Impostress

by Lisa Jackson

  Kelan, more than a little drunk, scooted his chair back, excused himself, and, feeling the effects of too much wine, made his way out of the smoky great hall to the staircase. His legs were unsteady, which surprised him, for he was a man who could usually drink without too much effect.

  Lord Llwyd’s wine was potent.

  More carefully than was his custom, he strode up the curved stone staircase to the third floor, which, he’d learned from his conversation with his new father-in-law, housed the private chambers of the lord and his children. A single hallway divided the center of that top floor. One half was the baron’s private quarters, and the three chambers opposite were occupied by his daughters. The first room belonged to that silly waif of a girl who’d stared at him in fascination as he’d endured the feast. The second was inhabited by Kiera, the sister who was so ill she couldn’t come down to the wedding nor the feast. Which, of course, the bride hadn’t attended either. She’d hidden herself away and had pointedly avoided her new husband, making him appear a bloody fool. Again a deep rage curdled through his blood. Either these daughters of Llwyd were a sickly lot or a prideful, stubborn one.

  Kelan suspected the latter.

  Gritting his teeth, he made his way to the third door, considered knocking, then thought better of it. Damn it, the woman was his wife. A wife he hadn’t wanted.

  He tried the latch, expecting that she might have dared to lock him out, but the door cracked open. Dim light from the sconces in the doorway sliced into the dark room that seemed to swim before his eyes. He leaned one shoulder on the doorjamb to brace himself as he caught sight of her. She was sitting up in the bed, the blankets drawn tight into one fist that she held over her breasts. Her eyes were round and wide, and she looked as frightened as a sacrificial lamb.

  “Wife,” he slurred, his tongue impossibly thick.

  “H-husband.”

  “ ’Tis comforting to know that you are, indeed, alive,” he chided. Stepping inside, he closed the door softly behind him. It latched with a quiet click, and she nearly jumped out of her skin. Her green eyes, luminous in the shadowy room, stared at him, and he read confused messages there. She was scared, yes, but there was something more in her gaze—guilt? But why? For not joining him at the feast? For not loving him? For ...

  The thought crossed his mind that she might not be a virgin, that her fear was because she’d already lain with a man and was about to be found out.

  The fire had died to glowing embers; the candles burned low, tallow dripping onto the table. “You didn’t come down to dinner,” he said, his words louder and more accusing than he’d meant them to be.

  “Nay,” she said, swallowing hard.

  She was a pretty thing, he saw in the half-light. Tangled reddish brown hair that caught gold in the firelight framed her small, oval face complete with finely arched eyebrows, high cheekbones, and a small mouth. He’d caught but a glimpse of her when he’d lifted her veil to kiss her at the altar, but even then he’d noticed the regal tilt of her chin, the spark of intelligence in her green eyes, the dusting of freckles over the bridge of her nose.

  “You were ill?” Dear God, why was it so hard to speak? His tongue felt thick; his thoughts were sluggish.

  “Yes.”

  “And now?” He was walking unsteadily to the bed, trying to contain his temper, wondering what he would do with this strange creature who was now married to him.

  “I, um, I still feel ...” She searched for the correct word and tiny lines of vexation appeared between her eyebrows. He’d expected a spinster—since she was by every right long past marriageable age at nearly nineteen—but this woman was far from that. Her breasts were full as they pressed against the fabric of her chemise, her limbs long and supple. “ ’Tis of no matter.”

  “It is to me. You made me look a fool.”

  “What?” She glanced upward quickly and something flashed in her eyes.

  “I sat alone. Waiting for you.”

  “I’m sorry, I thought you knew—”

  “What I know is that my bride humiliated me.”

  She gasped. “Nay, I—I am feeling poorly. I—I—”

  “Are lying,” he said succinctly, all the rage he’d experienced for four long hours returning, momentarily seeming to clear his head. He leaned over the bed. “I waited for you,” he repeated.

