Ruthless (20 page)

'Twas Feradoch. Sprawled on a chair, his legs
stretched wide in front of him, he peered from hooded blue eyes as
he studied her. Slowly, his lips lifted in a pleased smile as if
he'd found what he'd searched for.

Was an untried woman so obvious? In behavior,
the lasses were more carefree. The married women didn't relax but
watched their spouses. Some looked relieved, others angry if their
husband pulled a servant girl onto his lap and whispered in her
ear. When their husbands were nearby, there were painfully few
matrons whose eyes gleamed with pleasure.

She remembered the loving glow in her
mother's eyes when Muriele's father was in sight. After his death,
it was a far contrast from Ragnhild's look when Baldor came near.
If his back was turned, her eyes flashed with icy scorn or hot
hate. If he approached her, all expression fled, leaving her soft
brown eyes empty and cold.

Muriele had the one chance of happiness with
Duncan. If ever she were to marry, she held no hope of finding the
love Ragnhild had with her father Colban.

Today, the men looked like they stored their
energy waiting for the games in the practice field to begin. The
women enjoyed the light mood of a feasting day, watching as men
wrestled and played Highland games.

Muriele was not one of them. She had to tend
her duties as on any other day.

"Lass, if ye dinna stop bumping into my
heels, ye'll pull the shoes off my feet," Grunda grumbled as she
entered the hut. "Fill the big pot with water to boil. Those
clothes best soak in hot water to get the blood stains out."

Grunda knelt in front of her small hearth and
built up the fire. Muriele wrinkled her nose when she dropped the
clothing on the floor. Clothing reeking of day old blood was
sickening.

While they waited for the water to boil,
Grunda puttered around setting her pewter cups and small wooden
plates on the table. When the wash water was ready, it took them
both to swing the iron arm away from the fire. Using heavy padding,
they lifted the pot onto the floor. Grunda took a big wooden spoon
of soft soap and stirred it in the water. As Muriele added Magnus'
torn plaid and her hunt clothes to it, Grunda poked them beneath
the water with her wooden spoon.

"'Twill do." Grunda motioned her to sit. She
collected the hot tea and meat pasties she'd kept warm on the
hearth and set them on the table.

Muriele wrapped her chilled hands around the
sides of the hot pewter cup. When she glanced up, Grunda stared at
her with her arms crossed over her chest.

"Ye intend to refuse Ruthless?" Grunda
blurted.

"I will be no man's piss-pot for his
discarded seed! I was not born to be a leman. 'Tis not an honorable
position."

"Aye, it is not. Though rightly named
Ruthless, he's lived his life in honor. He does not strike me as a
man who would offer a well-born woman such a thing."

"He would not have thought of it with Lady
Muriele of Blackbriar, who had a dowry and honors to bring to him.
I no longer have such."

"The first day I walked around him, sensing
his character and his purpose in life, I saw the two of ye as one.
In honor."

"A man who plans to take a wife wouldna force
her to sleep aside him." Muriele snorted.

"Mayhap not at first." Grunda swirled her
empty cup and studied the bits of chopped leaves.

"If a man doesna offer a handfast, I doubt he
intends to wed."

"I know what I learned that day. Once he's
had ye, he'll never be able to let ye go."

"I think ye misjudge his honor, Grunda. Gold
and coins, lands and castles mean more to a man than any woman
does. Without them, she is naught but a warm body to serve his
needs."

Muriele could not keep the bitter words from
spilling out. She had no chance of the life she'd been born to.

She would settle for no less.

o0o

Magnus enjoyed Feradoch's companionship as
they competed in the Highland games. Knowing this was the last of
the fortnights they'd spend together, he wondered what they'd be
doing this time a year hence. There would be no more long chases
through the forests hunting louts who'd wronged a member of the
Gunn clan, no more hunts competing together for the biggest deer,
and no more nights of drinking and wenching until the sky
lightened.

Trying to relieve the tension building by the
hour, he played and he fought hard this day. He lost his
concentration each time his thoughts strayed to the soft, naked
arse snuggled against his warm flesh. Feradoch sensed the moment he
did, and changed his strategy, slamming him against the hard ground
and pinning him there.

