by Brenda Joyce
His eyes widened.
In that moment, Claire knew she had just won this particular war, and she regretted it. She hadn’t meant to be cruel or ruthless. She hadn’t meant to use his guilt against him and inflict even more pain.
He inclined his head, his mouth twisted in a way she now recognized, a sign of his inner torment. “We leave at sunrise,” he said without inflection.
She bit her lip, wanting to say she was sorry. But a woman’s glad cry rang out. Claire did not like this turn of events.
With dread, she turned.
The woman rushed to Malcolm, beaming. “You are back! And safely, thank God!”
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE WOMAN WAS DARK BLOND, of medium height and pretty enough. Worse, her figure was lush and outstanding. She spoke French as if she had been raised in France, but she was dressed in the English style, her gown and robes a dark red. She wore gold earrings, a gold necklace and rings with stones Claire thought semiprecious. In short, she was a noblewoman of some means, and clearly she was involved with Malcolm.
Malcolm’s dark expression did not soften. “Glenna, ye need welcome Lady Camden to Dunroch. Claire, this be me cousin, Lady Glenna NicPharlain o’ Castle Cean.”
Claire was rigid. He wasn’t married, but he had a mistress. She had not a single doubt. Her smile felt brittle. She hated this woman.
“Speak in English fer our guest.” Malcolm told his lover, who was staring at Claire with surprise. Then he glanced at Claire. “Glenna will show ye t’ yer chamber. I hope it pleases ye.”
She had no clue if he remained angry with her for her tactics. She somehow managed a brief, strained smile. “Thank you.”
“Please come with me, Lady Camden.”
Claire looked at her as Malcolm turned away. She almost wished she hadn’t even come to Dunroch, but that was childish.
“Malcolm wishes you to go up.” Glenna gestured toward the corridor beyond the hall.
Claire turned her attention on the blond woman as they went upstairs. She hated being petty and mean, but she didn’t really get what Malcolm saw in Glenna. The woman was no spring chicken by medieval standards. She was probably Claire’s age, but with her fair skin, and without the modern benefits of moisturizer, peels and dermabrasions, she had crow’s-feet at her eyes and soft wrinkles in her brow. While pretty in the girl-next-door way, she looked faded and tired. Claire saw Malcolm with a raging beauty—someone like Catherine Zeta-Jones or Angelina Jolie. But of course, that ruled her out, too.
“So,” Claire said when they were on the uppermost floor, “how long have you known Malcolm?”
Glenna looked at her as she pushed open a door. “Most of my life.”
Great, Claire thought. Glenna and Malcolm had known one another forever; she’d known him for three days. They were probably best friends, as well as lovers; he probably loved her deeply; it was frigging classic. But it was better she found out now, sooner rather than later.
“And you are from the Lowlands?” Glenna asked. She sounded curious, and not all that bright.
“I have been abroad for most of my life,” Claire said firmly, ducking the question.
Glenna paused, her hand on the door. “How do you know Malcolm?”
Claire hesitated. “We are distant cousins, too. Very distant,” she added.
Glenna’s eyes widened. “But I have never heard of your family.”
Claire gave up. She was really upset and she had to admit it, which only proved that this turn was a blessing in disguise. What she wanted now was to be alone so she could get over her very brief involvement with a medieval macho man. She walked past Glenna—and fell in love.
From the upper-story window, the gleaming gray Atlantic Ocean stretched away into eternity. But if she looked a bit to the west, she could see the thickly forested shores of Argyll, the dark mountains beyond shrouded in mist. She tried to imagine the view on a sunny day and knew instantly that the water would be the color of sapphires, the forests of emeralds.
“Camden is a strange name. I have never heard it. Is it an English name?” Glenna asked. “Are you related to Malcolm’s mother?”
Claire’s mind raced. Was Malcolm’s mother English? Many of the great Lowland families were. What tie could she claim? “My husband, may he rest in peace, was her cousin.”
Glenna paled. “But you have remarried, of course.”
