by Mary Wine
Deigh Tower was in good repair. From the stories she’d heard, she had expected dank and smelly corridors. Instead, the solid stone walls were covered with smooth plaster. Every ten feet along the walls were iron torch holders that each held a length of iron with its end wrapped in dried stalks from the last harvest. The stalks were coated with pitch, the dry material soaking up large amounts of the black substance. At night, they would burn well and far longer than wooden torches.
Such was a modern design. The wind did whistle through the arrow slots, but it carried the sweet scent of spring, no noxious odors from slime accumulating in the dark corners. In fact, the hallway was well lit with windows that had their shutters open. She hurried past the master bedchamber, Broen’s voice ringing in her ears.
Fate was determined to hound her, it seemed, for her lips tingled. She felt anxious and her senses keener.
Trust him? Not likely. The man was too good at the game of seduction.
The stairway was narrow, but still wider than the ones in her uncle’s home. It made sense, for Broen and his retainers were burly men, every one of them wide-shouldered and tall. That portion of the tales of Highlanders was proving true; they were formidable men.
She needed to find some work. Her mind wanted to dwell on Broen MacNicols, no matter the consequences.
She smelled the great hall before she saw it. At the bottom of the stairs, the scent of roasting meat filled the air. Preparations for the midday meal would be well under way. She made it to the entrance of the hall and frowned when the MacNicols women there all lowered themselves.
“I am not worthy of such respect.”
The women didn’t respond to her, only studied her for a moment before continuing with their duties. They switched to speaking in Gaelic too, shutting her out completely.
Well, she’d not allow their perception of her station to keep her from finding something to occupy her hands. There was always work aplenty in spring.
But every time she tried to help, some MacNicols woman would take away the chore. Frustration nipped at her, but the challenge of outwitting them became greater. She went into the back kitchen and began to scale fish. She’d finished two before she was discovered and the remaining fish taken away.
“Yer hands are too soft, lady,” the cook muttered with a meek look but a touch of superiority in her tone. For as much as she’d always heard Highlanders were men of amazing strength and audacity, she’d never considered what type of women lived among them. The MacNicols women were good companions to Broen and his retainers, it seemed.
That only reinforced her need to rise to the challenge of besting them by having her way.
“No, my hands are not soft, because I am not lazy. My day has always been full, and I see no reason to change honest habits. There must be chores I can help with,” she insisted and lifted her hands to show the cook. The woman only shook her head.
“Does nae matter. Yer blood is royal. The chores in this kitchen are too lowly for ye.”
She might have continued to argue with the woman, but more and more of the kitchen staff were taking notice. The cook was their superior, so they’d not go against her word. It was better to see if she might find someplace where the opinions of the older women didn’t reach. Besides, if she forced the cook to bend, she’d only be proving that she was owed obedience because of her royal blood.
It was a frustrating tangle to be sure, one that made her pity true princesses, because their lives must be so very limited by what everyone around them believed they should or shouldn’t be doing.
Down a corridor came the sound of singing. Clarrisa followed it to find a long workroom with spinning wheels and two looms. So early in spring, there wasn’t any wool left to card or spin. The only woman in the room was working the loom.
“There is fine linen on the table to make the laird a new shirt,” she called out over the cloth she was weaving.
A wife made her husband’s shirts, or a mistress or a lover, for the undergarment was an intimate thing. It showed devotion to labor on something no one else would see. Handling the fabric that would rest against his skin… She shook her head to dispel the image. The MacNicols woman grinned at her, but the expression resembled a smirk too much for Clarrisa’s taste.
“I will not make Broen a shirt,” she blurted out, too flustered to keep her voice even and composed. The Highlands were truly driving her mad, sucking every civilized behavior from her while destroying her self-discipline.
The woman smiled. “But ye use his Christian name so easily.”
