by Mary Wine
Lying down, she tugged the bed curtains closed to block out the light. Her mind wanted to turn her circumstances over and over but she forced herself to sleep. She would need the strength when she made a run for it.
Chapter Six
“There now. That’s much better.” Lydia propped her hands on her hips to survey her work. “There’s no need for ye to be near naked all the day long after all. I’m sure the laird will see about getting ye clothing.”
“Laird?” Bronwyn looked at Lydia in confusion. “I thought his older brother was laird.”
“Oh, to be sure his brother is the earl and Laird McJames, but his father never absorbed the title their sweet mother brought to the McJames because he had two sons. Cullen McJames is Laird Lampart. It’s a baronial that he holds in his own right.” Lydia clicked her tongue and reached out to adjust the sleeve of Bronwyn’s dress. It was a pretty green wool that had brown edging and over sleeves for more warmth. It was too lightweight for the heart of winter that was coming, but finding a good dress to wear was lucky. Clothing was made for each person’s body, trading it about was asking for boned stays to jab into your hip or the doublet to dig into you beneath your arms. Most girls didn’t have but two dresses, and only replaced them when they were worn through. Sewing took time and it often had to be done once a full day’s work was behind you.
“Please thank Murain for allowing me to wear her dress.”
Lydia grinned. “Young McJames sent her a piece of gold already. She needs that more than a dress she’ll no be able to wear anytime in the next year.”
The dress would allow her to walk around the tower, to get closer to the stable, but knowing that Cullen had paid for it made her wish she could refuse to wear it. A jolt of guilt crossed her mind. It would seem that men were not the only ones who followed their pride.
She would wear the dress, and without a hint of concern for the gold it had cost her captor. It was his fault that she needed anything from him. And she would not feel grateful toward him either. She was a hostage; it was her duty to scorn the man responsible for her plight.
Indeed, it was.
Frustration set her teeth to grinding. Her feelings were all jumbled and unrecognizable. She actually liked the things Cullen did, approving of his conduct.
She was acting like a fool.
The sun was setting and she had only one day to escape the confines of this McJames stronghold. Sterling would be near impossible to escape. It was not just the castle she would have to work her way free of, but she needed to get off McJames land before she was run down by Cullen and that stallion he rode.
“I’m nae surprised that ye did not know of his title. Those brothers stick together. It makes the McJames stronger because they are not fighting among themselves like so many sons do when their father leaves this world.”
Bronwyn nodded agreement without really thinking. She could see Liam and Sodac fighting once her father was gone. Keir suspected as much; that was why he was always keeping a personal hand on the investments and books of Red Stone. Liam and Sodac would be foolish to push him out when he kept the silver flowing into the McQuades’ hands. All lairds had tenants, and from there they received rents due, but it took a clever mind to double and triple that money by investment. Without Keir, her brothers would see their share dwindle quickly.
Her belly rumbled again because of her meager meal.
“Come on, lass, let’s feed ye. It’s near time for supper.”
“I’d like that.”
More important, she’d enjoy the chance to escape the chamber. Lydia led the way down the stairs and through a few larger rooms. The scent of roasting meat sent her belly into another long rumble that Bronwyn tried to ignore. If supper was being laid on the table, most of the White Tower inhabitants would be making their way to the tables lest they miss the last warm meal of the day. Supper was always served while there was good daylight remaining to clean up after the meal was eaten. Candles and firewood were resources best used sparingly, so the inhabitants rose with the sun and settled in for the night when it surrendered to nightfall. Overhead a bell began to ring, echoing through the stone walls.
“See there? Supper is being served.”
Lydia didn’t give her the chance to slip away, instead reaching down and clasping her wrist. Bronwyn stared at the hold, fighting the impulse to jerk her arm away. But that would not do her cause any good. Better to allow Lydia to think her frightened enough to comply.
“Here now. Supper smells good today.”
