Highland Vixen

by Mary Wine

  Indeed, fool. He could only hope he might come to his senses before he caught up with her. He was the War Chief of Clan MacPherson, a position he’d taken knowing full well he had to be suspicious, else he’d fail his clan. With a king on the throne who was only eight years old, it was best to look after his own kin, because that very same king’s mother was intent on taking back the child and country she felt were hers. Elizabeth Tudor had done many in Scotland a favor by imprisoning Mary Stuart. The Earl of Morton, now regent for the king, was one of those.

  Indeed, Marcus was suspicious by nature, and he suspected the earl would make good use of both women if they arrived at court. The earl had his own objectives, and they didn’t include taking into account the feelings of those under his dictates. Brenda’s uncle was laird of the Grants, so Morton wouldn’t fail to see her use.

  And Helen? Her father had a small, profitable estate in the Highlands with all the makings of a good place for Morton to position a spy.

  The horses were already in the yard. Duana, his father’s Head of House, came out of the passageway behind him with his personal belongings. Women were spilling out of the hall to bid their men farewell. Marcus lingered for a moment, watching them. But he snorted and tied his bundle to his saddle.

  She ran from ye.

  There was no reason for him to be thinking about having Helen to bid him sweet good-byes. Nay. He was going to perform his duty and nothing more.

  He was not going to be dancing to love’s tune.

  And that was final.

  * * *

  Court was not what Helen expected. Not one bit.

  “Do nae stare.” Brenda took her arm and steered her down one of the hallways. “I know they look a fright.”

  The ladies of the court had faces painted with white powder, red rouge, and lip color. Their hair was pushed up and over their heads to make it round. Their dresses were stunning silks and brocades that Helen would have enjoyed touching just to see what they felt like, but the dresses were huge and clearly supported by special undergarments of some sort. It was insanity to see how each lady held her hands perfectly in position due to the elaborateness of her costume. Some wore huge standing collars that went as high as their hair in the back. It was little wonder there was a small army of servants shadowing them.

  “I have never seen anything so frivolous.”

  “Aye,” Brenda agreed. “Fortunes are spent on those dresses, and for what? Ye must stand about all the day, hoping to be noticed for yer clothing alone. I was glad me husband sent me away from court.” She drew in a deep breath. “It was the only thing he did that pleased me.”

  “I am sorry.”

  Brenda turned and considered her. “As if Fate has been any kinder to ye?”

  “I believe it has,” Helen admitted, realizing she was paying Marcus a compliment of sorts. “Ye were sent here to do yer duty, and I was taken for much the same reason. At least life among the MacPhersons did no’ include someone having rights to me person.”

  Brenda’s face tightened, memory taking hold of her. She shuddered and drew in a shaky breath. “Come, this way.”

  The women made their way deeper into the castle toward the rooms Brenda’s kin had provided them. It was an older section of the castle, the stones dark and reeking.

  “Court is no’ so polished as ye hear in stories,” Brenda said once they’d gone into their set of rooms and firmly closed the door. Inside, there was a receiving room that opened to a dressing chamber, and a bed was in the back. Only curtains separated the rooms.

  “What a stench,” Helen exclaimed. “Ye’d think those with finer blood than ours would know how to use a chamber pot.”

  “Ye’d think as much, no? I heard tell, Henry the Eighth forbid his courtiers to piss in the passageways, even had some of them lashed when they did nae obey because he was so a-feared his son Edward would catch disease.” Brenda was pushing one of the windows open. A gust of cold air came in, but at least it carried away some of the stale air trapped in the chambers. It also disturbed the thick layer of dust coating everything. “Well, I suppose giving us these rooms is as warm a welcome as I am due.”

  “We’re in the castle proper,” Helen said as she looked around the rooms. “So we’ve no’ come all this way for naught.”

  Helen began to pull the coverings off the table and chairs. Dust swirled in the air, but the furniture was sturdy and in good repair. Beyond an arched doorframe there was a bedchamber with a large bed that was hung with thick curtains.

