by Mary Wine
There was nothing unusual about her host, except his ability to annoy her. She would return to Amber Hill and allow her brother to arrange a good match for her. Obviously there was too much tension between Scotland and England for her to continue to consider Gordon. Henry the Eighth would die soon, leaving his young son Edward to wear his crown. Two children could not bring peace between the two nations. If she married into Scotland, her own brother would have to call her husband his enemy. Even if Curan had given his permission for Barras to court her, that was not permission to wed. Better to leave before her longings gained too much hold on her.
It was logical, but she felt disappointment creeping across her heart. No amount of thinking dispelled it. She needed her virtue, and just because she craved something did not mean it would be hers. There was nothing to do save endure.
That was something she understood well how to do.
The first meal of the day was served soon after Mass. It was a simple offering of porridge topped with the last of the season’s fruits. The cereal might be stored and left in large iron pots while the staff attended Mass. The cook used a large ladle to fill wooden bowls with the thick sustenance. Maids brought trays of bowls that gently steamed in the cool morning air. The main hall became crowded and noisy as everyone filled the long tables that ran across the space. Benches skidded on the hard stone floor, and men whistled to their comrades before sitting down to partake of the morning fare. If it hadn’t been for the rust and orange tartans they wore, she might have thought she was at Amber Hill.
Except that she didn’t recognize a single face. A lump lodged in her throat as she realized how alone she was. There was nothing to force Gordon to return her home. She might never get the chance to stare down those who doubted she was still pure because she was unsure of her host’s intentions. He was a difficult man to understand or anticipate. The way he had handled her was clear evidence that he would do exactly as he pleased in spite of her arguments. The lump grew larger and the porridge looked too coarse to force down her throat.
Commotion from the end of the hall drew her attention. Gordon entered with his captains on his heels. Gordon wore a knitted round bonnet tipped to the side of his head. On the right side of the band was a solid gold broach in the form of one rampant lion. The eyes of the animal were set with rubies, telling her that Barras blood was considered noble. Each of the men following him wore a pheasant feather in his cap. It was a mark of their position, and the hall quieted while they passed.
Jemma felt the color drain from her face, for this was not the man who had teased her last night. The man who strode so determinedly down the center aisle, without a doubt or any hint of mercy, was Laird Barras. His stride was purposeful, carrying him quickly toward the table that waited. It was set up on a dais, further reinforcing the authority of the man. Bowls had not been placed on the table yet. A maid lifted a tray and hurried to serve her laird the moment he sat down. Every one of his captains waited until Gordon sat. Women attended the table immediately, bringing tankards and pitchers to fill them with. The morning meal was served to each captain and to the laird. What the men failed to see was the scuffle behind the servers. Girls cut one another off in order to be the ones serving at the high table. One woman actually aimed a silent snarl, her lips curling and her nose wrinkling at another woman when she made the mistake of trying to place a bowl in front of Gordon. But when she leaned over where her laird might see her, she was smiling sweetly as though she were kin to the Virgin Mary. She leaned very far forward, making sure her breasts were displayed for Gordon. His gaze dropped to the creamy swells, and his lips curved just a slight amount.
Jemma felt her cheeks heat with temper. She knew that grin. That curving of his mouth that he’d aimed at her across the bed last night. Her eyes widened when she realized that she was caught in a flash of jealousy.
She looked down at her bowl, silently chiding herself.
“I enjoy riding . . .”
Of course the man did. He knew too much about how to fluster her, how to touch her so that her heart began racing. It should come as no surprise at all that he had women fighting over him. No doubt the man had walked away from her last night and into the arms of another woman who knew more than she did about satisfying him.
Being a maiden had never bothered her before, but for a moment she detested her lack of knowledge. She was ignorant, and she felt the lack keenly. Lifting her face, she looked at the girl lavishing service on Gordon. Her lips were plump and inviting; they glistened as if she’d licked them before leaning over the table where she might be seen. Instead of securely braided hair, tucked beneath a linen cap, her cap hung from her belt and her hair looked tousled or just right for a man to slide his fingers into. Her hips swayed when she crossed in front of the table on her way back toward the hearth. Unlike the other maids, she didn’t take the shorter path that ran behind the table; no, she crossed in front and took her time covering the distance. More eyes than just Gordon’s watched her, and Jemma stared at the expressions on those faces. Lust was there for certain, but there was also heat and passion. The girl carried herself with supreme confidence, and the cutting glances of the other Barras women didn’t gain even a tilt from her head. Instead she smiled at the men watching her, absorbing the attention they lavished on her.
Envy filled Jemma. Bitter and irrational, but she couldn’t deny that she wanted what that girl had.
Do I?
That little voice inside her head shocked her, but the question was still a valid one. If she wanted what that girl had, then she would have to be willing to surrender her body to gain it. She’d never questioned remaining pure, it was expected of her, but to be honest she had never even thought about what life might be like if she chose to do otherwise.
