To Conquer a Highlander

by Mary Wine

  She eagerly took it, no hesitation at all. They were suddenly just people intent on enjoying one another. Torin pulled her toward the dancing.

  “Did ye ever dance at spring festival, lass?”

  He didn’t wait for her reply but pulled her into the group of laughing couples around the maypole.

  “How did ye know I went to festival?”

  Torin hooked his arm with hers and spun her around to the beat of the drums. A bolt of excitement tore through her belly when they reversed direction, and her gowns flared out to show her ankles and calves for just a moment before she was moving back in the opposite direction to the beat of the music.

  “I heard.”

  She couldn’t keep track of the conversation because Torin grasped her hips and tossed her up into the air. It was called hefting, and all around her there was cheering as the men tossed their partners skyward. The dance ended with them clutching at one another while Torin turned backward in a tight circle and spun her around and around until she squealed.

  “Enough, Torin! I beg ye.”

  He stopped, but her gowns didn’t. The fabric wrapped around his legs while the longer pleats of his kilt hit her legs. For one wild moment they were a tangle of clothing and clung to one another breathlessly.

  “Ye do nae need to beg, lass; I’ll take ye shopping happily.”

  He was already pulling her toward the other side of the fair where fabric was displayed. In the sun there were colors that shimmered like jewels, thick winter wools and light summer weaves. There was the softest linen for undergowns and rare metal buttons. There were also tools for sewing, pins and needles. Such wares were normally the most exciting part of spring festival for her. It might be autumn before the chance to buy more cloth was hers.

  If she were still alive in the fall.

  That morbid thought sliced through the bubble of joy that she’d somehow become caught inside of.

  “Baeth claims yer father sent ye out shamefully lacking. Find something ye like.”

  That wouldn’t be hard. The merchant nearest her held up a bundle of soft linen that would make a fine undergown, one just perfect for the warming weather. Her fingers reached for it without thinking.

  “I have no coin.”

  Torin reached for the fabric and brought it toward her. “Ye won at the dice, so ye do.”

  “But with yer coin, so nothing is mine but the enjoyment of playing, for which I thank ye.”

  He wanted to argue with her but froze when her words of gratitude hit him. For a moment something flickered in his dark eyes that looked like happiness.

  “Laird, ye must see my grandchild.” An old man had lifted his hand and was waving at Torin. His hair was silver with age, but his steps still had life in them. He led a girl forward.

  “This is Malcolm, an elder of the clan.”

  Malcolm inclined his head in greeting before waving the girl forward. “And this is my daughter, Amanda, she was our May queen last year. But look here, Laird; look at the fine little babe she ripened with.”

  Malcolm looked proud enough to burst. His daughter held up her baby, just three months old but bright eyed. The child was wearing a robe that was decorated with fancy stitching in rich, costly thread. It looked as if every woman in the village had taken a turn, which only made sense. When the May queen conceived, it was considered good luck for the coming year. Somewhere there was a current May queen, and everyone would be watching her belly in the coming weeks to see if she grew round with child.

  “And this here is my new son-in-law.”

  Malcolm slapped the young lad on the back with more strength than Shannon would have suspected the elder had in him. It made a smacking sound that sent his new relation forward a half step. Malcolm chuckled.

  “Got them married yesterday before the May dancing began.”

  “Ye have my congratulations and my envy, Malcolm.” Torin offered his hand, and Malcolm clasped forearms with him.

  “Would ye hold my babe, Miss? ’Twould be a blessing for him.”

  The girl was already handing the baby to Shannon. She took him gently, because it was a delight to hold a baby. The infant stuck his fist into his mouth and sucked loudly. Those watching suddenly cheered, startling the baby. His face turned red, the fist popping out of his mouth as he began to wail.

  “Would ye listen to that. Ye young men don’t know when to hush.” Malcolm grumbled as his daughter took her child and soothed him against her bosom. The baby hiccupped a final time before returning to sucking on his fist. Malcolm eyed Shannon with wrinkle-edged eyes.

