Devil in a Kilt (30 page)

"I
ken what I said, but ‘tis only a night's rest I desire now. I'm more tired than
I realized." He deliberately avoided her eyes. The hurt he'd seen
burgeoning there would've smote his heart if he'd had one. "There will be
other nights for passion. A marriage of practicality need not be void of
physical fulfillment. We can satisfy ourselves however oft if it pleases you.
Lust—"

"Lust,
sir, is the reason men seek out harlots," Linnet informed him, drawing
the coverlet over her breasts. "It should not be a basis for a
marriage."

"And
it is not," Duncan countered, placing the basin on a small table next the
bed. "Our union is based on my need for your sight as you well know."
He paused to dip a cloth into the water, then carefully wrung it out. "But
it is nowhere writ we cannot partake of physical love. I've shown you I desire
you. I believe you enjoyed our coupling as well?"

She
declined to answer him, and the injured look on her face dug into him like the
tips of a thousand fire-heated daggers.

But
as if ridden by the devil himself, he went on, "It will not be an
unpleasant arrangement. ‘Tis well suited we are for one another."

"And
how so, sirrah? In the same manner as the bawd who barters her wares to any man
in rut?" she asked in a cold, toneless voice.

Duncan
swore beneath his breath. He'd extinguished the flame in her he'd so
painstakingly kindled.

And
he'd cast himself into a roiling sea of regret somewhere between heaven and
hell.

In
one short night, he'd coaxed her into her his arms, fair demanded a response
from her, and when she gave it... what had he done?

Tossed
her trust and adoration right back at her.

Even
after she'd bestowed upon him the most precious gift a wife has to give, taken
him closer to happiness than he'd e'er expected to go in this life.

Made
him realize how easily he could fall in love with her.

And
for that transgression alone, he had to temper the wild-hearted romantic dreams
he knew swirled through her even now. Unlike his wife, he knew the danger of
such folly. It was his task to spare them both later grief. Even if doing so
was far from painless.

Saints,
he'd become the heartless bastard the prattle-spreaders claimed him to be!

Striving
to avoid the anguish he knew followed quick on the heels of love was one thing
... hurting his new bride was another entirely.

He
cursed himself for not having kept himself from her as he'd meant to do. But he
hadn't expected her to tempt him so, couldn't have guessed she'd turn adoring
gazes on him, thoroughly enchant him with her amber-colored eyes.

And
he certainly hadn't thought himself capable of feeling so deeply.

Nor
had he known this ridiculous farce he'd begun, this
pretending
to be
unaffected by her, save for her bodily charms, would disturb him so.

Blood
of Christ, but his conscience bothered him.

"Linnet,
I—"

Lifting
her hand, she made a quick, dismissive motion. "Please, sir, say no more.
I believed you cared for me. Now I see exactly what it was you were
after," she said, her voice cold and hard. "How silly of me to have
thought otherwise."

"You
do not understand. It isna—"

"You
said you wished to bathe me for ‘tis weary you are," she cut him off,
snatching the damp cloth from his hand. "Dinna overexert yourself. I can
wash myself and would rather. If you'll do me the kindness of turning
around."

Duncan
knew he should move away, but he couldn't take his eyes off her. She was so
beautiful.

Holding
the covers to her chin with one hand and clutching the washcloth with the
other, she stared at him reproachfully. "I asked you to turn away."

Silently
cursing himself, Duncan did as she bid and stood before the fire. Feeling more
a bastard than his half brother, he stared in brooding silence at the flames.

Behind
him, he heard the soft sounds of Linnet cleansing the traces of her virginity
from her thighs. He remained standing where he was long after silence filled
the chamber. Only when he was certain his lady slept, did he turn around. She
lay with her back to him, the coverlet pulled high.

Duncan
expelled a deep, ragged breath. On his life, he hadn't meant this night to end
thusly.

But
he had no one save himself to blame.

