Seven

Seven

“Do nae fuss about yer hair,” Edme scolded.

“I’m not.” But Clarrisa didn’t turn away from the mirror. Her hair was chopped away at her shoulders, the ends curling upward. “I was simply amazed you trusted me with another mirror.”

“Oh well, ye were no’ in yer right mind when ye destroyed the last one. There was no reason to punish ye.” Edme was followed by two maids, who laid out a meal on the table. “Besides, we’re all still rejoicing over yer recovery.”

Didthataccountforthefactthatshehadn’t seen Broen?

Clarrisa sat and kept the question to herself.

“Sweet Mary…” Edme muttered. Clarrisa looked up to see the head of house staring at her calf, where the dressing gown had flipped aside to show off one of the lace stockings she’d finished. She’d used the scarlet silk, and the contrast against her skin was stunning.

“Since you will not let me out of this room, I thought I’d wear them for a bit. It does take a long time to make them.”

Edme had pressed a hand to her chest and seemed to be considering the lace stocking intently. Her lips rose into a wicked smile.

“Seems ye should be inviting the laird to sup with ye if ye feel strong enough to wear those.”

“Invite him?”

Edme raised her gaze to Clarrisa’s face, and there was a firm reprimand in her eyes. “Well now, ye did leave him. A man has his pride. I do believe ye’d no’ be too happy if he visited the same upon ye. So… if ye wanted to see him, it seems only correct that ye would issue an invitation.”

Edme moved her attention to the maids who were straightening the bed. It provided Clarrisa the chance to contemplate what the woman had said.

HadshewoundedBroen’s pride?

The question made her wince because it made her sound like a milksop without a drop of confidence. She was worthy of a man being upset because she’d shunned him. What shamed her more was the fact that she had failed to consider his feelings while dwelling upon her own.

“Edme, would you please inquire of your laird if he would like to sup with me tonight?”

Edme offered her a satisfied smile. “I will do so directly.”

“I think I’ll go down to the bathhouse.”

“Ye shall nae,” Edme insisted. “A bath will be brought up.”

“Edme, you are spoiling me by waiting on me.” The head of house didn’t appear to be even a tiny bit impressed by her pouting. “And these walls are beginning to close in on me. Have mercy and allow me a short walk to prove my legs still work.”

Edme’s expression softened. “I suppose that is something I cannae refuse ye without being overly harsh.” Her eyes narrowed. “But I insist ye take those stockings off first. I do nae need every maid in the keep wearing those. No’ a thing will ever get finished, because the men will be following them about like puppies.”

Clarrisa laughed, but her tone was husky. Heat had settled in her cheeks and was flowing down to her belly. She was well rested—indeed, she felt strong and quite desperate to embrace life with a renewed vigor.

Every day was suddenly full of opportunities, ones she refused to cast aside because of someone’s opinion in some faraway church or palace. But apprehension twisted her belly too. It was possible Broen would want nothing to do with her. He was a proud Highlander, one who had earned his position. She’d shunned him in front of his clan, and such was not a thing easily forgiven.

But as she began to untie the garter secured around the top of her right stocking, a wicked idea began to form in her mind. Why should she be content with gaining his approval easily?

Seduction…

She’d heard the word said in so many different tones: Hushed ones by the fireside, muttered by smiling girls with twinkling eyes. Condemning tones, spoken as a warning by a priest intent on convincing her to follow a path of piety.

She folded the stocking gently and began to undo the second. The two maids were sneaking peeks from across the chamber. Edme snapped her fingers, but the head of house also sent her a wink of approval.

Yes… seduction. Broen MacNicols had overwhelmed her and unleashed passion inside her, so it seemed fitting to plan his downfall by the same method. She stood and patted the two stockings gently before going off to bathe and plan just how she was going to bring the brute who’d stolen her to his knees.

She’d never imagined she would enjoy wickedness so much.

***

It was possible he’d refuse to come. Clarrisa tried not to dwell upon the chance of failure because it sent a shaft of pain through her heart. But it took a great deal of effort to avoid listing the reasons why Broen might refuse her.

“Is there a reason ye’re wearing a path across that fine carpet, lass?” His voice still made her tremble. Only now she smiled, freely enjoying the way she responded to him.

“I suppose I’ve been inside too long.”

He was clean-shaven once more, but the collar of his shirt lay open, just as she was beginning to expect it always to be. Indecision showed in his eyes as he hesitated in the doorway.

“A wise course of action, considering how ill ye managed to make yerself by running about in naught but silk. There is a reason that flimsy fabric is worn in Italy. The summers there are warm enough for it.” His tone snapped like a judgment, ripping through her carefully-plotted plans for seduction.

“It was not on purpose, and I do know how to dress properly for the weather, but it was a result of—”

“Of yer rash decision to leave me protection,” he finished with a slicing motion of his hand. She drew in a harsh breath, but he didn’t give her a chance to defend herself.

“If ye’d stayed here, it never would have been necessary for ye to walk through a rainy night in that fairy dress. Ye almost became one of the forest spirits, thanks to yer stupidity.”

Her cheeks were burning, but not because she was finding it impossible to resist him. “Stupidity is your thinking taking me to your bed means I consider myself your personal pet who does not think of what is best for the future. You have a betrothed.”

“I still do, and yet, ye invited me to sup in yer room.” It felt like he’d slapped her. She wanted to gasp, but her jaw was hanging open. With a hiss, she turned her back on him.

“What do ye have on yer legs, woman?” She turned to face him, irritated by the demand in his voice.

“Lace stockings—but I’m very sure you will simply tell me how impractical they are and how much of a fool I am to wear them for your benefit.” She was acting like a shrew now and didn’t really care. Disappointment was cruelly shredding her newly kindled confidence. “So… never you mind what I’m wearing, Broen MacNicols. Perhaps Argyll will appreciate them, since ye prefer your betrothed.”

“Do nae put words in me mouth, woman.”

His tone had changed, but she was too frustrated to enjoy the victory. “Do not worry. I shall be happy to see you turn and leave before I’m foolish enough to continue with the idea of seducing you.”

Surprise brightened his expression right before he laughed. The sound bounced off the chamber walls, infuriating her completely.

“Oh… get on with you! Do you think I care what you think of me? Well… I do not!” She grabbed one of the soft rounds of bread waiting on the table for their meal and threw it at him. Broen was too busy laughing, and it struck him full in the center of his chest.

He jumped and landed in a semicrouch, his hands wide and his eyes trained on her. She’d taken him by surprise, and she enjoyed the surge of satisfaction it sent through her.

“Get out, Broen. I’ve no more patience for you and your condemning nature.”

He straightened but didn’t leave. Instead he moved into the chamber and pulled the door shut behind him.

“I told you—”

“But I’ve no’ told ye, Clarrisa, how seeing ye so near to death put me on me knees.” His voice had sunk to a deep timbre that drowned the flames of her irritation. “Or that discovering ye’d left me set me thinking on just why I was so angry over yer loss.”

“You only wanted your prize back.” She was being surly, but her feelings stung. The pain was deeper and more persistent than any she’d ever experienced.

He moved close, his blue eyes flickering with heat. “Oh, aye… That’s true enough, but no’ because of who yer sire was. I wanted me lover back—me prize.” He all but snarled the last two words before rushing her.

“Broen—” She squealed as he clasped her against his body. He cupped the back of her neck as he draped his other arm across her body to bind her to him. Heat swirled through her in a crazy sensation of twisting and turning. She clung to him because it was so disorienting. He was the only solid thing in her world at that moment.

“Clarrisa… stop talking.”

He kissed her to enforce his will, but she kissed him back, feeling as though she had a year of longing trapped inside her. The dam burst, her emotions flooding over her, carrying away her irritation. Ordering him away was now the furthest thing from her mind.

She reached for him, threading her fingers through his hair. The need to touch him was so intense she couldn’t decide where to place her hands next, only that she had to feel his skin next to hers. His mouth was demanding, and she met it with equal heat.

“Show me the stockings…” He sounded like he was fighting for control, and it stoked something wild inside her. She trailed her hands down the opening of his shirt and curled her hands into talons before pushing away from him. He sucked in his breath as her nails serrated his skin, but his nostrils flared with arousal.

“Stay,” she ordered. “Do not move, or ye shall not see what you want.”

“I’ll have what I want, lass… when I come and claim it.” He was stalking her, looking as powerful and untamed as he had the first time she’d seen him. Only now, the sight sent a surge of need twisting through her belly and on to her passage. Her body knew the delights he might offer her and was eager for her to surrender. She wanted more.

