In the Warrior’s Bed

by Mary Wine

  “If ye will follow me.”

  Helen was more accomplished in her position than Bronwyn had guessed. The woman had somehow managed to find the most tenderhearted women on McJames land to tend her that morning.

  She encountered a far different attitude once she left the sanctuary of Cullen’s chamber.

  The women she met in the sewing room barely contained their snarls. A few of them watched her with critical stares, critiquing her every motion. Four rolls of newly woven cloth were awaiting her inspection. Tension knotted her neck as she realized how many sets of eyes were on her. Along the back of the long room were spinning wheels. Now that the harvest was in, the wool could be spun during the winter hours. There were three long tables for cutting of fabric. Three small looms were in a corner but what drew her eye was the two great looms at the far end of the room. The familiar sight felt like a sanctuary from the harsh glares she was enduring.

  Reaching out, she fingered one bundle of wool but her voice failed her because her throat was tight under all the scrutiny.

  A deep grunt echoed down the silent room. Helen narrowed her eyes at the offender but the woman didn’t look contrite.

  “As if I ever thought to see a McQuade compliment anything made by my hand. I should like to see ye do better.”

  “The mistress did not insult yer work, Gerty.”

  The woman’s lower lip protruded as she propped a fist onto one hip.

  “Please don’t call me that.” Attention shifted from Gerty back to her. Sweat trickled down her neck. Sybil looked at her confused.

  “To address ye otherwise would be disrespectful, mistress.”

  “I am Bronwyn. It’s the truth that I am not sure about even my last name this morning. The last few days have left me baffled.” She glanced at Gerty. “Yer command of the great loom is to be admired.”

  The woman lost some of her condemning posture. “Have ye ever worked a loom?”

  Her tone said she doubted it. Bronwyn lifted her chin, her pride rising to the bait. Perhaps her father was a greedy man who worked every pair of hands until they were exhausted, but she was no pampered chit useless for anything save bearing children and giving orders. She was a McQuade.

  “I have indeed.”

  Gerty grinned in challenge. “I believe I should like to see that.” She glanced at the second loom. “Mind ye, ye’ll have to thread it first.”

  “The best place to begin when weaving.”

  It was also the most difficult part of producing cloth on one of the large looms. But she rose to the challenge, eager to prove her worth. After a week of being nothing but Cullen’s pilfered goods, she wanted to be herself again. Someone who pulled her weight and earned respect while doing it.

  At the very least, setting the loom for work gave her mind enough to focus on, all the eyes watching her faded into the background. It wasn’t the first time someone had doubted her ability to be useful. But in a way it was just another link in the chain that had begun with her birth to a man who did not want her.

  But Cullen wanted her because of who her father was…

  It was a strange twist of fate. Bronwyn almost laughed at it but kept her mind on the loom she was stringing. Many of the women went back to working because she was still stringing it when the noon meal was set out in the hall. The kitchen bells bounced between the stone walls but she was too intent on her task to leave before finishing. Besides, there would be naught but a hall full of condemning stares waiting for her if she did go join the meal. She was not that hungry yet.

  “Mistress, are ye not hungry?” Sybil stood up, stretching her back. She placed her sewing on the table, being careful to place the needle into a small cushion to keep it from getting lost.

  “Go along without me. I want to finish.”

  Sybil appeared torn but lowered herself and left. Bronwyn sighed with relief. She looked around the room and found no one watching her. It seemed as if it had been a year since she’d had privacy. It wasn’t as if she craved being alone but she did miss feeling confident in her surroundings. All the small things that went with life were so much more valuable than she’d ever given them credit for. Such as knowing details about the people surrounding her. Who was married, who was excited about a sweetheart that might soon ask them to wed. Whose sister had a new baby and whose mother was always interfering in her life. Who had a brother that was too wild for his own good and what dreams did they all share with each other during the work hours.

