“I'll take another,” he said.
Cailean frowned. She reached for his cup, but her movements were slow, as if she were hesitant to comply with his request.
“As will I.” Bridget shot him a look from the side of her eye.
So, she was trying to keep up with him.
Cailean's mouth fell open, and she looked back and forth between the two of them with a wrinkle of uncertainty dimpling her brow.
“I think it's time for this young couple to stop celebrating and start celebrating.” Aidan's uncle said the final word with great exaggeration. The men within Forth Manor burst into laughter and raucous cheering.
Bridget stiffened beside him. Though she may have had a considerable amount of drink, she was not numb.
Aidan couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or a bad thing given their situation. He rose and extended his hand to her.
The room spun.
Damn. He'd drunk more than he had realized.
Bridget regarded his proffered hand and lifted her chin in such a manner, he worried she would not take his offer. He wondered if she would try to shame him in front of his people.
Finally, she settled her hot, damp fingers on his palm and rose from the high-backed chair. He led her from the dais upon which they sat and the room fell into a hush.
Everyone stared at her, from highborn to servant alike.
Dislike her though Aidan may, he could not deny the woman was beautiful.
The gown of blue velvet she wore left her skin fair as fresh cream and brought out the color in her eyes. More than anything else, it was her lips which called to Aidan. Lush and so brilliantly red, they appeared to be painted, though he knew they were not.
He could not help wondering at the warmth of those lips on his mouth, his body…
Someone smacked him on the back on their way from the room and damn near knocked him from his careful balance. He managed to stay upright, but noticed Bridget was not as unaffected by the wine as she would have him think.
Her steps were careful, but her rigid posture had softened into something alluring. Her hips swayed side to side as they made their way toward the stairs. He couldn't wait to put his hands on those hips and skim his palms from the tight little waist to her full breasts.
They made their way up the stairs, leaving the revelry behind them.
Her breasts. The idea stuck fast in his head. They'd been hidden under the armor when he'd met her, and she'd avoided him well enough until the wedding that he hadn't seen her until the actual ceremony.
Though the cut of her gown was modest, the swell of her smooth skin beneath tantalized him with the hint at their shape and firmness.
He led her into the room, thinking not of her being English, but of her being naked. Of him seeing those breasts, caressing them, squeezing them. He closed the door and turned the heavy iron key, locking them into quiet privacy.
They would have no disruptions this night.
The room swam around him. He blinked hard and tried to shake off the effects of wine, but they did not lessen. The large bed beckoned him from where it rose high and inviting on the other side of the room.
His limbs were so heavy with exhaustion, his bed might as well be on the other side of Christendom.
Bridget stood to the side, watching him with those lovely blue eyes and a slight sway to her stance. She was bonny, even if she was a harpy.
He held his hand out to her.
She regarded it with disdain. “I can lead myself.”
Perhaps he should have been angry at her impertinence, but the drink made everything numb. Numb and tired. He shrugged his disinterest and made his way to the bed alone.
The room was quiet, with only the hint of muffled music and voices below. The manor had been well built, even though it had been completed in the last few months. It had been mostly built earlier, of course - it was why it appealed so greatly for the king to grant it as a reward, so the remaining construction only took several months.
Aidan pulled at a boot and tipped dangerously for his efforts.
Bridget was near him. He didn't have to look up to know as much. His left side tingled with the closeness of her presence.
He sat on the bed and pulled off his remaining boot. She stood beside the bed, watching him with an unreadable expression on her face.
“Ye'll need to take that off.” He pointed to her kirtle and grasped the hem of his tunic, lifting it over his head. The cool air in the room bathed his skin heated by wine and exhaustion. He closed his eyes to revel in the refreshment of it and found he did not wish to open his eyes.
A tentative hand touched his shoulder and gently pushed him backward. The bed was soft beneath him, welcoming.
Perhaps he could keep his eyes closed and she would climb on top of him. He imagined her with her dark hair falling over the naked paleness of her shoulders while she straddled him and took him in the heat between her legs.
His cock throbbed lazily to life, but he could not bring his eyes to open. Not even when the bed shifted beneath the addition of her weight beside him.
CHAPTER FOUR
MacAlister was asleep.
Bridget leaned over his sleeping form. His lips were thinned to a narrow line and his face relaxed. He looked young. The thought surprised her as the beast of a man appeared anything but young when he made his orders and flexed his overtly rude show of hospitality.
Even the scar marring his eyebrow didn't seem as fierce.
She closed her eyes, not only to blot out his face, but to gently court the sleep she knew she must avoid.
God, but she was tired.
The man could drink, but she'd be damned if she let him consume more than she did. It was a foolish challenge, of course. But then, she'd always been one for foolish challenges.
Even against the man she intended to kill.
She opened her eyes and found him unmoved from where she last gazed upon him. The candlelight washed over his naked torso, shadowing lines of muscles strong enough to remain in the relaxed state of his sleep. A light sprinkling of hair showed on his chest and trailed from his navel to beneath his belted hose.
