His Judas Bride

by Shehanne Moore

  Despite the mixture of nerves and apprehension fluttering in the pit of her stomach, she forced a vague half smile to her lips as she swept through the great double doors. One thing was for certain. When it came to her honor, those here could only know she did not belong if she let them. And this company was ideal for her not letting them. Why appear less than serene?

  “Good evening, my lord.”

  Her voice and her curtsey were as amenable as she could make them. While she could fault Ewen McDunnagh on everything else—drinking, card-playing, the dancing that went on day and night, the serving girl she’d seen coming out his room this morning, this god-awful supper come to that—after that first time he’d mauled her he’d kept his distance. This far anyway. Although she did not doubt from the surly glances he gave her, he was only biding his time.

  “Where were ye?” The brutish glare raised such cold prickles on her skin, the room seemed to chill. “In thon damnable chamber of yours?”

  She straightened her spine, holding his stare. In the castle armory, counting the weapons was not the answer to give here. Not when she desired to reach the chair alive which was why she let her lips curve wider. And after all, before that she had been in her damned chamber. It had taken some time to decide which one of the gowns her father had saddled her with looked the least provocative. The emerald green with the plunging neckline, the cream with no neckline at all, or the turquoise with a neckline to her chin but no shoulders to speak of?

  At the end of the day, the turquoise had seemed the most appropriate.

  “Indeed, I was making myself ready to meet your guests, my lord.”

  “Well, they’re all very nearly deed of stervation. Sit down, madam, before it’s wakes we’re having, not weddings.”

  Keeping her lips curved amenably presented something of a challenge, especially when she could see nowhere to sit. But she did it anyway. The McDunnagh brothers. What a bloody pair, weren’t they?

  “Here, Lady McGurkie.” At the far end of the nearest table a man rose to his feet. “Beside me.”

  Keeping her cool was the same as keeping her lips curved. Archibald Kelty, Lord Mhor McDunnagh’s most formidable bodyguard. Perhaps not the last person she wanted to sit beside, that accolade went to her betrothed, but he was a close second.

  He was an old man now. Even so, Archibald Kelty had brokered the deal with her father. He had come to the castle and appeared to run this one—in so far as it appeared to be run. She knew his black eyes watched her like a hawk, for all the shock of greasy hair framing his face was gray. So she would squash every impulse but to sit.

  Grasping her skirts, she glided forward. “Thank you, sir.”

  Anyway, it could be worse. The man she’d really dread sitting next to wasn’t here. And he wasn’t going to be either.

  “Not at all, Lady McGurkie.” Archibald waited till she was properly seated before resuming his own. “His lordship’s manners are coarse. I would be sorely lacking in mine if I did not prove we are not all like that in Lochalpin.”

  Not much.

  With a leisurely gesture he spread his napkin across his knee. “Especially when we know you have much to compare our coarse manners with. Ourselves too.”

  Gleaming black walls. Manacle rings. Yes. Wasn’t she the lucky one?

  “Oh, Edinburgh could not compare with home.”

  “Really, my lady? I would have thought so fine a city—”

  He could think what he liked, this speech was prepared. She did not even fear speaking of Edinburgh, although she’d sooner not. How could she? She may never have set foot there, but neither had he.

  “My father desired I take the place I was schooled for. The fortune was not small that he spent on me.” No lie. “My sisters, young and frivolous, had no understanding of the fact. Knowing I was not your first choice, I want to thank you for making me welcome, for arranging this feast in my honor.”

  Honor? If she was able to get her teeth into the fossilized chicken leg Ulla now set before her, it would be a miracle on a par with the loaves and the fishes. And there was no plate to put it on. Nor knife to cut it with. Clan wars had been started over less.

  At least the hall had been cleaned. And winter greenery garlanded the undraped stone walls. She granted Lord Ewen that. Or maybe it was Archibald?

