Highlander's Prize

by Mary Wine

  “Have you no shame, Broen MacNicols?”

  He pressed a kiss against her pouting lips before releasing her to finish dressing. “None. I’m a Highlander, after all. Do nae ye English believe we are cousins to Lucifer himself?”

  “Second cousins. For the moment, I believe the French are considered closer kin.”

  He chuckled at her, a challenge flickering in his eyes. “Something I’ll have to be setting ye straight on, lass. Do be here tonight. The cook was nae pleased to have her fine supper wasted when I discovered ye missing.”

  She stood stunned. “You had the cook prepare a special supper for me?”

  He stopped near the doorway. “Do ye believe ye are the only one who feels such a strong pull between us, Clarrisa, or is it that ye doubt I can recognize the value of such a feeling?” He offered her a wink. “I planned to seduce ye but am right pleased ye decided upon the same course of action. We are a good match. There’s something for ye to think on until me duties allow me to return to ye.”

  He left, and Shaw began to speak the moment he realized he had his laird’s full attention. Clarrisa stood still, filled with a warmth so intense it engulfed her. Heating her from the inside, it felt like a bubble, but not one that threatened to break.

  Happiness… She was incredibly, insanely happy, possibly for the first time in her life. There was nothing she longed for, nothing she had to suffer through, only pure delight.

  “Ye’re in love.”

  She jumped, startled by the female tone. Her cheeks turned pink as she realized Daphne had entered the chamber.

  “Where is Edme?”

  Daphne opened the wardrobe and selected an underdress. “I asked her to allow me to serve ye this morning.”

  “But you’re—”

  “Broen’s betrothed? Aye, but I refused to wed him, so it is only a matter of time before he goes to the church to have the union dissolved.” Daphne gathered the fabric and helped Clarrisa don it.

  “A betrothal is not so easily broken.”

  Daphne tilted her head. “Here in the Highlands, being rejected is grounds enough. Highlanders have pride when it comes to women.” She went behind Clarrisa and began lacing the dress closed. “He never looked at me as he does ye.”

  There was sadness in her tone, which made Clarrisa turn. “I did not plan it. I swear it.”

  Daphne smiled in spite of the tears glistening in her eyes. “I am the one who owes ye an apology for coming here and allowing ye to leave Broen. The feeling ye have for each other is precious and rare. The Grants had to turn me out, and I cannae go home to me father—but that did nae give me the right to try and destroy yer happiness.”

  “What will you do, if not marry Broen?”

  Daphne returned to the wardrobe and lifted a dress. When she turned, she was smiling, the tears vanished from her eyes. “Broen has promised no’ to turn me out. For the first time in me life, I can try to find a man who sees me as a woman instead of the dowry me father has promised. I can go to another of his holdings if ye prefer. I shall understand.”

  “No, you will stay. Never have I put out anyone, and I shall not begin now.” It was a horrible threat she’d lived with her entire life. Daphne stared into her eyes, understanding dawning on her.

  Clarrisa reached out and took her hands. “We shall be sisters. If you can bear with me while I learn how to treat a sister, for I have never had one.”

  Daphne pulled her to her and hugged her. The embrace was awkward for a moment, but Clarrisa was too happy to worry about right or wrong. There was only the glow of contentment inside her. She returned the hug, and the moment was complete.

  She was happy.

  ***

  “So this is what your hall looks like,” Clarrisa muttered that evening.

  Broen frowned at her teasing. “Highlander brutes do nae sup like civilized men. The hall is a confusing place for me… In fact… I am nae sure what to do now that ye have clothing on.”

  She swatted his shoulder. “I called you a brute with just cause.”

  He pulled her close. “Ye called me lover with just cause too.”

  “The pair of ye are killing me appetite.” Faolan Chisholms appeared in the doorway and shouted up the main aisle at them. Conversation died as the Chisholms laird walked toward the high table with two of his captains flanking him.

  “A fact we have in common,” Broen answered once his fellow laird was close enough to keep his comment between them.

