Bride of the Beast (10 page)

"And if I did?"

She hesitated but a moment. "Then I would oblige you."

"But not willingly."

"Willing, aye," she said, surprising him. "But not happily."

A pang of bitterness shot through him at her frankness.

"Then we shall wait."

"Wait?" She blinked. "Wait for what?"

Marmaduke allowed himself a wry smile. "Until you attend my bath because it is your will to do so."

"My will?"

"So I have said." He smoothed a few wispy strands of pale gold hair off her forehead. "Your will and your desire."

Her brows arched, but before she could say a word, he laid claim to the only washtub yet unoccupied. Without further ceremony, and certainly without shame, he undid the cord to his braies and shoved them to his ankles.

Something fierce and hot leapt inside him. A bold need that made him stand thus a shade longer than was chivalrous. The sheerest moment only, but long enough for her to note the one part of himself he knew to be unflawed and impressive.

Only then did he kick aside his discarded drawers and
ease himself into the large wooden tub.

Heated water swirled around him as he settled onto the low bathing stool, the bath's scented warmth lapping at his shoulders and sending him the comfort he'd rather find in her soothing embrace.

Her will and her desire. Anything less was unacceptable. Resting his head against the linen-covered edge of the washtub, he let out a great tension-freeing sigh.

He was a patient man.

He would make her want him.

Love him.

Unlike the fools who'd sought to woo her before and failed, he possessed a deep enough heart to succeed.

Fending off the dark nigglings of doubt springing to life at his bold assumptions, Marmaduke drew his hand down over his face and closed his eyes.

Then he laid calm siege to his doubts, routing his demons one by one before they could tell him otherwise.

**

About the same time, in a far and dark corner of Dun-laidir, two heavily cloaked figures huddled in the dank chill of a long-empty storeroom.

A damp undercroft in one of the castle's most neglected towers, once used to house all manner of goods but now filled with little save dust and cobwebs.

Murky light fell through two narrow air slits, faintly illuminating the scowling face of one of the two figures. "Your regrets come over-late," the figure said, taking up a position at the storeroom's heavy oak door.

"If you are caught escaping, and dare utter my name, I shall see every man, woman, and child who bear a drop of your blood, put to the sword." The speaker thrust out a warning finger. "You have my solemn oath on it."

The other, a thick-set man of squat stature and reeking like a cess-pit, grimaced. "You have fullest right to be wroth," he offered, "but the attempt was ill-starred from the onset. How could we know the young lordling would choose that moment to visit the jakes?"

"If you would stay in my peace, and your lord's, then I council you not to fail again."

The stocky man patted his sword-hilt. "On my life, I swear I won't."

"Your life, aye. That is as sure as a buzzard rides the up-draughts," the other said, and cracked the door just enough to peer out into the fog-hung morning.

Turning back to the dung-crusted figure, he continued, "Word is that he brought a special dispensation from the Bishop of Aberdeen allowing them to wed with all haste. See to it he never gains the chance."

The squat man shuffled his feet on the hard-packed earthen floor. " 'Tis said the saints watch o'er him, keeping him from bodily ills."

The other gave a snort of contempt. "He is cunning, naught else. And wise enough to know your liege will be aware of his moves. He will make a careful circuit of the walls when the day of his nuptials dawns. No doubt of the village as well, if Sir Hugh and his men fail to appear."

"But how are we to dispatch him if we aren't there?"

The figure by the door let out a long, slow breath. "You will be there. But not in full knightly regalia as he will expect."

Opening the door just wide enough for the other to slip through, the dark-cloaked figure swelled with the scent of victory. "Tell Sir Hugh to send his best men to hide behind every bush and tree. I will assure the one-eyed whoreson passes close enough to be cut down."

The other opened his mouth, but before he could speak, the figure by the door gave him a rough shove, hurling him into the bailey's damp gloom.

"Go now," the figure called after the hurrying man. "My salutations to your lord."

must
I
repeat
myself times without number?" James Keith grasped the armrests of the laird's chair and glowered at those unfortunate enough to be within sighting range. "You badgered me before my bath, now I've scarce washed the dung from my limbs and you'd harry me anew."

Anger glittering in his eyes, he slammed the flat of his hand onto the high table's scarred surface. "I've been bested once this morn, would you see me beaten down by a hail of questions as well?"

Dunlaidir's few remaining men-at-arms, so sparse in number they scarce filled the nearest trestle tables, exchanged significant glances but said nothing. Marmaduke's own men, urged by the young lordling to join him at the dais end of the hall, stared at their trenchers or reached for their tankards.

Sharp discomfiture hung in the air, palpable and thick as the smell of wood-smoke and soured ale. Two of the Keith men feigned coughing spells. Others shifted in their seats, clearly ill at ease.

"For the last time, there was only one," James ground out, anger rolling off him in black waves.

Sir Marmaduke watched him from the shadows near the bottom steps of the turnpike stairs. Carefully keeping his mien one of quiet calm, he folded his arms and leaned one mail-clad shoulder against the tapestry-hung wall.

The stripling's ire didn't surprise him, but his avoidance of meeting the others' eyes, made Marmaduke's pulse quicken with alertness.

A sharply honed warrior's instinct, ignited because James only averted his gaze when stating he'd seen but one intruder and not two as he'd originally claimed.

" Tis plaguey sad when the new lord shies away from discussing matters of such grave import," groused a stern-featured man-at-arms at one of the trestle tables.

"New lord..
.faugh!"
someone else scoffed. "The whelp would sooner offer up his own bed to the English than draw steel on 'em!"