"Ho, Ruthless!" Olaf's thundering voice rang
out. "Did the wee slip of a woman sap yer strength last eve?"

The men howled lusty excuses for Magnus, each
one painting a more lurid picture of him and Muriele abed. Anger
built in him they would speak so of a woman far better bred than
any of them. Was it the true reason for his ire? Or was it because
nary a one of the supposed sexual exploits had occurred?

Magnus heaved himself up, tossing Feradoch
back to bounce against the ring of men around them. He slid to the
ground, ending atop a warrior's bare feet. The man blinked with
surprise and tried to step back. He couldn't move his feet.

"I would welcome a hot arse warming my feet,
but only one whose wet slit invited my toes to explore its hidden
cave." He snorted and shuffled backwards, dumping Feradoch's
buttocks in the dust. "Yer hairy ballocks tickle."

Feradoch slammed the heel of his hand down on
the man's foot and shoved himself upward. He nodded toward Magnus.
"Father, ye pricked a sleeping giant awake."

"Too late to be of value to me, brother. Ye
already had me pinned to the ground for the count." Magnus conceded
the match.

Laughing, Feradoch looked at him. But his
eyes didn't show humor. Instead, scorn stared at him.

He'd sensed Magnus hadn't swived Muriele last
eve.

As a youth trained under Olaf's hard hand, if
a lass peaked his lust, he took her. He never lacked women to warm
his bed. Or the forest floor. They were a necessity to fill a man's
needs. After a battle, women were compensation for the wounds and
trouble their men had caused them. Though his reputation as a
ruthless warrior made them wary of Magnus' touch, they learned he
wasn't the cruel man they expected.

Until the siege at Blackbriar, he took those
he wanted, being cautious not to spill his seed on fertile ground.
Once he'd explored Muriele of Blackbriar's bedchamber, he'd lusted
after the lass whose scent permeated the clothing there. Afterward,
no matter how comely, he didn't easily find satisfaction in other
women.

He shook himself and motioned for Gille to
dump a bucket of water over him. Where was Muriele? He had not seen
other than glimpses of her as she hurried to Grunda's hut, her arms
laden with laundry. 'Twas near time for the days feasting. She
would return by the time he bathed. He thought of the scarlet
kirtle and pink tunic he intended to lay out on the bed. It would
enhance the beauty of her hair and eyes.

His cock quivered in eagerness. After last
eve, surely she had grieved her last over this Duncan. He envied
the man who could cause such a beauty to mourn for him and deny
Magnus his rights over her.

This night, willing or not, he would have
her.

Magnus lingered over a tankard of cold ale as
he gazed down into the front bailey. He sensed Muriele before he
saw her. She carried their clean clothing in her arms. Her long
strides carried her to the steps leading up into the keep.

Damp, dark curls clung to her neck and
shoulders. She had already bathed. His blood thickened as he
watched until she disappeared from his sight.

Gulping down the last of his ale, he refilled
his tankard then sat in the armchair beside the table. As her
footsteps approached the door, his face stiffened in
determination.

He'd not tolerate her resistance this eve.
Had he not shown patience enough these last fortnights? By all
rights, he should have beaten her when she left Kinbrace to search
for her mother's body. He'd warned her. And surely, she'd deserved
a hearty smack when she lied about leaving the bedchamber and
stealing Grunda's knife.

He sprawled impatiently in the sturdy,
high-backed chair and waited.

The door burst open and Muriele entered like
a breath of summer. His nostrils quivered as the draft carried her
unique scent.

"'Tis time ye returned," he said, his voice
harsh.

"I waited until the feeble rays of the sun
dried yer kilt, my lord."

"Ye are barely in time to change for the
feasting."

"Change?"

"Aye."

Magnus pointedly looked at the bed where the
scarlet kirtle and pink tunic lay, a splash of color against the
earthy brown covers.

"Are ye intent on selecting everything I am
to wear?"

"Aye"

"Do ye not think I know enough to select my
own garments?"

"I do. But I want to see ye garbed in
striking colors. I think ye would pick others just to thwart my
eye's enjoyment."

Muriele snorted. Loudly.

"'Tis most unladylike."

