Amanda Scott (29 page)

“Cristina, do not sit here like a stone,” Mariota said merrily from behind her, startling her. “Come with me and join the dancers.”

“I’m waiting for Hector,” Cristina explained.

“A pox on Hector,” her sister said, laughing. “He and Lachlan Lubanach left the hall ten minutes ago with some other men. I warrant they have important matters to discuss, but that should not keep you from having fun. Come with me now, do. Our father has likewise disappeared, so mayhap the Council has business. There, see!” she added, gesturing. “His grace just got a message to leave, too.”

MacDonald stood as Cristina looked at him, and then he bent to speak to Lady Margaret. She, too, arose and let him guide her from the dais.

“Where is Aunt Euphemia?” Cristina asked.

“Retired to her chamber, of course. The good thing is that she has taken Isobel with her. That child should not be dining or supping in such company.”

“I know, but neither should we be demanding private service for her in her chamber,” Cristina pointed out. “There can be naught amiss in her taking her meals with the court, as long as Aunt Euphemia stays with her. It is not as if you want our aunt hovering over you,” she added with a teasing smile.

“No, I do not,” Mariota replied with fervor. “But come, we may join the dancers now, may we not?”

Cristina agreed, deciding that with Macleod and Lady Euphemia absent, it behooved her to keep an eye on her impulsive sister.

Instead of joining the line of dancers at the end, Mariota brazenly headed toward the middle, breaking in between two handsome young gentlemen and announcing with a saucy grin that they would not mind.

Feeling fire in her cheeks, Cristina felt obliged to follow her and was grateful when both gentlemen seemed only charmed by her sister’s impetuousness. To her surprise though, the man whose hand grasped her own flirted openly and most delightfully with her, ignoring Mariota and making Cristina laugh at his witty comments and blush at his brazen compliments.

“Please, sir,” she said after one outrageous example of the latter, “you should not say such things to me. I am a married lady.”

“What did you say, lass?” he said, cocking his head toward her and raising his voice above the music and laughter. “I cannot hear you!”

Leaning closer to him to repeat her request, she raised her voice, too, but she barely got the first word out before her companion pulled her to him and kissed her heartily on the lips.

Shocked, Cristina stepped back, but he only grinned at her and pulled her from the line of dancers.

Bending nearer and still grinning, he said, “If you want to slap me, mistress, go ahead. It will be worth it, for you are far and away the most beautiful woman I’ve ever clapped eyes on. Indeed, I’d do it again in a minute.”

Feeling dizzy with shock but flattered nonetheless, she said urgently, “Please, sir, my husband—”

“I did hear you say that you were cursed with a husband,” he said with an exaggerated sigh. Then, clapping a hand to his chest, he added, “Show him to me that I might slay him and claim you for mine own.”

“Don’t be daft,” Cristina said more sharply, looking swiftly around, fearing to find Hector swooping down on them. “I should not . . . Mercy!”

Her exclamation led her companion to follow her gaze to the main entrance.

MacDonald and his lady had returned, and standing with them near the door were Hector Reaganach, Lachlan Lubanach, Mairi of the Isles, and an older man.

The musicians in the gallery stopped playing at a signal from MacDonald, and his piper stepped forward. His lord chamberlain announced in stentorian tones, “His grace Robert the Steward, heir to the throne of Scotland!”

The piper began to play as Robert stepped forward, and everyone in the hall bowed or curtsied as he did.

As Cristina swept her skirts aside to make her curtsy, she saw her husband looking at her. His gaze shifted to the man beside her, then back again.

Hector Reaganach did not look pleased.

Chapter
15

C
ristina wanted to look almost anywhere but into her husband’s eyes, and yet she could not seem to look away. It was as if he held her captive even with half the length of the great hall between them. She wondered if he had seen the impudent fellow kiss her, and realized that he must have, since she could imagine no other reason for him to look as if he wanted to throttle her.

A strong hand grasped her elbow, and a deep, mellifluous voice that she barely recognized as that of the man who had kissed her murmured close to her right ear, “Who the devil is that fellow yonder, the one glowering at you so rudely? I’ve a good mind to go and teach him some manners.”