  Probably it was. Already shed branches lay on the floor. It was hardly an old warrior’s job to supervise garland weaving. And while his eyes were black, he was half blind in one of them.

  “Some wine mah lady?” Ulla hovered at her elbow with a silver flagon.

  “I—”

  Kara’s fingers hovered over the top of the goblet. While the dinner was in her honor it still seemed wrong somehow to eat and drink. Of course, to keep herself alive she had taken the odd morsel. She was accustomed to doing without, and the chicken leg presented no difficulties that way.

  “We’ve unexpected visitors, I see.” Archibald set his goblet down on the table. He dabbed his mouth.

  “Hmm?”

  Kara raised her chin and immediately wished she had not. Never mind her breath catching like that, what the hell was he doing here striding into the hall as if he owned it? He was gloweringly handsome in his worn plaid, leather breeches, and tunic, his spurs jingling as he walked. With his targe and broadsword on his back, Dug at his heels, and the Murdies following close behind, the wet that dripped from all their clothes leaving droplets of water on the flagstones, he looked ready for battle. Or as though he’d just come back from one. Come to examine the guest list had he? The tastiness and general edibility of the piece of chicken?

  She wished she could make herself think so. The propriety of her actions required her belief—her solid belief—he was not a good man. He was a bad, ruthless man. As bad as his brother in some ways. That not only was his protection owed but if she was to get back her son, she would need to find her way out this awful place and past him.

  So she wished to heaven that air of sexuality that roiled from him, like smoke off a bonfire, wasn’t immediately apparent to every single woman in the hall. How, when the man looked as if he’d ridden hard through a whirling snowstorm, did he manage to look so magnificent that he made their men look the aberrations?

  Much as she did not want it to, her mind flitted to the other day. It wasn’t just the looks was it? It was what he was inside that also drew these stares.

  “Brother…”

  If she’d been a fraction less self-possessed, she’d have frozen exactly as Ewen McDunnagh now did beneath the chilly regard sweeping the hall. Some wine? Hurriedly Kara uncovered her goblet.

  “Brother, have a wee dram—”

  “Not now, Ewen.”

  Kara froze, feeling her palm slicken on the tabletop. As the Wolf’s gaze continued its perusal of those present, it was ice cool. Hard. It was foolish to have imagined, even for one second, he was a pussycat. He might be a little uncomfortable not knowing of, or expecting this gathering, but primarily he was hunting.

  For the first time the blood lust of that moment he’d dragged those responsible for Morven behind his horse, all the way back to her father, slid into focus. Her throat dried.

  She grabbed her goblet and took a mouthful. “I’m so sorry, my lord.” Wiping her mouth, she turned to Archibald Kelty in a bid to mask the unease slithering up her spine like an adder. “Didn’t you say the Black Wolf never attends parties?”

  He had, hadn’t he, only this afternoon? So she must concede, when this one so obviously wasn’t on the Wolf’s itinerary, or he’d be better dressed, had he found out about her father’s plan? About her? Arland? Anything?

  Archibald’s coal-black eyes flicked to her for a moment. “He doesn’t.”

  “Well then—”

  “Unless there’s trouble.”

  “Trouble?” If her throat hadn’t dried, she’d swallow the wine blistering the back of it. Archibald may have sat picking the skin off the chicken piece, but Kara did not miss the careful way his finger
s worked.

  “Aye. And trouble for him, means trouble for us all. A pity on so fine a night. At least we know it will not be your folks. Not this time anyway.”

  Kara sat still, striving to consider the sense of these words, when she could not very well bolt. It was difficult of course, but what was there to be afraid of? There was no way on the face of this earth anyone here could know why she was really here, because there was no way anyone in their right mind, in her father’s regime, would dare talk let alone survive for two seconds, if they did. The pass was guarded on both sides. They would have had to get here. They’d…

  “Archibald—”

  “Your pardon, Lady Kara.”

  Shock raked her scalp as Archibald got to his feet.

