Mary wasn’t fooled by his pleasant banter. He was looking at her as if he’d like to throttle her. Every word was a threat, a challenge. An invitation to do battle.
His gaze skidded over the piles of clothing and open trunks. “There’s something we need to talk about before you finish packing.”
Her heart drummed frantically in her throat. This was how a deer must feel when it turned and found itself in the hunter’s sights, an arrow pointed at its heart. Trapped. Cornered. With nowhere to run.
She managed to find her voice. “You can’t come barging in here like—”
“Leave,” he ordered the other women in the room. “Your mistress and I have something to discuss in private.”
To Mary’s horror, they scatted like terrified mice. Only Margaret paused. But even she recognized his authority.
He had no authority, blast it! This was exactly what she sought to avoid.
Her sister-in-law gave her a worried look. “Will you be all right?”
Mary was tempted to say no, but she read the determination in every inch of his furious, combative face. From the clenched jaw, to the tight lips, to the piercing blue gaze locked on her, she knew that he was going to say his peace—with or without Margaret in the room.
She nodded. Margaret gave her a long, searching look and left.
The shock of his arrival had dissipated, and the brief pause while the others left was long enough to restore her courage. She straightened her back and turned to face him coolly. “What right do you have—”
She stopped, eyes widening when he tossed something on the bed. The dark green billowed in a silken cloud before landing in a pool on the ivory bedsheets, a stark, damning reminder of what she’d done.
“You forgot something before you ran off last night, Lady Mary.” There it was again, that hard emphasis on her name. “Or should I say, Countess.”
Mary cringed inwardly at the confirmation of her suspicions. He’d learned her identity. She’d known he wouldn’t be pleased when he discovered the truth. But she hadn’t expected this kind of extreme reaction to a little tweak of pride.
He closed the distance between them in a few steps, but she stood her ground, refusing to back away even though every instinct in her body urged her to run. Her heart slammed in her chest. Well over six feet of hard, angry warrior looming over her wasn’t exactly unintimidating.
But he wouldn’t hurt her. Somehow she knew that. For all his fire and quickness of temper, she sensed an undercurrent of control.
“Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you lie to me and let me believe you were one of Lady Margaret’s attendants?”
She gave a far more careless shrug than she felt. “It was your assumption. I saw no reason to change it.”
His eyes narrowed. She could tell he didn’t like her attitude. What had he expected? That she would get down on her hands and knees and beg his forgiveness? Probably. It was no doubt what most women of his acquaintance would do. Women who were eager to please him. Well, she wasn’t one of those women.
She had nothing to apologize for. It was he who’d started this with his wickedness in the stable, and then by taunting her with the feelings he’d aroused in her. He’d gotten no more than he’d given—and exactly what he’d asked for.
“Not even when you knew what the king intended? That he has proposed a betrothal between us?”
Her back stiffened. She looked down her nose at him. Unfortunately, as she had a rather small nose it lost some of its dismissive effect, although from the way his fists clenched it was enough. “Especially then. I am not in the market for a husband.”
His eyes flashed like a lightning storm. The fury of his temper was truly something to behold, and she wondered if she’d been too quick to assume she was in no danger.
“But you are in the market for something else?”
She executed a perfect Gallic shrug of indifference that made a muscle jump in his jaw. She knew she was pressing against the limits of that control, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. Something about this man brought out every instinct in her to fight. “Why are you acting the aggrieved party? You made an offer, I accepted. It’s something I’ve no doubt you have done many times in the past.”
He grabbed her arm before she could turn away, hauling her up against him. The heat of his body engulfed her. “What is that supposed to mean?”
She tried to wrench away, but his grip was like a manacle. Did he have to smell so good? It was confusing her. Reminding her of last night. “It means I’m sure it’s not the first time you’ve enjoyed a meaningless liaison with a woman whose name you do not know or can’t remember.”
A hard, angry flush had risen to his cheeks. “So you wanted a tumble in the hay, is that it?”
Mary felt her cheeks heat at the crassness of his language, even if it was the truth. “Is that not what you wanted?”
His clenched mouth came closer to hers, and she couldn’t stop the reflexive shudder that ran through her. Her body didn’t seem to care if he was angry; all it recognized was hot, fiercely aggressive masculinity. “What I wanted? I prefer to be made aware that the woman I’m taking to my bed is going to be my wife.”
Mary stiffened. Perhaps if the word had been uttered with any hint of softness it might have been different. But it wasn’t, and she bristled at both his tone and his assumption. She met his glare with one that was every bit as fierce as his own. It seemed she had a temper as well. “You presume much, my lord. I believe it is still the custom to ask for a lady’s hand before assuming a betrothal.”
His eyes flared at the challenge. “And I believe I did all my asking last night.” He pressed his hard body to hers, reminding her of exactly what he meant. She jolted at the intimate contact. “And you answered. A most enthusiastic ‘yes, please yes’ if I recall correctly.”
His voice was low and mesmerizing, sending a blast of melting dampness to the place that remembered him the most. She shuddered, seeing from the wicked smile that curved his mouth that he knew what he was doing to her.
