Highlander's Prize

by Mary Wine

  His fingers lingered on her skin, sending heat across her cheeks. For a mere moment, it looked like his attention had settled onto her lips. Her mouth went dry, and her breath froze in her chest. Would he kiss her? Would she kiss him in return?

  Neither happened. Broen stepped back, but it seemed like he hesitated.

  Fool! Would you have him drawn to you?

  “Trust me, Clarrisa. I’ll see ye to the Highlands alive. Ye have me word on that.”

  He extended his hand, palm up, and waited for her to place her hand in his. Her throat felt like it was swelling shut, far too tight to allow even a single breath through.

  “Has this cell endeared itself to ye, then?” He looked around and grunted. “No’ even a candle spared for ye.”

  “I know it well.” But she still didn’t like hearing just how defeated she was.

  The candlelight from the passageway allowed her to see his eyebrow rise mockingly. “But ye are nae sure I am any better a choice? At least I will take ye out into the night, where the air is fresh. ’Tis yer choice, and ye need to make it now.” He turned and took a step toward the door.

  Need pulsed through her, pushing aside everything else. She felt like he was being torn away from her, and she couldn’t endure the separation.

  “Oh… damn us all. I’m coming… Bro—” His name lodged in her throat. It seemed such an intimate thing, to speak his first name; simply thinking about it reawakened her desire to know what his kiss was like. He stopped, and she almost ran into him, stopping so abruptly her skirts collided with his legs. He cupped her chin once again.

  “Why does me name stick to yer tongue? ’Tis simple enough to say.”

  She stepped back, lifting her chin to remove it from his grasp. Not that she might have eluded his touch if he weren’t in the mood to allow her to. He loomed over her, making her more conscious of how much more strength he had than she. She felt vulnerable yet strangely impatient to prove she could meet him in every contest of flesh there was.

  Insane… She’d lost her wits completely…

  “Laird MacNicols.”

  He took a step toward her. “That is me title, no’ me name, Clarrisa.”

  Shaw cleared his throat. “So sorry to be interrupting… Laird, but if the two of ye do nae mind, I’d appreciate no’ ending up in Laird Chisholms’s dungeon tonight because ye cannae wait for a more secluded place to circle each other.”

  “We are not circling,” Clarrisa insisted with a backward step.

  Broen muttered something under his breath and reached for her. He circled her waist with one hard arm and pulled her into the hallway. “Shaw is correct about one thing, lass. Time is precious tonight.”

  She pushed at the arm holding her to him. “I’ve made the choice to follow you. There is no need to hold me.”

  He looked at her, and his lips curled into an arrogant grin. “But that’s the part I’m enjoying. Ye’re a fine-looking lass, Clarrisa.”

  “No, I’m not. My uncle often lamented my lack of beauty.”

  She reached up and pressed a hand over her lips when she realized just how personal an admission she’d made.

  “Well now, this is nae the first time I’ve disagreed with an Englishman, but I do believe I feel more strongly about it than ever before.”

  The night air was no longer cool, because she felt like her entire body was blushing.

  He found her pleasing to look at?

  She shook her head. Now was not the time for girlish flights of whimsy.

  He held up a finger in front of his lips before sweeping her down the hallway. She picked up her feet faster, lifting her hems so she might hurry away from what had been her cell. Broen and his men moved swiftly, but with a silence that was unnatural. The sounds from the hall grew louder before Broen led her around a corner and away from them.

  “Now would be a good time to share with me yer plan for getting out of here, Laird,” Shaw said and turned to look at her. “With her, that is. No doubt the Chisholms at the gate know their laird is intent on keeping her.”

  Shaw reached out and pulled something from a peg on the wall. It was a length of fabric used by the maids when the weather was foul. “Best cover yer head and look a bit more Scottish, or we’ll have wasted our time in getting ye out of that storage room.”

  “Oh… yes.” She shook the length of plaid; the wool fibers were surprisingly soft against her fingers. With a few twists, she had it draped over her head and around her shoulders. She shivered in eager anticipation of being free.

