by Jackie Ivie
Dugald’s words cut through the haze encompassing everything about this. Aidan gave a last warning glare to everyone in range, getting a quick grin from Tavish in response, then he sucked in a huge breath and turned around, bringing Juliana with him held close to his side. Dugald MacKetryck had gone to the front of his group in the interim, and stood to his full height. That put him below Aidan’s cheek, but nearly a head above Juliana. With both fists atop his hips and legs slightly apart, he made an outstanding figure. Aidan looked him over as Juliana might and was surprised to feel selfdoubt akin to how he’d felt as a young lad presenting his newly wedded wife.
Dugald MacKetryck favored his nephews in all save the color of his eyes and shade of hair. He was in perfect physical condition, with thick, brawny muscles. But those eyes of his were an emerald green that everyone noted first thing. He also sported a thick head of black hair with only a few white strays in it. He was eyeing Juliana before smiling slightly, and Aidan watched as he exerted a charm women supposedly found irresistible.
“Jul . . . iana?” the man asked softly, elongating her name into a caress and putting a hint of air on the last of it.
“My lord?” Juliana answered at Aidan’s side, bending into a curtsy while she used his hand for support. She was showing far too much bosom, if his vantage was any indication.
Aidan lowered his chin slightly, enlarged every bit of his frame, and regarded the shorter man as Dugald looked Juliana over. It wasn’t noted. Dugald was giving Juliana his full attention and liking what he saw. His uncle started nodding, licked his lips, and then tipped his head in response to her greeting.
“Dugald MacKetryck, my dear Juliana. I am patriarch of Clan MacKetryck, uncle to these lads, and a man completely humbled and silenced . . . at your beauty.”
Aidan’s hand clenched around hers, as both arms flexed instinctively. Completely. Involuntarily. She flashed him an upward glance before looking back at Dugald. Aidan clenched his jaw as he looked over her head, trying to ignore her. He hoped she understood. He couldn’t possibly look toward her again. Everything in the room was starting to get a red wash coloring it. Controlling his anger had always been an issue. Calling it on wasn’t.
Juliana’s head bobbed with a nod, brushing his shoulder with her caplet, and then she answered with a bit of prose about meeting such a grand figure, and all of it was said eloquently in the Frankish language of the royal court. Aidan lifted an eyebrow at the words and how perfectly she spoke them. Then he had to suffer through how that little bit of fluidity coming from her mouth affected him and knew the tremble of his hand about hers gave it away.
She tipped her head, catching his glance as she looked straight up at him, and took all his senses apart. The most incredible, loud, rhythmic sound filled his head, obliterating every other sound. He didn’t realize it was his own heartbeat until her mouth stopped moving and she stood poised, with a questioning look to her features. Aidan was lost. He couldn’t possibly hear over the sound crashing through his head. He lifted his gaze, focused on the far wall, and swallowed. He was acting like a lovesick fool. And probably looked it.
Arran nudged his side, and when Aidan turned to the lad, he saw they’d cleared an aisle of space through to his dais. Juliana squeezed his hand, drawing his glance to her, and then she smiled. Aidan’s eyes narrowed, his heart leapt into rapid-fire stance, and then his knees started quavering. She motioned with her head toward his table, alerting him to exactly what she’d asked and what his reply should have been. And what Arran had been trying to show him. Aidan nodded although it was a jerked motion, and then he managed to accompany her back to where, if he was lucky, he’d be able to fall into his chair and pretend none of this was happening.
Aidan looked at the tankard in front of him. He didn’t know where it had come from. He also didn’t know how he’d reached his chair, but he was forgoing any more ale.
“Aidan?”
It was Juliana. She was right next to him, seated on a padded stool, with her hands folded atop her lap. That was the farthest he was looking. Some fool had seated her next to him. In Alpin’s place. Of course she’d be next to him. Making his world a whorl of longing and frustration and barely tempered ache. And making certain he knew of it. He couldn’t answer her. Not yet. He could barely function.