Claire got her drift. “Actually, no, I haven’t. I am unwed.” She knew it was really petty to feel triumphant now, but she knew the last laugh wasn’t going to be hers.
“Malcolm has brought you here to replace me, hasn’t he?” Glenna trembled, tears filling her eyes. “Does he think to marry you?”
Claire tensed. Damn it, she felt sorry for Glenna. “We are not about to marry. We don’t even know each other,” she said slowly. Then she realized how ridiculous such a statement was in the fifteenth century, when marriages were for gain not love.
Glenna choked. “I am marrying him. I am his betrothed.”
Claire went still. “Oh. I didn’t know.”
“I won’t let you steal him from me,” Glenna warned. “I have been here six months. Everyone knows we will wed.”
“Is it official?”
“What?”
“When’s the date?”
“Soon,” she cried. “We will set a date soon!”
It was odd that a date hadn’t been set and she felt relieved, although she knew she should not. Malcolm would probably marry his cousin. And if he didn’t marry Glenna, there’d be someone else. It was the way of his world.
And Glenna belonged here. She, Claire, did not. She had to get over it—and him. There was no point hating Glenna; they were not rivals. Claire’s kinder nature won. “Hey. You don’t have to worry about me. I’m not hanging around for very long.”
Glenna blinked back tears. “Who will hang you? What have you done?”
“I am not marrying Malcolm,” she said seriously. She hesitated. What she and Malcolm had done wasn’t right, although he would probably disagree. “Very soon, I am going home. You have nothing to worry about. At least, you don’t need to worry about me.”
“And where is home?” Glenna demanded, wiping her eyes. “And when will you return?”
“I am English,” Claire said. “I will return to England. As for when, I don’t know, not exactly.”
Both women stared. Finally Glenna said, “And when he comes to you, tonight? Do not deny it—I know he will. I know him very well.”
Claire’s heart slammed. “I will bolt my door,” she said. And she meant it.
CLAIRE HAD GIVEN HERSELF a tour of the keep, being careful to avoid the ramparts and the walls. Then she had bathed and brooded, and by the time Brogan appeared at her door, grinning, a baby tooth missing, and telling her in stilted English that Malcolm was waiting downstairs, she had come to her senses. She was now dressed like a Highland woman in a full-length leine with undergarments, and as she went down to the hall, she reminded herself that she was over Malcolm. In fact, she was happy for him and Glenna, really. She was relieved. He was a medieval macho man and there was no point in any kind of relationship at all. This was for the best. She could now focus on learning all she could about the shrine, the books and the secret society of Masters. She could focus on avoiding Sibylla and “her kind.” She was eager for the morrow and their excursion to Iona—in fact, she could hardly wait.
She smiled firmly, patted down the surprisingly soft linen dress, making sure no material gaped over her belt—she did have a very narrow waist—adjusted her bra straps and her boobs, and started down the narrow stone stairs. The moment she approached the hall, she heard Glenna’s voice, choked with sobs.
Claire stumbled and hesitated. Then, instead of going into the hall, she darted against the wall, near the entryway. She glanced inside.
“How can you do this to me?” Glenna wept. “And all because you have a new lover?”
“My decision stands,” Malcolm said calmly.
“I hate you!” Glenna cried.
“If ye calm, ye be more than welcome to dine with us. But I willna have these tears at me table.” A dangerous note had entered his tone.
Claire was in disbelief. What had Malcolm done? It almost sounded as if he had broken up with Glenna—and she was certain she knew why. Instantly outraged, she stepped closer to the doorway but did not go inside. Now she could see Glenna weeping pathetically, almost theatrically, Malcolm apparently unmoved, although he looked very annoyed.
“Good gods!” Malcolm finally snapped. “You act like a wife who is being sent to a French convent! The marriage is arranged, Glenna. Cease yer tears. ’Tis time fer ye to go home an’ marry Rob Macleod.”
Glenna shook her head, crying too hard to speak. Then she lifted her skirts and ran out of the hall.
