Highlander's Prize (2 page)

Broen shrugged, gaining a narrow look from Faolan. His friend muttered, “The betrothal was nae complete, and ye know it, Broen. Me own father was set on gaining Daphne for me. The match with her was a fine one, and we all knew it. Her dowry was nae yers just yet, nor was the alliance with her clan. I wanted her too.”

“It was me father who died on Grant land after that bastard Donnach Grant wrote and told us Daphne was dead. He will nae answer me letters or allow me onto his land to gain more details. Me men are demanding justice, which means a bloody summer when we begin feuding with them,” Broen snarled. “So, as it stands, I have more to lose than ye.”

“I know it well. We should combine our clans and wipe Donnach Grant off the face of the Highlands, since the king will nae do his duty and give us justice.”

Broen laughed, low and unpleasant. “I’ll be paying James back for that slight. Ye noticed I was in a hurry, and it’s the truth I am. A king who will nae keep us united is one I refuse to be loyal to, so I’m off to ensure his son inherits as he should. Besides, if stealing one woman can possibly ensure I can gain an explanation from Donnach Grant that will keep me men from spilling blood, I’ll steal her.”

The words came easier than Broen had thought they would. Surprise appeared on Faolan’s face. Broen turned and continued on toward the doors of the tower before he thought too deeply about why he’d chosen service to the earl over securing vengeance for Daphne himself. He shouldn’t need any further details to honor his men’s wishes for retribution.

But that was the old way of thinking. Unity had its merits, and a good future would only come if the clans stood together. He needed to think beyond his own lust for vengeance and consider the innocents who would die if he was feuding with his neighbors. A mature man recognized that he risked more than his own blood; only lads rushed off with their own glory on their minds.

The afternoon shadows were growing longer, but that didn’t stop him from gesturing for his horse. James III was a disaster of a king. Half the Highland clans were feuding because he’d failed to find time to settle disputes, which left the Highlanders to take up ancient ways. The Lowlands were faring little better. The country was splitting in half. James had gone too far in his quest to gain a York-blooded son, though. That rumor was the foulest of all, because it would bring the English war into Scotland.

Not
while
he
drew
breath.

The royalists would brand him a traitor, but he’d wear the title proudly. James had a son, one who’d been raised by his mother and would rule well. The lad was grown now, but the queen had died, which cleared the way for James to wed again. The greedy man wanted to annul his marriage to a dead woman and gain himself a York-blooded wife, which would bind Scotland to the bloody English.

It was too much. Too much for Broen to accept from a sovereign he was supposed to kneel in front of and offer his loyalty to. Maybe in France a weakling could wear the crown, but Broen was a Highlander and he’d never kneel in front of a king who wouldn’t keep his country united. Or any Scot who would buy himself a bastard daughter of the late king of England. The rumors claimed James had paid dearly for one of the few bastards acknowledged by Edward IV, who had enjoyed having mistresses in spite of claiming to love Elizabeth Woodville. Broen grinned. There was justice for a man—Edward had married a woman famed to be the most beautiful girl in England, but she hadn’t been royal-blooded and half his nobles had turned on him.

Well, James III of Scotland may have paid for a York lass, but Broen planned to steal her. He was a Highlander, after all. James would be a fool not to expect it. If the king had taken precautions, the effort might cost Broen his life. He’d take the chance. Life wasn’t worth living as a coward too busy sniveling about the wrongs done to his clan to take action. Besides, it was his opportunity to gain Sutherland’s backing to put an end to the vengeance being demanded by his clan. There were some who would call him a coward for trying to avoid a feud, but he rather liked knowing he wasn’t such a savage as to overlook a possible solution that didn’t involve bloodshed. It didn’t make him less of a Highlander, only more of a laird, because he had to think of his entire clan before allowing his personal feelings to be satisfied.

Yes, he’d do what he’d promised—or die trying.

***

“Where is she?”

