His Judas Bride

by Shehanne Moore

  After all, her father had done that to Kara. What the hell had she been like before? Before she’d had to connive her way out of every given situation to survive?

  The woman he’d glimpsed in the cave in those moments when they were right together? The one who’d beguiled him that day of the hand-fasting? The one he’d had to set apart from his heart, his soul, his bed, his body? He was utterly clear on it. Or had been these last few miserable days skulking in caves and gullies, expecting a knife at any moment in his back, while yet feeling half his life had been torn away.

  Because all she damn well wanted, all she had done it for, was her son.

  Well, he got her that. So she never had to do these things again. But Christ, the level of the deceit, the fact she was what she was, the odd damned childish way she could be, as if her whole progression from girl to woman had been thrown into another universe completely by this apology for a father, a man, was too much to bear.

  Callm gritted his teeth. “Maybe so. I don’t hear you asking if she’s still alive.”

  “The lass can take care of herself. Always could. Do you mind me asking you how the hell it happened that she ended up with you, though? Even allowing she’s not exactly what you’d call obedient, never has been, it’s a hell of a leap from being sent to marry your brother. What did she do? Throw herself at you one dark night?”

  “I’d tell you, but this side of hell there’s some things a man keeps private.” Having just gritted his teeth, Callm tried not to do again. Determining on all he had, he didn’t need the distraction of that memory. But obviously the tinker chief had a fairly good idea or he’d not have said it. It was more evidence, as if any was needed, she’d do anything to get what she wanted.

  This man hadn’t just done that to her. He’d brutally and calmly ordered Morven’s murder to ensure some other deal by proxy. Christ. Imagine that.

  For a second the tinker chief toyed with the remaining whiskey glass.

  “True. Just think of all you could have, if we stood together on this though. You, my son-in-law. The two glens united as one, so when I die, you and her, you’d rule, wouldn’t you? Our people would be one at last. They would be your people. And every other clan would fear you more than ever. Just think of that.”

  “I am. I’ve been thinking all the way here.” He had. It was no lie. “But we’re not going to rule anything.”

  For all there were times when he abhorred himself for his ability to take lives, what swirled in his brain was such that he knew this wasn’t going to be one of them. “Now draw.” He clutched cold steel.

  “Draw?” Bemusement glinted beneath the gray brows. “Do you have brains only a mother could love?”

  In the curtain of red silk, suddenly swirling in his mind, Callm walked around the table. Perhaps he did. But he’d stood here long enough. It was fight or retreat. He wasn’t going to retreat. “You heard.”

  “Son, I—”

  Keeping his sword trained, he grasped the tinker chief’s sword hilt, drew it from the scabbard. “I’m not your son. This ends with one of us alive.”

  “These stakes are high you’re talking of.”

  “You killed my wife.”

  “Is that what that girl of mine told you?”

  Cold fury iced Callm’s brain. No. He was not going to rise to that. Not going to do this any other way than man-to-man either. An enemy was worth that much, even one like this, although the temptation was strong, as he stood there, feeling rage swirl around him and the breath stilling the back of his throat, to slice this bastard’s. “She told me lots. Take it.” Anyway he didn’t think it would be as simple as that. “I said—”

  “I don’t have to. I need only wait.”

  Callm lunged. He shouldn’t have, as the instant clang of steel, the clash of bone against bone, told him. Was he mad? Give this bastard the upper hand, when he could, would, take him down? Well, fortunately he could duck, drag the knife from his own belt. Another mistake like that was one he could not afford. What tore from his lungs, tore down his nose, was something he must control. Not let this astute bastard get the better of him. As that clash showed age and height were on Callm’s side. Swordplay too. It would be folly to lose the advantage.

  He fixed his gaze, forcing himself not to register the way the tinker chief’s mouth curved as they circled each other. “Did that whore tell you she has a son?”

  The pounding in Callm’s heart made it difficult to thrust away these words. His feet drew to a halt. “He’s one of the reasons I’m here.”