Well, it might be very harsh. Jemma watched the woman at the hearth, and things were not so good for her now. The other women sent her cutting glances, and the cook shook her long-handled spoon at her. The girl frowned but pulled her linen cap from her belt and placed it on her head. The cook was not satisfied and reached out to deliver a quick slap. The girl turned red but took her chastisement and snatched a pitcher off the table before turning around to begin filling tankards. Once more she was the center of adoring attention from the men, but the women sent sharp glares at her.
What was worse? Being the virgin bride who gained approval of the females in the house while her husband dallied and everyone knew it, or the woman who was frank enough to flaunt what she enjoyed? Even thinking such a question defied every bit of higher authority that she had been raised with, but Jemma still pondered the idea. When her father became ill, she had stepped out of society and all of its expectations. There had only been what he needed and the time they had left to share with each other.
“Mistress Jemma.”
Gordon’s voice sliced through the conversation filling the hall. Everyone near her turned to look at her, and she could feel many, many more staring at her. The woman sitting next to her sent her elbow into her ribs because Jemma hesitated.
Pushing her bench back, she stood up and looked toward the head table. Gordon was watching her with his blue eyes, but his expression revealed nothing of his thoughts.
“I was pleased to hear you attended Mass this morning. You pleased the clergy by doing so.”
A murmur of approval rippled across the hall. It made her swallow her response and simply lower herself. Acceptance was not something that anyone gained through challenging the rules that governed life. Besides, no matter if she did disagree with some of the ways that life was dictated to her, order prevented having to live with savageness. Gordon was laird, maintaining order by having expectations for everyone living on his land, including himself. But that did not mean that she would meekly accept the man’s rule over her.
“It was most kind of your people to make me welcome, especially since I am to depart so quickly, but I am most appreciative.”
He stared at her, his lips curving just the smal
lest amount while everyone waited to hear what their laird would say. She had never been the center of so much attention and decided that it was not something she enjoyed. Sweat trickled down her back beneath her clothing, and her heart was beating faster. But she held her chin steady, keeping herself looking as if nothing was bothering her at all.
“I consider myself most fortunate to be having yer company here for the next few days.”
“Days—” Jemma clamped down on her outburst and watched the beast hide his grin behind his tankard. More than one of his captains was shielding a similar expression. “Forgive me, Lord Barras, but it seems that you were not informed of the fact that I plan to return to my home this morning as my brother would expect me to.”
“Unfortunately I can nae be allowing anyone but me men outside the walls until I am certain that the English soldiers I encountered last night are well off me land and no longer a threat. I’m sure ye can understand the need I feel to protect every last soul that the Lord has placed beneath my care.” He lowered the tankard and stared at her. “Yer brother would thank me for my concern, I’m very sure of that.”
His captains began to agree, nodding their heads and slapping the top of the table, but there was merriment dancing in Gordon’s eyes.
“I am very sure that there is no danger while the sun is shining, Lord Barras.” She placed emphasis on the word “lord” to make sure everyone heard her English pronunciation of the title. His captains frowned at her, becoming quiet again.
Gordon stood up, and the hall fell completely silent. Not even a spoon scraped against the side of a bowl.
“I am nae so sure, Mistress.”
His words were spoken like a judgment. They rang across the hall, making sure no one wearing his colors missed the fact that he wanted her to remain. Jemma felt as if an iron collar were being locked around her neck.
“I am sorry to hear that we disagree, Lord Barras, for neighbors should be friendly whenever possible; yet I must return to my home. That is, of course, the only correct thing to do. My brother will express his gratitude for the service you have shown me, I am certain of that.”
Jemma lowered herself, curtsying in a perfect display of feminine poise and grace. She rose back up smoothly and promptly turned her back on him. There was astonishment on the faces she saw, a few jaws dropping open. Jemma did not stop to consider any of it. She moved at a quick pace through the great hall, the open doors at the far end beckoning to her.
But she never felt the sunlight touch her face. A strong hand latched around her upper arm and pulled her toward a doorway off to the side of the hall. She didn’t need to question who that grip belonged to because her body leaped with excitement, recognizing the touch instantly. She waited until the door shut behind them and turned on Gordon with all the pent-up fury her false demeanor had stifled.
“I will not stay here. Best you understand that, sir.”
He folded his arms across his chest and placed his body between the door and her. “There will be an understanding here, lass, but no by me. Ye will stay inside this castle until I grant ye leave.”
“You have no right to command me so.”
“No right?” His voice lowered. “I have every right, Jemma. Ye came so close to being killed by yer own foolishness last night that I have earned the right to enforce my will on ye because following yer whims has been proven so perilous.”
She shook her head, unwilling to listen to his words. But he moved forward and cupped her chin in one of his large hands to hold her still.
“Do ye doubt that those English are still out there, or that they have comrades who will help them extract vengeance on anyone they find? Even one of their own?”
“I will be safe at Amber Hill.”
“Ye would need an escort of at least fifty men, and I need those same men to safeguard me villages and fields.”
