Page 27 of When a Scot Gives His Heart
Six
She hated him. Her voice revealed it, even if her words did not. Her words confused him, actually. He pushed branches aside that Marsaili had let swing toward him—purposely, he was certain—as she charged angrily through the woods. Mayhap she simply felt guilty upon seeing him about changing her mind and not wishing to marry him. But that explanation did not even make sense. She had said they had lied to each other, but he had not lied to her about how he felt, and he could have sworn she had not lied to him. He was a fool when it came to her, though, as he had been since the day they had met.
As they passed the stream where he often watered his horses as he was leaving on a trip, he blinked in surprise. He’d been so lost in his own thoughts, he’d not realized the lass was headed in the wrong direction. “The castle is the other way,” he called out, positive she’d not be pleased to hear him speak and even less happy to learn she was going in the wrong direction.
“I’m nae a clot-heid,” she snapped, then turned and marched past him in the other direction. Her chin was tilted stubbornly, and her gaze shot daggers at him as she passed by. They’d have to talk before they reached the castle because once they were there, it would be impossible to do so without prying eyes and ears around, and he wanted answers, though that was foolish, as well. He should let the past die.
As she strode ahead of him, back straight, and shoulders stiff, he knew she needed a moment longer—or more likely a lifetime longer—before her anger would cool, but he did not have a lifetime to wait. But a few minutes would hurt nothing. His eyes were drawn to her backside. In the tattered dress she wore, he could see the curve of her perfect bottom. His fingers twitched with a flood of memories of cupping that round bottom. Desire instantly hardened him, and he jerked his gaze to the safer area of her shoulders.
Except even that was not safe. A recollection of feathering kisses along her creamy shoulder heated his blood. He thought of the kiss from moments before, and he tasted her then, sweet like honey. God’s bones, it had been foolish to kiss her. He’d stood there looking at her, with her mahogany hair in wild disarray, her blue eyes lit like a fire, and her full mouth stoking a flame that had never died in him, and all the yearning, aching, and longing he had worked daily to repress had overcome him. He’d forgotten how powerful the emotions were. They had become like a dull pain that was simply part of his day-to-day life, but with her there, in the flesh, stubborn, prideful, and so breathtakingly lovely, the feelings for her he held within him threatened to drive him to his knees. And he’d wondered if mayhap he’d spun memories that were more powerful than the reality of her. One kiss, and he could know. One kiss, and he could forget her.
But he would never forget her. That one kiss had proven his memories of her, and her ability to elicit desire in him, perfect. She stopped suddenly at the fork in the woods and glanced to the left and right. When she started to go left, he said, “The castle is to the right.”
She surprised him by swinging toward him. “Why did ye kiss me?”
It would be useless folly to tell her the truth. “The memory of ye overcame me,” he said, getting as close to the truth as he dared.
She narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest. “Do nae kiss me again while I am at yer castle,” she said in a threatening tone.
“And if we are nae at my castle?” he replied, unable to quell the urge to banter with her, even after what she had revealed about using him and not caring for him.
Her eyes widened and then grew flinty. She poked him hard in the chest. “What we did together will nae ever be repeated. Do ye ken me? Dunnae try to force yerself on me.”
“Might I remind ye that I did nae ever force myself on ye. I am not so dishonorable.”
“Ye lied to me,” she bit out.
He frowned. “Did ye nae say ye lied, as well?”
She bit down on her lip. “Aye,” she said slowly. “I did say that.”
He was struck suddenly with the feeling that she was hiding something. Perhaps it was simply his male pride that had been wounded, or perhaps since he hid the truth himself, it was making him doubt her. But the doubt tugged at his mind. “Tell me,” he said slowly, watching her carefully, “are ye the mistress of the Earl of Ulster now?”
Vivid, unmistakable hurt flashed in her eyes and twisted his insides. Her lips pressed into a thin, white line, and for a moment, he thought she would not respond. “Nay,” she whispered, the pain in her voice like a lash against his skin. Shewashiding something from him, and he had to know. Years of mourning her and loving her demanded he know. Reason be damned. Self-control be damned.
“If ye were simply entertaining yerself with me, why ye did nae become the earl’s mistress?”
“I…I kinnae say,” she responded, her voice tight and most definitely fearful.
“That’s a shame,” he said, struggling to keep his own voice from revealing the depths of his feelings for her. “I will hear the truth from yer lips, and ye will nae leave my home until I do.”
“What?” she gasped. “Nay! Ye kinnae keep me here.” The panic rioting in her voice confirmed that she had been—was still—lying to him.
He took hold of her arms, his blood racing through his veins. “I will keep ye here until I believe I have the truth.” He heard the coldness, the utter finality in his tone. What he was doing was folly, but he would at least have the truth, if he could not have this woman. And she was hiding it from him. He would wager his life upon that.
When she tried to wrench free, he gripped her tighter. “I have a verra comfortable tower I can lock ye in for months and months.” He would not, of course, but she did not know that.
“Callum, nay! Ye must nae do such a thing.”
“Tell me the truth,” he replied. “Nae spun lies.”
“Ye tell me the truth,” she bellowed, tugging and pulling to be freed. “Did ye ever feel bad about the lies ye told me? Was Edina here and waiting for ye the day ye came home from the Gathering? Did ye tell her of yer unfaithfulness? Is that why ye are nae yet married?”
“Ye cared for me,” he heard himself say. The things she had said before had been to protect herself, to hide that she had cared. He was at once grateful to know and made miserable by the revelation.
“Aye,” she growled. “Are ye satisfied to ken ye hurt me?”
“Marsaili, nay!” He could not allow her to believe that. “I did nae ever want to hurt ye.”
