by Mary Wine
Clarrisa opened her eyes, staring straight at him and proving his point. Maybe they weren’t alone, but it felt like there was a connection between them. He muttered a curse. Maybe Daphne was beginning her torment of him, but in the form of an Englishwoman whom he had no business wanting.
Much less shaving for.
***
Heat licked its way across her cheeks. Clarrisa lowered her chin so more of the Chisholms plaid would cover her face. She didn’t need Broen noticing her blush. It wasn’t for him.
Yes, it is…
She cringed. Why did he have to be so handsome? She was mad to notice, but there seemed to be no way to ignore him. With a shake of her head, she forced herself to look away from his newly shaved face, but she felt his attention on her. The blush burned hotter as sensation spread down her body. It happened faster this time, her skin somehow more sensitive. The feeling settled in her breasts again, drawing her attention to how much she’d enjoy having him nuzzle them with his newly shaved chin.
Clarrisa!
She actually trembled at her ideas.
Carnal ideas…
Oh, they certainly were, and for the first time in her life, she truly understood what the lectures in church had been about.
Wicked… Temptation… Wanton…
All of them leading toward one thing: sins of the flesh.
There were longings clamoring for attention inside her that both frightened and delighted her. But in all honesty, it wasn’t true fear, at least not the sort she would have expected. This was an unease, an ache that unnerved her because she wanted to satisfy it. She closed her eyes, but sleep eluded her. Instead, the memory of Broen’s kiss tormented her. Her body remained sensitive; her nipples, hard and needy.
The Highlander was a curse, after all, just as she’d always been told their lot was.
***
“Ye’re a fine lad.”
Laird Chalmers MacLeod smiled as his man handed over the sealed parchment he’d taken from the messenger Lord Alexander Home had dispatched to Laird Grant. He paid the messenger well to make sure he read messages from Lord Home, no matter to whom the man was writing them.
“I can nae stay too long,” the messenger muttered.
“Easy, lad. Ye’ve done the deed now.” Laird MacLeod turned over the letter and stared at the seal. “Lord Home will nae notice another day, considering how far ye had to go with this.” He used the English pronunciation of lord on purpose. “Make no mistake. Ye have me gratitude for bringing this to me. Home is a traitor, and a power-hungry one too. He only wants the boy on the throne so he can rule through the lad.”
Laird Chalmers MacLeod held the letter over a single candle flame. He kept it far enough away to ensure the paper didn’t scorch, keeping the wax seal facing up. The room was silent except for the scuff of the messenger’s boots against the stone floor when the man failed to mask his nervousness.
Laird Chalmers MacLeod didn’t allow his attention to be distracted; he concentrated on the wax, waiting for it to glisten just the tiniest amount. When it did, he set the letter on the tabletop and pulled out the dirk that was tucked into his boot. It was small, with a thin blade that he always kept razor-sharp just in case an assassin sneaked close to him. He slid the steel tip beneath the warm wax and gently lifted it from the parchment without tearing the seal. Then he leaned close and blew on the wax to harden it once more. It was a careful process, but once the wax no longer glistened, he was able to unfold the letter and read it.
Chalmers growled. The other men in the room wanted to know what the letter said, but he left them in ignorance. He waved the wax above the candle’s flame briefly before pressing it back into position on the folded letter.
“Take it to Laird Grant.”
The messenger flinched at his tone. “Aye, Laird.” He turned and quit the room before taking time to inspect the seal. There was no hint it had been opened. He tucked it back inside his doublet and hurried toward the kitchen for a hot meal. Chalmers found his own appetite lacking. War was brewing, one that would pit clan against clan. By summer’s end, Scotland would either have a new king or an old one with no living son. There was no way to know which side might win, so he was keeping friends on both. It was a wise thing to do for a common man such as himself.
***
“There it is, lass. Deigh Tower.”
There was unmistakable joy in Broen’s voice. Clarrisa turned to look at him. She realized she’d never seen him truly happy. He was now. His expression was radiant, and his eyes glistened with happiness.
“Do nae fret, Clarrisa. We’ve only one ghost.”
She frowned. “I am not afraid of you and your Highlands. Kindly stop trying to scare me.”
Except the place did look like the perfect home for a specter.
His stallion refused to be still, prancing in a circle because it smelled the familiar scent of its home. Her mare was eager to be back inside a stable too. The animal hurried forward, carrying Clarrisa past Broen. She heard him chuckling and bit back the retort that sprang to her lips. She needed to avoid talking to the man. Any interaction with him was dangerous.
Heat teased her cheeks, but there was no help for it. The best she could do was let the mare have its way. The animal took her to the top of a ridge—one more in what had come to be an uncountable number they’d crossed. Deigh Tower wasn’t much to speak of, simply a stone tower rising from the landscape.
