Page 55 of Highland Storm

“Aye?” There was hope in her voice.

“Di’ ye not see that kiss?”

“Who could have missed that kiss?”

“Aye, well… that,” he reassured his lovely wife, “Is not the mark of a man who would loathe his bride. I’ll vow every witness thereof has been hornier than a two-peckered dog all night long.”

“Even you?”

Jaime grinned lasciviously. “Especially me, wife.”

The entire evening was a lie.

A sham.

A ruse.

A bitter pill to swallow.

The more Keane thought about it, the angrier he became.

“Bed her!” came the cries. “Bed her!” The insistent shouts grew louder, infinitely louder, into to a deafening roar, until the voices nearly shook the rafters.

“Bleed her!”

“Bed her!”

The energy in the hall was palpable, and the more people drank, the more they fueled their own base desires. Despite that he struggled to keep his wits about him, Keane was not immune to it. Ever since that kiss, his nerves had been on edge, ready to shatter with merely a word from his mendacious wife. But all the while she remained silent, sullen and looking like an exquisite little martyr, standing dutifully by his side. He could scarce even look at her now, but he felt her presence like a sharp blade turning in his side.

Once the crowd began to gather around them, pressing ever closer, he gave in, sweeping up his beautiful, treacherous wife into his arms. He carried her out of the hall before the throng could see fit to follow. Squealing with surprise, Lianae clasped her hands about his neck, holding tight as he bore her across the dais, straight to the tower steps. He didn’t bother to look back. He trusted Jaime to stop the guests before marching up the stairs. Ribald jests shot up the stairwell when it became clear the guests would not be allowed to follow in order to witness the bedding—or the bleeding, for that matter. Distasteful affair. It wasn’t his people’s custom and perchance it might be hers, but he wasn’t about to admit witnesses for what he knew was to follow.

His bride was neither a virgin, nor was she his precious lover, and he wasn’t about to stir his cock for this travesty of a union. He wasn’t an animal ready to breed at a moment’s notice—nor would he play the fool.

In perfect silence, he carried Lianae up the tower steps, and the higher he climbed, the more the voices faded away.

He could feel her nails prick the back of his neck, so tight was her grip upon him.

At last, he reached the suite his sister had assigned to them—the same room he’d occupied five years before when he’d come to live, save that tonight, the chamber had been lavished with little luxuries. He pushed open the door to set loose a myriad of scents. Rose petals. Roasted almonds. Vin—the King’s favorite, or so he’d claimed—a gift from the sovereign of Scotland, hand chosen from King Henry’s cellars in Lyons-la-Forêt in France.

Keane had the briefest moment of ill humor over the notion—wondering if in fact the vin might be poisoned. A gift of death for Scotia’s remaining sons and daughters.

Wouldn’t that serve David well? He could keep the crown for himself, without any fear of reprisal—not that Keane had any use for Scotia’s bloody crown.

Then again, he realized Jaime loved the man, and he trusted his sister’s judgment without fail. She’d said she’d come to like the man—far different words than she’d spoken ten years past.

Once inside, Keane kicked the door closed, carrying his wife into the cozy chamber. Halfway inside the room, he set her down on the floor—well away from the bed—and marched straight for the carafe of vin.

“H-have I done aught to displease you?” she asked, incredibly.

Had she done aught to displease him?

Keane coughed, a sound that was part laughter, part something else he could not define. He poured himself a cupful of vin and then met Lianae’s gaze. “Truly? You have the gall to ask such a question?”

Chapter

Nineteen

Lianae froze where she stood, impaled by her husband’s hard, glittering gaze as surely as though it were a killing blade. They must have told him everything by now and he might loathe her for the rest of her days. But at least she trusted him not to harm her—which hardly relieved her terrible sense of guilt.