Four

Four

“I brought a few things down from the storerooms.” Edme’s voice sounded far away. Clarrisa struggled to wake up, her eyelids feeling too heavy.

“Yer dress is filthy and too lightweight for this early in spring.” The older woman was followed into the room by four other girls. They all wore a length of the MacNicols plaid down their backs.

“As soon as ye’ve dressed and eaten, the cobbler is expecting ye. These shoes are nae hardy enough for the Highlands.”

“Oh… thank—” A sneeze interrupted her. “Excuse me—” Several more followed. By the time she had mastered the urge, her head ached.

“Tell the cook to brew up something for the laird’s guest. She’s caught a chill.”

The other women turned to peer at her, but a sharp snap from Edme’s hand and they went back to their duties. Edme came closer and laid a hand on Clarrisa’s forehead.

“Little wonder ye’ve got the fever. Riding out in naught but summer linen.”

“I’m well enough.”

Edme humphed softly. “Ye’re young and will likely heal quickly. All the more reason to get ye some proper clothing and footwear.”

Clarrisa had been too busy trying to force her mind to work to notice the dresses. When she stood at last and rubbed the sleep from her eyes, she gasped. Three dresses were spread out on the table. Each was a jewel tone, sapphire, emerald, and ruby. They were made of costly velvet, with silk edging and even sleeves of brocade from France on one. The women carefully arranged them, touching them with the same care they might have used while dressing a queen.

“Those are far too fine.” She still walked closer to the garments, unable to resist the urge to finger one of the velvet sleeves. So soft and plush, her fingertip glided over the surface and left a trail as the fibers bent ever so slightly from the weight of her touch. “Fit for a princess.”

“Ye are the daughter of a king,” Edme said. “So, ’tis fitting.”

The velvet lost its appeal instantly. “My grandfather was a knight and gave the king lodging one night. My sire decided the hospitality included his host’s daughter. When my mother birthed a daughter, the king settled a purse upon my grandfather, acknowledged me in the shire church, and never returned.” She turned her back on the rich velvet dresses. “I am no princess and have never lived as such. I’d be worried about ruining such fine cloth.”

But she did have a chill. Her nose was stuffy, and her head ached.

“Well then, I’ll fetch ye some wool dresses. They’ll be warmer.” Edme draped the dressing robe around her shoulders before pointing at the velvet dresses. The remaining girls carefully picked up the gowns and carried them from the chamber as if they were babes.

“How did ye come to be under yer uncle’s direction?”

Clarrisa jumped, startled by Broen’s voice. It seemed she had dreamed of the man most of the night. She’d woken too many times to count, no doubt the true reason she was suffering a chill. “I thought you said this was my chamber. Shall I not be granted privacy here?”

He stood in the doorway, frowning at her tone. “I hear ye’re suffering from my lack of attention to yer needs. Yer health is something I take personal interest in. So nae, ye’ll no’ have privacy when it comes to such important matters.”

“I never said I was suffering.” She tugged the belt of the dressing robe into place and knotted it. “And I am quite well, so you need not waste your time.”

Edme drew in a stiff breath. “I know a fever when I see one. She has a chill, and no mistake. Ye’ll mind me or risk having it settle into yer chest. Yer youth will nae protect ye if that happens.”

Clarrisa lowered herself. Shame tugged at her for disrespecting Edme in front of her laird. The quarrel she had with Broen was private. Besides, making an enemy of Edme wasn’t a wise idea. Broen might be laird, but Edme ran the house. She could make life at Deigh Tower comfortable or not, depending on her whim.

Edme nodded. “I needs speak with the cook meself, to make sure she brews up what I know works best. Our cook is young but has a fair talent.” She nodded to her laird before leaving the room.

Edme’s departure left them alone again. Clarrisa waited for unease to begin nipping at her, but it didn’t. Instead, there was only a sense of acceptance and something else she wasn’t ready to name. A feeling of faith, which could so easily be mistaken for trust—a mistake she couldn’t make.

Broen moved forward, his keen stare studying her. “Ye should have told me ye were cold. I’m used to riding with me men, but that does nae excuse me for overlooking yer needs.” He stopped and picked up one of her discarded shoes. It was made of only thin leather and constructed with fashion in mind, so the sides were open. The ribbon rosette decorating the front of it was muddy and crushed. The once-bright ribbon used to tie it closed was torn and crumpled from the hard journey. He dropped it with a sound of disgust.

“Why would ye obey yer uncle if he had nae raised ye as yer blood deserved?” Suspicion edged his words, but not the coldness she’d heard before. “Did ye send the finer dresses away to lull me into compassion for ye?”

Her pride bristled. She didn’t want to answer him, but she realized it was only because he was demanding. For once the choice was hers and hers alone to answer. That knowledge gave her satisfaction, but she needed to master the urge to argue with him, and quickly, before she ended up in his embrace again.

“My uncle sent his men to claim me after the two princes were taken to the tower… for safekeeping…”

Broen grunted. “Elizabeth Woodville was a fool to allow both her sons to be placed inside that fortress. She had nothing once that was done.”

There was a hard certainty in his voice that bothered her. “She thought she was safeguarding them by agreeing with the lord protector. Besides, princes belong to the state.”

“Still… a fatal mistake.”

Clarrisa bristled under the smugness of his comment. “Many a woman has placed her faith in the titled men around her, only to discover her trust misplaced when those men decide to follow their own agendas. Better for a woman to refuse to trust men, because they serve their own purposes first.”

He drew in a stiff breath, her words finding a soft spot. “Ye’re here for the benefit of me people. Being laird means I consider their welfare above everything else.”

So she could never trust him. It was a hard truth that punctured the fragile faith she’d somehow cultivated in him. At the moment, Broen was every inch the laird of the MacNicols. His kilt was pleated evenly and secured with a belt sporting fine tooling. The corner of his plaid was held on his right shoulder with a large silver brooch, and there was a matching one on the side of his bonnet. Three feathers were held in place by that brooch, all of them pointing upward.

He watched her inspect him, his blue eyes darkening. Tension drew her muscles tight. For a moment, the space between them felt filled with some force almost too great to resist. It pulled at her, trying to move her toward him, where they might abandon the issues between them.

Broen felt it too, a glint appearing in his eyes. His nostrils flared the tiniest amount, but she noticed it, her attention shifting to the physical display. He stepped forward, and her chest tightened, the air trapped inside her lungs. He cupped her chin, and that simple contact threatened to scatter her wits.

“The sort of trust I’m seeking from ye is far more personal, Clarrisa.” He brushed his thumb over her lower lip, sending a surge of desire through her. “Think what ye may about me, but remember, lass, no other man would grant ye the choice.” He slid his hand across her cheek, and he gripped her neck a second later. So quickly his touch went from teasing to controlling. A warning flashed in his eyes, one she understood perfectly.

“My choice is no.” Her voice was steadier than she felt. His grip tightened, just enough to let her know she’d wounded him again, but his lips twitched.

“Ye’ve no’ made up yer mind, lass.”

