by Mary Wine
“If they were any sort of real Scots they’d take the matter up with me, no me daughter.”
The king gripped the arms of his chair. “Yer the one who brought her into the fight between you and the McJames.”
“Because Cullen McJames soiled her and tossed her aside like a whore.” McQuade opened his hands. “I came to ye for justice.”
“It would seem that Cullen has not discarded her at all but intends to keep her. A wedding will satisfy the need for justice.”
“I have no given her permission to wed! I am her father and laird!” McQuade returned to yelling. The guards at the back doors of the receiving room entered because he was bellowing so loudly.
The king, however, was calm. “And why not, man? It won’t be the first couple that knelt on the altar after sampling each other.”
“It will no wipe the stain off me honor.”
James snorted in frustration. “What do you want? Cullen McJames rotting in chains?”
“Aye! And me daughter back on my land where she belongs.”
“To what end, McQuade? Ye want to keep her unmarried and shamed for the rest of her days?”
McQuade quieted down. He considered his next words before replying. “I do not know as yet. Bronwyn has shamed me and her entire clan. I’ll take her home as an example to the other daughters who think to disobey their fathers and clan.”
The king raised an eyebrow. “Just how are ye planning to do that, man? I thought ye said she was stolen away?”
McQuade shook with his anger. “I want ye to order that thieving McJames to bring her back. He’ll obey ye.”
“How do ye know it was McJames who took her? There’s more than one clan that would like to force ye into an alliance by marrying yer daughter.” Alarik McKorey glared at Erik McQuade, making it plain that he was one of them.
Erik McQuade spat on the floor. “I’ve witnesses. The way they tell it, there was more than one set of colors that helped with the stealing, but they only got a good look at the McJames that tied up me daughter and threw her over his shoulder.”
Alarik shrugged. “The McJames are good friends. I’ve no doubt that if Cullen were the one who took yer daughter, there would be a few men that might help him. Considering the fact that ye labeled him a blackguard.”
McQuade smiled. It was a slow, sickening twist of his lips. “Is that a fact? Well, since ye seem to think that stealing brides is acceptable, maybe it’s time I married again meself.” He glanced down at Raelin and the embroidery basket went tumbling right out of her lap when she stood up.
“Yer sister’s ripe for breeding.” He licked his lower lip. “I always liked plump tits best.”
“I’ll carve yer cock off, ye letch.” Alarik had his hands around McQuade’s throat before the guards made it across the room.
They trampled the contents of the queen’s baskets beneath their boots as they tried to tear Alarik off McQuade. Raelin was pushed out of the way and ended up against a wall while the fight went on. She watched it intently, feeling that shiver cross her spine again. Her brother was in a full rage, but McQuade didn’t seem to notice the younger man’s advantage. He pulled a knife and plunged it toward Alarik.
The blade sliced through the air with a wicked flicker of light off its polished surface. Time slowed down and she heard her own heartbeats while the slashing blade was moving closer and closer to her brother’s throat. The metal sliced into his skin, spilling crimson blood. Alarik let out a roar as he turned away, releasing his hold on McQuade.
McQuade stumbled forward now that Alarik wasn’t there to absorb his attack, the knife dripping blood as it plunged toward the king still in his chair.
In one more heartbeat a guard thrust his lowered pike through the impending threat to his king. A sickening sound filled the chamber. The iron top of the pike embedded itself in Laird McQuade’s chest, his own charge helping to push it deep.
The king’s guards pulled him over the back of the chair and out of the range of McQuade’s dagger. Bright red blood flowed over the pike and onto the rich carpets that lay beneath the king’s chair. McQuade looked down at his lifeblood, a frozen expression of rage still on his face. He looked up, meeting Raelin’s horrified stare.
“Ye stupid bitch. All…women are nothing…save…trouble…for…men.” He wheezed, bloody bubbles appearing at the sides of his mouth. With a last effort he threw the bloodstained dagger toward her.
Alarik made a lunge for the dirk but was too far behind her to make any difference. Still frozen in slow motion, it seemed impossible to avoid the spinning blade. But she moved away from it, every second feeling like an hour. Her cheek burned as the tip of it slit her skin open. The soft gold silk of her dress turned crimson, ruined beyond saving.
“Holy Christ!”
Time resumed its normal tempo. More guards rushed into the room. Lairds who had been waiting in the outer hall pushed their way in. Liam and Sodac McQuade howled loud enough to shake the rafters when they found their father dead, his eyes still open and staring at her.
“Ye witch!” Liam screamed in an insane rage. He reached for her, his fingers stained with his father’s blood. Alarik shoved him back, but it took more guards to subdue the enraged Scot.
“If ye want blood McQuade, try and take it!” Alarik snarled his eyes alight with the will to fight.
Liam spat on the floor, uncaring of the fine carpets beneath his feet. “What did yer bitch of a sister do to my father, McKorey?”
“Yer father was the one who insulted her by treating her like a common whore.”
