The Valkyrie's Guardian (25 page)

She blinked back tears, floored by the grief rolling from his mind. She had no idea he was so upset, but she should have known.

His syllables sharpened but his voice was a faint whisper, “I will watch you like a hawk. Anything worse than a backache, and I will take matters into my own hands.” He stopped her with his pointed finger. “Let me finish. Jack agrees: If we can't find a solution for keeping you safe, if the risk becomes too great, we will act.”

“That's a noble, sanitary way to speak of killing a baby.”

“I have done it one other time in my life, and it was also to save the mother. I promise you I will do it again if I have to.”

“And I promise you'll only manage it after you pry my cold, bloody fingers from your throat.” That wasn't the valkyrie talking, that was the angry mother bear.

His expression softened, “Na min ypostirízoume agapití mou.” Kyros slipped into Greek when he got emotional, an old habit.
Let's not argue, darling,
he said.

“Symfonó, allá den allázei típota.”
I agree, but it changes nothing.

The sincere, bone-crushing embrace he gave her before he left made her uncertain whether she adored or loathed him.

“Jaaa-ack?” she called in a sugar-sweet voice. If he had half a brain, he would run and hide at the sound. She found him reclined on the sofa, experimenting with pushing his foot against the wall, trying to figure out how much weight his bad knee could handle before it gave out. Stupid man.

“Hey, baby,” he smiled, shaking his head to toss sweaty locks hair out of his eyes. “Alone at last, huh?”

“At last.” She knelt one knee between his and leaned over his chest to put her face inches from his. She fondled his pecs with one hand and cradled his face with the other. “I just had a rather enlightening conversation with Kyros.” Her hands wandered lower, and Jack made his growling tiger sound. Abruptly she clamped both hands, squeezing his throat with one and his testicles with the other.

Jack howled and tried to roll away, but she held him hostage.
Nice strong grip, lass.

You have no idea.
She clamped tighter to let him know she meant business. “He may be a ball of cells now, but soon he'll be an adorable little monster. Your son. My baby.”

“It would be humane and fast, Cassie,” he rasped through his strained throat.

She squeezed harder and pulled a bit. He sang a high note. “If you even consider giving him a haircut without my permission, I will finish what I've started and not stop there. You will beg for the relief of death if I ever … again … hear a
whisper
of thought from you about abortion.”

Jack shook his head, the movement stilted. “I'd do anything for you, Cass.
Anything
.”

Cassie relaxed her hands and rubbed his throat and groin in gentle circles. “I know. And as much as I adore you, I'm not afraid to punish my enemies wherever they manifest themselves.” She dipped to capture his lips in a rough kiss. “Beware, darling.”

The fuse lit, a day's worth of pent-up energy and frustration exploded. Jack's emotions echoed hers: gratitude for their sweet wedding ceremony, despair over his injury. He dreaded the impending trip to Scotland, where they would find no welcome.

First it was merely a wrestle for control of the kiss, a useless argument since they both wanted it hot and angry. Then it was a fight for the dominant position on top. He cheated by trying to pin her down, and she fought dirty by grabbing his groin again, an effective method of subduing him.

With a growl and ninja-fast maneuver, he gathered her wrists and swung her knees over his forearm. He charged down the hallway in a storm cloud, á la Rhett Butler. He kicked the door open, threw her onto the bed and followed her down. Already this form of exercise worked its thrilling catharsis, and Cassie knew how to replace their morning jog. Being confined indoors wasn't so bad, then.

Somewhere amid the tussle, between pulling each other's clothes off and crashing to the floor, it turned into sport. He coaxed her in Gaelic again, and his voice melted her anger. Jack let her lock his arms above his head. She clamped her thighs over his flanks and tortured the ticklish skin behind his ear, sucking and nipping so it would leave a mark. One half-hearted protest, then he let her take the lead. When he decided she'd pushed him too far, Jack snatched her by the waist, flipped her over onto her belly, and spanked her hard once before he locked himself against her and taught her a lesson. All while balancing on his good knee, which made the position interesting.