Big and possessive, his hand slid down her back and over her hip to cup her bottom, bringing her more firmly against him. “Should I ask again, Mary?” he whispered, his mouth only a hair’s breadth from hers.
For one treacherous instant she wanted to say yes. She wanted to lift her lips up to his and take the pleasure he offered. Her body vibrated—pulsed—with a restless energy.
But it wasn’t only pleasure. It was far more. Succumbing to him would mean giving up everything she’d achieved the past few years and losing herself all over again.
She hated how weak she felt. How much she wanted to say yes. How easily he could make her forget herself.
Kenneth Sutherland wielded a power over her that was far more dangerous than the girlish infatuation she’d felt for her husband. The desire she felt for him was that of a woman, a woman who had learned exactly what he could do to her, and how it felt to experience the pleasure of passion.
But no matter how badly she wanted him, she would not let this control her. She would not let him control her. This too-handsome, too-arrogant warrior who didn’t think she could resist him. Who couldn’t even trouble himself to ask her to marry him but just assumed she would jump at the chance. Why wouldn’t she? Look at her. An unexpected blast of heat pricked her eyes.
For once she didn’t have to think about what her sister would do. She pushed back. “Let go of me!” Surprisingly, he released her. “How dare you manhandle me like that! I will not be bullied by you or anyone else into a marriage I do not want. I told you before I don’t want a husband, and as difficult as it is for you to understand, that includes you. Especially you.”
A glint of steel sparked in his eyes. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means that if I were ever to marry again, which I certainly have no intention of doing, it wouldn’t be to a profligate with a penchant for taking women in stables or storerooms.”
Though his expression be
trayed nothing, she could feel the fury radiating from him in hot, pulsing waves. “I think you mean libraries.”
She flushed. “Be that as it may, we wouldn’t suit.”
“On the contrary, I think we suit quite well.”
The heat of his gaze left no doubt as to what he meant. He was right. Even now, the attraction snapped and crackled between them like wildfire.
But it wasn’t enough. “As you pointed out last night, what does that have to do with marriage?”
She forced herself not to wither under the intensity of his gaze. His voice when he spoke was deceptively calm, but she sensed he was one hair’s breadth away from snapping. “Are you saying you would be my mistress but not my wife?”
She lifted her chin, forcing herself to meet his gaze. “I’m saying I will be neither. I’m returning to England, and that is the end of it.”
She turned away, but not before seeing the dangerous white lines tightening around his mouth. He was struggling to control his temper, and she knew her dismissiveness was testing the limits of that control. She suspected it had been a very long time since someone had refused Kenneth Sutherland anything, and coming from a pinched sparrow of a woman past her youth, she wagered it stung. But she knew it was better this way. He was a fighter, and showing any weakness or vulnerability would give him a place to attack.
“And the king?” he said. “Have you informed Bruce of your intentions?”
“Robert understands my position. He knows I have no wish to marry anyone—Scot or English. Nothing has changed that.” When he looked as if he might challenge that point, she added, “He will not learn of anything else from me, and even were he to discover what happened, such interludes are hardly uncommon.”
His teeth clenched so tightly, she could almost hear them grinding. “Aye, I believe you’ve pointed that out.”
Something in his voice made her uneasy. If she weren’t certain it was his pride speaking, she might think her refusal had genuinely hurt him.
She picked up the veil that was lying on her bed like an albatross and carefully folded it. “Now, if you will excuse me. I need to finish packing.” She peeked out at him from under the edge of her lashes. From the way his muscles were bunched up at his shoulders and his fists were clenching and reclenching, she thought he might argue with her. Her heart raced; she needed a way to be rid of him. “Don’t you have a competition to win?” She glanced out the window at the stands, which even now were beginning to fill. “It looks like they will be starting soon.”
He took a step toward her, and she held her breath when he reached out as if to take her arm again. But he glanced out the tower window behind her and let it drop.
For a long moment he stared at her as if he wanted to say something. Say quite a lot of something, actually. But then, he seemed to think better of it. He gave her a mocking bow. “My lady.”
And in one hard tug of a heartbeat, he was gone.
She thought she should feel relieved, but standing there alone, the room suddenly empty, she felt a loss that didn’t make sense. Nor could she escape the feeling that she’d just made a terrible mistake.
Eight
Kenneth tried to keep his mind clear, but all he could see was red. His temper was running loose, and the heat of battle was only making it run hotter. He grabbed the fist that was heading for his face and twisted it behind his opponent’s back, hearing a satisfying pop.
Not in the market for a husband, damn it!
With a cut of his foot behind the heel of the man now howling in pain from a dislocated arm, Kenneth knocked the other warrior to the ground, pinned him with his foot (which wasn’t necessary, as he wasn’t intending to get up), and claimed his victory—the third of the long morning.
All she’d wanted was a quick tumble in the hay. He didn’t know why it was angering him so much, but he kept seeing those big eyes looking at him wide and unflinchingly. Knowingly.
Profligate? Bloody hell!