Aidan quickly turned to the room before him. His uncle had just reached his own dais and was being seated and served, speaking with a wit that had others about him applauding and laughing and waving his arms wide like a magnanimous benefactor to all before him. Aidan caught the glance Dugald sent toward him. No . . . the glance sent toward Juliana. Dugald caught his nephew’s glare and nodded. Then he turned aside, chattered some more, and got another burst of laughter.
It was probably at his eldest nephew’s expense.
Aidan moved his gaze past Dugald . . . to the far wall, where three rows of shields hung, each displayed atop the sett captured with it. They were battle trophies. From valorous days, victorious forays . . . clan conquests . . .
“Ai . . . dan?”
Now she broke his name in half with a slight hint of tears wrapped about it. His luck was cursed horrid. He should’ve put her on the other side of Alpin . . . so he could watch them together. See if he could handle how his future would feel without trying to kill someone. That was what he should’ve done . . . if he were one for thinking first.
Aidan sighed, steeled himself, and turned his head to answer her. That was another mistake. He could tell it the moment his eyes connected with hers. The whoosh of sound started in his ears again and then built. The quiver in his lower limbs was back, running down both tensed thighs to his toes in the soft leather boots. And the discomfort of a full whiskey flask atop his groin did little to staunch the hardening, enlarging, and building evidence of vicious desire. Ferocious want. Brutal need. Violent yearning. For a woman he shouldn’t claim.
Christ.
She smiled slightly, moving his rapt gaze from her eyes to perfect rose-shaded lips . . . that were moving with her words. Words he hadn’t a prayer of hearing.
“I’ll fetch it!”
She’d asked for a sup trencher. From above her head Aidan watched Arran jump from his seat and gesture to two serfs, who began to fill a trencher platter with meats that had been roasting since their arrival, leeks and onions that had been stewed and mixed with blood pudding, and cheeses that bit a man’s tongue with tartness. Aidan didn’t move anything else. He was locked into position, filling his senses with the sight of Juliana attired in a gown that didn’t look to cover enough, and smelling of such freshness, she might as well be clad in mist. And not much else.
Lady Reina had outdone what he’d asked. No man should have to put up with seeing Juliana with her hair all unbound and rippling to her knees or wearing a thin weave of barely colored flax that skimmed all over her, making it easy to see a waist his hands could span, breasts that would lose their shelter of satin when crushed against his chest, and a hint of thighs that led to absolute bliss.
Aidan licked his lips. Swallowed. His ears popped, clearing the constant whooshing sound of his heartbeat . . . before it started right back up again. He lowered his head slightly. Grit his teeth. Settled straighter against the back of his chair to give him more room beneath his sporran bag. Swore.
“What . . . is it?”
He didn’t have to hear it. He knew her words from the movement of her mouth and the curiosity in her eyes when he dared move his gaze there again. And that was just stupid. He was locked within her gaze while the breath got sucked out of him and refused entry back in.
“I . . .” The rumble of voice had to be his, as was the slight shaky sound to the one long-drawn word.
“I must thank you.”
She had a blush blossoming through her cheeks. Right in front of him. Making everything about her look younger, sweeter, and more appealing. She looked down shyly, the move fluttering eyelashes against her skin. Aidan pulled in a gulp of air. Swallowed again. Leaned forward for more ro
om. Cursed the hard wood of his chair bottom, as well as the lack of give beneath him, and then he cursed the immense desire he couldn’t even temper. Aidan pushed down on the sporran with more strength.
“For . . . this dress. And Lady Reina’s . . . help.”
She was speaking the words to her conjoined hands. Aidan forced himself not to shift or move and prayed she wasn’t looking anywhere near his lap right beside her.
Lady Reina’s . . . help?
This wasn’t help. This was longing and yearning and hunger, washed over with anguish and suffering and pure, unadulterated torment.
“I . . .” He spoke again. He had the same rumble to the word, although he should’ve cleared his throat before attempting it. That might’ve firmed the shake out of it.
