In the Warrior’s Bed (10 page)

More tears spilled down her cheeks. She abhorred crying but seemed unable to stem the emotional tide washing over her. The fact that she was in a strange home, however finer it was than her own chamber at Red Stone, only increased her feelings of dismay.

It only served to increase her awareness of her fate. Bronwyn suddenly hissed. She wiped the tears off her face, grinding her teeth at her own weakness. She refused to endure without attempting to guide her own destiny.

She was a McQuade after all. Her brother Keir was a man worthy of respect, so she would endure and discover some way to return to the life she had earned. Staying meant trusting that Cullen was not the same as her own brothers, Liam and Sodac. She would be a fool to think the McJames was any less a warrior for his clan. Once she was at Sterling, it was very likely that she’d be shut away like the prisoner she was. Any wedding performed would be nothing but more chains to keep her in the stronghold of her father’s enemy. Her father raided the McJames. She had no reason to suspect that any of them would like her. Cullen had stolen her to clear his name, nothing more. Better she dwell on how to escape, for it appeared that the only person she knew was telling her the truth was herself. There was still God, but she doubted that the angels would appear to set her free. There were plenty of stolen brides in Scotland to prove that.

No, if she wanted freedom, she would have to escape. She would worry about what to do with that freedom once she held it.

She moved to the door, inspecting it. There was a heavy bar slide on the inside that she might use to lock it. But that would lock her inside the chamber. She reached for the handle only to stop halfway there. There would be no easy escape from the tower yard, especially in her chemise. If she wanted to succeed, she would have to plan carefully.

Instead she walked back to the tray of food. She was too angry to be hungry but she picked up the bread and cheese, stashing them behind the pillows on the bed. Then she went to the door and pulled it open. Finding herself a dress would prove more challenging, but she was up to it.

She would not yield. Not now, not ever.

Cullen McJames could choke on his pride.

So could her father.

He needed some rest but his body wasn’t interested in sleeping. Beneath his kilt his cock was hard. In the kitchen he found Druce bathing.

“Och now, ye look like a demon.”

“Shut up, Druce. I’m nae in the mood for teasing.”

There was a splash as his cousin poured a bowl of water over his head. He shook it out of his eyes and shot Cullen a glare. “Now there’s the thanks I get for riding all night. Even gave up me plaid.”

“I appreciate it.” He just felt like strangling Bronwyn at the moment. “That woman is stubborn.”

Druce laughed. “And ye and Brodick wonder why I’m nae married. Show me a female who’s biddable and I’ll take her to church quick.”

Cullen unlacing his boots then shook his head. He didn’t want biddable. It was a sure thing that Bronwyn’s stubbornness wasn’t what he’d planned on when taking a wife, but he couldn’t deny the way it stirred his blood. He wanted her and his cock was still hard from tasting her sweet kiss.

He moved the water trough Druce had used to fill the tub he was in to another tub and pulled the shingle free to fill it. He didn’t bother to add hot water but stripped off his clothing and sat down in the cold water. Druce made a poor attempt at smothering a chuckle.

His cousin laughed outright when Cullen turned a deadly glare at him. But he tossed a chunk of soap across the distance. Catching it, Cullen worked it over his skin, concentrating on the task in an attempt to ignore that demanding bit of flesh between his legs. He’d never been so hard, at least not when he wasn’t with the woman who had sparked that interest.

“She says she’ll nae wed me.” And that stung. The feeling took him by surprise. He wasn’t sure what he felt for Bronwyn. Having his pride within her striking range was sobering and a bit unsettling, too.

“She’s nae the first abducted bride to say that when the question is first put to her.” Druce was serious now. “The taking is not the hard part. ’Tis the convincing that takes a clever man.”

And so it would. Cullen dumped water over his head to wash his hair. He liked being clean. Half of the nobles in court didn’t value a good bath as much as he did. They stank like manure piles.

Bronwyn smelled sweet. She tasted sweet, too. He finished his bathing and stood up with his cock still firm. Kissing her might have been a mistake because sleep was going to prove elusive with her taste clinging to his lips. It was more involved than that, though. The way she returned his kiss, shyly, proving her inexperience, was what burned in his thoughts. For a single moment she’d tried to return his kiss, mimic his motions with her own mouth.

It had been sweeter than anything he’d ever experienced.

He smoothed out his plaid on the table that had been placed in the bathing room just for that purpose. The front legs were slightly shorter than the back ones. Wooden pegs had been set into the center of it to hold a belt steady while a man pleated the fabric in even folds. Most men used the foot of their bed to lay out their kilts, but Druce had seen the benefit of having a table constructed for more ease when donning the garment. This way he didn’t have to bend his back all the way over to pull the belt around his waist. The pegs held the belt steady and all ye had to do was back up to the wooden surface once the pleating was done.

