Impostress by Lisa Jackson Page B

private chambers of the lord and his children. A single hallway divided the center of that top floor. One half was the baron's private quarters, and the three chambers opposite were occupied by his daughters. The first room belonged to that silly waif of a girl who'd stared at him in fascination as he'd endured the feast. The second was inhabited by Kiera, the sister who was so ill she couldn't come down to the wedding nor the feast. Which, of course, the bride hadn't attended either. She'd hidden herself away and had pointedly avoided her new husband, making him appear a bloody fool. Again a deep rage curdled through his blood. Either these daughters of Llwyd were a sickly lot or a prideful, stubborn one.
    Kelan suspected the latter.
    Gritting his teeth, he made his way to the third door, considered knocking, then thought better of it.
    Damn it, the woman was his wife. A wife he hadn't wanted.
    He tried the latch, expecting that she might have dared to lock him out, but the door cracked open. Dim light from the sconces in the doorway sliced into the dark room that seemed to swim before his eyes. He leaned one shoulder on the doorjamb to brace himself as he caught sight of her. She was sitting up in the bed, the blankets drawn tight into one fist that she held over her breasts. Her eyes were round and wide, and she looked as frightened as a sacrificial lamb.
    "Wife," he slurred, his tongue impossibly thick.
    "H-husband."
    " 'Tis comforting to know that you are, indeed, alive," he chided. Stepping inside, he closed the door softly behind him. It latched with a quiet click, and she nearly jumped out of her skin. Her green eyes, luminous in the shadowy room, stared at him, and he read confused messages there. She was scared, yes, but there was something more in her gaze— guilt? But why? For not joining him at the feast? For not loving him? For ...
    The thought crossed his mind that she might not be a virgin, that her fear was because she'd already lain with a man and was about to be found out.
    The fire had died to glowing embers; the candles burned low, tallow dripping onto the table. "You didn't come down to dinner," he said, his words louder and more accusing than he'd meant them to be.
    "Nay," she said, swallowing hard.
    She was a pretty thing, he saw in the half-light. Tangled reddish brown hair that caught gold in the firelight framed her small, oval face complete with finely arched eyebrows, high cheekbones, and a small mouth. He'd caught but a glimpse of her when he'd lifted her veil to kiss her at the altar, but even then he'd noticed the regal tilt of her chin, the spark of intelligence in her green eyes, the dusting of freckles over the bridge of her nose.
    "You were ill?" Dear God, why was it so hard to speak? His tongue felt thick; his thoughts were sluggish.
    "Yes."
    "And now?" He was walking unsteadily to the bed, trying to contain his temper, wondering what he would do with this strange creature who was now married to him.
    "I, um, I still feel ..." She searched for the correct word and tiny lines of vexation appeared between her eyebrows. He'd expected a spinster—since she was by every right long past marriageable age at nearly nineteen—but this woman was far from that. Her breasts were full as they pressed against the fabric of her chemise, her limbs long and supple. " 'Tis of no matter."
    "It is to me. You made me look a fool."
    "What?" She glanced upward quickly and something flashed in her eyes.
    "I sat alone. Waiting for you."
    "I'm sorry, I thought you knew—"
    "What I know is that my bride humiliated me."
    She gasped. "Nay, I—I am feeling poorly. I—I—"
    "Are lying," he said succinctly, all the rage he'd experienced for four long hours returning, momentarily seeming to clear his head. He leaned over the bed. "I waited for you," he repeated.
    His nose was nearly touching hers and Kiera swallowed hard. He was too close. Even though he was obviously drunk and the room was nearly dark, he was