Highland Vixen

by Mary Wine

  Helen started to shake her head. Shamus held up a finger to keep her silent.

  “I am a liar.”

  His confession shocked her, and he smiled as he watched the impact of his words.

  “Aye. It’s true,” Shamus confirmed. “For all me days, I’ve told one and all that she would nae wed me because of a difference in faith. No, Clare refused to let me make her me wife when the clan expected me to bring home a bride who came with a dowry and an alliance. She loved me enough to set her own happiness aside so I would nae suffer shame.”

  For a moment he went silent, lost in the memory.

  “So I did it, after five long years of waiting for her to soften her thinking on the matter. At last, I decided to let her shield me, and I pleased me father by telling him I’d wed the match he selected for me.” His voice was edged with bitterness. “Bhaic’s mother was everything she should have been. Sweet and obedient, and she gave me a son and a daughter. She had waited to give her heart away, placing her faith in her parents’ choice of husband for her.” Shamus aimed a hard look at Helen.

  “I watched her heart break because I could no’ stop meself from loving another, and she witnessed the truth of it when I looked at Clare. Me own daughter hates me for what I did to her mother, but I’m grateful Bhaic never saw it. It takes men longer to understand the delicate nature of women. Me daughter, on the other hand, watched her mother wither and die because I could nae love her, and she would no’ take a lover out of respect for me.”

  The tears escaped Helen’s eyes and Shamus nodded.

  “Aye. It’s a hard story to tell and hear. The truth is, I would have gladly gone to the noose Morton had strung up for me instead of watching me son be forced to wed. Why do ye think I let young Ailis go back to her father on that first day? I am no’ so great a fool as to think that angering the Earl of Morton is a good decision for me to make.”

  “My union with Marcus enraged him.”

  “Well now.” Shamus’s voice had taken on a hard edge. “That is another matter altogether. Ye were right to notice Katherine is too young for bedding. On that account, the earl will have to suffer me disobedience, and I’ve written him to let him know what I think of the matter. Marcus agreed to the wedding but no’ the bedding, as any decent man would do. The earl will soften his will on it, or I will let the truth of the matter be known, and he’ll lose more than one supporter.”

  Helen drew in a breath to steady herself.

  “Save yer breath, lass,” Shamus warned her. “I will no’ agree to an annulment. The fact that ye care what is thought of me son has confirmed how right ye are for him. Too many believe Marcus is a hard, callous man. He has a heart, ye have noticed. If not, ye would no’ be asking me to help ye leave him for his own good. Marcus gives enough to his clan.”

  Shamus reached out and touched her cheek, where the tears had left her skin wet. He smiled at the sensation, a strange, sweet smile that vanished almost as quickly as it appeared. He nodded as he withdrew his hand.

  “Ye’ll be here when he returns, and the pair of ye can get back to circling each other.”

  “Yet surely—”

  Shamus made a slashing motion with his hand. “Another word, mistress, and I will put me own men on ye to ensure it is so.”

  “I do nae break me word.”

  Shamus chuckled. “Aye, there it is, that devil-take-heed spirit. I’ve half a mind to set a few of the lads to dodging yer hem, just for the lesson it will prove to be when they underestimate ye. That’s the sort of thing ye can tell a man, but until he comes up against it, he’ll not believe ye. Takes the experience to set it into the mind.” He tapped his temple with his fingertip.

  Helen felt her temper heating. Shamus laughed at her and slapped his thigh before he turned and gestured to his waiting captains. They were quick to stride forward, both of them sending her looks designed to get her to relinquish their laird’s attention.

  Helen lowered herself as Shamus continued on his way.

  The conversation left Helen feeling strangely relieved. She should have been nursing her temper over being yet again forced to bend to a MacPherson’s will.

  But she wasn’t.

  No, there was a complete lack of resentment inside her. So much so that the fatigue weighing on her shoulders felt lifted. And that left her prey to the anticipation she’d been trying to ignore. Now, it flooded her, drowning her insistence.

