She didn’t know why, but her breath caught, and she found herself actually looking over her shoulder toward the church doors, which remained firmly shut.
I’m a ninny. Callum is dead. And why would I want him to come back anyway? One marriage of convenience is just as good as another.
It was a lie, of course. Marriage to Callum would have at least been a marriage of desireandconvenience.Romanceshe had banished from her heart. She did not need nor require romance anymore, but desire… Desire she would miss. The flutter of her belly at a look from Callum, the rush of heat that swept through her body when he merely grazed his hand down her arm, the tightening of her core when he kissed her thoroughly. Heat flushed her cheeks at her weakness for a dead man who had made her feel more alive, even in her utter hatred of him, than she had ever felt before or after.
She turned back to the vicar, catching Ross doing the same, as if he might have been expecting someone to protest. She frowned at that, but when the vicar continued the ceremony, she tried to concentrate on what he was saying, though her heart thumped in her ears so loudly she almost missed her cue after Ross had said his vows.
“Lady Constantine Elizabeth Fergussoune,” the vicar said, “wilt thou have this man to be thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, serve him, love, honor, and keep him in sickness and in health; and forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”
Obey. She despised that word. Why should she obey Ross? She was not a dog. He did not have to profess to obey her. As she stood there, heart pounding, stomach knotted, palms now damp in her gloves, she thought about how, despite all Callum’s horrid qualities—and she was sure he’d had millions—he’d not asked her to obey him. He had, in fact, had that language removed from their vows, and he had expressed on multiple occasions that he thought it ridiculous that females were not considered as equals to men. Scandalous notions for a scandalous man.
She smiled, opened her mouth to say the dreaded word that Ross had insisted be kept in the ceremony as not to offend anyone, and then “Ha!” echoed through the church. She clamped her mouth shut, horrified, but quickly realized she had not been the one to speak. “I’d like to see Ross get her to obey him,” came a man’s voice from behind her.
The world seemed to tilt for a moment, Ross and the vicar going blurry. Constantine’s heart skipped several beats.
It could not be.
And yet…
She turned slowly toward the church doors as a collective gasp sounded around her. There at the end of the aisle, near the entrance, stood Callum. Gone was any polish of peerage. The man before her was unkempt, untamed, and looked more like one of his Scottish ancestors, a highlander, than he did a peer of the realm. His skin was bronzed, his beard dark, and his odd clothing was tattered and dirty. But God, he was gloriously beautiful in a wild, wicked way.
Constantine’s stomach immediately flipped, heat gripped her, and spots appeared before her eyes. Then a black veil descended.
Chapter Two
“Don’t touch my wife.” The darkly dangerous tone cut into the haze that had pulled Constantine into a faint. She opened her eyes to find Callum shoving Ross out of his way. Commotion assaulted her from every angle. From somewhere to Constantine’s right, her mother was wailing about the unfairness of it all. The vicar was mumbling that no transgression had been committed as the ceremony had not been completed; therefore, Constantine had not in fact engaged in sin. In the distance, the distinct voice of her close friend Lady Lilias, the Duchess of Greybourne, rang out above the excited chatter of the guests as she asked that everyone depart the church. And in front of Constantine now stood the Duke of Carrington, an old friend of Callum’s, who was clapping him on the back, smiling and exclaiming what a great fortune it was that Callum was alive.
Lady Guinevere, Carrington’s wife and another of Constantine’s close friends, kneeled in front of Constantine, a concerned look upon her face. “Constantine—”
“I must say, Constantine, I had expected you to move on after a year of my being gone,” interrupted Callum’s deep voice as he lowered to his haunches beside Guinevere, “but never in my wildest imaginings—and believe me, there were many of them—did I think you would replace me with my cousin. How very convenient for you.”
Constantine could do no more than gape soundlessly like a fish caught on a line. She was doing a supremely good job of staring at her husband who had just returned from the dead. It was him, wasn’t it? She reached out to touch the faint jagged line that marked the injury he’d received over a year ago, the very one that had sent her rushing to him after nearly five years of trying and failing to completely forget him. Her fingers brushed against the scar that ran down the right side of his face from the outer corner of his eye to the wicked curve of his smirking, full lips.
“Don’t do that,” he said, stiffening and pushing her trembling fingers away.
It was most definitely Callum, but a great deal about him was different. His eyes, for instance, were the same stormy gray but the look in them… Dear Heaven. It was cold, dark, vengeful. And his body, which had always been quite remarkable in form, was now awe inspiring. He looked like he could kill a man with his bare hands. She shivered.
“She’s in shock,” Guinevere said, her tone soothing. Constantine frowned. Was that tone for Callum or her? “You should help her up, Kilgore.”
When Ross started to step around Callum and lean down toward her as if to aid her, Callum sprang up so fast that Constantine yelped in surprise. Callum’s forearm met his cousin in the chest. “I am Kilgore,” Callum bellowed, driving Ross backward toward the group that had formed in front of them, which consisted of the vicar, Guinevere, Carrington, Lilias, and Greybourne. Everyone parted on exclamations and grunts as Callum pinned Ross against the nearest wall and slammed his forearm into Ross’s neck.
Ross’s face mottled red immediately, and as Callum said, “I’ll kill you if you ever, ever try to touch her again,” it occurred to Constantine that Ross was unable to get air.
“Callum!” she shouted, scrambling to her feet. “Release him! He cannot breathe.”
“Good,” Callum responded, not turning toward her, his voice as cold as the wind on a dreary winter day.
“Carrington!” Constantine beseeched the duke, and he seemed to snap out of his stupor.
He closed the distance between Callum and Ross and made to grab the arm that was pinning Ross to the wall.
“I’d not,” a boy’s voice said. “I’ve seen him when in a rage, and you don’t want to touch him.”
“Cal,” the voice continued. Constantine looked around and found a scraggly, scruffy lad—who was not, in fact, a boy but most definitely was not a man—moving swiftly up the aisle toward Callum. His clothing was every bit as tattered and dirty as Callum’s, and he needed someone to attack his mop of black hair with scissors. His clothes hung on his body, accentuating the same gauntness his angular face presented. He looked half-starved. “This wasn’t part of the plan you told me about.”
Ross was wheezing now, his eyes wide with fear but fury was on his face. Ross was no small man, but Callum had half a head on him, and Callum, though not as wide, seemed to be made of unmovable stuff.
“Cal,” the dark-haired lad said again, this time in a sharper voice, when Callum didn’t respond. The lad nudged past Carrington, who went to stop him, but the lad shook his head, giving the duke a quelling look. “He listens to me sometimes.”
