“Will winter never end?” Ailis stopped at a window and scowled at the sky. “It has never lasted so long.”
Helen didn’t answer Ailis, but she had Helen’s full attention.
“Oh stop it,” Ailis exclaimed as she turned around. She meant to do it quickly, but her belly was huge and it made her clumsy. She missed a step and ended up catching herself against the wall as Finley and Lyel both jumped forward to catch her.
“I warned ye.” Ailis pointed at the pair of retainers. They stopped and hooked their hands on their wide belts, making it plain they were not going to depart, no matter how much she snarled at them.
“Helen,” Ailis implored her friend.
“Oh, all right.” Helen stood up. “Ye need no’ sound as though ye are going to weep.” Helen sent Ailis a wink her mistress didn’t miss.
“Oh…but…it’s just that I am…so very tired of winter…” Ailis began to whimper.
“We’ll be nearby if ye need us,” Finley mumbled before he dashed through the chamber door with Lyel on his heels.
“At last.” Ailis rubbed her belly. “I swear, I am nearly mad from the way everyone watches me.” She collapsed into a chair. “As if this child is going to spring forth in a few moments and one of them might miss its arrival.” She snorted. “It would not be called labor if it were so simple.”
Helen laughed softly. Ailis looked at her. “Enough about me. Tell me what it is ye will not talk about.”
Helen pulled a needle through the skirt she was making. “Ye have asked me that question every day since I returned, and the answer has no’ changed.”
“I know.” Ailis spread her arms wide. “Ye persist in keeping yer thoughts to yerself. I would nae have to keep asking ye if ye explained why ye will nae tell me what is on yer mind.” Ailis pointed at her. “And ye know very well I am talking about yer husband.”
“There is naught to say.”
Ailis smiled at her, but it was the sort of expression that promised Helen an interrogation.
“I’m hungry,” Helen announced as she stood and left her half-sewn skirt in the chair behind her. “I’ll go fetch us something from the kitchens. Best stay here, or the boys will be on yer heels in a moment. Ye know Bhaic told them he’d tan their hides if they let ye go down the stairs without help.”
“Me husband can sleep in the stable for all I care.”
Helen smiled as she left the chamber. Finley and Lyel were leaning against the wall near the top of the stairs. They tugged on the corners of their bonnets as she passed.
What was she thinking? Truly, she wished she knew.
In many ways, her life was so perfect. But that was what alarmed her. Perfection wasn’t something that reality offered. At least, she had never found such to be the case. Happiness might come and touch her for magical moments that warmed her to the center of her heart, but it never lasted.
She felt on edge, as though she were waiting for something to crash through the window she was looking out and allow the bitter cold to blow against her. The snow was so beautiful when one was buffered against its chill.
He hadn’t said he loved her.
It shouldn’t bother her so much, or if it did, she should collect her courage and confront him. But if she did so, he might destroy the contentment they enjoyed by telling her he did not share her feelings.
Coward.
She was surely that, and yet not without reason. Her life was good now, far better than she might have expected from any match her father could have made for her. With Duana gone, the rest of the staff was showing her respect, while Marcus made certain she was well satisfied every night in their bed.
Coward? Perhaps wise was more the word.
It would be foolish to demand more, and most men did not think love was for their gender. They might indulge it, even smile when it was bestowed upon them, but they did not return it.
Indeed, it would be wise to see how full her life was and not long for more.
Yet she did.
The kitchens were warm and filled with the scent of roasting meat. Bhaic had ordered more livestock slaughtered so his wife could have fresh meat, even during the months when most made do with oats and ale. It was a luxury, and Helen drew in a deep breath before instantly regretting it.
Her belly heaved, and she clamped her mouth shut as the urge to retch nearly strangled her. She raced to the privacy closet, getting there just in time before losing what was left of her dinner. Yet that did not relieve the nausea. It seemed to have her locked in its grip as she tried to collect her composure.
“I wondered when that would happen,” Senga said when Helen emerged. She snapped her fingers at a younger maid who stood with a bowl and a cloth in hand. The young Robertson who Bhaic had rescued with Ailis was now taking command as personal attendant to Ailis and Helen. “The laird will be overjoyed.”
The scent of the roasting meat was still enough to make Helen heave. She didn’t pay much attention to Senga, instead hurrying out of the kitchen, and gulping in fresh air. It helped, so she went all the way onto the steps to gain air that wasn’t stale from being inside the castle walls. There was still a chill in the air, but her stomach settled and she sighed with relief.