“Lace stockings are for seduction, not brutish tumbling.” She stopped and wagged a single finger back and forth. “Stay… right there and wait on my whim.” She had no idea where her boldness came from, but it made her voice husky. Temptation flickered in his eyes, along with impatience, but he stopped and fixed her with an intense stare.

Nervousness rippled through her, but it wasn’t nearly as powerful as the sense of confidence she was experiencing. She fingered the end of one of the garter’s ties, drawing her hands along the silk cord to the ends before turning around and peeking at him over her shoulder.

“Ye look like an enchantress.”

She returned to facing him with the tie undone. The dressing robe was gently slipping open to offer him a narrow view of bare skin down the center of her body.

“Ye left yer chemise off…”

She turned back around and heard him snort. When she peeked back at him, he was frowning darkly at her, but there was also a hint of a boy being made to wait, which amused her.

“I did plan to seduce you… before you behaved so atrociously, that is.”

One of his eyebrows rose, a challenge beginning to flicker in his eyes.

“If ye want to besmirch me, lass, I can make sure I do a grand job of behaving improperly.” He made to act on his words, stepping toward her.

“No, no, no,” she scolded in a teasing tone as she pulled the drooping dressing robe back up. “You’ve had two nights of overwhelming me.”

“Two nights ye enjoyed full well.”

He was half growling, but she turned and pointed at him. “Tonight it’s my turn to dictate the pace.”

He looked unconvinced and ready to rush her once more. She shrugged, and the dressing robe slithered over her shoulders, baring them. She hugged the bulky fabric tight to cover her breasts, at least half of them, anyway.

Broen licked his lower lip. “Never let it be said that I’m no’ a man who appreciates it when a lass takes the time to test his nerve.”

“Somehow… I do believe I am testing your… resolve.” She turned, faster this time, so the hem of the dressing gown flared out. She rotated all the way around and back to facing the wall before allowing the garment to slither down her back and puddle around her ankles.

“I’m suddenly no’ sorry I cut yer hair.”

She jumped around, ready to argue, but froze when she realized she’d played into his hands. An arrogant grin met her stare as he began to toss aside his clothing. He never looked at what he was doing, but maintained eye contact with her.

“I care no’ if I ever see another silk dress on ye, but those stockings are something I’ll demand… often.”

He tossed his shirt as he moved to within a pace of her. Both of their breathing had turned rough and labored, and her senses were suddenly keenly aware of every sound. Her skin was ultrasensitive, begging for his touch, but what demanded his attention most was her passage. She felt empty, so much so that she ached with the need to be filled. Her heart was pounding, and she caught the scent of his skin with her labored breaths. It was heady and intoxicating, sending her spiraling into a dark storm of desire.

“I’ve reached the end of me strength, lass… Have pity on me now.”

“And on me…”

He closed the remaining distance, capturing her in his arms. She cried out, the sound primal and full of enjoyment. Words failed her, her mind overwhelmed by the rush of sensation as he lifted her and flattened her back against the wall. The stone was cool, but it soothed the raging inferno inside her.

“Ye’ve teased me too much, lass… Now I’m the brute ye so often labeled me.”

He cupped her hips, holding her up, and pressed her thighs apart with his body. It was harsh, but she heard herself let out a sound that resembled purring. He growled in response, the head of his cock probing the folds of her sex, which were slick from need and anticipation, welcoming his first thrust with ease.

“Sweet Christ… I cannae slow me pace…” He withdrew and sent his cock back into her with a hard thrust. His body slammed into hers, forcing the air from her lungs. She gasped with satisfaction, half-afraid the pleasure would burst within her before they went much further.

“I didn’t ask you to… brute.” She dug her fingernails into his shoulders, arching toward his next thrust. Pleasure speared through her, tightening even further as she heard him growl.

“Enchantress.”

She wasn’t sure if it was a compliment or a curse—or if Broen knew himself, but it fit the moment, feeding the rising frenzy beating inside her. The tempo increased, demanding she keep pace. There was no thought, only instinct and need. Every muscle strained to perform and take her closer to the edge of release. The wall at her back felt nowhere near as solid as the man she clung to.

Pleasure ripped her in two. She was sure of it but didn’t care. There was no room for lament, only mind-searing rapture that burned its way through her body and twisted through Broen, wringing release from him as well. He pinned her to the wall as his seed erupted deep inside her. For a long moment, time was frozen.

“I did nae mean to ravish ye,” he muttered between soft kisses he trailed over her cheek, “but I am nae sorry.”

He cradled her against his chest, carrying her to the turned-down sheets she’d so carefully rubbed with new spring rosemary to welcome him.

“However, it’s yer own doing.” He laid her down and stood over her, reaching out to stroke one silk lace stocking. “These are wickedness, to be sure. Best to keep them only for me eyes alone.”

She laughed and rolled away from his reach. “I knit them, so I’ll wear them when I choose.” She came up on her knees, and his attention dropped to her breasts.

“Another merit to having yer hair short.”

She frowned, reaching up to finger her hair. “I know it had to be done…”

The bed rocked as he joined her, capturing her hands and kissing them before rolling onto his back and taking her along with him.

“I’d have done anything, lass.”

***

Broen woke in the early-morning hours while the chamber was still in darkness. Something sent a tingle down his spine, and he turned to see Argyll staring at the bed. It had been years since he’d seen the spirit, but he recognized the specter from a portrait hanging in the study. Clarrisa muttered in her sleep, clearly sensing the ghost as Argyll reached toward her.

Broen slipped an arm around her and pulled her close. She snuggled against his side as his grandfather’s ghost looked at him before fading away. In his gut, he knew he’d seen the last of the spirit, possibly forever.

He wished it would be so simple to settle the rest of his life. Daphne was still contracted to him, and the MacLeods were likely to demand he wed her, for an alliance with the MacLeods wasn’t something to lose.

He couldn’t. Every fiber of his being rebelled against wedding her.

But that wasn’t the only thing he wanted to forbid from happening. Clarrisa muttered as his embrace tightened too much. If only it were so simple to hold her. It wouldn’t be. She was coveted, and his country was dissolving into civil war. The future was bleak, so he closed his eyes and savored the sound of Clarrisa’s breathing.

Dawn would bring reality to them both.

***

A snap of someone’s fingers woke her. Clarrisa sat straight up.

“Yes, Maud, I have slept too long.” The words left her mouth before she was fully awake. She was out of the bed before she finished speaking them, because her matron was fond of using a switch when she was displeased.

“Turn yer backs.” Broen’s voice was like a bucket of cold water. His men were in the room: Shaw standing with two scrolls, and a pair of younger lads helping their laird to dress. His two gillies turned around, but both boys were already turning red.

The morning air brushed across her bare skin.

“Out.” A single word, and it was the laird speaking too.

The gillies made it to the doorway at the same time and became wedged. Shaw gave them a shove through before following.

“Stay in bed next time.” Broen’s tone had softened, and he leaned down to kiss her lips. “No one will chastise ye here for resting when ye’ve been up the better portion of the night.”

“Well… they should… because… we…”

One of his eyebrows rose. “Because we spent the night together?” His tone was sharpening.

“I recall well that I invited you here.”

He chuckled and cupped her face. When he raised her gaze to meet his, tenderness shimmered in his eyes. “’Tis a fine memory, one which will make me want to keep me kilt down for fear of startling the other lasses with how the recollection of ye in those stockings affects me.”

“Have you no shame, Broen MacNicols?”

He pressed a kiss against her pouting lips before releasing her to finish dressing. “None. I’m a Highlander, after all. Do nae ye English believe we are cousins to Lucifer himself?”

“Second cousins. For the moment, I believe the French are considered closer kin.”

He chuckled at her, a challenge flickering in his eyes. “Something I’ll have to be setting ye straight on, lass. Do be here tonight. The cook was nae pleased to have her fine supper wasted when I discovered ye missing.”

She stood stunned. “You had the cook prepare a special supper for me?”

He stopped near the doorway. “Do ye believe ye are the only one who feels such a strong pull between us, Clarrisa, or is it that ye doubt I can recognize the value of such a feeling?” He offered her a wink. “I planned to seduce ye but am right pleased ye decided upon the same course of action. We are a good match. There’s something for ye to think on until me duties allow me to return to ye.”

He left, and Shaw began to speak the moment he realized he had his laird’s full attention. Clarrisa stood still, filled with a warmth so intense it engulfed her. Heating her from the inside, it felt like a bubble, but not one that threatened to break.

