Authors: Debbie Mazzuca

King of the Isles (15 page)

BOOK: King of the Isles

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Hands on his hips, he scowled down at her. “Are ye tryin’ to tell me ye think I’m the only one who gains from this union?”

“For the most part, yes, but I can’t deny the opportunity to see to the Faes’ safety overrules any misgivings I might have.”

“Ye think ye have misgivin’s. Hah. They are naught compared to mine. Mayhap I should’ve agreed to marry the bairn in the first place. At least she appears to be a biddable lass. One who kens her place.”

Her violet eyes flashed with anger and a glimmer of emotion he couldn’t name. “Fine,” she said, pushing past him with a haughty toss of lustrous black mane. “I will inform Magnus of your decision.”

At the thought of Magnus’s fingers entwined in that shiny fall of hair, of anyone other than Lachlan claiming her soft lips, he reached for her, spinning her around to face him.

“Oh, you are ...” She sputtered, trying to break free of his hold.

He hauled her against him. “Yer betrothed,” he growled. Stopping her midsputter, he tangled his fingers in her hair. “Ye’re mine, no’ Magnus’s.” He cupped the back of her head with both hands then claimed her mouth, erasing the image of Magnus’s hands upon her. She trembled, and the possessive madness that had him in its grip loosened its hold. But he couldn’t let her go, not yet. Intoxicated by her tentative response, the breathy moan against his lips, he deepened the kiss until the desire to take her right then and there in the middle of Magnus’s grand hall all but overrode his fragile hold on his self-restraint.

He eased away, breaking the kiss. At the flustered expression on her beautiful flushed face, he said, “I shall have to remember how well a kiss works to quiet that mouth of yers,” he teased her in hopes she wouldn’t see how deeply she affected him.
Her blood
. How deeply her blood affected him.

Emitting a low growl, she flounced from the hall. His forced laughter followed after her. What the hell had he gotten himself into?

Flickering candles illuminated the glistening snow-covered path from Magnus’s palace to where Lachlan and Gabriel stood awaiting their brides in the frosted night air. Warriors from both armies were in attendance, muttering impatiently, anxious for the ceremony to be over and the celebration to begin.

“Fer Chrissakes, what’s takin’ them so long? ’Tis bloody freezin’ out here.”

Broderick raised a laconic brow. “If you’d worn something besides your highland garb, the cold would not bother you.”

Lachlan glanced down at his plaid. Aye, his friend was right, but since his family could not be here to see him marry, he’d felt a need to have that part of him represented. In his heart he was a highlander, and that would never change. A long-ago memory tried to gain a foothold in his mind, the memory of Janet and the wedding that never took place, both child and mother lost to him in a fiery blaze. Nay, he’d not go there, not today, not ever if he had his way. “I doona ken why they have to make such a production of it,” he said gruffly.

Gabriel studied him for a moment then shrugged. “We’re royalty. It is how it has always been done.”

To the left of them, beneath the tinkling ice-coated branches of an oak tree, three men took up their woodwinds, while two women sat at their harps. The haunting melody they played wove its way through the crowd, drawing their attention to Magnus, who guided his sister down the path toward them. Even the diamond tiara Jorunn wore atop her silvery blond mane could not outshine her luminescent beauty, her appearance as delicate as the layers of gossamer silk that peeked from beneath her white fur cape. She was the very image of what Lachlan as a lad had thought a Faery princess would look like.

Magnus placed Jorunn’s hand in Gabriel’s with a pointed look. Gabriel gave him a curt nod in return. Lachlan couldn’t help but wonder how his friend felt about the position he now found himself in—easier to ponder Gabriel’s feelings than his own, he admitted. At the ominous murmurs filtering through the gathered assembly, Lachlan lifted his gaze and his jaw dropped.

Evangeline stood alone in a velvet gown the color of her eyes. A gown which served to heighten the allure of her womanly curves, the snowy white mounds cradled in the low-cut décolletage. The Faery princess faded in comparison to her. Evangeline was a woman, lush and ripe. A sultry, bold beauty, who caused a reaction so hot and fierce in Lachlan he felt certain that the snow beneath his feet would melt.