  Being installed at Sterling was bleak because she knew nothing about anyone. It felt like a day without sunlight where she was trying to feel her way through the darkness. It was also cold. No friendly comments or jests. Nothing but hard stares while she was watched to see what she did and how well she performed.

  Well, she knew her loom. With determination, she set the last few bobbins and drew the threads along their paths. She tested them gently to judge the tension. She had threaded the loom with a cheerful blue and loaded the shuttle with the same.

  The same blue as Cullen’s eyes…

  The thought surprised her. Cullen snuck into her mind without warning, sending heat into her cheeks. A soft throb began hidden in the folds of her sex. Flashes of last night cut through her determination to see the loom threaded. But she didn’t frown this time. At least there was something pleasing to think about.

  And there was no mistaking that she found the man’s touch pleasing.

  More heat touched her face. It flowed down over her limbs beneath the surcoat. She was suddenly more aware of the lack of clothing she wore. Noticing the way her breasts hung free.

  His hands felt amazing on her breasts…

  With a shake of her head, she sat at the loom to begin weaving. Her nipples were hard pebbles beneath the wool of the surcoat. The chemise fabric felt scratchy against their taut peaks. Cullen did that to her. Somehow, the man made her body feel so much more than it ever had before. There was no sense to it and no way to control it either.

  “Be careful, Bronwyn, Show a talent for that loom and ye may never be free of it.”

  She stepped on the floor pedal too hard, making a loud crunch against the stone floor. Cullen moved up beside her and ran a hand over the few inches of new cloth she’d just produced.

  “I hear a good number of the women detest this loom.” There was a soft hint of approval on his face that drew her interest. In fact she met his gaze, staring at that glimmer of praise like a child seeking affection. But all she saw staring back at her was dark suspicion.

  “It takes a bit of practice, is all.”

  His blue eyes were as hard as stone.

  “If that is the case, make sure ye do not miss meals. There is time enough for weaving. Ye don’t need to go hungry in favor of a few feet of cloth.”

  Sybil was standing near the door along with three other maids. They cast their gazes toward the floor looking for all the world as if they were not listening but there was no way they might not hear what was being said. It was something she had often seen her father’s servants doing. Attempting to disappear while remaining in plain sight.

  “If ye miss a meal, yer personal attendants will as well.” Cullen’s tone was quiet but as hard as iron. There was no missing the reprimand. She bristled under the commanding tone, the noose returning to her throat once more.

  “There’s no need for me to be pampered by servants following me every step I take.”

  Cullen frowned at her. “But there is a need for me to know where ye are, wife.”

  He spoke the word “wife” with a hard tone that wasn’t lost on anyone in the room. Suspicion edged his tone and it glittered in his eyes. Her temper rose until it choked every bit of patience she had.

  Slapping the shuttle down, she stood up and for once Cullen’s height didn’t seem to impact her.

  “By all means then, husband.”

  His expression tightened. “Aye, ye have that right. I am yer husband and ye will nae escape while yer maids are eating in the hal
l.”

  “Is that so? And ye are here to clamp yer servants about my ankles like fetters. Telling me that they shall go hungry if I dinna obey yer whim is the same as chaining me to a wall.”

  He remained silent for a long moment, his gaze cutting into hers, but she refused to lower her chin.

  “It is not the same and I pray ye never have to experience what cold iron is like around yer flesh. Just as I’m setting Sybil to making sure ye dinna walk off into the winter snow.”

  Shame made it past her temper, drowning a good deal of her anger. Cullen stood watching her, his expression guarded. It was such a stark contrast from the man she had been daydreaming about a few moments past. The man who stroked her body until she floated away on a cloud of bliss seemed foreign to the one she faced. This was the warrior who fought against her kin. There was no leniency in him. Only determination to make her bend.

  But she had tried to escape and could not blame the man for thinking that way. It was her own rash words that had him suspecting her of running off into the snow.

  “I will not allow ye any opportunity to attempt an escape that will only endanger yerself. Ye willna last long out in the snow.”

