Ruthless (19 page)

"After taking over Father's possessions, he
learned I was to be betrothed to Duncan of Dalbreak."

Her voice broke as she said the man's name.
He waited patiently until she gained control of herself and
continued.

"Lord Baldor refused to allow it. He said he
could negotiate a more profitable bride price from Lord Aymer."

He was close enough to feel her shudders
through the mattress.

"In anger, I yelled no priest would force me
to a marriage if I refused to repeat the vows." She took another
deep breath and released it slowly. "He tried to whip me into
obedience. Grunda helped me send a message to Duncan. He came
alone. For secrecy. I met him in the forest in the mid of night. We
fled Blackbriar on his horse.

"Baldor and his men caught us afore morn.
They held Duncan's arms behind him. Baldor beat him unmercifully."
Her breathing quickened. "I grabbed Duncan's knife from the ground.
To defend him."

"Ye were foolhardy, lass."

She nodded. "Baldor cut himself when he first
struck me. He slammed his fists into my face until I lost
consciousness."

She turned her face near into the pillow. Her
voice was so muffled he needed to strain to understand her.

"When I regained my wits, he pulled my
clothing down to my waist. He screamed, 'Ye
will
obey me.'
'Twas then he branded me with Duncan's dagger."

Muriele clamped her hand over her mouth. She
looked about to spew then squeezed her eyes shut. Magnus kept
silent. If she chose not to continue, he would allow it. If this
Duncan was in love with her, it must have driven him mad seeing her
suffering. As if she knew his thoughts, Muriele spoke.

"Duncan screamed with me. Baldor laughed. He
was still laughing when he went over to plunge the hot steel into
Duncan's heart. Those last months at Blackbriar, at every meal,
Baldor took delight in using it as his eating knife."

Cold rage spread through Magnus. "'Twas
unfortunate I didna gut Baldor while he yet lived!"

Muriele curled in a tight ball, her back to
him. She pressed her face into the soft pillow then knotted her
hand in the sheet and pulled it to her face. He laid there, his
body rigid with suppressed fury. And everyone called
him
Ruthless?

But then, no one knew of Baldor's cruelty. He
doubted even Muriele realized the extent of it. 'Twas likely
Ragnhild wanted to murder him for what happened to her daughter.
But what could she have done about the slimy bastard? Had either
woman killed him, they law would have seen them hung for it.

He put his hands behind his head and stared
at the ceiling. He went over her story in his mind. He'd seen Lord
Aymer. The man was an ancient. A few strands of hair. Several
teeth. One eye clouded and blind. No doubt, Baldor thought to
secure all his holdings when the old man died.

He knew of Duncan of Dalbreak's
disappearance. Members of Dalbreak's clan had combed the
countryside asking if anyone had seen him. Baldor must have had his
men dispose of the body.

He had felt a sharp pang when Muriele said
the name with such emotion. For truth, she had loved him. Magnus
had met the young man two summers past. He concentrated on
remembering his appearance.

The picture of a tall man with light
hair...almost as light as Feradoch's, formed in his mind. His sky
blue eyes seemed to laugh at life. A dimple in his chin. A man he
remembered because he reminded him of his foster brother.

They met at a wedding festival and banquet
for the eldest Dalbreak son. They played the usual Highland games
and Magnus and Duncan had been equal throughout. 'Twas at the caber
toss Magnus had won—by less than a hands width. The man had laughed
and buffeted Magnus on the shoulder. Later, they had sought out
willing wenches and fallen into a drunken stupor.

He pressed his lips tight. Muriele's
shoulders had stopped quivering. Though she had smothered any
sounds, he knew she'd grieved. Now and again, her breath hitched
like a bairn's who had cried overlong. Her emotions had exhausted
her, for she slept.

What had the dress to do with the story?
Surely, it was not the same dress Baldor had wrenched from her
shoulders.

He'd not learn its story this night.

In the darkest time of the night, Muriele
half-awaked and wriggled back against the hard stones of the wall.
Each night, she folded and placed her shawl between her body and
the wall for warmth, then anchored her blanket around her front. At
first, the cold slipped through, but if she stayed still, her body
heat won out.

