Two

Two

“There’ll be a warm fire and supper at Raven’s Perch.”

Relief swept through her, but Clarrisa didn’t allow herself to be carried away by his promises. Broen had to stop his stallion from nipping her mare. He’d allowed her back into her own saddle halfway through the day, no doubt to keep his horse from exhaustion.

“Ye’re a hard one to please if you cannae even smile at the idea of a hot bowl of stew, maybe even bread.” He tried to tempt her with a soft tone.

But she needed to protect herself. Broen was too likable. She’d never suffered such attraction to a man before. She wanted to return the smile on his lips, but he’d only see her responses as proof that he had the skill to bend her to his will.

“Hard? Oh aye, I believe there shall be hard and sturdy walls at your Raven’s Perch for me as well. What a charming idea to know I’m so near to my prison.” She looked away from the MacNicols laird, unwilling to expose her despair to him. Everything she knew was far away, on the other side of the border. It was best to remember she was not among friends. Every confidence she muttered might be used against her.

“We’ll pass the night, lass, and that is all. Do ye wonder why I doubt ye when ye say ye wanted no part of the king’s plan for ye, when all ye do is spit at me?”

She lost her resolve to ignore him and turned to see him watching her. The last of the sun was turning his hair fiery red.

“Can you not understand? I have no liking for knowing I’ll be locked away because of my blood like the little princes were. Everyone knows they are dead, and yet no one dares say so.”

There was too much sympathy in his blue eyes. She turned her attention away again, desperately seeking something to dwell on except her fate. Life was a precious thing and a delicate one. It seemed she had been running from those who threatened her life for too many years.

The land was turning green with new crops. The evening light washed over people in the fields, who were making use of every last bit of daylight to plant. They had their sleeves turned up, and sweat marked their shirt collars, but their faces clearly displayed good cheer when they looked up to see who passed on the road.

They were people with hope. The season in front of them held opportunities, and she envied them. She’d always expected to marry at the direction of her relatives but had never considered it to mean she would have no joy or respect. Keeping herself pure was her duty, but she couldn’t help feeling that her uncle had failed to do his by bartering her to James for nothing more than bed sport.

There were women who took lovers for the pleasure and nothing else. She worried her lower lip, because her thoughts had turned wicked. Ah… but enticing nonetheless.

Broen didn’t answer her. He gave his stallion the freedom to take the lead. Clarrisa watched him go, staring at his back without shame. Wicked, perhaps, but who knew if she’d ever have the chance to indulge her curiosity again? She was suddenly too conscious of how many hours she’d squandered. She wanted to wring every bit of enjoyment out of each moment she had left.

She watched the way Broen turned his stallion sideways so he might see all of his men. There was an intensity about him that sent a ripple of sensation across her skin. His doublet sleeves were buttoned behind his back, and the chill of the approaching night didn’t seem to bother him.

Highlander. She had never really considered the word as a title rather than a slur. Yet she discovered herself recognizing Broen and his men as more than the thugs that her kin had so often told her the Highlanders were. They were not rabble without order, but men endowed with strength that she couldn’t help but admire. They also had honor. It was evident in the way they followed their leader, and even more prominent in the way Broen thought of his country instead of how much he didn’t care for the part he was playing in her misfortune.

Youdon’t know he doesn’t care for what he’s doing to you…

But she could have sworn she felt it when he stared into her eyes. He was not blind to her fears; his heart wasn’t hardened by arrogance and his assumption that she should serve his desires because it was his right.

She liked that knowledge too much. Felt it dissolving the distrust she was trying so hard to maintain and leaving her wondering why it mattered if she liked him.

Hestirredsomethinginsideher…

Heat rose to her cheeks. Broen looked at her, and she turned away to hide the stain. Her emotions would lead her to ruin if she didn’t force herself back to being disciplined. Fascination had led more than one person to despair, for the world was very unforgiving. Broen was a Highlander, and she was English. They were both duty-bound to dislike each other.

Another ripple of sensation went down her back in defiance. She bit her lip harder in reprimand.

The next rise showed them a small town. The newer houses rose two stories and sat nestled against a rocky section of land with well-worn tracks from carts. Up on the high ground was Raven’s Perch. It was an imposing structure of three towers, two built in front of the tallest. They were surrounded by an impressive curtain wall that extended a half circle, beyond which was a sheer drop to the ocean. In days gone by, the rocky section of land would have held another wall to form inner and outer baileys. Clarrisa looked again at the tallest tower and noticed the stone was of a lighter color. It had been built at a different time and most likely from the wall that had once enclosed the town.

Riders met them in the center of the rocky ground—more Highlanders, wearing their swords across their backs as the spring breeze pulled at the edges of their kilts. They were serious, but their leader offered his hand to Broen. The two men clasped each other’s forearms before the men surrounding them lost their somber expressions.

“So ye managed it, did ye?” The leader of the welcome party stared at her. He kneed his stallion forward until he was closer. “There’s a tale there, to be sure. I do nae think James let her go easily.”

This Highlander studied her much the same way his king had, as if she were a mare. Clarrisa bit her lip, trying to keep her opinion to herself, but failed. “And you Scots think yourselves so different from the English.”

The leader of the welcoming clan was dark haired with midnight black eyes. His chin was covered in dark stubble, giving him a rakish look. Surprise registered on his face before he leaned forward to glare at her. “Ye do nae see a difference, lass? Now, that’s the first time I’ve met a blind Englishwoman. Cannae ye see me knees, or should I let me kilt ride up a bit higher to test yer courage?”

Clarrisa softened her expression, calling upon years of experience appearing meek when she was nothing of the sort. “Men thinking themselves so superior to women that they simply talk of them as though they are not even present… Well, that is something my English kin do very well.” Her eyes swept the group of retainers listening so intently behind him. “I see more similarities than differences.”

She could feel the tension in the air and Broen glaring at her, but she maintained her position, refusing to duck her chin.

“I’m Faolan Chisholms. Me uncle is the Earl of Sutherland. Does that please ye?”

Clarrisa shook her head slowly. “No, it simply offers me another example of how much you have in common with the English nobility. They are all quick to tell anyone who they are related to, all that much better to attempt to frighten them into submission.”

Faolan’s men didn’t care for her tone. They frowned at her, some scowling. Faolan did neither. The man considered her with a stony expression while fingering the reins resting in his hands.

