by Amy Tolnitch
Castle MacCoinneach was probably the only castle with a resident wolf.
Aimili cracked the window shutters open to let in some air, then sat on the edge of the bed and drew off her clothes. They fell in a pile at her feet. For a moment, she stared at a folded chemise, but decided that the trunk was simply too far for the effort.
She snuggled under the soft linen sheets, tucked a blanket over top, and closed her eyes.
Padruig came in from the training field just in time for supper. By the saints, it had felt good to spend the afternoon honing his skills. There was not a man at Castle MacCoinneach who could beat him, but more than a few were skilled enough to provide a wee bit of challenge. With a grunt of satisfaction, he took his seat and poured a cup of wine.
A pointed cough interrupted the passage of wine from the cup to his throat. He glanced over to find Efrika eyeing him. To her side sat Alasdair and Freya, each with identical expressions of rebuke on their faces.
“What?” Padruig looked down and smoothed his tunic. To be sure, he had not taken time for a bath, but that was hardly unusual. He swept a hand over his face and it came away with no more than a smudge of dirt. Ignoring them, he took a long drink of wine.
“Where is Aimili?” Efrika asked.
“How should I know?”
The looks of chastisement darkened.
“I am a busy man,” Padruig announced. “I cannot spend all of my time following her about.”
Freya rolled her eyes.
“Asides, it appears that you two have taken the girl in hand.”
“Along with D’Ary,” Freya said, her mouth curved in a teasing smile. “He is most helpful.”
Padruig refused to rise to the bait, despite his own qualms about the man. “No doubt.”
Efrika pulled the jug of wine out of Padruig’s reach. “One would think after last night you would display more concern.”
Padruig sighed. Clearly, his family would not be content to wait for Aimili to finish whatever task she undoubtedly had in the stable to come for supper. Probably busy discussing her horses with D’Ary, he thought.
“She was tired, Padruig. Perhaps you should check your chamber,” Freya told him. “Make sure she is all right.”
He turned to signal for a maid, only to be caught short once again by Efrika’s cough.
“Very well,” he grumbled. “I shall check myself. Have supper served, Alasdair. I shall return anon.”
Alasdair just grinned and gestured to the servers to begin.
Padruig tromped to his chamber, sure he was wasting his time, but at the same time the tiniest bit concerned about his bride. She was not one to loll about in the usual course of things, but last eve had been anything but normal.
He pushed open the doorway to their chamber and stopped short, paralyzed by the scene before his eyes. The milky light of dusk drifted into the chamber through the partly open shutters. Aimili lay sprawled across the bed, the sheets twisted and mussed as if she’d been tossing and turning. Her hair had loosened from its plait, and was a swath of auburn silk against the pale sheet. The blanket lay crumpled in a heap at the bottom of the bed.
And his bride, the bride he’d told himself again and again and again was but an innocent child, was fully, amazingly, gorgeously naked from her soft shoulders to her shapely calves.
He found he could not draw a breath.
He sure as hell could not look away.
She looked like a statue, he thought. Even in sleep, her muscles were evident, her arms firm, her thighs toned, her belly … He gulped, his gaze drawn to the dark curls concealing her sex.
Dear Lord, aid me, he silently prayed, for everything male in him wanted to leap upon the woman in his bed and plunder that body until they were both too boneless to move. He fisted his hands and made himself take deep breaths, forcing images of battle into his mind. Bloody, vicious, lengthy battles.
Eventually, he recovered enough to steal forward and drape the blanket over her, praying all the while that she did not awake.
What would he say? I apologize for ogling you like a starving man viewing a side of beef? Or perhaps, would you mind if I joined you?
Sweat dripped down his back as he slowly backed away.
Aimili would be mortified to know he’d seen her thus, he had no doubt. The poor thing must have been so fatigued she forgot to don her usual chemise. He straightened, once more in control of his emotions. Aye, clearly she was in need of his care and protection. The incident last eve had been too much for her womanly nature.
He left the chamber, reassured of his role.