The main hall of White Tower was a large rectangular room. It had a raised ceiling that was circled by hallways on the upper floor. Bronwyn marveled at the soft sounds of music drifting down over the rapidly filling tables. Music was a treat, something normally reserved for feast days and celebrations.
Celebrations…
Her eyes widened as the hall quieted when Lydia pulled her into it. Men turned to look at her, curiosity on their faces. Smiles abounded and many raised their tankards to her. Lydia kept her moving at a steady pace, but Bronwyn recoiled when she got a look at the head table.
Cullen sat there with his cousin, Druce. Next to them was a bishop in his white short robe and black square-topped wool hat. A gold cross hung around his neck as a symbol of his office within the reformed church. One of the new changes James Stuart was making to the Kirk of Scotland, bishops were beginning to show up as the governing body of the church. They held high position by royal command. Refusing the instructions of a bishop was something no wise person did.
To write and seal a marriage contract, you needed a bishop. She saw the glint of candlelight flickering off the heavy signet ring affixed to his right hand.
She stopped moving, forcing Lydia to drag her or release her. The maid turned to look at her, but Bronwyn was staring at Cullen.
Of all the sneaky things…
The man smiled at her and reached up to tug the corner of his knitted bonnet. He wore a doublet that was buttoned up to mid-chest. The creamy linen of his shirt showed through the open front of the sleeves. But he had the cuffs of that shirt secured around his wrists. It was far more formal than he’d been that morning, warning her that the man intended to press her to take vows tonight.
Well, not if she didn’t get close enough for that bishop to speak with her. She suddenly hated the dress, because no man of the church would invade her chamber if she was wearing nothing but a chemise.
“May I present my bride, Bishop Shaman.” Cullen’s voice bounced down the length of the hall. Druce’s men let out a cheer as they lifted their tankards high. Bronwyn shuddered, her cheeks turning red with rage, but the bishop crooked his finger at her. There was no way to refuse his command without painting herself a disobedient Christian soul. She’d end in the stocks if she offended the man.
Bronwyn forced her feet forward and her teeth into her lower lip. Finding herself locked into wooden stocks for public humiliation wasn’t a pleasant idea. The offender would do their time no matter the weather. Often they were whipped while helpless to ensure they felt the disapproval of the entire community. Children would be brought by their schoolmasters and mothers to gaze upon her and learn what the penalties were for denying the authority of the church. Of course, it would all be done in the interest of purging her soul and teaching her her place so that God would not be offended by her lack of humility.
The church was the one constant in a land where clans ruled absolutely on their ancestral lands. No one refused a bishop, not even the king did so publicly.
Cullen McJames was not fighting fairly. First stolen kisses, and now a bishop! She was right to suspect him. A wedding performed by a bishop would be impossible to dissolve. Cullen and his brother could petition the king for her dowry armed with the seal from that signet ring. All the time, she might be locked away, only kept alive so that the McJames might gain money for her. And it was also a fact that she would not have to live very long, only a few years for the McJames to have claim to a share o
f her father’s holdings.
Cullen might lay with her but once to consummate the union before taking his hot kisses to a McJames lass who didn’t have the blood of his enemy flowing through her veins.
She ground her teeth, a hot flash of jealousy surprising her.
“Come along now, the bishop is no a man to be kept waiting, dear.” Lydia tugged on her wrist. Bronwyn sealed her emotions behind a blank expression and walked toward the high table. She stopped and lowered herself in front of the bishop.
Bishop Shaman nodded approval at her. A small ripple of conversation went through those watching. The man stood up and the hall instantly fell silent. Bronwyn felt every set of eyes in the hall on her back.
“Marriage is a holy estate, free of sin. All true Christian souls should strive to marry and refuse lustful wonderings.”
There was a mutter of agreement while heads nodded.
“Join us, my dear.” The bishop extended his hand toward the empty chair at the high table. That simple gesture was as solid as chains being locked around her.
“Ye are too kind, yer Grace.”
