by Mary Wine
And she was to become the pet.
She had no taste for it now. The tailor was flustered with her lack of interest in his wares.
“You cannot go to see Glorianna, the Queen of England, looking like some barbarian!” he exclaimed, flustered. “I insist you take off that wool dress.”
The man’s nose was wrinkled in distaste as he eyed her.
“I thought it was the law in England to wear wool on Sunday,” Brenda replied.
The tailor rolled his eyes, his two assistants looking at her as though she’d muttered something unholy.
“No one attending court actually wears wool; they simply pay the sumptuary tax.” His tone was rich with judgment. “And you simply must do something about your speech.”
Brenda fluttered her eyelashes. “Ye do nae care for me brogue? I learned it from me mother.”
“Who was likely a sheep.” The tailor expressed his disdain.
Brenda’s eyes narrowed. “She was a kind woman who did nae judge others, or teach me to value things such as lace ruffs over more important things like behaving decently. Get out.”
“With pleasure,” the tailor declared. “Go to see your betrothed looking like that”—he flipped his hand toward her—“and he will break the contract. Mark my words.”
I enjoy that idea so very much.
And with the flap of the pavilion that served as the front door falling down into place after the abrupt departure of the tailor, Brenda was at liberty to allow her emotions to show on her face.
It was a relief.
At least for a few moments.
Galwell wouldn’t refuse to wed her, not when she came with land. Property was the truest form of wealth. Noble families remained wealthy because they wed within their own class. Yes, many claimed they arranged their marriages for the sake of keeping their blue blood pure.
She didn’t believe it. Land meant rent. It was the way nobles maintained their incomes. Since her dowry was land recently separated from the Stewarts, Galwell would be ordered by his fine-blooded family to retrieve it by wedding her. That same family would be delighted if she never presented them with a child of inferior blood. They’d advise her husband to bed her once for the sake of validating the contract between them and then to leave her alone.
At least her cousin Symon was happy.
Brenda indulged in a moment of bliss as she contemplated how Symon had found Athena. Neither had known about the land left to her by her father’s family. James the Sixth had first considered separating Symon from Athena because she had been pre-contracted with Galwell. The man had proved himself a black-hearted scoundrel, though, when a greater match had been presented, and he’d tried to force Athena to become his mistress.
She’d fled to Scotland instead. Brenda smiled, enjoying the memory. For all that Athena was an Englishwoman, she had spirit and would be a fine wife for Brenda’s cousin Symon. James had decided to make Symon give the land as dowry for Brenda and send Brenda to England to wed Galwell.
Well, it was hardly the first time fate had turned nasty toward her.
She’d given her word, and she’d keep it. She doubted Symon had returned home easily though. Her cousin hadn’t liked the bargain the King had forced down his throat.
Ye have Bothan Gunn to thank for the fact that Symon had gone home at all…
Brenda couldn’t deny the validity of the thought. Symon wouldn’t have trusted many men with retrieving her. Bothan Gunn was a man Symon called friend. A man who had earned Symon’s respect.
Well, Bothan wouldn’t be taking her home either. With enough time, Symon would see his duty was to return to Grant land and make certain the clan had a solid leader and future. Athena would give him children to kindle life once again inside the walls of Grant Tower.
It had been far too long since the place had felt alive.
Ye won’t be there to enjoy it…
Brenda cursed her inner thoughts for they offered her little hope. It was the single thing that had kept her fighting to live for so many years.
Hope.
Or at least the knowledge that there was a part of herself no one could take away.
But it could be strangled.
She let out a sigh and turned around, gasping when she found herself staring at Bothan Gunn in her bedchamber. She blinked, wondering if it was just the ramblings of her mind.
No, he was still there. Very, very much in the flesh.
“It’s only a pavilion, but the truth is, I enjoyed knowing I’d snuck into yer private quarters, lass.” He crossed the distance between them, his lips set in a rather smug grin.
But his elation faded as he locked gazes with her. Concern flashed through his eyes.
“Do nae be so troubled, Brenda,” Bothan scolded her gently.
Bothan had been many things to her in their short acquaintance. He’d been the rogue teasing her on May Day, the man she’d felt confident enough to taunt in return, and he’d been the one to declare he’d court her in spite of her declaration to remain her own woman.
He had never been her confidant or a man who spoke to her gently.
No, only Symon was that, and he had a new wife. She’d allowed her cousin to see her weakness. She couldn’t let Bothan see that part of her. Weakness might be exploited.
“I am quite well,” she answered, moving off to one side because Bothan filled the space between them with his presence.
She was so very aware of him. Part of her wanted to linger over that fact and absorb it.
But her wisdom argued against it. For it would be like whisky; once she allowed it inside herself, the effect would undermine her ability to maintain her control.
Bothan crossed his arms over his chest, facing off with her with his feet braced shoulder-width apart. In his kilt and rolled-up shirtsleeves, he appeared far more the northern barbarian the tailor had accused her of being.
“I brought ye good news, lass,” he began.