The insinuation sent a blush back to her cheeks. The maids had clearly carried the tale of Broen’s kissing her far and wide. Clarrisa sighed on her way out of the spinning room. It was no different in her uncle’s castle—or any castle, for that matter. Everyone knew everyone’s doings very soon after they happened. It made her temper sizzle to think everyone assumed she belonged in Broen’s bed.
Even the brute himself.
“Ye are supposed to be resting, Lady Clarrisa.” Edme was in the hallway with several maids trailing her. Clearly the woman was busy, for many of the maids had rolled parchments in their hands.
“I am not tired, nor are my hands too soft for work.” Clarrisa held her chin steady. It was time to show the MacNicols head of house that she was also not a child easily bent.
“I’m a Highlander, Lady Clarrisa. I know what sturdy hands look like,” Edme declared while her staff watched intently. Clarrisa stood her ground.
“I am also not accustomed to being addressed by the title of ‘lady.’”
Edme tilted her head. “On that we disagree, for yer blood is blue, which entitles ye to the title of ‘lady,’ even if ye were nae afforded it before now. Even we in the Highlands know how titles of nobility work. Blood is blood. Being born the daughter of a peer means ye are a lady.”
“Perhaps, but my uncle forbade any member of his house to address me so. He feared I’d forget my place.” She’d learned long ago to ignore the shame her uncle had meant to inflict with such a dictate. If she didn’t care, he couldn’t hurt her feelings. “I was raised to be useful. I do not know how to be idle while the sunlight is squandered, and I do not want to learn such a wasteful habit.”
“Well now, there is something ye might help me with. A task no one else has the knowledge for.”
There was a gleam in Edme’s eyes that made Clarrisa leery, but the promise of something to take her mind off Broen MacNicols was too much to resist. Her suspicion grew as Edme led her back up the stairs toward the chamber she’d slept in. The woman was just as much a Highlander as her laird, for she would not be bested.
Well… neither would Clarrisa accept becoming the pampered plaything for the laird of the keep. Edme continued to the next floor. “Like any good head of house, I like to keep a strict accounting of what is inside the keep.” Edme opened a door to reveal a room crowded with chests of all shapes and sizes, many of them locked. There was a rattle of keys as Edme took a large key ring from one of the maids.
“The things in this room came with the laird’s grandmother or as gifts from her relatives.” Edme sent the maids toward the window shutters. Once opened, the morning sunlight illuminated dust floating thickly in the air.
“She was bound for marriage with an Englishman when the laird’s father brought her here.” Edme made a soft sound. “She followed her heart and married him.”
“If she wanted to stay here, why didn’t she open these chests?”
Edme’s expression turned sad. “She never got the chance. Fate had other plans. She died of childbed fever, but her relatives wouldn’t believe the husband she’d wed without their permission when he wrote to them of her passing.” Edme spread her hands wide. “So the gifts came, and the laird’s grandfather was too full of grief to open them. Now that he’s gone, it’s time to open them, but they are gifts for a noblewoman. Perhaps ye can help me identify what they are.”
A chill swept down her spine. The neatly stack
ed chests belonged to a woman long dead. She wandered in a circle, trying to decide which chest to open first. A sense of adventure filled her as she settled on one. She began humming, enjoying being needed for something beyond the blood flowing through her veins.
Indeed, being needed for the knowledge inside her head and the order she might bring was a fine thing indeed. Who might have thought she would find such a place among the uncivilized Highlands of Scotland?
***
“Ye sit too often in the darkness, Father.”
Donnach Grant erupted out of his chair, but not with anger. The few men near him were startled because they had fallen asleep waiting on him to retire.
“Kael! My son! It’s about time ye found yer way home!”
The Grant retainers all relaxed when their wits had cleared enough to recognize their laird’s son—his only son—and Donnach embraced him heartily.
“Ale and bread. Someone rouse the kitchen lasses!” Donnach watched his son strike a flint stone to light one of the candles. The wick caught, casting a warm circle of light.
“Now… what brings ye home at last?”
Kael Grant sat down with a satisfied groan. “Ye know I stayed away to keep the other clans wondering what side I was on.”
