WARRIORS

by Karen Michelle Nutt

  “I must tell ye my intentions.”

  “We had a deal,” she said hurriedly.

  “Aye, but until ye are with child, I willnae give up what is mine so readily.”

  She turned her head, shrugging away from his grip. “So I am a possession to you, something you own.”

  “Ye are my wife,” he said as if this explained everything.

  “You forget. I want a husband who will love me and you, dear Wolf, seem incapable of mustering such an act.”

  “Ye want love. I say ye are confused what love means. I will provide for ye. Yer coffers will never be empty and I will protect ye from harm’s way. Why cannae this be enough?”

  Against her will her eyes filled with tears. “And when you tire of me, what will you do with me then? I am a Johnstone, an enemy; surely I rank beneath the lowest of low in your eyes.”

  He caressed her arm before leaning down to kiss her thoroughly as if to convince her what she meant to him. He leaned back, his gaze touching her. “Ye underestimate yer worth.” Then he kissed her again until she forgot what they’d been arguing about. He took her under his spell, where feuds and hatred didn’t matter, only pleasure existed.

  Stroke after sensuous stroke, he took all she had to offer and demanded she give more. She met his challenge and lifted her hips, losing what little control she still possessed. She clung to him desperately as the tidal waves pushed her into rapture and with a long ragged groan he followed her into the abyss.

  They lay there in the afterglow and she could feel the racing of his heart. He moved to the side and curved his body protectively, commandingly around her. She felt warm and contented, realizing she fit perfectly in his embrace.

  Then fear clutched her, coiling in her stomach with unease. In a few days, he could be gone from her life and— What was she thinking? Isn’t that what she wanted? Didn’t she want to be free from him?

  “I would like ye to join me in the hall tonight.” His voice broke through her reverie.

  “What?” She needed to stop her foolishness and focus.

  “Join me tonight in the main hall.”

  He could demand she do so, but she realized he wanted her consent. This would be an important step, proclaiming she accepted Waylon as her laird. Did she wish this? He confused her until she didn’t know what she wanted.

  Her gaze met his. He waited for her response, but he wouldn’t for long. She must make up her mind quickly. She supposed standing by his side for a night wouldn’t prove troublesome. “I would be honored to join you, but...” Her lips twitched as she watched his eyes narrowing. “It seems Devil’s Wolf, all my garments are in tatters.”

  He chuckled and pulled her near. “We will rectify the matter. As lovely as I find ye without yer clothes, I doonae want to share yer beauty with my clan.”

  She rolled over to look at him. “Your clan? What of my clan? Clan Johnstone?”

  He looked at her and caressed the worried lines between her brows. “We are one now, Catrione.”

  She loved the way her name rolled off the tip of his tongue.

  “Would it bother ye so much, Catrione, if this is the way it will be from now on?”

  “I believe you are strong enough to protect the keep and all who reside.”

  “I thank ye for yer confidence.” Sarcasm dripped from his words.

  “I truly mean it, but I cannot erase years of believing the Maxwells are my enemy. How will your clan feel about their lady being a Johnstone?”

  “Perhaps ’tis time for a change.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Catrione promised to join Waylon in the hall and she would not go back on her word.

  Waylon sent a maid to help her with the gown he’d chosen for her to wear. Her husband had a good eye and chose a dress that suited her figure perfectly, hugging all the right places. Her gaze wavered over the colors and textures. The overdress of dark green flattered her raven locks and brought out the color of her eyes. The garment fell away at the waist to expose the white petticoat beneath. The cuffs at her elbows were pleated and shaped to curve around her elbow. The chemise had ruffles along her neck with matching ruffles at her sleeves. It was perfect in everyway, but the garment didn’t pose a problem. Waylon wanted her to wear the Maxwell badge.

  Her hand swept over the bold carved emblem pinned to her overdress. She chewed on her lower lip. If she didn’t wear it, he would surely take offense.

  The light knock on the door drew her attention. “Enter.”

