Diana Cosby (3 page)

“I . . .” She searched to find the right words. He did nae know her. And as he claimed, her shameful actions were all he could use to draw conclusions of her character. She studied the fierce man, taking in the hard slant of his jaw, the firm etch of his mouth.

How would that mouth feel against hers? Warmth slashed her cheeks. How could she think of such an intimacy? Was she mad? One did nae find someone determined to throttle you attractive.

Shaken, she struggled for control. Nay, from his honed body and fierce stance, this was a man of war, a man seasoned in battle, and a man who didn’t back down from a challenge.

A fact she’d realized too late.

At her silence, his brows slammed together. “You can explain here, or I shall haul you back inside the great room and you can explain to everyone.”

Her heart pounded as she searched for a way to avoid such a crisis. “I am sorry.”

“God’s teeth, you will be.” He reached for her arm.

With expertise culled from years of riding, she leapt on her mare’s back and kicked her forward. Without warning, instead of racing away, her horse whinnied and half-reared.

Rois held her seat—barely. Stunned, she glanced down to find the baron holding her mare’s bridle. “Let her go!”

Cold determination sparked in his eyes. “As you wish.”

Before she realized his intent, the powerful Englishman hauled her from the saddle, then slapped her mare on the rump. Her horse bolted.

Locked within his firm hold, Rois squirmed to break free as her horse galloped beneath the gatehouse. “Have you nay sense?”

“No,” he said, his words tight, “that is your honor.”

She tried again to break free; he held tight. “Release me.”

More frustrated than he’d ever been in his life, and irritated by the attraction that hummed beneath the surface between them, Griffin glared at the chit. “So you can run, disappear, and I never find you?”

She remained silent, the guilt on her face confirming her intent.

“Who are you that you dare stand before Highland lords and spew such blatant lies?” At the flare of panic in her eyes, Griffin used the strategy of his size, and backed her up against the stable door. “The truth.”

Instead of explaining, she turned away, her small pert nose lifting in a defiant tilt.

“Look at me.”

Her gaze remained lowered.

Without hesitation, Griffin leaned his frame flush against hers, too aware of how the soft contours of her body fit snug against his.

Shocked green eyes locked on him, and she began to struggle.

Ignoring his awareness, and the incredibly erotic sensations igniting inside when her body shifted intimately against his, he lowered his head to but a breath away from her face.

“Your name.”

She stilled. Her lower lip wobbled, then her tongue slicked over its lush fullness.

A shot of lust speared him. He gritted his teeth.
Focus on the woman, on the answers needed.
But this close, with her scent of woman and lavender surrounding him, her soft curves pressed snug against his growing hardness, he wrestled with his hold on sanity. Did she not realize what her moving against him made him feel? As he caught her covert glances toward him he realized yes, she did, which blasted helped naught.

Her breathing grew fractured.

Griffin tried not to notice, not to be drawn to the tender softness of her lips. Failed miserably.

“Lo-Lord Monceaux.”

“Griffin,” he whispered, “’tis my name.”

Eyes as pure as the fields of Scotland lifted to his.

“Say it.” For an unexplainable reason, he wanted to hear his name on her lips, the soft roll upon her tongue as if a delicacy tasted. Yes, he had gone over the bloody edge.

A flush darkened her cheeks with each second they lingered, as her scent wove around him, destroying his good intentions to stay away from her.

“Say it!”

In an act of pure rebellion, she closed her eyes. With her face caught in a mix of shadows and whispers of the fading light, she appeared as if she was a fairy sent to tease him, a seductress crafted for his every fantasy.

A fairy? The long ride and the chaos of the day invited such absurd thoughts.

Except shimmers of light played off her smooth skin as if beckoning, inviting him to touch. Griffin tried to ignore the softness of her breath against his mouth, the silkiness of her skin against his own, or wonder about the taste of her full lips against his. A mouth that drew him, made him want. God’s teeth, ’twas madness to consider. ’Twas . . . his wife.

Bedamned. He claimed her lips, needing to discover her taste, to learn if her mouth was as silken as it looked, to know if it fulfilled every dream it promised. Trembling lips gave beneath his own as he took, savored, then angled her head to take the kiss deeper.

Her body stiffened against his, a split second before she pushed against him to break free.