  “The difficulties will come with gaining enough coin for sundries,” Brenda said. “Wood, food, drink, even water will have to be paid for. I’ll need to go see me father’s secretary and hope he has nae heard I’ve run away from the match me uncle made for me. It’s still early enough in spring to think a letter has no’ arrived here just yet.”

  A hope that was frail at best, but they would have to take what was at hand.

  There was a pounding on the door. “Open in the name of the king!”

  “The king?” Helen asked as she went to open the door. “The king is a lad of eight.”

  But there was an official-looking messenger standing in front of her. He wore the livery of the king and had a staff of office resting in his fingers.

  “The Earl of Morton will see you both.”

  Helen felt a tingle shoot down her back. “We’ve only just come from the road.”

  “The regent will nae be kept waiting on yer vanity, woman. Ye’ll come now as summoned.”

  There was no choice, really. Brenda knew it, coming across the receiving room. “Perhaps there will be supper,” she whispered as they followed the messenger.

  “Let us hope that is all there is,” Helen whispered back. She knew full well what the Earl of Morton had pressed on Ailis Robertson. She would either wed Bhaic MacPherson or watch both their fathers be hanged because of the feud the two clans had been engaging in. Morton was determined to end such fighting and unify the Highlands. It sounded quite grand, until one considered that Morton was not above murdering to gain his will. He was not a man to be trusted, and Helen’s belly knotted as she followed his messengers toward his receiving chambers. The doors they stopped in front of bore the royal seal of Scotland.

  Indeed, she hoped the man would decide they were not worth his time, because if he took an interest in them, it would undoubtedly be for his benefit.

  * * *

  James Douglas, the Earl of Morton, was a hard man. But what chilled Helen’s blood was the gleam in his eyes that told her he believed in what he was doing. A greedy man might be controlled or influenced, but when one faced a man who had decided he was doing something for all of the right reasons, there would be no dissuading him from his course.

  “Ye are the niece of Laird Grant?” he asked Brenda.

  Brenda lowered herself. “Aye.”

  The earl’s lips rose slightly. “And widowed?”

  Brenda hesitated, earning a grunt from Morton. “Answer up, woman. Ye came to court seeking shelter. Well, I will be the one deciding on yer fate. Make no mistake.”

  “I am widowed. Me husband was a Campbell.”

  “I knew him,” Morton said. “A petty bastard he was. And by the look of ye, it seems the rumors were true—the man preferred lads in his bed. Ye would get a monk’s staff to rise. Ye are either barren, or the man did nae like women. Since he sent ye away so soon after yer wedding, I believe the latter.”

  Brenda was biting her lip and looking at the floor. Helen could see her battling the urge to speak her mind. The fact that she didn’t sent a warning through Helen.

  “Who are ye?”

  Helen discovered herself under the cutting glare of the regent. Although she really should think of him as king, because that was how much power he wielded.

  “Helen Grant.” She lowered herself before him.

&
nbsp; “Who is yer father?”

  “No one of any importance,” she answered.

  Morton’s lips curled just a bit. “I will be the judge of that.”

  “Me father has a small country home of his own and three sons.”

  “Hence she is me waiting woman,” Brenda said.

  The earl swept Helen from head to toe, taking in the modest clothing she wore. It was functional, made of serviceable wool.

  He grunted. “Welcome to court. Ye are both me personal guests.”

  Brenda paled but sent the man a smile. “That is so very kind of ye. It seems my prayers have been answered.”

  “How so, madam?”

  Brenda had regained her poise and offered the man a polished expression of serenity. “Me uncle, Laird Grant, is dying. He made a match for me with the Gordons. Such a match will serve only to unite the Gordons and Grants against the MacPhersons and Robertsons.”

  “Something I have little tolerance for.”

  “Yes,” Brenda continued. “I heard of Bhaic and Ailis’s wedding and surmised ye would no’ be pleased with such a match.”

  “Ye think ye know me mind, woman?” the earl demanded.

  Brenda lowered her body gracefully. “Only so far as I understand ye want an end to feuding, and such a match would have worked against that will.”

