Highlander's Prize (7 page)

Riders met them in the center of the rocky ground—more Highlanders, wearing their swords across their backs as the spring breeze pulled at the edges of their kilts. They were serious, but their leader offered his hand to Broen. The two men clasped each other’s forearms before the men surrounding them lost their somber expressions.

“So ye managed it, did ye?” The leader of the welcome party stared at her. He kneed his stallion forward until he was closer. “There’s a tale there, to be sure. I do nae think James let her go easily.”

This Highlander studied her much the same way his king had, as if she were a mare. Clarrisa bit her lip, trying to keep her opinion to herself, but failed. “And you Scots think yourselves so different from the English.”

The leader of the welcoming clan was dark haired with midnight black eyes. His chin was covered in dark stubble, giving him a rakish look. Surprise registered on his face before he leaned forward to glare at her. “Ye do nae see a difference, lass? Now, that’s the first time I’ve met a blind Englishwoman. Cannae ye see me knees, or should I let me kilt ride up a bit higher to test yer courage?”

Clarrisa softened her expression, calling upon years of experience appearing meek when she was nothing of the sort. “Men thinking themselves so superior to women that they simply talk of them as though they are not even present… Well, that is something my English kin do very well.” Her eyes swept the group of retainers listening so intently behind him. “I see more similarities than differences.”

She could feel the tension in the air and Broen glaring at her, but she maintained her position, refusing to duck her chin.

“I’m Faolan Chisholms. Me uncle is the Earl of Sutherland. Does that please ye?”

Clarrisa shook her head slowly. “No, it simply offers me another example of how much you have in common with the English nobility. They are all quick to tell anyone who they are related to, all that much better to attempt to frighten them into submission.”

Faolan’s men didn’t care for her tone. They frowned at her, some scowling. Faolan did neither. The man considered her with a stony expression while fingering the reins resting in his hands.

“Well, it seems we’ll have plenty to discuss over supper, for I’ve got a lot of relatives. Some of them are a little less in favor with the church than others, because they were nae born under the blessing of marriage. But here in the Highlands, we’re a bit more concerned with blood. Especially royal blood.”

There were grins among his men. Faolan lifted his hand, and they parted. He shifted his attention to Broen.

“I can see why ye are nae in a hurry to get inside and bask in front of me hearth. This York female has a heat I can feel all the way over here. It’s a wonder ye don’t have blisters on yer face, man.”

“My hide is thicker than yers, it seems,” Broen stated arrogantly. “Seems a good thing I went to fetch her, since ye are wilting beneath her slicing tongue.”

Faolan grunted. “Ye haven’t proved anything of the sort.”

Broen reached over and snared her reins before she realized what he was doing. “I snatched the prize me uncle wanted, when there were plenty who claimed it was undoable.”

Broen rode beneath the raised gate and into the inner yard. Faolan and his men followed. Clarrisa held tight to the bridle of her mare but turned to look back, feeling as if a huge stone were pressing down on her chest. She was off her mare before the men finished dismounting. Boys ran forward to take the animals, and her mare happily followed one to a stable.

A firm hand clapped around her upper arm. “Do nae let Faolan ruffle yer feathers, lass,” Broen said. “I keep my word. We’ll pass the night here and no more.”

She shot a hard look at him. “I cannot trust you.” But she hated how much she wanted to. It wasn’t logical, and she needed to be logical.

Broen pulled her closer, his voice dipping so his words remained private. “Ye struck me as more intelligent than that, Clarrisa. There were others who would have happily taken ye from the king in order to please the earl, and no’ many of them would have left ye alive. Best ye trust me, for the time might come when I’ll need ye to follow me willingly.”

His blue eyes were guarded now.

“You have left me alive so you can take me to your overlord. It sounds as though you took the challenge in front of others. That is not so trust-inspiring.” She kept her voice low so her words wouldn’t drift.

“I did, because it was the best thing for me clan and country.” The grip on her biceps became soothing. “And I would nae have done so if the threat yer blood poses were nae so great.”

