They didn’t sleep.
Broen urged them forward, only taking time to allow her to transfer to her own horse once his men joined them. The mare hurried ahead of the stallions lined up behind it, carrying her weight easily in spite of the rough ground they covered.
Dawn cast its light over newly plowed fields and the farmers who rose early to begin planting. The last of the snow had melted, filling the rivers they crossed with roaring white water. They took the horses across carefully, but the water was high and wet her to the waist in the deepest rivers.
But the sun was warm when it rose completely. The wind died, but the motion of riding rippled her dress to help dry it. In spite of the fact that the sun began to dip on the horizon when they neared another river, Clarrisa considered slipping off her horse to swim across, because it had been too long since she’d bathed.
Such would be foolish, a risk she didn’t need to take, but she smiled anyway, allowing her mind to toy with the idea instead of dwelling on the approaching night.
There was something about darkness and Broen MacNicols. The combination was proving to be intoxicating.
You’re thinking foolish thoughts…
Yes, she was, and a half dozen lectures from her childhood rose to needle her with warnings of how wickedness would lead her to damnation. Her smile grew wider.
“I did nae expect to see such a pleasant look on yer face.”
She jumped, startling her mare. The animal sidestepped, moving too close to Broen’s stallion, which was right beside her now. The stallion snorted and made to nip the mare. Broen muttered something in Gaelic while trying to control his horse.
“Oh fie.” Her mare wasn’t waiting to see if Broen could master his stallion. It bolted. Clarrisa leaned low and thanked the saints for the fact she was in Scotland, where she didn’t have to ride sidesaddle. She gripped the mare between her thighs, matching the pace the animal set. Her heart beat faster as the wind burned her cheeks.
She laughed when at last the mare began to slow. Perspiration had appeared on her forehead, and she raised a hand to wipe it away. The mare slowed at the top of a ridge, the last rays of the sun illuminating the valley below. A river cut through it, the roaring sound filling Clarrisa’s ears.
A hard arm slipped around her waist and hauled her off the back of the mare in a flash.
“Ye’re insane, woman,” Broen hissed at her while holding her in front of him and keeping a hand on the reins.
The need to be bold surfaced, as though it had been waiting for the opportunity. Being held so close to him, able to smell his skin, ignited the urge so quickly there was no time for thinking.
“You’re the madman here.” She aimed a vicious shove at him, arching her body away from his. “Dragging me off my mare like some Highland savage.”
His arm didn’t slacken, not even the slightest amount, but his eyes narrowed. Clarrisa glared straight back at him, trying to master the urge to giggle. She was far past the age of giggling, for heaven’s sake, but he saw the amusement glittering in her eyes, and she watched his blue eyes light up with something very similar.
“I was perfectly capable of managing the mare.”
“Is that so, lass?” He slid his hand up her back to press her torso against his. “If ye are so adept, why did yer mare take off? A competent rider would have kept the animal under control.”
“A capable man would have held his stallion in check, or was that your way of having an excuse to handle me?” She was being bold and had no idea where she’d learned to talk so brazenly, only that it excited her.
His eyes flashed with something that looked very much like he was rising to meet her challenge. The arm around her tightened, and she suddenly noticed they were out of sight of his men.
“If ye understand what being handled means, Clarrisa, I assure ye, I have only begun to handle ye.”
His voice was low, but the promise was clear as a church bell. His attention lowered to her lips, setting off a longing inside her to have done with arguing with him.
Kissing him promised far more pleasure.
She shook off the wicked thoughts. “Enough. You appeared beside me like a specter, and it was your stallion that misbehaved by attempting to bite my mare. Yet I am not surprised, for it takes after the uncivilized nature of its master.”
She offered him a soft laugh, but it sounded nervous. He didn’t join her in amusement this time; his eyes darkened, making her feel too hot to remain so close to him. The heat would soon affect her reasoning.
“Aye, I’m uncivilized, and that’s a truth I’m proud of, but I do admit to enjoying handling ye.”
She shouldn’t have liked his confession so much.
She froze, her fingertips resting lightly against his chest. She noticed how much she enjoyed touching him. Her stare settled on his, those blue eyes seeming deeper and more intense than she’d noticed before. Her belly twisted with nervous excitement as a quiver rippled across her skin. His shirt and doublet were open at the neck, allowing the garment to split and bare his skin. She moved her hand up so that two of her fingertips were resting on his warm skin. Such a simple touch, yet she felt it so intensely her breath caught.
“You should put me down.” Her voice was a mere whisper, the words feeling as though they were choking her.
“That is nae what either of us wants, Clarrisa.”
He smoothed his hand up her spine, sending out a flood of sensation. She was keenly aware of him. Time seemed to slow, ensuring she might experience every tiny motion. Details flooded her, the way his fingers cupped her nape one at a time, until he was gently gripping it. She heard the way his breathing deepened and became rough. She saw the way his nostrils flared slightly before his attention slipped to her lips and hunger glittered in his eyes.
“Ye want me to kiss ye.”
“Do not, Broen.” She turned her head away. “It isn’t right.”
She was pleading, but not because she feared he’d take what he wanted. It would be so much simpler if he did, easier for her to absolve herself of responsibility.
But it would make her a coward.
He blew out a harsh breath and used his grip on her neck to turn her face back toward his. Anticipation raked its nails down her spine. When she looked back into his eyes, it was clear she was inexperienced in the ways of passion, for what she’d witnessed before had only been the beginnings of hunger. Now desire blazed in full force in his eyes, and she recognized it in spite of all the times her uncle’s men had shepherded her away from situations where she might have learned about passion.