“Well, it seems we’ll have plenty to discuss over supper, for I’ve got a lot of relatives. Some of them are a little less in favor with the church than others, because they were nae born under the blessing of marriage. But here in the Highlands, we’re a bit more concerned with blood. Especially royal blood.”

There were grins among his men. Faolan lifted his hand, and they parted. He shifted his attention to Broen.

“I can see why ye are nae in a hurry to get inside and bask in front of me hearth. This York female has a heat I can feel all the way over here. It’s a wonder ye don’t have blisters on yer face, man.”

“My hide is thicker than yers, it seems,” Broen stated arrogantly. “Seems a good thing I went to fetch her, since ye are wilting beneath her slicing tongue.”

Faolan grunted. “Ye haven’t proved anything of the sort.”

Broen reached over and snared her reins before she realized what he was doing. “I snatched the prize me uncle wanted, when there were plenty who claimed it was undoable.”

Broen rode beneath the raised gate and into the inner yard. Faolan and his men followed. Clarrisa held tight to the bridle of her mare but turned to look back, feeling as if a huge stone were pressing down on her chest. She was off her mare before the men finished dismounting. Boys ran forward to take the animals, and her mare happily followed one to a stable.

A firm hand clapped around her upper arm. “Do nae let Faolan ruffle yer feathers, lass,” Broen said. “I keep my word. We’ll pass the night here and no more.”

She shot a hard look at him. “I cannot trust you.” But she hated how much she wanted to. It wasn’t logical, and she needed to be logical.

Broen pulled her closer, his voice dipping so his words remained private. “Ye struck me as more intelligent than that, Clarrisa. There were others who would have happily taken ye from the king in order to please the earl, and no’ many of them would have left ye alive. Best ye trust me, for the time might come when I’ll need ye to follow me willingly.”

His blue eyes were guarded now.

“You have left me alive so you can take me to your overlord. It sounds as though you took the challenge in front of others. That is not so trust-inspiring.” She kept her voice low so her words wouldn’t drift.

“I did, because it was the best thing for me clan and country.” The grip on her biceps became soothing. “And I would nae have done so if the threat yer blood poses were nae so great.”

“So I cannot trust you, because I am only a threat to you.” There was regret in her tone, and she witnessed it in his eyes before he moved her forward toward the largest tower and its arched doorway.

“I suppose that’s fair enough.” There was a gruffness to his voice she might easily have believed was remorse. It did not matter if it was. The brute was still tugging her toward Faolan Chisholms like a prize taken in battle. How he felt about her plight wouldn’t change her fate.

“Come now, lass. Me hospitality is nae so wanting that ye should need to be pulled across the threshold.” Faolan appeared beside her and settled one of his arms around her waist. “Ye would nae want to hurt me feelings.”

“Enough of this.” She surged forward, walking into the large hall that lay directly inside the doors. It was full of tables, most of which were occupied by Faolan’s clan members. Supper was being served, but everyone stopped eating to stare at her.

“Broen MacNicols has come to pay us all a visit! Bring up a cask of cider,” Faolan announced.

A cheer went up, and the meal began again. Faolan went down the center aisle, clearly the master of the tower. Men reached up, tugging on the corners of their knit bonnets, and women nodded as they continued to serve the tables. Broen received the same respect, which sent a tingle down her spine. She’d been overly bold with him, and it was clear there wasn’t a soul in sight who would refuse to follow his commands.

She was at his mercy, but she still wasn’t ready to repent. Her fate would be the same no matter how she faced it. The only thing she held power over was how she went to it.

The cider cask arrived, and another cheer went up. This one was louder, with the men pounding their mugs on the tabletops. Faolan had reached the head table. He pressed his hands on its surface and waited for his men to finish expressing their appreciation. Faolan considered her as his captains lined up shoulder to shoulder behind him. Broen stood beside him, the feathers in their bonnets all pointing upward to denote their rank. The two lairds had all three feathers raised; their captains each had one raised and the other two lowered.

“I’ll bid ye a good night, lass.” Faolan pointed at two of his retainers, and the men pulled on their bonnets before starting toward her.

“I hope you choke on your cider,” she answered sweetly. “And wake up in a privy.”

There were several gasps from the women, but Faolan grinned at her. “Ye really need to stop teasing me so brazenly in front of me men, lass. I’m sorely tempted to tame ye.”

“Another trait you have in common with the English—thinking women are so impressed with any man’s effort in her bed to ever become tame.”

The women giggled now, and it was clear many of them agreed with her.

Instead of becoming irritated, Faolan grinned. “Ah, but ye see, lass, being a Scotsman means I’ll be arriving in yer bedchamber to prove I am no’ just spouting empty promises. By morning, ye’ll know the difference between me and those English who sent ye up here a virgin.”

Heat blazed across her cheeks. The hall erupted into laughter, the tables being pounded once more. Faolan slapped Broen on the back and roared with his amusement. The retainers set to the task of escorting her from the hall battled to maintain stern faces, but their eyes twinkled with mirth.

Clarrisa began to lower herself. It was a habit that had been instilled in her as a child, but she froze halfway down and straightened back up. Broen raised an eyebrow at her audacity and almost looked as though he admired her daring. It would be insane to think he respected her rudeness. Foolish as well, for her fate rested in his hands. Or perhaps his friend’s—she wasn’t sure, for it was Faolan’s men who flanked her now and his holding in which she was secured. Not that it mattered to her. One Highlander laird or another, it made little difference. She refused to allow herself to think of Broen or his promise that he would not murder her. He hadn’t, so the man had kept his word. She could expect nothing else from him.

Maybe he’d handed her over to a man who would spill her blood. Such was a common way of dealing with offended honor among men.

She walked slowly, frustrating her escort, but they seemed loath to touch her. Her feet shuffled on the stone floor, and she turned her head to look out of the few openings in the stone walls as they passed. Most were archer’s slits—thin cross-shaped places where there was no stone. The night air blew in, and she filled her lungs with it, fearing it might be the last fresh air she breathed.

The young English princes had gone into the Tower of London and never been seen again. She shivered, saying a quick prayer for their souls. They’d only been boys, but the Lancasters had convinced their mother to allow the boys into their care.

The retainers took her up two flights of stone steps. The sounds from the hall diminished until all she heard was the wind whispering through the arrow slits.

