Four

Marcus was holding her.

Helen woke abruptly at the thought, stiffening, and the pillow her head was resting against rumbled.

“I suppose that means ye’re feeling better.”

Helen blinked, but that didn’t banish the darkness. She was perched sideways on a horse in front of Marcus. He’d wrapped his plaid around her head to keep the light out, but what stunned her most was the fact that he’d been holding her to keep her head from flopping about with the motion of the ride.

“Good timing, though,” Marcus replied as he pulled the plaid away from her face. “We’re nearly home.”

Helen blinked at the bright sunlight. When her eyes stopped stinging, she was treated to a view of MacPherson Castle. Marcus stiffened behind her, and she realized she’d let out a little sigh of frustration.

Well? What did he expect her to say? It wasn’t her home, and yet it was the only place she had to go to. To say her emotions were unsettled was an understatement.

“There will be a warm supper and a good bed,” he offered.

“Yes.” She shifted again, unsure of how to have a congenial conversation with him. Truly, she should be ashamed that she found the idea so foreign.

“Pull yer leg over the saddle, lass,” he encouraged. “Now that yer awake.”

Helen shifted and looked around. “I can ride on me own.”

“Aye, ye’ve demonstrated that well enough,” Marcus agreed.

But he locked his arm around her and held her against him. It really was unfair just how delightful that felt. She’d never realized two human bodies might fit together so very well or with so much comfort. He was hard, but that seemed to complement her softness.

“Put me on me own horse.”

Marcus chuckled at her request. “The last conversation I had with ye, I advised ye of the merits of us becoming more accustomed to one another.” He smoothed his hand along the outside of her thigh, and she struggled not to suck in her breath because the sensation was so intense.

“And I told ye, seeking an annulment was the wisest course of action.”

“Yes, ye did,” Marcus agreed. “And ye’ve had a taste of just what yer kin will do with ye if ye go back to them. So…”

He moved his hand back along her thigh to rest on her hip. Helen struggled with the urge to shift away and put her right leg on the other side of the horse. It would make her more stable, in less need of leaning back against him for support, but it would also open her thighs and she had a suspicion Marcus might enjoy that all too much.

Worse, she might enjoy it.

“So are ye suggesting that ye are now me rescuer?” she asked as she grabbed his hand, only to have him lock it around hers and slip his fingers up to stroke the delicate skin of her inner wrist. But she felt the nip of guilt and let out a sigh. “I believe ye are that indeed.”

He was quiet for a long moment, the horse picking up speed as it smelled its stable.

“I suppose I am due a measure of doubt from ye, Helen,” Marcus muttered. “I’ll not apologize.”

“I do nae want yer pity.”

He chuckled at just how quickly she snapped back at him.

“And that is why,” he confirmed in a tone rich with amusement, “it made ye strong—and ye were still young when I took ye.”

“True enough.” She’d answered him before she realized that she was agreeing with him, but even after the words were past her lips, she didn’t regret them. That strength would ensure her own survival, and no one came by it without facing hardship. It was a harsh fact of life very much at the heart of living in the Highlands. The weak did not thrive.

“Thank ye.” She meant it, too.

Whatever Marcus might have said was drowned out as someone started to ring a bell on the top of one of the lookout towers on the castle walls. It was quickly joined by more. He, his men, and Helen rode under the portcullis and into a courtyard that was rapidly filling with women and children. They cried out in welcome as younger boys came running from the stables to take the horses. Those lads would one day be the retainers riding out to protect the clan. Today, they were learning that the horses were key to any man’s ability to defend his land.

Helen slid down and felt her boots sink into the mud. The Highlands. Where rain was something one needed to enjoy.

“Helen!”

Ailis Robertson had called her name. The crowd parted for their lady, which made Helen smile. Ailis was the daughter of the Robertson laird, which caused her forced marriage, a union that had not been warmly welcomed when she arrived at MacPherson Castle.

Now, there were smiles aimed her way as she hurried toward Helen. A few of the women reached out to touch Ailis’s rounding belly. But Ailis pulled up as she sucked in a harsh breath, her eyes widening with horror.

“Who raised their hand to ye?” Ailis demanded.

It took a moment for Helen to recall what was alarming her mistress.

“Some of her kin struck a deal with Laird McTavish to trade his daughter for her,” Bhaic answered his wife.

“Aye,” Helen agreed. Marcus shot her a hard look.

Bhaic MacPherson pulled his wife into his embrace, but Ailis wiggled free after only a brief kiss. “I need to see to Helen.”

* * *

“Save yer breath.”

Bhaic’s eyes narrowed in response. “So sure of what I was going to say, Brother?”

Marcus finished pulling his saddlebag from his horse and let a lad lead the animal away. “Rather certain ye feel I’m owed a measure of equal grief for what ye think I did to ye when ye brought Ailis home.”

Bhaic’s lips split into a huge grin. “There’s a solid fact. Setting yer men on us as ye did, I’ll no’ forget that anytime soon. Could nae get me own wife alone for a kiss, much less a tumble. And then there is the matter of ye telling me that Ailis was likely a spy. I recall that as well.” Bhaic pointed at his brother. “And we can nae be forgetting about ye having us sent up to bed because we had no’ consummated the union, and making sure every one of the men heard about it. Truth is, I am no’ sure where to begin with ye.”

Marcus flexed his fingers before making a fist. His brother snorted at him before he reached out and cupped his shoulder.

“But,” Bhaic said in a jovial tone that made Marcus itch to smash him in the jaw, “I believe Father will be expecting the first shot at ye.”

Marcus looked up to the main steps of the great hall where Shamus MacPherson stood.

“Do nae worry, Brother. I will nae be forgetting to take me turn,” Bhaic assured him in a smug tone.

Marcus growled at him, but Bhaic only smirked back. The urge to fight was strong, but Marcus turned and went to greet his father, Bhaic right on his heels.

* * *

“Do nae think that simply because ye are with child, I’ll no’ tell ye to stop smothering yer giggles behind me back.”

Ailis turned and offered Helen an innocent look that conflicted with the merriment sparkling in her eyes.

“Thank goodness,” Ailis said after she gave up the attempt to appear innocent of the charge. “It’s really rather strange the way everyone is so nice to me all of a sudden.”

Helen moved a lump of soap over her arms as she took the opportunity to bathe away the grime from the road. Ailis had sent all the other servants away, granting them the chance to speak freely.

“I imagine ye’ll be discovering how I feel. As soon as they all learn of yer marriage to Marcus.” Ailis used a large hook to pull the arm that a kettle was hanging from out of the fire. She made sure to wrap a sturdy piece of quilted wool around the handle before she picked it up and carried it over to the tub Helen sat in. Steam rose as she poured the water in near Helen’s toes. It was a delight to have them warm at last, but Helen was distracted by what Ailis had said.

“No one will be changing how they treat me,” Helen said. “I’ll no’ be staying Marcus’s wife.”

Ailis set the kettle on the hearth with a clunk. She contemplated Helen for a long moment.

“Say what ye’re thinking,” Helen said. Truthfully, she was overstepping herself, for Ailis was the mistress of MacPherson Castle. The MacPherson women had not afforded her the position automatically when she’d arrived newly wed to Bhaic. Ailis had to fight for her current status.

Ailis didn’t take offense. “Marcus left looking for ye.”

“He did no’.” Helen rinsed the soap from her hair and stood up. “Do nae put credit to his actions. The beast made sure to tell me that he’d gone to court because ye and Bhaic were summoned and his father sent him in yer stead because ye can no’ travel.”

“And the reason why he chased after yer kin?” Ailis brought Helen a length of linen with which to dry herself from where it had been warming by the fire.

“To thwart Laird McTavish’s plans, of course,” Helen replied as she started to pull on a chemise. “Marcus has his position to consider. No one will be respecting a War Chief who can be duped. What did ye do with Katherine?”

Ailis knew that Helen was changing the subject on purpose, but at least she didn’t point it out.

“Duana is seeing to her,” Ailis replied.

“Better to see to the matter personally,” Helen said. “Duana hates the English more than she hates Scotswomen from other clans.”

Ailis’s eyes narrowed. “Ye might be right about that.” She realized Helen had started to get dressed. “I’ll see to it. I had Senga take supper up to yer chamber.”

Ailis gave her friend a hug before she left the chamber. Helen hesitated and then snorted at herself.

There was one thing that she was certain of—that she was not going to be reduced to standing about and letting her knees knock together in fear. She’d suffered the worst MacPherson Castle had to offer before. Tonight would be no different.

* * *

“The Earl of Morton is making a lot of enemies in the Highlands.”

Shamus MacPherson was old. Yet at that moment, he sounded very much as he had thirty years before. There was still strength in his eyes, even if the skin around them was wrinkled by age. He looked at Marcus and smirked.

“And ye managed to bring the English prize away with ye as well?” Shamus slapped the top of his desk as he cackled. “That’s the way to illustrate MacPherson strength, sure enough.”

“To be fair”—Marcus spoke up—“Brenda and Helen were the ones who did the planning. The earl sets his traps well. I’d have been without recourse save for Brenda’s quick wit.”

“So ye said.” Shamus returned to being pensive.

Marcus reached up and pulled on the corner of his cap, but his father held up a finger to keep Marcus standing in front of him.

“Ye killed a pair of Grants?”

“I did,” Marcus replied without hesitation. “Ye saw me wife’s face. I doubt even the Grants would like that pair back. I wonder why they were on McTavish land and looking for work.”

Shamus nodded, and the moment he finished giving the grave topic due respect, he started to choke on his amusement.

“Wife, ye say?” His father asked the blunt question. “I would no’ have thought that lass would allow ye any sort of relations with her.”

“She did nae,” Marcus admitted before turning and punching Bhaic in the shoulder. His brother half fell out of his stance before flashing him an unrepentant smirk.

“Well now, since it’s bride and no’ wife,” Bhaic managed while trying not to choke on his laughter, “I am sure they need…witnesses.”

Marcus turned and lunged at Bhaic. They ended up sprawled on the fine carpet that adorned their father’s receiving chamber.

“Get off yer brother, Marcus!” Shamus bellowed.

There was a pounding on the outer door. “Laird?” the retainers questioned from behind it.

“Stay out there!” Shamus ordered.

Marcus was glaring at Bhaic, but their sire pointed at both of his sons and Marcus turned to face him respectfully.

“Ye earned that crack,” Shamus informed him.

“Along with a few more,” Bhaic added. “Ye can be sure I’ll be taking the measure due me.”

Marcus lifted his hand and sent his sibling an obscene gesture. Shamus snorted. “Well now, this will prove to be very interesting, to say the least. I’m sure even Father Matthew Peter would agree that ye are reaping what ye sowed last season.”

His father couldn’t finish because he was laughing so hard.

