My Fair Highlander

MY FAIR HIGHLANDER

MARY WINE

KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of ContentsTitle Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Teaser chapter

Teaser chapter

Teaser chapter

Copyright Page

Chapter One

“Tell me you did not tell that barbarian Scot that he could “court me.”

Jemma Ramsden was a beautiful woman, even when her lips were pinched into a frown. She glared at her brother, uncaring of the fact that most of the men in England wouldn’t have dared to use the same tone with Curan Ramsden, Lord Ryppon.

Jemma didn’t appreciate the way her brother held his silence. He was brooding, deciding just how much to tell her. She had seen such before, watched her brother hold command of the border property that was his by royal decree with his iron-strong personality. Knights waited on his words, and that made her impatient.

“Well, I will not have it.”

“Then what will you have, Sister?” Curan kept his voice controlled, which doubled her frustration with him. It was not right that he could find the topic so mild when it was something that meant so much to her.

But that was a man for you. They controlled the world and didn’t quibble over the fact that women often had to bend beneath their whims.

Curan watched her, his eyes narrowing. “Your temper is misplaced, Jemma.”

“I would expect you to think so. Men do not have to suffer having their futures decided without any concern for their wishes as women do.”

Her brother’s eyes narrowed. She drew in her breath because it was a truth that she was being shrewish. She was well past the age for marriage, and many would accuse her brother of being remiss in his duty if he did not arrange a match for her. Such was being said of her father for certain.

Curan pointed at the chair behind her. There was hard authority etched into his face. She could see that his temper was being tested. She sat down, not out of fear. No, something much worse than that. Jemma did as her brother indicated because she knew that she was behaving poorly.

Like a brat.

It was harsh yet true. Guilt rained down on her without mercy, bringing to mind how many times she had staged such arguments since her father died. It was a hard thing to recall now that he was gone.

Her brother watched her sit and maintained his silence for a long moment. That was Curan’s way. He was every inch a hardened knight. The barony he held had been earned in battle, not inherited. He was not a man who allowed emotion to rule him, and that made them night and day unto each other.

“Lord Barras went to a great deal of effort to ask me for permission to court you, Jemma.”

“Your bride ran into his hands. That is not effort; it is a stroke of luck.”

Her brother’s eyes glittered with his rising temper. She should leave well enough alone, but having always spoken her mind, it seemed very difficult to begin holding her tongue.

“Barras could have kept Bridget locked behind his walls if that was his objective. He came outside to meet me because of you.”

“But—”

Curan held up a single finger to silence her. “And to speak to me of possible coordinated efforts between us, yes, but an offer from the man should not raise your ire so much, Sister.”

The reprimand was swift and solid, delivered in a hard tone that made her fight off the urge to flinch. Her brother was used to being in command. His tone was such that not a single one of his men would argue with even if she often did. But that trait was not enhancing her reputation. She noticed the way his knights looked at her with disgust in their eyes. When they didn’t think she could hear them, they called her a shrew. She would like to say it did not matter to her, but it did leave tracks like claw marks down the back of her pride. Knowing that she had earned that slur against her name made her stomach twist this morning. Somehow, she’d not noticed until now, not really taken the time to recognize how often she quarreled with her brother. He was a just man.

“You are right, Brother.”

Curan grunted. “You admit it, but you make no apology.”

Her chin rose and her hands tightened on the arms of the chair as the impulse to rise took command of her.

“Remain in that chair, Jemma.”

Her brother’s voice cracked like a leather whip. She had never heard such a tone directed at her before. It shocked her into compliance, wounding the trust she had in her brother, allowing her to do anything that she wished. The guilt returned, this time thick and clogging in her throat.

“Has Bridget complained of me?” Her voice was quiet, but she needed to know if her brother’s wife was behind her sibling’s lack of tolerance.

“She has not, but I am finished having my morning meal ruined by your abrasive comments on matters concerning your future. You may thank the fact that my wife has been at this table every day for the past six months as the reason for this conversation not happening before this.”

Bridget, her new sister-in-law, had taken one look at the morning meal and turned as white as snow. No doubt her brother was on edge with concern for the wife who had told him to leave her alone in one of the very rare times Bridget raised her voice in public to her husband. Curan had slumped back down in his chair, chewing on his need to follow his bride when Jemma had begun to berate him.

Her timing could not have been worse. But hindsight was always far clearer.

“I will not speak against our father and his ways with you, Jemma. However, you will not continue as you have. You were educated well, just as my wife, and yet you spend your days doing nothing save pleasing your whims. You have refused to see Barras every time he has called upon me as though the match is beneath you; it is not.” Her brother paused, making his displeasure clear. “Well, madam, I believe a few duties will help you place some of your spirit to good use.” Curan drew in a stiff breath. “I will not force you to wed, because that was our father’s wish. Yet I will not tolerate anyone living in this castle who does nothing to help maintain it. You may have the day to decide what you prefer to do, or on the morrow I will have a list of duties given to you. Food does not appear from thin air, and you shall help make this fortress a decent place to reside.”

Her brother stood up and strode away, several of his knights standing up the moment their lord did to follow him. Conversation died in the hall, and the sounds of dishes being gathered up for washing took over. Jemma watched the maids and cringed. Shame turned her face red, for she noticed more than one satisfied smile decorating their lips.

Standing up, she left the hall, seeking out the only living creature she could trust not to lecture her.

But that was only because a horse could not talk even if she often whispered her laments against its velvety neck.

In the dim light of the stable, she moved down the stalls until she found her mare. The horse snorted with welcome, bringing a smile to her face, but it was a sad one. Jemma reached out to stroke the light gray muzzle, the velvety hairs tickling her hand. Storm had been her constant companion since her father’s death, and she realized that she had never really dealt with that parting. Instead she’d refused to admit that her sire’s departure from this life had cut her to the bone.

Instead of grieving, she had become a shrew, irritating everyone around her and escaping to ride across her father’s land while the rest of the inhabitants toiled at all the tasks required to maintain a castle keep.

Curan and the others labeled it selfish, but in truth it was running. She had swung up onto the back of her horse and ridden out to avoid facing the fact that her father was dead. It had never been about escaping her chores or thinking the match with Barras beneath her; she had sought out the bliss of not thinking at all, which removed the need to grieve from her mind. She simply ignored the fact that time was passing, choosing to remain locked in a few hours that never progressed. That way, she didn’t have to face the sadness that threatened to reduce her to a pile of ashes.

Barras . . .

The burly Scot was something else she liked to avoid thinking about, yet for a far different reason. He looked at her as though he wanted to touch her. Even now, a shiver rippled down her spine at just the memory of the way his eyes traveled over her curves, tracing them, lingering on them while his eyes narrowed and his lips thinned with hunger. Some manner of sensation twisted in her belly, and it set her heart to moving faster, but she was unable to decide just what it was. Or maybe she had merely avoided naming it to remain locked in her fairy bubble where she didn’t have to face the grieve that wanted to assault her.

She was shameful to do so.

There was no other way to describe herself. Guilt cut through the façade she’d built to convince herself that she was doing nothing wrong. Well, she had the nothing part correct. It was a lacking that needed her attention. Storm pawed at the ground with rising excitement. The horse was used to her coming every morning to ride.

“Not today, my friend. At least not until later.”

Turning around, Jemma squared her shoulders. The staff stared at her with confusion on their faces, but she walked smoothly toward the back of the castle. Autumn was in the air now, the harvest being brought in. There was work aplenty for every set of hands from the young to the old. The storage rooms were being carefully stocked with nuts, roots, and new grain. Barley was bundled in the fields and brought up to the castle yard for thrashing once the seeds were beaten from the chaff; women sewed them into bags for the winter. Girls mostly attended to the chore of sewing because it gave them practice with plying their needles on rough cloth.

Edible roots such as carrots and leaks were being carried up in baskets strapped to the backs of men. Squash would ripen last, but the children would be sent into the countryside to pick berries while the day was bright. The sun was up, and everyone worked to fill the storerooms before winter arrived.

“My eyes must be so old that I cannot trust what they show me.”

Maitland Mitchell had been serving Amber Hill since she learned to walk. Jemma felt her cheeks brighten with a scarlet blush for the way the woman looked at her. Maitland aimed a hard stare at her while wiping her hands on her apron. The piece of fabric bore several splotches and smears, attesting to the fact that Maitland was still an early riser. Jemma knew that that apron had been clean at dawn.

“You may trust your eyes if not my ability to learn self-discipline from you.”

The woman’s expression softened, her eyes sparkling with welcome.

“Well, you appear to have come to your senses, so no more talk about it. You are not the first one to discover they have no defense against grief. I never doubted that you would see that it was time to move on. ’Tis glad I am to see a pair of willing hands. We’ve much to do; there was frost spotted on the hills last night.”

That meant that winter was beginning to return. The days would slowly shorten now, which meant that getting the last of the harvest in was on everyone’s mind. Jemma pulled an apron off a hook that was set into the wall of the work rooms. Approval shone in Maitland’s eyes, and that was something that warmed Jemma’s heart. Maitland had helped to raise her, taking over when her mother died. The woman didn’t hold any great position, but she had experience that made every person serving Amber Hill give her deference. It was respect she had earned and something Jemma realized she longed for.

“I’ve got soap cooking in the yard. Give it a turn and check the fires and make sure those children are staying well away from the embers.”

“Aye.” Jemma turned and moved quickly toward the yard. Huge cast-iron kettles were sending steam into the morning sky. She could smell the lye as it was being heated with the vegetable fat. Wheelbarrows of black, sooty ash stood near large screens formed from fabric. The ash was shoveled into the screens and water poured through it to bring the lye out.

Picking up a long-handled paddle, Jemma began turning the thickening mixture away from the sides of the cauldrons where it was cooking faster. They would keep it boiling until the entire pot was soft and gel-like. Wooden boxes sat nearby to be filled once Maitland decided the soap was ready. It would be left to dry before being cut into pieces. The steam made her head itch, and the scent tickled her nose. Her shoulders began to ache, but she smiled.

She had finally stopped running.

How was it possible to not see what she was doing? Her father had been her best friend. She sighed. Grief was a powerful thing. Riding along the edge of her family property was very foolish in such uncertain times. Maybe she had been seeking a way to join her father without realizing that was her goal.

He wouldn’t want that; she didn’t truly long for it, either.

It was a truth that her father would be very unhappy to hear of her unwise behavior. Riding the border land between England and Scotland was never a good choice, but now that Henry Tudor, the eighth king to be named Henry, was so close to his death, relations between Scotland and England were worse than ever. Scotland didn’t even have a king anymore, but a tiny baby queen named Mary who’d been crowned at nine months of age. Henry the Eighth had negotiated a betrothal of the baby girl for his son Edward, but there were many in England who wanted Mary Queen of Scots raised in England so that she would be Protestant instead of Catholic like her mother.

A war of rough wooing had commenced, and the border was not safe. Her own brother was one of the men sent to the border to hold the land for England. The future king Edward would need all his subjects to help him maintain his hold on his country while he was still a youth. All the crowned heads of Europe were watching to see if England would crumble when the mighty Henry the Eighth died.

Her brother Curan kept peace with his Scottish neighbors by more than just the army under his command. He and Laird Barras combined their wits for the sake of business ventures that were bringing good profits to both men. Happy, well-fed people had little to rebel against.

But that didn’t mean she was interested in the Scot courting her.

Yes, you are . . .

It was a whisper that was born somewhere in the darkest part of her mind. Some manner of longing to see just what the Scot did when no one else was near enough to see them. Her lips tingled as she imagined what it might be like to have his against them. Would his kiss be forceful or gentle? She shivered in spite of the heat bubbling in the cauldrons.

Wedding her was just another way for Laird Barras to get what he wanted from her brother, but that didn’t keep her from thinking about the way he looked at her. She wouldn’t be the first woman married off to her brother’s business partners, but that didn’t mean the match would be a cold one, the looks the man sent her were very warm indeed.

Is it what I desire?

That question brought another sigh to her lips. It was a truth that she didn’t know what she wanted. She was twenty-four years old, and the time for saying nay to any offer for her hand was past. Where had the time gone? She had simply stopped thinking about anything save for her father when he began showing signs of illness. How long had it lasted? Jemma struggled to think about how many years her sire had battled that invading weakness of his limbs. She had tried everything to restore him to health, reading every available book that offered insight into the condition. But in the end, her sire had lost even the ability to speak, blinking his eyes being the only way to communicate with her.

How long?

It had been years, seasons blurring in her memory, and during that time she had never taken time to think about marrying. Curan had been off earning his title with the king, leaving only her to comfort their dying father and care for him. She refused to leave it to servants; he was her father. The man who had chased her through spring fields when she was a girl and laughed when he caught her. The proud man who had allowed his daughter to crown his head with flowers and worn them with a level chin past his knights. Tears stung her eyes as memories, rich with love and tenderness, rose up from her mind to remind her why she had thrust the entire world away in favor of being at her father’s side. She did not regret her choice.

If there had been offers for her, they had gone unread. She scoffed beneath her breath; there must have been some offers. There was nothing wrong with her. In fact she was devoted to her family, and that would never be questioned since she had tended her father with so much love. An odd feeling crept over her. It was almost a sensation of desperation. She didn’t want to think that no family had offered for her.

Well, except for Gordon Dwyre, Laird Barras.

She bit her lower lip because she wasn’t being very kind in her thoughts toward the man. He was Scots, but that was something he could not change any more than she might alter the fact that she was English. There was more than one match across the much disputed border. Besides, if Edward did wed Mary, then England and Scotland would be one nation. Thinking such a thing brought a sense of peace to her, too, even if she doubted that being united beneath one monarch would have the power to remove all the differences between English and Scot. A small smile curved her lips; she could not picture her brother donning a kilt,, and the plaid Barras wore added something untamed to him. Deep down, her insides twisted once again as she considered the way the man moved.

However, many a royal match had been broken before the wedding ever took place. There was pressure from the French to see the little Queen of Scots married to their prince. Such a union was what fueled the war of rough wooing that saw the English trying to kidnap the baby queen and take her into England where she would grow up happily anticipating her wedding date with Edward.

