A wife. The mere thought made his stomach queasy. What would he do with a wife?
He wasn’t the kind of man who needed, let alone wanted, comfort. Hearth. Home. And God forbid, wife.
All he wanted was to be left alone.
Unbidden, an image of his brother Braden and sister-in-law Maggie drifted through his mind. Whenever his sister-in-law looked at his brother, a light so bright came into her eyes that it was blinding.
No one had ever given him such a look.
Fewer than a handful of people had ever looked at him with anything other than scorn or hatred. Not that he needed any tenderness in his life. He’d lived quite well without it. Why would he want it to change now?
Still...
Sin shook his head. No more thoughts on the matter. He would do as Henry wished, but there were ways yet to thwart him. An unconsummated marriage was easy enough to dissolve. He would go to Scotland, find this Raider who had been harassing Henry’s people, put a stop to him, then regain his freedom.
Henry would be happy and he was quite sure Caledonia would as well...
Caledonia.
He snarled at the irony of her name. I hate everything to do with Scotland and its people, and would sooner rot with pestilence than ever put one piece of my body in Scotland. Sin’s vow echoed in his mind.
There had to be some way to stop this marriage.
Disgusted, Sin made his way up the stairs, toward his room.
When he first reached the landing, he thought nothing odd about the hallway outside of his and Caledonia’s room being empty. Not until he heard a rhythmic thumping that echoed from the other side of her door.
With one hand on the hilt of his sword, he paused with a frown to listen.
Thump, thump...thump, thump...thump, thump... He cocked his head and moved closer to the dark oak door and splayed his hand over the wood.
It sounded much like a bed hammering against the wall while two people...
A stab of rage went through him. Especially when he heard the muffled grunts. He curled his hand into a fist.
Nay! Surely Simon knew better than that.
Sin pressed his ear to the door.
There was no mistaking the sound. It was definitely a bed striking the stone wall with a tremendous amount of force. And the rhythm could be nothing else than a man thrusting.
“Simon,” he hissed under his breath, “you’re a dead man.”
Unsheathing his sword, Sin narrowed his eyes and flung open the door to see two lumps beneath the covers, writhing in unison on the bed.
Sin couldn’t remember the last time anything had made him this angry. But for some reason, the thought of Simon deflowering Caledonia made him want blood. Simon’s blood.
Every last tiny drop of it.
His wrath barely leashed, he approached the bed silently, then angled his sword to the small of the largest lump’s back.
Both lumps froze.
“This best not be what I think it is.” Sin tore the blanket from the bed.
Shock rooted him to the floor as he took in the full sight before him.
Simon lay on his side, fully clothed, tied to both the bed and to a lump of pillows with a rope. A gag of linen was stuffed into his mouth. Simon’s hair was tousled all about his head. His surcoat was soaking wet and his eyes were swollen and red, and they burned with a rage that was tangible.