He clenched his teeth, shifting in discomfort, all too aware if he didn’t master his feverish response, those gathered would soon know where his thoughts had headed. Fallyn stepped from the throng, shooting a damning look at the men who’d uttered the disparaging remarks against Evangeline. Seemingly willing to overlook her previous anger with her friend, Fallyn took Evangeline’s arm and led her to Lachlan’s side.

He blinked when the white fur cape he’d wished Evangeline wore appeared in his hand. Mouthing a prayer of thanks that his magick had yet to fade, he wrapped it around her slender shoulders. She gaped at him as he firmly tugged the edges together. He shrugged. “Ye’re cold.”

“No, I’m not and how—”

“Aye, ye are. Hush.” He jerked his chin in Broderick’s direction as the man began the ceremony.

Enraptured by the starlike snowflakes falling onto Evangeline’s glossy black mane, the words of the Faes’ marriage ceremony were little more than a dull hum in Lachlan’s ears. He stood so close her shoulder brushed his arm, her warm, floral scent flooding his senses, rendering him oblivious to the cold and anything else but her.

He barely heard the snort of amusement, but the loud clearing of someone’s throat managed to penetrate his enthralled brain. He cursed under his breath when he realized he held the knowing attention of those gathered around him—Evangeline’s included.

“Did ye put a spell on me?” he growled down at her.

Her elegantly arched brows drew together. “What are you talking about?”

“Nothin’,” he muttered, certain despite her denial there was magick afoot this night. If she hadn’t put a spell on him, then the only explanation he could think of was that her blood heightened his awareness of her. “Get on with it,” he ordered Broderick. The sooner he put some distance between them, the better. At least until her magick had ceased to pulsate through his veins.

Broderick glanced down at the parchment he held in his hand, the words of the marriage vows Lachlan had written from his memory of Rory and Aileanna’s ceremony. His cousin’s wife had insisted they have a proper wedding once the kirk had come around and granted them a dispensation.

“We will now bear witness to the union of King Lachlan and Evangeline,” Broderick informed the gathered assemblage.

Out of the corner of his eye, Lachlan noted movement, heard the murmurs of discontent from his men. He swept the crowd with a silencing glare before he returned his gaze to Evangeline, who stood with her head held high, back ramrod straight. She didn’t fool him. He could see past her defiant pose. He took her slender hand in his—the need to keep his distance overridden by the desire to comfort her.

When Broderick asked if either of them knew of any reason their union should not take place, Lachlan barely registered Evangeline’s momentary hesitation as several perfectly good reasons came to his mind.

Knowing it was too late to turn back, he said no at the same time she did.

Lachlan repeated the next of the vows easily enough. He would protect her willingly, see she came to no harm. Cleave only unto her, well, he might have stumbled a wee bit on that one. Not that he wanted anyone else in his bed but her; he just thought it might take some convincing to get her there. He would have stumbled more than a bit on the next vow if he hadn’t thought to remove it. Love was no longer an emotion he felt capable of, and he was glad of it. Nay, neither he nor Evangeline had any illusions as to what their marriage would be.

Lost in his reflections, he’d missed the question Broderick asked of Evangeline. Considering the scowl on her beautiful face, he was confident he knew what it was and grinned.

“He didn’t have to say
that.
”

Broderick rolled his eyes. “He’s a king, Evangeline. He’s a law onto himself.”

Lachlan stifled a laugh at her expression. “Come, ’tis no’ difficult, Evangeline. Repeat after me: I will obey my husband, my king, lord of all he sees.”

She snarled, then muttered the words quickly beneath her breath. Lachlan was quite certain with one word missing. The only one he wanted to hear her say. He bent his head toward her. “I couldna hear ye. Mayhap ye should speak up.”

“I will obey you.” She practically shouted, her hands balled into fists.

He winced then rubbed his ear. “That’s good to ken.”

