Amanda Scott (10 page)

He was angry with her but not nearly as angry as he was with her father or with himself for allowing Macleod to trick him, and he had already said things to her that no gentleman should say to any lady. To tell her that he did not even recall consummating their marriage seemed unnecessarily cruel, even shameful.

He had never known himself to get so drunk that he could not remember things. Yet, clearly, he had done just that, and the blame lay more with himself than with Macleod. He ought to have been firm in telling the man he did not want any more brogac, but when guests began offering toasts, he had feared it would be surly to refuse to drink them. Worse now was the thought of facing Lachlan.

How his twin would laugh at his having been so deceived, for he was coming to believe that Macleod had purposely intoxicated him. It occurred to him that perhaps the crafty old man had even put something into his mug besides the whisky, some potion or other that had increased the effects of the drink. Not that it mattered. He simply ought to have refused to drink more than he wanted.

“I know you are furious with me,” she said quietly. “I do not blame you for that, not in the least. I would just ask that you not shame me in front of our guests and that if you must seek an annulment, you will do so quietly after we have left Chalamine. I will not fight it, but you should perhaps know that my father has many friends in the Kirk. The Abbot of Iona—a Mackinnon who has strong connections on Skye, as we do—is a particular friend. You will have to apply directly to the Pope, and your petition will doubtless arrive at much the same time as the abbot’s does, because I know he will honor my father’s wish to support our marriage.”

“You speak of the Green Abbot, Fingon Mackinnon,” he said, knowing that of all the priests in Scotland that one was most likely to do all he could to block any plea a Maclean made to the Pope.

“Aye, sir. Do you know him?”

“I do. Iona, the Holy Isle, is near our land on the Isle of Mull.”

He saw no reason to tell her more about the relationship the Macleans endured with the abbot. If he took her to Lochbuie, she would learn of it soon enough, but he would expect her to cast off some at least of her Macleod loyalties if she accompanied him home, even if it were only for the short time they remained married before he could gain his annulment.

Cristina watched him wrestle with his thoughts, having no great difficulty deducing what they must be. At least he had not instantly murdered her, although he might do so yet. He was certainly angry enough, because his jaw had clenched, and his blue eyes blazed, although he held his tongue. She could only be grateful for that, since she was certain she did not want to hear what he would say to her. But at least words would do her no great harm. Considering his reputation, he might well be capable of throwing her out the window if he grew angry enough.

Clan feuds had begun over much less than what Macleod had done to him, so she was glad he had not brought an army of friends and supporters to witness his wedding. Had he done so, he might well have taken out his anger on Chalamine and its inhabitants immediately. But he and Lady Mairi had come with a surprisingly small escort for such powerful folk. Clearly, Hector had taken Macleod at his word when he had said he did not want to house a large number of guests, and his courtesy had served her father’s purpose well.

Oddly, Cristina dreaded facing Lady Mairi even more than she had dreaded facing Hector Reaganach. Her ladyship had a reputation for kindliness but also one for fiercely protecting her kinsmen, and surely, as her brother-in-law, he counted as one of those. Men said that MacDonald valued his daughter’s opinions, even regarding political matters, and thus her ladyship wielded influence of her own in the highest quarters, where the deception perpetrated on Hector Reaganach would amuse no one. The thought of what likely lay ahead of her made her shudder.

Her train of thought ended when she realized that his expression had altered from angry frustration to grim speculation. Involuntarily she shifted away from him.

Fearing that the movement, however slight, might make her seem cowardly, she stiffened, saying in the forced calm tone that she had used before, “What is it, sir? Have you decided what we must do?”

“So you mean to allow me to decide what happens next, do you?” he said with a touch of sarcasm. “If that be so, then I think your father—”

“Please, sir, consider the alternatives reasonably. You do not want to appear a fool, nor do I want to figure as a thief.”

“Thief?” His eyebrows shot upward.

She shrugged. “What else? If you tell the world that my father and I tricked you, prevented your marriage to Mariota, and forced you to marry me instead, how else shall I appear but as a woman willing to steal her sister’s intended husband?”

