by Mary Wine
Laird MacNicols was a giant. He squatted, the edges of his plaid just brushing the ground. She gained a glimpse of his well-made boots with antler-horn buttons running up their sides before he muttered something to Shaw in Gaelic.
Fear twisted through her, because Shaw’s eyes were icy and she recalled clearly what he wanted to do with her.
Shaw was leaning against a rock, his long sword cradled across his lap. “She’s the one, sure enough. The only other was wearing a wimple and well past her prime. Saw them both get out of that wagon meself.”
The laird had blue eyes—startling with how intense they were. His hair was fair but streaked with hints of red. It hung down to his shoulders, with a section of it braided to keep it out of his eyes. There was an uncivilized way about him that had nothing to do with the common clothing he wore. It was in his eyes and the corded muscles so clearly visible in his arms and legs. He was not a man who had others do his bidding.
But his sword was fine. The pommel was clearly visible beyond his left shoulder, and the rising sun illuminated the gold hilt. A blue sapphire winked at her from where it was set into a crest that included a rampant lion—a noble creature. Only men with noble blood could use such an animal on their belongings. It meant he was more than just a clan laird. He had blue blood flowing through his veins.
The sight sent her struggling away from him, but the fabric still bound her. His lips twitched up, amusement sparkling in his eyes.
“Now, why the hurry to place distance between us, Clarrisa of York? Did I nae see to yer comfort quite nicely?”
“Your man wants to slit my throat. Why wouldn’t I want to be away from you?”
He shrugged. “Shaw believes it a necessary thing, since yer kin seem to think we need their troubles spreading here to Scotland.” His grin faded. “Something I am nae in favor of either.”
“Neither am I.”
Surprise flickered in his blue eyes. “The way I heard it, ye were fixing to wait on our king like some fat pasha from the Far East.”
There was thick disapproval in his tone, and he stood. He was dismissing her—condemning her, actually. She struggled and sat up, in spite of the fabric binding her.
“You understand naught,” she sputtered. “It was a ruse, to delay him.”
He returned his dark blue gaze to her, but there was a slightly mocking arch to one eyebrow now. “Well then, lass, I’m listening sure enough. Why do nae ye explain to me what ye’re doing in me country and with me king?”
Why was she begging?
Because she wanted to live.
Heat stung her cheeks because she was ashamed at just how easily she had been reduced to whimpering. It wasn’t the first time she’d had no one to depend on except herself. She drew in a deep breath and tried to collect her courage.
“I was sent here by my family. The ruse gained me freedom from the tower room your king intended to use to breed me like a mare.” The sting in her cheeks doubled as she spoke. “So… you see… we desire the same thing.”
He bent his knees so he was able to scrutinize her once more on the same level. He had his share of arrogance, but what surprised her was the enjoyment lurking in his eyes.
“Do we now?” he muttered softly. “I have to doubt ye on that, since ye turned to flee from me.”
“I couldn’t willingly go with you when one of your men wants to kill me.”
He shrugged again. His lips parted and his teeth flashed at her when he grinned. “I told ye it would nae be happening, and I am laird.” His expression hardened. “But ye are still the natural daughter of Edward the Fourth of England and might be well accomplished in the art of twisting words.”
“I am hardly the only child he is rumored to have fathered outside his marriage.” She struggled again against the fabric binding her, feeling too helpless by far, being caught in its folds.
“I hear Edward acknowledged ye, which means a great deal considering how rare noble blood is becoming due to yer War of the Roses.”
He reached out and grabbed the fabric beneath her chin. A moment later she was standing. Her feet shifted, her balance unsteady because her toes had gone numb sometime during the night.
“Henry Tudor has wed Elizabeth of York. The War of the Roses is finished now, because York and Lancaster are united,” she explained.
“But Henry has nae had her crowned queen, and ye are here, brought under cover of darkness to a lone tower where James of Scotland sneaks away to meet with ye. Now, that is suspicious, lass, and no mistake. But it is also dangerous for me and me clan, for we have enough troubles without ye giving James a son with York blood. Ye tried to flee when I offered ye freedom, which means ye might well be intent on becoming a powerful queen through yer son.”
