Highlander's Prize (13 page)

Her English accent sent the retainer back away from her. Broen chuckled as he jumped down and hooked an arm around her waist.

“This is young Clarrisa, me guest at the request of the Earl of Sutherland.” He gripped the belt holding the plaid to her waist and brushed the plaid back from her head to make sure his men got a good look at her face. “She’ll be staying, and I will nae be pleased to hear any of ye have allowed her past the gate.”

More than a hundred people leaned closer to peer at her. Broen stood half behind her as they studied her.

“I can stand my own ground,” she snapped before turning to face him. “I am no coward.”

He raised an eyebrow. The same man she’d awakened to find watching her while she slept. She felt the weight of his authority. He was master of the fortress, his word law to every living soul watching them, but she still wasn’t willing to return to the meek manners that had seen her following her family’s orders to go to Scotland.

Instead, she lifted her chin and offered him her best interpretation of the grin he so often vexed her with. “I need no help to face down those intent on helping you imprison me.”

The crowd grew silent and pressed in closer to see what their laird would make of her refusal. For a moment, a gleam of appreciation appeared in Broen’s eyes, but it transformed into a flame of challenge so quickly she didn’t have time to step back before he moved.

“Be careful how ye label things, lass.” His tone warned her that he was willing to match her defiance of convention with some of his own. “Because I might be of the mind to prove ye right.” He lowered his shoulder and tossed her right over it. A cheer went up as his people began to clap and whistle.

Her temper exploded, and she refused to hang over his shoulder like some prize. But the moment she straightened, he smacked her bottom. The shock of it sent her back over his shoulder, and he turned in a swirl of kilt to carry her up the steps and into Deigh Tower.

“I’m owing me overlord for sending me after this one, lads!”

Broen didn’t stay on the ground floor. He climbed several flights of stairs before bursting through a door. Several women gasped before laughing at the sight of him carrying her like a sack of grain.

“I’ve brought ye something,” he announced before tossing her off his shoulder. For a moment she was cradled in his arms, against his chest like a babe. She caught just a glimpse of his grin before he tossed her into something.

“Holy Mother of Christ!” she shouted as she landed in a tub full of water. It splashed up in a huge wave as she frantically tried to control her landing. She ended up sprawled on her backside with her feet in the air and her arms grasping the sides of the tub. Water soaked her body, covering her to midchest because the tub was so large.

“So ye do know how to curse.” Broen stood with his hands propped on his hips. The sword pommel with its sapphire glittered above his left shoulder, while his golden hair was still only held out of his eyes by a single braid, and his doublet was open to the waist. He looked as wild and untamed as he had the first time she’d seen him, and she felt like scratching his eyes out. In fact, her hands curled into talons as she began to push herself out of the tub. He planted a hand in the center of her chest to keep her on her back.

“Ye’ll learn, Clarrisa, to respect my will here. Display that wild streak of yers too publicly, and I will be happy to tame it… so all can witness it.”

The women in the room smothered their laughter.

“You will never—”

He sealed the rest of her denial beneath a kiss. He grasped a handful of her wet clothing and lifted her so he could silence her with his lips. It was hard and demanding. But enjoyment still raced through her even as she began to throw water at him. He shook his head when he straightened, flinging water from his hair.

“I accept yer challenge,” he announced before looking across the room. “Me guest does nae like the way she smells. It seems I’ve brought home one of the few Englishwomen who does nae like to stink. Bathe her.”

It was an order. Every woman in the room lowered herself immediately. If looks could kill, Broen MacNicols would have died right there in front of her. Instead, she watched the pleats of his kilt swaying before he disappeared behind a solid door.

“Brute!”

She might as well have saved her breath, for the only thing her shouting did was renew the laughter surrounding her. Four maids began stripping off her shoes and stockings as she tried to climb out of the tub. Her dress had soaked up so much water her exhausted body refused to stand under its weight. She would have protested as the women began to remove it, but she was too busy sighing with relief.

Brute… Highlander.
The words seemed to mean the same thing.

***

“Ye’re better off no’ seeping in such dark thoughts.”

The woman speaking had Maud’s years but her voice lacked the pinched tone the English matron had always used.

“I’m named Edme.”

Clarrisa lowered herself. She was already finishing the respectful gesture before she realized how long it had been since she had offered anyone a gesture so polite. It seemed ages. Somehow she’d completely lost track of time since Broen had taken her.

“Ye have pretty manners, a credit to yer family,” Edme muttered. The woman had on a sturdy wool dress with a piece of the MacNicols plaid held on her right shoulder with a silver brooch. A belt secured it around her waist. On her head, she wore a knit bonnet similar to the one Broen wore. Clarrisa decided she liked it better than the pressed linen caps her uncle made the servants in his household wear.

“Not really. They had me trained to please whoever paid the most for me.” Clarrisa covered her mouth with one hand, horrified by how bitter she sounded.

“What of yer mother? Mothers teach their children manners because it is their duty. We’d be savages otherwise.”

Highlanders were savages. At least, she’d heard it said many a time. Clarrisa bit her lip, clamping down on the impulse to be surly.

“My mother died when I was only a few winters old. I only recall her face because my uncle had a miniature of her and he allowed me to see it sometimes.” When he was in the mood to impress upon her what fine things might be hers if she caught the eye of a titled man. Clarrisa began pulling a comb through her drying hair once more. Anger and discontent were brewing inside her, but it was becoming impossible to direct her feeling completely toward Broen. She certainly detested the man for treating her like a sack of grain, but she was still grateful to him for taking her away from the Scottish king’s plans, which left her standing in a swirling cloud of discontent. She had no idea what to hope for. Not having anything to look forward to left her feeling like the ground was giving way beneath her feet.

