by Mary Wine
“What are ye doing wearing that shirt?”
It took him a moment to understand her change in topic. He worked the buttons on one cuff and then the other as he contemplated her.
“Ye made it for me.” He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, clearly fighting for patience.
The pink posies she’d diligently embroidered on the collar showed up even in the meager light of the bathhouse.
“Well, I certainly never thought ye’d wear it in public.”
That comment earned her a half grin. “Did ye nae, Helen?” He reached up and touched one of the pink embellishments. “Ye were daring me to put it on. Spitting in the eye of what ye were told was yer place. Well, lass, I will rise to yer challenges every time. I promise ye.”
Damned if his declaration didn’t make her tingle again. He had a way of making what everyone else thought was the sin of stubbornness into something admirable, of making her into someone to be admired.
The posies suddenly made her feel guilty. “But during…yer father’s court?”
He started to button it up the chest. “Aye.”
That one firm word sent her sagging against the wall. He came toward her, this time his pace firm and solid but not threatening. He flattened his hands on either side of her head as their gazes met.
“I adore that facet of yer spirit,” he said softly. “Yer need to face me down and test me.”
This time, when he kissed her, it was sweet and seeking. An invitation to join him in a moment of intimacy. She didn’t resist. No, she slid her hand into the open collar of the shirt and enjoyed the feeling of his skin beneath her fingertips as she opened her mouth and teased his lower lip with the tip of her tongue.
His chest rumbled, the sound deep and male. It struck some chord within her, making her pull him toward her as need became a living force inside her.
But he pulled back. “Nay. We’ve no’ the time just now.”
His cock was hard against her belly, and she suddenly felt so very unbalanced. He liked when she kissed him back, and that idea led to another one that scorched her cheeks but made her confidence swell. She shifted and slid her hand beneath his shirt, then up his thigh until she had his organ grasped in her hand.
“Sweet Christ,” he gasped as he leaned on his hands.
His face drew tight, his jaw clenching. She recalled feeling just the same while he’d driven her to ecstasy. Satisfaction flooded her as she stroked his length and heard him draw in a ragged breath. This was what she craved: proof that she wasn’t just his for the taking.
He was hers, too.
And she was going to make sure he knew it. She slid down the wall until his member was at face level.
“Helen, ye should nae do that…” His voice was rough and strained, delighting her completely.
She cast a quick look up to see his hands still braced on the wall, his fingers curled into talons as she worked her hands up and down his length, even cupping the sacs that hung beneath his member.
“What did ye tell me ye were doing?” she asked. “Oh yes, proving yerself to me. Well now, Marcus MacPherson, ye just told me how much ye enjoy the facet of me personality that makes me spit in the eye of what me place is said to be.”
He drew in a hissing breath through gritted teeth. Helen lowered her attention to his staff, opening her lips and closing them around the head of it. She felt him jerk, satisfaction flooding her at the proof she could reduce him to that same level of surrender.
He cursed.
It was low and deep, and pleased her greatly. It also encouraged her. Helen opened her mouth wide, taking more of his length inside before applying her tongue to the underside of the head. She heard his fingernails scraping the stone wall and used her hands on the portion of his staff that wouldn’t fit in her mouth.
“Lass…” he forced out. “Ye’ve got to stop…”
Helen doubled her efforts. Moving her hands faster, taking him deeper and closing her lips tightly around him. His cock was harder now, and he was thrusting it toward her with little jerking motions of his hips, sounds of male delight escaping his lips.
She’d been the same way.
It wasn’t vengeance—it was proving that she really was able to stand up to him in all things. Perhaps she was on her knees, but she was proving her point. She felt him tense, and then his seed was spurting into her mouth. She took it all, sucking him through the moment. He shuddered, a harsh groan filling the stone-walled chamber. She sat back, rubbing his thighs with her hands as she felt the tremors running down them.
So strong, and yet vulnerable to her touch.
“Come here, woman.”
He reached down and hooked her upper arms, pulling her to her feet. A moment later, he was rucking up the fabric of her skirt with one hand while he threaded his left hand into her hair and angled her head up so their eyes met.
“Someone…could walk in on us.” She meant it as a warning, but her voice was husky with desire.
He found her thigh and grasped it, making her breath catch. In his eyes, she watched the ebbing satisfaction give way to determination.
“Ye should know very well I’ll not let that sort of challenge go unanswered,” he promised her wickedly.
Her insides twisted with anticipation while her clitoris throbbed insistently. He slid his hand along her thigh, sending ripples of pleasure across the surface of her skin. She felt gooseflesh rise up in response to his intimate touch. All she wanted to do was open her thighs so he could touch her throbbing sex and give her the same ecstasy that had haunted her dreams.
Someone pounded on the door. “Yer father is calling for ye!”
“Fuck.” Marcus opened his eyes and locked gazes with her. A promise glittered in them, one in which her body was very interested. His hand had gone still, his grip tightening just a bit as he fought the urge to release her.
