“F-fine,” he replied, mopping his brow one last time. “Are you ready?”
It was a ludicrous question. She’d already been lying in their bed, completely naked and shameless—her breasts jutting out like a pair of pale targes from between the ropes of her hair, her impossibly long legs culminating in a strangely barren tangle of blonde curls—when he’d bolted for the garderobe in a panic.
“Aye,” she said.
Steeling himself, he emerged from the garderobe, trying to focus on anything but the lass, who gazed at him in expectation.
“Isn’t it rather bright in here?” he asked. Candles were lit all around.
“You prefer the dark?”
“Aye,” he said in a relieved outpouring of breath.
He immediately circled the chamber, blowing out every candle he could find. The hearth still provided enough light to see the warrior lass, whose legs looked strong enough to strangle him. But there was nothing he could do about that.
“Why don’t you get undressed?” she suggested.
While he appreciated her calm manner, it did nothing to minimize the terror her words struck in him. If he got undressed, she’d see…
Damn. He needed a drink. There was a stoppered clay vessel on the table beside the bed.
“Ah,” he asked. “Mead?”
“Aye.”
He crossed the room to the table, picked up the vessel, pulled the stopper, and quickly glugged down the entire contents.
She raised a brow, but said nothing.
The drink didn’t fortify him at once, but it gave him the courage to at least take off his clothing. Taking his time, he draped his garments, one by one, neatly over the chest at the foot of the bed. By the time he got down to his undergarments, his head was buzzing with warm intoxication.
He closed his eyes and dropped his braies, trying to imagine he was standing, not before the stern and menacing warrior lass, but before her far more tempting little brother.
If Hallie hadn’t been ogled and admired by men all her life, she would have felt completely humiliated by her new husband’s behavior.
Fortunately, she’d never lacked self-confidence. She knew, being tall and imposing, she wasn’t always to a man’s liking. But she never failed to turn a man’s head.
What was wrong with Archie, she didn’t know. Perhaps he was shy. Or inexperienced. Or afraid.
But just as they’d been compelled to wed, regardless of their continuing lack of any common ground whatsoever, they were expected to consummate their marriage, to procreate and continue the Rivenloch line.
There didn’t seem to be anything physically wrong with him. His body was clean. True, he had very little hair and a bit of softness around the edges. But he looked healthy enough, with no noticeable scars or deformities. She supposed she should be thankful for that.
When Archie dropped his braies, however, her gaze couldn’t help but be drawn to the stunted member protruding from his curly brown thatch. And though she gave less credence to the size of a man’s sword than the skill with which he wielded it, she wondered if such a short appendage could even breach her gates to give her a child.
With his eyes still shut, he floundered his way along the bed until he contacted her ankle. She shuddered at the clamminess of his palm. But as in warfare, she knew to give away nothing by her expression—neither fear nor revulsion.
He groped his clumsy way up her leg, still with squeezed eyes, as if he couldn’t stand the sight of her.
For one sharply painful instant, she imagined how different this night would have been with Colban in her bed.
Then she forced herself to be present, in the moment, for her husband. It was the least she owed him.
He eventually clambered on top of her and fumbled between her legs, though the way his mouth was working with concentration, it must have been as difficult for him as hitting the quintain in the lists.
She took mercy on him and found his wrist, guiding his hand. “Here.”
But he seemed to take sudden offense at this. “I’ve got it!” he snarled.
She released him. But already he was withering. In frustration, he mashed himself against her with all the grace of a walrus thrashing at a rival.
“Bloody hell!” he shrieked.
So sudden and violent was his outburst, she instinctively reached beneath her bolster, where her dagger resided, stopping just short of drawing it out.
“Now you’ve done it!” he continued, spitting the words like an epithet. “Why couldn’t you just be silent?”
Anger stirred in her like a dark eel slithering beneath the still surface of a pond. But she wouldn’t confront him now. Not on their wedding night.