Happiness… She was incredibly, insanely happy, possibly for the first time in her life. There was nothing she longed for, nothing she had to suffer through, only pure delight.

“Ye’re in love.”

She jumped, startled by the female tone. Her cheeks turned pink as she realized Daphne had entered the chamber.

“Where is Edme?”

Daphne opened the wardrobe and selected an underdress. “I asked her to allow me to serve ye this morning.”

“But you’re—”

“Broen’s betrothed? Aye, but I refused to wed him, so it is only a matter of time before he goes to the church to have the union dissolved.” Daphne gathered the fabric and helped Clarrisa don it.

“A betrothal is not so easily broken.”

Daphne tilted her head. “Here in the Highlands, being rejected is grounds enough. Highlanders have pride when it comes to women.” She went behind Clarrisa and began lacing the dress closed. “He never looked at me as he does ye.”

There was sadness in her tone, which made Clarrisa turn. “I did not plan it. I swear it.”

Daphne smiled in spite of the tears glistening in her eyes. “I am the one who owes ye an apology for coming here and allowing ye to leave Broen. The feeling ye have for each other is precious and rare. The Grants had to turn me out, and I cannae go home to me father—but that did nae give me the right to try and destroy yer happiness.”

“What will you do, if not marry Broen?”

Daphne returned to the wardrobe and lifted a dress. When she turned, she was smiling, the tears vanished from her eyes. “Broen has promised no’ to turn me out. For the first time in me life, I can try to find a man who sees me as a woman instead of the dowry me father has promised. I can go to another of his holdings if ye prefer. I shall understand.”

“No, you will stay. Never have I put out anyone, and I shall not begin now.” It was a horrible threat she’d lived with her entire life. Daphne stared into her eyes, understanding dawning on her.

Clarrisa reached out and took her hands. “We shall be sisters. If you can bear with me while I learn how to treat a sister, for I have never had one.”

Daphne pulled her to her and hugged her. The embrace was awkward for a moment, but Clarrisa was too happy to worry about right or wrong. There was only the glow of contentment inside her. She returned the hug, and the moment was complete.

She was happy.

***

“So this is what your hall looks like,” Clarrisa muttered that evening.

Broen frowned at her teasing. “Highlander brutes do nae sup like civilized men. The hall is a confusing place for me… In fact… I am nae sure what to do now that ye have clothing on.”

She swatted his shoulder. “I called you a brute with just cause.”

He pulled her close. “Ye called me lover with just cause too.”

“The pair of ye are killing me appetite.” Faolan Chisholms appeared in the doorway and shouted up the main aisle at them. Conversation died as the Chisholms laird walked toward the high table with two of his captains flanking him.

“A fact we have in common,” Broen answered once his fellow laird was close enough to keep his comment between them.

Faolan stuck out his lower lip. “Me feelings are wounded.”

“I doubt it,” Clarrisa muttered.

Faolan jerked his attention to her, his eyes wide, but he clasped his hand over his heart.

“Sit down, ye pretentious clod,” Broen ordered. “And leave me woman alone.”

More than one maid lifted her head in response. They stared while Clarrisa felt her cheeks heating. Faolan took a chair beside Broen and slapped the tabletop.

“I’m going to enjoy yer hospitality, Broen, indeed I am, for ye’ve taken me on a merry chase these last few weeks.”

Broen smirked and covered her hand with his. More of his people took notice of them, many of them leaning toward one another to whisper. Her face felt like it was on fire. Faolan studied her over the rim of a mug. For a moment she was torn between the need to reject the public display of ownership, simply because her pride was demanding it, but on the other hand, the look in Faolan’s eyes kept her silent. The man was studying her, waiting for any hint that she might be his prize for the taking.

She stood, gaining a glare from Broen. “I’ll bid you good night.”

“Sit down, Clarrisa.”

There was a warning edging his words. He caught her wrist, his grip tight.

“Here is another thing I believe Englishmen and Scotsmen have in common…” she muttered while the staff found reasons to step closer to the table. “They do not need women about when they are drinking.”

Faolan grinned and raised his mug to her. “I believe I hate ye, Broen, for any woman who can liken me to an Englishman and have me agreeing is surely perfection.”

Broen didn’t want to release her hand. She lowered herself, and he was forced to relinquish his grip or have their hands smack the tabletop. His fingers slid down her hand while a look of longing flickered in his eyes. It touched the same feeling inside herself, the need to be near him, no matter the consequences.

“I will se ye later, lass.”

It was a firm promise, one that stoked her passions and her tender feelings for him. She lowered her eyelashes, fluttering them for the first time in her life and realized she was simpering. He watched her leave the hall—in fact, most everyone did—but it was Broen’s stare she felt the weight of.

“It’s wonderful to see them sitting together as friends again.”

Daphne was hiding beyond the arched entryway, her face a radiant mask of joy while she stared at Faolan and Broen.

“Go sit with them.”

Daphne tore her gaze from the high table and shook her head, but Clarrisa shook hers faster.

“Do it and shame them as they deserve. Let them thank you for having more sense than they did.”

Daphne only smiled. “Men do nae like admitting when they’ve been wrong. ’Tis enough to see them reconciled.”

“No, it isn’t.” Clarrisa wasn’t sure where her boldness came from, only that a spark of rebellion was lighting a fire inside her. She grasped Daphne’s hand and tugged her through the doorway. They’d made it only two paces before both Broen and Faolan looked up to investigate who was arriving.

“We are going to sit with them and enjoy the peace you helped bring about.”

“Are ye sure ye have no Scots blood in ye, Clarrisa?” Daphne asked with a soft sound of amusement. “Ye certainly have more spirit than I’d ever thought an Englishwoman might.”

Clarrisa leaned toward her to keep her reply between them. “But when it comes to women, it matters not what blood we have. It’s the knowledge of how to deal with insufferable men that makes us kindred souls.”

Daphne giggled, and Clarrisa joined her. They both sealed their lips but failed to mask their amusement when they reached the end of the aisle and stopped to offer deference.

“I’m afraid to know what the pair of ye find so amusing,” Broen announced.

“Well, I’m terrified,” Faolan added.

Behind the two lairds, their captains grinned. Clarrisa opened her hands in an innocent motion. “That’s very disheartening to hear, after all the trouble Daphne has gone to in order to see the pair of you sitting so nicely by each other’s side. I hear life in the convent is very somber, the food bland, and the beds but wood planks.”

“The ticking was so thin I might as well have been sleeping on the wood,” Daphne muttered, but there was no meekness about her tone. “I, however, am not disheartened to hear the pair of ye are suffering some misgivings.”

She swept around the table and sat when Shaw pulled a chair out for her. Clarrisa sat beside her while Faolan and Broen studied them both. Tension prickled along her nape, for they were making a public display and both men were lairds.

But Broen stood and lifted his mug. The hall grew quiet.

“I owe Daphne Grant a debt of gratitude. She had the sense to realize the match between us was destructive to the peace between the Chisholms and the MacNicols. We will seek an annulment, but she has earned me respect and should be treated so.”

The MacNicols people looked unsure, but Faolan stood as well.

“And I owe her twice as much for bringing me to me senses. I consider her me sister and will hold to that if anyone forgets how I believe she should be treated.”

The hall began to fill with the sound of men hitting the tops of the tables. The sound rose until it drowned out everything else. But Broen was staring at Clarrisa while his men showed their approval. The laird of the MacNicols inclined his head toward her, offering her respect.

She loved him. Plain and simple and with no way to ignore it.

Butyoudon’t want to ignore it…

No, she didn’t.

***

“Ye did a fine thing,” Edme muttered.

The head of house must have been watching her, for Edme appeared beside her the moment she left the great hall.

“Daphne Grant needed her position made plain,” Edme muttered with firm confidence. “Aye, ye did well to force the matter. Ye have a solid spine.”

“Thank you.” Edme was followed by two of her older staff members, and one younger woman trailed them.

“It isn’t necessary to escort me to my chamber.”

“We are nae doing it because the laird set us to watching ye.” Edme voiced the fear Clarrisa had been avoiding mentioning. The older woman continued on until they reached the floor where her chamber was and Broen’s. Edme stopped at the top of the stairs, eyeing her expectantly.

“Oh… well…” She paused, staring at the door of Broen’s chamber. Every obstacle was removed now, the only barrier the mind-set her kin had tried to mold her into living her entire life serving.

That everything she did must have a purpose or a price.

Well, she was going to Broen’s bed without a promise, and that was her word on the matter. The moment she stepped toward the door, Edme’s staff rushed forward and opened the huge double doors.