“What is nae right is selling ye to a man twice yer age and expecting ye to give him a son without him giving ye the respect of wedding. A maiden deserves such respect.”
Emotion threatened to strangle her. It was too thick, and she failed to smother a sob that rose from deep inside her in the only place she was free to admit what she truly felt. But she rebelled at the idea of sharing it with him. Between them was only the merest shred of trust, not nearly enough for her to allow him to see her heart.
“Yet it is common enough. I am hardly the first daughter to be bartered for the betterment of the family name. Release me now, Broen.” She pushed at him and arched to dislodge his grip on her neck. “I do not want you touching me.”
He grunted. “Liar,” he accused softly.
She jerked her attention back to his face, stilling for the moment. “I do not lie.”
His lips lifted in response, but the grin wasn’t mocking; it was arrogant. “No’ intentionally, I’ll grant ye that.”
“But… there is no middle ground when it comes to dishonesty,” she muttered, too breathless to suit her demand he release her. Deep and husky, her voice betrayed just how much she was enjoying his embrace.
“There is when ye have no concept of what it is ye’re feeling, Clarrisa.”
He moved his hand, gently stroking her nape. Delight raced down her body, raising a trail of gooseflesh as it went. Even her nipples contracted into hard points.
“Ye do nae understand why ye’re trembling or why a simple stroke makes yer insides twist…” He smoothed his hand over her nape again, and sensation spiked through her instantly. “Or why ye keep having to look away from me to avoid staring at me lips…”
Oh God, she was…
He turned her face toward him with a sure grip once again. His gaze lowered to her lips, focusing on them as the delicate surface tingled with anticipation.
“You’re toying with me,” she forced out.
He chuckled, low and deep. With the light fading, the moment took on a more intimate feel, because the night had ever been the sanctuary of lovers.
“I am guilty of that charge.” His grip was still solid on her nape. She was held immobile and at his mercy. “And a few other things too, lass, like wanting to tempt ye until ye kiss me back.”
She wanted to protest, but he didn’t give her the chance. Broen kissed her with all the force of the passion burning in his eyes. His mouth claimed hers, possessing it without mercy. She twisted, unable to decide how to bear all the sensation erupting from the kiss.
A reckless urge rose for her to press closer to him. It encouraged her to be bold and touch what she wanted while arching back to offer her breasts to him. She wanted to feel every bit of his hardness against her, pressing closer until there wasn’t any space between them. She slid her hand into the opening of his shirt, marveling at the enjoyment she gained from being skin to skin with him.
He pressed her lips open, and she lost the will to consider what she was doing. She gripped his shirt, pulling him toward her. She captured a soft growl with her lips and felt the vibration with her hands as it shook his chest.
“Sweet Christ, woman—”
Clarrisa cut him off this time, reaching up to cup the side of his jaw and turn his face back toward her kiss. Satisfaction blossomed inside her—that boldness that had needled her since the last kiss cheering her on as she tried to mimic his motions. She tilted her head so their lips might fuse more completely, pressing her mouth against his while teasing his lower lip with the tip of her tongue. Another growl surfaced from him, but his grip on her nape moved up until he’d captured one of her braids. He gripped it and took command of the kiss again. Her thoughts spun out of control, but she felt more than she’d ever imagined she might. Pleasure and delight swirled through her with such brilliant intensity she broke away before it drowned her.
“I shouldn’t have kissed you.” Shouldn’t have, because now she wanted more, and her discipline was long gone.
Surprise registered on his face, but she slipped out of his distracted hold and slid down the side of the horse. It was much farther to the ground than she had thought, and her ankle collapsed when she tried to make it take her weight. The stallion let out a snort as she struggled to regain her footing so close to its flank.
“Don’t be foolish, woman,” Broen growled. The stallion turned in a circle as Broen fought to command the strong-willed creature. When he brought the animal around, his knuckles were white from the grip he used to control the beast. “This is a full stallion, Clarrisa. Ye ride well enough to know better than to slide down its side like that. He could crush yer skull with his hooves.”
“It would have been more foolish to remain atop him.”
She turned her back on him but whirled back around when she heard his curse. There was a warning in his tone, as sure as the night had closed around them.
“Let me be, Broen MacNicols. Maybe you’re thinking I’m free with my favors, but I’m a maiden still.”
He smothered another word of profanity. “That’s plain enough.”
The man was furious, his tone condemning. Clarrisa propped her hands on her hips. “You don’t need to sound like it’s something I should be ashamed of.”
He tilted his head. “Cannae ye just be content with the fact that I believe ye are pure?” He muttered something else in Gaelic while looking to see where her mare had gone.
Frustration was shredding her. “I don’t know what I want from you,” she explained.
“A solid truth if ever I heard one,” he groused. “Come back here. Yer mare is out of sight.”
Part of her wanted to obey, but the sheer intensity of what his kiss had unleashed inside her made her shake her head. “I’ll walk.”
“Are the pair of ye finished?”
Shaw’s voice hit her like a blast of winter wind. She turned to look up the hill, where the burly retainer sat on his horse. He was sideways, looking away from them, but he’d obviously noticed they were no longer embracing.
Broen kneed his stallion forward until the animal stood near her. He leaned down, his shoulder-length hair falling low enough to brush her shoulder.
“’Tis for sure we are nae finished, lass. No’ finished even by half.”