“I told you why I tried to run.”
He chuckled, but it wasn’t a pleasant sound. “Am I to trust ye, then?” He stepped closer, maintaining a firm grip on the fabric to keep her in place. “Will ye offer to bathe me with yer delicate hands, Clarrisa? To show me how adept ye are at common chores? From what the young maid told me, ye claim to have more practice at polishing men’s weapons. Mind ye, I am no’ saying I would nae enjoy ye proving yer gratefulness in such a fashion.”
Her jaw dropped open, but the sound that emerged was a snarl. Full of rage and frustration, she actually lowered her chin and tried to bite the hand securing her in front of him.
“I shall not! You’re a fiend to suggest such a thing.”
He laughed at her, jerking his hand away before she sank her teeth into his flesh. She stumbled and would have landed on her backside, but someone caught her floundering body from behind, and her face burned bright red as she listened to his men enjoy her shame. Someone yanked the length of wool off her, and she spun around like a child playing in a spring meadow. When the last of the wool plaid fell away, she was dizzy. Her captor gripped her wrists while she struggled to maintain her balance, and wrapped a length of leather around them. He knotted the ends firmly before giving a satisfied grunt.
“I am Broen MacNicols, and ye will be leaving, lass, but ye will be traveling with me to the Highlands where I can be sure ye are nae adding to the troubles in me country. Give me men any frustration, and I’ll let them keep ye bundled like a babe.”
“Brute,” she accused. “Uncivilized… Highlander.”
He offered her a wink and a grin, which sent her temper up another few degrees.
“Mount up, lads. We’re too close to England for me taste. The stench sours me stomach.”
***
Beast.
Broen MacNicols was uncivilized.
Clarrisa felt her cheeks stinging with another blush, only this time it was born of shame. Her behavior had matched his. She had no idea where such an urge had come from—biting a man was the reaction of a street strumpet. For heaven’s sake, she could read and write!
But she’d wanted to bite him; the urge had swept through her faster than any reason might intercede. Perhaps her mind had broken under the stress of the last few days.
She scoffed at her thoughts. There was nothing unhinged about her reasoning. It had been her temper, flashing brighter than a fire catching summer straw. Besides, she was too young to be insane. That idea made her smile. Madness hadn’t taken hold of her—for that would have been a blessing. At least insanity would have kept her from worrying about the right and wrong of what her blood kin wanted her to do. Well, their ambition had landed her in Scotland and on her way into the Highlands, it seemed.
Clarrisa twisted her hands again, in spite of knowing that the leather binding her wrists would hold steady. Pain sliced through her skin, reminding her that she would be the only one suffering for her struggles—but she seemed unable to master the urge to chafe against her bonds periodically.
The day grew warm. Her escort unbuttoned their doublets and oversleeves, grinning as the wind flapped their shirtsleeves.
Broen MacNicols wasn’t like any of her noble kin. He didn’t ride in the ce
nter of his men but took the high ground and then pushed his stallion to move faster than the rest of them so he might appear on the opposite side of a gorge. He was always in motion, even when he pulled his mount up to give the huge beast a moment of rest. In those brief times, his eyes moved constantly. His profile was harsh, his jaw square, and his cheekbones high. Every winter tale she’d ever heard of wild Scotsmen rose from her memory to go along with the sight of him sitting so confidently with his knees peeking from beneath the edge of his kilt.
Highlanders, actually. The Lowland Scots were more like the English. Highlanders were different. When they came down to fight, history changed.
Maybe she was exactly where she needed to be. It was a dangerous idea, but one that tantalized her too. She had no way of knowing if her situation was improving or not. The only thing that was clear was that Broen pushed them north the entire day; even sunset didn’t stop him. When he did call a halt to their journey, the moon was fully risen, and Clarrisa slid from the back of her mare gratefully. Her legs trembled, and every joint ached, but she stomped at the ground to restore her circulation.
