Ruthless (17 page)

Muriele snorted with such energy it ruffled
the hair beside his eyes.

"What now, woman?"

"I dinna intend to share yer bed."

"Ye think I give ye a choice?"

"Ye canna order me to make love with ye."

"For certs, I can." He waggled his fingers,
reminding her to continue bathing him. "But then, I did not ask ye
to 'make love.' I require someone to satisfy my urges. Since ye
will be in my bed, adding another woman would crowd my
comfort."

"Ye have not the right."

She slapped a handful of soap on the top of
his head then scrubbed furiously, not stopping the soapy water from
running down his forehead into his eyes. Instead of yelling, he
took his time to feel around for the cloth, wring it out and wipe
his eyes.

"Aye. I have the right. By the spoils of
conquest."

"Ye conquered Lord Baldor. Ye dinna have
authority over Blackbriar's heir without King David's consent."

"Aye. Yer stepfather left no heir. I have
privilege over anyone captured during the siege."

"Ha! Then ye have no claim over me. Did ye
take me from Blackbriar to Kinbrace with the other women?"

He grew still beneath her hands. For truth,
though he knew she'd been there, he and his men hadn't identified
her among the captives.

Muriele near heard his teeth grind
together.

"Ye know I didna. But ye will still share my
bed. I canna trust ye to stay put of a night."

Her hands stopped digging into his scalp and
continued in a more comforting way.

"Ye will not force me to swive?"

"Ne'er have I needed to
force
a
woman. They seek my bed. Since I have held ye here, they have been
most canny."

Canny? Then he was swiving women in some
other part of the castle? A painful ache filled her chest. No
wonder when he sought his bed he slept as if something had robbed
him of all energy!

'Twould be a snowy day in summer afore she
would ever
seek
his bed. Wisely, she did not speak.
Instead, she distracted her thoughts by using a goodly amount of
soap on his back and shoulders then scrubbing fiercely.

"That will do, Muriele."

Magnus took the bathing cloth from her and
stood, preferring to bathe himself. He only needed help on his hair
and back, not wanting to leave dirt or gore he couldn't see. When
he had her bathe his legs before, it was to test her obedience. He
pressed his lips together. She was one woman who didn't bend
easily.

He propped his foot against the tub's side to
scrub down to his feet. He felt her gaze and heard the sharp intake
of her breath. He fought to keep the grin off his face. Likely, his
turgid sex startled her. She'd best get used to it. Arousal was the
state he was most likely in every time she came near.

"Yer stitches are gone. Did Sweyn take them
out?"

"Nay. I did. They became bothersome."

"Ye should have sought Grunda's help or mine.
The flesh may not have grown tightly together."

She started toward him, her eyes fixed on the
long scar. The closer she came, the greater his cock responded.
Before, when she'd tended the wound, the pain had kept his sex
under control. Now, if she touched him, he'd likely explode. By the
widening of her eyes, she could no longer ignore his condition.

Wisely, she stopped.

"The wound is healed enough. Tend to
yerself." He nodded toward the bed.

She followed his gaze to see a soft,
blue-green kirtle and a silver smock rested atop the covers. Her
face froze with a startled look. She stepped backward as if putting
distance between her and the clothing. Were they not her own? He
had noted them the day he prowled through her room at Blackbriar.
It looked to have spilled from the bottom of her clothing chest, as
if was the last thing taken from it. He had picked it up with his
sword tip and inhaled its scent, picturing the daughter of the
castle wearing it even before he knew her face.

"Are they not yer own?"

"They were. I dinna want to wear them."

"Of all yer garments, the kirtle is by far
the prettiest. Wear it."

"Nay!"

Her stubbornness pricked his anger. He wanted
to see her in the dress. By Lucifer's bloated gut, she'd wear
it!

"Ye will. If not, ye'll go to the great hall
in naught but yer skin!" Menace tinged his words. His eyes narrowed
in a scorching look.

Shudders swept down her body. When she went
to the bed, she stared at the clothing there. Her hand hovered over
them, hesitated then drew back.

