by Mary Wine
“Ye know the way of it well, Broen.” Faolan led him down a well-lit hallway. Both men still looked at the ground to check for shadows before going too near a connecting corridor—no fortress was fail-proof, as Broen had proven when he’d stolen Clarrisa.
“But ye should also know me family has more to lose if the king gains a York-blooded son,” Faolan continued.
“Now, I will nae agree with ye on that point.” Broen followed Faolan into a chamber. He recalled it well from when it had belonged to Faolan’s father. Faolan smoothed a hand over the edge of the large table. A large chair sat behind the table, one worthy of the laird.
“I remember standing next to ye while me father scowled at the pair of us over this table.” Faolan sat in the large chair. “I still find the chair a bit uncomfortable for that very reason. I expect me sire’s ghost to arrive at any moment and begin giving me hell for the time I spend chasing the lasses instead of doing what he’d sent me to do.”
“Aye, I know what ye mean. Both our sires spent plenty of time trying to tell us how important the responsibility of being laird is, but it’s far more pressing when ye must feel the yoke yerself,” Broen muttered. But he didn’t let his guard down; suspicion was still raising the hair on his nape.
“Exactly. Hearing me father warn us to always remember what we were to become was nae the same as having to curtail me own desires in favor of what is best for me clan.” Faolan frowned. “Which brings us back to the matter of young Clarrisa and the good that can come from having her here at Raven’s Perch.”
“I stole her, so I’ll be the one finishing what I began. If ye wanted the duty, ye had the chance to speak up when yer uncle put the matter to us.” Broen didn’t sit in the chair his friend gestured to. Every muscle in his body was too tight. “Do nae betray the trust between us, Faolan. I would nae have ridden here if I doubted ye were a man I can call a friend.”
“Me position as laird is nae as secure as yers, Broen.”
Broen snorted. “Ye have a distorted view of me position, man. The Grants would love to know I’ve ridden off me land, so they could burn enough of me villages to believe they would have a chance at taking control of me clan. A few of me men would like that as well, because it would give them the chance to start the feud they are demanding from me.”
“Donnach Grant is nearing the end of his days.”
“Not soon enough for my taste. The fact that he’s getting old only promises that I’ll be hearing his son Kael has returned, a man whose loyalty none of us is sure of,” Broen insisted. “I stole the lass, so tell me where ye had her taken.”
Faolan stood, tension evident in his stance. “Wedding Daphne was the only issue we ever fought over.”
Broen nodded. “True enough. Until now, it seems.”
“Ye are nae the only one who wants justice for her death.” There was a warning in Faolan’s voice.
“I am no’ blind to that,” Broen muttered softly. “But ye welcomed me here as a friend, so let me finish what I promised yer uncle I’d do, because forcing Donnach to meet me and explain what happened will give us both the answers we seek.”
Faolan shook his head.
“Curse ye, Faolan.”
The Chisholms laird laughed, but it wasn’t a pleasant sound. “I am that, Broen. Cursed for certain, for I swear to ye I’ve seen young Daphne’s ghost.”
A shiver went across his skin, for there was a light in Faolan’s eyes that made it plain the man believed what he was saying.
“Ye mean ye’ve dreamed about her, man.” Broen softened his tone, commiserating with his friend over the topic. “Understandable, considering—”
“It was more than a dream,” Faolan interrupted. “It was so real it scared me.”
An uneasy silence filled the room. Faolan’s face was drawn tight with tension as Broen swore softly.
“I would have called any man who accused ye of being afraid of anything on this earth a liar.”
“Except we are nae talking of anything natural.” Faolan sat back down, looking older than his years for a moment. “I do nae want to believe it meself, and ye are the only man I’d confess it to, but I swear that woman is haunting me. In the darkest hours of the night in my dreams, I see her in a stone room wearing naught but a pure white robe…” His voice trailed off as he looked like he was captivated by the vision once more.
“It’s clear ye believe what ye’re saying, so it’s best I take Clarrisa to Sutherland so we can both hear the explanation of how Daphne died. Only that knowledge will end this.”
