by Mary Wine
That thought made his cock twitch. It hardened even more in response to the memory of the way Clarrisa had responded to his kisses. Her innocence was to her credit, but what kept him from slipping off to sleep was the way she’d risen to the challenge of kissing him back.
He wanted her. Plain, simple, and blunt.
Brute…
He was one, indeed, and his fiery English captive liked that quality best of all.
Four
“I brought a few things down from the storerooms.” Edme’s voice sounded far away. Clarrisa struggled to wake up, her eyelids feeling too heavy.
“Yer dress is filthy and too lightweight for this early in spring.” The older woman was followed into the room by four other girls. They all wore a length of the MacNicols plaid down their backs.
“As soon as ye’ve dressed and eaten, the cobbler is expecting ye. These shoes are nae hardy enough for the Highlands.”
“Oh… thank—” A sneeze interrupted her. “Excuse me—” Several more followed. By the time she had mastered the urge, her head ached.
“Tell the cook to brew up something for the laird’s guest. She’s caught a chill.”
The other women turned to peer at her, but a sharp snap from Edme’s hand and they went back to their duties. Edme came closer and laid a hand on Clarrisa’s forehead.
“Little wonder ye’ve got the fever. Riding out in naught but summer linen.”
“I’m well enough.”
Edme humphed softly. “Ye’re young and will likely heal quickly. All the more reason to get ye some proper clothing and footwear.”
Clarrisa had been too busy trying to force her mind to work to notice the dresses. When she stood at last and rubbed the sleep from her eyes, she gasped. Three dresses were spread out on the table. Each was a jewel tone, sapphire, emerald, and ruby. They were made of costly velvet, with silk edging and even sleeves of brocade from France on one. The women carefully arranged them, touching them with the same care they might have used while dressing a queen.
“Those are far too fine.” She still walked closer to the garments, unable to resist the urge to finger one of the velvet sleeves. So soft and plush, her fingertip glided over the surface and left a trail as the fibers bent ever so slightly from the weight of her touch. “Fit for a princess.”
“Ye are the daughter of a king,” Edme said. “So, ’tis fitting.”
The velvet lost its appeal instantly. “My grandfather was a knight and gave the king lodging one night. My sire decided the hospitality included his host’s daughter. When my mother birthed a daughter, the king settled a purse upon my grandfather, acknowledged me in the shire church, and never returned.” She turned her back on the rich velvet dresses. “I am no princess and have never lived as such. I’d be worried about ruining such fine cloth.”
But she did have a chill. Her nose was stuffy, and her head ached.
“Well then, I’ll fetch ye some wool dresses. They’ll be warmer.” Edme draped the dressing robe around her shoulders before pointing at the velvet dresses. The remaining girls carefully picked up the gowns and carried them from the chamber as if they were babes.
“How did ye come to be under yer uncle’s direction?”
Clarrisa jumped, startled by Broen’s voice. It seemed she had dreamed of the man most of the night. She’d woken too many times to count, no doubt the true reason she was suffering a chill. “I thought you said this was my chamber. Shall I not be granted privacy here?”
He stood in the doorway, frowning at her tone. “I hear ye’re suffering from my lack of attention to yer needs. Yer health is something I take personal interest in. So nae, ye’ll no’ have privacy when it comes to such important matters.”
“I never said I was suffering.” She tugged the belt of the dressing robe into place and knotted it. “And I am quite well, so you need not waste your time.”
Edme drew in a stiff breath. “I know a fever when I see one. She has a chill, and no mistake. Ye’ll mind me or risk having it settle into yer chest. Yer youth will nae protect ye if that happens.”
Clarrisa lowered herself. Shame tugged at her for disrespecting Edme in front of her laird. The quarrel she had with Broen was private. Besides, making an enemy of Edme wasn’t a wise idea. Broen might be laird, but Edme ran the house. She could make life at Deigh Tower comfortable or not, depending on her whim.