“Here now. I’ve brought ye some supper. A full belly will lift that dark humor from yer face. Ye look bone weary and half-starved. I’m nae surprised. The laird travels quickly when he’s off his own land, a good habit in times like these when we are nae sure which clans are royalist.” The older woman brought a tray forward and placed it on the small table near the fire. “Sit here until yer hair is dry. The Highlands are no place for wet tresses after nightfall.”

“Your laird tossed me into the tub.” Clarrisa had to set down the comb because the scent of food had set her hand to trembling. Her belly rumbled, low and loud. She had never smelled food so enticing before. Her mouth actually watered.

“Aye… I’ve heard the tale several times over already.” Edme lifted the cover off a soup terrine, and a puff of steam rose. “Never known the laird to give up his hot bath for a lass before. Right kind of him.”

“Kind—”

Edme raised an eyebrow at her tone. Clarrisa shut her mouth with a click of her teeth. A small smile appeared on the older woman’s lips.

“Yer mother would be proud of ye,” she decided with a nod.

Clarrisa shook her head and reached for the spoon lying neatly beside the bowl. “If you’ve heard the tale, you know my behavior has been less than perfect.”

The stew was still hot, thanks to the heavy silver bowl someone must have warmed before ladling the meal into it. She sighed as she swallowed and scooped up another spoonful quickly. She was too hungry to control the urge to eat fast.

“Ye’re in the Highlands. Spirit is respected here. Ye’d nae have survived the trip if ye did nae have enough of it.”

Clarrisa stared at Edme as she turned and went to the room’s huge bed. The feet were carved like lion’s paws, and two full rampant animals dominated the headboard. Edme tugged down the coverlet, exposing creamy linens.

“Is this Broen’s chamber?”

The spoon was halfway to her lip as she noticed the fine table and chairs near the window. Costly squares of glass were set into the windows, and the tub was an overlarge one.

“As I told ye, the laird gave up his bath for ye.” Edme came back toward her. “But it’s good to see that dressing robe used. The laird never wears it, mind ye. He’s young enough no’ to be bothered by the chill of night. Still, some of the younger maids find it shocking when they see him walking about in naught but skin after his bath.”

Naught
but
skin?

Her eyes went wide as heat rose in her cheeks. She stuffed another spoonful of stew into her mouth to prevent voicing some careless comment. The dressing robe was thick. Even with only a chemise beneath it, she was warm.

“I’ve told ye plenty of times, Edme, no’ to put the lasses to work hauling water up here. I’ll bathe in the bathhouse.”

Clarrisa dropped the spoon and stood. Broen stood near the doorway, wearing only his kilt and a shirt that had its collar lying open.

“What are you doing here?” Clarrisa demanded.

He lifted one eyebrow. “It’s me chamber, as Edme just told ye.” He walked toward the bed and placed his sword on two iron poles protruding from the stone wall. The pommel lay within reach of the bed.

“Ye’re the laird now. Privacy is yer due,” Edme muttered while inclining her head.

Broen wasn’t watching his clanswoman. His blue eyes were on Clarrisa. The chamber was lit only by candles now, the fire in the hearth no more than a glowing bed of coals. The golden light danced off drops of water left in his hair.

“I admit, Edme, yer persistence in continuing me father’s tradition of bathing up here came in right handy tonight.”

“I disagree,” Clarrisa informed him. Her voice trembled, and she bit her lip before adding more to her statement. She needed to find her composure, and quickly, before the man decided she was besotted enough by his charms to fall easily into his bed.

His
kisses
certainly
scatter
your
wits…

Broen chuckled. “Well now, Clarrisa, I’m going to call ye fickle, for ye railed at me about how ye did nae care for the stench our journey had left ye with.”

“That was not an invitation for you to carry me to your chamber like some prize. After all, I was telling you about the wisdom of us remaining separated.”

“That does nae mean I agreed with ye, lass.” He closed the space between them. “Ye’re me prize, sure enough, one that will help ensure the king cannae begin any new trouble.”

“Why are you not loyal to your king?” It would have been better not to ask. Learning about him would only make it so much harder to maintain distance between them.

All traces of teasing left his face. “A king must earn his loyalty by dispensing justice when his nobles come to him. Me father was murdered in cold blood, and James refused to even see me. I will nae follow him when he’s so selfish as to leave such a grave matter undecided, which will lead to feuding. I want justice, no’ having to listen to the mothers of me retainers weeping because their sons are run through this summer now that the Grants know the king will allow them to get away with whatever they want. I and me men will have to protect our own, or blood will flow.”

“How will bringing me here help?”

“Me father died on me neighbor’s land. Donnach Grant will nae face me to explain what happened, which leaves me men demanding vengeance. Me overlord was willing to trade the favor of backing me cause if I made sure the king did nae get the York-blooded son he craved.”

Anger smoldered in his eyes, and she struggled against the wave of compassion that swept through her. “A just cause, but I should be free to leave now that you have prevented your king from using me, not kept here by your order.”

He crossed his arms over his chest and considered her for a long moment. “To go where?”

“Well”—she searched her memory—“I have a cousin who would most likely welcome me.”

“A relation who does nae obey the will of yer uncle?”

Her uncertainty must have shown on her face, because Broen scoffed at her. “Where would ye end up next time? In whose bed, lass? Or beneath whose blade?”

Heat licked across her skin as she noticed that his bed was too close for her comfort. The knowledge that they were in his chamber refused to be pushed aside. She suddenly realized Edme had left silently. “Not yours, Broen MacNicols. You can put the thought straight out of your head.”