This was unbelievable! Was this how he would treat her if they’d had an affair? He would cast her aside like a medieval tyrant? Use her and toss her out, handing her over to another man? Poor Glenna! What a macho jerk!
Malcolm started to smile at her, then he became wary. “Why do ye look at me with such accusation?”
“You are marrying her off to someone else?” Claire choked.
He stiffened. “Aye, an’ it be a fine union fer Glenna.”
Claire strode forward. “But she is your betrothed. Just like that, you give her the boot and send her to another man?”
His eyes widened with surprise and then became hard and dark.
Claire tensed. Why was she attacking him? This was the medieval way of things and it was not her affair. She didn’t even like Glenna.
“Not that I must explain to ye, but I spent three months negotiating the match fer Glenna. I gave much consideration to the woman’s future,” he said tightly. “And she canna do better.”
“She said she was marrying you,” Claire told him. But if Malcolm had been negotiating a union for Glenna for three entire months, Glenna had lied to her.
“I never intended t’ marry Glenna.” He was angry with her now. “I dinna like bein’ judged, Claire.”
She had just made a huge mistake. “I’m sorry.”
“Ye should be. She thought a few nights in her bed would change me mind. I will never marry. I told her so. ’Twill never change, not fer anyone.” His face was cold.
Claire felt dread. “What, exactly, does that mean?”
He turned away, gesturing at her to come to the table, which was set with steaming platters of food.
Claire didn’t move. Malcolm had no intention of marrying? What could that be about? All noblemen married.
Malcolm slowly faced her. “Dinna think to change my mind, either, lass.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Even ye willna entice me to the altar,” he said. “No matter how much I enjoy yer bed.”
She gasped. “You are so arrogant!” Jerk, she almost cried.
His gaze narrowed and he returned to stand directly in front of her. “Ye dinna wish t’ marry me?” he asked very softly.
Claire knew she should lie and placate him. In the fifteenth-century Highlands, he was a catch. His eyes glittered. “No, I do not. I plan to marry someone from my time, someone brilliant and successful—someone with an open, intellectual mind!”
He stared, and a long moment ensued in which Claire knew he was considering her response. “Do ye call me weak an’ foolish, Claire?”
Claire inhaled at his tone. Why had she lost her temper? “No, of course not,” she cried, determined to undo whatever damage she had done to his pride. “You’re strong and smart and rich, anyone can see that.”
“Ye lie,” he said.
“Don’t you dare read my thoughts,” she cried.
“Ye think me an arrogant jerk,” he added as softly.
She was almost certain he did not know what a jerk was. “Not really,” she began nervously.
“I’m nay the arrogant one in this hall,” he said. “Ye stand there judging me all the time. Ye think I dinna ken? Ye think I canna hear ye callin’me a medieval macho man? I dinna ken macho, and I dinna need to. Ye be the arrogant one, Claire, thinkin’ yerself wiser than me, lookin’ down on all o’ us.”
She could barely breathe. “I don’t think I’m wiser,” she managed to say. “Not really. In my time, women are educated and independent of men. In my time, some women are actually smarter and richer than men. We think for ourselves, protect ourselves. We answer to no one.”
“Aye, ye have said so often enough. In yer time, women are queens without kings. Ye need a king!” He strode abruptly from the hall, outside into the night, the heavy door slamming like thunder behind him.
Claire began to shake. How had that terrible battle happened? And he was right. She had patronized him from the first moment they met. Maybe, just maybe, she did think she was smarter than he was. But she also respected and admired him, because his courage and honor were amazing. She hated the fight they had just had.
Go and tell him!
Claire hesitated. Of course she needed to go after him and apologize. She needed to admit that she was partly wrong. Maybe she was entirely wrong. Glenna was an older woman by medieval standards, and Claire felt certain she had lands, due to the wealth her manner of dress indicated. In the fifteenth century, a woman needed a husband and an overlord and there was simply no getting around it.
Damn Malcolm for using his sneaky gift all the time. But she had obviously hurt his feelings and she had better watch her thoughts.