The games of the royals set the tone for uncertainty among their subjects. Jemma cast a look toward the green hills of Scotland. What sort of man was he—Gordon Dwyre? She should agree to meet him—quick glances were one thing, but she knew nothing else because she had never allowed the man to converse with her. Meeting him was the logical choice, the well-mannered one, and marriage was after all a matter for logical thinking not contemplation of hot glances.

But that was what her mind dwelled on.

She would tell Curan at supper that she had thought the matter through and decided to be introduced to the Scot. Many noble daughters never had the opportunity to even speak their opinions of their intended grooms; her brother was being kind.

So why did she feel so torn?

He was spending far too much time waiting on her.

Gordon Dwyre, Laird Barras, reined his stallion in and scanned the edge of his land. His retainers were fanned out behind him. They knew their places well, blending in with the land formations to make it look as though he was alone.

Today, there was no taper of dust rising up into the afternoon air. He moved his gaze off the hills and felt disappointment sour his disposition.

That was annoying. He’d never formally met the woman, at least not beyond watching her race across the land that was so close he might almost call it his own, or ducking into the hallways beyond the great hall where he had met her brother. His lips curved up with the memories. The woman rode with a wild abandon that drew his attention when there was much he should be investing his time in that did nae involve riding out onto the ridge to watch her. When she discovered him sitting at her father’s table, her eyes turned dark, snaring his attention in a far different manner. It was almost if the woman was daring him to come after her.

That was something he had a great deal of difficulty ignoring. Much like coming out to see her riding in the early morning.

There was something fascinating about the way she leaned low over the neck of her horse and let the animal surge forward with every bit of its strength.

It also drew a frown from him. He’d admit that freely enough. The woman didn’t seem to have any fear of breaking her neck. But that idea only took him back to being enchanted with her and why she took to the hills so often. It was almost as if she was running away from something. There were times he swore he could feel her pain on the wind.

“Well, lads, it looks like we’re going to be left wanting today.”

Maybe that was for the better. He had a clan to look after and several smaller lairds who surrounded his land to maintain friendships with. Sitting on his stallion and watching for his English neighbor’s sister wasn’t going to accomplish any good. However much he might be fascinated by her, he needed a wife who would be his partner, not a girl who did nothing with her time but ride. That was a hard fact, and he was accustomed to facing such; he wouldn’t have lasted two months as laird if he couldn’t choose the best things for his clan. It was more logical to seek a wife other than Jemma.

But knowing it was the best choice, the one rooted in logic, didn’t keep him from nursing disappointment all the way back to his castle.

Jemma was late to supper. Curan narrowed his eyes until he noticed the way she walked. Her brother processed a keen sense of sight, one he’d developed while riding across hostile territory in France at the side of the king.

“Is Bridget feeling better?”

Her brother’s face reflected his frustration. “My wife claims that she is well and balanced, yet she cannot enter this hall without her belly heaving.”

Jemma froze with one hand on a round of bread. “Oh . . . I see . . . oh, how wonderful. That is welcome news. Amber Hill needs a baby.” She smiled, joy filling her.

But Curan looked far from feeling wonderful, deep concern etched into his face.

“It is the way of it. You should take one thing at a time to her and see what does not cause her stomach upset. Then we shall know what it is that does not agree with her. I understand that all women have something that they cannot bear to smell while they are with child.”

One of her brother’s eyebrows rose. “Is that so?” His gaze went to the table, scanning the dishes that were laid out for their supper.

“Father’s constitution was very delicate . . . when he was ill . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she broke a piece of bread off the round in her hands but discovered she had no appetite. Grief renewed its grip on her, making her ache with loneliness. “I shall take this bread to her now and see if it pleases or not.”

Her brother caught her wrist before she rose from her chair. “I am sorry I was not here to share in the duties, Jemma.”

She shook off his grip and picked up a wooden plate holding warm bread. Snapping a cloth, she covered the bread with it. “It was a daughter’s place, Curan, and I do not regret a moment of it, only that I seemed to be unable to resume my life once father had gone. You were correct to take issue with me this morning. I didn’t realize that I had turned my back on everything until you forced me to see it. It is time to move on with my own life. I will meet Lord Barras if you still wish to consider a union between our houses.” She lifted the plate up and offered her brother a steady look. “But I do know a bit about soothing unsettled bellies. Let us see if Bridget finds my methods of any comfort. It is time for Amber Hill to have new life again.”

Approval shone in her brother’s eyes along with relief. For all his strength, there was a good heart buried deep inside his hardened exterior. Turning her back on him, she made her way through the corridors of Amber Hill. It was a modern fortress, one of the towers being completed even now. Her brother hoped to have the roof in place before the weather turned foul. That would allow the builders to finish the inside of the tower during the frozen months when building furniture and finishing window shutters might be done.

Bridget Newbury was sound asleep in the huge bed she shared with her new husband. Her hair was flowing across the pillow, but her face had a pinched look that betrayed how her condition was needling her. Jemma knew well how to keep her steps light and silent. She placed the bread on the table, pulling back the cloth cover enough so that her sister-in-law might see it when she awoke. She would eat at some point and her belly would ripen.

That was a pleasant thought.

Jemma walked back down the stairs and turned to go toward the stable. The sun was beginning to set, the horizon turning scarlet. But there was still an hour of light, and today she had earned her riding time. That fact gave her satisfaction, and she realized that she had not felt so in a very long time. There had been nothing save worry and dread filling her, but it was beginning to drain away now, allowing her relief. She noticed the beauty of the evening sky, the manner in which the sun illuminated the drying plants covering the ground. Even the air smelled sweeter.

Her mare let out an eager snort, dancing from side to side in the stall. There was no one about, because supper was on the table in the hall. Jemma saddled the mare herself and led her out into the yard.

“Hold, Mistress,” Synclair bellowed at her from the battlements. He was the senior knight among her brother’s men and heir to a title as well. But he seemed to have a liking for earning his place. With expert agility, he came down the stone stairs that were set into the back side of the curtain wall, one hand on the pommel of his sword to keep the weapon steady where it hung from his hip. Synclair aimed his blue eyes at her.

“Where are you heading, Mistress?”

This knight always did the unexpected. While everyone supped, he was the one walking the curtain wall.

“Just taking a short ride.”

“The sun will be gone soon, Mistress. Best you plan to do your riding when the morning has broken.” His eyes suddenly darted to something past her, and his expression tightened.

Jemma turned to see Lady Justina making a rare appearance on the walkway that was attached to her tower-top chamber. Or what it should be called was a prison, for the lady was not free to go where she wished. Synclair was captivated by her, yet she seemed to avoid the knight to the point of secluding herself within her chamber; that was the one place Synclair would not venture. To do so would be to infringe upon the code of chivalry. But the lady was making her way along the curtain wall now, walking where she might be intercepted without honor being tarnished. Synclair began moving toward her without any further protests, drawn to her with a light in his eyes that made Jemma slightly jealous.

No man had ever looked at her in such a manner, and it was the truth that she was partially to blame for such. She watched the way the knight took to the stairs that would connect with the wall Lady Justina was moving across. Silently but with firm purpose, he climbed those steps with hard motions of his legs.

Jemma mounted her horse, taking the chance to leave the yard before one of the other knights worked up the courage to challenge her. She had done what she should, performed to everyone’s satisfaction, but there was part of her that still ached for her father. She needed a ride, even a short one, even if she knew that she had been using her riding to escape from harsh reality. Tonight, she would use the ride to soak up the life about her.

She wasn’t escaping today, simply tempering the feelings of loss that still lived inside her. Her mare took to the open land quickly, stretching her legs out after being kept inside most of the day. Above Jemma the sky was afire with gold and crimson, the night breeze beginning to whip up around her. It turned her cheeks cold, but she only laughed. Her dress was good English wool, and on her feet was a sturdy pair of boots that kept her ankles warm even when her skirts flipped up and away from her legs.

She crested a hill and gasped when she found herself galloping toward a body of armor-clad men. The mare let out a frightened squeal before rearing up. Fear making her skittish, the horse pawed at the unexpected arrival. Jemma battled to remain in the saddle, but it proved impossible with the mare so far up on her hind legs. Jemma’s thighs lost their grip, and she fell to the ground while the horse landed on her front feet and charged off, away from the men who had frightened her.

Jemma lost every bit of breath in her when she hit the ground. Pain speared through her from the side of her hip where she landed first and then all the way through her body, right up into her mouth. Her teeth slammed together so fast, every tooth hurt from the impact. All the pain felt trapped inside her, building and burning while she struggled to draw in one single breath. She was powerless to do anything but suffer. Her heart felt as if it might burst, and her lungs burned for want of air. Dark spots danced in front of her eyes before she managed to force her jaw open and suck in a breath. It wasn’t large enough, but it kept her vision from darkening further. Pushing it out, she drew another one in, this time succeeding in filling her aching lungs.

“Well now, what have we here? A wild Scot woman off to meet with her lover?”

Men snickered all around her, the sound frightening beyond belief.

Jemma drew in another breath and narrowed her eyes at the one who had spoken. The sound of their laughter might be frightening to someone who was easily scared, which she was not.

I dare not fall into panic’s grasp . . .

The men halted their horses, ringing her while they stared down at her from beneath the visors of their helmets. There were at least thirty of them, and not a single one offered to help her off the ground. Pain still maintained its grip. Her hips became numb, or there was simply too much pain for her mind to feel it all. Dragging in a few more breaths, she succeeded in restoring her sight. What she viewed wasn’t pleasant. Smirks decorated the lips of those men watching her. They were unkempt, their faces sporting several days’ worth of whiskers. The armor they wore was darkened from lack of polish, and their behavior further attested to their lawless nature.

“I believe our fortune is looking up. Here’s a treat for us all to sample. I hear these Scottish bitches like their men rough and randy.”

“You have no right to wear the plumes of a knight with immodest speech such as that.” Jemma pushed herself up and winced at the new pain that resulted. Her hips were no longer blissfully numb. Red-hot pain pierced them when she forced her body to stand.

“Mind your tongue, wench, or I’ll cut it out.” He even pulled a small dagger from the top of his boot to threaten her with. The blade was dark, and a shiver raced down her spine when she realized that it was dried blood that made it so. “I don’t take orders from women.”

“I am Jemma Ramsden, sister of the Barron Ryppon.”

The man with the dagger spat on the ground in front of her. “You are what I say you are, and listen to me well—claiming to be noble-blooded carries a high punishment.” He swung one leg over the back of his horse and hit the ground with a thud. His gaze settled on her chest, and the tip of his tongue appeared to take a swipe along his lower lip. He reached out and struck her across her face. It was a vicious blow, one that sent her tumbling away from him.

“Listen to me, lads, these Scots will stop at nothing to protect their thieving way of life. I have heard of Lord Ryppon, just like the rest of you, and I tell you this. No border baron would allow his gently bred sister to ride across the border land with her thighs spread over the saddle. She lies.”

“I do not. I am Curan Ramsden’s sister. The border land is no place for weak-kneed daughters, and that is why I was never taught to shiver at the sight of my own shadow.” Jemma wiped a hand across her mouth, removing the blood trickling out of the corner. “You will keep your hands off me, sir.”

“Hands?” He snickered again and reached down to cup his crotch with one of his mail-gloved gauntlets. “I’m planning on putting more than my hands on you. I’ve got a thick English cock for your lying Scottish flesh to entertain. We’ve been charged with finding your queen, and it has been too long since me and my men have had any fun. Ryppon would never let his sister out of his fortress this late in the day. You’re riding out to meet your lover, and I plan to help you get the tumble you came out here looking for. Get on your back if you want it without pain.”

There were a few low grumbles of agreement that sent a chill down her back. It was icy cold and full of dread, but Jemma held her chin steady.

“You’ll keep your hands from me, sir, and that is the last time I will tell you so.”

“Good. I’m sick of your talking.”

He reached for her, and she lifted her leg to plant her foot squarely on top of the crotch he’d so blatantly tried to threaten her with. Her boot pressed down on top of soft flesh before the knight let out a strangled cry. He stumbled backward a few paces, sending a surge of hope through her, but it was short-lived. With a vicious snarl he turned to glare at her. Fury lit his eyes, and he let out a foul curse while rubbing his injured flesh. Lust mingled with that anger, making her fight against the urge to back away from him. It was instinct, but Jemma forced her feet to stand firm. She refused to crumple at his feet; doing so would only seal her fate because he was the sort of man that preyed on those less powerful than himself.

“You’ll pay for that, bitch! I’m going to enjoy watching you bleed when I’m finished with your cunt.”

He lunged toward her, his comrades cheering him on. But his grasping hands never touched her. Instead, she heard the pounding of hooves so close she knew the horse was going to trample her beneath its deadly hooves. She stood still, accepting that fate instead of the one the unkempt knight had planned for her. Jemma actually smiled, taking in a deep breath in anticipation of the horse crushing her body beneath it.

But no pain punctured her body. In its place a hard arm scooped her off her feet, pulling her up and on top of the beast that had galloped into the ring of Englishmen. The sudden appearance of that rider sent the English into a frenzy of panic. Their horses reared, and she heard the sound of their armor shifting. There were cries and curses, but most of it was drowned out by the sound of the horse she’d been tossed across. Her head went over the saddle to hang down on one side. She gained a crazy view of the ground and hooves all moving too quickly to make sense of from upside down. The fact that she had declined to eat supper suddenly served her very well, for there was nothing in her stomach to sicken her.

A hard hand pressed her down, helping to keep her on top of the horse. A new sound rang out around her; it was a solid chanting in Gaelic.

It looked as if the English knights had found what they were searching for—the Scots they so arrogantly believed themselves better than.

For the moment, she prayed that the Scots won.

Chapter Two

The Scots didn’t need divine intervention.

They took the English by surprise, which gave them the advantage. Streams of tartan-wearing men surged over the hill, the horses following close behind each other. The English had been ringed around her, their attention on what their leader was doing. Now their horses reared up, fear in their eyes. With no warning, the Scots chanted again, and their deep voices boomed around the startled English like thunder breaking above their heads. The fading light lent more strength to their attack for it seemed as if they materialized out of the night.

“Hold this for me, Bryon.”

