"You cannot be."
Cullen's eyebrows rose at that dismayed whisper from Evelinde d'Aumesbery, his bride-to-be. Moments ago, she'd been warm and willing in his arms, and now she appeared utterly horrified. Mouth turning down grimly, he assured her, "I am."
"Nay, you cannot be the Devil of Donnachaidh," she assured him. "He is… well a Devil. Everyone knows that. And you…" She peered at him helplessly. "You are handsome and sweet and have kind eyes. And you made me feel…" She paused and shook her head firmly. "You cannot be the Devil."
Cullen's expression softened at her words. She found him handsome? He could do without the sweet and kind eyes nonsense, but he liked that she thought him handsome.
"What did I make ye feel?" he growled, moving closer to slide one hand up her arm, suppressing a satisfied smile when she shivered and gasped at the light touch.
"My lady!"
Cullen froze and nearly cursed aloud at the interruption as he became aware of the sound of hoof-beats closing on them. Scowling, he turned a glare on the hapless man who charged into the clearing on a light reddish brown roan.
"Mac." There was no missing the relief in her voice as Evelinde pulled away and turned to greet the man.
"There ye are. I was starting to worry. I—"
Cullen's eyebrows rose as the man's words died and his expression darkened with rage. He followed the fellow's gaze to Evelinde and immediately understood. The woman was a complete and utter mess. Her dress was still damp and torn in at least three places; the worst of which was a long rent from shoulder to waistline. It left one side of her gown gaping open like a flap, giving them both a perfect view of the bruise on her side, visible through the still-damp cloth of her chemise. If that wasn't enough to convince the man his mistress had been attacked, there was also the darkening bruise on her chin, her lips, swollen from his kisses, the knotted mass her hair was, and the still-stunned look on her face.
The fury on the man's expression made Cullen positive he was going to get some welcome exercise to work off the unsatisfied desire still rolling through him, but then he noted the man didn't have a sword. A servant then, he realized with disappointment.
"Ye'd be the Donnachaidh, then?" the man asked, his voice shaking with fury.
"Aye." Cullen answered, supposing his men must have reached the castle before this man had ridden out. If they had mentioned coming across a woman in the woods and their laird staying behind with her, it might even be the reason he'd headed out in search of his mistress. It suggested he was protective of her, and not a coward if he was willing to face the infamous Devil of Donnachaidh for his lady.
As he caught Evelinde by the arm and urged her to her mare, Cullen considered easing the man's mind by explaining he was not the cause of any of her injuries, but then decided against it. He rarely bothered to explain anything. Cullen preferred to let people make up their own minds about things, which was part of the reason he had such a fearsome reputation. Left to their own devices, people almost always chose the most damning explanation for events. That usually worked to his advantage, however. It was quite handy being considered the cruel, heartless Devil of Donnachaidh. His reputation assured most battles were won before they even began. He'd found there was no better weapon in the world than the fear inspired by the ridiculous tales of the Devil of Donnachaidh.
"Thank you," Evelinde murmured, when he lifted her onto her mare.
He glanced at her then to find she was eyeing him with an expression that was both worried and perplexed. For some reason that made him want to kiss her again… so he did. Ignoring the watching servant, Cullen caught her by the back of the neck and drew her head down for a brief hard kiss that made her gasp in surprise. Then he released her, and she sat back up in the saddle. Apparently, the action hadn't been reassuring to her. If anything, she looked more worried as well as more perplexed.
Women are like that though, Cullen thought as he caught the reins of her horse in hand and led it to his own mount. Always thinking, always fretting, and never logical, but that was why God had made men, to protect the silly creatures from themselves.
He hauled himself up into the saddle and turned to eye the servant expectantly. The man glanced from him to his mistress, then ground his teeth together and urged his horse out of the clearing. Cullen followed, drawing Evelinde's horse behind.
With any other woman he would have paid her no more heed than that, but Cullen found himself glancing repeatedly over his shoulder as they rode. He couldn't seem to help himself. Every time he looked back, it was to find her returning the stare, and her expression was different each time. Perplexed, worried, thoughtful… When Cullen glanced back to find a soft smile on her face, it was too much for him. He stopped his horse, drew her mare to a halt as it cantered alongside his mount, and reached out to draw her onto his horse before him.
"Who is he?" Cullen asked as he urged his mount to start moving again.
"Mac," she answered. "He is our stable master… and a friend."
Cullen considered the back of the grizzled man's head, but quickly decided he was no threat. The stable master was not an amorous interest to the girl he was sure. The man's influence was probably more fatherly in nature. From her complete lack of finesse when he'd first kissed her, it seemed obvious his betrothed had never been kissed before. She'd learned quickly though, he thought with satisfaction and allowed the hand he had around her waist to slide up to rest just below one breast. She would please him in bed.
"He thinks I raped ye," he announced, and she jerked in his arms.
"What? No! Why would he think that?" she asked, twisting around to look at him.