Edme nodded. “I needs speak with the cook meself, to make sure she brews up what I know works best. Our cook is young but has a fair talent.” She nodded to her laird before leaving the room.
Edme’s departure left them alone again. Clarrisa waited for unease to begin nipping at her, but it didn’t. Instead, there was only a sense of acceptance and something else she wasn’t ready to name. A feeling of faith, which could so easily be mistaken for trust—a mistake she couldn’t make.
Broen moved forward, his keen stare studying her. “Ye should have told me ye were cold. I’m used to riding with me men, but that does nae excuse me for overlooking yer needs.” He stopped and picked up one of her discarded shoes. It was made of only thin leather and constructed with fashion in mind, so the sides were open. The ribbon rosette decorating the front of it was muddy and crushed. The once-bright ribbon used to tie it closed was torn and crumpled from the hard journey. He dropped it with a sound of disgust.
“Why would ye obey yer uncle if he had nae raised ye as yer blood deserved?” Suspicion edged his words, but not the coldness she’d heard before. “Did ye send the finer dresses away to lull me into compassion for ye?”
Her pride bristled. She didn’t want to answer him, but she realized it was only because he was demanding. For once the choice was hers and hers alone to answer. That knowledge gave her satisfaction, but she needed to master the urge to argue with him, and quickly, before she ended up in his embrace again.
“My uncle sent his men to claim me after the two princes were taken to the tower… for safekeeping…”
Broen grunted. “Elizabeth Woodville was a fool to allow both her sons to be placed inside that fortress. She had nothing once that was done.”
There was a hard certainty in his voice that bothered her. “She thought she was safeguarding them by agreeing with the lord protector. Besides, princes belong to the state.”
“Still… a fatal mistake.”
Clarrisa bristled under the smugness of his comment. “Many a woman has placed her faith in the titled men around her, only to discover her trust misplaced when those men decide to follow their own agendas. Better for a woman to refuse to trust men, because they serve their own purposes first.”
He drew in a stiff breath, her words finding a soft spot. “Ye’re here for the benefit of me people. Being laird means I consider their welfare above everything else.”
So she could never trust him. It was a hard truth that punctured the fragile faith she’d somehow cultivated in him. At the moment, Broen was every inch the laird of the MacNicols. His kilt was pleated evenly and secured with a belt sporting fine tooling. The corner of his plaid was held on his right shoulder with a large silver brooch, and there was a matching one on the side of his bonnet. Three feathers were held in place by that brooch, all of them pointing upward.
He watched her inspect him, his blue eyes darkening. Tension drew her muscles tight. For a moment, the space between them felt filled with some force almost too great to resist. It pulled at her, trying to move her toward him, where they might abandon the issues between them.
Broen felt it too, a glint appearing in his eyes. His nostrils flared the tiniest amount, but she noticed it, her attention shifting to the physical display. He stepped forward, and her chest tightened, the air trapped inside her lungs. He cupped her chin, and that simple contact threatened to scatter her wits.
“The sort of trust I’m seeking from ye is far more personal, Clarrisa.” He brushed his thumb over her lower lip, sending a surge of desire through her. “Think what ye may about me, but remember, lass, no other man would gr
ant ye the choice.” He slid his hand across her cheek, and he gripped her neck a second later. So quickly his touch went from teasing to controlling. A warning flashed in his eyes, one she understood perfectly.
“My choice is no.” Her voice was steadier than she felt. His grip tightened, just enough to let her know she’d wounded him again, but his lips twitched.
“Ye’ve no’ made up yer mind, lass.”
“Yes—”
His kiss sealed out the rest of her denial. Hard and demanding, his mouth took control of hers, pressing until she opened her lips to allow his tongue to sweep inside. He closed the distance between them, the harder surface of his body feeling perfect against her softer curves. This wasn’t a soft or teasing kiss. It was a bold challenge, one that swept aside her reason. Desire flared, bright and hot enough to burn away every bit of resistance. She reached for him, gripping the doublet when laying her hands on his chest wasn’t enough. She wanted more; needed to be closer.