  Except his rival must have known how badly Callm struggled to contain himself, standing on this side of the table now he had the other side of it and God knew what weaponry was there, for all Callm had never stood so still, even the sweat trickling down his spine seemed to freeze.

  “A bastard brat.”

  “I must have been listening differently. Bastard father were the words I heard.”

  “Ungrateful when I had your wife killed for her.”

  Callm did not recognize himself in that instant. The sound that came from his throat, the sword and knife that flew from his hands so they were bare as he sprung across the table.

  He would have preferred in this instant not to find himself so consumed he barely registered the dagger that almost brushed his chest. And yet, maybe it was that moment of calm there before he leaped that took the tinker chief by surprise. In a second his arm was around the old bastard’s neck. And now, while trying to kill someone with his bare hands was something he abhorred about himself, so much so he gazed ceilingward, he saw—who he did it for, why he was here.

  This was the job he should have finished that day five years ago. Should have finished it then and nothing would have befallen Kara. His fingers tightened in the old man’s hair. Dug holes in his skull. Because it wasn’t her fault.

  “Not….very…respectful, are you…son?”

  The wheezing died, so all Callm heard was the noise coming from the back of his own throat. Maybe his respect had been lacking, but what he’d done, after all that… For a second he stood letting the breath return to his lungs, fighting what rose from the pit of his stomach, because it was never easy to do what he’d done, no matter the killing fields a man inhabited. Either of them. It didn’t make him proud. It was he knew, as actuality returned to him, another reason he could not be with Kara.

  And when the sound of battle raged in the corridors, he could not think about it either. Not when he needed one thing. To find the boy. The new ruler of Clan McGurkie. Now, before this was lost. Before someone else did. So these images, those shadows, the fact that yet again, he’d done things he often wished he was incapable of and yet in this world, needed to do to survive, were things he needed to push away. He leapt to his feet.

  “Arland!”

  The trouble with finding the boy was the amount of cells in the dungeons. Door upon door was locked to him. And there were dogs. Vicious, ravenous dogs, with teeth that made Dug’s look safe. Dogs that made Dug look friendly. He knew he could run fast but even so.

  “Callm? Christ’s sake!” Wee Murdie’s yell echoed behind him.

  Then there were the women. At least he thought they were women. Kara had told him they were, as she was herself, and that, of course, they were her friends.

  But the notion they might be softened by their experience and ready and willing to help the husband of their friend was proven false when he looked into the third cell and found himself lucky to keep his nose. What leaped up and took hold of the bars did not look very much like a woman to him.

  “Their balls!” She didn’t sound like one either. “Get their balls!”

  “Sweetheart.” And yet he made an attempt at discourse. “I’m the Black Wolf of Lochalpin. Kara’s husband—”

  “Eyeballs as well. Lying bastards. Get the lot! Us or them!”

  Her breath, her clawing hands—all right. A bad idea, he freely admitted it, staring at the glob of spittle decorating his tunic front.
/>   “Arland!” His voice rose more forcefully above the screeching cacophony. Christ, Kara could not have been kept in this. Could she? He’d thought this bit of it would be simple. That these women would welcome them. He’d thought he’d find it easy letting her go, when it was necessary that he did, when the whole thing was so tangled and confused. But seeing this, his awareness of her flooded his senses. He didn’t know if he could have held on like that, all these years, on nothing. He understood didn’t he? For all he’d tried to tell himself, these things she’d done, what she was. Christ, he did love her, didn’t he? Total damn mess that she was, in every way. How could he not when he saw this?

  “Callm.” Wee Murdie seemed every bit as convinced as himself they would be better off taking their chances in the carnage up the stairs. “Are ye telling me this is what she’s from?”

  Yet how could they go back upstairs? No. He must not let her ambush him like this. So that once again, while he loved, while he understood…

  “Keep looking. Arland!”

