My Fair Highlander

by Mary Wine

  “I suspect that would be the work of those bloody English.”

  “The ones I granted mercy to.” Gordon took a quick look through the glass before passing it back to one of the men standing nearby. “I warned them that there would be no second chance of that happening again. Mount up!”

  Every lad over the age of five was already helping to saddle horses. They came running in their night shirts to lend assistance to their clan. Gordon’s foot touched the ground, and his stallion was tugged toward him. He offered the animal a firm pat along its neck before swinging up onto its powerful back.

  “Open the gate!”

  There was a groan as the chains were wound up and the iron gate began to rise. The Barras retainers didn’t wait for it to finish; they ducked their heads across the necks of their horses the moment the iron gate was high enough for them to ride beneath. The sound of the horses’ hooves combined with the night. They streamed out of the castle, uncaring of the darkness. Nothing was more fearsome than they.

  Chapter Eight

  Jemma rubbed her eyes at dawn. Sleep had proven elusive, and she was already out of bed when Ula arrived. The housekeeper was without her customary smile this morning, her lips slightly pinched instead. But she was also not alone, for several women followed her.

  “Don’t bother, Ula, there is no stain on the sheet. We hadn’t . . . um . . . the bells interrupted . . . us . . .”

  Jemma stumbled over her words, never having imagined that she would have to explain the lack of blood on her wedding sheets. She would have laughed indeed at anyone who told her such a tale, but there was naught amusing about knowing that her bed was as clean as it had been the night before. Being English in a Scottish castle was not the place for any bride to try to explain pristine sheets on her first morning as a wife. At the very least, her marriage was unconsummated. Anne of Cleaves had found herself divorced for the same circumstance.

  “I see. ’Tis nothing to fret over, Mistress. The laird will return.”

  “I shall pray that he does.”

  Jemma shivered, feeling the icy dread that had been her constant companion since her father died. Ula was worried; she read it off the housekeeper’s face. Gordon should have returned before sunrise. Other maids came into the chamber and set to work dressing her. Jemma stood still out of shock and the dread that felt like it might stop her heart with its grasp. He would return, she had to believe that.

  Why?

  Was she so foolish as to have allowed affection for him into her heart?

  Jemma scoffed at herself. There had been nothing allowed. That was the difficulty with tender emotions; they slipped past every defense like poison in a goblet. You never knew that an assassin had gotten close enough to snatch your life away until you felt the evil concoction eating away at your insides.

  But evil was a harsh word. Jemma hugged herself and crossed the chamber to look out the windows. The maids had opened some of the glass panes just like shutters, allowing fresh air to sweep through the room. It carried the scent of fall and blew out all the traces of smoke left from the candles that had burned last night. She had never imagined sleeping in such a grand room; it was something from a tale of a palace somewhere far away. Not something she might actually step into. It was easy to see far into the distance.

  The view did not ease her mind because there was no sign of the Barras retainers nor their laird.

  Her heart longed to see them, and that only made her more unhappy. Dread unleashed its tension on her. Like any storm there was no way to block out the chill completely, because even standing in front of a fire you felt its icy touch on the back of your neck.

  She followed the other women to church where the priest sent out prayers for the retainers and laird. But her thoughts were centered on the man she worried so much about.

  “Come along, Mistress, best to keep busy; that will pass the time better.”

  Ula was correct, but her voice betrayed that the housekeeper was no happier about waiting than Jemma was. They began to work, racing the end of the season to make sure the castle was prepared for the ice and snow. Every work room was piled high with dried fruits, oats, and grains. Men worked on the hen houses where the birds would roost during the winter while providing eggs. The birds were still being allowed to graze on the drying hillsides, and the young girls were sent out to find their eggs with large baskets to carry them back to the cook.

  The afternoon turned dark long before sunset, black clouds dominating the sky. They huddled together while the wind ripped at her skirts. Jemma climbed up onto the hillsides to call the last of the girls back. They struggled to bring their heavy baskets with them, and she reached for two that were full of fresh eggs. With abundant food, the hens were laying twice a day.