Aidan blew the rest of his breath out and moved his head, looking out again at the crowd on the common floor. Then the view changed to include Arran and the serfs as they materialized in front of them, the table level with their shoulders. Aidan watched them lift trencher bread, heavy with the meat, puddings, vegetables, and cheeses. Both platters were also bowed with juices from the elk, deer, boar and duck, since it looked like they’d carved the most succulent pieces.
Juliana said the proper words of appreciation that had Arran stammering and stuttering and turning a definite shade of red, before he left intent on a mission for a goblet of water the lass beside Aidan requested . . . using a voice that was quiet and melodic and unbearably sweet. Adding to the intimate torture of listening.
Aidan watched her reach for a piece of duck, noting they’d even carved the meat into bite-sized pieces . . . moved the poultry to her mouth, parted her lips . . . ate . . . and then licked at the meat juice that touched on her lower lip. The lurch in his entire frame slid his buttocks against hard wood beneath the thin weave of kilt, despite how tight he immediately made his thighs against the chair bottom. He groaned.
Juliana reached next for a piece of venison. Aidan watched her make the same moves, although this time she didn’t lick at her lip for no juice dribbled. This time, he had such a grip on the wood the reaction that flared through his frame didn’t do more than make the chair creak. The same thing happened with the next bite she took and the next, although by the time Arran returned with a goblet of liquid, Aidan had the response to a tremor that didn’t make sound and wasn’t visual.
“Aidan?” Juliana asked it suddenly, turning to him with a piece of cheese in her fingers. Aidan locked on to the morsel and watched as she just kept it at her lips . . . hovering . . . tempting . . . promising . . .
He gritted his teeth harder, lowered his chin, and forced his gaze from her mouth to her eyes. And felt his heart sink clear to the pit of his belly, where the pounding was a worse problem than when it deafened him. He watched as something dawned within her as her eyes widened, pulling him in inexorably, and then holding him with a vicious grip no woman should wield so easily and fully.
“Aye?” The word was croaked. He was actually surprised to hear it.
“I-I-Is Lady Reina . . . your . . . ?” Her voice ended without finishing.
And then she released her grip on his gaze to drop her eyes to the region of his chest while full red crept through her face and through her bosom as well. Aidan glanced there, earned the heave of his loins against the sporran that he shoved right back, and cursed himself for being every brand of idiot.
“My what?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“She’s Dugald’s sister. Through marriage.”
Juliana gasped, put a hand to cleavage that was already his bane and hell, and looked up at him with wide, surprised eyes.
“Dugald? She’s related . . . to . . . him?”
Aidan nodded, felt the glimmer of satisfaction at the way she said the last word, and that nearly righted everything in the room again. Except she was still looking up at him and breathing a reaction, which might be her dismay and disgust, all over him. Hooking him within her gaze, and all the while making him accept the sweetness of her breath and the shivers it engendered.
“Then . . . he’ll punish her.”
“Nae,” Aidan reassured her.
“He will, though. I know the type. For this . . . dress. This . . . presentation. He’ll see her punished, Aidan. He will.”
“He can’t. I protect her.” Aidan’s voice still growled, but he felt the satisfaction like a cool wash all over him, soothing muscles he still held taut against the onslaught of Juliana’s femininity. She hadn’t been fooled by the old lecher’s charm.
“You?”
“Aye. Me,” he replied. “Just as I will you.”
Her eyes went enormous. And then she dropped them. “I see,” she whispered.
Chapter 21
The magic was gone.
Juliana blinked out at the humanity in the great hall as if for the first time. It was dim and shadowy and the glow of candles at her table made it look even more so. There were so many people and so much happening! MacKetryck had loaded his great hall with clansmen and women of all ages and abilities, great platters of steaming fare, huge barrels of ale, bowls of wick-lit oil, and scattered pockets of musicians. The din was constant and loud and discordant. Laughter was everywhere. The feasting and reveling looked to have been going on for some time. And she hadn’t even heard it.