Faolan slapped the tabletop. “Nay! It’s clear I need to settle accounts, so Daphne can rest in peace. She haunts me, so I must be the one.”
“Ye are nae making sense, man,” Broen argued. “Clarrisa has naught to do with Daphne’s fate.”
Faolan straightened. “She does, and it’s me she’s haunting, so I must be the one to take the York bastard to me uncle.”
Broen looked closely at his friend and noticed the dark circles beneath his eyes. The emotion in his friend’s eyes burned brighter than what he’d ever felt for Daphne. It was a truth he didn’t care for, but he couldn’t ignore it either. Clarrisa’s face surfaced from his memory, her blond hair shimmering like a spring morning. She was far more fetching than he’d admitted to himself… Oh Christ. He didn’t need that sort of trouble. Broen shook his head. Faolan snorted.
“I mean what I say, Broen. I’m taking Clarrisa to me uncle to satisfy Daphne. Since she’s haunting me, ye can just make yer peace with my decision on the matter.”
“If Daphne is truly haunting Raven’s Perch, it will take more than delivering one Englishwoman to the Highlands to get her to leave.”
Faolan grunted. “I suppose ye know a thing or two about ghosts walking the halls of yer home.”
Someone used the heavy brass knocker set on the door.
“Come,” Faolan barked. There was a hint of uncertainty in his voice, which drew a sound of disgust from Broen.
Distrust between them was a new thing—a sign of the troubled times, but it was also a result of Daphne. Broen tried to recall her dark eyes and the way they’d seemed irresistible the last time he’d seen her, but what surfaced instead was the memory of the last look Clarrisa had shot him, her blue eyes full of spirit and determination in spite of the burly Chisholms retainers flanking her petite form. There had also been a hint of regret, but he was better off not noticing that. He needed to recall that she was English, nothing else. But it seemed good sense wasn’t prevailing, because his thoughts lingered on that last look she’d sent him. He itched to take action, feeling the walls around him closing in.
“Where did ye put her?” Faolan asked his men.
Broen jerked his attention to the men who’d entered. Both tugged on the corners of their bonnets before the eldest spoke. “I put her in one of the kitchen storage rooms. She did nae give me any trouble, so I thought to spare her the dungeon. That’s a right frightful place for such a slight lass.”
Faolan frowned, appearing as though he was going to argue. The elder of the two men looked surprised, but his years gave him the courage to speak plainly. “Those storerooms have solid doors and bars. The lass cannae be going anywhere unless someone lifts it for her.”
“It would take a man, too. We used a heavy bar, one of the new iron-wrapped ones,” his companion added.
Faolan grunted. “I suppose ye’re correct. There’s lasses aplenty sleeping in the kitchens too. Well done, lads.”
The retainers left, the older one looking glad to be done with his laird’s bidding. Broen watched as Faolan waited for his men to leave the room before he emptied his cider mug.
“Ye think I’ve gone mad.”
Broen shook his head. “Nay, I think ye believe what ye say ye saw, but I’d be sorely tempted to tell ye it would be disappointing to hear ye spent the night in that chair because ye feared another encounter with Daphne. As far as specters go, she’s a fair bit better than the one I’ve got a
t Deigh Tower.”
Faolan chuckled, returning to the good-humored man Broen called friend. It didn’t last, though; Faolan’s grin faded until he was once more somber.
“Aye, that spirit walking yer halls is a mean one, and no mistake. Too bad ye did nae have a sister or three. If yer father had promised one to the church, maybe Deigh would be peaceful.”
“I’ll just have to make me own way, as ye will.” Broen made to leave but heard Faolan stand behind him. Broen turned and raised an eyebrow at the suspicious look being aimed at him. “I’ve had little sleep since I left yer uncle’s home, Faolan, and I do nae plan to be gone from me own lands much longer.”
Faolan nodded. “I do nae want to make an enemy of ye, Broen.”
