When Patrick caught sight of Laurie on the other side of the hall, an intense, hot fury boiled within him. Her arms draped his brother’s neck and she smiled adoringly at Archibald as if he were her one true love. Couldn’t she tell them apart?
Did she prefer Archibald?
A red haze clouded Patrick’s eyes and angry words choked his throat. He strode across the chamber, his steps long and sure. Somehow, he managed to gain some control, forcing himself to swallow his rage before he made a public display of his disgust.
Archibald wrestled with her. She was an unruly vine, clinging to him.
“Archie, take my lady-wife to our bedchamber. I will follow,” Patrick ordered through clenched teeth.
His brother had the audacity to chuckle. He practically manhandled Laurie to move her. He lifted her through the doorway and up the stairs before anyone noticed. She attached herself to Archibald, wrapping her legs and arms around his body, kissing him with sloppy, wet kisses. He struggled with her. Finally, managing to get her to the bedchamber and off him, he dropped her onto the big bed.
“I am not Patrick. He is over there.” Archibald pointed to where Patrick watched the scene from the threshold, fury smoldering inside his chest.
“You’re mine.” She jumped up, reaching for Archibald once more.
Moving quickly, Patrick lunged across the chamber and grabbed her around the waist, pulled her away from his brother and dumped her back on the bed.
She laughed and swayed as she tried once again to rise. “Wow. Everything is spinning. Hey, there are two of you.” She giggled and fell back against the mattress like a heavy boulder.
“I never thought the day would come when you would covet my bride.” Patrick glowered at his twin.
Archibald raised his hands, palms forward. “I stand before you, falsely accused. Your lady-wife is in her cups. She is not herself.”
“How did she get that way? I saw her take but one goblet of wine. Nary enough to confuse us. She is a trifler, playing with us.” Patrick continued to glare at his twin, his disappointment and anger consuming him. “’Tis too late. I have wed the wench. I will have to teach her I am her only master.”
“You make too much of this. She is but drunk.”
“Leave. Before I forget you are my brother.”
Archibald pivoted on his heel and left the chamber without uttering another word. Patrick stared at his new wife in disgust. She laid on the bed, insensible, as intoxicated as a drunken warrior. Since he first found the lass, she’d been naught but trouble. Not in his thirty summers had he ever been this angry.
He reached for her and as if he held a rag doll, shook her. She didn’t stir. Cursing harshly, he dropped her onto the feather mattress.
Divesting her of her gown and chemise, he folded them over the chest at the foot of the bed. She wore some lacy thing over her breasts and her female mound. He ground his teeth in frustration. His hands shook with anger, with desire, as he slid the tiny piece of lace down her legs. He glared at her, almost hating her. She was completely bare, except for the fragile lace on her breasts, which he couldn’t figure out how to remove, and the betrothal ring on her finger, the symbol of their disastrous marriage.
If she loved him, she should be able to tell them apart.
His desire sickened him. Even in his anger, he wanted her with soul deep yearning. Patrick removed his knife from its sheath at his waist. Cutting his palm, he drew blood. He moved his hand over the bed, letting the dark, red blood drip onto the sheet, and across her thighs. Only enough to make it appear that the marriage had been consummated. He didn’t want gossip, or anyone to doubt she belonged to him.
Leaving her lying there alone on their wedding bed, he walked across the chamber to sit facing away, far from her, in one of the chairs before the hearth. He stared into the fire, contemplating the future. Even the flames mocked him. The blue of her eyes and the gold of her hair burned his vision, haunting him.
She didn’t love him enough to realize she was with the wrong man. Patrick rubbed the ache near his heart.
What was he to do? The question plagued him. He wanted to get away from her, as far as possible, leave her here where he wouldn’t have to see her.
Maybe if he visited his father’s Cousin Allain at his castle near the ruins of the ancient fort in Glasrie, he could forget the image of Laurie twined around Archibald. Patrick meant to visit his lands there for many a fortnight. Needed to handle the problems created by his Uncle Donald, who’d gone there. By going now, he could give himself time. Time to come to terms with a wife who didn’t love him as much as he loved her.
He’d rather deal with his traitorous uncle than his disappointment.
Patrick stared into the fire, waiting for the night to pass, planning his departure.
* * *
Atop the battlements, Munn performed an intricate jig. Precariously close to the edge, he skipped on tiptoe from one crenel to the next, his joy effervescent.
He won!