“Ye haven’t bled in months.”
Senga had followed her. Helen turned to look at the young woman. “How would ye know?”
Senga offered her a satisfied look. “As I told the mistress, I will prove meself. Ye have no’ asked for any cloth, and it has been four months since yer return from Sutherland.”
Four months?
There was a scuff on the stairs as Finley came down them fast enough to break his neck. His eyes were wide, and he reached for Helen while he was still running.
“The mistress… Quick now, woman… She’s having that babe.”
* * *
“Should ye nae be above stairs with the women?”
Katherine looked at Robbie and shook her head.
“But there is a baby being born,” her new friend persisted. “The women are gathering in the mistress’s chambers. It seems to take a lot of women for a baby to be born.”
“It’s much more fun to be here with you,” Katherine said.
Robbie considered her for a long moment. “Ye do nae act much like a girl.”
“That is because you are such a good teacher,” Katherine informed him.
Robbie flashed her a grin before he gestured her after him. “Let’s go down by the river and see if we can find some rabbits to hunt. The cook might even give us some treats if we bring back meat.”
Katherine nodded and waited to tuck her skirts up until they were out of the castle. She longed to wear a kilt like Robbie, but didn’t want to risk Ailis taking exception to her friendship with the boy. So it was better not to bring attention to herself. That was a lesson she had learned very young. Whenever someone noticed her, it was likely to be a very bad day for her.
Such as the day her noble father’s wife had noticed her and put her out of the house. There had also been the day when Scottish men had noted her blue blood and taken her across the border to sell to the regent of Scotland. She recalled that day very well.
Yes, much better not to have anyone notice what she was about. Which was working out splendidly, because boys had ever so much more fun than girls. Robbie had shown her how to wrestle and use a dagger, and now he was sharing his lessons in archery.
“I bet if ye dressed like a lad, no one would notice ye’re a lass,” Robbie said as he watched her fight with her skirts. He laughed. “It would be fun, too.”
“All right,” Katherine agreed. In fact, it was better than all right; the idea sounded perfect to her. The sun couldn’t rise soon enough. Everyone back in England would be disgusted by the Highlanders around her, even young Robbie. Savages. Barbarians. That was what the English labeled them.
Katherine saw them differently. They were strong and honorable. There were even bastards among them who did not live a life of scorned rejection. The truth was known, yet they took their places and lived peacefully. It made her wonder what the true meaning of savage was, because if the Highlanders surrounding her were in fact uncivilized, she wanted to dispense with such manners immediately.
So that was exactly what she would do.
A new day and a beginning to a new life for her.
* * *
“Are ye disappointed?”
Bhaic stared at his wife incredulously. “She is the most precious thing I have ever seen, except perhaps for ye.”
He was holding his tiny daughter as carefully as an egg. Her little head was supported in one hand while he cupped her bottom in the other. “We’ll name her Sorcha, and no’ another word from ye, Ailis. Ye’ve given me a fine, healthy child and are here to celebrate that with me. That is all I prayed for.”
He laid the infant gently in Ailis’s arms and tucked back some of his wife’s hair. “Be strong, me love. I know naught of raising a daughter, so ye must be here to see it done properly.”
“I am fine,” Ailis assured her husband, but she was sleepy. Her eyelids fluttered as she sighed.
“Is she truly well?” Bhaic asked Helen when she came to pick the baby up.
“I believe so.”
He nodded, the worry in his eyes proving how deeply the couple loved each other. Helen felt her own feelings for Marcus stirring inside her. She had so much, and yet it was incomplete without a declaration from Marcus.
Damn her for a fool, for she longed for more in spite of all the reasons not to. Of course, Marcus had always defied logic. That was why she loved him.
* * *
McLeod Castle
“Ye summoned me?” Janet Ross asked her husband.
He looked up from his desk and gestured her forward. “I would speak to me wife in private, lads.”
The two retainers standing inside the door both reached up to tug on their caps before they turned and left, pulling the door shut behind them.
Janet ventured closer, so that their voices might be lowered.
“I’ve had a letter from Laird MacPherson. It seems…” Laird McLeod had trouble getting the words out. “It seems he intends to have his daughter returned home.”
Janet’s eyes rounded with horror. “He can nae. She is more my child than his. Me dear niece. She is me blood.”