At least that was the way it appeared until she crested the ridge. Below her, the tower sat in the center of the valley. It was built on a solid stone base that rose like a table and was surrounded by walls that were three stories high, on top of which were battlements. She could see the men stationed in the lookouts and the torches burning along the walkways. The walls formed a hexagon with thick keeps at each intersection to withstand cannon fire. Beyond the rock the fortress sat on, the last of the day’s light shimmered off a loch. The water lapped the rock foundation, and she could hear the rivers flowing down the other side of the valley into it. The water emptied from the loch and made its way down the valley past a town.
So clever—from the other side of the ridge, it looked like a single tower. Anyone attempting to attack the fortress would have to ride down the sides of the valley, completely exposed to the battlements. Set on a base of stone, there would be no tunneling under the walls. Deigh Tower was impressive and formidable. The sight also made her throat tighten, as though a noose were closing about her neck.
The sun was setting, and she hadn’t eaten since morning. She’d wrinkled her nose more than once throughout the day as she caught a whiff of the stench her skin had developed. Her braids were frizzy, and the linen dress wrinkled horribly, while every muscle she had ached. But she still pulled up on the reins, reluctant to willingly enter what might well become her prison.
Broen scooped her off the back of the mare in what was becoming a familiar motion. He had her seated in front of him before she had managed to do more than sputter.
“Deigh is a fine place, so do nae let the fact that it means ice in Gaelic make ye think it’s a cold place to live.”
Her mare was happily speeding up once more, now that it was free of the weight of a rider. Clarrisa tossed her head, and the stallion snorted at her.
“It seems I am nae the only rider who takes after the temperament of me horse, sweet Clarrisa.”
She turned her head to take issue with him. “I am not your sweet anything.” She tried to shove him, but they were too close for her blow to have any true strength. “And if you try to bite me—”
“Ye’ll what?”
There was a challenge in his tone, one she was sorely tempted to brave, but she turned to face forward and his chest rumbled with his amusement.
“You’re a brute,” she accused.
He caught her head and turned her face back to his. The amusement had vanished from his face. “The king would have shown ye brutality, but I have nae.”
She shook her head, h
is grip irritating her almost beyond her endurance. “Think you I care for bruises or strikes?” She laughed at the surprise on his face. “You haven’t heard a word of complaint for the aches in my body from the pace you’ve set, or the wounds festering on my wrists.”
He reached for her wrist, but she shoved at him, making it necessary for him to clamp her tightly to his body or lose control of her.
“Damn yer stubborn nature, Clarrisa. Why do ye accuse me of being a brute?”
They rode beneath the raised gate, cheers coming from the men on the battlements. Somewhere a bell began to toll, and then another and another, until the entire fortress echoed with their chiming. She turned to look where they were going, part of her actually grateful to him for taking the choice from her. It was weak of her to think in such a way, but at least she was honest. Broen rode into the inner yard and pulled the stallion to a stop.
“I’m waiting for an answer, Clarrisa.”
His arm was still tight around her body, binding her to him. More and more people came out of the doorways to welcome their laird back. Children pointed at her as their mothers leaned toward one another to whisper about her.
“Release me, Broen. You’ve taken me where you wished, and I owe you no obedience, nor must I hold my tongue in your presence.” There were plenty who would tell her how foolish such words were, but she was oddly past caring.
“Is that so?” he demanded in a low tone meant only for her ears.
“It is. It’s wiser too. We respond to each other too much.”
It was an admission, but she heard him pull in a harsh breath. His arms tightened, reminding her of their embrace at Raven’s Perch. A shiver raced down her back.
“You know it’s wiser, Broen. You did not take me for yourself.” But she wasn’t sure if she wasn’t saying it out loud in order to believe it herself.
She pushed against him, half fearing he’d refuse her. Broen freed her, but a large retainer caught her around the waist before she was halfway to the ground.
“A Chisholms lass, is it?” a MacNicols retainer asked.
“No,” she answered.
Her English accent sent the retainer back away from her. Broen chuckled as he jumped down and hooked an arm around her waist.
“This is young Clarrisa, me guest at the request of the Earl of Sutherland.” He gripped the belt holding the plaid to her waist and brushed the plaid back from her head to make sure his men got a good look at her face. “She’ll be staying, and I will nae be pleased to hear any of ye have allowed her past the gate.”
More than a hundred people leaned closer to peer at her. Broen stood half behind her as they studied her.
“I can stand my own ground,” she snapped before turning to face him. “I am no coward.”
He raised an eyebrow. The same man she’d awakened to find watching her while she slept. She felt the weight of his authority. He was master of the fortress, his word law to every living soul watching them, but she still wasn’t willing to return to the meek manners that had seen her following her family’s orders to go to Scotland.
Instead, she lifted her chin and offered him her best interpretation of the grin he so often vexed her with. “I need no help to face down those intent on helping you imprison me.”
The crowd grew silent and pressed in closer to see what their laird would make of her refusal. For a moment, a gleam of appreciation appeared in Broen’s eyes, but it transformed into a flame of challenge so quickly she didn’t have time to step back before he moved.
“Be careful how ye label things, lass.” His tone warned her that he was willing to match her defiance of convention with some of his own. “Because I might be of the mind to prove ye right.” He lowered his shoulder and tossed her right over it. A cheer went up as his people began to clap and whistle.