“Here, lass. The chamber is sound and clean enough.” The door hinges opened easily, proving the chamber was kept in good repair. The iron hinges were huge and would have squealed without attention. At least the floor wasn’t covered in rushes. It was solid stone but appeared to have been recently swept.

“Now, do nae be making a fuss. Ye heard me laird. Inside with ye.”

“I know who to blame for my circumstances.” Clarrisa crossed into the room and was sure the air was colder inside. The tiny hearth in the room was dark and cold. “My own kin.”

Confusion crossed the face of the older retainer. He reached up and scratched the side of his gray beard while contemplating her words. He held up his hand to silence one of the others who had grumbled over her words, and the man snapped his lips shut instantly, proving age was respected even in the Highlands.

A tiny hint of civilized behavior where she’d always heard there was nothing but savageness.

“Kindly do not berate me for disrespecting my noble uncle.” She turned her back on him and tried not to let him hear her sigh. Somber was the kindest word she could think of to describe the room. “But I hardly think his plans for me… decent. Even if it is my place to obey him.”

Bleak was a better word, but if her spirits sank any lower, she feared she’d give in to the urge to pity herself. She shouldn’t even be talking to the retainer but couldn’t seem to halt the words. Fear was trying to rise up and strangle her, fear of being alone and forgotten inside this stone room. How long would it be before she believed being murdered would be preferable to her fate of incarceration?

“I’ll get one of the lasses to fetch up some supper for ye. A good meal will cheer ye up a bit. No need to be so discontent.”

Clarrisa turned around to stare at the older Chisholms retainer. “That would be most welcome.”

He nodded. “Aye, well, seeing as how ye are nae unleashing yer temper on me… ’tis the decent thing to do. Even if ye are English.”

Highlander pride. It rang clear and solid in his voice.

She smiled as the door shut, enjoying the sound of his voice ringing in her ears. Her enjoyment faded as silence surrounded her. A small bed was built into the corner of the chamber. The bench she sat on was the only seat. Off in another corner was a small but serviceable table whose top was scarred with cuts and ink. No inkwell was in sight, nor parchment, but such items would be kept locked away, for they were expensive. Had someone enjoyed their labor inside the room? A secretary maybe, one given a room inside the castle as a mark of his position within the laird’s household. She stood and walked to the table, gently running her hand across the surface, pausing at one ink stain. What a strange contrast to what the chamber was for her.

She sighed, wandering in one circle and then another.

***

“The lass is mine to take to yer uncle.” Broen spoke quietly, but Faolan heard the edge to his tone.

“The threat she brings to Scotland is shared by many. She’s secure here. If ye take her out, someone might take her from ye.”

Broen stared straight into his fellow laird’s eyes. “Do ye think I would have bothered to ride across land held by royalists, or that I’d order me men to take such a risk, if there was nae a damned good reason? Do nae insult me, man. She’s my prize, taken for the benefit of us all—but mine, nonetheless. Ye had the chance to join me, but do nae insult me ability to get one lass across the ground between yer land and mine.”

Faolan lifted his mug but never swallowed any of the cider. The man was making a show of drinking with his men while ensuring his wits remained sharp. Faolan glanced at his own mug, still three-quarters full of cider, before standing. There was a gleam of knowledge in his eyes when he looked at Broen, one Broen returned. Being laird now that his father was gone meant keeping one step ahead of half the clans surrounding his. He and Faolan had been inseparable as boys, but as men, they had to keep their clans’ interests foremost in their thoughts. Suspicion was knotting his gut, because there was something in Faolan’s eyes that was just as hard as his own determination to have Clarrisa remain his prize.

That idea rubbed his temper in a way that stunned him. The irritation went deeper than pride, and he’d be a liar if he didn’t admit it.

Faolan raised his mug. “I’ve enjoyed yer company, lads, but Laird MacNicols and I have important matters to discuss.”

Many of the men raised their tankards to their laird before turning back to dice and card games. A piper was beginning to play, along with several drummers. It was the time of night when the Chisholms retainers relaxed, the only time of day they allowed themselves the luxury of being at ease. Broen’s own men were quieter and merely sipping at the cider. The MacNicols retainers wouldn’t be at ease unless they were secured behind the walls of their stronghold, Deigh Tower.

“Ye know the way of it well, Broen.” Faolan led him down a well-lit hallway. Both men still looked at the ground to check for shadows before going too near a connecting corridor—no fortress was fail-proof, as Broen had proven when he’d stolen Clarrisa.

“But ye should also know me family has more to lose if the king gains a York-blooded son,” Faolan continued.

“Now, I will nae agree with ye on that point.” Broen followed Faolan into a chamber. He recalled it well from when it had belonged to Faolan’s father. Faolan smoothed a hand over the edge of the large table. A large chair sat behind the table, one worthy of the laird.

“I remember standing next to ye while me father scowled at the pair of us over this table.” Faolan sat in the large chair. “I still find the chair a bit uncomfortable for that very reason. I expect me sire’s ghost to arrive at any moment and begin giving me hell for the time I spend chasing the lasses instead of doing what he’d sent me to do.”

“Aye, I know what ye mean. Both our sires spent plenty of time trying to tell us how important the responsibility of being laird is, but it’s far more pressing when ye must feel the yoke yerself,” Broen muttered. But he didn’t let his guard down; suspicion was still raising the hair on his nape.

“Exactly. Hearing me father warn us to always remember what we were to become was nae the same as having to curtail me own desires in favor of what is best for me clan.” Faolan frowned. “Which brings us back to the matter of young Clarrisa and the good that can come from having her here at Raven’s Perch.”

“I stole her, so I’ll be the one finishing what I began. If ye wanted the duty, ye had the chance to speak up when yer uncle put the matter to us.” Broen didn’t sit in the chair his friend gestured to. Every muscle in his body was too tight. “Do nae betray the trust between us, Faolan. I would nae have ridden here if I doubted ye were a man I can call a friend.”

“Me position as laird is nae as secure as yers, Broen.”

Broen snorted. “Ye have a distorted view of me position, man. The Grants would love to know I’ve ridden off me land, so they could burn enough of me villages to believe they would have a chance at taking control of me clan. A few of me men would like that as well, because it would give them the chance to start the feud they are demanding from me.”

“Donnach Grant is nearing the end of his days.”

“Not soon enough for my taste. The fact that he’s getting old only promises that I’ll be hearing his son Kael has returned, a man whose loyalty none of us is sure of,” Broen insisted. “I stole the lass, so tell me where ye had her taken.”

