Betrayed (23 page)

Amber swallowed nervously. One moment she’d been fighting him off, and the next she’d slipped into some far-off place filled with exotic heat that had beguiled her to mind-numbing delirium.

Her taut nipples ached, and she knew exactly what they ached for. She was shameless. She knew the dangers, yet she could not seem to care. Even if she trusted Krayne, she did not trust herself. If she did not stop him now, the words she had to speak would no longer be necessary. “Krayne, please, I really have to—”

His chest crushed her breasts as he leant over her, swallowing any further protest into the heat of his mouth with a passion-filled kiss.

Dear Lord, she was doomed. How could she withstand the flames of fire that licked to her core?

He released her lips to repeat, “Steady yerself.”

Her wrists felt boneless, surely too weak to hold her weight. She pushed back and down, stretching her bared front out before him. Her gaze slid down, to the conical mounds of her upthrust breasts and further, to the smoky silver eyes that feasted.

She felt vulnerable and exposed.

She was burning up with desire and intoxicated on life.

She could not stop this. Not quite yet. Had he not promised fair warning? She would stop him then, aye, she would…

His head came down, and she groaned aloud when his mouth closed over one throbbing nipple. He scraped with his tongue and nipped gently with his teeth, he licked and suckled, slowly and steadily sucking in the hot thread of desire tangled between her thighs until it unwound all the way up her body to the puckered bud of her breast. And then he moved on to the other one.

When he was done, she was writhing wildly for some foreign pleasure that floated just out of touch. Her buttocks rubbed against the coarse hairs on his legs, and she let out a soft groan at the urgency building deep within.

Krayne wasn’t done. He’d only just begun. He bit his tongue on the harsh commands that he would not bark. He could hardly order Amber to lie still and be quiet, when stripping her control had been his utmost goal. Yet, if she wiggled any further up his thighs, her moist slit would be stroking underside the pulsating length of his cock and he’d spurt upon her belly.

He straightened, to put distance between his hardness and all that writhing flesh, and ran his thumbs down her midriff. When he reached her silky triangle and parted the butterfly lips, he was not surprised to find her hot and wet. Using tiny flicks, he made the pearly nub bloom with practised ease. Her body arched high in exquisite pleasure, then came down.

“Christ,” he growled, pulling back his own reflexive spurt.

She was ready. By God, she
had
to be ready.

His own body was sleek with sweat, his shaft primed for entry. All he had to do was slide his hands beneath those bums and lift her over him in one powerful thrust.

Nay, he remembered, almost too late. His sweet wife might no longer be a virgin, but she was inexperienced and her sheath would yet be tight.

Rolling the pad of his thumb over the swollen pearl to keep her fully aroused, he slipped two fingers tentatively inside. They barely fit, and he would not have been able to go further than the first knuckle if she weren’t so wet. She was smaller than he’d ever imagined. How had he possibly forgotten this? Her velvet shroud wrapped around his fingers, clenching and releasing in tiny pulses that sucked him in, a little more with each sensitive vibration. His thumb slowed down to the rhythm that lured his fingers deeper, lengthening into strokes over her sweet nether lips as his fingers slid in and out, and then his entire body bucked to that same beat, squirting his seed in a series of stops and starts. The world came to a silent, black halt. The moment stretched to eternity, then burst apart in a shuddering explosion of stars and left him shaking in hot shivers.

Christ Almighty. What was that?
Krayne snapped his eyes open, realising only then that his fingers had stopped their upward spiral in his own intense peak, far more potent and powerful than he’d ever experienced, even when buried to the hilt inside a woman’s velvet sheath.

He clamped his jaw and crossed his brows, but could not summon any disgust at his total loss of control. And he was unable to stop a grin of unbounded satisfaction when he felt Amber’s heat against his fingers, felt himself filling up once more. He let her draw his fingers in, as she had before. Only…his frown returned. He had reached her end.