Whoever had pulled her off the ground tossed her once more. This time she landed in a tangle of her own clothing on the ground at the feet of a small group of younger boys. Jemma snarled as she tried to get her head upright, but the bouncing of her head upside down had muddled her senses. It took several moments for her sight to stop spinning, and still more time to gain control of her body again. She kicked at her skirts because they seemed to be stuck, trapping her feet where she could not use them. A soft male chuckle drifted over her ears before she was hooked beneath her arms and lifted up.

“Is that better now, lass?”

The voice was young but hinted at approaching manhood. Jemma lifted her face to stare at a youth with shoulder-length hair and a round knitted bonnet tilted off to one side. He couldn’t be more than fifteen, but the boy was a full head taller than her and there were several more standing near him. They looked down the hill with eagerness shining in their eyes. Most of them failed to keep their feet still, but they remained where they were and strained to watch what was happening below them.

Jemma turned and gasped. The sound of men clashing against men was horrific, far more so than any description might have prepared her for. She saw nothing noble about it, only the brutality. Most of the English failed to pull their swords. The Scots closed in on them with clubs, striking them off their horses. In the close quarter of the battle, the crude wooden weapons proved more effective than the swords hanging in their scabbards. Several of the English found themselves thrown by their frightened mounts. Men strained to stand beneath the weight of breastplate armor, some of them falling beneath the hooves of their own comrades’ horses. Screams filled the night, and it was impossible to tell whose cries came from which man because the fight was in such close quarters. Her mind tried to sort it all into understanding and had difficulty making sense of it.

But she did notice the lack of slaughter. Those clubs, although painful when they struck, did not spill enough blood to kill because they had been aimed at unseating the English. The Scots swung low, to catch the men below where their breastplates offered protection, knocking the English off their mounts like melons. She’d witnessed her brother teaching his younger charges just such a task and never understood how brutal it might be when employed. A shiver raced over her skin as she watched, too stunned to turn away.

The Scots herded their enemy into the center of them, riding around them to keep the fallen English contained. The youths behind her suddenly began to run after the horses that had left their English masters to the mercy of the Scots. The boys mounted and then began to tie the reins of the other horses together until they had a chain of riderless horses trailing behind them. They leaned over to catch the dragging reins but maintained their seat in the saddle using legs with an amazing amount of strength. Her eyes strayed back to the men who had rescued her; they were stronger still, hard men who appeared undefeatable in spite of their lack of armor.

“This is an act of war upon England,” roared the knight who had so recently tried to assault her. He’d been knocked to his knees.

“I’ll agree with ye there, man, but Scots who just committed the act of war.” The man talking was clearly the leader of the Celts. His voice was edged with solid authority, and his men became quiet while he spoke. He sat tall atop a huge stallion that was as black as midnight. His sword was held in a confident grip, but it was his expression that sent a shiver down her spine. Hard and edged with fury, he glared at his captives while pointing the deadly tip of his sword at their leader.

“This is Barras land and yer in Scotland, which makes ye the invaders.”

“We are sent on the king’s business to bring his son’s bride to where she can be raised well and protected.”

The Scots grumbled, their words muffled, but it was clear that they were not friendly. Their leader chuckled, drawing Jemma’s attention back to him.

“Ye’re here to try and steal my queen, man, and that is something that I’ll not be having.”

The English knight spat on the ground. “We will not be allowing you savages to raise the future queen of England. She will be raised away from the pope’s grasp.”

The amusement that had coated the Scotsman’s face faded until there wasn’t any hint left.

“Dinna call me a savage, man, no when I just had to stop ye from raping the first woman ye came across like some horde of bastards straight out of hell.” The sword point reflected the rising moonlight. “You’re on my land, and ye will nae be raping any woman here, be she peasant or noble.”

His land? Jemma stared at the Scot, shock holding her in its grasp. Laird Barras didn’t look at her, his attention directed at the English knight, but it felt like he was conscious of her. It was the oddest feeling, but she would have sworn that he was angry on her behalf.

“The bitch needs to be taught her place.”

“You English have no place calling us Scots savages. We do nae teach by using the back of our hands across a woman’s face.”

The English knight succeeded in rising to his feet. He sneered at Laird Barras. “You just want the bitch for yourself.”

“What I want is to run ye through and spare this world of having to tolerate ye. But I believe I’ll leave ye here to face her brother when he hears of what ye have been doing with his sister. From what I hear, Lord Ryppon is nae a man to be crossed.”

The English knights shifted, and many of them cursed. They looked as though they wanted to panic once more, but the Scots allowed them no space to escape through their ranks.

“She’s a lying whore.”

Laird Barras grinned. “Nae, man, she spoke the truth, and I would not care to be wearing yer boots when the sun rises. That’s the only reason I’m going to leave ye alive, to be eaten by one of yer own kind. I find that idea just a little bit more appealing than ridding my land of yer stench myself. But only a wee bit so if yer a smart man, ye’ll get off my land before I change me mind.”

He slid his sword back into the sheath strapped across his back. The movement highlighted arms thick with muscle. Lifting the sword above his head caused him no strain. One hand held the reins, and he wheeled the stallion around to face her. She felt his attention settle on her more than she saw it. The last of the sun was gone, night closing around them like a curtain. But she still witnessed the relief that passed over the Englishmen’s faces. They helped one another to their feet and looked at the Scot with relief shimmering in their eyes. Many of them crossed themselves with thanks because it was a relief they had not expected to feel. The reason was harsh—hatred. It radiated from the Celts who sat on their horses watching their leader. Allowing these Englishmen to live only meant that they might kill their relatives sometime in the days ahead. Armed Englishmen riding across Scottish land only meant one thing, and it had nothing to do with friendship.

As she had just learned. The English would use violence to gain what they wished without any remorse. She looked at the dirty plumes crowning the knight’s helmet and decided that they fit him well.

“If ye’ve any sense, ye’d start for the border before Ryppon discovers what ye were about with his sister.” Laird Barras leaned down over the neck of his horse. “And if I see ye again on my land, I’ll not leave ye drawing breath to test my goodwill again.”

His voice was hard as stone, leaving no doubt that he was a man who would not hesitate to kill. He looked every inch the warrior, but Jemma discovered herself grateful for his harshness, even drawing comfort from it. The man was saving her life and sparing her a painful death, too. The English didn’t wait but began walking toward England. It was humbling to set armored men on their way without their horses, but to return the animals would see the men becoming a force to be reckoned with once more. Laird Barras proved to be merciful by sparing their lives, but he was no fool.

He turned to look at her. The night sky was beginning to fill with tiny points of light, and that starshine cast him in white light, making him appear unearthly, like a god from legends past. A Norseman Viking who swept across the land, unstoppable because of his sheer brawn.

A ripple of sensation moved over her skin, awakening every inch of her flesh. It should have been impossible to be so aware of any single person’s stare, but she was of his. His stallion snorted and pawed at the ground a moment before he pressed his knees into the sides of the beast. Lament surged through her, thick and choking as she anticipated his leaving.

He pulled the stallion up alongside her, a grin of approval curling his lips when she remained in place without a single sound passing her lips. Jemma found herself too fascinated to speak. Too absorbed in the moment to ruin it by allowing sounds to intrude.

“Up with ye, lass. This is not the sort of company ye should be keeping.”

He leaned down, his thighs gripping the sides of his horse to keep him steady. Her gaze strayed to his thighs, and she stared at the bare skin that was cut with ridges of muscle, testifying to how much strength was in him.

“Take my hand, lass. I’d prefer not to have to pull ye off the ground again.”

But he would. She heard that clearly in his voice. That tone of command that spoke of a man who expected his word to be heeded no matter what her opinion might be.

Of course, staying was not something she craved. She lifted her hand and placed it in his outstretched one, only to pull it away when his warm flesh met her own. That touch jolted her, braking through the disbelief that had held her in its grasp. Her body began to shake while her face throbbed incessantly from the blow that had been laid across it. She suddenly felt every bruise and scrape, her knees feeling weak as the horror of what she had just faced sunk in deep to torment her mind with grisly details. Details of what the English had been intent on doing to her. The idea of touching any man was suddenly repulsive, and she clasped her hands tightly together.

“I thank you for your . . . assistance . . . but I will return to . . . Amber Hill.”

Jemma looked around for her mare, but in the darkness it was difficult to determine which horse was hers. The younger boys had several horses each, and she couldn’t decide which one belonged to her. She suddenly noticed how cold it had become, and the darkness seemed to be increasing, too, clouds moving over the sky to block out even the star shine.

“Give me yer hand, lass. ’Tis time to make our way from this place.”

His voice was low now and hypnotic. Lifting her face, she found his attention on her, his eyes reflecting the starlight back down on her. Jemma lifted her hand but stopped when she felt her arm shaking. The motion annoyed her, but there seemed to be nothing she might do to banish it.

“Do it now, lass. This is nae a safe place to linger.”

“But is going with you a safe thing to do?” She truly wondered because he looked so at ease surrounded by the night. All his men sat in their saddles without any outward sign of misgivings or dread for the deepening darkness. Her words didn’t please him. His expression tightened, and something flashed in his eyes that looked like pride. A soft grumbling rippled through his waiting men.

“I will nae strike ye.”

Which was better than she might expect from the horseless Englishmen standing nearby. For all that they were her countrymen, she discovered more trust inside her for the Scots. There was no real choice; she hungered for life, and the Scot’s offer was her only way to hold on to that precious thing.

Lifting her hand, she placed it firmly against the one offered. Barras closed his hand around her wrist, and she jumped to help gain the saddle. He lifted her up and off the ground to sit behind him.

“Hold on to me, lass.”

There was no other choice. She had to cling to him, press her body up against his in order to share his saddle. Her thighs rested against his, and the motion of the horse made their hips move in unison. The thick scabbard strapped to his back was the only barrier between them. She actually welcomed the hard edges of the leather scabbard because it kept her from being completely immersed in his body. There were several things she should have been dwelling on—the English left behind in the night, or the way her brother was most likely going to have her flogged for riding so late in the day. There was also Synclair to consider. The knight was going to be far more than unhappy with her for slipping out the moment his attention was taken away from her. He was not a man who made the same mistake twice.

Instead she was completely focused on the man she clung to. Her arms reached around his slim waist. It was amazing how much warmth his body generated. Holding so tightly against him kept the chill of the autumn night from tormenting her. The wind chilled her hands on top where the skin was exposed, but her palms were warmed by the man she held on to.

Her head was tucked along one of his shoulders, one cheek pressing against the wool of his doublet. His sword was strapped at an angle across his back, the length of his plaid pulled up over his right shoulder helping to cushion the weapon. Suddenly, the Celtic fashion of dressing was not so odd. Instead it was quite logical and useful. That bit of thinking made him seem less of a barbarian and more of a very efficient warrior.

Her heart accelerated, which increased the tempo of her breathing. She drew in his scent and shivered. It was dark and musky, touching off a strange reaction deep inside her belly, a quivering that became a throbbing at the top of her sex. Each motion of the horse sent her clitoris sliding against the leather of the saddle, and the scent of his skin intensified the sensation somehow. It was unnerving, and she licked her lower lip because it felt as dry as a barley stalk. Every hot glance he had ever aimed at her rose from her memory to needle her with a longing she hadn’t truly admitted she had for the man. Now that she was pressed against him, part of her chastised herself for not jumping at him. No matter how often she had listened to other women talk of their sweethearts, it had never been something she had longed for. Now, her body refused to be ignored any longer and enjoyed being against him.

If Barras noticed, he made no comment, which she felt herself being grateful for. Sensation was rushing through her, filling every limb and flooding her mind with intoxicating feelings that seemed impossible to control. Her fingers opened up, just because she failed to squash the urge to see what his body felt like. Tight ridges of hard muscles met her fingers, covering his midsection, and even his clothing did not disguise them.

His men closed around them, the sound of horses’ hooves drumming out everything else. But a slight turn of her head and her ear was pressed against his shoulder, allowing her to hear his heartbeat. Another shiver raced through her, rushing down to her stomach where a strange sort of excitement was brewing. Her mouth was dry and her arms tightened around him because she feared she might lose her hold on him due to the quivering that seemed to be growing stronger along her limbs. It was a strange weakness, like too much wine. Even her thoughts felt muddled.

A rough hand landed on top of hers. Jemma flinched, her entire body reacting to the touch. His fingers curled around hers, completely covering her smaller hand in his. But it was his thumb that she noticed the most because it slid around her wrist to the delicate skin on the underside. That tender spot felt the rougher skin of his thumb stroking across it before pressing against the place where her pulse throbbed. It was a strangely intimate touch, and she yanked her hand away from beneath his and curled her fingers around the wide leather belt that kept his kilt in place. She felt his chest vibrate and knew that he was chuckling, even if the wind carried the sound away before she heard it.

Jemma snorted, enjoying the fact that she could make whatever sounds she wanted. But his head turned to cast a sidelong glance at her, and she realized that he’d felt the sound just as she had felt his. Jemma was startled to discover that she was communicating with him on some deeper level . . . a much more turbulent one. Her thoughts returned to the way he’d looked at her in the past.

They rounded a hill, and a fortress came into view. It was almost black against the night sky, with thick towers that rose up against the hills behind it. A wicked-looking gate began to rise, the grinding of metal chain cutting through the pounding of the horse’s hooves. Her breath froze as fear tapped its icy fingertips against her.

This was not Amber Hill.

It was not even England.

She shuddered, unable to contain the dread creeping through her. It stole away the excitement that had been making her so warm, leaving her to the mercy of the night chill. Indeed life might become very frigid if she awoke in a Scottish fortress without there being any marriage agreement. The gossips would declare it her own fault for riding out without an escort.

Laird Barras rode straight under the gate and into the courtyard without hesitation, his stallion knowing the way well. But he had to rein the horse toward the front steps instead of the stable. The animal had not even fully stopped when he turned and locked stares with her.

“Welcome to Barras Castle, lass.” His voice was rich with enjoyment. Jemma pushed away from his back, trying to force enough breath past her shock to reply without betraying her unsettled state.

He jumped down from the horse and still seemed to be able to meet her gaze far too easily from where she sat atop the horse. Somehow, viewing him from across a hall had failed to impact just how large a man he was. Jemma reached for the reins, an urge to place distance between them needling her almost beyond the fact that she knew the night held far worse dangers than the man watching her.

