Christine Rimmer - Dark, Devastating & Delicious! - The Marriage Medallion / Between Duty and Desire / Driven to Distraction

“Turn your mind to what matters here.”

“My brother. He is what matters. And I’m here to find him.”

“Your brother is dead. Accept it. You are here because you are mine, as I am yours. The fates have decreed it.”

“ Yours? I don’t even know you.”

“You will. Over time.”

“No.”

He went on, not even pausing. “You are brave and strong. Of obvious intelligence, though sometimes too quick to act, when to watch and wait would be wiser. I have seen you with the children. You like them, you have a kind heart. To look at you pleases me. You are of a good age for breeding, though a bit younger might have been better.”

“Breeding? I’m a good age for breeding? ”

“Overall, I am more than content with my father’s choice—and I see in your eyes, in the quickening of your breath when you are near me, that I am not totally repellent to you.”

“This is insane.”

“No. This is as it was meant to be. It is our mutual fate that we be bound, each to the other, as man and wife.”

She let go of his arm and stepped back, mindful not to trip on the bench she’d overturned. “Listen, it’s not my fate to be bound to anyone. I need serious breathing room. For me, settling down goes under later. When I’m older. And slower. But by then, I won’t be such a good breeder, will I? So from your point of view, what good would I be?”

He smiled at that, straight teeth flashing white. “Your point is well taken. I have been too blunt. Months in the wilds will do that to a man. And it’s always possible no children will come of our union. Yet there will be a union—in time. That much I know.” His smile vanished. “And it seems I have said too much too soon. You are not ready to hear the truth.”

She dragged in a long, dramatic breath and let it out slowly. “Hear that? That’s a deep sigh. It means, as I keep trying to tell you, that as far as this you-andme thing goes—it’s not. And it’s never going to be.”

“It is.”

“It’s not.”

He closed the distance she’d opened between them. He did it slowly enough that he didn’t spook her. Too bad. If he’d moved a little faster, she might have backed up. But she held her ground. And then he was right there, in front of her. His strong hand closed over hers.

Slowly he raised her hand to his lips.

She shocked herself. She let him do it. And when she felt his mouth against her skin, a hot and hungry shiver went shimmering through her.

“No!” She jerked away and cradled her hand as if he’d injured it. “Uh-uh. Not. No way…”

Eric made no effort to recapture her hand.

No progress was being made here.

Her fine eyes were wild, her wide mouth set in a scowl. He would very much have enjoyed kissing that mouth. But he’d had several days—to watch, to assess and to learn to admire; to accept the fact that this woman was meant for him. She had only just been informed of her fate, and that made her far from ready for kissing. For now he’d said what needed saying—and more. It was enough. He went to the door and put on his shearling coat, then took down the rifle racked beneath his shotgun.

She spoke then. “Wait.”

He turned back to her slowly that time, holding the rifle with care, barrel to the floor.

She was guiding the silver chain over her head. “I’m not going to marry you, Eric.” She held out the gleaming disk, the heavy chain trickling over her hand, the links falling through her fingers. “I want you to take this. Give it to the right woman when she comes along.”

He felt again the urge to smile. This time he quelled it. “The right woman already has it.”

Her face was flushed, blue eyes flashing. “Eric—” There was nothing to be gained by staying to hear more. He pulled open the door and went out.

Brit was left standing in the longhouse alone, the marriage medallion shining in her outstretched hand.

No problem, she thought, her fist closing tight over the silver disk. He won’t take it. Doesn’t matter. He’s getting it back, anyway.

She marched over to his bed and dropped the medallion onto his furs, turning quickly away from it—from her own ridiculous reluctance to part with it. She righted the bench she’d kicked over and sat on it to put on her boots. Then she grabbed her jacket from its peg. She needed a long walk. A head-clearing dose of cold, fresh Vildelund air.

With her hand on the latch, she hesitated. No way strolling up and down the single village street, trying not to scowl at every friendly villager she happened to pass, was going to do the trick. She needed space and a total absence of other people. And if she was going to wander a little farther afield than the cluster of buildings that made up the tiny town, she’d be wise to do it armed. Renegades, apparently, were a problem around here. And from what she’d been told, there were bears. And wolves. And the legendary white Gullandrian mountain cats—and who knew what else?

Better armed than dead. She got her weapon from her pack, loaded it, put on her shoulder rig and holstered the SIG. Only then did she put on her coat and head for the door again.

Outside, it was in the high thirties. She felt in a pocket and came up with that bag of peanut M&M candies that she’d opened before she climbed from her wrecked plane. She took one out—a red one—and put it in her mouth to savor. Delicious. She might want more. Maybe she’d eat them all on her walk, indulge in an orgy of chocolate and peanuts to soothe her frayed nerves, ease her troubled mind. She emptied them into the pocket and then wadded the bag and stuck it in the front pocket of her jeans to throw in the fire later.

Another pocket of her jacket yielded a wool beanie. A third, a pair of red wool gloves. She was pulling them on as she turned away from the street toward the back of the house, the M&M sweet in her mouth, her spirits already lifting.

At the rear of the house, about ten yards beyond the game cage, she reached a small barn. To either side of it rough plank fencing bordered a narrow paddock where a few horses grazed. One—a gelding with a dove-gray blaze between his big dark eyes—turned to watch as she climbed the fence and dropped to her feet inside. Then, with a snort that showed as mist on the icy air and a toss of his snow-white mane, he went back to cropping the short grass. None of the other horses seemed the least interested in her.

It was good, she decided, to be outside again, on her own, with the sun a rim of gold just making its climb over the crests of the hills to her right, the brown grass crackling with frost beneath her boots, the cold air sharp and bracing in her lungs and the inviting shelter of tall evergreens ahead.

She reached the back fence and hoisted herself over it with minimal awkwardness, though her left shoulder was still tender and any pressure on the muscles near the wound caused a definite twinge. When she dropped to the grass on the other side, she was perhaps thirty feet from the thick, close-growing forest of spruce that surrounded the village on all sides and grew up the flanks of the hills.

She stopped to press the compass button on her watch. The trees ahead were due north, Asta’s house to the south. She should be safe to walk in the forest a little, as long as she was careful to keep her bearings and to watch out for predators—human or otherwise. She walked on into the shadows of the tall, proud trees, the thick blanket of short brown needles crunching underfoot.

The drop in temperature was immediate. Her breath came out as thick mist. She hunched down into the warmth of her jacket and picked up the pace a little—more exertion, more body heat.