Ruthless (18 page)

Magnus' wanted to spring from his seat and
demand Feradoch cease his snipes about Graemme. Tension built
around Magnus, near raising the hairs on his arms. A cold draft of
air came between his legs and cooled his arse, making him realize
he had risen halfway out of his seat. His hand gripped the hilt of
his dagger. He forced his muscles to relax and sat.

Could Feradoch resent leaving? He'd seen the
way he studied Muriele and near heard his thoughts. If 'twas Magnus
returning to Clibrick, he had no doubt Feradoch would claim the
woman for his own. He fixed his foster brother's innocent blue eyes
with a steely glare.

"Have no fear, Feradoch," Sweyn said,
laughing as he passed a new pitcher of wine around. "Magnus has
kept his seed from fertile ground. He will have his children at
Clibrick, bastards or not."

Muriele withdrew into herself. Men were
alike, no matter whether they were Baldor, Olaf, Magnus or
Feradoch. They judged their manliness with how many women they
swived in a sennight, or the number of bastards they sired.

At least at Blackbriar, the women were able
to leave the table and retreat to their rooms when the men were
deep in their cups. From the angry heat coming from Magnus, she
feared he would leap on Feradoch.

She wanted to leave, to take off this dress
with its terrible memories. And to cry and wail. She could not.
Until he allowed her to rise, she must wait. What did it matter
anyway, whether she was here or in his bedchamber? At least here,
there was no bed where he could command her to join him. She hadn't
known him long, yet she knew he seldom drank as much as he had this
night. Would he become like Baldor, who lashed out and hurt those
within his grasp?

When Magnus finally stood and held out his
hand to her, Muriele stiffened. She remembered their strength when
he had hauled her off her assailants and dunked her in the horse
trough. And when he seized her, thinking she meant him harm in his
bath. Until he had ruled she was to share his bed, she had never
wondered if they could be gentle.

Earlier, he'd said he'd never taken a woman
by force. He was a man who did what he promised else, he would not
have spent all these years at Kinbrace until both families agreed
to end it. All she had to do was not tempt him and keep a hand's
span of open space between them.

She realized he still held his hand out to
her. She glanced up through her lashes and saw the determined look
on his face. He would wait no matter how long. Finally, she forced
her hand to his. Surprisingly, his calloused flesh felt warm.

When his fingers closed over hers, they were
gentle.

Though she wanted to flee out into the
darkness, she paused and smiled at those seated around the table,
as she would have if at Blackbriar's dais. When she turned to Chief
Olaf, he shocked her and rose to his feet.

"Thank ye for a pleasant evening, Chief
Olaf." She bent her knee in a brief bow and fought to keep her
voice steady. "I wish ye a good eve."

He held out his right hand and waited for her
to put her fingertips there atop it. When she did, he bent, and as
courtly as any visitors to Blackbriar, kissed the air above her
hand.

"Good eve, Lady."

When Magnus led her from the room, she closed
her ears to the whistles and rude advice from the lower tables and
walked with her back stiff, her head high.

Every brush of the dress against her flesh
reminded her of what she had lost. Her feet felt as though she
struggled through thick mud. She forced one foot in front of the
other until they came to Magnus' bedchamber. A cold draft blew up
the stairwell. Someone had opened the great doors to the keep.

Magnus threw the door open and stood back for
her to enter. 'Twas strange to be treated with courtesy and not as
an object to be ordered about. The room was warm. Gille must have
tended the fire in the hearth. Had he turned down the bed, too? She
stopped in mid stride. Who had put her favorite sleeping smock
across the pillow? She had never favored sleeping bare, though it
was the custom.

Grunda was the only one who knew her habits.
She shook her head, puzzled. Why did her old friend approve of her
sharing Magnus' bed? If she didn't, likely she would have placed a
dagger under the pillow.

She would search for it!

"Come. Dinna dawdle."

Magnus scanned the room and noted the
shutters were drawn. Not believing night air let bad humors into a
bedchamber, he thrust them open.

Ah! Muriele's pallet was gone. He frowned at
the smock on the bed, but the cloth looked flimsy enough to yield
to a man's hand.