He reached down and grasped the wide leather belt that secured the Chisholms plaid around her waist. With a hard tug, he pulled her off the ground and sent her halfway over the back of the stallion. She shrieked, but he paid her no mind, pressing her down in front of him.
“We’re just getting started, and that’s me promise to ye, lass.”
Hard and determined, his voice carried a promise.
***
“The little lass has daggers in her eyes for ye.”
Broen shot Shaw a deadly look, but amusement sparked in Shaw’s eyes as he grinned.
“I thought ye wanted to warn me away from her and her scheming ways. Ye’re sounding like a woman with all yer mind changing.”
Shaw shot him a look Broen wasn’t interested in suffering, but Shaw was right.
“This business irritates me.”
“I’ve noticed, Laird,” Shaw replied. “As a matter of fact, so have the lads.”
Broen looked over his men. Most were sleeping; the only ones still awake were set to watching Clarrisa and the road. Broen felt his chin tingle. He’d just wasted precious time that he could have spent sleeping to shave—for a woman.
For an English woman.
There was no way to ignore the fact. It frustrated him and rubbed his temper, but the three-day growth of beard on his face had left the faintest of pink abrasions on Clarrisa’s delicate skin. Fatigue was pounding in the back of his head, and what was he doing? Preening for a female. And not even for Daphne.
He stopped for a moment, his temper cooling. He could recall Daphne MacLeod’s dark eyes but hadn’t thought of her during the days he’d been away from his land. Somehow her memory had slipped aside. He’d believed he couldn’t live without her, but obviously he could. The only saving grace to the knowledge was that she wasn’t waiting back at Deigh Tower for him. Women had a way of knowing what men were thinking when they were alone with them. He certainly didn’t wish her dead, but he didn’t want to think he’d have broken her heart. It was a cruel trick of nature that made men unable to do the same.
Clarrisa opened her eyes, staring straight at him and proving his point. Maybe they weren’t alone, but it felt like there was a connection between them. He muttered a curse. Maybe Daphne was beginning her torment of him, but in the form of an Englishwoman whom he had no business wanting.
Much less shaving for.
***
Heat licked its way across her cheeks. Clarrisa lowered her chin so more of the Chisholms plaid would cover her face. She didn’t need Broen noticing her blush. It wasn’t for him.
Yes, it is…
She cringed. Why did he have to be so handsome? She was mad to notice, but there seemed to be no way to ignore him. With a shake of her head, she forced herself to look away from his newly shaved face, but she felt his attention on her. The blush burned hotter as sensation spread down her body. It happened faster this time, her skin somehow more sensitive. The feeling settled in her breasts again, drawing her attention to how much she’d enjoy having him nuzzle them with his newly shaved chin.
Clarrisa!
She actually trembled at her ideas.
Carnal ideas…
Oh, they certainly were, and for the first time in her life, she truly understood what the lectures in church had been about.
Wicked… Temptation… Wanton…
All of them leading toward one thing: sins of the flesh.
There were longings clamoring for attention inside her that both frightened and delighted her. But in all honesty, it wasn’t true fear, at least not the sort she would have expected. This was an unease, an ache that unnerved her because she wanted to satisfy it. She closed her eyes, but sleep eluded her. Instead, the memory of Broen’s kiss tormented her. Her body remained sensitive; her nipples, hard and needy.
The Highlander was a curse, after all, just as she’d always been told their lot was.
***
“Ye’re a fine lad.”
Laird Chalmers MacLeod smiled as his man handed over the sealed parchment he’d taken from the messenger Lord Alexander Home had dispatched to Laird Grant. He paid the messenger well to make sure he read messages from Lord Home, no matter to whom the man was writing them.
“I can nae stay too long,” the messenger muttered.
“Easy, lad. Ye’ve done the deed now.” Laird MacLeod turned over the letter and stared at the seal. “Lord Home will nae notice another day, considering how far ye had to go with this.” He used the English pronunciation of lord on purpose. “Make no mistake. Ye have me gratitude for bringing this to me. Home is a traitor, and a power-hungry one too. He only wants the boy on the throne so he can rule through the lad.”
Laird Chalmers MacLeod held the letter over a single candle flame. He kept it far enough away to ensure the paper didn’t scorch, keeping the wax seal facing up. The room was silent except for the scuff of the messenger’s boots against the stone floor when the man failed to mask his nervousness.
Laird Chalmers MacLeod didn’t allow his attention to be distracted; he concentrated on the wax, waiting for it to glisten just the tiniest amount. When it did, he set the letter on the tabletop and pulled out the dirk that was tucked into his boot. It was small, with a thin blade that he always kept razor-sharp just in case an assassin sneaked close to him. He slid the steel tip beneath the warm wax and gently lifted it from the parchment without tearing the seal. Then he leaned close and blew on the wax to harden it once more. It was a careful process, but once the wax no longer glistened, he was able to unfold the letter and read it.
Chalmers growled. The other men in the room wanted to know what the letter said, but he left them in ignorance. He waved the wax above the candle’s flame briefly before pressing it back into position on the folded letter.
“Take it to Laird Grant.”
The messenger flinched at his tone. “Aye, Laird.” He turned and quit the room before taking time to inspect the seal. There was no hint it had been opened. He tucked it back inside his doublet and hurried toward the kitchen for a hot meal. Chalmers found his own appetite lacking. War was brewing, one that would pit clan against clan. By summer’s end, Scotland would either have a new king or an old one with no living son. There was no way to know which side might win, so he was keeping friends on both. It was a wise thing to do for a common man such as himself.
***
“There it is, lass. Deigh Tower.”
