His Judas Bride

by Shehanne Moore

  “Are you in some kind of a hurry?”

  He frowned. Well, was she? Wanting to leave right away? Because hell, the half hour couldn’t be up. Could it? Not even five minutes of it. And even if it was, what was another ten minutes? Another fifteen for that matter? Meg’s porridge wasn’t just the best, the thickest, honeyed by the bees she let loose on Dunalpin meadow, it was the sweetest, the most delicious, which was why—he reached across the table for the ladle—he was having himself some more.

  “You told me, quite clearly, to be ready in half an hour—”

  “That was then, this is now. Can’t a man eat in peace with his friends?” He sprawled back in the carved wooden chair. Even that was good to sit in when he thought about spending the rest of the day in the saddle. “Me and the boys here, are just having ourselves—”

  “—forty-five minutes ago.”

  Callm concentrated on ignoring the way her eyes smoldered, for the way Wee Murdie’s bulged out their sockets and Snosh sprayed oatmeal globules down his tunic.

  When it came to who was in charge here, he refused to be undermined by the challenge that radiated from the tips of her prettily disordered hair, to the toes of her soft leather boots, peeking out beneath the hem of her midnight blue cloak.

  She was going to marry the turd. Now that she was, his body responding as it did was one thing. As had been clearly demonstrated—forty-five minutes ago, when her insistence they leave now had quite rattled his assurance about who was in charge—he wanted no further dents in his armor. Although he didn’t like women who cowered in fear of him, he refused to be spoken to like this before his men by any woman. He especially refused to be spoken to like this by some Edinburgh educated tinker piece who had somehow imprisoned Dug.

  “What are you?” Deliberately he worked a lump of porridge off his teeth with his tongue. “A speaking clock?”

  “I hardly think so. Then I should have come in here fifteen—”

  “Isn’t that good? Boys, she can count.” He reached for the ale jug. Yes, he would win this battle. “Just wait till she gets there. Then what she’ll be is down on those pretty knees of hers begging me to bring her back here. Oh please, don’t marry me to Monsieur. Oh please, don’t let him touch me.”

  The ribald laughter was fine. The laughter he could guarantee. Even bask in it a little when he knew the Brotherhood would always back him. That the ale jug was in danger of being ripped from his hand and smacked over his head, and what would happen about it if it did, he could guarantee too. This creature could do with taming.

  The image that flashed in his head wasn’t exactly what he had in mind though. Well, certainly not here in front of everyone. His breath shortened. How the hell did she do that to him?

  And not just that. How could he suffer any pangs about the indignant way her eyes brimmed as if he were a brute, when he sat here fighting to show her he was, of course he was, for five years he had not been able to afford to be otherwise?

  All right, thoughts about how clever it was to guarantee the laughter, when he had a pretty fair idea what she was facing. Ewen, well Snosh was right about that. The kindness, if maybe she had been trying to run earlier, would have been to let her.

  “Fine, fine.” He set the jug down on the table.

  Anyway there was sure to be a rejoinder. Christ only knew what they taught in Edinburgh, but the baggage seemed even less familiar with the concept of a woman’s place than he was himself. It was only a case of waiting.

  He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Come here.”

  “I beg your—”

  He beckoned Fallon, before the chit thought he meant her and next got awkward about that. As if he’d lift her onto the table. Anyway why should he hurry away from Fallon just because Miss High-and-Mighty couldn’t contain herself? As it was he was lucky to call by once a week. It might change with this marriage. All that still remained to be seen. He still had his doubts. Certainly if she tried speaking to the turd like this, flaunting herself in that scrappy damned dress too, Lochalpin would have another war on its hands in two seconds flat. Another mess for him to sort out.

  He pointed at his cheek. “Put it there. Missy has a kiss for her favorite sweetheart, doesn’t she?”

  Fallon shrieked with laughter, cups and cutlery flying as she tried rolling away across the tabletop. As always he grabbed hold of her ankles. Still no rejoinder, except a stern one from Meg when the jug went over, ale frothing everywhere. Why was that? He couldn’t quite fathom it. Was she even looking? He pulled Fallon down onto his knee, wrapping his arms around her.