  Broen slipped a wide leather belt around her waist and buckled it.

  “You shouldn’t be so familiar with me.” Because it was tempting her to touch him in return.

  His eyes narrowed. “And ye should hold yer tongue more often. Yet both of us seem to have difficulty with keeping to the places the church says we should. Do nae admonish me when ye are nae willing to lower yerself in front of me and grant me the respect my gender is due.”

  “You’d consider it an insult if I did.” Her response was reckless, but it felt good to speak her mind. She’d been holding back her true words her entire life. “You would know it was insincere.”

  His hand remained on the belt buckle, and she felt the weight of his stare even as the light behind him made it impossible for her to see his expression clearly.

  “Ye have a fine talent for judging men.” He transferred his grip to her wrist. “I do nae care for false pretense, and the king was easily led by a few words of promise. I wonder if I should admire yer skill or listen to Shaw when he’s telling me ye’re scheming because ye know no other way.”

  “If that were so, I’d be whimpering and trying to lull you into thinking I was helpless.”

  His grip tightened around her wrist. “Aye, that might have worked, but Shaw was correct, lass.” He leaned in, twisting her arm so she couldn’t bend it and back away from him. So simply, so easily he secured her in place. His breath teased her cheek, sending a shiver down her back. “We’ll be needing to escape before we return to circling each other.”

  Her temper flared, but he turned to look at the yard they needed to cross. “I have no intention of circling you… Highlander…” It was more of a title than a place from which he hailed.

  She saw him grin, the expression full of mocking confidence. He looked toward the gate and back at her.

  “On the other hand, lass, if ye want to leave Raven’s Perch… maybe we should circle each other a bit closer to ease our way through the gate.”

  A tingle of anticipation went down her spine. “What do you mean?”

  He lifted one hand and beckoned her toward him with a single finger.

  ***

  “Yer father made a bargain with the last of the York nobles in England.” The crown prince of Scotland listened to Alexander Home with a darkening complexion. “He planned to breed a son on one of Edward’s bastards, a son who—”

  “Who would be kin to Henry the Seventh of England and in a fine position to set me aside.” He stood and paced across the fine Persian rug covering the floor. “What happened to the girl?”

  In spite of his youth, his tone was steady. Princes had to mature quickly or they would end up dead like the two English ones had.

  “She was stolen. We believe by the Earl of Sutherland’s order.”

  “You hope.” Young James watched Lord Home stiffen at his tone and chided himself. His father’s mistake was not giving respect to those who served him, an error his mother had taught him to avoid making. “I hope so as well,” he amended. “Forgive me. I worry for the future.”

  “As do we all.” Lord Home held up a letter to see the ink better. “Your father failed to bed the girl; that much is certain. The keep he selected is loyal to our cause. The maids helped Laird MacNicols steal the York bastard away. My sources tell me yer father paid a great deal for the girl.”

  “MacNicols”—James paced a few more times—“came seeking justice a few months past. My father refused
to see him.” The prince turned to pace back across the carpet.

  “Your memory serves you well, and it seems your father’s failing has added another Highland clan to our side.” Lord Home sounded very pleased.

  “Yet the York bastard is very dangerous to us, even if she’s held by loyal hands.” James’s tone made his distaste clear, but he still aimed an unwavering look at Lord Home.

  “If she is even still alive.”

  The prince weighed his answer while fingering his fine velvet doublet. “We must be sure. It is sad to hear my father is still not ready to be the king Scotland needs. I so hoped he’d mend his ways, as many do near the end of their days.” He nodded, obviously needing to convince himself of the necessity to go after an innocent. The boy was young, but not too young, which was why men were willing to follow him.

  The prince drew in a deep breath. “See that the bastard has no chance to be used against the unity of this nation. We have no need for alliances with England.”