Brenda’s eyelashes fluttered. It was a far wiser idea to keep from locking gazes with him for he seemed to see past her confident mask and into her innermost feelings, into that place she reserved for only herself.
Such was her sole private possession.
But she failed, looking up when he didn’t continue to talk. No, he was waiting for her to give him her full attention.
Waiting for her to allow him to gaze into her eyes.
“There are those who do nae favor this wedding James has sent ye to.” Bothan moved closer, maintaining eye contact. She caught the flicker of victory in his blue eyes and wanted to believe in it.
Ye mustn’t waver.
Bothan reached out and lifted her chin when she looked down.
She felt the connection right down to her toes. It drew a soft sound from her because no one had ever affected her in such a dramatic fashion before.
His eyes narrowed when she recoiled.
“I have never put rough hands on ye,” he defended himself.
She blinked and lifted her chin. “I made no such accusation.”
He tilted his head to one side, contemplating her very much like one of her cousin’s hawks might. “Ye shy away from me.”
She felt heat teasing her cheeks.
Ye must not blush!
“Would ye have me be the sort of woman who is used to having a man’s hands on her?” Brenda asked before thinking her words through.
Heat flickered in his eyes. “I’d enjoy knowing ye are accustomed to having my hands on ye, Brenda.”
She should have expected such a response. Brenda offered him a flutter of her eyelashes before she shook her head.
“Perhaps I am only attempting to accept me circumstances.” She meant to place distance between them. Instead, Bothan’s eyes glowed with another flare of victory as though she’d made some sort of admission. “Wh
y are ye here? I have made it clear I intend to keep me word,” Brenda said.
“As do I, Brenda Grant.” Bothan spoke in a firm tone. She’d always taken him for a man who had earned his position. Today, she was face-to-face with the side of his nature that had earned him the title of chief. He’d proven himself worthy.
“I gave yer cousin me word,” Bothan continued, closing the distance between them one silent step at a time. “And I will bring ye away from this match.”
“Maybe it’s for the best. This match.” She wasn’t lashing out at him. No, her words were more of a confession of just how much she realized she would never trust any man enough to allow him into her life.
And Bothan deserved a woman who would welcome him.
“I will not reconsider me position on accepting yer suit. I mean ye no unkindness, Bothan, and tell ye to go because it would no’ be correct of me to see ye waste yer time,” Brenda finished softly.
She wanted to flinch away from her own words and just how bleak they made her feel.
“Ye are worthy of me time, Brenda.” Bothan reached out to cup her chin, raising her face so their eyes met.
For a moment, she felt like there was enough hope in his eyes to blow everything else aside.
“I’m too old for ignoring the way the world is, Bothan, and so are ye.” She stepped back to remove her chin from his fingers. “What we want is no’ how things are going to be. Not when kings are involved.”
Bothan looked past her to where the garments the tailor had been trying to get her to try lay on the table.
“Well now, lass.” Bothan slowly grinned. “If ye are intent on staying, ye are going to need some of those skirts that are rigid, making ye walk like ye have yer ankles tied together because ye’d look like a bell being rung if ye took longer strides…”
He reached over and plucked a farthingale up, letting it hang down like a bell, the hoops sewn into it widening until they reached the hem. He swung it back and forth as he chuckled. “And one of these…things…” He plucked a neck ruff off the table and dangled it like a frog he was trying to frighten her with.
Although she did admit she found the garment rather repulsive.
Brenda turned and sent him a narrow-eyed look. “Ye don’t need to enjoy this so very much, Chief Gunn. If me husband keeps me at court, I truly will have to wear that thing.”
Bothan’s expression went serious. He’d been leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest, making him look impossibly large and full of strength. He straightened and unfolded his arms as he came closer to her.
“Be very, very sure of one thing lass.” His tone deepened as his eyes flickered with promise. “I am going to enjoy ye very, very much.”
She should have recoiled. But the promise in his eyes was mesmerizing. Brenda discovered herself caught in his gaze, fascinated by the way his eyes burned with an intensity that made her cheeks heat.
Ye didn’t blush.
“If this Englishman wants the land, he will take me as I am,” she declared as she looked at the clothing.
Bothan’s eyes flashed before he caught her upper arm and tugged her back around to face him. “I’ll challenge him before he can claim ye.”
The breath froze in her chest. “This is England. Challenge a noble and ye could end up being hanged.”
His lips twitched into a cocky grin. “Would it matter to ye, sweet Brenda?”
Brenda drew herself up and looked away from him. “I’ve no desire to see ye dead.”
“Ah,” he mocked her softly. “I suppose I’m more interested in discovering if ye desire to see me.”
Brenda didn’t miss the hint. He was teasing her. And there were different sorts of teasing. She’d become quite accomplished in flirting and leaving men with just enough hope that they’d wait to see if she bestowed her favors on them.
It was an effective form of managing the men who thought to add her to their list of conquests.
“Ye will no’ challenge him.” But even as she repeated, she realized Bothan would never be bound by her decree.
No, he was far too much of a warrior.
Part of her enjoyed it.