"Dinna think to thwart me in this." Her
hesitation heated his temper. His chin thrust out and he slowly
stepped out of the tub.

Good. Her hand finally closed around the
garments and picked them up. She paid heed to his command. Once she
had them in her grasp, she brought them to her breasts and hugged
the garments to chest. She shuddered again before she stiffened and
turned her back.

To rob him of his pleasure, the aggravating
woman intended to dress in the corner where there was only faint
light. He stalked to the fireplace, leaving a trail of water behind
him, and tossed two additional squares of peat on the burning fire.
While he dried, he studied her. She looked undecided on how to
dress with any privacy.

She had none.

While still facing him, she pulled off her
brown kirtle. Still in her beige smock, she ignored the silver
smock and started to pick up the bright kirtle.

"Nay." He needed but one word.

She looked undecided again as she picked up
both garments and placed them atop her rolled-up pallet. Still she
hesitated. He could see her difficulty. Should she expose the front
of her body to him or her back? Finally, she decided and quickly
turned her back.

In a flash, the peat broke into a bright
blaze. Its flames spread light to every corner. As she frantically
tried to pull the sheer smock over her head to cover herself, he
glimpsed her naked back. The beauty of her form so enticed him he
near missed something unusual.

Had he imagined a darkness of the skin
between her shoulder blades? 'Twas not something solid atop her
flesh. More like a smear of color. And her back didn't appear as
smooth as her lovely, ivory buttocks.

She hurriedly settled her clothes around her
hips and started combing her hair. He puzzled over her back as he
pulled a full, white shirt over his head. He loosely pulled the
shirt's laces closed at his neck then gathered his green and black
kilt around his body. Holding it in place with a wide, black sword
belt, he threw the end up and over his left shoulder. He secured it
to his shirt with a pewter pin decorated with a likeness of a fist
holding a dagger upright.

Muriele's curly hair flowed freely around her
face and down her back. The circlet, which went with the dress, was
made of silver and gold strands braided around a long ribbon cut
from the dress' fabric. The ribbon tied in back, and the ends would
trail down her curly hair. She ignored it.

"Wear the circlet."

Her face twitched. She didn't move.

"It was meant to go with the dress. Put it
on, else I will do it for ye."

As her hands slowly picked up the beautiful
circlet to settle it around her brow, her eyes flamed with
hatred.

By all things heavenly! She was even more
beautiful in the clothing than he'd thought. Something was amiss.
She looked as if she did not want to move and feel the cloth
against her skin. He sensed she fought hard to keep her face devoid
of any emotion. Why would she dislike wearing the prettiest of all
her clothing he had transported from Blackbriar?

He kicked his soiled clothing atop her own
she'd dropped upon entering the room.

"Dinna neglect mending the rip in my
clothing. Ye have been forgetful of late."

He thought to prick her temper. Force her to
lose control of her stony features. He was wrong. She nodded and
stood like a woman who wanted to hide within herself.

"Come. Chief Olaf willna be pleased if ye
keep him from his meal."

Magnus strode out of the room, wondering if
she would force herself to move from the spot where she seemed
frozen. By the whispering sound of footsteps, he knew she
followed.

The great hall teemed with people. The women
wore their most beautiful kirtles and jewelry while the men donned
colorful kilts and soft linen shirts.

He stopped at the entry door and waited for
Muriele to join him. He reached out and took her hand, placing it
on his arm to escort her into the room. Everyone stared at the
lass. They had thought her comely in her mended garments. Now,
wearing clothing worthy of her station, her dignified beauty struck
them.

With the absence of expression in her eyes,
the stillness of her beautiful face, she looked ethereal. Everyone
stared as if expecting her to disappear before their eyes. As he
led her to the high table, he noted a small crack in her composure
when they passed by Grunda. On seeing Muriel, the old seer gasped
then flashed a look filled with sympathy.

It startled him.

Everyone on the dais made way for her.

"My lady, ye are most bonnie," Feradoch
crooned and reached for her fingertips. He didn't kiss the air
above her hand but pressed his lips to her flesh.

