The Mammoth Book of Scottish Romance

by Trisha Telep

  “No.” The word sounded strangled but he ploughed right over it anyway.

  “Cease looking at me that way. You doona’ ken how ’tis.”

  “Nor do I wish to,” she replied.

  “What?”

  His confusion was real. A line etched across his forehead with his frown.

  “I don’t wish … anything to do … with you,” she clarified.

  He crossed his arms about his chest, thrusting defined muscles into her line of sight. And then he pushed his upper body forward in an aggressive-looking stance.

  “That is a lie,” he stated.

  “It is not.” She tossed her hair for emphasis.

  “You deny what your frame displays?”

  His glance flicked to her completely covered breasts as if he’d find validation. Brielle moved her crossed arms higher and gritted her teeth so hard she heard the sound through her skull.

  “I suffer … morning chill,” she told him.

  “Morning chill?”

  “If … a lady is denied a bed … and then forced to endure the elements … she gets chilled.” Her teeth were chattering. Her voice warbled with it.

  “What’s your name?” He surprised her with the change of topic as well as his gentle tone.

  “Why?”

  “So I have a name other than wench and lass.”

  “Either will do … at present.”

  He grinned. “Verra well. I’ll state it. You’re the lady Brielle, heiress of Dillbin.”

  “No.” The word warbled.

  “Another lie? No wonder he placed you in his dungeon.”

  “How do you know I wasn’t there … visiting prisoners? Bringing broth … a-a-and thick blankets to the poor souls?”

  “Because you escaped with me. And only prisoners do that.”

  Brielle clamped her lips shut and fiddled with the bit of lace at her elbow.

  “What does your father want with my brother?”

  “I don’t know.” She bit her tongue the moment she answered, but it was too late. She didn’t need his chuckle to verify it.

  “That … was too easy, my Lady.”

  Brielle lifted her chin and watched him for long heart-pounding moments. She didn’t say a word.

  “I’m hungry. James had best return soon. And with a full platter.”

  With that, Gavynn MacEuann sat down with the wall at his back and tanned bare legs before him.

  The wench unsettled, annoyed, and totally frustrated him … yet still he was hard for her. Despite everything he kept telling himself. Gavynn was contemplating the toes of his boots when James walked back around a section of vine-draped stone, carrying a wooden slab that sent steam into the air.

  “Lover’s spat?” The man asked it as he set his burden down, winking as he did so.

  Gavynn regarded him without expression until the humour faded. “You’d be of more use checking on Rory.”

  “Nae need. They’ll be back a-fore long.”

  “They could na’ have reached the castle already.”

  “Dinna’ have to. His lordship has men out. Armed and mounted. Spanning the demesne. Searching.”

  “Go then. Await word.”

  “I’d best stay here.”

  “Why? I’m na’ much injured. Just a mite sore.”

  “You still need a guard.”

  Gavynn tore into an oatcake; blew at steam before pushing it into his mouth. He chewed silently, and had the bite swallowed before he replied.

  “I’ve na’ turned into a spineless sapling.” Gavynn tore off another bite. Shoved it in. Chewed.

  “You canna’ protect much … if you’re occupied.”

  Gavynn swallowed. Winced. “You saw wrong, James. The wench means naught to me.”

  “You offering her up?”

  Gavynn felt her tense. Evaluated it. Lady Brielle feared his answer. Standing beyond reach and pretending, he could still sense it radiating from her.

  “Nae,” he finally replied. “She has value. Just as I suspicioned last eve.”

  Gavynn folded the last bit of the cake, shoved it into his mouth, and spent his time chewing. He lifted the sporran and twisted the stopper cork from it. He caught her glance while he gulped at whiskey that burned and revived, and then returned his attention to James.

  “How so?”

  “She wears costly clothing and possesses an educated, albeit sharp, tongue. All signs of value.”

  “Why was she housed in his dungeon?”

  “She does na’ say. Yet. A bit more time in my presence with naught else for company, and that may change.”

  James grunted, and left them. Gavynn picked up another cake, motioned for her to join him, and found her amusing when she turned her back on him, preferring hunger and a view of trees.