Faolan stood, tension evident in his stance. “Wedding Daphne was the only issue we ever fought over.”

Broen nodded. “True enough. Until now, it seems.”

“Ye are nae the only one who wants justice for her death.” There was a warning in Faolan’s voice.

“I am no’ blind to that,” Broen muttered softly. “But ye welcomed me here as a friend, so let me finish what I promised yer uncle I’d do, because forcing Donnach to meet me and explain what happened will give us both the answers we seek.”

Faolan shook his head.

“Curse ye, Faolan.”

The Chisholms laird laughed, but it wasn’t a pleasant sound. “I am that, Broen. Cursed for certain, for I swear to ye I’ve seen young Daphne’s ghost.”

A shiver went across his skin, for there was a light in Faolan’s eyes that made it plain the man believed what he was saying.

“Ye mean ye’ve dreamed about her, man.” Broen softened his tone, commiserating with his friend over the topic. “Understandable, considering—”

“It was more than a dream,” Faolan interrupted. “It was so real it scared me.”

An uneasy silence filled the room. Faolan’s face was drawn tight with tension as Broen swore softly.

“I would have called any man who accused ye of being afraid of anything on this earth a liar.”

“Except we are nae talking of anything natural.” Faolan sat back down, looking older than his years for a moment. “I do nae want to believe it meself, and ye are the only man I’d confess it to, but I swear that woman is haunting me. In the darkest hours of the night in my dreams, I see her in a stone room wearing naught but a pure white robe…” His voice trailed off as he looked like he was captivated by the vision once more.

“It’s clear ye believe what ye’re saying, so it’s best I take Clarrisa to Sutherland so we can both hear the explanation of how Daphne died. Only that knowledge will end this.”

Faolan slapped the tabletop. “Nay! It’s clear I need to settle accounts, so Daphne can rest in peace. She haunts me, so I must be the one.”

“Ye are nae making sense, man,” Broen argued. “Clarrisa has naught to do with Daphne’s fate.”

Faolan straightened. “She does, and it’s me she’s haunting, so I must be the one to take the York bastard to me uncle.”

Broen looked closely at his friend and noticed the dark circles beneath his eyes. The emotion in his friend’s eyes burned brighter than what he’d ever felt for Daphne. It was a truth he didn’t care for, but he couldn’t ignore it either. Clarrisa’s face surfaced from his memory, her blond hair shimmering like a spring morning. She was far more fetching than he’d admitted to himself… OhChrist. He didn’t need that sort of trouble. Broen shook his head. Faolan snorted.

“I mean what I say, Broen. I’m taking Clarrisa to me uncle to satisfy Daphne. Since she’s haunting me, ye can just make yer peace with my decision on the matter.”

“If Daphne is truly haunting Raven’s Perch, it will take more than delivering one Englishwoman to the Highlands to get her to leave.”

Faolan grunted. “I suppose ye know a thing or two about ghosts walking the halls of yer home.”

Someone used the heavy brass knocker set on the door.

“Come,” Faolan barked. There was a hint of uncertainty in his voice, which drew a sound of disgust from Broen.

Distrust between them was a new thing—a sign of the troubled times, but it was also a result of Daphne. Broen tried to recall her dark eyes and the way they’d seemed irresistible the last time he’d seen her, but what surfaced instead was the memory of the last look Clarrisa had shot him, her blue eyes full of spirit and determination in spite of the burly Chisholms retainers flanking her petite form. There had also been a hint of regret, but he was better off not noticing that. He needed to recall that she was English, nothing else. But it seemed good sense wasn’t prevailing, because his thoughts lingered on that last look she’d sent him. He itched to take action, feeling the walls around him closing in.

“Where did ye put her?” Faolan asked his men.

Broen jerked his attention to the men who’d entered. Both tugged on the corners of their bonnets before the eldest spoke. “I put her in one of the kitchen storage rooms. She did nae give me any trouble, so I thought to spare her the dungeon. That’s a right frightful place for such a slight lass.”

Faolan frowned, appearing as though he was going to argue. The elder of the two men looked surprised, but his years gave him the courage to speak plainly. “Those storerooms have solid doors and bars. The lass cannae be going anywhere unless someone lifts it for her.”

“It would take a man, too. We used a heavy bar, one of the new iron-wrapped ones,” his companion added.

Faolan grunted. “I suppose ye’re correct. There’s lasses aplenty sleeping in the kitchens too. Well done, lads.”

The retainers left, the older one looking glad to be done with his laird’s bidding. Broen watched as Faolan waited for his men to leave the room before he emptied his cider mug.

“Ye think I’ve gone mad.”

Broen shook his head. “Nay, I think ye believe what ye say ye saw, but I’d be sorely tempted to tell ye it would be disappointing to hear ye spent the night in that chair because ye feared another encounter with Daphne. As far as specters go, she’s a fair bit better than the one I’ve got at Deigh Tower.”

Faolan chuckled, returning to the good-humored man Broen called friend. It didn’t last, though; Faolan’s grin faded until he was once more somber.

“Aye, that spirit walking yer halls is a mean one, and no mistake. Too bad ye did nae have a sister or three. If yer father had promised one to the church, maybe Deigh would be peaceful.”

“I’ll just have to make me own way, as ye will.” Broen made to leave but heard Faolan stand behind him. Broen turned and raised an eyebrow at the suspicious look being aimed at him. “I’ve had little sleep since I left yer uncle’s home, Faolan, and I do nae plan to be gone from me own lands much longer.”

Faolan nodded. “I do nae want to make an enemy of ye, Broen.”

“Then have done with this nonsense about you delivering the English lass to quiet Daphne’s spirit. I’ll gladly help ye discover who caused her soul such unrest just as soon as I deliver Clarrisa to yer uncle so I can gain that information from Donnach Grant. Me men are demanding a feud, Faolan, something guaranteed to give me plenty of sleepless nights thinking of the men who died because I failed to be a good-enough laird to maintain peace.”

Broen watched his friend clench his hands into fists until the knuckles turned white. “Think on it, man. If Daphne is disturbing yer sleep, she’s needing the same justice me own father does. Such a thing does nae come from making a prisoner of a wee English lass—even if I went and stole her, because I agree it was the best thing for us all. Honor is nae satisfied through women.”

