Page 37 of Devil Black

Her cheeks heated. “That is neither here nor there. Why did you wed with me?”

Dougal got to his feet, a deceptively lazy motion. “If you mean to rant at me, let us go upstairs. The servants will be listening.”

“There are no servants.”

“I speak of my men, who do for me about the place. Have some dignity.”

Her eyes opened in surprise, and then she turned and led the way from the hall. She ascended the stone stairs ahead of him, and Dougal found himself admiring her taut backside, the focus of a large part of his fantasies earlier in the day. His palms itched to touch, yet he could wait and hear her out—he possessed at least that much self control.

The chamber they now shared felt warm and cozy; she had made a few changes these last weeks—chairs, and an upholstered bench before the fire, a rug on the cold, stone floor, and a hanging blocking the cold air from the window. Part of him appreciated that, desired the comforts almost as much as he desired her.

She spun to regard him, wild-eyed. “Now we are alone, will you speak to me?”

“Aye.” Damn it, he was still hard; being in her presence acted on him like black magic. “But I will tell you ahead of time I do not appreciate a woman’s moods, nor being held victim to them.”

“Moods?” she echoed, outraged.

He examined her briefly. “I apprehend this unfortunate display is born of your...monthly sensitivities?”

“No! I am not—” In an effort to control her anger, she paused and drew a breath. “I assure you, I am not in the habit of suffering from ‘sensitivities,’ monthly or otherwise.”

“Well, I do no’ appreciate this ill temper.”

“And, am I supposed to worry about what you appreciate?”

Dougal felt his own anger—a dark and terrible thing—sharpen. “Presumably.”

“Think again. Because you care not for my feelings—shut up in this terrible place virtually alone, fated to provide you comfort, and you will not even answer for me one question.”

“I will, if you ask it in a sane manner.”

“Sanity? He asks for sanity, in this madhouse? Why did you wed with me?”

Dougal turned away from her and poured a cup of whisky from the flask that stood ready. “You know why. The King decreed—”

“That is not the reason! A man like you—a robber, an outlaw, a thief of cattle and women—cares nothing for what the King bids him. You hate MacNab, and you wed me to get back at him, to hurt him, did you not?”

Dougal drank deep. “Why ask me questions, if you already know the answers?”

“So. It is as I said before, I am nothing more than a weapon, like a sword or a dirk. Why sleep with me, then? Why not just keep me prisoner, kick me into a corner? Would it not serve the same purpose?”

Annoyance blossomed in Dougal’s head. He sneered, “I sleep with you, woman, because it is my right. Because your body pleases me, and because MacNab will eventually discover you are here. When he does,” Dougal let his gaze flick her again, “I would make sure you already carry my son.”

She gasped and wrapped her arms about herself in a defensive gesture. “That—that is your aim?”

“He will not want you back, if you carry the black devil’s get. Neither will your father, if he turns up looking.”

“My father?”

“Had that no’ occurred to you? I figure ’tis but a matter of time. Someone in this household will talk, and word will get abroad that my new wife looks remarkably like Catherine Maitland.”

“So—” she sounded as if she had been struck, “you sleep with me to…to stake your claim?”

He shrugged with indifference he did not really feel. “Aye, and will you complain of it? You were willing to give yourself to Bertram MacNab for your sister’s sake. Him, or me—where, in your view, is the difference?”

Eyes burning, Isobel stared at him and said nothing.

“You know full well MacNab wanted sons. Should I be any different?”