Highlander's Prize

by Mary Wine

  “Well then, let me see what condition your weapon is in…”

  Her attention lowered to the cock in her hand. She looked directly at it, refusing to shy away in deference to rules of modesty. She was sick unto death of being told what she must be. For the moment, she was Broen’s lover. She let herself feel bold, granting herself the freedom to act on her impulses.

  She stroked his length, listening to his breathing to judge her pace. The skin was softer than she’d believed a man’s cock might feel. His chest rumbled with a groan, one that satisfied her.

  “Now I’m truly a blackguard.” Broen abandoned his lazy demeanor, drawing a creak from the bed ropes as he turned and flattened her against the bed. “But I am no’ sorry to see ye grinning so smugly.”

  He pressed a kiss against her lips. He settled over her, spreading her thighs with his hips. She didn’t have the chance to protest, even a halfhearted one. His mouth demanded a response she was only too happy to provide. Hot need renewed its insistence, churning deep in her belly. The satisfaction he’d given her with his finger seemed insufficient somehow, and she yearned to gain true release.

  “But I’ve failed the challenge ye set, sweet Clarrisa, for I cannae stand fast while ye toy with me any further.” The head of his cock nudged the folds of her sex, pushing them open as it began to enter her passage. His eyes narrowed as the muscles along his neck corded. “I’ve dreamed of ye too often.”

  His voice was strained. She felt the same level of urgency, every muscle tightening until it was almost unbearable. The intensity of the moment was overwhelming. He thrust forward, sending his length into her. Pain tore through the pleasure of the moment. She recoiled, trying to avoid the torment, but Broen had her firmly pinned, his body keeping her in place as he withdrew and thrust again. This time his cock traveled deeper, lodging completely within her. The pain bled away, until only a dull ache remained that was overshadowed by the satisfaction spreading through her from being impaled.

  “That will be the end of the pain, lass.”

  She surprised him by laughing. His expression told her he was stunned.

  “Why are ye laughing, woman?”

  She savored the word woman, knowing without a doubt she was no longer a girl. Broen snorted, and his body shook as though he was straining to hold back. He muttered a word in Gaelic that she didn’t understand, but his tone made it clear it was profane.

  “Trust ye to laugh at me attempts to be considerate.”

  He pulled free, distracting her with a rush of enjoyment. When he thrust forward again, his hard flesh slid against her clitoris, filling her with delight.

  “Would you rather I were weeping?” She lifted her hips to take him completely. “Or that I admit I enjoy being here?”

  He brushed the hair from her face, soft, soothing touches that were tender. “That’s why ye drive me insane, lass. Yer spirit is as bold as mine.”

  His voice had turned husky, almost harsh, but she wasn’t interested in gentleness. She did feel bold. A wildness was brewing inside her, and it urged her to move—faster—and Broen seemed to feel it too. She grasped him to her, using her entire body. She rested her hands on his shoulders and pulled him closer. She gripped his hips with her thighs, rising to meet every downward thrust. Each time he buried his length inside her, the hunger raging within her doubled, possibly tripled. She was beyond being able to understand anything. There was only need and response.

  “That’s it, lass… Ride with me.” The bed ropes groaned as he thrust hard against her. “It will be worth the effort. I swear to ye.”

  “Sweet Christ…” She was cursing, but her body was beginning to spiral out of control. Every thrust threatened to unleash something she knew she wanted, but that she suspected might tear her in two. She didn’t care. They strained against each other, her fingers becoming talons, her nails digging into his skin. He moved faster, unleashing the burst of delight she’d sensed was coming. It jerked her into its hold, ripping away every thought while roaring through her. The pleasure was on a scale beyond her experience. Encompassing and blinding, it commanded her completely.

  “That’s the way, lass,” Broen snarled before burying his cock inside her. He growled, the sound low and primal, as his body shook. She felt the spurt of his seed burn the walls of her passage, which set off a second ripple of satisfaction. This one was milder but deeper, and she lifted her eyelids to lock stares with her lover. In that moment, there was only the pair of them. Society didn’t matter, didn’t even exist. There was only her lover and the scent of their sweat.

