Highlander's Prize (12 page)

Frustration was shredding her. “I don’t know what I want from you,” she explained.

“A solid truth if ever I heard one,” he groused. “Come back here. Yer mare is out of sight.”

Part of her wanted to obey, but the sheer intensity of what his kiss had unleashed inside her made her shake her head. “I’ll walk.”

“Are the pair of ye finished?”

Shaw’s voice hit her like a blast of winter wind. She turned to look up the hill, where the burly retainer sat on his horse. He was sideways, looking away from them, but he’d obviously noticed they were no longer embracing.

Broen kneed his stallion forward until the animal stood near her. He leaned down, his shoulder-length hair falling low enough to brush her shoulder.

“’Tis for sure we are nae finished, lass. No’ finished even by half.”

He reached down and grasped the wide leather belt that secured the Chisholms plaid around her waist. With a hard tug, he pulled her off the ground and sent her halfway over the back of the stallion. She shrieked, but he paid her no mind, pressing her down in front of him.

“We’re just getting started, and that’s me promise to ye, lass.”

Hard and determined, his voice carried a promise.

***

“The little lass has daggers in her eyes for ye.”

Broen shot Shaw a deadly look, but amusement sparked in Shaw’s eyes as he grinned.

“I thought ye wanted to warn me away from her and her scheming ways. Ye’re sounding like a woman with all yer mind changing.”

Shaw shot him a look Broen wasn’t interested in suffering, but Shaw was right.

“This business irritates me.”

“I’ve noticed, Laird,” Shaw replied. “As a matter of fact, so have the lads.”

Broen looked over his men. Most were sleeping; the only ones still awake were set to watching Clarrisa and the road. Broen felt his chin tingle. He’d just wasted precious time that he could have spent sleeping to shave—for a woman.

For an English woman.

There was no way to ignore the fact. It frustrated him and rubbed his temper, but the three-day growth of beard on his face had left the faintest of pink abrasions on Clarrisa’s delicate skin. Fatigue was pounding in the back of his head, and what was he doing? Preening for a female. And not even for Daphne.

He stopped for a moment, his temper cooling. He could recall Daphne MacLeod’s dark eyes but hadn’t thought of her during the days he’d been away from his land. Somehow her memory had slipped aside. He’d believed he couldn’t live without her, but obviously he could. The only saving grace to the knowledge was that she wasn’t waiting back at Deigh Tower for him. Women had a way of knowing what men were thinking when they were alone with them. He certainly didn’t wish her dead, but he didn’t want to think he’d have broken her heart. It was a cruel trick of nature that made men unable to do the same.

Clarrisa opened her eyes, staring straight at him and proving his point. Maybe they weren’t alone, but it felt like there was a connection between them. He muttered a curse. Maybe Daphne was beginning her torment of him, but in the form of an Englishwoman whom he had no business wanting.

Much less shaving for.

***

Heat licked its way across her cheeks. Clarrisa lowered her chin so more of the Chisholms plaid would cover her face. She didn’t need Broen noticing her blush. It wasn’t for him.

Yes, it is…

She cringed. Why did he have to be so handsome? She was mad to notice, but there seemed to be no way to ignore him. With a shake of her head, she forced herself to look away from his newly shaved face, but she felt his attention on her. The blush burned hotter as sensation spread down her body. It happened faster this time, her skin somehow more sensitive. The feeling settled in her breasts again, drawing her attention to how much she’d enjoy having him nuzzle them with his newly shaved chin.

Clarrisa!

She actually trembled at her ideas.

Carnal
ideas…

Oh, they certainly were, and for the first time in her life, she truly understood what the lectures in church had been about.

Wicked… Temptation… Wanton…

All of them leading toward one thing: sins of the flesh.

There were longings clamoring for attention inside her that both frightened and delighted her. But in all honesty, it wasn’t true fear, at least not the sort she would have expected. This was an unease, an ache that unnerved her because she wanted to satisfy it. She closed her eyes, but sleep eluded her. Instead, the memory of Broen’s kiss tormented her. Her body remained sensitive; her nipples, hard and needy.

The Highlander was a curse, after all, just as she’d always been told their lot was.

***

“Ye’re a fine lad.”

Laird Chalmers MacLeod smiled as his man handed over the sealed parchment he’d taken from the messenger Lord Alexander Home had dispatched to Laird Grant. He paid the messenger well to make sure he read messages from Lord Home, no matter to whom the man was writing them.

“I can nae stay too long,” the messenger muttered.

“Easy, lad. Ye’ve done the deed now.” Laird MacLeod turned over the letter and stared at the seal. “Lord Home will nae notice another day, considering how far ye had to go with this.” He used the English pronunciation of
lord
on purpose. “Make no mistake. Ye have me gratitude for bringing this to me. Home is a traitor, and a power-hungry one too. He only wants the boy on the throne so he can rule through the lad.”

Laird Chalmers MacLeod held the letter over a single candle flame. He kept it far enough away to ensure the paper didn’t scorch, keeping the wax seal facing up. The room was silent except for the scuff of the messenger’s boots against the stone floor when the man failed to mask his nervousness.

Laird Chalmers MacLeod didn’t allow his attention to be distracted; he concentrated on the wax, waiting for it to glisten just the tiniest amount. When it did, he set the letter on the tabletop and pulled out the dirk that was tucked into his boot. It was small, with a thin blade that he always kept razor-sharp just in case an assassin sneaked close to him. He slid the steel tip beneath the warm wax and gently lifted it from the parchment without tearing the seal. Then he leaned close and blew on the wax to harden it once more. It was a careful process, but once the wax no longer glistened, he was able to unfold the letter and read it.

