One

1579

It wouldn’t be the first marriage contracted for the gain it would bring to the groom’s family.

Brenda contemplated the road in front of her and felt almost nothing.

That was by far the saddest part of what would be her second marriage. She felt nothing much about it at all. Not that she expected to be happy about being ordered to leave Scotland and wed a man she’d never met by a king who was only fifteen years old and therefore too naive to understand what he was sending Brenda off to do.

But feeling nothing?

She thought she might at least have felt a sense of injustice over it all.

For it was vastly unfair for her to have to wed at James the Sixth’s command simply because the boy was enamored of Esmé Stewart. Of course she would hardly be the first person to suffer from royal lack of concern when a king was intent on smoothing the ruffled feathers of his dearest friend.

Her temper stirred at last as she thought about the Frenchman known as Esmé Stewart who had fought so hard to ensure the land that was now Brenda’s dowry was returned to his English cousin. He was the young King’s favorite and closest friend. He was also a man with ambition and an eye on his family having more holdings than anyone else. At least the King had settled the land on Brenda. It meant her cousin Symon could keep his new bride, who had arrived in Scotland fleeing from the man Brenda was being sent to wed. Noble families like the Stewarts did stick together.

Well, Brenda could hardly find fault with such actions. Family members should watch out for one another, and land…well, land was the truest form of wealth. It was the thing that kept the nobles in power because they could charge rent for land. She felt her temper rising over being sent to wed because of a dowry. However, the flare of anger didn’t last very long; it sputtered out before her mare had crossed even half a mile. The reason was simple enough.

At this point, Brenda expected to be used by men for their personal gain. She simply didn’t think any better of the world around her.

Jaded.

It was bound to happen. Honestly, she really didn’t know why she lingered over the idea of knowing she’d completely lost her faith in the world around her. Her first marriage had smashed her illusions to little bits, her tears drying when she realized her husband only viewed her as an amusement to bring him notice from his friends. His father had eagerly collected her dowry as the wedding was celebrated in fine style at the Scottish court.

And she’d been bedded in full view of more than a dozen of her husband’s friends.

Drunken sods who had leered at her and enjoyed her horror all while calling themselves noble lords.

Now, it seemed impossible she had ever been so tender. Brenda felt her lips rise into a little grin. It was at her own expense, and yet she just couldn’t keep herself from marveling at the difference between who she’d been then and the woman she was now.

She had been so naive to think her future might include love or even something as simple as a marriage where husband and wife treated one another with kindness. Clearly she had failed to look around her. As the laird’s niece, she’d been born into the role of bargaining chip. The matter of her marriage was one for discussion and planning.

Yet there had been a time…when ye’d listened to songs of love and dreamed…

Brenda stiffened, banishing the memory, because she had decided long ago never to allow her first husband to hurt her ever again. She’d wed at her father’s command for the alliance it would give her clan. It had been her duty. She’d gone to him with ideas of her obedience yielding understanding from him. Truthfully, her anger should be directed at the upbringing that had taught her erroneously that dutiful behavior led to happiness.

Or perhaps she might think ill of her Campbell relations, who had so gleefully enjoyed seeing her tender illusions shredded on her wedding night and throughout her first year of marriage, when her husband had seated his mistresses right at the head table alongside her and the laird of the clan Campbell. They’d encouraged him to show off how vigorous he was in keeping a mistress, and he’d discarded each poor woman the moment another one took his fancy. In the end, Brenda had learned to have a measure of understanding for her kin in wedding her to him because a wife could not be tossed out. No, she’d been there to see her husband’s women come and go, while all around her people told her to accept her portion with dignity.

Well, he’s dead now…

She was her own woman at last.

Or at least she had been until her cousin found Athena Trappes in May. The English girl had been escaping from Galwell Scrope, who wouldn’t be expecting Brenda to arrive with orders to wed him. In fact, Galwell had tried to make Athena his mistress. So horrified had she been that she had dressed as a boy and managed to get hired by a traveling merchant, thus escaping from Galwell.

Brenda smiled sincerely now. Her cousin Symon had been smitten with the girl. It had been a dream come true because Symon and Brenda were the last of their line. They’d spent more than one winter evening recognizing the need for them both to wed. And then, in a moment, Symon had met Athena. Oh, she’d made him court her, but not out of a need to twist him around her finger.

Brenda liked Athena even more for her sweet ways.

Brenda felt her expression tighten. Esmé Stewart had done his best to ruin it all without a care for how deeply in love Symon and Athena were. The nobleman had discovered the dowry left to Athena by her father and used his friendship with the kind young King James to attempt to send Athena back to Galwell so the land would stay in the Stewart family.

At least young James hadn’t been willing to take Symon’s wife away, so once Symon married Athena, there was nothing to be done. The Scottish king might have been only fifteen, but he had proven himself worthy of his royal blood by settling the land on Brenda and sending her to wed Galwell. The land had been transferred to her because the King had upheld Symon and Athena’s marriage. Thus, the land was a Grant holding from thence forward.

Her lips rose into a sarcastic twist. Galwell would soon learn that nobles and royals arranged matters to suit themselves first. If Galwell expected the delicate, sweet, and soft-spoken Athena to return to him, Brenda imagined a fiery Highlander woman would be quite a shock to the English nobleman.

However amusing it might be to contemplate how unhappy Galwell would be, Brenda knew for certain that she, as his wife and chattel, would be the one to suffer for his disgruntlement.

There it was: the way life had always treated her. There was no kindness, only a very determined dictate that she never maintain a happy state of being for too long. As soon as she believed she was safe, fate would reach out and slice her open with its talons.

No, she only managed to get tastes of happiness long enough to allow her to recall with perfect clarity how much she enjoyed those brief respites. However, she was very pleased to know Athena was happy, and Galwell wouldn’t find her so easy to intimidate. Brenda had learned how to live as chattel, and she thoroughly enjoyed knowing Athena would never know how the position chafed. And there was the knowledge that her cousin Symon wouldn’t face the displeasure of his king. All in all, as far as doing her duty went, Brenda decided her English marriage suited her far more than her first one had. The reason was simple: she wanted Symon to be happy. If it meant she had to obey James of Scotland and wed an English noble, well, Brenda would far rather it be herself heading to England instead of Athena.

Brenda smiled again. Athena wasn’t jaded, and Brenda was going to enjoy knowing she’d helped ensure the girl would have only a happy life. The knowledge offered a little glimmer of hope that Brenda was going to clasp tightly to her heart.

Symon wasn’t happy with her though. Her cousin had wanted to protect her as well as his young wife.

He was a good man. Which was why she’d spoken up and declared she’d obey the King when Symon had been set to protect Brenda. Symon would have gotten himself thrown into chains for defying the young King. Brenda didn’t fault her cousin for his need to shield his family. No, James had neatly twisted the situation so Symon might keep his new bride, Athena, but at the expense of having Brenda promised to the English noble from whom Athena had fled. The man only wanted the land. It was a common enough thing, for certain. So there was no reason for Symon to anger his King. No reason for Brenda not to step up and do as the King demanded. No reason to think about how much she didn’t want to wed again.

At least there was the comfort of knowing she was ensuring her cousin was happy and her clan in good standing with the King. Her first marriage had also brought an alliance that prevented bloodshed.

Yes, it was her duty to wed Galwell Scrope.

By royal command.

However, she found less comfort in going off to face Galwell than she had the first time she’d wed. Protecting the Grants? Well, she knew her kin and clansmen. A piece of land? Galwell wanted the rents from the property. Land was the truest form of wealth. Noble families owned it all, keeping the lower classes paying for its use.

Hence she was heading to England. So be it. She’d face whatever came her way, as she always had. As the Highlander she was.

She would do her duty.

* * *

Chief Bothan Gunn pulled his horse to a halt. He reached forward to rub its neck as he contemplated the view before him.

Maddox, his captain, came up beside him, tilting his head to one side as he waited to see why Bothan had stopped. Both of them peered at the land in front of them, the place where Scotland ended and England began.

“I never thought to lay eyes on that,” Maddox declared when Bothan remained silent. His voice drew out the last word, making it clear Maddox cared little for the place they were heading.

Bothan turned to look at him. “Or cross into it.”

Before them were the borderlands. England lay on the other side of them. He didn’t belong there, but Bothan set his stallion into motion because Brenda Grant wasn’t suited to England any more than he was.

She was wild.

And he was going to ensure she could remain unbridled by those who didn’t understand the value of a woman with the spark of life burning in her. Let the English keep their wives in submissive obedience. He craved a wife who would singe him with her heat and give him children with the strength to rise up to the challenge of living in the Highlands.

Brenda was that woman.

She would spit in his eye, though. At least until he proved his worth to her.

He slowly chuckled as he contemplated the battle ahead.

It was a fact; he was going to enjoy it.

And so would Brenda.

He’d see to that…personally.

Of course, first he had to rescue her. His lips curved into a grin. At last there was something pleasing about his journey into England. Snatching a prize from the hands of the English—well, there was something he would enjoy full well. They told tales in England of wild savages such as himself.

Highlanders.

Not that he was planning on changing the way the English thought about him.

No, he was riding onto their land to retrieve the woman he craved. Any who stepped between them was going to discover he was tenfold worse than any story they had ever heard.

* * *

The English captain escorting Brenda was happy to be on home land at last. His face bore the marks of his worry, and Brenda watched the way he ran a hand over his face before sitting down at a long table in the common room of the tavern they’d stopped in for the night.

