Page 26 of When a Highlander Weds a Hellion
“Nay,” Broch said, responding to his father in such a chilling voice that Katreine felt her jaw slip open, even as gratefulness enshrouded her.
“But, Son,” Blackswell started to protest, but Broch gave him such a dark look that the man, to Katreine’s amazement, fell silent.
“I will nae have Katreine paraded through the castle for all to see.” His eyes locked on hers, the intensity in them making her shiver. “I will nae have another man looking upon what is only mine to look upon from this day forward.”
It was a declaration to her and to all who were present in the great hall, which included her father and brothers, and Broch’s father and brother, as well as the priest and five warriors from each clan. She inhaled a sharp breath to protest being claimed so, but then she clamped her jaw shut, relief flooding her. Broch had offered her a way out of the folly she’d created, and she would gladly take it, but what of him? She could not allow him to be shamed because of her doing, no matter how angry she was, no matter how much she did not want to wed him,a Blackswell.
“Mayhap,” she said, drawing in a shaky breath, “since the wedding is to happen with such haste, the tradition can be omitted?”
“Nay,” her father and Donell said at once. Her brother’s accusing gaze, a gaze that warned her not to betray her clan, burned into her. “If the Blackswell bastard—”
“Donell!” she gasped, looking to Broch and seeing no indication the slur had bothered him other than the tic that was barely noticeable at his right eye.
“My son was nae born a bastard,” Blackswell growled and reached for his sword, but Broch, to Katreine’s relief, shook his head at his father.
“Nay,” he said, his attention never straying from her. “I’ll nae have bloodshed the day I wed. I’ve been called much worse than a bastard in my lifetime, so dunnae take offense on my account. Let us get on with the ritual. I would be wed this night.”
And without blinking an eye, his gaze boring into her, he offered his sword to his father to hold, and in utter silence, he stripped off his plaid, then spread his arms wide. Her mouth went dry, and her pulse spiked. His skin glowed bronze, his chest was slabs of muscles layered upon each other. His shoulders were wide and appeared as if they could bear the needs of many, and his arms, flexed as they were, made his muscles bulge and her stomach tighten. She sucked in a breath. That same treacherous desire that had drawn her to him the last time they were together was still so powerful within her, even knowing he was forcing her to wed into his despicable family. Maybe he’d known he was a Blackswell all along and had simply been toying with her.
No, that was ridiculous. Broch had killed Blackswell warriors. He would not have done such a thing if he had known he was one of them. Still, Broch must have gotten to the Blackswell, discovered who he was, and decided to betray her. As she looked at him standing there, so powerful, so dangerously enticing, she became angry all over again.
He arched his eyebrows and an amused look, as if he knew she was fighting her desire for him, turned up the corners of his mouth. “Is this bare enough for ye, Katreine? Will this satisfy the tradition so that we ensure our joining will bear fruit in yer womb?”
She could not conjure a quick scathing reply, let alone could her mouth form the words. Instead, her weak mind fabricated a picture of her in his arms, his lips on hers, and the feelings of blissful pleasure he had given her in their one, brief, passionate encounter. His smile grew wider, and she glared at him. Oh, the devil Scot! He knew what she was thinking.
“’Tis nae enough,” Donell said. “Ye must strip all the way.”
Katreine felt her jaw drop at those words. She looked to her father, but he seemed well pleased. Even Broch’s own brother, the murdering Brodee, seemed to have a look of eager anticipation on his face for the shame that awaited his brother. Only William, Blackswell, and his warriors looked angry, but Broch shook his head at his father and William, a subtle warning not to interfere. What was he trying to prove? That nothing they could do to him would shame him? That they could not win? Or was it something else? Something she was missing?
“Is that what ye need, Katreine? For the tradition to be fully met? Do ye need me to strip bare?”
There it was again. The indefinable emotion in his eyes, and yet…and yet she thought he was trying to offer her something. An olive branch, perhaps? A chance for them not to hate each other? There was a small part of her, the part that could recall the kiss and how she had felt after, that hoped there might be something between them, that wanted to take the offer he was extending to her. But then she recalled her dead sister and her mother, who passed in heartbreak soon after, all because of the Blackswells. And she thought upon the raids they’d been enduring, and she pulled the fading edges of her anger around her to cloak herself in it.
“Aye,” she said, and in her mind, she heard the branch he’d held out to her snap. His eyes grew hard, but they were no longer on her. They were locked upon Donell, whose face was twisted with his hatred of Broch, whom he barely knew—except, of course, that he was a Blackswell.
The great hall door swung open, and Cadyn rushed in holding honey and feathers. Katreine blinked, not even realizing Cadyn had departed. He raced toward their father and held out the supplies, but he offered an apologetic look to Broch, a look that made Katreine feel the sharp bite of guilt for a brief moment. Her brother seemed able to look past the fact that Broch was a Blackswell now, though she could not?
“To bind our clans,” her father said, “because we have been bitter enemies, it is my belief that the Blackening should be a Strike Blackening.”
Katreine recoiled at her father’s words. It was one thing to shame Broch, but she would not stand quietly and say nothing at her father’s proposal that Broch walk the castle bridge naked, covered in honey and feathers, and be struck by the warriors of her clan.
“Father—”
“Silence, Katreine,” her father said coldly.
Blackswell smacked a fist into his open palm, his face near purple. “My son will nae—”
“I will,” Broch said, shocking her from her scalp to her toes. “If this will truly settle the feud between the two clans, I will submit to it.”
“It will,” her father said. But something in his voice and in his eyes told her otherwise.
“Father, a word,” she interrupted again.
He did not acknowledge her. Instead, he said to Broch, “Strip.”
Broch’s eyes narrowed upon her father. “Yer daughter spoke to ye,” he said, his tone biting.
Her eyes went wide. Broch was standing up for her.