Her husband made a soothing motion with his hand. “I am sorry for that, Janet. Ye would have made a fine mother, and I know it is me failing that sees ye with only another man’s daughter in yer arms. I do wish ye’d reconsider having a lover.”
“I will no’,” Janet declared in a hiss. “Fate dealt us both an unkind blow when that stallion trampled ye. Still, I shall no’ be tempted to commit mortal sins because of it. I am yer wife, and I will no’ be an adulteress.”
Laird McLeod sighed. It was an old argument that he always lost because his wife was one of the finest women in the Highlands. Which was why he had to find a way to stop Laird MacPherson from recalling his daughter home.
“Laird MacPherson sent his son for Jocelyn, but the weather drove him back. Now that spring is spreading, I fear Marcus MacPherson will be upon our land within the month.”
Janet’s eyes glittered with unshed tears. “She detests her father.”
“Aye, I know it well, and yet he is her sire.”
Janet had wrapped her arms around herself, as if she were attempting to keep her heart from breaking. Laird McLeod didn’t doubt that it was. Curse and rot the creature that had broken his member. The thing had never risen again, not since the first two weeks of his marriage to the fair Janet.
“We shall go to me sister’s home in the Lowlands,” Janet suddenly announced, hope brightening her features.
“For what reason?” Laird McLeod asked.
“There Jocelyn will have the opportunity to learn more about the world. Times are changing. A lady needs a proper education. Perhaps I will even take her to court,” Janet assured him. “The roads are passable for us now. We shall leave before the ice thaws on MacPherson land.”
“I want to tell ye nay,” Laird McLeod said. “Her father is likely making a match for her.”
“Well then, I shall just have to secure a grander one before the end of the summer. One that will keep my baby close to me.”
Janet smiled at him, her eyes full of hope. She was already running names through her mind, weighing their merits.
“Yes, that is exactly what I shall do.”
She lowered herself before she swirled around and left the room. He didn’t deserve her devotion, and yet he could not truly bring himself to lament the fact that she would not consent to have a lover in order to conceive. Perhaps he could not be a true husband to her, but she held his heart, and he didn’t think he would be able to hide his hurt if she welcomed another man into her bed as sweetly as she had him.
Curse Fate.
He sat up straight and pulled a fresh piece of parchment onto the desk. Janet adored Jocelyn MacPherson. Shamus MacPherson had two sons and a grandchild on the way. He would have to live without Jocelyn, because Janet had no child and had raised the girl.
Fate owed him that.
He dipped a quill into an inkwell and began to pen a note to his banker so Janet would have the funds she needed for an extended stay in the Lowlands.
* * *
“Plump and delicious…”
Marcus growled as he fingered the swells of Helen’s breasts above the edge of her corset. She lowered herself onto his member, a small sound of delight escaping her lips.
“If I’d known how much I’d enjoy being on me back beneath ye, Wife,” Marcus exclaimed, “I’d have snapped that Gunn’s neck for putting his dagger in me shoulder. To think I’ve missed having ye ride me for the last few months.”
“Mmmm…” Helen purred as she leaned down and moved faster. Pleasure was building inside her, but she didn’t rush it now. In fact, she fought back the urgency, clinging to the moments she was able to be joined with him.
It ended in a burst, her body shuddering while Marcus curled up and wrapped his arms around her and erupted inside her. In spite of the cool night air, they collapsed onto the bed, their bodies too warm to touch for several moments. They lay near each other, their panting the only sound in the chamber.
During the night, Marcus curled up along her back. He seemed unable to sleep unless he was touching her. It pleased her too, allowing her to rest so deeply that she awoke feeling more alive than ever.
At least that was the way of it until the next day.
Marcus was stroking her as she awoke. The feeling of his hands on her skin was wonderful and warm. She let out a little sigh as she felt him move up behind her, his member thick and swollen. She was smiling and lifting her bottom when her belly suddenly intruded. Nausea rolled through her in a thick wave as she scrambled to grab the sheeting and pull herself from the bed. Her bare feet slapped against the stone floor as she ran toward the closet.
She got there just in time before she began heaving. Her stomach wasn’t content with merely sending its contents up; the organ seemed intent on turning itself inside out. Her dignity had deserted her as she retched and finally collapsed in a quivering heap on the floor. It was chilly and she stumbled to her feet, making a clumsy entrance back into the bedchamber.
Only to find her husband in his shirt, offering her his flask. She took it, but wrinkled her nose at the scent and handed it back untasted.
