Page 15

Chapter

Thirteen

Adara

“ A lmost finished,” Muretta murmured, her fingers nimbly working the laces on Adara’s bodice.

Adara had donned her favorite dress for her second wedding, blood-red and brilliant.

She’d been merely ten and six when she’d been married to Elvin and her body had blossomed since then.

This time, she would have a choice. In everything.

A rightness settled in her as Muretta worked to cinch her up. Since Elvin’s death, Adara had liberally exercised her choices. Raids, revenge, tricking those who had wronged her. It was as if she were making up all the choices she never had in her earlier life.

“Suck in,” Muretta said.

Adara complied though her inhale did nothing to assuage the barbed ball of tension that sat at the base of her ribcage.

It had nestled within her since the day the Hyrstow raid had gone wrong.

Every day since then, it had grown a little.

Adara shook out her shoulders. She reclaimed her destiny with patience and sheer will.

Even the marriage she was preparing for had been her decision.

Adara shifted, trying to ease the sense of selfishness looming like a dark cloak around her.

Was it selfish to trap Grahame into a marriage?

Perhaps. His heated gaze the night previous told her he desired her, though he abhorred her.

If he didn’t, he would not have kicked her out of his bedchamber so readily.

Adara had returned to her room, her skin aching for the feel of calloused hands.

“There,” Muretta said, satisfaction layered in her tone.

Adara smoothed her clammy hands over her skirts.

“Aren’t you a sight,” Muretta mused, her eyes flowing over Adara in appreciation.

The dress scooped low over her bust, sucked in tight at the waist, then rounded spectacularly over her ample hips and bottom.

The skirts were a combination of wool layers and linen so fine it appeared as gossamer.

It was the first dress Adara had the dressmaker create after Elvin passed.

Freedom with her purse was a heady thing.

Adara had dresses made for herself and Muretta, given a new tunic and pair of trousers to Thor, Hagan, and Bhlaine, and even commissioned a couple of pairs of trousers and tunics for herself.

After seeing how well Yrsa Ward looked in her own tunic and pants, Adara was glad for the purchase.

“Too much?” she asked, arms wide.

“No, Lady,” Hagan’s voice boomed from the doorway.

He held the door with one hand, the other was hooked into his belt.

Not for the first time, Adara wished she could have fallen in love with Hagan.

His roughly hewn features were handsome.

He was also as strong as an oak, and his gruff kindness was constant.

He had even changed into his finely made tunic for the wedding.

“Well, look at you,” she said, crossing to him, though not before catching the way Muretta’s eyes slinked over his frame.

A small, pleased grin pressed Muretta’s lips.

Adara opened her arms, her own smile widening as Hagan scooped her into a hug that she felt in her bones.

She held him for longer than necessary, hoping to impress upon him her gratitude for his steady friendship.

When they parted, his cheeks were tinged pink.

“Am I interrupting something? Only a few moments left before it would be uncouth to do that out in the hall.” Grahame’s voice was jest and misery rolled into one.

Hagan set her down, stepping away as if he’d done something untoward. It burned Adara that Grahame dared to belittle them.

“I’ll have you know—” The words dried on her tongue as soon as her eyes found him.

To say Grahame looked like a god would have done him a disservice.

His shoulders stretched the near-black tunic that draped down his torso in such a marvellous manner, it was unwelcome.

One would think the dark tone unsettling but it only emphasized the tan of his skin, the leather ties at the neckline drawing her eye to the hollow of his throat.

A belt cast in violet and lavender accented the taper of his waist while tan-colored trousers wrapped legs she could only imagine were well lined with muscle.

And why did his lips appear so smooth and full?

As if he’d taken a bite of honey and some had stayed behind because it couldn’t bear to leave the dastardly curve of his mouth.

“Cat got your tongue, missus?”

Two dimples buffered Grahame’s flash of white teeth. Adara cleared her throat, suddenly humbled from hungrily devouring his appearance when he’d not so much as blinked at her dress.

“You’ll treat Lady Clayton with the respect she deserves,” Hagan stated.

Adara placed her hand on Hagan’s forearm to stay him. Green eyes tracked the movement.

“Oh, I believe I’ve treated her with as much as she deserves, if not more-so. Though, our wedding night may tell a different tale; perhaps she’ll like it when I disrespect her fully.”

Grahame’s eyes gleamed like heated jewels as his smile carved his face into something sinister. A shiver lit from the crown of Adara’s head to the tips of her toes.

“You dare—” Hagan lunged, half drawing his short sword, when suddenly, Muretta placed a hand on his back. It was dwarfed by the wide expanse. He stilled.

“Come now, Hagan. Let us retire to the great room. I believe the priest will be here soon. I know he was ruffled by the prospect of not having the ceremony in a church. We can go greet him and the others.”

As if the wind had gone from his sails, Hagan leaned down to listen to Muretta. Adara bit her bottom lip to hold in her chuckle. It appeared that with marriage in the air, they aligned like the moon and the stars.

“Yes, please meet the priest. We will be along shortly,” Adara insisted, moving aside so her friends could make their way down the hall.