An English tavern. Which, by the look on the captain’s face, made a world of difference to the man.

Well, Brenda could hardly think ill of him for being happy to be home. She would have smiled brightly indeed if she were spending the night beneath the roof of Grant Tower.

The captain caught her looking back at him from the top of the stairs.

“You will find your supper abovestairs, Mistress,” he called out. The man was well suited to his position; his tone was full of authority, no hint of insecurity. And it was loud enough to fill the common room of the tavern.

But she knew he was just a bit shaken by her appearance or he wouldn’t have spoken from where he sat, so that his voice bounced between the walls and made his wishes clear to everyone there. She allowed her eyes to narrow and enjoyed the way his lips thinned in a hard line. He was wise enough to know she might be a great deal of trouble if she decided to be a thorn in his side.

She could see the fear lurking in his eyes.

But she did not bother. It was best only to pick a fight when she needed to win. Tonight she wouldn’t be making an attempt at gaining her freedom because her own word bound her to the journey. The captain knew it too, which was why there was no man posted outside her door. At that moment, Brenda could see the man thinking through his choice to trust her at her word. Brenda offered him a serene expression as the men in the common room went silent in response to the rising tension.

“I would like some water,” Brenda said as she came smoothly down the steps. A few of his men cast her harassed looks. They were drunk on their own arrogance, thinking her nothing more than a nuisance.

If only they knew just how difficult she might be if she hadn’t given her word to see the wedding through. They misjudged her simply because she’d been riding without any comment for so long. They mistook her compliance for docility.

“Drink the ale in your room, woman,” one of them groused at her. “Water will poison you. Ye’ll get the fever from it.”

The captain didn’t take his eyes off her. She watched as he gauged her reaction to his man’s order, surprise flickering in his eyes as she merely kept moving at the same pace. The captain’s jaw was set, but he never denied her, so Brenda turned and moved toward the back of the common room, heading to the door that led to the kitchen.

“Addams, go with her,” the captain ordered from behind her.

Brenda heard a bench skid against the wooden floor of the tavern as Addams stood with a grumble and reluctantly fell into step behind her. The kitchen was smoky as the end of the day meant it was time to let the fire burn down to conserve wood.

Peat was often laid on top of the coals to keep them alive until the morning. It made for a slow, smoldering fire that smelled like a barn floor. The back door was open wide to let the smoke escape, but now that they were in the city, the air beyond the doors smelled less pleasant.

Another marriage wasn’t the only reason Brenda had to loathe her return to what so many considered civilization. She’d take the Highlands over the congested city any day.

The cook was yawning and sitting by the fire as he nursed a mug of cider. His apron was stained and grubby. He looked up as Brenda came through the doorway, clearly not interested in another request from his patrons.

“She insists on water,” Addams spoke up.

The cook started to rise, resigned to his duty. “I will fetch it, sir,” Brenda muttered sweetly.

The cook settled back down with a pleased smile on his lips. He pointed toward a barrel sitting near the open back door.

Brenda picked up a pitcher sitting on a table and took it toward the barrel as Addams grunted and crossed his arms over his chest. “No one drinks water.”

“We drink it often in Scotland,” Brenda answered.

“Best get used to the way we live in England,” Addams informed her as he came up to snatch the pitcher from her fingers. He dipped it into the water without a care for what might be on the outside of the vessel.

Brenda offered him a disapproving glare. He shot her a smug grin that froze on his lips as he looked over her shoulder and dropped the pitcher into the barrel.

Someone pulled her back, encircling her waist with a hard arm and lifting her right off her feet. It happened in an instant, and Addams was knocked in the jaw with a hard fist as a man grabbed a handful of his doublet front to keep Addams from flying into the wall. His head jerked and his eyes rolled back in his head before he was lowered to the floor in an unconscious heap.

“He needs a wee nap to think about the tone he was using with ye,” Bothan Gunn informed her firmly.

Brenda didn’t care for the way her heart accelerated. Perhaps if she could have attributed it to fear, it might not have mattered, but she knew that wasn’t the cause. Which only alarmed her more.

She knew the danger of emotions. Aye, she knew it well.

“Chief Bothan Gunn,” she muttered as she caught sight of his captain offering a coin to the cook. The man took it in a blink of an eye before settling down and casting his attention toward the hearth. “Ye should not have followed me.”

Bothan Gunn was a huge man. He’d ducked to make it beneath the roofline and had to stay away from the edges of the kitchen because the roof sloped, preventing him from standing upright. They were still close enough to the border that his kilt did not cause too great a disturbance with the men he’d walked past in the yard. But she knew him for what he was: a Highlander. The English around them might make the mistake of believing all Scots the same, but Brenda knew better, and anyone who took the time to look at Bothan Gunn would see he was far harder than any Lowlander.

Bolder too because he was standing there. Somehow, she wasn’t really surprised. Bothan Gunn had always been a man who wasn’t afraid to reach out and grab what he wanted.

“Did ye think I would no’ come for ye, Brenda?” Bothan asked softly, his lips twitching up into a mocking grin.

I’d hoped.

Brenda stiffened, chastising herself for the stray thought. She couldn’t afford such things as personal ideas.

Especially with regard to Chief Bothan Gunn. It wasn’t his clan the King of Scotland would hold accountable if she didn’t go through with her wedding.

Duty. So very sharp-edged. She felt like the very word left open wounds as it crossed her soul. She drew in a deep breath, looking at Bothan and the freedom he represented and knowing she had to deny herself.

Deny yerself…what?

Brenda had refused his suit and ignored the stirrings inside herself.

And she would not be acknowledging any of them now.

Not now when she had duty weighing her down like a heavy yoke.

“I didn’t realize ye were one to waste yer time,” she muttered as she reached into the barrel and retrieved the pitcher. Water drained down from her hand as she fought to maintain her composure. Her tone wasn’t as bored as she would have liked. And the way his eyes narrowed suggested he saw through her pose.

Bothan always had affected her oddly. Of course, tonight she was certain her heart was beating faster because she longed to be free of her English escort and her date to be wed. The response was only natural, after all.

Yes, that was why she felt so very breathless.

“Keeping ye from being forced to wed a black-hearted bastard is no’ what I’d call a waste of me time,” Bothan informed her.

He eased closer to her. She caught a glimpse of his blue eyes in the dim light and realized she was savoring the moment, putting off answering him because he was correct—she had no liking for her circumstances.

Still, duty was duty. Bothan was not just a man. He was chief of the Gunns. It was somewhat more than laird because he’d been elected by his fellow clansmen. He didn’t just have their loyalty; he’d earned it beside them. She drew in a deep breath and stood firmly in place.

“Me cousin will be branded a traitor if I do not wed Galwell Scrope.” Brenda forced the words past her lips. “I will not shirk from my duty to me family and laird. And ye would not have me if I did. Yer clansmen would vote against ye if ye brought home a woman who turned her back on her kin. Ye should go now, for there is no reason for ye to stay.”

Her words gave Bothan a moment of pause. That in itself was remarkable. There was something about him, a sense she gained by being so close to him, that made her shudder as she seemed to recognize his strength on some deep level. It was a strange idea, one that she dwelled on because she’d never encountered it before in a man. She was no maid and not even a young woman, and yet Bothan struck her so very differently than any man she’d ever known.

If only she might indulge herself and discover just why she was drawn to him.

Do nae!

She had no idea why her inner voice warned her away from him so intensely, only that it raised gooseflesh along her arms. His lips thinned, which made her think he knew precisely what she was feeling.

“This wedding is an unjust thing, demanded of ye by a boy who is no’ yet man enough to understand he is being manipulated by his friend Esmé Stewart. James may be King of Scotland, but he is still a lad,” Bothan insisted. “Come away with me, Brenda. I will no’ leave ye here.”

She was so very tempted, and still she felt herself stuck in place, bound by the repercussions that would land on her cousin Symon Grant.

“Ye must leave me, for I will not shrink from this wedding. My kin will suffer if I do.” And she didn’t care for how despondent she sounded. Just because she had no fondness for her predicament didn’t mean she should allow her personal feelings to bleed into her tone.

Crying was for the weak. In the end, tears would change naught.

No, she’d learned a very long time ago to keep her personal feelings hidden from others. She suffered less that way. Dignity was poor comfort when she was alone with her plight, but it was the only thing she seemed to have any control over.

Bothan cocked his head to one side. He had dark hair, black as ink, like he’d been carved out of the darkest hours of night sky. He was reaching for her, stretching out to capture her hand with his large one.

Part of her liked the idea of being drawn into the dark hours of the night where she might at last be free…

She drew in a startled breath, recoiling as their flesh met.

Ye couldn’t like the feeling…

“I will perform my duty,” she hissed at him in a near whisper. “Just as ye would, as me cousin Symon has always done. Do no’ insult me by telling me it is acceptable for me to run away like a coward because I am a woman.”

She jerked her hand free, but all he did was release her fingers in favor of catching a handful of her skirt. His grip kept her in place as he moved up so that she had to tip her head back to maintain eye contact.

“There are a fair number of things I’ve contemplated telling ye to do because ye are a woman,” he muttered softly.

She caught the flicker of a promise in his eyes. It should have rubbed her temper, for she’d told him she would not have him.

Instead, her insides twisted with anticipation.

“And it’s the truth I’ve thought ye frightened of me more than once,” Bothan continued.

She let out a hiss, flattening her hands on his chest to push him back. “I am no’ afraid of ye, Chief Gunn.”