  Should she leave her situation as Fate seemed to want it? The question chewed into her thoughts into the next day as she toiled along with the rest of the household.

  Was being Marcus’s wife such a terrible fate? Perhaps not for her. Many would think she’d acted the fool by not ensuring Marcus was bound to her when she had the opportunity to seal their vows. Well after sunset, she was still pondering her feelings when she decided to seek her bed. Ailis had taken to her chamber hours before, in spite of her insistence that she stay and see to her house. But her ankles had been nearly as swollen as her middle, so she’d lost the battle and retired. Helen had promised to finish, and now, well into the late hours of the night, she stretched her neck and smiled at a job finally done.

  At least in the smaller kitchen it was. In the main kitchens, there most likely was more to be done. That could wait until sunrise, though. Helen made her way through the passageways, intent on finding her chamber.

  “Sleeping, are ye?”

  Helen felt a bolt of cold memory go down her spine. She knew that tone of voice from Duana. She jumped when she heard a swish and then a blunt connection.

  That was a sound branded into her memory. Helen grabbed her skirts and ran. Something had certainly changed in her, and she didn’t take the time to think the impulse through. She went around the corner and through one of the back entrances to the kitchen in time to see Duana raising her rod for another blow.

  Katherine was cringing on a stool, her eyes bright but her cheeks dry because she knew tears would gain her nothing but more punishment.

  “Do nae ye dare strike her!” Helen ordered.

  Duana rounded on her as though she’d dared some sort of inexcusable blasphemy. Of course, to the Head of House, it was very much the same.

  “Ye’ll mind yer place, Grant,” Duana hissed before she turned back toward Katherine and raised the rod. “I’ll teach this one what happens to lazy English whelps in me kitchen. Ye have nothing without me goodwill…naught.”

  Plenty of women were watching, as well as the younger lads who served in the kitchens. Helen stepped forward and grabbed the rod. “I told ye nay.”

  Duana rounded on her and slapped her hard. She landed the blow because Helen was busy pulling the rod out of the mistress’s reach. Pain went zipping through Helen’s jaw and teeth, hard enough to make her ears ring. She had to quell the impulse to strike the woman back.

  “And ye will mind me, Duana.”

  There was a collective gasp from their audience. As well as a shuffle, but Helen kept her attention on Duana.

  “And just who do ye think ye are to be telling me what I can and can nae do in these kitchens?” the Head of House demanded.

  “I am Marcus’s wife.”

  “Ye’re his slut!” Duana insisted. “Maybe ye’re warming his cock now, but he’ll cast ye out when the spring comes because ye have naught to offer him but a warm bed for the winter. No one will blame him for setting ye aside when yer family fails to provide any dowry. There was no contract, so the vows will be easily broken. Everyone knows it.”

  Duana opened her hands wide, and the rest of the inhabitants of the kitchens all looked at Helen with condemning gazes. Perhaps some of the younger ones pitied her, but that would change. They’d soon see her as an example of why they must obey their parents when it came to matters of marriage. It was a business that needed contracts—sealed and witnessed to be binding.

  Helen broke the r
od over her knee anyway. “Well, I am here now, and ye will no’ be striking this child. Katherine, leave the kitchens now.”

  The girl went, but not before she took off the apron she wore and slapped it down on the stool in defiance. Duana grunted.

  “Ye’ll be mine again before ye know it, English bastard girl. I promise ye that.” There was a hard edge to Duana’s voice that sent a ripple of memory across Helen’s skin. But Katherine was looking to her, the child’s eyes wide in her face. Helen banished the specter, refusing to be prey to its grip.

  “Do nae listen to her.” Helen tried to soothe Katherine once they were away from the kitchens. “She’s a woman who has spent too many years hating.”

  Katherine may have been young, but she looked at Helen with a world of knowledge in her eyes. “If ye had no contract, do ye think to gain your husband’s love? The queen’s mother had her father’s love, but he took her head when that love drove him insane.”

