by Mary Wine
She was no beauty but wasn’t too hard on the eyes. Her hair was blond, and the sunlight had turned it golden. But what captivated him was the way she moved. The curve of her hip when she walked or the manner in which she chewed on her lower lip when she was trying to decide what to say to him. Or the way she’d watched him throughout the day. He’d felt her blue eyes on him as though she were touching him.
Bloody hell.
He shook his head, wondering when he’d lost sight of what was best for his clan. Clarrisa was rumored to be one of several bastards of the last English king, Edward IV. The man had fallen in battle, and his cousin Henry Tudor was now crowned. Henry had wed Edward’s legitimate daughter, but he hadn’t made her queen yet, which left the nobles wondering if there was still power to be grabbed.
James Stuart was thinking exactly that. A king had responsibilities, and James III liked to ignore his too much for Broen to follow him.
It made him a traitor in the eyes of many Scottish nobles. Broen would wear the title gladly. His father had died while sitting at a negotiating table, and the king had sat in his castle and done nothing. James wasn’t worthy of his loyalty, and the man would never get the York-blooded son he sought either. Not while Broen was laird of the MacNicols.
Of course, with the way the country was, nothing was for certain. It might be his throat slit instead of Clarrisa’s—or maybe both. There were too many men whose loyalty was uncertain. Did they follow the king, or seek to see his son placed on the throne of Scotland so a new era might begin?
Well, he knew where he stood. A man was only worth as much as his honor. Clarrisa was going to Sutherland land, but she was going alive.
And he could just bloody well forget what her lips looked like.
***
“Why did ye pull on that leather? Did ye really think the knots would give?”
Clarrisa turned to find Broen watching her. He hadn’t stepped out into the open, which fit his character. She lowered her hands, killing the urge to inspect the damage she’d done to her skin. The skin itched and burned, confirming she’d torn her flesh.
“Doesn’t every captive pray for deliverance?”
He moved forward, looking like he was materializing from the shadows. He hadn’t buttoned his doublet and seemed quite at ease in the chilly night. The edge of his kilt fluttered gently in the stirring breeze. He moved silently and stood before her, while she was still satisfying her curiosity about his person. He captured her forearm once more and raised her wrists.
“Praying is hoping God will strike down yer enemies. Struggling is failing to have faith in his power to deliver ye.” The moonlight reflected off a small dagger as he slipped the blade under the leather and jerked it upward. “I know a few priests who will take issue with ye for nae waiting for the divine hand of the Almighty to free ye.”
His tone was playfully mocking, renewing the rush of heat that seemed to happen anytime he was near her.
She stepped back and brushed the coils of leather from her wrists. “I know more who will protest your intention to murder me, which made it a fine idea to take a hand in my own fate.”
He slid the dagger back into the top of his boot. The worn leather ended just below his knee, and she could see the edge of fur peeking out. Her toes were frozen, and she was envious of the sturdy footwear.
“I believe I know a few priests who would condemn ye for going to the bed of a man who is nae yer husband. A fine thing for me to interfere with,” he insisted.
“It wasn’t any idea of mine.” Her uncle would have beaten her for such an admission, but the man in front of her was lawless, and it seemed to be affecting her. “It was my uncle’s scheme and your king’s. I’ve already thanked you for removing me from it. We should stop trying to agree with each other.”
Broen folded his arms over his chest and studied her for a long moment. She actually felt the weight of his judgment. It needled her, making her realize she cared what he thought of her. She shouldn’t—wouldn’t.
He grunted. “Aye, maybe ye’ve got more sense than I do, lass. We’ll be parting ways soon enough.”
His words shamed her. She felt her cheeks brighten with a blush. His gaze touched on the color for a moment before he shook his head.
“Now, there’s why I’m torn. Ye seem genuine in yer innocence.” His eyes narrowed. “Which may be a skill ye’ve been perfecting since ye learned to walk. Most likely so, from what tales I’ve heard of English nobility. The females are a sly lot.”