Bothan didn’t budge. He stood steady, while her breath became raspy and she felt like her insides were warming, melting the wall she was trying to maintain between them.

“Perhaps it is more correct to say ye are overwhelmed by the way ye respond to me.” He shifted so he was whispering next to her ear. “I understand that, lass. It’s the truth I contemplated staying in the north Highlands, far away from ye so I’d no’ have to admit how much ye enchant me. Find meself a bride who did no’ stir me the way ye do.”

A shiver went down her spine. Her flesh responded to him so immediately that there seemed no way to prevent it.

“I will not allow my cousin to be branded a traitor.” Brenda shifted her head so she could lock gazes with him. “I cannae believe ye’d have a woman so lacking in loyalty to her family. Ye may be very certain yer men will no’ thank ye for bringing home a mistress with scandal staining her name.”

His expression tightened. For a moment, she was staring at Chief Gunn. A man who would do what needed doing for the sake of the men who had pledged their loyalty to him. An understanding passed between them, one that left her with a sense of achievement. She knew she had earned respect from him.

It also made her hope evaporate like a puddle on a hot summer day. Nothing was left but hard dirt. No life. Just dry dirt.

“It’s the truth I would have overlooked it because of the injustice of asking this duty of ye,” he offered. “But ye’re right that there would be others who would always consider it a flaw in yer character.”

His agreement left a bitterness on her tongue. Bothan was a man of his word. He’d leave her to her fate now, and she would miss him, no matter how much she forbade herself to. At least there was a measure of satisfaction now. One that stemmed from knowing he approved of her.

“Goodbye, Chief Gunn,” Brenda stated firmly. Her tone was more for herself than for him.

His lips twitched. “Ye’d send me off without a kiss? Unkind of ye, lass.”

She should do exactly that.

But not because she didn’t want to discover what his kiss tasted like.

No, she wanted to refuse because she knew without a doubt that she would never forget what it felt like to be kissed by him.

The memory would be a torment. One she willingly visited upon herself.

“It would be unwise,” she muttered, pushing at him.

His teeth flashed at her as his lips curled up into a smug grin. “Aye, on that point we agree.”

She watched his fingers release her skirt, and disappointment stabbed through her. A lament for the thing she was going to be denied. Could she not even have a memory to savor?

“No’ that I’m ever the one to take the wisest course of action.” He slid his hand up and around her hip, locking his arm around her waist so he could pull her completely against him. “The truth is I prefer to play with fire. Which is why I’ve come looking for ye, Brenda. The offers for obedient brides in me study leave me cold.”

She gasped, looking up at him in shock as Bothan caught the back of her head in his opposite hand.

“I’ll have a kiss from ye, Brenda, for ye’ve denied me it for more than a year now,” he accused her softly.

Bothan wasn’t planning on taking the kiss quickly. He took his time, pressing his mouth to hers. Lingering over the first brush of their lips as he turned his head and fitted their lips together.

She shuddered.

He shifted with her, holding her as her body responded almost brutally to the contact. There was an eruption of sensation, one she was helpless to control.

And she wasn’t alone.

She felt him quake as well, the tremor running through his limbs as he pressed her mouth open for a deeper kiss.

Reason vanished as they tasted one another. Passion ignited between them, roaring to life in the space of a heartbeat. Brenda reached for him, certain she couldn’t survive without the feel of him beneath her palms. Need was a living force inside her, beating against the hold she’d maintained against it for so long.

“Now that you’ve had your kiss, it’s time to leave the lady in my keeping.”

Bothan released her in a flash. He’d turned and pushed her behind him before she realized the captain was speaking from the doorway of the kitchen. Her senses were still swimming with intoxication, leaving her blinking in shock as the English captain eyed them.

The captain was wise enough to stand back out of Bothan’s reach.

“It’s my duty to deliver her to the Queen, and the lady has explained her intentions quite well,” the captain continued. “So do not lay my men low again, Chief Gunn.”

The two men faced off, taking measure of each other for a long moment. Brenda let out a huff before coming around Bothan.

“He will listen to you, Captain,” she muttered as she retrieved the pitcher of water. “Because I have made it clear I intend to honor my word to my king. Chief Gunn is a man of honor.”

The captain shifted his attention to her, but only for a moment before he returned his focus to Bothan.

It would seem the English Queen had wise captains in her employ, for Bothan wasn’t a man to take lightly. Not when it came to anything, it would seem, for her heart was still beating fast, and moving back across the kitchen took every bit of self-discipline she had.

All she truly longed to do was leave with Bothan.

Well, ye do no’ get to do what ye want…and it’s no’ the first time ye’ve faced it, either.

Indeed. There was a solid truth, one she’d encountered more than once in life. She kept going, crossing through the door and back into the common room.

She didn’t dare look behind her.

No, it might prove too much temptation.

But what weighed the most on her mind as she made it through the tavern toward the stairs was the fact that she had kept Bothan waiting for that kiss for an entire year.

He’d made his desire for her clear.

And she’d denied it.

Back in the room abovestairs, she was free to let her emotions surface. Although it was more a matter of they refused to be contained any longer. She sat down on a stool, feeling the walls closing in on her just as if they were the stone walls of a prison cell.

That was why she’d refused Bothan. Marriage was a prison for women. It was one thing to be wed for duty, another to walk into the bonds of her own free will.

So she’d denied Bothan a kiss or anything else, for it would have led to the desire she still felt pulsing through her flesh.

Duty was something she could perform and still maintain her sanity, for she could tell herself the cruelties of her spouse were insignificant because she didn’t care. Marriage was naught more than a chore to be completed.

But with Bothan, she feared she would care.

So she’d denied him.

And meself…

Only now did she wonder if she’d been foolish. It was one thing to make decisions for solid reasons and another to realize she was facing a future without any choices. She would be wed to a man who didn’t know she was coming and wouldn’t be any more pleased with the arrangement than she was.

All for the gain of the families.

And she would be chattel. Husbands didn’t lose their rights when they wed. No, Galwell would go on with his life, enjoying whatever or whomever he pleased. She would be the one maintaining her virtue. Her temper heated as she considered how very unjust men were. The Scriptures didn’t say only women should not commit adultery, and yet men never suffered for the transgression. Oh yes, there were plenty of women who took their lovers behind closed doors when they found their marriage bed cold.

She wouldn’t be one of them. Once more, dignity seemed her only true possession, and Brenda admitted she didn’t want to part with it.

Brenda suddenly allowed the heat from Bothan’s kiss to linger on her lips, savoring the memory as she admitted she would have liked to see how much more passion there might have been between them.

Memories she might indulge in. So she closed her eyes and let the moment in the kitchen surface completely. A kiss had never moved her so deeply, nor had she ever recalled one in such vivid detail. Even now, she was certain she remembered the scent of his skin, the way it touched off a need to press herself closer to him while he kissed her. Bothan knew his strength, holding her so firmly yet tempering his hold so he’d never hurt her.

She smiled as she opened her eyes and made herself let the daydream go.

No, he hadn’t hurt her, and still she felt like he’d carved the experience into her mind. But as she took in the sounds of the English guards below her, she decided she would savor the encounter.

The King’s demand certainly wasn’t going to offer her anything better.

* * *

Maddox would never be far from his side.

Bothan wasn’t surprised when his captain surfaced from a shadow to fall into step beside him once he’d emerged from the back of the tavern.

“So,” his captain began, “since she’s told ye she will go through with this wedding…are we riding north?”

Bothan shot his man a look. “She has to say such.” He crossed the street and moved off toward the tavern where his men were spending the night. “Ye’d no’ accept her as yer mistress if she were one to take her own whims over her cousin being branded a traitor. None of me men would. It was never going to be as simple as taking her back to Scotland.”

His men had taken over the tavern. The few patrons who had been inside when the Gunn retainers had arrived made quick work of paying and leaving. Bothan lifted his leg up and over a bench before sitting down to enjoy the remains of a supper that had been served by the wife of the tavern owner. She was watching him and Maddox, judging whether there was ample fare for them.

Bothan enjoyed seeing an English woman with a solid backbone. He reached up and tugged on the corner of his bonnet. She nodded before disappearing into the kitchens.

“If Brenda Grant intends to wed, there is little point in following her,” Maddox stated. A good number of Bothan’s men turned their attention toward them, waiting to hear what Bothan would say.

“Brenda will fulfill her promise to the King,” Bothan said clearly. “What I want to know is how does England’s queen feel about the Stewarts increasing their wealth and holdings through this union? I’ve come along to see if this queen is of a mind to allow the wedding.”

Maddox stroked his beard in response.

“We’re in England now,” Bothan explained. “I plan to petition England’s queen for Brenda Grant. James will have to be content if the English Queen forbids the wedding. I only showed meself to her so she’d no’ despair and think herself abandoned.”

“Clever,” Maddox conceded. “I do nae see how that will make Brenda Grant any more receptive to yer suit. Even if the lass is happy to have ye take her back to Scotland, it will no’ mean she’s of the mind to accept ye for her husband. She’s unbridled, as most of the Highlands knows because she makes certain to say it plainly.”

Bothan slowly grinned. A maid was pouring cider into a mug and caught sight of him. Her eyes widened, and he enjoyed knowing he intimidated her.

Strength was respected.

And being known for his ability to defend his land meant there would be fewer attempts to take what was his.

That translated into less blood spilled.

