She squeezed her eyes shut against the overwhelming urge to fight. He’d known, she realized. The devil had known of her trickery all along. And yet he’d said nothing.
Perhaps it didn’t matter to him. As long as Rivenloch was his, it was of no consequence which of the sisters he wed.
“Afraid?” His taunt was a whisper, so low even the priest could not have heard it, and yet it was laced with a subtle challenge she had to answer.
She forced her eyes open again and faced him squarely. Nay, she was not afraid. Though it was disconcerting to have to look up into a man’s face. Deirdre was accustomed to intimidating men with her size.
This man she’d never intimidate. His gaze was steady, unflinching, despite eyes whose color shifted like the storm clouds boiling across the sky, from gray to green to silver. His eyes dipped to her mouth, and she suddenly found it difficult to breathe.
Lightning flashed through the stained glass windows, reflected in his viridescent gaze, and raindrops from his drenched locks fell upon his dark lashes and streaked down his cheek like tears as he drew closer.
The instant their lips touched, outside, thunder cracked the air. But Deirdre, swept away in a torrent of unfamiliar sensations, scarcely noticed. His mouth was wet with rain, but warm, and his kiss was unexpectedly tender. The fingers beneath her chin held her firmly—it was clear he would brook no resistance—but she lacked the will to resist. His scent, an intriguing blend of woodruff and smoke and spice, enveloped her, flirting with her nostrils like an elusive memory.
It wasn’t so dreadful, she thought. His kiss was pleasant, his touch gentle. His manner was kind and courteous, and she sensed he’d not force himself upon her. Aye, she could endure a loveless marriage to such a man.
Or so she thought. Until he deepened the kiss.
The fingers under her chin spread to clasp her jaw, tilting her head for his pleasure, while his other hand slipped around her back to draw her closer. She raised her hands defensively, and they contacted the unyielding barrier of his chest. He teased at her lips with his tongue, and she opened her mouth in shock at the sensation, pushing at him with ineffectual fists. And then his tongue was inside her mouth, tasting her, devouring her, and though some small voice inside her warned that she should fight him, she found resistance impossible. Her head swam in a sensual deluge of rain and fire, and her body stirred as if some mysterious woman inside was awakened from a long slumber.
He groaned then, a soft sound that reverberated in her own mouth, and a current like lightning snaked through her, quickening her heart and leaving her skin aflame.
His hand moved to cup her buttocks, and he hauled her up against him, against that part of him that bulged now with obvious lust, pressing deliberately against her woman’s mound. As if to claim her. As if to boast of that claim.
It was that realization that gave Deirdre the strength to fight her way to the surface of desire’s drowning river and come up for a breath of pristine air. She wrenched her mouth from his and pushed against his chest with all her might. To no avail.
Heedless of the witnesses around them, furious with her own slip of control, she drew back her fist, intent on knocking that amorous, self-satisfied smile off of his face.
But he caught her fist, his great fingers somehow enveloping the whole of her hand, and he clucked his tongue. Then he murmured, “’Tis my right now…wife.”
Chapter 6
Deirdre bit back a scream of fury. She would have stomped on Pagan’s foot or kneed him in the groin to gain release, but in the next instant, he secured her under his arm. And before she could squirm away, he turned them as one to face the cheering congregation.
“Smile, bride,” he said under his breath, waving at the crowd. “This is supposed to be a happy moment.”
“I am far from happy,” she bit out.
“You will smile,” he commanded between grinning teeth, “or I’ll finish what I started and swive you here and now on the altar.”
She stiffened. “You wouldn’t dare.”
He continued smiling. “Curious. That was my thought yesterday when you threatened me with your sword.” When he looked down at her, promise smoldered in his eyes. “I wagered wrong. What about you? Care to wager on my threats?”
She frowned. It wasn’t that she believed him. Surely a God-fearing knight would never commit such an act of desecration. But the raw lust in his gaze was undeniable, and a sliver of doubt made her heart flutter. She tore her glance away and forced a tight smile to her lips.