  The wait was the worst part. It was interminable and broken only by the presence of her captor. Brielle practiced ignoring him as morn lengthened into mid-day, and then further. This Gavynn rarely rested. If it was weakness causing him to groan, drop his burden, or take a knee with his head bowed and everything taut on him, it didn’t slow him much. Sweat covered him before long, darkening his kilt and putting sheen to his skin, totally exposing her idiocy in worrying over nursing him.

  Brielle surreptitiously watched him about his regimen, even the times he rested, panting for breath while apparently deciding another bit of work. He acted as if he was alone the entire time. And he was rarely still.

  It began right after finishing the entire platter of breakfast, once she’d turned her back on it. He’d started with hand-sized stones before graduating to larger and larger boulders; hefting them above his head, squatting with them, toting them about the area, setting them down, re-lifting them, and occasionally pitching one into the trees, making leaves and deadfall rustle. Sunlight invaded the area, cursing her with the weight and heft of her velvet over-dress. It was thickly-woven. Warm. But what had seemed practical in a castle two nights ago was a curse now. Brielle lifted hair from her neck to cool and dry her skin throughout the day while her belly rumbled and pained with emptiness.

  His activities wearied her. Beneath it was the worry of what Father would do. Or not do. The heat added to it. If she dozed, it was to jerk awake, focusing on the stained skirt, the grasses beneath her, or the ruin of stone wall and forest fringe.

  The aroma of roasting venison filled the air near dusk, making her mouth water and her belly ache. Then into her misery came Gavynn, going to his knees to look across at where she slouched against a bit of rock. He had a bag slung across one shoulder, hooked on his sword. Everything on him looked sweaty or dirty. Or both.

  “Come.”

  He held out a hand. Brielle shook her head.

  “I’ll force you.”

  She shoved his hand aside, went to a crouch before collapsing, her legs spiked with pain of inaction. Brielle held the cry before getting pulled across his free shoulder. As if she was another boulder he’d decided to heft. He stood then, tossing her slightly for balance.

  She could kick. Struggle. Beat at his back where her hands kept slipping on sweat-covered skin. She could also easily lose consciousness from lack of food, two days incarceration, and now being dangled upside down. Brielle endured until he tipped forward, set her on her feet, then waited for her wobbling to cease.

  “What … do you want?”

  If she’d eaten when he offered and slept when possible, she wouldn’t be stammering and stuttering, and having to blink through a stupid film of tears. All of which was caused by her own obstinate nature.

  “Take off your dress. And whatever else you can spare.”

  Brielle’s eyes went wide. “No.”

  “You’ll take it off, or I’ll force you. And I tire of the threat.”

  He was working at the clasp of his belt as he spoke. Brielle backed a step, then another, before he reached out, snagged an arm, and yanked her back.

  “Don’t do this!”

  Fright made her voice shrill. He had her tw
irled into him, bound by an arm while the other hand covered her mouth. And then he was whispering harsh words.

  “I’m doing little! You reek. I’ve my fill of the stench. You’ll bathe in yon burn with me or I’ll toss you in. Fully clothed. You ken?”

  She nodded. He moved his hand.

  “I do not reek.”

  He had his hand back. She heard a hissed curse, followed by more words. “Do you ken naught, lass? I want you. ’Tis massive. Hard to staunch. I’ve spent a full day trying and I’ve na’ much left.”

  Shock iced her. Staying her tongue and catching at her breath.

  “You’re verra bonny … and I’m nae saint!”

  She was trembling. With that came even more weak feeling.

  “I’m for a swim. In cold water. I canna’ do it and protect you at the same time. So you’re coming with me. To help … or curse us both. You ken what I speak of yet?”

  She nodded. At least the limp woman in his arms did. This time when he removed his hand, she didn’t make a sound. She wasn’t capable of it as he simply tugged his belt, bent forward slightly, and let his attire fall off. That left nothing but a strap across his chest holding his sword at his back. Brielle spun but the movement upset her balance, gaining her the feel of him against her again. Naked. Taut. Large. She held her breath and watched odd-shaped dots dance before her eyes.

  “You doona’ listen to anything! I’m begging here. I need a dunking and I need you to cease fighting. Get that velvet off. Keep the kirtle and what-all else. I doona’ care. They’ll dry. Now move!”