  Reid stepped in dressed in his formal wear. His red locks brushed back away from his face. “I am to escort ye to the hall, mi’lady.”

  Her husband waited for her and she worried about an adornment no one will even notice.

  “Do I look presentable?” She glanced at her attire then to Reid.

  His gaze slid over her, his face flushing as red as his hair.

  “Well?” she asked, impatient for an answer.

  He cleared his throat. “Ye are a bonny lass, mi’lady. May I say, the Maxwell’s badge looks well on ye.”

  “Hmm.” She supposed he meant his statement as a compliment. “Shall we? I don’t believe my husband likes to be kept waiting.”

  He chuckled. “Indeed no’. Ye’ve come to know him already.”

  She followed Reid downstairs. When they entered the hall, the room fell silent as all eyes turned toward her. She lifted her chin. She would not be made a fool and stood proud.

  Waylon sat at the long table and he stood as she entered, making his way to her. She watched the faces of people who were conditioned to hate her because she carried the blood of the Johnstones. In all rights, she should hate them also, but she saw only men, women, and children looking back at her with trepidation. They feared what she would do, what her clan may do in retaliation of their laird’s rash actions. In this they had a common worry.

  “Behold my wife,” Waylon announced, facing his people. “Treat her as ye would me.”

  They bowed in respect with soft murmurs of welcome.

  Waylon looked at her and offered his hand. “Mi’lady?”

  She took his hand and there were cheers and slamming of tankards.

  Her brows drew together. “I don’t understand,” she whispered as they walked over to the long table. “They seem pleased.”

  “Aye, and so am I, wife.”

  Her gaze met his, wondering if his words rang true. His smug smile proved it well enough that he did.

  His gaze swept over her. “Ye wear the dress I gave ye and ye’ve adorned it with the Maxwell’s badge. In their eyes, ye have accepted me as yer husband.”

  “But it was all I had to wear and you wanted me to wear the badge, did you not?”

  He chuckled and leaned down to kiss her cheek. The cheers roared again and she felt the heat rise in her face. “Waylon, I do not wish to deceive them.”

  He didn’t answer her.

  She stared at him. His face was too handsome for his own good, but it was the expression in his eyes that had her curious. “What? Why do ye look at me so?”

  “Do ye realize ye called me by my given name?”

  “I most certainly—”

  He covered her mouth with his, drowning out her words. “Doonae ruin the moment, wife.” He kissed her again. “Let me cherish how my name sounded leaving yer sweet lips.”

  “I’ve changed my mind.”

  “Aboot what?”

  “You are not the Devil’s Wolf, you are the devil.”

  His chuckled rumbled from his chest, not at all offended. Matter of fact, he looked overly pleased she called him devil. “Is it because I tempt ye so?” He played with a loose tendril of her hair.

  “You tempt me to forget myself,” she told him in all honesty.

  “Aah, but that isnae so bad, I think.” Her gaze riveted to his and caught sight of his wolfish grin before he turned away.

  She found she couldn’t suppress the smile that twitched at her lips and finally gave up trying. As she expected all along
, her husband proved incorrigible.

  The delicious aroma of lamb stew tickled her senses and the sweets served for dessert made her mouth water for more. Her cup never ran dry and the conversation proved entertaining. Catrione relished in her freedom from her room and loathed to think she would have to return to them soon.

  Waylon leaned near. “Why the long face?”

  “Must I be locked away after tonight?”

  “I have no wish to treat ye as a prisoner, but the choice is yers.”

  Her brows furrowed. “And what choice do you put forth?”

  “That ye give me yer word, ye willnae try to escape and that ye willnae leave the courtyard or go beyond the gates without an escort. This willnae be forever. Only a precaution for now until I settle matters with yer father.”

  She turned in her seat to peer at him. “You will trust me to follow these rules?”

  “As long as ye give me nay reason to doubt ye. Aye, I’ll trust ye.”