Cristina stared at him, wondering if he was mad.

The hall quieted down, but anyone who had hoped the heir to the Scottish throne would make a speech must have been disappointed, because the Steward only nodded in response to the deep show of respect and then turned back to talk to his daughter, the lady Margaret. The piper ended his tune, and MacDonald nodded to the minstrels to resume their play.

“Damn that fellow. He still glares at you. Bless me, but I
will
speak to him.”

Terrified that he would but feeling at the same time an insane desire to laugh, Cristina caught his arm and said, “Do not, sir, unless you would sacrifice your life!”

“Sakes, lass, you do not know who I am. I promise you he is no match—”

“I may not know you, but I do know him,” she interjected before he could make a promise she was sure he could not keep. “And although you may be an excellent swordsman, he is better.”

“Faugh, my reputation is known throughout the Highlands, so I fancy I can handle that great lout. Indeed, he looks too large to be much good with any weapon. Doubtless, if he tried to draw his sword, he would trip over his own big feet.”

“He is Hector Reaganach,” Cristina said.

The man said nothing, but a muscle in his jaw tightened, his eyes narrowed, and his cheeks paled.

“He is also my husband,” she added gently.

He swept her a low bow. “Forgive me, my lady, I did not know. In that case, I will stay my hand, but I’ll not apologize for the kiss. I enjoyed it too much. That great gowk is a lucky man and a fool, too, to leave you unattended. If he continues to do so whilst I am at Ardtornish, I promise you, I will not be such a fool as to ignore opportunity.” He winked at her, turned away, and vanished into the crowd.

Even as he disappeared, she was conscious of Hector’s approach, although she had to turn her head to see him. He strode toward her, ignoring the people he passed, who parted to either side of him as though they avoided a passing storm.

A thrill stirred her nerves, bringing all her senses to attention. He looked ripe for murder, yet she waited calmly, and this time, she had no need to contrive or force that calm. That he had seen another man take interest in her and disliked it was plain. Could a man who still wanted his marriage annulled feel sufficient anger over such an incident that he could look as Hector did just then?

A voice in the back of her mind whispered that he was merely guarding that which was his, just as he would have guarded a cornfield or a Lochbuie cow. The thought depressed her, but then he stopped in front of her, his eyes alight with blue fire, his lips pressed into a straight line.

“Who was that infernal rogue who dared to kiss you?”

“You saw him?”

“Aye, of course I did. Who the devil is he?”

“I don’t know.”

He caught her hard by the shoulders. “What do you mean, you don’t know? You must know if you allowed him to kiss you.”

“Would you create scandal here, sir? Pray, release me.” When he did so immediately, disappointment surged, but she said, “I did not ‘allow’ him to kiss me. He simply did so. Then the music stopped, and he left without mentioning his name. Indeed, if you don’t know him, I do not know how you can imagine that I must.”

“His name is Fergus Love,” Mariota said cheerfully, appearing beside them, apparently unaware of any tension. “Is he not the handsomest gentleman you ever saw? I think he’d do very well for Cristina after the annulment, Hector, don’t you?”

“Our affairs are none of yours, mistress,” he said sternly. “Come, Cristina, I would have words with you. And as for you, Mariota, I suggest that since the hour is late, you should excuse yourself and go to bed.”

“What, before the mummery begins? I won’t do it. My father is here now, in any event, sir, and ’tis he who commands me, not you.”

“As if anyone commanded that chit,” he muttered as he turned away and urged Cristina firmly toward the door leading out to the courtyard.

“People are watching us,” she said. “Can you not at least pretend to be enjoying yourself?”

“Do you expect me to enjoy beating my wife?” he growled.

She held her tongue and tried to pretend no one was watching them, telling herself that he would do no such thing, and wishing her self would believe her.

Why was it, Hector asked himself, that even when the lass was solidly in the wrong she could make him feel as if he had somehow misbehaved and was the one marching toward punishment? As he ushered her toward the courtyard door, his gaze swept the room, but he did not see the scoundrel who had dared to kiss her.