  Absolutely nothing else mattered.

  ***

  Clarrisa wasn’t the only one who slept soundly for the rest of the night. Broen rolled over and pulled the bedding around them, but that was the last conscious thought he recalled. Normally he woke several times a night, when noise from the training yard woke him. The bed was still encased in darkness, the bed-curtains drawn to shut out the light. With a snarl, he sent the one nearest him swinging into the post and landed on his feet.

  The chamber door was closed, but the window showed him full daylight. He stared at the light, disbelieving the proof that he’d even slept through the church bell tolling the morning Mass.

  Clarrisa was nowhere in sight.

  Frustration sent a few more words past his lips that would have gained him a penance if the priests heard, but he didn’t care, didn’t give a damn what celibate men of the cloth had to say about his feelings for Clarrisa. He grabbed a shirt and took a few moments to pleat his kilt. The chore felt endless, and for the first time he regretted not allowing Edme to serve him as she wanted. The damned kilt would have been pleated and waiting for him to buckle it around his waist if he hadn’t forbidden his head of house to wait on him. He shook his head, trying to dispel his frustration.

  Edme wasn’t to blame. He was. Along with his lack of discipline. But what needled him most presently was the fact that Clarrisa had left his bed and he’d remained sleeping like a fat pasha. Such a lapse of awareness could get him killed. Most lairds had retainers at their chamber doors, because an assassin could come in many forms—desirable female flesh included.

  Would you rather I weep?

  Shame nipped at him, the soft words from the night whispering across his memory. Suspicion was an ugly thing. It twisted a man until he lost perspective completely.

  His men were waiting on him. The two retainers posted at the foot of the stairs battled to maintain blank expressions. Neither of them succeeded very well.

  “Where is she?” he growled.

  “The English lass?”

  “Yes, the English lass,” he snapped.

  His man smirked before smoothing his lips in response to Broen’s dark expression.

  “She went off to Mass. Young Arawn and Gahan followed her.”

  Broen stopped himself from replying quickly. Uncertainty was boiling inside him. It was an emotional state he wasn’t comfortable with. In fact, he couldn’t recall ever feeling so unsteady over a woman before.

  He should send her north. It would solve a great many difficulties and gain him the favor of his overlord. But the churning feelings inside him rebelled, threatening to bubble over.

  He needed to discover her game first. Aye, that was what he wanted. Once he heard her confess her reasons for lying with him, it would be simple to let her go. It was unlikely he’d enjoy knowing why she’d not pushed him away. Perhaps Shaw was right; she was trying to secure herself a place.

  Would that be so terrible?

  He drew a stiff breath, trying to convince himself that the answer was yes. Part of him was certain it was, but there was a growing sense of just not caring why she was near, so long as she was.

  ***

  The daylight hours went by too quickly. Clarrisa set to work with the other MacNicols women. They tried to take the chores from her, and she snapped at them. Their eyes widened, some of them narrowing immediately with outrage, but she refused to be run out of the kitc
hen. She couldn’t afford to have time to think.

  Her thoughts were too heated to ponder, or too shameful. Her passage was sore, reminding her often that she’d fallen from grace. Maybe the ache would be easier to endure if she could truly repent, but she wasn’t sorry. An unrepentant soul was bound for damnation.

  Maybe.

  She doubled her efforts, unwilling to face her mental dilemma. She should be ashamed. She was ruined, but she felt more alive than ever.

  “Have ye defeated that demon of yers yet?” Edme asked, her tone full of knowledge. The head of house was oddly free of anyone trying to gain her attention. “The laird is fighting the same one, I believe,” Edme continued with a knowing gleam in her eyes.

  “There’s no reason why he should be.” Clarrisa slapped a hand over her mouth with shock. Edme could have her lashed for such an admission. The role of head of house included keeping morality in check. But a need to stand firm in the face of her deeds took control of her, and she removed her hand. “I lay with him by my own choice.”

