Chapter Twenty-Six
Lawful Husband
Siena, March 17, 2012, Dallas, TX · Neave, April 22, 1565, Ulster, Ireland
Emma had seemed confidentRyan would do the session, and that it would open his mind. To what—I couldn’t be sure. In many ways, I was still the old me—too visceral, too rash to jump to conclusions. I hugged myself—and yes, unaccountably vindictive. But all those responses originated in pain, not in unprovoked malice or willful betrayal. If Arianrhod succeeded in guiding Ryan to the heartbreak of old, he’d see that. And then, he’d return my text or answer my call, and I would tell him the side of the story that filthy audio file never could.
So I told myself it was only a matter of time, and I waited.
A few weeks ago, my agent contacted me with a prospective local commission, but I was in no mental state to paint. To keep occupied, I spent my days caring for Austin to the exclusion of everything else and cleaning the house until my eyes watered from bleach fumes. At night, hands raw and feet aching, I tried to read or watch television, but my mind raced and wandered, turning the pages into a blur of letters and movies into background noise.
It was past midnight when, keeling over with exhaustion after a mindless whirlwind of activity, I fell into my bed.
“I’m too spent for a vision,” I protested when the air shifted.
But whoever was in charge never cared for my pleas.
To stop what was coming, I grabbed my phone and tapped the email app. It had become a nightly ritual, but I no longer held my breath. If Ryan were to get in touch with me, it wouldn’t be via email. I bit into my lip. Unless it was to send that hideous legal paperwork.
There was nothing from Ryan. But a message from my friend, Claude, sat at the top of my inbox.
You’re not going to believe this, but I’m coming to Dallas, chérie. Grant booked a show in May at the CiM gallery. Have you heard of it? I know you’re probably still recovering from your move but let me know if you want to show with me. Either way, you must come and see me. Maybe dinner after or drinks? I’ll follow up with dates, etc. What’s a good place if you’re up for dinner? I’ll make the reservation.
Miss you,
Claude
P.S. Happy St. Patrick’s Day ? Hope you’re doing something fun.
I put the phone away and closed my eyes, seeking my grim escape.
***
Whistling at my bedsidetwice per sennight in an obvious post-coital state had become my husband’s custom. A quarter of an hour into the whistling, he addressed me with a self-satisfied smile. “I trust this will do, wife?” Then, at the sight of my mute scorn, he either pressed his lips to the back of my hand or placed a chaste kiss on my forehead with the invariable, “Sweet dreams of revenge.”
If it weren’t for gentle mornings of cuddling with my babe and long afternoons of riding Fionna along the lush hills of Tyrconnell, I’d have surely gone mad. Yet the mornings were brief, and the afternoons unfailingly passed into evenings of hostile suppers and perfunctory whistling.
Today as always, Tiernan O’Donnell sat on my bed, but instead of indulging in marital forgery, he stroked my cheek.
I clenched my jaw.
He shrugged and took his hand away. “My wife, I find myself wedged between the hammer and the anvil. Given the nature of our marriage, I do my utmost to make your life here reasonably pleasant. Yet despite all my efforts—some of which are not without a cost to me—you repay me with loathing and hostility.”
I bit the inside of my lip. For all its distaste, I preferred his whistling.
His eyes glinted with mockery as he shook his head in that feline way of his. “Your enmity disturbs me. What is it you still lack?”
I scoffed and turned away.
“I would that you faced me when I address you, wife.” His voice carried a new note—vexation mixed with displeasure.
“Why would the King of Tyrconnell—” I glared, unable not to, “concern himself with his sham wife’s opinions?”
He cocked his head. “You fancy this marriage a sham?”
“I fancy this marriage a revenge—as you’re wont to remind me—and my title of a wife but a jest.” I didn’t know what drove me to add, “For surely, you don’t lack for women to warm your bed.”
He frowned. “Ciara and Fiadh are but a distraction, wife. I need not tell you lowborn women are no match for a chieftain.”
I blew out a surreptitious breath. What did he want with me? Would that he whistled his turn and left me be.
“You must think me an unfeeling libertine, concerned only with carnal pleasures. Yet I care for your welfare, for it is my duty and desire to keep you, wife.” His voice grew softer as he bent to my ear. “A bit of tenderness mayhap?”
I blinked, struck by the sudden unbridled maleness of him: shoulders broad and square beneath his tunic, locks of copper caressing his prominent forehead, humorous green gaze of a he-lynx trained on my face. Was it my raging loneliness or his unexpected scent of thyme soap and fresh linen that made me shiver so?
His coarse beard rasped my skin, firm hand gripped the back of my head, tongue commenced its quest. His mouth tasted of ale and honey. I sank my hands into his wiry hair, skimmed his muscular neck with my fingertips. His pace heightened as he drew me close, hand flat on my back. My breath quickened, fast and ragged with need.
Yearning for him after dreading his touch but a month past?
I dismissed the small voice and reached out to Benburb through the misty woodlands and the dark loughs.
Where are you now, Earl II of Tyrone? D’you feel in your loins how your foe lays claim to me, tender and willing in his arms? Seethe with rage, then, powerless and malcontent, while your gall wife and painted harlots flinch from what I craved.
