by Siobhan Muir
As the eldest tavern keeper’s daughter, Isabelle ran the errands early in the morning before the tavern opened, but today she hurried her steps to the door of MacClanahan’s Bakery more for the company than her errands. Inside the warmth of the bakery resided the one and only person Isabelle trusted in the village. Marie Claire MacClanahan was an outsider, like Isabelle, except Marie had been born in Marseilles and grew up the daughter of a merchant family known for their flours. She’d been the best baker in all of Marseilles, aside from her mother, and a wild, fiery woman no one could tame, much to her parents’ chagrin.
Marie had met her husband, Hamish MacClanahan, when the Wiley Nymph, a Scottish merchant ship, had stopped in Marseilles. They had a wildly romantic story of their courtship that Isabelle loved to hear before Marie accepted his marriage proposal and fled to Lochmore Cott with him. The village had never had a better set of bakers, even before Hamish married, and the village fell in love with Marie.
The Frenchwoman was petite and delicate, like the expensive porcelain dolls Isabelle had seen at the county faire, but the fire burning beneath the irises of her blue eyes made her formidable. Glorious golden-blonde hair made her stand out among the other village women, but she kept it braided in an unusual weaving style to the back of her head. Pencil-thin, arching brows always gave her an amused, sly expression, and she could often make the men in the village blush with a flick of her hair over her shoulder and a quick sway of her hips.
Isabelle had liked the little Frenchwoman immediately and found her forthrightness about sexuality and intimacies between men and women refreshing. Marie Claire MacClanahan could make a sailor blush with the things she knew, and her husband, Hamish, frequently did. But Isabelle saw his pleasure and amusement beneath the blush and knew they were very much in love, in lust, and in contentedness with each other. Isabelle envied them their joy.
“Bonjour, Belle.” Marie’s voice carried to her as she stepped out of the wind into the warm bakery. Isabelle sighed in relief and shrugged her shawl off her head as she strode toward the wooden counter. Behind it stood several wooden racks Marie had asked Hamish to make for her so the baked goods could cool properly and be more visible for sale.
“Good morning, Marie.” Isabelle watched her friend slide a tray of fresh croissants from one of her three ovens. “Oh, those smell divine. Oh, holy Bakery Goddess, give us this day our daily bread.”
Marie, a devout Catholic and believer in the Pope, laughed with delighted amusement. “You will have to wait for it a little, mon ami. Today I started with more of the sweet things instead of bread. Man cannot live on bread alone. He must have butter and cream to go with it.”
“Aye, you’re right about that,” Isabelle agreed fervently, but her mind drifted to something far more masculine than pastries.
“Come in and sit down, Belle.” Marie’s face creased in a thoughtful frown as she pulled a chair out from the small table set to the side, where a lucky customer could sit and enjoy a fresh pastry. Marie said a bakery received more customers with a place available for sitting and chatting. Her business had tripled within a week of placing the table and chairs near the front window.
“Thank you.”
“Now, it seems you are not here just for your usual order, Belle.” Marie briskly shelved the hot pastries from the oven and deftly grabbed the kettle off the fire. She snagged two teacups and brought them all to the table. “What has gotten your skirt in a knot?”
Isabelle frowned and took a deep breath. “The elders have been talking to my father.”
Marie just stared at her for a few moments before she shot out of her chair and cursed in French. Isabelle didn’t know much French, but she could tell by the tone of Marie’s voice the phrases would have blistered paint.
“This is about the damned Sacrifice, non?” Marie jammed her hands on her hips and stared at her boots just showing beneath her skirts. “Those men are fools. You are still a virgin, oui?”
Isabelle’s mouth flattened. “Aye.”
“Mon dieu, have they not killed enough young women to suit them already?” Marie whirled to another oven and opened it, a hot breath of cinnamon wafting over Isabelle.
“It would seem not.” Isabelle clenched her fist in her skirt as her helpless fury rose again. Marie gripped the tray of hot sweet rolls grimly and slid them onto a rack. “But I may have found a solution to that problem.”
