Kenna swung her legs off the bed and perched on the edge. She had been through family interrogations before—Trulie and Granny had no problem with double-teaming their prisoners. But it was usually over something insignificant, like breaking curfew or borrowing clothes without asking. Kenna folded her hands in her lap and huffed out a weary sigh. She really wasn’t in the mood to be treated like a snotty little brat who'd dared to break the rules. This situation wascomplicated.“Would it kill the two of you to give me a little time? A little breathing room?”
“Don’t give me that attitude. You know I can out stubborn you in a heartbeat. Now, what’s going on?” Trulie shook her finger irritatingly close to the tip of Kenna’s nose as she settled down on the edge of the mattress. Her scowl softened to a look of concern and her voice lowered to an ominous hiss. “You can tell us, Kenna—everything.”
Kenna massaged her temples. The dull throbbing pain had returned. Why had she ever opened her eyes? She should’ve known better. “Ronan did not force himself on me.” She stared wistfully at the tub across the room. If she had just stayed motionless in the bed and played possum, maybe they all would have gone away. The interrogation was inevitable, but she had really hoped to postpone it a bit longer.
“Then why are you claiming to be his wife?” Granny glared down at her like a sharp-eyed hawk about to pounce on its prey. “Out with it, Kenna. Now.”
“And why did you say it publicly?” Trulie chimed in without taking her gaze from Kenna’s face. Kenna could tell by Trulie’s narrowing eyes that oldest sister had kicked into scheming mode and was about to come up with the miserable truth. “You know when you say it publicly, it’s . . . ” Trulie waved a hand as though shooing away a fly. “It’s binding. Everyone considers you man and wife.”
“I’ve heard of such things.” Coira bobbed her head in agreement as she refolded a square of linen for the tenth time. “I’ve even heard tell the woman doesna have to say a word. I’ve heard ’tis just as legal if only the man claims it so.”
“Yes . . . well, it sticks better if they both say it.” Granny leaned forward and propped her elbows on the edge of the bed. “But the question remains, why did Kenna say it too? We all heard her in the bailey.”
“Because it was best for all concerned. It’s done. Ronan is my husband.” Kenna drew her knees up against her chest and backed tighter against the headboard. She shrugged a shoulder, doing her best to adopt a disinterested attitude. Maybe then they would leave her alone in her personally built little corner of hell. “There is really nothing else to say.”
Granny rose and paced to the end of the bed. “I don’t know how the man blackmailed you into it, but you don’t have to become his wife. This might be thirteenth-century Scotland, but we don’t exactly have to play by all its rules.”
Dammit.Why couldn’t they just let it go? It was too late. “He did not blackmail me.” Kenna held up her left hand and placed her right hand over her heart. “He has been nothing but kind, so stop pulling shit out of thin air to explain this situation.” She slid off the bed, steadied herself until the dizziness passed, then stomped across the room. “I admit he kidnapped me and chained me to a tree, but other than that, the man has behaved quite honorably.” And he had. Now it was up to her to keep her word and behave honorably as well.
Trulie hopped up and rushed forward like a coonhound on the scent. “Then why are you saying you’re his wife? All you have to do is tell the truth. It’s simple, Kenna. We’ll just have the verbal agreement annulled.” Trulie halted mid-step and pointed at the door. “And did you just say that son of a bitch chained you to a tree? Why are we even having this conversation? I’ll order him hung by his testicles from the southern tower right this very minute. We’ll even use chains, since he apparently prefers that over ropes.”
“You can’t kill him and I forbid you to torture him. I am his wife because he helped me save Colum. I gave him my word, and now I have to keep it. You know we don’t break our word—not ever.” She clamped her mouth shut. Why did words always explode out of her mouth of their own free will? She had never meant to say them out loud. How could anyone ever understand how she’d felt she had to bargain to save Colum’s life?
She slowly lowered herself to the floor beside the warm bleached stones of the hearth and rested her aching head in her hands, swallowing hard against the sickly dryness of her mouth. Maybe if she repeated the words often enough, they would stop making her feel like throwing up every time she said them. Despondent anger swelled in her chest and closed off her throat. Damn it all. Damn it all to hell.
