Highlander's Prize (9 page)

What
drew
a
man
such
as
Broen
to
a
woman?

She was mad to think on such a topic, but her mind was half-gone into slumber, and discipline seemed to have vanished. An image of him crouching down near her surfaced from her memory and followed her into sleep. What surprised her was how much she was drawn to the details that set him apart from civilized men. She should detest him; instead, she dreamed of him.

***

“Come, lass…” The voice was husky and dark. Her eyes flew open as Faolan’s promise to prove himself to her filled her thoughts.

“You will not have me!” She shoved at the man sitting on the edge of the bed. He stumbled, giving her the opportunity to kick the blanket aside. “I am sick unto death of everyone’s desire to be in my bed.”

“Be silent, woman.”

“I will not help you commit this atrocity, Faolan Chisholms.” She picked up the pitcher and flung it at him. He moved faster than she did, clearing the path she sent the pottery sailing along. It smashed into the stone wall, shattering into bits.

A hard hand grabbed her and sealed her next retort behind it. He yanked her up against his body as she struggled to escape. There was too much iron strength in the man holding her. She strained with all her might but remained held securely.

“’Tis Broen, and I’ve come to—”

His identity was too much for her to bear. It must have been her dreams of him while falling asleep, but her cheeks flamed and her heart raced the moment he revealed his name.

“Ye bit me,” he accused in a soft snarl. For a moment the iron cage of his arms opened as he shook his hand.

“I thought you were that devil of a friend you handed me over to.” Clarrisa sent her best punch toward his face. Pain erupted all along her arm when her knuckles connected with his jaw. “Well… I will not submit to him or you or your king! Do you hear me?”

“Sweet Christ, half the castle heard ye,” he swore in a raspy tone. “Quiet down before ye truly have to deal with Faolan. He’s got a notion to keep ye, but I am here to keep me promise to ye.”

Broen pushed her against the wall, pressing his body against hers from head to toe. One moment she was trying to rub some of the pain from her hand, and the next moment the huge lout was closer to her than any man had ever been. Except for him during the last few days.

He smothered the rest of what she had to say with his palm. “I came in here to help ye, but I need the Chisholms to stay in the hall and nae come down here because they hear ye howling like a scalded cat.”

She curled her lips back, intending to take the largest chunk of flesh she could out of his hand, but he yanked his hand away.

“Would ye quiet down?” Shaw spoke from the chamber door. “Someone is sure to hear… Ah… well now, I don’t think we’ve got time for that sort of convincing, Laird.”

Clarrisa snarled. It was the most uncivilized sound she’d ever made, but it suited the moment.

“I’m trying to keep her from raising the alarm.”

Shaw grinned at her as Broen pressed his hand against her mouth again. “Well now, the gag worked well enough, if ye ask me.”

A strangled sound made it past Broen’s hand. Clarrisa strained against him but only managed to feel just how hard his body was.

“Curse it all.”

Broen suddenly leaned in so close she could feel his breath against her cheek. Her skin prickled with awareness, which raced along her flesh, raising goose bumps. She’d never been so aware of how a man smelled or felt. Every breath pulled the details deep into her senses and unleashed a torrent of sensation. It was shocking, but pleasurable too.

“Listen to me, Clarrisa…” His voice sent a shiver down her spine. It was raspy and commanding, bringing to mind the moment she’d contemplated what sort of woman he’d be attracted to. “I’m here to offer ye a choice.”

The candles from the hallway flickered in his eyes as he stared into hers.

“Aye, something ye have nae had from me before, and I’ll admit ye have the right to scratch me for appearing in the darkness.” He lifted his hand away, slowly at first, clearly not trusting her. He still had her pinned against the wall with his body.

“Ye can come away with me now, or wait here to see if Faolan decides to make good on his boast to prove himself to ye.”

He pushed away from her, and another ripple of sensation traveled down her body, only this time it was lament. She wrapped her arms around her body, trying to console herself. It was foolish to feel anything but relief, yet she hugged herself tighter.

“I don’t trust you, Broen MacNicols.”

But
he’s never hurt you…

He’d moved to the center of the room. “Do nae ye, lass?” He closed the gap between them once more. His warmth enveloped her, and his body pinned her arms in place between them. This time he raised her chin, cupping it in one hand. His breath teased her lips, the delicate surface registering an insane amount of notice from so slight a touch.

“Feel how smooth yer skin is, lass?” He trailed his fingers across her neck. “Nae a single cut. Better to place yer faith in me than anyone else surrounding ye at the moment.”

His fingers lingered on her skin, sending heat across her cheeks. For a mere moment, it looked like his attention had settled onto her lips. Her mouth went dry, and her breath froze in her chest. Would he kiss her?
Would
she
kiss
him
in
return?

Neither happened. Broen stepped back, but it seemed like he hesitated.

Fool! Would you have him drawn to you?

“Trust me, Clarrisa. I’ll see ye to the Highlands alive. Ye have me word on that.”

He extended his hand, palm up, and waited for her to place her hand in his. Her throat felt like it was swelling shut, far too tight to allow even a single breath through.

“Has this cell endeared itself to ye, then?” He looked around and grunted. “No’ even a candle spared for ye.”

“I know it well.” But she still didn’t like hearing just how defeated she was.

The candlelight from the passageway allowed her to see his eyebrow rise mockingly. “But ye are nae sure I am any better a choice? At least I will take ye out into the night, where the air is fresh. ’Tis yer choice, and ye need to make it now.” He turned and took a step toward the door.

Need pulsed through her, pushing aside everything else. She felt like he was being torn away from her, and she couldn’t endure the separation.