“Which?” Marie turned her head to look at Isabelle with one elegantly arched eyebrow. “The Sacrifice or the virginity?”
“In my case, both.”
Now both eyebrows went up.
“I have decided to find a man to take me virginity so I won’t be eligible for the Sacrifice.”
“What’s this? You are thinking of losing your virginity? Won’t such action make you a ruined woman in the eyes of the elders?” Marie’s voice filled with mocking bitterness.
“Aye, it will. But better to be a ruined woman than a dead one.”
Marie gave her a sympathetic look. “That all depends on where you are. In France, perhaps. But here? The Scottish have strict ideas about their women. It could be worse than death.”
“I know.” Isabelle scowled. “But my mum didn’t teach me to lie back and die because someone else believes I have done wrong. She would think better of me if I was ruined, but survived. This village doesn’t like me because of my mum. Why should I die to protect those who hate me? It isn’t much of a sacrifice if they would give me away happily.”
“Not everyone in this village hates you, Belle. There’s Hamish and me, and even your sisters and their husbands.”
“Who don’t live here, or won’t soon.”
“Oui, it is true,” Marie conceded as she continued to pull out the last of the trays from the ovens. “But Hamish and I will not be leaving this place. So, you have made a decision about this, and I will not try to talk you out of it. There is just one problem.”
Now it was Isabelle’s turn to raise an eyebrow.
“Where will you find such a man? None of the fools here will look beyond their fathers’ ideas.”
Isabelle smiled smugly, but thinking about Master Swift made her blush with the thoughts of what it would be like to run her hands over his thighs under his kilt.
“Oh ho, my sweet Belle has found herself such a man as would make her blush, eh?” Marie swiftly grabbed two cups into which she poured some of her sweetened, creamy tea she’d gotten from some traders from the Far East. Then she brought them to the table and plopped herself down into the other chair, staring at Isabelle with expectant delight. “Who is this man? And where did you find him?”
“He came in last night and needed a place to stay.” Isabelle followed the grain of wood with her finger. What if he wouldn’t agree to her idea? What if he’d heard the rumors about her? Just because he hadn’t lived in her backward village didn’t mean he’d be immune to rumors of witchcraft or contamination of mixed blood.
“And?”
“And he is…” Isabelle gestured helplessly at her friend. “Can you use ‘beautiful’ when describing a man? Oh, Marie, I have never seen a man like this. He makes my insides turn to mush, he does, just by thinkin’ of him. I get all fluttery when he looks at me, and I don’t ken anything about him!”
Marie grinned widely and clapped her hands together. “Does this man have a name?”
“Master Swift,” Isabelle admitted, remembering his brilliant blue eyes and his decadent smile. “He’s glorious, Marie. He has eyes so blue they could be chunks o’ the sky. And he’s tall—taller than Angus MacLeod. He’s broader than a draft horse, and the muscles in his legs make me go shivery.”
“And wet, I would guess.” Marie chortled. “If he is this big, perhaps he also has the stamina of a draft horse, too, eh?” She wiggled her elegant eyebrows, and Isabelle blushed again. “Have you talked to this man yet?”
“No, not about my virginity, if that’s what you’re askin’.” Isabelle squirmed in her seat. “I don�
��t ken what to say to him. It is not as if I can just walk up to him and say, ‘Pardon my question, Master Swift, but could you do me the favor of takin’ me to bed so I don’t have to die for the village?’ Aye, that would go over very well, I should think.”
“Ah, my sweet Belle. It is not in how you speak, but in how your body talks, oui?” Marie admonished her with a tight smile and smug look. “Men are very easy. They do not need much encouragement to get under your skirts. It is in the way you smile at him, in the way you walk, swaying your hips. It is in the way you toss your hair and use your eyes. You must offer him promises without saying a word, and then he will talk to you. How do you think I got Hamish to talk to me, eh? I looked at him like this.”