“Oh fie upon you, Broen MacNicols. How did you get in there ahead of me?”

The man smiled arrogantly at her, his doublet and hat already lying discarded on a chair.

“This is a Scottish castle, lass. There is more than one entrance into this chamber.” He closed the distance between them, and she heard the door shut firmly behind them. He gently cupped her chin. “I’d have scaled the exterior of the keep in order to see ye choose me bed of yer own will.”

She shivered, his touch unleashing a flood of sensation. He touched his lips to hers in a tender kiss that stole her breath. Gooseflesh rose along her limbs while her nipples puckered and her belly began to heat with desire.

“But that does nae mean I am no’ planning on ravishing ye.”

He bent over and tossed her over his shoulder before she recovered from the kiss. A solid smack landed on her bottom before he spun her around in a circle and tossed her onto the bed. She rolled over in a tangle of skirts and lifted one hand to point at him.

“Brute.”

***

The door of the chamber opened at dawn.

“Get yer mistress out of bed,” Edme announced with a glee Clarrisa had never heard from the woman before.

“Get ye gone,” Broen growled, but the women ripped the covers off them and pulled Clarrisa from where she’d been lying beside him.

“It’s May Day, and if ye want a lusty tumble, my son, ye’ll have to chase her for it!”

The women laughed while tossing her clothing over her head and securing it quickly. Someone brushed her short hair and placed a garland of new spring greens on her.

“Let’s go, my lambs! The morning dew will wait for no one!”

Edme hurried them down the hallway and stairs. Their bare feet made slapping sounds on the stone, but they giggled in spite of the chill, because it was tradition to go without footwear on May morn. The bell was ringing in the church, and girls were streaming out of their homes. Most had their hair unbound and flowing behind them; everyone had a garland of greens on their heads. The men lined up along the roads and cheered them on.

But it was the women who went into the woods, seeking the morning dew among the new leaves. They bathed their faces and laughed. Superstition claimed the dew would keep them youthful forever. Once the sun rose, they hurried back to the village, drawn by the sound of music. The men were playing near the maypole, and the entire village was turned out to enjoy the festive moment.

“Is nae it grand?” Daphne muttered when she came close to Clarrisa. “I adore May Day!”

She danced away to the beat of the drums, becoming lost in the crowd of merrymakers. But Clarrisa felt her cheeks heat when Broen came into view. He looked just as strong and untamed as he had the first time she’d seen him, his shirt rolled up to display his forearms and the corded muscles she’d stroked. His blue eyes were fixed on her, and the morning light flickered off the sapphire set into the pommel of his sword. He was a dangerous man and expected to survive by his strength alone.

But he was also a tender lover.

The crowd dancing around the maypole was beginning to thin. Couples slipped away to celebrate the more wicked traditions of the festival. The May Queen was still dancing, but she was surrounded by young men who were all doing their best to entice her into leaving with them. The church preached against May Day, but the tradition went back further than anyone recalled. On one hand, no one wanted to take the chance that bad luck might befall them if they didn’t dance around the maypole; on the other hand, it was a fine day of festival, and no one wanted to give it up, even if it was nothing but hollow superstition.

If the May Queen conceived, it would be considered a sign of a plentiful harvest. Clarrisa envied the girl for a moment. Her life was not complicated by the need to maintain her virginity in order to catch a good husband. Whoever she allowed to lead her into the woods would gladly wed her if she ripened with a babe. Every boy competing for her attention knew the village would expect a wedding, and still they crowded around the May Queen.

But Broen MacNicols was looking at Clarrisa.

There was a wicked gleam in his eyes, and now that he was closer, she could see that he was in the mood to take up Edme’s challenge.

She gasped, her belly tightening with anticipation. A hot, wicked sense of excitement rippled through her, settling in her passage. The heat traveled up into her cheeks, setting off a blush that gained a grin from Broen.

A smug, arrogant one.

She propped her hands on her hips and tried to decide how to best the man. He was too sure of her favor; it was May Day, after all. So she joined the dancers, merging into the crowd. They stepped together in time to the music and swept along anyone not moving fast enough. She lost sight of Broen as she circled the maypole. The beat of the drums seemed to increase the pulse of need throbbing in her clitoris. When she danced close to the edge of the circle, she dashed out of the crowd and into the woods with her skirts held high.

Her heart was beating so fast she should have been worried, but all it did was make her light-headed. She looked back over her shoulder and shrieked when she caught sight of Broen. He was chasing her, his expression a mask of determination.

Well, she would not make it simple. Once she reached the woods, she darted between the trees with ease. She heard him mutter something in Gaelic.

“That will cost you a penitence.” She took refuge behind a tree and turned to face him.

“A mere drop in the bucket compared to what I’ll owe for what I plan to do with ye once I catch ye.” He stalked her around the tree, both of them breathing hard.

“So certain… Maybe I am not in the mood to entertain your whims,” she teased him pertly.

One fair eyebrow rose. “Ah… a challenge from the fair lass…” His expression darkened dangerously. “Are ye saying ye do nae want a taste of this?”

He raised his kilt, giving her a plain view of his erect cock. She should have found his actions vulgar, but the hunger burning in her passage doubled, her body feeling empty. She forgot to continue moving around the tree and ended up leaning against it while taking the opportunity to look at the piece of forbidden flesh. His cock was thick and long, and she recalled very well how much having it inside her had satisfied the need raging through her.

He dropped his kilt and reached out to grasp her wrist while she was distracted. She shrieked when he yanked her toward him, but it wasn’t a sound of fright. Instead it felt like she was too excited to contain all the emotion inside her.

“What have I caught?” he roared with victory. “A lass ripe for tumbling.”

He pressed a hard kiss against her mouth, but she returned it with equal strength. Her heartbeat had slowed but wasn’t completely normal, and she didn’t want to let the moment die. She wanted his strength, wanted him to ravish her.

He chuckled darkly, the sound rumbling through his chest as she gripped his head and kissed him. He caught the sides of her skirts and boldly lifted them until he could flatten his hands against her bare thighs. She shivered, overwhelmed by the sensation of his hands against such an intimate area. Her clitoris begged for attention, and she arched her back, shutting her eyes as he stroked her from hip to midthigh and then reached farther back to caress her bottom.

“I thought ravishing happened much faster.”

He gripped each side of her bottom, sending another spike of need through her. “Demanding, are nae ye?”

“As much so as you,” she countered.

He drew his hands around to her thighs once more. “Aye, ye’re that, all right, Clarrisa of the house of York.”

He lifted her off her feet, drawing a startled gasp from her lips. He pressed her back against the tree and kept her there with his body pressed against hers. He tossed her skirts aside and raised his kilt with more ease than she liked.

“Do nae frown, woman. I am nae quite as practiced in this art as ye are thinking.”

“I do not believe…”

He thrust smoothly into her, interrupting her thought process. A soft moan rose from her as she gripped his shoulders and savored the delight of being filled. It was delight too, a feeling of enjoyment so intense there was nothing else that mattered.

“I believe we both would rather be engaged in the business of ravishing…”

His tone was thick with need. His hands returned to her thighs and supported her while he made good on his promise. The pace was hard and fast with no hesitation, only the pair of them moving in unison to feed their need.

He cursed against when his seed erupted. She was struggling to draw breath, digging her fingers into his shoulders.

“That was too damned fast.” His head was buried against her neck, and both their hearts hammered away from the frantic pace they’d both employed.

“Well… if you cannot keep up, Broen…”

He lifted his head and eyed her. “There is spirit, and then there is hellish temperament.”

He let her legs down and pulled his sword off his back. He leaned it against the tree before lying down on the new spring grass growing between the tree trunks.

“Come, lass. Come lie with me in true May Day tradition.” He offered her his hand, and she took it. Soon she was nestled against his side, with her head pillowed on his shoulder. For a moment, they listened to the sounds of the birds calling to one another and the breeze gently rustling the new leaves. The grass smelled sweet and fresh. Somewhere, the earth was newly turned, and there was the scent of her lover’s skin too.

“Gaining an annulment will take time.” Broen stroked her hip. “Perhaps a long time.”

“I know,” she muttered.

He raised her face so she could lock stares with him. “Will ye wait, Clarrisa? I’ll no’ ask yer kin, for I cannae respect them for sending ye to be the king’s broodmare. So I’m asking ye to give me yer bond.”

He could do so much better, but he knew that. She might do better too, at least if she measured her success by titles or power.

“I’ll wait.”

There was no other answer, but her heart filled with happiness again when he smiled at her.