“Oh… damn us all. I’m coming… Bro—” His name lodged in her throat. It seemed such an intimate thing, to speak his first name; simply thinking about it reawakened her desire to know what his kiss was like. He stopped, and she almost ran into him, stopping so abruptly her skirts collided with his legs. He cupped her chin once again.

“Why does me name stick to yer tongue? ’Tis simple enough to say.”

She stepped back, lifting her chin to remove it from his grasp. Not that she might have eluded his touch if he weren’t in the mood to allow her to. He loomed over her, making her more conscious of how much more strength he had than she. She felt vulnerable yet strangely impatient to prove she could meet him in every contest of flesh there was.

Insane… She’d lost her wits completely…

“Laird MacNicols.”

He took a step toward her. “That is me title, no’ me name, Clarrisa.”

Shaw cleared his throat. “So sorry to be interrupting… Laird, but if the two of ye do nae mind, I’d appreciate no’ ending up in Laird Chisholms’s dungeon tonight because ye cannae wait for a more secluded place to circle each other.”

“We are not circling,” Clarrisa insisted with a backward step.

Broen muttered something under his breath and reached for her. He circled her waist with one hard arm and pulled her into the hallway. “Shaw is correct about one thing, lass. Time is precious tonight.”

She pushed at the arm holding her to him. “I’ve made the choice to follow you. There is no need to hold me.”

He looked at her, and his lips curled into an arrogant grin. “But that’s the part I’m enjoying. Ye’re a fine-looking lass, Clarrisa.”

“No, I’m not. My uncle often lamented my lack of beauty.”

She reached up and pressed a hand over her lips when she realized just how personal an admission she’d made.

“Well now, this is nae the first time I’ve disagreed with an Englishman, but I do believe I feel more strongly about it than ever before.”

The night air was no longer cool, because she felt like her entire body was blushing.

He found her pleasing to look at?

She shook her head. Now was not the time for girlish flights of whimsy.

He held up a finger in front of his lips before sweeping her down the hallway. She picked up her feet faster, lifting her hems so she might hurry away from what had been her cell. Broen and his men moved swiftly, but with a silence that was unnatural. The sounds from the hall grew louder before Broen led her around a corner and away from them.

“Now would be a good time to share with me yer plan for getting out of here, Laird,” Shaw said and turned to look at her. “With her, that is. No doubt the Chisholms at the gate know their laird is intent on keeping her.”

Shaw reached out and pulled something from a peg on the wall. It was a length of fabric used by the maids when the weather was foul. “Best cover yer head and look a bit more Scottish, or we’ll have wasted our time in getting ye out of that storage room.”

“Oh… yes.” She shook the length of plaid; the wool fibers were surprisingly soft against her fingers. With a few twists, she had it draped over her head and around her shoulders. She shivered in eager anticipation of being free.

Broen slipped a wide leather belt around her waist and buckled it.

“You shouldn’t be so familiar with me.” Because it was tempting her to touch him in return.

His eyes narrowed. “And ye should hold yer tongue more often. Yet both of us seem to have difficulty with keeping to the places the church says we should. Do nae admonish me when ye are nae willing to lower yerself in front of me and grant me the respect my gender is due.”

“You’d consider it an insult if I did.” Her response was reckless, but it felt good to speak her mind. She’d been holding back her true words her entire life. “You would know it was insincere.”

His hand remained on the belt buckle, and she felt the weight of his stare even as the light behind him made it impossible for her to see his expression clearly.

“Ye have a fine talent for judging men.” He transferred his grip to her wrist. “I do nae care for false pretense, and the king was easily led by a few words of promise. I wonder if I should admire yer skill or listen to Shaw when he’s telling me ye’re scheming because ye know no other way.”

“If that were so, I’d be whimpering and trying to lull you into thinking I was helpless.”

His grip tightened around her wrist. “Aye, that might have worked, but Shaw was correct, lass.” He leaned in, twisting her arm so she couldn’t bend it and back away from him. So simply, so easily he secured her in place. His breath teased her cheek, sending a shiver down her back. “We’ll be needing to escape before we return to circling each other.”

Her temper flared, but he turned to look at the yard they needed to cross. “I have no intention of circling you… Highlander…” It was more of a title than a place from which he hailed.

She saw him grin, the expression full of mocking confidence. He looked toward the gate and back at her.

“On the other hand, lass, if ye want to leave Raven’s Perch… maybe we should circle each other a bit closer to ease our way through the gate.”

A tingle of anticipation went down her spine. “What do you mean?”

He lifted one hand and beckoned her toward him with a single finger.

***

“Yer father made a bargain with the last of the York nobles in England.” The crown prince of Scotland listened to Alexander Home with a darkening complexion. “He planned to breed a son on one of Edward’s bastards, a son who—”

“Who would be kin to Henry the Seventh of England and in a fine position to set me aside.” He stood and paced across the fine Persian rug covering the floor. “What happened to the girl?”

In spite of his youth, his tone was steady. Princes had to mature quickly or they would end up dead like the two English ones had.

“She was stolen. We believe by the Earl of Sutherland’s order.”

“You hope.” Young James watched Lord Home stiffen at his tone and chided himself. His father’s mistake was not giving respect to those who served him, an error his mother had taught him to avoid making. “I hope so as well,” he amended. “Forgive me. I worry for the future.”

“As do we all.” Lord Home held up a letter to see the ink better. “Your father failed to bed the girl; that much is certain. The keep he selected is loyal to our cause. The maids helped Laird MacNicols steal the York bastard away. My sources tell me yer father paid a great deal for the girl.”