Broen broke the kiss, using his grip on her nape to hold her back when she would have followed him.
“Think on that, lass.” He squeezed her neck once more before releasing it. “A man interested in only his own agenda would have had ye last night.” His eyes flashed with hunger. “It would nae have been hard, and I was tempted.”
She aimed a brutal shove at his chest but only gained a smug chuckle from him when he backed up. “Then why didn’t you press your advantage?”
He sobered. “Trust is nae something any man can demand from a woman. It must be earned.”
“It isn’t earned by locking me inside your keep and invading my privacy,” she insisted.
He chuckled, his lips curving arrogantly. He reached out and stroked her cheek once more, until she shook her head to dislodge his hand.
“Stop touching me. I cannot make a clear-minded choice when you keep acting so—”
“Uncivilized?” he finished for her. “I’m beginning to appreciate the fact that ye do nae listen to me advice, Clarrisa.” His eyes twinkled with merriment. “For I do find I enjoy it when ye lavish such praise upon me.”
“Uncivilized is an insult.”
He spread his hands wide and cocked his head to the side in a mocking bow. “Nay, lass. To a Highlander, it is praise.”
She sneezed, and he frowned before turning to leave, but he paused in the doorway and looked back over his shoulder.
“It is also a challenge.”
***
The man was impossible. Clarrisa snarled softly as she tried to ignore the sound of his laughter echoing in the hallway as he left her.
Impossible… brute. But he could have had her.
The truth was shameful, but oddly stimulating. Anticipation was brewing inside her once more, the excitement building like it did before a holiday. There was no way to hide from it. Insulting the brute wouldn’t save her from knowing it was her own failing that had allowed his advances to gain notice. But she did smile as she called him a brute, because the word fit him very well, to her way of thinking.
So she would have to find enough work to drive every thought from her mind. Edme returned and offered her a strong brew. Clarrisa drank it quickly, glad to be able to hand the empty mug back to the head of house. One of the maids placed a tray on the table and held out a chair with a plush-padded seat cushion.
Clarrisa looked at the tray for a long moment. “I can eat in the hall with everyone else.”
“No’ without something to wear,” Edme muttered. “The laird is already smitten enough with ye. Besides, think on the difficulty that will arise when he sees his men admiring yer shape through that thin dressing robe.”
Two of the maids laughed. Clarrisa felt her cheeks burn. “He is not… smitten. He was but teasing me…”
“And ye’re so quick to defend him,” Edme pointed out as she studied the bright spots of color decorating Clarrisa’s cheeks. Her lips curved in a knowing manner. “Sit down and break yer fast.”
“But… I’m English. Aren’t all Scots, and Highlanders in particular, known to detest English blood simply because it’s English?”
“No’ when it’s flowing through the body of a sweet young lass. Scots, and Highlanders in particular,” Edme mimicked Clarrisa’s accent as she quoted her, “never fail to admire a fair lass.”
The maids laughed, no soft sounds muffled behind their hands but full sounds of merriment.
“That is… Well… I mean to say…”
Edme held up a wrinkled hand. “Save yer blustering, lass. I know what I saw.”
Clarrisa dropped into the seat, defeated by the woman’s confident tone.
He wasn’t smitten; he was filled with lust.
So are you.
The tray held a bowl of porridge. Clarrisa began eating it to shut out her own thoughts. Once she had finished, one of the maids began to comb her hair.
“Really, it isn’t necessary to wait upon me. I am not accustomed to service,” she muttered while trying to take the comb from the girl’s hand. The girl wasn’t much older than Clarrisa, but she grinned confidently while refusing to give up the comb.
“Then enjoy it and stop telling me how to direct this house.” There was a hint of amusement in Edme’s tone now.