“Leave the matter of Brenda’s opinion for me,” he informed his men. “For all that I am yer chief, I hope ye’ll agree getting that lass into me bed is more of a private matter between Brenda and meself.”

There were chuckles in response. Bothan settled down to finish his supper as he contemplated the task in front of him. He’d left his land to seek out Brenda because he couldn’t shake her from his thoughts. The hunt was far longer than he’d anticipated, but even her stubbornness was making him wonder if he should rethink his attempt to win her.

So he’d see it through. Which meant he’d have to outsmart those thinking to keep him from the prize he’d decided to claim.

There was nothing he enjoyed more than a good fight.

Victory was sweeter that way.

* * *

Queen Elizabeth Tudor, the first of that name, didn’t stay in London during the summer.

The Queen fled the heat and rising stench as she embarked on her progress. It was also a way to visit the northern parts of her realm and allow her close supporters to make certain there were no plots brewing against her.

And then there was the cost of feeding and entertaining her court. When she visited her northern nobles, the court came too. People lined the roads, watching the baggage carts and wagons as they passed. It took a full two days for Progress to pass by a single point on the map. The large country estates where her nobles lived provided fresh game meat and plenty of room for her court to set up pavilions and enjoy the warm days of summer. Merchants would follow, setting up market fairs that generated tax income for the crown.

Elizabeth herself enjoyed riding. She took to the road on a mare with her favorite gentlemen alongside her. Galwell Scrope rode confidently by her side as Robert Leicester sent him a narrow-eyed look when the Queen wasn’t looking.

Galwell needed to be dealt with.

Robert followed the Queen into what had once been the Duke of Norfolk’s holding and was now in the hands of a more loyal noble. Lord Berkley was waiting on the steps, his senior household staff at attention, when the Queen of England rode up.

“Welcome, Your Majesty!” he called out as he removed his hat and lowered himself. Of old, noble blood, Lord Berkley had been raised to be the perfect host to his monarch. He smiled as he gave a small gesture of his fingers toward the musicians waiting to begin playing a lively fanfare to complete the moment. He was a slightly rotund man, his cheeks full from his enjoyment of feasting. Toward the back of the large house, the scent of roasting meat was wafting over the rooftops to prove Lord Berkley was going to welcome his monarch in grand style.

After dismounting, Elizabeth smiled and offered Lord Berkley her hand. He took it and placed a kiss on the back of her glove.

“Richard,” Elizabeth declared as he recovered and replaced his hat. “It has been too long since I have seen you.”

Baron Berkley smiled, his cheeks coloring. “All for good reason, Your Majesty,” he informed her jovially. “For I needed to return home and prepare for Your Majesty’s visit. No member of my staff could attend to the details as well as I might. It is my supreme hope that Your Majesty shall be impressed by my efforts!”

He extended his arm toward the front door of his home. Robert followed the Queen inside as behind them servants began to raise pavilions for the bulk of the court to reside in while the Queen was there. Ambassadors and other dignitaries were among the horde of people following Elizabeth on her summer progress. Whether she’d see them was always in question. Elizabeth liked to keep everyone guessing. It kept them all near and attentive to her whims.

He was no exception. Leicester made his way into the rooms provided for him. His servants had ridden ahead to make certain his things were ready to receive him. Two new suits of clothing were hung out and ready for him to inspect, while a groom sat polishing a pair of his boots in preparation for a hunt. There was a tailor working a needle while seated at a small table as he secured pearls to a sleeve for the earl to wear for a banquet while the Lord Berkley entertained the Queen. All of Robert’s personal belongings were there, ready for him the moment he arrived. Lord Berkley knew to extend the greatest amount of hospitality toward the earl—only the Queen ranked higher. A small stack of letters was waiting as well.

He broke the seal on the one from the dowager Lady North Hampton and smiled when he finished reading the letter. Galwell’s sins were going to ensure the man didn’t enjoy being at the Queen’s side for much longer. Galwell had made a fatal error in judging the Queen. Elizabeth Tudor had spent her younger years as a pawn of those battling for control of the country. As a girl, she’d often been considered too feeble-minded to grasp the part she played in the struggle for power.

Robert knew better.

Much better.

He’d been there with her through it all. Elizabeth’s truest companion in darker times. He would never forget that though Elizabeth was a girl, she was Henry the Eighth’s daughter down to her bones. Galwell had missed it as he admired the female form she was encased in. Galwell would discover his error too late, when Elizabeth jerked the ambitious noble back into line like a hunting hound.

Elizabeth had survived countless years when she should have died in the darkest hours of the night at the hands of those seeking to have the throne or been shipped away to a far-off land to wed for the benefit of England. Somehow, between being branded a bastard and daughter of a witch, Elizabeth had survived to sit on the very throne her gender should have denied her. Her mind was Tudor, sharp and calculating. She was playing the marriage game now, keeping every man holding out hope that she would choose him and England would become a vassal state without a single drop of blood spilled. Galwell didn’t have even a glimmer of hope of gaining the hand of the woman Elizabeth was behind her smile.

But Robert did.

He was Elizabeth’s companion in cheating death. His own brother had lost his head for wedding Lady Jane Gray. It had been carefully plotted out by their families, of course, and they were mostly gone now. It was just Robert and Elizabeth, as it had been in the darker days. There was a bond between them, one no one could break. Galwell had his eye on the Queen of England, but Robert saw Elizabeth behind the presence of the Queen. It was Elizabeth’s heart he wanted to claim.

Robert put the letter down and eagerly began to prepare for the evening.

He had a queen to woo.

* * *

The estate to which the captain delivered Brenda was more like a large city.

There were huge pavilions erected all over what had once been sprawling greens around a manor house. Servants were rushing to deliver food and clothing to their different masters. At the edge of the green, kitchens were set up to keep everyone fed. The amount of meat roasting and bread set out to rise was extraordinary. Brenda had never seen so much being prepared at a single time. Not even when the entire Grant clan assembled.

Beyond the pavilions, there were scores of women doing laundry along the banks of a river. Maids and grooms were hurrying across the expanse in a hundred different directions as they served their masters. It was astounding to see the highest nobles in the land making camp in order to stay close to their queen. The logic of it wasn’t lost on Brenda either. England’s Queen was sparing herself the expense of feeding her court and keeping everyone busy with traveling so they didn’t have as much time to plot against her. It really was quite clever. Just like a mother who made sure her children had plenty to do so they wouldn’t get to squabbling.

“It might be a bit before you are summoned by the Queen,” the captain informed Brenda once he’d escorted her to a small pavilion. “I’ll have to go up and deliver the formal letters from James and see when she’s of the mind to grant you an audience. I suggest you settle in.”

There was a dryness to his tone that implied he was understating just how long she could expect to wait.

Well, she was in no hurry, and that was a fact.

He swept Brenda up and down.

“I’ll send over a tailor,” the captain said. “You will want to be seen in a gown that is more English in design. Your husband-to-be can settle the debt.”

The captain inclined his head before moving away, leaving her to the care of his men. They were well back from the main house, in a city of pavilions. Behind her was a smaller pavilion the captain had claimed for her. Inside it was rather nice, with a receiving room complete with table and chairs. There was a chest with silver plate for the table and even glass goblets.

Two flaps opened to a bedchamber. The bed was assembled, with sheets and plump pillows awaiting her. Brenda smiled as she recalled summers in the Highlands when she’d been a young girl and run through the fields and slept in the stable loft simply for the adventure of it all. The grass beneath the carpet laid down under the bed was fresh.

Of course the estate would be destroyed by the time Elizabeth packed her court and left. The large expanse of lawn would be covered in brown patches from the pavilions, and there would be numerous tracks worn into it by the coming and going of the servants. The local game would be depleted for the rest of the season, leaving the locals to make do with meager fare. Not that things were so very different in the Highlands. Summer was a time to feast and enjoy the ample resources provided by nature. Once the harvest was in, winter would be a long, bleak season of bowls of porridge and not much else.

“Scots…ye do nae belong here!”

“Savages…”

“Go home to yer own country!”

Brenda heard the slurs, turning around to return to the flaps that made up the front of her pavilion. She looked out, her eyes widening as Bothan Gunn rode up to the front of the house. It was a huge estate, but its size didn’t deter him in the least. He sat proudly in the saddle, unconcerned for the way he was looked at by the English around him.

Brenda lifted her hand and stifled a little sound of amusement.

If she were to be completely truthful, she’d say Bothan was proud of the difference between himself and those sneering at him.

Ye do tend to agree…

Really, she should have chided herself for the thought, but what did it truly matter? Still, she schooled her features and felt something shift inside her. An odd little sensation that sent a shiver down her spine.

He came in spite of yer promise to wed at the King’s command…

Beyond the boldness of it, Brenda was left feeling something very foreign.

It was almost as if she might depend on him.

Brenda drew in a stiff breath. She must not allow herself to be weak. Thinking of Bothan’s arrival as anything such as a rescue was permitting herself to be less than strong when it came to what must be done.

Duty wasn’t meant to be enjoyed.

It was a tax one had to pay for the sake of higher morality.

Bothan wouldn’t be rescuing her because she would not permit him to.

The royal guards blocking his path didn’t impress Bothan. He argued with them, his back straight and the pleats of his kilt declaring him different from those watching.

