Table of Contents
~ Acclaim for Shehanne Moore ~
~ Look for these titles from Shehanne Moore ~
Copyright Warning
~ Dedication ~
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
~ About the Author ~
~ Also by Shehanne Moore ~
More Historical Romance from Etopia Press
~ Acclaim for Shehanne Moore ~
Praise for The Unraveling of Lady Fury
“Have you ever read a book where the start leaves you panting? Every page you turn there's nothing to bog the feeling down? With every chapter you grow shorter and shorter of breath until three-quarters of the way through? Then your eyes sting, breathing becomes impossible and a looming sense of dread keeps you reading faster and faster? And the end comes and that sting in your eyes turns to proper tears, streaming down your face, barely pausing and you can take a full breath again? But your heart warms, and you have a fuzzy feeling inside, and you want to tell the world because this book was such an emotional ride that you will never, ever forget a thing about it?
The Unraveling of Lady Fury is such a book. A keeper, and one I'll read over and over.”
—Author Aimee Duffy, Monster of Fame and Isle of Sensuality
“Smart. Sexy. Raw. Real. A staggeringly good read… A powerful love story that exhales turmoil, emotional and physical. Written with grit and blood, the imagery is poignantly beautiful and the humour rich… Strap yourself in before immersing yourself in Ms Moore's world…”
—Author Incy Black, Sins of the Father
~ Look for these titles from Shehanne Moore ~
Now Available
The Unraveling of Lady Fury
His Judas Bride
Shehanne Moore
Copyright Warning
EBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared, or given away. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is a crime punishable by law. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded to or downloaded from file sharing sites, or distributed in any other way via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000 (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/).
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious or have been used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real in any way. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Published By
Etopia Press
1643 Warwick Ave., #124
Warwick, RI 02889
http://www.etopia-press.net
His Judas Bride
Copyright © 2013 by Shehanne Moore
ISBN: 978-1-940223-27-8
Edited by Lauren Triola
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First Etopia Press electronic publication: August 2013
~ Dedication ~
For Eilis, daughter and friend, for keeping me right on this one.
With special thanks, as always, to John for his love and support; Coreen for also being that daughter and friend; Lora and Irene, who are my friends; Joan for listening; Noelle, Susan, Antonia, Charley, and Incy—fabulous writer friends; Annie Melton for again giving me a chance; my wonderful editor, Lauren Triola.
Chapter One
Scotland, long ago and far away
Never, never look at the moon as you reach for the stars…
Displaying herself half naked had never been part of the plan. Especially not with her horse’s hoof stuck halfway down a gully and her in a frock of see-through scarlet, knowing the snowstorm and lashing gale were as likely to kill her as was the plunge down the looming ravine.
But cold steel grazed her throat. So a plan could change.
“Faith, Lord Ewen, sir.”
Unease may have prickled where the blade jabbed that the plan should change so soon. But, as far as Kara was concerned, when the stars could only be reached in Lochalpin, that place no stranger had set foot in for five years, she did not want to countenance the fact the stars were beyond her reach, especially as Lord Ewen’s powerful black stallion’s hoof slithered on the icy path, causing her chestnut mare to nicker.
Lord Ewen McDunnagh, chief of clan McDunnagh, looked at her. Ogled. Touched. Voila, as Marie-Bertine, her father’s French “friend” used to say. Within the next five minutes she would be exactly where she desired. The stars.
Why not smile in the hope of making herself seem more inviting while she was about it too? “I’m your bride.” As if he did not know. “So…so if you would just be so kind, so good…”
Good was not something Lord Ewen looked as though he were much accustomed to being. Except perhaps in bed.
She had been told to expect a troll. And if she were to judge by the streaks of grime marking his soft brown plaid, his scuffed leather breeches, and what she could determine of his tunic, she would sooner have said dungeon vermin than lord of Lochalpin. But despite his penchant for beading his stallion’s mane with small animal skulls and whatever that shaggy three-and-a-half legged creature lolloping at his boot heels was, she’d obviously been told a lot of damned rubbish.
Even that first glimpse, hard strength in worn leather, snowflakes glistening in his umber colored hair, as he had ridden into view through the curtain of snow and told her to halt, had made lies of everything she’d been told.
In fact her mouth had dropped open. She suspected it was the sole reason he’d managed to pin that knife at her throat. How appalling was that?
In her opinion, as a woman and, more importantly, a woman whose skin crawled when she considered men like this, in addition to his legendary drinking, Lord Ewen’s rumored behavior was appalling, with this whole business of him hiking the skirts of any woman, young, old, willing, or un. So where was her ice and stone? The mantle she had garbed herself in since the night Lachlan died? Well?