  She nodded. “As you wish.”

  “Wife, I do believe our union will flourish.”

  “At least until I give you a child,” she muttered beneath her breath, but he heard her.

  “I willnae go back on our pact. A child then—”

  “Freedom,” she finished for him.

  He looked like he wanted to say more, but they were interrupted by a new arrival.

  * * * *

  “Laird Waylon, a message,” Huey, the Maxwells’ March warden said a he strode forth. When he stood before Waylon, he bowed in respect before turning to present Jaime Johnstone, the Johnstones’ March warden.

  “Speak,” Waylon commanded, wishing the March wardens hadn’t interrupted the celebration, but he must know William Johnstone’s intentions.

  Jaime Johnstone cleared his throat before he spoke loud enough for all to hear in the grand hall. “Laird William of Lochwood wishes for a Day of Truce to be held three days hence where upon he will discuss your marriage to Catrione Johnstone and if there be reason to have such marriage annulled.”

  Waylon nodded. “Ye may tell yer laird I accept the Day of Truce, but the marriage will stand fast. I willnae have my bairns born bastards. Ye will also tell him that Archie have better no’ be damaged if he wishes to trade his daughter’s happiness for my brother’s freedom.”

  The March warden nodded. “I will return to my laird with your message,

  “See that ye do.”

  Waylon waited until the Johnstone’s warden left the hall before he turned toward Catrione. Her expression betrayed her, but he would not make excuses for his rashness. “I said what I must.”

  “I do not fault your concern for legitimate heirs, but I cannot condone the manner of which you demanded it.”

  “Doonae worry so. I ken well what I’m doing.”

  “At least one of us does. I warn you, you should not anger my father. He does have a temper.”

  “They doonae call me the Devil’s Wolf for naught.”

  “You are indeed a formidable opponent.”

  “I am glad ye believe so.”

  She pinched the bridge of her nose and shook her head. “How did I find myself in such a dilemma?”

  Her question was rhetorical and he treated it as such as he reached for his tankard to quench his thirst.

  “I know the answer well enough,” she murmured with a curse. “Men.”

  “Did ye say something?” He lifted a brow and peered at her.

  Her gaze met his. “My father will fight you to the death.”

  His shoulders lifted in a nonchalant shrug. “I am up to the task, or is it yer father ye worry for, my sweet Catrione?”

  “I know you don’t believe me, but I don’t want you or my father harmed.”

  He took her hand. “So, ye soften toward me, have ye?”

  She yanked her hand away. “Do be serious and not a pompous arse.”

  “Mi’lady, ye do spew such lovely endearments. I dare say ye must spend many hours confessing yer sins. No wonder ye need a priest close at hand.”

  “Why you—”

  He leaned over and covered her mouth, stifling her reprimand until she no longer cared.

  * * * *

  The man did know how to distract with finesse. When the tankards slammed on the tables, he let her up for air.

  “See how pleased all are tonight? Doonae spoil their fun.”

  She wanted to ask him how happy his people would be when he died at her father’s sword. She pursed her lips together as another thought flitted across her mind. What if it were her father who fell? She choked back a sob.

  Waylon took her hand again. “I’ve distressed ye, I see. How aboot I make ye another pact.”

  “What now?”

  “I will do my best to make the Day of Truce a day without bloodshed, but ye must realize yer father will have a say in the outcome as well.”

  Again her husband surprised her. She squeezed his hand. “I appreciate your gallantry.”

  He lifted her hand to his lips. “Perhaps ye will show me how ye appreciate me in the comforts of my chambers.” His devilish gaze swept over her.

  She was truly lost if her traitorous heart turned over at a mere glimpse of his smile. When she left his care, she would miss the way his stormy colored eyes made her feel like the only woman in the room. It was unfortunate he pledged to never fall in love with her, but it didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy her husband’s attention for now. “The longer I’m with you I am convince you will corrupt my soul.”