“The lot of ye can piss off,” Marcus informed them. “Hire yerself a fine fool if it’s laughter ye seek. I can promise ye, me union is no’ going to be a source of it for ye.”

Bhaic clutched his midsection and collapsed into a chair as he chuckled.

Marcus crossed his arms over his chest. “Well then, I suppose I might just let yer lovely wife know how much ye plan to exact yer revenge on me for making sure the pair of ye remained wed.”

Bhaic sobered, shooting his brother a deadly look. Marcus angled his head and stared at him. “Poor lass might think ye harbor resentment, which might lead to a very cold winter for ye.”

“Enough now,” Shamus interrupted. “Let that lass be. She’s carrying me grandchild. And enough from yer brother and me on the matter of yer wife, for the moment,” he said to Marcus. “Get some sleep. Ye look as though the road was long.”

Marcus took full advantage of his sire’s permission to quit the chamber. But once he was outside in the passageway, he realized he didn’t know where Helen slept.

“Indecision, Brother?” Bhaic asked. “No’ something I’m accustomed to seeing on yer face.”

“It’s a good thing yer wife is breeding,” Marcus muttered, stepping close enough to his brother to make sure their father didn’t overhear. “Because I’m going to smash yer balls—”

“Give it yer best, man,” Bhaic answered, “and Helen will remain a maiden.”

Marcus was distracted by that idea. Bhaic noticed and dropped his teasing. “What is it?”

For all their picking at each other, they had a tight bond. Marcus looked both ways to make certain they were alone.

“I do nae know if Helen is a virgin.”

“And that bothers ye?” Bhaic inquired.

Marcus shook his head. “Nay. I could hardly condemn her for taking comfort where she might when I dumped her here and failed to ask after her welfare.” He aimed a hard look toward Bhaic. “It would seem Duana is quite the bitch when it comes to outsiders.”

He suddenly felt as though his shoulders were lighter, earning a raised eyebrow from his brother.

“I wonder if Helen thinks it would matter to me,” Marcus said. “Matter so much that she’d insist on an annulment to escape me reaction.”

“Could be. She has no dowry, no family alliance to barter, so no’ being pure might make her think ye’d reject her after the fact.” Bhaic smirked again. “But I will be sorely disappointed if that female settles down after ye tell her it does no bother ye and fails to give ye the grief ye deserve.”

* * *

Helen loved her hair. It was one of her few vanities, and she didn’t have many opportunities to indulge it. Ailis had sent someone to her chamber to light the fire and make sure the water pitcher was filled. It was a welcome Helen treasured. It allowed her to stay in her chemise and brush out her hair while the heat from the fire gently dried it.

A rare moment of indulgence in her own vanity.

The chamber itself was not grand. No, the one she’d occupied in the McTavish tower had been larger, but she preferred hers. Located in the oldest part of the castle, the room had rougher walls, but Helen viewed them as proven. The chambers were a set of receiving and bed areas, but what she liked best was the privacy closet. There was no need for a chamber pot.

Considering she was a servant, that meant one less duty to attend to. She sat down and looked at what fare had been provided. There was cheese and bread and a portion of chicken. A fine supper, and she realized she was ravenous.

Yet once her belly was full, she felt lonely. Ailis was her only friend, besides perhaps young Senga.

But it was Marcus who came to mind as she moved over to get her comb. Helen let out a sigh as she drew it down the length of her sable hair. She had no idea whether the man fancied dark hair or light. Not that it mattered, of course, because she wouldn’t allow herself to care about pleasing him.

Could she please him?

Her memory offered up what he’d said to her back in that dungeon. She was past the age of wedding, both of them were. If she hadn’t been home on that fateful day or had stayed hidden, she might well have a husband now. The question was, how did a woman please a man? Such a topic was discussed often, but the conversations varied so greatly that there was little way to sift chaff from wheat.

Could she please him through obedience?

She dropped the comb, snorting at the very idea. That was what came of considering the idea of being what Marcus desired. There was no point to it, none at all. Better to set her mind to finding a way to see Laird MacPherson and begin the process of annulment.

* * *

Ailis nearly ran into Marcus on her way out of the bathhouse. For some, there was private bathing, but like her, most of the inhabitants of the castle came down to the back side of the kitchens where tubs were kept and the water was always warm from the hearths. The river ran along that side of the north wing, so water could be brought up easily.

“Katherine?” he asked.

Ailis nodded. “I was just checking on her meself. I made sure Elise knows I expect Katherine to be treated well.”

“I did nae know Duana was such a bitch. She should have seen to it herself,” Marcus informed her in his quiet tone.

Ailis knew it well and understood that he was far from neutral when he used that tone. Marcus was a master of keeping those around him guessing at his true opinions.

“Well, I’ve seen to Katherine,” Ailis informed him. “I’m just now off to ensure that a chamber is made ready that is appropriate to her station.”

“Which is?” he asked, not willing to leave the matter to debate.

Ailis tilted her head to the side. “Yer sister. I am sure the Earl of Morton will be delighted to hear how we have taken her into the family. Even if it was no’ quite in the fashion he envisioned. Still, family.”

Marcus offered her a smile of appreciation. “Well played. I might even suggest to Father that his secretary write it up in a missive for the man.”

With that matter lifted from his shoulders, Marcus felt every hour he’d spent with his eyes open weighing upon him. Ailis was smiling at him, and his temper was nearly frayed through. “Take yerself off to yer husband. Tomorrow will be soon enough for ye to take yer turn at extracting yer amusement from me plight.”

Ailis turned and lowered herself before him. Marcus’s eyes narrowed at her mockery.

“I could be ever so obedient to yer will, dearest brother by marriage.”

“Or?” Marcus questioned. “Ye could do what?”

Ailis lifted her shoulders in a delicate shrug. “I could tell ye which chamber I moved Helen to, so ye do nae have to ask anyone where yer wife is or wander about lost until she decides she wants to be seen.”

He made a low sound under his breath, reaching up and squeezing the bridge of his nose before sending a narrow-eyed look at his sister by marriage. “I would be in yer debt.”

“I do believe that is by far the sweetest spoken manner I have ever heard from ye.”

He made a low sound of frustration. “Am I to be rewarded for me efforts?”

“Before I do so, let me say, Helen is me dearest friend,” Ailis warned him.

“I’ve noticed such.”

“Good.” Ailis abandoned her playfulness. “Wound her heart, and I will laugh as the staff gossips freely over ye no’ knowing where yer wife is.”

Marcus blinked at her before nodding. “I expect naught else from ye.”

It was a compliment she recognized as Marcus’s unique sort. She let out a sigh and gestured to him to follow her. MacPherson Castle had three full wings and four massive towers. Ailis made her way to one of the older towers. Marcus’s expression said he didn’t care for it.

“It was the best Helen would accept from me.” Ailis pointed down the passageway. “However, I believe she enjoyed knowing ye sleep on the other side of the castle and there is no way to bar this door from the outside.”

“That is on account of the fact that this was the convent,” Marcus stated. “And the door bars from the inside.”

“Yes,” Ailis agreed. “That chamber is where the abbess slept. Beware of ghosts. The ones in this wing might be very pious.”

Marcus grinned. “Yet, we are wed, so there should be no objection.”

Ailis smothered a snicker behind her hand. “Unless Helen is dead, I highly doubt that, sir.”

Marcus narrowed his eyes at her before she turned and disappeared into the shadows.

He slowly smiled until his teeth were showing.

Let the challenge begin.

* * *

“Ailis did right by ye.”

Helen jumped, catching the comb just before it went tumbling to the floor. Again. Marcus sent her a grin that was the opposite of repentant as he came through the door of her chamber and closed it firmly behind him. Had she conjured him from her thoughts? The strangest sensation rippled across her skin, as though she was more aware of him than any other person she’d ever met.

“What are ye doing?”

It was really quite a foolish question. He was stripped down to his shirt and kilt, water still glistening in his hair, proving that he’d washed the dirt from the road away before coming to her. He hadn’t bothered to strap on his second belt or sword, simply carrying them into the chamber and laying them beside the bed.

“I am going to get some sleep, lass.”

He wasn’t really complaining, his tone still crusty and full of strength, but she realized it was the closest thing she’d ever heard from him that might indicate fatigue. Having him there with her was strange and unsettling, but she couldn’t help but look closer in an attempt to deduce what his game was.

He was tired.

She saw the dark circles beneath his eyes as he sat on the bed and kicked his boots off because they too were not laced fully.

“I’ve had precious little rest since I went down to see the good Earl of Morton.” He stretched his arms, rotating them and his neck before he opened his eyes and considered her. “And I’ll no’ sleep very soundly if I do nae know where ye are, so indulge me for the service I have given ye in getting ye away from those cousins of yers.”

She felt a touch of guilt for the way she was nearly flattened against the wall. “I did appreciate ye coming for me.”

He nodded and rotated his arm again. Helen suddenly realized why.

“Yer arm is stiff from holding me head.” The chamber was so small that she was already at the bedside by the time she thought to question her impulse to help him. It was too late by that point. Their gazes locked, and she felt her insides quiver. She cupped his shoulder and pushed him back. He went, only because he wanted to. Beneath her fingertips, she could feel just how strong he was under that shirt.

She liked the way he felt.

It was a shocking thought that left a hot trail across her mind. One that was sprouting with new, wicked ideas. She battled them, trying to focus on what needed doing. He let out a soft, male sound of enjoyment as she started to rub his shoulder and arm. He rolled over, giving her better access to his back as she sat down on the bed next to him. The ropes groaned as they took the weight of both of them, but held.

She was intent on her work and didn’t realize Marcus had fallen asleep until she heard his breathing deepen. A sense of accomplishment filled her, lifting the corners of her lips. He wasn’t a man who let his guard down easily, yet he’d fallen asleep next to her. What did that mean? She shied away from deciding just what and started to stand.

Pain suddenly went through her scalp. At some point, Marcus had grasped a handful of her hair and pulled it up to his nose. A tingle went through her as she looked at the way he was clutching her hair. So simple and yet somehow intimate in a way she’d never expected. This was so lacking in sin and flesh. Yet it struck her as being purer than any declaration of flowery compliments might have been.

However, she was stuck. She tried to pull the strands from his fingers, but he had wound the length around them and closed his hand. Helen debated waking him, but that seemed a very poor way to show her gratitude. The long hours on the road were taking their toll on her too. Her eyelids felt too heavy to hold open. So she crawled over him and lay down beside him.

Marcus was warm, and his hold on her hair didn’t allow her to move away from him. She only had another moment to contemplate the wisdom of sleeping with him before sleep claimed her.

* * *

Marcus opened his eyes and considered Helen. It wasn’t his way to be dishonest, but the sight of her next to him might make him consider changing his ways.