Magnus' eyes twitched. His foster brother
lingered overlong. Chief Olaf cleared his throat and bowed.

"Ye will sit beside me this eve, fair
lady."

Olaf insisted on seating her himself. 'Twas
not because of honoring her for the hunt. She did not blush or
react as if he did anything unusual. Sitting next to the Chief, she
was in her customary surroundings.

'Twas her due.

During the meal, Magnus was aware of every
little thing Muriele said or did. She conversed with graceful skill
to all who spoke with her.

The cook would serve tonight's meal with only
three removes, centered on the smaller animals. Ivar the Stout
ushered in the first course, featuring fresh herb and cheese
tartlets, poached beets with a sour vinegar dressing and a great
pie filled with chicken, beef and pork covered in rich gravy.
Magnus took care to keep their shared wine goblet half filled.

After the first platters were cleared away,
grouse with onion and parsley stuffing, diced turnips cooked in
apple cider and butter, a variety of wilted and buttered greens,
spiced pears in sweet wine syrup and sugar glazed currant cookies
arrived for the second remove.

Though Magnus picked the most succulent
morsels and placed them near her hand on their shared trencher, she
ate only when he held something out to her and refused to remove it
until she took it between her teeth. She was ever cautious not to
let her lips touch his fingers. He snorted, mentally, knowing she
would have gladly bitten them.

As the time passed, wine loosened the men's
lips until they were soon joking and telling tales about the hunt.
They poked fun at themselves because Muriele had far more skill at
bagging the elusive hares than they.

One knight sitting to Magnus left leaned
forward.

"My lady, how did ye know where to wait for
the hares? They seemed to run straight to you." He laughed and
slapped the table. "I do swear they begged you to capture them!
What is yer secret?"

"I have no secret. 'Tis ye have not noted
their habits."

"Habits? What habit do they have," he rolled
his eyes and winked, "other than making more rabbits?"

Muriele seemed to relax for the first time
since they had left the bedchamber. Should he ply her with more
wine? When her head turned toward the knight, he filled their
shared goblet.

"Have ye not noted hares seem to run in
circles?" Muriele tilted her head and raised her brows
questioningly. "If ye chase after one and lose it, be patient. The
scamp will circle around and appear again."

"Ah! No wonder ye stood quietly!" He grinned
when his wife laughed and poked him in the side.

"Rabbits sound like they enjoy the chase,"
his wife said.

"They are curious animals. Sometimes they
follow after a dog chasing on the tail of one of the hare's less
fortunate friends." For the first time this evening, Muriele
smiled.

Magnus watched and listened. She seemed wary
of the men and kept them at a distance but responded unhesitatingly
to the women. She drew them into conversations, asking about their
children. More than once, he sensed she longed to withdraw from the
room. Each time, he put his hand on her arm, she stiffened and
became still again.

By the time the last of the food arrived, she
surprised him by readily sampling venison basted with red wine,
oil, ginger, salt and pepper. Bowls of cooked carrots glazed with
honey, baskets of white loaves of bread served up with platters of
sharp cheeses with sugar walnuts, finished off the meal.

Between each course, minstrels sang, pipers
played and jugglers performed. While the diners nibbled on cheeses
and walnuts, a young troubadour sang a long song about the two
young boys who spilled and drank their blood together to form an
unbreakable bond. Muriele must not have heard the tale before, for
she flinched when the troubadour sang of the chalice leaving their
lips and the redness lingering on them.

'Twas late into the night when the men were
drunk enough to mention the attack from the great boar. Feradoch
was well into his cups and laughed at the telling.

"Yer father will be pleased to hear yer
stones are intact," Feradoch gave him an angelic smile as if he
praised him.

"Dinna worry, Feradoch. They are as hearty as
ever."

"For truth? After all these years, I have
failed to note any bastards at Kinbrace with yer hair and eyes,"
His foster brother hiked a brow at him, looking doubtful. "'Twould
be unmanly if ye also failed to sire heirs for Clibrick. Yer
brother Graemme doesna seem up to proving himself, either."