Ruthless (28 page)

He clamped his teeth. He knew why.

When the man made his obscene gestures, he
had seen Muriel forced to such a position.

The oaf had no right to make such odious
remarks about her. Even though she no longer had money and a castle
to inherit, she'd been the daughter of Blackbriar.

He shook his head, ridding himself of her
face. Muriel meant nothing to him.

She warmed his bed. Sated his body.

He had no need for her other than those
duties.

Once he made his final return to Clibrick, he
would seek a bride to bring him wealth and lands.

He would never see Muriel again.

Pain flashed through his chest so quickly he
thought he had imagined it.

It could be naught but a need to belch.

During their day's ride, hapless hares,
unfortunate enough to show themselves, were now boiling in iron
pots. When the mouthwatering aroma drifted to him, Magnus was sure
his pain had been from hunger.

Now he'd cooled his anger, he joined Sweyn
beside the campfire. Feeling dry, warm ground beneath his arse, he
sighed with comfort.

Soon, a servant brought stew to Magnus and
Sweyn. As was his custom, Feradoch joined them.

"If we had not forded the river when we did,
we'd never make it across now," Sweyn said.

"Aye. It'll be a sennight or longer before
the water lowers. 'Tis good we have other business to attend."
Magnus filled his wooden spoon and without waiting for the food to
cool, swallowed it. As it went down, warmth spread through his
chest.

"Clibrick is too peaceful."

"Peaceful? Is that not why we rid our lands
of lawless knaves?" Sweyn asked as he scraped up the last of his
stew.

"Tis better to have villagers fearful of
their betters. They demand less," Feradoch said. "I prefer ridding
villainous louts from the forests on Gunn lands." He swung his
spoon back and forth as if wielding a double-headed axe. "Heads
roll much farther on flat, hard-packed earth."

Ah! At first sight of them when Magnus rode
out with Feradoch, the Gunn villagers ran into their huts and
shuttered their windows. Magnus had oft thought they feared him
because of his reputation as ruthless.

Could it be it was not from him they ran?

o0o

After a restless night, the foster brothers
parted ways the next morn. They thumped each other on the back, as
men who do not like to show affection oft do then left on separate
paths.

Feradoch had not ridden more than half a day
when he found signs of travelers ahead of them. He stopped to peer
from atop a small hillside into the valley below. A small party
journeyed westward. Flashes of bright colored clothing and the
glint of light off well-kept weapons aroused his curiosity. He
tracked them until near dusk then closed the distance between them.
When they charged out of the forest, they found the party bore King
David's livery.

"Hold!" Feradoch held up his right hand, his
sword pointed upward. "By God's graces! How can you be so careless
to let someone overtake you? Do you not know the Highland's abound
with thieves?" He shouted at the men. "Who is in charge here?"

An elderly monk, his cheeks quivering with
fright, advanced his horse a pace.

"I am. I deliver a missive from King David to
the Chief of Clibrick."

What could King David want with his foster
father? 'Twould be easy enough to find out.

"Ye are far off the trail leading to
Clibrick." He lied to the monk with nary a twinge of regret.

He watched the men's reactions. 'Twas
apparent they didn't know the area for they looked surprised and
didn't argue with him. Since dusk fast approached, Feradoch ordered
everyone to make camp for the night. He spoke quietly to his own
men, and once they settled for the night, offered to share their
meal. He always carried well-stocked canvas bags with him, but he
didn't bring them out until he and Magnus parted ways. 'Twas one of
the secrets he and his men kept to themselves.

After plying the monk and his guards with
wine, he wove a story of how dangerous the area had become.

"The way ahead is fraught with lawlessness.
Whilst I and my men can reach the castle in safety, you will surely
be slain by landless knights."

"Once they learn we are sent by the king,
will they not let us go in peace?"

"They kill first without thought as to whom
they slay."

"Your own party is at risk, also?"

"As you can see, we travel lightly with
naught to tempt thieves. Your fine weapons alone are enough to lure
an attack."

"But I must deliver a missive to Chief Angus.
Place it only in his hands, the king said."