Now, if only his body would accept it.
Aimili fluttered her eyes open as Padruig fled their chamber. Obviously, he’d thought her deep in slumber, but in truth she’d awakened when the door swung open. Too embarrassed to admit that, she’d peered at Padruig from beneath her lashes.
She slowly smiled. Innocent she might be, but the expression of shock and sheer lust on her husband’s face had been unmistakable.
Well, one thing was clear. She would be sleeping naked from this moment on.
For the next sennight, Padruig lived in abject fear of entering the chamber he shared with Aimili. He knew it was impossible, but it almost seemed as if his bride taunted him apurpose. Rather than return to her formerly modest ways, Aimili had apparently embraced the idea of sleeping without a single stitch of clothing.
Every evening, no matter how long he waited to return to their chamber, he was sure to be treated to an exposed shoulder, the sleek curve of a hip, or the smooth roundness of a breast. She had also apparently developed a distaste for the dark as there were always at least three candles lit, along with a fire, providing ample light for Padruig to torment himself.
Sleep soon became naught but a memory. Whether his eyes were open or closed, he saw the same thing—Aimili’s body, calling him like one of the legendary sirens. If he wasn’t so sure she had no idea what she was doing, he would confront her, but he knew to do so would just embarrass them both.
At least then she would draw on a chemise at night, he grumbled to himself as he arranged his pallet on the floor one night. Cai, his traitorous companion, lay happily on the bed snoring as if he didn’t have a care in the world, which, truth to be told, he didn’t.
Padruig gritted his teeth and took a pull of wine. Tonight, thankfully Aimili lay on her stomach. The sight of her taut buttocks was tempting, but he’d come to rank which exposed body parts were harder on his shredded control, and buttocks were relatively low on the list.
He blew out all the candles but one and sat back on the floor, propped up against the wall. He’d come to think of this temptation as a test from God, a way to regain some of the lost purity of his soul. To rise above desires of the flesh was surely an admirable undertaking. Wasn’t it?
After a few more drinks of wine, he wasn’t quite sure.
And then it happened. Slowly, sinuously, Aimili stretched, turned over onto her back, and parted her legs.
Holy God in heaven.
Sweat beaded Padruig’s brow as he drank in the sight. Even in the dim light, he could see the tender flesh between her thighs. He swallowed and with a shaking hand lifted the flagon to his dry mouth. Perhaps he should send Magnus to fetch more of that brew he had obtained from Balcharn Abbey. At least if he passed out, he would no longer think about the unbearable coil he found himself in.
You are no better than an untried boy, he shouted to himself. Be a man, and stop leering at her while she is sleeping and unaware.
He couldn’t have turned away if his very life depended on it.
His skin itched, verily itched to touch her, to cover her nakedness with his own. And his rod, by the saints, was close to splitting his braies. His blood pounded in his veins, clamped him in a rush of raw lust.
I cannot take this anymore, he thought. I am weak. Before he could stop himself, he groaned and closed his eyes. Dear Lord, give me strength, he silently prayed. I am no beast, to give into my bas
e desires.
My duty is to protect. Even if I must protect from my own self.
The next eve at supper, a guard rushed into the hall. “Laird,” he said as he barreled to a stop before the dais.
Padruig set down his eating knife. “What is it, Randulf?”
“Laird Ransolm seeks entry.”
Freya gave a high cry.
“How many men accompany him?”
“No more than ten.”
Padruig exchanged a glance with Magnus, who looked grim. “Escort them to the hall. We shall offer hospitality. To start. Make sure their weapons stay under guard in the gatehouse.”
Randulf nodded and hurried from the hall.
“Why is he here?” Freya asked, her voice breaking.
“I am sure he will tell us,” Padruig answered. “Dinnae fash yourself. I promise you that you have nothing to fear from Angus Ransolm.”
The hall doors burst open and a man flanked by a troop of others strode into the hall. As he walked toward the dais, Padruig studied the man he assumed was Angus Ransolm. Not surprisingly, his years of debauchery showed on his face.