  He chuckled as he leaned close, his voice low and only for her ears. “I take it that is yer way of saying, aye.” He claimed her lips, but Catrione feared he’d claimed her heart as well.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Waylon wanted to show Catrione the lands, immerse her in his world and hopefully entice her to want to stay with him. Wishful thinking on his part, but he would not give up hope until she left his side.

  They stood overlooking the land. They could see the forest from where they stood.

  The wind blew cool and she pulled her cloak closer around her. “You do not care for the reiver’s life, do you?” Catrione’s bold appraisal of him made him feel vulnerable.

  His gaze met hers, when he gauged his response. “I will do what must be done to survive, but aye, I long for a simpler life.” She didn’t look at him with contempt, but with warm regard. He leaned near her if only to breathe in the sweet scent of her skin and hair. He pointed to where the sheep grazed on the mudflats in the distance. “The sheep have no’ a care. They would be happy with saltmarsh and to roam wild on the coastline.”

  “Is that what you’d like to do? Raise sheep?”

  “No’ just sheep.”

  This drew her attention and she turned to gaze at him again. “What then?”

  He took her hand and led her closer to where his men worked cutting through the trees and bushes. “They’re clearing the land so we may grow crops,” he told her.

  One of the men leaned down to where the brush and grass were piled in neat lines surrounding a portion of the forest. He struck the flint and a bright light flickered then grew. The man jumped away lest the flames consume him also.

  “Your man started a fire.” Her fingers dug into his arm with worry.

  “Be still.” He patted her hand in reassurance. “Ye doonae need to panic, mi’lady. The fire is controlled to burn where the wood proves too dense.”

  The blaze grew, licking and devouring the tall trees as if it were a hungry beast with an endless appetite.

  She clutched her hand to her throat. “It is terrifying to watch. Yet, I find I cannot look away as if the flames have enchanted me in some way.”

  His arm draped over her shoulder, drawing her near once again. “I have often time thought the same. The flames do work a sort of magic. Once the fire burns itself out, the ash nourishes the soil, making it fertile. We’ll begin planting at the end of the reiving season. We will have a rich crop to show for our troubles.

  Her ga
ze found his. Her sea green eyes were beautiful in the afternoon light or perhaps it was only the way her gaze touched him without contempt that made them so irresistible. “What will you grow?” she asked.

  She didn’t mock him with her words. Her interest proved true. He could see it in the way she held his gaze, waiting for him to reveal his intent. “We will have wheat and barley.”

  From their walk of the grounds, some of her hair came free from its confines. He tucked the wayward strands behind her ear and his hand brushed against her cheek in a caress. Her skin felt cool and smooth to his touch.

  “And the fierce storms will not destroy the crop?” Her voice lowered to a hoarse whisper. Her eyes darkened as she leaned into his palm.

  “Doonae fash yerself. We will collect the wheat before the fierce sea storms can spoil it.”

  “Hmm. You have it all figured out.” She stepped away from him for a moment with her hands fisted on her hips. One finely shaped eyebrow quirked up. “You are nothing as I thought you would be, Devil’s Wolf.”

  His lips curved into a wide grin. “Ye arenae what I expected either.”

  Her gaze drifted over him, his body heating with each visual caress. She stepped forward, so near their bodies nearly touched. Her hands grasped his forearms as she leaned up on her tip-toes. “Thank you, for this day.” She kissed him, her tongue sweeping between his lips in invitation.

  His hands gripped her waist, drawing her closer. “If ye keep this up, I will think ye want me to take ye to bed.”

  She kissed the side of his mouth and murmured, “What are you waiting for?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Catrione greeted Jon Luc with a smile. The priest entered the chambers with hesitation. She understood his caution. She now resided in her husband’s solar, his private chambers.

  “Do not fear the Wolf’s den,” she teased. “You are welcomed.”

  “I must say, my lady, you look well.” His words confirmed how please he was to find her in good spirits, but he still eyed her closely for any signs proving otherwise.