“Yes—”

His kiss sealed out the rest of her denial. Hard and demanding, his mouth took control of hers, pressing until she opened her lips to allow his tongue to sweep inside. He closed the distance between them, the harder surface of his body feeling perfect against her softer curves. This wasn’t a soft or teasing kiss. It was a bold challenge, one that swept aside her reason. Desire flared, bright and hot enough to burn away every bit of resistance. She reached for him, gripping the doublet when laying her hands on his chest wasn’t enough. She wanted more; needed to be closer.

Broen broke the kiss, using his grip on her nape to hold her back when she would have followed him.

“Think on that, lass.” He squeezed her neck once more before releasing it. “A man interested in only his own agenda would have had ye last night.” His eyes flashed with hunger. “It would nae have been hard, and I was tempted.”

She aimed a brutal shove at his chest but only gained a smug chuckle from him when he backed up. “Then why didn’t you press your advantage?”

He sobered. “Trust is nae something any man can demand from a woman. It must be earned.”

“It isn’t earned by locking me inside your keep and invading my privacy,” she insisted.

He chuckled, his lips curving arrogantly. He reached out and stroked her cheek once more, until she shook her head to dislodge his hand.

“Stop touching me. I cannot make a clear-minded choice when you keep acting so—”

“Uncivilized?” he finished for her. “I’m beginning to appreciate the fact that ye do nae listen to me advice, Clarrisa.” His eyes twinkled with merriment. “For I do find I enjoy it when ye lavish such praise upon me.”

“Uncivilized is an insult.”

He spread his hands wide and cocked his head to the side in a mocking bow. “Nay, lass. To a Highlander, it is praise.”

She sneezed, and he frowned before turning to leave, but he paused in the doorway and looked back over his shoulder.

“It is also a challenge.”

***

The man was impossible. Clarrisa snarled softly as she tried to ignore the sound of his laughter echoing in the hallway as he left her.

Impossible… brute. But he could have had her.

The truth was shameful, but oddly stimulating. Anticipation was brewing inside her once more, the excitement building like it did before a holiday. There was no way to hide from it. Insulting the brute wouldn’t save her from knowing it was her own failing that had allowed his advances to gain notice. But she did smile as she called him a brute, because the word fit him very well, to her way of thinking.

So she would have to find enough work to drive every thought from her mind. Edme returned and offered her a strong brew. Clarrisa drank it quickly, glad to be able to hand the empty mug back to the head of house. One of the maids placed a tray on the table and held out a chair with a plush-padded seat cushion.

Clarrisa looked at the tray for a long moment. “I can eat in the hall with everyone else.”

“No’ without something to wear,” Edme muttered. “The laird is already smitten enough with ye. Besides, think on the difficulty that will arise when he sees his men admiring yer shape through that thin dressing robe.”

Two of the maids laughed. Clarrisa felt her cheeks burn. “He is not… smitten. He was but teasing me…”

“And ye’re so quick to defend him,” Edme pointed out as she studied the bright spots of color decorating Clarrisa’s cheeks. Her lips curved in a knowing manner. “Sit down and break yer fast.”

“But… I’m English. Aren’t all Scots, and Highlanders in particular, known to detest English blood simply because it’s English?”

“No’ when it’s flowing through the body of a sweet young lass. Scots, and Highlanders in particular,” Edme mimicked Clarrisa’s accent as she quoted her, “never fail to admire a fair lass.”

The maids laughed, no soft sounds muffled behind their hands but full sounds of merriment.

“That is… Well… I mean to say…”

Edme held up a wrinkled hand. “Save yer blustering, lass. I know what I saw.”

Clarrisa dropped into the seat, defeated by the woman’s confident tone.

He wasn’t smitten; he was filled with lust.

Soareyou.

The tray held a bowl of porridge. Clarrisa began eating it to shut out her own thoughts. Once she had finished, one of the maids began to comb her hair.

“Really, it isn’t necessary to wait upon me. I am not accustomed to service,” she muttered while trying to take the comb from the girl’s hand. The girl wasn’t much older than Clarrisa, but she grinned confidently while refusing to give up the comb.

“Then enjoy it and stop telling me how to direct this house.” There was a hint of amusement in Edme’s tone now.

Clarrisa eyed her, but the woman didn’t relent. Edme watched as the girls combed, braided, and pinned up Clarrisa’s hair. Clarrisa sighed once it was done, for it felt as though it had been ages since she was neat.

Dresses made of wool arrived, but they were still finer than Clarrisa would have preferred. Dyed rich shades of blue and gold, the wool was woven tightly from thin threads. Edme snapped her fingers, and two of the maids removed the dressing robe. Clarrisa felt the sharp gaze of the head of house taking note of her size as well as every other detail of her body. It wasn’t a new experience, but her belly quivered with apprehension because she just couldn’t help thinking the older woman was deciding if she was fit for her laird’s bed.

“The blue, I believe.”

The blue dress had a cranberry underdress. Made of linen, the undergown had straps that came over her shoulders. It was quilted across the front in tiny rows with stiffened reeds inserted into the channels to support her breasts. Hooks and eyes were closed down her front before the overdress was lifted and dropped carefully into place. Once the back laces were tied, the dress fit reasonably well.

“We’ll set the seamstress to work on a few others,” Edme muttered. “Let Ardis in now.”

One of the maids opened the chamber door. A man with a long white beard stood there with two younger men behind him. He tugged on his bonnet before walking into the chamber. One of the men held a wooden box, which he set on the floor, while the other man carried a stool, which he set it in front of Clarrisa. Ardis sat down.

“Ardis is the cobbler. He’ll make up some sensible boots for ye.”

The box was opened, and Ardis took the tools his assistant handed him—a measuring tape and even a sheet of costly parchment. He carefully recorded the measurements of her feet before tracing an outline of each of her feet.

“I’d have been happy to come to your workshop.”

Ardis stood and shook his head. “A lass of royal blood does nae belong in a cobbler’s shop.”

“I’m bastard-born.”

He stroked his beard as his assistants picked up his stool and closed the workbox. “Blood is blood.”

He was gone without another word, while Clarrisa was still trying to decide on a way to argue with him without disrespecting his greater age.

“Now that’s done, we’ll take off the dress so ye can rest.” Edme’s voice rang with authority.

“Oh… but really… I’m not tired.” Clarrisa turned to avoid the hands of the maids.

“Ye’re fighting a chill,” the head of house declared.

If they disrobed her, she’d be imprisoned in the chamber as surely as if the door were barred. “I’ll sit by the window… and read. I simply don’t want to be in bed like a child. It’s only a hint of a chill.”

The maids stopped trying to catch the ends of the laces and waited on their mistress to decide. Edme tapped her foot several times before nodding.

“The sight of the fields being turned can be a hopeful one. No doubt it will encourage ye to heal quickly.”

The maids moved to the windows and opened the shutters to allow the sunlight in. Clarrisa sat down and suffered their pushing a padded stool beneath her feet, while another offered her a selection of books. She took one without looking at the title.

“I truly am not fragile.”

Edme looked unconvinced. She snapped her fingers, sending the girls toward the rumpled bed. They set it to rights before lowering themselves and quitting the room. Clarrisa listened to their steps fade away before looking at the book in her hands. For once, she wasn’t interested in a new book, which was surprising because one of the few things she’d adored about living with her uncle was his collection of books. But he’d known it and had often restricted her access to the costly volumes whenever he was of the mind to discipline her.