  James nodded before leaving the room. Margaret of Denmark had raised her eldest son to be a prince. There was a solidness about young James. It was a quality Alexander was willing to follow. James was noble, but also a true Scotsman, which was what the country needed.

  Alexander pulled a piece of parchment from his writing desk, dipped a quill into the inkwell, and began writing. He frowned at the word York after he’d written it. Scotland didn’t need ties with England! James III was a poor king and not even worthy of being called a Scotsman, in his opinion. Too many times, the king had fled to England for shelter—England, the sworn enemy of every Scot. Such actions were too much to overlook, too much to ignore. Alexander refused to give his loyalty to a king who sided with the English. Well, if Laird MacNicols had the York bastard, the man would surely want something in exchange for her, but Alexander wasn’t willing to let any laird have such power over the Prince. So Lord Home was writing to Laird Grant, because there was one thing certain to make MacNicols yield the York girl, and it was also something Home knew Laird Grant could not refuse to relinquish to him. Lord Home kept his position as royal adviser by keeping a small stash of favors owed to him by Highland lairds. It was an important part of making sure the young prince ended up with his birthright. It was a service James III had forgotten Lord Home once performed for him. Home intended to make sure his former master regretted losing his loyalty.

  He held up the letter so the ink would dry. He could hear his men following the prince out in the hallway. At fourteen, James needed to be watched carefully, or he’d end up being poisoned like his mother had been. The time was nearing; Alexander could feel it. With spring beginning to melt the snow, the king was falling into his old habit of doing whatever pleased him, no matter the repercussions. Even his royalist followers wouldn’t be able to protect him when the rest of the Scots rose up in rebellion, not when it was clear he was making alliances with England yet again. The prince was naive enough to hope for a peaceful resolution, but Alexander knew they were well past such a thing. Soon the Highlanders would come down, and the matter would be decided by strength and steel.

  While James III lived, the York girl threatened them all. Laird Grant owed Lord Home a large favor, and it was time for him to pay the debt. The Highland laird wouldn’t be happy to receive his letter, but Alexander signed his name to it anyway. He folded the letter before lifting the candle and holding the flame beneath a stick of sealing wax, which puddled onto the folded edges of the parchment. He replaced the candle before closing his fingers into a fist and pressing his signet ring into the cooling wax.

  Alexander smiled. Things were really quite perfect. Laird MacNicols was a man with an Achilles’ heel, one Alexander knew the secret to obtaining. The York bastard would be handed over, and the threat her English blood posed to Scotland would be destroyed.

  Alexander felt satisfaction warming him. The best part of the plan was that Broen MacNicols would be in his debt after he provided the justice the king had refused the Highland laird. Donnach Grant would be free from his debt, but Broen MacNicols would be in it. Yes, a wise royal adviser keep the important men in his debt. A more-perfect solution there couldn’t be.

  ***

  “What do you mean?” Clarrisa asked suspiciously. Broen MacNicols’s tone was too playful by far. He was fighting back a smirk too, while amusement danced in his eyes.

  He pointed at the gate. “It’s a fair bet those Chisholms retainers have heard who ye are and that their laird wants ye to stay.”

  Disappointment slammed into her so hard she gasped. “If you knew such a thing, why did you bring me out here? To torment me with what I cannot have?”

  He lost the battle to maintain control over his expression. His teeth flashed at her in a wide grin. “Clarrisa, lass, ye have spirit, to be sure, but ye’re lacking a healthy sense of humor.”

  “Ye’ll need one in the Highlands,” Shaw added.

  She propped her hands on her hips, but Broen looked at Shaw. “Get the horses and make sure the retainers at the gate see ye enjoying what yer laird is about. Let them think ye’ve had a bit too much cider.”

  “Ye have nae told me how ye’re planning on getting past them…” Shaw appeared confused for a moment before Broen slid his arm around her body and pulled her against him once more.

  “I’m going to let them think I have a mind to tryst.”