Chalmers growled. The other men in the room wanted to know what the letter said, but he left them in ignorance. He waved the wax above the candle’s flame briefly before pressing it back into position on the folded letter.

“Take it to Laird Grant.”

The messenger flinched at his tone. “Aye, Laird.” He turned and quit the room before taking time to inspect the seal. There was no hint it had been opened. He tucked it back inside his doublet and hurried toward the kitchen for a hot meal. Chalmers found his own appetite lacking. War was brewing, one that would pit clan against clan. By summer’s end, Scotland would either have a new king or an old one with no living son. There was no way to know which side might win, so he was keeping friends on both. It was a wise thing to do for a common man such as himself.

***

“There it is, lass. Deigh Tower.”

There was unmistakable joy in Broen’s voice. Clarrisa turned to look at him. She realized she’d never seen him truly happy. He was now. His expression was radiant, and his eyes glistened with happiness.

“Do nae fret, Clarrisa. We’ve only one ghost.”

She frowned. “I am not afraid of you and your Highlands. Kindly stop trying to scare me.”

Except the place did look like the perfect home for a specter.

His stallion refused to be still, prancing in a circle because it smelled the familiar scent of its home. Her mare was eager to be back inside a stable too. The animal hurried forward, carrying Clarrisa past Broen. She heard him chuckling and bit back the retort that sprang to her lips. She needed to avoid talking to the man. Any interaction with him was dangerous.

Heat teased her cheeks, but there was no help for it. The best she could do was let the mare have its way. The animal took her to the top of a ridge—one more in what had come to be an uncountable number they’d crossed. Deigh Tower wasn’t much to speak of, simply a stone tower rising from the landscape.

At least that was the way it appeared until she crested the ridge. Below her, the tower sat in the center of the valley. It was built on a solid stone base that rose like a table and was surrounded by walls that were three stories high, on top of which were battlements. She could see the men stationed in the lookouts and the torches burning along the walkways. The walls formed a hexagon with thick keeps at each intersection to withstand cannon fire. Beyond the rock the fortress sat on, the last of the day’s light shimmered off a loch. The water lapped the rock foundation, and she could hear the rivers flowing down the other side of the valley into it. The water emptied from the loch and made its way down the valley past a town.

So clever—from the other side of the ridge, it looked like a single tower. Anyone attempting to attack the fortress would have to ride down the sides of the valley, completely exposed to the battlements. Set on a base of stone, there would be no tunneling under the walls. Deigh Tower was impressive and formidable. The sight also made her throat tighten, as though a noose were closing about her neck.

The sun was setting, and she hadn’t eaten since morning. She’d wrinkled her nose more than once throughout the day as she caught a whiff of the stench her skin had developed. Her braids were frizzy, and the linen dress wrinkled horribly, while every muscle she had ached. But she still pulled up on the reins, reluctant to willingly enter what might well become her prison.

Broen scooped her off the back of the mare in what was becoming a familiar motion. He had her seated in front of him before she had managed to do more than sputter.

“Deigh is a fine place, so do nae let the fact that it means ice in Gaelic make ye think it’s a cold place to live.”

Her mare was happily speeding up once more, now that it was free of the weight of a rider. Clarrisa tossed her head, and the stallion snorted at her.

“It seems I am nae the only rider who takes after the temperament of me horse, sweet Clarrisa.”

She turned her head to take issue with him. “I am not your sweet anything.” She tried to shove him, but they were too close for her blow to have any true strength. “And if you try to bite me—”

“Ye’ll what?”

There was a challenge in his tone, one she was sorely tempted to brave, but she turned to face forward and his chest rumbled with his amusement.

“You’re a brute,” she accused.

He caught her head and turned her face back to his. The amusement had vanished from his face. “The king would have shown ye brutality, but I have nae.”

She shook her head, his grip irritating her almost beyond her endurance. “Think you I care for bruises or strikes?” She laughed at the surprise on his face. “You haven’t heard a word of complaint for the aches in my body from the pace you’ve set, or the wounds festering on my wrists.”

He reached for her wrist, but she shoved at him, making it necessary for him to clamp her tightly to his body or lose control of her.

“Damn yer stubborn nature, Clarrisa. Why do ye accuse me of being a brute?”

They rode beneath the raised gate, cheers coming from the men on the battlements. Somewhere a bell began to toll, and then another and another, until the entire fortress echoed with their chiming. She turned to look where they were going, part of her actually grateful to him for taking the choice from her. It was weak of her to think in such a way, but at least she was honest. Broen rode into the inner yard and pulled the stallion to a stop.

“I’m waiting for an answer, Clarrisa.”

His arm was still tight around her body, binding her to him. More and more people came out of the doorways to welcome their laird back. Children pointed at her as their mothers leaned toward one another to whisper about her.

“Release me, Broen. You’ve taken me where you wished, and I owe you no obedience, nor must I hold my tongue in your presence.” There were plenty who would tell her how foolish such words were, but she was oddly past caring.

“Is that so?” he demanded in a low tone meant only for her ears.

“It is. It’s wiser too. We respond to each other too much.”

It was an admission, but she heard him pull in a harsh breath. His arms tightened, reminding her of their embrace at Raven’s Perch. A shiver raced down her back.

“You know it’s wiser, Broen. You did not take me for yourself.” But she wasn’t sure if she wasn’t saying it out loud in order to believe it herself.

She pushed against him, half fearing he’d refuse her. Broen freed her, but a large retainer caught her around the waist before she was halfway to the ground.

“A Chisholms lass, is it?” a MacNicols retainer asked.

“No,” she answered.