“I’m fine,” she offered, but he continued to consider her silently. “I said—”
“I heard ye, lass,” Marcus informed her gently. Too gently. The man never coddled her, and she liked it that way.
“And just what do ye mean by that?” She was suddenly hot, her skin feeling as though she’d been running through a meadow in the summer heat.
Marcus crossed his arms over his chest. “It means I’m waiting for ye to tell me.”
“Tell ye what?”
He resumed silently contemplating her. In an abrupt shift, Helen discovered herself fighting back tears. It was humiliating, and she turned her back on her husband as she tried to scrape together her composure. She heard him let out a harsh breath.
“I must be doing this wrong.” He wrapped his arms around her just as the tears stinging her eyes defied her order to remain unshed and trickled down her cheeks. “But I will nae go seek out me brother and ask him for advice while ye are shivering and weeping because of me.”
He nuzzled at her hair, inhaling her scent and sighing as though she were the perfect woman. Her hot tears splattered on his arm where he had it wrapped around her.
“Christ, Helen,” he said softly. “I can nae bear yer weeping. Does it make ye so unhappy to be carrying me child?”
“Ye know?” she asked as she turned and ducked under his arm. He might have kept her bound to him easily, but he let her go.
“Ye fascinate me.” His eyes glowed with intensity. “From the moment ye came near me, ye’ve drawn me attention like naught else. Ye have nae bled, yer breasts are swollen, and now ye retch in the morning. For all that I am a man, I know a thing or two about how babes begin their entrance into life.”
“Aye,” she admitted as it dawned on her what he’d said. “Oh, ye were waiting for me to tell ye. That’s what ye meant.”
He nodded once, his expression becoming guarded. That drew her attention to him. “Why does it matter? If ye already know, there is little point in me telling ye.”
He looked away. Helen let out a snort. “Why would ye be having trouble meeting me eyes, Marcus?”
He snapped his gaze back to hers, aiming the frustration he’d tried to hide straight at her.
“Ye are everything to me, Helen,” he rasped out. “I’ve killed for ye and would nae hesitate to do so again if needed. I followed ye to court, a place I loathe, and yet ye stand here, miserable.” He couldn’t seem to remain in his position, pointing at her. “Why? Tell me, for God’s sake, so I can have a fighting chance.”
Marcus MacPherson, the man who never showed weakness, was looking at her with desperation flickering in his eyes. It edged his words, his tone breaking with the abundance of emotion. It struck her straight to the heart, making her feel like a wretch for causing him even a tingle of unhappiness.
“I love ye.”
“As I love ye!” He threw his hands into the air but didn’t look away. “Explain why ye weep.”
He reached out and captured her wrist to hold her in place. “And tell me the truth, or I fear I will go mad from the need to see ye satisfied.”
Instead, Helen felt her eyes welling up with fresh tears. They spilled over, and she didn’t try to stop them. For the first time in her life, they were happy ones. Marcus looked at them, shaking his head as he tried to comprehend her.
“Ye never told me,” she whispered. “I said ‘I love ye’ when ye rescued me, but ye never…said…”
He blinked several times while her words sank in. “Did nae say?” he said incredulously. “Christ, Helen, I am a War Chief. When I stripped away the evidence of who I was so I could enter Sutherland Castle and find ye, that was telling ye I love ye more than me own life.”
“Ye might have been thinking it was yer duty.”
He scoffed at her and pulled her against him. “It was, and yet that is no’ why I went in there under the threat of being hanged as a spy.”
He suddenly scooped her up and carried her back to his bed, working them both under the covers and pulling her close.
“I am no’ a man of soft words. Ye’ll have to be patient with me.”
“I hope I shall be able to give ye forever, my love.”
He buried his face in her hair. “And a day, vixen.”
* * *
Two months later, spring finally arrived in full force. The snow melted, and planting began. Merchants could once more take to the roads and sell what they had made during the winter months. Goods that had been stuck in harbor towns began to make their way into the Highlands.
It was also the time of year for raids, because storerooms were running low while everyone waited for the earth to provide new bounty. No one was happy to hear that the McTavishes were riding on MacPherson land. Marcus ordered the castle locked tight as he went out to meet them.
Rolfe McTavish pulled up when he spotted the MacPhersons. “There is the man I’m coming to see.”