Breakherwillwasmorethecorrectwaytosayit…

It didn’t matter. She was about as far from her uncle’s castle in Kent as she might be. The Highlands were a place no English army ventured, which left her with the task of freeing herself—if she truly wanted freedom.

Did she?

Or did she want to choose Broen…

With a hiss, she stood and placed the book on the seat of the chair. The brew from the cook had eased the pounding in her head, but the result was that she was thinking much too clearly. Alone with her thoughts, she’d become easy prey for Broen if she did nothing but recall his kisses. She would drive the man from her thoughts with work. Her shoes were neatly placed in the wardrobe. She gave them a shake before putting them on.

Deigh Tower was in good repair. From the stories she’d heard, she had expected dank and smelly corridors. Instead, the solid stone walls were covered with smooth plaster. Every ten feet along the walls were iron torch holders that each held a length of iron with its end wrapped in dried stalks from the last harvest. The stalks were coated with pitch, the dry material soaking up large amounts of the black substance. At night, they would burn well and far longer than wooden torches.

Such was a modern design. The wind did whistle through the arrow slots, but it carried the sweet scent of spring, no noxious odors from slime accumulating in the dark corners. In fact, the hallway was well lit with windows that had their shutters open. She hurried past the master bedchamber, Broen’s voice ringing in her ears.

Fate was determined to hound her, it seemed, for her lips tingled. She felt anxious and her senses keener.

Trusthim? Not likely. The man was too good at the game of seduction.

The stairway was narrow, but still wider than the ones in her uncle’s home. It made sense, for Broen and his retainers were burly men, every one of them wide-shouldered and tall. That portion of the tales of Highlanders was proving true; they were formidable men.

She needed to find some work. Her mind wanted to dwell on Broen MacNicols, no matter the consequences.

She smelled the great hall before she saw it. At the bottom of the stairs, the scent of roasting meat filled the air. Preparations for the midday meal would be well under way. She made it to the entrance of the hall and frowned when the MacNicols women there all lowered themselves.

“I am not worthy of such respect.”

The women didn’t respond to her, only studied her for a moment before continuing with their duties. They switched to speaking in Gaelic too, shutting her out completely.

Well, she’d not allow their perception of her station to keep her from finding something to occupy her hands. There was always work aplenty in spring.

But every time she tried to help, some MacNicols woman would take away the chore. Frustration nipped at her, but the challenge of outwitting them became greater. She went into the back kitchen and began to scale fish. She’d finished two before she was discovered and the remaining fish taken away.

“Yer hands are too soft, lady,” the cook muttered with a meek look but a touch of superiority in her tone. For as much as she’d always heard Highlanders were men of amazing strength and audacity, she’d never considered what type of women lived among them. The MacNicols women were good companions to Broen and his retainers, it seemed.

That only reinforced her need to rise to the challenge of besting them by having her way.

“No, my hands are not soft, because I am not lazy. My day has always been full, and I see no reason to change honest habits. There must be chores I can help with,” she insisted and lifted her hands to show the cook. The woman only shook her head.

“Does nae matter. Yer blood is royal. The chores in this kitchen are too lowly for ye.”

She might have continued to argue with the woman, but more and more of the kitchen staff were taking notice. The cook was their superior, so they’d not go against her word. It was better to see if she might find someplace where the opinions of the older women didn’t reach. Besides, if she forced the cook to bend, she’d only be proving that she was owed obedience because of her royal blood.

It was a frustrating tangle to be sure, one that made her pity true princesses, because their lives must be so very limited by what everyone around them believed they should or shouldn’t be doing.

Down a corridor came the sound of singing. Clarrisa followed it to find a long workroom with spinning wheels and two looms. So early in spring, there wasn’t any wool left to card or spin. The only woman in the room was working the loom.

“There is fine linen on the table to make the laird a new shirt,” she called out over the cloth she was weaving.

A wife made her husband’s shirts, or a mistress or a lover, for the undergarment was an intimate thing. It showed devotion to labor on something no one else would see. Handling the fabric that would rest against his skin… She shook her head to dispel the image. The MacNicols woman grinned at her, but the expression resembled a smirk too much for Clarrisa’s taste.

“I will not make Broen a shirt,” she blurted out, too flustered to keep her voice even and composed. The Highlands were truly driving her mad, sucking every civilized behavior from her while destroying her self-discipline.

The woman smiled. “But ye use his Christian name so easily.”

The insinuation sent a blush back to her cheeks. The maids had clearly carried the tale of Broen’s kissing her far and wide. Clarrisa sighed on her way out of the spinning room. It was no different in her uncle’s castle—or any castle, for that matter. Everyone knew everyone’s doings very soon after they happened. It made her temper sizzle to think everyone assumed she belonged in Broen’s bed.

Even the brute himself.

“Ye are supposed to be resting, Lady Clarrisa.” Edme was in the hallway with several maids trailing her. Clearly the woman was busy, for many of the maids had rolled parchments in their hands.

“I am not tired, nor are my hands too soft for work.” Clarrisa held her chin steady. It was time to show the MacNicols head of house that she was also not a child easily bent.

“I’m a Highlander, Lady Clarrisa. I know what sturdy hands look like,” Edme declared while her staff watched intently. Clarrisa stood her ground.

“I am also not accustomed to being addressed by the title of ‘lady.’”

Edme tilted her head. “On that we disagree, for yer blood is blue, which entitles ye to the title of ‘lady,’ even if ye were nae afforded it before now. Even we in the Highlands know how titles of nobility work. Blood is blood. Being born the daughter of a peer means ye are a lady.”

“Perhaps, but my uncle forbade any member of his house to address me so. He feared I’d forget my place.” She’d learned long ago to ignore the shame her uncle had meant to inflict with such a dictate. If she didn’t care, he couldn’t hurt her feelings. “I was raised to be useful. I do not know how to be idle while the sunlight is squandered, and I do not want to learn such a wasteful habit.”

“Well now, there is something ye might help me with. A task no one else has the knowledge for.”

There was a gleam in Edme’s eyes that made Clarrisa leery, but the promise of something to take her mind off Broen MacNicols was too much to resist. Her suspicion grew as Edme led her back up the stairs toward the chamber she’d slept in. The woman was just as much a Highlander as her laird, for she would not be bested.

Well… neither would Clarrisa accept becoming the pampered plaything for the laird of the keep. Edme continued to the next floor. “Like any good head of house, I like to keep a strict accounting of what is inside the keep.” Edme opened a door to reveal a room crowded with chests of all shapes and sizes, many of them locked. There was a rattle of keys as Edme took a large key ring from one of the maids.

“The things in this room came with the laird’s grandmother or as gifts from her relatives.” Edme sent the maids toward the window shutters. Once opened, the morning sunlight illuminated dust floating thickly in the air.

“She was bound for marriage with an Englishman when the laird’s father brought her here.” Edme made a soft sound. “She followed her heart and married him.”

“If she wanted to stay here, why didn’t she open these chests?”

Edme’s expression turned sad. “She never got the chance. Fate had other plans. She died of childbed fever, but her relatives wouldn’t believe the husband she’d wed without their permission when he wrote to them of her passing.” Edme spread her hands wide. “So the gifts came, and the laird’s grandfather was too full of grief to open them. Now that he’s gone, it’s time to open them, but they are gifts for a noblewoman. Perhaps ye can help me identify what they are.”