“I believe I’m falling in love with ye, Clarrisa, so it’s a good thing ye agreed.”

“Oh, is it now?”

He pressed her down when she tried to sit up all the way. “Aye, it is, for I’d have had to keep ye locked in me keep until I was sure.”

“And now that I’ve agreed to stay?” she asked.

“I’ll build another wall around me keep to ensure ye are well secured, for I do nae think I could bear to lose ye. I hope ye shall no’ miss yer home in England too greatly.”

“Oh, I was never anywhere for more than a season. My uncle feared I’d grow fond of one place over another, and he wanted to make sure I was willing to go wherever he directed. He also feared the Lancasters would overrun his lands.”

She meant it as a pleasant comment, but Broen stiffened. She lifted her head and witnessed his frowning. “It doesn’t matter.”

“I’m sorry ye do nae know what a home is, lass.”

He meant it—was angry on her behalf—and it touched her heart. He cared about her feelings, the single thing no one in her life had done since her mother died.

“Maybe you can teach me.”

He smiled and pressed her head back onto his shoulder. “I’d like to, lass.”

She smiled, hearing the echo of his promise as she drifted off into sleep. Broen MacNicols would do more than try; he’d succeed. She was sure of it.

***

“Norris Sutherland is at the gate!”

Broen stiffened and set her aside. He stepped in front of her, shielding her from the retainer who was running up the aisle toward them. The man stopped, laboring for breath.

“Norris Sutherland and his men are at the gate. He demands ye meet him.”

“Then he shall have it.” Broen sounded savage. “Two weeks was nae long enough for him to stay away from me gates.”

“Broen…”

“Mount up, lads!”

Broen turned to face her and cupped her face with a hand. It looked like he was trying to memorize her face, his gaze was so intense.

“Be here when I return, Clarrisa, as ye promised?”

It was a question. She heard it in his tone and nodded before she’d even thought about it. There was nothing to contemplate. Without a doubt, she never wanted to leave his side. The last two weeks had been pure bliss.

He was gone in another second, the longer pleats of his kilt swaying as he moved quickly across the hall. The men who’d been enjoying their meals all rose to follow him. Many paused to kiss their wives and children, but as the sound of horses came from the yard, all that was heard in the hall were muttered prayers.

***

“Maybe I’m just getting used to it, but it seems like this lot looks a bit meaner than the last two armies we faced.” Shaw’s voice lacked true humor. Broen couldn’t blame him, because he agreed. Norris’s men did look ready to draw blood, but Norris took to the center of the field, leaving his men behind.

“The man still has archers,” Shaw warned.

“And I still will nae be called a coward.” Broen kneed his stallion and let the animal have its freedom. Normally he enjoyed the surge of speed; today, all it did was twist the tension between his shoulder blades.

“What do ye want, Norris?”

“The look on yer face dares me to say ‘the York woman.’”

Broen cursed. “Over me dead body.”

Norris grew serious, staring at him for a long moment. “Are ye sure ye want to be so attached to her, Broen?”

“It is nae a question anymore. Those who want to quarrel with it will have to recall they had the chance to stand up when yer father asked for a man to step forward. I stole her, and I’m keeping her.”

“As yer leman?” Norris asked soberly. “Her family will nae give up a dowry easily.”

“They can keep it. I have what I want. I plan to wed her as soon as I gain an annulment,” Broen insisted. “Ye’re the one with the noble title to worry about bringing home a bride with more than her charms.”

“Kindly do nae remind me. Me father does so often enough.”

“If ye are nae here for Clarrisa, what brings ye with yer men looking ready to die?”

Norris reached into his doublet and pulled out a letter. A broken wax seal was still half-attached. “Lord Home has called to the Highlanders. The royalists are massing near Sauchieburn.”

He offered the letter, and Broen took it. The words were there, the ones that would tear him away from Clarrisa—possibly forever, if the battle didn’t go well for him.

“Then we go and pray for an end to this madness.”

He looked up at Deigh, battling the urge to go back inside and turn his back on the war getting ready to rage. It was not his way—had never been—but he was tempted to kiss Clarrisa once more before he rode out to uphold his duty.

***

A young gillie brought the news back to Deigh Tower. Women cried, and Edme collapsed into a chair. The few retainers left behind lowered the gate.

“The waiting will be hard to bear,” Edme muttered. Tears glistened in her eyes. Clarrisa took her hand, soothing it gently.

“It will not be so terrible, for we’ll have each other.”

Edme nodded, but the woman didn’t agree. She was going through the motions just as Clarrisa was. All the inhabitants of the castle shared the strain of knowing their fates were tied to the men who had just ridden out. There would be no mercy for the kin of traitors, and that would be their lot if the royalists won.

Clarrisa sat in the dark long after she’d pinched out the candle. How could it be so short a time since Broen had lain in the bed with her? Now it was a cold, desolate place that offered no haven nor comfort. Sleep didn’t come for hours, and even then, it was troubled. She saw the king’s face, with lust flickering in his eyes. Her sole comfort was the knowledge that she’d given her purity to the man of her choice.

A man worthy of it. The choice might cost her her head when James found her, but she would not regret it. If Broen died, she’d rather join him than live to further James’s ambition.

***

“Ye can stare at the camp all day, but ye’ll be left wondering if we have enough men or no’… Just like the rest of us.” Norris’s voice betrayed his frustration. The moment was too dark, too brooding for anything such as hope to brighten it. Well, there was one thing that would lift all their spirits—victory.

“I never thought the day would come when the MacNicols would rise up against their king,” Broen muttered.

“Or that ye’d lead them,” Norris finished. “A sentiment I share. Yet here I am, drawn here for the same reasons ye are. No matter how justified I remind myself I am, it still sticks in me throat.”

“Aye.” Broen ducked under the open flaps of the canvas tent that Norris lived out of. It was a large pavilion but not overly grand. Only a fool announced his fortune or title in a military camp. Or possibly a king.

Across the camp, the pavilion of the prince was flying the royal standard. Such was a clear statement from the young James, one his father couldn’t fail to understand, but there were rumors of talks between the prince and his father. There must have been substance to them, because no call to arms had been given.

“Eat with me, Broen. ’Tis a sad man who sups alone,” Norris remarked when one of his men brought in bowls of steaming soup.

“A sadder man who lets his friend eat his last meal alone,” Broen remarked.

“Aye, it might be that for both of us.”

The fare was bland and rustic, but it was hot, which was more than what a good number of the waiting ranks of men could expect. Every day they camped, the conditions worsened. The stench would rise from waste both animal and human. Food stores were guarded. The bowl of soup in his hand was the only thing Broen had consumed all day. Lack of provisions would take its toll on the strength of the force waiting to clash with the royalists.

“What are ye planning to do with Daphne MacLeod?” Norris asked.

Broen looked at him in surprise, but it quickly faded. “Kael spills details quicker than I’d believe he would.”

“I’m his ally, and I was very curious as to why Clarrisa left ye when it was plain it pained her greatly.”

Broen leaned forward, pointing a finger at Norris. “Ye’re fishing, man. There’s a reason I stay far away from court. I’ve no patience for the games of intrigue.”

Norris’s expression darkened. “Ye might be surprised to learn how much I agree with ye, but fate was nae so kind to me on where she placed me in this life. I have to play the games of court. Me clan would suffer if I did so poorly.”

“But no’ with me,” Broen insisted.

“As ye like,” Norris responded. “I wanted to know why that English lass left ye, and there were only a few reasons I could come up with. She obviously did nae hate ye, was nae greedy enough to jump at the offer I made for her—”

“Ye did what?” Broen demanded. The tent jerked as two of Norris’s retainers hurried inside to see what was happening. Norris waved them away, but they didn’t go instantly. They both eyed Broen suspiciously before tugging on the corners of their bonnets.

“Do ye think ye are the only one who has eyes, man?” Norris asked with a smugness that set Broen’s temper on edge.

“When it comes to Clarrisa, ye can bloody well aim yers elsewhere.”

Norris sat back in his chair, tapping his fingertips against one another. “Why should I do that? Me father has been hounding me for the last two years to bring home a match he’d approve of. A lass guaranteed to ruffle the fancy feathers of the new English king would do that full well.”

“Forget about her. She belongs to me.” He meant it with every fiber of his being, but Norris raised an eyebrow skeptically.

“Why? Because ye’ve had her?” He chuckled arrogantly. “I do nae care. She’s the daughter of a king.”

“She is going to be me wife as soon as the church grants me an annulment. Which I’ve already started the process for, since I know that will be yer next question.”