Liam’s face turned purple with rage. He aimed that fury at Raelin. “Ye bewitched him! Ye devil’s handmaiden!” He pointed at her. “Witch! I’ll see ye burned for it!”
“Enough!” The king fought with his own guards, struggling to be heard over the rising voices of the men in the room. Accusations were flung out, one clan against another. McKorey retainers facing off with McQuade. Mixed into it was the royal guard trying to maintain order and protect their monarch.
Raelin watched in horror as McQuade men cursed her and strained to reach her so that they might murder her. Through it all, Liam McQuade watched silently, his face contorted with rage. It became his legacy as every man wearing his colors joined the fight to stamp out her life and that of her brother’s clansmen.
Hours later the McQuade retainers rode away from court, their laird’s body wrapped in his plaid. Hate blazed from their eyes in spite of the explanation given by their king. Raelin watched them from a balcony on the second floor of the palace.
Queen Anne laid kind hands on her shoulders. “It was not your fault, child.”
It hadn’t been, but there was no telling any McQuade that. She looked at the snow and shivered. Not because she was cold but because spring would bring more blood.
McKorey blood.
Chapter Nine
Sterling
“Well now, it seems yer husband’s bed agreed with ye.” Helen swept into the room with a cheery smile.
Bronwyn jumped, startled awake by the sound of the woman’s voice. She had been sleeping so soundly it took several minutes to recall where she was.
“Ye slept past services and breakfast but no one thinks poorly of ye for that since yer so newly wed.”
There was a soft laugh from the girl with Helen. She wore a neat wool dress and linen cap. But she did not have on a long apron like the other maids. Two of them were pulling the draperies open to allow more of the winter light into the room. One pushed on the slide lock to swing the pane of glass open.
“Here now, the mistress has not yet dressed.”
Helen nodded approval at the girl.
“This is Sybil. She has served in this house for a decade and her mother before her. I brought her up to see if she suits ye.”
Sybil had dark eyes that studied her with calm confidence. She lowered herself before snapping her fingers at the two under maids and pointing at the bed curtains.
“I don’t ne
ed a maid.”
Helen frowned and the two under maids cast quick looks at each other. “Ye are a baron’s wife.”
Sybil didn’t appear put off by her words. The girl stepped up to the bed and offered her chemise to her. Helen watched with a critical eye.
“We’ve plenty to do, what with ye having not a stitch of clothing to yer name.”
Sybil held the chemise perfectly so that all she had to do was raise her arms to get into the sleeves. The two under maids pulled the bedding down as the fabric of the undergarment slid over her nude body. It was flawless the way they worked together to help her rise.
Sybil even gathered up her hair and laid it down her back once the chemise was in place. “I understand that it will take time for ye to become accustomed to my service. But yer a McJames now and we take pride in serving our mistress.”
“I’ve never had a maid, that’s all I meant.” The words crossed her lips before Bronwyn realized how they must sound. Four sets of eyes looked at her and then the two maids laughed. Oh, they tried to smother their amusement but it made it past their lips.
Sybil and Helen didn’t find it funny at all. Both their expressions tightened as they took her words as an insult, an expected one but still a slight to their blood. As the laird’s daughter, no one was going to believe that she was accustomed to fending for herself.
“Truly, I have always been treated as the other women at Red Stone. My father is not one for comforts. Everyone works.” Sybil brought forward the surcoat. She looked pensive for a moment.
“Well, if ye are handy with a needle that shall be a blessing today. I sent one of the girls along to the sewing room to pull down some of the lengths of new fabric for ye to consider for a dress.”
It was a test. A subtle challenge laid down to see if she was lying. It was one test she would have no trouble passing. Helen had laid out a comb and hair pins on the table. Reaching for the comb, Bronwyn pulled it through her hair herself but Sybil stopped her when she would have braided it in one long tail.
“Perhaps ye might allow me to braid it up, to keep it away from our work.”
Helen pulled a small stool out from beneath the table. Sinking down onto it, Bronwyn surrendered the comb. Unless she wanted to be rude, she would have to allow Sybil to tend her.
But there was a part of her that was touched by it, too. It would not have surprised her to be left on her own at Sterling. With the years of raids from her father, there were plenty who had reason to detest her for her blood alone. But the four women moved around her without any outward sign of animosity. Sybil was gentle, her hands coiling her hair in a French braid that encircled her head. Breakfast was served to her on a polished silver tray while the two under maids righted the bed. They both paused at the door and curtsied to her before standing quietly near the door awaiting her needs.
Helen watched Sybil with a critical eye, making sure the girl performed to her satisfaction. As the personal maid to the countess, Helen made the choice of who would get important positions such as the maid to the wife of the laird’s brother. Sybil most likely had been apprenticing for years, waiting for her opportunity to rise above the other maids.