"It would require more than mere steel to parry a man as cunning as Hugh de la Hogue." Sir
John
, a tired-looking noble of middle years, glanced over his shoulder at the carping men-at-arms. "He gives no quarter to any who dare to challenge him. God the Father himself would be hard-pressed to help those Sir Hugh chooses to ruin."

He slid James a dark look. "If the dastard so desired, he'd slight this holding with a fury so ravenous naught but a few scattered stones would remain."

"That's why it's so sad we have such a weak-hearted poltroon as new lord!" a riled voice rose from one of the other tables.

All color drained from James's face. When his jaw began working in agitation, but no words came forth, Marmaduke raked a hand through his still-damp hair. Stifling a curse, he started forward at the same time Caterine pushed to her feet.

Her back straight, her pride glowing as brightly as the gleaming gold braids coiled over her ears, she stared accusingly at the Dunlaidir men. "Is it not a greater sadness that we need the sword arms of a braw English knight and his men to stave off the havoc and disaster you dread, my lords?"

Her
words froze Marmaduke's feet.

Had she truly called him braw?

His heart surged, all manner of interpretation galloping through him as he stepped from the shadows.

"Where is loyalty and honor when more than half of our garrison abandon us to face every peril alone?" As yet unaware of his approach, Caterine Keith challenged the men who'd shamed her stepson. "Where were you when James chased after the intruder? His daring, good sirs, was not the act of a weakling."

Some of the men-at-arms lowered their heads, appearing duly chagrined; others drew their brows together in further annoyance and continued to grumble amongst themselves.

Sir
John
frowned, telling lines etched deep into his haggard features. Lost in his own thoughts, he absently slipped bits of cheese to the dogs scrounging in the rushes beneath the high table.

The tiniest dog, Lady Caterine's pet, ceased his scavenging to bare his teeth at Marmaduke. Ignoring the wee beastie's snarls, he stepped up to the table and placed a hand on Caterine's shoulder.

She glanced at him, her deep blue eyes still sparking with agitation, but to his relief, she made no move to pull away.

"Disloyal retainers do not stay on when they could dine off silver plate elsewhere," Marmaduke said, speaking to her, but nodding to her men. "Good men remain through all weathers, as these here have clearly chosen to do." As he'd hoped, his words wiped a fair portion of the ill-humor from their faces.

"'Tis looking after the horses, we were," one of them called out, his grieved tone declaring his still-simmering annoyance. "Some of us thought we saw lights flickering in the stables. We are too few to be everywhere, milady."

"He has the rights of it," another agreed. "We ne'er thought some craven ruffian would come climbing out of the jakes!"

Nods and hearty blusters echoed the voiced sentiments, but the tension gradually dissipated. Satisfied, Marmaduke looked back at Lady Caterine.

His breath caught at her radiance. She was staring past him, looking at the garrison men. Flickering torchlight silhouetted her profile, gilding the elegant lines of her face and the proud lift of her chin.

Her dignity stirred him, but the vulnerability evident in the flush high on her cheeks moved him more. Something rare and potent slid through him, seizing fast hold of his very soul.

He watched her, his heart pounding slow and hard. The smoky hall and all in it seemed to merge with the shadows until only she remained, clear and bright as a sunlit day.

The disgruntled Keith men, his amused-looking ones, and even the rows of tables and benches, everything faded save his keen awareness of her.

She stood tall and proud, the fireglow caressing her, the shifting light and shadow revealing the sleek lines of her body, teasing him with the pleasing fullness of her breasts, and tempting him with a subtle sensuality any man of depth would burn to awaken.

And Marmaduke possessed more depth than most.

Desire slammed through him and his body tightened, responding to her with gripping need. A yearning far more powerful than the well-rounded wenches he'd favored in recent years had e'er stirred in him.

The saints knew he'd avoided slender coupling partners, hadn't craved the supple curves of a lithe-limbed woman in years. Not since—

Frowning, he curled his hands against the image rising in his mind... and the sharp lust heating his blood. A throbbing ache much deeper than mere physical want.

"Aye, and 'tis full loyal we are," a loud voice rang out, dashing cold water on his need and soundly dispelling memories better left unstirred.

"Not all can be turned by coin or cowed by that son of Beelzebub!" another agreed.

Others joined in and the disruption poured a river of relief through Marmaduke, swiftly restoring his wits and re-sealing his most tender wound.

The one that bore his late wife's name.

Drawing a great breath, he gave his
new
lady's shoulder a light squeeze. And knew profound satisfaction when she leaned into his hand, welcoming his touch.

"Such stalwarts are worth two of every knave who left," he told her, his voice a shade huskier than usual. "Do not fret their loss. Sometimes it is wise to concede a battle if in doing so, we achieve later victory in the war."

James pinned him with a glare. "Did you come here to champion us with your brawn, sir, or is your purpose to impress us with your bottomless fount of wisdom?"

Caterine's brows shot upward at her stepson's rudeness. Her champion tensed, but except for the slight jerking of a muscle in his jaw, his face remained amazingly calm.

"A man worth his salt makes equal use of both," he said, his deep voice as smooth and unruffled as his expression.

"And you would intimate I have neither?" James's face darkened.

"James, please—" Caterine began, but steely fingers pressed down on her shoulder. Heeding the unspoken warning, she held her tongue as James pushed to his feet

"Nay, sir, do not trouble yourself to answer," he bristled, drawing up before Marmaduke. "I already ken the answer."

Snapping his brows together in a mask of fury, he stormed from the table, his hobbling gait more pronounced than ever. But to Caterine's astonishment, it was his
good
leg he dragged behind him.