Highlander's Prize (5 page)

“Something ye shall nae have until I can be sure ye are secured inside a solid tower.”

Horror arrived at last, stealing her thoughts and leaving her gasping. Thoughts of the boy princes and the fate of those with royal blood who were locked away for safekeeping rose up to torment her. Those young princes had died because others coveted their power. No one ever saw them again, except as ghosts. “Now, do nae be looking at me like that. I am nae a monster.” He released her, a sound of disgust reaching her ears. “But I cannae have ye giving James a York-blooded son.”

“So you will lock me up…” Her voice was a mere whisper, her throat feeling like it was swelling up.

“A few of me countrymen believe slitting yer throat is a better solution, as ye have already noticed. Kindly recall I am nae one of them.”

“There is little kindness in this entire affair.”

She stumbled away from him, forcing herself to stop when he began to follow her. Horror was making her shiver, and she detested its powerful hold. She raised her chin and clenched her jaw. “Well then,” she ground out, “if you lack the courage to spill my blood, step aside and allow one of your men to do the deed. I have no taste for living in fear.”

She might be foolish to say so, but it was what she truly felt in that moment. Her words were bold and brash, but they filled her with a steady confidence that cut through the terror. “I’m going up behind those rocks if you need to point the way to Shaw. If my throat is going to be slit, at least I shall not die with my robes soiled like a babe.”

She turned her back on him. It took every bit of courage she had to not look over her shoulder, but she pulled up her skirts and climbed to the outcropping of rocks, making it behind them before her nerve deserted her.

***

“I never thought I’d witness ye taking those sorts of words from any man—much less from an Englishwoman.”

Broen sent a cutting look toward Shaw. “She has courage, so I’m feeling generous.”

His cousin hooked his hands into his wide belt. “Ye mean she’s arrogant, which is in keeping with her kin. Young Henry is doing this world a service by ridding it of York blood. Power hungry, the lot of them.”

“I do nae kill women.”

Shaw made a low sound. “She’ll whelp more greedy sons to keep the war going into the next generation. I wear the same colors ye do, but there are exceptions to every rule.”

“No’ to honor, Shaw, and ye’ll be remembering that while I’m laird of the MacNicols.”

“Which will nae be for much longer, if James has his way. We’ll all be breaking bread with the English if a prince of Scotland shares the same blood as the heir to the English throne. She looks very convincing, but she’s no’ innocent, and ye can bet everything ye have on it. Did nae ye listen to what she was planning to do for James? ‘Treat him like a Moor’ is the way I heard it. Those men have palaces full of women all fighting one another to place their children at the top. Scotland has no need of such savageness.” There was heat in the man’s voice, a rage fueled by blood spilled through the ages.

“Ye think I have no feeling for the suffering the English have inflicted upon our kin, Shaw?” Broen turned to face his cousin. “Ye seem to forget it was my father who lost his life to the Grants.”

“A wrong done to all MacNicols—which ye have yet to claim vengeance for.”

Several of his men were listening now. Broen could see their eyes glowing with the same rage in Shaw’s voice. He battled against it himself.

“We’ll be feuding with the Grants, and no mistake, if I cannae gain a reasonable accounting from Donnach Grant for me father’s death. James cannae be taking issue with me for fighting when he refuses to do his duty and bring that bastard Donnach to justice for stealing me bride and putting our men to the sword when me father went to talk terms.” His men nodded, but Shaw remained still, his expression hard.

“This woman is another matter. The earl sent us after her, and her fate is Norris’s to decide. I stole her so the earl would force Donnach to meet me, because I will nae see yer mothers weeping until I’ve done me best to avoid feuding. Stealing one woman for the earl is better than beginning a feud without knowing I’ve done me best to avoid it. Do ye want to see yer mother wailing over the body of one of yer brothers? There will be death if we go looking for vengeance. Do nae doubt it.”