He frowned, making her wonder if he was actually able to feel some small sympathy for her dreadfully awkward position, or if he had simply remembered that earlier she had called him a fool. In either case, she did not like that frown.

“Where is my axe?” he demanded.

“I do not know,” she replied, trying to ignore the icy chill the question stirred at the base of her spine. “It will be safe though. No one would dare take it.”

“They’d better not,” he growled. “That axe is the one my ancestor Gillean wielded to excellent effect against the Norsemen at the Battle of Largs more than a century ago. I’d be gey wroth were aught to happen to it.”

“Did you want it for any particular purpose?” she asked. An audible quaver in her voice made her wish she had kept silent.

“Nay, lass,” he said more gently than he had spoken before. “I asked because that axe is important to me and to my clansmen. I’d not want to lose it, but I do not make war on women, whatever wrong they may have done me.”

She swallowed, astonished by the flood of relief that swept through her. She assured herself that she had not really been afraid of him, but she knew that some men beat their wives when they were angry, and his anger had unsettled her customary calm. More than that, it had distressed her.

“You may not make war on women,” she said. “But you can certainly get angry with them.”

“Aye, when they deserve my anger, but you have not yet seen me angry, lass. I’d advise you not to stir my temper more than you already have.”

Another shiver shot through her at the thought that she did deserve his anger. Without thinking, she said honestly, “You are right to remind me of my guilt, sir.”

He grimaced. “Nay, lass, I am but venting my spleen. I know well whose fault this business is. My own father, in his fashion, warned me that I was not paying sufficient heed to Macleod’s superstitious nature. I also understand family duty, including the heavy burdens it can impose, and I ken fine that you had little power to stand against him.”

She swallowed hard, believing she had had another choice but had cravenly decided it was unacceptable. Guiltily, she wondered how much of the fault lay with Macleod’s threats and how much with her own desires and the attraction she had felt to Hector Reaganach from the first time she had laid eyes on him.

“What thinks your sister of this devilry?” he asked.

Feeling heat in her cheeks, Cristina said, “She is annoyed, of course. Mariota does not like being commanded, you see. She prefers to have choices offered her, as do we all, I suppose.”

He pressed his lips firmly together, clearly fighting to keep from venting more of his spleen at her. He had stuffed pillows behind him, and sat now with his muscular arms folded across his muscular chest, staring straight ahead. His profile was impressive, for he was a handsome man, but she was glad she was getting only the side view. That was intimidating enough.

Hector wished his body would quit responding to the sound of her voice. He had not realized before how sultry it was. It rose and fell with her words and phrases like soft, entrancing music, and parts of him—well, one part in particular—seemed to respond to every nuance.

Only moments before, he had wanted to leap from the bed to find Macleod and strangle the sly bastard. Now, here he was, trapped for the moment, because if he got up she would see exactly how the sound of her voice and the thought of touching her affected him. And that would never do, because in his experience, women delighted in seeing how their wiles affected men. Such sights—again, in his experience—gave every woman a heady sense of power.

He barely heard what she said next, but he was instantly aware that when she stopped speaking he wanted her to go on.

That thought hung in his mind for a moment before he reminded himself that Mariota was the woman he wanted, the woman Macleod and the wee wicked witch beside him had tricked him out of marrying. Tightening his folded arms and pressing his lips together, he told himself that whatever potion Macleod had given him to drink was still addling his wits. He was generally a man who thought easily and quickly on his feet or in any other position, but he could not seem to think now of anything but her smooth-looking skin and entrancing voice.

He felt a sudden urge to chuckle as the reaction stirred what he often thought of as “twin response,” because such thoughts seemed to enter his head in Lachlan’s voice rather than his own: “Aye, lad, you think well enough on your feet,” the voice said. “’Tis when you’re on your back that that puny brain of yours quits working.”

“Do you find what I just said about Mariota amusing, sir? I assure you I did not mean it so.”