  “We are but slaves here of a greater good, as you’ll see the longer you’re here. I’ll be right back.”

  She hoped so, even as she hoped not. Not with the Wolf anyway. “Don’t hurry, my lord, there is no need.” How stupid was she though? Set to bolt because the Wolf came to discuss—probably her, yes, but probably in terms of Ewen, with Archibald.

  She must stop being skittish. The least that could possibly come out was that she was disgraced. Least? She had never thought to see the day she thought that, but here it was a first time for everything. The least, while not ideal, didn’t make her guilty of murder.

  “Some biscuit bread, mah lady?” Ulla shoved a wooden platter under her nose.

  While she didn’t want to, she lifted a piece. She even took a bite. The Wolf and Archibald might have been huddled in that alcove, but it was still imperative should the silvery gaze turn her way he should see her looking the part.

  “Who? Who made this? You, Ulla? Or—”

  “Me, mah lady? Dinnae be stupid. That’ll be the day I do any cooking. Nah. That was his lordship.”

  She almost choked. “His—”

  “Aye. Lord Ewen. He’s an awful good cook, ye know, when he leaves off his share of the nips.”

  His share of the women too. “You mean—”

  Startled, she glanced across the floor at her betrothed. He had left off reeling—in truth she had almost forgotten he had been dancing at all, so brusque was the Wolf’s dismissal. It would be her third shock of the evening if Lord Ewen’s gaze came anywhere near her.

  Kara’s gaze froze. If he came anywhere near her.

  It was uncharacteristic to pray. In fact she could not understand why she would even do such a thing when her prayers were no more likely to be answered here than they’d ever been in her father’s dungeon.

  Silly, stupid. She was here, wasn’t she? Not there, that place of dank walls, and dripping water, of chains. And just because Ewen staggered through the reeling throng, it didn’t mean it was toward her.

  Yet even as she fought to stop it, to tell herself that even if it was toward her, panic swamped, surging from her toes all the way to her stomach, then higher, drawing tight bands across her chest. She found her need, not to be the evening’s chosen victim, was stronger than ever.

  “Well now, madam.”

  Kara’s heart lurched. Rolled so far down her ribcage she would not have been the least surprised if it clattered onto the stone flags. Except then she’d have been dead on the flags so she couldn’t have seen it. What she did see, unfortunately, was the pair of heavy brown brogues that had invaded the periphery of her vision.

  “Ah don’t believe Ah’ve had the pleasure.”

  Neither did she. Or that when it came to such matters as pleasure, it would fall into that category, which was why she could not possibly raise her chin. That would be to breathe the foul odor of sweat emanating from the folds and recesses of his clothes. Yet she knew she must speak.

  She licked dry lips. “The—the pleasure, my lord?”

  “What do ye say to a nice wee jug?”

  Not a great deal. What was there to say to a jug? Even less than to a jig, which she supposed he probably meant, except he slurred his words, so it was hard to tell what he meant. “A—a dance, my lord?”

  “Is that not what Ah said?”

  It was the very last thing she needed, him barking like that so heads no doubt swiveled her way. And one head in particular.

  “What Ah mean is—madam.” Ewen’s breath rushed down his nostrils, as if he was also aware of that fact and struggled to lower his tone. He was obviously terrified of the Wolf. Why else come over here? “Would you like to dance?”

  Yes. This tone was more reasonable, but she’d a horrible feeling the damage was done. His guests gaped. The serving girls gaped. Even the Wolf turned his head, his sea-green eyes glinting silver beneath his lowered brows.

  This wasn’t just a question of keeping her expression neutral. After his performance in this very hall the other day the last thing Kara wanted was the Wolf striding over here and taking further issue with her betrothed. Not when the notion he owed her the reprieve was one she only just clung to.

  When it was clear Ewen wanted to make a show, she must swallow her annoyance that the offer would never have arisen in the first place had the Wolf not waltzed in here, stand up, and take the arm Ewen McDunnagh now extended. But the crippling thing was that her father’s dungeon wasn’t the place for jigs. She had not danced in years.