There was something about his gaze that cut down to the deepest part of her. She had never felt such a thing before, never endured her belly fluttering with excitement as it was right then. It shouldn’t be so simple a thing to do to her. They had been nothing but the simplest of touches, and yet she quivered.

“You should have taken me to Amber Hill.”

He reached up and closed his hands around her waist. There was amazing strength in those hands, and he pulled her from the saddle in spite of the way her thighs gripped it, attempting to remain on the horse. He set her down next to him, his hands taking far too long to slide off her. His lips curved just a minute amount, telling her that he was indeed taking advantage of the moment.

“The night is full of dangers, lass. Why do you think men build castles? It is nae because we enjoy the labor.”

The gate was lowering, and the sound drew her attention. It groaned and the metal chain reflected the starlight as it set the gate back into position. She felt like a trap was closing about her, choking her so that breathing was nearly impossible.

“But—I can’t remain here . . .”

“What would ye have of me, Jemma? Should I ride up the path toward yer brother’s fortress and hope that his archers refrain from emptying their quivers until they see our faces and not just our Scottish clothing?”

“You might have sent me up that path once we were close enough.”

His lips curved slightly. The doors to the first tower opened, allowing light to illuminate him from a lantern held aloft in the hand of a servant. Gordon Dwyre stared at her face for a long moment, his expression turning dark.

“I find that there is a certain satisfaction in knowing that ye are not unattended and getting yerself into harm’s way, madam. The men that ride the border land are often intent on foul business.”

She raised one hand without thinking to touch the side of her face. Pain shot through her the moment her fingers braised it. Laird Barras’s lips became a hard line of disapproval. She had to tilt her chin up to keep her gaze locked with his. The man was large, and for some odd reason she was very aware of it. Sensation prickled all over her skin, that flutter of excitement returning.

“Inside with ye, Jemma. My housekeeper will make ye welcome. I need to see to my walls in case those English marauders have any comrades out there set on harming me people now that they no longer have ye to torment.”

“I cannot stay here.”

Jemma learned one thing about Gordon Dwyre in the next moment. He was not a man who discussed matters he felt fell beneath his authority. The man stepped forward and swept her off her feet before she realized he was bold enough to handle her. Too accustomed to Synclair, she failed to bring her hands up fast enough to ward off the huge Scot. Barras had her cradled in his arms in the blink of an eye, against his chest with one arm beneath her knees and another behind her back. Her breath hissed through her teeth with surprise.

“You must not.”

Her voice was too high pitched, but that didn’t even slow the man down. He climbed the stairs and carried her right over the threshold while his arms bound her to him. He spun her loose, and she retreated from his larger frame. Her cheeks flamed with temper.

“I have and I am nae sorry for it. Fate already gave you more luck tonight than ye have any right to expect. If me men hadn’t discovered yer mare, you’d be lying dead out there.” His voice tightened, and he stepped closer to narrow the gap between them. Once again he moved with a lightning quickness that took her by surprise, his hand latching on to the fabric of her skirt near her waistband where the cartridge pleats were deepest.

“And it would nae have been an easy death, Jemma. Be very sure of that. For all that they are yer own countrymen, they would have raped ye until ye bleed and then kept at ye until ye died beneath them, shivering and helpless. Ye will stay in this tower where the walls can offer you protection.”

His eyes flashed with emotion so powerful, she stepped away from it. But her unconscious motion carried her back into the tower, so he released her and grunted softly before turning around. His kilt fell in longer pleats in back, and they swayed with the motion of his walking. Beyond the open doors she could hear men working to unsaddle the horses. There was low conversation and the sharp sounds of the hooves hitting the stones of the courtyard. A hush fell when their laird appeared, proving that the man was not one of the lazy nobles who enjoyed his title while sending others to do the tasks his position required. Gordon Dwyre moved without hesitation back into the night while the doors were shut and the lanterns remained inside with her.

“I do suggest ye mind the laird.”

“Is that so?”

The woman holding the lantern didn’t take offense. Jemma blushed deeper when she heard her own tone, because it was surly and the woman standing in front of her was Jemma’s elder. It didn’t matter if the servant was peasant born or not, age was worthy of respect. Instead of frowning or shooting her a cutting look designed to instill some manners in her, the woman’s lips curved into a smile.

“I am named Ula, and ye would not be the first woman to discover herself placed exactly where the laird wants ye. If ye are in fact Lord Ryppon’s sister, yer sister-in-law should have told ye a thing or two about our laird when it comes to following a course that he’s set on.”

Jemma stiffened, but her temper did her little good. Bridget hadn’t needed to tell her about her time in Barras Castle. Her brother had been enraged when his bride fled across the border to her kin before celebrating her marriage. Her kin had promptly gifted her to Gordon Dwyre because the man was their overlord. As far as Scotland went, he was a very powerful man. With a baby wearing the crown here, lairds were more powerful than ever. On their own land, their word was law. She shivered because instead of being frightened by that fact, she took solace in it. His words echoed inside her head as the expression on the English knight’s face rose up to sicken her with just how correct Barras was.

“My apologies for being ungrateful. I seem to have forgotten how to be polite.”

Ula nodded her head. It was a small reminder that the woman did expect respect even if she was a servant in the castle. That was only right and something that brought shame to Jemma again. Her father would not have approved.

Jemma sighed, suddenly feeling lost. She didn’t recognize a single face or wall; even the clothing was foreign to her gaze. Coupled with the fact that she had nothing to call her own but what she wore, the feeling of being misplaced grew until it threatened to overwhelm her.

“Come along, lass. Let us see if yer face can’t be cleaned up a wee bit.”

Jemma stared at the woman but nodded because it was something to do besides standing in the door frame.

But her misgivings grew with every step that saw her going deeper into the Scottish fortress. The stories told around the winter hearth whispered across her mind with tales of women who never returned from such places.

Gordon couldn’t recall the last time he’d felt his temper burn so hot. He was a man who knew full well that controlling his impulses was wise, but tonight he was being tested beyond everything he’d ever known.

“Ye look ready to kill.” Beacon Barras spoke softly, but he knew that Gordon would hear him. The man was his friend, but Gordon still snarled at him. Beacon shrugged, unconcerned.

“No one would think ill of ye if ye did. That was a right nasty bit of doing that we interrupted.”

“I daresay the English would consider it ill if I ran those pitiful excuses for men through. ’Tis a worry we do nae need with the winter creeping down from the mountains.”

“Is that truly Ryppon’s sister?” Beacon was watching the darkness beyond the curtain wall, keeping his gaze moving because he wasn’t as at ease as his words might make a person think.

“Aye, and much as I like the man, I had more respect for him this morning. What manner of fool allows any woman out so late in the day? She didna go riding this morning and ’tis my thinking that she should have waited until the sun rose on the morrow.”

Gordon clamped his mouth shut. He’d spent too much time watching Jemma. Rumors were already making the rounds that he lacked the courage to approach the lass. It might sound innocent, but any hint that he wasn’t bold enough to take what he wanted was an invitation for some clan to think his borders were easy pickings. There would be raids if that happened and blood flowing when he rode out to protect his people.

“Well now, she’s nae a timid thing. I’d wager her brother didna give her leave to ride out.”

That posed a very good question, one Gordon felt beginning to burn in his mind. Was the lass truly so foolish as to ride out on her own without considering that the night held dangers? Her sister-in-law had fled across the border, so maybe Englishwomen were being reared in ignorance these days.

He hoped not.

He’d thought the lass spirited, not foolish. The last thing he needed was a marzipan bride—a woman who was nothing but pride and pretty features. He needed a woman who could use her wits when the time called for it.

“It seems that ye have gotten yer wish to meet the lass after all.” Beacon offered him a slight nod of his head. “So I’ll bid ye good luck, Laird.”

Luck indeed. Gordon frowned because his hope was strangling on a rope made of facts. He’d allowed his fascination to lead him astray. A bride was chosen for her family connection and gain it brought to the clan. Not because he’d become infatuated with an idea spun from his own imagination.

It would be better to not see the lass again.

He ground his teeth together and lost the battle to resist the urge to discover exactly what sort of female she was. Girl or woman? God help him if she was the woman he’d imagined her to be.

Because he didn’t think he’d be able to give up such a prize now that he’d managed to bring it home.

Jemma sat still, listening to the sounds of the tower. It was strange and yet familiar. Ula had left her while muttering about fetching warmed porridge. Jemma found herself scanning the room and noticing where the glow of the lantern ended and the shadows took control. The shapes of the walls were different, but the feeling of the stone around her one that she was accustomed to.

Or should be.

Yet she still felt ill at ease. Standing up, she paced to the end of the large chamber, stopping when she reached a window. The shutters were still open, allowing in the night breeze. The air smelled fresh and full of winter. But what she felt most of all was the presence of the master of the castle. Gordon Dwyre, Laird Barras. Her rescuer and captor. It was truly a strange combination, one her mind toyed with while she turned to pace back across the floor.

She gasped, her heart freezing when she discovered him standing behind her, without a sound, as though he’d been summoned by her own thoughts. Sensation rippled across her skin, leaving gooseflesh behind.

“Evening, lass. I trust ye are comfortable in me castle.”

Chapter Three

The man moved too silently; there had to be something unnatural about him.

Jemma felt frustrated with her own thoughts, finding them too somber for her liking. Men such as Gordon Dwyre were still only men; she’d felt his heart beat and his breath filling his chest. He was as real as she.

Instead of comforting her, that thought only blew across the coals of longing that were left from being pressed up against him.

Her gaze swept the Scot from head to toe, picking out all the details that made him so silent when he moved. Strength was etched into his body, proving that he was more a man of action than words. He still wore his kilt, but the pommel of his sword was no longer sitting above his right shoulder. She didn’t make the mistake of thinking that he was now less dangerous.

The man embodied the idea. It was in the way he moved and the manner that he held his arms. Ever so slightly away from his body, his fingers hooked into the wide leather belt he wore. A simple wool doublet was unbuttoned to the middle of his chest. A little ripple of awareness crossed her skin, and she bit her lower lip to dispel it.

“Ula knows her craft well. She’ll not leave ye wanting beneath me roof.”

Jemma realized that she’d been struck silent by her desire to look at him. That annoyed her because such had never happened before. It shouldn’t be troubling her now, especially when she needed her wits to convince the burly Scot to return her home. She had freedom of choice there. Here she was subject to Gordon’s will, and that knowledge sat uneasy on her. For all that her life had been a simple country one, she realized that she had never lacked freedom.

“Yes, Ula was most kind.”

He stepped farther into the room, his kilt swaying slightly. She noticed the garment because it was so different from everything she was accustomed to. In fact, Gordon Dwyre was unlike anything she knew, which must explain why she had difficulty mastering her thoughts when he was near.

Of course. That made sense, and understanding would lead her to logical thinking. That was what she needed.

“I shall remember her fondly.”

A soft chuckle filled the room. Gordon closed more of the gap between them. “Are ye in a hurry to depart, lass? The sun will nae be rising for some time.”

“Of course I am eager to return home. I mean no insult by such. However grateful I am for your assistance, returning to Amber Hill is my first priority.”

His expression tightened. “Well now, lass, ye see there is our conflict. Returning ye to any place that can nae keep ye from harm.”

“I told you, it was my own doing.”

Laird Barras folded his arms over his chest. “I recall that very well, lass, which is why I hesitate to take ye back where ye are clearly able to work yer will over those who should be doing their duty to keep ye from harm.”

“I made a mistake in leaving so late in the day.”

“Ye did that, sure enough, and it nearly cost ye yer life.” There was no mistaking the judgment in his tone. Jemma bristled beneath its cutting edge.

“It is not my normal way to challenge the rules set down by my brother.”

“I disagree, lass. I’ve watched ye riding across that section of land too many times to count.”

Watched me riding?

Jemma twisted her hands in the fabric of her skirt while pacing a few steps away from him. Her belly twisted with sensation.

He’d watched her, too many times to count?

“You shouldn’t have done that.” There were only the candles on the table, and as she moved, she left their light behind her. The shadows felt more secure with their darkness to help conceal her emotions.

“Nae, lass, ye should not have been out where me men and I could watch ye.”

His voice rang with heavy judgment. It needled her pride, setting a spark to her temper.

“I am not your concern, sir, and I was always on my father’s land.”

He followed her, and she stood torn between the urge to retreat farther or stand fast to remain in the glow from the candles. Something flickered in his eyes that looked like approval.

“At the moment ye are, because it was my men that I just risked to save ye. Be very sure that I do nae place me men in jeopardy for just any reason, even if ye are too foolish to be allowed the freedom yer brother has given ye.”

Jemma gasped, caught somewhere between pride and astonishment that he would consider it his right to decide what was best for her. That desire struck her as oddly intimate, rippling over her skin like a caress.

“Making an offer for me does not grant you the right to dictate to me, sir.”

He uncrossed his arms and she shivered, her memory filling with how it felt to be pressed against him. A flicker of excitement returned to her so quickly she chewed on her lower lip, needing some outlet for all the churning sensations trapped within her.

“No, lass, pulling ye off the ground before ye were raped does.” His voice cut through the air like a hot knife. There was nothing friendly in his expression, only harsh judgment.

“I asked yer brother for the right to court ye only, I never offered for ye and I’m thinking that a wise thing at the moment. I do nae need a wife that has nae got the sense of a child.”

His rejection stung.

Jemma felt it traveling through her like a lash from a whip. She’d only felt leather bite into her flesh once and for the very same reason. Lack of attention to what was happening around her.

She had been a mere ten years old and walked into a section of the training yard she had no place being. A thick, braided leather whip sliced down across her back before the men noticed that their space had been invaded. It had been her mistake to go there, and her father had made that clear with a lecture witnessed by every man training in that yard. It had been her sire’s place to reprimand her. It was a lesson she had never forgotten until her father died.

That made Gordon Dwyre’s judgment sting even more. She was not perfect, but that did not mean she needed another man attempting to act as her parent.

“Well then, it seems we are in agreement. I do not belong here, Lord Barras.” She pronounced his title with an English accent to drive home just how different they were.

The man snorted at her.

One direct sound that communicated just how much he disagreed with her. Jemma felt her chin rise—just a tiny amount—but his attention lowered to it, noticing the stubborn motion. His eyes flashed with an equal amount of determination to see her accept his will.