“Ye are either the most brazen puppy I’ve ever laid eyes upon or the biggest fool,” Marcus informed Rolfe McTavish. “Perhaps both.”
Rolfe grinned, arrogant and confident, as though he wasn’t facing down a force equal to his own. “Well, at least ye will no’ be thinking I would let something go unattended. Something important, that is.”
Rolfe reached into his doublet and pulled out a parchment. “It seems me father thinks yer father needs to see this.”
“I recall rather well what yer father sent me the last time he thought I needed something,” Marcus growled.
Rolfe became serious for a moment. “Aye. I don’t suppose ye’d believe me when I say he’s seen the error of his ways?”
Marcus slowly shook his head. “That will take a bit more time, puppy.”
Rolfe moved his horse forward so he could hand off the letter. “In that case, MacPherson, I’ll be getting off yer land.”
“Likely a good idea,” Marcus told him.
Rolfe pointed at him. “Aye, but there’s no fun in it, MacPherson, none at all.”
Marcus chuckled at him. “Go home and grow up, lad. Ye can nae be more than twenty.”
Rolfe sent him a grin before he turned his stallion around and rode through the center of his waiting men. They all turned and followed him. Last spring, Marcus would have envied the lad his freedom. Now he saw the merits of having a bed to retire to early and linger in. Like an old man? No, the young truly did not know of what they spoke. He was never more alive than when he was next to Helen.
Marcus arrived back at the castle in time for supper. His father and brother looked up as he came in. He sent his wife a smile as he stopped and tugged on the corner of his bonnet before climbing the stairs to the high ground.
“Laird McTavish has sent ye a letter.” He offered the parchment to Shamus.
His father took it, but finished chewing and swallowing as Marcus went around to join Helen at the table. His belly was growling, but he kept his attention on his sire. Waiting, as all the captains at the table were, to see what was so important that Rolfe McTavish seemed to think it needed to be hand-delivered.
Shamus looked up, his expression one of frustration. “I do nae think I have ever heard of a couple who had a harder time staying wed.”
He handed off the parchment. His captains clustered around it, some of them standing on their toes to stretch high enough to peer down on it. But it was Marcus who cursed. Long, low, and in Gaelic, and he shot Father Matthew Peter a look that made it clear he didn’t care that the priest had heard.
“I am putting an end to this here and now,” Marcus declared. He stood and pulled his dagger out of the scabbard on his belt. “Helen.”
She looked up as he came around the front of the table. “That”—he pointed at the parchment—“is an annulment. One Laird McTavish arranged for.” The hall went deathly still. “So.”
“So…what?” she demanded as she pushed her chair back.
“So…” Marcus aimed his voice so everyone in the hall might hear it. “I want to know, do ye want it?”
“Ye know I do no’.” Their morning together replayed across her memory. Doubt tried to needle her, but she refused to dance to its tune.
He nodded. “Nor do I. Since we can nae seem to stay wed because the world is being turned upside down by those fighting over the throne, I propose we fall back on tradition.”
He used the dagger to cut his kilt and tore off a strip. Understanding flashed across the faces of many of the men seated at the high table, and Bhaic pushed his chair back, coming around to join them.
There was a half sound of protest from Father Matthew Peter. Marcus shot him a hard look. “I’ve wed her twice and been told the church does no’ believe she is me wife as many times.”
The priest closed his mouth and tucked his hands up into his sleeves. Perhaps it was not approval, but it was a lack of resistance. Marcus handed the dagger to Bhaic. His brother drew it across Marcus’s wrist, cutting the skin. A thin line of fresh blood welled up. Helen offered Bhaic her own wrist. He cut her and then turned her hand so the two wounds met when Marcus clasped her hand and she closed her fingers around his forearm.
Bhaic bound them together with the length of plaid as Marcus clearly spoke the Gaelic words of a blood oath. She answered him, their voices filling the hall while their blood mingled.
* * *
“Was that too barbaric for ye?” Marcus had barely closed the door to their chamber when he asked the question.
Helen had lifted her hand to observe the line marking her skin. She looked up and discovered her husband considering her. Only now, she knew he was concerned for her tender feelings.
“I think it far more savage to annul our vows in some distant place while we are merely trying to get on with living.”
Marcus slowly smiled at her. “Aye. For all the good that is brought to us by the outside world, I have to question what those men of learning and exploration think they are doing by making mockery of a man’s vows.”