Once, he supposed Angus might have been considered a fair-looking man. No more. Matted gray hair hung around a heavy face, marked by flat brown eyes and a cruel set to his jaw.
He tossed a bag onto the table, where it landed with a clunk.
Padruig leaned back in his chair and took a sip of wine. “Laird Ransolm, welcome to Castle MacCoinneach.”
The older man sneered. “I came for the girl.” His gaze slid along the dais and lit upon Freya, whose face was a pale as the tablecloth. Angus smirked, and looked pointedly at her breasts.
Padruig caught Magnus’s arm before he could rise. “Hold your temper,” he whispered. In a louder voice, Padruig gestured to a seat at the end of the table farthest from Freya. “Would you care for food and drink?”
“Oh, I’ll take your food and drink. For me and my men,” Angus added with an arrogant nod toward the men standing behind him. “After we settle the matter of the girl.”
“Did you not receive my message, Laird? Circumstances have changed. My sister will not be wedding you.”
“I had an agreement with the laird of the clan.”
“Grigor is dead. I am laird.”
“Have you no honor? ’Twas a firm bargain.” He pointed to the sacks of coins. “For which I paid handsomely.”
“I returned your coin.”
“’Tis not enough.”
“It will have to be,” Padruig answered calmly. “I have decided that my sister would be better served with a different match.”
“Ye cannot just sit there and act as if this means naught. I had an agreement with the Laird of the MacCoinneach clan. A betrothal!” he shouted.
“I apologize for your inconvenience, Laird, but as I explained in my message, Freya will not be wedded to you.”
“Why not?”
“Because I would never wed with you! I would die first,” Freya swore.
For a moment, Ransolm’s face reddened, but then he narrowed his gaze and licked his lips. “Grigor gave no hint of the lass’s spirit,” he said. He tossed another sack of coin onto the table. “I’ll take her tonight.”
“Nay,” Magnus growled, his hand going to his sword.
“Ah, so the wee lass has a defender,” Ransolm sneered. “How touching.”
Padruig saw Freya’s gaze flash to Magnus in surprise. He stood and braced his hands atop the table. “I assure you that my sister does not lack defenders. The betrothal is no more. You shall have to find another bride.”
“Think well before you deny me. I ken how much your clan needs my coin. ’Twill serve you well over the winter.”
Padruig gritted his teeth, hating that the man knew of the clan’s sorry state. “My clan shall be taken care of.”
“I’d heard you took a de Grantham lass to wife,” Ransolm said, eyeing Aimili. “Surely you do not want to see her starve.”
“I would rather starve than take anything from you,” Aimili spat.
“Ah, another wench with spirit, though once again misplaced.”
“A man who treats a horse as you have does not deserve any woman.”
“A horse?” Ransolm laughed. “What are you blathering about?”
Aimili stood beside Padruig, her fists clenched. “Loki.”
“Ah, yes, I remember. Worthless beast. Surely you cannot be upset about that animal.” He shook his head and exchanged a chuckle with one of his men. “Horse isn’t worth the cost of feed.”
“He is to my wife,” Padruig announced.
“’Tis one more mouth to feed.” He pointed to the sack of coin. “Your problem is simply solved. Give me the girl.”
“Freya is not for sale.”
Ransolm studied Padruig, then shrugged and retrieved his coin. “I believe I shall avail myself of your food and drink, after all.” He sauntered over to an empty stool and sat, motioning his men to find their own seats below. “Though you make a poor decision for your clan, young laird.”
“I do not think so.” Padruig signaled a server and retook his seat.
“The man is a reptile,” Magnus said in a low voice.
“I ken.”
“This is the best fare you have to offer?” Ransolm shouted at a servant. He speared a chunk of mutton and eyed it with clear disgust, before fixing his gaze on Freya. “At Ransolm Castle, you would dine each day on the most succulent cuts of meat, the sweetest custards, soft breads, and fine wine.”
Freya made a choking sound and fled the table.