Clarrisa glared at him, lifting her chin to look at him directly. “Maybe you are planning to use my blood for your own gain. That’s a skill Scottish lairds learn early, I hear. Highlanders only have loyalty to their own clans.”
“I am a Highlander and proud of it.” The amusement vanished from his eyes. She should have been satisfied to hear the disgruntlement in his voice; instead, all she felt was needling guilt for being so insulting. Her mother would be ashamed of her.
“We’re getting nowhere with all this talk,” he informed her in a low tone that did little to disguise his frustration.
“Of course you believe so, for it would be much easier for you to deliver me to my imprisonment if you weren’t made aware of how unjust it is.”
“Unjust?” He uncrossed his arms, making him huge once more. Sensation snaked down her spine, and she was suddenly foolishly aware of the man for some reason. Clarrisa stepped back, a warning rising from somewhere deep inside her brain. She wasn’t even sure what it was telling her—to escape, or that Broen MacNicols was dangerous.
“Life is nae fair. No man has an easy path. Even royal blood carries with it burdens. I’ll nae pity ye for having to shoulder what every man does. I’m taking ye into the Highlands even if ye try to talk me to death along the way.”
He reached out and clamped one hand around her forearm. He pulled her behind him on his way back down to where his men were resting. She couldn’t rightly call it a camp, for there wasn’t a single tent. Several of the Highlanders had pulled their swords off their backs and raised their plaids to cover their heads. They were nestled against tree trunks, where the branches were thick. Some had dug up fallen leaves and piled them over their laps so they practically disappeared. The horses were nowhere in sight; the younger boys who’d ridden with them were gone as well.
“We’ll nae rest long, just enough for the horses. Sleep while ye can.”
He tugged her right into the thicket. She had to raise her free arm to protect her face from being scratched. Once they reached a thick tree trunk, he released her.
“Sit, or I’ll tie ye again.”
Clarrisa sank to her knees, watching him as he pulled his sword free. He raised his plaid and sat down, before leaning back against the tree. She gasped when he reached out and grabbed one of her braids.
“Closer, lass. Yer hair is nae that long.” There was a renewed hint of amusement in his tone. She ground her teeth with frustration, but he didn’t grant her any mercy. He looped her braid around his wrist and grasped the end inside his fist. He tucked his arm beneath the length of his plaid, pulling her closer.
She ended up sitting next to him with only a tiny space between them. Broen closed his eyes, granting her privacy, even if it was of an odd sort. The man had ahold of her hair, for Christ’s sake, something that struck her as intimate. Only little girls and brides wore their hair loose. She stared at him, because she’d always imagined that when a man touched her hair, he would be her husband. Or her lover…
Clarrisa chided herself and ordered her imagination to be silent. Circumstances were grim enough without her appearing to be drawn to her captor. Still, at least she was free of his piercing stare. She leaned back against the tree, longing for her cloak, which lay forgotten in the tower chamber. At least she could pull her knees closer to her chest, which allowed her toes to take shelter beneath her skirts.
Her thoughts wanted to whirl, but exhaustion was nipping at her. She closed her eyes, hugging herself for
warmth. Her head was uncovered, and the chill of the night made her long for her hat. Silk ribbons were threaded through her braids like a bride’s, and her dress was made of linen, too lightweight for the Scottish night.
Still, she preferred the chill to the demands James would have made of her. Many would call her foolish, but her body was the only thing she had; her virtue, her single possession. But she would not go so far as to say she preferred Broen’s company. No, she would not. Yet she was grateful her wrists were no longer bound. Her sleep became restful; the knowledge that Broen was near actually granted her a feeling of security.
Better the devil you know…
She didn’t know Broen, but he’d freed her when it would have been easier for him to leave her tied. Actions so often spoke more of a man’s nature than what he proclaimed. Her uncle had liked to tell her what her place was, often imposing duties on her to reinforce his demands. His face faded away as she turned toward the warmth of the man next to her.