“Then have done with this nonsense about you delivering the English lass to quiet Daphne’s spirit. I’ll gladly help ye discover who caused her soul such unrest just as soon as I deliver Clarrisa to yer uncle so I can gain that information from Donnach Grant. Me men are demanding a feud, Faolan, something guaranteed to give me plenty of sleepless nights thinking of the men who died because I failed to be a good-enough laird to maintain peace.”
Broen watched his friend clench his hands into fists until the knuckles turned white. “Think on it, man. If Daphne is disturbing yer sleep, she’s needing the same justice me own father does. Such a thing does nae come from making a prisoner of a wee English lass—even if I went and stole her, because I agree it was the best thing for us all. Honor is nae satisfied through women.”
“Ye have a point, Broen. I’m nae blind to it.” But his tone made it plain he wasn’t willing to agree. “We’ll talk more in the morning. I’ve missed too much sleep recently to be making sound decisions.”
Broen nodded before quitting the room. His men were leaning against the walls in the hallway. Shaw watched the doorway. Broen lifted his hand to keep the man silent while placing some distance between Faolan’s study and himself.
“What are ye thinking, Laird?”
Shaw asked the question quietly, but Broen could feel the weight of his men’s stares. No one was at ease, nor did they have any liking for Faolan’s desire to keep their prize.
“I’m thinking we’ll nae be getting any sleep tonight, lads. I’m feeling chilled, too chilled to remain here.” Eyebrows rose, along with the corners of his retainers’ mouths. “Gather up the rest of the men and send them out on their way home under the excuse I do nae need all me men here.”
“And how will we make our way past the gate?” Shaw asked.
“First we’ll get the lass,” Broen answered. “There’s nae point in thinking on how to pass the gate without her.”
And he wasn’t leaving without his prize. There was sure to be a priest or two who’d frown at him over his pride, but Broen didn’t pause. He made his way down the stone hallways, pinching out half the candles as he went. He left a few flickering in the darkness to make the staff think the wind had blown them out. Pitch blackness would have announced his plans. The hall was still full of merriment; the cider barrel, not yet empty. There were more pipers playing now, and couples were dancing now that the cider had made them all merry.
“Go on, men. I’ll join ye when I have the lass.”
***
The supper the Chisholms retainer brought her was cold, but it didn’t stop her belly from rumbling. Her hands shook with anticipation as her nose picked up the scent of the broken bread sitting on top of the bowl. A small ceramic pitcher of milk was left on the table before the door closed once more. With no candle, the room became nothing but shadows. Slim fingers of golden light from the hallway teased her from beneath the door. They didn’t penetrate even halfway across the room.
Well, she didn’t need to see her meal. Sitting on the narrow bed, she broke off some of the bread and tasted it. Spring was new, so the flour would have been ground from last year’s harvest. But it wasn’t musty or stale, proving the housekeeper knew her craft well. Unlike the staff in the keep in which Clarrisa had met the king.
Clarrisa tried to slow down, because she heard her own lips smacking. Maybe it was the darkness or the fear that she’d never see the sky again. Every sound hit her as louder, more intense while she consumed the meal. The milk was chilled from being stored in the cellar, the pottery cold against her fingers. She forced herself to leave half of it in the pitcher in case no one remembered to bring her breakfast.
Her thoughts wanted to whirl like a snowstorm, but with her belly full, her body longed only for rest. She lay down and pulled the single blanket over her body. Damn Maud for insisting she dress in summer linen to better display her curves. She doubted James had cared what she looked like; it was her blood he was drawn to.
What drew a man such as Broen to a woman?
She was mad to think on such a topic, but her mind was half-gone into slumber, and discipline seemed to have vanished. An image of him crouching down near her surfaced from her memory and followed her into sleep. What surprised her was how much she was drawn to the details that set him apart from civilized men. She should detest him; instead, she dreamed of him.
***
“Come, lass…” The voice was husky and dark. Her eyes flew open as Faolan’s promise to prove himself to her filled her thoughts.