  “Ye look good with a babe in yer arms, lass.”

  Shannon felt the color drain from her face. The bell in the church began to toll in the same moment, and Malcolm frowned.

  “I guess there’s something that needs yer attention, Laird. I’m sorry to hear that bell.”

  But it continued to ring insistently, and Torin’s retainers made their way through the crowd toward them. Torin sighed.

  “I’m sorry, Shannon, but they’d only ring that bell if it were important.”

  He was sorry, too. That touched her with a tenderness that shocked her.

  “Of course.”

  She choked out the words and felt herself fluttering her eyelashes as though they had been courting. Torin gripped her hand again and led her toward the horses. His people waved to him, for which Shannon discovered herself grateful. She turned to look back at the baby, still feeling his delicate body in her arms.

  A baby. Such was not so unusual a result of having a lover. Thinking about the possibility was not the same as holding him in her arms. She suddenly felt sick with the possibility that she might blacken someone else with her father’s sin.

  Torin deserved better than that.

  ***

  It was the only correct thing to do.

  Shannon watched the other McLeren women through her eyelashes, waiting for them to move away from the stillroom door frame. She moved her hands more slowly than usual, washing the dishes left from the morning meal. The other women cast her long looks but decided to leave her to the chore. Their footsteps receded up the stairs and into the great hall.

  Shannon pulled her hands from the water and dried them on a length of toweling while moving toward the stillroom. She knew what she needed and didn’t want any other woman seeing her getting it. Every woman knew what certain herbs were used for, even if most of the men in the castle might not.

  There were ways to fend off conception, ways that were passed down from generation to generation. The church forbid such knowledge, but it still remained. Even being kept a virgin under her father’s roof had not prevented her from hearing the methods employed by other girls to keep their bellies from swelling after a night of unbridled passion.

  She had sampled that well and truly. Her belly had been tender this morning, and bathing the scent of her lover off her skin wouldn’t remove his seed from her womb. So she would have to mix up something to keep that seed from taking root. There wouldn’t be any proud father showing off her child next spring.

  The stillroom held all the herbs. New green ones hung from the roof to dry, but there were many more bundles of dark brown ones that had been carefully gathered during the last spring. These would see the inhabitants of Donan Tower through sickness and aches. There were also herbs for seasoning and others for the making of soap, but what she sought were the more potent ones that could force her woman’s courses to come. Those herbs were kept at the far end of the room, where no one might take them by mistake. They were higher up so that younger girls would have to fetch a stool to stand on if they intended to touch them. They were even tied up in cloth to keep any small amount from dropping onto the worktable.

  “There’s a danger to taking that witch weed, girl.”

  Shannon turned too quickly, her gowns flaring out and bet
raying her guilt. Baeth stood in the door frame, her lips pressed into a disapproving line.

  “Take that and ye might bleed too much. I’ve seen it; it is nae an easy death.” Baeth moved into the stillroom. “Leave it be. A babe is a blessing that ye should nae be in a hurry to reject.”

  Shannon bit into her lower lip, indecision tearing at her. Baeth was the closest thing to a friend that she had at Donan Tower, but the woman owed her allegiance to Torin.

  Baeth waved a hand at her. “I said come away. Do nae make me fetch Brockton.”

  Shannon stiffened. “Ye would do that?”

  Baeth considered her for a long moment.

  “It’s a woman’s matter, not something for yer son to learn about. I’m preventing a problem. I’d think ye, of all women here, would be happy to see that I do nae plan to bind yer laird to me.”

  The head of house shook her head. “Nay, lass, ye are wrong.”

  Frustration made Shannon’s tone sharper. “Wrong? Bringing a child into this mess is what would be wrong. Will it cling to my skirts while I continue to roam this kitchen like an outcast without a place? Or worse still, will it be raised without a mother when a sentence is handed down on my father?”

  “It would be the child of the laird, and it is time he had a child.”

  “His bastard.”