For the moment, it was all she needed.
***
“I warned ye, Laird.”
Clarrisa jerked awake as the man she was leaning against erupted into motion. She went rolling across the fallen leaves, gaining a few scratches along the way.
“Ye’re mad to startle me, Shaw!” Broen snarled. He had his sword unsheathed and in hand before he’d finished speaking, but Shaw reached out and grabbed her by the nape. He dragged her to her feet and threw her several yards.
“She was pressed to ye like a well-satisfied whore.” Shaw was shaking with rage. “No doubt she thinks to warm yer cock and secure herself a Highland laird, since we’ve ruined her plans to have the king.”
“I plan no such thing.”
“Be silent, Clarrisa.” Broen’s voice was deadly. It shocked her into shutting her mouth when her pride still stung. The MacNicols laird kept his sword steady, leveled at his clansman. Broen moved on sure feet, keeping his knees bent as he changed position to stand in front of her. “Ye’re shaming yer mother, Shaw MacNicols.”
“And ye’re disgracing yer murdered father by allowing this scheming English jade to rest her head on yer shoulder.”
Clarrisa felt her face flame with a blush, for sometime during the night, she’d ended up leaning against Broen. “It wasn’t planned. The man had hold of my braid.”
Broen snorted. “Do ye ever do what ye’re told, woman?”
A few of his men chuckled, and even Shaw snorted with enjoyment. Clarrisa felt her temper ignite.
“Oh yes, my lord.” She lowered herself prettily, exactly as Maud would have approved of. “I obeyed my uncle, who sent me to that cursed tower where your king planned to use me.” She rose and glared at the men watching her, but mostly at their laird. “Doing what I’m told has brought me to this place where there isn’t a trusting soul in sight, so I believe I am done with it.”
She was casting out a challenge but didn’t care. The man was a barbarian; the least she might do was match her behavior to his. She stumbled out of the thicket, not knowing where she was going, only sure she had to move because there was so much emotion coursing through her.
She’d slept against him.
The knowledge rose in her mind. Her cheeks continued to flame as the night replayed in her mind like a well-memorized fireside tale. There was a fleeting recollection of her nose warming at last and deep satisfaction as she’d huddled close to his body heat. She was going to burn in hell. Or die of shame where she stood. Maybe expire from pure frustration. Possibly—Enough!
But frustration began to burn her alive as she heard the MacNicols retainers laughing. She fumed and turned to face them, but whirled back around when she caught sight of them roaring with amusement.
Highlanders. Only Highlanders would be entertained by uncivilized behavior.
Broen wanted to be furious. For certain, he needed to make sure his men knew he was strong enough to lead them. But he lost the battle to maintain a stony expression and sheathed his sword while softly laughing at his cousin.
“Well now, Shaw… she’s got you pinned with yer own words.” His cousin scowled, but the rest of his men were still amused, laughing outright as Shaw scratched his head. “Admit it, Shaw, or get yerself a pair of breeches and move to England, where men do nae have any sense of humor. It’s for sure ye need one in the Highlands.”
There was more laughter, and Shaw finally grinned. “Aye, ye’ve got a point there. I never met an Englishman with a good nature. Laird.”
Broen nodded in acceptance of the single word. He walked past his cousin and clapped a solid hand on his shoulder before continuing on after Clarrisa. She was nowhere in sight, but a fresh set of tracks led to the rocks she’d gone behind the night before.
His men were leading the horses back over the rise, dawn turning the horizon pink. His young squire handed him the reins of his stallion. Broen watched the lad check the saddle. It took getting accustomed to—allowing another to see to things, like his horse, but the lad wouldn’t be given his own horse until he proved himself by caring for the animal of another man first. Even as the laird’s son, Broen had done the same.
“I understand what the lass was saying.” Shaw stepped up, his own reins held in a firm grip. “I’m nae so dense as to no’ see she was sent by her kin, or that having Sutherland lending his name to our argument with the Grants will be a great benefit.”