Her cheeks warmed in spite of herself. She'd seen bare-chested men most of her life. Certainly, once she was allowed to train with men, she saw it nearly every day. Why, then, was she hot with embarrassment to be looking upon him?
Her head sloshed with wine-laden thoughts.
Deciding to keep up with his wine consumption had seemed so much less foolish at the time. She thought herself stronger than this.
It had been an important lesson to learn, and she hoped it wouldn't fade with the effects of the wine.
Wasting time.
She shook her head at herself. She was wasting time. The sooner she killed him, the sooner this would all be done.
She looked down at his face once more and let the memory of that day on the battlefield of her home bloom to life in her mind. When Richard, her noble Richard, had fallen to his knees, helpless and in defeat, and the blade had slipped from his hands. He'd been cut down like an animal, butchered with an axe.
Tears burned in her eyes and she welcomed them. She reached in the long pocket of her chemise and withdrew the dagger. The hilt was warm with the heat of her body and the sharp point winked with the candlelight.
One slash across the throat, a hard, deep gouge. She'd done it in battle before. It was not difficult.
She leaned over him and set the dagger to his throat. The reflection of the candlelight on the blade shifted rhythmically, in time with the steady beat of his pulse.
Richard.
She squeezed the hilt in her hand.
Do it.
She clenched her teeth and willed her hand to press down and pull.
Hot wet tears flowed down her cheeks now. For Richard, for her. For MacAlister.
The last thought surprised her. She hated him for what he'd done, for what he stood for, for who he was. And yet, she could not get the idea of Cailean
out of her head. The sweet girl would be without her brother.
Bridget knew all too well the pain of such loss.
And wouldn't she be doing the same beastly thing MacAlister had done if she killed him?
A gentle knock sounded at the door and nearly sent Bridget's heart shooting out of her chest.
“Aidan, I want to sleep with ye.” The small voice on the other side of the door was clearly that of little Rabbie.
Aidan's body flinched. “No' now, lad.” The words rumbled deep from his chest.
Energy fired through Bridget, the kind that comes with the onset of a new battle. She froze where she lay across the bed at his side with the blade touching his throat. If she moved it, he might notice. If she did not, he might notice.
Uncertain either way, she remained as she was and held her breath with hope.
“I'm scared without ye.” Rabbie's voice pitched with a sob.
The fear in the boy's little whimper crushed against her heart. Aidan woke suddenly and stared up at her with bloodshot eyes.
Everything in Bridget went cold with dread.
“Rabbie, ye canna be here.” Bridget did not recognize the woman's voice on the other side of the door with Rabbie, but the boy started to cry.
Aidan continued to watch her while the sobs were quieted with a gentle shushing and disappeared down the hall. Bridget carefully withdrew the dagger. Its blade shook with the force of her racing pulse.
Aidan's eyes closed once more, but the fear clutching her heart did not lessen. She had almost killed him and he had seen her.
The wine fog in her mind fled, shoved aside by the push of too many racing questions.
Was he too drunk to comprehend what she'd done? Would he even remember in the morning?
Would he kill her?
If she attacked him now, would he fight her?
But she was too rattled to fight. Never had she been put to such surprise. It was tactically the most disarming offense she'd ever encountered, and her mind did not know how to deal with it. She slid her dagger into the deep pockets of her chemise with trembling hands and lay on her side where she could face him.
As she closed her eyes and tried to sleep, one racing thought stood out above the rest - she had failed. Despite all the careful planning for the past year, the daydreams of MacAlister's blood washing away the stain of Richard's death, all of it gone in the puff of one weak hesitation.
For killing a man in battle, she suddenly realized, was far easier than killing a sleeping man whose loving family stood nearby.
And on the morrow, she would wake - not to accomplished vengeance, but to the bitterness of an unwanted marriage.
#
Aidan knew the minute he fully woke that he wished Bridget had killed him the night before.
Not only would he wake to a wife he had not been able to bed the night before, he'd do so with a raging headache. Already, his skull felt as though it would split his head, and he hadn't even opened his eyes.
The warmth of the sun bathed Aidan's face, announcing late morning whether he wished it to be or not. He opened an eye and found Bridget lying across from him. Sunlight touched her, too, and gleamed against her glossy black hair. Her lips were still lush and red in sleep.
The cockstand he'd woken with ached worse than his head.
It was pleasant looking at her thus, when she couldn't unleash the sharpness of her tongue upon him or strike with her harpy talons. She was truly a beautiful woman. It was no wonder the English court had named her the Rose of the de Veres.
Her eyes flickered open and, immediately, her serene expression gave way to something hard and hostile. She watched him carefully for a moment, and he knew she was wondering if he remembered her pressing the blade to his throat.
Aye, he remembered. He'd woken the moment she'd leaned over him. He'd hoped she meant to ride him to pleasure. Even drunk, he realized it wasn't likely with her being a maiden, but he'd hoped nonetheless.
He'd been awake when the cold blade kissed his skin instead of her lips. And he'd been awake when she gave in to the soft sobs when Rabbie came to the door.