Druce watched him buckle his belt with a firm hand.

“Yer nae going to get some rest?”

Cullen scowled, his cock demanding he go to bed but not for sleeping.

“No now.”

Druce chuckled while pleating his own kilt. Cullen didn’t remain in the bathing room to hear the man’s amusement.

He scoffed as he walked through the hallways toward the front entrance. Bronwyn McQuade had managed to kill his sense of humor. He stood on the front step, watching the activity in the yard as the sun began to arch back down on the horizon.

Now that was something he was going to have to fix. Right after he warmed the lass up. A grin lifted his lips as he considered the way she moved in his embrace.

Aye, warming her up was going to be a pleasure.

His pleasure.

“Och now, look at ye.”

Bronwyn grimaced as one of the older maids spied her. The woman shook her head and shot a stern look at the two women who tried to tell her to ignore Bronwyn.

“Yer a sad lot, letting a girl walk around in her chemise and it being November.” She clicked her tongue. “Come on with ye, child, there is no point in sneaking about like a specter. Everyone knows who ye be.”

Of course they did.

Her sarcastic thoughts didn’t change the way the woman stared at her.

“I’m called Lydia. Come on with ye and let’s see if we can’t find something for ye to wear.”

“I’d be appreciative.”

Lydia smiled at her. The woman considered her with a critical eye when Bronwyn stepped all the way into the kitchen. She suddenly smiled.

“Yer about the same size as Murain be. She’s due to birth her first child next month so she has nae need of her long stays.” Lydia nodded, obviously pleased with herself. “Go on back to yer chamber and I’ll send someone to fetch some of Murain’s clothing up to ye. Let’s nae be letting the men see ye walking around like that.”

Bronwyn nodded, keeping her mouth shut. She needed the clothing, and offending Lydia by insulting her clan was not going to endear the woman to her. Turning around, she paused in front of one of the large windows that allowed light into the kitchens. There was costly glass covering the window in six inch squares held together by lead. Such windows in a work area were the mark of a rich household with a laird that didn’t begrudge his servants comforts. Red Stone had wooden shutters that were slid open in fair weather. When it rained, the kitchen was shut up tight and the servants had to endure the dark.

The kitchens faced the stables. Cullen stood next to his horse. He was rubbing the animal with steady motions. There was tender concern in his touch. That same thing she had glimpsed in his eyes for a few moments.

Her father and older brothers never took care of their own mounts. They considered it their right to have others do the labor.

There was a grin on Cullen’s lips, reminding her of how he’d looked the first time she’d met him. Part of him was still a mischievous boy who enjoyed playing. But there was also a side of him that was a hardened man.

“Och now, stop undressing the man with yer eyes,” Lydia scolded her in an amused tone. That set a few of the maids to giggling. The woman moved up behind her, cupping her shoulders with her hands. “Although, I’ll admit to understanding yer fascination with that one. He’s a fair bonnie sight.”

“Not to me, he isna.”

Lydia chuckled at her. Bronwyn frowned, moving her attention away from Cullen. She needed to learn about the grounds if she intended to escape. The stables were large with many men and horses in front of it. Even through the window she could hear a blacksmith working somewhere nearby. What drew her notice was the doublets that were tossed over the rails of the stalls inside the stables. Obviously the retainers stored the outer garments there in case of nighttime raids that called them from their beds quickly. Many of the retainers most likely slept in bedrolls laid out on the floor of the main hall after it had been cleared for the night.

And she had a length of McJames plaid in her chamber, enough for a kilt on her smaller frame. The idea took root in her mind—maybe the inhabitants would notice a woman, but would they stop a young lad from leaving?

“Yer eyes tell a different story, lass.” Lydia gave her a gentle push. “Go on now, that chemise is too thin by far. Yer shivering.”

She was, but hadn’t noticed. Bronwyn worried her lower lip as she cast a last look at Cullen. No, she had not noticed the chill while looking at him. She was tempted to ask Lydia what sort of man Cullen was. But the woman was a McJames, so she’d likely defend a fellow member of her clan.

She quickly climbed the narrow stairs back to the floor with her chamber in it. Relief swept through her when she was once again behind the door. Her belly rumbled but she didn’t want to eat the bread or cheese she’d hidden. But there was a small bowl of porridge on the tray. It had gone cold while Cullen was in the room with her.