Hagan shot her an annoyed look, to which she clucked at him to get moving. Muretta helped by looping her arm around his, practically dragging him away. Grahame watched the exchange with increasing curiosity.

“Very strange house you run, ’Dara,” he mused, his gaze narrowing at the way Hagan canted his head to listen to Muretta. “I cannot parse out if you are sleeping with him. Or if you’re sleeping with her. Or all three of you enjoy your evenings together.”

Embarrassment flooded Adara. She bit her bottom lip and glanced at her shoes to hide the flare of heat in her cheeks. The audacity of the man. Then she remembered the way they used to barb one another.

She couldn’t resist hooking an eyebrow while offering a salacious smile. “Jealous?”

Mirth filled his features as he bent forward, his hands anchored to his hips. There was something artful about those hands; the long fingers, the bones beneath the tanned skin. “Not if I’m invited.”

God, he had an answer for everything. A tired sigh worked its way from her as she tried to suppress an image of what the four of them together would look like, feel like. Warmth pooled in her cheeks. He was too clever. Her mind stalled over a retort so, for once, Adara decided upon the truth.

“You are confounding. I doubt you carry any desire to see through on your threats. You are all talk, Grahame, as you have always been.”

A flame of something ominous ignited in his eyes.

Excitement shot through her as he stepped closer, his foot going between hers.

Grahame towered over her, his legs brushing her skirts.

Adara stood her ground. His scent, clean from a bath she’d ordered for him that day, still found a way to torment her; fresh straw and clean wool and something bright she hadn’t picked up on the day prior. Mint?

Grahame arched toward her, his breath like a feather on her cheeks as he spoke.

“As man and wife there will not be anything left unsaid between us, Adara. And believe me, as much as I want to talk to you, to find out what in God’s name happened all those years ago, I want to exercise my rights as a husband more.

We were not wed when you came to me, barely dressed, last night.

This evening? With eyes on us to relay to your father the truth of our coupling?

I plan to take out my anger and confusion on my willing wife. ”

Adara should have shrunk from the confession.

Her first marriage still haunted her. Yet she was no longer a girl with an old man atop her, his men looking on to claim the marriage consummated.

She was a grown woman who had chosen the rugged man before her.

As much as she was surprised at his knowledge of noble weddings, the errant thought of his calloused hands on her caused her heart to quicken.

A curious, hopeful part of her wished to see how far Grahame would go.

Adara wrinkled her nose, daring to skim her forefinger along his padded chest. It was more muscled than she imagined.

“You enjoy the idea of eyes on us?”

She couldn’t help the breathiness of the words. For a single heartbeat, Grahame’s eyes narrowed on her like a hawk to a mouse. Then his firm hands were secured about her waist and he was pushing her until her backside met the wall.

“Don’t, ’Dara,” he growled, his lips finding their way through her loose hair to brush along the shell of her ear.

His thighs pressed her own as his hands roamed from her waist upward, his thumbs scoring lines of fire across her ribs, beneath her breasts.

Adara thought she might faint at the pleasure of being utterly surrounded by him.

“Do not push me. I have agreed to marriage in all ways that count. I will stand before your father, as I should have long ago, and tell him of my vow to you. I will play the part of puppet husband. But do not underestimate all the ways I will take you. I have had years to think of your body beneath mine. If you insist on this marriage, I insist on my due.”

Adara secured her hands to his chest, her fingers digging into that fathomless black garment to keep him at a distance.

Or was it to pull him closer? She did not know.

All she was aware of was the clench in her middle at his confession, of the absolute certainty that she’d never wanted anyone else.

As if to prove his intention, his nose scored her cheekbone, his lips aligning with hers.

“You’re mine, Adara. Forevermore.” His words ghosted along her lips. Then his mouth was on hers, languidly moving as if they had all the time in the world.

Adara whimpered. She had not been kissed in years. Not since Grahame. He was the one and only man who had possessed her lips. And she wanted to melt into how perfect his kiss was.

A chuckle vibrated from Grahame into her while he played at her mouth, gently teasing then prying, sipping as if she were the richest wine. It was too much and not enough. Dizzy, Adara complied with his silent demands, opening her mouth to his tongue, scraping her own against his.

Pleasure was an arrow straight through resolve.

In the back of Adara’s mind, she knew she should corral herself.

Control was of the utmost importance. However, nothing else existed other than Grahame.

Nothing but his strong hands trailing up her ribs, then scraping along her back, as if trying to relearn the feel of her.

And damn it if she was not going to take something for herself after so many years of pain.

She gave herself over to the kiss, to show him a glimpse of what he had left behind years ago.

The clearing of a throat behind them caused Grahame to pull back, though he remained in front of her, his eyes on hers. They were wary, searching. As if checking how she would react. Adara pressed her lips together as she smoothed her hands across the expanse of his chest one final time.

“Grahame Shepherd. What a coincidence,” the priest’s voice rang down the hall.

As if he were a bear caught in a trap, Grahame’s entire being coiled tight. His hands flexed on her hips. Adara caught the way his eyes widened. The color drained from his face before he turned, fists clenched.

“Nice to see you again,” The High Priest of Hyrstow, now of Clayton House, said.