  Baeth snorted. “The laird is nae wed, nor is he contracted, so that is nae a certainty. Ye would nae be the first lass who gained marriage through birthing a son.”

  “Yet the possibility is nae something I can ignore. No child should suffer being bastard born.” Shannon swallowed her pride. “Please, Baeth, turn yer back. I would nae stain a child with my own sin.”

  The head of house snorted. “I’ll do nothing of the sort. Ye’ll take yerself away from that poison and stay away from this room, lass. That’s my word on the matter.”

  “Baeth—”

  “Get ye gone and do some thinking. Ye’re no’ so young that ye can argue with fate about when she blesses ye with a babe. There’s a reason ye and the laird are drawn to each other.”

  Shannon laughed. “The reason is that fate is cruel. Taunting me with a captor whom I lack the discipline to stay away from.”

  A hint of a smile curved Baeth’s lips. “Well, at least ye’re honest and no’ set to accuse the laird of forcing ye.”

  Shannon stiffened. “I do nae lie.”

  “Which is why I like ye. Now do nae be changing my thinking with this bit of nonsense.”

  “It is prudent, nae nonsense.”

  Baeth blew out a long breath that sounded somewhat like a growl. She lifted one hand and pointed a weathered finger at her.

  “This talking has nae changed me mind. There will be no unchristian use of these herbs. Get ye to the upper floor, where there is work to be done.”

  There was the ring of authority in Baeth’s voice now. Shannon felt bitterness rising up to choke her, but she turned toward the doorway.

  “Do nae think me too harsh, lass; the laird has no children, and that is a shame, something that makes every McLeren worry about the future.”

  “That does nae mean my child would be good for the McLeren. My father is a traitor.”

  Baeth’s face became set as hard as stone. “Aye, but that is none of yer doing. Mark my words, if his seed is meant to take root in ye, I’ll set my son to making sure ye do naught to interfere.”

  ***

  Harsh? Shannon did think the head of house an unrelenting woman. Brockton appeared and dodged her steps for the remainder of the day. The hours dragged on endlessly, but it wasn’t the time that bothered her; it was the loneliness. Baeth had been the closest thing to a friend she had. The woman’s displeasure sat heavy upon her shoulders. That made her miss Torin. Which was ridiculous, because men and women did not console one another. They were set apart by their genders; everyone knew that.

  But he’d been so tender during the night… and he took her to festival…

  Her mind took her back to those hours when Torin had pulled her close and kept her there. He seemed to like to stroke her, his hands moving over her in long motions that sent soft pleasure through her. She’d have said such was absurd too, except that she had experienced it. Torin was in contradiction with everything she knew of men.

  Baeth kept her busy, but it was far past the normal time for remaking the bed in Torin’s chamber when the sheets were finally given to her. It was late afternoon, but Shannon took them, wanting to be above stairs so late in the day. Torin’s men had begun to filter in from the yard, their hair slick with sweat from training. Most of them would bathe before the evening meal, and their laird did the same.

  Climbing the stairs, Shannon took a glance over her shoulder to see where Brockton was, but there was no sign of him. At least Baeth had not altered the privacy Shannon gained by being above stairs.

  Relief flooded her. She suddenly noticed how much her neck ached. Rolling her head, she tried to loosen the muscles before taking a deep breath and forcing herself to walk into Torin’s chamber. It wasn’t that she dreaded the place; quite the opposite. She’d found such comfort here that she feared becoming too dependent on it. Torin was laird. He would be expected to marry. If her father were branded a traitor, she would not be a candidate for that position.

  She might remain his leman. The idea was not unpleasant, but her pride refused. There would be plenty who would tell her that becoming Torin’s lesser woman would be a higher station than any other she might hope to gain, being the daughter of a traitor, but even knowing that did not soften her resolve.

  All the shutters were open now, the breeze blowing through the chamber and making it fresh. The bed curtains were tied up around each thick bedpost so that she might remake the bed. Shannon shook out the first sheet and walked around the bed, tucking it in. She stopped once it was finished, a snapping sound from the window gaining her attention.