“So…” Helen began to finger the buttons going down the front of her doublet, a garment she’d started to wear because she knew he enjoyed her wearing long stays so much. “Since we are now a pagan Highlander couple…may I dispense with being an obedient wife?”
Marcus offered her a hopeful look as he dropped his kilt and she separated the fronts of her doublet to expose her cleavage. “I can nae wait…vixen.”
* * *
Young Robbie heard the strangest sounds coming from the stairway. He got up from his spot on a bench and went closer, cocking his head to the side to listen. There was a thump and a scrape and a loud growl.
“Here now, lad,” Finley called out. “Best to stay down here.”
Robbie’s eyes widened as he heard a heavy thud. “But there’s something happening up there.”
Finley laughed and elbowed Kam in the ribs, but they didn’t share whatever it was they found so amusing. “Just Marcus chasing that vixen he’s wed to.”
“Aye, naught to worry about.” Kam gestured the boy back.
“But—”
“Listen well, lad.” Finley got up and shepherded the lad back into the hall with a fatherly arm around his shoulders. “Everything is very right.”
“Even if it sounds as though she is killing him?”
Kam collapsed into a fit of laughter, lowering his head to the table to rest on top of his crossed arms as he chuckled.
“Believe me, lad, he’ll die a happy man.” Finley slapped Kam on the shoulder as he joined him in laughing.
Another loud sound came bouncing down the stairwell, but it was the last, which left Robbie trying to puzzle the entire situation into something he might understand.
Women sure were odd creatures. Between Helen Grant becoming a high-standing member of the clan, and the English girl wanting him to teach her how to wrestle, he was very confused.
It was likely a good thing he didn’t like girls all that much. They did tend to make his head hurt. When he wed, he’d make sure it was not to a vixen.
* * *
Depravity.
It had been a word used to instill obedience in her when she was young. Now, Brenda faced its true meaning and the ugliness of those who embraced it as a challenge.
The sun had not risen, and she half believed it was because of the shame that would be illuminated when it did. Around her, Brenda heard the snoring of Scotland’s ambassador to England and England’s ambassador to Scotland. There was a stench in the air from their excesses the night before.
She felt as though it was permeating her very soul.
But the sun would rise, and she would feel every ache they’d inflicted upon her flesh, so she rolled over and sat up, trying to ignore the pain that went through her passage. She didn’t want to think about what was past.
It would replay across her dreams soon enough.
Morton had made good on his threat, making her his whore to be used at will, and the ambassadors had heard of her plight and decided to take advantage of Morton’s generosity.
Indeed, she understood the meaning of the word depravity now.
There were scattered retainers in the room as well. They were all sleeping off the effects of the numerous bottles of French wine they had consumed during the course of the night. She picked her way through the limbs, escape from the chamber the only thing she might grant herself.
But she stopped when she realized how many of the retainers were inside the room. The horror of the night before had numbed her wits as to just how many men had been involved; now, she looked around and counted them in the predawn light. Her heart started to accelerate as she realized there was no one left outside the door. At least, no one belonging to the personal households of the ambassadors.
It was an opportunity she’d scarcely hoped for, and everything she needed was right there, within reach.
Suddenly, the aches in her body weren’t so terrible, the welts down her back from the whip no longer excruciating. She was more focused on the clothing strewn about the chamber. She pulled a shirt up and put it on, wincing just a bit as the fabric landed on her back.
She didn’t have time to dwell on the pain.
So she sat down and picked up a boot, lacing it in the low light and then pushing her other foot into a second one. When she got up, she spied a sword belt and a kilt lying forgotten on a table. She grabbed it and hastily pleated it. She had to use the dagger to work a new hole into the belt so it would fit her, but she got it fashioned and pulled on the doublet.
At last, she drew the dagger through her hair, shearing off two feet of it before she stuck a bonnet on her head and took a deep breath. The horizon wasn’t really even pink yet. There was that lightening of darkness that happened right before dawn broke. Enough light to see, so the servants would be beginning their day.
Brenda crept toward the doors and pushed them open. Two men stood there, weary of their duty but still awake. She looked at the ground and heard one of them snicker at her, but he didn’t stop her.
“Off to confession with ye, lad,” the other said. “Best to gain forgiveness when ye’ll be needing more soon enough.”