“So I cannot trust you, because I am only a threat to you.” There was regret in her tone, and she witnessed it in his eyes before he moved her forward toward the largest tower and its arched doorway.

“I suppose that’s fair enough.” There was a gruffness to his voice she might easily have believed was remorse. It did not matter if it was. The brute was still tugging her toward Faolan Chisholms like a prize taken in battle. How he felt about her plight wouldn’t change her fate.

“Come now, lass. Me hospitality is nae so wanting that ye should need to be pulled across the threshold.” Faolan appeared beside her and settled one of his arms around her waist. “Ye would nae want to hurt me feelings.”

“Enough of this.” She surged forward, walking into the large hall that lay directly inside the doors. It was full of tables, most of which were occupied by Faolan’s clan members. Supper was being served, but everyone stopped eating to stare at her.

“Broen MacNicols has come to pay us all a visit! Bring up a cask of cider,” Faolan announced.

A cheer went up, and the meal began again. Faolan went down the center aisle, clearly the master of the tower. Men reached up, tugging on the corners of their knit bonnets, and women nodded as they continued to serve the tables. Broen received the same respect, which sent a tingle down her spine. She’d been overly bold with him, and it was clear there wasn’t a soul in sight who would refuse to follow his commands.

She was at his mercy, but she still wasn’t ready to repent. Her fate would be the same no matter how she faced it. The only thing she held power over was how she went to it.

The cider cask arrived, and another cheer went up. This one was louder, with the men pounding their mugs on the tabletops. Faolan had reached the head table. He pressed his hands on its surface and waited for his men to finish expressing their appreciation. Faolan considered her as his captains lined up shoulder to shoulder behind him. Broen stood beside him, the feathers in their bonnets all pointing upward to denote their rank. The two lairds had all three feathers raised; their captains each had one raised and the other two lowered.

“I’ll bid ye a good night, lass.” Faolan pointed at two of his retainers, and the men pulled on their bonnets before starting toward her.

“I hope you choke on your cider,” she answered sweetly. “And wake up in a privy.”

There were several gasps from the women, but Faolan grinned at her. “Ye really need to stop teasing me so brazenly in front of me men, lass. I’m sorely tempted to tame ye.”

“Another trait you have in common with the English—thinking women are so impressed with any man’s effort in her bed to ever become tame.”

The women giggled now, and it was clear many of them agreed with her.

Instead of becoming irritated, Faolan grinned. “Ah, but ye see, lass, being a Scotsman means I’ll be arriving in yer bedchamber to prove I am no’ just spouting empty promises. By morning, ye’ll know the difference between me and those English who sent ye up here a virgin.”

Heat blazed across her cheeks. The hall erupted into laughter, the tables being pounded once more. Faolan slapped Broen on the back and roared with his amusement. The retainers set to the task of escorting her from the hall battled to maintain stern faces, but their eyes twinkled with mirth.

Clarrisa began to lower herself. It was a habit that had been instilled in her as a child, but she froze halfway down and straightened back up. Broen raised an eyebrow at her audacity and almost looked as though he admired her daring. It would be insane to think he respected her rudeness. Foolish as well, for her fate rested in his hands. Or perhaps his friend’s—she wasn’t sure, for it was Faolan’s men who flanked her now and his holding in which she was secured. Not that it mattered to her. One Highlander laird or another, it made little difference. She refused to allow herself to think of Broen or his promise that he would not murder her. He hadn’t, so the man had kept his word. She could expect nothing else from him.

Maybe he’d handed her over to a man who would spill her blood. Such was a common way of dealing with offended honor among men.

She walked slowly, frustrating her escort, but they seemed loath to touch her. Her feet shuffled on the stone floor, and she turned her head to look out of the few openings in the stone walls as they passed. Most were archer’s slits—thin cross-shaped places where there was no stone. The night air blew in, and she filled her lungs with it, fearing it might be the last fresh air she breathed.