There was unmistakable joy in Broen’s voice. Clarrisa turned to look at him. She realized she’d never seen him truly happy. He was now. His expression was radiant, and his eyes glistened with happiness.
“Do nae fret, Clarrisa. We’ve only one ghost.”
She frowned. “I am not afraid of you and your Highlands. Kindly stop trying to scare me.”
Except the place did look like the perfect home for a specter.
His stallion refused to be still, prancing in a circle because it smelled the familiar scent of its home. Her mare was eager to be back inside a stable too. The animal hurried forward, carrying Clarrisa past Broen. She heard him chuckling and bit back the retort that sprang to her lips. She needed to avoid talking to the man. Any interaction with him was dangerous.
Heat teased her cheeks, but there was no help for it. The best she could do was let the mare have its way. The animal took her to the top of a ridge—one more in what had come to be an uncountable number they’d crossed. Deigh Tower wasn’t much to speak of, simply a stone tower rising from the landscape.
At least that was the way it appeared until she crested the ridge. Below her, the tower sat in the center of the valley. It was built on a solid stone base that rose like a table and was surrounded by walls that were three stories high, on top of which were battlements. She could see the men stationed in the lookouts and the torches burning along the walkways. The walls formed a hexagon with thick keeps at each intersection to withstand cannon fire. Beyond the rock the fortress sat on, the last of the day’s light shimmered off a loch. The water lapped the rock foundation, and she could hear the rivers flowing down the other side of the valley into it. The water emptied from the loch and made its way down the valley past a town.
So clever—from the other side of the ridge, it looked like a single tower. Anyone attempting to attack the fortress would have to ride down the sides of the valley, completely exposed to the battlements. Set on a base of stone, there would be no tunneling under the walls. Deigh Tower was impressive and formidable. The sight also made her throat tighten, as though a noose were closing about her neck.
The sun was setting, and she hadn’t eaten since morning. She’d wrinkled her nose more than once throughout the day as she caught a whiff of the stench her skin had developed. Her braids were frizzy, and the linen dress wrinkled horribly, while every muscle she had ached. But she still pulled up on the reins, reluctant to willingly enter what might well become her prison.
Broen scooped her off the back of the mare in what was becoming a familiar motion. He had her seated in front of him before she had managed to do more than sputter.
“Deigh is a fine place, so do nae let the fact that it means ice in Gaelic make ye think it’s a cold place to live.”
Her mare was happily speeding up once more, now that it was free of the weight of a rider. Clarrisa tossed her head, and the stallion snorted at her.
“It seems I am nae the only rider who takes after the temperament of me horse, sweet Clarrisa.”
She turned her head to take issue with him. “I am not your sweet anything.” She tried to shove him, but they were too close for her blow to have any true strength. “And if you try to bite me—”
“Ye’ll what?”
There was a challenge in his tone, one she was sorely tempted to brave, but she turned to face forward and his chest rumbled with his amusement.
“You’re a brute,” she accused.
He caught her head and turned her face back to his. The amusement had vanished from his face. “The king would have shown ye brutality, but I have nae.”
She shook her head, his grip irritating her almost beyond her endurance. “Think you I care for bruises or strikes?” She laughed at the surprise on his face. “You haven’t heard a word of complaint for the aches in my body from the pace you’ve set, or the wounds festering on my wrists.”
He reached for her wrist, but she shoved at him, making it necessary for him to clamp her tightly to his body or lose control of her.
“Damn yer stubborn nature, Clarrisa. Why do ye accuse me of being a brute?”
They rode beneath the raised gate, cheers coming from the men on the battlements. Somewhere a bell began to toll, and then another and another, until the entire fortress echoed with their chiming. She turned to look where they were going, part of her actually grateful to him for taking the choice from her. It was weak of her to think in such a way, but at least she was honest. Broen rode into the inner yard and pulled the stallion to a stop.
“I’m waiting for an answer, Clarrisa.”
His arm was still tight around her body, binding her to him. More and more people came out of the doorways to welcome their laird back. Children pointed at her as their mothers leaned toward one another to whisper about her.
“Release me, Broen. You’ve taken me where you wished, and I owe you no obedience, nor must I hold my tongue in your presence.” There were plenty who would tell her how foolish such words were, but she was oddly past caring.
“Is that so?” he demanded in a low tone meant only for her ears.
“It is. It’s wiser too. We respond to each other too much.”
It was an admission, but she heard him pull in a harsh breath. His arms tightened, reminding her of their embrace at Raven’s Perch. A shiver raced down her back.
“You know it’s wiser, Broen. You did not take me for yourself.” But she wasn’t sure if she wasn’t saying it out loud in order to believe it herself.
She pushed against him, half fearing he’d refuse her. Broen freed her, but a large retainer caught her around the waist before she was halfway to the ground.
“A Chisholms lass, is it?” a MacNicols retainer asked.
“No,” she answered.
Her English accent sent the retainer back away from her. Broen chuckled as he jumped down and hooked an arm around her waist.
“This is young Clarrisa, me guest at the request of the Earl of Sutherland.” He gripped the belt holding the plaid to her waist and brushed the plaid back from her head to make sure his men got a good look at her face. “She’ll be staying, and I will nae be pleased to hear any of ye have allowed her past the gate.”
More than a hundred people leaned closer to peer at her. Broen stood half behind her as they studied her.
“I can stand my own ground,” she snapped before turning to face him. “I am no coward.”