The only light in the room was from the fire. It cast a red and orange flicker over her. He’d never seen so much of her, and his cock hardened. The chemise she wore was new but of soft linen that lay across her curves like liquid. He could see the little beads of her nipples and had to force himself to reach for the bedding and pull it up and over them both.

Damn, but he liked the way she smelled. More than one woman had chased him through the years—although it was fairer to say they had been pursuing his position—and those females often applied lavender oil or honey or some other essence to their skin. He leaned down and inhaled the scent of Helen’s hair.

His cock began to throb.

There was some hint of amber from the soap she’d bathed with, but nothing else. No, that was an unfair thing to think. There was plenty more. She smelled like sunshine and strength. He wanted to nuzzle against her. Combine her scent with the taste of her, and he wanted to stroke her until she let him cup her sweet breasts. His mind was full of the progression of what he craved, the appetite she seemed to build in him, the one he was gaining a new understanding of as he lay there and cradled her close while letting her sleep. It was a strangely erotic experience, a new one for him. He savored it because there was one thing he knew for certain: Helen wasn’t going to make it easy to catch her.

But then again, he had to admit to enjoying that facet of her personality too.

* * *

It felt good to be touched.

Helen let out a little sound of contentment and rotated her head so whoever was stroking her might reach more of her skin.

Delightful.

Little ripples of enjoyment moved across her skin, waking her gently while she enjoyed the warmth of the bed. Normally her toes were chilled and getting up was the only way to warm herself because the fire would have gone cold during the night.

Today, she smiled as her bed was deliciously warm and inviting to linger in. She slid her fingers along the warmth beneath her and froze when she heard a husky chuckle.

Marcus grinned at her when she opened her eyes and looked into his face, her eyes as wide as full moons.

“What are ye doing?” she demanded.

“Well now, lass.” He tried to contain his mirth. “Ye’re the one lying on top of me.”

She was. Helen looked down in horror to see that her fingers were splayed on his chest. With a little cry, she rolled away from him and right off the edge of the bed. Marcus laughed. For the second time that day, she was stunned. She’d seen the man amused before, but this was pure and freely expressed. He wasn’t hiding behind his control, and she got the distinct feeling it was a privilege to see him in such a private moment.

“I could get accustomed to waking up to ye in me bed, Helen, and that is a fact.”

She’d edged her way around the foot of the bed as he sat up and put his feet on the floor. His expression tightened, his lips thinning as he looked at her. “Aye, ye’re a handsome woman, and I’ve a mind to order ye some of that fine cotton to make yer chemises out of. So I can see through it when ye venture near the candlelight in the evenings.”

Helen wrapped her arms around herself, trying to keep him from seeing through her linen chemise. “That would be pure waste.”

“Aye,” he agreed as he sent her a grin that made her blush. “I’d much rather ye wore naught at all when we’re in private.” He crooked his finger at her. “Come back here, lass. Let me pet ye some more.”

She shook her head.

“Ye were enjoying it.”

He was still sitting on the end of the bed, but she heard the determination in his tone. She realized he was gripping the sheeting in his effort to remain poised there, to make it her choice. That idea burst on her like spring after a hard, long winter. It was ripe with opportunities that she’d only dreamed about.

“What game are ye playing?” she asked. “Are ye trying to have me before yer father has me sent on me way? Make a mistress of me so me ruin will be complete?”

That had to be it, and she would be wise to remember the facts of her circumstances.

“Ye’re wrong about that.”

There was something in his tone that made her take him more seriously. She turned to make eye contact with him.

“I never kept a mistress because I am no’ the sort of man who ruins a woman’s name simply so he can have her in his bed whenever he wants her,” Marcus informed her gravely. “I know what happens to discarded bedmates.”

“At least the females,” she added.

“Aye,” he agreed. “And me father was too busy laughing to say anything else. He considers ye a fine match for me. So.” He patted the bed beside him.

“Ye’ll no’ be taking the last thing I have of me own.”

“I would have rolled ye onto yer back and kissed ye until ye kissed me back if taking was what I had on me mind, Helen.”

He was speaking the truth. She heard the frustration in his voice, but he sat there, looking both ridiculous and appealing. He was suddenly more tempting than any man she’d ever seen. All of her senses felt awakened by him and heightened now that she’d taken the time to notice how good it felt to be in contact with him.

Kissed by him…

“Aye, that is so, and I’ll likely be damned for me weak will,” she admitted before she found her skirt and lifted it over her head.

When she looked up from lacing the waistband closed, she found Marcus standing in front of her. His expression had gone serious and she felt something inside her tighten, as though he was going to say something vitally important.

“I’ll no’ renounce ye if ye are no’ a maiden, Helen.”

She felt her cheeks catch fire.

“I could hardly blame ye for taking what comfort ye could when I dropped ye here and never looked in on yer circumstances.”

“So ye think I turned slut?” She reached up and slapped him. As small as the chamber was, the sound was loud. “I’ll have ye know, Marcus MacPherson, that I am stronger than anything ye might ever do to me, and I will no’ be shaming meself or squandering the one gift I have left to give to the man I choose.”

His cheek was dark where her hand had struck him. The chamber was silent for a long moment as he looked into her eyes, seeking proof to support her words. She’d acted brazenly, but she stood tall and faced him, ready to take whatever retribution he decided was hers.

What he did stunned her to the core. Marcus MacPherson, War Chief of the clan, opened his arms and lowered himself before her. She caught sight of a wink sent her way as he straightened before scooping up his sword and heading toward the door.

“In that case, mistress”—he paused with his hand on the door latch—“I suggest ye get below and have a good breakfast. We’ve a courtship to begin today, and I can assure ye, best to make sure ye have all the strength ye can muster.” Determination glittered in his eyes. “I promise ye shall need it.”

* * *

“Wife or bride?”

Marcus stiffened, hearing his own words coming out of his brother’s mouth. Bhaic was leaning against the passageway wall, clearly waiting for him.

“I suppose it was too much to hope that ye’d let me be.” Marcus passed him and went toward the newer section of the castle where his chamber was.

“Well now,” Bhaic said, “seems that leaving the castle open to having its defenses known would be a terrible oversight. If Helen is still a bride, well, just as ye said when I brought Ailis here, there is an issue that needs attention.”

“I know what my reasoning was when ye brought Ailis here,” Marcus replied, cutting his brother off. “Helen does nae have a father who can ride out against us.”

Bhaic offered him an unrepentant shrug.

“Actually, I was waiting about to see if she killed ye when she found ye in her bedchamber.”

“It was yer wife who showed me the way last evening.”

Bhaic was surprised by that. “So does that mean ye plan to keep her?”

Marcus drew in a deep breath and sent a hard look toward Bhaic. “Ye think me that great a fool? That I’m blind to what ye have with Ailis, and do nae notice Helen draws me attention as no other female ever has? For whatever good that is, considering she loathes me.”

“Some would say justifiably.”

Marcus growled. “I was ensuring peace.”

“I know that,” Bhaic answered.

“So does she.” Marcus stopped as they approached the more inhabited portions of the castle.

“So where is the difficulty?” Bhaic asked seriously.

Marcus shook his head. “The same thing ye once told me concerning yer bride. How did ye put it? ‘I’ll no’ take me rights when she is worn down by a day that has been too long and I have no’ courted her.’ Well, Helen has had a long year due to me trusting that Duana would see to her needs. I’ve no right to expect her to trust me. That’s something I’ll have to earn with effort.”

Bhaic had been listening intently, but his lips split into a smirk as Marcus finished. “So, are ye saying ye plan to court the lass?” His tone was thick with disbelief.

“What is so amusing about that?” Marcus demanded. “Am I some sort of beast who can no’ show a woman she is worthy of winning over?”

“Beast?” Bhaic was trying to talk through his snickers. “Maybe no’ quite that bad, but ye are…well…rough around the edges.”

Marcus offered his brother a grin, the same one he often sent his sibling right before he sent his fist into his jaw.

“Am I being less than helpful?” Bhaic asked.

“Aye,” Marcus snapped, but stopped and thought for a moment. “Where did ye take yer bride that night ye two snuck away?”

“The astrologer’s house,” Bhaic answered.

“Ah. To see the stars. The lasses like that sort of thing.”

“Well, I do nae suggest it in yer case. The only way up to view the sights is a ladder,” Bhaic said. “Helen will kick ye right off it or pull ye down when ye offer her a hand. Either way, ye’ll end up with yer fool neck broken.”

Marcus grunted. “Ye and Ailis were lifelong enemies, and she did no’ kick ye.”

“Aye,” Bhaic agreed. “But she never hit me with a pitcher either.”

His brother meant it as a cutting jest, but Marcus slowly grinned. He reached out and patted Bhaic on the shoulder in mock sympathy. “Well now, do nae be too jealous, Brother.”

Bhaic sent him a look that would wither a lesser man. Marcus enjoyed it before he took off down the passageway again. He’d court Helen. It couldn’t be that difficult.

* * *

“Helen.”

Laird Shamus MacPherson had called her name. He was seated in the middle of the huge table that sat on the high ground in the great hall. His captains were in places of honor beside him. Ailis was there as well, one seat away from the man, because the one beside her was reserved for Shamus’s son.

Helen rose from the bench where she’d sat down to enjoy her midday meal and lowered herself.

“Since yer husband is off in the training yard, allow me to welcome ye to the high table.”

Several of Shamus’s captains didn’t care for what their laird said. Their eyes narrowed at the sight of an outsider being giving such an honor.

“Thank ye kindly.” Helen spoke evenly, fighting for a measure of meekness she knew she fell short of achieving. “I am—”

“Skittish.”

Marcus came up behind her, his voice booming over the heads of those enjoying their meal at the lower tables. Which was a great many people. The MacPhersons were one of the largest clans in the Highlands; their retainers alone numbered more than three hundred. There was a rumble of male amusement from those watching.

“Ye’ll need to be attending to that condition, me boy,” Shamus remarked, to the growing delight of his men. “Or ye’ll get thrown when ye try to ride her.”

Helen felt her cheeks heating as the hall erupted into laughter. She lowered herself and turned to leave, only to end up facing Marcus. He reached out and grasped her hand, lifting it to his lips and kissing the back of it like a gallant knight. It earned him a few chuckles before she snatched her hand away.

“Enough,” she muttered under her breath.

“Am I no’ impressing ye?”

Helen rolled her eyes, earning a chuckle from him.

“I suppose that allows me only boldness to achieve me goals.”

He didn’t allow her time to decipher the meaning of his words before leaning over and kissing the side of her neck.

“That’s it, me lad!” Shamus pounded the table in approval. “Get a whiff of her scent. Make sure she has a reason to want to let ye into her bed!”

The MacPherson men were laughing hysterically. Helen took the opportunity to dash around Marcus and out of the hall.

“Christ, woman.” Marcus caught her by the elbow. “Do Grants nae jest?”

Helen turned on him, her skirts flaring out and showing off her ankles because she moved so fast.