“Ye have a point, Broen. I’m nae blind to it.” But his tone made it plain he wasn’t willing to agree. “We’ll talk more in the morning. I’ve missed too much sleep recently to be making sound decisions.”

Broen nodded before quitting the room. His men were leaning against the walls in the hallway. Shaw watched the doorway. Broen lifted his hand to keep the man silent while placing some distance between Faolan’s study and himself.

“What are ye thinking, Laird?”

Shaw asked the question quietly, but Broen could feel the weight of his men’s stares. No one was at ease, nor did they have any liking for Faolan’s desire to keep their prize.

“I’m thinking we’ll nae be getting any sleep tonight, lads. I’m feeling chilled, too chilled to remain here.” Eyebrows rose, along with the corners of his retainers’ mouths. “Gather up the rest of the men and send them out on their way home under the excuse I do nae need all me men here.”

“And how will we make our way past the gate?” Shaw asked.

“First we’ll get the lass,” Broen answered. “There’s nae point in thinking on how to pass the gate without her.”

And he wasn’t leaving without his prize. There was sure to be a priest or two who’d frown at him over his pride, but Broen didn’t pause. He made his way down the stone hallways, pinching out half the candles as he went. He left a few flickering in the darkness to make the staff think the wind had blown them out. Pitch blackness would have announced his plans. The hall was still full of merriment; the cider barrel, not yet empty. There were more pipers playing now, and couples were dancing now that the cider had made them all merry.

“Go on, men. I’ll join ye when I have the lass.”

***

The supper the Chisholms retainer brought her was cold, but it didn’t stop her belly from rumbling. Her hands shook with anticipation as her nose picked up the scent of the broken bread sitting on top of the bowl. A small ceramic pitcher of milk was left on the table before the door closed once more. With no candle, the room became nothing but shadows. Slim fingers of golden light from the hallway teased her from beneath the door. They didn’t penetrate even halfway across the room.

Well, she didn’t need to see her meal. Sitting on the narrow bed, she broke off some of the bread and tasted it. Spring was new, so the flour would have been ground from last year’s harvest. But it wasn’t musty or stale, proving the housekeeper knew her craft well. Unlike the staff in the keep in which Clarrisa had met the king.

Clarrisa tried to slow down, because she heard her own lips smacking. Maybe it was the darkness or the fear that she’d never see the sky again. Every sound hit her as louder, more intense while she consumed the meal. The milk was chilled from being stored in the cellar, the pottery cold against her fingers. She forced herself to leave half of it in the pitcher in case no one remembered to bring her breakfast.

Her thoughts wanted to whirl like a snowstorm, but with her belly full, her body longed only for rest. She lay down and pulled the single blanket over her body. Damn Maud for insisting she dress in summer linen to better display her curves. She doubted James had cared what she looked like; it was her blood he was drawn to.

WhatdrewamansuchasBroentoawoman?

She was mad to think on such a topic, but her mind was half-gone into slumber, and discipline seemed to have vanished. An image of him crouching down near her surfaced from her memory and followed her into sleep. What surprised her was how much she was drawn to the details that set him apart from civilized men. She should detest him; instead, she dreamed of him.

***

“Come, lass…” The voice was husky and dark. Her eyes flew open as Faolan’s promise to prove himself to her filled her thoughts.

“You will not have me!” She shoved at the man sitting on the edge of the bed. He stumbled, giving her the opportunity to kick the blanket aside. “I am sick unto death of everyone’s desire to be in my bed.”

“Be silent, woman.”

“I will not help you commit this atrocity, Faolan Chisholms.” She picked up the pitcher and flung it at him. He moved faster than she did, clearing the path she sent the pottery sailing along. It smashed into the stone wall, shattering into bits.

A hard hand grabbed her and sealed her next retort behind it. He yanked her up against his body as she struggled to escape. There was too much iron strength in the man holding her. She strained with all her might but remained held securely.

“’Tis Broen, and I’ve come to—”

His identity was too much for her to bear. It must have been her dreams of him while falling asleep, but her cheeks flamed and her heart raced the moment he revealed his name.

“Ye bit me,” he accused in a soft snarl. For a moment the iron cage of his arms opened as he shook his hand.

“I thought you were that devil of a friend you handed me over to.” Clarrisa sent her best punch toward his face. Pain erupted all along her arm when her knuckles connected with his jaw. “Well… I will not submit to him or you or your king! Do you hear me?”

“Sweet Christ, half the castle heard ye,” he swore in a raspy tone. “Quiet down before ye truly have to deal with Faolan. He’s got a notion to keep ye, but I am here to keep me promise to ye.”

Broen pushed her against the wall, pressing his body against hers from head to toe. One moment she was trying to rub some of the pain from her hand, and the next moment the huge lout was closer to her than any man had ever been. Except for him during the last few days.

He smothered the rest of what she had to say with his palm. “I came in here to help ye, but I need the Chisholms to stay in the hall and nae come down here because they hear ye howling like a scalded cat.”

She curled her lips back, intending to take the largest chunk of flesh she could out of his hand, but he yanked his hand away.

“Would ye quiet down?” Shaw spoke from the chamber door. “Someone is sure to hear… Ah… well now, I don’t think we’ve got time for that sort of convincing, Laird.”

Clarrisa snarled. It was the most uncivilized sound she’d ever made, but it suited the moment.

“I’m trying to keep her from raising the alarm.”

Shaw grinned at her as Broen pressed his hand against her mouth again. “Well now, the gag worked well enough, if ye ask me.”

A strangled sound made it past Broen’s hand. Clarrisa strained against him but only managed to feel just how hard his body was.

“Curse it all.”

Broen suddenly leaned in so close she could feel his breath against her cheek. Her skin prickled with awareness, which raced along her flesh, raising goose bumps. She’d never been so aware of how a man smelled or felt. Every breath pulled the details deep into her senses and unleashed a torrent of sensation. It was shocking, but pleasurable too.

“Listen to me, Clarrisa…” His voice sent a shiver down her spine. It was raspy and commanding, bringing to mind the moment she’d contemplated what sort of woman he’d be attracted to. “I’m here to offer ye a choice.”

The candles from the hallway flickered in his eyes as he stared into hers.

“Aye, something ye have nae had from me before, and I’ll admit ye have the right to scratch me for appearing in the darkness.” He lifted his hand away, slowly at first, clearly not trusting her. He still had her pinned against the wall with his body.