It was as if Lady Reina had encased her somehow in a bubble, not unlike those that frothed at the bottom of a waterfall. Juliana had been here through all of it . . . she just hadn’t noted any of it. There’d been a low-pitched vibration running through her, creating warmth that coursed through her veins, a glow surrounding wherever she looked, and a primitive blend of scent that permeated every pore, making this evening the most immense, sensual, and visceral of her experience. Food had never tasted and smelled better, colors had never looked so vivid and appealing, and the hypnotic quality of being beside Aidan MacKetryck—catching his gaze, feeling her heart skip at his eye contact, and near swooning with his touch—had been so vast and overpowering, it felt like she’d been transported to another world.
And just like that, the bubble disappeared.
She’d not only forgotten she was in a heathen castle deep in heathen land, in the control of a heathen laird, and before the eve was finished, she’d be ensconced in that befouled bed with him, but she’d been enjoying the accoutrements that readied her for it. She’d been looking forward to it with desire, longing . . . and craving. She’d been in a fog of want and yearning and desire, and every breath she took accentuated and heightened it.
Juliana blinked and brought her focus back to Aidan’s table. It wasn’t difficult. Directly to her right stood a candle stand, holding five lit tapers that wavered and flickered and sent a tiny plume of smoke wafting upward. There was another candle stand two settings down and more beyond that. If she looked, there was probably another candle stand at Aidan’s left with the same arrangement.
She didn’t look.
That amount of light made it not only easier to see and converse and dine, but also impossible for anyone in the room not to see the richness of those on the dais conversing and dining.
Aidan had loaded his table with riches. Juliana blinked again on the quantity and quality of them. The goblet Arran had brought for her looked so encrusted with jewels the smithy had to have had difficulty attaching all of them. It should have been akin to hefting stone, yet when she’d lifted it to her mouth earlier, it had felt the weight of feathers. There were two-tined forks set out, giving an impression of elegance and refinement. A long blade rested alongside each fork. Both pieces had been smelted with jewels encrusting their handles. Juliana hadn’t seen them because she hadn’t looked. She’d eaten with her fingers because she’d been expecting that. She hadn’t felt gauche or barbaric while she’d done so either. Until now.
The haze of perfection and wonder Lady Reina had somehow woven about Juliana had dissipated, taking the fantasy quality from everything and putting it back to reality. Juliana co
uldn’t do anything other than accept it, and suffer through the reasons why.
She was appalled and disgusted. With herself. And getting more so the longer she sat there listening and watching and evaluating. By his own mouth, he’d said he’d protect her, but that wasn’t odd. He’d been saying it often, in as many ways and as many times as the amount of days he’d known her. She was under his protection . . . just as the Lady Reina was?
Juliana’s eyes flitted about the chamber, picking out the women with the most winsome faces and lush curves. The gathering had a surfeit of them. Everywhere she looked, they graced the tables with men all about them. Juliana checked the table beside her with a surreptitious glance. More than twelve clansmen ate with Aidan. They were accompanied by five women on her right and at least three that she could see on the other side of Aidan, most possessing features that were very pleasing to the eye, as well as fine forms.
Juliana’s lip lifted. She clasped both hands together and tightened them. Self-disgust was covering the jealousy, and she wasn’t admitting to that until she got all the other emotions under control.
She looked next at where that conceited ass Dugald was holding court, laughing and gesturing broadly to a rapt table of diners, as well as an audience he seemed to have gathered on the common floor in front of him. They were shouting back and forth and gesturing and lifting tankards for toasts, and laughing. Raucously.
She didn’t know why. There was nothing amusing left in the world.
Not for Juliana.
Dugald had five winsome lasses at his table. There wasn’t one that had any imperfection that Juliana could tell. They were all beautiful and all looked to be her age, if not younger. Juliana shivered slightly in a delayed reaction from meeting the man. The bubble had her fully encased back then. Now, she was not so lucky. She had to feel the revulsion full-scale.
One of the ladies at Dugald’s table reached forward and spilled her goblet, sending a froth of liquid over the edge. Juliana gaped as bodies jostled and fought and struggled for the right to lie in the mess of rushes beneath the table and catch the drops of liquid as it fell. From where she sat, she couldn’t tell which gent had been the victorious one in the pile of clansmen.