But in spite of knowing that Sybil had most likely been looking forward to the day that she would have a mistress to maid for, Bronwyn could not sit still for very long. The food stuck in her throat because she had never once in her life eaten while others waited upon her. She did not know how to act or even how to continue eating. She felt like each bite was awkward or clumsy.
“I am eager to set to work.”
Helen and Sybil both looked at the meager amount of food that she’d consumed, but Bronwyn was already on her feet.
“Let us go to the sewing room.” She reached for the tray her breakfast was on, intending to carry it from the room lest the mice discover an easy meal and make a nest in her bed because they thought food plentiful in the chamber. Helen took it from her with a stern look that only age gave a woman. It did not matter that she was a servant and Bronwyn considered mistress. But there was a hint of curiosity in her eyes as she watched how naturally Bronwyn cleaned up after herself. She handed the tray to one of the maids before moving toward the door.
“If ye will follow me.”
Helen was more accomplished in her position than Bronwyn had guessed. The woman had somehow managed to find the most tenderhearted women on McJames land to tend her that morning.
She encountered a far different attitude once she left the sanctuary of Cullen’s chamber.
The women she met in the sewing room barely contained their snarls. A few of them watched her with critical stares, critiquing her every motion. Four rolls of newly woven cloth were awaiting her inspection. Tension knotted her neck as she realized how many sets of eyes were on her. Along the back of the long room were spinning wheels. Now that the harvest was in, the wool could be spun during the winter hours. There were three long tables for cutting of fabric. Three small looms were in a corner but what drew her eye was the two great looms at the far end of the room. The familiar sight felt like a sanctuary from the harsh glares she was enduring.
Reaching out, she fingered one bundle of wool but her voice failed her because her throat was tight under all the scrutiny.
A deep grunt echoed down the silent room. Helen narrowed her eyes at the offender but the woman didn’t look contrite.
“As if I ever thought to see a McQuade compliment anything made by my hand. I should like to see ye do better.”
“The mistress did not insult yer work, Gerty.”
The woman’s lower lip protruded as she propped a fist onto one hip.
“Please don’t call me that.” Attention shifted from Gerty back to her. Sweat trickled down her neck. Sybil looked at her confused.
“To address ye otherwise would be disrespectful, mistress.”
“I am Bronwyn. It’s the truth that I am not sure about even my last name this morning. The last few days have left me baffled.” She glanced at Gerty. “Yer command of the great loom is to be admired.”
The woman lost some of her condemning posture. “Have ye ever worked a loom?”
Her tone said she doubted it. Bronwyn lifted her chin, her pride rising to the bait. Perhaps her father was a greedy man who worked every pair of hands until they were exhausted, but she was no pampered chit useless for anything save bearing children and giving orders. She was a McQuade.
“I have indeed.”
Gerty grinned in challenge. “I believe I should like to see that.” She glanced at the second loom. “Mind ye, ye’ll have to thread it first.”
“The best place to begin when weaving.”
It was also the most difficult part of producing cloth on one of the large looms. But she rose to the challenge, eager to prove her worth. After a week of being nothing but Cullen’s pilfered goods, she wanted to be herself again. Someone who pulled her weight and earned respect while doing it.
At the very least, setting the loom for work gave her mind enough to focus on, all the eyes watching her faded into the background. It wasn’t the first time someone had doubted her ability to be useful. But in a way it was just another link in the chain that had begun with her birth to a man who did not want her.
But Cullen wanted her because of who her father was…
It was a strange twist of fate. Bronwyn almost laughed at it but kept her mind on the loom she was stringing. Many of the women went back to working because she was still stringing it when the noon meal was set out in the hall. The kitchen bells bounced between the stone walls but she was too intent on her task to leave before finishing. Besides, there would be naught but a hall full of condemning stares waiting for her if she did go join the meal. She was not that hungry yet.
“Mistress, are ye not hungry?” Sybil stood up, stretching her back. She placed her sewing on the table, being careful to place the needle into a small cushion to keep it from getting lost.
“Go along without me. I want to finish.”
Being installed at Sterling was bleak because she knew nothing about anyone. It felt like a day without sunlight where she was trying to feel her way through the darkness. It was also cold. No friendly comments or jests. Nothing but hard stares while she was watched to see what she did and how well she performed.
Well, she knew her loom. With determination, she set the last few bobbins and drew the threads along their paths. She tested them gently to judge the tension. She had threaded the loom with a cheerful blue and loaded the shuttle with the same.
The same blue as Cullen’s eyes…
The thought surprised her. Cullen snuck into her mind without warning, sending heat into her cheeks. A soft throb began hidden in the folds of her sex. Flashes of last night cut through her determination to see the loom threaded. But she didn’t frown this time. At least there was something pleasing to think about.
And there was no mistaking that she found the man’s touch pleasing.
More heat touched her face. It flowed down over her limbs beneath the surcoat. She was suddenly more aware of the lack of clothing she wore. Noticing the way her breasts hung free.
His hands felt amazing on her breasts…
