Perhaps not.
When there should have been anger in his movements, there was indecision. Hesitation. The hand on her hip remained there as he pondered his next move. He made no move to bruise or hurt her. She was too exquisite for that and he did not want to damage her any more than he already was, even if it was only emotional. She was frightened out of her mind. But he should have been dominating and humiliating Fitzgerald.
He should have been sending the English a message.
But he wasn’t.
Eventually, he released her wrists and her little hands slapped at him, eventually falling still on the mattress as if disgusted by the very feel of him. But he remained where he was as if frozen in that position, unable to make a decision as to how to proceed. His men thought he was ravaging her and he very well should be.
Frustration swamped him.
“For years, the English have practiced the immoral act of taking Irish brides on their wedding night,” he said, pushing himself off her. “English lords have demanded first right with the bride if she hails from his lands. Many English bastards have been born in Ireland and Scotland because of this deviant law. You are fortunate that tonight I did not punish you for years of English abuse. But keep in mind that I still might. Displease me and my mercy is at an end. Your brother will come to know what it is like to have someone he loves bear the bastard of the hated enemy.”
Emllyn’s eyes rolled open, gazing at him as tears streamed down her temples. She lay curled up, rolled on herself as if to hide from the world.
“If that is your intention, you will be sorely disappointed,” she whispered. “My brother will not care. If you believe you punish him by harming me, he will laugh at you for it.”
Devlin left her lying on the mattress without another word.
CHAPTER TWO
Emllyn awoke toa surprisingly bright room. After the storm and madness of the night before, all she could feel was a sense of hollowness.
So much had happened since last night.
She lay there for quite some time before realizing she was alone. Facing the wall as she was, she hadn’t been sure. Slowly, she sat up in the big rope bed with the dirty straw mattress. Inevitably, her thoughts turned to de Bermingham. He was such a big man, powerful and overwhelming, that he could have easily taken what he wanted last night. For some reason, he hadn’t.
But she was certain that would not last.
Reconciling herself to her inevitable fate, the fact remained that she was here and, clearly, here to stay. It wasn’t as if de Bermingham would release her. He had a prize in her and he knew it. The only thing she could do was try to survive her situation, one that she had willingly put herself in. That was the truth. De Bermingham hadn’t been wrong when he said it was foolish and stupid.
It had been.
Perhaps she deserved everything that was coming to her.
Gingerly, Emllyn climbed out of bed and tried to assess the damage to the tunic she was wearing, the one de Bermingham had torn. As she struggled to pull the tear together with freezing fingers, she lifted her head to the sounds of noisy gulls, screaming outside of her window. They were riding the sea breezes outside and for a moment, she was no longer the trembling captive of a brutish Irish lord. She watched the birdsand their graceful flight, taking simple pleasure in it. There was something innately soothing about their cry, comforting even. It was something familiar in this horrid alien land. But her comfort was swiftly dashed as the door to the chamber suddenly jolted open.
Emllyn shrieked with fright, arms around her body protectively as she stumbled back against the cold stone wall behind her. Her eyes widened at the sight of Devlin standing in the doorway.
He looked every inch the conquering hero; her impression of him the previous night had been that of darkness and cruelty, but even as she pondered that impression, she also remembered his warm, powerful body against hers. God, he had been so overwhelming and powerful, everything about the man filling her brittle senses.
Now, in the light of a new day, she could see just how large the man truly was; he was wearing leather breeches and a tunic that strained against his broad chest and muscled arms. His hands, those warm and rough things, were as big as her head. His red hair had brilliant golden highlights in the sunlight and the deep blue eyes regarded her carefully.
Emllyn stared back. She had no idea what to say to him but she was fearful he was going to throw her on the bed again and do more than he did to her last night. All things considered, it had been shockingly tame. But perhaps this time, he wouldn’t stop at a hand on her hip. For a moment, they did nothing more than stare at each other as each one reappraised the other. There was re-evaluation in the air.
There was curiosity.
Devlin finally broke the spell.
“So you are awake,” he said with his rolling Irish brogue. “I would assume you are hungry.”
He started to motion to someone standing outside of the door but she stopped him. “I would rather have dry clothing,” she said. “Mayhap it is much to ask, but I would be… grateful. I am cold and my clothing is still wet from last night.”
He looked at her, and at her state of dress, as a big, ugly Irishman entered the room with a hunk of bread in one hand and a rough wooden cup of something in the other. Emllyn eyed the man fearfully and backed away, ending up over near the lancet window as the Irishman set the bread and cup down on the end of the bed. When the man quit the room, Devlin finally spoke.
“I will see what I can find for you,” he said.
He was starting to close the door but she stopped him. “Wait,” she said, coming away from the wall. Her manner was anxious, uncertain, but there was boldness there. “And… and I would like a bath if it is not too much trouble. I have sand everywhere and I would like to clean it off.”