He raised an eyebrow. The same man she’d awakened to find watching her while she slept. She felt the weight of his authority. He was master of the fortress, his word law to every living soul watching them, but she still wasn’t willing to return to the meek manners that had seen her following her family’s orders to go to Scotland.
Instead, she lifted her chin and offered him her best interpretation of the grin he so often vexed her with. “I need no help to face down those intent on helping you imprison me.”
The crowd grew silent and pressed in closer to see what their laird would make of her refusal. For a moment, a gleam of appreciation appeared in Broen’s eyes, but it transformed into a flame of challenge so quickly she didn’t have time to step back before he moved.
“Be careful how ye label things, lass.” His tone warned her that he was willing to match her defiance of convention with some of his own. “Because I might be of the mind to prove ye right.” He lowered his shoulder and tossed her right over it. A cheer went up as his people began to clap and whistle.
Her temper exploded, and she refused to hang over his shoulder like some prize. But the moment she straightened, he smacked her bottom. The shock of it sent her back over his shoulder, and he turned in a swirl of kilt to carry her up the steps and into Deigh Tower.
“I’m owing me overlord for sending me after this one, lads!”
Broen didn’t stay on the ground floor. He climbed several flights of stairs before bursting through a door. Several women gasped before laughing at the sight of him carrying her like a sack of grain.
“I’ve brought ye something,” he announced before tossing her off his shoulder. For a moment she was cradled in his arms, against his chest like a babe. She caught just a glimpse of his grin before he tossed her into something.
“Holy Mother of Christ!” she shouted as she landed in a tub full of water. It splashed up in a huge wave as she frantically tried to control her landing. She ended up sprawled on her backside with her feet in the air and her arms grasping the sides of the tub. Water soaked her body, covering her to midchest because the tub was so large.
“So ye do know how to curse.” Broen stood with his hands propped on his hips. The sword pommel with its sapphire glittered above his left shoulder, while his golden hair was still only held out of his eyes by a single braid, and his doublet was open to the waist. He looked as wild and untamed as he had the first time she’d seen him, and she felt like scratching his eyes out. In fact, her hands curled into talons as she began to push herself out of the tub. He planted a hand in the center of her chest to keep her on her back.
“Ye’ll learn, Clarrisa, to respect my will here. Display that wild streak of yers too publicly, and I will be happy to tame it… so all can witness it.”
The women in the room smothered their laughter.
“You will never—”
He sealed the rest of her denial beneath a kiss. He grasped a handful of her wet clothing and lifted her so he could silence her with his lips. It was hard and demanding. But enjoyment still raced through her even as she began to throw water at him. He shook his head when he straightened, flinging water from his hair.
“I accept yer challenge,” he announced before looking across the room. “Me guest does nae like the way she smells. It seems I’ve brought home one of the few Englishwomen who does nae like to stink. Bathe her.”
It was an order. Every woman in the room lowered herself immediately. If looks could kill, Broen MacNicols would have died right there in front of her. Instead, she watched the pleats of his kilt swaying before he disappeared behind a solid door.
“Brute!”
She might as well have saved her breath, for the only thing her shouting did was renew the laughter surrounding her. Four maids began stripping off her shoes and stockings as she tried to climb out of the tub. Her dress had soaked up so much water her exhausted body refused to stand under its weight. She would have protested as the women began to remove it, but she was too busy sighing with relief.
Brute… Highlander. The words seemed to mean the same thing.
***
“Ye’re better off no’ seeping in such dark thoughts.”
The woman speaking had Maud’s years but her voice lacked the pinched tone the English matron had always used.
“I’m named Edme.”
Clarrisa lowered herself. She was already finishing the respectful gesture before she realized how long it had been since she had offered anyone a gesture so polite. It seemed ages. Somehow she’d completely lost track of time since Broen had taken her.
“Ye have pretty manners, a credit to yer family,” Edme muttered. The woman had on a sturdy wool dress with a piece of the MacNicols plaid held on her right shoulder with a silver brooch. A belt secured it around her waist. On her head, she wore a knit bonnet similar to the one Broen wore. Clarrisa decided she liked it better than the pressed linen caps her uncle made the servants in his household wear.
“Not really. They had me trained to please whoever paid the most for me.” Clarrisa covered her mouth with one hand, horrified by how bitter she sounded.
“What of yer mother? Mothers teach their children manners because it is their duty. We’d be savages otherwise.”
Highlanders were savages. At least, she’d heard it said many a time. Clarrisa bit her lip, clamping down on the impulse to be surly.
“My mother died when I was only a few winters old. I only recall her face because my uncle had a miniature of her and he allowed me to see it sometimes.” When he was in the mood to impress upon her what fine things might be hers if she caught the eye of a titled man. Clarrisa began pulling a comb through her drying hair once more. Anger and discontent were brewing inside her, but it was becoming impossible to direct her feeling completely toward Broen. She certainly detested the man for treating her like a sack of grain, but she was still grateful to him for taking her away from the Scottish king’s plans, which left her standing in a swirling cloud of discontent. She had no idea what to hope for. Not having anything to look forward to left her feeling like the ground was giving way beneath her feet.
“Here now. I’ve brought ye some supper. A full belly will lift that dark humor from yer face. Ye look bone weary and half-starved. I’m nae surprised. The laird travels quickly when he’s off his own land, a good habit in times like these when we are nae sure which clans are royalist.” The older woman brought a tray forward and placed it on the small table near the fire. “Sit here until yer hair is dry. The Highlands are no place for wet tresses after nightfall.”