A chill swept down her spine. The neatly stacked chests belonged to a woman long dead. She wandered in a circle, trying to decide which chest to open first. A sense of adventure filled her as she settled on one. She began humming, enjoying being needed for something beyond the blood flowing through her veins.

Indeed, being needed for the knowledge inside her head and the order she might bring was a fine thing indeed. Who might have thought she would find such a place among the uncivilized Highlands of Scotland?

***

“Ye sit too often in the darkness, Father.”

Donnach Grant erupted out of his chair, but not with anger. The few men near him were startled because they had fallen asleep waiting on him to retire.

“Kael! My son! It’s about time ye found yer way home!”

The Grant retainers all relaxed when their wits had cleared enough to recognize their laird’s son—his only son—and Donnach embraced him heartily.

“Ale and bread. Someone rouse the kitchen lasses!” Donnach watched his son strike a flint stone to light one of the candles. The wick caught, casting a warm circle of light.

“Now… what brings ye home at last?”

Kael Grant sat down with a satisfied groan. “Ye know I stayed away to keep the other clans wondering what side I was on.”

Donnach nodded. Two women brought them mugs of ale and a platter of sliced cheese with a round of bread. Kael tore the round in half and aimed a charming smile at one of the women.

“Be a sweetheart and bring me some fine Highland butter. I swear even the grass in the Lowlands is inferior to what we have here.” She melted beneath his charm, and he reached out to pat her bottom. She laughed, low and sultry, before hurrying off to fetch what he desired.

“Ye rogue. Answer yer father’s questions before ye start chasing the lasses.”

Kael offered him a smug look before tearing off a piece of the bread and stuffing it in his mouth. He washed it down with a large swig of ale.

“That’s an interesting tale, Father.” Kael abandoned his playfulness, sitting forward to keep his words from drifting. “Seems Lord Home is sending ye sealed letters.” Kael reached into his doublet and withdrew a parchment. “More interesting is the fact that the messenger took it to Laird MacLeod.”

Donnach Grant growled, gaining a few looks from his men. They were enjoying the unexpected ale but still diligently watching his back. “MacLeod is a royalist. Home trusted the letter to a traitor.”

“A dead one.”

Donnach nodded and broke the seal on the parchment. He’d not spare any pity for a man who wasn’t loyal to the laird he claimed to serve. Shadow dealings and taking letters to the wrong man were worthy of death in his opinion. Any man with honor would have the courage to stand up and be clearly counted on the side he was on.

“I sent his sword back to MacLeod, and his head to Lord Home.”

Donnach Grant grunted approvingly. His son was a man, one he was proud of. But the letter from Lord Home captured his full attention. He’d known it would arrive one day, but that didn’t lessen the impact.

“What’s amiss?” Kael inquired.

“There are times I wish ye were nae a grown man, Kael.”

“So ye could tell me to respect ye and no’ ask why ye are frowning so darkly?” Kael chuckled, but it wasn’t a friendly sound. “Times such as these need more than politeness.”

“Aye,” Donnach muttered, scanning the letter once more. He finished and held it over the candle flame. The corner caught, and the fire spread quickly up the page. He dropped the letter on the table and watched the fire turn the letter to black ash. Once all hints of color were gone, he smothered the smoldering remains with a plate.

“I owe the man.” Donnach looked his son straight in the eye. “Something ye do nae know I owe him.”

Donnach watched his son grow deadly serious. “I suppose ’tis a good thing ye are here. Ye need to know what happened with Daphne MacLeod and Laird MacNicols.”

***

“I know knitting needles when I see them, but why are those so small?”

Edme wasn’t the only one who wanted to know the answer. The maids who always seemed to be hovering about the head of house stared at Clarrisa, eager to hear what she had to say.

“They are for knitting stockings.”

Edme furrowed her brow. “With how narrow those are, the hose would be thin and of little substance.”

Clarrisa picked up one of the five needles. Made of silver, it was polished to a high luster. “You knit lace stockings with them. The idea is to, well… to have skin visible…”

Surprise filled Edme’s expression, along with a knowing gleam. She cast a look at one of the maids, both of whom were chuckling softly.

“Well now, perhaps ye should knit a pair. I wager the laird would enjoy seeing ye wear them.”

The needle tumbled from her fingers. Edme laughed as a maid retrieved the needle. “The look upon yer face, lass—it takes me back a few years. To a time when I was foolish enough to believe all the prattle the church tries to fill our heads with about abstinence and about pleasures of the flesh being so sinful. Age gives us the wisdom to know life is best lived to the fullest. Once ye pass up an opportunity, it may nae cross yer path again. Regret is far worse than sin when it comes to a man who stokes yer passion. Dressing to please him only doubles the enjoyment…”

Edme was still chuckling as she went out the door, the maids following. Clarrisa stood still, the last of the sun coming through the windows.

Passion…

She should have been able to dismiss the idea quickly and with disdain, yet she didn’t. She turned to gaze at the needles and reached out to finger one. Heat warmed her cheeks, but this time she felt no shame, only a rising sense of urgency to reach out and grasp the opportunity in front of her.

She truly had taken leave of her senses.

The admission didn’t bother her. She lifted the wooden tray the needles were in and reached for a thin piece of wood stored below that had silk cord wound neatly around it. There were a dozen of them, all in different hues.

Doubletheenjoyment. Would it truly? Her body was slowly warming with just her thoughts, the memory of Broen’s kiss fanning the flames. She’d be a liar if she claimed she didn’t enjoy it, and a coward for shying away from her feelings.

Maybe she didn’t need to worry so much about the pity she’d sensed in him.

She took a stiff breath and reached for one of the needles. Tugging the end of the cord loose, she began to cast on the stitches, knitting them carefully until all five needles were being used.

She might not be ready to decide if she wanted to trust Broen MacNicols, but she refused to act the coward. Besides, there was a sense of satisfaction filling her as she decided what she wanted to do herself instead of following the dictates of her greedy kin.

The stockings might come in handy, but Broen MacNicols wouldn’t be hearing such a thing from her. The man was too presumptuous by far.

She smiled, and her husky laughter echoed through the chamber.

Yes, let the man enjoy the challenge of wooing her, for she planned to make sure it tested him.

***

“Is she healing?”

Edme didn’t answer quickly. She lowered herself first, and Broen suspected the woman was toying with him.

“Yer guest is well. Her youth is no doubt helping her to be rid of that chill so quickly.”

Broen frowned and then noticed how many of his men were watching him intently. The spot next to him at the high table was vacant, left empty for Clarrisa, but she had not appeared. Everyone was waiting to see what he’d make of her absence.

He pointed at Shaw. “Make sure the men know not to allow her past the gate.”

“Aye, Laird, no’ a one of them will miss that bonny face, should she venture too far from the tower.”

Broen crushed the bread in his hands. More than one gaze went to the scattered mess he made. Some of his men leaned closer to their comrades to whisper.

“I’ve matters to attend to.”

He stood, and the hall filled with the sounds of scraping of benches as his clan stood as well. He ground his teeth in frustration, for he’d told them not to stand every time he did, but traditions died hard in the Highlands.