  Both temper and shame choked her. Stepping closer, she hissed at him with every bit of uncertainty he unleashed in her.

  “I dinna think of escaping but I should have.”

  He clasped her arm, keeping her close. “Why, Bronwyn? Tell me what displeases ye so?”

  She turned and crossed the room.

  “Bronwyn…”

  “Have done, husband.” She turned and glared at him. Fury drew his face tight but that suited her mood as well. “Ye want me on display in yer hall and that is what I am planning to do.”

  Like a prize.

  With another swish of her surcoat, she faced the door and headed into the hall. Two burly retainers watched her, disapproval etched into their faces. Their presence made her grind her teeth. Her pace increased and the bulky coat became a nuisance. Grabbing a handful of it she lifted it so that it wouldn’t get stepped on. Tripping herself would certainly put a crowning touch on the moment.

  She was in a temper, no doubt about it and not even one with a just cause. It was frustration, pure and simple.

  She heard the conversation drifting out of the hall before she came to the arched door frames that opened into Sterling’s great hall. The scent of warm food filled the air, but the sound died away when she swept through the doorway. If she’d felt the weight of being stared at in the sewing room, it was nothing compared to the crushing sensation trying to buckle her knees now.

  Sybil might call her mistress, but she was anything except respected by the inhabitants viewing her. Not a single man tugged on his bonnet. More than a few sneers were sent her way. She kept walking until she reached the far side of the hall. The shutters were open to air out the smoke that didn’t rise up the chimneys. She stopped, looking out over the river that ran behind the castle. Its banks had a solid foot of ice on either side and chunks of it floated along with the current. She stood there with her back to the hall. Tears burned her eyes but she refused to allow such a weakness. It was foolish to expect anything else from her situation. Instead she drew in a deep breath of fresh air to clear her foolish emotions.

  “Sit, Cullen.” Brodick McJames sounded tired. Cullen glared at his brother. “Dragging her to this table will nae settle anything. One step at a time.”

  Cullen stared at the still form of his bride. Her back was straight and her chin level, her body rigid with defiance. His temper smoldered. She was in the hall but not eating by his side. Her literal obedience to his command rubbed his pride.

  He cast a stern look at Sybil. “She’s nae to eat except when by my side.”

  He was being ruthless, but he did not care. Her silent form cast a challenge that he was going to take and conquer.

  Sybil dropped him a curtsy before escaping to a lower table to join the other maids. They cast nervous glances between his wife and him, all the while frantically eating.

  “Excuse me.” Anne shot him a disapproving stare as she left the table. Her husband reached for her hand but she avoided his grasp. “I will not watch that girl being broken like a hunting hound.”

  Brodick frowned as his wife swept from the hall, but there was a gleam of understanding in his dark eyes when he looked back at Cullen.

  “I wish ye luck, Cullen, it looks like ye are going to need it.”

  “I have nae been unkind to her, brother.” His voice was low but still carried the unmistakable edge of determination.

  Brodick nodded. “I believe there is a difference of opinion between men and women on that subject. My wife finds it very unkind that ye stole Bronwyn away from her home.”

  “As if that is any different than ye arranging a proxy marriage with Anne’s father without her knowing about it until it was signed and sealed.” Cullen hit the tabletop with his frustration.

  “Men are different from women.” Brodick cast a pensive look at Bronwyn. “I bargained with Anne’s father because of the good it would bring the McJames.”

  “Which is exactly what I’m doing.”

  Brodick lifted an eyebrow. “I’ve nae disputed that, brother. If I disapproved I’d have sent her back to Jamie with an apology for yer wild ways. And the promise that I’d bring ye to heel.”

  Cullen glared at his brother but his temper didn’t alter the fact that Brodick held the authority to do exactly what he’d said. As the earl of Alcaon he was the only man on McJames land who could force him to relinquish Bronwyn.