Norris smiled slowly. Broen cursed, realizing he’d played easily into Norris’s hands, spilling information without thinking.

“I do nae care what ye think ye’ve learned, Norris Sutherland. Tell yer father I’m going to wed her.”

“As soon as ye clear up the matter of yer betrothal to Daphne.”

Broen smiled slowly. “It will no’ be difficult now that the MacLeods are siding with the king.”

“We both hope for that.” Norris raised an eyebrow. “Daphne is content with yer plan to set her aside?”

Broen nodded. “I’m ashamed to admit she is the only one who saw sense when I was fighting over her with me best friend.”

“It is nae the first time such a thing has happened.”

Broen nodded. “Aye, but for the sake of greed, I am ashamed. I count meself a better friend than to allow a dowry to set me against a man I call friend.”

“That may not be a good-enough reason for the church. They will likely insist ye repent and wed her.”

“I know.” Broen growled the words, frustration eating at him. The church would most likely not grant him an annulment easily, because they’d blessed the union. They never liked recanting, because it set the example that what they did might be undone. Unless the bride with such a fine dowry chose the service of Christ instead.

“But I swear I’ll wed Clarrisa and no other.”

Norris tilted his head. “If ye live past this rebellion we’re taking part in.”

Commotion stirred outside the tent. Both men were on their feet and leaning out of the door to investigate.

“To arms! To arms! Negotiations have failed!”

The clans were massing, men opening their pouches of blue skin paint. Broen reached out and clasped Norris’s arm. “In case I do nae get the chance to wed her”—he reached inside his doublet and withdrew a folded parchment—“promise me ye’ll see any child she births before summer’s end legitimized as me heir.”

Norris clenched his fingers into a tight fist, but Broen sent him a hard look. Between Highlanders, a last request could not be refused, not when it came to the future of the clan.

“Ye’re me overlord, Norris, since yer father is nae here. Take the letter, me pledge that Clarrisa came to me pure and that I could no’ wed her because of the betrothal, but that I planned to. Do yer duty, man.”

Norris grabbed the letter and shouted for his secretary. “We might both be dead before nightfall.”

Aye, they might, but at least Broen would go to his grave knowing he’d done right by the woman he’d failed to confess his love to.

***

Time could be cruel. Each day was an eternity. Clarrisa tried to fill the hours with hard work, but sleep still eluded her when she sought her bed. She was not the only inhabitant of Deigh suffering so. After the supper dishes were cleared away, the women sat on the benches, none of them eager to seek their beds. The youngest children were immune to the unhappiness of their elders, but the hall still seemed too quiet.

They were all waiting. By day, the road was empty. The merchants normally expected during spring were missing too. The fields turned green as the animals carried on.

Yet they still waited.

Dawn became a blessing because it meant she could leave her bed. The floor was no longer icy cold when she walked over to the window to open the shutters.

“I thought ye’d be awake early.” Edme spoke quietly. “The cobbler finished yer boots. They are nae made of anything as fine as ye arrived wearing, but they will keep yer feet dry here in the Highlands.”

“They are perfect.” Clarrisa eagerly pulled on stockings so she might try out the ankle boots. They were made of butternut leather, and the first one slid onto her foot easily. It closed with a long length of leather, which was woven around silver buttons. “The buttons are too fine.”

“Nay, it’s important to show yer position to any who might think to trifle with ye.”

Clarrisa fought off a tightening in her chest. “I don’t have position here, and it’s the honest truth that I am relieved it is so. I am so tired of being mindful of my actions because someone in my family believes I will cost them their coveted positions.” She stood and tested the new boots. “I know I am being disrespectful, but I am not sorry.”

Edme was smiling when she turned to look at her. The older woman laughed when she caught sight of the confusion on Clarrisa’s face.

“Ye’re adapting to the Highlands well,” she declared. “A feat many a Highlander will claim is impossible for any English person.”

Clarrisa smiled, enjoying the praise more than any she’d ever received from Maud. Someone was running up the stairs, their hurried steps pounding louder and louder as they neared. They knocked only once before opening the door.

Daphne stood there, with her face flushed but her eyes full of joy. “The king has been killed in battle, and the prince is to be crowned!”

She was clutching a letter, and Clarrisa reached for it without thinking. “What news of Broen?”

Daphne’s smile faded. “There is none.”

She spoke the truth, and it chilled Clarrisa’s heart. She read the letter twice, searching the bottom for any small mark that might indicate Broen had written it but forgotten to press his signet ring into the seal.

There was nothing. The letter suddenly became horrible, because if someone else had sent them news, it might well be that Broen wasn’t alive to see to the task.

No news had been better, for now she felt as though her heart was breaking. A soft sob echoed inside the chamber, and she thought she’d lost control of her emotions, only to realize it was Edme. Tears streamed down her wrinkled cheeks, the same horror Clarrisa struggled against burning brightly in her eyes.

Was he gone? Was the only thing left to her the memory of their brief time together?

“You were right, Edme… We do squander too many chances for joy…”

***

“He may live, yer grace.” The surgeon was tired, and his apron stained with blood.

“But ye do nae know for sure?” Prince James asked, appearing too solemn for his age. The surgeon rubbed his eyes. Well, maybe not too solemn, for the day was grim. Scot had fought against Scot, so all the losses were theirs.

“The wound is nae mortal, but it is deep. His age is in his favor.”

“Thank ye for yer time.”

The surgeon inclined his head before leaving the massive pavilion. There were men dying in the dirt; the one he’d left behind at least had a bed to rest on—not that it made much difference when it came to his wound. He’d been cut as easily as the other common men.

“My prince, there are other matters that need yer attention now that yer father is dead,” Lord Home announced.

James turned on his mentor, startling him with how dark his expression was. “I wanted no part of causing his death.”

“A battle cannae be controlled, no’ when so many were set against yer father due to his own weaknesses.”

James turned to look at the man struggling to draw breath on his bed. His face was white, but he opened his eyes and stared at him.

“Do nae look so grim, me young king. I’m nae listening to the angels just yet.”

James sat on the edge of the bed as Lord Home came close. “Is there anything I can do for ye?”

“Aye.” He reached inside his doublet and withdrew a parchment stained with his own blood. “I’m bound by me honor to see to this woman. Hold it for me, and see it done if I do no’ open me eyes again.”

Lord Home took the letter before unfolding it and reading the contents. “The York bastard,” he muttered.

“Aye…” Norris confirmed. “Yer word to see to the matter would be welcome.”

“I shall,” James assured him.

Norris Sutherland held the king’s stare for a long moment before his eyelids slid shut.

“We must deal with this immediately,” Lord Home insisted.

James turned to look at his adviser. “Laird Sutherland only asked us to see to it in the event he cannot. It is his duty.”

Lord Home was already seated before his writing desk. He lifted the lid and retrieved a new piece of parchment.

“Lord Home,” James insisted. “We shall respect Laird Sutherland’s wishes.”

Home looked past him at Norris. “He is gravely wounded, most likely will not live to see the Sabbath day. Besides, his father is Laird Sutherland. It will be his sire ye need to worry about keeping on friendly terms.”

The prince stiffened. “Then we shall search for Laird MacNicols.”

“He stood next to Norris Sutherland when the royalists swarmed down on our line. I doubt the man survived.” Home dipped a quill into an inkwell. “In any case, the York bastard is a threat to ye.”

“How can that be so when my father is now dead?” the prince demanded softly. He was searching for the courage to insist on his way. Home put down the quill, and the young man nodded approvingly.

“Yes, I will go and search for Laird MacNicols. It is a simple matter, one I am certain Laird Sutherland would approve of, since it might well be his son’s dying request.”

“A sound plan, yer grace.”

The prince headed for the opening of the pavilion, the royal guards closing around him. Home watched him go, taking a moment to watch the prince take the helmet one of his men offered. The boy was young, too young to understand that blood ties with England were the devil’s curse for Scotland. He picked up the quill and dipped it once more. The York bastard must be dealt with.

Such was a burden he’d have to shoulder for the young prince. Once maturity settled upon him, he’d come to understand that the woman could not be left alive.

***

“Another letter…”

It was one of the kitchen women who ran into the hall. Her cheeks were flushed with excitement.

“The laird is alive! He’s sent a letter, and there’s men from the prince’s own ranks here to escort ye to his side.”

She ran up to the high table but froze, nibbling on her lower lip as she looked between Edme and Clarrisa, trying to decide whom to give the letter to. Edme’s slip had traveled far now, and there was unlikely a single soul who didn’t know she was Broen’s mother. Clarrisa pointed toward Edme.

