this man of killing my maidservant and slaughtering my sheep. He has also insulted my wife. I will settle these matters here and now. By combat.”

“Don’t be a fool, Caradoc!” Jon-Bron cried, hurrying to him. “You can’t fight a man like that. He’s probably been fighting every day of his life, one way or another, brute that he is. You’ve got no chance.”

Caradoc turned to his friend with a determined, cold-eyed stare. “I said I will settle this matter by combat. As I am overlord to you, you have no right to challenge my decision.”

Thus rebuked, Jon-Bron flushed and went back to rejoin men, and terror for Caradoc destroyed the first hope that his declaration about believing her had created. Jon-Bron was right—Iain was a well trained, ruthless fighter. She had never even seen Caradoc draw a sword.

But if he would not listen to Jon-Bron, what could she say to stop him? He was filled with savage, grim determination. He didn’t even really look like her loving husband at all.

In desperation, she turned to Iain, prepared to offer him the money he wanted, no matter what Caradoc said. Anything, rather than have Caradoc risk his life.

Iain was afraid. True fear was in his usually confident eyes, and he nervously licked his lips.

He should see the wisdom of leaving, for Caradoc looked enraged enough to kill without compunction, especially a man he believed had done murder. “Iain—”

Caradoc grabbed her arm. “Do not speak to that man. Not now and not ever again. This is between the two of us now, not you.”

A wail built in her throat at his cold, heartless words.
What had she done
?

“I will be delighted to fight you,” Iain announced with the merest hint of a quaver in his voice, “if Lord Rhys approves—”

“He does not have to approve. I am lord here, by order of the king of England. I issue the challenge and you will agree, or you will put your tail between your legs and run back to Scotland, never to set foot on my land or in Wales again.”

“Don’t fight him, Caradoc!” Cordelia cried out as she struggled to her feet. “He’ll kill you.”

Her brother silenced her with one stern look.

“Very well, Caradoc, if this is what you want,” Rhys said with obvious reluctance.

Rhys surveyed the other men, both Scots and Welsh. “You hear how this is, then? One man against the other, and thus the matter will be determined. Is it agreed?”

The Scots nodded. The men of the hunting party looked far less convinced, but they did not protest. How could they, when Caradoc stood so firm of purpose, his very visage daring anyone to try to deny him this fight?

Rhys backed his horse away, until he was closer to his men, leaving the center of the clearing to Caradoc and his opponent.

“My lady, come stand by me,” Rhys ordered, as imperious as Caradoc.

Despite the nobleman’s command, she hesitated, trying to think of some way to stop this fight before Caradoc was hurt or even killed.

“Fiona, go to Lord Rhys,” Caradoc said, his expression stern and unyielding, his voice as firm as the ground beneath her feet, his whole body ready to fight.

He would brook no dissent, and thus she had no choice but to watch and wait, and pray that God would grant Caradoc the victory.

Cordelia sank weeping to the ground once more and Fiona wanted to join in her lamentations.

But she could not. Not yet. Now she needed her strength to look and see the final outcome of her deception, to live with the anguish of knowing that she was responsible for Iain’s presence here.

When she reached Lord Rhys, he called out, “Let it begin!”

Caradoc crouched, while Iain, smiling with what was more like a grimace, began to circle him.

“Not a swordsman, are you, Taffy?” he jeered, using the common slang for a Welshman that set the Welshmen muttering. “You’re holding your weapon like an ax, not a sword. Too bad Fiona’s going to be widowed. She’ll look like a fright in black.”

Caradoc slowly, silently pivoted, following his adversary with his eyes.

Please, God, give him the victory
.

“Did she moan for you, too, Taffy, when you took her, as she did for me? And make those little whimpers in the back of her throat?”

Humiliation swept through her. More punishment, as she felt the stares and looks of the gathered men. But she would gladly have endured a thousand times worse if it could have prevented this confrontation.

Iain suddenly stopped circling and his sword lashed out like a snake, slicing through the sleeve of Caradoc’s tunic. A damp red patch appeared and expanded around the torn fabric.