  Because if there was one man, one person in the whole two glens likely to get this boy back for her, it was him, likely to kill, to immerse himself to his elbows in blood, to do whatever it took. And just maybe she knew that. So, whatever he’d said to her, whatever he’d felt, he wasn’t going to pretend she felt the same. A woman as screwed up as she? No.

  “Callm.” Shug clasped the bars in the darkest corner of the dungeon. “There’s a laddie in this one. Arland? Arland? Is that you, son?”

  “Stand back.”

  As he steadied himself against the rough brickwork, Callm’s stomach churned. “There’s one way to find out. Find something to break these other doors, Murdie. I don’t know if we’re winning up there or not. Hurry. Free the women.”

  “What?”

  “They can fight on our side. Ladies!” Callm yelled. “This man is Wee Murdie, and he will free you.”

  “Will I?” Blood drained from the face Wee Murdie turned Callm’s way. Hell was the word Callm could see he was searching for.

  “Just do it.”

  Callm had known this would be his journey’s end, but his throat still clenched when finally, breaking through the door, he stood in a cloud of dust. There were dripping walls and not a scrap of furniture to speak of, at least none he could make out in the sliver of light that sliced through the window bars. And cold. Cold like he’d never felt—cold that it would mean being colder than it emotionally and every other way to survive in, slicing through his bones. For a second he forgot that in the halls and on the staircases, the battle for the castle raged and his mission was to find Arland and Kara’s sisters. She ambushed him, as surely as if she were a real physical presence.

  Mess or not, she had too much dignity. Too much—all right, it seemed ridiculous to consider humanity in the same breath as half the things she’d done, the things logic told him he needed to consider, no matter what she’d given him eventually. He couldn’t. There was something about her that had somehow transcended this. Something the young woman on the straw pallet, who started back shrieking, and covering her head with her arms, had nothing of. His gaze raked her. Dirty haired but velvet gowned.

  “Kertyn McGurkie?”

  “No…no…I’m not…I’m….don’t hurt me…don’t… Help me! Serenne! They’re in here!”

  “Shhh.” He held out his hands. “I’m not here to hurt you. I’m the Black Wolf.”

  If he had said he were a leper and was now going to touch her, with his fingerless paws, he couldn’t have engendered greater horror. Another occasion when he opened his mouth and stuck his foot in. Both of them. Christ, but the McGurkies must really hate him. Didn’t she understand he was here to free her?

  Obviously not because she cowered, kicking and flailing into the corner of the cell, receiving screeches of encouragement from her sisters. The notion he shouldn’t have ordered their freedom either was not lost on him.

  Still, he stood up beneath the blows rained on him by the harridan who’d attempted to make off with his nose. As ever he thanked God for Wee Murdie, getting his back. He did not want to hurt these women. By Christ though, he could see where Kara had learned to fight.

  “Listen.” A movement in the other corner caught his attention. He edged past Kertyn. “A place like this isn’t on my normal itinerary any more than it’s on yours. No, listen, will you? If you think I’m bad, sweetheart, just wait till you see your intended betrothed. All I want is the boy. Arland? Arland, is that you?”

  The way his heart hammered was ridiculous. The boy, all right, her boy. He didn’t know what the hell he was expecting, feral dog, or worse, but it sickened him to imagine what was going through the child’s mind to produce such mindless obedience, as he witnessed in that instant. The boy was plainly frightened out of whatever wits he had, expecting whatever cuffing Callm would give him, yet he stood. His throat dried. Small wonder seduction had been just another bridge for her to cross.

  God almighty, although the cell was dark, even in that darkness he could determine, the brown-haired ragamuffin staring up at him looked so little like her. Was this even him?

  “No! No! Arland! Not Arland. No. You’re not taking Arland. I promised. I swore. I… No!”

  The screeching was as much confirmation as Callm needed. As he stared down into the boy’s dull eyes, the arms Kertyn wrapped around the frail shoulders, he remembered the words, I loved his father.

  He swallowed the burning constriction in his throat. Idiot. That was why she craved the boy back with such a passion. The memory was in the looks. And was it just coincidence she’d named him pledge?