Why had she not slapped him? It had not looked to him as if she had uttered one word of protest, but likewise she had not turned a hair when he had approached her to ask her, as it was his right and duty to ask her, what the devil she had thought she was doing, letting such a man take liberties with her. If he spoke a trifle curtly, was that any more than she had deserved? Certainly not.

Now she walked beside him, meek as a nun’s hen, without a word to say for herself except to warn him not to make a scene. As if she had not provided the gossips with a month’s worth of tattle with that one absurd kiss.

And what the devil had Mariota to do with it? Why was she hovering about Cristina, and tattling to him of kisses and handsome men who might marry her if he annulled their marriage? From what he had seen of that wench, she spent every waking moment flirting with anything in a doublet and trunk hose and grew jealous if the poor lads as much as glanced at another female.

Christina still had not said a word in her own defense. Had the wench no pride?

Cristina’s confidence had fled, and she felt as if he were rushing her to her doom and she could do naught to prevent it. Not only was he twice her size, but he fairly crackled with his anger. She did not want to speak for fear that he would stop where they were and read her a scold that would reduce her to tears. Whatever happened between them, she did not want to figure as the main topic of conversation throughout the castle. Indeed, she feared that she had already provided the gossips with enough to keep their tongues wagging for weeks, and she knew Mariota well enough to suspect she would do her best to keep them wagging.

After all, she recalled, Mariota was the one who had broken into the line at that spot. She wondered if her sister had meant all along to bring the young man to her notice. All that gave her pause was that she found it hard to imagine Mariota encouraging such a handsome man to take interest in Cristina rather than in herself.

They entered the main tower, and Hector fairly pushed her ahead of him up the winding stairway to the next floor. Passing the inner chamber, they crossed the stone bridge in front of the garderobe tower to the guest wing, and soon came to the door to his bedchamber.

When he pushed it open and urged her inside, her heart was pounding, but whether it was from their journey’s speed or her fear of what he meant to do, she could not have said. Her nerves tingled, but she was not afraid of him. If anything, she was annoyed that he had taken her from the hall before making her known to Robert the Steward. She would have liked to meet the man who would be King of Scots. She had never even seen him before, and the likelihood that he would spend a great deal of time in the Isles was small.

When the door shut behind her with a snap, Cristina drew a deep breath and turned to face her husband.

He looked grim, but in the next moment, the grim look faded, replaced by one that spoke of something other than anger. His eyes smoldered, his lips parted slightly, and his breathing quickened.

When her gaze met his, an answering chord within her responded instantly. It was as if he had touched her, as if he had caressed her the way he had when they had lain together at Lochbuie. She dampened suddenly dry lips, wondering what he expected of her.

“Come here,” he said hoarsely.

“What are you going to do?”

“You deserve that I should put you across my knee, do you not?”

“Nay, sir, for I’ve done naught for which I should be punished.”

“I told you to stay home, did I not?”

“Would you have had me disobey your father?”

“He kissed you, and you did naught to stop him.”

“Your father?”

“Have a care, wife.” He caught her by the back of the head and drew her closer. “If you mean to be free with your kisses, you had better keep the best ones for your lord, had you not?”

“If you command it, sir,” she said demurely.

“Sakes, lassie, I do not know what spell it is that you cast over me. I swear I knew naught of such when first we met, so how is it . . . ?” But his words ended in a groan as he pulled her roughly to him and kissed her mouth hard, as if he would wipe all memory of the stranger’s kiss from her.

She felt beyond control, as if she wholly lacked the ability to stop him. Nor did she want to stop him. His lips were bold against hers and demanding, taking all she could give. His tongue demanded entrance to her mouth, and as it plunged inside, his hands moved over her with the confidence of hands that knew her body and knew she would not deny them anything they sought.

“Take off your clothes,” he commanded, stepping back and breathing hard.

“I must send for my woman,” she said. “I cannot do it by myself.”

“No matter,” he said, gripping her bodice in both hands. “I’ll maid you.”

“Don’t tear it,” she warned, catching hold of his hands, though she knew she could not stop him if he insisted on ripping the gown from her. “I like this dress.”