A crowd was gathering as he stood his ground. There were parties of dignitaries who had not even been granted entrance to the main house. They waited, in full court clothing, for admittance past the royal guards. They had lace ruffs at their throats and handkerchiefs dangling from their hands, while the sunlight twinkled off the precious stones sewn to their capes and sleeves. Servants waited behind them with gleaming silver trays holding sugared grapes and slices of precious oranges from Spain.

The excess made Bothan want to growl. Now, he was not against enjoying a fine meal with treats to delight the palate, but the clothing made him angry because it was ornate and impractical and the expense of it could have fed an entire family for a year if not two.

He didn’t have time for games and vanity. The seasons were shorter in the Highlands. He needed to be home, overseeing the planting and building. The English Queen would simply have to deal with him sooner rather than later.

He dismounted and strode toward the door, intent on getting his business finished. He didn’t bother to smooth out his features but let his mouth settle into a scowl. Let the English yeomen fear him; it would make it that much simpler to get past them and before the English Queen.

But Bothan didn’t fare any better. He was barred from the main house, and he was fairly certain that wherever Elizabeth Tudor was, she could feel his frustration.

Bothan stood for a long moment, contemplating the yeomen of the Queen’s guard. Well, he’d already learned one thing when it came to his quest to have Brenda Grant for his own: there wouldn’t be any easy way of achieving his goal. If one path was blocked, he’d simply have to find another way around.

* * *

Robert Dudley, the Earl of Leicester, was accustomed to hearing disputes over entry into wherever Elizabeth was staying. He’d been her confidant and friend for so many years. Now that she was the master, she enjoyed making sure everyone knew it. Such was not a matter of vanity or corruption. No, Robert understood how Elizabeth thought. She meant to keep everyone guessing as to what she was about to do. Her enemies would be far less likely to make a move against her if they were unable to predict her behavior.

Many felt she was wielding the power she’d inherited arrogantly, but he knew different. She was making sure everyone who vied for her attention learned the only way to get what they wanted was to mind their place until she summoned them. Only when she was in a pleasant mood would they receive the rewards they were all seeking from her. Failing to be patient with her would result in their suits being dismissed.

Robert had learned to obey her, while other would-be suitors made the error of attempting to use the Queen’s favor to bend her to their whims.

Today, though, Robert turned and contemplated the group of Scots arguing with the royal guard. They were not the normal Scots who came to Elizabeth from time to time. These wore kilts, in the Highland fashion. They were huge and rough, and their leader was a great hulking man who made it plain that in the harsh conditions of his northern home only the strongest survived. He wasn’t the sort of man who played at dancing or masquerades in an effort to gain an audience with anyone. No, he was there to take care of business and be gone.

Another captain had been admitted, coming up the steps with a look of disgust on his face.

“What does the Scot want?” Robert inquired.

The captain had been minding his steps. He looked up and ripped his hat off as he recognized Robert. “My Lord Leicester.” The captain lowered himself instantly.

Robert gestured the captain closer. “Tell me who that Scot is.”

“Chief Bothan Gunn,” the captain replied. “He’s here to convince the Queen to release Brenda Grant from a wedding agreement James of Scotland has decreed will be so.”

“I have never heard of Brenda Grant,” Robert replied.

“She has just arrived,” the captain answered. “I was tasked with escorting her down from Edinburgh. James thinks to settle a dispute concerning the Stewarts over a dowry property with her.”

“The Stewarts are always looking to increase their wealth,” Robert muttered. “I am glad to see someone willing to stand in their way.” He looked back to where Bothan and his men were standing. “I believe I will meet this man. Allow him inside.”

The captain was surprised, but he hid it well. He nodded, turning to hurry back down the steps and catch up with the Scot.

* * *

Knowing something and cultivating the patience to deal with it were two vastly different things.

Brenda remembered well the time needed for fittings when she had wed her first husband. Of course, she’d been young and impressed with the attention, still dreamy-eyed over silk and lace. The bite of a tightly laced corset for the sake of fashion had only thrilled her instead of making her think it was all such nonsense.

That was before she’d learned all of the dresses and accessories were in reality baubles for a pet meant to delight the owner while she was displayed.

And she was to become the pet.

She had no taste for it now. The tailor was flustered with her lack of interest in his wares.

“You cannot go to see Glorianna, the Queen of England, looking like some barbarian!” he exclaimed, flustered. “I insist you take off that wool dress.”

The man’s nose was wrinkled in distaste as he eyed her.

“I thought it was the law in England to wear wool on Sunday,” Brenda replied.

The tailor rolled his eyes, his two assistants looking at her as though she’d muttered something unholy.

“No one attending court actually wears wool; they simply pay the sumptuary tax.” His tone was rich with judgment. “And you simply must do something about your speech.”

Brenda fluttered her eyelashes. “Ye do nae care for me brogue? I learned it from me mother.”

“Who was likely a sheep.” The tailor expressed his disdain.

Brenda’s eyes narrowed. “She was a kind woman who did nae judge others, or teach me to value things such as lace ruffs over more important things like behaving decently. Get out.”

“With pleasure,” the tailor declared. “Go to see your betrothed looking like that”—he flipped his hand toward her—“and he will break the contract. Mark my words.”

I enjoy that idea so very much.

And with the flap of the pavilion that served as the front door falling down into place after the abrupt departure of the tailor, Brenda was at liberty to allow her emotions to show on her face.

It was a relief.

At least for a few moments.

Galwell wouldn’t refuse to wed her, not when she came with land. Property was the truest form of wealth. Noble families remained wealthy because they wed within their own class. Yes, many claimed they arranged their marriages for the sake of keeping their blue blood pure.

She didn’t believe it. Land meant rent. It was the way nobles maintained their incomes. Since her dowry was land recently separated from the Stewarts, Galwell would be ordered by his fine-blooded family to retrieve it by wedding her. That same family would be delighted if she never presented them with a child of inferior blood. They’d advise her husband to bed her once for the sake of validating the contract between them and then to leave her alone.

At least her cousin Symon was happy.

Brenda indulged in a moment of bliss as she contemplated how Symon had found Athena. Neither had known about the land left to her by her father’s family. James the Sixth had first considered separating Symon from Athena because she had been pre-contracted with Galwell. The man had proved himself a black-hearted scoundrel, though, when a greater match had been presented, and he’d tried to force Athena to become his mistress.

She’d fled to Scotland instead. Brenda smiled, enjoying the memory. For all that Athena was an Englishwoman, she had spirit and would be a fine wife for Brenda’s cousin Symon. James had decided to make Symon give the land as dowry for Brenda and send Brenda to England to wed Galwell.

Well, it was hardly the first time fate had turned nasty toward her.

She’d given her word, and she’d keep it. She doubted Symon had returned home easily though. Her cousin hadn’t liked the bargain the King had forced down his throat.

Ye have Bothan Gunn to thank for the fact that Symon had gone home at all…

Brenda couldn’t deny the validity of the thought. Symon wouldn’t have trusted many men with retrieving her. Bothan Gunn was a man Symon called friend. A man who had earned Symon’s respect.

Well, Bothan wouldn’t be taking her home either. With enough time, Symon would see his duty was to return to Grant land and make certain the clan had a solid leader and future. Athena would give him children to kindle life once again inside the walls of Grant Tower.

It had been far too long since the place had felt alive.

Ye won’t be there to enjoy it…

Brenda cursed her inner thoughts for they offered her little hope. It was the single thing that had kept her fighting to live for so many years.

Hope.

Or at least the knowledge that there was a part of herself no one could take away.

But it could be strangled.

She let out a sigh and turned around, gasping when she found herself staring at Bothan Gunn in her bedchamber. She blinked, wondering if it was just the ramblings of her mind.

No, he was still there. Very, very much in the flesh.

“It’s only a pavilion, but the truth is, I enjoyed knowing I’d snuck into yer private quarters, lass.” He crossed the distance between them, his lips set in a rather smug grin.

But his elation faded as he locked gazes with her. Concern flashed through his eyes.

“Do nae be so troubled, Brenda,” Bothan scolded her gently.

Bothan had been many things to her in their short acquaintance. He’d been the rogue teasing her on May Day, the man she’d felt confident enough to taunt in return, and he’d been the one to declare he’d court her in spite of her declaration to remain her own woman.

He had never been her confidant or a man who spoke to her gently.

No, only Symon was that, and he had a new wife. She’d allowed her cousin to see her weakness. She couldn’t let Bothan see that part of her. Weakness might be exploited.

“I am quite well,” she answered, moving off to one side because Bothan filled the space between them with his presence.

She was so very aware of him. Part of her wanted to linger over that fact and absorb it.

But her wisdom argued against it. For it would be like whisky; once she allowed it inside herself, the effect would undermine her ability to maintain her control.

Bothan crossed his arms over his chest, facing off with her with his feet braced shoulder-width apart. In his kilt and rolled-up shirtsleeves, he appeared far more the northern barbarian the tailor had accused her of being.

“I brought ye good news, lass,” he began.

Brenda’s eyelashes fluttered. It was a far wiser idea to keep from locking gazes with him for he seemed to see past her confident mask and into her innermost feelings, into that place she reserved for only herself.

Such was her sole private possession.

But she failed, looking up when he didn’t continue to talk. No, he was waiting for her to give him her full attention.

Waiting for her to allow him to gaze into her eyes.

“There are those who do nae favor this wedding James has sent ye to.” Bothan moved closer, maintaining eye contact. She caught the flicker of victory in his blue eyes and wanted to believe in it.

Ye mustn’t waver.

Bothan reached out and lifted her chin when she looked down.