After all, she reasoned, it wasn’t as if she smiled for him. It was for her clan, to assure them she was still in power, still the lady of the keep.
“Give me your hand,” he whispered.
“I think not,” she said, waving to the crowd.
He leaned closer. “Give me your hand…now.”
She ignored him. He might be able to coerce her into putting on a false show of cheer, but…
He slipped his hand surreptitiously beneath her cloak, resting his palm on her back, between the blades of her shoulders. Then his hand slid slowly down, tracing the laces of her surcoat along her spine. Not two yards in front of the priest, and while Deirdre nodded and smiled at the onlookers, the shameless cur let his hand stray further until it settled upon her buttock. Then he gave it a squeeze. She sucked in a startled breath, but dared not reveal her shock. Continuing to smile tensely, she held her breath as his fingers slipped sideways, seeking, pressing the fabric of her gown into the crevice between her buttocks.
As she felt him invade that most private part of her, she could bear it no longer. Snapping her head around with an overly brilliant smile, she thrust her hand out for his.
He removed his fingers at once, taking her hand in his with a knowing grin and placing a smug kiss upon her knuckles. Then he started forward.
It was tempting to stand her ground, to force Pagan to drag her down the aisle. But she didn’t dare. There was no telling what vile act he’d perform in the chapel if she refused him.
Livid with frustration, she ground her teeth and endured the long walk through the crowd, her hand trapped within his like a mouse in a falcon’s talons.
But the moment they were out, she swiftly closed the chapel door behind them against Colin and Sung Li and anyone else who would follow, then tore her hand from his and turned on him. “Heed me well, sirrah,” she said between her teeth. “I am not a dog, to be leashed and led about at your pleasure. Nor think to beat me into submission, for I refuse to whimper at your feet.”
He stared at her as the rain dripped from his hair onto his surcoat, unmoving, silent, his face unreadable. Deirdre thought for a moment she had effectively stunned him, as oft occurred with men who underestimated her self-assurance. She was wrong.
In the next instant, he grabbed a fistful of the bodice of her surcoat and yanked her forward until they were nose to nose. “Now you heed me, my sweet.” He spoke softly, and a smile played about his lips, but his words and the dangerous twinkle in his eyes were as menacing as the distant thunder. “I am your husband, your lord, and your master. You agreed to that when you decided to take your sister’s place. ’Tis within my rights to do anything with you, or to you, I please.”
He winked, then released her suddenly, and she staggered back, mortified.
Never had a man seized her so brazenly. Men either cowered in her presence or worshipped at her feet. But this man, he laid hands on her as if he…owned her.
Dear God, what had she done? Marrying the Norman had seemed the right thing to do, the only thing to do. But now she realized she didn’t even know the man she’d taken to husband. He seemed a monster, a devil. And heaven help her, she’d sworn obeisance to him. Bloody hell, what insidious form of slavery was marriage?
The congregation spilled out the door then, Colin and Sung Li and the rest, with Lord Gellir at the fore, grinning hugely, and Deirdre glimpsed an opportunity for reprieve from her wretched bridegroom. Rushing toward her father, she l
inked her arm through his, then shot Pagan a scathing smile, as if to say, here is my lord and master.
Her victory didn’t last long. Pagan was a formidable opponent.
“If I may, my lord?” he said with a slight bow to her father. “I believe it ensures good luck for the bridegroom to carry the bride over the threshold.”
“Nay!” Deirdre blurted out. Then, at the crowd’s murmurs of surprise, she softened her tone. “Nay, good husband, I could not ask you to carry me through all this mud and mire.” She clung tighter to her father.
“Dear heart,” he said smoothly, drawing near to run a finger fondly down the bridge of her nose, “What is mud and mire? You I would carry through…flood and fire.”
She resented his condescending gesture almost as much as the soft ahhs of all the womenfolk in the crowd who appreciated his couplet and believed his mawkish declaration. But when her father disengaged his arm and nudged her toward him, there was nothing she could do.
With a wicked twist of a smile, Pagan scooped her from the steps and hefted her into his arms.