Shamed by his actions, Griffin pulled back. The paleness of her face and the fear in her eyes destroyed any lingering desire. But her taste infused him, invited him back.

“Never would I harm you,” he whispered.

“As if you expect me to believe you?”

“You can. Trust me.” Was he insane? Except, for an unexplainable reason, he found this woman’s opinion of him mattered. He wished he could owe his need for her to trust him to his oaths as a knight. But something about her moved him, which made not a whit of sense.

As he stared at her, her expression of confusion crumbled to wariness, a potent reminder of their situation.

On a curse, Griffin caught her hand, hauled her with him as he started toward the keep.

She gasped. “What are you doing?”

He shot a cold look over his shoulder. “Taking you back to the great room where this mayhem began. God’s teeth, there I shall learn the truth!”

Nay! Rois pried her fingers against Lord Monceaux’s hold as he pulled her toward the keep. If he learned the truth, her debacle of a marriage would be for naught and her father’s life would be forfeit.

Her fingers slipped free. She bolted.

“God’s teeth!” Strong hands seized her waist, tugged her against his hard male body.

Frantic, she twisted in an attempt to break free. “I will scream!”

He spun her around. Furious eyes narrowed. “None will stop a husband his right.”

“Bloody Sassenach!”

“’Tis not I who stirred this up. And, my lady,” he said, frustration crushing his each word, “if your disdain reeks for the English, why in bloody hell would you marry one?”

Rois remained silent. Never must he learn her father’s name and his true loyalty to Scotland.

“Fine then,” the baron stated, “if you cannot provide me with answers, no doubt I will find them with Sir Andrew de Moray, William Wallace, or one of the many nobles inside.”

Never would any of the Scots tell him. ’Twas bluster. ’Twas—

Before she could disparage his threat, Lord Monceaux lifted Rois and laid her on his shoulder. Heat slid up her cheeks, and she shoved against his back. “I am nae a sack of oats. Put me down!”

His muscled shoulder bounced against the flat of her stomach as he strode toward the keep. “Give me your word you will not try and run.”

She gasped for breath. “You are insufferable!”

“No,” he drawled, “I am your husband.”

“If you put me down, I will nae run. As your wife, you can trust me.”

Trust her? Far from amused by her false words, Griffin set her before him. From the glint in her eyes, she was concocting a new plan. One he would ensure failed.

“Fine then, walk at my side.” He shot a warning look. “If you again try to run, you will find yourself again over my shoulder—this time, until we are inside the keep.”

Her lips tightened, accenting the smoothness of her skin, the flush creeping up her cheeks, and her full mouth begging for a kiss.

Bedamned! He started across the bailey, keeping her close at his side. He wanted naught but this entire mess over.

Halfway across the worn earth, the hewn doors of the keep swung open. Nobles who had filled the great room poured out. Several warriors glared at Griffin as they moved past. Others shook their heads at the woman. And he swore he heard several whisper condolences.

By the time he reached the doorway with his new wife in tow, Griffin’s mood rivaled that of an irate bear. Frustrated and ready to end this mayhem, he entered.

A guard positioned near the entry stepped forward. “Lord Monceaux, I have a message to give you.”

A message? Unease rolled through him. He nodded.

“Lord Andrew asked that you be informed he and William Wallace are in private discussions with several lords and are nae to be interrupted.”

Like a mace driven, a strong headache slammed Griffin’s temples.

“But,” the guard continued, “he left instructions that you and your wife are given a chamber at Dunadd Castle for the night. He sends his regards, and word that he will speak with you when you break your fast on the morrow.”

On the morrow? Impossible. After delivering the missives this day, he was to meet with a secret contact that lived nearby. Not remain stuck here for the entire night wedded to a woman he’d never met. Not that she was hard to look at. If he’d been introduced to her under different circumstances, she would have caught his interest. But, in this debacle she’d left him no choice.

No. ’Twas he who’d acted out of character. Instead of confronting the false charge, stating that he’d never seen her, when he’d caught the sliver of fear in her eyes, he’d believed when cornered she’d admit her folly.

And for his decision, he paid a fool’s price.

Annoyed he’d allowed a woman to rile his temper, Griffin scanned the great room in hopes of finding another noble aware of his covert aid to the rebels who would identify the woman at his side. Except for two clan chiefs in deep discussion in the far corner, one of whom shot Griffin a menacing look, all others had departed.