  The words were easier to say than she had expected, and satisfaction filled her once she’d said them. Maybe she was ruined, but she was not a coward.

  Edme smiled and shook her head. “I would nae have suspected me laird of wrongdoing, but I admit yer confession shames me for nae questioning the matter.”

  “Why?”

  Edme inspected the spices Clarrisa had been grinding with a pestle. The older woman lifted the mortar and peered intently at the cinnamon, judging the fineness of the grains before she set it back on the table.

  “I should question it because ye were brought here against yer will.” When Edme lifted her head, there was a shimmer of understanding Clarrisa hadn’t expected. “There was a time, when I was a young lass, that a man stole me away.”

  The older woman grew silent, her attention moving to the window and the setting sun.

  “What happened?” She was being intrusive but couldn’t seem to shame herself into silence.

  “Men can be harsh.” Edme’s voice was thick with emotion. She drew in a deep breath and turned her gaze away from the window, as if she was turning her back on the memory.

  “I think ye know the difference I am speaking of. It’s that knowledge that makes ye so honest with me about something many might judge a transgression. But I recall what it was like to learn the difference between a man who considered me his property and one who wanted to share the delights of being me lover.” She shook her head wistfully. “I recall very well being unashamed of me choice. The priests at the church would be more pleased with me if I had repented too, but I will never cry shame over me choices. I only hope for mercy when my days come to an end.”

  “Was the man who stole you a MacNicols?”

  Edme nodded. “I was born a Grant but choose to live a MacNicols.”

  “Why?”

  The older woman frowned. “Because I learned something from the man who stole me. I learned the same lesson I see on yer face, Clarrisa of the York family: the knowledge that yer blood believes ye naught more than a bargaining tool. The laird’s father was a good man. He did nae allow his men to mistreat women, but more important, he offered me the invitation to become his lover. I’d not have had any choice of who was in my bed if I returned home.” She smiled with satisfaction.

  “But you didn’t explain why you should have expected Broen to treat me harshly.”

  Edme considered her long and hard, moving her gaze slowly over her face and neck, looking for any dark marks. “Me laird is a good leader. Fair and fearless. Noble too, a true man of his word.” Her tone lowered. “But the nature of a man when he’s with a woman is something ye cannae know about until ye experience it. A man with a fine reputation among his clansmen can be unkind when lust controls him.”

  “Your laird isn’t one of that sort.”

  Edme smiled, but it wasn’t in approval; it was an expression shared between women who took their chances. “It’s good to know he is truly his father’s son. I’m proud to be his mother.”

  Shock rippled through Clarrisa, and Edme laughed softly.

  “Aye, ye heard me. Broen is me natural child, even if there are few who know it left alive these days.”

  “But why—” She struggled to find the words that weren’t insulting.

  Edme interrupted her. “Because it was what I wanted. The chance to belong to no one but myself was offered, and I took it. Remaining the laird’s leman gave me position and kept me from having to return to me family, who would have begun shifting through the offers for me to find the most advantageous one for their interests. Many consider me a poor daughter for no’ doing me duty, but staying offered me the choice to decide what I wanted from me life.” Disgust edged her words, and Clarrisa discovered herself agreeing with the woman wholeheartedly. Edme offered her a satisfied look.

  “I gave him a son, and fate was kind enough to make it so his legitimate wife never conceived even a daughter. Only the church is displeased with me, but I am content.” Her expression became serious once more. “Much more so now that I know me son treated ye well. I needed to know.”

  The older woman’s eyes sparkled with happiness and satisfaction. Clarrisa discovered herself envious of Broen for having a parent who was so interested in his morality. Edme had no interest in securing a royal-blooded child for Broen to use for the clan’s advantage, and she had issued no warning for Clarrisa to stay away from her son’s bed to prevent any threats.

  “Mind ye, if ye let me son catch ye so simply, I’ll be a bit disappointed.”