Clarrisa faced the door as Maud began muttering prayers. The tower was rough, and the rushes on the floor smelled foul. She stared at the rushes. They confirmed she had left civilization behind her in England, where most homes no longer used such, because by winter’s end, they were filthy. But the walls were made of stone, and the men who had met her at the border were set to watch the doorway, leaving her nothing to do but face whoever came for her.

She had no reason to be surprised to discover she’d been shipped to Scotland in the middle of the night. Her entire life had been one of being told that her duty was to her family. The war between the York and Lancaster nobles had claimed so many lives among the blue-blooded. No child—even one bastard-born such as herself—was overlooked. Blue blood was noble, and controlling it the key to which family would claim the crown.

So Clarrisa stared at the door, waiting to see whom her uncle had sent her to. The sound of heavy footfalls came from outside the door, along with soft whines. The wooden door burst inward, its hinges squealing.

“Hiding, are ye? I expected as much from an English bitch.” James III stopped just inside the doorway, a couple of hunting hounds at his heels. One lifted its leg and wet the door frame, telling her exactly where the stench in the room had come from. Man and beasts lived together in the keep, and the idea made her skin crawl.

“I was told to wait for you here.” She didn’t add any title, for the moment felt informal. It bothered her to know she was being sent to him so secretly, so he might do as he pleased without any protest from the church. “Which is what I am doing. It is not hiding.”

She tried to temper her tone, but his eyes narrowed before he stepped closer with one fist raised. “Ye’ll mind yer tongue with me, woman, else I’ll teach ye the manners yer York kin failed to. No woman argues with me. I answer only to God. Why do ye think yer country’s nobles are at one another’s throats? They crave the same privilege.”

Clarrisa lowered herself, remaining down while he grunted with approval. Oh yes, the king of Scotland was everything she expected of a man. The desire to prick his ego gained the better of her. “Forgive me. I simply believed the stories I’ve heard of Scotsmen—that you were quite different from Englishmen… Obviously only stories.” She succeeded in making her tone everything her uncle had always demanded of her, meek and soft. Only she knew she wasn’t submissive. She clung to that knowledge and gained strength from it.

“What stories?” He lowered his fist, a spark of interest lighting his eyes. He wasn’t a bad-looking man, but he had servants aplenty to see to his grooming. Clarrisa wasn’t impressed with his fine clothing. She’d suffered men like him her entire life, arrogant males who believed it their right to have fine things and full bellies while their servants shivered for want of a cloak. A maid watched from the door frame, easing back until the darkness swallowed her. She clearly didn’t want any of the king’s attention, which told Clarrisa exactly what sort of man he was, one to be avoided, because he’d take what pleased him and never have a care for the suffering his desires inflicted on others. And her family had sent her to him.

“Do nae go silent now, lass. Ye have stoked me curiosity.”

“Oh… well… I should have kept my lips sealed. The church has warned me time and time again not to listen to what brazen women say men enjoy. Pious behavior is the path to salvation,” she offered in an innocent tone.

“It’s also damned boring. It’s colder in Scotland, lass. A man needs fire in his bed sport.”

“So I have heard…” Clarrisa allowed her words to trail off to a whisper. For certain, she had heard stories, but what had drawn her to the whispers to listen intently were the hints of how to control a man when the world was run by them. The man eyeing her was a king, and his men guarded the tower, but he watched her like a boy anticipating a sweet. “I am sure women’s conversation would be of little interest to you.”

James grinned, lust brightening his expression. He walked around her, inspecting her from head to toe.

“She’d better be a virgin.” He directed his words toward Maud. The older woman drew up proudly.

“She’s been guarded well, as befits the daughter of a king. The girl is simply nervous and saying things she’s no true understanding of.”

“Bastard daughter, but Edward’s blood in a son is what I need. Royal blood is valuable, even when it’s illegitimate.” He reached out, and Clarrisa lost her grip on her composure. She slapped his hand away before he touched her. James snickered at her.