He turned his head to look at her, unaware that his expression had altered. In fact, he was nearly certain that it had not, and while his brain did not always obey his wishes, his body always did unless it was ailing—which had happened only twice, as far back as he could remember—or was severely intoxicated.

Sternly, he said, “You may be sure that I find nothing in this situation to amuse me.”

“Then perhaps you are hungry,” she said equably.

His stomach not being that part of his body upon which his attention had focused, he had not thought of food, but the mere mention of it made him realize that he was ravenous. He had not eaten much of anything—at least, not to his knowledge—since arriving at Chalamine late the previous morning.

“I am fairly peckish,” he admitted.

“I, too,” she said. “But before we summon food, we must—that is, you should—decide what you mean to do.”

Her annoying calm made him conscious of a desire to show that he, too, could remain civil under stress, but with a strong temptation to test her mettle, he said, “What course would you suggest?”

Her eyes widened as they had before, telling him that he had surprised her again. But she did not hesitate to reply.

“If you could manage to act naturally, as if naught were amiss, and we could leave Chalamine today without causing a scene, I would be much obliged to you,” she said. “I mean to honor my vows in any event, so until such time as you cast me off, I’ll act as your wife in every way that you command me. I am accustomed to running a large household, and to dealing with the needs of any number of vassals and tenants, so I can be an asset to you until we must part. All I would ask in return is that you not shame or humiliate me before my kinsmen or your own.”

He considered her words only briefly before nodding. “’Tis a reasonable request,” he said. “I will agree. However, my agreement does not mean I will not seek at once to overturn this marriage of ours.”

Her eyes seemed to change as he watched from molten gold almost to green, then back to gold again. It was doubtless no more than a trick of the changing light outside, a cloud passing over the sun or some such thing. He did not want to look away to see what caused it, however. The change fascinated him.

Her cheeks reddened, and he realized he was staring. Clearing his throat, he said, “Keep yourself well covered, lass, and I’ll shout for my lad to fetch us food.”

With that, he threw back the coverlet and got out of bed, striding naked to the door.

Cristina watched him for a moment before she said, “Just one thing, sir.”

To her consternation, he turned to face her. She had seen naked men before, had even helped carry water and towels to the hall when male guests wanted to bathe. But this was different, very different. He was a splendid-looking man from his massive shoulders and muscular chest to his narrow waist, slim hips, and powerful thighs.

“What is it?” he asked. “’Tis damnably cold standing here.”

She forced her gaze upward to meet his, swallowed, and said, “Before you call for your man, sir, we—that is, you—should tell me exactly what we are to do.”

A lock of his dark hair had fallen over his left eye, and as he reached up to brush it impatiently aside, he grimaced, saying, “We’ll do as you suggested. I want scandal no more than you do, and although you deserve that I should leave you here with your father, I won’t inflict that humiliation on you or on myself. You were right to remind me that I’d look like a fool or worse if I treat you badly or admit that your father tricked me so easily.”

She drew a deep breath and let it out again. “Thank you,” she said.

“Don’t thank me yet,” he warned. “I’ll take you to Lochbuie with me, but you’d be wise to do nothing there to try my patience further. I’ll look into getting an annulment as quietly as possible though. No need to make a song about it.”

“I’d be most grateful for that, sir. Will you . . . that is, will we . . .” She paused, swallowing again. Then, taking courage in hand, she said quickly, “I am, after all, your wife in every way, both legally and in the eyes of the Holy Kirk, so you have every right to use me as you will. I just wondered—”

She expected him to tell her she was a fool, that he had no interest in her whatsoever, that Mariota was the only Macleod he desired. Instead, he gave her a narrow, searching look. When she met it steadily, he said, “I don’t suppose it matters one way or another now, as you are my wife in the eyes of the law and the Holy Kirk. Suppose we just see how we get on. At present, I assure you, my only desire is to put distance between ourselves and Chalamine.”

With that, he turned toward the door again, yanked it open, and gave a shout for his man. Then, with a muttered exclamation, he bent over and picked up something from the floor outside the door, presenting Cristina with an excellent view of his fine, muscular backside.