My husband untied my laces and parted my neckline. His smile grew tight and self-congratulatory as he bent to lick one breast, then another. His hand brushed downward, contemplating the soft warmth awaiting his revenge, his dominion. My body arched toward him. I am willing.
He took his hand away and laced my neckline.
“M’lord...” I froze, mute and unblinking, my tremulous chest flooding with angry red blotches. My need laid bare.
“Revenge is sweet,” he said, rising. “Sleep well, wife.”
I sat up, trembling and burning, as he walked out. Then, I bolted from bed and stood before the door, on the verge of rushing after him to demand his reasons for not bedding me. To demand that he would.
For two days, I remained in my chamber, drowning in the delusory past, grasping to the chimerical future only to find it slip away in a tangle of lies and missteps. I burned with fever, shook with chills, and begged the gods to free me from the Earl’s bondage and to grant me apathy for my despicable husband.
He returned in two days, whistling even as he sauntered into my chamber with his infuriating stealthy gait.
“You may take your leave, m’lord,” I bit out at the sight of him, my voice shrill and cracking.
He sat on my bed’s edge. “I heard you’ve taken ill, wife.”
I glared. “I’ve not!”
“Had I offended you?”
I lifted my chin and pointed it at the door.
“Was it the kiss? The caress?” Eyes glinting carnivorous green, he placed his hand on my shoulder. A deceivingly soft paw. “I can do that with my own wife, can’t I?”
I swallowed against the mounting drumroll in my ears. Was it not enough to have rubbed the Earl’s face in it that he’d add my debasement to his ledger? Or was he so prideful that he’d have me beg?
“I could ask for divorce!” The words slipped before I could stop them.
His narrowed eyes danced with humor mixed with a spark of malice. “Apologies. I’ll not touch you again, wife.”
“Leave my chamber!” I clenched my fists under the quilt to keep from slapping him.
He grabbed my arms and pressed them into the bed, claws out. “I believe you mean quite the contrary.”
His kiss was hard and brief. Rough, nearly brutal. His scent of thyme, linen, and man rippled through me, dulling thought. He tore the laces from my shift.
My heartbeat pummeled my chest. My lonesomeness was a dull scian gutting me from within.
“Is this what you hunger for?” He drew back. “Or shall I take you at your word and leave?”
I compressed my lips, struggling to rein in my breathing. Receiving no reply, my husband straightened and eyed the door. I pulled him back to me, floundering in shame for acting a beggar.
Traces of humor lingered in his eyes as he removed his tunic. His body was large and thickly muscled, broad chest dusted with copper, husky arousal at full mast.
“You need only say the word, wife.”
I reached for him again, but he didn’t budge. “The word, Lady Neave.”
Heat rushed to my face, throbbing and angry. I needed him. I loathed him. “Surely, you may lay claim to your own wife, m’lord,” I squeezed out.
He stroked my breasts one at a time with a lazy smile. “This isn’t the word I seek.”
My mind and body at war, I pushed his hand away.
He placed it back, warm and steady. “M’lord,” he said, catching my nipple between his thumb and forefinger, “you alone are my lawful husband whom I shall obey, serve, love, and honor, forsaking all other ’til death us depart.” He yanked down the front of my shift, and the thin linen gave way with a sharp ripping sound. “I’m waiting, wife.”
Ah.
“M’lord,” I breathed, “you alone are my lawful husband...”
He gave a low whistle after doing away with what was left of my shift. “To consign such beauty to a specter is wickedness.” His voice softened as he took my face in his hand. “I do wish to make you happy, m’lady. I, alone, ’til death us depart. D’you understand?”
I nodded my consent.
“Give yourself over then.” His body hovered above me with the strength and grace of a beast of prey. “We’ve had our revenge. It’s time to look to the future.”
The humor was gone from his eyes—no more games. And no more kisses, nor caresses.
I recoiled from his blunt intrusion, his careless onslaught. Where was his feline grace? His stealthy manner? He took, took, took—his lovemaking an inquiry into crude self-indulgence. Never had the Earl taken me with such flagrant unconcern.
I stared past him at the ceiling. What a fool I’ve been.
Maybe a fool, but no longer a blushing maiden. Here was this male animal, laboring on top of me, and what he lacked in skill, he made up in size. My need. My need after months of loneliness could be quenched by a lesser man. But I didn’t want a lesser man.
I closed my eyes, and I was back in Benburb. And steel-blue eyes locked with mine. And chestnut hair caressed beautiful shoulders made of ivory. Keep still, a rúnsearc. My Aedan’s large, gentle fingers stroked my jaw and lips, tasting of land, sky, and sea. His sweet, warm mouth grazed my neck, shoulders, breasts. He caught my wrists and pinned them above my head as he took and gave, took and gave, gave, gave, lifting me to the brilliant sky. My Neave, my Neave, my Neave... We found our release, rocking to the sound of our names. My Aedan, my Aedan...
“My Aedan—”
The forbidden name died on my lips as I blinked myself back into the small Tyrconnell chamber, into my husband’s darkening stare.
His face shifted into a tight sardonic grimace.
I swallowed the remnants of my indiscretion, but it was too late for everything.
“A poor excuse for revenge—quite the contrary.” The humor returning to his gaze as he rolled off me was mixed with ice.
He stood and pulled on his English tunic. “You’ve forfeited every word of your oath. A pity.”