Tamed by the Barbarian

by June Francis

  “Is this true? Are you Mistress Cicely Milburn?”

  Cicely felt a peculiar calmness come over her, and she removed her hat and allowed her braids to ripple down over her shoulders. “Aye, it is true, Your Majesty. I am she.”

  The Queen seemed lost for further words, but then appeared to pull herself together and scowled at Cicely. “It is not seemly that you should be dressed in such a fashion and share Lord Mackillin’s bedchamber. It is against holy writ. You will need to be imprisoned and brought before the justice.”

  “No! This would be wrong, Your Majesty.” Mackillin started forward.

  “You dare to speak to me in such a tone?” said the Queen, looking furious. “I am the Queen of England.”

  “And I am a Scotsman, who has answered my own king’s order to come to your husband’s aid.” Mackillin bowed before her. “Forgive my hot-headedness, but Mistress Cicely is a loyal servant of both Your Majesties, as was her father. I speak the truth to you now. Her father gave her to me to be my wife. We are betrothed.”

  Cicely drew in her breath with a hiss. Did he realize what he was saying?

  Tamed by the Barbarian

  Harlequin®Historical

  JUNE FRANCIS’s

  interest in old wives’ tales and folk customs led her into a writing career. History has always fascinated her, and her first five novels were set in medieval times. She has also written fourteen sagas based in Liverpool and Chester. Married with three grown-up sons, she lives on Merseyside. On a clear day she can see the sea and the distant Welsh hills from her house. She enjoys swimming, fell walking, music, lunching with friends and smoochie dancing with her husband. More information about June can be found at her Web site: www.junefrancis.co.uk.

  Tamed by the Barbarian

  JUNE FRANCIS

  Available from Harlequin®Historical and JUNE FRANCIS

  Rowan’s Revenge #214

  Tamed by the Barbarian #245

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  To my dearest John, who is always there for me.

  He never refuses to help me with my research,

  be it traveling an ancient byway or to an abbey

  in the depths of Yorkshire or abroad or closer to home.

  A true romantic, he relishes my historical romances

  with their swashbuckling heroes and feisty heroines,

  considering them the perfect escapist read.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter One

  January 1461

  Cicely Milburn’s brow furrowed as she stared at the bloodied abrasions on the horse’s flank. Whose mount was it? She placed gentle fingers on its neck and the gelding quivered beneath her touch. Yet when she held out a wrinkled apple on the palm of her hand, it lipped the fruit and took it into its mouth. She smiled and moved away to her own palfrey in the neighbouring stall.

  Noticing two dried-up burrs picked up on the return journey from her father’s steward’s house, she removed them. She was worried about her fifteen-year-old brothers and wished Matt had not had to make the journey to Kingston-on-Hull, to enquire of his twin, Jack, and their widower father. He had taken most of the male servants with them, concerned about the rumours of a great host of Lancastrians in the vicinity of the Duke of York’s castle of Sandal a week or so ago. If there had been a battle, then, in the aftermath, one could expect to encounter wandering soldiers on the rampage. She wished her stepbrother, Diccon, was here to share the burden of worry with her, but she had not seen him for the last six months and she feared for his safety. She fingered the dagger that hung from her girdle, then glanced round apprehensively as she heard the sound of approaching footsteps.

  Anger surged in her veins at the sight of the man standing there. ‘Master Husthwaite! What are you doing here? How could you use this poor horse so cruelly?’ she demanded.

  ‘So there you are, Mistress Cicely. I’ve been looking for you.’

  The mousy, lank-haired man ran chilling silver-grey eyes over her in a manner that caused her gloved hands to clench.

  ‘For what purpose?’ she asked coldly.

  Master Husthwaite sucked in his cheeks and then released them noisily, not answering her question immediately. ‘The beast is a slug. My uncle should have insisted on his clients paying their bills more readily and then I could afford a finer horse.’

  ‘What do you mean—should have insisted?’

  ‘My uncle died recently and I am taking over his business.’ He approached her, sliding one hand against the other, his eyes fixed on her well-formed bosom. ‘So I came here in haste, after speaking to Master Matthew in Knaresborough. I thought you might need my help.’

  She stiffened. ‘Why should I need your help here on my father’s manor? I am quite capable of managing the household myself. If in need of further assistance, I can call on Father’s steward’s wife.’

  Master Husthwaite stroked his lantern jaw, his eyes narrowing. ‘It is a different kind of help I would offer you. When Master Matthew told me he was travelling to Kingston-on-Hull to seek news of your father from his agent, I was deeply concerned.’ He took a step closer to Cicely. ‘I fear you must brace yourself for bad tidings.’

  ‘I don’t know why you should deem that so,’ she retorted. And, feeling a need to put some distance between them, she moved to her horse’s head. ‘It is not the first time Father has failed to arrive home when expected—especially during the winter months. Stormy weather can delay a ship’s departure.’