Which she would not do.

“I will look forward to sunrise and my departure.”

He didn’t care for her telling him what would be. Jemma witnessed the flare of resistance that lit his eyes, but he drew in a sharp breath, battling against the urge to argue with her. Jemma turned her back on him. It was a bold thing to do, possibly as foolish as riding out of Amber Hill against Synclair’s wishes.

But the tension was becoming unbearable. She had to move, do something to force the moment to pass before she buckled beneath the strain.

It was more than that . . .

She dug her fingernails into her palms while time felt as though it was frozen. She could still feel Gordon behind her.

Gordon?

When had she begun thinking of the Scot with his first name? To be sure that was going to bring her nothing but lament. The man wasn’t interested in her, far from it. He considered her foolish and a nuisance. His judgment stung in spite of her determination to cast it aside by reminding herself that she shouldn’t care a bit what he thought. Just because she enjoyed his glances.

And being pressed against his hard body . . .

She stiffened, trying to force the memory aside, but it was a battle that her body wasn’t willing to lose. The tension became too much, and she turned her head to look back at him. The spot where the large Scot had stood was empty. Jemma turned and scanned the dark corners of the room but found them empty of anything except furniture.

He did move silently. It was a pity that it was not so simple to remove his memory from her mind. Disappointment flowed through her, prickling her with a sense of loss that she cursed.

“Men do not always grasp what drives a woman to do the things she does.”

Ula spoke in a quiet tone that drew a snarl from her laird. But the sound did not disturb the housekeeper. She kept moving on even steps that never faltered. The woman walked right up to him and offered him a wooden mug with no fear of his temper.

“It does nae matter. I’m going to take her home and let her brother have the pleasure of dealing with her. I see why she’s uncontracted now.”

Gordon took the mug of ale and drew off a long swallow. Ula didn’t agree with him. He could see it in the woman’s eyes, and it annoyed him because it was the sort of look that women often gave men. One that suggested they felt that whatever was on their minds, men were incapable of understanding.

“The lass was riding out on the border land without a care for any harm that might befall her. ’Tis clear that she is nae married because she’s spoilt.”

Ula stiffened and Gordon grunted. “Speak yer mind, Ula. I have never dictated that ye must hold yer tongue. That is an English trait.”

“Ye have never needed to because I know when to keep my lips from flapping, Laird.”

Gordon shrugged and took another swallow from his mug. “Aye, ye are wiser than many that I’ve met. But I see that ye disagree with me on the girl. Why? Yer own son was riding with me. I didna think ye would care to hear that he was run through because of some English noble lass that does nae have the sense to remain inside her home when the sun is setting.”

“I would nae care for such news, ’tis true.”

“But?” Gordon pressed her, for some reason craving to know why the housekeeper disagreed with him when it came to Jemma Ramsden.

“But I have heard from Lilly who is the daughter of the blacksmith and has a sister married over on the Ramsden land to their cobbler Samuel Jerkins, that the girl was nursing her father for the last four years.” Ula tilted her head to the side, obviously considering her thoughts before speaking. She lifted one finger. “She could have left it to the maids, but Lilly said the lass tended her father with her own hands, even sleeping in the manservant lodgings alongside the master chamber. That is nae a spoilt child but one who loves their parent.”

“She was still riding along the border land with the sun sinking on the horizon. Maybe ye have nae heard, but we rescued her from a band of English rogues who were moments away from raping her.”

Gordon felt a prickle of relief cross his skin to settle into his bones. It surprised him because it was not the first time he’d intervened in foul plans. None of those times had made his knees feel weak or lingered in his thoughts much beyond a good mug of ale. He finished off what remained in his grasp, hoping to be done with the entire event.

It persisted, though, and Ula refilled his mug as though the housekeeper knew that he would not dispense with this bit of business easily.

“Fine, she is nae spoilt. At least no when it comes to being devoted to her family. But that does nae change the fact that the woman is senseless. She would require a great deal of effort to protect.”

“She would no be the first to make mistakes while her heart was full of grief. The talk is that the girl only took to riding when her father died. That is a powerful blow that many buckle beneath.” Ula lowered herself before turning to face the hallway. The housekeeper walked down the length of it and entered the room that Jemma was in. A moment later she emerged without the pitcher.

Gordon had to force the ale in his mouth down his throat or risk choking on it.

Grief... aye. There was something that sent more than one person off to doing things they normally never would have. Things that they regretted when the pain had dulled enough for them to resume thinking clearly.

Of course, the more strength the person had, the more insane the recklessness. His fellow laird, Deverell Lachlan, was grieving hard for his lost bride and riding the night like a highlander. The man’s face was covered in a beard that grew longer every time Gordon saw him, and there seemed to be no easing of the pain etched into his friend’s eyes.

Aye, grief was a powerful thing.

He turned around to look back down the hallway from where he’d left Jemma. He was suddenly not so disgusted with her, part of him longing to go back into the room where Ula had placed her.

It was a bedchamber, even if the bed was all the way across the room from where they had been talking. Still, there would be plenty of people who condemned him for being alone with a maiden in there.

Jemma was a maiden. He’d stake his stallion on that fact. She’d shivered against his back, her heart racing while she tried to keep that knowledge from being noticed. A woman with experience wouldn’t have been so flustered. A knowing gleam would have entered her eyes. Maybe she would have lowered her lashes to conceal such, but only maidens looked back with such wide-eyed surprise when they met a man who drew their interest.

Jemma had cast those looks at him when he walked into her home to meet with her brother. She was drawn to him as surely as he was to her despite the fact that she was virgin still. He should call Ula back to stand as witness to what transpired between them, but he was finished with watching while surrounded by others. He’d done the chivalrous thing and visited her brother, and all that had done was allow Jemma to hide from him.

That knowledge did not stop him from moving back down the hallway. With his firm belief that she was nothing but a spoilt nuisance removed, there was nothing to keep him from seeking her out.

Jemma sniffed at the ale and wrinkled her nose. She had never cared for it, which was almost considered a sin because ale was a staple of English food. She liked all grains well enough, but once they were fermented with yeast, she found them sour. Hot porridge was her preferred way of taking in her barley and wheat.

“We’ve cider if ale does not please ye.”

Jemma jumped and then muttered a word that her brother didn’t think she knew. Of course she’d learned it from his men, but like all males, Curan liked to think that the women of the house were deaf anytime the men were cursing.

“I do not need anything save for the sun to rise.”

“Which will nae happen for many hours.”

Gordon Dwyre strode back into the room, his hand wrapped around a mug. She suddenly noticed the bed in the room, which sat some twenty paces across the floor. The Barras tower was built in the older fashion, without walls to divide the floor. Newer construction afforded a receiving chamber separated by a wall from the actual bedchamber. She was strangely aware of that bed and the way her body had responded to Gordon’s while they were pressed together.

“I thought you were gone from me. Disgusted by my lack of forethought.” She walked away from the ale and the bed, moving off into the semidarkness just beyond the candles’ glow.

“Why do ye ride as ye do?”

Jemma felt her eyes widen and took another step into the darkness to cover her expression. Gordon placed his mug on the table and watched her from beneath lowered eyebrows. He had dark hair. Like midnight, but his eyes were blue.

“It doesn’t matter what sent me out, only that I realize now that it was foolish.”

One of those dark eyebrows rose. “I hear ye started riding when yer father died. Do ye think that I can nae understand what grief does to a person?”

“I can’t fathom why you would think I might share such a personal thing with you. We are strangers, sir.”

He chuckled, crossing his arms over his chest. The motion made his arms bulge, the muscles pressing against the fitted sleeve of his doublet. “Strangers, aye we are but that does nae mean that I have never done something I regretted while in the midst of grief.”

“Fine. As you will, sir. If that pleases you and softens your judgment of me then so be it.” She discovered that her hands had planted themselves on her hips like an angry wife, and she jerked them off only to fumble with them while she attempted to compose herself. “Somehow I doubt that riding is an escape for you since you do it so often.”

His face transformed into something that was wickedly handsome. His lips curved, and his eyes held a gleam that was full of male satisfaction.

“Well now, there’s riding and then there is riding that pleases a man. I admit to enjoying a good, hard ride. Often.”

He was talking about bed sport. His eyes shimmered with mischief, and his lips curved in mocking display.

Her cheeks heated and her jaw dropped open. She snapped it shut with a click of her teeth. But she had to fight the urge to look at the bed. Her mind was suddenly full of just what the Scot might look like in it.

What might it feel like to have those lips touch my own . . . ?

“You have no place judging my actions, sir.”

“You mean, I should nae be handing out my opinion when I’m nae perfect myself?” He crossed the room, closing the distance between them with a stride that held her fascinated. He grew larger and more imposing with each step, but she was frozen in place, too hypnotized to move. He had to angle his head down to keep their eyes connected now that he was so much closer.

“Well now, lass, aren’t ye judging my riding habits right now, too?”

Jemma slapped her hands down on her skirts, unable to remain still any longer. “I wouldn’t be if you weren’t so coarse as to bring up the subject. I do assure you of that, sir.”

“Ye assure me? Is that so?” He reached out and captured one of her hands in the blink of an eye, his larger fingers curling and turning her wrist up so that he could see its delicate skin.

“Release me and go, we should not be alone.”

“No just yet. I’m thinking that it’s high time we did more than look at each other across a distance.”

Her breath froze in her throat, and her jaw dropped open once more in shock. “You . . . you are behaving abominably. Release me now, I tell you.”

“Well now, lass, and that takes me right back to pointing out to you how reckless riding out near sunset is.” His fingers tightened on her wrist just enough to give her pain, but only for a brief moment. When her eyes widened with the discomfort, his grip eased, giving her release. It was strangely intimate, the way he read her emotions off her face. Such knowledge sent uncertainty surging through her.

“Ye see, now that ye have left the sanctuary of yer brother’s protection, ye have to deal with whatever comes yer way. The rules and etiquette of proper behavior often crumble when ye ignore them first.”

“So I am to blame for whatever you choose to do with me?” She pulled on her wrist, but it was a wasted motion because he held her securely.

“Aye, lass.” His voice held a rich tone that made her heart increase its pace. In his eyes was more heat than she struggled to ignore within herself. It shone there, staring at her while tempting her. But there was something else about him that she noticed, the difference between him and the English knight that had done nothing to temper his grip.

Trust me . . . Jemma heard the words rise from her memory, and she realized that she did in fact have faith in him.

“You are not so coarse.”

Her words affected him. She witnessed the flare of pride that lit his eyes, almost as if he enjoyed knowing that she did trust in him. But his lips also curved in a sensual motion that sent a shiver down her back. There was a promise lurking in his eyes, too, one that assured her he was not a man who would let conversation deter him from gaining what he truly desired. He would not hurt her, but that did not mean that he would not follow his desires.

“If I was coarse as ye say, lass, I’d not bother to temper my grip.”

“I know that.”

Jemma felt her eyes narrow. The man was teasing her. Well, he was not the only one who knew how to annoy another. Lifting her foot, she aimed for his toes and stomped down as hard as possible. She felt the leather of his boot give beneath the force of her strike, but the man only laughed one moment before he lifted her arm and twisted it behind her, binding her against his body.

“You rogue.” Jemma sneered her insult into his face, wanting to make sure he heard her. But Gordon stared right back at her, his eyes snapping with fire.

“Ye are a wildcat, and a man is wise to keep yer claws contained when he’s close enough to be reached.”

Her throat felt as if it were clogged and that even a single breath might not pass through it. She was pressed against him from thighs to breast and only managed to keep her shoulders separated from his wide chest by arching her back away from him. Her muscles ached from the strain, but Gordon granted her no mercy. He kept her bound against him.

“This is completely indecent.”

His lips twitched up once more. “Aye, it is, lass, but I find it rather enjoyable.”

She used her free hand to shove against his chest. “Of course you do. You enjoy riding, as you so shamelessly informed me. Well, I have no such fondness for carnal activities, sir, so unhand me this moment.”

Before I go insane from the urge to stop struggling and allow you to show me what a man’s embrace feels like . . .

“Are ye sure about that, lass?” His voice had deepened, becoming husky and alluring. “Or is it possibly more a fact that ye have never had a man who rode out after ye and tried his hand at seeing if ye enjoyed his kiss?”

She looked back into his eyes and gasped when he angled his face to press a kiss against her startled lips.

It lasted only a moment before she jerked her head away. But he followed her, releasing her hand so that he might frame her face with his hands and hold her steady for a longer kiss. His mouth settled on top of hers, hot and soft while she heard a moan rise from her chest. She couldn’t help it, there seemed to be no way to contain all the sensation inside her. It was bubbling over like a too-hot pot. Only removing it from the fire would stop the contents from escaping over the sides, and Gordon wasn’t releasing her.

Jemma pressed her hands against his chest, but that became more of a reason to remain when she discovered she liked the way his chest felt beneath her fingers. His lips closed over hers, gently at first, teasing her with a delicate press of his mouth against her own, only applying enough strength to keep her head in place while his lips began to slip along her own.

Slowly, softly, in a motion that sent trickles of delight down her body. The sensation was not confined to her lips; it flowed down her torso and into her belly where that flutter of excitement fed off it. Another moan rose up from inside her, and her hands slid up to his collarbones and over the top of his wide shoulders where she gripped him. The kiss changed immediately. Increasing the pressure against her mouth, Gordon pressed her lips apart wider with his. But instead of finding it harsh, she enjoyed feeling his strength. There was something perfect about knowing that she was soft compared to his hardness. Behind her stays, her breasts felt very delicate, and she noticed how simple it might be to press them against him and have them give way to his firmer form. Her nipples tingled before drawing into tiny pebbles.

“Well now, lass, it seems that ye will have to be rethinking yer opinion of riding, for it sounds like ye just might find it to yer liking.” His hands gently massaged the sides of her face, carefully avoiding where she had been struck. She saw his gaze touch on the bruise darkening her skin, rage flickering in his eyes for just a moment before his attention returned to her face. “Even if it is a carnal enjoyment, between a man and woman, that is no necessarily a bad thing. It can make for a very warm winter, I’m thinking.”

Jemma gasped and shoved him away with every bit of strength she had. He released her but chuckled, letting her know that her freedom was only hers because he granted it to her.