The ceremony concluded, they stood together to accept the good wishes of those gathered around them. Lachlan noted the dark smudges beneath Evangeline’s eyes, a hint of weariness threading through her melodious voice as she spoke to Riana. When the king of the Far North approached, Lachlan said, “I hope ye willna take offense, Magnus, but Evangeline and I will no’ be takin’ part in the celebrations.”

Magnus’s salacious gaze roved over Evangeline. “I can’t say I blame you. I’d be as anxious to bed her as you are,” he said in a voice loud enough for Evangeline to hear.

At her outraged gasp, Lachlan slid his arm around her shoulders and squeezed a warning. He couldn’t afford for her to take her fury out on the man no matter how much it was deserved. Muttering under her breath, she flung off his arm and stomped to where Fallyn and her sisters now stood.

Tracking Evangeline’s progress, Magnus said, “I wish you luck in breaking that one. You have your work cut out for you.”

The man was a fool if he thought Evangeline’s spirit could be broken. “I wouldna waste the effort tryin’ to do so.” Nor would he want to. Her self-assurance and strength were just two of the things he admired about her. His relief he’d saved her from Magnus evaporated at the knowledge that much more than her beauty and body drew him to her.
Forewarned is forearmed
, he assured himself before addressing Gabriel. “Will ye remain fer the festivities?”

“It seems we shall. We will return to the Isles with you on the morrow, though,” he said before following after Magnus and his sister.

“Broderick?”

The Welsh king drew his narrowed gaze from where Fallyn entertained several warriors, to Lachlan. “Don’t worry, I’d assumed I’d be the one to remain behind. I wouldn’t expect you newlyweds to do so. Besides, I don’t foresee there being any trouble amongst the men. Although there’s a couple I intend on having a word with,” he said, shooting a hard look at the warriors laughing at something Fallyn said.

Lachlan grimaced. It was his responsibility to see to the men, but he didn’t want Magnus anywhere near Evangeline. Considering the lass his friend took to wife, he doubted Gabriel would be enjoying himself this night as Broderick had intimated. As for Lachlan, a part of him hoped he would be. He looked over at the woman he found himself married to. Her back to him, she stood alone, watching the mystical green and blue lights undulating across the sky.

He bid his friend good eve before the thought of bedding Evangeline did more than fire his imagination. Snow crunched underfoot as he walked toward her, but she appeared oblivious to his approach. At least he thought she’d been until he placed his hands on her shoulders and she said, “I would prefer not to attend the celebration, if you don’t mind.”

Her awareness of him shouldn’t have been surprising. Nothing seemed to escape her notice. Nor should he be surprised by her reluctance to attend the festivities. He couldn’t remember ever seeing her take part in the Faes’ celebrations and felt a pang of sympathy for this woman who was now his wife. He wrapped his arms around her, bringing her back to his chest. She stiffened, then just as he thought she meant to bolt, she leaned against him. “I’ve already made our excuses,” he informed her, inhaling her seductive fragrance.

She tipped her head back, the silky strands of her hair tickling his chin. “Are we going back to the caves?”

“Aye, unless ye would prefer we stay in one of the rooms here. I’m sure it can be arranged.”

“No, the cave will be fine.”

His cock hardened in response to her answer. All he could think about was getting her back to their hideaway in the mountain where he’d lay her down on the fur pallet and slowly, inch by inch, strip her of her amethyst gown, mold his hands to the heavy weight of her breasts, and bury his face in the soft pillow they’d be sure to make, to ...

“Where are Bowen and the other steeds?” she asked, interrupting the heated direction of his thoughts.

“We left them at the camp. I didn’t trust the bears. As for Bowen, Aurora didn’t want to leave without him.”

The pleased smile she rewarded him with faded. “I’m afraid I can’t transport us. We’ll have to ask someone else to do so.” She didn’t look particularly happy with the idea.

“’Tis no’ a problem. I can transport us.”

She jerked from his arms and rounded on him, “You? You can transport us? I knew it! I knew you had stolen my magick!”

BOOK: King of the Isles

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