The monk acted more like a lass than a man
did for he chewed his upper lip and his eyes pled like an untried
virgin. Feradoch stifled a snort and smiled.

"Well, now, you have naught to worry about."
He leaned close to thump the man's shoulder. "I am Chief Angus'
son. My hands are as his hands, so to speak. I will safely deliver
your message to him while you return to safety. It will be best for
all around."

Feradoch refilled their cups and chuckled.
Often lasses told him they likened his appearance to the Angel
Gabriel come to earth. Now, he used his looks to manipulate the
King's men. After frightening them with tales of brutal killings in
the area, he soothed them with sincere words and biblical
quotes.

"How does a peaceful man such as you travel
with safety?" the monk asked.

Feradoch waved his hand at the warriors
surrounding the campfire. They scowled and were so heavily armed
they appeared to have sprouted weapons from their skins.

"My men protect me, a lone man. But they are
not enough to keep a large party safe."

Afterward, it was easy to convince the monk
he could safely give Feradoch the missive.

At first light, he sent the monk and his men
back from whence they came. He had no qualms about reading King
David's message. When he learned the king intended to marry Muriele
to the man who conquered the infamous Lord Baldor of Blackbriar, he
threw it in the campfire and immediately made plans to thwart
him.

In his early years at Clibrick, he had made
friends with Bruce, a young man studying under the tutelage of the
castle's old priest. Whenever Feradoch grew bored with swiving a
woman, he turned her over to the lustful young man who didn't care
the cast-off lass bore Feradoch's "eye" brand on the hairline above
her nether lips.

When Feradoch was ten and seven, he decided
the priest was unnecessary. Who would question the death of an old
man in his sleep? One moonless night, he straddled the sleeping man
and clamped his hand over the shriveled lips while he pulled the
pillow from beneath the priest's head. It was over quickly.

He rather enjoyed it. It gave him a raging
cockstand. The dying man was stronger than he had anticipated; when
the priest bucked and struggled, trying to throw him off, it was
like being astride a reluctant virgin.

From then on, Bruce heard confessions and
became Chief Angus' scribe. He quickly passed on interesting
tidbits to Feradoch. For a price.

It would be simple for Feradoch to enter the
castle walls secretly in the dead of night. He would have Bruce
write two missives. One supposedly from Olaf stating he wanted an
immediate end to Magnus' presence at Kinbrace. Feradoch would
deliver the other to Olaf when he returned to his home. In the
missive, Angus demanded Olaf order Magnus to return to Clibrick to
wed.

Bruce had access to the Chief of the Morgans
signet ring. Feradoch had stolen his father's before he left. There
would be no questioning the messages. No questioning the priest,
either.

After the midnight mass the day of his return
to Kinbrace, a sharp blade across Bruce's neck would see to it he'd
not be spilling secrets to Magnus about Feradoch's secret
activities and his bountiful supply of reluctant whores.

Several days later, Feradoch and his men
reached their destination. Between the shore of Loch Naver and the
sharp rise of Ben Clibrick, the castle rose atop a lone foothill.
Lush forests on the mountain behind the castle surrounded its back.
On the north side facing the loch, they had cleared the land
leaving it a green meadow. The wind blew wild flowers of every
color in graceful waves, as if they were a continuation of the
sparkling water of the loch.

Small villages dotted the landscape below as
far as the eye could see.

Feradoch's lids narrowed; his lips
thinned.

He sat taller in his saddle.

One day, all this would be his.

o0o

"Another sleepless night, Magnus? Ye look
ready to spill blood at the drop of a feather." Sweyn stepped
backward out of his friend's reach.

"Sleep? 'Tis not from lack of sleep but
because of it."

Magnus deep voice sounded gravely as if he
had shouted all night long. He rubbed briskly at his face, hoping
to release his mind of the dreams plaguing him each night.

Since that wet evening when Feradoch's man
had spoken so crudely of Muriel, each night he relived the times he
had swived her. The dreams were all but real. 'Twas as if he
hovered in the air above the two bodies watching their sexual
struggle to best each other. On awakening, he found he had even
spurted his seed.