Forgiveness. She didn’t need it, and she certainly wouldn’t be granting it either. But she was hearing the sound of her deliverance. The castle was opening its gates as dawn broke. She caught the scent of food as she walked through the passageways, but she didn’t dare stop. No, Brenda Grant walked toward the yard and through the gates. No one stopped her, or at least the young lad she appeared to be. They thought her a messenger or a servant being sent on ahead of her master to prepare a welcome for him.
That made it simple to take a horse from the stable.
Simple? She was not sure if it was the correct word to use, but it did fit at the moment. She was suddenly on her way back to the Highlands, mile after mile falling behind her as the horse walked along.
Simple.
Perfect.
* * *
Brenda Grant walked right into Grant Castle. Two burly retainers stepped into her path, but she pulled her bonnet off and sent them a solid stare. They immediately pulled on the corners of their caps and cleared her path.
She ignored the gnawing hunger in her belly and chose instead to climb the steps to the laird’s chamber. Her uncle was propped up on pillows, and still he struggled to draw in breath. She stood at the foot of his bed for a long moment, listening to the sound of his manservant scurrying out of the chamber, no doubt to summon help in case she decided to kill her uncle.
“Ye look…as though…ye have tasted…the harsher side of life.”
“I have,” she confirmed. Truly she must be a sight, filthy and bedraggled and wearing men’s clothing. Yet she had never felt so victorious in her life. It was surging through her, awaking her spirit in a way she’d never thought possible.
There was a soft step behind her, and she turned to discover Symon reaching for her. He froze as he caught sight of her face. “Brenda?”
“Aye,” Laird Grant confirmed. “It seems…she has…remedied…her situation…herself.”
“I did,” Brenda said. “So ye will no’ be surprised to hear that I will no’ be honoring the arrangement ye made for me.”
Symon made a sound behind her, a moment before he gently tugged the filthy collar of her doublet down. She knew what he saw, the swollen red tracks of the last lashing she’d received. The doublet was bulky and large, allowing him a good view. The cuts were infected now—she’d felt the burning start several days past.
“And if I survive this fever, I will never answer to a husband again.”
That was the thing that had kept her going. The need to speak her mind to her uncle. Now that it was done, her strength was running out, but she would be damned if she were going to allow her knees to buckle now. Just a few more paces to a chamber she could call her own. She turned and shot Symon a hard look before she left.
She might die, but she was going to draw her last breath as a free woman, and that was enough contentment for her. She got to her chamber, where the furniture was covered in sheets, making it look shrouded. Perhaps it would be her tomb, perhaps not.
All that mattered was she was free, and that was the last thought she had strength for before she collapsed onto the bed.
* * *
“I did nae do right by her.”
It had been a long time since his father had spoken so clearly or without struggling for breath. Symon turned to stand by his side.
“Me brother failed her as well. Wedding her to that boy-lover.” Laird Grant made a low sound of disgust. “And too young. A disgrace, it was.”
He lifted his hand. “Bring me…me secretary.”
His father waited while the man settled his small traveling writing desk on a table. Withdrawing a piece of parchment and uncorking a small inkwell, the secretary dipped the quill into it and waited for his laird to speak.
“Brenda is to have her mother’s property.” His father sent Symon a firm look. “Do nae begrudge her. Ye are better than her father and me.”
“I will nae,” Symon promised.
The secretary scratched away, filling the creamy length of paper with words that were shiny before the ink dried.
“She’s to be her own woman.”
Laird Grant was talking to Symon now, and he realized his father was making his peace, no longer fighting his death.
“I will no’ force any match on her,” Symon promised.
Laird Grant struggled to sit up. Symon had to help him, but the laird gestured to the secretary, who brought the document to him. His father signed it with a hand steadier than it had been in years, and then waited while the secretary melted wax from a stick with a candle so the laird might push his signet ring into it. His father read through the words one time before he nodded in satisfaction.
“Honor me words, Symon, as the fine man I have been blessed to see ye become. I’m righting a wrong here… Grant me the peace of knowing I’ll no’ carry this sin with me.”
“I swear it to ye, Father.”
His father reached up and placed his hand on top of Symon’s. “Ye will be a good laird.”
Symon watched as his father’s eyes lit up and he seemed to stare into the distance. A rare smile curved his lips as he reached for something beyond the foot of the bed. Whatever it was, his father’s spirit went to it. Symon felt a chill touch his spine as he noted the passing of life from his father’s eyes. It felt as though the very chamber went cold.
The secretary looked at Symon for a long moment before offering him the parchment.
“It stands,” Symon told the man.