“Your laird tossed me into the tub.” Clarrisa had to set down the comb because the scent of food had set her hand to trembling. Her belly rumbled, low and loud. She had never smelled food so enticing before. Her mouth actually watered.
“Aye… I’ve heard the tale several times over already.” Edme lifted the cover off a soup terrine, and a puff of steam rose. “Never known the laird to give up his hot bath for a lass before. Right kind of him.”
“Kind—”
Edme raised an eyebrow at her tone. Clarrisa shut her mouth with a click of her teeth. A small smile appeared on the older woman’s lips.
“Yer mother would be proud of ye,” she decided with a nod.
Clarrisa shook her head and reached for the spoon lying neatly beside the bowl. “If you’ve heard the tale, you know my behavior has been less than perfect.”
The stew was still hot, thanks to the heavy silver bowl someone must have warmed before ladling the meal into it. She sighed as she swallowed and scooped up another spoonful quickly. She was too hungry to control the urge to eat fast.
“Ye’re in the Highlands. Spirit is respected here. Ye’d nae have survived the trip if ye did nae have enough of it.”
Clarrisa stared at Edme as she turned and went to the room’s huge bed. The feet were carved like lion’s paws, and two full rampant animals dominated the headboard. Edme tugged down the coverlet, exposing creamy linens.
“Is this Broen’s chamber?”
The spoon was halfway to her lip as she noticed the fine table and chairs near the window. Costly squares of glass were set into the windows, and the tub was an overlarge one.
“As I told ye, the laird gave up his bath for ye.” Edme came back toward her. “But it’s good to see that dressing robe used. The laird never wears it, mind ye. He’s young enough no’ to be bothered by the chill of night. Still, some of the younger maids find it shocking when they see him walking about in naught but skin after his bath.”
Naught but skin?
Her eyes went wide as heat rose in her cheeks. She stuffed another spoonful of stew into her mouth to prevent voicing some careless comment. The dressing robe was thick. Even with only a chemise beneath it, she was warm.
“I’ve told ye plenty of times, Edme, no’ to put the lasses to work hauling water up here. I’ll bathe in the bathhouse.”
Clarrisa dropped the spoon and stood. Broen stood near the doorway, wearing only his kilt and a shirt that had its collar lying open.
“What are you doing here?” Clarrisa demanded.
He lifted one eyebrow. “It’s me chamber, as Edme just told ye.” He walked toward the bed and placed his sword on two iron poles protruding from the stone wall. The pommel lay within reach of the bed.
“Ye’re the laird now. Privacy is yer due,” Edme muttered while inclining her head.
Broen wasn’t watching his clanswoman. His blue eyes were on Clarrisa. The chamber was lit only by candles now, the fire in the hearth no more than a glowing bed of coals. The golden light danced off drops of water left in his hair.
“I admit, Edme, yer persistence in continuing me father’s tradition of bathing up here came in right handy tonight.”
“I disagree,” Clarrisa informed him. Her voice trembled, and she bit her lip before adding more to her statement. She needed to find her composure, and quickly, before the man decided she was besotted enough by his charms to fall easily into his bed.
His kisses certainly scatter your wits…
Broen chuckled. “Well now, Clarrisa, I’m going to call ye fickle, for ye railed at me about how ye did nae care for the stench our journey had left ye with.”
“That was not an invitation for you to carry me to your chamber like some prize. After all, I was telling you about the wisdom of us remaining separated.”
“That does nae mean I agreed with ye, lass.” He closed the space between them. “Ye’re me prize, sure enough, one that will help ensure the king cannae begin any new trouble.”
“Why are you not loyal to your king?” It would have been better not to ask. Learning about him would only make it so much harder to maintain distance between them.
All traces of teasing left his face. “A king must earn his loyalty by dispensing justice when his nobles come to him. Me father was murdered in cold blood, and James refused to even see me. I will nae follow him when he’s so selfish as to leave such a grave matter undecided, which will lead to feuding. I want justice, no’ having to listen to the mothers of me retainers weeping because their sons are run through this summer now that the Grants know the king will allow them to get away with whatever they want. I and me men will have to protect our own, or blood will flow.”
“How will bringing me here help?”
“Me father died on me neighbor’s land. Donnach Grant will nae face me to explain what happened, which leaves me men demanding vengeance. Me overlord was willing to trade the favor of backing me cause if I made sure the king did nae get the York-blooded son he craved.”
Anger smoldered in his eyes, and she struggled against the wave of compassion that swept through her. “A just cause, but I should be free to leave now that you have prevented your king from using me, not kept here by your order.”
He crossed his arms over his chest and considered her for a long moment. “To go where?”
“Well”—she searched her memory—“I have a cousin who would most likely welcome me.”
“A relation who does nae obey the will of yer uncle?”
Her uncertainty must have shown on her face, because Broen scoffed at her. “Where would ye end up next time? In whose bed, lass? Or beneath whose blade?”
Heat licked across her skin as she noticed that his bed was too close for her comfort. The knowledge that they were in his chamber refused to be pushed aside. She suddenly realized Edme had left silently. “Not yours, Broen MacNicols. You can put the thought straight out of your head.”
She sputtered and moved to step away from him, but he snaked out his hand to grasp her wrist. The bench she’d been sitting on toppled over, raising a cloud of ash when it landed in the coals of the fireplace. Broen pulled her against him and away from the coals before she truly had time to fear being singed.
“Who is thinking of bed sport more, lass? If ye were nae dwelling on it, ye’d have insisted no one wanted to spill yer blood. Instead yer mind only heard me speaking of beds.” He was warm, just as she remembered, and her body eagerly approved of being in contact with his. “Ye kissed me back, Clarrisa, with passion hot enough to burn.”
