Highlander's Prize (3 page)

Well, she was out of the chamber, and she’d find another way to escape the fate she’d been sent north to endure. She just wished she knew how she was going to do it.

***

“You’ve gone mad.”

Maud was shaking with wrath, but Clarrisa didn’t give her much of her attention. She had other matters on her mind, such as how to keep the king of Scotland from breeding her like a prized mare.

“The way you were talking, it’s a wonder he hasn’t sent you out into the darkness like a cheap whore, for that is what you sounded like.”

“I’ve no liking to be viewed as a cowardly sacrifice. If it means you are displeased with my words, so be it.” The words slipped past years of instruction to hold her tongue. She dumped the bucket of water she’d hauled from the kitchen into the tub that sat in front of the fire Maud was building up to warm the room.

Maud turned, pointing a poker with a glowing red tip at her. “What would ye rather have? Henry the Seventh of England is hunting down every last drop of York blood. Where can you make your future but here in Scotland?” The old woman spit out the words with clear distaste. “At least you are bound for the bed of a king.”

“He has three sons born in a legitimate union. I will be naught but his whore; my children, illegitimate.” She offered Maud a sincere look. “It is not so kind a fate to be born without the blessing of the church. I would not wish it upon anyone or willingly thrust it upon a babe. I’d be a selfish creature to think only of my gain.”

Maud stabbed the poker back into the fire. A shower of crimson sparks flew up before dying in the cold night air.

“True, but the king wants to be rid of Margaret of Denmark’s sons. He is trying to annul the marriage. I hear his sons are plotting his murder, so it’s fitting he should be looking to take you as his leman so he can have more sons.”

“She’s dead and buried,” Clarrisa insisted.

“Aye.” Maud crossed herself. “But kings do not obey the same rules as other men. James wants the marriage annulled, and he’s sent gold to the pope to see the matter resolved.” Maud turned and considered her. “You might do very well for yourself if you please him. Perhaps I am wrong to judge you. Scots do like fire in their women. Your brazenness might be just the way to keep his attention.”

With a wimple wrapped around her head and under her chin, Maud looked like a bride of Christ, or a bitter abandoned mistress. Clarrisa picked up the empty bucket and hid her smile of amusement. It wasn’t wise to make an enemy of the woman, even if she was no more than another person trying to see Clarrisa’s worth.

It seemed to be the way of life among the nobles. Clarrisa turned to the door and went down the narrow stone steps. There was only a single candle flickering near the base of the stairs. Considering that the king was in residence, the tower was strangely quiet. The single servant she’d spied in the hallway had not returned.

But James III was a king with many unhappy subjects. Margaret of Denmark had been a popular queen. James was quite the opposite, earning the anger of many of his clans because of his lack of justice. Not that his people’s discontent would save Clarrisa from what her kin had sent her to do. She hooked the bucket onto a rope and sent it down the well opening. Her fingers ached from the frigid water, but she preferred it to what the rest of the night would offer.

She had been brazen, but she refused to repent. If her words delayed the distasteful event planned for her, she’d happily be thought as any number of sinful creatures. Everyone she had ever met thought something of her, and most of the time their ideas weren’t kind. They judged her, when it was her father’s sin that had brought her into the world bastard-born. But kings and nobles often believed they had rights beyond what the church said they did. Her mother had been a knight’s daughter, and when the king took her to his bed, she had had no right to refuse.

Clarrisa stopped while pulling the bucket back up and listened. Something filtered through the stone walls, some sound she couldn’t quite identify. She held still, waiting for another hint, but all she heard was the wind. The bucket was almost to the top, and she gave the rope another tug to complete its journey. She unhooked it and turned away from the well.

The bucket’s contents went spilling onto the floor. Where before there had been nothing but empty space, men now stood in the darkness, cast half in shadow; huge figures that sent a shiver down her spine.

“Christ Almighty! That’s cold.”

A portion of the floor was missing and the rushes gone as a trapdoor showed how the men had got into the tower. One huge form climbed out, shaking his head and sending water flying.

“Why are ye the one screaming, Shaw? I expected the lass to do the yelling.” In spite of his teasing words, there was a solid core of strength in his tone that sent her back a step. He was clearly accustomed to being obeyed, and the men coming up through the trapdoor all looked to him.

Shaw growled and wiped more water off his face. “She’s holding her tongue so as to no’ warn her lover, that bastard James, that we’re here, Laird.”

There was only a single lantern lit to help her see to her chore, but the light flickered off Shaw, illuminating the determination on his face. His hand rested on the hilt of a dagger tucked into his worn belt.

“He is not my lover, nor do I want him for such.” Her voice quivered just a tiny amount. Clarrisa forced herself to face them. She’d not die a sniveling coward.

The laird chuckled, but it was not a pleasant sound. “There’s a fact I plan to ensure does nae change by stealing ye away before His Royal Highness notices ye are taking too long with his bathwater. But if ye’re speaking the truth, ye can prove it by coming along with us without a fuss.”

His hair was longer than the English wore theirs, some of it resting on his broad shoulders. It was light colored, but the candlelight illuminated copper in it. For a moment she was tempted, relief filling her, but the way Shaw still gripped his dagger made her hesitate. Her thoughts raced, and her heart did too.

“Steal me… To what end? You can murder me here as easily as on the banks of a river.”

He shook his head, drawing a short grunt from Shaw. The laird snapped his head around to stare at his man. “MacNicols do nae settle their disputes by spilling the blood of women. We’re set to prevent her from becoming the king’s leman. Stealing her will satisfy that need.”

“She’s Edward the fourth’s bastard. His blood is a threat to us all,” Shaw countered. “One best dealt with permanently, I’m thinking.”