That knowledge stung her pride.

“Between strangers such as us, it is a sinful thing, sir. So stop thinking about such.”

One of those dark eyebrows arched in arrogant display. “Well now, lass, I’ve asked yer brother for permission to court ye. A thing I did long before tonight, so do nae be calling me sinful just because ye enjoyed running yer hands across me chest.”

Jemma snarled. “You kissed me first.”

Gordon shrugged. “Aye, I did. Does that mean that ye would like the opportunity to touch me first? I’m ready to stand steady while ye do with me as ye please, lass.” His eyes sparkled like a boy’s. “I feel the weather growing warmer at just the idea of ye reaching for me.”

Her hand flew out before she thought about it. She balled up her fingers and punched him on the side of his mocking jaw just as she’d seen the men doing in the training yard. Pain snaked up her arm and into her shoulder, drawing another profane word from her lips.

Gordon laughed, full volume, and the man actually leaned over to brace his hands on the top of his thighs while he continued to roar with amusement. In spite of the pain, Jemma pulled her hand back for another swing. Gordon ducked when she came at him this time, his body lowering so that the force of her strike carried her over his wide shoulder. He took full advantage of her inexperience with fighting and surged up so that she ended up bent over his shoulder. One hard hand connected with her unprotected bottom with a smack that echoed off the chamber walls.

“Put me down!”

“As ye like.” He slapped her unprotected bottom another time before dumping her off his shoulder. Jemma shrieked as she felt her body falling through the air. A vision of her slamming into the floor made her cringe, but her body bounced on the soft surface of the bed instead. Her skirts flew up and came down in a tangled mess that knotted around her legs.

“You beast!” She flipped onto her stomach and felt the night air brush against her bare thighs above the top of her knee-high stockings. She jerked her face up to discover Gordon admiring the view her tussled skirts afforded him. Kicking at the fabric, she rose up onto her knees but stopped because the man stood in front of the bed, blocking the path she would have taken off it.

He looked for all the world like some Viking from winter stories. The ones that were told near the end of winter when all the better stories were exhausted. Sitting back down, Jemma rolled over, intent on leaving the bed from the opposite side. But something large and heavy landed on the bed. She snarled and tried to swing her legs off the bed only to discover that her dress held her back. Turning her head, she found Gordon lying across the foot of the bed with one elbow propped against its surface and his head resting in his hand while the beast smirked at her.

His heavier body lay across her skirts, trapping her with only her chemise to guard her modesty.

“Ye hit me, wildcat, so do nae be crying when it was you that set the tone of our conversation.”

Jemma grabbed her skirt and gave it a yank, but the fabric remained lodged beneath his weight. “You earned it for behaving like such a blackguard and stealing a kiss from me.”

“Hmmm . . . possibly.”

“There is no question about it. Now get off my dress, we should not be in . . . in—”

“In bed together?”

Jemma felt her face burn with a blush. “Exactly.”

“With yer skirts tossed?” His lips were curving up in a grin while his tone mocked her.

“Stop it. This is cruel. Riding out was foolish, but I am not a slut, and you should not be looking at my thighs. No one has ever looked at . . .” She couldn’t help how pitiful she sounded. Helplessness was closing around her with an icy grip. There was nothing to stop him from doing what he would. Even her own body seemed to have a liking for his touch. She looked away from him, unable to prevent two tears easing from her eyes. She may have done some foolish things since her father’s death, but never had she shamed him.

A soft word muttered in Gaelic drew her attention back to Gordon. He lifted his body so that her skirts were loose. She pulled them toward her and sat up so that her legs were covered once again. Gordon relaxed against the bed once more, lying in a contented pose while he studied her. It was by far the most unusual setting she had ever been in. All her life had been dictated by rules and traditions. The prospect of being in bed with a man she barely knew had never occurred to her. At least, not if that man was not her husband. Brides often had to deal with meeting their spouses for the first time on the their wedding night.

But she had no such comfort as knowing that wedding vows protected her honor and future. Losing her maidenhead tonight would see her facing a harsh reality tomorrow morning. There would be plenty who would point and judge her for not being pure. Gordon wouldn’t face such. No, the shame would be hers alone and well deserved for sneaking past Synclair the way she had. There was no one to blame but herself.

She drew in a deep breath and banished the tears from her eyes, better to face what was to come than shiver in dread.

“Well? What do you want now, Gordon Dwyre?”

His lips twitched, but they didn’t curve. The man appeared to be watching her, studying her.

“I shouldn’t have looked at yer thighs, lass.”

Jemma nodded agreement.

“But I enjoyed it full well.” He smiled with arrogant confirmation of that enjoyment.

She offered him a short huff. “If you think I’ll thank you for that compliment, you are mistaken.”

He lifted one thick finger. “Maybe not, but I see that ye find me as interesting as I find you.”

“I do not.”

His lips parted as his smile became larger. “Ye undress me with yer eyes, Jemma; ’tis a fact that I find it hard to resist.”

“Try harder.” She would, she had to.

He shook his head. “But ye did hit me, so—” His gaze lowered to her lips and passion flared to life in his eyes. “Ye owe me one sweet kiss to relieve the pain.”

“Trust a man to believe kisses relieve pain.”

One of those eyebrows rose once more. “Do ye deny that many a mother has offered a kiss to soothe the discomfort of her child?”

“You are not a child.” And she was far too aware of it for her own sanity. Her nipples were still hard, begging for the touch of his skin against them. The idea of kissing him was threatening to cast every scrap of self-discipline aside.

“If I roll onto me back and allow ye to tickle me belly, will ye offer me a sweet kiss, Jemma?”

Her mouth went dry. “I shall not.” Jemma forced the words past the wicked urgings that were emerging from the excitement flickering inside her. Part of her did want to touch him, almost too much to ignore.

“Well, that’s a pity. I think I would have enjoyed it full well.” He winked at her before rolling over his shoulder and off the edge of the bed. His kilt went flying, but he landed on his feet in a balanced stance before straightening up, and all she gained was a flash of his trim backside.

A pity . . .

Her cheeks flamed scarlet.

“I must admit that I did enjoy putting ye to bed, lass. I hope I get the chance to do it more often.”

She gasped and snarled as she struggled to crawl off the bed, but her dress hampered her progress.

“Why do women wear such stupid clothing?”

Jemma didn’t realize that she had voiced her thought until she heard Gordon laughing once again. This time it was husky and sweet, sounding far too enticing for her frayed self-control.

“Well now, lass, I admit that the idea of seeing ye in a kilt would be pleasing indeed.” His face became a mask of sensuous intent, shocking her how much she noticed his emotions. “But that would put yer thighs on display to everyone, and I think that I’m not liking that part of it at all.” He plucked at the edge of the rust and orange wool that formed his kilt, lifting it a few inches to show his own thigh that was cut with powerful muscle. Her gaze lowered to it, remaining there until the wool pleats of his plaid fell back down to cover his bare skin.

“No one will disturb ye in this chamber. Ula will knock.”

“So I may feel at ease, is that what you suggest?”

He shrugged. “I could stay and do me best to help ye settle in. We do seem to find things to talk about.” His eyes narrowed. “And do.”

“The chamber is very nice. Thank you for your kindness, but I have all that I require.” She fired off her retort rapidly. “Pray, do not let me keep you from more important matters.”

He chuckled at her, his lips flashing an arrogant grin. “Very well, lass, although I confess to being just a wee bit disappointed in yer choice.”

He considered her with one more long look before turning and quitting the room. Jemma relaxed, her body sagging on her knees in the middle of the bed with her skirts puddled about her. Her heart was beating fast as though she had been running. The night air felt good against her skin because she was warm, just like on a summer day. Her corset felt abnormally tight, and her nipples were still hard behind them. She felt drained now that he was gone, as though her emotions had returned to normal. But she now understood how little she felt during her everyday life.

Jemma gasped at the horror of the moment, raising a hand to cover her mouth. Horror, torment, and longing. Shock held her in its grasp so tightly, all she could do was sit there while the events of the night replayed themselves across her mind. She trembled at the recollection of how close she had come to her own death, but that paled when compared to the way she quivered when she thought about the kiss Gordon Dwyre had pressed against her lips. The darkness around her suddenly became more friend than enemy because it shrouded her and her blush. Try as she might, there was no way to banish Gordon from her mind.

No, there was only the night and the man who had kissed her beneath its velvet curtain.

His cock was hard.

Gordon made his way down the hallway, forcing his feet to carry him away from the woman who had awakened his flesh. Her kiss had been sweet, so much so he felt drunk on it.

“I heard that ye rode back in.” Anyon leaned against the wall with her skirt raised up to show him one long leg. She was a well-shaped woman and knew how to use what nature had blessed her with.

Used it to bring a great deal of pleasure, too. She offered him a sultry look from beneath lowered lashes before sending her hand over her own thigh. One slow rub that normally captivated him. She lifted her eyelashes and stared at him with invitation burning brightly in her eyes. Her breasts swelled temptingly above the edge of her bodice that had always been cut just a small amount lower than the other women who served in his house. He’d never lamented that fact, either.

But tonight it wasn’t holding his attention. Instead he noticed the knowing gleam in her eyes and the practiced slant to her smile.

And almost coy.

“What keeps you from me, lover? Shall I come to you, like a harem girl in the east?” Her skirt fell down to cover her leg, and her hips swayed with just the right amount of motion while she moved to him. She didn’t rush, knowing full well how to draw out the moment to build up the passion.

“Not tonight, Anyon.”

She fluttered her eyelashes and ran a knowledgeable hand along the front of his kilt. Just a light caress, but she sighed when she felt his erection.

“If ye are weary, I’ll ease the stiffness from yer flesh before ye seek yer bed.”

She sent her hand down to the edge of his kilt, her fingertips touching his bare thigh before denial shot through him so hard he jerked away from her. Hurt crossed her face, confusion filling her eyes.

“Ye desire that Englishwoman ye brought back with ye.”

Hurt edged her words, and she pressed her lips into a hard line before backing up. “She’ll not be able to satisfy ye as I can. She’ll cry that ye bruise her. The English are too soft to be good bedsport.” Anyon held out her arms. “Come to me, lover. I’ll give ye what ye crave as I have before.”

“I know ye have, but tonight I have no appetite for ye, Anyon. ’Tis sorry I am to say such to ye.”

He kept his voice low, but her eyes still blinked rapidly as she tried to hold off tears. Anger darkened her complexion. “Fine then. See what sort of sleep ye get with that swollen cock keeping ye company.”

“Anyon—”

She didn’t give him time to try to comfort her. In a swirl of wool she turned and disappeared down the hallway. The night swallowed her up as though she had never been there.

Gordon Dwyre cursed.

Low and deep and he meant every last syllable.

Chapter Four

Jemma fell asleep sometime in the early morning hours. Her body fought against her mind and won, at least for a few hours of much-needed rest. The bed was soft and comfortable, cradling her while her dreams were filled with Gordon Dwyre. Was the man her host? Possibly. She wasn’t sure, but she was equally certain that she did not want to label him her captor for fear that it might be so. That left her tossing and kicking most of the night.

Dawn spread its pink fingers over the horizon, and she opened her eyes because she was sensitive to the change in light. Rubbing at her burning eyes, she looked toward the windows and gasped. Rising from the bed, she walked across the floor to stare at the glass-paned windows. Such was an extreme luxury. Something found in a palace where princes and dukes slept. She reached out and fingered the veins of lead that held the small panes of glass together to fill in the entire window.

“Trade with yer brother has brought many good things to Barras land.”

It was Ula who spoke. Her tone even and just a tiny bit hushed to reflect the early morning hour. Jemma turned to look at her but became engrossed with gazing at the rest of the chamber. Tapestries hung on the wall. Each one was a work of art, the weaving of threads into depictions of legend or biblical stories. The two that hung in the chamber were eight feet by ten and hung on thick wooden beams. One was a soft-colored representation of the baby Moses being placed into the river by his mother. The other was a bright blending of harvest colors depicting plump pumpkins and rich vegetables hanging on vines while two lads sampled them instead of filling their baskets.

“Those were made by the laird’s mother. She had great affection for tapestry weaving.” Ula pointed to the rich shade of orange used to make the pumpkin. “This is Barras orange, and here is the rust, but the boys wear the green and mustard colors of the Seton clan that she came from.”

The housekeeper smiled with the memory. “There are many stories in each one of her tapestries. I am one of the few who recalls them these days, for she never had a daughter to pass her skill along to. Only sons.”

“Many would consider that a blessing and praise her for doing her wifely duty.”

Ula turned to look at her. “All children are a blessing. They bring life to the clan and happiness to all. Is yer sister-in-law growing round yet? Yer brother consummated his vows in the old tower.”

“Um, well she is sick now and the midwife says her belly will rise soon.”

The housekeeper nodded with a gleam in her eyes. “A good time for ye to marry then.”

Ula picked up a brush and patted the top of the large chair that sat near the table where the candle had set last night. It was now a small, melted puddle because she had never pinched it out. That was wasteful, and she frowned as she sat down.

“Ye should not have slept in yer dress.”

Jemma bit her lip to keep from scoffing at the woman. She certainly had not been willing to take her clothing off. Not even her boots, although that was yet another wasteful thing, for her dress might carry dirt into the bed. She looked at the bed to see that she had only pulled the heavy coverlet over herself during the night. At least she had not soiled the sheets. But her back was stiff from sleeping in her hip roll and cartridge-pleated skirts, her skin itchy from the creases pressed into it by not stripping down to her chemise and allowing the garment to flow about her body.

So much better for Gordon to be able to see my thighs . . .

“Yer hair is a mess, to be sure. I am glad ye rise early, else we might not get it all straightened out before the priest rings the bells for Mass.”

“But I am a Protestant.”

The hands in Ula’s hair froze. “Of course ye are. What with yer King Henry the Eighth setting himself up as the head of the Church and getting himself excommunicated. Ye’d be a poor subject to not obey yer king. Mary of Guise is regent for our little Queen Mary and she is Catholic. ’Course, she was born in France, which means she was following her king, too. That’s a woman’s lot in this life, we must adjust to follow the whims of men.”