Impossible. His fingers were not even fully embedded. He explored a little more, touching the delicate membrane, nothing like the curved bone his tip usually rammed against.

Shock emptied his sacs and his fledgling erection drooped. He was no expert on robbing maidenhoods, but he knew enough to understand what had stopped his fingers.

He slid his fingers free, raising his eyes to graze the wanton, slithering form of his wife. Passion tinged her cheeks and fluttered damp upon her lids, wringing groans edged in torture from those lush, parted lips. He’d pleasured her, aye, though ’twas clear she’d not yet achieved the ultimate peak required to shatter the burning torment.

He could not leave Amber hanging so. Whatever she had done, whatever her reasons, he would not be that cruel.

And she had done much. The days and nights of constant starvation, sending himself to hell and back thrice every hour while he strived to seduce a woman who’d not be seduced, folded around Krayne in a cold, black fog. The curses he’d wasted on the rampant beast inside him who would rape a young, innocent maid. The nightmares that had chased him through his sleep and commanded he do better when the morn broke. The blood, the torn shift, the fear that lurked inside those emerald eyes and pricked his guilt afresh whenever it dared to rest awhile.

The miasma of deceit, lies and intrigue slid down his throat and left an aftertaste of bog-infested slime.

Not only had she run, but she’d run into Graham Douglas’s arms, and there was no longer any reason he could snatch at to chain his temper down.

Krayne changed his mind. He could be that cruel after all. He thrust Amber from his lap and tossed her across the berth. Gathering his discarded towel at his hips, he stood, watching as she clutched one end of the quilted cover and brought it over her nakedness.

Flinging accusations was beyond Krayne. He didn’t trust himself to speak. He snapped his gaze from her and strode to the wardrobe. There he pulled out fresh britches, stockings and a clean white shirt and, bundling the lot beneath his arm, he marched to the door, stopping only to collect his boots on the way out.

Amber clutched the blanket at her throat. He knew. Even had she been capable of rational thought at the time, she’d not have known he could reach so far with those fingers that had filled her, stretched her, rubbed her to a frenzy. With kisses and strokes, he’d taken her higher and higher up a sheer cliff of fire, thunder and light, and there he’d left her to totter on an apex that was both frightening and invigorating.

Amber slid deeper between the sheets and drew the outer quilt up to her nose.

The worst was over. Her secret was out and she welcomed Krayne to challenge what she’d done and why. She did not care that smoking grey had chilled to a frosted glaze. She did not care that the grimace hardened on his jaw was there to stay. She did not care that her body yet ached for the touch of a man she was destined to hate and who quite clearly despised her.

She did not care…

Amber opened her eyes to a row of dust motes dancing above her in a thick beam of weak sunlight, and she knew she’d fallen asleep. She flung her hair back from her face and rolled onto one elbow.

Her gaze connected with sombre grey and she was at once wide-awake.

How long had he been sitting there? All night? She doubted it. His eyes were dark and serious, and very much alert. He’d turned the solid armchair from the table to face the bed, but had not dragged it any closer. His arms were folded, his feet planted firmly on the floor in front of him.

She scrambled upright, bringing the sheets with her, green eyes already engaged with grey to herald the battle that would surely last their lifetime and beyond.

His head cocked a little to the side. “Talk ta me.”

“Now you want to talk?” she attacked. “The single constant I’ve learned to count on since you flung me over your shoulder and dragged me across the Black Burn is that Johnstones never listen.”

“Dinna test my patience, Amber.”

The intolerable man sounded as if he’d been dunked in patience on his birthing day. His voice was cool and even, as if he were sharing a pitcher of ale with an acquaintance, engaged in casual conversation.

“If my potion hadn’t knocked you out,” she reminded him, “you would have raped me.”

Silver flicked into resilient grey. “Ye drugged me?”

“You drugged yourself, you pompous oaf.”

“The wine,” Krayne muttered to himself, then added louder, “Ye drugged me with the wine.”