Like his fascination with Clarrisa. Her kiss clung to his lips. His mind had wandered during the day, and he’d had to fight the urge to climb to the old ladies’ solar to see what she was about. But she was an Englishwoman—and not just any Englishwoman. His uncle would send for her. When that happened, his fascination with her would leave a scar—a deep one, if he didn’t learn to control his desire for her. She’d been the wiser one to reject him, an action he could learn well from. His need for her defied his understanding. There were willing women he could take his desire to, and a half dozen offers from neighbors who would like to secure an alliance with him through marriage to one of their daughters. But he was neglecting the chore of settling on another bride.

Aye, instead he was acting like a beardless youth fascinated with his first woman. Hell, he hadn’t even bedded her yet and still his thoughts had shifted to her more times than he could count during the day.

It was bloody annoying. He was a Highlander and didn’t need an Englishwoman in his bed. He needed to thank the woman for refusing him; she obviously had more sense than he did.

But her lips tasted fine, and she smelled better than any woman he could think of…

He stopped when he realized he’d climbed to the third floor and was on his way to her chamber. A curse rolled past his lips, but he still opened her chamber door and peered inside. She’d left the window shutters open, which cast moonlight over her sleeping form. He was beside the bed before he really knew what he was about. Standing there as she slept was a torment, but one he enjoyed too much to turn away from.

Her hair was braided, the long blond strands secured with a length of cord. The dressing robe was draped over the edge of the bed; only a chemise covered her skin. He reached out and trailed his fingers along the edge of that single garment. Clarrisa muttered in her sleep and shifted toward his touch. She kicked at the bedding, pushing the coverlet lower. He stared at the swells of her breasts and lost the battle to keep his hand away from them.

So soft yet firm… His cock rose beneath his kilt, throbbing with the desire he’d pushed aside all day.

But he’d only wanted Clarrisa.

She sighed, and he found the sound unmistakably pleasurable. His cock throbbed, and he cupped one of her breasts, grinning almost savagely when she arched. An enjoyable torment, indeed. It seemed they both suffered from it. Her eyelids fluttered, lifting only halfway.

“Why do you invade my dreams, Broen?” Slurred with sleep, her voice was a bare whisper.

He leaned down, smoothing his hand over the swell of her breast. “Because ye summoned me with yer longings, lass.”

She sighed and closed her eyelids. “I think about you too often…”

Her breathing deepened, and his frustration returned, but he smiled with satisfaction too. She couldn’t banish him from her thoughts either. Such a revelation should have convinced him she was a curse, one he’d be wise to get rid of at first light, but the idea of sending her to his overlord tore something inside him.

He straightened, the emotional reaction making him wary. Men who succumbed to loving a woman often made poor decisions. It was a point worthy of contemplation and possibly action. It would be wise to put distance between them.

But he leaned down and placed a kiss against her cheek before pulling the coverlet back up to protect her from the night air. He caught a whiff of her scent, and it sent a flood of desire pounding through him.

Sending her off to Sutherland would be best, but he wouldn’t enjoy doing it.

***

He was near. So very close.

Clarrisa could smell Broen. The scent of his skin touched off a ripple of need that settled in her belly. Her body twisted, unable to rest peacefully. She craved something, some form of satisfaction.

She sat upright, jerked out of her slumber. Instead of waking in a fog, her wits were sharp. The bedding was a rumpled mess, and her braid frizzy from her tossing.

Broen—although she wasn’t sure if it was fair to blame the man for her obsession with him. Maud had often lectured her on the enchanting powers of the barbarians who inhabited the Highlands. Looking them straight in the eye was a sure way to allow their pagan devil magic to work its will on her.

Clarrisa laughed. She couldn’t help it. Along with Maud’s words came the memory of how haughty the matron had sounded when she was handing out lectures. Pride was also a sin, but the older woman hadn’t seemed to recall that teaching from the church. With a shake of her head, she pulled the tie off the end of her braid. She worked the plait free and walked toward the table where the comb lay.

The moon was full, casting its yellow light across the floor of the chamber. Nearer to the window, she could see the stars twinkling in the night sky. The moon was more than halfway across it, but morning was still several hours away. Her chemise fluttered in the night breeze. Her skin was chilled, but not uncomfortably so.

Heat was still burning inside her from her dreams of Broen.

She drew the comb through her hair, wrestling with the admission that she was longing to go to his bed. Alone in the darkness, it seemed easier to admit her dark cravings. The church certainly had that portion of their teachings correct; the night hours were the time for spells and sinfulness.

She brushed her hair into a soft cloud, the braid having given it fullness. She placed the comb aside and gave in to the urge to slide her hands down her body. Her breasts were so sensitive, and her nipples were hard, and it wasn’t due to the cold. She enjoyed the feel of stroking the curves of her hips, and a soft throbbing began between the folds of her sex. So dark and wicked, but it felt completely right in that moment, so good, so satisfying.

The chamber suddenly felt cold, but the delicate fabric of her chemise didn’t flutter from any breeze any longer. She hugged herself and shivered, feeling the chill bone-deep. From the corner of her eye, she caught something moving across the mirror.

She whirled to face it but found no one in the chamber. The hairs on her nape stood up as she was sure she heard a deep male chuckle.

Twisting back to face the mirror, she saw a shadow shift behind her.

Argyll—the ghost of Deigh Tower…

Broen’s words rose up as clearly as a church bell as she heard something scrape across the corner of the room.

“Sweet Christ!” she shouted before bolting toward the door.

“Get away from me!” she yelled as she ran, her heart pounding. A full scream erupted from her when she ran into a hard body; hard arms clamped around her instantly. Fear coursed thickly through her, and she fought with every ounce of strength she could muster.

“Here now…”

She slammed her palm up into the hard jaw of the man holding her. He cursed and released her.

“Goddamn it, Clarrisa…”

She recognized Broen’s voice, but it wasn’t enough to override the pressing need to flee. She was covered in sweat, her heart feeling like it might burst through her chest, but she also felt stronger and faster than ever. She ran down the hallway, not caring that the floor scraped her bare feet.

She slammed into more men. They grumbled and clamped their arms around her. They jerked her to a halt, twisting her arms brutally. She gasped, the pain tearing through the fear clouding her judgment.

“Easy, lads… ’Tis our English guest.”

She couldn’t seem to stop struggling. The delicate fabric of her chemise tore, and the sound echoed in the silence.

“There… there is someone… in my chamber…” She panted, her lungs struggling to keep up with her racing heart.

Light came up the stairway, and the heavy steps of more retainers filled her ears. The two men holding her pushed her toward the newcomers as Broen turned and went into her chamber. She was pushed up against the wall, and the man who held her jerked his hands away when he realized how little she wore.

“Get up there and protect the laird’s back,” he ordered the men behind him. He glanced back at her once he’d given his order but looked away with a sputter. Clarrisa looked down and realized the torch illuminated every curve of her body. Even her nipples showed through the thin fabric. She gasped and hugged herself to cover what she might. It was far too little, and she leaned against the wall, trying to decide what to do. Down the stairs was the hall where most of Broen’s retainers slept. They’d be on their feet now, worried the castle was under attack.

