Breaking things had become a pastime of his. The room was littered with broken chairs and shattered crockery. He wasn’t proud of it, but there was no one here anymore to witness it. No one to judge. He could slip the leash off his temper, become exactly the sort of man he hated, and no one would get hurt. No one except himself.
He picked up a frame from the pile stacked on the floor. Darrow’s men had stripped the portrait galleries on Ewan’s orders, so he didn’t have to look at his illustrious ancestors as he walked the halls. Ewan’s grandfather and grandmother stared out from the canvas, about the age Ewan was now, with their hands on the shoulders of the boy who would become his father. All three stared joylessly out from the canvas. Ewan stared back at them.
Monsters, all of them. Generations upon generations of Broch Murdo monsters. Violent, cruel, weak. It was quite the legacy. Ewan held each canvas high, bringing it down against the fireplace mantel. The wood broke apart with a satisfying crack. He smashed them again and again, until the canvases hung in tatters with shards of frame dangling from the edges. When they were nothing more than heaps of battered cloth, he tossed them on the fire. The faces of the Broch Murdo line were distorted one by one as the paint bubbled and caught.
The last portrait in the stack stopped Ewan cold. It was the same as all the rest—a formal pose of two parents with their hands resting on the shoulder of a child sitting on a chair. The child was Ewan. He couldn’t have been more than three or four years old. The painter had been talented. He’d captured the deep shadows under his mother’s eyes, and her haunted look.
He hadn’t been able to save her. Ewan drained the rest of the bottle, trying to drown the thought under heavy swallows of whiskey. It refused to be quelled, resurfacing twice as strong. He hadn’t been able to save her. It was his fault she had died. If he hadn’t made his father angry, if he had just done as he was told . . . If he could have stopped the bleeding, set her ribs. He’d only been six years old, but it didn’t matter.
He was all she’d had, and he hadn’t been enough. Just like he hadn’t been enough for Deidre.
The stone room echoed with his shout as he tore the picture down the middle. It landed on top of the fire, feeding the image to the flames. Two monsters, and one innocent woman who had deserved so much better.
Chapter 26
The ride back went faster now that Deidre was healed but it still took two days. When she arrived at Broch Murdo, the sun was sinking below the cliffs. The castle was deserted. The only evidence of an inhabitant was the flicker of firelight coming through the study window. “Well, isn’t this pathetic.” She found him sprawled in a chair by the fire, surrounded by empty bottles.
At the sound of her voice, Ewan smiled. He didn’t open his eyes.
“Look at me.”
If anything, his smile grew bigger. His eyes stayed closed. Deidre grabbed the bottle by her feet. It flew wide, smashing against the windowsill.
“She only throws things when she cares,” he hummed. “Maybe she still cares.”
Was he mocking her? She picked up another bottle.
“Wherever she is, maybe she still cares a little.”
Oh, that idiot. He was beyond drunk—he didn’t even realize she was actually there. He wasn’t getting off that easy. If she had to sober him up, just so he was coherent enough to comprehend what a jackass he was, so be it.
Deidre left and came back with a bucket of cold water. “Last chance, Ewan.”
“Too many chances. I used all my chances.”
Deidre rolled her eyes. She dumped the bucket on him.
He came out of the chair with a roar, sputtering and cursing, shoving sopping locks of auburn hair from his eyes. When he saw her, he froze. “Deidre?”
“Who did you think it was, the bloody queen?”
“Ye cannae be here. Ye have to leave.” He grabbed her elbow, pulling her toward the door.
She shook off his grip, shoving him. “You don’t get to tell me what to do, Ewan MacMurdo.”
“Please, Deidre. Ye have to go. It isnae safe for ye to be here.”
That stopped her. What sort of trouble were they in now? “Why not?”
He turned from her, hunting through the whiskey bottles until he found a full one. When he raised it to his mouth, Deidre slapped it from his hands. It went flying after the first bottle.