“What the devil is yer quarrel with me now, Helen?”

“Me?” Helen demanded. “Ye dare to say I am the one acting ridiculously?”

“Aye,” he confirmed. “Running as if yer skirt is on fire.”

Helen seethed. She pointed at him, her finger only a few inches from his chest. “I warned ye before. I will nae be subject to a public display where ye take liberties with me person. I am no’ a slut.”

“Ye’re me wife,” Marcus said firmly. “I was showing ye affection, courting ye.”

“Ye put yer hands on me right there in the hall like a woman ye hired for the night in a tavern,” Helen declared. “As ye told me, I’m assumed a slut because of my lack of relatives here.”

“Ye are the first woman I’ve ever courted,” he replied, defending himself. “And ye are the one who reminded me that I offered ye to me men. Madam, I am making certain that matter is corrected. No’ a single one of them will make the mistake of trying their hand at ye.”

To his way of thinking, it was a sound reason. Or at the least, not an unkind gesture on his part.

“Ye have no right to do such a thing,” she argued. “Because ye know I want an annulment, and ye owe it to me on account of the fact that I saved ye from committing an atrocity.”

They were nose to nose, their breath rasping between their teeth, and while they were intent on each other, Helen suddenly felt as if her mother had just caught her sneaking bread before the meal was blessed by her father. That guilty little tingle on the nape of her neck. She turned her head and Marcus did too, so both of them ended up staring straight into the eyes of Father Matthew Peter.

The priest was red-faced and had clearly stormed across the courtyard to pull them apart. Helen felt her belly do a flip. All of the youths practicing in the yard had stopped and were staring at them, while the steps behind them were crowded with women and girls who had come out of the hall to enjoy the spectacle they were providing.

Father Matthew Peter opened his mouth and shut it several times. He never managed to speak. Instead he stuck his arm out, pointing toward the church. Helen turned and started toward the church, and then had to bite her lip as she realized the good father was staring at Marcus with his arm still extended toward the church. There was a collective hush in the yard as those watching waited to see what Marcus would do. Women were covering their mouths with their hands to remain silent while Marcus and the monk stared at each other.

And then Marcus MacPherson, War Chief of the clan, nodded once before falling into step beside Helen to walk in shame on their way to be reprimanded.

* * *

“Twelve lashes,” Morton said with a hint of admiration in his tone. “I expected ye to fold much sooner.”

Brenda flinched and chided herself for showing any reaction, but damned if she couldn’t still hear the snap of the leather before it bit into her back. Morton moved further into the chamber, grinning at her. He stopped and looked at the bed. The sheets were stained with blood that had come from the welts on her back. She still felt a great deal of satisfaction in seeing it, because she’d proven herself strong enough to endure.

At least in some part she had been, but there was only so much pain anybody could endure before the will to survive overrode everything else. She could have taken more lashes, but she had been forced to face the truth of her own limited strength. So she’d agreed to do Morton’s bidding, and Gunn had made good use of her weakness.

It was a lesson she focused on, letting it feed her hatred of men.

“Perhaps ye understand now who yer master is?” Morton asked softly.

Brenda remained still, looking straight at him, her chin level. Her silence earned her a soft tsk. “In that case,” he muttered, “ye can be sure there will be further demonstrations of me power over ye.”

Morton had walked toward her, stopping when he was close enough to tap her on her cheek with a fingertip. “Ye are a damned handsome woman. With a body that matches yer face. Ye shall fuck when I tell ye. No one will care if yer back is scarred or the soles of yer feet burned.”

He left her to his men. The only mercy afforded her was that he ordered them to keep their hands off her. She was a treat only to be enjoyed by those he decided to gift her to. His retainers grumbled as they took her to the chambers that served as her cell.

It was more of a haven than the earl ever would have guessed. With the door closed, she was free to indulge in the tears she’d kept locked inside during the night.

But she wiped them away, angry with herself for giving Gunn or Morton any part of herself. It was a lesson she’d learned with her husband and would do well to recall. Men were not worthy.

Oh, perhaps men such as Bhaic and Marcus were, but at court, there were only ambitious, self-centered males, and it would seem she was to keep company with them. It shouldn’t have surprised her. Her entire life had been one of service to the ambitions of the males who surrounded her. Her current circumstances were nothing new.

So she would not cry.

Ever again.

And as for scars…Brenda pulled her chemise off and turned to look at her back in a mirror. She would wear each one with pride. Morton would learn something from her as well.

She was a Highlander too.

* * *

“Helen?” Ailis poked her head into the small cell.

“Aye, I am here.”

Ailis opened the door wide, or at least as wide as it could be opened. The small chamber was used as a sewing room. Three steps down from the narrow doorway was a single cot and a wardrobe that could be locked to safeguard the lengths of linen kept inside it. Fabric was very expensive and sometimes impossible to find. There were also fine shears, carefully sharpened lest a burr catch any of the costly fabric while it was being cut. Needles and pins were also stored there, along with thread and buttons. A ring of keys lay on the table where Helen had placed it after opening the wardrobe.

“I have been lectured on the duties of a wife and the need my immortal soul has to perform them,” Helen explained as she pulled a needle up from the piece of linen she was working with. “And that making me husband”—she sighed on the word—“a shirt, as a devoted wife should, is the penance I owe for me behavior this afternoon.”

Helen jabbed the needle back into the cloth with a soft snarl.

Ailis smothered a chuckle. “Ye were…quite angry.”

Helen lifted her head while pulling the thread tight. “I was bloody well ready to clock that bastard on the side of the head again. Ye witnessed what he did, right enough.”

“Aye, I did,” Ailis confirmed. “A poor attempt at courting. However, given that we are talking about Marcus, I believe he did rather well.”

Helen offered her a snort in response. “That man acts more like a stallion, doing his best to run off any competition.”

Ailis turned red, and Helen rolled her eyes as her mistress burst out laughing. She kept at it until tears ran down her cheeks.

“Oh, Helen, I am sorry, and yet I am not truly repentant. Perhaps I need to make ye a chemise.”

“According to the good Father, this task”—Helen stabbed the needle down again—“will help me settle in.”

“Marcus would be disappointed if ye did,” Ailis remarked. She’d come closer and leaned over to peer intently at what Helen was stitching. “Helen, are those—?”

Helen looked up with a wicked smile on her lips. She pulled the needle up, allowing Ailis to see the color of the thread she was using. It was pink. Helen looked back down, using the needle carefully as she worked the pink thread into the outline of a posy.

“Ye are putting flowers on Marcus’s collar.” Ailis began choking on her mirth again.

Helen offered her a pleased little smirk as she pulled the needle up into the air once more. “Father Peter will not fault me for shorting him on the amount of attention I give to the task he’s set me, and Marcus will no’ be refusing to wear the shirt Father Peter insisted I make for him.”

“Nay,” Ailis agreed, tears glittering in her eyes. “Ye are certainly…toiling…devotedly… Marcus will, of course, have to wear what ye made…as penance.” She collapsed into another fit of giggles, ending up on the small cot in the cell.

“Oh, do hush,” Helen scolded her. “At least until I finish. I want to make sure the beast has to wear it. That’s little enough payback for him kissing me before one and all.”

Ailis was turning purple as she clamped her lips shut and smothered her laughter behind her hand. When she at last drew breath, there were tears sparkling in her eyes. “Oh, Helen, forgive me, but I do think ye are that man’s match after all.”

“Naught to forgive. I agree.”

Ailis sat up, albeit slowly because her belly was rounded. “Ye do?”

Helen smiled and looked back at the posy she was stitching. “Marcus is going to discover that I will be having my way in this and getting my annulment.”

For the first time, that idea didn’t give her the burst of satisfaction it had before. Helen contemplated why. An annulment was what she craved, so why was she not happily basking in the glow of contentment? It made little sense, which was true about many of her feelings concerning Marcus. That was solid, irrefutable reasoning for why she had to go through with her plan to end their union before she did something irreversible.

Such as consummating it.

* * *

“Helen.”

Shamus called out to her the moment she entered the great hall. Truthfully, Helen was impressed with the man’s eyesight. His hair was gray and his skin more wrinkled than an apple in May, but he spotted her trying to fill a bowl with stew at the far side of the hall.

“Ye’ll join me.”

It was an order she could not disobey. He was the master of the castle, even if age had made it so that his sons shouldered most of the duties he’d once performed.

One of the serving women reached out and took the bowl right out of her hands. Helen lowered herself before making her way down the aisle. Conversation hushed, the men watching her approach the high ground and lower herself again before she climbed the six steps to the dais that raised the laird’s table above the others in the hall. Finley was there, pulling a chair out for her and pushing it back in once she’d sat down.

Shamus nodded approvingly. “I look forward to having grandchildren to bounce on me knee now that both me sons have taken wives.”

There was a cheer from his men. Women began serving again as conversation picked up. Marcus and Bhaic arrived at last, tugging on the corners of their bonnets before they sat down. Marcus angled his head and considered her for a long moment before he ripped a loaf of bread apart and offered a section to her.

Helen reached for it and felt her hand shaking. She dropped the bread onto her plate as every bit of composure deserted her. Everyone was staring at her. The scrutiny made her feel as if her jaw was too stiff to open when she tried to put a piece of the bread into her mouth. Every motion of chewing sounded too loud and obnoxious, so she swallowed too soon and ended up drinking to wash the lump of half-chewed bread down her throat. It left her feeling as if she had stretched the inside of her neck.

And the staring continued.

The conversation was stilling again. Those who had watched them march off to the church hoped to be entertained further. Helen picked up her eating knife, but it clattered out of her fingers onto her plate. Unlike the lower tables, the laird’s was set with silver plates. Hers made a horrific sound as the knife hit it. Marcus finally drew in a deep breath and cupped her elbow.

“We managed to share a bed last night without ye shaking, woman. Can ye no’ settle down and enjoy supper without making it appear to one and all that ye fully expect me to ravish ye right here upon the table because I have no restraint?”

“What are ye accusing me of now?” Helen demanded as quietly as she could manage. She’d missed half of what Marcus had said because she was so focused on those watching her. “I have never sat at a high table in me life, much less been served by others. I’ll tell ye truthfully, I hardly notice ye are beside me.”

Her voice was rising with every word. Shamus turned and caught the last thing she uttered. He flashed a huge grin at them. “I see ye’ve no’ yet proven yerself to the lass, Marcus. She’s still skittish.”

The table went quiet, his captains ending their conversations to listen intently to what their chief was saying. Shamus contemplated Helen as he chewed and swallowed. He washed the food down before pointing his eating knife at her. “A female like that needs a man who can satisfy her passions.”

Her cheeks heated, but more with temper than anything else. She was out of patience with everyone’s interest in her maidenhead. “All I long for is a man who is no’ completely convinced that his cock will solve all of the troubles in the world.”