The young English princes had gone into the Tower of London and never been seen again. She shivered, saying a quick prayer for their souls. They’d only been boys, but the Lancasters had convinced their mother to allow the boys into their care.

The retainers took her up two flights of stone steps. The sounds from the hall diminished until all she heard was the wind whispering through the arrow slits.

“Here, lass. The chamber is sound and clean enough.” The door hinges opened easily, proving the chamber was kept in good repair. The iron hinges were huge and would have squealed without attention. At least the floor wasn’t covered in rushes. It was solid stone but appeared to have been recently swept.

“Now, do nae be making a fuss. Ye heard me laird. Inside with ye.”

“I know who to blame for my circumstances.” Clarrisa crossed into the room and was sure the air was colder inside. The tiny hearth in the room was dark and cold. “My own kin.”

Confusion crossed the face of the older retainer. He reached up and scratched the side of his gray beard while contemplating her words. He held up his hand to silence one of the others who had grumbled over her words, and the man snapped his lips shut instantly, proving age was respected even in the Highlands.

A tiny hint of civilized behavior where she’d always heard there was nothing but savageness.

“Kindly do not berate me for disrespecting my noble uncle.” She turned her back on him and tried not to let him hear her sigh. Somber was the kindest word she could think of to describe the room. “But I hardly think his plans for me… decent. Even if it is my place to obey him.”

Bleak
was a better word, but if her spirits sank any lower, she feared she’d give in to the urge to pity herself. She shouldn’t even be talking to the retainer but couldn’t seem to halt the words. Fear was trying to rise up and strangle her, fear of being alone and forgotten inside this stone room. How long would it be before she believed being murdered would be preferable to her fate of incarceration?

“I’ll get one of the lasses to fetch up some supper for ye. A good meal will cheer ye up a bit. No need to be so discontent.”

Clarrisa turned around to stare at the older Chisholms retainer. “That would be most welcome.”

He nodded. “Aye, well, seeing as how ye are nae unleashing yer temper on me… ’tis the decent thing to do. Even if ye are English.”

Highlander pride. It rang clear and solid in his voice.

She smiled as the door shut, enjoying the sound of his voice ringing in her ears. Her enjoyment faded as silence surrounded her. A small bed was built into the corner of the chamber. The bench she sat on was the only seat. Off in another corner was a small but serviceable table whose top was scarred with cuts and ink. No inkwell was in sight, nor parchment, but such items would be kept locked away, for they were expensive. Had someone enjoyed their labor inside the room? A secretary maybe, one given a room inside the castle as a mark of his position within the laird’s household. She stood and walked to the table, gently running her hand across the surface, pausing at one ink stain. What a strange contrast to what the chamber was for her.

She sighed, wandering in one circle and then another.

***

“The lass is mine to take to yer uncle.” Broen spoke quietly, but Faolan heard the edge to his tone.

“The threat she brings to Scotland is shared by many. She’s secure here. If ye take her out, someone might take her from ye.”

Broen stared straight into his fellow laird’s eyes. “Do ye think I would have bothered to ride across land held by royalists, or that I’d order me men to take such a risk, if there was nae a damned good reason? Do nae insult me, man. She’s my prize, taken for the benefit of us all—but mine, nonetheless. Ye had the chance to join me, but do nae insult me ability to get one lass across the ground between yer land and mine.”

Faolan lifted his mug but never swallowed any of the cider. The man was making a show of drinking with his men while ensuring his wits remained sharp. Faolan glanced at his own mug, still three-quarters full of cider, before standing. There was a gleam of knowledge in his eyes when he looked at Broen, one Broen returned. Being laird now that his father was gone meant keeping one step ahead of half the clans surrounding his. He and Faolan had been inseparable as boys, but as men, they had to keep their clans’ interests foremost in their thoughts. Suspicion was knotting his gut, because there was something in Faolan’s eyes that was just as hard as his own determination to have Clarrisa remain his prize.