  Well, he wasn’t bothered. He really wasn’t. Hell. He’d been without for five years. He could do it again. And he would. The sight of this place wouldn’t undermine him. His intention was clear. He did this to get the boy, right?

  Wrong.

  He was bothered. If only he were the father. If only she loved him for himself. How could she though? How could she like any man, having been kept like this?

  The comparison was unfair compared to Morven. He hated himself for thinking it when there was nothing Morven could have done, but would she have cowered in a corner while five men took their fill of her? His breath left his lungs.

  “Kara swore too. Which is why you have to give me him.”

  “You mean you’re from her? From Kara?”

  He stretched out his hand. God knew what parasitic horde invaded his palm as he reached to ruffle the crusted hair he neither knew nor cared.

  “Hey, Shortshanks.”

  Did this child even understand language? This boy was who she loved? Who she’d moved heaven and earth and even an awkward damned bastard like himself, to be with? Who, just maybe some women might have forgotten?

  “I’m here from your mother.”

  “Oh my God!” Kertyn shrieked. “Kara’s alive. Serenne, Kara’s alive.”

  His palms sweated. He wanted to joke, as he had for so many years now, Kara was more than that. She was alive and kicking. His tongue was bare.

  Maybe that took care of Kertyn, but how did he explain to this filthy damned tink who he was and why he was here? It was bad enough Kara worked on him the way she did. But this?

  Really going to have to reinforce all his defenses, wasn’t he? He could just about do it if he banished the image of her face from his mind.

  “Look.” Warrior that he was, he still wished his throat wouldn’t tighten as he stared down at the small figure, upright in all the mayhem. “This will be dangerous. But what would you say to a wee bit of adventure? Hmm?”

  Arland stood listening with a dignity that was gut-wrenchingly familiar. Then a dirt-encrusted paw located his. “Yes, sir.”

  Now that did hit Callm’s heart in a way he needed to fight. Because if he didn’t, then that would mean admitting just how badly he’d messed this up, exploiting her fears when she had learned to fear nothing in here.

  Chapter Fifteen

  In addition to clutchi
ng the door handle, Kara sank to the stone flags. Had her stomach churned before, it spun like a top now. Even her breath shook. As for her head it sweated so the room danced cartwheels about her. She had to close her eyes to blot it out.

  It was four days since blazing beacons had been spotted from the pass. Till then agony. Since, silence. So the room, here at Meg’s, wasn’t the only thing that cartwheeled. Dug and Fallon had all but shot across the floor and out the door.

  Kara wouldn’t be nearly trampled to death for no good reason. It could only mean one thing. Big Murdie had just spotted more than a blazing beacon.

  She had never felt more nervous. It was ridiculous. Look at her, unable to pick herself off the floor.

  “Kara!”

  She jerked up her chin. Meg would of course come back for her, because Meg did not understand her secret terrors. Kara could not think of anyone who would.

  “Kara, hurry.”

  “I’m coming.” Curse her knees to hell, for wobbling like this. “Just give me a minute.”

  A minute? It was going to take longer than that. Never mind her knees, curse herself to hell. She must get up from here. She just had to stop thinking about what she faced, who and what would be coming down the long path to Meg’s, and hurry into the yard. This was not the time to think, what if it wasn’t him? Wasn’t Arland? This was the time to stop behaving like a witless fool.

  “Come. Quickly.”

  She caught hold of Meg’s hand, although her own palm sweated as if she’d caught a fever. Did she think the awful thing was that she could die lying here? No. The awful thing was she lay there at all. She could not lie here. Not now. Not when Callm McDunnagh was surely within shouting distance. And maybe, just maybe, her son too. At least, she prayed he was.

  Yesterday she had thought—and the day before—as for the day before that… She didn’t want to think about the day before that. But she had convinced herself the Wolf was wounded. Then worse, dead. Why else had there been no word? Not even the most miserable snippet?