While he was kissing her…

Bronwyn snorted at her thoughts but she still recalled in vivid detail the way his mouth had felt against her own. The way he’d slipped his tongue across her lower lip, tasting her like aged whiskey. She shivered, caught in the memory. Her skin flushed and her heart accelerated. That tremor of anticipation returned, only this time it was stronger and more exciting.

Picking up the McJames plaid, she pushed it beneath the pillow on the bed where her food was hidden. She refused to listen to the warning voice inside her head. The church preached against women dressing as men but the scriptures would not be helping her out of this mess. There were many who believed any female who dressed as a male was possessed of the devil. Bronwyn shook such ideas out of her mind. She would try it.

Before Cullen got around to warming her up again.

Reaching for the cold porridge, she ate it in spite of its lack of taste. There were small bits of fruit stewed into it that at least were sweet. She’d have forced herself to consume it if it tasted like dirt. Strength was the key to her liberation. An empty belly would see her failing.

She mustn’t allow her body to weaken. Cullen would seize the opportunity to bend her. She might be fascinated by the boy in him, but it was the man who posed the threat. Her own body turned traitor under his touch. Her father might detest her, but he could not wipe her thoughts from her mind such as Cullen did with his kiss.

She would not be prey to him. The only thing she truly had was her own sense of being. As humble a possession as that might be, she refused to relinquish it to the lust Cullen unleashed in her.

Maybe she would not go back to Red Stone at all. The idea lingered in her thoughts while her logic told her what a bad concept it was. The world was a harsh place without a clan. If she returned to Edinburgh alone, she might end up in a whorehouse, or worse, on a ship bound for the Muslim countries because their law forbade enslavement of fellow followers of Islam. Christians were sold for gold in those places.

She could not go to court. Her father would find her there and the king might give Cullen permission to wed her. Such was the way of men, using women to settle their accounts.

Lying down, she tugged the bed curtains closed to block out the light. Her mind wanted to turn her circumstances over and over but she forced herself to sleep. She would need the strength when she made a run for it.

“T
here now. That’s much better.” Lydia propped her hands on her hips to survey her work. “There’s no need for ye to be near naked all the day long after all. I’m sure the laird will see about getting ye clothing.”

“Laird?” Bronwyn looked at Lydia in confusion. “I thought his older brother was laird.”

“Oh, to be sure his brother is the earl and Laird McJames, but his father never absorbed the title their sweet mother brought to the McJames because he had two sons. Cullen McJames is Laird Lampart. It’s a baronial that he holds in his own right.” Lydia clicked her tongue and reached out to adjust the sleeve of Bronwyn’s dress. It was a pretty green wool that had brown edging and over sleeves for more warmth. It was too lightweight for the heart of winter that was coming, but finding a good dress to wear was lucky. Clothing was made for each person’s body, trading it about was asking for boned stays to jab into your hip or the doublet to dig into you beneath your arms. Most girls didn’t have but two dresses, and only replaced them when they were worn through. Sewing took time and it often had to be done once a full day’s work was behind you.

“Please thank Murain for allowing me to wear her dress.”

Lydia grinned. “Young McJames sent her a piece of gold already. She needs that more than a dress she’ll no be able to wear anytime in the next year.”

The dress would allow her to walk around the tower, to get closer to the stable, but knowing that Cullen had paid for it made her wish she could refuse to wear it. A jolt of guilt crossed her mind. It would seem that men were not the only ones who followed their pride.

She would wear the dress, and without a hint of concern for the gold it had cost her captor. It was his fault that she needed anything from him. And she would not feel grateful toward him either. She was a hostage; it was her duty to scorn the man responsible for her plight.

Indeed, it was.

Frustration set her teeth to grinding. Her feelings were all jumbled and unrecognizable. She actually liked the things Cullen did, approving of his conduct.

She was acting like a fool.

The sun was setting and she had only one day to escape the confines of this McJames stronghold. Sterling would be near impossible to escape. It was not just the castle she would have to work her way free of, but she needed to get off McJames land before she was run down by Cullen and that stallion he rode.

“I’m nae surprised that ye did not know of his title. Those brothers stick together. It makes the McJames stronger because they are not fighting among themselves like so many sons do when their father leaves this world.”

Bronwyn nodded agreement without really thinking. She could see Liam and Sodac fighting once her father was gone. Keir suspected as much; that was why he was always keeping a personal hand on the investments and books of Red Stone. Liam and Sodac would be foolish to push him out when he kept the silver flowing into the McQuades’ hands. All lairds had tenants, and from there they received rents due, but it took a clever mind to double and triple that money by investment. Without Keir, her brothers would see their share dwindle quickly.

Her belly rumbled again because of her meager meal.