  Faolan stuck out his lower lip. “Me feelings are wounded.”

  “I doubt it,” Clarrisa muttered.

  Faolan jerked his attention to her, his eyes wide, but he clasped his hand over his heart.

  “Sit down, ye pretentious clod,” Broen ordered. “And leave me woman alone.”

  More than one maid lifted her head in response. They stared while Clarrisa felt her cheeks heating. Faolan took a chair beside Broen and slapped the tabletop.

  “I’m going to enjoy yer hospitality, Broen, indeed I am, for ye’ve taken me on a merry chase these last few weeks.”

  Broen smirked and covered her hand with his. More of his people took notice of them, many of them leaning toward one another to whisper. Her face felt like it was on fire. Faolan studied her over the rim of a mug. For a moment she was torn between the need to reject the public display of ownership, simply because her pride was demanding it, but on the other hand, the look in Faolan’s eyes kept her silent. The man was studying her, waiting for any hint that she might be his prize for the taking.

  She stood, gaining a glare from Broen. “I’ll bid you good night.”

  “Sit down, Clarrisa.”

  There was a warning edging his words. He caught her wrist, his grip tight.

  “Here is another thing I believe Englishmen and Scotsmen have in common…” she muttered while the staff found reasons to step closer to the table. “They do not need women about when they are drinking.”

  Faolan grinned and raised his mug to her. “I believe I hate ye, Broen, for any woman who can liken me to an Englishman and have me agreeing is surely perfection.”

  Broen didn’t want to release her hand. She lowered herself, and he was forced to relinquish his grip or have their hands smack the tabletop. His fingers slid down her hand while a look of longing flickered in his eyes. It touched the same feeling inside herself, the need to be near him, no matter the consequences.

  “I will se ye later, lass.”

  It was a firm promise, one that stoked her passions and her tender feelings for him. She lowered her eyelashes, fluttering them for the first time in her life and realized she was simpering. He watched her leave the hall—in fact, most everyone did—but it was Broen’s stare she felt the weight of.

  “It’s wonderful to see them sitting together as friends again.”

  Daphne was hiding beyond the arched entryway, her face a radiant mask of joy while she stared at Faolan and Broen.

  “Go sit with them.”

  Daphne tore her gaze from the high table and shook her head, but Clarrisa shook hers faster.

  “Do it and shame them as they deserve. Let them thank you for having more sense than they did.”

  Daphne only smiled. “Men do nae like admitting when they’ve been wrong. ’Tis enough to see them reconciled.”

  “No, it isn’t.” Clarrisa wasn’t sure where her boldness came from, only that a spark of rebellion was lighting a fire inside her. She grasped Daphne’s hand and tugged her through the doorway. They’d made it only two paces before both Broen and Faolan looked up to investigate who was arriving.

  “We are going to sit with them and enjoy the peace you helped bring about.”

  “Are ye sure ye have no Scots blood in ye, Clarrisa?” Daphne asked with a soft sound of amusement. “Ye certainly have more spirit than I’d ever thought an Englishwoman might.”

  Clarrisa leaned toward her to keep her reply between them. “But when it comes to women, it matters not what blood we have. It’s the know
ledge of how to deal with insufferable men that makes us kindred souls.”

  Daphne giggled, and Clarrisa joined her. They both sealed their lips but failed to mask their amusement when they reached the end of the aisle and stopped to offer deference.

  “I’m afraid to know what the pair of ye find so amusing,” Broen announced.

  “Well, I’m terrified,” Faolan added.

  Behind the two lairds, their captains grinned. Clarrisa opened her hands in an innocent motion. “That’s very disheartening to hear, after all the trouble Daphne has gone to in order to see the pair of you sitting so nicely by each other’s side. I hear life in the convent is very somber, the food bland, and the beds but wood planks.”

  “The ticking was so thin I might as well have been sleeping on the wood,” Daphne muttered, but there was no meekness about her tone. “I, however, am not disheartened to hear the pair of ye are suffering some misgivings.”