“Overcome by the notion of a decent meal, no doubt,” Ransolm said, smacking his lips as he watched Freya exit the hall.
Padruig expected Efrika to try to smooth over Ransolm’s coarse behavior, but apparently he was too much for her, as well. With an audible sniff, she rose and followed Freya.
“Filthy bastard,” Magnus swore under his breath.
“Find Ivarr. Tell him to double the guards tonight, and to keep a special eye on Laird Ransolm,” Padruig said quietly to Magnus, then took a small sip of wine, bracing himself to listen to Angus Ransolm without giving in to the urge to separate his head from his shoulders.
When Ransolm muttered, “Even the cheese is moldy,” Padruig had his sword partially unsheathed before Alasdair stopped him.
“He is a-trying to provoke you.”
“He is doing a damn good job.”
“I cannot tolerate this anymore, Padruig,” Aimili said, frowning. “Pray excuse me.”
“I wish I could accompany you.”
For a moment, their gazes met, and a feeling far different from annoyance spread through Padruig’s veins. Damn, he thought.
“As do I,” Aimili said softly.
After a lengthy tirade of complaints by Angus Ransolm, in between ingesting vast quantities of food he deemed inferior even as he shoveled it into his mouth, he finally belched and turned to Padruig. “I wish to retire. Can you offer a chamber not ridden with fleas and a place for my men?”
“I imagine we can come up with something,” Padruig replied, though he really wished to deny the boor any hospitability “Alasdair will see you to a chamber. Your men can bed down in the gatehouse.” In a low voice, he said to Alasdair, “See him to the small chamber in the east tower.”
Alasdair stood. “As you wish, Laird.”
Ransolm stood and grabbed up a flagon of wine. “Tastes like piss, but I suppose it is the best you can do,” he said, his expression contemptuous.
“Good eve, Laird Ransolm,” Padruig said coldly.
“Good eve.”
Padruig let out a sigh of relief as the man marched out behind Alasdair.
Freya could not stop shaking, sick with disgust over Angus Ransolm’s behavior. When he’d talked about serving her the most succulent cuts of meat, she’d known he’d been referring to her, not food. That was how he saw her—the best portion of beef, carefully prepared to satisfy his appetite.
She shudde
red as she made her way to the stables. Thank the Lord Magnus and Padruig had stood up for her. She’d thought Magnus would attack Ransolm when he’d offered more coin. Unfortunately, the clan could, indeed, use Angus Ransolm’s coin.
The thought of submitting to that man made her want to retch. She could not make such a sacrifice. Surely, Padruig would find another way to feed the clan.
As she entered the stable, she let out a long breath. The sounds of horses snuffling and munching on hay filtered through the stable, with an occasional sigh of contentment. It was dusk and quiet, the hands having gone to find their own suppers.
She leaned against Zara’s stall, and the horse put her head over the wall to brush against Freya. “What a sweet girl you are,” she said as she stroked the mare’s velvety nose. “I wish I’d thought to bring you a treat, but I was too upset over that horrible man.”
Zara flapped her lips on the edge of Freya’s bliaut.
“Nay, I have nothing. I am sorry. Tomorrow, I shall find you a ripe apple.”
Another horse stuck its head out to eye Freya, which she recognized as Loki. “You know what I mean, don’t you, boy? You once belonged to that monster.”
Loki blew out a breath, and just looked at her.
“I suppose I should go to my chamber,” Freya told them, but she was reluctant to close herself in with only her thoughts and fears. It wasn’t as if she’d never had a man look at her with interest. Men had been doing that since she was ten years of age. Angus Ransolm, however, had looked at her with the kind of lust that made her skin crawl, made her feel soiled.
She found a brush and slipped into Zara’s stall. As she ran the brush over Zara’s smooth coat, Freya felt a little of her tension lighten. On the morrow, Angus Ransolm would be gone. She would never have to see him again.
Suddenly, Loki let out a neigh and kicked the door of his stall. “What is it, boy?” Freya asked. She left Zara’s stall and latched it, peering down the dim walkway.