“That does not mean I am content with being in your chamber.”
He had her arm twisted up behind her back. For a moment, the embrace tightened, pressing her breasts against his chest. Her nipples contracted, the soft globes compressing. A soft gasp escaped her lips when sensation went shooting through her. She’d never realized her breasts might feel so much enjoyment.
“Shall I court yer contentment?” He leaned down until she felt his breath against her lips. “Shall I test yer resolve to resist returning me kiss once again, lass? Ye failed but a few hours past. A lover is something most women never get the chance to enjoy. Are ye sure ye want to turn yer back on the opportunity? There is passion between us, lass. It is no’ a common thing. Ye think me unwise, but I know how rare this sort of flame is.”
She shivered with the knowledge and felt heat licking at her insides. Need began pricking her with tiny demands that rejected her reasons for denying what she craved. But the growing intensity frightened her.
It would overwhelm her so easily…
“Do not make this a matter of your pride, Broen. My purity is the only thing I have. I was sincere when I thanked you for taking me away from your king. Please do not behave like him.”
He lifted his head, pressing his lips into a firm line. In his eyes, there was a conflict, one that burned brightly before he released her and turned to lift the bench out of the hearth. She shivered once more, this time from loss.
“Ye wound me with yer words, lass. For all that ye accuse me of being a brute, I have no desire to have ye gaining evidence to support yer claim.” He turned to consider her. “At least no’ when it comes to the matter of sharing me bed. I stole ye to prevent war, and ye’ll stay here until the earl aids me in doing what needs doing. Leave, and I’ll run ye down. That’s a promise.”
His tone held the authority she’d so often heard in her uncle’s; the difference was that Broen seemed to deserve it. She wasn’t sure where such an idea had come from; it was completely foreign to everything she’d been raised to believe. Her gaze settled on the open shirt that revealed the light hair covering his chest. He was the barbarian she’d always heard Highlanders were, but he didn’t lack integrity. In many ways, he stirred more admiration inside her than any Englishman she’d ever met.
The wilds of Scotland were tearing her away from civilized thinking, just as she’d heard they would. There was no other explanation for the yearning to argue with him in the hope he’d impress his will upon her once again.
“Edme will have turned down the bedding in the chamber at the end of the hallway. Go on with ye now, before I’m tempted to bury me hands in yer hair. Ye’re a tempting woman, Clarrisa.” He studied her from narrowed eyes. She lowered herself and heard him mutter a curse.
“Now ye offer me respect?” He opened his arms, looking like he was preparing to pounce. “Why? Because ye fear following yer passion so very much? Or do ye believe I am such a savage I do nae value a lover who chooses me of her own free will?”
She rose back to her full height. “I offer you respect because you earned it by granting me a choice.”
Her words were low because she was trembling. Longing was burning in her belly, teasing her with how good it felt to be in his embrace. She was tempted to surrender to the moment, take the pleasure that might be hers, and forget all the reasons why it wasn’t a wise idea. His words beckoned with the promise of what delights she’d find in the arms of a lover as opposed to the man her kin had sent her to.
It felt so very good to be in his arms…
He chuckled softly and with an unmistakably menacing sound. “The idea of luring ye into me bed is beginning to tempt me more than I care to admit.”
She backed up a step, having to gather a handful of the dressing robe because it was so long in the back. “You should keep your attention on the reason why you stole me. It sounds as though you have many important matters to attend to, Laird MacNicols.”
His gaze traced her flowing hair. The strands swayed softly every time she moved. The only time she allowed men to see it unbraided was May Day, and it was strangely intimate to notice the way Broen appeared to enjoy the sight of it.
“Aye, but there’s something between us, and that’s a fact, lass.” Now there was a warning in his eyes, something she recognized out of pure instinct.
“Possibly…” She could have bitten off her own tongue for allowing him to hear how much she feared the way he overwhelmed her, so much so, she was lying to cover it.
She turned and moved toward the door but felt him following her—stalking her, really. She glanced over her shoulder and saw that he was keeping pace with her. What stole her breath was the hunger flickering in his eyes.
“It is lust, common and to be avoided.” She stopped and faced him. “Surely there is a priest somewhere nearby who will happily lecture you on the merits of pious behavior.”
She could certainly have used a good lecture to restore her resolve.
He reached forward and right up the sleeve of the dressing robe. He clasped her bare arm, below where the chemise ended at her elbow. For one moment, their skin touched as he slid his hand down to her wrist. He pulled her hand up and placed a kiss against the back of it.
“Surely there is a reason ye are trembling, lass, and I’d much rather ye listen to me explain why.”
She pulled her hand away, but he’d awakened every inch of her skin. She shuddered, feeling the touch all the way down to her toes. “We cannot.”
Must not…
Clarrisa turned her back on him. It was a foolish way of escaping, but she wasn’t thinking anymore. His touch reduced her to reactions. Heat blazed across her cheek, and he reached out to stroke the scarlet stain when she turned to glance back at him.
“Broen…” She went to step forward but was too close to the door. Broen moved up behind her, flattening his hands on the surface of the door. She was pinned between his arms, but he wasn’t actually touching her. Yet she was so keenly aware of him.
“We can, lass. There is no one here to judge us.”