If the lad hadn't interrupted, perhaps she would have tried to kill him.
She would have failed, of course.
But, no, he wouldn't be sharing his knowledge of her intended misdeeds with her. Let her wonder. Let her worry. He would, however, be always cautious with his new English bride.
“Did ye sleep well?” he asked.
Her brow flinched and she frowned. “Well enough.” She eyed him warily. “Did you?”
“I slept like the dead.” He smiled at her.
Her expression smoothed into something unreadable.
“There was something left unfinished last night,” he said.
She said nothing.
He reached a hand toward her to stroke her cheek, but she jerked backward - away from his touch. Never had a woman not welcomed his touch. The rejection was a slap in the face and he smirked to cover his surprise to the offense. “We dinna consummate the marriage last night.”
Her eyes glinted in the morning light. “Perhaps we did and you don't remember.”
As entertaining as it was to watch her tease at hints of how much he could recall about the night's activities, he wanted to get the consummation over with so he could start his day. Preferably with some of the brew cook made for counteracting the effects of having imbibed too much.
Aidan's pulse echoed in his head like great mallets beating upon the tight surface of a drum.
“If we'd lain together, I'd no' have let ye put yer kirtle back on.” He let his gaze wander unabashedly over her body. The blue velvet lay over the shape of her body, giving him a teasing view of her curves. He reached out and ran his fingertips over the fine velvet at her shoulder.
She did not move from his touch, but nor did her gaze soften.
He ran his hand down the length of her arm to settle on the swell of her hip. His fingertips were resting on the curve of her rump and he could not help but notice how firm and round it seemed beneath his fingers.
She closed her eyes. “I do not want this.” When she opened her eyes, all the hatred was there again - hard and ugly and raw.
Aidan pulled his hand back. “We both made negotiations with our kings. Ye know this must happen.”
“No.” She sat up, shoving herself to a position of power over him.
He followed suit, secretly glad for his size so he continued to tower over her. The position of power belonged to him. Not her.
His stomach rolled in punishment for his overindulgence.
“Ye will lie with me this morning.” He tried to keep his tone patient.
She scoffed at him. “I will not.”
The woman was stubborn.
Aidan shifted closer so his face hovered over hers. “I will have ye this morning.”
She did not shrink back, but then she was not the kind of woman who would.
“Then you will have to take me by force.” She slid the dagger from her pocket. “And I bid you good luck, as you'll need it.”
Her blade was a simple thing, without adornment or trim. It was the one she'd meant to take his life with, no doubt.
A knot of frustration tightened through his shoulders and heightened the ache in his head. The tether of his patience snapped. “Ye will lay with me.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I will not.” Those red lips wrapped around each word and spit them out with vehemence.
“Damn it, lass.” He rose over her. “Ye are my wife and ye will obey.”
“I am a woman, not a dog, and I will not.” She lifted her leg, set her foot in the middle of his chest, and pushed him off with surprising strength.
He flew backward and landed on his back upon the softness of his stuffed mattress. She was on him in a flash, her eyes blazing. For the second time in less than the course of a day, her blade settled against his throat.
“If you ever think to order me again, I'll kill you.” She pushed
herself off him and left the room, slamming the door so hard that the sound reverberated in Aidan's skull.
He hadn't expected the marriage to be pleasant, but this was going to be hell.
CHAPTER FIVE
It had been a fortnight since she'd wed and, still, Bridget remained a virgin.
Every night she went to bed with her blade tucked under her pillow, waiting for him to force himself upon her so she could justify his death. Every night, he came to bed well after her and fell asleep on the opposite side of her. Then every morning, he woke before her and she remained entirely untouched.
They operated in their daily tasks without seeing one another until the evening meal. Only then did they even offer the slightest acknowledgement. She did notice, however, he'd switched to ale instead of wine after their wedding night.
Elsbeth bent over Bridget's chest and then straightened. “There. I'd say you're ready now.”
Bridget looked down at her bound chest with a nod. Perfect for training.
“Are you sure this is wise, my lady?” Elsbeth's worried words were mirrored in the crease of her brow.
Bridget pulled the gray training tunic over her head. The hem fell just above the knees of her hose. “I'm sure it's entirely unwise.” She grinned at her maid and left the room before the other woman could offer more protest.
Be true to yourself always.
Bridget would take Aubrey’s advice and be all the happier for it.
The clatter of practice weapons striking one another rose from the courtyard. The sound pierced her soul and left her heart racing with an exhilarated frenzy. She loved the rush of fighting, the thrill of warfare. Her steps quickened and she all but ran into Cailean.
The girl laughed and caught Bridget's shoulders. “Ach, I'm sorry - I wasna paying a mind to where I was going.” She stilled and her gaze trailed down the man's clothing Bridget wore. Questions shone bright in her green eyes.
“I trained with my brothers back at Castle Quelling in Northumbria,” Bridget explained. “My home.”
Home.
To even say the word aloud caused a fresh tear of loneliness to rip through her. She missed her mother, her father, her brothers. Even Thomas, whose friendship and counsel had always provided such comfort.
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