Page 9

Chapter

Seven

Adara

S atisfaction curled in Adara’s belly at the sound of Ridley’s enraged yells from the other side of the gate’s door. The pounding of his fists on the heavy logs must have hurt. She hoped he broke his skin on the rough wood. A wicked grin slid up her mouth as she dismounted from Ulrich.

“You tricked us,” came Grahame’s stony tone from beside her.

It appeared that her satisfaction was to be short-lived.

Still, she savored one more moment of a world where Ridley Ward was at her mercy.

For once, she was the victor, not the one to rage at God for the injustice of her grief.

He could wallow in the misery she’d experienced since the Deircia earl had set him upon Bernira lands.

“Indeed.”

Adara halted and turned to her new captive.

She should have braced herself. Grahame Shepherd had grown.

Her imagination paled in comparison to what he was.

Even with his burnished hair stuck to his forehead, his cloak dripping wet, she could see the height, the thick set of rounded shoulders.

His drenched tunic pressed itself to him like a mistress.

Adara turned away. She was not one to gawk and would not give him the satisfaction of her blatant appraisal.

“Where is Yrsa?” Grahame demanded.

Lips that had no business being so tempting contorted into a snarl.

Grahame took a menacing step toward her.

Thorhild had a hand on his shoulder before he could invade her space.

Grahame’s eyes slid to the large, blond man, then to Hagan who had stationed himself on Grahame’s right.

And though Grahame had filled out nicely, Adara doubted he would try anything with two hulking bodies guarding her.

Triumphant, Adara stepped up to him, putting them toe to toe. She had to lift her chin in order to meet his gaze but was able to keep her features neutral despite the galloping of her heart. Cold rain trailed down his high cheekbones, practically caressing the straight bridge of his nose.

“You are not in the position to be demanding answers,” she pointed out, her tone cool.

If contempt could heat someone from the inside out, Grahame would have dried.

As it was, he just glared down at her. Adara was surprised to find she’d remembered the exact color of his eyes.

Like fresh clover. After all these years, she thought she had dreamt it up.

If Grahame saw her shiver, she hoped he would think it because of the rain.

“Come. The answers you wish for are inside.”

Needing to get out from beneath his heavy stare, Adara turned on her heel and made her way up the path that led up the small, grassy slope to the house. She tried to ignore the feel of Grahame’s eyes digging into her back like daggers. Told herself she did not care if he thought her heartless.

At the house’s threshold, Muretta waited.

“I do not think this will work,” her friend said under her breath.

“It will,” Adara dismissed.

Muretta turned with Adara who nodded at Bhlaine, her tight-lipped housemaster. Adara offered him a wide grin. The stoic man tipped his head, his long, lined face almost bored. As if Adara’s schemes did not faze him in the least.

Muretta peeked over her shoulder at the men coming up the path behind them.

“He is staring at you as if to wring your neck. Do you truly think this will work?”

“Hush,” Adara hissed. She did not intend for Grahame to catch wind of her scheme before she was ready. Muretta didn’t seem deterred.

Adara thumbed open the silver clasp at her neck. Within a moment, she was free of her sodden cloak, which she passed to Bhlaine without comment. Warm, dry air kissed her damp skin.

Proceeding through the short entryway and into the great room on her right, Adara came to stand before the crackling fire harboured in the room’s huge hearth.

Her hands held a chill she knew would be almost impossible to ward off.

Thankfully, her burgundy wool dress, almost too heavy for the summer months, was a godsend on rainy days.

Turning her palms to the fire, Adara allowed herself one more moment of satisfaction.

Ridley Ward’s shouts were still echoing past the fence.

She was in command. Her life was hers to wield.

No matter the threats posed against her and those she cared for, in this moment, she’d done what she’d set out to do.

Muretta came to stand beside Adara, her frizzy blonde curls bobbing with movement.

She opened her mouth, closed it, then pressed her hands beneath her breasts to smooth them down her yellow dress.

The fabric was fine and likely did not provide much warmth.

Adara had told her she need not join them, but Muretta insisted on seeing the man who had plagued Adara’s memories for so many years.

“Ridley Ward seems a fine cut of a man, your Shepherd even more-so,” Muretta murmured, keeping her tone light.

Hers was a voice that Elvin had loved, for it embraced a feminine tinkle when in the company of anyone other than Adara or Hagan. The comment made Adara feel as if silvery spiders were climbing up her flesh.

“Perhaps you will lend Ridley Ward to me before torturing him? He has an appealing ferocity I think I might enjoy.” Muretta scratched her long nails up her sleeve, then down.

“Although, if you wish to keep the Shepherd occupied whilst you plan your schemes, I would be happy to warm his bed. He looks like the golden gods the Romans prattled on about.”

“I think not,” Adara snapped.

Though forever grateful the woman had taken over her late husband’s sexual appetites, she wanted Muretta nowhere near Grahame.

“Where is Yrsa?” Grahame’s voice crashed into the room.

For a sliver of a moment, Adara closed her eyes and allowed herself to bask in it.

To remember when a lighter version of it called her name with mirth as she ran over fields to see him.

He had always been jovial, other than the last, terrible time they saw one another.

When she opened her eyes and turned, she was ready to face him.

Or so she thought.

Grahame stood between Hagan and Thor, shoulders stiff, head high. He’d pushed his hood off but kept his cloak tied about his throat. Adara tore her gaze from the strong, tanned column. There was no point in focusing on parts of him she used to adore. There would be time to evaluate him later.

“Welcome to Clayton House.”

Adara spread her chilled hands in a gesture of greeting. Beside her, Muretta preened.