There was silence at the table. Two of the captains had stopped in mid-chew as her comment was being repeated below them, and the hall became still.

Shamus wasn’t shocked into silence as she’d first suspected. No, he waited a full three seconds before letting out a whoop of amusement and tossing his head back with a roar. His eyes glittered when he looked back at her and slapped the tabletop.

“Ye mistake me, lass,” he said through a huge smile. “’Tis yer husband who has nae proven himself by putting his face between yer thighs and showing ye he can move ye to ecstasy so ye’ll know he’s worthy of yer maidenhead.”

It took only a second for his captains to absorb what he’d said. In the next, hysteria ensued. Cups were overturned, and one man actually fell out of his chair because he was doubled over laughing so hard.

“Marcus, ye lazy dog!” Shamus bellowed. “Only a fool would no’ make time for a treat such as yer wife.”

There was a harsh grating sound as Marcus pushed his chair back. A second later, he was dragging hers away from the table.

“Marcus—” Helen only got out his name before he reached out, grabbed her wrist, and pulled her right over his shoulder.

The hall grew louder, if such a thing were possible, while Marcus carried her out dangling over his shoulder.

“And ye claimed me behavior was going to have one and all thinking ye a brute,” she admonished him when they were inside a chamber.

Marcus closed the door. He turned and looked at her. “It seemed more of a kindness to get ye out of the hall. I will fully admit I was no’ willing to stay there and suffer more of me father’s ever-so-sage advice. Me father does nae answer to Matthew Peter quite the same way ye and I do. Trust me, me father was just getting started.”

Somehow, in that moment, Marcus looked every bit as finished with being the source of everyone’s amusement as she was. Their gazes met, understanding passing between them. He offered her a genuine grin before she sent back a shy smile. Marcus reached up and rubbed his forehead.

Helen started giggling. Oh, her timing couldn’t have been worse, but she couldn’t seem to help herself.

Marcus raised an eyebrow. “Laughing at me expense?”

She shook her head. “I just realized we’re both on the same side of this issue, and, well…I am no’ used to being on even ground with ye.”

Understanding flashed through his eyes a moment before his expression softened. The man truly was handsome when he wasn’t intent on making sure she was intimidated by him. She felt a desire to see him relax more often.

“Aye, we are at that, lass,” he agreed. “No one is going to let either of us off lightly.”

She nodded, but ended up stopping when their gazes met and fused. It felt as if the world had shifted off center, her insides twisting as they had when she was a child and her father tossed her up into the air. Only this time, the sensation settled into her flesh, heating parts of her she’d never thought much about.

“I truly was nervous about sitting there,” she said softly.

The chamber was silent for a long moment.

“I recall the first time I sat at the high table.”

His words surprised her. He had never shared something personal with her.

“Me mother refused to wed me father,” Marcus continued. “Shamus had me educated and trained, but I broke bread at the lower tables until I was eighteen because her status was mine, since she would no’ take vows with me sire. He called out to me the first night after me mother’s passing. I never knew that hall was so very long. The walk felt as though it went on forever.”

“Aye, it did feel that way tonight,” she agreed.

“And I understand what ye mean by no’ being accustomed to someone serving ye. It’s bloody unsettling at first.”

“I thought me spine was going to break because I was sitting so straight,” she admitted. “I suppose when I was small, I daydreamed of being a lady of station.” She let out a little sigh. “The reality is rather more of a responsibility than I realized. How do ye eat with everyone staring at ye?”

“With care,” Marcus agreed. “I believe Father Matthew Peter was making sure ye and I know we need to be setting a proper example.” A naughty smile curved his lips. “I miss the days when I could indulge in a good tussle just for the fun of it. I think that’s why me father is enjoying himself so greatly at our expense. He’s waited nearly an entire lifetime to be above reproach. No one tells him what to do anymore.”

They both laughed at the idea.

She realized Marcus had brought her to his chambers. They were larger than hers, of course, but furnished with only the essentials. No carpets upon the stone floor or tapestries hung on the walls. There were only sturdy chairs and a table in the outer room. Through an arched doorway, she glimpsed the huge bed. Her nipples actually began to contract, making her shift her attention away from it.

She was clearly turning into a wanton.

He reached down and pulled a flask from the top of his boot. A quick twist and he had the top open. “Share a drink with me, lass, for the rest of the clan is no’ going to give us any peace until they’ve had their measure of fun at our expense. Hence, we need a nip or two or eight.”

She took the flask and tipped it up to her lips. Marcus was watching her when she lowered it. “What? Ye do nae think a Grant can drink?”

He toasted her with the flask before taking a long swig of it. “I am most pleasantly surprised. But then again, ye do that rather often to me.”

His words warmed her. Sure, she might have blamed the whisky, but the truth was, it was nice to know she kept him guessing. She reached for the flask again. “Ye only encouraged them with how ye carried me off.”

Marcus waited until she’d finished drinking before answering. “I was hoping to expedite matters. Once they think we’ve made things official, they’ll leave us be.”

“It won’t be soon if yer brother has anything to say about it.” She let out a little sigh. “Ye tested his patience sorely when he brought Ailis here.”

Marcus only smirked at her and took the flask back. Helen returned his smile. “Ye really are a swine at times, Marcus MacPherson.”

“And ye, madam,” he countered through a chuckle, “are pure vixen. I’ve the bites to prove it.”

“Every one of them was richly deserved,” she informed him with a grin.

Enjoyment flickered in his eyes. It made her groan, but out of camaraderie rather than frustration. Marcus didn’t miss her reaction.

“Admit it,” he said over the top of the flask. “Ye enjoy pitting yerself against me. Ye would have no stomach for a man who quoted the holy book in his effort to put ye in yer place.” He raised a finger in the air and waved it about. “‘Woman was made to serve man…’”

She nodded, laughing softly at the idea.

There was a bump outside the chamber door and some scratching. “I’m getting to it.” Someone’s words came through in a muffled jumble. “It’s quiet. Maybe they’re finished.”

“They’ve no’ been up here long enough,” someone answered.

“So open the door and have a peek.”

Marcus sent it an annoyed look. “Seems ye may be right about Bhaic wanting to extract a full measure of vengeance.”

“Well, we can nae let them go on thinking I’ve surrendered so quickly.” Helen stood up, her legs feeling a little wobbly and overly warm. She selected a bowl that was sitting on the table and sent it hurling at the door just as it was pushed in. “Swine!” she bellowed as Finley started to peek inside.

Marcus threw his head back and roared. The chair he was in tipped back, and he gave a push so he went tumbling heels over chin and landed on his feet in front of the door. “Vixen!” He kicked back, his foot connecting with the door and sending it slamming shut. There was a muffled expletive from outside in the hallway before Marcus started turning over the rest of the furniture while growling like a hungry wolf. Helen squealed in amusement as tears glittered in her eyes.

It was all finished in a few moments, leaving them breathless and laughing at the mess they’d made. Her head was spinning, her thoughts flying apart from the combination of activity and whisky. She was breathless and so was he as they stood facing each other. She stared at him in fascination as he laid his hands on either side of her face. The contact raced down her spine, all the way to her toes, where it set off a tingling. If he’d pulled her to him, she might have balked, but this kindness was so sweet that she stood there, anticipation building like the tempo of a springtime dance as he leaned forward and slowly sealed her lips beneath his.

The kiss was scalding hot, searing a path through her as her breath caught. They were suspended in the moment, like a bubble where the fae danced forever in merriment. She reached for him, flattening her hands on his chest and shivering as she slipped her hands across the ridges of muscle beneath his clothing.

He lifted his head from hers, looking down into her eyes as though he wanted to see what effect he had on her.

“Yer eyes glitter with passion when I kiss ye, Helen.”

She could have told him he was mistaken, but she realized such a taunt would be cowardly. An attempt to goad him into action and remove all responsibility from her hands for what happened when she gave in to her cravings.

He deserved better than that from her. So she nodded before she shifted away from him. Uncertainty was sweeping through her, as hard as winter winds. It left her caught between the two forces—that flickering lick of passion’s flames and the chill of not knowing what she wanted, only that it felt so right to be in his arms.

He watched her for a moment before he let out a long sigh. “Aye. Let’s lay our heads down and sleep, lass. Tomorrow will be soon enough to puzzle through what we plan to do with each other.”

Helen cast a look toward the bed.

His bed.

“We’ve shared a bed before,” Marcus reminded her in that low, gravelly tone that he used when he was hiding his feelings. She’d heard him use it on his men plenty of times, and it made her suspicious.

“Because ye had hold of me hair and were snoring.” She took another step away from him. She couldn’t seem to stand still. Marcus stopped, planting his feet shoulder-width apart as he crossed his arms over his chest.

“Father Matthew Peter made me swear to wait upon yer whim.”

Helen choked. “He would no’ do such a thing. The church says I am yer property.”

Marcus lifted a finger into the air. “It was a personal penance given to me. That I might better understand the merits of patience and no’ harboring the sin of wrath.”

She shouldn’t laugh.

Yet she did. Marcus closed his eyes, but his lips parted in a grin. He took another swallow before offering it to her. Helen eyed it for a bit, contemplating just how much like bait it was.

Oh, for heaven’s sake! Stiffen yer spine!

She moved forward and took the flask, their fingers brushing as she gripped it. “Yer word, then.”

“I gave it.”

He drained the last of the whisky before walking into the bedchamber and laying the flask down on a small table. Helen watched him for a long time. She wasn’t so much nervous as curious. He was in a private moment now, something she knew without a doubt few ever witnessed. She felt privileged, something she had not experienced in a very long time.

There was a bench in the bedchamber. She sat on it to take off her boots. Marcus sat on another one, doing the same. They were a pair, that was for certain. Never had she thought that men suffered the same trials as women when it came to marriage. It had always seemed that men held all the power, and perhaps that was true for many. Marcus was the son of the laird though, and as such, he had expectations from the clan to fulfill. Even when their vows were swept aside by a lawyer’s quill, he would still have to perform as expected. Perhaps Fate was not simply unkind to her. No, Marcus would have a pound of flesh demanded of him as well.

Somehow, that made him easier to approach. Beneath his gruff exterior, he was a man who was being told to suffer the will of others over his own. Helen lay beside him, listening to him breathe, and lamented the fact that she would have to leave his side. Part of her truly wanted more private time with him. Lying there beside him, she felt more at ease than she could ever recall. Sleep came easily as she settled into the bed, enjoying the warmth Marcus added to it.

Indeed, she was turning wanton for the one man she should know better than to fancy, but at that moment, she didn’t care a bit.

* * *

She’d gone to sleep with a soft throbbing at the front of her sex. A mild annoyance that never truly ebbed during the night. Helen shifted and sighed, not quite ready to awaken. There was a nip in the air that promised snow, and the bed was delightfully warm.