There was clothing back in her chamber, but a shiver shook her the moment she considered returning.

“There is no one,” Broen muttered as he re-appeared. His sword was in hand, but she looked away because he was wearing less than she was. The man was in nothing but his skin.

“I heard… I’m sure I heard…” Her cheeks were blazing, but she refused to be thought of as a foolish child frightened by her own imagination. “I was fully awake and on my feet…”

“Argyll does nae enter the chambers…” the retainer near her muttered.

“Well, he did enter my chamber. You promised he wouldn’t.” Her mind finally cleared completely, causing her to contemplate just what she’d seen.

Suddenly she wasn’t so sure. Edme’s potion had been potent.

Broen grunted and set his sword inside the open door of his chamber. “As flattered as I am to hear ye believe me so powerful, Clarrisa, I do nae have the ability to control the spirits.”

She snapped her gaze back to him but turned away because she was too tempted to look down the length of his nude body. “Maybe I didn’t see… I am not sure anymore…”

Broen’s retainers began muttering, offering their opinions. Her eyes went wide when she realized how many men were observing the moment. She looked back at Broen, desperate to escape. He was watching her, and his eyes narrowed when she locked eyes with him. He reached out and captured her wrist. His grip didn’t hurt, but it was solid. With a firm tug, he pulled her away from the wall and down the few steps to his open chamber door. She ended up stumbling into his chamber after a sharp jerk and a slap against her bottom.

Laughter erupted in the hallway.

“My thanks, lads, for seeing to me welfare. Ye’ll have to forgive me for hiding the lass. She’s nae dressed for visiting.”

The MacNicols retainers laughed, a few adding comments that kept her cheeks burning brightly.

“I’d like to have the lass dressing like that to see me…”

“Found her quite pleasing as she was…”

“Do nae change for my sake…”

She stumbled a few paces from the door but froze when she couldn’t see into the dark corners of the chamber. Her need for modesty struggled against the fear rising from the memory of having heard a spirit speak to her.

“Argyll has never been seen in this chamber.”

She jumped but bit her lip to contain the cry that tried to escape. Clarrisa lifted her chin, forcing down the lump in her throat. “It… He simply surprised me.”

“He frightened ye,” Broen muttered in a soft voice.

“No, he did not, and you’re a—”

“Brute?” Broen finished for her. His tone turned menacing. He captured her wrist again and pulled her hand up until he could press her palm to his jaw. Along the side of it, she felt the warm presence of blood. “Ye’re the one who drew blood tonight.”

A soft cry made it past her lips. “Sweet Christ…” Everything began to crumple; her reasons and logic. There was only the warm skin beneath her palm and the scent of metallic blood in the air. She stepped toward him, delighting in the feeling of having his heat wrap around her. She smoothed away the blood and stretched up onto her toes to kiss the spot it had escaped from.

He groaned, the sound striking her as complimentary.

One kiss seemed too little. She pressed another and another against his jaw, until she was trailing kisses up to his ear. She didn’t want to stop and reached up to wrap her hands around his neck and tilt his head so she might continue.

“Clarrisa… ye’re testing the limits of me control…”

His voice was husky and shook just a little. That tiny confirmation that she affected him as much as he did her sent the passion she’d toyed with back into a full blaze.

“Good, because you’ve been driving me mad, and you promised to explain why you make me tremble.” He caught her face, framing it with both hands. The small amount of light coming in through the windows reflected off the glitter in his eyes.

“I was warning ye, lass.”

She moved her head, needing to feel his hands moving against her skin. Delight rippled down her body, and she felt her nipples contract into hard points.

“You were daring me to stand fast and allow you to be my lover.”

He drew in a stiff breath. She placed her hands on his chest, spreading her fingers and shivering at the feel of their skin meeting.

“Why are ye the only English lass who does nae quiver in me presence? I was going to send ye to me uncle at dawn.”

Her hands formed into fists, frustration making her ache. “Then do it, Broen MacNicols, and prove yourself a blackguard for kissing me when you were only toying with me.”

She shoved him away from her, hissing with disappointment when he released her face. But he caught the sides of her chemise and ripped it upward in a crack of cloth. The garment fluttered to the floor like a wounded bird as she gasped.

“I have no’ yet begun to play with ye.” He caught her, moving faster than she expected. In less than a moment she was secured against his body, her curves meeting his harder form from chin to toe. Against her belly, his cock was rigid. The spot hidden by the folds of her sex began to throb once more, this time her passage joining the demand to be touched.

“But I promise to mend me ways immediately. Ye tremble because ye want me inside ye, and I’m hard because I want the same thing.”

His mouth captured hers, the kiss bold and hot. Whatever she’d been thinking to say scattered into bits of thought too tiny to notice. What drew her attention was the flood of sensation flowing over her. She kissed him back, seeking out more heat. He caught a handful of her hair, combing his fingers through the strands before gripping them near her scalp. She was helpless, but feeling his strength heightened her enjoyment. In some corner of her mind, she liked knowing how strong he was.

“I want more than just to get inside ye,” he growled against her mouth, trailing kisses along the length of her neck. She trembled, never realizing how acute a simple touch might be.

“What else?” It wasn’t a proper question, wasn’t something she should even think, but the rules of the civilized world seemed impossibly far away.

He chuckled, the sound dark and dangerous. She was free for a moment, his hand slipping over her shoulders and down her chest until he was cupping each breast.

“I wanted to cup these last night and nuzzle against them before kissing their tips.”

Knowing what he was going to do intensified the moment. Anticipation tightened in her belly, making it difficult for her to breathe. Broen kissed her collar and then lower, following the same path his hands had forged. He selected her left breast first, kissing the top of it before nuzzling against it.

He slipped his arm around her waist again, this time using it to support her when he bent her back so that her breasts were thrust up.

“Close yer eyes, lass, and just feel. I’ll not let ye fall.”

She struggled to comply, wanting all her senses to help her understand, but it wasn’t a moment for thinking. She leaned her head back, feeling the ends of her hair against her calves. It felt like she was free, truly unbound for the first time in her life.

She gasped when he claimed her nipple. His lips felt hotter than she’d ever believed a man’s mouth might be. It was too much, and she tried to straighten.

“Ye cannae deny me such a treat, Clarrisa.”

He scooped her off her feet and carried her to his bed. For a moment, she recalled the first time she’d seen him, when she’d thought him a barbarian. He placed her among the rumpled bedding, pressing her onto her back against a blanket of her hair.

“Nor deny yerself the pleasure it can give ye.”

He cupped her breast once more, leaning on one bent elbow as he lay beside her.

“Breasts are for feeding babes.”

He laughed. She was beginning to recognize the tone he used when he was in the mood to tempt her, and excitement brewed inside her. He leaned down, the ends of his hair teasing her skin. “But first they are meant to be handled by a lover to help entice ye into allowing him inside ye.”

He sucked her nipple back into his mouth, cupping her breast as he did it. She arched, her body rising to seek what it craved. A moan crossed her lips as she reached for him. She suddenly wasn’t close enough to him. Need became a living force inside her, and the only thing it craved was contact with him. She gripped his shoulders, pulling him closer.

“Exactly like that, lass.”