Shaw nodded at last. “I suppose that’s why ye are laird and no’ me. I did nae think on the matter quite that way.”

Broen watched his men nod in agreement, but he was far from feeling settled. Norris Sutherland might very well agree with those who demanded Clarrisa be eliminated permanently. Her blood was too precious, too dangerous in the unstable world they all shared. But she had spirit, and there was a lack of arrogance in her eyes, which had him looking back to where she’d taken refuge behind a large boulder. Shaw would call him a softhearted fool, and maybe it was true, but taking her life held no appeal.

She was no beauty but wasn’t too hard on the eyes. Her hair was blond, and the sunlight had turned it golden. But what captivated him was the way she moved. The curve of her hip when she walked or the manner in which she chewed on her lower lip when she was trying to decide what to say to him. Or the way she’d watched him throughout the day. He’d felt her blue eyes on him as though she were touching him.

Bloody
hell.

He shook his head, wondering when he’d lost sight of what was best for his clan. Clarrisa was rumored to be one of several bastards of the last English king, Edward IV. The man had fallen in battle, and his cousin Henry Tudor was now crowned. Henry had wed Edward’s legitimate daughter, but he hadn’t made her queen yet, which left the nobles wondering if there was still power to be grabbed.

James Stuart was thinking exactly that. A king had responsibilities, and James III liked to ignore his too much for Broen to follow him.

It made him a traitor in the eyes of many Scottish nobles. Broen would wear the title gladly. His father had died while sitting at a negotiating table, and the king had sat in his castle and done nothing. James wasn’t worthy of his loyalty, and the man would never get the York-blooded son he sought either. Not while Broen was laird of the MacNicols.

Of course, with the way the country was, nothing was for certain. It might be his throat slit instead of Clarrisa’s—or maybe both. There were too many men whose loyalty was uncertain. Did they follow the king, or seek to see his son placed on the throne of Scotland so a new era might begin?

Well, he knew where he stood. A man was only worth as much as his honor. Clarrisa was going to Sutherland land, but she was going alive.

And he could just bloody well forget what her lips looked like.

***

“Why did ye pull on that leather? Did ye really think the knots would give?”

Clarrisa turned to find Broen watching her. He hadn’t stepped out into the open, which fit his character. She lowered her hands, killing the urge to inspect the damage she’d done to her skin. The skin itched and burned, confirming she’d torn her flesh.

“Doesn’t every captive pray for deliverance?”

He moved forward, looking like he was materializing from the shadows. He hadn’t buttoned his doublet and seemed quite at ease in the chilly night. The edge of his kilt fluttered gently in the stirring breeze. He moved silently and stood before her, while she was still satisfying her curiosity about his person. He captured her forearm once more and raised her wrists.

“Praying is hoping God will strike down yer enemies. Struggling is failing to have faith in his power to deliver ye.” The moonlight reflected off a small dagger as he slipped the blade under the leather and jerked it upward. “I know a few priests who will take issue with ye for nae waiting for the divine hand of the Almighty to free ye.”

His tone was playfully mocking, renewing the rush of heat that seemed to happen anytime he was near her.

She stepped back and brushed the coils of leather from her wrists. “I know more who will protest your intention to murder me, which made it a fine idea to take a hand in my own fate.”

He slid the dagger back into the top of his boot. The worn leather ended just below his knee, and she could see the edge of fur peeking out. Her toes were frozen, and she was envious of the sturdy footwear.

“I believe I know a few priests who would condemn ye for going to the bed of a man who is nae yer husband. A fine thing for me to interfere with,” he insisted.

“It wasn’t any idea of mine.” Her uncle would have beaten her for such an admission, but the man in front of her was lawless, and it seemed to be affecting her. “It was my uncle’s scheme and your king’s. I’ve already thanked you for removing me from it. We should stop trying to agree with each other.”

