His Judas Bride by Shehanne Moore Read Free Book Online Page A

depended.
    Only there she stood, in the doorway, the topaz eyes like shards. The ruby lips he could unfortunately only think about kissing set in a defiant line. And the laughter at the long trestle table ceased, as if Wee Murdie, Snosh, and the others sitting there, had all just died.
    His mother, Lady Breanne, had taught him about the rudeness of talking with his mouth full. He shoveled in another spoonful of porridge—a large one—and chewed it around. “What of it?”
    If the chit couldn’t make out a word he said, so much the better.
    “You said half an hour.”
    She could tell the time. Well? Wasn’t that good? So she could also understand this, standing there pretty as she liked, for all her hair wasn’t even combed, he wasn’t for budging.
    “Are you in some kind of a hurry?”
    He frowned. Well, was she? Wanting to leave right away? Because hell, the half hour couldn’t be up . Could it? Not even five minutes of it. And even if it was, what was another ten minutes? Another fifteen for that matter? Meg’s porridge wasn’t just the best, the thickest, honeyed by the bees she let loose on Dunalpin meadow, it was the sweetest, the most delicious, which was why—he reached across the table for the ladle—he was having himself some more.
    “You told me, quite clearly, to be ready in half an hour—”
    “That was then, this is now. Can’t a man eat in peace with his friends?” He sprawled back in the carved wooden chair. Even that was good to sit in when he thought about spending the rest of the day in the saddle. “Me and the boys here, are just having ourselves—”
    “—forty-five minutes ago.”
    Callm concentrated on ignoring the way her eyes smoldered, for the way Wee Murdie’s bulged out their sockets and Snosh sprayed oatmeal globules down his tunic.
    When it came to who was in charge here, he refused to be undermined by the challenge that radiated from the tips of her prettily disordered hair, to the toes of her soft leather boots, peeking out beneath the hem of her midnight blue cloak.
    She was going to marry the turd. Now that she was, his body responding as it did was one thing. As had been clearly demonstrated—forty-five minutes ago, when her insistence they leave now had quite rattled his assurance about who was in charge—he wanted no further dents in his armor. Although he didn’t like women who cowered in fear of him, he refused to be spoken to like this before his men by any woman. He especially refused to be spoken to like this by some Edinburgh educated tinker piece who had somehow imprisoned Dug.
    “What are you?” Deliberately he worked a lump of porridge off his teeth with his tongue. “A speaking clock?”
    “I hardly think so. Then I should have come in here fifteen—”
    “Isn’t that good? Boys, she can count.” He reached for the ale jug. Yes, he would win this battle. “Just wait till she gets there. Then what she’ll be is down on those pretty knees of hers begging me to bring her back here. Oh please, don’t marry me to Monsieur. Oh please, don’t let him touch me. ”
    The ribald laughter was fine. The laughter he could guarantee. Even bask in it a little when he knew the Brotherhood would always back him. That the ale jug was in danger of being ripped from his hand and smacked over his head, and what would happen about it if it did, he could guarantee too. This creature could do with taming.
    The image that flashed in his head wasn’t exactly what he had in mind though. Well, certainly not here in front of everyone. His breath shortened. How the hell did she do that to him?
    And not just that. How could he suffer any pangs about the indignant way her eyes brimmed as if he were a brute, when he sat here fighting to show her he was, of course he was, for five years he had not been able to afford to be otherwise?
    All right, thoughts about how clever it was to guarantee the laughter, when he had a pretty fair idea what she was facing. Ewen, well Snosh was