This night, she awoke to splendid warmth.
Strangely, her legs were relaxed and not drawn up to help warm her
belly. Never had the wall become so wondrously hot. She sighed and
stretched her legs.

And near yelped.

She blinked. Her foot had slid down something
hot and solid.

Aye. It was solid all right.

With hair. 'Twas the back of a hard muscled,
hairy leg.

She froze. Her heart near stopped when she
remembered where she was.

Before she dared move, she took note of all
that touched her flesh. During her sleep, she had slid very low in
the bed. Her bare buttocks nestled against the back of Magnus'
thighs! His hot arse filled the small of her back. She stifled a
gasp with the blanket clutched to her lips. His flesh felt
gloriously warm all the way up to her head. His body heat was
greater than any warming stones at Blackbriar!

Magnus had kept to his word, for he had not
raided her body during the night.

She could not say the same for herself. Had
she pressed against him any harder, she would have shoved him off
the bed to the floor.

Her only recourse was to ease herself away,
bit by bit. She slid first one foot then the other from the
glorious warmth. Each time she ventured a move, he stirred. She
held her breath and stilled.

Her right leg rested atop her left. She
waited then slid them away. When she shifted her buttocks, he
sleepily grumbled and would have none of it. He threw his arm
backward, clutched her waist and dragged her back against him.

Did he think her a pillow? His sigh of
contentment ended with a melodious snore. She had no recourse but
to wait until he slept soundly again.

No chance she would, though. Now she was
fully awake, other sensations intruded on her thoughts.

She had seen him naked before. She had even
touched his bare flesh. She squeezed her eyes tight trying to erase
the vision of what pressed against her so intimately.

Her head rested between his shoulder blades.
She had bathed the white scars there, had wondered who had caused
them. In the tub, he had leaned his head forward and dropped his
chin to his chest giving her access to his back. It had been
pliable, the muscles relaxed when she massaged them. Now, those
same flexible muscles felt taut against her shoulders.

Though he had not forced her to wash his
arse, when he stood naked and dripping in the bath, she'd noted his
lean hips, his buttocks tight without a hint of softness. Now,
pressed so intimately against the small of her back, his nether
cheeks were hot, hard.

His long, powerful legs intrigued her. Were
they stronger than his arms? Surely they must be. When he clamped
Odin between them, he had complete control of the great warhorse
without having his hands on the reins. 'Twas a strange contrast,
though, to feel the soft black hair growing there.

Experimenting, she rocked her leg gently.
Somehow, feeling his leg against the back of her calf was
comforting.

Her breath was still unsteady from crying
herself to sleep, but strangely, she felt a glimmer of relief.
'Twas the first time she'd been forced to speak about it since
Baldor had killed Duncan. It was as if talking about Duncan helped
her to finally find some peace, though hate for Baldor still burned
like a hot fire in her mind. She wished she had been the one to
kill him, to hold him to account for Duncan's murder, her mother's
suffering and her own. The man whose warmth she now shared had done
her a great service. She was grateful for it. Tension waned and
slipped from her as if fading into the feather mattress.

Yawning quietly, her eyes grew heavy. His
sensual, spicy scent soothed her. 'Twas like resting in a forest
surrounded by pines on a beautiful autumn day.

She pulled the covers to her cheek and sighed
as her eyes closed.

Never had Magnus been so close to breaking a
vow! If the lass hadn't stilled and fallen back to sleep when she
did, he wasn't sure he could have reined in his desires for another
breath.

Why did this girl stir a wild lust in him
he'd never felt for another? Could it be some spell learned from
her mother? He'd heard men claim Ragnhild of Blackbriar drove them
mad with desire.

If Lucifer clamped his ballocks in his iron
fists and squeezed the life from them, they could ache no more. His
cock fared no better. For the first time in his life, he feared it
would rip apart. He could do naught to relieve it. He had a new
understanding of increasing women. Had a woman's belly ever burst
like a bloated sheep's carcass?

Picturing the horrible event doused him in a
cold chill, for which he was thankful.