  “He has not caught me,” Clarrisa insisted. “I thought I heard Argyll in my chamber, and it frightened me, but I’m not sure if there was anything there except my numbed wits, and well… well…”

  “Nature got the best of ye. It happens, lass.”

  “It will not happen again,” Clarrisa insisted. Edme eyed her before waving her toward the door. Clarrisa began to follow, her mind more focused on how to make good on her promise. She would. Somehow.

  Liar.

  Five

  “I’m impressed.”

  Clarrisa jumped, and the comb fell from her fingers. She turned to glare at Broen.

  “Since you have told me this is my chamber, you should knock before entering,” she scolded, too kindly.

  His lips curved arrogantly while he took another couple of steps into the chamber. The damned man was so large, his stride far too close for her comfort.

  “Argyll was my grandfather. It seems I have inherited his lack of respect for announcing his intention to enter yer chamber.”

  Clarrisa jerked her attention to the mirror, something she’d done often since returning to the chamber. The only man watching her from the polished surface was Broen. His doublet was missing and the collar of his shirt open, as seemed to be his habit.

  “Argyll will not unnerve me again. If it was even him I saw.” A soft tingle went down her spine, but she wasn’t sure if it was from her brush with a ghost or the fact that Broen had come looking for her. “Edme’s elixir was laced with whisky.”

  “He was chasing his mistress down the hallway and forgot the floor wasn’t finished, when he fell to his death,” Broen revealed. “The servants have sworn he haunts this tower ever since, but I have never seen him.”

  Heat blossomed in her cheeks as she fought to not look at the bare skin beckoning her. “What is it with the men in your family and their mistresses?”

  One fair eyebrow rose. “We’re lusty.”

  “You sound very proud… of that sin.”

  He shrugged and moved closer. She felt his approach; it rippled across her skin as surely as any wind would have. Remaining on the chair became a battle, but she resisted the urge to panic.

  “There are worse things my life requires me to do that I have a skill at.” There was a gleam in his eyes which tempted her to join him in his teasing.

  She offered him a shake of her head. “I believe I should be the judge of your skill.”


  She was trying to best him at his teasing game, but challenge glittered in his eyes and he walked behind her. A chill crossed her nape, and she did give in to the urge to stand—having him behind her was too much to endure. But he caught her about the waist and pulled her back against his body. “Well now, lass, ye have an excellent point.” His breath brushed her ear as his voice became husky. “But I can be the judge of yer skill, Clarrisa. I’ll say plainly yer touch is like fire, and I enjoyed it full well.”

  “Oh stop, Broen.” She sent her elbow back into his ribs and gained her freedom, but he stood chuckling and looking none the worse for wear. “Do you have no shame?”

  “None,” he insisted. “Only a burning need to know why ye slipped out of me bed before I woke.”

  His tone hardened, and she realized he’d been cleverly disguising his true mood. Suspicion glittered in his eyes now, and it irritated her.

  It also hurt. She lowered her eyelids to protect her fragile emotions.

  “I thought you’d be happy not to have me about once you’d had what you wanted.” She placed a few feet between them, fighting to maintain her composure. “I do hope Shaw wasn’t too disappointed to hear I didn’t make demands of you.”

  “Why did nae ye?” It was a hard question, spoken with enough heat to curl her hair. The fragile trust she’d discovered growing inside her since she spoke with Edme withered in the face of his accusation.

  “Oh, I see. You agree with Shaw that I have motives for everything I do.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “Do nae sound so wounded. Everyone has motives. It’s part of our instinct to survive.”

  “Get out,” she snarled and pointed at the door. “Go on with you, Broen MacNicols. I want nothing from you. I pray you find the knowledge satisfying.”

  He frowned, furrowing his brow. “I do nae, woman. Ye’ll answer me—”

  “I already have,” she insisted. “I want nothing from you. Naught at all, so get you gone from my sight.”

  “The blush on yer cheeks makes ye a liar.”