“Ye’ve been given to me, and ye’ll be grateful, for I hear young Henry Tudor is set to kill off anyone with any claim to the English throne, now that he’s wed himself to Elizabeth of York.”

“He hasn’t crowned her as his queen,” Clarrisa muttered, unable to suppress the distaste in her tone. Henry VII was using his new wife to further his ambition. Elizabeth of York had no more say in her fate than Clarrisa did. They were both daughters of the late Edward IV.

“Why should he? The man had himself crowned Conqueror King, something nae done since William the Bastard. The York family has been defeated, which is yer family. In spite of the fact that he’s English, I like young Henry,” he insisted. “I believe it’s the Scots blood in him. There is no mercy in him, no’ even for a fair lass such as yerself.”

Clarrisa lifted her chin. “I agree, and he’ll take Scotland if given the chance because of it.”

James contemplated her for a long moment, his expression hard. “Which is why I want a son who will be kin to Henry Tudor’s son. Such a son could be very useful.” He lowered his attention to her breasts and sat in a chair. “I liked our topic better before we began talking of England and its cursed nobles.” He licked his lower lip. “What sorts of tales did ye hear from women of experience?”

Clarrisa fought to conceal the nausea twisting her insides. She lowered her eyelashes, and he took it as shyness, chuckling with male smugness. He rubbed his groin, enjoying being vulgar. “Come now, girl… What tales? They don’t mean shit if you cannae impress a man with them. Where’s that spirit gone to now, I wonder? Ye’re the one who claimed she was nae hiding from me.”

He was toying with her, and it sickened her more, but she didn’t let fear take hold of her. Instead she felt superior to him, because lust didn’t rule her.

“Oh… well… let me see.” Clarrisa tapped one fingertip against her lower lip, mimicking the gesture she’d seen other girls use on the knights when they wanted their attention. It worked perfectly, snaring James’s gaze instantly. “There was one I recall rather well about how a man enjoys having his… weapon polished.” She trailed her fingers over her chin and down across her breasts. Maud made a choking sound.

Being a virgin didn’t mean she was blind, after all. Her father’s kin had kept her skirts from being lifted, but they hadn’t stopped her from witnessing the vulgarity around her. Men seemed forever caught between their lust for power and their craving for female flesh.

“Get out, old woman. Ye’ve delivered her, and she will nae be leaving this chamber a maiden. Yer task is completed.”

“I almost forgot the most important part of the tale…”

The king swallowed roughly, his attention intent on Clarrisa. “What might that be, lass?”

Clarrisa offered him what she hoped was a flirtatious look. “I have to bathe you first.”

James frowned. “Why?”

“Because that’s what the harem women do in the Far East.” She rubbed her hands together suggestively. “To show their masters just how much they adore them. Some of the girls said the knights of the crusade brought back tales of how those men were pampered by several women all at the same time… I always wondered…”

“What?” he demanded. James was on his feet in a moment, his eyes bright with anticipation.

“I am simply curious to see if a man can truly hold back his nature long enough for me to bathe him.”

“Ye doubt it?”

Clarrisa nodded and watched him lick his lips. “I do. None of the other girls had ever met a man who could last. Yet the Moors are fabled to be able to linger while their slave women rub them—and the Moors last all night long.”

James caught her close, pulling her against his body. “That’s on account of the fact that they never tried with a Scotsman, lass. I’ve got what it takes to let ye use yer spirit on me. I’ll stand fast while ye polish me weapon from tip to base.”

He pressed a foul kiss against her lips, grabbing her bottom with one hand before he spun her loose.

“Go on with ye, lass. Fill a tub and make it ready for yer master.”

His men guarding the door grinned at her as she hurried past them. Their lurid looks didn’t bother her—she was far more interested in the relief flooding her. Maybe it was a small freedom, but she wasn’t stopped on her way away from the man who believed he owned her. As far as her kin were concerned, he did. The men winking at one another as she passed them believed the same thing.