She felt his breath against her hair. He inhaled and made a low sound of approval. She’d never felt attractive before, but that single sound filled her with confidence. For the first time in her life, she felt the desire to bare her body for another. There was no shame, only need. The heat in her face spread down her body, touching off anticipation. Every inch of her longed to be touched, kissed—or anything else he wanted.
“But I want a lover, Clarrisa, and I believe ye need time to think on that choice.”
She felt him move away from her, granting her the freedom to leave or stay. The power of choice was overwhelming. He chuckled at the wide-eyed look she sent him. “Think on it, lass, for I find I enjoy knowing I earned yer respect just a wee bit more than proving ye truthful when ye call me a brute.”
He went back to the bed and sat on it, patting the space beside him suggestively. “If ye want to know why ye’re trembling, ye’ll have to come to me of yer own free will. Do ye nae want to be the one who decides whom ye yield yer maidenhead to?”
“I don’t want an invitation to your bed because you pity me.” He did too. Behind the glitter of desire, she saw it clearly.
“It’s far more than that, lass.” He stood, and she trembled.
“But you do pity me and my plight.” She shook her head. “I see it in your eyes.”
He didn’t offer her any excuse, only held up his hand with his eyebrow raised.
It would be so simple, so satisfying to know her uncle hadn’t been the one to decide whose bed she occupied. But she did not want pity.
“I’m not a coward, nor am I willing to take shelter beneath pity. I’ll bear what I must.”
He didn’t care for her answer, but admiration gleamed in his eyes. “Then ye’d best get on to yer chamber before the sight of yer flowing hair tempts me to try my hand at seducing ye.”
It wasn’t an idle threat, and part of her wanted to linger, just to lift the decision from her hands.
But he deserved better from her. Broen deserved a lover who was as bold as he was. Clarrisa opened the door and frowned when she failed to find anyone there. “Am I free here?”
He laughed at her. “Ye have the same amount of freedom I do. Me clansmen always keep watch on the stairs, for they fear I’ll end up dead before I have an heir. Ye may go to the end of the hall or stay here. But if ye go to that chamber, close the door and stay in there. Argyll will no’ bother ye inside the chamber.”
“Who is Argyll?”
“The ghost of Deigh Tower.”
She wanted to argue with him, but the look of anticipation on his face made her clamp her mouth shut. It wasn’t easy to resist the urge. She choked on her retort as she stepped into the hallway.
Ghost. Truly the man must think her a weak-kneed fool to take to cowering inside her chamber for fear of a ghost.
She sighed. It was most likely true. Broen no doubt had been raised to believe Englishwomen were no better than she’d been taught to think of Highlanders. The last few days had opened her eyes, but that didn’t mean his had been. He was still laird and her captor. At least she’d not been so foolish as to give in to her yearnings.
The chamber at the end of the hall held all the comforts she might wish for. Edme had lit a lantern, and its light spilled over the floor cheerfully. The night was still chilly, but not cold enough for a fire in the hearth. Wood was neatly stacked inside it in case she should change her mind. Such was a luxury, for every resource used inside a tower was accounted for.
Clarrisa smiled when she spied the mirror. Oh, she knew full well it was vanity, but she adored being able to see her reflection. The mirror was placed in the corner, near a large wardrobe. Framed in silver, it showed her entire length.
Her hair was becoming…
She shook her head to dispel the vain thought but shivered as she recalled the way Broen had buried his face in her tresses. She turned and gazed at the way the strands fell to below her bottom. Newly washed, her hair was curling. It was mostly blond, with darker streaks. Maud had lamented those, declaring them a flaw.
Broen hadn’t seemed to mind. Of course, he’d also been set on luring her into his bed.
She turned and looked at the bed. It was beautiful, and yet she frowned, thinking of Broen. She was mad; there was no other explanation. Edme had turned back the covers, revealing creamy sheets. The coverlet was stuffed with goose down, drawing a sigh from her exhausted lips. The bed ropes creaked slightly when she crawled onto the mattress. Her cheeks were still burning as longings needled her flesh. She lay back, trying to ignore the clamoring in her body. How was it possible to want a man so much when she knew so little about him? Perhaps she might understand if she had harbored affection for him, but there was no way she could believe herself in love with him.
Whatever the cause, she slipped away into slumber before she thought the matter through. The days of travel had taken their toll, refusing to allow her to ponder her circumstances any further. But the longings settled into her dreams.
***
He could have overwhelmed her. Should have.
Broen snorted and tossed his shirt onto the table. He flexed his arms before reaching for his belt. At least stripping brought him a measure of contentment, even if true satisfaction was going to be denied him. His cock was hard. The damned thing ached, but what soured his disposition was the fact that he craved Clarrisa. There was a curse.
Three floors down, he’d find more than one willing lass to ease his desire. Why did he have to have a taste for the Englishwoman sleeping down the hallway?
He grunted and lay down. His bed was soft and warm. Sleep should have come easily after the time he’d been on the road, but it eluded him. Instead, he contemplated Clarrisa. She was his prize, yet he wanted more from her. His bed felt empty without her, but he didn’t lament allowing her to leave. What he truly longed for was for her to choose him. Perhaps he was a blackguard for wanting to have her for a lover, but at least he was not so much of a brute as to overwhelm her. Doing so wouldn’t have been too difficult.
That thought made his cock twitch. It hardened even more in response to the memory of the way Clarrisa had responded to his kisses. Her innocence was to her credit, but what kept him from slipping off to sleep was the way she’d risen to the challenge of kissing him back.
He wanted her. Plain, simple, and blunt.
Brute…
He was one, indeed, and his fiery English captive liked that quality best of all.