Highlander's Prize (32 page)

“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.”