His Judas Bride

by Shehanne Moore

She couldn’t. She couldn’t ever. Yet she gasped for air, her whole body trembling with milky warmth, warmth that suffused every bit of her. Shuddering she clung to him. Every muscle convulsed. She was seeing sparks, there at the back of her eyes. Things bubbled in her veins she’d no control of. Her breath neither, coming in ragged pants.

  Not even last night had there been so fierce a release as this. This was a fire pit she’d never thought to be in.

  She was a husk. Shattered stone. She was so drunk on what he did to her she didn’t even care that the hot juice of his own release flooded her.

  The warm essence of his skin. The hard thud of his heart drumming against her chest. Even the breath, he couldn’t control tearing his lungs.

  Nearby a log crackled on the fire. A candle flickered. The breath she held returned to her throat slowly. Ice and stone? She quirked her lips. What a bloody joke.

  “Are—are you all right, Princess?”

  His voice, deep and caressing, rumbled against her hair. She was anything but. Really truly, not with what bubbled, what nearly burst, the stupid, stupid desire to laugh, when nothing else was left her. All right? Was he mad?

  He brushed back the strand of hair curling over her face to gaze more fully into her eyes.

  “Yes…I am. Thank you.”

  He’d brought her completely to her knees. Oh yes. She wasn’t going to deny it. The only trouble was she couldn’t very well stay on them.

  What else could she say? Or do? But thank him as if he’d just given her an oatmeal biscuit and a cup of heather ale, instead of the sex of her life? The best bannock, the finest ale maybe, but a bannock and ale just the same.

  He just mustn’t look at her in a way guaranteed to make her think what had just happened was something for him too, something he’d never experienced like that either. He was a man, wasn’t he? So he had experienced everything. How well did she know that? Yet a tight knot formed in her throat much as she tried to untie it. He even breathed in tattered rags. How could he do that?

  “I’d like to get dressed now, if you don’t mind?” She felt so terrible that she couldn’t do this some other way that she fought the urge to clasp his face. Yes, he was a man. But he was also a man who last night had treated her with kindness, respect. And if she was not careful, the soft way his fingertips touched her face, the sea-green light in his eyes, the hope he had not hurt her, well, she wasn’t going to let him in.

  “I…I was rough.” He fought a tender grin. “But you, you…”

  If only he knew. It wasn’t a case of losing sight of the real reason she was here. It was a case of facing cold, hard fact. That was her son, sitting in a prison cell, while she frolicked, abandoning herself with this man. It was a lot of things really. Time that couldn’t be turned back.

  “Please don’t trouble yourself. About anything. It was fine. Really.”

  He gritted his teeth. Immolating heat, completely as one, was probably how he chose to describe it. So he probably wouldn’t get his head around this. She stiffened her face completely. Nor would he probably get his head around the regal nature of her expression either when it had all been nice, despite everything for a woman like her.

  He snatched furiously at the fastening on his breeches. “Well, I’m glad about that, sweetheart.” He sat down on the edge of the bed, pulling on his boot. Then he raised his chin, grazed her with a burning glance. “I’ll see it’s the same next time.”

  The next time? She almost rolled off the bed.

  There was going to be a next time. She did not need to listen to his cursing, scrunching presence stomping all the way along the water’s edge to wherever the exit to this place was, to tell her that. The very air crackled when he tore her petticoat off the rope and flung it at her, snarling, “There you go, Princess.”

  And in this place, so private, yet not, this place, confined as she had been for five years, in which he readied himself for the next round, she must ready herself to meet it.

  Chapter Seven

  Catcalls. Whistles. Callm hadn’t even clambered out the cave mouth, when his ears were assaulted by the cacophony.

  “What the?” He blinked in the bright winter sunlight. The blizzard had stopped and a fine tang of frost nipped his nostrils. “All right, boys. Fine. That racket will be heard all the way to Glen Gurkie. Do you want the tinker chief here on our backs?”

  He feigned good humor, making a silencing gesture, although cold sweat lay on his skin. What the hell else could he do? Say that Lady McGurkie was in his bed? That he reeked of the exchange of body fluids and now…now…

  Well? What now?

  Every one of his men, dotted around the water’s edge, and those who weren’t, knew damn fine no glen princess would open her legs without a wedding ring on her finger. This one had. To him. Christ. This was as bad as it got. Last night he’d fancied her with the safest man in Lochalpin. It was why he hadn’t thought to take her anywhere else.

  What had he just done? Had the shag of his life with her, that’s what. Knowing he shouldn’t have any shag at all when she was lying to him. Thought naughty, naughty when he pinned her beneath him there too. No glen princess would have marks like that on her ankles either. Riding accident, his pink kilt. That story took every bannock known to man. What the hell was going on here?

  “Jesus, Callm, there ye are. Never mind that, will ye?”

  It was the very last thing he needed. Wee Murdie scrunching across the icy shingle toward him. He considered slinking back into the cave. But what would that achieve, apart from giving credence to the joking?

  It was morning counsel and morning counsel was always held by nine. He didn’t know what the hell time it was but he was willing to bet, it certainly wasn’t nine. He fixed on an interested stare. Tried to anyway.

  “The tinker chief’s the least of your worries today.”

  He was, wasn’t he?

  Wee Murdie scrunched to a halt. “Can I have a word?”

  “Looks like it.” Callm fastened his gaze on the tarnished-glass surface of the loch. The thing was there had been stories for years about the women the McGurkies kept for pleasure. Although he put nothing past them, he hadn’t always believed it. Now he had to consider…

  “About her ladyship.”

  “What about her?”

  This was the bit when he discovered she was false as if he did not know already. Snosh had found whoever was in the glen. It was who she was really running away to meet.

  “Shug’s just seen the turd up the glen, near Dunalpin village.”

  “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 t
hey 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 wome
n 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.”