And Cullen was too sure of himself by far…
The only available seat at the high table was next to Cullen. A groom pulled a heavy X chair back for her. The man pushed it toward the table the moment she sat in it, trapping her between Druce and Cullen. Maids instantly began serving the table in fine fashion. If she hadn’t known that she had been abducted and therefore not expected, she might never have guessed, because the meal was so lavish.
As far as celebrations went, it lacked nothing. There was mulled wine and roasted meats. Candied fruits graced the table along with dried ones being mixed in with breads. The bishop dined well, clearly enjoying the rich fare.
Unfortunately, she enjoyed none of it because Cullen was enjoying himself far too much at her expense. She waited until Bishop Shaman was engaged in a loud conversation with Druce before turning her wrath on the man sitting so smugly beside her.
“I told ye nae.”
His expression might be playful, but when she looked into his eyes she noticed the burning determination. He offered her no quarter. His face might not be painted blue for fighting, but it was certainly the image of a hardened warrior.
“And I warned ye to consider yer options.” He shot a hard look at her. “But I’ll be most interested in listening to how ye plan to tell the bishop about yer desire to nae wed with me.”
“I will tell him.”
Cullen lost his amused expression. His lips pressed into a firm line as hunger drew his face tight. “And I will inform him of what yer father told one and all. That I have had ye.”
“That is a lie.” She kept her voice low because her heart jumped at the very idea. The lust he’d stirred in her flared up at the mere suggestion of his touch now. It was truly a poison. Once infected, she was doomed.
“Yer father did say it, that part is no a lie.”
“But ye haven’t…” She failed to voice the last few words because they felt like some sort of surrender.
He smiled, an unpleasant expression that was full of hunger and promise.
“I will.”
He grasped her hand, imprisoning it in his larger one. She was instantly aware of how his skin felt against hers, how much she enjoyed the touch.
His touch…
Cullen leaned closer, angling his head toward her. Two of his fingers stroked the underside of her wrist. Her breath caught in her throat, her heart accelerating while he stroked her delicate skin once, twice more.
“Dinna doubt it, Bronwyn. There’s too much passion between us.”
His fingers slid over her inner wrist and up to the hollow of her palm. A deep shiver shook her, forcing a soft gasp out of her lips. His face shone with satisfaction, deep, hard male satisfaction.
“’Tis only lust.”
He shrugged. “That has its place between a man and wife, too. But this is more. Ye felt it the day we met. It was more than lust that colored yer cheeks.”
She shook her head, but Cullen suddenly straightened, looking beyond her. There was a chuckle from Druce and another from the bishop. Horror flooded her as she turned to look at the man of the clergy.
Bishop Shaman looked pleased, enormously so. He clapped his hands together, making a loud pop. With a satisfied smile he rubbed his palms against each other with glee.
“Come, my children, let us settle this matter between ye.”
The bishop stood without looking behind him. The grooms pulled his chair back before the powerful representative of the church knocked his shins against its legs. There was hustle all around the head table as the staff made sure the bishop’s desires were granted quickly. All the chairs were pulled back. Bronwyn frowned but stood up.
Cullen didn’t release her hand. Possibly because he knew she’d rather duck into the kitchen than follow the bishop to any place where the matter of her marriage might be settled.
That’s no quite so…
Temptation was a demon because it whispered to her, reminding her how much she did like his touch. Escaping Cullen meant sealing her fate when it came to marriage. She would never know a man’s kiss again unless she wanted to make the gossips correct by becoming soiled.
She looked at Cullen’s hand where it was clasped around her wrist. He held her limb lightly but securely. The skin of her inner wrist was keenly aware of each of his fingers and there was no trying to tell herself that she disliked the way his skin felt against hers.
Or the way he kissed.
Her eyes moved up his arm, staring at the linen of his shirt still buttoned around his wrist. No man had ever dressed formally for her. She’d always considered it a useless waste of time, the rules that supposedly went with courting. But she suddenly felt plain with her hair hanging down her back in nothing more than a single braid.