Her hands flung up and out. “You never
listen.
I didn’t give you the wine, you took it.”

Krayne’s attention faltered as satin sheets slid down her breasts, but not for long. ’Twould take more than Amber’s shameless antics to divert his mind. “Cover yerself, wife.”

Pale cheeks flushed to a bright red as she yanked the sheet back to her throat. “Cast your mind back,” she continued in that piercing tone. “You snatched the cup from my hand. All I cared for was to sink into black oblivion before you raped me.”

“I didna rape ye.”

“Your physical inability to complete that vile act does not absolve you.”

Krayne rubbed his jaw wearily. Amber might not have shoved the wine down his throat, but she had prepared the potion and she’d silently watched him drink. She had drugged him. And, with that, destroyed his last defence.

Now Amber would never know, would never believe, that he’d never intended rape, not beyond that fleeting initial thought. His only proof had drowned in a cup of her witches’ brew. Damn the wildcat and her intrigues. He’d been a better man before one black-haired hellpot had come along to slowly disintegrate his steel wall of control. He felt squashed between two sides of a single gold coin. One half roiled at her calculated scheming, the other mourned a lost truth.

Krayne cursed all feelings to the bottom of a cesspit. “I was drugged,” he improvised, wanting only to proceed. “Ye were not raped. Continue.”

Amber blinked suddenly gritty eyes. He made it sound so simple. As if with the wave of a hand, the world could dismiss its rainbow of colours and be reduced to black-and-white. He did not know the stew of fear and love and hate that had brought her to this ebb.

“I was afraid. I was sure that you would finish what you’d started come morning. You were acting like a crazed demon.”

“I understand,” he said. “The part I’m having difficulty with is that from the moment ye accepted my hand, ye knew that ye’d entwine our marriage in this lie and keep me from yer bed until ye could flee.”

Amber stayed silent.

A rush of unsettling anger pushed Krayne to his feet. Not for the fact that he’d been tricked into taking a wife he’d never wanted—
that
was an anger he could understand. But why should he care that she’d never meant to be a true wife in the first place, that she’d never meant to remain a wife at all?

“Get dressed, Amber. We docked at Annan during the course of the night and I intend ta depart without delay.”

Without waiting for her response, he strode to the door. He knew not which route this path to hell would take them. That they’d both survive the journey seemed too incredible to comprehend. He would not tolerate the chaos of a hellion who chose deceit, drama and treachery at every corner over truth, virtue and honour.

He knew one thing only.

As he stepped through the doorway, Krayne turned and set his wife down with a fearsome stare. “Fer better or worse, ye belong ta me now. I will never let ye go.”

For worse.

Aye, definitely for worse.

Amber belted the leather belt she’d found around her waist. The fawn britches she’d annexed from Krayne’s wardrobe were hopelessly large, but rolled up at the bottom and bound tightly at her waist, they’d neither fall down about her ankles nor trip her.

He wouldn’t let her go?

She pulled the white shirt over her shift, which she’d bundled and tucked into the britches, and folded back the sleeves.

Well, she had no intention of going anywhere. She was going to stay very close to her darling husband, a sharp thorn in his side. Who did he think he was? Who—or should she say
what
—did he think she was? Some possession he’d grudgingly collected along the way and decided he might as well keep?

She found her boots, almost as muddied and bedraggled as the gown she just couldn’t force herself into, and tugged them on. Although the shirt hung to her knees, she felt exposed. She went through the wardrobe again, but found nothing resembling a cloak. As she whirled about, her eyes landed on the sea chest by the door, curved at the top, the whole engraved in images of flat-headed snakes that looked like two-forked demons. She unlatched the domed lid and found an innocuous plaid folded neatly on top. The plaid wrapped about her shoulders twice and fell to her ankles, hiding the indecent britches. Satisfied, her fingers went through her hair, combing out the tangles and platting a single rough braid down the back.