Which accounted for the war of rough wooing that had almost cost her so much last night. The room was brightening, warm yellow sunlight spilling through the glass windows like water. In the winter there would be light but no freezing wind. In the yard below a bell began to chime. Slow and steady, the sound rose up in the morning air to touch the ears of everyone who inhabited the towers of Barras Castle.

“Well, ’tis the only service there is here, so ye’d be best to come along and leave the bickering over church policy to the kings and nobles. ’Tis praising the Lord, no matter the manner it is done in.”

Jemma couldn’t suppress a small sound of amusement that bubbled up from her lips. It was actually quite refreshing to have someone poke a little fun at all the fighting over what service was considered correct. She had read many a letter to her father on the new policies that were sent out from his secretary in London. Always it was little things that were altered, and truthfully she did not see so great a difference. Yet men had died for those changes.

“I agree, but my father warned me often to never say so.”

Ula merely shrugged. “At my age, speaking my mind is na so forbidden. At least no when there are no men about to hear me.”

There was a truth if ever Jemma had heard one. Men were often power hungry and didn’t take kindly to any woman who forgot that they didn’t like to share that authority. What was allowed in private was not the same as how she was expected to behave when others might overhear her. Refusing to attend morning Mass might very well see her branded as a heretic. She stood on Scottish ground, and it was a Catholic nation with priests empowered by the crown. Public disobedience would be chastised.

So she followed Ula, lowering her head when she entered the church, but she noticed the looks of approval from the Barras clan members. She found herself listening to the service and noticing the details. So much blood had been spilt over the split between England and Rome. Even now, the English soldiers were intent on capturing Mary, Queen of Scots, just to prevent her from being raised Catholic. There was also a growing pressure from Catholic France to take the girl for their prince and form an alliance against the English because they were Protestant. Scottish and English shared one island, but it was faith that kept them divided. Henry the Eighth had a good idea to unite the two nations.

That would make a marriage between myself and Barras a good match, too . . .

Jemma cringed at her thoughts. They just kept rising up, ignoring her more logical thinking that reminded her she had no control when it came to the man. That was dangerous, very much so.

He kissed well...

Her eyes widened while she searched for a counterthought. Aye, but the man was a brute the way he swept her off her feet and carried her inside his tower like some bundle of goods he’d taken as his prize during a raid.

He also smelled good . . .

Her cheeks heated, and she became annoyed with herself as she recalled exactly how much she had enjoyed the scent of his skin. Strong and powerful. It was more than just the fact that he was clean, she had enjoyed the way his scent filled her senses during that kiss. Somehow, it had added to the intoxicating power of his mouth against her own.

She was not applying herself well. Jemma tried to concentrate on the priest, but instead her gaze wandered to the kilt on the man standing on the end of the row on the other side of the sanctuary. His legs were muscular, too, but she still preferred Gordon’s. There was a power that radiated from the man, and just thinking about him stirred the excitement that had flared up so brightly, deep in her belly last night.

I had longed to give him that kiss he’d wanted . . .

And just what would that have gotten her? Nothing but dishonor. Jemma used that harsh fact to sober her thoughts. Her insides might have tormented her with how much they craved more of Gordon’s touch, but she was still a virgin this morning and that was what she needed to focus her attention on. It was true that there was nothing at all about Gordon Dwyre that was so unique, nothing at all. The change was within herself. Now that she had recognized she needed to stop grieving, her body was telling her it was time to marry.

There was nothing unusual about her host, except his ability to annoy her. She would return to Amber Hill and allow her brother to arrange a good match for her. Obviously there was too much tension between Scotland and England for her to continue to consider Gordon. Henry the Eighth would die soon, leaving his young son Edward to wear his crown. Two children could not bring peace between the two nations. If she married into Scotland, her own brother would have to call her husband his enemy. Even if Curan had given his permission for Barras to court her, that was not permission to wed. Better to leave before her longings gained too much hold on her.

It was logical, but she felt disappointment creeping across her heart. No amount of thinking dispelled it. She needed her virtue, and just because she craved something did not mean it would be hers. There was nothing to do save endure.

That was something she understood well how to do.

The first meal of the day was served soon after Mass. It was a simple offering of porridge topped with the last of the season’s fruits. The cereal might be stored and left in large iron pots while the staff attended Mass. The cook used a large ladle to fill wooden bowls with the thick sustenance. Maids brought trays of bowls that gently steamed in the cool morning air. The main hall became crowded and noisy as everyone filled the long tables that ran across the space. Benches skidded on the hard stone floor, and men whistled to their comrades before sitting down to partake of the morning fare. If it hadn’t been for the rust and orange tartans they wore, she might have thought she was at Amber Hill.

Except that she didn’t recognize a single face. A lump lodged in her throat as she realized how alone she was. There was nothing to force Gordon to return her home. She might never get the chance to stare down those who doubted she was still pure because she was unsure of her host’s intentions. He was a difficult man to understand or anticipate. The way he had handled her was clear evidence that he would do exactly as he pleased in spite of her arguments. The lump grew larger and the porridge looked too coarse to force down her throat.

Commotion from the end of the hall drew her attention. Gordon entered with his captains on his heels. Gordon wore a knitted round bonnet tipped to the side of his head. On the right side of the band was a solid gold broach in the form of one rampant lion. The eyes of the animal were set with rubies, telling her that Barras blood was considered noble. Each of the men following him wore a pheasant feather in his cap. It was a mark of their position, and the hall quieted while they passed.

Jemma felt the color drain from her face, for this was not the man who had teased her last night. The man who strode so determinedly down the center aisle, without a doubt or any hint of mercy, was Laird Barras. His stride was purposeful, carrying him quickly toward the table that waited. It was set up on a dais, further reinforcing the authority of the man. Bowls had not been placed on the table yet. A maid lifted a tray and hurried to serve her laird the moment he sat down. Every one of his captains waited until Gordon sat. Women attended the table immediately, bringing tankards and pitchers to fill them with. The morning meal was served to each captain and to the laird. What the men failed to see was the scuffle behind the servers. Girls cut one another off in order to be the ones serving at the high table. One woman actually aimed a silent snarl, her lips curling and her nose wrinkling at another woman when she made the mistake of trying to place a bowl in front of Gordon. But when she leaned over where her laird might see her, she was smiling sweetly as though she were kin to the Virgin Mary. She leaned very far forward, making sure her breasts were displayed for Gordon. His gaze dropped to the creamy swells, and his lips curved just a slight amount.

Jemma felt her cheeks heat with temper. She knew that grin. That curving of his mouth that he’d aimed at her across the bed last night. Her eyes widened when she realized that she was caught in a flash of jealousy.

She looked down at her bowl, silently chiding herself.

“I enjoy riding . . .”

Of course the man did. He knew too much about how to fluster her, how to touch her so that her heart began racing. It should come as no surprise at all that he had women fighting over him. No doubt the man had walked away from her last night and into the arms of another woman who knew more than she did about satisfying him.

Being a maiden had never bothered her before, but for a moment she detested her lack of knowledge. She was ignorant, and she felt the lack keenly. Lifting her face, she looked at the girl lavishing service on Gordon. Her lips were plump and inviting; they glistened as if she’d licked them before leaning over the table where she might be seen. Instead of securely braided hair, tucked beneath a linen cap, her cap hung from her belt and her hair looked tousled or just right for a man to slide his fingers into. Her hips swayed when she crossed in front of the table on her way back toward the hearth. Unlike the other maids, she didn’t take the shorter path that ran behind the table; no, she crossed in front and took her time covering the distance. More eyes than just Gordon’s watched her, and Jemma stared at the expressions on those faces. Lust was there for certain, but there was also heat and passion. The girl carried herself with supreme confidence, and the cutting glances of the other Barras women didn’t gain even a tilt from her head. Instead she smiled at the men watching her, absorbing the attention they lavished on her.

Envy filled Jemma. Bitter and irrational, but she couldn’t deny that she wanted what that girl had.

Do I?

That little voice inside her head shocked her, but the question was still a valid one. If she wanted what that girl had, then she would have to be willing to surrender her body to gain it. She’d never questioned remaining pure, it was expected of her, but to be honest she had never even thought about what life might be like if she chose to do otherwise.

Well, it might be very harsh. Jemma watched the woman at the hearth, and things were not so good for her now. The other women sent her cutting glances, and the cook shook her long-handled spoon at her. The girl frowned but pulled her linen cap from her belt and placed it on her head. The cook was not satisfied and reached out to deliver a quick slap. The girl turned red but took her chastisement and snatched a pitcher off the table before turning around to begin filling tankards. Once more she was the center of adoring attention from the men, but the women sent sharp glares at her.

What was worse? Being the virgin bride who gained approval of the females in the house while her husband dallied and everyone knew it, or the woman who was frank enough to flaunt what she enjoyed? Even thinking such a question defied every bit of higher authority that she had been raised with, but Jemma still pondered the idea. When her father became ill, she had stepped out of society and all of its expectations. There had only been what he needed and the time they had left to share with each other.

“Mistress Jemma.”

Gordon’s voice sliced through the conversation filling the hall. Everyone near her turned to look at her, and she could feel many, many more staring at her. The woman sitting next to her sent her elbow into her ribs because Jemma hesitated.

Pushing her bench back, she stood up and looked toward the head table. Gordon was watching her with his blue eyes, but his expression revealed nothing of his thoughts.

“I was pleased to hear you attended Mass this morning. You pleased the clergy by doing so.”

A murmur of approval rippled across the hall. It made her swallow her response and simply lower herself. Acceptance was not something that anyone gained through challenging the rules that governed life. Besides, no matter if she did disagree with some of the ways that life was dictated to her, order prevented having to live with savageness. Gordon was laird, maintaining order by having expectations for everyone living on his land, including himself. But that did not mean that she would meekly accept the man’s rule over her.

“It was most kind of your people to make me welcome, especially since I am to depart so quickly, but I am most appreciative.”

He stared at her, his lips curving just the smallest amount while everyone waited to hear what their laird would say. She had never been the center of so much attention and decided that it was not something she enjoyed. Sweat trickled down her back beneath her clothing, and her heart was beating faster. But she held her chin steady, keeping herself looking as if nothing was bothering her at all.

“I consider myself most fortunate to be having yer company here for the next few days.”

“Days—” Jemma clamped down on her outburst and watched the beast hide his grin behind his tankard. More than one of his captains was shielding a similar expression. “Forgive me, Lord Barras, but it seems that you were not informed of the fact that I plan to return to my home this morning as my brother would expect me to.”

“Unfortunately I can nae be allowing anyone but me men outside the walls until I am certain that the English soldiers I encountered last night are well off me land and no longer a threat. I’m sure ye can understand the need I feel to protect every last soul that the Lord has placed beneath my care.” He lowered the tankard and stared at her. “Yer brother would thank me for my concern, I’m very sure of that.”

His captains began to agree, nodding their heads and slapping the top of the table, but there was merriment dancing in Gordon’s eyes.

“I am very sure that there is no danger while the sun is shining, Lord Barras.” She placed emphasis on the word “lord” to make sure everyone heard her English pronunciation of the title. His captains frowned at her, becoming quiet again.

Gordon stood up, and the hall fell completely silent. Not even a spoon scraped against the side of a bowl.

“I am nae so sure, Mistress.”

His words were spoken like a judgment. They rang across the hall, making sure no one wearing his colors missed the fact that he wanted her to remain. Jemma felt as if an iron collar were being locked around her neck.

“I am sorry to hear that we disagree, Lord Barras, for neighbors should be friendly whenever possible; yet I must return to my home. That is, of course, the only correct thing to do. My brother will express his gratitude for the service you have shown me, I am certain of that.”

Jemma lowered herself, curtsying in a perfect display of feminine poise and grace. She rose back up smoothly and promptly turned her back on him. There was astonishment on the faces she saw, a few jaws dropping open. Jemma did not stop to consider any of it. She moved at a quick pace through the great hall, the open doors at the far end beckoning to her.

But she never felt the sunlight touch her face. A strong hand latched around her upper arm and pulled her toward a doorway off to the side of the hall. She didn’t need to question who that grip belonged to because her body leaped with excitement, recognizing the touch instantly. She waited until the door shut behind them and turned on Gordon with all the pent-up fury her false demeanor had stifled.

“I will not stay here. Best you understand that, sir.”

He folded his arms across his chest and placed his body between the door and her. “There will be an understanding here, lass, but no by me. Ye will stay inside this castle until I grant ye leave.”

“You have no right to command me so.”

“No right?” His voice lowered. “I have every right, Jemma. Ye came so close to being killed by yer own foolishness last night that I have earned the right to enforce my will on ye because following yer whims has been proven so perilous.”

She shook her head, unwilling to listen to his words. But he moved forward and cupped her chin in one of his large hands to hold her still.

“Do ye doubt that those English are still out there, or that they have comrades who will help them extract vengeance on anyone they find? Even one of their own?”

“I will be safe at Amber Hill.”

“Ye would need an escort of at least fifty men, and I need those same men to safeguard me villages and fields.”

“But that leaves me stranded here.” Jemma shook off his hand, unable to stomach the touch when she felt as if that iron collar was growing heavier with every sentence he spoke. “I cannot simply live here.”

“And why not?” He stiffened. “Barras Castle is a fine place to live, lass.”

“That is not my objection to remaining and you know it.”

His lips curved up in mocking jest. “Well now, lass, I seem to recall that ye found me to yer liking last night as well. Yer lips moved so sweetly beneath my own—”

“Stop it. Such talk is sinful.”

He moved toward her and she retreated, but they were only in a small storage room and a solid wall stopped her within a few paces. Gordon pressed his hands onto that wall, caging her with his thickly muscled arms. He was so close she could smell his skin once more, and she found it more pleasing than she remembered.

“Well then, I suppose that only leaves us action, if ye do nae want any talking about what is between us.”

“There is nothing between us—”

His mouth smothered the rest of her denial. Today’s kiss was firmer and more demanding. His elbows bent, allowing his body to brush against her own. She jerked, too flooded by sensation to remain still. But Gordon captured the sides of her head once more, his hands spreading wide to hold her face exactly where he wanted it. His mouth continued to demand, pressing against her lips until she opened them. The tip of his tongue teased the soft skin of her lower lip before licking its way along her upper one. It felt as if he was tasting her and savoring every moment. His body kept hers caged against the wall, allowing her no reprieve from the overload of stimulation. It poured into her from the warm scent of his skin to the way his mouth pressed hers to open farther.