“Ye can come away with me now, or wait here to see if Faolan decides to make good on his boast to prove himself to ye.”

He pushed away from her, and another ripple of sensation traveled down her body, only this time it was lament. She wrapped her arms around her body, trying to console herself. It was foolish to feel anything but relief, yet she hugged herself tighter.

“I don’t trust you, Broen MacNicols.”

Buthe’s never hurt you…

He’d moved to the center of the room. “Do nae ye, lass?” He closed the gap between them once more. His warmth enveloped her, and his body pinned her arms in place between them. This time he raised her chin, cupping it in one hand. His breath teased her lips, the delicate surface registering an insane amount of notice from so slight a touch.

“Feel how smooth yer skin is, lass?” He trailed his fingers across her neck. “Nae a single cut. Better to place yer faith in me than anyone else surrounding ye at the moment.”

His fingers lingered on her skin, sending heat across her cheeks. For a mere moment, it looked like his attention had settled onto her lips. Her mouth went dry, and her breath froze in her chest. Would he kiss her? Wouldshekisshiminreturn?

Neither happened. Broen stepped back, but it seemed like he hesitated.

Fool! Would you have him drawn to you?

“Trust me, Clarrisa. I’ll see ye to the Highlands alive. Ye have me word on that.”

He extended his hand, palm up, and waited for her to place her hand in his. Her throat felt like it was swelling shut, far too tight to allow even a single breath through.

“Has this cell endeared itself to ye, then?” He looked around and grunted. “No’ even a candle spared for ye.”

“I know it well.” But she still didn’t like hearing just how defeated she was.

The candlelight from the passageway allowed her to see his eyebrow rise mockingly. “But ye are nae sure I am any better a choice? At least I will take ye out into the night, where the air is fresh. ’Tis yer choice, and ye need to make it now.” He turned and took a step toward the door.

Need pulsed through her, pushing aside everything else. She felt like he was being torn away from her, and she couldn’t endure the separation.

“Oh… damn us all. I’m coming… Bro—” His name lodged in her throat. It seemed such an intimate thing, to speak his first name; simply thinking about it reawakened her desire to know what his kiss was like. He stopped, and she almost ran into him, stopping so abruptly her skirts collided with his legs. He cupped her chin once again.

“Why does me name stick to yer tongue? ’Tis simple enough to say.”

She stepped back, lifting her chin to remove it from his grasp. Not that she might have eluded his touch if he weren’t in the mood to allow her to. He loomed over her, making her more conscious of how much more strength he had than she. She felt vulnerable yet strangely impatient to prove she could meet him in every contest of flesh there was.

Insane… She’d lost her wits completely…

“Laird MacNicols.”

He took a step toward her. “That is me title, no’ me name, Clarrisa.”

Shaw cleared his throat. “So sorry to be interrupting… Laird, but if the two of ye do nae mind, I’d appreciate no’ ending up in Laird Chisholms’s dungeon tonight because ye cannae wait for a more secluded place to circle each other.”

“We are not circling,” Clarrisa insisted with a backward step.

Broen muttered something under his breath and reached for her. He circled her waist with one hard arm and pulled her into the hallway. “Shaw is correct about one thing, lass. Time is precious tonight.”

She pushed at the arm holding her to him. “I’ve made the choice to follow you. There is no need to hold me.”

He looked at her, and his lips curled into an arrogant grin. “But that’s the part I’m enjoying. Ye’re a fine-looking lass, Clarrisa.”

“No, I’m not. My uncle often lamented my lack of beauty.”

She reached up and pressed a hand over her lips when she realized just how personal an admission she’d made.

“Well now, this is nae the first time I’ve disagreed with an Englishman, but I do believe I feel more strongly about it than ever before.”

The night air was no longer cool, because she felt like her entire body was blushing.

He found her pleasing to look at?

She shook her head. Now was not the time for girlish flights of whimsy.

He held up a finger in front of his lips before sweeping her down the hallway. She picked up her feet faster, lifting her hems so she might hurry away from what had been her cell. Broen and his men moved swiftly, but with a silence that was unnatural. The sounds from the hall grew louder before Broen led her around a corner and away from them.

“Now would be a good time to share with me yer plan for getting out of here, Laird,” Shaw said and turned to look at her. “With her, that is. No doubt the Chisholms at the gate know their laird is intent on keeping her.”

Shaw reached out and pulled something from a peg on the wall. It was a length of fabric used by the maids when the weather was foul. “Best cover yer head and look a bit more Scottish, or we’ll have wasted our time in getting ye out of that storage room.”

“Oh… yes.” She shook the length of plaid; the wool fibers were surprisingly soft against her fingers. With a few twists, she had it draped over her head and around her shoulders. She shivered in eager anticipation of being free.

Broen slipped a wide leather belt around her waist and buckled it.

“You shouldn’t be so familiar with me.” Because it was tempting her to touch him in return.

His eyes narrowed. “And ye should hold yer tongue more often. Yet both of us seem to have difficulty with keeping to the places the church says we should. Do nae admonish me when ye are nae willing to lower yerself in front of me and grant me the respect my gender is due.”

“You’d consider it an insult if I did.” Her response was reckless, but it felt good to speak her mind. She’d been holding back her true words her entire life. “You would know it was insincere.”

His hand remained on the belt buckle, and she felt the weight of his stare even as the light behind him made it impossible for her to see his expression clearly.

“Ye have a fine talent for judging men.” He transferred his grip to her wrist. “I do nae care for false pretense, and the king was easily led by a few words of promise. I wonder if I should admire yer skill or listen to Shaw when he’s telling me ye’re scheming because ye know no other way.”

“If that were so, I’d be whimpering and trying to lull you into thinking I was helpless.”

His grip tightened around her wrist. “Aye, that might have worked, but Shaw was correct, lass.” He leaned in, twisting her arm so she couldn’t bend it and back away from him. So simply, so easily he secured her in place. His breath teased her cheek, sending a shiver down her back. “We’ll be needing to escape before we return to circling each other.”

Her temper flared, but he turned to look at the yard they needed to cross. “I have no intention of circling you… Highlander…” It was more of a title than a place from which he hailed.

She saw him grin, the expression full of mocking confidence. He looked toward the gate and back at her.

“On the other hand, lass, if ye want to leave Raven’s Perch… maybe we should circle each other a bit closer to ease our way through the gate.”

A tingle of anticipation went down her spine. “What do you mean?”