The secretary nodded before he withdrew to his desk and put away the tools of his trade. Before long, the bells were ringing out his father’s passing, leaving Symon to face his clan as the new laird.
* * *
Brenda opened her eyes and found Symon sitting next to her bed.
“Have ye no’ had enough of attending deathbeds?”
Symon offered her a smile. “Ye are nae dying.”
“No’ anymore, it would seem.” She felt worn out, in spite of having been in bed for the last two weeks. But the fever was gone, even if it was still painful to move.
She started to say something, but stopped when she noted the three feathers on his bonnet. They were all pointing upward, instead of one being lowered.
“Aye, me father has died,” Symon confirmed. He tapped something lying on the bedside table. “His last will was to make sure ye inherited yer mother’s dowry property, and to extract a promise from me that I would no’ make any match for ye that ye do not wish.”
She reeked, and her back hurt every time she moved, but she got to her knees, clutching the bedding against her front to shield her bare body, and pulled the parchment closer. She read it twice, fixated on the seal for a long time.
“I’ll send a bath up for ye.”
Brenda looked at Symon. “I am sorry for yer loss.”
“As I am for yer circumstances.”
She hugged the parchment close to her heart. “Oh, me situation is very well. It pleases me greatly. For now ye are the one who must wed.”
“Aye.” Symon stood and reached up to tug on the corner of his bonnet. “I understand I should stay well away from the Earl of Morton.”
Brenda snorted. “I plan to as well.”
And the parchment clutched to her chest was the salvation she needed. Symon left her, and she smiled as she giggled like a girl.
It had been such a long time since she laughed.
She promised herself she would do it every day for the rest of her life.
* * *
Four years later…
Helen stood on the steps of the keep, her son tugging on her skirts to get her to move down the steps. Rae was always in a hurry to see his father.
Well, she had to admit to having the same urge from time to time. The yard was full of the sound of boys training. She allowed Rae to tug her to where the main yard separated into the training one. There, she firmly pulled her young son to a stop. Marcus was standing on a small raised platform in the center of the yard. He was watching the boys, calling out corrections to some of them as they worked with wooden daggers.
To many, it might seem that Marcus didn’t see her, but Helen knew better. Only a few moments later, he crossed through the boys and joined her. He scooped Rae up and tossed their son into the air, to the boy’s delight.
“Me heart still stops when ye do that,” she admitted as Marcus caught the boy and put his face on the little one’s stomach, blowing out a long grumble that tickled him.
“Now, Helen”—Marcus looked over Rae’s mop of blond curls—“I’ve told ye before. Ye’ll just have to wait until I finish me duties before we can get on with how breathless I make ye.”
Helen propped her hand on her hip, which made her belly stick out even further. “I know…” she muttered sweetly. “I know well ye need to work up yer courage to face me alone.”
The training had slowed down, proving the boys were listening. Several turned astonished glances their way; Helen’s lack of submission clearly shocked them. She suddenly looked beyond Marcus at a pair of older youths.
“Aye.” Her husband followed her gaze, then lowered his tone and became serious. “I know, but they think I do no’, so stop staring.”
Helen tore her gaze from the sight and looked at her husband in shock. “Ye know Katherine is wearing a kilt and fighting?”
Marcus stepped close and rubbed her distended belly to make it look as though they were simply sharing a private, tender moment.
“She could be hurt, Marcus.”
“As an English lass in the Scottish Highlands, it’s for certain some might wish to harm her. Why do ye think I am allowing her to train?”
It was unconventional, to say the least. Helen snuck another quick look toward Katherine. She did indeed have a kilt on and a shirt as she tried to keep a dagger from being plunged into her neck by her partner. There was blood coming from her nose and a dark bruise on one side of her head, but she fought back with a skill Helen admitted she was envious of.
“Better hope Father Matthew Peter does no catch ye.” Helen looked down at her belly. “This child will no’ have a sibling for years if he does.”
Marcus raised his eyebrows as a wicked glint entered his eyes. “But what would the man do to punish me?”
Helen let out a little grunt before she turned and left Rae perched on his father’s shoulder. When she reached the top of the stairs, she turned back and watched the way Marcus held the boy with one hand, just as powerful as the first time she’d seen him.
Happiness.
Somehow, it had happened, and she had no intention of arguing with Fate.
None whatsoever.
Order Mary Wine’s next book
in the Highland Weddings series
Highland Hellion
On sale June 2017