  His nose was nearly touching hers and Kiera swallowed hard. He was too close. Even though he was obviously drunk and the room was nearly dark, he was staring at her with such intensity that she was certain he was memorizing each and every one of her features. Her heart was beating so fast she could barely breathe, and she remembered their one, fleeting kiss, the repressed fire in the meeting of their lips. “Have you nothing to say for yourself?” he demanded, so close his breath, warm and smelling of wine, whispered across her cheeks.

  “I think I just apologized.”

  “Too little and much, much too late.”

  Kiera wished he would disappear. Why had she felt she could go through with Elyn’s plan? It would have been better for the Lord of Penbrooke to realize that the marriage would never work, for her father to be shamed but at least face the truth. As it was, Kiera was trapped until her rebellious sister returned.

  And when will that be?

  She swallowed hard. She hadn’t lied when she’d told him that she was ill. Though the room was cool, sweat collected on her skin. Her fingers were curved in the blankets, and half lying here, in Elyn’s bed, wearing Elyn’s chemise, talking to Elyn’s husband, she thought she might lose consciousness.

  Silent, glowering down at her, he seemed even taller than he had at the wedding. A muscle worked at the edge of his jaw, and his big hands were coiled into hard, furious fists.

  She had trouble finding her voice but finally whispered, “I should have sent word—”

  “You should have joined me.”

  “But I could not.”

  “Or would not?” he challenged, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

  Rage pulsed from him. A sheen of sweat glistened on his skin, but as he rounded the bed she noticed that he seemed to walk unevenly. His strong, impossibly long legs wobbled slightly. Good.

  “I—I am sorry if I offended you,” she said, lowering her eyes. She could not risk infuriating him, not if the plan was to work. And though she wanted to snap back a hot retort, it would not serve her purpose. “I will not do it again. Now ... mayhap you would like a cup?”

  She smiled and reached for the jug of wine. She’d already added more potion into the marked mazer, just a little from the vial to make certain it worked.

  Quick as a snake striking, strong fingers grasped her wrist so tightly she gasped. “Understand one thing, wife,” he said through clenched teeth. “I will not tolerate being humiliated. Not ever.”

  She gulped, tried not to notice the pressure of his fingers against her skin. “I know.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes!”

  “If you ever, ever embarrass me again as you did tonight, you will regret it.”

  “You are threatening me?” she asked, her temper sparking. Be careful, Kiera, don’t bait him. Let it be.

  “ ’Tis not a threat, wife, but the truth. I will not tolerate disobedience.”

  “Then I will try hard to be the ever obedient, loving, meek little wife,” she mocked, unable to hold her tongue. “Anyone who meets me will know that I am only there to serve in your shadow, m’lord.”

  “You test me,” he ground out.

  “As you test me.”

  He hesitated, then let his hand fall. “ ’Tis not a secret that I didn’t want this marriage. No more than you did. But here it is. We are wed.” He threw up a hand and stepped away from the bed, allowing Kiera to breathe a little. “We now have to make the best of it.”

  “Aye,” she said, trying to hold her sharp tongue. “That we must.”

  He glanced at the table and she thought for a heart-stopping minute that he might want to pour the wine f
or himself. “Here, let me get you a cup,” she offered quickly and let the blankets fall, aware that her breasts and their hard nipples would be visible through the thin silk. She grabbed the jug and splashed wine into the cups, spilling a bit and silently praying that the sleeping potion wasn’t lost.

  “I think I’ve drunk enough.”

  “Nay! We ... we should share some wine.”

  “That we should have. Hours ago. Downstairs.” His eyes slitted distrustfully. “You don’t seem ill.”

  “I’m—I’m trying to please you,” she said and managed a smile she didn’t feel. Her hands were shaking as she handed him his mazer, yes, the one with the X scratched onto the bottom, though she could barely make out the marking.

  He snorted in disbelief. Then, his gaze locking hard on hers, he touched the rim of his cup to her mazer. “Well, wife,” he drawled, his lips twisting at the irony of it all, “here’s to loving husbands, obedient wives, and, oh, yes, to wedded bliss.”

  Chapter Five

  The toast echoed through the chamber as Kelan touched the rim of his mazer to hers.

