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He undid his belt and took several of his leather purses from it. “Suit yerself, lass.” He stretched out on the bed, putting his hands behind his head and letting out a long, satisfied grunt. “I’m nae going anywhere. I’m home and ye have no idea what it cost me to get here. I had to marry ye.”

She gave an outraged laugh, but he didn’t react, watching her with a calm, amused expression from under his long black eyelashes, curious at her next move.

Chapter 11

Someone knocked behind Bryanna, and Teasag entered with two trenchers, one in each hand, and put them on the table. There were some sort of oatcakes, as well as bread and pieces of boiled meat, parsnips, and a bowl of something that looked like gray dishwater with grains floating in it. There were also two clay cups. Behind her, Eanar emerged with a clay jar and put it on the table next to the cups.

“I’ll make yer bed, Lord,” said Teasag.

“Teasag…” said Eanar in warning.

“What? He’s the lord, I can tell,” she said, smiling at Raghnall, and something about her flirtatious, submissive tone set outrage burning in the pit of Bryanna’s stomach. Was the woman really flirting with her husband? Especially when she was right there, in the same room.

Suddenly, Bryanna really wanted Eanar and Teasag to leave. She shouldn’t care who flirted with Raghnall. And she shouldn’t fight his battles. He was no one to her. “If you show me where the bedsheets are, I’ll do it myself.”

She felt everyone’s eyes on her. They all froze for a moment. “Ye, Lady?” said Teasag. “But ye’re…”

Right, she wasn’t supposed to offer to make beds, was she? Her high status and whatnot.

“Just hurry up, Teasag.” Raghnall went and sat at the little round table. “My wife and I canna wait to be alone. After all, ’tis our wedding night.”

As he stretched out his long, muscular legs, his tunic tightened over the hard muscles of his chest. Hot damn… Bryanna’s heart skipped a tiny beat. How could this man emanate this aura of power and danger? How could he make the words wedding night sound like the dirtiest, most carnal thing he’d ever said?

While Teasag and Eanar set about making the bed, Bryanna took the chair across the table from him. He poured something that smelled like beer into their cups and handed one to her. He cut the meat with the small eating knife and put a piece in his mouth. As he chewed, his eyes glistened in the dim light of the tallow candle, never moving away from hers.

A shiver ran through her from the impact of something she saw there. She didn’t remember ever feeling anything like this—a desire to sit on his lap and rub against him like a cat.

And that was exactly the reason she shouldn’t. He had too much sex appeal, too much of that macho-something going on. And she was not the only woman who felt it.

The proof was Teasag, who was making the bed and yet throwing glances full of meaning at Raghnall, even with her lover or husband, or whoever Eanar was to her, in the same room.

Bryanna had to eat, so she followed Raghnall’s example and cut a piece from the cold boiled meat and the bread and chewed. They weren’t particularly delicious. There was no salt, just the intense flavor of the mutton. The bread was coarse and dry, and her jaw ached from chewing it.

But it was food and it would make her feel better, so that was all she needed. When Teasag and Eanar left the room, she didn’t feel relieved. On the contrary, the room suddenly shrank to the size of a shoebox. All the air disappeared from the space and the vacuum between them sparked with electricity.

They were alone. The fire in the fireplace crackled and the candles gave soft bursts of flame as fire ate into more of the fat.

He was so strong, she remembered suddenly. So strong he could easily do anything he wanted with her. If he intended this marriage to be consummated, he’d do just that, whether she wanted it or not. She remembered the muscles of steel that had kept her steady on the horse, his powerful arms as he’d lifted her like she weighed nothing. His scent—leather and steel and that earthy, piney whiff of a man—brought a deep longing within her.

He emptied his cup down his throat and took the last bite of bread from his trencher when another knock sounded and Teasag stuck her face in. With a sweet smile, she showed them something through the dark space between the door and the doorframe.

“Ye said something about a lute, Lord…” She cleared her throat and coughed nervously, then stepped in, holding a musical instrument. “There was one back in the storage, but no one kens how to play it around here… Um…” She took a few apprehensive steps towards him. “Mayhap ye’d like this?”

Raghnall’s face lost all expression. He straightened in his chair and held both hands out for the lute as if it was a baby.

As if it was a treasure.

He wiped the dust off its surface with his bare hand, slowly, as though he was caressing skin.

“My thanks,” he said with a raspy voice. “’Twas the only gift my father had ever given me.”

Teasag’s cheeks flushed in delight. “Oh! Would ye play something, Lord? Please?”

He cleared his throat, his expression soft, innocent, his eyes wet and glistening. He wasn’t a medieval warrior anymore, as deadly as a razor blade in the wrong hands, but a boy who’d just touched a wonder.

“Aye,” he said, wiping the rest of the dust off the lute, “I think I will. Only, I need a quill.”

He looked up at her, and Teasag’s lips spread in a wide grin, showing two long front teeth that made her look like an excited squirrel. “I’ll fetch it, Lord.”