  The earl considered her for a long moment before he grunted. “Ye’re intelligent enough, it would seem.” He tapped the arm of the huge throne-like chair on which he sat. “Aye, well done.”

  The earl gave them a flip of his fingers, dismissing them. But four of his men followed them back to their chambers and took up position by the doors.

  “Sweet Christ,” Brenda breathed as she dropped into a chair. “I have brought ye to ruin, Helen. The Earl of Morton is a Douglas, and he’s got his mind thinking about how to use both of us to his advantage. Damn all men and their ambitions. We are but lambs.”

  “Do nae say such,” Helen admonished her. Brenda looked at her, uncertainty glittering in her eyes. “Ye heard me. We crossed the lonely moors with but a handful of men to find our own destiny, so do nae be giving up on that just yet. Yer kin will nae be able to force ye to wed one of the Gordons at the moment. That is what ye wanted, yes?”

  “Aye,” Brenda agreed as she stood. “It is. We’ll take each day as it comes.”

  “Ye beguiled the earl well enough.”

  “Better to have him thinking I am his servant,” Brenda remarked. “We might need his trust.”

  “For the moment,” Helen said, “it would seem we have found a means of providing the sundries we need. If we are the man’s guests, he can bloody well provide for us.”

  “I am more concerned about what he might decide we need beyond food.”

  So was Helen, but she didn’t voice her concerns. She’d learned during her time at MacPherson Castle to keep her thoughts close and her mind working on ways to achieve her goals.

  There was no way she was going to become submissive now.

  * * *

  Morton’s men were still at the door when Helen decided to venture out in search of supper.

  Helen didn’t let their presence disturb her. Instead, she focused on the fact that she was allowed out of the chambers. Guards might be lost in the crowded kitchens. She and Brenda had escaped Castle MacPherson, so all she needed to do was to discover a way out of court.

  But she needed a place to go as well.

  Why was life so difficult?

  She made her way around the kitchens, simply another servant among many. There was a bustle near the cooking fires as the cook tried to decide where the best cuts of meat should go. Everyone was intent on making their way as best they might. Helen gathered up plenty of fresh food, telling the cook that she worked for a “personal guest” of Morton when the man thought to forbid her some rare oranges.

  Helen was hurrying into the passageway, moving away from the kitchens, when someone stepped into her path. She started to go around, but he reached out and clasped her upper arm.

  “Take yer hands—” Her tongue ended up stuck to the top of her mouth as she looked straight into the eyes of Marcus MacPherson.

  And the man was furious with her.

  “I’ve a mind to put them on yer backside, woman,” he informed her under his breath as he pulled her out of the passageway and behind a door while she was still gathering her wits.

  Realizing they were alone sobered her quickly. “Stand aside at once.”

  Marcus braced himself between her and the door. “If ye think to leave this chamber, ye’ll go through me or no’ at all, Helen. We need to have words.”

  The use of her first name sent a ripple of sensation through her. It was a familiarity he was using deliberately. “I can nae believe ye came after me.”

  “I did nae.” He scoffed at her, his expression set in a hard mask. “I was summoned by the Earl of Morton. But that will not stop me from telling ye how foolish it was for ye to travel without a proper escort.”

  He hadn’t come after her.

  That knowledge shouldn’t have stung, and yet it did. She felt as if a deep, burning mark were left across her emotions.

  Shame.

  She knew what it was called and couldn’t truly shrug it from her shoulders because Marcus stood there, his eyes ringed by dark circles of fatigue because he had ridden hard after her. He’d worried about her welfare and she was sorry for that.

  “Nae foolish, when ye made such a mockery of me good name by kissing me as if I were yer strumpet in yer father’s open hall before ye fought over me and denied me the opportunity to return home with Symon Grant.” She drew in a deep breath but kept her tone mindful of the concern she saw in his eyes. “Any decent woman would have left such a situation. I could not stay without declaring to one and all that I belonged to ye.”

  Marcus’s eyes narrowed, giving her the only hint that she had affected him at all. Yet that failed to please her. All it did was make her feel as if she were the most unkind creature drawing breath.