’Twould seem discovering who she was would have to wait. Griffin approached the guard. “Please take us to our chamber.”

His wife cleared her throat. “But—”

“Do you wish to continue to walk,” Griffin whispered in her ear, “or do I carry you?”

Face pale, she glanced toward the entry.

“You said I could trust you,” he said beneath his breath.

Cool eyes skewed him. “I did, and I am a woman to honor it,” she whispered back.

Griffin arched a brow. “We shall see.”

As she shifted uneasily at his side, the guard shot the woman a worried look.

No doubt the guard knew her. As he was viewed as their enemy, neither would the man tell him her name. “Lead the way,” Griffin ordered, in hopes his firm tone provoked the Scot. If his
wife
wouldn’t tell him who she was, maybe the guard would slip up and expose a critical detail of her identity en route to their chamber.

Instead, tight-lipped, the Scot gestured for them to follow. The remnants of cooked meat and herbs from the evening meal scented the air as he guided them past the blazing hearth toward the turret.

Griffin’s unwanted wife cast him a worried glance.

As she should. ’Twas not him who started this mess, but by God ’twas him who would finish it.

At the second floor, the Scot led them down the corridor. The spacious hallway reminded him of the MacGruders’ home, but the similarities ended there. The few adornments reflected naught of the grandeur or uniqueness of the many works of art in Lochshire Castle.

A Scottish castle his sister, Nichola, an Englishwoman born and raised, now called her home. A fact easy to understand considering the warmth and acceptance shown her by the MacGruders, unlike his own home in England—Rothfield Castle, inherited upon his parents’ death—which held naught but cold memories. A truth that kept his visits to the ancestral fortress short, and his time away long.

Neither had this day’s events changed anything. With his service to King Edward, combined with his double life as
Wulfe
, little room existed in his life for a woman or wife, much less love.

Love? No, that he would never find. Neither would he look. Too often women were drawn to him for his status and wealth. Long ago he’d abandoned the notion of finding a woman who loved him for himself.

At the second entry, the guard halted and opened the door. “My lord.” Rois recognized her friend’s concern as her own nerves threatened to break her fragile control.

Griffin tugged her inside, shoved the door closed.

Alone.

With her husband.

Hazel eyes studied her with smoldering fury. Anger she’d roused. The English lord’s control told her much of the man, another reason he remained in King Edward’s employ.

“You know him,” Lord Monceaux said as he glanced toward the door.

Rois hesitated. “He is a friend.”

“One who worries about you.”

“It is what friends do.” She glanced toward where his hand held hers. “You may release me.”

He quirked a challenging brow. “May I?”

Another wash of heat rose up her cheeks. “Please.”

The baron held firm.

She swallowed hard. He but toyed with her, a dangerous game she’d begun. Except, ’twas was no game, but a necessity to save her father’s life.

Awareness tingled through her as the Englishman lifted her fingers, studied where a scratch marred the back of one hand, then turned her palm over. He slid his thumb across a hint of calluses earned from working with the horses, and frowned.

“You are nobility.”

She stilled. “How do you know?”

“Your acceptance in a room filled with commanding Scottish lords.”

“I might be a woman sent from the kitchens with ale or wine.”

“You could, but are not.” He traced a finger across a scrape. “You are allowed to work?”

“Unlike the delicate noblewomen of England, I refuse to live within pampered constraints.”

He raised an intrigued brow. “Who are you?”

The determined edge to his voice smothered the wash of civility. Fine, she preferred directness as well. “A woman who is desperate.”

“Explain.” At her silence, his thumb stroked the delicate skin of her wrist with soft intent. “We have the entire night. I shall glean the truth, however necessary.” He scanned the room, his gaze pausing at the bed before shooting her a meaningful stare.

Heat and chills slid through her. She’d overheard whispers of romps, mutters from women who cursed their husband’s touch. Except, cornered in this chamber with a man she’d never met before this night, for an unknown reason, Rois sensed he’d nae hurt her. Or regardless of the veiled threat, take what she would nae willingly give.