  “So I’ve heard.” Helen took a small lantern hanging on an iron hook in the wall to light their way. The fate of Anne Boleyn was well known and often told to remind young girls of the danger of wedding for love. Men might fall prey to that madness, but it was insanity. In the end, they were still men, and it was a man’s world.

  Helen looked around. “Where are ye going, Katherine?”

  “To me chamber,” she answered. “I was sleeping on me stool.”

  “Ailis gave ye a chamber in the new tower.”

  They were in the bowels of the castle now, where wide arches supported the structure above them. Most of the chambers here were storage rooms and sewing cells because there was no way to vent smoke from hearths.

  “Duana told me I was to sleep here.”

  Helen looked at the narrow door Katherine indicated. Inside was a tiny nun’s cell dating back to when a convent was attached to what would become MacPherson Castle. Inside, the chamber was so small that Helen could stretch her hands out on either side and touch both walls. A narrow cot was against one wall, with a thin pallet and single blanket.

  Katherine started to strike a flint into the bowl of tinder sitting on the little two-foot-wide table that held a candle. But she sighed. “I forgot to fill it this morning in me rush to answer Duana’s summons. No matter. I am so tired, I do nae need light.”

  She started to sit down on the cot.

  “Ye are no’ sleeping here,” Helen informed her. “The mistress will be very displeased when she discovers ye here.”

  “Truly”—Katherine covered a huge yawn—“I only need a bed, and the mistress needs her strength, with the babe due to arrive soon.”

  “Aye, she needs her sleep,” Helen agreed. “Come along. Ye’ll have me old chamber until the mistress sorts matters out.”

  Katherine had started to settle onto the cot. She blinked and stood.

  Helen led Katherine down a passageway to where the abbess’s chamber was. She pushed open the door. “And ye can bar the door if anyone bothers ye.”

  Katherine looked around the set of chambers and smiled.

  “Go on, the bed is quite nice and the blankets thick.”

  The girl shed her garments, and Helen realized they were her old clothing. Duana had considered rags good enough for an English girl. Once she was wearing only the tattered chemise, Katherine went to the bed and climbed in. A few moments later, her soft breathing told Helen she was fast asleep.

  And Helen knew exactly why too. Her temper kept her from regretting too much about what she’d done. Let it filter through the castle that she’d used her position to face down the Head of House. She didn’t really care what any of them thought. Lord knew none of them had ever befriended her.

  Yet her steps slowed when she stood facing the doors to Marcus’s chambers. She squared her shoulders and entered. Inside, she was assaulted by just how much she missed him. It was something in the scent of the chamber, a lingering essence of the man who used it as a haven from the rest of the clan. As she stripped down and crawled into the bed, she noticed how cold it was without him and lamented not taking the invitation he’d offered when he was there.

  And when he returns?

  Well, to be sure, she needed to ponder that question, but she was simply too tired to do so now. She slipped into sleep. Marcus’s scent teased her senses and took her to a dream-filled world where he was there beside her and nothing else mattered.

  * * *

  Helen stayed out of the kitchens the next day. The hours crept by as she waited for the Head of House to exact her retaliation. It would come—Helen was sure of that—but time kept ticking away and snow started to fall around noon. There was a hustle again now; supper had to be a rushed affair so the benches might be rearranged for the court Shamus MacPherson held each month.

  It was a time for disputes to be settled and business agreed upon. Anyone might step forward to have their case heard. Shamus had long ago begun allowing his sons to sit on the high ground with him during such courts. Ailis had duly taken a position as well, so that any issue considered to be a woman’s matter might be judged by a female.

  The court was held on the full moon. Marcus rode back into the yard just before sunset. Helen felt his arrival as much as she witnessed it. He came up the steps into the hall as she was working to clear away the remains of supper. He paused, making eye contact with her. She caught a hint of a smile curving his lips and felt a shiver go down her spine. She knew the look on his face: it was pure promise.