“And I’m no’ so prideful as to no’ see ye have the best for the MacNicols in mind,” Broen muttered. “I made ye one of me captains because ye are nae afraid to tell me what ye truly think. Only the English are foolish enough to ride into battle with arse-polishing men at their sides.”
Shaw nodded and grinned, clearly pleased with Broen’s words. “I do speak me mind.” He pointed at Broen. “She was draped over ye, but now that I’m thinking on it…”
Broen glared at his kin. “What’s on yer mind, man?”
“Well… yer head was resting on hers. Such a pretty picture it was too. Warmed me heart.”
His cousin laughed at the groan Broen offered him. Shaw mounted and smirked at him. “Now, I do believe ye told me a Highlander needs his sense of humor, Laird.”
Broen gained the saddle and controlled his stallion’s motions as he glared at his cousin. “Aye, that’s a fact, but it’s also a fact I’ve no liking for this situation at all.”
It was a sobering thought, one that brought tension back to where it’d been digging into the center of his shoulder blades. He guided his stallion up the hill, dreading running down his captive. But he’d do what was necessary.
Instead, he pulled up his stallion, the animal sidestepping because it wasn’t accustomed to his stopping him so soon after starting. Clarrisa was standing just over the ridge, with the dawn illuminating her. From her head to her toes, she wasn’t very tall, and her limbs were what he’d call delicate. Twin golden braids hung down her back, and the lightweight fabric of her dress was wrinkled. Everything about her was fragile, except the look she aimed at him.
He swore he could have warmed his hands over the fire in her eyes. Disheveled and chilled, she should have looked defeated. He should have been battling pity for her plight. Instead, Broen discovered he admired her—more than just admired. His feelings were building, gaining strength as Clarrisa lifted her chin and stood her ground. As he guided his stallion forward, she didn’t change her demeanor. She kept her blue eyes steady and her chin firmly set.
“Are ye ready to ride, lass?” His voice had turned husky, betraying his fascination with her. She lifted a hand and took the one he offered her. The woman didn’t lack strength. She stepped onto a boulder before using it to spring onto the back of the horse. He could have lifted her—had expected to—but found himself guiding her more than pulling her from the ground.
She settled behind him, grasping his belt to secure herself. Broen bit back the demand he wanted to issue to her to answer his question, because it felt a lot like flirting. Now there was a difficulty he didn’
t need. His clan didn’t need Clarrisa among them, with her royal blood to draw other lairds onto MacNicols land seeking to steal her.
But his emotions didn’t want to listen to reason. Curse his feelings—and his own nature.
Two
“There’ll be a warm fire and supper at Raven’s Perch.”
Relief swept through her, but Clarrisa didn’t allow herself to be carried away by his promises. Broen had to stop his stallion from nipping her mare. He’d allowed her back into her own saddle halfway through the day, no doubt to keep his horse from exhaustion.
“Ye’re a hard one to please if you cannae even smile at the idea of a hot bowl of stew, maybe even bread.” He tried to tempt her with a soft tone.
But she needed to protect herself. Broen was too likable. She’d never suffered such attraction to a man before. She wanted to return the smile on his lips, but he’d only see her responses as proof that he had the skill to bend her to his will.
“Hard? Oh aye, I believe there shall be hard and sturdy walls at your Raven’s Perch for me as well. What a charming idea to know I’m so near to my prison.” She looked away from the MacNicols laird, unwilling to expose her despair to him. Everything she knew was far away, on the other side of the border. It was best to remember she was not among friends. Every confidence she muttered might be used against her.
“We’ll pass the night, lass, and that is all. Do ye wonder why I doubt ye when ye say ye wanted no part of the king’s plan for ye, when all ye do is spit at me?”
She lost her resolve to ignore him and turned to see him watching her. The last of the sun was turning his hair fiery red.