He did—with a snarl and another round of profanity. Helen ended up giggling as her skirt fell back down to cover her legs. Marcus turned to eye her.
“Father Matthew Peter is going to have something to say about yer language.”
Marcus moved back toward her and tapped the open collar of his shirt. “I wonder what he’ll think of the fine shirt ye made me while contemplating yer penitence?”
Helen didn’t fold under his veiled threat. “Likely insist that I need more lessons in humility. Knowing the good Father, I would expect to spend hours and hours toiling upon the labors he sets me to.” Helen let out a sigh. “I’d no’ get to bed until very, very late, if at all.”
Marcus had been grinning, enjoying teasing her, but his lips set into a hard line as she finished.
“As I’m thinking on it”—he was unbuttoning the cuffs—“I’ve decided to keep this shirt for our chamber. It’s simply too dear to me heart to share.”
* * *
“Who are ye?”
Robert Gunn raised his head and looked at the retainer who had stepped into his path. The man was no coward, which pleased him. There was a moment of indecision as the man considered him before he nodded and grinned.
“Chief.” He reached up to tug on the corner of his cap.
There were other Gunn clansmen sitting at the tables in the hall. It was a small one, because as chief, Robert only commanded one of the branches of the Gunn clan. But the single tower was sweeter-looking than all of Stirling Castle. It was his home.
“Ye all look fat and bored,” he declared. “Who wants to join me on a venture to bring us gain?”
The men contemplated him before they began to grin. Hands went into the air, confirming his hold on their loyalty. Robert accepted a mug of ale as his clansmen began to toast his return. He enjoyed the cool slide of the beverage across his tongue and grinned as a buxom lass leaned over to place a bowl of stew in front of him, allowing him a good, long look down her cleavage.
Home.
He didn’t bother to think about what needed doing at sunrise. Everything in life had a price. There was little point in taking on the burden of guilt over making hard choices. A man did what he had to do. Life was a matter of winners and losers, and he was going to claim victory. Now that he had his men, he could make good on his word to the Earl of Morton.
Five
The monthly court was drawing to a close. Marcus felt as though it had drawn on for an eternity, but there were fewer cases than normal. The last of the MacPherson clansmen had their say before his father passed judgment. Marcus had never struggled so hard to maintain his focus, nor had his damned cock ever been so hard within an hour of losing his load.
He ground his teeth in frustration, trying to rein in his thoughts and keep his attention on the men in front of them seeking justice.
At least there were signs of the court drawing to a close. At the far end of the hall, people were starting to lose their serious expressions in anticipation of mead being served and the music beginning. But Katherine stepped forward, lowering herself before Shamus.
The English girl drew everyone’s attention. However, she proved her worth by standing straight and still under the scrutiny. Marcus realized she was still wearing the rags of Helen’s clothing that she’d escaped in.
“Do ye have a matter to bring to me attention, Mistress Katherine?” Shamus asked.
“If I am allowed,” she answered strongly and clearly.
There were curious looks sent her way, as well as a few nods of appreciation for her boldness, at least from the men. Marcus considered the way the women shifted back into the shadows.
“As me son Marcus’s sister”—Shamus stressed the last word—“ye do have the right to be heard if ye feel someone has transgressed against ye.”
There was a rise of hushed comments from the back of the hall.
“Not against me,” Katherine explained. “Yet I witnessed such an act.”
The hall grew quiet as people moved in closer to hear the case. Shamus made a motion with his hand. “Let’s hear it, lass.”
“Duana struck Mistress Helen across the face. Many saw it, and you could see the mark it left if Mistress Helen was not wearing a partlet.”
Marcus felt his temper straining to break free. He was out of his chair and beside Helen before she realized what Katherine had said in front of all. He moved the collar of her partlet aside, revealing the dark bruise.
“Duana,” he rasped out. “Present yerself.”
The crowd parted as the Head of House came forward. She lowered herself before her laird.
“Helen,” Shamus called over his shoulder since she was seated on the high ground beside Ailis.
Helen stood and joined Katherine. She lowered herself as well, and Duana lifted her chin confidently.
“Now,” Shamus began, “what manner of quarrel moved ye to strike me daughter-by-marriage?”
Duana opened her hands wide. “There has been talk of forced vows, but no proof of a wedding celebration,” she said clearly and loudly to the approval of many. “I agree full well that Helen did what any decent soul would under the circumstances, but that does nae grant her the right to interfere in the way I run the kitchens. Not when the McTavishes are telling one and all that they heard the union was unconsummated, and there has been no sheet flown nor has her kin been here to agree to contracts. She broke my rod, and I put her back in her place.”
There was a rumble of agreement from those watching. Shamus allowed it to die down before switching his attention to Helen. “Broke her rod, did ye?”
“Indeed.”
Shamus looked at Katherine. “Why do ye think Helen broke Mistress Duana’s rod?”
“Ye ask an English bastard girl?” Duana demanded. “I have served in this house for thirty years.”