Once she’d washed her face and cleansed her teeth, Amber felt ready to conquer the world. Or, at least, one arrogant Scotsman. She made her way out of the cabin, quite content to fume away at will.

She cupped a hand above her brow to ward off the glare of sun off the water and scanned the empty decks below. She supposed the crew had been given leave to go ashore, but where was Krayne?

A dark premonition trickled down her spine. He wouldn’t have left without her, would he? She discarded the ridiculous notion with a toss of her head and cast her frown toward the seafront market as she descended the steps to the main deck.
You belong to him, remember? He’ll never let you go.

Amber zigzagged slowly across the length of the deck, examining the shadows for one that didn’t sway gently with the breeze or fall with angular precision. Despite the market noise and screeching gulls, the furled sails banging against the masts and gentle swells smacking at the hull, an eerie quiet settled about her.

Something was wrong. Krayne had been in a hurry to set sail, so where was he now?

Thump.
The planks grumbled across the deck. Amber wondered if the swells were bouncing the hull against the sandy bed. That didn’t sound wise, but she supposed Krayne and his crew were familiar with this shoreline and knew what they were doing. Deciding to go in search of Mary instead of worrying about the
Joanna’s
fate, Amber turned back toward the stern.
Thump.
She jumped, a little nervous now. How sturdy was this ship?
Thump. Thump. Thump.

Passion’s teeth. That wasn’t the seabed or the hull. The thudding came from directly below, from the hatch she stood upon.

Amber fell to her knees and slid back the bars that held the hatch door down.

The hatch burst open and a black-headed bear of a man popped up, throwing himself flat on his back at her feet.

“Friggin’ arse-lickin’ vermin scum o’ Satan’s bastard whore,” boomed a voice to match the face that might have been a furry rug but for the piercing blue eyes that came up to meet her stare. He shunted to his feet with obvious difficulty, giving her a glimpse of hands bound at his back, and somehow managed to look contrite beneath that fuzzy beard. “Beggin’ yer forgiveness, ma’am. Didna ken—”

“Never mind that.” Amber cut him short, her heart racing as she measured his formidable bulk and sized her ability to kick him back into that hole. What had she been thinking? For all she knew, Krayne had thrown this man down there for a reason. “Who are you? No,” she ordered when he moved to come closer. “Stay where you are or I’ll scream for help.”

“Hush, lass. I be Hob, second mate ta Cap’n Jack.” His hands struggled behind him, no doubt attempting to free himself. “An’ ye be the Cap’n Wolf’s lady, I ken. Feckless Sim an’ Brown John gae ye as a wee bonnie…” He seemed to think better of finishing that thought and bit down on his lip. “Ye wouldna be havin’ a dagger o’ sorts ta cut me loose, now would ye?”

Amber gave him a dark scowl. “Why should I trust your word?”

He flinched. “Och, lass, maybe I didna introduce myself properly. I be cousin ta Wry Willy McAllister, master sheep herder o’ Wamphray an’ fasted ta Billy Jack’s Janie.”

Her brow rose at the mouthful, but apparently he seemed to think that was all he needed to win her over. “Very well,
Hob,
then explain why Kr—Captain…” Her brow went higher. “Captain Wolf locked you in the—”

“Amber…” The far-off echo came from the hold. “Amber, child, is that you?”

“Mary?” Her glare chilled on the lout before her. He’d been idly chatting the day away while
Mary
was down there?

“An’ Cap’n Jack and the others,” Hob growled.

Krayne!
Amber dropped to her backside and swung her legs inside the black hole. As soon as her foot caught a rung of the rope ladder Hob had used, she rolled onto her stomach and descended. The darkness swallowed her as she fumbled further from the hatch and into the belly. “Krayne…Mary…”

“Over here, bless you, child.” The voice was no more than a wisp.

“This way, lass.”

Was that Alexander, captain of Krayne’s moss-troopers? Her vision adjusted slightly as she felt her way to the voices, enough to see Mary and Alexander sitting back to back, their hands tied to each other and an upright beam.