She felt the connection right down to her toes. It drew a soft sound from her because no one had ever affected her in such a dramatic fashion before.

His eyes narrowed when she recoiled.

“I have never put rough hands on ye,” he defended himself.

She blinked and lifted her chin. “I made no such accusation.”

He tilted his head to one side, contemplating her very much like one of her cousin’s hawks might. “Ye shy away from me.”

She felt heat teasing her cheeks.

Ye must not blush!

“Would ye have me be the sort of woman who is used to having a man’s hands on her?” Brenda asked before thinking her words through.

Heat flickered in his eyes. “I’d enjoy knowing ye are accustomed to having my hands on ye, Brenda.”

She should have expected such a response. Brenda offered him a flutter of her eyelashes before she shook her head.

“Perhaps I am only attempting to accept me circumstances.” She meant to place distance between them. Instead, Bothan’s eyes glowed with another flare of victory as though she’d made some sort of admission. “Why are ye here? I have made it clear I intend to keep me word,” Brenda said.

“As do I, Brenda Grant.” Bothan spoke in a firm tone. She’d always taken him for a man who had earned his position. Today, she was face-to-face with the side of his nature that had earned him the title of chief. He’d proven himself worthy.

“I gave yer cousin me word,” Bothan continued, closing the distance between them one silent step at a time. “And I will bring ye away from this match.”

“Maybe it’s for the best. This match.” She wasn’t lashing out at him. No, her words were more of a confession of just how much she realized she would never trust any man enough to allow him into her life.

And Bothan deserved a woman who would welcome him.

“I will not reconsider me position on accepting yer suit. I mean ye no unkindness, Bothan, and tell ye to go because it would no’ be correct of me to see ye waste yer time,” Brenda finished softly.

She wanted to flinch away from her own words and just how bleak they made her feel.

“Ye are worthy of me time, Brenda.” Bothan reached out to cup her chin, raising her face so their eyes met.

For a moment, she felt like there was enough hope in his eyes to blow everything else aside.

“I’m too old for ignoring the way the world is, Bothan, and so are ye.” She stepped back to remove her chin from his fingers. “What we want is no’ how things are going to be. Not when kings are involved.”

Bothan looked past her to where the garments the tailor had been trying to get her to try lay on the table.

“Well now, lass.” Bothan slowly grinned. “If ye are intent on staying, ye are going to need some of those skirts that are rigid, making ye walk like ye have yer ankles tied together because ye’d look like a bell being rung if ye took longer strides…”

He reached over and plucked a farthingale up, letting it hang down like a bell, the hoops sewn into it widening until they reached the hem. He swung it back and forth as he chuckled. “And one of these…things…” He plucked a neck ruff off the table and dangled it like a frog he was trying to frighten her with.

Although she did admit she found the garment rather repulsive.

Brenda turned and sent him a narrow-eyed look. “Ye don’t need to enjoy this so very much, Chief Gunn. If me husband keeps me at court, I truly will have to wear that thing.”

Bothan’s expression went serious. He’d been leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest, making him look impossibly large and full of strength. He straightened and unfolded his arms as he came closer to her.

“Be very, very sure of one thing lass.” His tone deepened as his eyes flickered with promise. “I am going to enjoy ye very, very much.”

She should have recoiled. But the promise in his eyes was mesmerizing. Brenda discovered herself caught in his gaze, fascinated by the way his eyes burned with an intensity that made her cheeks heat.

Ye didn’t blush.

“If this Englishman wants the land, he will take me as I am,” she declared as she looked at the clothing.

Bothan’s eyes flashed before he caught her upper arm and tugged her back around to face him. “I’ll challenge him before he can claim ye.”

The breath froze in her chest. “This is England. Challenge a noble and ye could end up being hanged.”

His lips twitched into a cocky grin. “Would it matter to ye, sweet Brenda?”

Brenda drew herself up and looked away from him. “I’ve no desire to see ye dead.”

“Ah,” he mocked her softly. “I suppose I’m more interested in discovering if ye desire to see me.”

Brenda didn’t miss the hint. He was teasing her. And there were different sorts of teasing. She’d become quite accomplished in flirting and leaving men with just enough hope that they’d wait to see if she bestowed her favors on them.

It was an effective form of managing the men who thought to add her to their list of conquests.

“Ye will no’ challenge him.” But even as she repeated, she realized Bothan would never be bound by her decree.

No, he was far too much of a warrior.

Part of her enjoyed it.

And the other part? Well, she knew she was spending a great deal of effort in making sure there was actually a part of her willing to argue the point. Truthfully, she just wanted to let Bothan have his way and take her away from the cold marriage awaiting her.

Bothan moved closer. “Would ye worry over my fate, Brenda?”

“Is this situation not already difficult enough?” she demanded in exasperation.

He was slowly following her, crowding her. Pressing her.

What alarmed Brenda was how aware she was of it. Her belly was twisting, and her skin was far too sensitive. It defied her reasoning for she was no stranger to the advances of men. But today, Bothan’s presence didn’t annoy her.

It agitated her.

“Aye, it’s difficult, all right,” Bothan agreed. He reached out and stroked her cheek. “Yet I promised ye I would be dealing with ye this spring, Brenda. Difficult or no’, I will be keeping me word to ye.”

Brenda let out a little huff.

At least Brenda intended it to be a huff. What actually crossed her lips was a breathless little sound that unmasked the turmoil inside her.

And Bothan noticed.

That sensation in her belly intensified, pinning her in position as Bothan took the last step between them and laid his hand on the side of her face.

The flap of the tent that served as the door was suddenly flipped aside and pulled all the way back so the man wanting to enter didn’t have to do any of the work himself. In fact, he was poised in the center of the opening, perfectly positioned to be revealed. Bothan turned and tilted his head to one side, clearly never having seen the lengths some nobles went to when making an entrance.

She enjoyed seeing the disgust in Bothan’s eyes. More than once, she’d wondered if she was the only one who didn’t place value on such things.

Stop noticing things ye like about him…

The man who stood in the doorway was groomed to perfection. He had two menservants hovering behind him as he looked inside the pavilion. He was actually holding a sprig of fresh rosemary, sniffing it with his eyes closed. One leg was positioned perfectly in front of the other so she would be afforded a look at his inner calf. His doublet fit him like a second skin, and around his neck was a ruff dripping with lace. Matching lace adorned each of his wrists, and the open flaps allowed the scent of his perfume to waft in to where she stood. Bothan turned and crossed his arms over his chest in the time it took the man to finish sniffing and open his eyes to take in what was inside the tent.

The nobleman’s eyes narrowed as he took in Bothan. His expression transformed into one of astonishment as his jaw slacked open and she heard him give a very loud sniff.

Brenda decided he appeared as though he’d bitten into a lemon.

“What…” He drew out the word. “What are you doing in here with another man?”

“It would seem yer intended groom has decided to come and make himself known to ye at last.” Bothan refused to hide the grin curving his lips. He had his head tucked down as he gripped his forearms while trying not to laugh outright.

“I am,” the man declared loudly, “Galwell Scrope.”

He raked Brenda up and down with his gaze, clearly waiting for her to acknowledge him.

More like be impressed with him…

The servants behind him encouraged her with frantic motions of their hands. Brenda moved one foot behind her and offered him a small courtesy. He was less than pleased, his expression looking somewhat pinched. He drew off another sniff from the rosemary before appearing to resign himself to dealing with her. The ruff around his neck meant he held his chin high.

Looks like a rooster…

Brenda pressed her lips tightly together and looked toward the ground to avoid the English nobleman from seeing the amusement in her eyes. She looked up again when she’d grasped her composure. Galwell Scrope was inside the pavilion now and looking past her to where Bothan stood. Galwell’s eyes bulged as he came to an abrupt stop when Bothan didn’t budge but stood watching him with an expression that made it clear Bothan would welcome any challenge the man cared to issue.

“She is my bride,” Galwell declared. “You do not belong in here with her.”

Bothan didn’t even blink in response to the outrage in Galwell’s tone.

“Ye have never set eyes on her before and did no’ even know ye were set to wed her until she arrived.” Bothan didn’t waste any time making it clear he thought Galwell had no grounds for his outrage.

“And you…know her? Well enough to seek her out in private?” Galwell’s implication was clear.

Bothan opened his arms, sending Galwell back a step. “If I had no care for her reputation, I’d let ye think so, for I’d hope ye’d dissolve the contract between ye.”

Galwell snorted. He raised his chin and stuck his nose up. “I am not so easy to manipulate,” he informed Bothan, sweeping him up and down with his gaze. “You are here for the same reason my father insists I wed her. The land.”

“I am no’ surprised ye think so,” Bothan said. He contemplated Galwell, his lips curling with disgust over the elaborate court clothing. Galwell was wearing short little puffed pants known as pansy slops. Sections of them were decorated with silver trim and pearls, and whoever had outfitted him hadn’t forgotten to include a codpiece complete with jewels twinkling in the sun.

Bothan looked Galwell up and down with an expression on his face that made it plain the highland chief was having difficulty believing what was before him. Galwell took Bothan’s silence for acceptance of his superiority.

The nobleman couldn’t have been more incorrect.

Galwell sniffed disdainfully. “Don’t pretend you are not interested in a good dowry. Why else would you be in here, trying to seduce her so her name is linked with yours and the Queen decides to make her marry you in disgrace?”

Bothan’s expression tightened.