  Turning her head, she looked toward the open window. The sound persisted, drawing her toward the opening in the wall. Just a hint of ivory linen was peeking up at the corners where the hinges were set into the stone. One more step and she could see that whatever was snapping in the wind was hanging down the outside of the tower.

  Since she had the sheets, it could not be one of them set out to air, and the piece she could see was too thin to be a blanket. One last step and she was able to peer outside.

  A startled gasp broke through her lips. In the fading sun, her underrobe was lying against the lighter stone of the tower, the dark bloodstain clear as a mark of shame. Shock held her still for only a moment before she reached for one corner.

  A hard hand captured her wrist, preventing her from grasping the garment.

  “Leave it.” Torin had appeared without a sound, sending another bolt of surprise through her, but it was not enough to keep her from hearing the snap of the undergown in the breeze. The sound cut into her ears like a knife.

  “I will nae.” Shannon struggled against Torin. “Ye have no right to shame me in such a fashion.”

  His grip never gave, not even a tiny amount. “Ye gifted me with yer purity, Shannon. Ye have the right to be honored for that. I told Baeth to hang it there.”

  “Ye… ye…” She sputtered, unable to pull enough breath into her lungs to complete her thought. “I am not yer wife.”

  But he’d taken her through the village on his arm, sure enough. As laird, she belonged to him now. At least his people would see it that way.

  One of his dark eyebrows rose. “’Tis a simple enough matter to change, woman.”

  Shannon felt the color drain from her face. She froze, ceasing to pull against the hold he had on her wrist. Torin allowed her to be loose but stood in front of the window, blocking the path to her undergown.

  “Ye do nae care for that, sweet Shannon? Why is that? Because I am McLeren?” He chuckled, but it was
not a nice sound. It was dark and edged with warning such as she recalled from their first meeting. He stepped toward her, looming large and forbidding once again. “You lay with me of yer own free will. It will nae take more than that admission to get the priest to wed us.”

  “Yer people will hate us both for it.”

  Her voice was quiet because she didn’t want him to hear the disappointment in it. The emotion threatened to send tears into her eyes, and she fought against them. She didn’t want to admit how much she longed to have him and have the sweet knowledge that there was hope in her future of something other than ending up with her throat slit in retaliation for her father’s deeds.

  “That is my worry, and this morning they didna hate it. They will adjust.”

  Shannon lifted her chin. “I disagree. A marriage is a union of two names. My children would be sneered at for their McBoyd blood. For the sin of their… grandfather.” Her voice did falter, bringing color to her cheeks in shame. But she kept her chin steady, refusing to duck her head. “Besides, ye are not interested in wedding me for anything more than yer sense of honor. I care nae for the pity. That has never been something I sought.”

  “So ye would risk yer life to make sure my seed does nae take root in ye?” His face darkened with rage. “I swear to heaven I do want to wed ye, if for no other reason than I’ll have the right to spank yer arse for thinking to take such a risk, Shannon McBoyd.”

  “Ye would nae dare.”

  She didn’t care if the priests in the church heard her screeching. She refused to care that the church said a husband had the right to spank his wife. No man was going to lay his hand across her bottom.

  “Oh, I’d dare, Shannon McBoyd. Ye should know that, since I tied ye around me and brought ye here like the barbarian that ye said I am. I assure ye, I will dare to do what I please with ye.”

  “Quit with yer excuse that my words are the ones that make ye act like a brute. You behave as ye please, Torin McLeren. So unless ye are a coward, stop saying I am the one who prompts ye to action.” She tossed her head and propped her hands onto her hips. His eyes flashed with challenge a moment before he snatched her clean off her feet. His arms closed around her, imprisoning her when she tried to push her way to freedom. He tossed her across his bed, and her gowns fluttered up in wild disarray. Shannon bounced in a tangle of fabric and limbs. Her face brightened even more when she realized that her bottom was facing up. With a sputter, she jerked her head off the surface of the bed and pushed her hands against the soft bedding beneath her.