And that throbbing? Well, it was becoming something different now. There was pleasure involved, a deep enjoyment that made her let out a little sound of pure bliss. Her dreams had never included such a sensation, only the building need that went from that little throbbing spot down into her core. It became a yearning that frustrated her because she didn’t know how to ease it.

Today, though, there was more than easement; there was pleasure. It soothed away the ache, growing as intense as the need. She wanted more of it and felt herself straining upward, seeking… Well, she didn’t know just what, only that she couldn’t think beyond the need for it.

It all snapped, unleashing a rush of pleasure so intense that she cried out and arched, her entire body caught in the grip of it for one mind-numbing moment. She opened her eyes and heard herself gasping. Her heart was racing, and sensation was still rippling across her skin when she looked down her body and gasped.

“Ye lied to me.” She wanted be outraged, but her voice was husky with satisfaction.

Marcus offered her a cocky grin from where his head was hovering just a few inches above her spread sex. His lips were wet, and she realized in horror exactly why.

“I did nae have me hands on ye at all, lass,” he responded arrogantly. “And I owe me sire a wee bit of an apology for me thinking last evening, because his advice is sound.”

She rolled over and over and right off the edge of the huge bed, but her knees were shaky, so she stumbled, grasping one of the posts that held the bed curtains. Marcus watched her, his grin widening as he took in his effect on her. He was wearing nothing but his shirt, and his member was sticking out in the front of it.

He’d lulled her into a false sense of ease. She realized he was every bit as menacing as ever and had simply waited for his moment to pounce on her.

“Do nae look at me like that, Helen.” Marcus sat up on the side of the bed and watched her move away. “Ye told me yer maidenhead was the only thing ye have left that is yer own, so I pleasured ye without taking it. Is it so hard to think of me as a man who does nae want to act the brute to ye?” He patted the surface of the bed. “I want ye to choose me.”

Did she dare?

Dare was certainly the correct word. He was looking at her, every inch the hardened man she’d faced time and again, and yet there was much more to him now. He was attempting to push inside her, to that place where no one had ever been, to her deepest feelings. However, he was offering her a glimpse at his own in return.

Such a tangle of possibilities.

She looked at the pile of clothing that she’d left on the bench, caught between the need to maintain her pride and the desire to simply let it go in favor of… Well, she wasn’t sure what exactly she’d find in his bed. She ended up looking back toward him, seeking the answer in his eyes.

“Naught to say?” he asked. “There is a first.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” she exclaimed with her hip roll half laced. “There was a time when I knew how to speak kindly. Why do ye needle me until I can nae hold me tongue?”

He flashed her an arrogant grin. “Because I like ye the way ye are, no’ disguising yer nature to appease everyone about ye. Do ye have any idea how long it has been since a lass was honest with me? Since one came to me seeking me, and no’ me position? Ye are not the only one who feels isolated. As War Chief, I must be hard on the young lads, lest they fail to build up enough strength to survive. Smiling at them would be a disservice.”

Sometime during the night, he’d taken the time to pleat his kilt on a table that ran along the side of the bedchamber. His wide belt was already under it. It took only a moment for him to lean back, grasp the sides of the belt, and pull it all around himself. Most men used the floor, but clearly Marcus wanted to be ready, should there be a need to dress in a hurry during the night.

“It fell to me to either take ye or know without a doubt that I’d be sending me own men up against yer brothers because they refused to admit the cattle were ours.” He was buckling a second belt in place to make sure his kilt was secure. “Ye think I enjoyed it?”

“Yes, ye did,” she answered him. “Somewhat, anyhow. Admit it. Yer nature is suited to yer position.”

He offered her a cocky grin. “If ye’ll match me by admitting ye did nae think to notice I do nae always care for what me duty demands of me. That’s the thing about duty. Ye do it because it needs doing and others depend on ye seeing things through.”

“Fairly spoken,” she said softly while pulling her skirts over her head. The waistband caught on her hip roll, and she began to lace the waistband closed. “Ye are no’ a brute.” His smile was widening with victory. “But swine fits well, for ye knew well ye were twisting words last evening to get me into yer bed.”

He chuckled and opened his arms wide. “Taming a vixen requires cunning.”

Helen felt her temper stir at the use of the word taming.

Something else also flickered inside her too, and she’d be a liar if she claimed she hadn’t enjoyed being the recipient of his attention. She picked up her bodice and shrugged into it to avoid letting him see the indecision in her eyes. He’d notice, all right—the man had an uncanny ability to see right into her soul. Or so it seemed.

He sat and laced his boots while Helen continued to dress. His silence didn’t make her think he’d forgotten her; no, she felt his gaze on her as the only sounds in the chamber were the ones made by cloth moving.

“Ye’ll have a few days to think on things,” he said when he’d finished.

Helen lifted her attention from her boots to him.

“I’ll need to move some of the cattle now that it’s going to snow.”

“I see.”

He adopted the pose she was used to seeing him in: feet braced shoulder-width apart with his arms crossed over his wide chest. Without his doublet on, she could see the muscles of his upper arms flex.

Damned if that didn’t warm her insides.

“Will ye promise me ye’ll be here when I get back?”

He was reluctant to ask her. She heard it in his tone. Indecision was flickering in his eyes, and she realized he was debating the merits of setting guards on her. “Ye’d accept me word?”

He stepped toward her, his expression relaxing. “I do want to. The truth is, I want nothing more than to make very certain ye are here when I return, but I also crave yer approval, and I can nae have it if I imprison ye. So, I’m asking ye.”

It was an admission he was not completely comfortable with.

“I will be here. But I suggest ye think long and hard about yer impulse to see this union solidified. Ye stole me to ensure the MacPhersons remain strong. Our marriage will put yer clan at a disadvantage because all of yer neighbors will say ye are soft at heart for no’ making a better match.”

“They might.” He moved closer and slipped his arm around her waist when she stood her ground. “At the moment, I’m anything but soft, lass, and I want ye here when I return so I can show ye how much better I can please ye.”

His meaning was impossible to miss. The hard length of his erection was pressed against her belly, hot and tempting as he leaned down and kissed her. There was a promise in his kiss, as well as a warning that he wasn’t going to be deterred. She should have pulled away, but there was a challenge there too that she couldn’t seem to resist answering. Maybe she needed to feel she was woman enough to not shiver in his embrace. Whatever the reason, she slid her hand along the ridges of his chest and up to his neck, where she held him in place as surely as he was cradling her nape.

She felt his passion growing, seemed to recognize it deep inside herself. The throbbing returned at the front of her sex. Only this time, she was very aware of how empty her passage felt. It was a stark, blunt realization that swept aside the last of her innocence about why women were happy to follow men like Marcus into the shadows. She now understood the brightness in their eyes when they returned, and realized that she craved it deeply.

Ye can have it…

In fact, she could take that satisfaction any moment she cared to. She pulled back from him, her mind trying frantically to make a choice. A lifetime of warnings and lectures on piety were battling against the surge of need and hunger burning inside her. It left her feeling as though the very ground was crumbling beneath her feet.

“Stop fretting, Helen.” Marcus stroked her cheek with the backs of his fingers. “We’re wed. It’s no’ a sin.”

“It’s surrender,” she whispered without meaning to.

His jaw tightened. “Well now, it seems ye have as much pride as I do. Ye might just have to be tempering yer thoughts on me.”

There was a rap on the door. Marcus leaned down and pressed a hard kiss against her mouth before striding across the chamber to where his sword was. He slung the harness over one shoulder and settled the hilt into position.

“Ye gave yer word, Helen. Honor it.”

* * *

Shamus could override a promise given to Marcus.

It took Helen several days to realize that fact. Of course, her days had been filled with the frantic last rush to bring in any remaining crops and store them for the coming winter. There wasn’t a pot not in use as squash and other gourds were stewed down. As the castle had grown, new kitchens had been added to provide for the increased needs of its retainers. Even the older kitchens were fired up for the last push of the season.

By the end of the week, they were all aching from the workload and there was still more to do. Helen fell into her bed late in the evening, too exhausted to do anything but sleep. For certain, she wanted to go to Shamus and do what was best for Marcus, but there simply wasn’t any time.

That thought sobered her, but it pleased her as well. Somehow, she’d become concerned over what would happen to Marcus. She liked knowing that, because it finally broke away the anger that seemed to have been stuck to her for so long. Her marriage would have to be considered a blessing for freeing her from that. Even if she still needed to end it.

Near the end of the week, Helen heard Shamus shuffling in the passageway on his way to the hall. She dusted off her hands and untied her apron. The Laird of the MacPhersons noticed her immediately. He slowed his step as she came out of the older portion of the castle where she’d been working. She lowered herself as he lifted his hand and gestured for the two captains who had been trailing him to move back.

“What do ye seek, lass?” Shamus asked. “Even if I am fairly certain I already know what it is.”

There was a note in his voice that wasn’t promising. In fact, she recognized it as the same one Marcus so often used when he was putting his duty first.

“I am still a maiden.” She resisted the urge to be too delicate in her word choices. For all that age had had its way with Shamus MacPherson, he was Marcus’s sire and she’d best recall that fact.

Shamus slowly grinned. “Aye, as I told me son, he has yet to impress ye. Do nae worry, lass. He’ll return soon, and the snow will keep him here. The pair of ye shall have a nice, cold winter to enjoy.”

“Surely ye must have offers for him,” Helen said as her cheeks heated from the image his words had painted.

“Aye,” Shamus confirmed. “Many.”

She’d known it, but hearing the words felt as though something had just cut across the surface of her heart. Helen drew in a deep breath. “Help me gain an annulment so Marcus can be the son the MacPhersons expect him to be.”

Shamus had been watching her with a serious expression. As her words sank in, his lips rose into a satisfied smile.

Helen felt as if he’d reached right into her chest and ripped her heart out.

“Me son said ye gave him yer word that ye’d be here when he returned.”

Helen nodded. “As his sire and laird—”

“Aye, I can do what is best for him, and ye could be content ye did nae break a promise.”

Helen nodded again, grateful for the semidarkness in the passageway. It helped hide the glitter of unshed tears in her eyes. It was all for the best, but it hurt so dreadfully.

“Let me tell ye, mistress, why I never matched either of me sons.” Shamus took a moment to look around before continuing. “I loved his mother. Marcus’s, that is.” His eyes lit with the memory. “Oh, she was a fine woman and no mistake. A true daughter of the Highlands with a spirit as wild as the lands we live on. That same spirit is in yer eyes, lass.”

Helen started to shake her head. Shamus held up a finger to keep her silent.

“I am a liar.”

His confession shocked her, and he smiled as he watched the impact of his words.

“Aye. It’s true,” Shamus confirmed. “For all me days, I’ve told one and all that she would nae wed me because of a difference in faith. No, Clare refused to let me make her me wife when the clan expected me to bring home a bride who came with a dowry and an alliance. She loved me enough to set her own happiness aside so I would nae suffer shame.”