“Nae.” The head of house rejected her gesture. “Ye’ll be the mistress here soon as the laird returns to wed ye. ’Tis yer right.”

“Many things may be, but for this moment, ye are the laird’s mother and I am naught.”

The letter still remained unclaimed, but the hall was growing silent, the MacNicols leaning in to catch each word.

“Naught but his leman, which means something here in the Highlands,” Edme insisted. “An important position.”

“So is being his mother,” Clarrisa muttered.

Edme frowned, but Clarrisa bore up to the hard stare. “You did tell me you enjoyed your position here, Edme.”

Edme grunted and took the letter. “Ye turn me words against me.”

She read the letter and frowned when she was finished. “He’s sent for ye…”

Daphne reached over and clasped Clarrisa’s hand, but there was a deep frown on Edme’s face.

“And yet there is no seal.”

Edme handed the letter over, both Daphne and Clarrisa leaning in to read it.

There was no seal, but she wanted to believe in the letter. “It’s doubtful he had any wax… He does say there are many in need of care. Who could take time to bring him wax while there is suffering?”

“A reasonable thing to think. Still…” Edme tapped the tabletop, clearly debating the request.

“It’s hardly a matter for great concern. I’ll go and help,” Clarrisa muttered. Her heart was filling with joy, and the fact that the other two women weren’t sharing it threatened to strangle her budding hope. She couldn’t bear going back to fearing Broen was dead.

“It is a matter for concern and contemplation,” Edme insisted. “If this letter is written falsely and the laird is dead, our only hope lies in the fact that ye have nae bled.”

“Any child I might carry would be illegitimate.” Edme slowly smiled, and even Daphne grinned. The maids near the hearth shook their heads as Clarrisa struggled to understand their humor.

“Better illegitimate than the clan forfeited to the crown.” Edme spoke firmly. “I could swear that ye have been with no other and that ye were pure when ye went to his bed. It would be enough.”

Things were happening too fast. Clarrisa felt her thoughts spinning around too quickly to catch. “Surely there is a cousin.”

Edme shook her head. “Why do ye think me child inherited the lairdship? There is no other. And those who come after this bloodline, there are several and sure to be fighting if it comes to that.”

“It’s why his father came to fetch me back when I refused to honor the marriage agreement,” Daphne muttered. “He knew his days were drawing to an end, and it was time his son had an heir.” Daphne reached for Edme’s hands. “Forgive me.”

For a moment, it appeared Edme would deny Daphne her request. There was a hard look in her eyes, but she nodded at last. “I cannae condemn ye for wanting what I craved in me own life: choice. Besides, ye were correct. The match with ye was poisoning me son against his best friend. Ye’ve a fine heart for thinking of them instead of the position ye would have gained by marrying.”

“Well… I want my choice too,” Clarrisa declared. “I am going. We are speaking as though we have been sent word of his death, when that is not so. I will not discuss the future without Broen.” She felt that remaining inside Deigh would smother her. Edme was frowning, clearly set against the idea, but Clarrisa stood. “I am going,” she insisted.

“Ye cannae. As I think upon the matter, I do nae believe Broen would send for ye. The times are too uncertain. He’d want ye here, protected.”

Clarrisa shook her head, unwilling to hear any further argument. “If I cannot believe he sent for me because he needs me by his side as greatly as I desire to be there, there is no reason for me to be here when he returns.” She turned, unable to stand still any longer.

“Well, I’m going with ye,” Daphne announced. Edme slapped the tabletop in her displeasure.

“Do nae encourage her to this rash action.”

Daphne nodded agreement but still moved to stand beside Clarrisa. “Sometimes ye have to take rash action for the greater good. If Broen is in need of care, we cannae allow him to think Clarrisa will nae come to him. Neither should we leave him at the mercy of rough care.”

Edme sighed. “Ye have me with that argument, but do nae tell the escort who is whom. Keep at least that much private.”

Clarrisa felt her belly tighten. It was a mixture of apprehension and excitement. At least it meant an end to waiting. Edme’s warning drove home how easy it would be for the men waiting outside to be deceptive. Once she left the tower, she’d be at their mercy.

“We won’t,” Daphne insisted. “They won’t know which of us is English if we keep our lips sealed.”

It was a small amount of shelter, but Clarrisa was grateful. Tears stung her eyes, for she felt part of something at last, not just the orphan child tolerated because she might have value someday.

***

“The pair of ye are the quietest females I’ve ever met.”

Clarrisa and Daphne held their silence, and the captain of their escort shook his head.

“No’ that I care, no’ a bit. Me duty is to escort ye, naught else.”

He turned back to his men while Clarrisa breathed a tiny sigh of relief. Daphne echoed the sound while shooting her a quick look.

The Highlands were behind them now, too far for them to escape back to the protection of Deigh Tower. The twenty men who’d come with the letter kept them surrounded as they marched toward the Lowlands.

The farther south they went, the taller the crops grew. But what drew Clarrisa’s attention was the way they were trampled on either side of the road. At first, it was only a few feet, then a full yard, and then several yards on either side of the road were flattened. The destruction marked the path of an army. The fields were empty of people, making for an unsettling feeling. She could feel death on the wind.

The horses smelled the battlefield first—tossing their heads and trying to turn around. Packs of filthy men began to pass them now, their hair marked with dirt and dried blood. They carried their wounded, eyeing their horses hungrily, but her escort held the standard of the prince, and the survivors cleared the road for them. The unlucky were lying on the side of the road where they had fallen and died of their wounds, their clansmen unable to take them home because they had no wagons. Once they crested the next hill, it was clear why there were no wagons for the survivors.

The battlefield was strewn with wreckage. Carts and wagons lay smoldering while the bodies of the fallen were left as a silent testament to the cost of victory. Horses and men alike were twisted in the last moments of their existence. Already the stench was growing unbearable.

“Sweet Mary…” Daphne muttered. Their escort swallowed roughly, gripping their reins tighter.

Clarrisa struggled to hold on to her hope. She’d know if he was dead…

Tears stung her eyes as they rode around the edge of the carnage. She was deluding herself. So many men lay staring at the sky, the light gone from their eyes. Crows circled, their cries sending shivers down her spine. Nausea gripped her, but she honestly didn’t know if it was the stench or the sight that sickened her most. Shame touched her, for the truth was that her yearning was for Broen. What turned her stomach was the fear that his was among the rotting bodies.

I’d know… I’d feel it in my heart…

She prayed she was right.

***

“Which one?”

The captain shrugged. “I do nae know, my Lord Home. They both came out, and they are both fair-haired.”

Lord Home paced back and forth in front of Clarrisa and Daphne. “Who is the York girl?”

Daphne raised her hand before Clarrisa did.

“No, she isn’t. I am,” Clarrisa insisted.

Lord Home frowned. “That’s a piss-poor English accent if ever I heard one.” He delivered a sharp slap to her cheek that popped loudly. Norris opened his eyes where he still rested in a bed behind Lord Home.

“You may both die, if that is your wish,” Lord Home announced, but he was distracted by a commotion that was rising outside the tent. He walked out, disappearing from sight as they heard him join the argument.

“Ye are still playing a dangerous game—both of ye,” Norris remarked with more strength than he appeared to have. He looked toward the tent opening. “But once more fate is siding with ye. Come here now.”

He sat up, gritting his teeth but making no sound. He pulled a dirk from the inside of his boot. “That’s the prince raising a fuss out there. Slit the side of the tent and escape before Home soothes the youth. If yer luck holds, the royal guard will be watching the commotion and ignoring the back of this pavilion.”

“If they aren’t?” Clarrisa asked.

Norris leaned back on his elbow. “Ye’ll miss getting the chance to say yer prayers before Home has ye murdered.” He tugged his signet ring off. “Take this. Me men will take care of ye.”

“Did you have word of Broen?”

“Nay.” He pointed at the canvas wall near the headboard. “Go now, Clarrisa, or ye will nae have the chance to look for yer heart mate.”

Daphne wasn’t lingering. She took the dirk and rent the canvas, right next to the bed so it would go unnoticed longer.

“Go now,” Norris muttered before standing. His face turned white, pain filling his eyes, but he made it to his feet and walked toward the doorway. He stood there, providing them with the chance to leave and giving himself an alibi.

Daphne sucked in a breath before she slipped through the slit. Clarrisa waited but heard no cry for her to halt. Daphne reached back into the tent for her. With a deep breath, Clarrisa followed. No one noticed them, because everyone’s attention was on the fight happening in front of the tent.