  “No, Daddy.” Fallon’s laughter was deafening. Certainly in his ears.

  “What’s this you’re meaning, No, Daddy?”

  “Dinnae tickle. Dinnae tickle me.” Her squirming was uncontrollable, infectious.

  “Is there some other sweetheart you’re giving your kisses to? Hmm? Because I’ll find out. I’m warning you. And then, then I’m going—”

  “Please, sir, if you don’t mind, that is what I would like to do. Go.” The baggage’s voice cut like a blade all the way across the bustling room, silencing it, silencing Fallon. Him too, to some extent. “I’m very keen to meet my betrothed.”

  Once again she told him what to do. Well, he wasn’t having it. Or her thinking she could face him up as she had yesterday. Hard as a pair of crisp new leather boots. Hard as…he tried not to dishonor Morven’s memory thinking what else the damned piece had been hard as. Although, by Christ, it was something that hadn’t been hard often enough in the last five years.

  He jerked his chin up and wished he hadn’t. She hadn’t said something else like If you’re finished making a fool of yourself with that child, but had been quite amenable—for her anyway. She was appealing to him, standing there gazing at the floor, her hands like hopeless fists, her slender throat fluttering like a trapped bird. When he hadn’t got her where he wanted in front of his men, he didn’t need this, did he? To think he shouldn’t have opened his big mouth about the half hour.

  He huffed out a breath. But he had, hadn’t he? So, now that he had, in front of his men too… He nodded across the table at the Murdies.

  “Daddy’s got to go, sweetheart. Take the pretty lady to see Uncle…” He hesitated over the word Turdygub. That would be to bring further complaint from Meg down on his head in an already difficult situation. A situation where he was now going to have to take the chit to Turdygub. “…Ewen up at the castle. You be good. No more swearing. You promise me? Hmm?”

  Fallon wrapped her arms around his neck. “Yes, Daddy.”

  “Because, sweetheart, if you’re not—”

  He ruffled her hair before setting her down. His boots seemed to echo for an eternity across the flagstones, past the stag heads watching dully from their mounts on the draped walls, the pewter shining on the dresser.

  The thing was, despite all he’d said he hadn’t expected her to march in here and call him out in front of his men. So now he had no choice but to saddle Satan, didn’t he? So then, tonight, if not before, she and Ewen… Turdypus, not gub…

  Christ, what the hell was wrong with him? He could hardly bear to think it, his heart haunting his hollow ribcage with beats that were irregular and too fast. Not when she stood there, her chin lifted, every curve, every fold of her cloak, every shimmer of her gown, every bit of her, brimming, glittering with something that looked remarkably like tears. Not when he wanted her. When he thought, just maybe this way she carried on, what if she was nervous of Ewen touching her? No more. Hell, what woman wouldn’t be?

  It all went back to that apology she’d leeched from him. Him, who never gave such a thing. Not even before God.

  The anger that raged in his veins had nothing to do with her locking Dug up. It had to do with what had gripped him in that second when she stood there beneath his gaze at the door. The unquenchable desire for her. For the skeins of disheveled silvery-gold hair and her rose-petal perfume. The lust that gripped him now.


  That was why in determining he was now going to saddle Satan, he equally determined to stop this advance on his body. As only he knew how. She wasn’t for him. Whatever the reason, he didn’t trust her. He couldn’t explain it. He just didn’t. As for these shrewish Edinburgh manners of hers. Oh, the five damn years of pure enjoyment that must have been, partying and dancing every night on the graves of many of his clan. His own wife’s included.

  “Th-thank you.”

  No. He wasn’t about to be fooled by these brimming eyes she turned on him, into returning her stare. If she now regretted her rash demand to take her to the castle, it was no odds to him.

  The door creaked as he dragged it open. “My pleasure.”