  “She’s my wife now.” He sighed, letting his temper go. Anger was no way to deal with Bronwyn. Her father had dealt her his fury for too many years. A grin slowly lifted his lip. Nay, the way to her was through her heart.

  Brodick stared at him. “What are ye thinking, brother?”

  “That my bride needs to be courted.”

  His brother chuckled at him. “Oh aye, I can see how warm and receptive she is toward ye.”

  Cullen looked at his bride. She was his and not just because he’d managed to drag her to Sterling. His claim on her was rooted somewhere deep in the center of his chest, born in those dark hours when she’d clung to him. Some part of him refused to accept the defiance her back presented. Oh, he could order her to sit beside him but what he really wanted was her to join him because she considered it her place.

  “Now that is where you and I differ.” Cullen smirked at his older brother. “Yer English bride doesna have the same temperament as my Scottish lass.”

  “Ye have the temper part correct.” Brodick stood up, taking a moment to fill a large wooden platter with a healthy portion of the meal. He covered it with a linen cloth. “But I’ll agree that a little tender attention toward one’s wife has definite merit. Best of luck to ye, brother.”

  Brodick carried his offering off toward his chamber and Anne. Cullen turned his attention back to Bronwyn, only to find her moving back down the aisle with Sybil, and her maids still clutching rounds of bread in their hands.

  His grin turned into a roguish smile.

  His bride was still running, but this time he was going to sweep her off her feet with something she wasn’t even aware that he might use on her.

  His charm.

  Her belly was rumbling long before the night meal was due to be put down. Bronwyn kept the loom working, determined to ignore her hunger. It was a pity she could not so easily dismiss the root of her problem from her mind.

  Cullen was foremost in her thoughts in spite of her efforts to banish him. She seemed fixated on him. Tension knotted her shoulders and she took to worrying her lower lip. She felt trapped by the women he’d set to serve her and choked by the retainers that remained in the hallway. They were there to guard her, but what they really did was announce to every McJames that Cullen did not trust his wife.

  Wife…

  So now the word rose to her mind. It was a form of acceptance that she wanted to deny, but found he
rself lacking any true passion for such a task. It felt so useless. But that left her with naught but surrender and the word stuck in her throat.

  A sweet smell drifted into the room and for a long moment she thought it was her imagination. But it grew strong, her nose telling her that it was some newly baked sweet. Her hands froze on the shuttle, her feet becoming motionless on the pedals. She felt her husband behind her before she caught sight of him by turning her head.

  Her belly grumbled low and deep as the scent of fresh baked food grew stronger. Cullen lifted one leg and straddled the bench, one leg on either side of her hips. His back was pressed along the length of her own but she was fixated by the wooden bowl he lowered onto the new cloth she’d woven. Inside it was a ceramic baking dish with a tart still gently steaming. Two silver spoons were stuck into the golden brown crust and hot fruit was swelling up out of the broken pastry.

  It smelled divine…and looked it as well.

  “I learned something today.” His teasing tone turned her lips up without her thinking about it.

  “Is that so?”

  The scent of the tart drew another rumble from her empty belly.

  “It is. I now understand why spring is the best time for weddings. It makes it much easier to sneak off with yer new bride in the middle of the afternoon.” He lifted one of the spoons and carried a mouthful of the confection toward her lips. “It is also a wee bit easier to talk the cook into baking a tart. That woman dinna want to part with her fruit stores. She claimed she was saving them for a feast day.”

  Bronwyn felt her cheeks color because she suddenly recalled that they were not alone. But the spoonful of warm berries was too tempting to resist. She opened her mouth, humming when the sweet connected with her tongue. Nothing had ever tasted so good. Not ever.

  “I’m glad ye talked her out of them.”

  The chest behind her rumbled, a soft chuckle brushing past her ear. Another spoonful of warm fruit made it to her lips. He fed her like a small child, taking only a few bites himself. When the last bits were scraped off the bottom of the baking dish, he sighed.