For a moment he went silent, lost in the memory.

“So I did it, after five long years of waiting for her to soften her thinking on the matter. At last, I decided to let her shield me, and I pleased me father by telling him I’d wed the match he selected for me.” His voice was edged with bitterness. “Bhaic’s mother was everything she should have been. Sweet and obedient, and she gave me a son and a daughter. She had waited to give her heart away, placing her faith in her parents’ choice of husband for her.” Shamus aimed a hard look at Helen.

“I watched her heart break because I could no’ stop meself from loving another, and she witnessed the truth of it when I looked at Clare. Me own daughter hates me for what I did to her mother, but I’m grateful Bhaic never saw it. It takes men longer to understand the delicate nature of women. Me daughter, on the other hand, watched her mother wither and die because I could nae love her, and she would no’ take a lover out of respect for me.”

The tears escaped Helen’s eyes and Shamus nodded.

“Aye. It’s a hard story to tell and hear. The truth is, I would have gladly gone to the noose Morton had strung up for me instead of watching me son be forced to wed. Why do ye think I let young Ailis go back to her father on that first day? I am no’ so great a fool as to think that angering the Earl of Morton is a good decision for me to make.”

“My union with Marcus enraged him.”

“Well now.” Shamus’s voice had taken on a hard edge. “That is another matter altogether. Ye were right to notice Katherine is too young for bedding. On that account, the earl will have to suffer me disobedience, and I’ve written him to let him know what I think of the matter. Marcus agreed to the wedding but no’ the bedding, as any decent man would do. The earl will soften his will on it, or I will let the truth of the matter be known, and he’ll lose more than one supporter.”

Helen drew in a breath to steady herself.

“Save yer breath, lass,” Shamus warned her. “I will no’ agree to an annulment. The fact that ye care what is thought of me son has confirmed how right ye are for him. Too many believe Marcus is a hard, callous man. He has a heart, ye have noticed. If not, ye would no’ be asking me to help ye leave him for his own good. Marcus gives enough to his clan.”

Shamus reached out and touched her cheek, where the tears had left her skin wet. He smiled at the sensation, a strange, sweet smile that vanished almost as quickly as it appeared. He nodded as he withdrew his hand.

“Ye’ll be here when he returns, and the pair of ye can get back to circling each other.”

“Yet surely—”

Shamus made a slashing motion with his hand. “Another word, mistress, and I will put me own men on ye to ensure it is so.”

“I do nae break me word.”

Shamus chuckled. “Aye, there it is, that devil-take-heed spirit. I’ve half a mind to set a few of the lads to dodging yer hem, just for the lesson it will prove to be when they underestimate ye. That’s the sort of thing ye can tell a man, but until he comes up against it, he’ll not believe ye. Takes the experience to set it into the mind.” He tapped his temple with his fingertip.

Helen felt her temper heating. Shamus laughed at her and slapped his thigh before he turned and gestured to his waiting captains. They were quick to stride forward, both of them sending her looks designed to get her to relinquish their laird’s attention.

Helen lowered herself as Shamus continued on his way.

The conversation left Helen feeling strangely relieved. She should have been nursing her temper over being yet again forced to bend to a MacPherson’s will.

But she wasn’t.

No, there was a complete lack of resentment inside her. So much so that the fatigue weighing on her shoulders felt lifted. And that left her prey to the anticipation she’d been trying to ignore. Now, it flooded her, drowning her insistence.

Should she leave her situation as Fate seemed to want it? The question chewed into her thoughts into the next day as she toiled along with the rest of the household.

Was being Marcus’s wife such a terrible fate? Perhaps not for her. Many would think she’d acted the fool by not ensuring Marcus was bound to her when she had the opportunity to seal their vows. Well after sunset, she was still pondering her feelings when she decided to seek her bed. Ailis had taken to her chamber hours before, in spite of her insistence that she stay and see to her house. But her ankles had been nearly as swollen as her middle, so she’d lost the battle and retired. Helen had promised to finish, and now, well into the late hours of the night, she stretched her neck and smiled at a job finally done.

At least in the smaller kitchen it was. In the main kitchens, there most likely was more to be done. That could wait until sunrise, though. Helen made her way through the passageways, intent on finding her chamber.

“Sleeping, are ye?”

Helen felt a bolt of cold memory go down her spine. She knew that tone of voice from Duana. She jumped when she heard a swish and then a blunt connection.

That was a sound branded into her memory. Helen grabbed her skirts and ran. Something had certainly changed in her, and she didn’t take the time to think the impulse through. She went around the corner and through one of the back entrances to the kitchen in time to see Duana raising her rod for another blow.

Katherine was cringing on a stool, her eyes bright but her cheeks dry because she knew tears would gain her nothing but more punishment.

“Do nae ye dare strike her!” Helen ordered.

Duana rounded on her as though she’d dared some sort of inexcusable blasphemy. Of course, to the Head of House, it was very much the same.

“Ye’ll mind yer place, Grant,” Duana hissed before she turned back toward Katherine and raised the rod. “I’ll teach this one what happens to lazy English whelps in me kitchen. Ye have nothing without me goodwill…naught.”

Plenty of women were watching, as well as the younger lads who served in the kitchens. Helen stepped forward and grabbed the rod. “I told ye nay.”

Duana rounded on her and slapped her hard. She landed the blow because Helen was busy pulling the rod out of the mistress’s reach. Pain went zipping through Helen’s jaw and teeth, hard enough to make her ears ring. She had to quell the impulse to strike the woman back.

“And ye will mind me, Duana.”

There was a collective gasp from their audience. As well as a shuffle, but Helen kept her attention on Duana.

“And just who do ye think ye are to be telling me what I can and can nae do in these kitchens?” the Head of House demanded.

“I am Marcus’s wife.”

“Ye’re his slut!” Duana insisted. “Maybe ye’re warming his cock now, but he’ll cast ye out when the spring comes because ye have naught to offer him but a warm bed for the winter. No one will blame him for setting ye aside when yer family fails to provide any dowry. There was no contract, so the vows will be easily broken. Everyone knows it.”

Duana opened her hands wide, and the rest of the inhabitants of the kitchens all looked at Helen with condemning gazes. Perhaps some of the younger ones pitied her, but that would change. They’d soon see her as an example of why they must obey their parents when it came to matters of marriage. It was a business that needed contracts—sealed and witnessed to be binding.

Helen broke the rod over her knee anyway. “Well, I am here now, and ye will no’ be striking this child. Katherine, leave the kitchens now.”

The girl went, but not before she took off the apron she wore and slapped it down on the stool in defiance. Duana grunted.

“Ye’ll be mine again before ye know it, English bastard girl. I promise ye that.” There was a hard edge to Duana’s voice that sent a ripple of memory across Helen’s skin. But Katherine was looking to her, the child’s eyes wide in her face. Helen banished the specter, refusing to be prey to its grip.

“Do nae listen to her.” Helen tried to soothe Katherine once they were away from the kitchens. “She’s a woman who has spent too many years hating.”

Katherine may have been young, but she looked at Helen with a world of knowledge in her eyes. “If ye had no contract, do ye think to gain your husband’s love? The queen’s mother had her father’s love, but he took her head when that love drove him insane.”

“So I’ve heard.” Helen took a small lantern hanging on an iron hook in the wall to light their way. The fate of Anne Boleyn was well known and often told to remind young girls of the danger of wedding for love. Men might fall prey to that madness, but it was insanity. In the end, they were still men, and it was a man’s world.

Helen looked around. “Where are ye going, Katherine?”

“To me chamber,” she answered. “I was sleeping on me stool.”

“Ailis gave ye a chamber in the new tower.”

They were in the bowels of the castle now, where wide arches supported the structure above them. Most of the chambers here were storage rooms and sewing cells because there was no way to vent smoke from hearths.

“Duana told me I was to sleep here.”

Helen looked at the narrow door Katherine indicated. Inside was a tiny nun’s cell dating back to when a convent was attached to what would become MacPherson Castle. Inside, the chamber was so small that Helen could stretch her hands out on either side and touch both walls. A narrow cot was against one wall, with a thin pallet and single blanket.

Katherine started to strike a flint into the bowl of tinder sitting on the little two-foot-wide table that held a candle. But she sighed. “I forgot to fill it this morning in me rush to answer Duana’s summons. No matter. I am so tired, I do nae need light.”

She started to sit down on the cot.

“Ye are no’ sleeping here,” Helen informed her. “The mistress will be very displeased when she discovers ye here.”

“Truly”—Katherine covered a huge yawn—“I only need a bed, and the mistress needs her strength, with the babe due to arrive soon.”

“Aye, she needs her sleep,” Helen agreed. “Come along. Ye’ll have me old chamber until the mistress sorts matters out.”

Katherine had started to settle onto the cot. She blinked and stood.

Helen led Katherine down a passageway to where the abbess’s chamber was. She pushed open the door. “And ye can bar the door if anyone bothers ye.”

Katherine looked around the set of chambers and smiled.

“Go on, the bed is quite nice and the blankets thick.”

The girl shed her garments, and Helen realized they were her old clothing. Duana had considered rags good enough for an English girl. Once she was wearing only the tattered chemise, Katherine went to the bed and climbed in. A few moments later, her soft breathing told Helen she was fast asleep.

And Helen knew exactly why too. Her temper kept her from regretting too much about what she’d done. Let it filter through the castle that she’d used her position to face down the Head of House. She didn’t really care what any of them thought. Lord knew none of them had ever befriended her.

Yet her steps slowed when she stood facing the doors to Marcus’s chambers. She squared her shoulders and entered. Inside, she was assaulted by just how much she missed him. It was something in the scent of the chamber, a lingering essence of the man who used it as a haven from the rest of the clan. As she stripped down and crawled into the bed, she noticed how cold it was without him and lamented not taking the invitation he’d offered when he was there.

And when he returns?

Well, to be sure, she needed to ponder that question, but she was simply too tired to do so now. She slipped into sleep. Marcus’s scent teased her senses and took her to a dream-filled world where he was there beside her and nothing else mattered.

* * *

Helen stayed out of the kitchens the next day. The hours crept by as she waited for the Head of House to exact her retaliation. It would come—Helen was sure of that—but time kept ticking away and snow started to fall around noon. There was a hustle again now; supper had to be a rushed affair so the benches might be rearranged for the court Shamus MacPherson held each month.

It was a time for disputes to be settled and business agreed upon. Anyone might step forward to have their case heard. Shamus had long ago begun allowing his sons to sit on the high ground with him during such courts. Ailis had duly taken a position as well, so that any issue considered to be a woman’s matter might be judged by a female.