And the other part? Well, she knew she was spending a great deal of effort in making sure there was actually a part of her willing to argue the point. Truthfully, she just wanted to let Bothan have his way and take her away from the cold marriage awaiting her.
Bothan moved closer. “Would ye worry over my fate, Brenda?”
“Is this situation not already difficult enough?” she demanded in exasperation.
He was slowly following her, crowding her. Pressing her.
What alarmed Brenda was how aware she was of it. Her belly was twisting, and her skin was far too sensitive. It defied her reasoning for she was no stranger to the advances of men. But today, Bothan’s presence didn’t annoy her.
It agitated her.
“Aye, it’s difficult, all right,” Bothan agreed. He reached out and stroked her cheek. “Yet I promised ye I would be dealing with ye this spring, Brenda. Difficult or no’, I will be keeping me word to ye.”
Brenda let out a little huff.
At least Brenda intended it to be a huff. What actually crossed her lips was a breathless little sound that unmasked the turmoil inside her.
And Bothan noticed.
That sensation in her belly intensified, pinning her in position as Bothan took the last step between them and laid his hand on the side of her face.
The flap of the tent that served as the door was suddenly flipped aside and pulled all the way back so the man wanting to enter didn’t have to do any of the work himself. In fact, he was poised in the center of the opening, perfectly positioned to be revealed. Bothan turned and tilted his head to one side, clearly never having seen the lengths some nobles went to when making an entrance.
She enjoyed seeing the disgust in Bothan’s eyes. More than once, she’d wondered if she was the only one who didn’t place value on such things.
Stop noticing things ye like about him…
The man who stood in the doorway was groomed to perfection. He had two menservants hovering behind him as he looked inside the pavilion. He was actually holding a sprig of fresh rosemary, sniffing it with his eyes closed. One leg was positioned perfectly in front of the other so she would be afforded a look at his inner calf. His doublet fit him like a second skin, and around his neck was a ruff dripping with lace. Matching lace adorned each of his wrists, and the open flaps allowed the scent of his perfume to waft in to where she stood. Bothan turned and crossed his arms over his chest in the time it took the man to finish sniffing and open his eyes to take in what was inside the tent.
The nobleman’s eyes narrowed as he took in Bothan. His expression transformed into one of astonishment as his jaw slacked open and she heard him give a very loud sniff.
Brenda decided he appeared as though he’d bitten into a lemon.
“What…” He drew out the word. “What are you doing in here with another man?”
“It would seem yer intended groom has decided to come and make himself known to ye at last.” Bothan refused to hide the grin curving his lips. He had his head tucked down as he gripped his forearms while trying not to laugh outright.
“I am,” the man declared loudly, “Galwell Scrope.”
He raked Brenda up and down with his gaze, clearly waiting for her to acknowledge him.
More like be impressed with him…
The servants behind him encouraged her with frantic motions of their hands. Brenda moved one foot behind her and offered him a small courtesy. He was less than pleased, his expression looking somewhat pinched. He drew off another sniff from the rosemary before appearing to resign himself to dealing with her. The ruff around his neck meant he held his chin high.
Looks like a rooster…
&nb
sp; Brenda pressed her lips tightly together and looked toward the ground to avoid the English nobleman from seeing the amusement in her eyes. She looked up again when she’d grasped her composure. Galwell Scrope was inside the pavilion now and looking past her to where Bothan stood. Galwell’s eyes bulged as he came to an abrupt stop when Bothan didn’t budge but stood watching him with an expression that made it clear Bothan would welcome any challenge the man cared to issue.
“She is my bride,” Galwell declared. “You do not belong in here with her.”
Bothan didn’t even blink in response to the outrage in Galwell’s tone.
“Ye have never set eyes on her before and did no’ even know ye were set to wed her until she arrived.” Bothan didn’t waste any time making it clear he thought Galwell had no grounds for his outrage.
“And you…know her? Well enough to seek her out in private?” Galwell’s implication was clear.
Bothan opened his arms, sending Galwell back a step. “If I had no care for her reputation, I’d let ye think so, for I’d hope ye’d dissolve the contract between ye.”
Galwell snorted. He raised his chin and stuck his nose up. “I am not so easy to manipulate,” he informed Bothan, sweeping him up and down with his gaze. “You are here for the same reason my father insists I wed her. The land.”
“I am no’ surprised ye think so,” Bothan said. He contemplated Galwell, his lips curling with disgust over the elaborate court clothing. Galwell was wearing short little puffed pants known as pansy slops. Sections of them were decorated with silver trim and pearls, and whoever had outfitted him hadn’t forgotten to include a codpiece complete with jewels twinkling in the sun.
Bothan looked Galwell up and down with an expression on his face that made it plain the highland chief was having difficulty believing what was before him. Galwell took Bothan’s silence for acceptance of his superiority.
The nobleman couldn’t have been more incorrect.
Galwell sniffed disdainfully. “Don’t pretend you are not interested in a good dowry. Why else would you be in here, trying to seduce her so her name is linked with yours and the Queen decides to make her marry you in disgrace?”
Bothan’s expression tightened.