  She made to brush past him but he clasped her arm. The way his pulse tripped was unfortunate. It was however something he would quell as opposed to having his palms sweat, although the feel of her, the scent, they did that anyway.

  “But let me tell you something, Princess, just so we’re clear. Next time you talk to me like that before my men I’ll kill you. Do you understand?”

  Her glance held daggers for all its cool regard. “Perfectly. Now can we go?”

  * * *

  Oh, and what was he going to do, kiss and tickle her to death? A pussycat like him? Excuse her while she trembled in her boots. Of course, it was not about that. The fact he wasn’t quite as she’d heard. It was about her complete failure to be amenable, so even now all of this had spiraled out of control. She had spiraled out of control. That scene, that damnable scene with the little girl. Oh, the devil was clever. Far cleverer than she gave credit for despite having lived in hell herself for years. She should have known she would be outwitted. An empty soul was worthless.

  To arrange for it to be filled first though? That was masterful. Well, hers wasn’t just empty, when she thought of Arland, of Ardene begging her help the other week, it was perished. What else could she do here but go on? What escape was there for a woman like her? Her father…well, she just must try and set conditions, a piece of information for a life.

  “My lady. My lady, wait.”

  Hearing a voice behind her, Kara sucked a breath. When so much was at stake, the last thing she needed was Meg thinking anything was amiss with this, with her, with him.

  “Are ye all right?”

  “Yes.” Although she wasn’t, not in the least, she couldn’t very well say so. Because now, now that damned mount of Kertyn’s was being fetched out into the yard, and Kara, after falling off it yesterday, right under his nose, was going to have to get back on it. She did not see how. She did not see anything really. Not when her lurching heart seemed to play havoc with her stomach but she supposed she just must.

  And where the devil was the Wolf? Off planning what to show her next? Dog, daughter, was there anything left? She swallowed the constriction that barred her throat.

  “Just desperately eager now to meet my betrothed. Is it far?”

  Meg’s footsteps sounded softly beside her. “Not the hurry Callm seems in. Here, take this.”

  For two pins what Kara wanted was to take the nearest path out of Lochalpin. Or one of the knives that daughter of theirs had flung about the yard. Anything but what she now unwrapped from the rough piece of cloth. The oat bannocks, still warm, although frost nipped the air, and lumps of cheese. She could hardly believe it. She couldn’t take these.

  “He won’t think of it. He never does. He’ll ride all day on nothing, like he’s driven to it.”

  And Meg thought what? Kara was going to nursemaid him? For her? She had heard so much about this man. That the slopes of the pass were littered with the bones of those whose throats he’d cut, that his rage when Morven was murdered knew no bounds. Please God, don’t tell her he cared even less about things than she did. About himself anyway.

  Her sideways gaze was arrested by the sight of him leading his black stallion out of the stables. That might also explain why he disdained to dress properly for the weather. Arm himself to his proverbial teeth, broadswords on his back, two of them, targe slung over his shoulder, but dressed? No.

  “He is expecting trouble?”

  “He has a name, Princess.” He glowered as he edged his hand over the skulls beading the stallion’s mane. “And if I get any, you can rest assured I will meet it too. Now you wanted to go, so perhaps you can stop standing about here?”

  “Don’t mind him.” Meg’s fingertips brushed Kara’s wrist. “He is just looking out for you.”

  He could have fooled Kara. Meg could have fooled her too, but never mind.

  “I don’t know what kind of a welcome ye have had—”

  “Oh, not everyone wants me here—”

  “While that is true, feelings still run high over certain things, and we’re not quite at the peace most of us want, Callm won’t let any harm come to ye, whether he wants that peace or not.”

  Kara averted her gaze. She had not thought, had she? That in addition to him, there must have been a queue of others who hated her simply because of whose daughter she was and the trouble he’d visited upon them. Not just the five years, the five before, and the ones before them.

  “Why, how heartening to know.”