  Kiera swallowed hard, felt herself turn ashen at the thought of her lies. So many lies. To her father, to the priest, to God, and to this man who mistakenly thought she was his wife. “To bliss,” she forced out and saw those steely eyes staring at her, taking in the features of her face as if searing them into his brain.

  Scooting back quickly, away from the shifting light of the candles, she turned her face from him, hoping her hair created a curtain that would disguise her features. What had she been thinking? The room was dark, yes, but there was still enough light that if he caught a decent view of her he might realize upon awaking with Elyn that he’d been duped. She could only hope that he was already too drugged to remember.

  She took a swallow of her wine, then another as he drained his cup and lifted a dark brow, silently daring her to do the same. From her comer of the bed, she took the challenge and emptied her mazer, feeling the cool wine slide down her throat. “Another?” he asked.

  Before she could reply, he reached down and poured from the jug into the two mazers. Oh, by the gods, now how was she supposed to add the draft of sleeping potion to his drink?

  He glanced over his shoulder, one dark eyebrow raised, his hand poised over the jug.

  “What ... oh.” She felt herself coloring under his gaze. “Please, m‘lord.” ’Twas difficult to spit out the word, for she didn’t like even the idea that he was her master.

  “You may call me Kelan, or husband.”

  Never, she thought. She accepted the cup and, after he touched the rim of his mazer to hers again, drank, watching as he did the same. How long was it before the elixir would take effect?

  “Thank you ... Kelan.” Her heart hammered and she could barely breathe. This was all wrong. So very wrong.

  Resting a hip upon the bed, he eyed her over the rim of his mazer. “And what shall I call you, I wonder?” he asked, sipping. “What would you like?”

  “Me?”

  “To be called.”

  “Oh.” Think, Kiera, keep him talking. “Elyn,” she said, her tongue tripping over the name. Dear Lord, he was so close. Too close. Her bare foot was near his hip but she didn’t dare shift away like a frightened rabbit. He was supposed to be her husband.

  “Not wife?”

  “No!”

  He waited in the dim, glimmering candlelight.

  “I mean ...” She fought the urge to make the sign of the cross as he stared at her with the sharp-eyed intensity of a hawk. “I mean, Elyn is fine. Yes. Call me Elyn.” She forced a tiny smile. “This is all so new.”

  Again the twitch of his eyebrow.

  Inside she felt undone. Shaken. She licked her lips nervously, then saw that his gaze was drawn to the movement. What now? He seemed a little drunk, but just a little. Not near enough. And beneath his mask of civility she sensed a smoldering fury, anger that he was trying to keep from sparking. “ ’Tis new for me as well,” he finally said and shoved his dark hair off his forehead. As if fighting a headache, he closed his eyes.

  Finally.

  Now if he’d just fall asleep so that Elyn could return and they could exchange places again. Kiera felt a little bit of relief and yawned slowly, her bones beginning to melt a bit. In her nervousness, she’d drunk too much wine after not eating all day. Her head had begun to spin a little and the golden shadows crowding the room seemed warmer and more enticing. If it weren’t for this beast sitting on the edge of her bed, she might even find the evening pleasant.

  “You must never embarrass me again,” he said suddenly, his voice brooking no argument. She saw it then, in his coiled muscles, in the tense corners of his mouth, the tight, white fury he could no longer contain.

  “I meant not to—”

  “Liar!” His whisper was harsh as sand. His eyes flew open and he lunged suddenly, leaning over her, grabbing her wrists. “Something is amiss here,” he accused, his nose nearly brushing hers. In the half-light his eyes were nearly black, so large were his pupils.

  The fingers surrounding her wrists were manacles. The arm she’d injured long ago on the night that she’d lost Obsidian ached, reminding her of the night another man had hurt her, a dark, faceless attacker who had never been captured. She swallowed back fear though inside she shuddered at the memory.

  “What is it, wife? Do you find me distasteful?”

  “Nay,” she said, her lungs constricting. That she remembered the attack now was unsettling.

  “Unattractive?”