Clarrisa eyed her, but the woman didn’t relent. Edme watched as the girls combed, braided, and pinned up Clarrisa’s hair. Clarrisa sighed once it was done, for it felt as though it had been ages since she was neat.
Dresses made of wool arrived, but they were still finer than Clarrisa would have preferred. Dyed rich shades of blue and gold, the wool was woven tightly from thin threads. Edme snapped her fingers, and two of the maids removed the dressing robe. Clarrisa felt the sharp gaze of the head of house taking note of her size as well as every other detail of her body. It wasn’t a new experience, but her belly quivered with apprehension because she just couldn’t help thinking the older woman was deciding if she was fit for her laird’s bed.
“The blue, I believe.”
The blue dress had a cranberry underdress. Made of linen, the undergown had straps that came over her shoulders. It was quilted across the front in tiny rows with stiffened reeds inserted into the channels to support her breasts. Hooks and eyes were closed down her front before the overdress was lifted and dropped carefully into place. Once the back laces were tied, the dress fit reasonably well.
“We’ll set the seamstress to work on a few others,” Edme muttered. “Let Ardis in now.”
One of the maids opened the chamber door. A man with a long white beard stood there with two younger men behind him. He tugged on his bonnet before walking into the chamber. One of the men held a wooden box, which he set on the floor, while the other man carried a stool, which he set it in front of Clarrisa. Ardis sat down.
“Ardis is the cobbler. He’ll make up some sensible boots for ye.”
The box was opened, and Ardis took the tools his assistant handed him—a measuring tape and even a sheet of costly parchment. He carefully recorded the measurements of her feet before tracing an outline of each of her feet.
“I’d have been happy to come to your workshop.”
Ardis stood and shook his head. “A lass of royal blood does nae belong in a cobbler’s shop.”
“I’m bastard-born.”
He stroked his beard as his assistants picked up his stool and closed the workbox. “Blood is blood.”
He was gone without another word, while Clarrisa was still trying to decide on a way to argue with him without disrespecting his greater age.
“Now that’s done, we’ll take off the dress so ye can rest.” Edme’s voice rang with authority.
“Oh… but really… I’m not tired.” Clarrisa turned to avoid the hands of the maids.
“Ye’re fighting a chill,” the head of house declared.
If they disrobed her, she’d be imprisoned in the chamber as surely as if the door were barred. “I’ll sit by the window… and read. I simply don’t want to be in bed like a child. It’s
only a hint of a chill.”
The maids stopped trying to catch the ends of the laces and waited on their mistress to decide. Edme tapped her foot several times before nodding.
“The sight of the fields being turned can be a hopeful one. No doubt it will encourage ye to heal quickly.”
The maids moved to the windows and opened the shutters to allow the sunlight in. Clarrisa sat down and suffered their pushing a padded stool beneath her feet, while another offered her a selection of books. She took one without looking at the title.
“I truly am not fragile.”
Edme looked unconvinced. She snapped her fingers, sending the girls toward the rumpled bed. They set it to rights before lowering themselves and quitting the room. Clarrisa listened to their steps fade away before looking at the book in her hands. For once, she wasn’t interested in a new book, which was surprising because one of the few things she’d adored about living with her uncle was his collection of books. But he’d known it and had often restricted her access to the costly volumes whenever he was of the mind to discipline her.
Break her will was more the correct way to say it…
It didn’t matter. She was about as far from her uncle’s castle in Kent as she might be. The Highlands were a place no English army ventured, which left her with the task of freeing herself—if she truly wanted freedom.
Did she?
Or did she want to choose Broen…
With a hiss, she stood and placed the book on the seat of the chair. The brew from the cook had eased the pounding in her head, but the result was that she was thinking much too clearly. Alone with her thoughts, she’d become easy prey for Broen if she did nothing but recall his kisses. She would drive the man from her thoughts with work. Her shoes were neatly placed in the wardrobe. She gave them a shake before putting them on.