Why wasn’t she afraid? More so, terrified of his warrior’s stance, his powerful muscles, and his ruthless intelligence? Mayhap ’twas his eyes. Or, mayhap, as angry as he’d been at first, he had nae touched her with violence or threatened her harm.

Memories of his kiss in the stable swept her mind, the heat, the thoroughness of his mouth’s touch. Never before had a man’s kiss ignited awareness within her until her entire body burned with the wanting. But Griffin’s had.

A man now her husband. A man she’d foolishly wed. A man who wielded his mind with the deftness of a sword.

And, a man who worked for King Edward.

Shaken by her unbidden desire, she looked away. Aye, the man was dangerous. However free from harm, alone in this chamber with this virile warrior, she was far from safe.

Gentle fingers caught her chin, turned her face until their eyes met. “Your name.” At her silence, he lowered his head a degree.

Her breath caught.

“Tell me.”

Her heart pounded as his male scent wrapped around her, tempting her, luring her to tell him, to accept what he offered and so much more.

“I canna.”

He brushed his mouth over hers with sultry promise. “I will know your name.” He skimmed his hand along her jaw, then over the hollow of her neck. “And your every curve. Intimately.”

Her entire body trembled. Rois closed her eyes, tried to convince herself ’twas a dream. Except, the warmth of his fingers against the rapid pulse at her throat assured her this was far from a slumber’s fantasy.

At his touch, her thick chestnut lashes flickered opened. Green eyes riveted on Griffin, the nerves within clouded by desire. His body trembled with need. God’s teeth, he’d believed if the woman thought he’d seduce her, she would tell him her name, and the reason she’d falsely attacked his character. Never had he expected to see his own hunger reflected in her eyes.

A cool September breeze sifted through the arched window, tossing wisps of her chestnut hair against her cheeks, drawing his gaze to her lips. The memory of her potent taste hummed through his mind. Another gust tugged on her gown, outlined her full curves with clarity that a blind man could see.

His body burned and his mind spun with images of them naked, of him sliding deep within her warmth. From the corner of his eye he caught sight of the bed.

“Nay!”

At the panic in her voice he released her hand, but kept her body trapped against his. “We have all night,” he said, drawing out his words. “I will have my answers. The choice of how we spend the time is up to you.”

Cool eyes leveled on him.

He almost laughed. Did she believe him ignorant of her desire, of the way her pulse raced beneath his touch? She wanted him, but her pride or stubbornness refused her to admit such. The same obstinacies guiding her refusal to admit her identity.

At her continued silence, Griffin sighed. “I see you have made your choice.”

A frown edged her brow. “Choice?”

He slid his thumb across her full lower lip. “Of how we will spend the hours until dawn.”

She jerked away.

Tired of her games, ready to end this farce, Griffin grazed the curve of her neck with his mouth. “Yes, enjoying each other’s company is a much better way to collect our thoughts.”

“Do nae.”

The tremble of her voice had him pausing. “Your name then.”

She looked away, but not before he caught her hesitation. Soon she would tell him. Both knew it. He nuzzled her chin and caught her slender waist, drew her full against him, the softness of her body heaven itself.

She gasped.

“I think ’tis time we were introduced. Well past,” he added, ignoring the bite of sarcasm, “since for some reason you decided to toss my life into chaos.”

Her body shuddered. “I never meant to involve you, ’twas only that I needed to protect . . .”

“Who?”

Her gaze darted away. “Myself.”

“From what? Or,” Griffin drawled, “from whom?”

“Please, I do nae wish to involve you.”

Griffin gave a rough laugh. “My lady, claiming you carry my child is far from the way to ensure our paths remain untwined.”

A sigh, slow and filled with distress, fell from her lips. She nodded. “You are right.”

“Tell me who you are.”

“I canna.”

“No,” he said, “you choose not to.”

Guilt swept her face, but she remained silent.

Did she think him so easily dissuaded? She would soon learn otherwise. “We will set aside this discussion for now.”

Green eyes widened with relief. “Truly?”

“Aye.” He claimed her lips softly, slowly, savoring her taste. Her hands came up against his chest; he caught them. Breaking the kiss, he drew her fingers to his mouth. As he nibbled upon each, he shot her a meaningful glance.

“Lord Monceaux—”

“Mmmm.” He turned her hand over and kissed her palm. “’Tis much better than words wasted, is it not?”