Her mare eagerly left her to go and drink from the nearby river. All the horses surged toward the water, many of them flicking their tails.
Clarrisa turned in the opposite direction.
“Now where do ye think ye’re heading?”
She jumped and stumbled back a pace. “You needn’t appear in my path so suddenly.”
Broen tilted his head to one side. “So are ye saying I should make sure ye see me on me way to head ye off?” He propped his hands on his hips. “That’s something ye English have been wishing for a long time, but we Highlanders will never bow to yer desire to know exactly what we’re about.”
The suspicion in his tone threatened to send her temper flaring again, but the absurdity of having to explain her needs to him made her shake her head instead. “If you cannot understand why I might be set on seeking out some privacy after all day on the back of that mare, you must be as dull-witted as I’ve heard Highlanders are. Or do your women hike their skirts and relieve themselves among you?”
His amusement evaporated, but she caught the hint of regret in his blue eyes, because many of his men were relieving themselves. He reached out and caught her upper arm to turn her away from the sight. “I am nae used to having women along, and for that, I owe ye an apology. Go on, but understand that keeping sight of ye is important. I suggest ye become accustomed to me company.”
“When it snows during summer,” she muttered, too relieved to make her tone mild.
He chuckled. “Ye might decide ye like me. Many a lass has done so…”
There was a slim hint of heat in his voice now. She found the idea of his liking anything about her unsettling; a tingle raced down her spine at the thought, one she needed to kill quickly. “Well, I doubt I shall become one of them.”
She hoped so, anyway, but the man walked in front of her once again. He was attractive in a way she’d never encountered before. The night seemed to fit him, the moonlight enhancing his rugged features.
“You are simply not to my taste.”
Liar…
One golden eyebrow rose mockingly. “Now why would ye go and say something like that and dash me hopes that ye might lavish me with personal attention like some eastern harem laird?” His lips curved in a sensuous manner, sending a second jolt of sensation down her back. “Ye’re truly testing me, lass, for a Highlander enjoys a challenge more than just about anything.”
He was grinning at her. She should have considered the expression arrogant, for it was, but instead of becoming annoyed, a warm tingle rippled across her skin. He was too intent, too keen, and she feared he could read her feelings right off her face.
“I am not challenging you, sir. All I crave is to be out of your sight.” She sounded breathless and grabbed the front of her skirts to go around him. The man let her move until she was even with him before reaching out and securing a hard grip on her forearm. Once more he loomed over her, his greater height making it necessary for her to tip her head up so she might maintain eye contact with him. Another tiny shiver went down her spine.
“Now, lass, do nae be unkind. Cannae I enjoy the idea of a fine-looking woman such as yerself attending me while I’m saddled with the chore of keeping ye from starting trouble in me country?”
“No, you cannot,” she insisted before pushing at him. He was as immovable as a mountain, and she gained not even an inch for her effort.
“Well now, Clarrisa, ye do nae control me thinking, and that’s a fact.” His voice had turned deep and husky.
“I have no say over what you do at all.” Nor over how he affected her. “There is something you have in common with my English kin.”
He frowned, his eyes darkening, but for some reason the look on his face didn’t remind her of her uncle’s displeasure. When she looked into Broen’s eyes, she didn’t find the same arrogance, only solid disapproval.
“I do nae care to be compared to the English, Clarrisa.”
There was a warning in his voice that pleased her. It should have frightened her, but instead she discovered she enjoyed knowing he wasn’t happy with her. At least the knowledge killed whatever strange emotional response she’d been struggling against. Yes, it was much better to be at odds with him. “I seek privacy; if you allow me that, we need not converse.”
“Something ye shall nae have until I can be sure ye are secured inside a solid tower.”
Horror arrived at last, stealing her thoughts and leaving her gasping. Thoughts of the boy princes and the fate of those with royal blood who were locked away for safekeeping rose up to torment her. Those young princes had died because others coveted their power. No one ever saw them again, except as ghosts. “Now, do nae be looking at me like that. I am nae a monster.” He released her, a sound of disgust reaching her ears. “But I cannae have ye giving James a York-blooded son.”