  She swallowed. “Nay,” she whispered and reached for the coverlet again, but his unforgiving fingers forbade any movement. The fire spat noisily and from the hallway she heard the sounds of footsteps as the guard changed.

  “Then what, Elyn? You’re acting like a frightened foal.”

  She met his gaze. “I have never been with a man before,” she said, stalling for time.

  “I expected you to be a virgin,” he said, but she saw the unspoken questions and she knew that in the back of Kelan’s mind, he wondered if his wife’s skittish behavior stemmed from fear that her new husband would discover she was impure.

  Boldly she lifted her chin. “But I know you are not so innocent, husband. You have had others. Mayhap dozens of others.”

  “Which should please you. Do not try to make us equal, Elyn. You are a woman, and I am man. ’Tis different we are.”

  “So I should not judge you, but you have the right to judge me?”

  He didn’t answer, didn’t have to. He just stared at her and her brassy impudence with night-darkened eyes, eyes she was certain could see into her soul and carefully ferret out all of her lies. His gaze roved over her face and body, silently claiming her. Oh, Lord. Her breath got caught between her throat and lungs, and when he closed the distance between them, his lips hovering over hers, she heard her own heart knocking. Wildly. Loudly. Wantonly. She wanted him to kiss her, wanted to feel his lips against hers again. Oh, this was madness! With the tiniest of smirks, as if he guessed what she was thinking from the fluttering of the pulse at her throat, he lowered his head. Hot breath seared her skin. She fought the urge to writhe.

  The kiss was a light brush of skin to skin, hard lips grazing hers ever so slightly, ever so seductively.

  Oh, by all that was holy, no!

  As he lifted his head to stare at her, his features seemed less severe, softer, the dim room a little fuzzy. He glanced down at her breasts, to her traitorous nipples pointing hard against the thin silk of her chemise. His grip loosened, letting her go.

  “May-mayhap another cup,” she suggested, barely recognizing her own husky voice as she reached for the jug.

  A big hand covered hers. “I’ll get it, wife.”

  She cringed at the endearment, then realized the word had been spoken without any hint of kindness or affection, as if he was trying it out, trying to impress it upon his memory.

  “I realize you are no more happy about this marriage
than I am,” he said as he handed her the mazer. When was the last time she’d added the potion ... would it linger in the cup? Why the devil wasn’t he falling asleep?

  He was staring at her. Again. She blinked against suddenly heavy lids. Oh, no ... he couldn’t memorize the lines of her face.

  “Well?” he demanded.

  “Well, what?” Had he asked her something? Her brain seemed to be swimming.

  “The marriage. You opposed it.”

  “Oh! Yes.” Remember, you’re Elyn.

  “Why?”

  “I ... I didn’t want to be ...” To be what? ”... wed.”

  “But you’re of age. Past.”

  She remembered Elyn’s fantasies. “But ... I think ... ‘twould be nice to be ...” She felt her face flood with color. How could she admit her sister’s dreams, dreams she didn’t trust? He was waiting. She forced out the words. “To fall in love with my husband.”

  “You’re a romantic?” he said with the hint of a sneer.

  She nodded sluggishly, some of her wine sloshing out of her mazer. Quickly she sipped from the full cup, then noticed the stains on the white of her chemise, purple blotches over her breasts and abdomen.

  “Oh ... dear ...”

  Catching her staring at the spots, he smiled ... a wicked, devilish smile. He pried the cup from her fingers, then set each of their mazers on the table. Shimmering light reflected in his eyes for a second and she knew in an instant that the moment of truth had come, that she could not avoid his touch. Slowly, he lowered his head and his lips pressed against the thin cloth over the dark splotches.

  Hot and moist, his breath seared through the chemise to burn against her skin. She writhed. Moaned. Experienced a new and frightening want. Slowly his tongue traced the outline of a stain, and she felt a tingle deep inside, a yearning so deep it was terrifying and, oh, so seductive. She felt a need to wiggle against him, to feel his flesh against hers. He turned his attention to another stain, one that started below her neckline and spread dark over one breast.

  His tongue found the discoloration. Flicked against it.