In his dreams, he heard every sweet sigh,
soft moan and cry of ecstasy spilling from Muriele's lips. He felt
every kiss he'd fluttered over her naked flesh and watched his
fingers tweak her nipples and caress her breasts. He felt his
tongue lave those same turgid tips afore he suckled.

He teased and tormented her body and brought
her into wave after wave of tension. His buttocks rammed his cock
into her until she begged him for release.

When he emptied his seed, he threw himself
off her and sprawled on his back. Shock jolted through Magnus. It
was not him he watched atop the lass. The faceless man snaked an
arm beneath Muriele's waist. He pulled her tight to his side.
Triumph radiated like a red aura around him. As his gaze met
Magnus', fire sparked like torches from where there should be
eyes.

Lucifer's putrid farts!

Blast his cackling, bloody lips!

Magnus felt an unholy urge to wrest the
faceless bastard from the bed and sling him from atop the highest
tower of Kinbrace. His fingers twitched, wanting to grip Muriele's
golden hair and wind it round them until her face was against
his.

Then he would strangle her.

Enraged, he awoke as quickly as a bolt of
lightning striking the earth.

Magnus shook his head; his lips curled in
anger.

Those close to him suddenly had cause to tend
their personal needs deeper into the line of trees.

He could not blame them.

He hungered for a bloody fight.

For killing.

Muriel, too, was plagued with troubled sleep.
No matter how she prepared the room afore she climbed into bed, she
was either too cold or too hot.

Huh! She was lying to herself. No sooner did
she close her eyes than Magnus stole into her dreams as stealthily
as a fox crept atop wet leaves to pounce on a fat grouse.

Their nights together were so real it near
made her believe he was a sorcerer. As she drifted off to sleep,
his scent floated on the air. The bedchamber, the bedding,
especially his pillow, smelled of leather and spices.

His warm, muscled arms enveloped her, and she
inhaled deeply to capture his tantalizing essence. The coarse hair
on his chest tickled her breasts and tempted her fingers to ply
through it from his collarbone down to his thrusting nipples. She'd
fingered them, liking their hardness and the light hair springing
around them.

He would sprawl on his back and urge her to
explore him. What better way than to straddle him as he had done
her? She could trace the hard muscles of his chest, and run her
palm lightly over the hair there and down where it narrowed to that
exciting place. She rose on her knees and, avoiding touching him
with her woman's place, traced the line leading to the mass of
curls around his maleness. Sitting back on her haunches, she
admired his shaft jutting like an imposing tree surrounded by black
wheat.

He would take just so much teasing before he
would grasp her waist and toss her on her back. She was always
ready for him. Closing her eyes, she could concentrate on his
filling her bit by bit.

His laughter warmed the skin at her throat
when she tried to lock him in her arms, her legs around his hips.
Still he slid away into nothingness as dawn crept over the sleeping
land.

After a night spent with his incredible hands
and lips tormenting her, she awoke throbbing and near ready to
scream from frustration.

He never allowed her to climax.

She sat up in bed, the covers falling around
her waist. Frustrated heat rose to her face. She grabbed Magnus'
pillow, placed it over her crossed legs and pounded it with her
fists until tiny down feathers floated in the air.

Grunda came into the bedchamber like a March
wind shoved her through the doorway. Her eyes twinkled when she saw
Muriele surrounded by a cloud of feathers.

"I told ye 'twas best not to voice a wish,
else Lucifer might grant it! Do ye still welcome Sir Magnus'
absence? He may not be here to order ye about, but I ken ye miss
his bed sport more than ye are willing to admit."

"Miss him? How can I miss a man I dinna
like?"

"Aye. Ye keep telling yerself so and one day
ye might believe it."

"I do believe it. He gives me no choice but
to share his bed."

"Then why do ye bear the same look as Flori
and Ingirid?"

"Huh! What do ye mean?"

"Ye didn't suspect? I thought their dislike
of each other would have made ye curious." Grunda clucked her
tongue and tossed her a warm robe, which Muriele deftly caught.