The court was held on the full moon. Marcus rode back into the yard just before sunset. Helen felt his arrival as much as she witnessed it. He came up the steps into the hall as she was working to clear away the remains of supper. He paused, making eye contact with her. She caught a hint of a smile curving his lips and felt a shiver go down her spine. She knew the look on his face: it was pure promise.

“Marcus!” Shamus called from the high ground. “Ye’ve just enough time to clean up before court.”

Marcus turned his attention to his father, reaching up to tug on the corner of his bonnet before disappearing down the passageway toward the bathhouse.

“Well then.”

Helen turned to find Duana standing near her. The Head of House had clearly decided the moment of her revenge was at hand. “Are ye going to stand here while yer husband goes to bathe?” Duana was enjoying putting Helen’s declaration to the test. “After ye claimed to be his wife and all? Of course, none of us has seen a soiled sheet flying from the window.”

There was a round of snickers from the other women. “I did nae see one.”

“Nor I.”

“Heard there was no consummation from me cousin on McTavish land.”

Duana narrowed her eyes and snapped her fingers. “And where have ye been?” she called out to Katherine. “Isn’t it just like the English to think they’ve the right to sleep the day away while still filling their bellies?”

“Katherine was under my direction today.” Helen stepped between Duana and the English girl.

The Head of House didn’t back down. “I see. So ye are still Marcus’s wife?”

Helen nodded firmly. Duana extended her arm toward the bathhouse. “Then ye’d best get to scrubbing his back.”

“I shall.” The words were out of Helen’s mouth before she had really thought them through. Duana smiled, knowing full well she was daring Helen to prove herself or be known as a liar. Helen straightened her spine because the one who would truly suffer would be Katherine. The Head of House would claim the English girl back with a snap of her fingers if Helen refused to take up her task. For the first time, she found a sense of satisfaction in knowing everyone was watching her.

* * *

“I wondered if Duana would send ye down to tend me.” Marcus reclined in a tub, his back to the door. He poured a mug full of water over his head.

“I am yer wife.”

“Are ye?” He grasped the sides of the tub and stood.

Her breath caught in her chest as the firelight shimmered off the water running down his bare form. Every inch of him was hard and cut, and he made sure she saw all of it, lifting his leg and climbing out of the tub before he very deliberately turned to face her.

Helen gasped at the look on his face.

“Aye, I’m right furious with ye and no mistake.”

This was a side of him she knew how to deal with. “I see yer father has sent ye word.”

“He did,” Marcus confirmed.

Helen went past him, intent on getting a length of linen from where it rested on a warming rack. Marcus reached out and grasped her arm, pulling her around and pushing her back against the wall.

“Stop trying to intimidate me.” She flattened her hands on his chest and then regretted it because he felt so much better than her recollections.

“Ye gave me yer word, Helen,” he said, refusing to move.

“And I did no’ break it,” she insisted.

“What do ye call going to me father?” he demanded, framing her face with his hands when she looked away.

“As if I’d expect ye to understand.” She curled her fingers into talons and felt her nails sink into his flesh. “Get off me.”

“Understand?” he rasped, so close his breath teased her lips. “’Tis a simple matter. Ye gave yer word to be here when I returned, and ye tried to place me father between us.” He pressed all the way against her, so that she felt every inch of his body. “Here is something for ye to understand, Helen. There will be no one between ye and me.”

He angled his head and pressed his mouth against hers. Was it a kiss? She wasn’t really sure. His lips connected with hers, pressing them apart so he could thrust his tongue into her mouth. It was a claiming, a declaration of intent, and she fought against it.

But it was Marcus who decided to release her. He slapped his hands on either side of the wall next to her head and pushed away from her with a snarl. “Ye are driving me to insanity, woman.”

“Ye?” She went after him and cupped his shoulder. He spun around, shocked to have her chasing after him. “Ye said ye were no’ going to take what I do nae offer, and here ye are pushing me against a wall because we’ve disagreed.”

“It’s bloody more than a disagreement.” He grabbed his shirt and put it on. For a moment, the fabric interrupted their conversation. With a snap and tug, he pulled the creamy linen over his head, which drew her attention to the collar.

“What are ye doing wearing that shirt?”

It took him a moment to understand her change in topic. He worked the buttons on one cuff and then the other as he contemplated her.

“Ye made it for me.” He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, clearly fighting for patience.

The pink posies she’d diligently embroidered on the collar showed up even in the meager light of the bathhouse.

“Well, I certainly never thought ye’d wear it in public.”

That comment earned her a half grin. “Did ye nae, Helen?” He reached up and touched one of the pink embellishments. “Ye were daring me to put it on. Spitting in the eye of what ye were told was yer place. Well, lass, I will rise to yer challenges every time. I promise ye.”

Damned if his declaration didn’t make her tingle again. He had a way of making what everyone else thought was the sin of stubbornness into something admirable, of making her into someone to be admired.

The posies suddenly made her feel guilty. “But during…yer father’s court?”

He started to button it up the chest. “Aye.”

That one firm word sent her sagging against the wall. He came toward her, this time his pace firm and solid but not threatening. He flattened his hands on either side of her head as their gazes met.

“I adore that facet of yer spirit,” he said softly. “Yer need to face me down and test me.”

This time, when he kissed her, it was sweet and seeking. An invitation to join him in a moment of intimacy. She didn’t resist. No, she slid her hand into the open collar of the shirt and enjoyed the feeling of his skin beneath her fingertips as she opened her mouth and teased his lower lip with the tip of her tongue.

His chest rumbled, the sound deep and male. It struck some chord within her, making her pull him toward her as need became a living force inside her.

But he pulled back. “Nay. We’ve no’ the time just now.”

His cock was hard against her belly, and she suddenly felt so very unbalanced. He liked when she kissed him back, and that idea led to another one that scorched her cheeks but made her confidence swell. She shifted and slid her hand beneath his shirt, then up his thigh until she had his organ grasped in her hand.

“Sweet Christ,” he gasped as he leaned on his hands.

His face drew tight, his jaw clenching. She recalled feeling just the same while he’d driven her to ecstasy. Satisfaction flooded her as she stroked his length and heard him draw in a ragged breath. This was what she craved: proof that she wasn’t just his for the taking.

He was hers, too.

And she was going to make sure he knew it. She slid down the wall until his member was at face level.

“Helen, ye should nae do that…” His voice was rough and strained, delighting her completely.

She cast a quick look up to see his hands still braced on the wall, his fingers curled into talons as she worked her hands up and down his length, even cupping the sacs that hung beneath his member.

“What did ye tell me ye were doing?” she asked. “Oh yes, proving yerself to me. Well now, Marcus MacPherson, ye just told me how much ye enjoy the facet of me personality that makes me spit in the eye of what me place is said to be.”

He drew in a hissing breath through gritted teeth. Helen lowered her attention to his staff, opening her lips and closing them around the head of it. She felt him jerk, satisfaction flooding her at the proof she could reduce him to that same level of surrender.

He cursed.

It was low and deep, and pleased her greatly. It also encouraged her. Helen opened her mouth wide, taking more of his length inside before applying her tongue to the underside of the head. She heard his fingernails scraping the stone wall and used her hands on the portion of his staff that wouldn’t fit in her mouth.

“Lass…” he forced out. “Ye’ve got to stop…”

Helen doubled her efforts. Moving her hands faster, taking him deeper and closing her lips tightly around him. His cock was harder now, and he was thrusting it toward her with little jerking motions of his hips, sounds of male delight escaping his lips.

She’d been the same way.

It wasn’t vengeance—it was proving that she really was able to stand up to him in all things. Perhaps she was on her knees, but she was proving her point. She felt him tense, and then his seed was spurting into her mouth. She took it all, sucking him through the moment. He shuddered, a harsh groan filling the stone-walled chamber. She sat back, rubbing his thighs with her hands as she felt the tremors running down them.

So strong, and yet vulnerable to her touch.

“Come here, woman.”

He reached down and hooked her upper arms, pulling her to her feet. A moment later, he was rucking up the fabric of her skirt with one hand while he threaded his left hand into her hair and angled her head up so their eyes met.

“Someone…could walk in on us.” She meant it as a warning, but her voice was husky with desire.

He found her thigh and grasped it, making her breath catch. In his eyes, she watched the ebbing satisfaction give way to determination.

“Ye should know very well I’ll not let that sort of challenge go unanswered,” he promised her wickedly.

Her insides twisted with anticipation while her clitoris throbbed insistently. He slid his hand along her thigh, sending ripples of pleasure across the surface of her skin. She felt gooseflesh rise up in response to his intimate touch. All she wanted to do was open her thighs so he could touch her throbbing sex and give her the same ecstasy that had haunted her dreams.

Someone pounded on the door. “Yer father is calling for ye!”

“Fuck.” Marcus opened his eyes and locked gazes with her. A promise glittered in them, one in which her body was very interested. His hand had gone still, his grip tightening just a bit as he fought the urge to release her.

He did—with a snarl and another round of profanity. Helen ended up giggling as her skirt fell back down to cover her legs. Marcus turned to eye her.

“Father Matthew Peter is going to have something to say about yer language.”

Marcus moved back toward her and tapped the open collar of his shirt. “I wonder what he’ll think of the fine shirt ye made me while contemplating yer penitence?”

Helen didn’t fold under his veiled threat. “Likely insist that I need more lessons in humility. Knowing the good Father, I would expect to spend hours and hours toiling upon the labors he sets me to.” Helen let out a sigh. “I’d no’ get to bed until very, very late, if at all.”

Marcus had been grinning, enjoying teasing her, but his lips set into a hard line as she finished.

“As I’m thinking on it”—he was unbuttoning the cuffs—“I’ve decided to keep this shirt for our chamber. It’s simply too dear to me heart to share.”

* * *

“Who are ye?”

Robert Gunn raised his head and looked at the retainer who had stepped into his path. The man was no coward, which pleased him. There was a moment of indecision as the man considered him before he nodded and grinned.

“Chief.” He reached up to tug on the corner of his cap.

There were other Gunn clansmen sitting at the tables in the hall. It was a small one, because as chief, Robert only commanded one of the branches of the Gunn clan. But the single tower was sweeter-looking than all of Stirling Castle. It was his home.

“Ye all look fat and bored,” he declared. “Who wants to join me on a venture to bring us gain?”

The men contemplated him before they began to grin. Hands went into the air, confirming his hold on their loyalty. Robert accepted a mug of ale as his clansmen began to toast his return. He enjoyed the cool slide of the beverage across his tongue and grinned as a buxom lass leaned over to place a bowl of stew in front of him, allowing him a good, long look down her cleavage.

Home.

He didn’t bother to think about what needed doing at sunrise. Everything in life had a price. There was little point in taking on the burden of guilt over making hard choices. A man did what he had to do. Life was a matter of winners and losers, and he was going to claim victory. Now that he had his men, he could make good on his word to the Earl of Morton.