One day soon she would explain respect to him. Respect. And honor. And duty.
Anyone else would have felt the point of her blade by now. She only held her tongue and her weapon out of courtesy—for him and for their guests who waited below for proof of their successful coupling.
He had failed. Humiliated himself. And blamed it on her.
But to admit that would shame them both. So it was up to Hallie to make things right.
Archie sat back on his haunches, clamping his shriveled member between his thighs. “We’ll have to try again.”
She didn’t want to try again. Not when he’d been so unchivalrous. Besides, things would work out better this way.
Earlier, waiting for him to return from the garderobe, she’d worried he’d discover she wasn’t a virgin. She’d planned to deceive him. Now there was no need.
“That won’t be necessary.”
She drew the dagger.
He tumbled back with an exaggerated gasp, his hands cupping his crotch. His reaction might have been comical if she weren’t so utterly disappointed at the thought of being saddled with a simpering coward for the rest of her life.
Wincing only slightly, she pricked the tip of her middle finger with the point of the dagger, just enough to let a single drop of blood well from the wound. Then she smeared it across the linen.
His mouth went round in awe.
“No one has to know,” she confided.
She gathered up the stained bedsheet, slipped from the bed, and left the bloodied linen in a pile outside the door as evidence of her claimed virginity.
When she returned to the bed, he was still gripping his crotch. He need not have worried. She had no interest in dealing with that part of him further this evening.
“’Tis been a long day,” she said, forcing an encouraging smile to her lips. “We’ll try again on the morrow.”
As it turned out, the morrow was no better. Nor was the next day. Or the next.
Despite his best efforts—in various positions, in broad daylight, in complete darkness, warm from a bath, shivering in the cold, fully clothed, completely nude—nothing could keep him interested long enough to endure coupling with her.
A lesser woman would have deemed herself inadequate. Indeed, Archie would have had her believe it was her fault. Though he stopped short of accusing her outright, there was an edge to his muttered curses of frustration. Not once did he blame himself for his shortcomings.
But she knew better. Archie’s incapacity stemmed from his overarching anxiety…about everything.
To his credit, over the span of the next several weeks, he overcame a few of his fears.
With Brand’s guidance, he was able to develop some skill with a bow.
Gellir reluctantly taught him how to throw a dagger, and Archie hit the target about a quarter of the time.
Isabel convinced him to fish, although she had to tie the worm on the line for him, since he had an aversion to dirty, wriggling things.
He was never able to fight properly. His lunges and spins looked more like carole dancing than battle moves. But Rauve at least showed him how to brandish a sword. Hallie supposed Archie could at least look fierce standing atop the castle wall.
He also developed an affinity for Ian, which somewhat softened her heart t
oward him. The fact that he could listen to her little brother’s philosophies with patience and examine his inventions for hours on end did much to mollify her frustration with him.
Archie happily helped Ian with his experiments. He clapped with glee when one of Ian’s parchment birds sailed successfully across the courtyard. He cooed over the geared pulley Ian fashioned by hand out of wood and rope. He nodded his approval of Ian’s sketches, ruffling the lad’s hair with almost fatherly pride.
If only he would do the one thing that would make him a real father, Hallie might be less aggravated by her situation.
Now, not only was she wed to a husband she didn’t love.
She was stuck with a man who couldn’t perform his one most critical task. Giving her children.
Chapter 35
Colban hadn’t found what he was seeking in Edinburgh.
Neither did he find it in Linlithgow or Falkirk or Bannockburn.
Wandering once again, he trudged through the silent fog and the last muddy slush of winter, feeling as empty as the black-branched ash looming over the road. Without direction. Without a clan.
Nearly three months ago, he’d set out to find his place in the world. Instead, his heart kept getting pulled back, again and again, toward the clan that had taken him in. The man who was like a brother to him. And the lass whose image had never faded from his dreams, not even after weeks away.