Especially as Lord Ewen’s glare said he presently found her left nostril more appealing than the flesh exposed through the gap that had fallen open in her cloak.
“Mine?”
His voice, rich as winter blackberries, sent an unfortunate shiver tingling up her spine. Thank God he had the ill manners to lean sideways and aim a ball of spittle at the ground. At least it gave her the opportunity to clear her throat of the suddenly burning constriction. If Kertyn and Ardene had seen this… Well, Kertyn and Ardene weren’t here. That was their choice. This was hers.
“Yes. Yours to be, that is, sir. Because of course, we are not wed yet.”
His sea-green glare said yet would be a long time coming. In fact it might never come at all if he had anything to do with it.
“Lady McGurkie…” Behind her Kendrick interjected.
He would. Had any of the men, seated on horses there on the path, raised one finger to help, she’d not have resorted to this tacky display. Now Kendrick had the nerve to complain. He’d tell her father too. When it came to describing her behavior, slut and I have taught her nothing were words that old bastard nei
ther desired to hear nor say. Not if she was to get back what he was keeping of hers.
She fisted her hands, in their tight leather gauntlets, on the reins, although she kept her face a study in serenity. As expected Lord Ewen was going to be difficult. Well, she couldn’t allow it. Not when it had all been agreed weeks ago by proxy. And very well, Kertyn and Ardene had been difficult—difficult? They had run shrieking through the castle that they were not going to marry a troll. So her father had had to go up the line a little. Too much hinged on it.
She was here wasn’t she? So Lord Ewen needn’t now think she was going away again, when he’d damn well asked. Of course it wasn’t necessary to the actual completion of the plan that he want her. No. In fact, looking at him here, a study in slick, sardonic disapproval, it was better that he didn’t. But his ravaging of half the local women was one of two things that had convinced her of the absolute propriety of this plan.
If she were to rein her horse and bolt back down the pass because he wasn’t the rapist drunk it was rumored, she faced being back in the position she was in yesterday and all the days before. Five long years of days that stretched like an albatross across her life. More than a quarter. Less than a fifth.
Not just hers. Not just for herself did she do this. So she needed to make him want her.
“Yes, sir, Lady McGurkie.”
“Lady Kara—”
Damn this interfering fool Kendrick to hell. Didn’t he think her capable of making a proper introduction? She was capable of anything.
“Lady Kara McGurkie, my lord. Chief…chief Ian Dhub’s daughter.”
And would this other fool, please God, have the common decency to hurry up and paw her?
Not only was it very important she did not countenance the possibility, certainly not if she was to proceed to the wedding feast as planned, that five years in her father’s dungeon had stolen her allegedly famous allure—probable—it was also so perishing cold only the devil knew how she kept her teeth from chattering.
Lord Ewen lowered his gaze. He edged his lip with his tongue. In fact he didn’t just edge. He cinched his cheeks inward. The first, tiniest crack in his veneer. Oh, he wanted her all right. He just…
Well, many people were present. Her father’s men. His. Touch a virginal prize like her now—it would start another war. Although the faintly rueful smile said he’d give his eyeteeth to.
What a relief. For a second there she’d thought every piece of tittle-tattle ever to slip past his brother, Callm the Black Wolf, was just that. Lies and fairy tales.
But now she saw it wasn’t, she could look forward to being escorted to the wedding feast. To be truthful her heart thudded a little about what was going to happen when she arrived there, but so long as there were no further hiccups, she could do this.
“Bride?” He thrust the dagger back in his bell, displaying an inch of hardened stomach muscle. Then he curved his mouth into something that was not actually a smile. “Why, don’t you love how you learn something new in life every day, Princess?”
Yes, she did. Was she not loving learning that she was not going to have to fight him off until that ring sat on her finger, which was why she was able to rally so quickly, when what she wanted to do was smack her hand off his handsome jaw?
“Already my lord likes his little joke, I see.”
“Damn right I do.”
“That is heartening to know.”
He leaned closer. It was only the brush of breath against her cheek. Yet she swore the shock of the contact traveled the length of her body.
“Because where you’re concerned, you can count on it splitting my sides.” He turned to the mob surrounding him. “Well, can’t she, boys?”
Boys? Pardon her for thinking she had seen better-looking corpses. But to a man they whistled and catcalled, so obviously they weren’t. As for that thing, that yowling creature at his boot heels… She straightened her spine.
“Oh, I think you’ll find when we’re wed, sir, I shall count on anything.”
“My lips are wet already.” He curved said lips in a deep grin. “With what you’re showing me here.”