  He released her and if she hadn’t felt so faint, her fingers would’ve worked better.

  Four

  She’d be the death of him yet.

  Gavynn ducked his head under the water, then slid his hands though his hair, ignoring where the lass stood, arms wrapped about her while she shivered in place. The burn was hip-deep on him. Cold. Clean. Fast moving. Difficult to hear over. Gavynn amended that. He couldn’t hear much over his own heartbeat. All of it made him vulnerable. This wasn’t a good idea, but he hadn’t had one since meeting her. His chest and belly were tender with bruising, his muscles throbbed with the work he’d forced on them, and the woman’s linen under-dress was as useless as a film of white mist would be.

  She was true beauty … in form as well as face. Well-formed. Lush. Curved in all the proper places. Possessing heavy, handfilling breasts, a narrow waist, and hips well-rounded to greet and satisfy a man. When she’d bent forward to wash her face, his groan almost made it through clenched lips. Gavynn grabbed hand-scoops of water, angrily splashing cold and wet all over. Then he bent his knees, dipping to his armpits in chill. All in an effort to divert the pressure building in his groin as blood filled the area, engorging and hardening, and angering him with how little his mind controlled anything.

  Nothing worked. He couldn’t keep his eyes and thoughts off her. Gavynn lifted his head to the twilit sky, close to howling his frustration. And when he brought his head back down he got a full dose of his utter stupidity. He hadn’t even heard them. Gavynn sent the curses soundlessly before rising to face a solid wall of armour-clad men atop horses. They carried torches. Full weaponry. And all he claimed was the sword at his back.

  Gavynn had it drawn and the woman to his front, ignoring her gasp as their wet, chilled linen-covered flesh contacted. She’d probably be fighting him, if the steel across her throat didn’t silence her as much as the men they faced. Nobody said anything as the horses parted. Gavynn blinked water out of his vision at the sight of a friar picking his way through the knights. The man shoved the cowl from his shaved head and then he started yelling, sending words into the air at a volume impossible to overlook.

  “Greetings, your Grace!”

  Gavynn flexed, pushing the edge of steel against her throat in reply.

  “Are you Gavynn MacEuann? Duke of Ethelstone, Earl of Euann, Laird and Chieftain of Clans Ethel and MacEuann?”

  Brielle sagged, gaining him dead-weight. Gavynn was forced to move his sword away as helms were removed and weapons lowered. None of them looked angry. They were mostly smiling. Amused. Entertained. At Gavynn’s predicament. He’d faced death before but never against such odds and at such a disadvantage.

  “You are the duke … are you not?” The man pestered again.

  Gavynn nodded slowly. Once.

  “Good. ’Tis for your ears that I address these words.”

  “Address them, then.” Gavynn had to be satisfied with the threat his voice carried. He had nothing save his sword. And Lady Brielle’s life.

  “I bring words from the earl!”

  “Where’s my brother then?”

  “At the castle. Awaiting.”

  “I’ll na’ give her over unless I have Iain.”

  “The earl is aware of it. ’Tis why he sent me. You doona’ care if I join you?” The man squatted at the bank, pulled off his boots, and stepped into the stream. “’Tis powerful cold, your Grace.”

  “’Tis deadly, as well.” Gavynn slashed at the air before returning the blade to her throat.

  “I am a man of God.”

  “You’ll still bleed.”

  “Ah. Therein lies a truth.” The friar raised a hand and pointed a finger in the air. “You dare na’ kill me. Or her. Because of your brother.”

  The man took a step closer. It didn’t look easy. Gavynn noted how the water darkened and weighed down the cassock he wore.

  “Have you na’ wondered why there was no ransom demand for Iain?”

  Gavynn twisted the sword hilt, sending glints on to the water from the torches they carried, letting the steel speak for him.

  “The earl decided it served little purpose. He’s tired of ceaseless wars and killing with you and your kind.”

  “My kind? You’re Scot, too, Father.”

  The friar smiled. “’Tis true enough. I’ve also seen too much of war and killing a-tween the Sassenach and us. The earl has decided to change it. Using her. The woman you hold.”

  “Call it true, old man. She’s his daughter,” Gavynn answered.

  “You ken that?”