The sun beat down on him as he jerked the helm off his head and stormed out of the arena, barely acknowledging the cheers of the crowd. For a man one win away from being declared champion and fulfilling his bargain with MacKay, thereby earning a place in Bruce’s secret army, he sure as hell wasn’t enjoying himself. All he could think about was the earlier exchange he’d had with Lady Mary. Mary of Mar, damn it to hell.
His blood still surged and his pulse still spiked just thinking about it. In fact, he was spending more time thinking about her than he was about his opponents. He knew he’d been lucky so far. None of the men he’d faced had given him much of a battle. But he needed to get himself under control for the final challenge.
He’d retired to the barracks between rounds to rest and have Helen rewrap his ribs, but his squire, Willy, had told him a new contestant had entered the ring and was creating quite a stir. It was probably just the mystery. The man had refused to give his identity. Nothing like a mystery to rile the crowd’s excitement. Hell, had he thought of it, Kenneth might have done it himself.
But Willy said the warrior was a skilled competitor, and nearly as strong as Robbie Boyd. Kenneth knew it had to be an exaggeration—he would have heard of such a man before.
He wasn’t worried, but he thought he’d see for himself.
He sat on a bench just on the other side of the gate reserved for the competitors and allowed Willy to wipe the blood and sweat from his brow and fetch him some ale thinned with water as he waited for the next competitors to take the field.
If anything stung more than his pride right now, it was the throbbing in his side. But his ribs were holding up well enough, and the pain wasn’t anything he couldn’t manage. He’d protected his side without being obvious, not wanting to give his opponents a target. Fortunately, the thin shirt and cotun the contestants wore as armor hid the bindings. Often the wrestling event was conducted naked to the chest, but Bruce followed the more modern, “civilized” approach of light armor. Usually, Kenneth found it an impediment, but right now he was grateful for it.
His eyes kept straying to the king’s platform, although he knew she wouldn’t be there. Had she gone already, he wondered? It was embarrassing how tempted he was to go after her and stop her. Though why and how, he didn’t know. She’d already made her feelings clear. Damned clear.
She’d refused him. He still couldn’t believe it.
His mouth tightened and his temper boiled anew. She’d used him. If it weren’t so bloody humiliating, it would be almost humorous. He conveniently ignored the fact that he was the one that had given her the opportunity, and had started this whole mess, by taunting her in the stable.
What was important was that she’d tricked him. Used him, even though she’d known full well that the king wished for an alliance between them. She’d suspected that he wouldn’t have taken her to his bed if he knew her identity and had purposefully kept the truth from him to take her pleasure.
Why was it bothering him so much? It wasn’t anything that hadn’t happened before. He knew there were other women who’d wanted no more from him than she did—a good tumble—but damn it, hearing it from her had been different.
Because it wasn’t what he wanted from her. That was the problem. He was angry at himself because he’d felt something, and she hadn’t.
He didn’t know why, but for the first time in his life he’d felt what could only be described as tenderness for a woman, and his tentative attempts to show it had been rebuffed. He’d told himself the little things he’d noticed when they were making love had been his imagination. The turning from his gaze. The request for him to take off his shirt. Wanting him to go faster.
But it hadn’t been his imagination, damn it.
He took another swig of ale and tried to calm the pounding in his blood. The sense of restless energy. The urge to slam his fist over and over again into a wall.
He needed to calm down, to get himself under control and forget about it. Hell, he should be thanking her. He had enough strife in his
life; he didn’t need it from a woman.
He glanced over to the castle, but the yard was still deserted. Had he missed her, then?
Suddenly, a hush fell over the crowd.
“There he is, my lord,” Willy whispered.
Kenneth’s eyes narrowed on the man entering the arena. He wore a steel helm that covered his face, but even on first glance, Kenneth could see that Willy was right. He was nearly as big and strong-looking as—
Bloody hell.
The blood slid from his face for one frozen moment in time before surging hotter and harder than before. His mouth fell in a flat line and his fists clenched into balls of steel at his side.
Kenneth recognized the man even if the crowd didn’t. Magnus MacKay, the bloody bastard! Apparently, there was nothing he wouldn’t do to see that Kenneth didn’t win. Even take to the field against what Kenneth suspected were the direct orders of the king.
Kenneth watched in icy fury as MacKay played to the crowd, whipping them into a frenzy. MacKay could have defeated the last opponent between him and the final round in a matter of minutes, but drew out the battle with the skill of a born showman. Yet it was more than that, and Kenneth knew it. MacKay was good. One of the best he’d ever seen. But Kenneth was better. And he was going to do what he’d been doing since the day he was born: prove it.
He was a man to be taken seriously, even if his wee wanton in a nun’s habit didn’t think so. Part of him wished she were here to see it. But he wasn’t going to think about her anymore. He was in for the battle of his life, and he couldn’t afford to let anything distract him.
Sangfroid, damn it. He’d better remember it.
* * *
“Surprised to see me, Sutherland?” MacKay taunted as they squared off in the arena a short while later.
They circled one another, each one waiting for the other to make the first move.