Stifling
a curse, he lowered himself into a chair. The same one in which he'd spent most
of his illfated wedding night.

Thunder
rumbled in the distance, and the smell of rain seemed to seep through Eilean
Creag's thick stone walls, permeating the great hall, making the cavernous
vaulted chamber even more dank and cold than usual. ‘Twas just before the hour
of prime, and many of Duncan's men still slept soundly upon the rush-strewn
floor.

Flickering
light from the few wall torches lit at this early hour helped Duncan make his
way through the darkened hall. Carefully, he picked his path around, or over,
his slumbering men and headed straight for the high table where Sir Marmaduke
sat staring into a pewter chalice.

Without
uttering a word of greeting to the Sassunach knight, Duncan dragged back his
chair and sat. Pointedly ignoring his friend, he tore off a chunk of bread, ate
it, then washed it down with a hearty gulp of stale wine.

"And
a good morrow to you, too," Sir Marmaduke said, lifting his chalice in
mock salute. "‘Twas worse than I predicted, eh?"

Duncan
took another sip of the flat wine, then wiped his mouth on a linen napkin.
"Aye."

"Do
you wish to speak of it?"

"Nay."

Marmaduke
ran a finger slowly around the rim of his chalice. "Shall I speak with
her? Mayhap I can vouchsafe you. She heeded my words the morn of your
wedding."

Duncan
slammed down his wine goblet. "I've already suffered enough of your
interfering, you great lout," he said crossly. "‘Tis the vilest of
deeds I have done, and trying to make amends at present would bring naught but
more ill feeling."

"Ill
feeling I can see you stirring, for seldom has a man been less gifted with
words than you. But vile deeds? Against your gentle lady wife?" Marmaduke
shook his head. "Nay, I cannot believe it."

"And
I am not asking you to believe me or nay, for I willna speak of it."

"Tsk,
tsk," Marmaduke chided, "you've no reason to be wroth with me."

"Many
are my reasons to be wroth with you, and ‘tis grateful to the saints you should
be that I dinna haul your English arse outside for an ordeal to the
death," Duncan snarled. "Rain or nay, and
not
with blunted
swords!"

Marmaduke's
good eyebrow arched upward. "Pray share what transgression have I made to
deserve your wrath?"

Struggling
to control his temper, Duncan said, "I told you I shall not discuss
it."

"You
were not averse to discussing it yestereve," Marmaduke countered.
"Not that I expect you will have taken a single word of my advice."

"Your
advice was not needed, you blithering knave. The matter has naught to do with
Cassandra and the painted boards bearing her infernal likeness," Duncan
snapped, ripping off another hunk of bread. " ‘Tis more grave than
that."

"Then
she wasn't unduly bothered... having seen the painting?"

"Of
course, she was bothered!" Duncan replied heatedly, not caring if he
disturbed those still sprawled upon the rashes. "‘Tis mightily aggrieved
she was."

Marmaduke
peered at him queerly with his good eye. "You spout nonsense. A moment
hence you declared the panel-painting had naught to do with your foul mood, yet
now you pronounce it upset the lady greatly." Leaning across the table, he
rested his chin atop one hand. "Do you care to make your meaning more
understandable?"

Duncan
leaned forward, too. "By the Rood, you would extract a confession from a
dead man! If you must know, everything you professed would happen, happened. As
it usually does." Duncan paused to fix the Englishman with a withering
glare. "My lady was sorely distraught, but I was able to console
her."

Marmaduke
sat back and folded his arms. "Indeed?"

"Aye."

"So
you did follow my advice?"

"Nay,
I did not," Duncan said impatiently. "I used my own methods."

"And
they worked?" Marmaduke sounded doubtful.

"Too
well."

"Too
well?" Once more, Marmaduke quirked his one intact brow. "What do you
mean
too well?'

His
brother-in-law was e'er mimicking his words, and at the moment his patience was
less than thin.