"When a lady is treated like a servant? I
dinna think so."

Magnus heard the increasing noise of the
great hall. He was impatient to join the feasting...and to see her
naked body as she changed.

"Come. Enough of this. Change yer
clothing."

Her face took on a stubborn air. Her chin
jutted out.

Magnus stood. He took one measured step
toward her.

She blinked and backed up half a step.

"If ye want me to change, leave me in peace
so I can put away the clothing I have in my arms."

"Then do so. My stomach grumbles." He sat
back in the chair, his legs stretched out, ankles crossed.

"Why do ye not go below? I will follow."

"Huh!"

His gaze searched her face. The flesh between
his brows wrinkled. He didn't trust her.

Muriele stared him down. He fidgeted,
unwilling to miss the sight of her tempting flesh. Yet, if he
didn't leave, she would learn her beauty held power over him. He
tried another tactic. He would ignore her words and soothe her with
aimless chatter.

"In the feast tonight, Ivan will do his
finest work with the larger animals killed. I particularly favor
boar."

He breathed a long gusty sigh and casually
bent his knees and brought his right ankle to rest across his left
knee. It allowed the heat from the fire to warm those parts of him
in sad need of comfort.

When her gaze followed his movements and
brought a rosy flush to her face, it pleased him.

She twirled and hurried to put away his
clothing and her own. She still had her back turned when she
spoke.

"Do ye have to stare at me?"

"Ye feel it? If ye dinna pay heed and change,
ye will feel more than my gaze."

She sucked her teeth and slammed the lid of
the clothing chest. This time, she didn't hesitate but kept her
back to him as she pulled off her kirtle and smock. The peat fire
was kind to her flesh, masking her scars in the wavering light.

He took a sip of ale to wet his mouth, for it
had gone dry at the sight of her elegantly formed body. She was all
fluid grace from fine-boned shoulders to trim ankles. His gaze
followed down her form where it flowed in at her waist and gently
flared at her hips. He hardened at the thought of running his hands
down her warm flesh to cup her there. Above each plump nether
cheek, a dimple made his lips purse thinking of tonguing each
little dip.

He stifled a groan when the pink tunic
shielded her from his view. All too soon, the scarlet kirtle
followed. He sighed and vowed he would soon have her in his
arms.

Naked.

Beneath him.

Muriele hurried with her dressing. He needn't
touch her with his hands for her to feel heat everywhere his gaze
traveled. Her stomach quivered with anticipation she determined to
stifle. Her muscles quaked. She cursed herself for a fool. Though
Duncan's kisses had stirred her blood, Magnus heated it without a
touch.

She combed her hair and left it to flow down
her back. Without a maidservant, she could braid it for the night
but could not arrange it suitable for dining. She tugged open the
chest and removed a silver circlet from the tray. 'Twould keep her
hair in control. Taking a matching silver girdle, she belted it low
on her hips.

"I am ready, my lord."

"Took ye time enough. I near fell asleep
waiting."

Huh! How could he have been so restful when
she felt sparks flying with her every movement? If he'd watched her
any closer, he'd have been dressing her himself. Or undressing her,
more likely. The thought made her nipples itch and harden, her
breasts swell and become firm.

"Why did ye not?"

"And have ye steal out of the room and be off
to stir mischief?"

"I dinna cause trouble!"

"Nay?" Magnus rose from his chair, stretched
his massive arms above his head and gave a loud yawn. "The first
day at Kinbrace, ye caused me to hang useful men on yer behalf.
Then ye convince a man to think ye such easy swiving he attempted
to have ye right outside the bedchamber."

"I ne'er did anything such. If ye had allowed
me my knife, the filthy lout would have kept his distance; else
he'd have felt the blade shorten his randy staff."

"Aye. And I would have had another warrior
less. At that rate, the garrison would be naught but old men and
young squires."

Magnus threw open the door and started toward
the stair well, not bothering to see if she followed. Sounds of
laughter and deep male voices arguing the merits of a battle flail
against armor floated up the winding stairway. As she passed the
window slits, the sky darkened as clouds began to roll in. She
shivered as cold air ruffled her hair and trailed damp fingers
along her nape.