  “’Tis known the earl’s daughter has beauty, alongside a tongue of spikes.”

  “And you dinna’ wonder at why she was there? Easy to reach? Ripe for the kidnap?”

  “She has a mouth of spikes. As I just spoke.”

  The friar chuckled. The others might have, as well. Brielle wasn’t breathing. Or it was so slight he couldn’t feel it.

  “The earl tired of her refusals to wed. So … he selected a bridegroom for her. And sent her to the dungeons to consider her refusal.”

  Gavynn inclined his head to one side. “My brother, Iain?”

  The friar stepped closer, moving his arms against the water for the movement. “Perhaps. I’m not privy to the workings of the earl’s mind. All I ken is that he’s verra satisfied with events. Verra.”

  The man was smacking his lips and rubbing his hands as if to demonstrate. Gavynn swallowed and lowered his chin, touching minutely on Brielle’s head before moving away.

  “The earl believes a much more suitable union is with you.”

  “I canna’ marry her. I’m wed.” Gavynn tried a bluff.

  “Nae longer. You’re widowed. A season past.”

  Gavynn felt his shoulders twitch slightly.

  “You need forgive me, Laird MacEuann, but you doona’ have the choice. Look.”

  The friar motioned again with his finger. Gavynn twisted, taking Brielle with him and swishing water. Now he knew where his Honour Guard had gone. As well as the men he’d hired. They were bundled into a group encircled by countless archers, all poised with bows pulled taut, arrows readied. Gavynn felt an emotion close to fear. And then defeat. The combination weakened a man. He’d thought them long vanquished. He could feel it happening now, though, sapping strength. He’d been hooked, reeled in, and netted like a salmon. The worst was that he’d done it to himself.

  All of it.
<
br />   “You do see? You’ll marry the Lady Brielle … right now. And in exchange your brother will be freed. And wouldn’t we all be better off moving from this water first? Although I’m na’ averse to wedding you both right here … but ’tis powerful cold for the consummation. All of that aside … your roasting sup is making my mouth water.”

  Gavynn lowered his sword, hefted Brielle up against him, and worked at controlling the rage making his heart thump, his muscles tense, and smearing his vision with red. He knew he wasn’t successful.

  “Verra well, Father. I’ll wed with her. But from shore. Attired in my feile-breacan. As is proper.”

  “And the consummation afterwards?”

  “Doona’ force it, Father. I’m warning you. I’ll wed her, and then I’ll bed her. But there’ll be nae witness. Or you’ll be responsible for what ensues.”

  Gavynn didn’t care if the friar agreed or not. He was beyond it.

  If Brielle could’ve halted her hearing, she would have. Long before the acid-toned vows Gavynn spoke during the ceremony that included her father’s Man-At-Arm to speak for her, and well before the words pronouncing them wed. Deafness would be a blessing. Or oblivion. Despite everything she’d fought against, she was being wed against her will. Exactly as Father had ordered, and to the man he’d aimed for.

  Brielle realized the extent of their treachery while standing motionless and silent at the Highlander’s side, suffering shivers caused by more than a wet under-dress, covered over with a plaid blanket. It was as clear as the night sky above them. She’d been naïve and blind. She’d known the king needed Highlanders at his court. The most powerful clans. The fiercest warriors.

  That was why she’d been sent to the dungeons for arguing; the true reason she’d been put in that particular cell; the purpose behind the marks weakening the stone. They’d planned this. All of it. The cunning amazed her even as the success of it stunned.

  She should feel anger and shock. Hatred. Disgust. Embarrassment. Humiliation. Brielle tried to find even one of those. And failed. It would be easier if the man they’d forced to her side wasn’t this particular one. Gavynn MacEuann was more male than she knew existed. He affected her more in the one day she’d known him than anyone else had managed. Just standing beside him, she felt him. Everything seemed to spark a reaction; an unbidden glimmer of desire and passion; a stir of longing. Yearning. She was at a full tremble when he turned, watching the friar bind their hands together, blessing their union. Her fingers were cold. She wondered if he noticed. Brielle dared the tiniest glance up before getting held. An ocean wave of noise went through her ears, her heart fluttered about like a caged bird, and his fingers tightened on hers. She heard the words pronouncing their union. Until death.