"I
mean
I bedded her," Duncan snarled.

A
lopsided grin lit Marmaduke's ravaged features. "And that has cast you
into such a black mood?"

Standing,
Duncan leaned across the table until he was mere inches from Marmaduke's face.
"She was a maid, you conniving whoreson! A
virgin"

Marmaduke's
jaw dropped. "You mean you've only just claimed her?"

"Would
she have been a maid had I already taken my ease with her, you empty-headed
varlet?" Duncan brought his face so close to Marmaduke's their noses fair
touched.

"But—"

"But
you
hoped locking me in her chamber whilst I was befuddled from
hippocras, then parading a bloodied piece of linen before my men would convince
me I
had
taken her!" Duncan seized Marmaduke by the neck of his
tunic and hauled him from his chair. "And the ploy worked! I
did
believe
I'd taken her. Still, I refrained from touching her again or so I thought since
I obviously hadn't taken her at all. Until last night."

Letting
go of Marmaduke, Duncan slammed his fist against the hard planks of the table.
"Blood of Christ, Strongbow, your interfering has wrought more grief than
I can undo!"

Straightening
his tunic, Marmaduke regarded Duncan with consternation. "For the love of
God, Duncan, ‘tis pleased you should be to have a virtuous bride. I regret
conspiring to push the two of you together prematurely, but my intentions were
noble. Give me your sword, and I shall swear it upon the relic in its
hilt."

Duncan
sank back onto his chair. "I am sorry, my friend," he said. "And
‘tis indeed grateful I am for my wife's virtue. Discovering it fair unmanned
me." He paused and pulled one hand down over his face. "You dinna
understand."

"Nay,
I do not." Marmaduke refilled their chalices with wine as he spoke. That
done, he narrowed his good eye, and asked, "Or did you take her so roughly
you injured her?"

Heat
stole up Duncan's neck at the Sassunach's words. He'd come closer to the truth
than Duncan cared to admit.

Even
to his most trusted friend.

Leaning
back in his chair, Marmaduke crossed his arms. "Ah-ha. In your... eh...
haste, you shocked and frightened her and now she wants naught more to do with
your, eh, passion?"

Duncan
pressed his lips together in a tight frown. If only his problems were so
simple. ‘Twould not be a hardship to spend his days and nights wooing his lady,
teaching her the delights and rewards of love.

But,
alas, such was not the issue.

His
lady already possessed more passion than any female he'd ever known.

"Well?"
Marmaduke pestered when Duncan remained silent.

"Well,
what?
" Duncan groused.

"Shall
I give you lessons in properly courting a lady?"

Duncan
emptied his goblet in one gulp. Just barely, he resisted the urge to fling the
empty wine cup into the nearby hearth. "I am not a fumbling youth nor am I
ill-bred. I ken how to woo a lady and ..." He paused, leaning forward.
"I dinna need instruction in how to awaken my wife's ardor. I'd wager my
soul she's more passionate than any lass you've e'er had the pleasure to sample."

Falling
back in his chair, Duncan crossed his arms. "Nay, that is not the
problem."

"Let
us see," Marmaduke said, holding up one hand and counting off fingers as
he spoke. "The lady was pure, is possessed of heated blood, and is far
comelier than she believes. On my honor, MacKenzie, I cannot see wherein lies
the problem." Pausing, he began tapping his forefinger against his chin.
"‘Tis a riddle. Lest... lest you've fallen in love with her?"

"Love?"
Duncan scoffed. "Such is only good for troubadours' tales on long and cold
wintry nights. ‘Tis
lust
I feel for Linnet, naught else."

"Think
you?"

"Aye!"
Duncan snapped, furious over the heat creeping into his cheeks at the
Sassunach's insistent probing. "She fires my blood."

"And
that is all?"

"Christ's
bones! ‘Tis enough! What man would not weaken at the sight of a fetching lass
bare-bottomed and inviting upon his bed?"