  ‘No doubt that would be true if your father and brother’s arrival was only a few days or a week overdue,’ said Master Husthwaite, ‘but it is now the feast of St Hilary and, according to your brother, six weeks since he last heard from them. I really do think you have to accept that your father might well be dead.’

&
nbsp; ‘No!’ she cried, forcing back the dreadful apprehension roused first by Matt’s conviction in the last ten days that his twin brother was in pain. ‘I will not believe it is so.’

  ‘Naturally, you don’t want to accept his death as a reality, but you must do so because we’ll need to consider your future.’

  ‘We? What do you mean? I hope you do not have it in mind to interfere in my affairs,’ said Cicely, her fine eyes flashing blue fire. ‘It is no concern of yours. I—I am betrothed and will be wed at Easter.’

  His deep-set eyes flickered. ‘I have found nothing amongst your father’s papers about such an arrangement.’

  ‘Nevertheless my wedding will take place.’ Cicely was furious that he should have access to her father’s private papers. She was certain that if Nat Milburn had known this clerk would dare to step into his dead uncle’s shoes, he would have left orders for another man of business to be found instantly.

  ‘So you say. Tell me—who is this so-called betrothed?’ demanded Master Husthwaite.

  ‘His name is none of your business. Now will you kindly leave, as I have to prepare for the return of my brothers and father.’

  He glared at her, but instead of quitting the stable, he reached for the whip thrust through a strap on his saddle and lashed out at her horse. Cicely let out a scream of rage and, throwing caution to the wind, caught hold of the whip’s lash when he would have used it again. Her attempt to disarm the man resulted in her being catapulted against him. The breath was knocked out of her and he swiftly took advantage of her position. His arms went round her and he squeezed her so hard that she could scarcely breathe.

  ‘Unhand me at once! You forget yourself,’ she gasped.

  He laughed and sank his head into the smooth flesh of her neck. She screamed and resisted as, inch by inch, he forced her down on to the damp straw. In the struggle, her headdress was dislodged and her hair swirled free. He grabbed a handful of it and brought her face close, seeking her mouth with his own. She baulked at the glimpse of his rotting teeth and the smell of his stinking breath, but she managed to get a couple of fingers to his chin and pinched it. He knocked her hand away. ‘You’ll pay for that,’ he snarled.

  Cicely feared that she would, but what happened next proved her wrong. Her rescue took place so swiftly that she could barely believe that in moments she was free and Master Husthwaite lay still on the ground. She was lifted to her feet as if she weighed no more than thistledown.

  The pressure of her rescuer’s hand seemed to sear through her gown and set her skin tingling, a sensation that she found intensely disturbing in a completely different way from the shock of Master Husthwaite’s attack on her person.

  Her eyes were now on a level with an intricately patterned brooch that gleamed dully like pewter. This fastened a roughly textured woollen cloak at a weatherbeaten neck. Her gaze moved higher and the breath caught in her throat at the sight of the unshaven chin and the strong cheekbones of a man’s rugged face, framed in a tangle of chestnut hair that fell to his shoulders. He spoke in a dialect that caused her initial feelings of relief to turn to stunned dismay. Thoughts whirled in her head as she remembered going on a pilgrimage with her dying mother to a priory at Alnmouth not far from the border of England with Scotland. Her mother was from that area and an admirer of the Celtic saints, who had brought the gospel from Ireland.

  The man spoke again, but more slowly this time. ‘I hope he did not harm you badly, lass?’

  She shook her head and her golden hair swirled about her shoulders. His eyes widened as he reached out a gauntleted hand and touched a strand, tucking it behind her ear. She froze, remembering the tales told to her twin brothers by their great-uncle and grandfather. “Enough to chill the blood,” her mother had often said. There was no doubt in Cicely’s mind that the border Scots were an uncouth race and she feared this man had saved her from Master Husthwaite’s foul intent for his own pleasure. If she had been the kind of female given to swooning, she would have chosen that moment to do so. Instead, her fingers crept to the dagger hanging alongside the keys at her girdle and fastened on its string-bound hilt.

  Mackillin’s gaze skated over her blanched face, noticing that her eyes were the colour of bluebells, which grew beneath the rowan trees near Loch Trool. His mind was not the kind normally given to poetic thoughts, but he reckoned, if asked, that he could write a sonnet to such eyes. She had a heart-shaped face, a perfectly shaped nose and lips that were just asking to be kissed.

  There was that in his gaze that caused Cicely to dart out a nervous tongue and wet her lips. She knew that it was now or never to draw her dagger. ‘Keep away from me, you—you barbarian!’ she said, brandishing the weapon in front of her.

  Except for the flare of his nostrils, he appeared unmoved. ‘And if I don’t, what will you do with that…toy, lass?’ he spoke deliberately slowly.