The coupling never took place. The marriage wasn’t consummated.
The chief would never forgive his new wife’s betrayal. He’d have the marriage annulled.
Munn must apprise the queen of his success.
He rubbed his hands together in glee. What would the queen give him for a reward?
Jewels? He’d always wanted a jewel-encrusted dirk. Not that he had need of one. Still, he wanted one.
So relieved was he that he’d soon be free of his vow to the queen, he continued to dance throughout the misty night. Thankfully, the guise of invisibility masked him, for had it been otherwise, the wall guards would surely faint like silly lasses.
He chuckled over the image in his mind.
Before the sunrays kissed the land, Munn melted into the fog and drifted off to the realm of the faerie queen.
* * *
Laurie woke, her mind fuzzy. She stretched to remove the kinks from her muscles. Sensing the lateness of the hour, she yanked one of the bed curtains back. The sun pierced her retinas and her memory flashed. She’d married Patrick the night before.
Where was he?
She grimaced. Her head pounded. Nausea pooled in her belly. Weird. She’d no memory of going to bed the previous night. The last thing she remembered was that nasty little man giving her a goblet of wine.
For God’s sake, she still wore her bra.
The blood on her thighs proved she’d truly wed. She was no longer a virgin and she didn’t even remember doing the deed. How had she gotten so drunk she couldn’t remember having sex with the sexiest man in the world?
She’d done it again, made a mess of things.
This was all Patrick’s fault. Since she’d fallen in love with the gorgeous man, she’d been doing brainless things. Now this. Getting drunk on her wedding night was the epitome of stupidity.
She slipped out of bed and shuffled to the washstand where she found a cloth. With a shaking hand, she wet the washcloth and used it to clean away the blood. Her chest ached with self-anger. She couldn’t believe she’d ruined the most important day of her life.
But she hadn’t drunk more than one goblet of wine, just one, the one Munn gave her as a peace offering. The wine must have contained something, which thoroughly intoxicated her. The little bastard.
As she climbed back onto the bed, Patrick entered the chamber. She gave him a coy smile, knowing her cheeks were flushed. He shot her a look that clenched her heart. His eyes were cold and empty, his blue gaze dispassionate.
“I am leaving. I have ordered Duncan to watch over you. You are not to stray from this chamber without him at your side. And stay away from my brother and every other man that strokes your fancy.” His voice, void of emotion, sent a chill through her.
What? “Patrick, what happened? Why are you leaving?” Her voice quivered. “Tell me what is wrong.”
He stared at her, a frigid glare filled with ice. “Your behavior last night was intolerable.” He turned away and walked to the chamber door.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Needing to stop him, she pulled a sheet from the bed and wrapped it around her body, toga style, then chased after him. “Don’t walk out on me.”
Patrick stopped before opening the door. Laurie’s fists pounded against his back. Spinning around, he grabbed hold of both her wrists. He managed to pick her up, carry her to the bed and drop her atop the mattress.
She grabbed hold of his leine. A piece of the fine saffron fabric tore in her hand. Her eyes—large and glowing with shock—held his gaze for several heartbeats.
Her chest rose and fell with quick intakes of breath, her nipples taut against the thin sheet. Patrick’s control broke. The emotions ripping through him were sudden and powerful, and he seized Laurie, dragged her against his chest, and roughly captured her mouth with his lips. The kiss was harsh and punishing, born of anger. She kissed him back with as much ferocity, biting his lip with pearly white teeth. He growled, slanted his mouth, deepened the kiss.
He forced her to submit. Anger didn’t douse the desire burning between them. It stoked the flame. Hotter. And hotter.
Patrick pushed her back, pressed her shoulders into the mattress. He stripped off his leine and plaide and mounted her, pushing her into the soft bedding with his weight. He ripped away the sheet she wore and forced her legs apart. Positioning himself between her thighs, he thrust, burying himself deep.
She screamed.
Damnation. With that one violent stroke, he broke through her maidenhead. Tears rolled over Laurie’s cheeks and she pressed her palms against his chest, trying to push him away.
Patrick froze. He panted with the effort to remain motionless. He dropped his forehead onto hers. He couldn’t believe what he’d done. She was a virgin and he’d taken her in the roughest manner, his possession, swift and fierce.
“Sweetling, look at me,” he demanded.
Her moist eyelashes fluttered open. He winced at the distrust in her eyes.
