His Judas Bride

Chapter 4

Her name was Morven, and she was his wife?

The damned gripe never said that there were five of them that day, taking turns of Morven in every way.

She never said he'd loved her.

"Jeez, Callm, just slow down will ye, for Christ's sake, aye?"

As Callm urged his mount, Satan, up the snowbank, Snosh spurred his gray alongside.

"Aye, Callm." Wee Murdie's mare cantered up behind. "Anyone wid think you had the appointment wi' Father Andrew. No'her and Monsieur Turd."

Callm couldn't even force a grin at the nickname. What the hell was there to grin at after all? He dug his heels in harder and shifted his weight to give Satan his head although the stallion was a powerful leader cresting the rise without any urging from him.

He should hate Lady Kara. Damned, tinker, McGurkie that she was. Seeing her in that dress and thinking of her in the hands of the turd was his worst nightmare in a month of nightmares.It should have been a dream come true. How the hell could he forget how his life had changed in the blink of a spring afternoon?

He'd noticed, of course. He'd have had to be blind not to. The hordes of McGurkies had swept in from the sea. On their way from Ireland, they said. Had they also said to set up house on the McDunnaghs' doorstep—no damned intention of getting off it either—maybe his father would have done something then. Although even then the McDunnaghs didn't have the numbers to fight back. And despite Ewen's antics, they still didn't.

It had been hard when raiding parties started ravaging the Dunalpin meadows. Until that afternoon, he'd still thought the life of a chief's older son would be his one day though, despite the fact Lochalpin, where deer roamed and linnets soared, was a jewel worth plundering. All it had taken was one afternoon.

Snosh's gray lurched forward, plowing through the heavy layer of snow, the movements clumsy as Satan's were smooth. "Hud on Callm, aye? Big Tam'll no' run awa wi' the deer."

The last of his worries.

"Aye." Wee Murdie gathered his reins in one hand and tried sweeping a strand of sodden hair back from his mouth. "It'll soon be on the spit."

"Aye." Snosh chuckled."And so will she."

Cursing, Callm reined Satan's pace. All right. It was like this. The thing, the damnable thing, was that Morven had been a virgin on their wedding night and so ignorant it had been a cruelty to persist. So, naturally, when he thought of brides, how the hell couldn't he help but imagine virgins, cowering in terror, in dresses buttoned up to their chins.

He certainly didn't think of women in daringly cut gowns of ruby red silk, with a mass of white-gold curls sitting like coiffed deer antlers on their heads, offering themselves to him, bold as a brass chimney-plate, asking to be stoked.

What the hell was she doing dressed like a tuppeny w***e? Did she think it that necessary to entice Ewen? That damned turd would shag a tree. The whole damn forest come to that.

But maybe that was the whole idea? Why?

She'd been in Edinburgh for the last God knew how many years, learning what? Plainly how to whinge at him. So keen to get into Lochalpin she practically shoved her t**s in his face. Then, when he finally decided to let her, digging her fancy heels in. Topaz eyes harder than ice-chips below beetle black brows.Face cold as frosted marble. Like a tombstone in fact.

He dragged a long frosted breath in a bid to cool the sweat that lathered him. He would like to say that was just like a woman. But that damned army she had with her? No. No woman had ever put her hand in her cloak and nearly drawn on him either.Something wasn't right here. Left neither. Something was wrong. But what?

He glowered over his shoulder through the spinning snowflakes. It was the first time he'd done so since they'd set off and he wished he hadn't. That damned dress and what he wouldn't mind doing to her in it.

That damned dress?Or the thought of what he'd like to do to her in it, when she wasn't even showing the damned dress—not a scrap, not a ribbon of it? Well?He hadn't exactly had a thought like that for five damned years. Was that what made instinct scream she was up to something when maybe she wasn't?

Now she lagged behind, so he could barely pick her out through the curtain of snow, the dipping boughs, it was tempting to think he had at least demonstrated his mastery of the situation to her though.

He just knew he'd be a whole glen happier if he could have flung her out on her stylishly appointed rump. But he was in no position to refuse her entry when the wedding had been arranged by proxy. Have her tinker chief father here complaining? Over the affront to her? When so much of what he and the Brotherhood did was chicanery of the first order?

Over something worthwhile perhaps. But this?

"Not exactly alacritous, is she?" Wee Murdie pulled alongside. "I've seen faster slugs."

"Who can blame her? She gets up afore the turd in thon frock, she'll be lucky tae walk for a week. No' ane tae unwrap a woman's body like it's a gift noo, is he?"

Snosh was right. It would be a great kindness to find somewhere to stop, let her exchange the damned thing for something a little less frivolous. Something preferably with a high neck, thick and serviceable.

But damn her, why should he? The world was fast turning ghostly. Remove the blasts of wind, and the silence of snow would stretch all the way down the long road of the pass. The stars would be out soon. They would never reach the castle at this rate.

With Big Murdie—at six foot six, three inches taller than his brother—riding at the rear and Dug skulking in the trees, she wasn't exactly going to get far if she tried bolting.

Who would have guessed it would take this long though? Certainly not himself, or he'd have whipped that damned pony of hers along. He didn't want to get stuck somewhere with her.

He yanked Satan to a halt. "Go tell Shug to take the baggage horse on ahead to the castle, will you? That should move her along."

Wee Murdie wheeled his horse around. "Callm, that's a bit—"

"Just do it. A woman and her trousseau." Though he'd forgotten so much, he was certainly glad he remembered that. "Easy seeing you've never been married. You just watch her break into a trot, if not a sweat. We'll be home for supper."

"Hey, mind and ask her first if she's got any mair dresses like thon ane she's wearing," Snosh laughed.

More? Christ. One was bad enough.

What was in the bags and boxes anyway? Soft lace shifts to match her creamy skin, little French shoes, totally impractical for glen walking, but meant for beguiling a man in, in a wedding dance. Dresses … Christ, dresses.

"You think you can move your derriere a bit faster, Princess?" he shouted above the wind barrelling down the incline. "The weather's worsening. But maybe you want to have to spend the night with me?"

He may have forced a grin, but it was no joke, not what grabbed his middle. And held it with hot pincers. Until that ring was safely on her finger, he didn't want to see her or hear her. Or anything with her.

A night beneath the same roof as her was the last thing in the world he wanted.