Ewan threw his hands in the air, shouting. “Because of me. Because this is what I am. It was only a matter of time.”
Deidre was thoroughly unimpressed. Darrow had tried to warn her—he told her Ewan was drinking and feeling sorry for himself—but she hadn’t imagined him being this self-indulgent.
“What exactly is it that you are?” she asked. Other than a giant bloody idiot.
“A monster.”
Deidre laughed. She couldn’t help herself. He sounded so certain, so sad.
“You’re no monster, Ewan.”
“Ye dinnae ken—”
“Oh, I do. I’ve known plenty of monsters, sweetheart. You’re not even close.”
He grabbed her shoulders, shaking her. “Ye dinnae understand. If ye stay here, I’ll end up hurting ye.”
More than he had already? It was time to put an end to this nonsense. “Try.”
Ewan stopped, frowning. “What?”
Deidre planted her feet. “Try to hurt me. Do your worst.”
“I willnae—” His head snapped back from the jab she threw to his jaw.
“Come on, Ewan. Show me what kind of monster you are.” She knew he wouldn’t hurt her, even if he didn’t. Ewan had violence in him, there was no denying it, but he was not that sort of man. Whatever flavor of bastard his father might have been—the cruel kind or the weak kind—it didn’t matter. Ewan was neither.
“Stop this, Deidre.”
“Make me.” She ducked his hands, hitting him again as she spun out of reach.
He touched his lip. The tips of his fingers came away red.
A small part of Deidre took pleasure in seeing it. It was the same part of her that blamed him. Not for what happened with Alastair, but for telling her he loved her. For convincing her to love him back. She could understand his not being able to forget who she was or what she had done, but shouldn’t he have realized what she was capable of? How could he claim to love her when he didn’t even know her? If he had known and had changed his mind, then his love had been a lie.
Deidre started hitting him in earnest, betrayal and disappointment fueling her attack. She rained blows at his chest and stomach, but she could just as easily have been hitting the wall. When he stopped her, grabbing her wrists and pinning her against him, her hands were sore and he looked none the worse for the abuse.
“Deidre . . .” His face was a torment of emotions—pain, longing, confusion. The longing won. His head bent and he covered her mouth with his in a sweet, gentle pressure. It wasn’t what she wanted. She didn’t want gentle. She didn’t want controlled. She didn’t want his chivalry or his politeness or any of the masks he put on for everyone else. Deidre wanted the Ewan from the mirror, who was demanding and perverse and hers alone.
She bit him.
He pulled back in surprise. His hold on her fell away immediately. “I’m sorry, I—”
Deidre reached up, bringing his mouth back down and capturing it with her own. She moved against him, tempting him with her body. When he responded, taking control of the kiss, she bit him again.
He pulled back again, searching her face for an explanation. She tilted her chin higher, a clear challenge. Recognition flashed. His grip on her wrists tightened.
She tested him, struggling against the pressure.
His arms flexed, restricting her movement. His eyes dropped to her mouth.
Deidre smiled. She had him.
***
She was really here in his arms and she wanted
him. Ewan should send her away—a stronger man would send her away—but her taunting had served its purpose. The heat in his blood was drowning out caution and sense.
He gave her one more chance to walk away. “This is a dangerous game, Deidre.”
“The only kind worth playing.”
Ewan gave up trying to resist.
They came together in a tempest. His hands buried in her hair. Her nails clawed at his back. When she tried to bite him again, he pulled her head back by a fistful of curls, teasing her lower lip with his teeth. Her eyes shone with challenge. She ripped at his shirt, her fingers scratching down his chest, sending shivers of pleasure and pain through him.
It wasn’t enough—he needed more.
Tearing her dress, he sent skirt and bodice to join the tatters of his shirt on the floor. He walked until the backs of her legs hit the settee. She fell back onto the cushions. Ewan dropped to his knees in front of her. He jerked her forward, spreading her legs wide for his view.