He slid his hand down her body, teasing the smooth skin of her belly before continuing on to the soft curls growing on her mons. She shied away, but he pushed her back and settled his fingers in the curls. “The best place of all for a lover to stroke.”

She shivered, but not from cold. Anticipation threatened to overwhelm her, possibly even leave her mind broken when it had run its course. That didn’t seem to matter. Her clitoris was throbbing, its name rising in her mind from some half-heard gossip—a few comments muttered in husky tones before the more-experienced women of her uncle’s household had noticed she was near.

Broen found it, pushing the folds of her sex aside until his fingertip rested gently on top of it. Pleasure spiked through her. She jerked, lifting her hips and gasping when even greater delight resulted from the friction.

“Ye felt that, did nae ye?” He was challenging her now. He rubbed a bit harder, producing a pleasure that began to satisfy the raging hunger inside her.

“Lift yer hips in time, lass. I promise it will yield what ye’ve been trembling for.”

There was an urgency building inside her. Nothing but reaction remained in her mind. There was the pleasure each stroke produced and the increasing need to move faster. She clamped her thighs around his forearm, frantic to maintain the pressure against her clitoris. He didn’t deny her. He pressed harder and rubbed faster in response to her demands. There suddenly wasn’t room in her mind for distracting things like sight. She arched and closed her eyes as her fingers clenched the bedding. Every muscle in her body grew tense, feeling like they might snap. Beneath his finger, pleasure tightened until it burst in a blinding shower of white-hot delight. In spite of the bed beneath her, it felt like she was falling through the air, her body suspended inside the pleasure for a moment that felt endless. It twisted through her, biting into her before dropping her back into reality, where she struggled to draw breath. She’d cried out but only noticed it now as an afterthought.

“That’s what ye craved from me, lass.” He was smug and arrogant. She opened her eyes, the urge to be reckless overpowering her.

She reached down, closing her hand around his length. “And what is it you keep kissing me to gain, Broen MacNicols?” He groaned, the hard flesh in her grasp jerking slightly. She rolled onto her side, pushing him back as she worked her hand from the top of his weapon to the base.

“I may be a virgin, but I know men want more from women than to pleasure them.” The bed shook as he flopped onto his back. The moonlight showed her his expression and his gritted teeth.

“Do yer worst, lass. I have nae stopped thinking about yer promise to polish a man’s weapon. Show me the courage that had ye holding back a king’s lust for power.”

She slid her hand back up to the crown of his cock. “So long as it is Broen asking me for such a thing and not the laird of the MacNicols demanding a service.”

“I’m foolishly admitting how captivating yer words are to me.”

“Well then, let me see what condition your weapon is in…”

Her attention lowered to the cock in her hand. She looked directly at it, refusing to shy away in deference to rules of modesty. She was sick unto death of being told what she must be. For the moment, she was Broen’s lover. She let herself feel bold, granting herself the freedom to act on her impulses.

She stroked his length, listening to his breathing to judge her pace. The skin was softer than she’d believed a man’s cock might feel. His chest rumbled with a groan, one that satisfied her.

“Now I’m truly a blackguard.” Broen abandoned his lazy demeanor, drawing a creak from the bed ropes as he turned and flattened her against the bed. “But I am no’ sorry to see ye grinning so smugly.”

He pressed a kiss against her lips. He settled over her, spreading her thighs with his hips. She didn’t have the chance to protest, even a halfhearted one. His mouth demanded a response she was only too happy to provide. Hot need renewed its insistence, churning deep in her belly. The satisfaction he’d given her with his finger seemed insufficient somehow, and she yearned to gain true release.

“But I’ve failed the challenge ye set, sweet Clarrisa, for I cannae stand fast while ye toy with me any further.” The head of his cock nudged the folds of her sex, pushing them open as it began to enter her passage. His eyes narrowed as the muscles along his neck corded. “I’ve dreamed of ye too often.”

His voice was strained. She felt the same level of urgency, every muscle tightening until it was almost unbearable. The intensity of the moment was overwhelming. He thrust forward, sending his length into her. Pain tore through the pleasure of the moment. She recoiled, trying to avoid the torment, but Broen had her firmly pinned, his body keeping her in place as he withdrew and thrust again. This time his cock traveled deeper, lodging completely within her. The pain bled away, until only a dull ache remained that was overshadowed by the satisfaction spreading through her from being impaled.

“That will be the end of the pain, lass.”

She surprised him by laughing. His expression told her he was stunned.

“Why are ye laughing, woman?”

She savored the word woman, knowing without a doubt she was no longer a girl. Broen snorted, and his body shook as though he was straining to hold back. He muttered a word in Gaelic that she didn’t understand, but his tone made it clear it was profane.

“Trust ye to laugh at me attempts to be considerate.”

He pulled free, distracting her with a rush of enjoyment. When he thrust forward again, his hard flesh slid against her clitoris, filling her with delight.

“Would you rather I were weeping?” She lifted her hips to take him completely. “Or that I admit I enjoy being here?”

He brushed the hair from her face, soft, soothing touches that were tender. “That’s why ye drive me insane, lass. Yer spirit is as bold as mine.”

His voice had turned husky, almost harsh, but she wasn’t interested in gentleness. She did feel bold. A wildness was brewing inside her, and it urged her to move—faster—and Broen seemed to feel it too. She grasped him to her, using her entire body. She rested her hands on his shoulders and pulled him closer. She gripped his hips with her thighs, rising to meet every downward thrust. Each time he buried his length inside her, the hunger raging within her doubled, possibly tripled. She was beyond being able to understand anything. There was only need and response.

“That’s it, lass… Ride with me.” The bed ropes groaned as he thrust hard against her. “It will be worth the effort. I swear to ye.”

“Sweet Christ…” She was cursing, but her body was beginning to spiral out of control. Every thrust threatened to unleash something she knew she wanted, but that she suspected might tear her in two. She didn’t care. They strained against each other, her fingers becoming talons, her nails digging into his skin. He moved faster, unleashing the burst of delight she’d sensed was coming. It jerked her into its hold, ripping away every thought while roaring through her. The pleasure was on a scale beyond her experience. Encompassing and blinding, it commanded her completely.

“That’s the way, lass,” Broen snarled before burying his cock inside her. He growled, the sound low and primal, as his body shook. She felt the spurt of his seed burn the walls of her passage, which set off a second ripple of satisfaction. This one was milder but deeper, and she lifted her eyelids to lock stares with her lover. In that moment, there was only the pair of them. Society didn’t matter, didn’t even exist. There was only her lover and the scent of their sweat.

Absolutely nothing else mattered.

***

Clarrisa wasn’t the only one who slept soundly for the rest of the night. Broen rolled over and pulled the bedding around them, but that was the last conscious thought he recalled. Normally he woke several times a night, when noise from the training yard woke him. The bed was still encased in darkness, the bed-curtains drawn to shut out the light. With a snarl, he sent the one nearest him swinging into the post and landed on his feet.

The chamber door was closed, but the window showed him full daylight. He stared at the light, disbelieving the proof that he’d even slept through the church bell tolling the morning Mass.

Clarrisa was nowhere in sight.

