Chapter Eight
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’
~ Rudyard Kipling, “If—”
“Reik!”
Reikart blinked to see Rhys’s fingers snapping in front of his face. Damn. The past had been tugging him down when he needed to be focused on the present. “Sorry.”
“Don’t check out here, Reik. You can’t afford to. One wrong move, and you could be dead.”
“I get it.”
“No,” Rhys said, grabbing Reikart by the neck and pulling him toward him, “you don’t. But you will. Listen to me. Dermot killed Baron John Bellecote when the baron tried to kill me, and Maggie killed Loxton when he tried to kill me.”
“Your wife killed a man?” Reikart asked in surprise.
Rhys nodded. “I told you, these are kill-or-be-killed times. That leaves us to contend with Nigel, Donald, and the new Baron Bellecote—Algien—who is a snake in the grass if ever there was one. He persuaded the Guardians to give Maggie’s castle to Deirdre, and then he persuaded them to give him Deirdre herself in recompense for Maggie wedding me and breaking her betrothal to his father.”
“So Algien wants the castle,” Reikart said simply.
Rhys nodded. “Exactly. But he may well want Deirdre, too. She’s not exactly hard to look at.”
Reikart shifted his weight, an image of her coming to him. Exquisite bone structure. Lush curves. Full lips. Eyes the color of a perfect emerald. Long, black lashes that hid the emotions in those eyes. And that hair… His fingers curled inward, imagining plunging his hands into her shiny, seemingly silky, golden tresses. But it was the eyes that he came back to. They’d been full of pain, and he understood that.
“Jesus H. Christ,” Rhys growled. “Don’t you dare attempt to sleep with Deirdre Irvine.”
Reikart didn’t respond. It shocked him to realize he hadn’t had one single thought about sleeping with the woman. Sex had been his go-to for so long. He could forget himself, forget his own pain, while he was having sex. Contrary to what his brothers believed, he picked his partners very carefully. But it was easier to let his brothers think he’d sleep with anyone with breasts and a heartbeat. In truth, he only hooked up with women who made it damn clear they wanted nothing but a good time. He could give that for an hour or two, but that was all he could give. He didn’t want anything else. He didn’t want to be with anyone who was looking for something more. He’d rather stab himself in the heart than hurt someone with his screwed up state.
“Reik, Goddamn it!” Rhys released him to throw up his hands, which was a classic frustrated-Rhys move. He turned toward the dais and leaned against the edge. “For all we know, Deirdre is like a damn black widow: one bite and you’re dead.”
Reikart grinned at his brother’s back, but then he walked over to him and set a hand on his shoulder. “I promise not to let her bite me, no matter how much she begs.”
Behind them, someone cleared their throat.
Damn. Please don’t be Deirdre.
Reikart turned to find both his uncles and two women, but his gaze collided with eyes as frigid as Alaskan winter air. Deirdre arched her eyebrows. “I can assure ye,” she said, her tone acidic, “I will nae be begging ye to bite me. And do nae,” she warned, “try to use yer tongue on me.”
Reikart’s jaw slipped open, and a quick look to his left told him Rhys was just as surprised by Deirdre’s words as Reikart was. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” he said, assessing the other woman standing before him. She had fiery hair, a burning blue gaze, and a challenging look on her lovely face. This had to be Rhys’s wife, Maggie. She scowled and crossed her arms over her chest. What the hell had she been told about him? He looked to Rhys, who shrugged as if to say,If the shoe fits…
This was Reikart’s own damn fault. He hadn’t cared that his brothers had thought him a player. He’d encouraged it, in fact. But when faced with the wariness and disproval from these two women, especially Deirdre, who needed to trust him, he wished he hadn’t let his brothers think that. Why the hell did it even matter to him? It shouldn’t, but it did. He couldn’t explain it; it just was.
“I do nae think there has,” Deirdre retorted. “I know all about yer womanizing ways, and I can tell ye now, I will nae get on my back for ye, nor will ye be tossing my skirts over my head. We are retrieving a cross together, if it comes to that, and that is it. Do nae think to touch me.”
Of course, it felt like a challenge and made him think about what touching her would feel like. Everything about her looked soft, from her flawless skin to her long hair to the rises and dips of her body. He clenched his jaw against a sudden surge of lust. “Not even a pinkie,” he got out in a perfectly neutral tone. That’s what years of pretending to feel nothing did. It taught you to sound emotionless. He should leave it there, say no more, but she was too damn tempting standing there, and the comment about not using his tongue on her was beating against his apelike male brain. She was righteous and beautiful in her anger, and it was too fun to resist. “Unless you beg for my help.”
She snorted at that, then focused on Rhys. “Now, if ye wish me to risk my life at the English court to get the cross, I wish to know what is so important about it, or at least why I should retrieve it before going to see the Guardians and confessing all I know about the plot to kill King Alexander.”
“You’d do that?” Rhys said, astonishment clear in his voice.
“Aye. Iwillgo to the Guardians. The question is, should I do it now, or should I do it after recovering the cross from Algien?”