He ordered his mind to think of anything but
the soft, warm flesh pressed against him. It was nigh impossible.
So instead of her body, he began to think of the lass. After seeing
her tonight at the high table in clothing befitting her station,
'twas as if she had three layers of personalities.

His first sight of Muriele was the snarling,
fighting warrior woman who could defend herself, if in a fair
fight, against any man.

He had no doubt that Muriele, full of grace
and beauty in the great hall, could rule over any castle. When
she'd had a proper dowry and an alliance to bring into a marriage,
she'd have made an admirable wife for men like Duncan of Dalbreak.
Like himself. 'Twas a pity she'd lost it all and had nothing of
value to offer a man.

The third Muriele was the hidden lass tonight
who crumpled and wept in helpless misery over her memories.

The first two he would have swived without a
qualm. But he could not thrust his raging tarse into the heated
body of this third woman. Fortunately, grief healed, and she would
emerge a strong combination of the three personalities.

He would wait.

Once she became used to her new station in
life, Muriele would make him an admirable leman.

o0o

"Well, now, are ye planning to sleep 'til the
sun is high?" Grunda's voice held a surprising hint of
pleasure.

Startled awake, Muriele sat up in bed.
Luckily, Grunda grabbed the covers and held them in front of
Muriele. Her sleeping smock gaped open and slid off her right
shoulder, leaving one naked breast exposed.

"Put the lady's clothing chest beside the
master's," Grunda said, glancing behind her.

Two men entered Magnus' bedchamber carrying
the familiar chest from Blackbriar. Muriele caught them stealthily
peeking from the corners of their eyes as they put the chest
alongside the wall. One lad gave her a sheepish grin, but it did
not stop him from feasting his eyes on the tumbling hair framing
her face.

"Off with ye, now," Grunda ordered, "else I
will be tempted to shrivel yer manhood!"

The men shoved the chest against the wall and
near tripped hurrying from the room.

"Saints, Grunda! If ye had not come, I fear I
would have slept on." She near bounded from the bed, clutching her
arms around her breasts for warmth. In swift movements, she changed
to the familiar tunic and kirtle and settled it around her hips.
She stopped, puzzled when Grunda pulled the covers to the end of
the bed. She stood there for a time, frowning.

"What do ye search for?"

Grunda snorted. And shook her head.

"Something which isna there."

Muriele cocked her head, frowning. Slowly,
her eyes widened. Her old friend looked for stains of virgin's
blood and spent seed! She looked disappointed none was there.

"Hmpf! When ye left the great hall with him,
he appeared about to devour a more savory feast than had been
placed on the tables." She pulled the bedding tight as Muriele
scurried over to help finish making the bed.

"No wonder he was up afore the stars dimmed
their shine." She stopped and looked at Muriele. "How did ye stop
his taking ye?"

"'Twas my back."

"Eh? I didn't think he was the sort to let a
few scars repulse him. His back carries much more."

"Nay. He was most gentle about my shameful
scars. He insisted on learning the why of it."

"Ye told him all?"

Grunda's voice was soft with sympathy.

Muriele silently nodded. She'd refused to
speak of it from the day she returned to her room at Blackbriar.
Bending, she opened her chest to remove the garments and stack them
beside her on the floor. Without having to ask, Grunda brought the
blue-green kirtle, silver smock and the shining circlet and put
them in her hands. Muriele carefully laid them on the bottom of the
chest then replaced the rest of the clothing. She sighed with
relief when she pulled down the heavy wooden top, closing
everything inside.

"Come to my hut. We'll have a cup of hot
chamomile. I made meat pasties, too." She clucked her tongue and
shook her head in a wry expression. "I expected ye to need extra
sustenance after being abed all night with such a virile man!"

Muriele blushed and hurried to pick up the
soiled hunt clothing. From the placement of the sun, it was not as
late as she feared. She'd still have ample time to wash and mend
them afore the sun weakened.

On their way out of the keep, they skirted
around the great hall. Everyone seemed unusually interested in
watching her. The women looked envious and the men grinned as she
passed. When she felt eyes boring into her back, she expected to
find Magnus in the shadows, but did not. As she started to pull the
great door closed behind them, she scanned the room.