Frustration sent a few more words past his lips that would have gained him a penance if the priests heard, but he didn’t care, didn’t give a damn what celibate men of the cloth had to say about his feelings for Clarrisa. He grabbed a shirt and took a few moments to pleat his kilt. The chore felt endless, and for the first time he regretted not allowing Edme to serve him as she wanted. The damned kilt would have been pleated and waiting for him to buckle it around his waist if he hadn’t forbidden his head of house to wait on him. He shook his head, trying to dispel his frustration.

Edme wasn’t to blame. He was. Along with his lack of discipline. But what needled him most presently was the fact that Clarrisa had left his bed and he’d remained sleeping like a fat pasha. Such a lapse of awareness could get him killed. Most lairds had retainers at their chamber doors, because an assassin could come in many forms—desirable female flesh included.

WouldyouratherIweep?

Shame nipped at him, the soft words from the night whispering across his memory. Suspicion was an ugly thing. It twisted a man until he lost perspective completely.

His men were waiting on him. The two retainers posted at the foot of the stairs battled to maintain blank expressions. Neither of them succeeded very well.

“Where is she?” he growled.

“The English lass?”

“Yes, the English lass,” he snapped.

His man smirked before smoothing his lips in response to Broen’s dark expression.

“She went off to Mass. Young Arawn and Gahan followed her.”

Broen stopped himself from replying quickly. Uncertainty was boiling inside him. It was an emotional state he wasn’t comfortable with. In fact, he couldn’t recall ever feeling so unsteady over a woman before.

He should send her north. It would solve a great many difficulties and gain him the favor of his overlord. But the churning feelings inside him rebelled, threatening to bubble over.

He needed to discover her game first. Aye, that was what he wanted. Once he heard her confess her reasons for lying with him, it would be simple to let her go. It was unlikely he’d enjoy knowing why she’d not pushed him away. Perhaps Shaw was right; she was trying to secure herself a place.

Would that be so terrible?

He drew a stiff breath, trying to convince himself that the answer was yes. Part of him was certain it was, but there was a growing sense of just not caring why she was near, so long as she was.

***

The daylight hours went by too quickly. Clarrisa set to work with the other MacNicols women. They tried to take the chores from her, and she snapped at them. Their eyes widened, some of them narrowing immediately with outrage, but she refused to be run out of the kitchen. She couldn’t afford to have time to think.

Her thoughts were too heated to ponder, or too shameful. Her passage was sore, reminding her often that she’d fallen from grace. Maybe the ache would be easier to endure if she could truly repent, but she wasn’t sorry. An unrepentant soul was bound for damnation.

Maybe.

She doubled her efforts, unwilling to face her mental dilemma. She should be ashamed. She was ruined, but she felt more alive than ever.

“Have ye defeated that demon of yers yet?” Edme asked, her tone full of knowledge. The head of house was oddly free of anyone trying to gain her attention. “The laird is fighting the same one, I believe,” Edme continued with a knowing gleam in her eyes.

“There’s no reason why he should be.” Clarrisa slapped a hand over her mouth with shock. Edme could have her lashed for such an admission. The role of head of house included keeping morality in check. But a need to stand firm in the face of her deeds took control of her, and she removed her hand. “I lay with him by my own choice.”

The words were easier to say than she had expected, and satisfaction filled her once she’d said them. Maybe she was ruined, but she was not a coward.

Edme smiled and shook her head. “I would nae have suspected me laird of wrongdoing, but I admit yer confession shames me for nae questioning the matter.”

“Why?”

Edme inspected the spices Clarrisa had been grinding with a pestle. The older woman lifted the mortar and peered intently at the cinnamon, judging the fineness of the grains before she set it back on the table.

“I should question it because ye were brought here against yer will.” When Edme lifted her head, there was a shimmer of understanding Clarrisa hadn’t expected. “There was a time, when I was a young lass, that a man stole me away.”

The older woman grew silent, her attention moving to the window and the setting sun.

“What happened?” She was being intrusive but couldn’t seem to shame herself into silence.

“Men can be harsh.” Edme’s voice was thick with emotion. She drew in a deep breath and turned her gaze away from the window, as if she was turning her back on the memory.

“I think ye know the difference I am speaking of. It’s that knowledge that makes ye so honest with me about something many might judge a transgression. But I recall what it was like to learn the difference between a man who considered me his property and one who wanted to share the delights of being me lover.” She shook her head wistfully. “I recall very well being unashamed of me choice. The priests at the church would be more pleased with me if I had repented too, but I will never cry shame over me choices. I only hope for mercy when my days come to an end.”

“Was the man who stole you a MacNicols?”

Edme nodded. “I was born a Grant but choose to live a MacNicols.”

“Why?”

The older woman frowned. “Because I learned something from the man who stole me. I learned the same lesson I see on yer face, Clarrisa of the York family: the knowledge that yer blood believes ye naught more than a bargaining tool. The laird’s father was a good man. He did nae allow his men to mistreat women, but more important, he offered me the invitation to become his lover. I’d not have had any choice of who was in my bed if I returned home.” She smiled with satisfaction.

“But you didn’t explain why you should have expected Broen to treat me harshly.”

Edme considered her long and hard, moving her gaze slowly over her face and neck, looking for any dark marks. “Me laird is a good leader. Fair and fearless. Noble too, a true man of his word.” Her tone lowered. “But the nature of a man when he’s with a woman is something ye cannae know about until ye experience it. A man with a fine reputation among his clansmen can be unkind when lust controls him.”

“Your laird isn’t one of that sort.”

Edme smiled, but it wasn’t in approval; it was an expression shared between women who took their chances. “It’s good to know he is truly his father’s son. I’m proud to be his mother.”

Shock rippled through Clarrisa, and Edme laughed softly.

“Aye, ye heard me. Broen is me natural child, even if there are few who know it left alive these days.”

“But why—” She struggled to find the words that weren’t insulting.

Edme interrupted her. “Because it was what I wanted. The chance to belong to no one but myself was offered, and I took it. Remaining the laird’s leman gave me position and kept me from having to return to me family, who would have begun shifting through the offers for me to find the most advantageous one for their interests. Many consider me a poor daughter for no’ doing me duty, but staying offered me the choice to decide what I wanted from me life.” Disgust edged her words, and Clarrisa discovered herself agreeing with the woman wholeheartedly. Edme offered her a satisfied look.

“I gave him a son, and fate was kind enough to make it so his legitimate wife never conceived even a daughter. Only the church is displeased with me, but I am content.” Her expression became serious once more. “Much more so now that I know me son treated ye well. I needed to know.”

The older woman’s eyes sparkled with happiness and satisfaction. Clarrisa discovered herself envious of Broen for having a parent who was so interested in his morality. Edme had no interest in securing a royal-blooded child for Broen to use for the clan’s advantage, and she had issued no warning for Clarrisa to stay away from her son’s bed to prevent any threats.

“Mind ye, if ye let me son catch ye so simply, I’ll be a bit disappointed.”

“He has not caught me,” Clarrisa insisted. “I thought I heard Argyll in my chamber, and it frightened me, but I’m not sure if there was anything there except my numbed wits, and well… well…”

“Nature got the best of ye. It happens, lass.”

“It will not happen again,” Clarrisa insisted. Edme eyed her before waving her toward the door. Clarrisa began to follow, her mind more focused on how to make good on her promise. She would. Somehow.

Liar.