She stretched and laughed, a dark, sultry sound, then reached to dig her nails into the backs of his thighs. He sucked in a breath through his teeth, and seconds later it was over, with them both gasping through the unbearable wave of electric, luscious heat.

She collapsed on the fluffy sheepskin rug at the foot of the bed, pleasantly achy and thoroughly worked over. Jack dropped exhausted beside her. He fell asleep first, and in the minutes before she succumbed to fatigue, she studied the artistic silhouette his nude body made in the shadows of twilight. Scars and all, a masterpiece.

“Got any Scottish in you? Want some?”

—Jack MacGunn, King of the Bad Pick-Up Line

Cassie had never been to Scotland, but the puddle-jumper that more or less landed at Inverness airport should have been a clue of what to expect. Watching Jack cram their luggage and then six-and-a-half feet of himself inside a European-sized coupe was a lesson in inventive profanity. If Henry repeated any of it, she swore to Jack she would wash both their mouths out with soap. Her threats were null after only two pit stops, when she discovered the Official Scottish Malediction was the f-word, in all its good-natured varieties.

“So, your home is not exactly in Inverness? Because I saw a lovely sandstone castle on that hill, but you kept driving.”

“Kinmylies takes more after the
ness
than the
In.
” Jack laughed, “Some say the castle is rustic, dank, and a haunted pile of stones. And they are biased by fondness.”

“Is it much farther? Because I really need the loo.”

“Again?”

“Oh, don't start that with me, MacGunn. You have forty-seven more weeks of
Yes, dear, right away. Anything for you, pumpkin.
It's only going to get worse, you know.”

“I know. I apologize.”

“Ha. That's right. Get used to saying those two little words.”

He half-smiled and swerved to dodge a sheep standing in the middle of the road, a straggler from the herd that clogged the highway a half mile back.

And there it was, just around the next hill, in all its gothic medieval glory. Worn stones aged black with lichen, a compound of towers and outbuildings half in rubble. Kinmylies: the red-headed stepchild of Inverness. It had a moat and a drawbridge. And lots of chickens.

Guessing by the inscrutable mashed potatoes accent of the guard at the gatehouse, Cassie guessed the MacGunns were of the
shabby genteel
variety. Jack parked the rental car in the old carriage house. She took one look at the motley assortment of vehicles and revised her assessment to plainly,
shabby.

“Home sweet hell.” Jack dragged the luggage in one arm and looped the other around her waist. “Just stay cool, okay? Things might get a bit tense.”

They'd already promised Henry a toolbox and a truck engine if he would remain silent during their arrival. He hadn't said a word since.

“Didn't you call ahead to say we're coming?” If she wasn't nervous before, she was now.

“No.”

“Great. We're a hospitality surprise.”

“But Kyros did. It helps our situation, marginally. They like him.”

No one appeared outside to greet them. They crossed the courtyard with Henry in tow, wide-eyed. The gargoyles probably didn't do much to soothe his anxiety. Jack ushered her under an enormous archway just as it started to rain. Her eyes adjusted to the dark, and she smelled mint and basil-flavored tobacco smoke.

“James Vidar MacGunn. Well blow me over.
Fàilte 's furan ort.” A quintessential Scottish elder wearing a houndstooth squire cap stepped from the shadows and lowered a pipe from his mouth.

Jack dropped the luggage and limped to meet the man halfway. She tried not to agonize over his injured leg, which was worse for wear after the hours spent cramped on a plane then crammed in a pee-wee-sized car.

“A sheanair,” Jack answered, sounding choked. “Am I glad to see you here.”

The man grasped Jack's shoulders and crashed their chests together in a very masculine three-pat hug. “Won't help much, lad. The MacGunn is no' exactly joco with ye comin'. And who is your guests?”

“Grandda, meet Cassiopeia.” Jack swallowed before he could admit, “My wife.”

The man's lips parted in an ‘oh' shape and his wooly eyebrows hiked under the brim of his cap. “Ah, so this is the reason ye wanted your plaid posted 'xpress.”

Cassie thought he meant to shake hands, but as she raised her hand he turned it palm-up and examined her wrist. He ran his thumb over the pink scar and hummed. “'Tis done. Shoulda waited for the church, lad. And such a wee lass.” He said this gravely.

