She hesitated a moment, glancing between the two men, then gave an uncertain wobble of the head, which Drustan promptly interpreted as a “no.”
“See? I told you so, Da,” Drustan said, relieved that she’d finally looked away from him. Righteous indignation flooded him. “I doona have to seduce maidens, not with so many experienced lasses vying for the pleasure of my bed.” Women might not want to wed him, but that certainly didn’t prevent them from crawling into his bed at every opportunity. Ofttimes he suspected the very rumors about him that drove them from the altar were the same lure that enticed them to seek his bed. Fickle like that, lasses were. Attracted to danger for a night or two, but of no mind to live with it.
When the tiny lass glared at him, he flashed her a puzzled look. Why would she be offended by his prowess with the wenches?
“Forgive my indelicate question, lass,” Silvan said, “but who removed your…er, maidenhead? Was it one of our people?”
Typical that his father couldn’t let it go. It hadn’t been him, and that was all Drustan needed to hear. Under normal circumstances he would have scoured the estate for the erstwhile suitor who’d deflowered and callously abandoned her, and seen to it she was granted whatever recompense she wished, were it one of their own, but his da had thought he had taken her maidenhead, and that offended him.
Dismissing her from his thoughts—in large part to prove to himself that he could—he turned away to find Nell, clear this matter up with her, and procure an edible breakfast, but froze in his tracks when she spoke again.
“He did,” she said, sounding both petulant and irritated.
Drustan pivoted slowly. She looked nearly as shocked by her own words as was he.
She wilted beneath the stress of his regard, then mumbled, “But I wanted him to.”
Drustan was incensed. How dare she accuse him falsely? What if his betrothed heard tell of it? If Anya’s father heard of this wee woman claiming he’d callously deflowered her, then renounced her, he might call off the nuptials!
Whoever she was—she was not going to wreak havoc on his unborn children.
Growling, he crossed the space between them in three swift strides, scooped her up with one arm, and tossed her over his shoulder, a controlling hand splayed on her rump.
A controlling hand that didn’t fail to appreciate that rump, which made him angrier still.
Ignoring his father’s protests, he stalked to the door, jerked it open, and tossed the lying wench out, headfirst, into a prickly bush.
Feeling simultaneously vindicated and like the sorriest rogue in all of Alba, he slammed the door shut, slid the bolt, backed himself against it, and folded his arms over his chest, as if he’d barred the door against something far more dangerous than a simple lying lass. As if Chaos herself was currently wedged in his hedges, clad in irresistible lavender and mating heat.
“And that’s the end of that,” he told Silvan firmly. But it didn’t come out sounding quite as firm as he’d intended. In truth, his voice rose slightly at the end, and his assertion bore a questioning inflection. He scowled to more properly punctuate it, while Silvan gaped at him, speechless.
Had he ever seen his father speechless before? he wondered uneasily.
Somehow, he had a feeling that dumping the lying lass out into the prickly bush hadn’t put an end to anything.
Indeed, he suspected that whatever was going on, it had only begun. Were he a more superstitious man, he might have fancied he heard the creaking wheels of destiny as they turned.
14
Gwen sputtered indignantly as she backed out of the bush, plucking prickly leaves from her hair. There she was, less than twelve hours later, on her hands and knees on the confounded doorstep again.
Incensed, she threw her head back and yelled, “Let me in!”
The door remained firmly shut.
She sat back on her heels and pounded a fist on the door. The argument that had erupted inside the castle was so loud that she knew they’d never hear her over such a racket.
She took a deep breath and reflected upon what she’d just done, thinking that a cigarette would go a long way toward clearing her mind, and a cup of strong coffee might just restore her sanity.
Okay, she admitted, that was abjectly stupid. She’d said singularly the worst thing she could have said, guaranteed to piss him off.
But she’d been through a lot in the past twenty-four hours, and logic hadn’t exactly been the ruling planet in her little universe when Drustan turned his back on her. Emotion, that great big unexplored planet, had been exerting an irresistible pull on her wits. She didn’t have enough practice with emotions to handle them with finesse, and by God, the man made her feel so many that it was simply bewildering.