Donnach nodded. Two women brought them mugs of ale and a platter of sliced cheese with a round of bread. Kael tore the round in half and aimed a charming smile at one of the women.
“Be a sweetheart and bring me some fine Highland butter. I swear even the grass in the Lowlands is inferior to what we have here.” She melted beneath his charm, and he reached out to pat her bottom. She laughed, low and sultry, before hurrying off to fetch what he desired.
“Ye rogue. Answer yer father’s questions before ye start chasing the lasses.”
Kael offered him a smug look before tearing off a piece of the bread and stuffing it in his mouth. He washed it down with a large swig of ale.
“That’s an interesting tale, Father.” Kael abandoned his playfulness, sitting forward to keep his words from drifting. “Seems Lord Home is sending ye sealed letters.” Kael reached into his doublet and withdrew a parchment. “More interesting is the fact that the messenger took it to Laird MacLeod.”
Donnach Grant growled, gaining a few looks from his men. They were enjoying the unexpected ale but still diligently watching his back. “MacLeod is a royalist. Home trusted the letter to a traitor.”
“A dead one.”
Donnach nodded and broke the seal on the parchment. He’d not spare any pity for a man who wasn’t loyal to the laird he claimed to serve. Shadow dealings and taking letters to the wrong man were worthy of death in his opinion. Any man with honor would have the courage to stand up and be clearly counted on the side he was on.
“I sent his sword back to MacLeod, and his head to Lord Home.”
Donnach Grant grunted approvingly. His son was a man, one he was proud of. But the letter from Lord Home captured his full attention. He’d known it would arrive one day, but that didn’t lessen the impact.
“What’s amiss?” Kael inquired.
“There are times I wish ye were nae a grown man, Kael.”
“So ye could tell me to respect ye and no’ ask why ye are frowning so darkly?” Kael chuckled, but it wasn’t a friendly sound. “Times such as these need more than politeness.”
“Aye,” Donnach muttered, scanning the letter once more. He finished and held it over the candle flame. The corner caught, and the fire spread quickly up the page. He dropped the letter on the table and watched the fire turn the letter to black ash. Once all hints of color were gone, he smothered the smoldering remains with a plate.
“I owe the man.” Donnach looked his son straight in the eye. “Something ye do nae know I owe him.”
Donnach watched his son grow deadly serious. “I suppose ’tis a good thing ye are here. Ye need to know what happened with Daphne MacLeod and Laird MacNicols.”
***
“I know knitting needles when I see them, but why are those so small?”
Edme wasn’t the only one who wanted to know the answer. The maids who always seemed to be hovering about the head of house stared at Clarrisa, eager to hear what she had to say.
“They are for knitting stockings.”
Edme furrowed her brow. “With how narrow those are, the hose would be thin and of little substance.”
Clarrisa picked up one of the five needles. Made of silver, it was polished to a high luster. “You knit lace stockings with them. The idea is to, well… to have skin visible…”
Surprise filled Edme’s expression, along with a knowing gleam. She cast a look at one of the maids, both of whom were chuckling softly.
“Well now, perhaps ye should knit a pair. I wager the laird would enjoy seeing ye wear them.”
The needle tumbled from her fingers. Edme laughed as a maid retrieved the needle. “The look upon yer face, lass—it takes me back a few years. To a time when I was foolish enough to believe all the prattle the church tries to fill our heads with about abstinence and about pleasures of the flesh being so sinful. Age gives us the wisdom to know life is best lived to the fullest. Once ye pass up an opportunity, it may nae cross yer path again. Regret is far worse than sin when it comes to a man who stokes yer passion. Dressing to please him only doubles the enjoyment…”
Edme was still chuckling as she went out the door, the maids following. Clarrisa stood still, the last of the sun coming through the windows.