Ignoring Muriele, he poured a pewter cup of
cold water and drank it down. It rid his mouth of the wine taste.
He'd consumed more than in the last fortnight and disliked the way
it made him feel.

Unsteady and mellow.

Someone could easily persuade a man in his
cup into making mistakes. He wanted as clear a head as he could
manage—at the moment.

He fumbled with the clan pin and finally
pulled it from his shirt. He laid it on the table then took off his
belt, letting his kilt slide to the floor. When he rolled the belt
and picked up the green and black cloth to drape it on the chair,
he saw Muriele stood against the wall, staring at him.

"Ye've seen me naked afore."

He sat on the chair and removed his leather
shoes and stockings, then stood again. His heart lurched. By all
that was holy, she was beautiful. A streak of desire shot through
his groin, startling his balls to life. He looked at her, waiting
for her to shed her own clothing. Likely, she'd also had too much
wine and needed help. He was more than willing to aid her.

"Do ye require help?"

She shook her head. Why, then, did she not
start?

He took a step toward her but stopped when
her hand went up to remove the lovely circlet. The beautiful piece
suited her. Or she suited it. He wasn't sure which. For truth, her
beauty added to the glow of the band.

She carefully laid it on the corner table
beside his helmet stand then turned her back to remove the
blue-green kirtle. The color was a lovely contrast to her glowing
sunlit hair and skin. Never had he seen such beauty and grace. How
could he not have recognized it the first day in the bailey when
she fought off her attackers?

Muriele looked around frantically, likely
seeking a dark corner to finish undressing. Thanks to the fresh
peat, there was none. She started wringing her hands. Why? Never
had he known a woman reluctant to bare her body. When he invited a
lass to share his bed, they usually were sprawled naked on the
sheets afore he removed his belt!

"Ye need help with yer smock?"

She backed up. "Nay!"

He watched her carefully fold the kirtle and
look for a place to lay it. She finally put it atop his clothing
chest. It reminded him to have her clothing brought to the room on
the morrow. She'd likely enjoy having her things about her.

He stood, quietly. Could she hear his
heartbeat? 'Twas loud enough. At least his cock was silent when it
filled and sprang upward, seeming to watch her with as much
eagerness as he was. The thought caused a throaty chuckle to
escape.

Why did she decide to face him when she
changed out of the silver smock? Not that he regretted it. In other
women, he knew they did so to entice him further. Not Muriele.

Strange. Why should exposing her back be more
threatening than creamy breasts and her tempting womanhood?

In swift movements, she removed the silver
smock and tried to don the other. The sleeves tangled in a snarl.
Her head shoved futilely against the twisted cloth, seeking the
opening. His gaze drifted downward. The blond curls guarding her
sex barely hid the cleft there. His lips twitched. His mouth dried
as if stuffed with linen. A groan of instant desire rumbled in his
chest, masking a sound from her. Closing his eyes, he blocked her
inviting body from his sight. Ah! 'Twas a whimper of frustration.
He padded over to her.

"Are ye always so clumsy preparing for
sleep?"

For certs, she startled easily. Her yelp made
his ears ring.

"Be still, foolish lass. Ye're making a
fierce mess of yer garment."

Why was she acting as if he was going to
throw her on the floor and tear into her flesh? He'd told her he'd
never taken a woman unbidden. He swallowed. He was going to be in a
deal of pain if she refused him! His balls were so heavy he was
thankful he didn't need to mount a horse.

He groaned. Shite. The only thing he wanted
to mount was her beautiful, silken body.

He realized her problem. In her anxiety,
she'd knotted the sleeves. Impatient with her struggling, he
clamped his hands on her shoulders and forced her to turn.

She fought like a wild woman. Naked flesh
brushed against him.

He caught his breath. The sight of her bare
back did not arouse him.

It twisted his heart.

"Who did this?! One of my warriors when ye
lived in the forest?"

"Nay. I incurred Lord Baldor's wrath."

He bent his head closer to hear her
voice.

With one hand, he held her still while he ran
the other gently over her quivering back. The ridged scars were not
as old as his. These were pink. Recent. That someone had whipped
her was bad enough. But not the whole of it.