“Come on, lass, let’s feed ye. It’s near time for supper.”

“I’d like that.”

More important, she’d enjoy the chance to escape the chamber. Lydia led the way down the stairs and through a few larger rooms. The scent of roasting meat sent her belly into another long rumble that Bronwyn tried to ignore. If supper was being laid on the table, most of the White Tower inhabitants would be making their way to the tables lest they miss the last warm meal of the day. Supper was always served while there was good daylight remaining to clean up after the meal was eaten. Candles and firewood were resources best used sparingly, so the inhabitants rose with the sun and settled in for the night when it surrendered to nightfall. Overhead a bell began to ring, echoing through the stone walls.

“See there? Supper is being served.”

Lydia didn’t give her the chance to slip away, instead reaching down and clasping her wrist. Bronwyn stared at the hold, fighting the impulse to jerk her arm away. But that would not do her cause any good. Better to allow Lydia to think her frightened enough to comply.

“Here now. Supper smells good today.”

The main hall of White Tower was a large rectangular room. It had a raised ceiling that was circled by hallways on the upper floor. Bronwyn marveled at the soft sounds of music drifting down over the rapidly filling tables. Music was a treat, something normally reserved for feast days and celebrations.

Celebrations…

Her eyes widened as the hall quieted when Lydia pulled her into it. Men turned to look at her, curiosity on their faces. Smiles abounded and many raised their tankards to her. Lydia kept her moving at a steady pace, but Bronwyn recoiled when she got a look at the head table.

Cullen sat there with his cousin, Druce. Next to them was a bishop in his white short robe and black square-topped wool hat. A gold cross hung around his neck as a symbol of his office within the reformed church. One of the new changes James Stuart was making to the Kirk of Scotland, bishops were beginning to show up as the governing body of the church. They held high position by royal command. Refusing the instructions of a bishop was something no wise person did.

To write and seal a marriage contract, you needed a bishop. She saw the glint of candlelight flickering off the heavy signet ring affixed to his right hand.

She stopped moving, forcing Lydia to drag her or release her. The maid turned to look at her, but Bronwyn was staring at Cullen.

Of all the sneaky things…

The man smiled at her and reached up to tug the corner of his knitted bonnet. He wore a doublet that was buttoned up to mid-chest. The creamy linen of his shirt showed through the open front of the sleeves. But he had the cuffs of that shirt secured around his wrists. It was far more formal than he’d been that morning, warning her that the man intended to press her to take vows tonight.

Well, not if she didn’t get close enough for that bishop to speak with her. She suddenly hated the dress, because no man of the church would invade her chamber if she was wearing nothing but a chemise.

“May I present my bride, Bishop Shaman.” Cullen’s voice bounced down the length of the hall. Druce’s men let out a cheer as they lifted their tankards high. Bronwyn shuddered, her cheeks turning red with rage, but the bishop crooked his finger at her. There was no way to refuse his command without painting herself a disobedient Christian soul. She’d end in the stocks if she offended the man.

Bronwyn forced her feet forward and her teeth into her lower lip. Finding herself locked into wooden stocks for public humiliation wasn’t a pleasant idea. The offender would do their time no matter the weather. Often they were whipped while helpless to ensure they felt the disapproval of the entire community. Children would be brought by their schoolmasters and mothers to gaze upon her and learn what the penalties were for denying the authority of the church. Of course, it would all be done in the interest of purging her soul and teaching her her place so that God would not be offended by her lack of humility.

The church was the one constant in a land where clans ruled absolutely on their ancestral lands. No one refused a bishop, not even the king did so publicly.

Cullen McJames was not fighting fairly. First stolen kisses, and now a bishop! She was right to suspect him. A wedding performed by a bishop would be impossible to dissolve. Cullen and his brother could petition the king for her dowry armed with the seal from that signet ring. All the time, she might be locked away, only kept alive so that the McJames might gain money for her. And it was also a fact that she would not have to live very long, only a few years for the McJames to have claim to a share of her father’s holdings.

Cullen might lay with her but once to consummate the union before taking his hot kisses to a McJames lass who didn’t have the blood of his enemy flowing through her veins.

She ground her teeth, a hot flash of jealousy surprising her.

“Come along now, the bishop is no a man to be kept waiting, dear.” Lydia tugged on her wrist. Bronwyn sealed her emotions behind a blank expression and walked toward the high table. She stopped and lowered herself in front of the bishop.

Bishop Shaman nodded approval at her. A small ripple of conversation went through those watching. The man stood up and the hall instantly fell silent. Bronwyn felt every set of eyes in the hall on her back.

“Marriage is a holy estate, free of sin. All true Christian souls should strive to marry and refuse lustful wonderings.”