“I won’t have it,” Galwell declared loudly before directing his attention to Brenda. “You might be a Scottish slut, but I will not be made a fool of.”

There was a flash of wool kilt and a hard connection of flesh on flesh as Galwell went flying into the tent flap. Bothan was right behind him.

“Brenda is a lady of grace and dignity, qualities ye don’t know the meaning of,” Bothan said. “Use that word again in me hearing to describe her, and ye’ll answer for it.”

Galwell was helped to his feet by his hovering attendants. One of them wiped the blood from the noble’s split lip.

“You will pay for this…barbaric assault!” He pointed at Bothan. “And once you are wearing chains for daring to strike me, I will have this slut whipped before your eyes.”

Past the front flap of the pavilion, Brenda’s escort was quick to notice the altercation. The men surged in and pushed Bothan back when he lunged at Galwell once more.

“We cannot allow you to strike a noble,” the captain informed Bothan.

“He already did!” Galwell declared. “Put him in chains, Captain.”

Brenda felt her blood chill. “Just escort him from the grounds. Please.” The last word stuck. It took effort to force it across her tongue, but her knowledge of the strained relations between England and Scotland was enough to give her the strength to accomplish the goal.

Her pride wasn’t worth seeing Bothan shackled.

She was certain a part of her would die if she witnessed such a sight.

He was too powerful to be chained.

“The Queen will hear of this!” Galwell declared before he turned, his jeweled cape flipping around him as he strode off toward the house.

“I sincerely hope so,” Bothan growled. “The sooner the better.”

“Ye shouldn’t,” Brenda argued. “We’re in England. Elizabeth could have ye thrown into chains or worse. Her father was not known for his even temperament.”

Bothan shifted his attention to Brenda, contemplating her for a long moment. His lips twitched, one side of his mouth rising into a grin. “I’m pleased to know ye care, Brenda.”

The captain and his men pushed Bothan away from the pavilion before she might debate the issue. She caught a hint of approval in Bothan’s blue eyes before he turned and complied. The men who’d been holding him were relieved to only need to fall into position around him.

Cared?

Yes, she did.

Not that she would ever voice such a thing to him.

It wasn’t really a matter of wanting to or not. She backed up as more of the captain’s men crowded her further back into the pavilion.

Her husband to be was going to make very sure she never got a chance to speak to Bothan again.

And it hurt to know it.

* * *

“Stay here, Lord Gunn,” the captain informed Bothan. “Until you are summoned. Galwell has been a favorite of the Queen of late. I don’t believe you will wait long.”

“That suits me well,” Bothan replied. “And it’s Chief. No’ Lord. Where I live, a man is more concerned with the respect of being elected by his men than some hereditary title passed down.”

The captain nodded, a gleam of approval in his eyes. “Makes me think about following you back up to your home. Elizabeth is a fine monarch to serve, but there are nobles who follow her who I have no care for. Still, it’s my duty, and I will not shirk from it. Stay here. I have no wish to place you under guard.”

“I will be here when ye come for me.” Bothan spoke loud and clear. “There is naught I wish for more than to be finished with this matter and on me way north. With Brenda Grant.”

The captain started to turn around, stopping to lock gazes with Bothan.

“She’s a good woman. I see why you are intent on claiming her,” the captain began.

“Save yer breath, man.” Bothan stopped so he could temper his tone. He’d never thought much about the way he’d been raised to dislike the English. For certain there was a great deal of blood spilled between their kind, but the man standing before him wasn’t a man lacking in morality.

“It would be a great deal simpler for me to not involve myself,” the captain replied. “Yet Mistress Grant has surprised me with her self-discipline. It’s plain to see she has no desire for this match—”

“Yet she’ll carry through with it for the sake of her cousin,” Bothan finished with disgust.

“And for you.”

Bothan had paced away from the English captain. Bothan turned and fixed the man with a hard look.

The captain stood up to it. “Mistress Grant has enough of a burden. You might think about how it will end for her if you persist in provoking her intended groom.”

The captain nodded before turning and moving off toward the house. Plenty of people looked toward Bothan and his men.

Going inside was the last thing Bothan wanted to do. Returning to the pavilion where Brenda was, that he wanted to do. But the captain was correct. Brenda would be the one to reap the anger Bothan stirred up in Galwell Scrope.

His men lifted the flaps and moved inside to sit at the table and benches. Bothan ground his teeth together with frustration. He preferred a man-on-man fight. Not the way the King was soothing tempers with negotiations and dowry gifts. But he wasn’t a fool either. Sometimes, negotiation was better than seeing blood spilled. As a chief, he had to do what was best for his people. Just as Brenda was making sure her clan didn’t end up branded as traitors. It was a damned mess, but he ducked under the entrance of the pavilion and went to join his men because he wasn’t going to give up. He was a chief. Galwell Scrope wouldn’t be enjoying the spoils of ill-gotten gains if Bothan had any say in the matter.

But it was only a few moments before someone was striding up to stand in the open doorway.

“I seek Bothan Gunn.”

Bothan dressed like his men, ate with them—in short, was one of them in all things because it made certain there was no cause for anyone to say he took luxuries while those serving him made do with less.

The man standing in the tent door opening wasn’t able to distinguish Bothan from his men because he didn’t understand that the three feathers on the side of his bonnet signified his rank. Bothan wasn’t planning on enlightening the man, either. He’d learned more than one thing by leaving himself unnamed. Things messengers such as this one might say if they thought they were only in the company of their peers.

“Who are ye?” Maddox asked.

“Henry Trappes,” the man said clearly. He reached into his doublet and withdrew a letter. “Laird Symon Grant wrote to me, informing me I should seek you out when you arrived.”

“I am Bothan Gunn,” Bothan said, declaring himself. “And ye are Athena’s uncle.”

The man nodded. “I’ve been following Her Majesty for weeks in an effort to clear my niece’s name. Elizabeth has yet to receive me. I’ve no doubt Galwell Scrope has played a hand in ensuring my suit doesn’t come to her attention.”

Bothan scoffed. “Considering the man would be proven a black-hearted liar if ye did gain the chance to speak, I find myself in agreement with ye.”

“It seems you may have found the means to ensure we are heard,” Henry said. “I could not help but overhear Galwell sputtering like a newly baptized cat.”

Maddox chuckled. “He squealed, sure enough.”

Henry shook his head. “He’s accomplished at the art of deception. Elizabeth has been keeping him close to her side. There are rumors she is even pondering wedding him to punish the Earl of Leicester for his secret wedding to Lettice.”

“In that case, it sounds like a fine thing to know Athena is staying in Scotland,” Maddox answered.

“Yes,” Henry replied. “For all that I was forced to send her north in a moment of desperation, it seems the Lord has ensured she did not come to an unkind end.” Relief washed over his face.

“Symon Grant will enjoy knowing he was doing the Lord’s work.” Bothan chuckled.

Henry Trappes didn’t join him in the moment of amusement. There was worry in the man’s eyes. A concern Bothan wasn’t immune to. Elizabeth Tudor enjoyed keeping her realm under her control. Anyone who doubted she would be the mistress in England tended to learn firsthand how much like Henry the Eighth she was.

Bothan didn’t dwell on the matter. He’d go through the famed lion’s daughter if needed to gain Brenda.

“Seems ye’re right about Galwell being able to get to the Queen whenever he chooses,” Bothan said. Past Henry’s shoulder the captain was heading back, a dozen of his men following. Henry turned and looked toward the house where the Queen was being entertained.

“At last,” Henry muttered.

Henry might be an older man, but there was heat in his tone. Bothan nodded approvingly. Unlike half the men following the English court, Henry wore good wool britches and doublet. His clothing was fine and yet functional. The man wasn’t a fop. And his tone told Bothan Henry wasn’t going to allow the slight to his family name to go unchallenged.

Maddox straightened his doublet. “Never thought I’d meet an English queen.”

“I did,” Bothan informed his man as he moved past Maddox and out into the open where the captain was approaching them. “It’s what I came here to do.”

And God help Elizabeth Tudor if she didn’t have more sense than James of Scotland did.

* * *

Brenda had no love of monarchs.

Or, more precisely, Brenda decided she didn’t care for the way her insides tightened as she was led toward a large drawing room where the Queen of England was currently sitting on a throne-like chair.

There was no dismissing the tension, though. The woman sitting with her fingers resting on carved lion’s head that was on the end of the armrest of the chair was very much a monarch. Elizabeth Tudor had red hair and blue eyes, but there was a sternness to her features that made it clear she had every intention of passing judgment and didn’t need anyone to help her do it. Nor did she doubt for a moment that it was her right to rule those in front of her.

“Are you Brenda Grant?” Elizabeth demanded.

Brenda lowered herself properly before answering. “I am.”

Elizabeth stood and went over to a table. There were dozens of parchments on it, and a man sat at the end with a quill and inkwell. He inclined his head as his mistress came near.

“James the Sixth of Scotland has sent you to wed,” Elizabeth said as she tapped a slim finger on the top of an open parchment. She looked toward Brenda. “You agreed to this?”

“The alternative was to see me cousin lose his new wife,” Brenda said.

Galwell grunted. “That is not what the Queen asked you.”

“It’s the truth of the matter,” Bothan added as he came through the doorway. He paused to tug on his cap and incline his head, but that was as polished as his manners went. There was an older Englishman with him who lowered himself before the Queen. Bothan sent Galwell a hard look. “Brenda is loyal to her family and did no’ care to see her cousin labeled a traitor because he’d not allow his wife to be taken from him over a dowry she never knew about,” Bothan said firmly.