  “Go on now, it’s going to storm.”

  The girls needed no further urging. They grabbed the front of their skirts and ran toward the side gate that led into the yard behind the curtain wall. Jemma followed but at a steady walk to ensure that she did not crack any eggs. She stopped outside the gate, hearing Ula’s voice raised on the other side of the stone wall.

  “Are ye mad? Allowing the mistress out without an escort? The laird will nae be pleased, mark my words.”

  “The way I hear, my laird will be plenty grateful to be rid of her. The sheets were white this morning. She’s a slut. An English slut that we have no need of.”

  Jemma gasped. Thinking that it might be said was different from hearing it. Her face heated with a blush, and tears stung her eyes. She drew in a stiff breath and raised her chin, refusing to allow those tears to fall. She blinked them away and stepped boldly through the gate. The man arguing with Ula jerked his head around when he noticed her and his eyes narrowed in distaste. Thunder boomed in the hills above them, loud enough to make conversation impossible.

  It was better that way. Kindness seemed to have abandoned her. Ula reached for one of the baskets, and they carried them both into the kitchens. The long rooms that served as kitchens were bustling with women coming in to avoid the rain. The cook snapped at them when they began to chatter, making the room an impossible place to concentrate.

  Anyon stood near one of the hearths with other laundresses, all trying to dry their skirts. The girl smirked at her as she carried the basket toward a long table where the cook was laying out her ingredients.

  “Better be careful that ye didna break any. The cook likes to hand out slaps.” The laundresses snickered.

  Jemma raised her chin and shot a firm glance toward Anyon. “Well, I suppose that would be better than being ambushed for no reason beyond spite.”

  Anyon propped her hands on her hips, and the action pushed her breasts out. “Ye see, there’s the problem with the English, they never did know how to fight.”

  “Enough, Anyon, I have no time for pettiness.” Jemma turned her back, but the girl raised her voice.

  “Oh, yes, I forgot. Ye have to be off to think of ways to get the laird to share yer bed since he could nae stomach the sight of ye last night long enough to plow ye.”

  Jemma turned to face the girl once more. If she wanted to be mistress of Barras castle, she could not hide.

  “But he was in my bed when the bells rang, not seeking out yours.”

  Anyon stiffened but closed her mouth when the majority of the women working at the long tables refused to cross the laird’s new bride, even if the sheets had been clean this morning. They looked down at their work, abandoning Anyon to her temper.

  Jemma raised her chin, casting a glance around to make it clear that she expected her words to be obeyed by all. “I was raised in England and therefore under the Protestant church. Since this is a Catholic nation, I expect that Christian values shall be used in this castle. My wedding-night celebration was interrupted. Any who claim any other reason for the lack of a stained sheet this morning will have the privilege of telling your laird that charge against me when he returns.”

  Eyes widened, and several gasps made it past
the hands attempting to smother them. Tension drew the muscles along her back tight, but Jemma remained firmly in place. She swept the room, aiming a hard look at anyone who did not lower their eyes when she met them. Only the cook stood up to her, the older woman staring back at her for a few moments. The woman wiped her hands on her apron before speaking.

  “Aye, Mistress.”

  Jemma turned around and felt everyone staring at her back. But she maintained her dignity, leaving the room with her chin level. Many a noble bride had failed to take her house in hand when she arrived. Failing to do so would earn her nothing but a staff set against her.

  Jemma scoffed at herself. Her words might have ensured that the Barras staff was indeed set against her, for Anyon was one of their own. But a sharp slap came from the silent kitchens, a solid flesh-upon-flesh sound that Jemma could not mistake. The cook was clearly a woman of her word, and it would seem that Anyon was learning that the hard way. A flurry of work sounds followed, chopping and dishes connecting with the hard wood tabletop. The cook resumed issuing orders, but there was not one word in response.

