Kinsey’s mouth turned up into a satisfied smile. “What better way to show ye mean that than by wedding me, a true Kincaide.”
“I’m to wed Lady Patience by the king’s orders,” he said, careful not to allow his displeasure with the impending wedding to be revealed by his voice. He may not want to wed Patience, but he was, and he would have her respected.
The look of surprise on Kinsey’s face told Brodee she had not known. An image of Lady Patience as he’d first seen her, turning in circles in the courtyard with her hair unbound, feet bare, arms thrown wide while wearing nothing more than an almost-sheer léine, came to his mind. The perfect silhouette of her high, firm breasts was apparently seared in his memory. He didn’t like that. But he was pleased with her unintended revelation that her father held no favor with her. In fact, the man sounded as if he’d been uncaring. It did not soothe Brodee to think she’d been hurt by her father, but it did alleviate some of his worry that she was to spy on him. Some. Not all. He was not a fool.
He clenched his teeth. Why was he thinking upon Patience? Never did his thoughts turn to a lass he had bedded or would bed unless she was lying in front of him. Neither before nor after the joining. Just in the moment during it because that’s all he had to give—a few moments of sin. The women he joined with had known it before the first kiss was ever exchanged. A mingling of bodies did not mean an intertwining of lives, and that rule would not change for Patience. That rule was his shield.
“Ye should ken that some whisper she isban-druidh,” Kinsey told him.
He studied Kinsey’s face. He could not tell if she was regretful to deliver the gossip or not. “What do ye believe?”
She cocked her head, as if carefully considering the question and selecting the perfect answer. “I dunnae. I have nae gotten to ken her much in the time she’s been here, but my brother believed it, and he was her husband.” Those words alone would be damning if Brodee had trusted Kincaide, but the man had possessed no honor. He’d not say that to the man’s sister, though.
“I’ll take what ye’ve told me into account.”
She studied him for a moment, and he got a strange feeling the woman was assessing him and judging him for something. She licked her lips, then slowly said, “Ye may also wish to speak to Father Bisby. He’s our priest, and he cleansed her soul regularly.”
He inclined his head to show he’d heard her as he considered her comments. His gut told him Lady Patience was no more a witch than he a savage beast, but he could not ignore the allegation. To do so would make him look weak. He stood, pushing his chair back, and swept his gaze over the gathered men. He would send for the priest, but first he’d hear what those gathered here had to say. “Does anyone have proof to offer that Patience Kincaide isban-druidh?”
Patience came to a halt upon the threshold of the great hall and sucked in a sharp breath. Black magic, indeed! Why could the Kincaides not focus on the fact that a man named the Savage Slayer was to be their laird? After all, Brodee Blackswell stood like a giant oak—no, not a tree, more like a deadly wolf—in front of the dais glowering like…like the Devil himself! She grinned, rather pleased with her comparison, but the happiness was as fleeting as time itself.
“She made me ill!” Alfred, a younger Kincaide warrior, shouted.
She glared at his back from the shadows of the hood she had pulled over her face. She’d tried to be nice to Alfred, but Silas had convinced the man that he’d gotten sick because she’d put a spell on him.
“Ye’ve proof?” her soon-to-be, possibly ruthless husband asked.
Except he sounded, well, quite reasonable. As she nodded her approval at his sensibleness, the hood on the cape she’d donned when she’d dashed away from William—he had meant to drag her into the great hall dressed only in her léine!—slipped backward, exposing her face.
“Here she is!” a man beside her bellowed, and before she knew what was happening, she was being jostled, then shoved forward. Solid hands pushed her so hard that she staggered, got her foot caught in the hem of her cape, and fell to her knees.
“Hold!” Brodee roared, making her flinch and her ears ring. The hands that had been touching her immediately dropped away. Patience stared at the rushes covering the floor and blinked back the tears that threatened to fall. She knew she needed to stand and face everyone, but not before she got herself under control.
“The next man to lay a hand upon my betrothed,” he continued, “will soon be a man who is missing a hand.”
Brodee Blackswell certainly did have an obsession with cutting off hands. The gruesome thought made her giggle nervously. She slapped a hand over her mouth to muffle it, but she didn’t think it had done much good. Heat rushed to her face and down to her neck, blood rushing in her ears at her embarrassment.
’Tis nae as horrible as ye think, Patience.
The tips of two deerskin shoes suddenly appeared in her line of sight. She blinked to ensure she was not seeing things. Indeed, she was not. The wearer of the shoes rocked back on his heels as if waiting for her to look up. Not feeling ready, she decided to trail her gaze upward slowly to gather her courage. The ankles seemed like an average man’s ankles. That was good. Surely, if Brodee was standing in front of her, the ankles before her would be larger. A man with skinny ankles couldn’t very well be called the Savage Slayer. Of course, these were average ankles, not skinny ones.
She gave her head a little shake to jostle her rambling thoughts to silence and continued her inspection of the man before her. Devil take it! The man’s calves werenotaverage. They bulged with a swell of sinewy muscle that most definitely could be her prospective husband’s. The farther up she got, the more certain she was that Brodee Blackswell stood before her. He had long, extremely well-made legs that he probably used quite adeptly when he fought so as to earn his reputation. And those thighs! She swallowed as her belly tightened.
Marauding Viking thighs are what these are.
“I assure ye, I dunnae pillage, but I am descended from Viking stock,” came a deep voice from above her.
Her already-growing flush was suddenly a raging fire burning up her chest. She tore her gaze from those fine legs and looked up, up, up, past narrow hips and over an impressive expanse of bronzed, banded muscles that made up Brodee’s stomach, and then farther upward, skimming his corded neck and finally settling on his face.
Too handsome to be called the Slayer.
He cocked a russet eyebrow in a perfect arch. “Do ye think so?”
She’d done it again! Let her inner thoughts out.
I need to stuff a piece of cloth in my mouth.
The man’s lips tugged strangely, as if they were trying to form a smile but did not quite know how. “I dunnae believe cloth will be necessary.”