Passion…
She should have been able to dismiss the idea quickly and with disdain, yet she didn’t. She turned to gaze at the needles and reached out to finger one. Heat warmed her cheeks, but this time she felt no shame, only a rising sense of urgency to reach out and grasp the opportunity in front of her.
She truly had taken leave of her senses.
The admission didn’t bother her. She lifted the wooden tray the needles were in and reached for a thin piece of wood stored below that had silk cord wound neatly around it. There were a dozen of them, all in different hues.
Double the enjoyment. Would it truly? Her body was slowly warming with just her thoughts, the memory of Broen’s kiss fanning the flames. She’d be a liar if she claimed she didn’t enjoy it, and a coward for shying away from her feelings.
Maybe she didn’t need to worry so much about the pity she’d sensed in him.
She took a stiff breath and reached for one of the needles. Tugging the end of the cord loose, she began to cast on the stitches, knitting them carefully until all five needles were being used.
She might not be ready to decide if she wanted to trust Broen MacNicols, but she refused to act the coward. Besides, there was a sense of satisfaction filling her as she decided what she wanted to do herself instead of following the dictates of her greedy kin.
The stockings might come in handy, but Broen MacNicols wouldn’t be hearing such a thing from her. The man was too presumptuous by far.
She smiled, and her husky laughter echoed through the chamber.
Yes, let the man enjoy the challenge of wooing her, for she planned to make sure it tested him.
***
“Is she healing?”
Edme didn’t answer quickly. She lowered herself first, and Broen suspected the woman was toying with him.
“Yer guest is well. Her youth is no doubt helping her to be rid of that chill so quickly.”
Broen frowned and then noticed how many of his men were watching him intently. The spot next to him at the high table was vacant, left empty for Clarrisa, but she had not appeared. Everyone was waiting to see what he’d make of her absence.
He pointed at Shaw. “Make sure the men know not to allow her past the gate.”
“Aye, Laird, no’ a one of them will miss that bonny face, should she venture too far from the tower.”
Broen crushed the bread in his hands. More than one gaze went to the scattered mess he made. Some of his men leaned closer to their comrades to whisper.
&n
bsp; “I’ve matters to attend to.”
He stood, and the hall filled with the sounds of scraping of benches as his clan stood as well. He ground his teeth in frustration, for he’d told them not to stand every time he did, but traditions died hard in the Highlands.
Like his fascination with Clarrisa. Her kiss clung to his lips. His mind had wandered during the day, and he’d had to fight the urge to climb to the old ladies’ solar to see what she was about. But she was an Englishwoman—and not just any Englishwoman. His uncle would send for her. When that happened, his fascination with her would leave a scar—a deep one, if he didn’t learn to control his desire for her. She’d been the wiser one to reject him, an action he could learn well from. His need for her defied his understanding. There were willing women he could take his desire to, and a half dozen offers from neighbors who would like to secure an alliance with him through marriage to one of their daughters. But he was neglecting the chore of settling on another bride.
Aye, instead he was acting like a beardless youth fascinated with his first woman. Hell, he hadn’t even bedded her yet and still his thoughts had shifted to her more times than he could count during the day.
It was bloody annoying. He was a Highlander and didn’t need an Englishwoman in his bed. He needed to thank the woman for refusing him; she obviously had more sense than he did.
But her lips tasted fine, and she smelled better than any woman he could think of…
He stopped when he realized he’d climbed to the third floor and was on his way to her chamber. A curse rolled past his lips, but he still opened her chamber door and peered inside. She’d left the window shutters open, which cast moonlight over her sleeping form. He was beside the bed before he really knew what he was about. Standing there as she slept was a torment, but one he enjoyed too much to turn away from.
Her hair was braided, the long blond strands secured with a length of cord. The dressing robe was draped over the edge of the bed; only a chemise covered her skin. He reached out and trailed his fingers along the edge of that single garment. Clarrisa muttered in her sleep and shifted toward his touch. She kicked at the bedding, pushing the coverlet lower. He stared at the swells of her breasts and lost the battle to keep his hand away from them.