“So you will lock me up…” Her voice was a mere whisper, her throat feeling like it was swelling up.
“A few of me countrymen believe slitting yer throat is a better solution, as ye have already noticed. Kindly recall I am nae one of them.”
“There is little kindness in this entire affair.”
She stumbled away from him, forcing herself to stop when he began to follow her. Horror was making her shiver, and she detested its powerful hold. She raised her chin and clenched her jaw. “Well then,” she ground out, “if you lack the courage to spill my blood, step aside and allow one of your men to do the deed. I have no taste for living in fear.”
She might be foolish to say so, but it was what she truly felt in that moment. Her words were bold and brash, but they filled her with a steady confidence that cut through the terror. “I’m going up behind those rocks if you need to point the way to Shaw. If my throat is going to be slit, at least I shall not die with my robes soiled like a babe.”
She turned her back on him. It took every bit of courage she had to not look over her shoulder, but she pulled up her skirts and climbed to the outcropping of rocks, making it behind them before her nerve deserted her.
***
“I never thought I’d witness ye taking those sorts of words from any man—much less from an Englishwoman.”
Broen sent a cutting look toward Shaw. “She has courage, so I’m feeling generous.”
His cousin hooked his hands into his wide belt. “Ye mean she’s arrogant, which is in keeping with her kin. Young Henry is doing this world a service by ridding it of York blood. Power hungry, the lot of them.”
“I do nae kill women.”
Shaw made a low sound. “She’ll whelp more greedy sons to keep the war going into the next generation. I wear the same colors ye do, but there are exceptions to every rule.”
“No’ to honor, Shaw, and ye’ll be remembering that while I’m laird of the MacNicols.”
“Which will nae be for much longer, if James has his way. We’ll all be breaking brea
d with the English if a prince of Scotland shares the same blood as the heir to the English throne. She looks very convincing, but she’s no’ innocent, and ye can bet everything ye have on it. Did nae ye listen to what she was planning to do for James? ‘Treat him like a Moor’ is the way I heard it. Those men have palaces full of women all fighting one another to place their children at the top. Scotland has no need of such savageness.” There was heat in the man’s voice, a rage fueled by blood spilled through the ages.
“Ye think I have no feeling for the suffering the English have inflicted upon our kin, Shaw?” Broen turned to face his cousin. “Ye seem to forget it was my father who lost his life to the Grants.”
“A wrong done to all MacNicols—which ye have yet to claim vengeance for.”
Several of his men were listening now. Broen could see their eyes glowing with the same rage in Shaw’s voice. He battled against it himself.
“We’ll be feuding with the Grants, and no mistake, if I cannae gain a reasonable accounting from Donnach Grant for me father’s death. James cannae be taking issue with me for fighting when he refuses to do his duty and bring that bastard Donnach to justice for stealing me bride and putting our men to the sword when me father went to talk terms.” His men nodded, but Shaw remained still, his expression hard.
“This woman is another matter. The earl sent us after her, and her fate is Norris’s to decide. I stole her so the earl would force Donnach to meet me, because I will nae see yer mothers weeping until I’ve done me best to avoid feuding. Stealing one woman for the earl is better than beginning a feud without knowing I’ve done me best to avoid it. Do ye want to see yer mother wailing over the body of one of yer brothers? There will be death if we go looking for vengeance. Do nae doubt it.”
Shaw nodded at last. “I suppose that’s why ye are laird and no’ me. I did nae think on the matter quite that way.”
Broen watched his men nod in agreement, but he was far from feeling settled. Norris Sutherland might very well agree with those who demanded Clarrisa be eliminated permanently. Her blood was too precious, too dangerous in the unstable world they all shared. But she had spirit, and there was a lack of arrogance in her eyes, which had him looking back to where she’d taken refuge behind a large boulder. Shaw would call him a softhearted fool, and maybe it was true, but taking her life held no appeal.