Cullen merely raised one eyebrow, his gaze sweeping over her. Evelinde followed his gaze and groaned as she took note of the state she was in, then caught the gaping flap of her gown and tried to draw it up to cover herself, but his arm and hand were in the way.
Sighing, she gave up the effort, and asked, "Why did you not explain?"
Cullen shrugged, the action bringing his hand up higher so it brushed against the bottom of her breast. "I am the Devil of Donnachaidh."
Evelinde peered up at him silently, and Cullen felt himself suddenly uncomfortable under that gaze. He suspected he'd revealed more than he'd intended with those words.
Scowling, he snapped his mouth shut and turned his gaze forward. This was exactly why he didn't like talking.
Cullen remained silent for the rest of the ride, but Evelinde didn't mind. She was caught up in her own thoughts, but found it somewhat difficult to concentrate with his hand brushing repeatedly against her breast. Each time it did, an arrow of anticipation shot through her as her body recalled the pleasure he'd given her in the clearing.
And that was a problem. Evelinde was terribly confused. The Devil of Donnachaidh, or the Duncan as he kept calling himself, wasn't at all what she'd expected. She hadn't felt any fear at all of the man. Even when he'd first appeared in the meadow, she hadn't been frightened so much as startled to find someone next to her.
Evelinde hadn't had much time to think about her upcoming marriage to the Devil of Donnachaidh, but she was sure she wouldn't have imagined he could inspire the passion in her he had. The Devil was supposed to be a cold, heartless, and cruel bastard. He was supposed to have murdered his father and uncle to gain his title as laird of his clan. He was also supposed to have killed his first wife because she produced no bairns for him. Perhaps Evelinde was naive, but it seemed to her a man like that should look cruel and heartless. He should inspire fear in a body the moment one laid eyes on him, and he shouldn't be able to stir the concern and passion in her that Evelinde had experienced back in the clearing.
That was only one of her worries, however. The other was that she feared—after her wanton behavior in the clearing—the man might think her free with her affections. And she hadn't even known he was her betrothed. Did he think she was not just wanton but also the sort of woman who would be unfaithful? Because she had been unfaithful. Perhaps not technically since it turned out he was the man she was to marry, but Evelinde hadn't known that when she was letting him kiss her so passionately and do those other things, and now she was ashamed of herself and afraid of what he thought of her.
Cullen's thumb suddenly brushed across the bottom of her breast, distracting Evelinde again. Glancing up, she noted they had arrived back at d'Aumesbery and were crossing the drawbridge. Her gaze lifted to the men on the wall, and she frowned as she noted how silent they were and how grim their expressions. Obviously, they had noted her condition and were thinking the worst.
Feeling herself blush with embarrassment, Evelinde bit her lip on the instinct to shout out that she hadn't been raped and merely turned her face forward as they passed into the bailey.
Edda was waiting for them at the doors of the keep as they crossed the bailey. Five rugged-looking men in plaids stood around her.
"Your men?" Evelinde asked, her gaze sliding over them. Each and every one towered over Edda, and Edda was not short. Her stepmother stood at least four inches taller than she, so it seemed obvious they were all good-sized men. They stood with arms crossed over their chests and grim expressions on their faces. They didn't look particularly pleased to be there.
Edda, on the other hand, looked like the cat who found the cream. Her smile widened with every step Cullen's mount took as she was better able to see the state her stepdaughter was in.
Evelinde had no doubt the woman was coming to the same conclusions that Mac had, only her stepmother was apparently enjoying these conclusions. She wasn't really surprised. Edda had never liked her and had made no bones about letting her know it. No doubt she'd convinced the king to choose the Devil of Donnachaidh as Evelinde's betrothed in the hopes of ensuring her a miserable future. In fact, she suspected Edda would probably be most upset to know what had really happened. If the odious woman thought for one moment that Evelinde had gained her bruises—not from this man—but in a fall in the river, or that the Duncan had but kissed her and—worse yet—that she'd enjoyed his kisses and caresses, Edda might very well find some way to end this betrothal.
That thought gave Evelinde pause. When she'd ridden out of the bailey the idea of finding a way to end her betrothal to the Devil of Donnachaidh would have been a welcome one. Was it still?
She twisted to look at the man behind her. Cullen's chin was high, his eyes on the people on the stairs, his expression as grim as those of the men they were approaching… but she recalled the soft words of praise he'd given his horse and the affectionate pat he'd offered the animal. His kisses had been passionate and yet not roughly so, while his caresses and touch had been gentle. And when she'd begun to struggle, he'd released her at once, even though, as her betrothed, he really needn't have. He had also handled her gently when he'd lifted her onto her mount, and again when he'd lifted her from her mount to join him on his own horse on the return journey.
All of this made Evelinde wonder now how many of the terrible tales about him were simply that: tales. People assuming they knew what happened and he allowing them to do so.
It was little enough to go on, but more than she'd known before their meeting in the meadow.