“Where is Krayne?” Amber demanded as she worked the knotted ropes between them. “Who did this?”

“Robert Maxwell,” Alexander spat out, muttering in a low voice that nevertheless echoed in the hollow hold. “The flea-infested maggot-bloated turd.”

He leapt up as his hands fell free, then immediately staggered and grabbed at the beam with one hand, clutching his ribs with the other. “Captain Jack. Where are ye?”

Helping Mary to her feet, Amber reassured herself that Mary was fine, if frail from the ordeal, and asked again. “Where is Krayne?”

“They took him,” Alexander answered gruffly. “The hoary bastard an’ his troop of bog riders caught me off guard an’ held me at Blackie’s place. But they didna want me, they wanted Krayne, an’ damn the reckless galoot if he didna give himself up fer me.”

“Krayne?” Her heart lurched. “They took Krayne? I don’t understand.”

“The Maxwell bastard’s daft enou’ ta use Krayne ta bribe his way back inta his brother’s favour. Eejit.” Holding his ribs, Alexander stumbled into the darkness before she could demand a better answer. “Captain Ja…ck.” He went down with a bump.

Amber hurried after, to find he’d tripped over an enormous lifeless bulk that must be Captain Jack. She hadn’t the strength to haul the captain across the hold and Alexander was lying quite still beside him.

“Hob,” she remembered, scooting back to Mary and tugging the woman along with her, pushing down the dreaded knowledge that as long as they were all here, no one was saving Krayne. What would they do to him? Where had they taken him? Would they keep him alive long enough to be rescued? By the time she saw Mary safely up on deck and sent Hob down to aid the others, she was shivering from a cold that was bone deep and would not let go.

Krayne will be fine.

Kidnapping is a national pastime to these Scots and they do it for the sheer pleasure of making each other miserable.

No one would dare harm the Grey Wolf.

Nothing helped. Every reassurance simply stressed the fact that Krayne was gone, his life held tenuously in the hands of a man who’d been described as Satan’s bastard whore, amongst other things.

The next hour moved slower than a snail as Amber waited for answers. Mary’s brief show of courage had collapsed under a quaking fit, and Amber had doused her with laudanum pilfered from the medical supplies and put her to bed.

Captain Jack was still unconscious and Alexander looked as if he should be. One eye was swollen shut, his face puffy with yellow bruises, and he couldn’t seem to breathe without holding his ribs and groaning. Hob had fetched the ship’s surgeon from his favourite tavern and all the men had been ensconced below deck ever since.

Feeling she’d given them plenty time, Amber took herself below to the infirmary and burst into the cabin without knocking. Captain Jack lay deathly white and unmoving on the berth, the surgeon at his side. Alexander was slumped in a chair by the porthole, his shirt hanging open to reveal a heavily bandaged chest. Hob stood close to Alexander, hands behind his back. All those capable, turned to look at her ungainly entrance.

She dismissed the stares and set her eyes on Alexander. “What are we going to do about rescuing Krayne?”

“Ye’re nae rescuin’ anyone,” Alexander wheezed. Her brow went up and he added in a voice that belied his pale complexion, “Dinna think ta sway my mind, lass. Ye’ll stay put an’ leave the men ta their business.”

Protest leapt to her tongue, but Amber bit down what would clearly be a waste of precious time. “My husband’s life is at stake. At least tell me what you plan.”

“Ye willna interfere.”

She gave a feminine shudder at the very thought. “Most certainly not.”

His head lolled weakly, then came up with obvious effort. “A rider has been dispatched ta Wamphray fer reinforcements. Meanwhile, Hob will take what men he can ta Maxwell’s hideout an’ keep watch. Dinna fear, lass. Jamie Maxwell willna harm nor see a Johnstone harmed, no since he and Krayne called a truce. He’ll probably skewer his brother Robert afore we can git ta him.”