“But that leaves me stranded here.” Jemma shook off his hand, unable to stomach the touch when she felt as if that iron collar was growing heavier with every sentence he spoke. “I cannot simply live here.”
“And why not?” He stiffened. “Barras Castle is a fine place to live, lass.”
“That is not my objection to remaining and you know it.”
His lips curved up in mocking jest. “Well now, lass, I seem to recall that ye found me to yer liking last night as well. Yer lips moved so sweetly beneath my own—”
“Stop it. Such talk is sinful.”
He moved toward her and she retreated, but they were only in a small storage room and a solid wall stopped her within a few paces. Gordon pressed his hands onto that wall, caging her with his thickly muscled arms. He was so close she could smell his skin once more, and she found it more pleasing than she remembered.
“Well then, I suppose that only leaves us action, if ye do nae want any talking about what is between us.”
“There is nothing between us—”
His mouth smothered the rest of her denial. Today’s kiss was firmer and more demanding. His elbows bent, allowing his body to brush against her own. She jerked, too flooded by sensation to remain still. But Gordon captured the sides of her head once more, his hands spreading wide to hold her face exactly where he wanted it. His mouth continued to demand, pressing against her lips until she opened them. The tip of his tongue teased the soft skin of her lower lip before licking its way along her upper one. It felt as if he was tasting her and savoring every moment. His body kept hers caged against the wall, allowing her no reprieve from the overload of stimulation. It poured into her from the warm scent of his skin to the way his mouth pressed hers to open farther.
“There is a great deal between us, lass, and I am going to enjoy exploring it.” He trailed tiny kisses across her cheek and onto the side of her neck. She shivered, never having suspected that her skin might be so sensitive. Delight traveled down her body, touching off renewed excitement in her belly that swirled and leaped into a roaring blaze of need. She gasped, shuddering at the sheer intensity of that need. It clawed at her like some beast in search of nourishment and the only thing it craved was Gordon. She reached for him, her hands unable to remain at her sides in denial of what she desired. It was suddenly clear to her that she was lonely, her body suffering from not being touched. Her hands absorbed the warmth of his body with gratefulness, setting off a quiver behind her knees. She wanted to sink down and press herself completely against him.
The image of them rolling across the surface of a bed shocked her with the carnality of her desires.
“Stop, Gordon . . . please.” She was pleading, but desperation was welling up inside her because she knew that her resolve was beginning to be undermined by the flood of physical need.
“The sound of my name on yer lips is sweeter than honey, lass.” Gordon straightened his head to lock his gaze with hers. His hands returned to the wall beside her head, and she heard his breathing rasping between his clenched teeth. “Even if I have no liking for what ye are asking me.”
“You must stop.”
He snorted at her, and his eyes lit with determination that warned her. The man did not care for being told what he must do. He leaned forward, but Jemma raised her hand and covered his lips to prevent him from kissing her again.
“I want you to stop.”
He pressed a hand on the center of her chest, his fingers directly over her heart. She gasped, never having felt any man’s hand on the soft swells of her breasts. Even her clothing did not prevent her from shivering.
“The racing of yer heart is telling me to keep kissing ye until I find what ye have hidden beneath yer stays.”
“Don’t you have enough women willing to be ridden because of lust alone? I am a virgin, and your words are misplaced.”
“How about me hand? Do ye disagree with where it is, too?”
His fingers pressed a tiny bit harder against her chest. Fear clawed at her as her nipples began to tingle and harden. She couldn’t seem to resist the urge to respond to him. It was insta
ntaneous and overwhelming.
“You are toying with me. My brother told me that Scotsmen have honor, even if most of England claims otherwise. Do you plan to show me that or prove the rumors true? There are plenty of English that like to hate men born outside of England, but I have never been one of them. I prefer to judge for myself. Maybe that is a mistake.”
His nostrils flared, and she stared at the telltale sign that she had hit him in a soft spot. His hand stayed in place, seeming to grow hotter every moment that it remained against her tender flesh. It should have been impossible to be so aware of a touch, especially when she was so annoyed with him. Everything about their personalities felt as if it was designed to be opposite from the other.
“I deserved that comment.” Gordon’s tone was tight and his face even more so, but he lifted his hand away from her chest to gently stroke the side of her face with his fingertips. She shivered, drawing in a shuddering breath.
“But I just can’t find it in me to say I’m sorry when ye respond so much to my touch, lass.” His fingers made it to her hairline where he tugged on one small lock curling in defiance of the braids that held the longer strands and forced them to be neat.
“I am nae sorry, Jemma, and neither are you.” His voice was tempting, dark, and full of the promise of more delight should she yield to his will.
“But I am asking you to stop.” Because that was the wise choice. One that she detested, and she had to sink her teeth into her own lip to keep from retracting.
His fingers stilled her lips by gliding across them. She quivered and her gaze focused on his mouth, the longing in her belly urging her to gently kiss his fingers in invitation.