“Good.” She removed her gloved hand from the reins. She would see just how much sarcasm the impudent bastard exuded when she located what her father had secreted inside her cloak. “Because you agreed to put an end to the war between our clans by wedding Chief Ian Dhub’s daughter, Lady Kara McGurkie. And I am Lady Kara McGurkie. My credentials are here should you wish to see them.”
An armory clinked. Claymores, dirks, and axes. All glinting in the snow-lit dusk. All leveled at her. Dear God, his men were good all right. Far better than her own. Heavens. Imagine the wedding night if they did that around the bed.
“Jesus.”
The sloping, three-and-a-half-legged—God almighty what was it exactly? dog or wolf—yowled, as Lord Ewen’s boot hit its backside.
“Hell, Dug. Shut up, will you?”
Dug? Kara’s eyes widened further. What the blazes would he call his children, if the dog’s name was Dug? Child? Bairn? You? Son…
For a second her ribs were such a tight cage she couldn’t breathe as a sudden thought struck her. A vision. Her boy. Her son. Appearing to her on Lord Ewen’s shoulder. Real to her there, as the snowflakes that dusted it. The same sea-green eyes. The same soft hair.
God, her mind whispered, don’t waylay me on the road to perdition. You can’t win.
Children’s names? Wedding nights? Was she mad? There weren’t going to be any children. And there wasn’t going to be any wedding night.
Because, after the wedding feast, there wasn’t going to be any groom.
“Credentials, sweetheart?”
He slid his gaze over her, as if she were a snake. A fascinating one, that in terms of entertainment, he didn’t know whether to trample or to watch, and for the first time the thought scudded she had done something not quite right in revealing her dress.
“Don’t you think you’re showing enough? Hmm? Some of us boys here aren’t exactly what you’d call accustomed to the sight of such feminine charms. It’s not me. Hell. I don’t give much of a damn what you show me. But they’re simple lads and they get excited easily. They have to keep themselves at bay. Isn’t that so, boys?”
A chorus of ayes and whistles rang in her ears. Her father’s letter was what she’d been on the verge of showing him. Nothing else. The impertinent bastard.
Such words were ones she must resolutely refuse to let darken her coolly calculating mind, however. Neither about him or that toothless specimen blowing kisses in her direction.
“Now,” Lord Ewen canted his jaw, “how about you put your hand where everyone here can see it?”
Before she could open her mouth to protest, he leaned closer. Her throat dried. His thigh was a very handy option, wasn’t it? Though she strove to stop them, she widened her eyes. Drunk or not, debaucher or not, Lord Ewen reeked sexuality like a dangerous perfume.
Some people did. They just did. That was bad enough.
This sexual charge, this current, was worse. Because it demanded a response in kind. Under normal circumstances that would be the worst of it, not just worse.
But the worst, worst, was the honed, hardened edge and the sweet, sinful breath that said he knew her type. Perfectly. And said he knew why she was here, trying to get into Lochalpin. Said he wanted to tell her she was good. To tie her hands, but couldn’t because he was having to hold off. Really, really hold off.
And she still, still couldn’t quite take her eyes off his thigh. How could she? When Arland was at stake and the man was a dangerous snake. Even down to Arland appearing on his shoulder. What was Arland even doing there?
“Sir, I must pro—”
“Which part of ‘Put your hand where I can see it now’ are you unfamiliar with?”
Hell-cat was another word like slut. Expressing her fury was the last thing she should do here, but he had her so she could not think for the rage that swamped. And not just
rage. For five years she had been dead inside. Her soul a calcified shell, it had taken her less than five seconds to sell ten short hours ago. Her body colder than the icy blanket of snow obscuring the trees and bushes around her. And what had it taken for her breath to rush through her nostrils like this? Her heart to hammer?
She snatched her hand from inside her cloak. “Satisfied?” Well, it wouldn’t rush. She would be nice.
He edged so his breath brushed her cheek. “Is this how you think you can waltz in here, Princess? Hmm? By bedazzling us with your”—he lowered his gaze—“breathtaking smile?”
“Oh, not at all, my lord.” Being nice was an exercise in restraint such as she had seldom experienced. Calm too when his gaze and voice washed over her with such deliberate sexual intent, she began to wish she’d kept the cloak shut. But if she did not speak, did not stand her ground here, that would be worse. “Actually, I thought my credentials would be sufficient.”
And when she did, it was very distracting that he should look over her shoulder like this at all the people she had with her. Her palms prickled. Yes, there were a lot. She was the first to admit it.
“Well, they are.”
“Good.”
“To get you in here but not them.”
Ice and stone. Not by a flicker, not by a gasp, could she appear anything less than controlled, although the words raised goose bumps on her flesh.
“My retinue, sir? I beg your pardon? The invitation does not extend to us all?”
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