Exquisite. Impossibly, wonderfully beautiful. The paradise between Deidre’s thighs had haunted his dreams for days. He lowered his mouth, running his tongue against her honeyed heat.
He wasn’t gentle—he tasted her for his own pleasure, and his hunger was ravenous. She writhed beneath his attentions. He trapped her hips, holding them immobile, and continued. The sounds she made took on a frenzied pitch. Her calves locked behind his head. Her fingers buried in his hair as she struggled to writhe against his mouth. When he felt her climax nearing the crest, he went still.
If she could have killed him then, Ewan suspected she would have. Might have, if he hadn’t pulled her off the cushions and pressed her against the edge of the settee, poised at her entrance from behind. Ewan took a handful of her hair, bowing her back as he spread her thighs farther apart with his knees. Even now, like this, she owned him.
Ewan ran his palm along the length of her spine. He traced its curve up and back down. His hand cupped the rounded flesh of her backside. When he took it away, he brought it back down in a stinging slap.
“Is this what ye want, Deidre? Ye want me to be savage?”
She gripped the top of the settee. “Yes.”
God help them both, so did he. He delivered another slap—matching brands that framed her luscious curves—before he covered them with his actual hands and buried himself deep in a single stroke. The impact surprised grunts from them both. When he started to withdraw, Deidre thrust back against him. Their coupling was a battle—the struggle for dominance over each other leading to an irregular, pounding rhythm that made the settee rock on its feet.
Ewan reclaimed his grip on her hair, and with it the upper hand. He set them on a deliberate pace that sent her cries rising to the ceiling. He felt and heard her climax building around him. The sounds spurred him on until their movements were a frenzied collision. Like a tidal wave, it claimed them both, their shouts culminating in a crescendo that echoed through the room.
Sanity returned gradually, breath by breath. He placed a soft kiss between her shoulder blades, feeling the rise and fall of her breathing beneath him. An unexpected shudder sent his senses on high alert. Another, and he was rolling sideways, bringing her with him. Tears. The realization ripped through him.
He’d hurt her. He cradled her in his arms, stroking her hair and kissing the trails sliding down her face.
“I’m sorry, leannain. I’m so sorry. I’ll never—”
Her fingers touched his lips. She shook her head.
Deidre felt like a dam was breaking inside her. The uninhibited passion, the ferocity of the climax—it had fractured something inside her and a sea of emotion was flowing out. Unlike the confused sobbing in the wake of Tristan’s kidnapping, these tears brought clarity. Tension she’d lived with for as long as she could remember was draining away. It was a gift.
“Stop ruining it.” She closed her eyes on his expression and his apologies.
“Deidre—”
“If you say you’re sorry again, as if what just happened wasn’t incredible . . .” She didn’t finish. There was no violence left in her to threaten him with. It had been beautiful, and just now she didn’t care what he thought.
“I dinnae hurt ye?”
“Chailo sim,” she said. The Romani words were the only ones she had.
“I dinnae ken what that means, love.”
She opened her eyes. The feeling was fading but a languid calm remained. Deidre stretched, testing her limbs and settling deeper against his chest. “I’ve never felt better in my life.”
Ewan squeezed her tight, kissing her temple. “I thought—”
“What do I keep telling you about thinking?”
He laughed. “Aye. Perhaps yer right.”
“I know I am.”
They fell silent after that, lost to their thoughts and the aftermath of the experience. Ewan held her, running his fingers through her hair while the fire painted them in shades of gold and crimson. She was ready to talk when he spoke again.
“I dinnae entirely understand what’s between us, leannain, but I dinnae think I can live without it.”
“Why did you try?”
“Ye deserve better.”
Deidre laughed. “I deserve a lot of things. God willing, I’ll always be fast enough to outrun them.”
Ewan tilted her chin up, making her look at him. “I mean it. Ye deserve better than the likes of me.”
If he wanted to be serious, she could be serious.