What he was looking for he couldn’t name. But perhaps he’d find it in Stirling.
Eventually, the mire beneath his feet hardened into well-traveled hardpack. The civilized smoke of peat fire mingled with the wild fog, filling the air with an acrid but welcoming stench. After three days on the road, he’d finally arrived at the town that served as the gateway to the Highlands. He felt like Stirling was his last chance to purge himself of a destiny he couldn’t have and to look toward a fresh future.
He secured lodging on the high street and asked the innkeeper for the names of the town’s best stews. He intended to plunge at once into freewheeling debauchery. Drink himself blind and forget Hallie between the thighs of a willing wench. Hell, a dozen willing wenches.
The first task he managed to accomplish. By the time he emptied his fourth cup of ale and staggered out of the inn, his head was spinning.
As for the stews, he didn’t make it past the first doorway.
He was full of excuses. The glaring excuse being none of them were Hallie. This lass was too short. That one too ruddy. One reminded him of a nun he’d once met. Another was old enough to be his mother.
Then he realized any one of them could have been his mother. Struggling for survival. Trying to support herself and her bastard son. Painting on a smile that belied the horror of her existence. Subjecting herself to the tawdry whims of whatever brute pressed a coin into her palm.
Despite being steeped in ale, he instantly sobered.
Gazing around the room at young faces aged by abuse and rejection, he wished he had enough silver to free them all.
Discouraged, he returned to the inn, which by now was teeming with soused patrons.
“Ye’re back quick,” the innkeeper said with a chortle. “The lasses do right by ye?”
Colban shook his head and gestured for another drink.
“Nay?” As the innkeeper filled his cup, he leaned in close so no one else could hear. “Maybe ye’re interested in somethin’ out o’ the ordinary?”
Colban frowned. “Out o’ the ordinary?”
The innkeeper shrugged. “Somethin’ of a…different…nature.”
Colban’s frown deepened. What the hell did that mean?
The innkeeper, sensing Colban’s disapproval, raised his palms defensively. “’Tis up to ye. Just let me know if ye’re in the market for, well…”
“Somethin’ out o’ the ordinary.”
“Aye.” He raised his brows toward the corner of the room. Alone at the table, a pale, black-haired nobleman with thin lips and a sharp nose sat with his beringed fingers wrapped around his ale, surveying the inn in quiet speculation. “If ye’ve got coin, the gentleman there can look after your…unusual requirements. I can make the introductions.”
Colban studied the man. He looked like a lizard, waiting in coldblooded calculation, seeking his next fly.
The innkeeper confided, “’Tis said Sir Geoffrey procured special entertainment for the laird’s son.”
“The laird’s son?”
“Aye, Archibald Scott himself, though he’s gone now.”
Colban furrowed his brows. Archibald Scott. That name sounded familiar. Wasn’t it the name Isabel kept muttering at him at Morgan’s wedding? The one he didn’t want to hear? The name of Hallie’s betrothed? Surely it couldn’t be the same man.
“He’s gone, ye say?”
“Aye,” the innkeeper said, shaking his head. “Sent away by the new king. Wedded to a Lowland warrior bride as cold as ice.” He shuddered.
Colban’s world tipped on its edge.
Dread kicked him in the gut.
That had to be the same Archibald Scott.
But what “special entertainment” had Archibald Scott required? God’s blood. What kind of twisted monster had the king sent to wed his Hallie?
He set down the ale. Done with drinking. He needed to speak with Sir Geoffrey. And for that he needed a clear head.
Hallie woke abruptly. The winter moon cast a thin sliver of light through the shutters. It was not enough to see by. But she didn’t need her eyes to tell her what had made her stir. Her ears told her everything she needed to know.
Archie apparently thought she was sleeping. Otherwise, he wouldn’t engage in such licentious activity. Wrinkling her nose at the pungent smell of wool grease, she heard the sounds of moist, rhythmic smacking and Archie snatching quivering breaths through his teeth, as if he were having a nightmare.