Her temper exploded, and she refused to hang over his shoulder like some prize. But the moment she straightened, he smacked her bottom. The shock of it sent her back over his shoulder, and he turned in a swirl of kilt to carry her up the steps and into Deigh Tower.
“I’m owing me overlord for sending me after this one, lads!”
Broen didn’t stay on the ground floor. He climbed several flights of stairs before bursting through a door. Several women gasped before laughing at the sight of him carrying her like a sack of grain.
“I’ve brought ye something,” he announced before tossing her off his shoulder. For a moment she was cradled in his arms, against his chest like a babe. She caught just a glimpse of his grin before he tossed her into something.
“Holy Mother of Christ!” she shouted as she landed in a tub full of water. It splashed up in a huge wave as she frantically tried to control her landing. She ended up sprawled on her backside with her feet in the air and her arms grasping the sides of the tub. Water soaked her body, covering her to midchest because the tub was so large.
“So ye do know how to curse.” Broen stood with his hands propped on his hips. The sword pommel with its sapphire glittered above his left shoulder, while his golden hair was still only held out of his eyes by a single braid, and his doublet was open to the waist. He looked as wild and untamed as he had the first time she’d seen him, and she felt like scratching his eyes out. In fact, her hands curled into talons as she began to push herself out of the tub. He planted a hand in the center of her chest to keep her on her back.
“Ye’ll learn, Clarrisa, to respect my will here. Display that wild streak of yers too publicly, and I will be happy to tame it… so all can witness it.”
The women in the room smothered their laughter.
“You will never—”
He sealed the rest of her denial beneath a kiss. He grasped a handful of her wet clothing and lifted her so he could silence her with his lips. It was hard and demanding. But enjoyment still raced through her even as she began to throw water at him. He shook his head when he straightened, flinging water from his hair.
“I accept yer challenge,” he announced before looking across the room. “Me guest does nae like the way she smells. It seems I’ve brought home one of the few Englishwomen who does nae like to stink. Bathe her.”
It was an order. Every woman in the room lowered herself immediately. If looks could kill, Broen MacNicols would have died right there in front of her. Instead, she watched the pleats of his kilt swaying before he disappeared behind a solid door.
“Brute!”
She might as well have saved her breath, for the only thing her shouting did was renew the laughter surrounding her. Four maids began stripping off her shoes and stockings as she tried to climb out of the tub. Her dress had soaked up so much water her exhausted body refused to stand under its weight. She would have protested as the women began to remove it, but she was too busy sighing with relief.
Brute… Highlander. The words seemed to mean the same thing.
***
“Ye’re better off no’ seeping in such dark thoughts.”
The woman speaking had Maud’s years but her voice lacked the pinched tone the English matron had always used.
“I’m named Edme.”
Clarrisa lowered herself. She was already finishing the respectful gesture before she realized how long it had been since she had offered anyone a gesture so polite. It seemed ages. Somehow she’d completely lost track of time since Broen had taken her.
“Ye have pretty manners, a credit to yer family,” Edme muttered. The woman had on a sturdy wool dress with a piece of the MacNicols plaid held on her right shoulder with a silver brooch. A belt secured it around her waist. On her head, she wore a knit bonnet similar to the one Broen wore. Clarrisa decided she liked it better than the pressed linen caps her uncle made the servants in his household wear.
“Not really. They had me trained to please whoever paid the most for me.” Clarrisa covered her mouth with one hand, horrified by how bitter she sounded.
“What of yer mother? Mothers teach their children manners because it is their duty. We’d be savages
otherwise.”
Highlanders were savages. At least, she’d heard it said many a time. Clarrisa bit her lip, clamping down on the impulse to be surly.
“My mother died when I was only a few winters old. I only recall her face because my uncle had a miniature of her and he allowed me to see it sometimes.” When he was in the mood to impress upon her what fine things might be hers if she caught the eye of a titled man. Clarrisa began pulling a comb through her drying hair once more. Anger and discontent were brewing inside her, but it was becoming impossible to direct her feeling completely toward Broen. She certainly detested the man for treating her like a sack of grain, but she was still grateful to him for taking her away from the Scottish king’s plans, which left her standing in a swirling cloud of discontent. She had no idea what to hope for. Not having anything to look forward to left her feeling like the ground was giving way beneath her feet.
“Here now. I’ve brought ye some supper. A full belly will lift that dark humor from yer face. Ye look bone weary and half-starved. I’m nae surprised. The laird travels quickly when he’s off his own land, a good habit in times like these when we are nae sure which clans are royalist.” The older woman brought a tray forward and placed it on the small table near the fire. “Sit here until yer hair is dry. The Highlands are no place for wet tresses after nightfall.”
“Your laird tossed me into the tub.” Clarrisa had to set down the comb because the scent of food had set her hand to trembling. Her belly rumbled, low and loud. She had never smelled food so enticing before. Her mouth actually watered.