  She swept around the table and sat when Shaw pulled a chair out for her. Clarrisa sat beside her while Faolan and Broen studied them both. Tension prickled along her nape, for they were making a public display and both men were lairds.

  But Broen stood and lifted his mug. The hall grew quiet.

  “I owe Daphne Grant a debt of gratitude. She had the sense to realize the match between us was destructive to the peace between the Chisholms and the MacNicols. We will seek an annulment, but she has earned me respect and should be treated so.”

  The MacNicols people looked unsure, but Faolan stood as well.

  “And I owe her twice as much for bringing me to me senses. I consider her me sister and will hold to that if anyone forgets how I believe she should be treated.”

  The hall began to fill with the sound of men hitting the tops of the tables. The sound rose until it drowned out everything else. But Broen was staring at Clarrisa while his men showed their approval. The laird of the MacNicols inclined his head toward her, offering her respect.

  She loved him. Plain and simple and with no way to ignore it.

  But you don’t want to ignore it…

  No, she didn’t.

  ***

  “Ye did a fine thing,” Edme muttered.

  The head of house must have been watching her, for Edme appeared beside her the moment she left the great hall.

  “Daphne Grant needed her position made plain,” Edme muttered with firm confidence. “Aye, ye did well to force the matter. Ye have a solid spine.”

  “Thank you.” Edme was followed by two of her older staff members, and one younger woman trailed them.

  “It isn’t necessary to escort me to my chamber.”

  “We are nae doing it because the laird set us to watching ye.” Edme voiced the fear Clarrisa had been avoiding mentioning. The older woman continued on until they reached the floor where her chamber was and Broen’s. Edme stopped at the top of the stairs, eyeing her expectantly.

  “Oh… well…” She paused, staring at the door of Broen’s chamber. Every obstacle was removed now, the only barrier the mind-set her kin had tried to mold her into living her entire life serving.

  That everything she did must have a purpose or a price.

  Well, she was going to Broen’s bed without a promise, and that was her word on the matter. The moment she stepped toward the door, Edme’s staff rushed forward and opened the huge double doors.

  “Oh fie upon you, Broen MacNicols. How did you get in there ahead of me?”

  The man smiled arrogantly at her, his doublet and hat already lying discarded on a chair.

  “This is a Scottish castle, lass. There is more than one entrance into this chamber.” He closed the distance between them, and she heard the door shut firmly behind them. He gently cupped her chin. “I’d have scaled the exterior of the keep in order to see ye choose me bed of yer own will.”

  She shivered, his touch unleashing a flood of sensation. He touched his lips to hers in a tender kiss that stole her breath. Gooseflesh rose along her limbs while her nipples puckered and her belly began to heat with desire.

  “But that does nae mean I am no’ planning on ravishing ye.”

  He bent over and tossed her over his shoulder before she recovered from the kiss. A solid smack landed on her bottom before he spun her around in a circle and tossed her onto the bed. She rolled over in a tangle of skirts and lifted one hand to point at him.

  “Brute.”

  ***

  The door of the chamber opened at dawn.

  “Get yer mistress out of bed,” Edme announced with a glee Clarrisa had never heard from the woman before.

  “Get ye gone,” Broen growled, but the women ripped the covers off them and pulled Clarrisa from where she’d been lying beside him.

  “It’s May Day, and if ye want a lusty tumble, my son, ye’ll have to chase her for it!”

  The women laughed while tossing her clothing over her head and securing it quickly. Someone brushed her short hair and placed a garland of new spring greens on her.

  “Let’s go, my lambs! The morning dew will wait for no one!”

  Edme hurried them down the hallway and stairs. Their bare feet made slapping sounds on the stone, but they giggled in spite of the chill, because it was tradition to go without footwear on May morn. The bell was ringing in the church, and girls were streaming out of their homes. Most had their hair unbound and flowing behind them; everyone had a garland of greens on their heads. The men lined up along the roads and cheered them on.