She held herself rigid, determined to make his task as difficult as possible.
She hoped she was heavy.
She hoped he would slip in the mud.
She hoped the heavens would open up and pour down buckets of rain.
But none of it happened. He carried her as if she were made of goosedown. His footing was as sure as an ox’s. And to her irritation, the rain stopped momentarily, and the sun chose that moment to break through the clouds, casting a vivid rainbow across the sky.
“’Tis a sign, my lady,” someone said. “Your marriage must be truly blessed.”
Deirdre stared bleakly across the courtyard. Blessed? Never in her life had she felt more cursed.
Pagan took a deep sobering breath, filling his nostrils with the rain-pure air, as he carried his new-made wife across the soggy ground, several steps closer to the bedchamber they’d share this night. Deirdre smelled of damp wool and earth and anger, but it was a scent that nonetheless aroused him. Her body felt strong and willful in his arms, like spirited prey, but that, too, filled his veins with thrilling heat. Indeed, he feared the fierce throbbing between his legs, undisguised by his usual braies, lent conspicuous evidence to his lust.
By the Rood, what was wrong with him? He’d dreaded this moment half the night and all morn, dreaded the thought of the wedding feast with Miriel by his side, where the clan would doubtless taunt the subjugated groom and his unwilling bride, dreaded even the marriage bed, where he knew he’d face a virgin’s fears and tears and regret.
But the instant he’d seen the figure mincing toward him across the wet sward, bundled heavily enough for a hailstorm, he’d suspected foul play. And when his eye caught the soft glint of a silver Thor’s hammer beneath her cloak, he knew who had come to be his bride. Then, to his chagrin, his apprehension dissolved away like butter on warm bread, and his heart began to pound with the exhilaration of battle.
If she thought her deception would embarrass him, she was wrong. He’d never claimed to perceive a difference between one sister and the next. Nor did it matter. If she thought it would invalidate the marriage contract, she was wrong there, too. He was pledged to marry “a daughter of Rivenloch,” no more, no less. And if she thought that once she revealed herself, he’d refuse her hand, she was very, very wrong.
And so all through the ceremony, he’d been distracted by delicious visions of his lusty retaliation. For now, through her own devices, Deirdre would be his.
In every way.
Forever.
His loins tightened as he imagined her whimpering for mercy while he seduced her, imprisoning her hands in one fist and stripping away her garments, inch by tantalizing inch, envisioned the sweet horror in her eyes as he whispered lurid eventualities in her ear, foresaw her hungry anticipation as he let his fingers roam over her gentle curves, stroking, tormenting, invading…
Bloody hell! Maybe he’d misjudged his command of his own wits. His heart beat far too forcefully. His breath came too shallow. His body ached with yearning. He wanted Deirdre…now.
As soon as they crossed the threshold of the great hall, Pagan glanced toward the steps leading up to her bedchamber, weighing the moral consequences of foregoing the feast to bear her hence and claim his husbandly rights at once.
It was Colin who saved him from his unruly passions.
“Pagan!” he barked jovially, clapping him twice on the shoulder, hard enough to jar him from death. “Let your bride go and make herself ready for the feast. Come have a cup with me by the fire, and we’ll toast your marriage.”
That idea apparently appealed to everyone. They cheered and began milling into the great hall, and Deirdre struggled to be free of him. But Pagan hesitated, unwilling to let her out of his arms or his sight.
“She’ll cause no trouble,” Colin murmured in assurance, then raised his brows at Deirdre. “You’ll cause no trouble, will you, lass? After all, ’twill be but you and Pagan in the bedchamber this night. You and Pagan. Alone.”
Again, she astonished Pagan. Instead of shuddering in fear, she gave Colin a grim smile. “Then he’d better watch his back.”
Colin chuckled in surprise. “Well said! But I think you’re too wise for that sort of sabotage. Surely you know that slaying your husband will only call the King’s wrath upon your clan.”
“I wouldn’t slay him,” she said. “I’d only maim him.”