Marie turned her head to the side, dipped her chin a little, and looked at Isabelle out of the corner of her half-lidded eyes with a tiny smile curling the corners of her mouth. It was the ultimate coquettish smile, and it promised things good girls never talked about doing. Marie was hardly a “good girl,” and relief flooded through Isabelle. If anyone could teach her how to entice a man despite her “faults,” Marie could.
Isabelle laughed. “Completely flummoxed him, did you?”
“He was dough in my hands. This Master Swift will come to you, and you will be able to tell him what you want from him. No man can resist a woman who is offering carnal pleasure. Men are ruled by their cocks, and a smart woman will learn to use this to her advantage. However, you must seem sweet as well as sinful. No man wants a tramp or, how you say, a woman used by every man. No, he wants a woman who is mysterious and tempting, but not used. You must be coy, eh? Alluring, when you ask for what you want, not demanding or nagging. Be the Goddess as the Maiden, not the Crone, oui?”
Isabelle nodded as a battle plan began to form in the back of her mind.
“Aye, I think can do that. But how should I do it?”
“Smile.” Marie grinned. “Brush his arm or shoulder each time you are near him, as if by mistake. Offer to…wash his plaid for him. I’m sure it is in need of a good scrubbing, no?” She winked and Isabelle giggled.
“Shall I help him to disrobe, too?” Isabelle asked tartly.
“If he will let you, oui. The more contact you have with him, the more you will capture his attention, and he will be unable to resist you.”
“Who will not be able to resist our bonny Isabelle?” a booming male voice asked, and both women looked up as Hamish come in from the back of the bakery, his chest and hands white with flour.
“There is a new man in town who has caught Belle’s eye.” Marie offered a loving smile at her husband while Isabelle blushed scarlet. “She has taken it upon herself to find herself a man as good as you, mon ami. I told her bon chance, but she is determined.”
Hamish snorted in good-natured disbelief and shook his head as he deposited the new bread loaves onto trays for baking. He stood only five feet nine inches, but the breadth of his shoulders showed the strength inherent in his body. Despite being the village baker, his belly remained flat and hard from his sailor days. He still walked with the rolling gait men learned when riding ships, and his cheeks always seemed wind roughened. Bright-red hair grew into a full beard with little flecks of gray, and his eyes glittered piercing blue. He grinned and showed her the one gold canine tooth at the side of his mouth.
The apron he wore over his plaid kept it free from flour, and the braies under the kilt kept his legs warm in drafty places. Marie had confided once they also kept his balls from freezing off, and Isabelle had blushed at such intimate knowledge of her friend’s husband.
“And who is this lad, Isabelle?” Hamish asked. “Is he of good stock and family?”
“Well, he is not from Lochmore Cott, so it is saying something for him.” Marie tossed her head humorously.
Hamish sobered quickly, his face souring into a scowl. “Wheesht. Not all the men in the village are so bad, Marie.”
“Then why is Belle still unmarried, Hamish?” Marie countered implacably. “They say she is Fae or the ‘Yowling Cat of Lochmore Cott’. What kind of a fool would say such a thing about a woman? And they all say such things. They are nothing more than pots of manure to be so stupid!”
Hamish’s brows lowered, but a smile curled his lips. “Are you calling them shit pots, my dear?”
“Oui.”
Isabelle blushed, but Hamish laughed out loud. “You know I can’t resist you when you’re angry, ma petit. And you’re right, you are. They’re damn blind to ignore you, Isabelle.”
“That’s very kind, Hamish, but ’tis still what they believe.”
“Och, damn fools.”
“Oui, and Belle’s father is speaking with the elders about the Sacrifice,” Marie pointed out.
“What?” Hamish’s eyes opened wide with surprise.
“Aye, it’s true.” Isabelle sipped her tea to calm her anger. “They’re trying to convince me father to use me for the Sacrifice, mostly so I don’t bother their women.”
“That’s daft!”
Isabelle shrugged helplessly.
“You listen to me, Isabelle Andersen.” Hamish pointed a beefy finger at her. “You’re not hurting anyone, and don’t you believe them. Your father will not hand you to the Council of Elders. You just go see to findin’ yourself a husband, and they’ll say no more about it.”