The cold numbness was coming back. Thank goodness—she couldn’t handle any more emotions. Not now. She wet her lips and pointed first at Granny and then at Trulie. “Swear you will never repeat what I just said. I made the choice.” She fixed each of them with her unblinking gaze. “You know the code—we don’t break our word . . .ever.”
Kenna pulled herself up from the floor and stumbled to the low bench beside the tub of steaming water. She stared down at her pale reflection, then tapped a fingertip against the water’s surface to dispel her scowling image. “I couldn’t stand the pain of living in this world without Colum in it. If we hadn’t gotten him back here in time to be healed . . . ” Her voice broke. She closed her eyes and shied away from the very thought of what would’ve happened.
“And now?” The weight of Trulie’s hand rested gently on her shoulder.
“I haven’t figurednotout just yet. All I know is I have to learn to live without Colum. But at least I will be able to do it knowing he is alive.”
CHAPTER33
Colum leaned heavily against the creaking staff and hitched slowly down the hall. The stone slabs of the floor radiated the cold and dampness up through his bones, darkening his mood even further. How the hell would he get two full skins of whisky back to his rooms if he couldn’t even make it to the larder without this damn crutch?
Lady Trulie had said he’d not completely healed because of the thoughts in his head and the darkness in his heart.“Your heart and mind don’t want to be healed,” she’d said. “You fought me at death’s door. The Fates allow me to heal flesh, but you’re the only one able to heal your soul.”Damn the Fates—and damn the bastard who had bargained away his Kenna, the only part of his heart and soul worth a whit.
Colum halted, glared down at the staff, then flung it to the floor. The bouncing clatter echoed down the long hallway as the stick rolled off into the shadows. If he fell, he fell. He’d just drink more whisky to numb any pain added by crashing to the floor.
The dips and dimples of the rough stone floor threatened to throw him with every dragging step. Damn the stonecutter who'd failed to properly smooth the surface. This deep in the bowels of the keep, flickering torchlight did little to light the way. Colum ignored the nagging pain burning in his hip as he stumbled forward. He yanked the last lit torch in the main passage free of its sconce and slowly made his way down the narrow offshoot leading to the underground storeroom.
Torch held high, he peered through the shadows, straining to see in the darkness. Lore, he’d never realized the whisky larder was so deep in the bowels of the keep. No wonder Cook always sent the kitchen lads in pairs to fetch whatever she needed.
The yellow glow finally reflected on the short squat door he sought. The torch waiting beside the door burst into blue-yellow flames as soon as he ignited the pitch. He wedged the other torch just above the door into the iron ring embedded in the stone wall.
Bending to clear the short portal, he pushed the door open wide so the torchlight from the hall would guide him to the thick candles waiting on the ledge. He held the candle tin up to the torch until the wick of the short fat candle sputtered with flame.
At last.He snorted a determined breath and lifted the candle higher. On to the chore of finding the dark barrels holding the drink that promised to drown his memories. He wrinkled his nose as the candlelight flickered across the stacked barrels housing the mead and ale. The weak-flavored honey wine would not come close to numbing his heart of its pain. He needed strength. He needed bite. He neededuisge beatha, the blessed water of life. Shielding the flame with one hand, he limped along and moved deeper into the room.
A dark shadow scurried past him with an impatientprrrupp.Colum huffed out an irritated growl and shook himself free of the eerie sensation that the darkness held more than the contents of the larder. Damn Mother Sinclair’s cat. He had never liked that lurking black demon.
“Kismet. Off with ye.” If he didn’t ensure the worrisome cat was out of the room before he bolted the door, there would surely be hell to pay when Mother Sinclair found out. Colum feared very few things in this life, but Mother Sinclair had earned his respect from very early on. God help any poor bastard foolish enough to stir her ire.
Kismet responded with another nonchalanttwrppand leaped onto the stack of elusive whisky barrels.
Perhaps the feline wasn’t so bad after all. “I thank ye, Kismet, for showing me what I seek.” Colum balanced the candle tin on a nearby ledge and yanked free one of the empty whisky skins from his belt.