  “I’m glad ye put that girl in her place.” Ula nodded with approval. “I’m ashamed to claim her as kin.”

  The thunder cracked above their heads so loud it felt as if it shook the very air. Jemma shivered, something raising the hair on the back of her neck. It was more than the wind, something other than the storm raining its fury down on the towers. She could feel the hate being directed toward her. It was thick and choking, frightening her with its darkness.

  “I hope it brings peace. That is all I seek, Ula.”

  The border land . . .

  “Damn miserable rain.” Curan Ramsden offered his opinion in the place of a greeting. He pushed the visor up to expose his face. “Makes a man want to seek out his home and family.”

  There was no mistaking the barely concealed threat in his tone. Gordon turned his hand over to feel the rain pelting them and shrugged. “Ye have spent too much time in France if ye find this weather disagreeable, my brother by marriage.”

  Curan held his emotions behind a tightly controlled expression. It was admirable because not every man learned to hide what he was thinking so well. The only hint was the way the man’s stallion jerked its head, clearly feeling the man tightening his thighs around the saddle.

  “Is that so, Barras?”

  “Yer sister did me the honor of becoming my wife yesterday.”

  There was a flash of something dangerous in Curan’s eyes. It was something Gordon knew about the man, that he was a noble who took action rather than talking. Curan was a knight who backed up every word he spoke.

  “Yesterday? And you failed to invite me to the ceremony.”

  “I had yer permission.” Gordon returned the baron’s stare, refusing to back down. Jemma belonged to him. “That was always my goal, and I told ye plainly.”

  “But did my sister agree?” Rage edged each word.

  Gordon leaned forward. “She did.”

  Curan glared at him, holding his next thought while lightning flashed around them. The thunder came next, and Curan’s expression looked just as fierce as the rumble sounded. “But you have no way of proving that, Barras, seeing as how you moved forwards without sending someone to inform me of your impending wedding so that I could ask Jemma that before the vows were taken.”

  “I do nae send any men out without a full escort with yer English knights roaming these hills looking for me queen. They nearly ended yer sister’s life, and fired one of me farms last night, dragging us both out here to enjoy the weather.”

  “Your point is well founded.”

  Gordon nodded, accepting the slight easing of tension between them. “Ye are welcome at Barras Castle to ask Jemma yerself.”

  “That will not resolve my question now that the deed is done.” His eyes narrowed with judgment. “Nothing can.”

  “Well now, lad, that’s where ye’re wrong.” Gordon watched his neighbor’s face register surprise. Unlike most men, Curan waited for him to continue instead of blurting out another comment that would delay him gaining the answer he sought.

  “I married yer sister and took her to bed, but the attack on my people took me away before I consummated the union.” Gordon felt his frustration peak once again, but he offered Curan a smirk. “Ye might recall that little challenge from yer own attempts to celebrate yer wedding with pretty Bridget.”

  “And you have no issue with sending my sister to me outside your walls to tell me she is pleased to be your wife?”

  “If that is what is needed.”

  “Possibly.” Curan’s reply lost some of its edge when his eyes lit with satisfaction. “I am pleasantly surprised, Barras. I didn’t believe there was a way for you to prove the matter to me; I stand corrected.”

  Gordon nodded, feeling the tension release between his shoulder blades. He valued his neighbor’s goodwill even if there was little the man might do to reclaim his sister. It was a harsh fact but one he realized he’d have resorted to if it was the only way to keep Jemma.

  “Then I’ll leave ye now, Ryppon, for I have a bride to seek. Ye might recall the feeling.”

  “I do, Barras.”

  “And as much as I like ye, I’d appreciate some time alone with me bride before ye come to visit.”

  “Something else I understand.” Curan considered his next words. “A few days.”

