Highlander's Prize (17 page)

***

“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.

“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.

So soft yet firm… His cock rose beneath his kilt, throbbing with the desire he’d pushed aside all day.

But he’d only wanted Clarrisa.

She sighed, and he found the sound unmistakably pleasurable. His cock throbbed, and he cupped one of her breasts, grinning almost savagely when she arched. An enjoyable torment, indeed. It seemed they both suffered from it. Her eyelids fluttered, lifting only halfway.

“Why do you invade my dreams, Broen?” Slurred with sleep, her voice was a bare whisper.

He leaned down, smoothing his hand over the swell of her breast. “Because ye summoned me with yer longings, lass.”

She sighed and closed her eyelids. “I think about you too often…”

Her breathing deepened, and his frustration returned, but he smiled with satisfaction too. She couldn’t banish him from her thoughts either. Such a revelation should have convinced him she was a curse, one he’d be wise to get rid of at first light, but the idea of sending her to his overlord tore something inside him.

He straightened, the emotional reaction making him wary. Men who succumbed to loving a woman often made poor decisions. It was a point worthy of contemplation and possibly action. It would be wise to put distance between them.

But he leaned down and placed a kiss against her cheek before pulling the coverlet back up to protect her from the night air. He caught a whiff of her scent, and it sent a flood of desire pounding through him.

Sending her off to Sutherland would be best, but he wouldn’t enjoy doing it.

***

He was near. So very close.

Clarrisa could smell Broen. The scent of his skin touched off a ripple of need that settled in her belly. Her body twisted, unable to rest peacefully. She craved something, some form of satisfaction.

She sat upright, jerked out of her slumber. Instead of waking in a fog, her wits were sharp. The bedding was a rumpled mess, and her braid frizzy from her tossing.

Broen
—although she wasn’t sure if it was fair to blame the man for her obsession with him. Maud had often lectured her on the enchanting powers of the barbarians who inhabited the Highlands. Looking them straight in the eye was a sure way to allow their pagan devil magic to work its will on her.

Clarrisa laughed. She couldn’t help it. Along with Maud’s words came the memory of how haughty the matron had sounded when she was handing out lectures. Pride was also a sin, but the older woman hadn’t seemed to recall that teaching from the church. With a shake of her head, she pulled the tie off the end of her braid. She worked the plait free and walked toward the table where the comb lay.

The moon was full, casting its yellow light across the floor of the chamber. Nearer to the window, she could see the stars twinkling in the night sky. The moon was more than halfway across it, but morning was still several hours away. Her chemise fluttered in the night breeze. Her skin was chilled, but not uncomfortably so.

Heat was still burning inside her from her dreams of Broen.

She drew the comb through her hair, wrestling with the admission that she was longing to go to his bed. Alone in the darkness, it seemed easier to admit her dark cravings. The church certainly had that portion of their teachings correct; the night hours were the time for spells and sinfulness.