  Yet how hard it was to deny, even as she tried to think why on earth that should be the case, how the blazes, on top of everything else must he be honorable that way? All right, if she were to choose a man, a man who might conceivably protect her, he certainly looked the part, whatever she’d just thought about that scene in the hall there, which she admitted she’d wanted to think, that he was a pussycat.

  So long as want didn’t become need. As if it would. What he was going to show her next? Well, that question had just been answered though.

  “It is my lady.”

  That was why Kara was going to mount the horse, just take the bannocks and go. Anyway, he had given her an order, hadn’t he? It would be a good thing to obey for once.

  “Yes. Yes, of course.”

  She had but to grasp the reins, difficult given the size of the nag and how her heart was pounding. She had forgotten how huge horses were. Of course it was Kertyn’s nag. Had it been hers it might not have started clopping about the yard like this. At least she might have been able to stop it when it did, so she could at least get a foot in the stirrup. Stop it baring its teeth at her too.

  If Meg hadn’t given her these bannocks perhaps. For him too, which was why she wished he wouldn’t knit his brows like that as he set his boot in his own stirrup. Lady Kara would be able to ride, wouldn’t she? As opposed to spending the morning walking up and down the yard, while he now showed every sign of departing.

  Yesterday she’d stumbled at this point too. It was why her father’s men were of the opinion she’d mess this up. It was why she felt obliged to smile nicely, in the hope of seeming blasé, especially now that the nag, its head flailing wildly, nickered sideways into the wall.

  “Go.”

  And now, now his hand descended on her reins, she was forced to wonder if he perhaps meant her. Would he dismount and stride through the snow to tell her that though? He might when she was as hopeless as this and it looked as if she would have to walk with the horse all the way to McDunnagh Castle, hoping it would let her on its back eventually.

  Humiliation scorched to her hair roots. She didn’t want to look at him standing there so close. To see his brow furrowed with irritation, his mastery of the disobedient nag was bad enough. She really wasn’t cut out for this was she? The not being kept in shackles.

  Logic said no. But that scene at breakfast hadn’t just twisted her heart, wrenched her stomach for the reasons she’d thought. She and Arland had never been like that.

  Never more acutely than that second had she felt her life was one of looking through a window at the happiness of those in a room beyond. And while she had never been gifted with the ability to see around any corners, she had a horrible prescience she always would. And what she did here, when it was accomplished, could only make
that feeling that she was nothing more than inadequate, worse.

  While this man now had an ease with things she didn’t just absurdly wish was hers, she wished it might rub off on her in some miniscule way, as if standing in his shadow would mask these blemishes and she might feel, not that she belonged, but that she stood a chance.

  The thing was you could look at a man. You could find him attractive. You could feel drawn, despite everything you were and he was, to consider what would it be like to have one night with him. Worlds had been ripped apart. Empires destroyed for just such thoughts. Why, if anyone knew that, she did. Wasn’t that what had happened with Lachlan?

  She also knew—she knew now anyway—fires only raged out of control if you let them. Starve them and cold ash resulted.

  So this other feeling? Stupid? But even his holding steady of the horse meant she could now, maybe not mount it terribly well, but at least make a show of perching herself up there in the saddle.

  When he belonged to Meg and Kara was here for what she was? Yes, it was.

  Chapter Three

  “So?” Tightening her hands on the reins, Kara cantered level, the nag’s hooves splashing in the water frothing at the loch side. She attempted to anyway. In addition to being fickle, the creature was frisky and needed dragging. Still this was her chance. “You’ve still not said, sir—”

  “Said what?”

  She tossed the hair back from her face. Of course it could have done with combing with more than her fingers this morning. “How far it is to McDunnagh Castle?”

  A cold glimmer of irritation escaped him. Actually, she had caught him up because he had begun to do what he had accused her of yesterday—plod.

  “Far enough.”

  Kara wound her fingers even more tightly. Wound them so her glove seam whitened. She only wished it was possible to wind them around his throat. To have ridden for two jarring, brittle, biting, silent except for words exchanged with Snosh, with the Murdies, with everyone but her, hours, to discover so much.