He lifted one hand and beckoned her toward him with a single finger.

***

“Yer father made a bargain with the last of the York nobles in England.” The crown prince of Scotland listened to Alexander Home with a darkening complexion. “He planned to breed a son on one of Edward’s bastards, a son who—”

“Who would be kin to Henry the Seventh of England and in a fine position to set me aside.” He stood and paced across the fine Persian rug covering the floor. “What happened to the girl?”

In spite of his youth, his tone was steady. Princes had to mature quickly or they would end up dead like the two English ones had.

“She was stolen. We believe by the Earl of Sutherland’s order.”

“You hope.” Young James watched Lord Home stiffen at his tone and chided himself. His father’s mistake was not giving respect to those who served him, an error his mother had taught him to avoid making. “I hope so as well,” he amended. “Forgive me. I worry for the future.”

“As do we all.” Lord Home held up a letter to see the ink better. “Your father failed to bed the girl; that much is certain. The keep he selected is loyal to our cause. The maids helped Laird MacNicols steal the York bastard away. My sources tell me yer father paid a great deal for the girl.”

“MacNicols”—James paced a few more times—“came seeking justice a few months past. My father refused to see him.” The prince turned to pace back across the carpet.

“Your memory serves you well, and it seems your father’s failing has added another Highland clan to our side.” Lord Home sounded very pleased.

“Yet the York bastard is very dangerous to us, even if she’s held by loyal hands.” James’s tone made his distaste clear, but he still aimed an unwavering look at Lord Home.

“If she is even still alive.”

The prince weighed his answer while fingering his fine velvet doublet. “We must be sure. It is sad to hear my father is still not ready to be the king Scotland needs. I so hoped he’d mend his ways, as many do near the end of their days.” He nodded, obviously needing to convince himself of the necessity to go after an innocent. The boy was young, but not too young, which was why men were willing to follow him.

The prince drew in a deep breath. “See that the bastard has no chance to be used against the unity of this nation. We have no need for alliances with England.”

James nodded before leaving the room. Margaret of Denmark had raised her eldest son to be a prince. There was a solidness about young James. It was a quality Alexander was willing to follow. James was noble, but also a true Scotsman, which was what the country needed.

Alexander pulled a piece of parchment from his writing desk, dipped a quill into the inkwell, and began writing. He frowned at the word York after he’d written it. Scotland didn’t need ties with England! James III was a poor king and not even worthy of being called a Scotsman, in his opinion. Too many times, the king had fled to England for shelter—England, the sworn enemy of every Scot. Such actions were too much to overlook, too much to ignore. Alexander refused to give his loyalty to a king who sided with the English. Well, if Laird MacNicols had the York bastard, the man would surely want something in exchange for her, but Alexander wasn’t willing to let any laird have such power over the Prince. So Lord Home was writing to Laird Grant, because there was one thing certain to make MacNicols yield the York girl, and it was also something Home knew Laird Grant could not refuse to relinquish to him. Lord Home kept his position as royal adviser by keeping a small stash of favors owed to him by Highland lairds. It was an important part of making sure the young prince ended up with his birthright. It was a service James III had forgotten Lord Home once performed for him. Home intended to make sure his former master regretted losing his loyalty.

He held up the letter so the ink would dry. He could hear his men following the prince out in the hallway. At fourteen, James needed to be watched carefully, or he’d end up being poisoned like his mother had been. The time was nearing; Alexander could feel it. With spring beginning to melt the snow, the king was falling into his old habit of doing whatever pleased him, no matter the repercussions. Even his royalist followers wouldn’t be able to protect him when the rest of the Scots rose up in rebellion, not when it was clear he was making alliances with England yet again. The prince was naive enough to hope for a peaceful resolution, but Alexander knew they were well past such a thing. Soon the Highlanders would come down, and the matter would be decided by strength and steel.

While James III lived, the York girl threatened them all. Laird Grant owed Lord Home a large favor, and it was time for him to pay the debt. The Highland laird wouldn’t be happy to receive his letter, but Alexander signed his name to it anyway. He folded the letter before lifting the candle and holding the flame beneath a stick of sealing wax, which puddled onto the folded edges of the parchment. He replaced the candle before closing his fingers into a fist and pressing his signet ring into the cooling wax.

Alexander smiled. Things were really quite perfect. Laird MacNicols was a man with an Achilles’ heel, one Alexander knew the secret to obtaining. The York bastard would be handed over, and the threat her English blood posed to Scotland would be destroyed.

Alexander felt satisfaction warming him. The best part of the plan was that Broen MacNicols would be in his debt after he provided the justice the king had refused the Highland laird. Donnach Grant would be free from his debt, but Broen MacNicols would be in it. Yes, a wise royal adviser keep the important men in his debt. A more-perfect solution there couldn’t be.

***

“What do you mean?” Clarrisa asked suspiciously. Broen MacNicols’s tone was too playful by far. He was fighting back a smirk too, while amusement danced in his eyes.

He pointed at the gate. “It’s a fair bet those Chisholms retainers have heard who ye are and that their laird wants ye to stay.”

Disappointment slammed into her so hard she gasped. “If you knew such a thing, why did you bring me out here? To torment me with what I cannot have?”

He lost the battle to maintain control over his expression. His teeth flashed at her in a wide grin. “Clarrisa, lass, ye have spirit, to be sure, but ye’re lacking a healthy sense of humor.”

“Ye’ll need one in the Highlands,” Shaw added.

She propped her hands on her hips, but Broen looked at Shaw. “Get the horses and make sure the retainers at the gate see ye enjoying what yer laird is about. Let them think ye’ve had a bit too much cider.”

“Ye have nae told me how ye’re planning on getting past them…” Shaw appeared confused for a moment before Broen slid his arm around her body and pulled her against him once more.

“I’m going to let them think I have a mind to tryst.”

The burly retainer snorted before tugging on the corner of his bonnet. “Come along, lads. Let’s make this good. I’ve a mind to get me feet back on MacNicols land.”

Tryst…

The word shocked her, but it also set off a pounding deep inside her that seemed to urge her to abandon reason and join in with the night shadows and some unseen wildness lurking beyond her sight.

Aninsaneidea… one she needed to resist… of course…

“You cannot simply touch me,” she insisted and pushed at his arm.