“You will not have me!” She shoved at the man sitting on the edge of the bed. He stumbled, giving her the opportunity to kick the blanket aside. “I am sick unto death of everyone’s desire to be in my bed.”
“Be silent, woman.”
“I will not help you commit this atrocity, Faolan Chisholms.” She picked up the pitcher and flung it at him. He moved faster than she did, clearing the path she sent the pottery sailing along. It smashed into the stone wall, shattering into bits.
A hard hand grabbed her and sealed her next retort behind it. He yanked her up against his body as she struggled to escape. There was too much iron strength in the man holding her. She strained with all her might but remained held securely.
“’Tis Broen, and I’ve come to—”
His identity was too much for her to bear. It must have been her dreams of him while falling asleep, but her cheeks flamed and her heart raced the moment he revealed his name.
“Ye bit me,” he accused in a soft snarl. For a moment the iron cage of his arms opened as he shook his hand.
“I thought you were that devil of a friend you handed me over to.” Clarrisa sent her best punch toward his face. Pain erupted all along her arm when her knuckles connected with his jaw. “Well… I will not submit to him or you or your king! Do you hear me?”
“Sweet Christ, half the castle heard ye,” he swore in a raspy tone. “Quiet down before ye truly have to deal with Faolan. He’s got a notion to keep ye, but I am here to keep me promise to ye.”
Broen pushed her against the wall, pressing his body against hers from head to toe. One moment she was trying to rub some of the pain from her hand, and the next moment the huge lout was closer to her than any man had ever been. Except for him during the last few days.
He smothered the rest of what she had to say with his palm. “I came in here to help ye, but I need the Chisholms to stay in the hall and nae come down here because they hear ye howling like a scalded cat.”
She curled her lips back, intending to take the largest chunk of flesh she could out of his hand, but he yanked his hand away.
“Would ye quiet down?” Shaw spoke from the chamber door. “Someone is sure to hear… Ah… well now, I don’t think we’ve got time for that sort of convincing, Laird.”
Clarrisa snarled. It was the most uncivilized sound she’d ever made, but it suited the moment.
“I’m trying to keep her from raising the alarm.”
Shaw grinned at her as Broen pressed his hand against her mouth again. “Well now, the gag worked well enough, if ye ask me.”
A strangled sound made it past Broen’s hand. Clarrisa strained against him but only managed to feel just how hard his body was.
“Curs
e it all.”
Broen suddenly leaned in so close she could feel his breath against her cheek. Her skin prickled with awareness, which raced along her flesh, raising goose bumps. She’d never been so aware of how a man smelled or felt. Every breath pulled the details deep into her senses and unleashed a torrent of sensation. It was shocking, but pleasurable too.
“Listen to me, Clarrisa…” His voice sent a shiver down her spine. It was raspy and commanding, bringing to mind the moment she’d contemplated what sort of woman he’d be attracted to. “I’m here to offer ye a choice.”
The candles from the hallway flickered in his eyes as he stared into hers.
“Aye, something ye have nae had from me before, and I’ll admit ye have the right to scratch me for appearing in the darkness.” He lifted his hand away, slowly at first, clearly not trusting her. He still had her pinned against the wall with his body.
“Ye can come away with me now, or wait here to see if Faolan decides to make good on his boast to prove himself to ye.”
He pushed away from her, and another ripple of sensation traveled down her body, only this time it was lament. She wrapped her arms around her body, trying to console herself. It was foolish to feel anything but relief, yet she hugged herself tighter.
“I don’t trust you, Broen MacNicols.”
But he’s never hurt you…
He’d moved to the center of the room. “Do nae ye, lass?” He closed the gap between them once more. His warmth enveloped her, and his body pinned her arms in place between them. This time he raised her chin, cupping it in one hand. His breath teased her lips, the delicate surface registering an insane amount of notice from so slight a touch.
“Feel how smooth yer skin is, lass?” He trailed his fingers across her neck. “Nae a single cut. Better to place yer faith in me than anyone else surrounding ye at the moment.”