Clarrisa tightened her hand around the ring as Daphne gripped her wrist and led her between other tents. The fight faded as they searched for the banners of the Earl of Sutherland.

“There…” Daphne muttered. “Pray, Clarrisa, for I have no faith in anything else at the moment.”

***

“Where did they go?” Lord Home demanded.

Norris shivered and looked about the tent as though searching for the women. “I… I heard ye and the prince…” he muttered.

“Ye shall not question him further, Lord Home.” James spoke sharply. “The surgeon told ye he was near death.”

“So he did,” Home replied, but Norris saw the suspicion glittering in his eyes. Norris played his part, lying still, as though his walk to the door had overtaxed him. In truth, he was itching to be free of the tent, but Home would follow him the moment he left. The women needed more time to escape.

So he lay back, allowing the prince to believe him weak. But it was a dangerous game, one that might end in his death if Home decided he knew too much. For the moment, though, he had to stay put. Broen MacNicols owed him a large favor—so long as they were both among the living by dawn, a fact he wasn’t entirely sure of.

***

“I’ve got to get ye both away from this camp.” Gahan Sutherland was a huge man. His hair was black as midnight, and his hands massive. He turned the ring over several times before slipping it into his pouch.

“Strip out of those dresses.” He didn’t give them any time to argue, pointing at Clarrisa and Daphne. “And thank Christ both of ye have short hair, or I’d be cutting it off. Ye’ll dress as lads—and even that may not be enough to get ye out of this camp as more than corpses. Undress while I fetch ye some clothing.”

He was gone only a few moments before he ducked under the rod holding up the top of the tent and threw a bundle of clothing at them. “Get into these and grab me sword and shield before ye attend me outside.”

“So now we’re lads…” Daphne muttered as she tried to buckle the belt to hold the kilt around her waist.

“You’ve come a far distance from life in the convent,” Clarrisa whispered.

Daphne gasped, but her eyes filled with merriment. She smothered her amusement behind a hand. “Ye’re wicked, Clarrisa.”

“She is English, nothing more foul on this earth, except perhaps the stench of English royal blood.” Lord Home stood in the doorway with his men behind him. “Something I plan to rid this country of.”

***

She should have been afraid, but all she felt was a sense of calmness that settled deep, feeling like it was seeping into her bones.

Lord Home motioned his men toward her, but Clarrisa stepped forward. Daphne tried to hold on to her, but she gently twisted her wrist from the girl’s grip.

“I am finished with these games,” she announced. Surprise flickered in Home’s eyes, but she focused on the admiration on the faces of his men. She’d not die a coward.

Once outside the tent, she drew more than one curious stare. “Well now, my Lord Home, shall you slit my throat here for all to see?”

“Be silent, woman,” he growled.

Boldness flooded her, sparking a rebellious desire inside her. “I think not. If your plan is to murder me, I believe all should know you are not satisfied by your victory.”

“I told ye to be silent!” Lord Home hissed.

“Clarrisa of the house of York doesn’t often keep her mouth shut.” Clarrisa jerked around, certain Broen’s ghost had arrived, because the man had sworn to protect her.

“She does so because she is the daughter of a king.” Broen was filthy. His shirt was brown with dried blood, and his kilt sliced in several places. Mud was caked to his boots all the way to his knees, but he was the finest sight she had ever beheld. She launched herself toward him, only to be caught by the royal guards.

“Laird MacNicols… we feared ye dead.” Lord Home spoke softly. The man didn’t care for how many men were clustered about them. “Let us retire to the royal pavilion.”

“As ye like, so long as ye tell yer men to get their hands off mywoman.” Broen’s voice was deadly, and he’d raised his sword, his eyes bright with challenge. The royal guards closed around Lord Home, obviously fearing for their master’s safety.

The fear she hadn’t felt earlier arrived now, choking her. Had she found him only to watch him die because of her careless behavior?

“Now there, me lads… is a fine example of what happens when a Highlander steals a woman.” Kael Grant appeared beside Broen, looking as battle-worn and determined. He held his sword up, standing shoulder to shoulder with Broen. “So I suggest ye do what he says. Unlike the rest of ye, the battle has nae really ended for us.”

“Put down your swords. To threaten me is to threaten the prince,” Lord Home declared.

The guards holding Clarrisa didn’t agree; they released her with a shrug. She ran through the space between her and Broen, reaching for the man she’d longed so much for. He held her only for a moment, but she was sure it was a lifetime.

“To hold her is treason, Laird MacNicols, but ye are welcome to share her execution,” Home muttered before marching back toward his pavilion. He raised his hand and waved his guards at them, but one look from Broen and the guards tugged on the corners of their bonnets, waiting to follow them to the royal pavilion.

“Clarrisa, lass… why is it ye are never where I leave ye?” He’d pulled her close and buried his head in her hair. She heard him draw in a deep breath, the arm binding her to him quivering. One of the royal guards cleared his throat.

“’Tis a damned sad day when a man returns from death’s doorstep and cannae take a moment to enjoy his woman’s embrace.”

“Aye, it is that, makes me wonder what I’ve been bleeding for,” Kael stridently agreed. Several of the guards looked away, unable to maintain their determined stares.

“A letter arrived. It was signed with your name, Broen. Claiming ye needed me here to tend ye,” she explained.

Kael stepped close while Broen still held her to him. “Whose men escorted ye here?” Broen demanded softly. The seriousness in his expression made her shiver because it was clear their situation was as precarious as she believed. Lord Home might have her executed for no other reason than the blood flowing through her veins. But what frightened her was the determination in Broen’s eyes to shield her, with his own life if necessary.

“Lord Home’s. Norris is there in the royal pavilion. He gave me his signet ring, but we were discovered.”

Kael muttered something. “Norris is playing a damned dangerous game to be resting his head there when his own men are here.” Broen looked around, his muscles tensing.

Kael shook his head. “We’ve no chance of success. No’ with our men on the other side of the camp and all of us fresh from the field. Better to see if we can play it out. Norris is clearly of the same mind or he’d no’ be lying down in that royal pavilion. I’d bet me lairdship on it.”

“Aye, and the fact that he gave his signet ring says he can be trusted.”

Determination flickered in Broen’s eyes, and it gave her confidence, but there was something else there, something that sent a sickening twist of dread through her.

***

“Where is the prince?” Broen demanded.

“He’s gone to confession. His Majesty is besieged by guilt over his father’s passing. He’ll likely be gone for hours,” Lord Home informed them from behind his desk. His tone was smug, and he casually reached for a goblet of wine before looking at them.

The royal guards had had no difficulty in releasing her, but they had also escorted Broen along with her into the pavilion she’d so recently escaped. Fate had a misplaced sense of humor.

“I shall continue to make decisions that have His Majesty’s best interests at heart,” Lord Home declared.

She could hear him condemning her, but what sickened her was the fact that Broen was standing beside her. That was the horror she could not bear.

“Laird MacNicols does not need to share my fate. I became his mistress to have a place.” She almost choked on the words but still forced herself to continue. “My uncle raised me to always consider gaining the best position I might.”

“Poppycock,” Broen announced. “She’s the woman I plan to wed because I damned well want to. Ye’re a bloody bastard to go after my woman while I’m out fighting to protect yer interests.”

“Don’t listen to him… He has a noble heart and wants to protect me,” Clarrisa offered quickly. “I duped him into believing I have affection for him, but I couldn’t ever have tender feelings for a Scotsman.” She tried but failed to put as much disgust in her tone. At least she kept her chin level and her stare unwavering.

Lord Home smiled at her, but it wasn’t a pleasant expression. “Rebellion shall not be tolerated, no matter the reason. The prince will be crowned, and only those loyal to him will be left in Scotland.”

He looked beyond her. “Slit her throat and run through any man who steps into yer path.”

Broen let out a snarl, but he had been disarmed, and the royal guards were all armed with pikes. The men lowered their weapons, pointing the deadly iron tips at them. A sense of calm gripped her, and she stepped forward, confident in her choice. Broen snarled softly and dug his hand into the back of her dress to yank her back.

“Release me, Broen,” she muttered her words kindly, but the expression she witnessed on his face was one of the Highlander she’d faced when he first stole her.

“Nae a chance in hell, woman. Ye belong to me, and any man who threatens ye will face me.”

He pulled her behind him, and Kael planted a hard hand on her shoulder to yank her behind him as well. Horror gagged her as the royal guards squared their shoulders and stepped forward with their pikes aimed at Broen.