  He’d never enjoyed hearing three words so much. But Gordon couldn’t let her go now. Not after last night. She had come to him, cementing something inside him that refused to bend. Like mortar it was solid now, unmovable deep inside his chest. He didn’t know what it was, only that the idea of not seeing her waiting for him was unendurable. It was more than the desire to bed her. He wanted to smell her hair again and taste her soft kiss when she leaned forward to press her lips against his of her own free will. That was the gift that filled him with tenderness when he’d always considered such emotions merely the stuff of sonnets, the babbling of insane men.

  Maybe he had just gone soft, Gordon didn’t care. He tightened his hand around the reins, and his stallion pawed at the ground, eager to begin covering the miles between them and home.

  Home, aye, that was what he craved, and was what Jemma made Barras Castle feel like now.

  The bells rang again well after sunset. Jemma sat in her chamber unable to stomach returning to Gordon’s. She pulled a brush through her hair, lifting it gently so that the heat from the fire could help it dry. She felt on edge while she waited.

  Would he want her tonight? Or would he decide to rest before taking up the challenge of consummating their union? Both were valid questions. In truth she knew very little about Gordon, his likes and dislikes or his expectations of their marriage.

  She knew full well that the man desired her body.

  Was that lust? For certain it was, but was there more between them, some deeper emotion tugging them together? She felt like there was.

  Many would brand her foolish for thinking such.

  But her brother loved his wife Bridget. There was no way to deny it, because she had witnessed it. The Church would tell her love was insanity, a sickness that needed healing, but she had seen how her brother and his wife looked at each other. If that was suffering, she would give herself into its keeping willingly.

  She felt Gordon before she heard him. A tingle brushed over her nape and down her back. It rippled over her skin, and her nipples contracted until they were hard points behind the dressing robe she wore. It was her only garment because she couldn’t seem to bring herself to dress any further when she was so newly a bride.

  But not yet a wife . . .

  She drew the brush along her hair again and felt his attention shift to the motion. There was not much light in the chamber, only the fire casting deep scarlet shadows onto the floor near the hearth. Gordon stepped out of the darkness, looking for all the world like some highlander from legend. His hair was curling slightly and held back from his
face by a thin braid. His knees peeked out from beneath the pleats of his kilt, and his doublet was missing. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up and tied at the shoulders, exposing his forearms. There was such a raw appearance to the man, as though he could survive anything the rugged Scottish hills gave him.

  “I approve of yer attire if not the place that ye choose to wait, lass.” He reached up and pulled something from his bonnet. “But I brought ye a token of my affections to soften yer heart toward me.”

  It was a small stalk of heather, the flowers delicate and the scent teasing her nose with sunshine and afternoon breezes. The fragile stem didn’t fit with his powerful body, but that was what sent her lips upward in a smile. The fact that he had taken the time to bring her something that most men thought silly woman foolishness. Girls wove flower wreaths, but men preferred the beauty of a good sword. The stock was cool against her fingers, and she trembled for it was such a tender gesture. One she had never imagined.

  “Ah, does that smile mean I shall not have to carry ye to my bed?”

  “Only if you wish to.”

  He chuckled and reached out to grasp a handful of her hair. He dropped to one knee and held it against his face while he inhaled its fragrance.

  “I didn’t put any perfume in it. Some ladies do.”

  “Do nae become one of them. I daydreamed today about the way ye smell, and I enjoyed every moment of it, but the reality is far better, I assure ye.”

  He stood up. “Come and greet me with a sweet kiss of welcome, wife.”

  She placed the brush aside and rose to her feet. “A sweet kiss?”

  “Aye.”

  Jemma felt her belly quiver and her knees threaten to collapse, but she mustered her determination and closed the distance between them. She noticed how much larger he was than her; somehow that fact impacted her more deeply now than it had before. Laying her hands on his chest, she smoothed them up and over his collarbones until she gently clasped the top of his shoulders. Rising up onto her toes, she placed her mouth in contact with his, pressing her lips until they sealed against his.