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feast. Of the wine and ale, he abstained. Silently, he brooded, alone in a sea of well-wishers, simmering at the ill done to him. Fionnaghal had the nerve to look guileless, smiling and laughing, the picture of a happy bride. Even blushing as a proper virgin should. But Niall knew better.
    As for Donnan, he tossed smug smirks Niall’s way. It would have taken a more temperate man to ignore the unspoken taunt. But, first, Niall did his duty.
    He took his bride to bed, and when she pretended discomfort during the breaching, he bit his tongue lest he call her out. Niall finished claiming his bride, taking no pleasure in the act. Like killing in battle, it was something he needed to do for victory so that she couldn’t claim he’d not completed his role. He was ready for the vial of blood she pulled from beneath her pillow to complete her subterfuge.
    He caught her slim wrist and pried the bottle from her hand. “You won’t be needing this,” he told her in a cold voice.
    Eyes wide, she licked her lips nervously. “I can explain.”
    “No need. I already know. You really should have been more discreet. I saw you and your lover.”
    “He forced me,” she lied.
    “We both know that’s untrue.” Niall rolled from bed and pulled on his plaid before he buckled on his sword.
    “Where do you go, husband?” she asked, not even having the maidenly decency to hold a sheet up to her bosom. Nay, she arched like a practiced whore, trying to distract him.
    She failed.
    “I go to regain my honor.”
    Ignoring her tears and pleading to remain silent, Niall strode from the bedchamber back to the gala. He did not pause to acknowledge the ribald jests about completing the act so soon. He did not reply to anyone so great his rage burned. Up to Donnan he strode, pulling his sword as he stalked.
    The petty laird, to his credit, did not flinch. He drew his own steel and met his in a clash of metal. Back and forth, they dueled, Donnan on the defense as Niall hammered at him.
    Screams asking what happened went unanswered, but all soon guessed the cause of his rage when his disheveled bride appeared, shrieking it wasn’t her fault , that Donnan had seduced her.
    And, in the same breath, she begged him to spare her lover. “Please. Don’t kill him. I’ll be a good wife. I promise. You’ve bedded me. You know I’m willing. I’ll do anything you want if you spare him.”
    Instead, he lopped off Donnan’s head.
    For good measure, he also chopped off that of his faithless bride, her blustering father, and all who took umbrage with his version of justice. Not many, as most sided with him. Scots did so love a good battle. His new clan united with his old, eager for action. As one mighty force, they marched against Donnan’s lands and laid them to waste, erasing his name from the annals of history. Then for shits and giggles , they marched some more, leaving a swath of blood and destruction behind them. Why not? Niall was already damned to live in the pit, might as well populate it with shitheads he could torture for eternity.
    As for golf and the deal he made to become the greatest player ever? He never touched a club again.
    And he’d kept that promise, ’til now.
     
     
    A scuff of a pebble, a noise out of place here on the edge of the pit, drew him from his memories of the past and had him whirling. Without much surprise, he beheld the lass from the bar. He’d expected she would show up sooner or later. Tenacity often went hand in hand with ruthlessness.
    Looking as delectable as ever, she appeared less than happy as she stalked toward him, her red toga swishing about her knees, her upswept hair bouncing with every step. His cock swelled, his body enjoying the view. Odd, because Niall usually preferred his women more demure and chubbier.
    “Took you long enough,” he taunted.
    “I stopped to have my nails done. Like them?” She held up her fingers to show finely-honed digits painted a deep red. They looked great—and would