“Yet you know about it,” Galwell snapped. “And you’re here trying your hand at making it yours.” He sniffed disdainfully. “Nothing but a thieving Scot!” Galwell declared loudly with his nose in the air.

Bothan let out a snarl. What made Galwell turn toward him was the very controlled way the sound came from Bothan’s lips. The Queen’s guards took notice, moving forward.

“My Lord Galwell.” Elizabeth stood her ground, her voice firm and just as controlled. “As it would seem you think you know so very much about Scotland and its people, perhaps we should appoint you as our ambassador to Scotland.”

Galwell paled. “Glorianna…you cannot mean to put me so far from your side.”

“I mean to have one mistress in England, sir.” Elizabeth sent them all a hard look before she slowly sat again in her chair. She settled herself, grasping the carved lion’s head at the end of the armrest before she spoke again.

“Henry Trappes,” Elizabeth began. “Did Galwell present contracts for your niece?”

The goldsmith inclined his head before he answered. “Indeed he did, madam.” There was a crinkle of parchment as he withdrew the documents. “Your Majesty will see that the seals are all here, from the Baron Scrope. I would never have allowed my niece to be courted if the matter were not correctly in hand.”

Elizabeth fixed her blue eyes on the parchment. “So I see.” She shifted her attention to Galwell. “And the land.” Elizabeth snapped her attention back to Henry. “Is it listed?”

Henry shook his head. “I never knew of the land. Not until I received this letter from Laird Symon Grant.”

Elizabeth slowly returned her gaze to Galwell. “And now, My Lord, you suddenly find yourself more agreeable to the union?” She made a scoffing sound beneath her breath. “And men claim women are fickle creatures.”

Galwell lowered himself. “It is my father who has changed his thinking. I am but a dutiful son.”

“I see,” Elizabeth remarked slowly. “Henry Trappes, how did your niece come to be in the presence of James of Scotland?”

Henry looked his queen straight in the eye. “Galwell lured her to his townhome, using these contracts to gain her trust, and tried to force her to become his mistress. When she refused, he had the constables called to arrest her. I sent her north so I could gain support against his allegations. I am a humble man, Your Majesty. My own sister was abandoned by her noble husband when she presented him with a daughter. This noble family has not once asked after my niece, not given a single penny toward her care. Lord Scrope swore to have me thrown into prison as well. I needed time to contact men who would speak on behalf of my character. I have followed you for months in an effort to present my case.”

Elizabeth’s blue eyes shifted over to Galwell, her displeasure clear.

Henry withdrew another packet of paper, but Robert Leicester stepped forward. “I will speak as to his nature, Your Majesty.” Robert offered her a courtly reverence that showed off his inner leg. “The very necklace around Your Majesty’s throat is one I had made by this man’s hand. I have dealt with him on many occasions and always found him to be of the highest noble character.”

The Queen’s gaze met Robert’s, her features softening. Brenda felt her breath catch for there was no denying the affection displayed. True love couldn’t be hidden.

“I spoke in haste.” Galwell hadn’t missed the exchange between Robert and the Queen either. Panic flickered in his eyes as he tried to regain her approval. “When I realized I was going to lose Athena, I was mad to keep her.”

“As your mistress?” Elizabeth asked, her tone making her distaste clear.

Galwell ducked his chin. “I do not regret it, Your Majesty, for it brought me to your side. Where I have learned a greater meaning of the word love.”

Elizabeth’s face was a perfectly controlled mask. A closer look had Brenda realizing the monarch’s mind was as sharp as it was rumored to be. Elizabeth was sorting through everything she’d heard and seen. She was wise enough to realize she might learn a great deal if she did nothing more than hold her tongue and allow the men in front of her to argue.

“Your love is so great, yet you are fighting with another man over marrying Brenda Grant?” Robert demanded slyly of Galwell.

“You have a new wife, do you not, My Lord Leicester?” Galwell parried.

A little sound came from the Queen, a small “harrumph” that spoke volumes about her understanding of the realities of life. She lifted a hand, silencing Galwell as she looked at him sternly.

“From what I understand, Galwell, you were just threatening Chief Gunn with imprisonment for merely being in the same pavilion with your intended bride,” Elisabeth said slowly before her eyes narrowed with her temper. “How dare you reproach Robert for the same sin you clearly planned to commit yourself?”

Galwell opened his mouth but shut it as he tried to think his way out of the situation. Brenda fought the urge to say exactly what she thought of him. Elizabeth didn’t miss it though. The Queen of England turned to look at her.

“You appear less than enamored with the man my cousin James has sent you to wed,” Elizabeth remarked while tapping her finger against the lion’s head.

“I am here out of loyalty to my family.” Brenda spoke her mind. Perhaps it wasn’t the wisest thing to say, for a husband had a great many rights over his wife. “My first marriage was for their sake as well. Were it left to me, I would end my days as I am now.”

Many would have told her how rash her words were. Nobles and royals didn’t tend to appreciate opinions that conflicted with their own. Still, Brenda decided she would rather be beaten for honesty than duck her chin like a coward.

“You have courage,” Elizabeth observed.

Brenda slowly smiled. “I’m often told more than a healthy amount of it for my gender.”

“Something I know about myself,” the Queen answered before she cast her attention to Bothan.

He was standing his ground, his feet braced shoulder-width apart, his arms crossed over his chest. He was imposing, and Brenda drank in the sight of him, knowing it was very likely her last opportunity to indulge in seeing him. Bothan didn’t shrink. He stood firmly in front of the Queen of England, no fear on his face.

No, his expression was one of determination.

Brenda would have sworn she felt the heat from it.

“Indeed, I know a thing or two about being coveted for what I have,” Elizabeth said in a tone edged with loathing, “while being told to mind my place as a woman. Yet God has seen fit to make me a Prince.”

For a moment, the Queen was lost in thought. Brenda didn’t make the mistake of thinking Elizabeth’s mind was soft. No, this woman was taking the time to think long and hard on a matter before she spoke. Something life had taught her through bitter experience.

Elizabeth looked at Robert Dudley, the Earl of Leicester, her eyes glistening. “I forgive you the need of a son, Robin.”

Robert reached out for her hand, raising it from his lips to his forehead. Brenda caught her breath because the moment was so very touching.

And it made her more than a little envious of the fact that fate had never been kind enough to her to bestow such affection upon her.

“As I expect you to forgive me for not being able to wed you, Robert, because a Prince does not marry for her personal desires but for the interests of her people,” Elizabeth continued.

Brenda felt her heart clench. Marriage was a business. She’d encountered that hard reality before. Elizabeth loved Robert Dudley—it was clear in both their eyes—and yet she’d not wed him even though she was the Queen of England and no one could tell her no.

Elizabeth understood that her actions would have repercussions and that a queen must wed for an alliance. To do otherwise was to put her people at risk of civil war or attack from abroad.

Yer father told ye the same when ye wed the first time.

Brenda drew a deep breath, sealing herself against the tide of regret rising up inside her. It would be a poor marriage at best. She looked at Galwell and saw how very lacking he was. It was a sad truth that she couldn’t find a single thing to compliment.

And Bothan was his opposite.

Brenda was looking at him without realizing her gaze had wandered. Bothan shifted his attention, locking gazes with her. For a moment, there was nothing except him. She felt the breath freeze in her chest and heat flicker in her cheeks. Her reaction would be seen, and yet no amount of scolding herself seemed to matter.

“My Lord Galwell.” Elizabeth raised her voice slightly. “I find your lack of character disturbing. To offer contracts to a man for his niece and then to attempt to make her turn mistress—”

“It was my father’s doing.” Galwell defended himself.

“Perhaps it was your father’s choice not to finish the contracts, but it was yours”—she stressed the last word—“to lure the girl to your home while you knew it was improper and she thought you an honorable man.”

Elizabeth slapped the arm of her chair. “I will not have it, sir! Men think to demand virtue in a bride, and yet you believe you might insist on a girl discarding hers because you want her in your bed. Tell me, what would have become of the girl when you decided you craved another?”

Galwell’s eyes bulged, but the Queen looked toward Bothan.

“You are amused, Chief Gunn?” Elizabeth demanded.

Bothan inclined his head. “I’m pleasantly surprised to see the fire in ye, ma’am. It’s the truth there are a few in the Highlands who say ye are weak-willed and merely a puppet upon the throne.”

Elizabeth let out a soft little grunt of approval. “I am my father’s daughter, Chief Gunn.”

“As I see,” Bothan replied. “What I want to know now is if ye see James is too much of a lad to understand just how unjust this contract is between Brenda and Galwell.” Bothan looked at Galwell. “A scheming man such as he does nae deserve to increase his holdings.”

Elizabeth didn’t answer immediately. The English Queen sat still for a long moment as she tapped one finger against the head of the lion.

“James is anointed King,” Elizabeth stated formally. “As such, we shall give him due respect.”

Brenda felt her body tensing, every muscle she had drawing tight as the Queen prepared to announce her judgment.

“However.” Elizabeth shifted her attention to Galwell. “Chief Gunn is the leader of his clan, and you have accused him of being a thief, My Lord, while he was here to see our royal person.”

Bothan tilted his head to one side as he tried to determine where Elizabeth was going.

“If Chief Gunn challenges you over the slight, I will have to allow him the right to defend his honor, and the victor will claim the right to wed Brenda Grant. James will have to accept the outcome.”