  To stand out there on the floor was to expose that fact. A jug, she could not help feeling, would be so much better. At least a jug would not leave her looking like a damned fool when she was meant to have lived in Edinburgh for five years jigging nonstop. There must be something she could do that would prevent this.

  “The music is not to your satisfaction, perhaps?”

  Suppressing the desire to grit her teeth, she forced a smile. “Oh, no, not at all my lord, the music is lovely. Quite beautiful, in fact. And you do me very great honor. I could not help noticing though, the fine dancer you are, while I—I, how can I possibly say this—”

  “Something slower for my bonnie bride. She has been learning in Edinburgh and will show us the latest steps.” Ewen clapped his hands together before she could possibly say anything at all. Of course he would, although she could still scarcely believe it.

  Nor could she scarcely believe the abrupt manner in which the wild skirling, like rats trapped in the gutter, tailed off either. As for what floated out on the air, behind the second of stunned silence while dancers stood frozen in chaotic poses in the center of the floor, that was worse.

  Have two left feet was what she had been on the verge of saying. Now she saw that whether she had left feet or not, she was going to have to move them onto the floor, which had emptied now the lord and master had spoken. Even someone with three feet could dance to the slow lilting melody.

  If she didn’t dance she ran the risk of infuriating Ewen, of offering great affront, to add to the stack she had already offered. Unwise when the fact of the matter was, she had no idea whatsoever of what was being said in that alcove.

  Lord Ewen’s arm said she should take it. A few slow steps with her betrothed. And not just her betrothed. If she was to convince the Wolf, should he be busily telling Archibald she had a son or that Edinburgh would be as surprised as she was to learn she had ever set foot in it, he should be her beloved. It wasn’t as if Ewen was even being unreasonable. He stood a good step away from her, his head politely inclined. Why, he could, as lord of this particular gathering, drag her onto the floor.

  Edging the chair back, she rose to her feet. “But of course, my lord.”

  For goodness sake, if she could not take his arm, how could she climb into bed with him, as she knew she was going to have to do in a few days time?

  Before she could summon an answer to that question, he splayed his clammy fingers against the base of her spine.

  Cold gathered, a cold that spread like a masking fog, up her spine, then down again. A horrible bridling panic she could not govern. She wanted to turn on her heel and run.

  For God’s sake, it was a few sweeping steps of the floor. She had put certain things behind her
, so it distressed her more than she could say, to find specters clung to Ewen McDunnagh. To his hair. To his clothes. That even as she took a step forward, a glide, a turn, she was in that cell. And it was dank and slimy, those walls she’d clung to, looking for protection when there was none.

  Her breath shortened. To keep her lips curved was a torture. How was it she had plunged back into that nightmare, where deep in her heart, her soul, in places that nothing ever touched, what rose, what engulfed, was so swamping, her flesh crawled.

  Five days? There was still another two. But she couldn’t stay here.

  She was fleeing now. This very night.

  * * *

  Knowing she might be caught sneaking a horse, and anyway that damned nag would probably give the game away, Kara determined to jump from the window ledge and skirt the exterior castle wall while clinging to it so as not to slip into the black water lapping inches from her toes. It could be done.

  It was just that she wasn’t sure how well it could be done, when that crack, the one her ankle gave as she hit the ground, said more than her boot had split. But she couldn’t very well go back. It would mean going through the actual gates. Climbing back up to the window ledge wasn’t an option either.

  So long as she could stand and walk sufficiently to hobble away from the castle, nothing else mattered.

  The moon was up. The stars shone. No one in his right mind would be out in the glen on a night like this. Easing a breath, she bent down to pick up the sack of provisions she’d filched from the kitchen. So long as she could manage two miles an hour, by the time anyone noticed she’d gone, she’d be safe.