Pagan could easily guess upon which part of him she intended to inflict damage. “Maybe you’re right, Colin,” he considered, nodding thoughtfully. “I shouldn’t be alone with her. Maybe both of us should share her bed tonight.”
That sufficiently startled her from her dire threats. She glanced back and forth between them in disbelief.
Colin delightedly agreed. “Oh, aye, ’twould be my privilege, my lord,” he said, raking his gaze lasciviously along her body.
“What? Nay!” she cried, unsure whether they were serious. “You would not,” she said, searching both men’s eyes for the truth.
Colin shrugged. “I don’t see where you’ve left me any choice. You’ve made threats on my lord’s life. I’m honor-bound to protect him.”
Her exasperation was most amusing. “I won’t slay him. I swear it.”
“Nor maim him?” Colin asked.
Suspecting now that they only provoked her, she gave him a grudging sigh. “Nor maim him.”
“Very well.” Colin took two cups of ale from a passing maidservant, giving the lass an appreciative perusal that made her giggle. “Then I’ll find somewhere else to sleep.” He nodded farewell and followed the blushing wench toward the hearth.
Reluctantly, Pagan let Deirdre slip from him. But before she could escape, he caught her by the arm. “Don’t try to run away, wife, or…”
Pagan had heard of brides taking their own lives rather than facing the terrors of the marriage bed.
“Run away?” She drew herself up proudly. “This is my castle, sirrah. And I’m no coward.”
Her words gave Pagan curious relief. Aye, she was most assuredly no coward. Perhaps this eve wouldn’t be the painful ordeal he’d imagined.
“Besides,” she fired boldly as a parting shot, “someone has to teach you how to steward a castle.”
She turned her back on him before he could glower at the insult. Instead, he shook his head and sighed, watching her hips twitch provocatively as she climbed the stairs, trailed by Miriel’s handmaiden. Satan’s ballocks, this new wife of his was going to be a handful. Yet he had to admit he’d rather be wed to a willful wench full of fire than a shrinking shadow of a maid.
Deirdre felt Pagan’s heated gaze all the way up the steps, and for once, the attention unsettled her. Her face flushed hot, and she would have tripped on the last stair, but Sung Li, following close behind, caught her.
“He who fears to fall, falls hardest.” The runty little maid, stronger than she looked, helped her regain her balance.
<
br /> Deirdre frowned at her cryptic remark. Most of the time she didn’t understand Sung Li, even when she wasn’t speaking Chinese. Still, the woman had been of great help today, and Deirdre owed her a debt of gratitude.
“Here.” She dug in the small purse hung from her belt, withdrawing the tower key, along with a piece of silver, and pressed them into the maid’s palm. “Miriel is in the south tower. Free her. Make her understand.”
Sung Li’s lips thinned. She kept the key, but returned the coin. “My loyalty is not for purchase.” Then with a proud snap of her chin, she turned and swaggered off.
Deirdre couldn’t enter her chamber quickly enough. Once safe inside, she slammed the door and leaned back against it, taking solace in the solid barrier between her and her new bridegroom.
Lord, she felt as edgy as a lone mouse in a barn full of hungry cats.
Deirdre was accustomed to having the upper hand. For years she’d daunted men with her imposing stature and her noble status as a lord’s daughter. Her clansmen followed her orders without question. And strangers quickly learned to treat her with the proper respect.
This Norman afforded her no deference whatsoever. Not as a noble heir. Not as the steward of Rivenloch. Not even as a woman. How would she ever retain control of her castle, of her lands, of her people, if she couldn’t control this one man?
She hung up her cloak, then crossed to lean against the shutter of the window. The blustery rain had returned, and she shivered, but not because of the cold. Resting her brow upon her hands, she gazed out over the misty knolls and rain-studded trees of Rivenloch, frustrated.
She was Pagan’s captive. From the moment the priest declared them man and wife, he had subtly enslaved her in one way or another, snagging his fingers in her hair for their kiss, imprisoning her hand as they walked the length of the chapel, encircling her body with fierce ownership as he carried her to the keep. And tonight, he would claim her in the ultimate act of possession.
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