She might as well have not spoken, for Broen ignored her, his arm binding her securely to his body. Shaw and the other men left, leaving her alone with their laird. Light flickered over them from the wall torches, but it struck her as strangely intimate—for sure her position in Broen’s embrace was. What shocked her was how much she didn’t detest being held against him. Broen was hard; his body, solid next to hers. She should have been repulsed as she had been when the king leered at her, but delight was stirring in her belly, sending heat through her veins.

Insanity…

She flattened her hands on top of his chest. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Making a good show of it, lass. We’ll nae be making it past that gate otherwise,” Broen muttered against her hair while he watched his men.

Shaw began laughing. He slapped one of the other MacNicols retainers on the back, while they all chuckled in the middle of the open yard.

“Hurry now, lads… Our laird is nae in the mood to wait now that he’s found himself a friendly lass to go moonlight riding with!”

Her cheeks heated instantly.

“Come now… Get those horses! We’ll have to be making sure no one takes advantage of him being distracted by something so charming!”

The younger MacNicols retainers began to appear with horses. Shaw continued to jest and lifted his head to look at the Chisholms men on the walls.

“Here now, lads! Me laird wants to prove his worth! Raise the gate, for we’re off to see the forest by moonlight!”

Shaw slurred his words, and the other MacNicols laughed too loudly. They stumbled as they led the horses forward, and the Chisholms retainers grinned at them.

“The gate guard is watching us, lass,” Broen whispered. He cupped the back of her head, angling her face so that it looked like they were preparing to share a kiss.

“Broen—”

“Ah… at last me name comes across yer sweet lips.” He placed a kiss on her cheek. She trembled; couldn’t stop herself. She watched recognition flash in his eyes as the hand cradling the back of her head slid down to gently massage the corded muscles of her neck.

“So it was all bluster,” he whispered, but there was the ring of judgment in his tone. “Ye were playing a dangerous game with the king, lass. His temper would have been hot, and no mistake, if he’d made it down to that bath.”

“I’d have managed… if there had been no other choice.”

He blew out a breath that sounded like a soft snort. Her pride bristled as sensation raced up and down her body. Nothing made sense, and her thoughts were whirling too fast. Like she was watching a blizzard and knew there were thousands of snowflakes, but they were swirling too fast to see individually.

“Release me.” She didn’t wait to see if he’d comply with her demand but pushed against his chest to gain what she wanted.

Youwanthimtokissyou…

No, she did not!

“The Chisholms are still watching, and that gate has nae lifted yet.” He moved his hand gently along her nape. Prickles of enjoyment raced through her. “We’re going to have to help Shaw convince them we’re set on trysting.”

Trysting…

“No—we’re not.” She sounded too breathless, too husky.

“I am nae so sure, lass… but I am sure I want to know what yer lips taste like.”

“You mustn’t…”

He smothered the rest of her denial beneath his lips. The kiss was firm and demanding but not hurtful. For some reason, she was positive he was being conscious of how much strength he used against her mouth. He maintained his grip on her nape, using the hold to keep her in position for his kiss. She’d thought heat was filling her veins before, but now it raced through her like a flame consuming parchment. She gasped, and he took advantage of her parted lips to deepen the assault.

It was truly an attack, but one that opened a door inside her she’d never noticed before. Behind it lay desires that came flooding out, and all of them produced even more heat. She wanted to kiss him back, mimic his motions, because the teasing actions of his lips felt so delightful. A shiver shook her, and his fingers moved once again to soothe it.

“Easy, lass… ’Tis but a kiss.”

“But… you shouldn’t—”

Something flashed in his eyes that looked very much like the disappointment rippling through her now that he’d lifted his mouth away from her own. She longed for more, but he suddenly scooped her up and cradled her against his chest. Her belly twisted with excitement, the raw display of strength affecting her far differently than she would have expected. Instead of being frustrated by her helplessness, she felt compelled to boldly match him.

“Come with me, sweet lass, and I’ll make good on me promise to chase ye through the woods like a Highlander.” Broen spoke in a rich timbre laced with good humor. “Ye there… Lads, be sporting now and let me ravish this charming creature the way only a Scotsman can!”

There were sounds of laughter from the wall before the gate began to rise. Broen reached his stallion and released her for the moment it took him to gain the saddle. He reached down for her, shielding her from the sight of the Chisholms retainers. She hesitated, because in his eyes she witnessed the same desire that needled her. A flickering flame sparked to life by the kiss he’d pressed against her lips so briefly. It felt branded into her soul, the moment pounded deep into her mind.

She’d never forget him… or his kiss.

Orhowmuchshewantedanotherone.

She gasped, startled by how deep her desire ran. It was as if she didn’t know her own nature and was just now being forced to face it. The Chisholms retainers weren’t doing anything to keep their voices low. She was actually grateful to them, for their conversation covered her gasp.

“They will nae be cold…”

“Nothing like a moonlight romp to make a man feel welcome…”

Broen let her feet down as he reached for the reins of his stallion and swung up onto the back of the animal with a grace that impressed her. No mounting blocks for this noble laird; he was as strong as the men he commanded.

Shaw and the others mounted, the squires gratefully handing over the animals so they might hurry back to their warm beds.

“Come, lass.” Broen’s voice was deep and full of something she wanted to avoid naming, an emotion that paired exceptionally well with the excitement still brewing in her belly. The moonlight cast him in silver, and he offered her his hand. For the moment, he appeared more legend than man, but her body was still warm from his flesh.

“Now she thinks on what her father will say in the morning…”

“Is nae that like a lass? All sweet kisses until the moment comes to make good on what she’s been promising…”

Their smugness sent her reaching for Broen’s hand. Her lips still tingled, but she’d trust him over the man who’d so boldly threatened to prove his worth to her before locking her in a cell. Broen pulled her up behind him.

“Hold on to me, lass, and hide yer face. They’ll think naught of yer wanting secrecy.”

But what would he think of her clinging to him?

You’ll like it, just as you enjoyed his kiss…

Maybe, but at least Broen was riding toward freedom. The horse surged beneath her, and the night air stung her unprotected hands where they rested on his belly. It was a surreal moment as they passed through the gate, and the Chisholms retainers chuckled. The night was dark and speckled with moonlight. Nothing made sense, for the fortress behind them was everything she’d been raised to think of as secure. But for the moment, the man taking her into the dark unknown represented more security than all three of the stone towers of Raven’s Perch.

His Highland home was suddenly more welcoming than England.