Druce led the bishop to his private receiving room. It didn’t take very long for them to cover the distance. It was a comfortable room with a large fireplace. Windows ran along one wall, and hanging over them were draperies made of velvet. The fabric was worthy of a king. She reached out to gently touch it because it was too much of a temptation. Her hand glided along the surface of the fabric, as soft as a baby’s new hair.
“Well now, my children.”
Bishop Shaman clearly enjoyed his position and the duties that went along with his church robes. The man settled himself in a large X chair that had ornately carved hand rests in the shape of lion claws. There was a carpet beneath the legs of the chair, spread out over the stone floor, adding another touch of luxury to the room.
Two grooms had followed them and they silently set up a traveling desk on a side table. An inkwell and quill were pulled from within the desk along with a sheet of paper. Her throat constricted as she watched one last item come out of that desk. It was a finger of sealing wax and a candle. Held in a short holder, the groom lit it and placed the wax near it. Her gaze flew to the bishop and the signet ring sitting on his right hand.
Aye, Cullen McJames was a warrior, all right. The man didn’t plan to allow her any chance to escape him. But she understood. His honor was at stake.
Yet so was hers. It was a poor child who shamed her parents. Even though her sire hated her, there was a lifetime of church teaching that forbade her to judge her father. Indecision gripped her so tightly, she forgot to breathe. She stared at Cullen, trying to understand why she had to reject him. She was truly torn, but one truth stuck in her thoughts. She knew her life at Red Stone. There was respect there. Even friends…well, maybe not friends but people who were kind toward her. She went where she wanted, had the things that she needed. Her attention settled on the blue, yellow, and orange of the McJames plaid. At Sterling there would be no kindness for a McQuade. Cullen would use her to strike back at his enemy, but she would be the one who would have to live her life among a clan who detested her blood.
It was a bleak prospect that even the hot attraction brewing inside her belly could
not warm.
“Bronwyn McQuade.”
Her mind snapped back to the man sitting in front of her. The bishop eyed her with a stern look.
“Cullen has made a petition to me for license to wed with ye.” The bishop’s voice dropped a few notes as he applied his considerable authority over her.
“That is a matter best taken to my father.”
Cullen snorted. “That is nae possible and ye know it.” Exasperation laced his voice.
“As an obedient daughter I must refer ye to my father. It is tradition.” She lifted her chin, refusing to negotiate.
“So is marrying to end a feud.”
“Exactly.” Bishop Shaman slapped his hand down on top of one armrest. The sound startled her with how loud and final it was. The bishop raised one hand. “Sometimes it is necessary to dispense with some traditions in favor of the greater good.”
Bronwyn felt the trap closing around her. “I cannae wed without my father’s permission.”
“Ye mean ye willna.” Cullen stepped closer, his eyes dancing with impending victory. “Which is why I stole ye.”
She gasped, her eyes widening. The determination in Cullen’s eyes scraped across her composure, making her angry at his manipulation of her life. It might not be much, but it was hers. She would not be his prize, used to soothe his pride.
“I do not want to marry any man who seeks me for retaliation against my kin.”
Cullen’s face changed; it wasn’t a softening but a shifting in his expression from solid determination to hunger.
“I want ye for more.” His voice was softer now, deeper. Heat flowed into her cheeks and her lower lip went dry. Before she thought better of it, she licked her lip. His eyes instantly dropped to her mouth, sending a quiver through her belly.
Bishop Shaman cleared his throat. Cullen flushed for a change and turned to look toward the man. His humility was short-lived though. He tilted his head and shrugged.
“Now ye see why I’m set to get married.”
“I see quite clearly.” The bishop didn’t sound as somber as she would have expected. Instead there was a twinkle in his eye and a grin curving his lips. He gestured toward his men with the desk. One picked up the quill and dipped it into the ink. There was a dull scratch as he set it to the parchment.