Isabelle nodded to Hamish’s vehemence, but she knew in her heart of hearts her father had probably already made his decision. She’d always been a thorn in his side and a weight on his purse strings. No, she’d made her own decision to save herself from the Sacrifice. Taking Marie’s advice seemed a better plan than taking Hamish’s. But she smiled at the baker, and he went back to his bread-making, grumbling.
“I should get going.” Isabelle rose from her chair. “I don’t want to keep my father waiting for the bread or rolls.”
Marie nodded with her mouth in a flat, irritated line. “Just remember what I have told you, and you will get this man to help you. I promise.” She rose as well and filled Isabelle’s basket with the breads needed for the tavern.
Isabelle said nothing, her mind already churning with what she’d do to get Master Swift’s attention as soon as possible. She suspected the elders would come to her to announce their choice of Sacrificial Virgin soon, and she needed to let them know she was no longer available for the post. Despite the fear of being a ruined woman, she relished the looks on their faces when they realized her virginity had fled. Served the bastards right.
Chapter Four
Jonarrion descended the stairs just as Isabelle stepped into the common room of the tavern. He stopped and watched her for a short time without her knowledge, his cock hardening with the sway of her hips as she moved around the room, taking the chairs down from the tables and wiping the tabletops. She wore a preoccupied expression as she tucked a loose tendril of windblown hair behind her ear. He could imagine the glorious mane strewn across his pillow as he plunged into her tight warmth.
He mentally smacked his forehead just as she turned around and hit him with her blue-green gaze. He almost staggered with its impact. Then she hit him again with a slow, sexy smile, and his balls drew up tight against the base of his cock. Holy Mother, he had to get a grip on himself or he’d push her against the bar and take her right there.
“Oh, good morning, Master Swift.” She dipped her chin as her warm smile broadened. “You’re up early, then. Did you sleep well?”
Did he? Hellwinds, no. He’d been dreaming about her body being tangled up with his and her heat burning around his rigid cock, but he smiled back at her. “Aye, I did.”
She pulled a chair out so he might sit. “Can I offer you a table, sir?” She winked with amusement. “I’m afraid all we have is bread and tea, but I’d be happy to bring you some, should you wish it.”
His body tightened impossibly harder with her wink, and his own amusement kindled.
“Tea would be lovely.” He strode over to where she stood, sitting down in her proffered ch
air. He heard her inhale sharply before she leaned past him to grab the cleaning rag. Her action put her chest in close proximity to his nose, and he stole a look at the mounds of her breasts held tight in her bodice.
Jonarrion stifled a groan as she pulled back from him, accidently brushing his hand where it rested on the table. The small touch set him on fire, but she didn’t seem to notice as she stood back and asked him something else.
“‘Tis hot and fresh this morn.”
“Sorry?” He stared at her. Had she just offered him her womanly charms?
“The bread is hot and fresh. We also have sweet rolls.”
“Oh.” Keep yourself focused on your task, boyo, not your dreams. “Aye, bread and tea would be fine. Thank you.” He dragged his attention somewhere above his belt. Thank the Mother he sat in a chair, or she would’ve gotten a fine view of his staff pressed against his braies.
“Right, then.” Isabelle offered another one of those devastating smiles before she sauntered to the kitchen, her damn hips swaying beneath her plaid skirt like a beacon for his eyes.
Once she disappeared he let his breath out in a whoosh. He closed his eyes and inhaled slowly to still the images of her plump backside. He imagined pressing his aching cock against the soft swells. Her skin would be cool and smell like a fresh, rainy morning, but her core would be hot, wet, and inviting, and he’d surround himself with her heat.
Get your head on straight, fool. He pinched his thigh hard to get his cock to behave. She is unmarried, innocent, and not for you. So calm down!
Jonarrion opened his eyes and considered the smoke stains on the support beams of the tavern to help the blood drain from his staff. What is wrong with you, boyo? She’s lovely, aye, but human. What had him so captivated?