Broen folded his arms over his chest and studied her for a long moment. She actually felt the weight of his judgment. It needled her, making her realize she cared what he thought of her. She shouldn’t—
wouldn’t.

He grunted. “Aye, maybe ye’ve got more sense than I do, lass. We’ll be parting ways soon enough.”

His words shamed her. She felt her cheeks brighten with a blush. His gaze touched on the color for a moment before he shook his head.

“Now, there’s why I’m torn. Ye seem genuine in yer innocence.” His eyes narrowed. “Which may be a skill ye’ve been perfecting since ye learned to walk. Most likely so, from what tales I’ve heard of English nobility. The females are a sly lot.”

Clarrisa glared at him, lifting her chin to look at him directly. “Maybe you are planning to use my blood for your own gain. That’s a skill Scottish lairds learn early, I hear. Highlanders only have loyalty to their own clans.”

“I am a Highlander and proud of it.” The amusement vanished from his eyes. She should have been satisfied to hear the disgruntlement in his voice; instead, all she felt was needling guilt for being so insulting. Her mother would be ashamed of her.

“We’re getting nowhere with all this talk,” he informed her in a low tone that did little to disguise his frustration.

“Of course you believe so, for it would be much easier for you to deliver me to my imprisonment if you weren’t made aware of how unjust it is.”

“Unjust?” He uncrossed his arms, making him huge once more. Sensation snaked down her spine, and she was suddenly foolishly aware of the man for some reason. Clarrisa stepped back, a warning rising from somewhere deep inside her brain. She wasn’t even sure what it was telling her—to escape, or that Broen MacNicols was dangerous.

“Life is nae fair. No man has an easy path. Even royal blood carries with it burdens. I’ll nae pity ye for having to shoulder what every man does. I’m taking ye into the Highlands even if ye try to talk me to death along the way.”

He reached out and clamped one hand around her forearm. He pulled her behind him on his way back down to where his men were resting. She couldn’t rightly call it a camp, for there wasn’t a single tent. Several of the Highlanders had pulled their swords off their backs and raised their plaids to cover their heads. They were nestled against tree trunks, where the branches were thick. Some had dug up fallen leaves and piled them over their laps so they practically disappeared. The horses were nowhere in sight; the younger boys who’d ridden with them were gone as well.

“We’ll nae rest long, just enough for the horses. Sleep while ye can.”

He tugged her right into the thicket. She had to raise her free arm to protect her face from being scratched. Once they reached a thick tree trunk, he released her.

“Sit, or I’ll tie ye again.”

Clarrisa sank to her knees, watching him as he pulled his sword free. He raised his plaid and sat down, before leaning back against the tree. She gasped when he reached out and grabbed one of her braids.

“Closer, lass. Yer hair is nae that long.” There was a renewed hint of amusement in his tone. She ground her teeth with frustration, but he didn’t grant her any mercy. He looped her braid around his wrist and grasped the end inside his fist. He tucked his arm beneath the length of his plaid, pulling her closer.

She ended up sitting next to him with only a tiny space between them. Broen closed his eyes, granting her privacy, even if it was of an odd sort. The man had ahold of her hair, for Christ’s sake, something that struck her as intimate. Only little girls and brides wore their hair loose. She stared at him, because she’d always imagined that when a man touched her hair, he would be her husband.
Or
her
lover…

Clarrisa chided herself and ordered her imagination to be silent. Circumstances were grim enough without her appearing to be drawn to her captor. Still, at least she was free of his piercing stare. She leaned back against the tree, longing for her cloak, which lay forgotten in the tower chamber. At least she could pull her knees closer to her chest, which allowed her toes to take shelter beneath her skirts.

Her thoughts wanted to whirl, but exhaustion was nipping at her. She closed her eyes, hugging herself for warmth. Her head was uncovered, and the chill of the night made her long for her hat. Silk ribbons were threaded through her braids like a bride’s, and her dress was made of linen, too lightweight for the Scottish night.