  But it was the women who went into the woods, seeking the morning dew among the new leaves. They bathed their faces and laughed. Superstition claimed the dew would keep them youthful forever. Once the sun rose, they hurried back to the village, drawn by the sound of music. The men were playing near the maypole, and the entire village was turned out to enjoy the festive moment.

  “Is nae it grand?” Daphne muttered when she came close to Clarrisa. “I adore May Day!”

  She danced away to the beat of the drums, becoming lost in the crowd of merrymakers. But Clarrisa felt her cheeks heat when Broen came into view. He looked just as strong and untamed as he had the first time she’d seen him, his shirt rolled up to display his forearms and the corded muscles she’d stroked. His blue eyes were fixed on her, and the morning light flickered off the sapphire set into the pommel of his sword. He was a dangerous man and expected to survive by his strength alone.

  But he was also a tender lover.

  The crowd dancing around the maypole was beginning to thin. Couples slipped away to celebrate the more wicked traditions of the festival. The May Queen was still dancing, but she was surrounded by young men who were all doing their best to entice her into leaving with them. The church preached against May Day, but the tradition went back further than anyone recalled. On one hand, no one wanted to take the chance that bad luck might befall them if they didn’t dance around the maypole; on the other hand, it was a fine day of festival, and no one wanted to give it up, even if it was nothing but hollow superstition.

  If the May Queen conceived, it would be considered a sign of a plentiful harvest. Clarrisa envied the girl for a moment. Her life was not complicated by the need to maintain her virginity in order to catch a good husband. Whoever she allowed to lead her into the woods would gladly wed her if she ripened with a babe. Every boy competing for her attention knew the village would expect a wedding, and still they crowded around the May Queen.

  But Broen MacNicols was looking at Clarrisa.

  There was a wicked gleam in his eyes, and now that he was closer, she could see that he was in the mood to take up Edme’s challenge.

  She gasped, her belly tightening with anticipation. A hot, wicked sense of excitement rippled through her, settling in her passage. The heat traveled up into her cheeks, setting off a blush that gained a grin from Broen.

  A smug, arrogant one.

  She propped her hands on her hips and tried to decide how to best the man. He was too sure of her favor; it was May Day, after all. So she joined th
e dancers, merging into the crowd. They stepped together in time to the music and swept along anyone not moving fast enough. She lost sight of Broen as she circled the maypole. The beat of the drums seemed to increase the pulse of need throbbing in her clitoris. When she danced close to the edge of the circle, she dashed out of the crowd and into the woods with her skirts held high.

  Her heart was beating so fast she should have been worried, but all it did was make her light-headed. She looked back over her shoulder and shrieked when she caught sight of Broen. He was chasing her, his expression a mask of determination.

  Well, she would not make it simple. Once she reached the woods, she darted between the trees with ease. She heard him mutter something in Gaelic.

  “That will cost you a penitence.” She took refuge behind a tree and turned to face him.

  “A mere drop in the bucket compared to what I’ll owe for what I plan to do with ye once I catch ye.” He stalked her around the tree, both of them breathing hard.

  “So certain… Maybe I am not in the mood to entertain your whims,” she teased him pertly.

  One fair eyebrow rose. “Ah… a challenge from the fair lass…” His expression darkened dangerously. “Are ye saying ye do nae want a taste of this?”

  He raised his kilt, giving her a plain view of his erect cock. She should have found his actions vulgar, but the hunger burning in her passage doubled, her body feeling empty. She forgot to continue moving around the tree and ended up leaning against it while taking the opportunity to look at the piece of forbidden flesh. His cock was thick and long, and she recalled very well how much having it inside her had satisfied the need raging through her.

  He dropped his kilt and reached out to grasp her wrist while she was distracted. She shrieked when he yanked her toward him, but it wasn’t a sound of fright. Instead it felt like she was too excited to contain all the emotion inside her.

  “What have I caught?” he roared with victory. “A lass ripe for tumbling.”