He was pleasuring himself.
She wasn’t annoyed. Only mystified. He wasn’t completely incapable of lust then. He was only anxious with her.
It was all ridiculous. No matter how fierce she was in battle, in bed she’d been as harmless as a kitten. She’d let him take the lead. She’d acquiesced with his preference for the dark, for silence, for complacency.
But now she had a reason for assertiveness, for urgency.
Sometimes in war, it was merciful to be quick. Rather than letting the enemy languish in unnecessary dread, it was best to dispatch things quickly.
Perhaps if she could waylay him while he was aroused…
Casting caution to the wind, she took swift action. While he was in the throes of passion, she tossed off the coverlet and flung a leg over his thighs.
He shrieked in surprise and threw up his hands.
“Here,” she coaxed. “Let me help you.”
Climbing atop him, she wrapped her fingers around his stiff, greasy stump, angling it toward her waiting womb.
But he shuddered beneath her, shriveling in her hand, letting out a mournful moan of defeat.
She silently cursed. She wasn’t angry. Not really. Mostly she felt sorry for him. And for herself, she felt terribly frustrated.
They’d been wed for three months now, and this was the longest, most agonizing siege she’d endured. Despite letting down her guard and opening the palisade gates, he still hadn’t managed to breach her walls and storm her castle.
“Sorry,” he muttered. “But you mustn’t frighten me like that.”
Hallie sighed and rolled off of him. Of course, he blamed her.
But if he didn’t take responsibility in the near future, consummate this marriage, and start exercising his marital duties, she feared a very ugly truth would come to light.
Hallie was with child.
She wasn’t swollen enough yet for anyone to notice. But it wouldn’t be long before her condition became apparent. And Archie would realize the babe wasn’t his.
He only had to swive her once. Just once, and she could joyfully announce that they were expecting their first child.
If it came a few months early, no one would blink. After all, babes came early all the time. As long as the child was whole and healthy, the clan would be delighted to greet the next Rivenloch heir.
“Good night,” Archie groused as he turned his back, probably annoyed now that she’d interrupted his self-pleasure.
She couldn’t get back to sleep, even when Archie began drawing in long, whining breaths of slumber.
She kept thinking about her babe. Would the child have Colban’s soft brown eyes? His chiseled features? His golden hair?
She closed her eyes and dreamed. Of Colban an Curaidh in her bed. Of kissing his warm mouth and melting in his embrace. Of holding their precious babe in her arms.
Colban plopped a bag of coin on the table before the pale reptile of a man who sat in the corner of the inn.
The man opened the bag, peered in, then blinked slowly in approval. “Sit. Please.”
He pulled up the bench before the table and sat across from Sir Geoffrey, purveyor of “special entertainments.”
The man’s lizard tongue flicked out as if tasting the air before he murmured, “The innkeeper says ye’re interested in what I provided for the laird’s son.”
Beneath the table, Colban clenched his fists in his lap. It would do no good to express the urgent dread he felt about the devil who was now sharing a bed with Hallie.
Instead, he feigned nonchalance, fixing a bland smile on his face. “Aye.”
“And are ye speakin’ of age? Gender? Appearance?”
“Everythin’.” He didn’t want to think about what that meant. About what Archibald Scott’s sexual perversions were. But the sooner he found out, the sooner he would know what kind of demon he was battling.
“Very well,” Sir Geoffrey. “If ye come back on the morrow—”
“Nay!” At Sir Geoffrey’s flinch, he softened his tone. “It has to be tonight.” He felt like he was already three months too late.
“Tonight?” The man shook his head. “Ye must realize these things take plannin’. I can’t just nab—”
“I’ll double that,” he said, nodding at the bag of coin, knowing full well he’d do no such thing. Since he didn’t plan to actually avail himself of the man’s services, he wouldn’t pay another farthing.
Bride of Ice Page 28