There was a mutter of agreement while heads nodded.

“Join us, my dear.” The bishop extended his hand toward the empty chair at the high table. That simple gesture was as solid as chains being locked around her.

“Ye are too kind, yer Grace.”

And Cullen was too sure of himself by far…

The only available seat at the high table was next to Cullen. A groom pulled a heavy X chair back for her. The man pushed it toward the table the moment she sat in it, trapping her between Druce and Cullen. Maids instantly began serving the table in fine fashion. If she hadn’t known that she had been abducted and therefore not expected, she might never have guessed, because the meal was so lavish.

As far as celebrations went, it lacked nothing. There was mulled wine and roasted meats. Candied fruits graced the table along with dried ones being mixed in with breads. The bishop dined well, clearly enjoying the rich fare.

Unfortunately, she enjoyed none of it because Cullen was enjoying himself far too much at her expense. She waited until Bishop Shaman was engaged in a loud conversation with Druce before turning her wrath on the man sitting so smugly beside her.

“I told ye nae.”

His expression might be playful, but when she looked into his eyes she noticed the burning determination. He offered her no quarter. His face might not be painted blue for fighting, but it was certainly the image of a hardened warrior.

“And I warned ye to consider yer options.” He shot a hard look at her. “But I’ll be most interested in listening to how ye plan to tell the bishop about yer desire to nae wed with me.”

“I will tell him.”

Cullen lost his amused expression. His lips pressed into a firm line as hunger drew his face tight. “And I will inform him of what yer father told one and all. That I have had ye.”

“That is a lie.” She kept her voice low because her heart jumped at the very idea. The lust he’d stirred in her flared up at the mere suggestion of his touch now. It was truly a poison. Once infected, she was doomed.

“Yer father did say it, that part is no a lie.”

“But ye haven’t…” She failed to voice the last few words because they felt like some sort of surrender.

He smiled, an unpleasant expression that was full of hunger and promise.

“I will.”

He grasped her hand, imprisoning it in his larger one. She was instantly aware of how his skin felt against hers, how much she enjoyed the touch.

His touch…

Cullen leaned closer, angling his head toward her. Two of his fingers stroked the underside of her wrist. Her breath caught in her throat, her heart accelerating while he stroked her delicate skin once, twice more.

“Dinna doubt it, Bronwyn. There’s too much passion between us.”

His fingers slid over her inner wrist and up to the hollow of her palm. A deep shiver shook her, forcing a soft gasp out of her lips. His face shone with satisfaction, deep, hard male satisfaction.

“’Tis only lust.”

He shrugged. “That has its place between a man and wife, too. But this is more. Ye felt it the day we met. It was more than lust that colored yer cheeks.”

She shook her head, but Cullen suddenly straightened, looking beyond her. There was a chuckle from Druce and another from the bishop. Horror flooded her as she turned to look at the man of the clergy.

Bishop Shaman looked pleased, enormously so. He clapped his hands together, making a loud pop. With a satisfied smile he rubbed his palms against each other with glee.

“Come, my children, let us settle this matter between ye.”

The bishop stood without looking behind him. The grooms pulled his chair back before the powerful representative of the church knocked his shins against its legs. There was hustle all around the head table as the staff made sure the bishop’s desires were granted quickly. All the chairs were pulled back. Bronwyn frowned but stood up.

Cullen didn’t release her hand. Possibly because he knew she’d rather duck into the kitchen than follow the bishop to any place where the matter of her marriage might be settled.

That’s no quite so…

Temptation was a demon because it whispered to her, reminding her how much she did like his touch. Escaping Cullen meant sealing her fate when it came to marriage. She would never know a man’s kiss again unless she wanted to make the gossips correct by becoming soiled.

She looked at Cullen’s hand where it was clasped around her wrist. He held her limb lightly but securely. The skin of her inner wrist was keenly aware of each of his fingers and there was no trying to tell herself that she disliked the way his skin felt against hers.

Or the way he kissed.

Her eyes moved up his arm, staring at the linen of his shirt still buttoned around his wrist. No man had ever dressed formally for her. She’d always considered it a useless waste of time, the rules that supposedly went with courting. But she suddenly felt plain with her hair hanging down her back in nothing more than a single braid.

Druce led the bishop to his private receiving room. It didn’t take very long for them to cover the distance. It was a comfortable room with a large fireplace. Windows ran along one wall, and hanging over them were draperies made of velvet. The fabric was worthy of a king. She reached out to gently touch it because it was too much of a temptation. Her hand glided along the surface of the fabric, as soft as a baby’s new hair.