“Is that it?” Amber peered rather doubtfully at the lone peel tower perched upon a small mound. The barmekin wall was only a couple of feet high and badly weathered in places. Alexander had instructed Hob to go west along the coast to Lochar Water, then follow the river as far as Lochar Moss, a vast stretch of bog wasteland that they’d thankfully skirted. The woodland they were now using for cover, however, bordered just inside the marsh and the few yards they’d encroached on the waterlogged ground was treacherous enough.

Hob shrugged. “The Maxwell bastard has nae lived well since fallin’ out wi’ his brother.”

Amber set her jaw and nodded. Once she’d learnt that Krayne had murdered Jamie Maxwell’s father in retaliation for his own father’s death, she couldn’t bring herself to share in Alexander’s optimism. The two clans seemed to be caught up in a murderous game and Johnstone’s turn was up next.

Besides, she was helping, not interfering.

As for Krayne. At the tender age of twelve, he should have been playing with wooden swords, not flinging daggers at men thrice his age and size. But no. Not her husband. Not when he had a cauldron of vengeance in place of a heart that bubbled instead of beating. She could well believe it of him. And, to use Krayne’s sentiments, she didn’t have to like it.

Amber reined her mare about to address the crew-turned-men-at-arms, all five of them. The rest had been too sodden with drink to sling a boot across the saddle. “Hob and I will go first to scout the area and find the weakest point of entry. Keep yourselves well hidden in the trees until we return.”

At the general rumble of discontent, she raised a brow at Hob. The man owed her for saving him from the hold and she was not above bullying him into obedience with a gentle reminder every so often.

“Ye heard the Lady Wolf,” Hob told the men uncomfortably. “Now cease yer infernal grumblin’.”

Amber wasn’t sure how she felt about the byname she’d received along the way, but it seemed to summon a certain level of respect from this motley band of giants. She slid down from her mare, swishing aside her makeshift plaid cloak to adjust the dagger at her boot while she waited for Hob, then together they stalked from tree to tree to the edge of the wood. Amber muttered something unladylike at the wide stretch of flat moor they’d have to cross to reach the wall that made no shadow whatsoever in the midday sun.

“I go on alone,” Hob grunted.

“Not on your life.”

“Dinna ask more o’ me.” He squinted at her from beneath those shaggy brows. “Cap’n Wolf will have my head fer bringin’ ye this far and my ba—um, other parts if I take ye any further.”

“Very well, I will not ask.” Amber crouched low, flipped her makeshift cloak of plaid over her shoulders, and streaked off in a running crawl before Hob could blink.

She made for the pile of rubble where the wall had crumbled extensively and scrambled over the fallen stones. When her fingers gripped the top boulder, she slowly pulled herself up just far enough to peer over. The courtyard was overgrown with grass and gorse, and seemingly deserted.

Near the gates, brown and peeling with rust, she noted a dilapidated timbered structure and guessed it to be the stables. “Mayhap Robert Maxwell took Krayne directly to Caerlaverock,” she whispered as Hob hauled himself up beside her. She’d heard tell that the Maxwell chief’s stronghold was practically impregnable.

“I beg o’ ye, me lady, go back ta the forest where ’tis safe.”

“Does this look like the perfect time to argue?” She glared at him a long moment, then asked again, “Could it be that Krayne was taken to Caerlaverock and not brought here at all?”

Hob’s sigh was almost comical, a sound of defeat that belonged to a lesser, fallible man. “The Maxwell bastard willna give Cap’n Wolf o’er willy nilly. So far he kens, the crew willna return ta the
Joanna
’til they’ve had their fill o’ ale and whor—um, he doesna expect us ta be released from the hold afore well inta the night.”

“Then they might have locked Krayne in the dungeons and all gone off to negotiate.”

“They’ll nae leave him unguarded.” Hob dashed her hopes.

“You don’t know that.”

“Our orders be ta wait an’ watch.”