Evelinde wasn't yet sure of much about this man, but she was sure about one thing. She was not afraid of him. Her instincts were telling her she was safe in his hands.
It made her positive she did not wish Edda finding out the truth of things. She would not risk the woman bringing an end to this betrothal, only to marry her off to someone she was afraid of, or whom she would find sharing a bed with to be thoroughly repulsive, because Evelinde was quite sure she would not have that problem with this man. He had already stirred passions in her she hadn't known existed.
No, Evelinde decided, she would allow Edda and everyone else to think the worst… and marry this man.
When Cullen reined in his mount and slid off the back of the horse, Evelinde immediately started to slide off unaided, but he was there to catch her by the waist before her feet hit the dirt. Their eyes met briefly as he set her gently on the ground, and she almost smiled her thanks, but then she remembered Edda and glowered instead. She saw surprise flash through his eyes and nearly blurted an apology, but caught it back and instead murmured, "Forgive me, my lord, for what is about to take place. I shall explain later. Just, pray, be the Devil of Donnachaidh as you were with Mac."
Much to her relief, he didn't demand an explanation. One eyebrow merely arched slightly on his forehead, but that was the only reaction he showed.
She turned to walk forward, her steps slow and a bit rigid as her bruising began to pain her. Stiffness was setting in, she realized with a grimace. No doubt it would only worsen in the coming hours.
Her gaze slid to Edda to see the woman was almost in the throes of ecstasy as she watched her approach. Hiding the disgust she felt, Evelinde forced her face to remain solemn and emotionless and paused before her. She wasn't surprised when Edda ignored her altogether and instead turned a wide, approving smile on Cullen.
"Laird Donnachaidh," Edda greeted. "I see you have met our Evelinde. I do hope you are pleased with the betrothal."
"Aye," Cullen grunted, and Evelinde noted the way his eyes shifted to his men in question. Each met his gaze in turn and some silent message seemed to pass between them. Evelinde couldn't read what the message was but suspected it had something to do with Edda.
"Good, good." Her stepmother smiled widely, then quickly tempered the smile to hide her teeth and slid her arm through his to turn him toward the door to the keep. "I should tell you I am the one who chose you to marry our Evelinde, and I admire a man who begins as he means to go on. You need not spare the girl. Beat her as often as you wish. She is healthy and strong and can withstand much. In fact, she is so strong I often wonder if there is not peasant stock somewhere in her ancestry." She ended the little insult with a laugh that faded uncertainly as she tried to lead Cullen to the door of the keep only to find he didn't move.
"Yer priest," Cullen growled when she turned a confused expression up to his face.
Her eyebrows rose. "Father Saunders?"
"Fetch him. We wed and we leave."
"So soon? I—You—" Edda paused, then, apparently deciding she liked the idea of ridding herself of Evelinde so quickly, her wide smile returned. "I shall send for him at once."
Cullen gave a curt nod, caught Evelinde by the arm, and urged her past Edda to enter the keep.
Evelinde bit her lip on the protest that she couldn't possibly be ready to go so quickly. Instead, she tried to think how she could manage to get all her things packed and ready to go in such a short time. The idea of leaving d'Aumesbery was both a painful prospect and a pleasure to contemplate. There were many here she would miss. She had grown up with these people and was now leaving them behind. The idea of being free of Edda, however, was a pleasant one, Evelinde thought, as Cullen left her at the bottom of the stairs and she started up them.
It wasn't until she started up those steps that she realized how much of a problem her injuries were going to be. While walking raised aches and complaints, lifting her legs to mount the stairs made her suck in her breath as pain shot from hip to knee. Oh yes, traveling was going to be most unpleasant, she thought with a sigh.
Gritting her teeth, Evelinde forced herself to ignore the pain and continue upward, telling herself it would pass. A day or two and she would be fine. It was just bruising and stiffness setting in now. She could handle the pain until her body mended. But she knew it would only grow worse over the next hour or so. The thought of having to rush about packing was not a pleasant one, but the thought of riding after the ceremony was enough to bring tears to her eyes.
Her room was empty when she entered. Evelinde put off changing for now and began to pack, working as quickly as she could. She hadn't grown much since she was sixteen years old and had always taken care with her gowns, so while Edda had refused to allow her even one new dress since her father's death, Evelinde still had many clothes from while he'd still lived. They were all somewhat old and faded, perhaps, and a little frayed here and there, but still wearable. She was slowly folding away one such gown in her chest when her chamber door burst open and Mildrede rushed in.
"Oh, my lady! Mac told me—Dear God in heaven," the maid breathed, coming to an abrupt halt when Evelinde straightened and turned to face her.
It was only then Evelinde recalled her bedraggled and bruised state. Wishing she'd taken a moment to change as Cullen had ordered, she quickly assured her, "Cullen did not do this."
"Nay, that Devil you're supposed to marry did," Mildrede said grimly.
"No, I—"