Beyond the Highland Mist

Page 20

“You desire another.” The purr deepened into a rumble of displeasure.
“Third,” she continued without bothering to respond, “I don’t find your manly wiles even remotely intriguing. You’re not my type …”
“But Adam certainly is, eh?” His jaw clenched and his ebony eyes flashed.
“More so than you,” she lied, thinking that if she could convince him she meant it, he might leave her alone.
“You won’t have him. You are my wife, whether you like it or not. I will not be made a cuckold—”
“You have to care to be made a cuckold.”
“Perhaps I could.” Perhaps he already did and he didn’t have the first inkling why.
“Well, I can’t.”
“Am I so displeasing then?”
“Yes.”
He stared. Gazed about the room. Studied the rafters. No mysterious answer was hovering anywhere to be found.
“The lasses have always found me most comely,” he said finally.
“Maybe that’s part of your problem.”
“Pardon?”
“I don’t like your attitude.”
“My attitude?” he echoed dumbly.
“Right. So get thee from my bed and from my sight and speak no more to me this night.”
“You’re the damnedest lass I’ve ever met.”
“And you’re the most shallow, incorrigible knave of a man I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting.”
“Where do you get all these ideas of me?” he wondered.
“We could start with you being too drunk to show up at your own wedding.”
“Grimm told you? Grimm wouldn’t have told you that!”
“A pox on male bonding.” Adrienne rolled her eyes. “All he would tell me was that you were tending to an uprising. Of your stomach, I hadn’t guessed. The maid who showed me to this room earlier had a fine time telling me. Went on and on about how you and three casks of wine and three women spent the week before our wedding trying to … you know”—Adrienne muttered an unintelligible word—“your brains out.”
“To what my brains out?”
“You know.” Adrienne rolled her eyes.
“I’m afraid I don’t. What was that word again?”
Adrienne looked at him sharply. Was he teasing her? Were his eyes alight with mischief? That half-smile curving his beautiful mouth could absolutely melt the sheet she was clutching, not to mention her will. “Apparently one of them succeeded, because if you had any brains left you’d get out of my sight now,” she snapped.
“It wasn’t three.” Hawk swallowed a laugh.
“No?”
“It was five.”
Adrienne’s jaw clenched. She held her fingers up again. “Fourth—this will be a marriage in name only. Period.”
“Casks of wine, I meant.”
“You are not funny.”
His laughter rolled dangerous and heavy. “Enough. Now we’re going to count the Hawk’s rules.” He held up his hand and began ticking fingers off. “First, you’re my wife, thusly you’ll obey me in all things. If I must command you to my bed, then so be it. Second”—his other hand rose and she flinched, half expecting to be hit, but he cupped her face firmly and glared into her eyes—“you will stay away from Adam. Third, you’ll give all pretense of being delighted to be married to me—both publicly and privately. Fourth, fifth, and sixth, you’ll stay away from Adam. Seventh”—he yanked her from the bed and to her feet in one swift motion—“you’ll explain precisely what you find so displeasing about me, after I make love to you, and eighth, we’re going to have children. Many. Perhaps dozens. Perhaps I’ll simply keep you fat with child from this moment forth.”
Adrienne’s eyes grew wider and wider as he spoke. By the time he got to the children part she was nearing a full panic. She gathered her scattered wits and searched for the most effective weapon. What could she say to keep this man at bay? His ego. His gargantuan ego and manly pride. She had to use it.
“Do what you will. I’ll simply think on Adam.” She stifled a yawn and studied her cuticles.
Hawk stepped back, dropping his hands from her body as if burned. “You’ll simply think on Adam!”
He rubbed his jaw, not quite believing what he’d heard while he stared at the vision before him, half clad in a cloud of transparent froth. Silver-blond hair tumbled around the most beautiful face he had ever beheld. Her face was heart-shaped, her jaw delicate yet surprisingly strong. Her lips were full and velvety plum-rich, and she had spitting silver-gray eyes. She was passion breathing, and she didn’t seem to have a clue about her own beauty. Or she didn’t care. Lust clenched a fist hard around him and squeezed. His ebony eyes narrowed intently. She had creamy skin, beautiful shoulders, a slim waist, sweet flare of hips and legs that climbed all the way up to heaven. Her beauty branded him, claimed him. The lass was sheer perfection. Although the Hawk was not a superstitious man, the words of Grimm’s wish on the falling star chose that moment to resurface in his mind. What exactly had Grimm said?