At five-foot-ten, she had never been called a
wee lass.

He patted her hand and tucked it over his arm, leading her through giant wooden double doors. He appeared to be over eighty years old but still bore his beefy shoulders as proudly as Jack and walked with the gait of an NFL linebacker. “You call me grandda,
a ghràidheag.
And don't listen to a word the others say. Oh, dear. I haven't let
you
say a word. I do that.” He paused, looking expectantly at her.

“Pleasure to meet you, ah, Grandda.” She produced a smile for his benefit. Jack winked.

“A
Sassenach.
Posh. And far too bonnie for your own good, Jack.”

“I know it, Grandda.”

Jack's grandda looked sideways at her. “And can ye feel the new life, lass?”

A polite way of asking if she was knocked up. “Yes, sir.”

“Good, good.” He smiled, and she was sick to death of that tragic, pitying expression everyone wore for her.

“I hope the academy is secure?” Jack asked in a low voice.

“Aye. Set up in the east tower. They're in studies now, I'll take you over later on.”

They passed through a long gallery Cassie wished to examine later in decent lighting. The place was a museum, with ancient tapestries, shields, and banners beckoning to her in ghostly voices.

Jack's grandda mused, “Well, now, I suppose Bernard's Ainsley will cry her eyes out over ye, Jack. She still pines for ye. And Leana, and Leslie, the twins. They both set their cap for ye, but that's naught but trouble in the first place, aye?” He required no answer, and Jack shrugged in false innocence.

The gallery opened into a two-story hall featuring a massive hearth flanked by decorative weapons arranged on the wall. Tall leather books shelved the opposite wall from the floor to the rough-hewn ceiling beams. And what castle would be complete without a suit of armor? The matching pair in the two rear corners were massive. Bigger than Jack, even.

Jack nudged her and pointed to the blackened spiked suit clutching a double-headed battle axe the size of a stop sign. “Odin the Shieldeater.”

“Let's see, ah, famous for cleaving shields in battle?”

“No, I think he really ate his shield.”

“That's very ferocious.”

“James,” came a flat debonair voice from the stairway.

Cassie looked to see Jack's evil twin: darker, more handsome, at least forty pounds lighter and a bit shorter. His gamely smirk didn't impress her, but he carried himself as though it should. He paused a few paces away and folded his hands formally behind his back. He inflated his linen-clad chest and cocked his head at them, purposely looking down his nose. A shame, but already she didn't like him.

Jack closed his eyes then opened them slowly, like he hoped his evil twin wouldn't be there when he looked again. “Hugh. This is Cassiopeia, and Kyros already explained about Henry. Cassie, my eldest brother, Hugh.
The
MacGunn.”

“That's
lord
to you, James.”

Cassie held back a scoff.
Is he for real, Jack?

Unfortunately.

Technically, Cassie held her French mother's title of Comtesse de Villefranche, and Kyros held the Greek earldom of Naxos. Only a particular sort of nobility bandied their title about, the sort who lacked the quality which made nobility a way of life rather than a name to drop. Not to mention that ninety-nine percent of the modern population didn't give a flying leap for the old social castes.

So Cassie merely raised an eyebrow in tandem with Jack's neutral expression. They both ignored his dig. Nothing could have disappointed “Lord Hugh of Kinmylies” more.

“I presume this is the relation to Kyros Vassalos?”

Jack pinched the bridge of his nose and tilted his head back. “Hugh, we took the redeye to Edinburgh and waited for every sheep in Inverness to cross the road. Please just show us to our rooms. And if you ever refer to my wife as an object again, you'll speak your next words through a straw.”

“James, behave yourself. And Hugh, quit bein' an arse.” With that, Grandda turned and went back through the gallery.

“
Wife?
James, you
married?
” Hugh gaped, waiting for the punchline. “You married a Vassalos?”

“Noyon,” Cassie corrected. “The rooms, if you please, Hugh?”

“
The
Noyons of Marseilles?”

“Not since the revolution. Just plain Noyon
,
but now it's MacGunn, and I'm pregnant and jet-lagged and would like nothing more than rest. Please.”