“Something we are grateful for.” Shamus lifted a finger to keep her from saying anything further. “Yet when it comes to this matter of me son’s vows, it is a complicated one, as are all the dealings with court and the king’s regent. What should be simple is nae, which is why I am ever glad I was born in the Highlands.”
Duana nodded, her lips pressed into an expression of distaste.
“Answer the question, Mistress Katherine,” Shamus repeated.
“Me,” she replied simply.
There was a round of comments from those watching. Marcus felt his temper straining, but his father held up his hand. The hall was suddenly so quiet, they heard the thump of the hound’s tail as he wagged it next to Shamus’s feet.
“As I said, I am ever grateful to have been born in the Highlands,” Shamus said. “Decency is something we do nae just talk about. Helen will be respected for the service she did me son Marcus, yer War Chief.”
There was a grudging round of nods from those listening.
“The Earl of Morton is the regent of Scotland, and we are Scots,” Shamus continued. “It was his wish that Katherine Carew become a member of me family. As a loyal Scot, I will accept his will. She is Marcus’s sister and, thereby, me daughter.”
Shamus spoke clearly and slowly. Men reached up and tugged on the corners of their caps in response as the women lowered themselves. Duana lowered herself very quickly before she turned and retreated.
“Now, some music!” Shamus proclaimed. “This court is finished. Marcus, good night to ye and yer bride. Off to bed with ye both now.”
* * *
Everyone was staring at her. Helen felt as if daggers were being thrown at her back.
Someone began to play at the rear of the hall. Whoever it was, they were joined in short order as people started to talk. It was a hushed, frantic sort of conversation at first, clearly about what had just transpired.
“Helen.” Marcus waited only a moment for his father’s word to be heeded before he stood and called out to her. It stilled the budding conversations as those behind them took in his actions.
“Shall we retire?”
Marcus was still on the high ground and he’d used a voice every MacPherson knew. It was controlled and tight and carried to the back of the hall. He stood there with his hand out, palm facing up. It was Helen’s place to be meek, the position of the wife to follow her husband. He risked a great deal standing there and making an invitation to her.
The truth burst on her as she realized it was a gift, and she had earned it. He was making sure his men knew he trusted her. She placed her hand in his and heard the whispers behind them. She didn’t turn to look because she was too captivated by the way Marcus’s eyes were lit.
* * *
Katherine Carew watched Marcus and Helen leave. There was music now and laughter as conversation flowed. Duana had withdrawn, and many of her maids with her. That left Katherine keeping company with the men.
Not that she minded. She was accustomed to not being accepted. Her mother had been a mistress, scorned by the legitimate wife of the house. Katherine wasn’t naive enough to question why that was.
Coin.
Her father was a rich man, and his wife liked keeping that coin in their coffers. So she’d made sure Katherine knew she was owed nothing, not even protection, which was how she’d landed in Scotland.
Still, it was a great adventure.
So much better than reading tales in musty old books. She caught several of the maids glaring at her and sent them a look straight back. Let them scorn her; she was used to such. For certain, she would get a great deal more sleep now that she did not have to work in the kitchens. She looked around and found several boys her age grappling with each other. They looked up when she came closer.
“What do ye want?” one questioned.
“To learn how to do that,” Katherine answered. “That part when you broke his hold on you—how do you do it?”
The boy looked confused. “Ye’re a lass.”
“I’m very clever, though,” Katherine said. “Unless…hmmm… Perhaps you are not a good enough teacher.”
“I can teach anyone how to do it, even a lass,” the boy informed her with budding pride.
Katherine lowered herself and smiled at him. “I am ready to be instructed.”
Truly, she was. It looked so much more fun than dancing or making her stitches perfect on linen strips so she might someday impress a would-be suitor with her skills. Learning how to keep from being abducted—now there was a skill she wished she’d learned before being taken from England.
Then again, Scotland seemed a much better place. No one in England would call her sister or teach her how to wrestle. Yes, she was growing to like Scotland very much indeed.
In fact, there was no reason ever to go back to England.
* * *
“I will have words with Duana.” Marcus spoke the moment the chamber door was closed.
“There truly is no need.”
He put his sword down and sent Helen a harsh look.
“I dismissed her opinion of me long ago,” she explained before Marcus was able to argue. “The only reason I challenged her was because—”
“It was the bloody right thing to do,” Marcus finished for her.
“And so I did it. It is finished.” She moved over to where her comb was and started to pull the braid out of her hair. Marcus was watching her again, and she looked toward him.
“Yer comb is here,” he noted.
“Yes. Duana had put Katherine in one of the novice cells, so I gave her my chamber and came here.”
She felt uncertain as she explained because she hadn’t thought about it much. He started to smile but stopped.
“I’m still angry ye went to me father,” Marcus informed her tersely. “Ye gave me yer word, Helen, and ye went to the only person with whom I could no’ argue.”
Helen held her chin steady. She’d known full well what she was doing and wouldn’t shirk from the reprimand. Marcus muttered in Gaelic, frustration edging his words.