  ‘I would stick it in you. Its edge is sharp!’ she warned.

  His eyes glinted. ‘Such gratitude for rescuing you deserves to be rewarded in kind.’ With a carelessness for his own safety that alarmed her, he seized her wrist and twisted, causing her to gasp in pain as the weapon fell to the ground. Then in one smooth movement, his left arm encircled her waist and his right hand cupped the back of her head. ‘A kiss for my pains,’ he murmured, laying claim to her mouth.

  She attempted to ward him off, but found it impossible to make an impression against his hard, muscular strength. The pressure from his mouth eased and now his lips moved gently over hers in a pleasant, tingly fashion. She was alarmed that she found even the abrasive roughness of his stubbly chin peculiarly sensual. Only thrice had she been kissed before and it had not caused sparks to charge through her veins, igniting her nerve ends in a truly thrilling fashion like this one did.

  But she had sworn to love Diccon as long as she lived. He was the only man with the right to kiss her in such a beguilingly intimate fashion, despite her father having refused his consent to their betrothal. Still, Cicely believed she could change his mind when he returned. Yet now she was allowing this—this savage to kiss her without putting up a fight. She tore her mouth away and raised a hand to hit him, but the blow never landed because, unexpectedly, he freed her.

  She glared at him and gasped, ‘My father will make you pay for daring to assault me.’

  Mackillin’s eyes narrowed. He knew that it had been a mistake kissing her, but the sight of her lips alone were enough to drive a man to forget any code of chivalry he might live by. As for the golden hair that smelt so sweetly of camomile, he had never seen such hair. His breathing deepened as he remembered that same scent on her skin and his body recalled the feel of her breasts against his chest and the jutting bones of her hips against his nether regions. The stirring in his loins did not abate and he said harshly, ‘Your father? Is he one of the servants here?’

  ‘God’s blood, no! He’s…’ She paused, uncertain what his reaction would be if he knew she was the daughter of the house. She backed away from him and turned and ran, wondering what he was doing on her father’s manor. The Scots had not raided this far south of the border for decades.

  No sooner was she outside the stables than she collided with someone. She gasped as her arm was seized and a familiar voice said, ‘Cissie, what’s wrong? Why did you scream?’

  At the welcome sound of her brother’s voice, she collapsed against him. Only to realise that his right arm was in a sling. ‘It’s you, Jack,’ she cried gladly. ‘But what have you done to yourself?’ She touched his shoulder and gazed into his beloved face. ‘Matt knew you’d been hurt. Thanks be to our Saviour that you’re home. Was it that barbarian in there who damaged your arm?’ She gesticulated in the direction of the stable. Mackillin had followed in her wake and stood in the entrance, gazing at them. Cicely eyed him warily. ‘Have you a sword, Jack?’ she whispered out of the corner of her mouth.

  He glanced at her as if she had run mad. ‘What use would it be against Mackillin? His skill with a blade is greater
than any I have ever seen.’

  ‘So you fought him and lost?’

  Jack gazed heavenwards as if for divine intervention. ‘No, Cissie. He saved my life!’

  She was aghast. ‘No! He couldn’t have—not his kind. There must be some mistake.’

  ‘You’re wrong, Cissie. He’s a friend of Father’s.’

  ‘He can’t be. Father’s a cultured man. Well travelled, well read. What could he have in common with that—that Scottish wild man?’ She glared at Mackillin, who looked at her with an expression on his face that confused her. ‘I must speak to him. Tell him that he dared to kiss me!’ She turned towards the house.

  ‘Cissie, wait!’ called Jack.

  ‘What for? If you think to change my mind, then you’re…’ She glanced over her shoulder at him and stopped in mid-flight at the sight of the misery in his face. Suddenly she was scared. ‘What is it? Why do you look like that?’

  The muscles of Jack’s throat moved jerkily. ‘You won’t find Father in the house.’

  She retreated her steps. ‘Why? Where is he? Has he had an accident?’ He hesitated. ‘You’re scaring me, Jack. Tell me—what’s happened to him?’ she cried.

  ‘He-he’s dead!’ croaked her brother. ‘Murdered by thieving rogues.’ The colour drained from Cicely’s face and she shook her head, clutching his undamaged arm. ‘I’m so sorry, Cissie,’ he added.

  ‘I don’t believe it. I won’t believe it!’ Cicely picked up the hem of her brown skirts, revealing the lamb’s-wool ‘bags’ that had encased her legs whilst riding, and raced across the yard. The hens scattered before her as she approached the grey stone house. She ignored the three packhorses waiting patiently to have their loads removed and the man still mounted. She desperately needed to find her father indoors, shouting in his deep voice for his Cissie. She climbed the steps that ran at an angle along the wall to the entrance to the hall and struggled to open the door in the icy wind. At last it gave way beneath her fingers and she went inside.