“Because you couldn’t love me after you saw who I really am?” It hurt less now, but less wasn’t none. There was still an ache in her chest when she said it out loud.
“What?” The obvious confusion on his face was a greater balm than any uttered defense.
“With Alastair. I know you thought you knew, but then after—”
It was his turn to silence her with fingers pressed to lips. “Because I failed ye, leannain. I couldnae save ye and I kept hurting ye. I have loved ye from the moment I saw ye. That hasnae changed.”
He thought he’d failed her—that he wasn’t enough for her. Daft bastard.
She moved his hand away. “Saving me isn’t your responsibility.”
“It will always be my responsibility,” he said. “Always.”
“And whose responsibility is it to save you?”
Ewan smiled. He kissed her, soft and sweet. “Ye seem to have a knack for it.”
“You do require a lot of saving.”
“Aye, it’ll be an exhausting task. Are ye up to it?”
“I enjoy a challenge.” Deidre kept her tone light. They were skirting the edges of treacherous ground. “What sort of compensation can I expect for making the effort?”
His brow furrowed. “Nae much, I’m afraid. A castle that’s falling down, a bankrupt estate, and a husband who’s nae very bright.”
Husband. There was that tightness again. “You don’t have to give me your name, Ewan.”
“Dinnae be too flattered—it isnae much of a name. But I was hoping ye might have some ideas on fixing it up a bit.” He smiled, before leaning in close. “My name and my body are all I have to give. Will ye take them?”
“I am quite fond of your body,” she said against his lips.
“Oh aye? In that case—” Ewan tossed her up onto the settee cushions, following with a burst of speed. He came down on top of her, settling between her legs and pulling her hands up above her head. “I’m nae above underhanded tactics to convince ye to take them as a pair.”
Deidre stretched out, enjoying the view. Broad shoulders, the sculpted edges of muscles that shaped a “V” down from his hips. All of it, hers to keep. “I’m listening.”
Chapter 27
The steady pop of—what the bloody hell was that?—slowly dragged Deidre back from the abyss of sleep she’d fallen into after Ewan extra
cted her promise to marry him. She was filled with a deep sense of satisfaction. Except for that damned pop.
“Gavan, stop. Leave them be.”
“Absolutely not. I’ve been waiting ages for this day—”
“You are being highly immature.”
“And I intend to enjoy every minute of it.”
Ewan groaned. Another small impact, this time with force, landed directly between his eyes. As it fell between them, Deidre realized it was a chestnut.
“Go to the devil, Gavan Dalreoch,” Ewan groaned.
It seemed Ewan was familiar with their new arrival, and not overly concerned by his presence. Considering every other acquaintance had been a cause for great tension in her future husband, Deidre found herself very curious. She tried to catch a peek at him, but Ewan’s shoulders blocked her view.
“Good morning, cousin!” The cousin’s voice was overly loud and chipper, making Ewan wince with each syllable.
“Go away.” Ewan dragged the tapestry they’d improvised as a blanket farther over Deidre, doing his best to cover her.
“Ewan.” The settee indented as their visitor sat on its edge. “Am I correct in assuming that you and your lovely companion have recently indulged in an excess of whiskey?”
“Just him.” Deidre craned her head so she could look at his cousin. There was little to indicate they were family—he was lean where Ewan was broad, dark and pale where Ewan was tan and russet. There was a mischievous twinkle to his green eyes, though, that Deidre liked. “Hello.”
“Even better, and hello. Are you the Miss Morgan I’ve been hearing about?” he asked, as if there were nothing at all odd about their circumstances.
Deidre was hardly shy. She twisted under the blanket, nestling her backside against Ewan. “That depends. Who are you?”
“Gavan Dalreoch, Earl of Rhone, and all-suffering moral compass for this degenerate . . .”
Another earldom. Bloody hell. Was there a corner where someone just handed the things out?
A Dangerous Damsel (The Countess Scandals) Page 24