  “It was necessary to leave and so…I did.” She meant to brush around him, but Marcus didn’t move.

  “We’re nae finished.” He grasped her upper arms the moment she came close enough. The food went spilling onto the floor as she gasped, feeling his touch as though his fingers were somehow on fire.

  She’d convinced herself her memory was clouded and she hadn’t felt his grip so keenly during that kiss at MacPherson Castle.

  Now, she knew it was a solid truth that his touch affected her, and she recoiled from it.

  Marcus jerked her to a halt.

  “Do nae,” she warned softly. “Ye have yer position. Do ye nae realize that me good name is all I have?”

  “I did nae take ye from yer father’s house without thinking I had few other options.”

  It was the closest thing to an apology she’d ever heard from him. She shifted because she was not accustomed to being anything more than a hostage to him. Apologies, well, those were given out to friends and people that a person valued.

  She had no idea what to make of it at all.

  He was watching her intently, allowing her to be drawn into his topaz gaze. It was spellbinding, weaving some sort of magic over her that made her want to stand still and simply enjoy the moment.

  “Marcus…” His name slipped through her lips while she was too caught up in the strange effect he had upon her.

  “I like the sound of me name on yer lips.” His attention slipped down to them. “But I believe I’ll enjoy the taste even more.”

  She knew she would agree. Which was why she rebelled, lifting her knee and jamming it up toward his genitals. He shifted so she hit his thigh, but she was free and the door so very close. Helen grabbed it and scurried into the passageway as though her skirts were on fire.

  Maybe t
hey were—with hellfire, that was—because the temptation to kiss him was so strong that Helen suddenly didn’t fear eternal damnation.

  “I am sorry ye felt responsible enough to make certain I was safe.” Back in the passageway, there were other servants about. Marcus stopped and crossed his arms over his chest when he realized they had witnesses.

  “Gather yer things. I’ve business to attend to. Finley is in the stable with the horses. This is no fit place for ye or any decent woman.”

  He spoke the truth and was using her reasoning against her. She couldn’t stop that thought from filling her mind. Marcus read it in her face, because he stepped closer, angling his head so he might look down on her from his greater height. How had she argued with him so freely? The man truly was huge. He could close his fingers all the way around her upper arm and lift her with ease, but she always seemed to forget that when he was close, saying whatever came to her mind. He set something loose inside her.

  “I’ll take ye back to the Highlands, lass.”

  “To what fate?” He really was the last person she should have thought to appeal to, but she couldn’t seem to stop the words from crossing her lips. “One of yer men?”

  “Castle MacPherson is a fine place to live,” he answered her. “What will ye have here but a different union? One Morton makes the choice of. I doubt he’ll be asking yer opinion on the matter.”

  He was right, but he was also the reason she could never go home. However, perhaps it was time to be bold enough to challenge him. “Let me go home. Lift the threat ye laid upon me when ye took me. Tell me ye will nae burn me father’s house if I return to it. I will go with ye if ye do, and be grateful.”

  His jaw was tight, his neck corded. “And just what will yer kin do with ye? Do ye think I do nae know what their thinking is?” He shook his head. “They will wed ye to a Gordon, so they might think themselves safe from MacPherson reprisals when they take to thieving our cattle again.”

  “Me brothers were stealing back cattle that were taken,” Helen said in defense.

  Marcus scoffed at her. “If someone stole yer cattle, it was nae MacPherson men. Why do ye think I was riding on yer father’s land? I was tracking our own missing heads. Yer brothers knew full well they were taking the easy way out by taking from MacPherson stock, thinking we have so much, no one would be the wiser. But we have more mouths to feed. The moment I fail to stop one family from stealing from me father is the beginning of everyone thinking they can thieve from us, and then I’ll no’ be able to feed me own kin. Ye have seen how many men expect supper in the hall. It’s me duty to make sure they are provided for.” He caught her arm when she tried to step back. “I took ye for yer own good, Helen. Yer brothers were playing a dangerous game, dabbling in dishonesty. Ye would nae have been safe from it.”