“We’ll be ending the matter once we’ve taken her to the Highlands.”

Highlands… The Scottish laird might as well have said Hades, for the Highlands were a place where only uncivilized clans lived. The people were barbaric; they stole women from one another like Moors.

But
it
would
be
preferable
to
becoming
the
king’s broodmare.

She was tempted but also torn, because she could see the argument shimmering in Shaw’s eyes. Escaping into the hands of men intent on murdering her wasn’t a kinder fate. Clarrisa turned to run, but it was too late. A hard hand clamped around her arm, dragging her to a stop before her skirts stopped swirling.

“Here now. Ye’ll have to be missing out on treating James like a Moor, for we do nae need England’s feud spilling into our royal line,” her captor informed her.

“I want none of it either—”

Shaw looped a length of fabric around her head. It was thin enough to slide right through her open teeth and gag her. Clarrisa reached for it, frantically trying to keep it from biting into her skin, but she was too late. A few twists and it was knotted firmly in place. “Get her down the passageway before anyone guesses what we’re about, lads.”

Whoever the men were, they plucked her off her feet like she was a child. She struggled, unable to master her fear as they handed her to the men still below the surface of the kitchen floor. There was nothing but darkness, which sent a bolt of terror through her.

“Ye might have tied her up, Laird. She’s got claws as sharp as a hawk.”

Her grasping hands sank into sleeves and plaids, but she was yanked away. Shaw followed her, and she heard the trapdoor being slid back into position. The light from the kitchen went with it, leaving her encased in blackness.

“That maid had best keep her end of the bargain and right the rushes, or our game will be ended quickly,” Shaw muttered.

“She’ll do it,” the laird muttered while carrying Clarrisa through the narrow passageway. “She has as much to gain as we do by making sure the king does nae get a York-blooded son.”

Clarrisa twisted and turned, but she was held firmly by her captors. Her dress was a tangled mess, and she felt the night air brushing her knees above her stockings. Her braids hung like ropes—her hat lying wherever it had fallen—but the gag kept her braids from being stepped on. Helplessness almost strangled her, but there was nothing to do but suffer it.

They set her feet down in a thicket, where the trees were dark shapes in the night. There was the musty scent of fallen leaves being disturbed by their passing, but the branches only allowed some of the moonlight to illuminate the ground. She shoved frantically away from the laird, only to hear the man chuckle at her efforts. He caught one of her braids and pulled her back toward him. Tears stung her eyes as pain bit into her scalp, a soft moan the only sound that made it past the gag.

“Best for ye to stay close to me, lass. Me men do nae care to keep ye alive.” He leaned close so she could hear his soft words. “I’ve no liking for harming a female, but I’ll be taking ye. How much discomfort ye want to suffer is up to ye.”

The solid authority was back in his tone, but his tone lacked the suspicion she’d heard from Shaw. Part of her wanted to grasp that idea close, but she needed to be practical. She could not trust him, yet she longed to, because he promised her life.

There were more of them now. She could see the white puffs of their breath with the help of moonlight. She hadn’t heard them, not even with the leaves on the ground.

Highlander.
It was a word she’d been raised to fear. The clans inhabiting the upper portions of Scotland were the most fierce. No sane person ventured among them. She retreated without thinking, simply because the idea of going to the Highlands was so horrifying.

There was a short grunt from the laird. “Wrap her up, Shaw. Her claws do draw blood.”

The hand holding her braid released. “Hold her steady for me.”

The group suddenly faced her. Her arms were pressed against her body as a length of fabric was wound around her. Around and around it went, until she was swaddled like a babe.

“Now, let’s be done with this bit of work, lads,” the laird muttered before her feet left the ground again.

It was all so simple, so quietly done. The Highlander hefted her over his shoulder with an ease she might have admired if the man weren’t abducting her. Clarrisa found herself straining to hear the sounds of pursuit, but there was nothing but the wind. It blew through the trees, rustling the leaves enough to cover the escape of her captors. The only sound that came at last were the soft footfalls of a horse. Her captor tossed her up and over the back of the beast without so much as a grunt.

He swung up behind her, and she watched him dig his heels into the underbelly of the horse to send it forward. It was as though the men blended together with the darkness, for there wasn’t a hint of hesitation from any one of them. Even the horses surged forward as though they were accustomed to nighttime rides.

Fate had a misplaced sense of humor for granting her the escape she’d longed for in the form of such men. She should have been afraid, but the truth was that she was too relieved to be free of James’s lust to feel anything else. Even the idea of going to the Highlands was losing its sting as she watched the tower grow smaller and smaller behind them.

But once it was gone, she shivered and dreaded just what fate awaited her at the hands of the MacNicols laird.

***

Her jaw ached.

Clarrisa worked her mouth open and closed a few times before she opened her eyes. The sun wasn’t truly risen yet anyway; darkness still surrounded her. Pain shot through her head, and she lifted her hand to rub at her forehead with a frown—she couldn’t recall what she’d done to injure herself. Her mouth felt drier than during a sweltering August day, and her memory returned with a clear recollection of how being gagged had felt. The thing was missing now, but it seemed the fabric had dried out her mouth.

“Ye sleep like a babe. Unconcerned, as though the world is a peaceful place. Maturity should have taught ye differently, but I suppose I cannae be expecting any royal offspring to know much about life’s harsher edges.”

Laird MacNicols was a giant. He squatted, the edges of his plaid just brushing the ground. She gained a glimpse of his well-made boots with antler-horn buttons running up their sides before he muttered something to Shaw in Gaelic.

Fear twisted through her, because Shaw’s eyes were icy and she recalled clearly what he wanted to do with her.