Claire went outside. It was twilight and she hesitated, recalling Sibylla’s assault in its grotesque entirety. She did not want to be alone, not outside, after dark. She stood but a few steps from the door to the hall and glanced around. Malcolm stood above her on the ramparts above the nearby gatehouse. From his stance, she saw that his back was rigid.
Claire hurried up the stone steps and paused beside him. He glanced briefly at her. “I be proud o’ bein’ the Maclean,” he said quietly, “an’ if that makes me arrogant, so be it.”
“You should be proud,” Claire said softly, meaning it. Her heart turned over with dangerous haste, as if she really cared about this man. She touched his bare forearm and felt the muscle there tense. “You are the most courageous man I have ever met, and you are a Master. I don’t know much about that world, but the vows you have taken are beyond admirable. Men like you don’t exist in my time,” she added. “And sometimes I am confused—I don’t know what to do.”
Their gazes had locked. “Ye need to trust me,” he said flatly.
Claire started. “When it comes to my life, I do trust you.”
He smiled at her. “That be a beginning, then, fer us.”
What did that mean?
“Yer an arrogant woman, lass, but I dinna mind very much,” he added even more softly.
Claire bit her lip, her pulse leaping. She wasn’t arrogant, and there wasn’t going to be a beginning or an “us.” But she wasn’t about to get into another argument now.
“Glenna has been widowed twice,” he said, and Claire was stunned that he was going to explain himself to her. “She has lands, Claire, an’ she needs a husband to protect them. Macleod is a widower with two children himself. He needs her wealth an’ a mother for the boys.”
Claire was filled with regret. “I’m sorry. I immediately jumped to the wrong conclusion.”
He nodded, his expression remaining solemn. “Ye jump afore ye look, Claire, an’ one day it may hurt ye badly.”
She did have a tendency to act in haste, without forethought. “I’m also sorry I have called you names. I don’t mean it, you just infuriate me sometimes.”
“Nay, ye mean it. An’ it’s nay anger. I scare ye,” he said bluntly.
She met his gaze, stunned. He was right. She did mean it when she called him a jerk, but he was obviously secure enough not to really care. And he did scare her, a lot. He scared her because he was so sexy and so powerful and she didn’t know what she should do with herself—and
her heart—while around him.
He smiled at her now. The smile was warm, but not knowing or promising. It was not seductive. But it didn’t matter; it was too late. A different kind of intimacy had somehow begun—and she didn’t want it. They had shared a battle and a bed, but they did not need any kind of emotional connection. That was dangerous. Impossible, even. Admiring him was okay. Liking him was not.
“Ye think too hard.” He grasped her hand, pulling her back to face him.
Claire couldn’t breathe. “It’s w-what I do,” she stuttered, because desire was flowing like honey. This was the problem—her attraction—and she wasn’t going to complicate it with any feelings, not even friendship. “I had better go,” she began nervously. Except, walking away from him was the last thing she really wished to do.
“I ha’ never met a woman like ye, Claire,” he said quietly.
It was an intense moment before she could speak. “Don’t!” She managed a quick, tight smile. “Don’t complicate things. I hate words!” She blushed at that because words were her life. “And if you want to seduce me, you don’t have to do it with declarations of affection. We both know a simple entrancing look will do.” She hesitated. “Making lo—I mean, sharing a bed is one thing, friendship is another. I don’t think we should combine the two ever.”
“But ye were friends with the men ye loved,” Malcolm said, appearing skeptical.
“Damn it,” she cried. “You must allow me my secrets!”
“I want to understand ye, lass. And we both ken ’tis only a matter o’ time afore we become lovers.”
She inhaled. “Not fair. Remember, I am going home, hopefully sooner rather than later. You swore it.”
He smiled. “What does yer goin’ back to yer time have to do with our being lovers? Ye want me, an’ dinna deny it. I want ye. There are complications now, but I am hopin’ they will soon be gone. An’ye may not be so eager t’ leave when ye’ve passed an entire night in me bed.” His smile became cocky.
“I told you,” she said, entirely hot, “I can’t give you my body apart from my love.”