  The burly retainer snorted before tugging on the corner of his bonnet. “Come along, lads. Let’s make this good. I’ve a mind to get me feet back on MacNicols land.”

  Tryst…

  The word shocked her, but it also set off a pounding deep inside her that seemed to urge her to abandon reason and join in with the night shadows and some unseen wildness lurking beyond her sight.

  An insane idea… one she needed to resist… of course…

  “You cannot simply touch me,” she insisted and pushed at his arm.

  She might as well have not spoken, for Broen ignored her, his arm binding her securely to his body. Shaw and the other men left, leaving her alone with their laird. Light flickered over them from the wall torches, but it struck her as strangely intimate—for sure her position in Broen’s embrace was. What shocked her was how much she didn’t detest being held against him. Broen was hard; his body, solid next to hers. She should have been repulsed as she had been when the king leered at her, but delight was stirring in her belly, sending heat through her veins.

  Insanity…

  She flattened her hands on top of his chest. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Making a good show of it, lass. We’ll nae be making it past that gate otherwise,” Broen muttered against her hair while he watched his men.

  Shaw began laughing. He slapped one of the other MacNicols retainers on the back, while they all chuckled in the middle of the open yard.

  “Hurry now, lads… Our laird is nae in the mood to wait now that he’s found himself a friendly lass to go moonlight riding with!”

  Her cheeks heated instantly.

  “Come now… Get those horses! We’ll have to be making sure no one takes advantage of him being distracted by something so charming!”

  The younger MacNicols retainers began to appear with horses. Shaw continued to jest and lifted his head to look at the Chisholms men on the walls.

  “Here now, lads! Me laird wants to prove his worth! Raise the gate, for we’re off to see the forest by moonlight!”

  Shaw slurred his words, and the other MacNicols laughed too loudly. They stumbled as they led the horses forward, and the Chisholms retainers grinned at them.

  “The gate guard is watching us, lass,” Broen whispered. He cupped the back of her head, angling her face so that it looked like they were preparing to share a kiss.

  “Broen—”

  “Ah… at last me name comes across yer sweet lips.” He placed a kiss on her cheek. She trembled; couldn’t stop herself. She watched recognition flash in his eyes as the hand cradling the back of her head slid down t
o gently massage the corded muscles of her neck.

  “So it was all bluster,” he whispered, but there was the ring of judgment in his tone. “Ye were playing a dangerous game with the king, lass. His temper would have been hot, and no mistake, if he’d made it down to that bath.”

  “I’d have managed… if there had been no other choice.”

  He blew out a breath that sounded like a soft snort. Her pride bristled as sensation raced up and down her body. Nothing made sense, and her thoughts were whirling too fast. Like she was watching a blizzard and knew there were thousands of snowflakes, but they were swirling too fast to see individually.

  “Release me.” She didn’t wait to see if he’d comply with her demand but pushed against his chest to gain what she wanted.

  You want him to kiss you…

  No, she did not!

  “The Chisholms are still watching, and that gate has nae lifted yet.” He moved his hand gently along her nape. Prickles of enjoyment raced through her. “We’re going to have to help Shaw convince them we’re set on trysting.”

  Trysting…

  “No—we’re not.” She sounded too breathless, too husky.

  “I am nae so sure, lass… but I am sure I want to know what yer lips taste like.”

  “You mustn’t…”

  He smothered the rest of her denial beneath his lips. The kiss was firm and demanding but not hurtful. For some reason, she was positive he was being conscious of how much strength he used against her mouth. He maintained his grip on her nape, using the hold to keep her in position for his kiss. She’d thought heat was filling her veins before, but now it raced through her like a flame consuming parchment. She gasped, and he took advantage of her parted lips to deepen the assault.

  It was truly an attack, but one that opened a door inside her she’d never noticed before. Behind it lay desires that came flooding out, and all of them produced even more heat. She wanted to kiss him back, mimic his motions, because the teasing actions of his lips felt so delightful. A shiver shook her, and his fingers moved once again to soothe it.