“I ken I hurt you. The pain will soon ease.” Guilt clawed the inside of his chest. “Do you wish me to stop?” He offered her the option, though restraint would surely kill him.
“No.” She gave him a tremulous smile. “I’m your wife.”
“Aye. In both word and deed.”
She touched his cheek. “Why are you leaving?”
“I-I was angry, because…”
“Because I got drunk last night?”
He closed his eyes. “Because I am a fool.”
“Don’t leave.” Her kiss slid from sweet to flame, and made him realize how much he wanted her love. With time, maybe she would feel for him what he felt for her.
Patrick slowly moved within Laurie’s velvet embrace.
“Are you all right?”
“Aww, yes. Fine.” Her facial features had softened. “This is nice, but I think faster would be better.”
Patrick quickened the pace. She seemed instinctively to follow his lead. Her body moved with his, stroke for urgent stroke. They were as close as two people could possibly be. He reveled at the feel of her, the intimate slide of thrust and withdrawal.
Her nails dug into the muscles on his forearms as he rocked against her. His rhythm quick and sure. Moist skin slapped against moist skin. Flames of fire raced through his veins, driving him harder, deeper, faster. Yet he wanted more. Needed more.
“More,” she begged.
He gave their lovemaking everything from within him. Heart and soul.
She inhaled sharply and screamed his name.
The sound of his name on her lips while in the throes of ecstasy pushed him over the edge. A shudder ran over him, and he growled. The world exploded into a million, beautifully colored, bright lights.
When his breathing returned to normal, Laurie gazed at him with wonder in her eyes.
He held her tight for a moment, still panting. Then he rose onto his forearms and stared down at her. “Did I hurt you overmuch?”
“Only at the start.”
Guilt burned within his chest. He silently cursed. What had he done? He was a fool. The sticky evidence of her innocence scorched his thigh. She’d been a virgin. She’d never been with that boy from the future. Maclay hadn’t raped her. She’d not betrayed him.
He’d not needed to use his blood to prove her virginity. Possessiveness, so forceful, the feeling nearly consumed him, emerged to the surface. She was his and he’d never let her go.
He’d hurt her. If he only realized she’d never lain with a man before, he could have eased her first experience. He regretted having taken her in anger, having treated her no better than a whore.
“What happened last night?” She blushed profusely and didn’t look at him.
“This past night, I left you alone. You were verra drunk and quick to sleep.” He didn’t add that she had clung to his brother, that she couldn’t differentiate between he and Archibald.
“But the blood.” Again, her cheeks glowed with hot color.
“’Twas mine. I did not want anyone to suspect our vows had not been consummated. I cut my hand and left my blood on the bed and on your thighs.”
Patrick rose from the mattress and strode across the chamber. He poured water from the ewer into the washbasin. Wetting a cloth, he washed her blood from himself. Then he moistened the cloth again and brought it to Laurie, gently cleaning the blood from her thighs, trying to ease the discomfort between her legs.
The discomfort he caused with his stubborn lack of trust. How would he ever make it up to her?
After returning the cloth to the washstand, he climbed back into bed and embraced his wife. “Now hush, sweetling. Rest.”
Laurie absently moved a finger in tiny circles on his chest, twirling the soft hairs. “How did I get drunk last night? I only remember drinking one goblet of wine.”
Anger simmered again, but Patrick held it in check. “Only one?”
“Yeah. Munn gave me the one goblet, a symbol of friendship, or so he said. It must’ve been very strong wine. Don’t you think?”
“Aye, indeed.” Patrick wasn’t pleased with the direction of his thoughts. Could Munn have used magic on Laurie?
He held her in his arms until she dozed. He rose and donned his garments. Unsure of what madness had overcome his castle, he gazed at the bed where she slept. His emotions raw. He was no longer certain what took place the night past.
He silently left the chamber and searched for Munn.
* * *
Caitrina slipped from the shadows of the bedchamber unseen, appearing moments later at the knoll in the Fir-wood.
She smiled triumphantly. The seed was set, the future secure. Victory hers.
The little man had been a fool to celebrate too soon.
While she congratulated herself over her success, she sensed the air around her change—charge with energy. She spun and the queen appeared. Caitrina had never seen such fury on Oonagh’s exquisite features. She took a step back, unsure of the queen’s intentions.
“Princess, you think yourself the victor? Yet the game continues.” With those ambiguous words, the High Queen of the Fae merged with the mist and vanished from sight.
Caitrina cursed. Then she, too, disappeared from the wood.