As gentle as handling a bairn, he touched his
fingertips to the flesh between her shoulder blades. The cruel
beast had branded her with a steel blade.

"Why did ye not tell me before? Does old
Grunda know?"

He untangled her smock and helped her smooth
it down over her shoulders. Once she felt the cloth shielding her
from his sight, her tremors slowed. She took a slow, deep
breath.

"Aye. She healed me."

"Does it still pain ye?"

"Nay. It happened a sennight before the siege
on Blackbriar."

Paying no heed to his own nakedness, he paced
back and forth, his jaw clamped together. He was glad Baldor had
fought so long. He'd been in pain aplenty afore Magnus had dealt
the killing blow. If he'd known about this, he would have kept him
alive after he disarmed him. No torture would be too cruel for
anyone who would brand a woman of noble birth...nay, any woman.

"Come." He led her to the bed and pulled back
the covers, motioning for her to climb in. She held back.

"Dinna be afeared. I willna ravish ye."

As she climbed the steps up to the bed and
scrambled between the sheets, tension eased from her shoulders.
When he got in on the opposite side, he left ample space between
them. He no longer feared his balls would explode. One look at her
back and he had lost all desire. But not because she was any less
beautiful.

He still intended to seduce her, but not
tonight. There were many nights before his return to Clibrick. He
had time. There was something more important tonight. Before first
light, he swore he'd learn her secrets.

He never broke a vow. Not even to
himself.

Muriele had forgotten how soft a feather bed
could be. Compared to the pallets she'd slept on since leaving
Blackbriar, surely a cloud couldn't be more comforting. She feared
to move, though. Could she trust him?

All she'd heard about him told her she
could.

'Twas said Magnus' word was more important to
him than his own feelings. His own life.

She'd not had the chance to braid her hair to
keep it out of the way. It was beneath her shoulders. She tried to
lift up enough she could pull it out without disturbing him. His
eyes, lit from the fire, were watching her. He reached over,
gathered it and pulled it to the side.

"Mmm. Apples and spices." The words crooned
from his chest as if savoring them.

"What? Ye smell apples? There are none in the
room."

"I meant yer scent. When at Blackbriar, it
remained behind in yer belongings."

"Ye were in my chambers? Why?"

"Aye. How did ye think yer things were kept
separate from the spoils?" He rose up on his elbow and braced his
jaw on his hand. "Except for one thing. My foster brother requested
a brown kirtle for Esa. Since she returned it to ye, I take it he
didna like her in it. "

He thumped his pillow, put his left arm
beneath it and turned toward her. "'Twas only the knight's wives
clothing we shared with our women."

He was quiet. It prodded her to remember her
manners, though she was not sure how she should respond to the man
who had captured her castle home.

"Thank ye for the kindness."

He nodded. His eyes squinted and a slight
frown formed between his brows.

"How did ye cause Baldor's wrath? Refuse to
swive with him?"

"Nay."

"Did ye steal from him?"

"Steal? When all he had was taken from
us?"

"Then tell me. Ye must have pricked his rage.
Refused him something of note."

As he awaited an answer, he continued to
stare at her. Her throat ached from her black memories. He looked
determined. Would it be best to get it over with all at once? In
this past sennight, she'd learned of his determination. No matter
how long it took, he would pry answers from her until he was
satisfied.

"I refused to wed old Aymer of Corrag."

Magnus snorted. "An unpleasant choice. Yet he
canna live long to trouble a woman. Why did Baldor not lock ye in
yer chambers with naught but bread and water?" He rose higher to
stare at her.

"He did. I still refused."

"Tell me of it. The whole of it so I may
judge fairly."

"I dinna know how."

"From the start of what caused it."

Magnus waited while Muriele gathered her
thoughts. Once she started to speak, 'twas little above a
whisper.

"Soon after my father, Lord Colban, died,
Lord Baldor arrived to pay his respects. Once Mother allowed the
gate lowered, his men overpowered our guards. His army had hidden
in the woods. They fought their way in. The next morn, he forced my
mother to wed him.