Grahame remained tight-lipped, a muscle working in his clean-shaven jaw.

Adara tracked it like a starving cat. After all the time apart, all her tears over the way they’d left one another, here he stood before her, nostrils flaring like an angry bull.

She’d take it. Any version of him, she’d devour.

“Spare me, Adara. What have you done with Yrsa?”

Hagan shifted his weight, as if assessing the need to put himself between her and the man almost vibrating with rage.

“So, you remember who I am,” she murmured, more to herself than the rest of the room.

Grahame jerked back then stepped forward, hands out as if ready to plead for Yrsa’s release. Hagan was right there with him, a strong hand wrapped around Grahame’s upper arm.

“Of course. Do you think me simple? The girl I knew wouldn’t—”

“The girl you knew is gone. Used up and taught how to behave at the hands of a husband who wanted her to heel. Only I stand before you, and I’ve learned well.” Her words overtook the room. She pasted on the grin of a snake, calming her tone.

“But, to ease your mind, I will tell you I’ve done nothing to Yrsa other than take her clothes to trick your chieftain. She is safe in the dungeon. Almost bit off Hagan’s hand when he was charged with changing her.”

It was the wrong thing to say, or perhaps it was perfect, for Grahame pulled against Hagan’s grasp, his hands twisted into fists ready to maim. “You had a man undress her against her will? I hope she cut his hands off.”

Hagan held up his hand, showcasing the crown of teeth marks on the fleshy side below his little finger.

“Got me good,” Hagan grumbled.

Grahame’s face became something ugly as it contorted, ready to spew more vitriol at the man he assumed harmed his chief’s wife. Adara moved forward, cutting him off before the men came to blows.

“She was sensible enough to undress by herself. I oversaw it, holding the torch so Hagan could take her clothes from her and she could dress.”

Grahame’s eyes bore into hers while he panted, his anger a living thing.

The petty, lonely, sad part of her wanted to gulp it down.

During that fateful summer, despite her arguing for him not to, Grahame had left her to go fight raiders with his friends.

He had left her. Adara was not ill-informed.

She was the only daughter of Bernira’s earl.

There was no world in which she and Grahame could have been together.

And yet, now, she delighted in the way his nostrils flared, how the muscles in his chest bunched as he strained against her guards’ hold.

“He didn’t look. She wasn’t touched. You have my word.”

“Forgive me if your word means less than nothing, Adara.” Grahame drew out the last ‘a’ of her name as if it were a curse. She supposed it was. There was no reason for him to believe her.

It was then that his eyes flew around the room, taking in the hearth, the table, the small bouquets Muretta had placed around the surfaces. He stopped pulling against Hagan’s grasp, mouth tipping up at the sides. His eyes were caverns of malice. The look was more haunting than his anger.

“I suppose I will be put in the dungeon as well.” He held his wrists together. “Take me.”

“Whew,” Muretta fanned herself with her splayed palm. “This one certainly is bossy, considering his status.”

Grahame’s eyes flicked over Muretta’s pretty face then landed back on Adara. He raised an eyebrow as if to ask, why is she speaking? Adara bit her bottom lip to stifle the laugh that threatened to jump out. Grahame’s gaze tracked that movement too.

“You will not be placed in the dungeons. You’ll occupy the room beside mine.”

“And why do I deserve such treatment?” Grahame asked, wrists still together as if bound. “I am nothing more than a prisoner, like Yrsa.”

Adara shrugged, the familiar way he said the other woman’s name snagging something inside her.

Yrsa was a beauty. Tall and angular, her white-blonde hair a cascade of moonlight down her back.

Or, it used to be. Her features were the opposite of Adara’s squared jaw and sturdier, shorter frame.

Perhaps she garnered the attention of more than one Hyrstow man.

Not that Adara cared.

She smiled, her grin stretching because of the delicious way she knew her words would land. “You are not, in fact. You came here of your free will. And you have yet to hear my proposal. I will save it for supper. Come, you can settle yourself and clean up before the meal.”

She sniffed, glancing in the direction of Grahame’s dripping cloak. Water had pooled beneath him on the floorboards. He must have been freezing.

“I’d rather take my chances in the dungeons then be anywhere near you,” he snarled.

Adara refused to be hooked by his barb. She knew he was not going to throw himself at her feet, joyous over their reunion. She knew it and hated that she was disappointed anyway.

Hagan’s dark brows descended, along with his lips. He shook Grahame’s arm as if he were a doll. “You’ll do as Lady Clayton says. Lest you’d like a black eye or a boot to the belly.”

The column of Grahame’s throat worked as he swallowed, contemplating what to say. Adara found herself leaning forward to hear his retort. Would he be honor-bound and take the beating to be thrown in the dungeon? Or would he acquiesce to a comfortable room while his friend remained in squalor?

Grahame smoothed his mouth into a neutral line, wiping his brow of any emotion. “Fine. Take me to my room.”

Somewhat disappointed to have him so quickly out of her sight, Adara cut Hagan a quick nod. Hagan indicated with a gesture for Grahame to leave the room. Once they’d gone, she let out a long, slow breath.

“I thought he’d fight harder,” Muretta said as she settled herself in one of the sturdy chairs near the fire. Thor nodded his agreement, murmuring his leave before turning from the room to see to other duties.

“So did I,” Adara croaked.

She should not have been surprised. Grahame Shepherd was all posturing and no follow through. She’d heard his family had prospered in the years since their time together. Perhaps anything less than comfort was beneath him. Just like when they were younger, he cut out when he needed to.