  “Marcus!” Shamus called from the high ground. “Ye’ve just enough time to clean up before court.”

  Marcus turned his attention to his father, reaching up to tug on the corner of his bonnet before disappearing down the passageway toward the bathhouse.

  “Well then.”

  Helen turned to find Duana standing near her. The Head of House had clearly decided the moment of her revenge was at hand. “Are ye going to stand here while yer husband goes to bathe?” Duana was enjoying putting Helen’s declaration to the test. “After ye claimed to be his wife and all? Of course, none of us has seen a soiled sheet flying from the window.”

  There was a round of snickers from the other women. “I did nae see one.”

  “Nor I.”

  “Heard there was no consummation from me cousin on McTavish land.”

  Duana narrowed her eyes and snapped her fingers. “And where have ye been?” she called out to Katherine. “Isn’t it just like the English to think they’ve the right to sleep the day away while still filling their bellies?”

  “Katherine was under my direction today.” Helen stepped between Duana and the English girl.

  The Head of House didn’t back down. “I see. So ye are still Marcus’s wife?”

  Helen nodded firmly. Duana extended her arm toward the bathhouse. “Then ye’d best get to scrubbing his back.”

  “I shall.” The words were out of Helen’s mouth before she had really thought them through. Duana smiled, knowing full well she was daring Helen to prove herself or be known as a liar. Helen straightened her spine because the one who would truly suffer would be Katherine. The Head of House would claim the English girl back with a snap of her fingers if Helen refused to take up her task. For the first time, she found a sense of satisfaction in knowing everyone was watching her.

  * * *

  “I wondered if Duana would send ye down to tend me.” Marcus reclined in a tub, his back to the door. He poured a mug full of water over his head.

  “I am yer wife.”

  “Are ye?” He grasped the sides of the tub and stood.

  Her breath caught in her chest as the firelight shimmered off the water running down his bare form. Every inch of him was hard and cut, and he made sure she saw all of it, lifting his leg and climbing out of the tub before he very deliberately turned to face her.

  Helen gasped at the look on his face.


  “Aye, I’m right furious with ye and no mistake.”

  This was a side of him she knew how to deal with. “I see yer father has sent ye word.”

  “He did,” Marcus confirmed.

  Helen went past him, intent on getting a length of linen from where it rested on a warming rack. Marcus reached out and grasped her arm, pulling her around and pushing her back against the wall.

  “Stop trying to intimidate me.” She flattened her hands on his chest and then regretted it because he felt so much better than her recollections.

  “Ye gave me yer word, Helen,” he said, refusing to move.

  “And I did no’ break it,” she insisted.

  “What do ye call going to me father?” he demanded, framing her face with his hands when she looked away.

  “As if I’d expect ye to understand.” She curled her fingers into talons and felt her nails sink into his flesh. “Get off me.”

  “Understand?” he rasped, so close his breath teased her lips. “’Tis a simple matter. Ye gave yer word to be here when I returned, and ye tried to place me father between us.” He pressed all the way against her, so that she felt every inch of his body. “Here is something for ye to understand, Helen. There will be no one between ye and me.”

  He angled his head and pressed his mouth against hers. Was it a kiss? She wasn’t really sure. His lips connected with hers, pressing them apart so he could thrust his tongue into her mouth. It was a claiming, a declaration of intent, and she fought against it.

  But it was Marcus who decided to release her. He slapped his hands on either side of the wall next to her head and pushed away from her with a snarl. “Ye are driving me to insanity, woman.”

  “Ye?” She went after him and cupped his shoulder. He spun around, shocked to have her chasing after him. “Ye said ye were no’ going to take what I do nae offer, and here ye are pushing me against a wall because we’ve disagreed.”

  “It’s bloody more than a disagreement.” He grabbed his shirt and put it on. For a moment, the fabric interrupted their conversation. With a snap and tug, he pulled the creamy linen over his head, which drew her attention to the collar.