“There is a great deal between us, lass, and I am going to enjoy exploring it.” He trailed tiny kisses across her cheek and onto the side of her neck. She shivered, never having suspected that her skin might be so sensitive. Delight traveled down her body, touching off renewed excitement in her belly that swirled and leaped into a roaring blaze of need. She gasped, shuddering at the sheer intensity of that need. It clawed at her like some beast in search of nourishment and the only thing it craved was Gordon. She reached for him, her hands unable to remain at her sides in denial of what she desired. It was suddenly clear to her that she was lonely, her body suffering from not being touched. Her hands absorbed the warmth of his body with gratefulness, setting off a quiver behind her knees. She wanted to sink down and press herself completely against him.

The image of them rolling across the surface of a bed shocked her with the carnality of her desires.

“Stop, Gordon . . . please.” She was pleading, but desperation was welling up inside her because she knew that her resolve was beginning to be undermined by the flood of physical need.

“The sound of my name on yer lips is sweeter than honey, lass.” Gordon straightened his head to lock his gaze with hers. His hands returned to the wall beside her head, and she heard his breathing rasping between his clenched teeth. “Even if I have no liking for what ye are asking me.”

“You must stop.”

He snorted at her, and his eyes lit with determination that warned her. The man did not care for being told what he must do. He leaned forward, but Jemma raised her hand and covered his lips to prevent him from kissing her again.

“I want you to stop.”

He pressed a hand on the center of her chest, his fingers directly over her heart. She gasped, never having felt any man’s hand on the soft swells of her breasts. Even her clothing did not prevent her from shivering.

“The racing of yer heart is telling me to keep kissing ye until I find what ye have hidden beneath yer stays.”

“Don’t you have enough women willing to be ridden because of lust alone? I am a virgin, and your words are misplaced.”

“How about me hand? Do ye disagree with where it is, too?”

His fingers pressed a tiny bit harder against her chest. Fear clawed at her as her nipples began to tingle and harden. She couldn’t seem to resist the urge to respond to him. It was instantaneous and overwhelming.

“You are toying with me. My brother told me that Scotsmen have honor, even if most of England claims otherwise. Do you plan to show me that or prove the rumors true? There are plenty of English that like to hate men born outside of England, but I have never been one of them. I prefer to judge for myself. Maybe that is a mistake.”

His nostrils flared, and she stared at the telltale sign that she had hit him in a soft spot. His hand stayed in place, seeming to grow hotter every moment that it remained against her tender flesh. It should have been impossible to be so aware of a touch, especially when she was so annoyed with him. Everything about their personalities felt as if it was designed to be opposite from the other.

“I deserved that comment.” Gordon’s tone was tight and his face even more so, but he lifted his hand away from her chest to gently stroke the side of her face with his fingertips. She shivered, drawing in a shuddering breath.

“But I just can’t find it in me to say I’m sorry when ye respond so much to my touch, lass.” His fingers made it to her hairline where he tugged on one small lock curling in defiance of the braids that held the longer strands and forced them to be neat.

“I am nae sorry, Jemma, and neither are you.” His voice was tempting, dark, and full of the promise of more delight should she yield to his will.

“But I am asking you to stop.” Because that was the wise choice. One that she detested, and she had to sink her teeth into her own lip to keep from retracting.

His fingers stilled her lips by gliding across them. She quivered and her gaze focused on his mouth, the longing in her belly urging her to gently kiss his fingers in invitation.

“I prefer my name on yer lips.”

She reached up and caught his wrist, but pushing it away caused her lips to lament the separation.

“Send me home, Gordon. I am asking you.”

Jemma could see the conflict in his eyes. It was the same one she felt prickling along her body. The yearning to touch and be touched in return, warring against the demands of honor. In that moment they were not so different in spite of their genders.

“Nae.”

He turned his back on her and moved toward the doorway with purposeful strides.

“Wait.”

He didn’t stop, didn’t even slow down.

“Gordon Dwyre, don’t you dare turn your back on me like a coward.”

He growled and turned around in a swirl of Barras tartan, pointing a finger at her.

“Do nae ever call me coward, Jemma, unless ye want to experience just how much daring I have inside me.”

“Then do not turn your back on me just because you do not care for the fact that I am correct in saying that honor demands I return home before I am ruined, and you named as the blackguard who did the deed.”

He chuckled, but it was not a kind sound. “Ye would enjoy the deed, lass, be very sure of that.”

Her throat tightened, forcing her to swallow hard. His eyes filled with enjoyment to see it.

“Exactly why I must remain firm and return home today.” Jemma drew in another breath to force her passion to cool. “I will take my mare and do what is proper before this sinfulness has the chance to go any further. It is best for us both. Go and ask your priest if you think otherwise, but I am firm in this decision.”

“I can see that.” His expression became guarded and his tone too controlled to gain any hint as to his mood.

“Good. We are agreed then. Where is my mare?”

His face remained unreadable. “Where did ye leave her, lass? I’m not accustomed to looking after ye and yer possessions.”

“But surely your boys brought my mare back last night . . .” Her eyes widened with the horror of the possibility that she was without a horse. Amber Hill was too far to walk to.

“I surely did bring ye back with me, and that was were my attention was.”

A soft gasp betrayed just how disturbing she found the idea of being without her mount.

“Well then, I shall need to have the loan of a horse.” Jemma tried to ask nicely, but her voice was sharp with her rising distress.

“I’ve none to spare.”

Jemma felt her cheeks heat. “I watched your men gather up every English horse last night, sir.”

Gordon shrugged and closed the distance between them again. She felt his approach keenly, the quiver instantly returning to the back of her knees. Her insides tightened with anticipation, her breath freezing in her throat as she stared at his hand when it stretched out toward her. His hand cupped her cheek, smoothing over the bright spot, and his lips twitched up.

“Well now, lass, those wouldn’t be my horses to loan to ye.”

“Oh, fye upon you, Gordon Dwyre.” She slapped his hand away, unable to play their polite game any further. “You are toying with me yet again.”

He chuckled, his eyebrows lowering in smug satisfaction. “Maybe so, lass, but I promise ye that ye’ll be locked in the stocks if ye take anything that isna yers by my word.”

Her hands curled into fists and she snarled, but the man turned and left the room before she might hurl another insult at him.

Troll!

Black-hearted, muck-dripping troll!

Gordon rode out of the courtyard moments after she emerged from the room he’d taken her into. His men had assembled and were waiting for their laird while he was with her.

While he was kissing me . . .

Jemma wanted to strangle the voice inside her head. Never had she been plagued by such impure thoughts. Well at least she knew exactly who to blame for their uprise.

She watched the source of her disquiet ride down the road that led to the main castle gates. He moved with the stallion in perfect grace, power radiating from him. Her attention was glued to him as fascination renewed its grip. It wasn’t that she couldn’t tear her eyes away, it was the fact that she failed to think to do so. Finally, Gordon began to blend into the mass of riders in the distance, and she forced herself to investigate her surroundings.

By the light of day, Barras Castle was quite impressive. Four towers rose into the sky, each one amazingly different. They were all built in different styles, standing as a sort of tribute to the longtime prosperity of the Barras clan. Building cost a great deal of money. Many clans used fortresses handed down from the generation before when a noble had brought enough money with him to lay the foundation. Barras Castle was growing, fresh mortar along one portion of the curtain wall proving that this year had been a good one.

The sun shone off the cannons that faced onto the road. Smooth cannon balls were stacked into pyramids nearby, the heavy guns driving home the fact that Gordon backed up his position with blood if necessary.

She sighed, suddenly enduring a surge of longing for home. Amber Hill was very much like Barras Castle. Cannons stood at the ready there, somewhere on the other side of the hills that separated the two fortresses. Shame bit into her for the worry that her absence must be causing, but the row of wooden stocks standing in front of the church confirmed that Gordon had not been teasing her.

His threat stood as firm as those creations of public punishment. There were even flat wooden planks below each one for the writing of the offender’s crime in chalk. It wasn’t that she feared being clamped into the stock because of the public viewing. What she dreaded was the fact that those wooden racks would ensure that she was waiting for Gordon when he rode back into the yard.

She would prefer to keep their battles private.

Which allows for kissing . . .

She snarled and turned around to find Ula. She needed something to do before her own thoughts drove her insane and left her a mindless creature who would happily toss her skirts for Gordon Dwyre.

Gordon pressed his stallion and his men hard. The stakes were high, making every mile they covered more important than the last. His muscles were tight and his senses straining to capture every detail. Each hill that they crested was climbed with a care for the fact that there might be hostile English on the other side. But he headed toward England despite the fact that he was heading toward the enemy.

He spotted the banners of the Baron Ryppon just after midday. Pulling up on the crest of a hill, he surveyed the lines of men. They were on his ground, but it was the border land, far from either fortress. This spot had been disputed for centuries. By night it was haunted with the spirits of the men who had been marched onto it, only to die for the cause of a monarch who sat well behind the lines of battle.

“It looks like we found what ye were looking for.” Kerry leaned toward him so that his words would reach him.

“Of the two possibilities, I think this is the least likely to see us all arriving on Saint Peter’s path. But there is still a fair chance we’ll end up a bloody mess.”

“Ye could just give the man his sister back.”

Gordon didn’t answer. He stiffened as rejection of that idea flooded him. It was immediate and complete. There was no room for any argument, only the absolute desire to keep Jemma where he’d put her.

Which meant he’d have to deal with her brother or face being invaded. Kicking his horse, he moved down the slope toward the one man who had every right to demand he relinquish Jemma.

“You cannot expect me to accept that.” Curan Ramsden glared at Gordon with barely contained violence showing on his face. The man forced himself to try to reason with him. The afternoon breeze whipped around them while their men watched. It was not a relaxing meeting as they had shared in the past. This time the English glared at the Scots, and every man waited to see if Gordon and Curan might resolve their dispute before the order was given for swords to be employed because diplomacy had failed. More than one man’s lips moved in silent prayer just in case a fight was coming.

Curan Ramsden, Baron Ryppon, leveled a hard look at Gordon. “I am grateful for the fact that you saved my sister from her own foolishness, but I must insist that you return her to me now.”

“She made that same demand, and I refused.”

Curan’s face darkened with rage. “Enough, Barras, my patience is wearing very thin with you. No man holds my sister. I won’t stand for it. You cannot believe that I would, so explain what you are planning.”

“Maybe it’s time ye rethought that position, Ryppon. Jemma is a woman, no longer a girl, and it’s time ye let her be one.” The horses shifted, sensing the tension of the moment.

“What are you saying, man?” Curan pushed his helmet back so that he could aim a hard look toward Gordon. “That I should let her remain with you, because she’s a grown woman?”

“She’s still a maiden.”

Curan drew in a stiff breath, calming down.

“But I wonder if it isna time to be changing that.”

“Enough!” Curan made a slashing motion with his hand that drew dark looks from his waiting men.

Barras snorted at Curan. “I do nae think so. I’ve already gone to a great deal of effort to ask ye for permission to court her, so do nae insult me by implying that I’d no honor her if I took her to my bed.”

“Is that what you plan, Barras?” Curan curled his hand into a fist. “I cannot stand idle while you keep my sister imprisoned.”

“Well, it’s sure to be better for her if one of us keeps her from riding out without a care for what danger lurks on this land.”

Curan drew in a stiff breath. “I concede that you are correct. Jemma cannot be allowed to continue as she has. She was changing her habits, which accounted for how late she went riding yesterday. She is a woman and doesn’t know the details of how violent our land has become. Neither my father nor I felt politics a suitable subject for her. I wish I might be so ignorant, for the current policies coming from London do not please me. It was my decision to keep such dark tidings from her.”

Gordon felt the tension between them ease. For all that he was Scottish and Curan pure English, they had discovered a common ground between them. Neither felt the need to hate one another simply because they had been raised to do so. They judged each other by their deeds, which was something their countrymen might benefit from learning.

“I want to court her.”

Curan narrowed his eyes, and Gordon shrugged. “In my own manner, and mind the way ye are glaring at me, man. I seem to recall ye using a few direct tactics to bring yer bride to yer bed. Ye didna want anyone telling ye how to proceed, either.”

“She is my sister.”

Gordon couldn’t resist grinning at the strained tone that Curan used. “Aye, lad, but the fact is Jemma has grown into a woman who needs to be allowed to deal with a man who wants her. That will never happen beneath yer roof. If I come courting to yer home, she’ll discover herself wed to a stranger because she will never see the true side of my nature while everyone is watching us. Besides, I’ve no more patience for sitting there while she runs away and ye will nae allow me to chase her.”

“So you want me to allow her to remain beneath yours? Is that it, Barras?”

Gordon stared straight back at Curan without flinching. “Aye, lad, I do.”

The English baron held his thoughts for a long moment, studying him.

“Why? To bed her before wedding her?”

“Why do ye want her returned so quickly, Ryppon? Is there another offer that is better? I’ll match it if I bed her.”

“If?” Curan raised one eyebrow in question.

Gordon shrugged. “I told ye, Ryppon, I want to court the lass. It may be that I will send her back to ye happily.”

“Careful, Barras. Jemma might have made a mistake yesterday, but she took my father’s passing very hard, for she tended him for the years that he was ill. A woman’s heart is tender, as I am discovering with my own wife. Don’t make the mistake of thinking ill of Jemma for loving our father so greatly she faltered under the pain of his passing. That capacity to love is the thing that makes a woman worth more than any treasure on this earth. Women love deeply, and sometimes that sends them into despair when they lose the person they give their heart to.”

There was a light in the baron’s eyes that made Gordon envious. The emotion surprised him, stealing the heat from his next words.

“I want the chance to discover who yer sister is, and I can nae do that with ye about.” Gordon shrugged. “I’ve been the master of my own home too long, just as ye did nae take too kindly to anyone telling ye how to treat yer own bride. Ye have been in command too long to sit and perform like an untried lad.”

“That is true enough.” Curan rubbed his chin. “But if you bring tears to Jemma’s eyes, I swear I will smash your face, Barras. Business or no business, and that is my solemn promise to you.”

Gordon smiled, the expression cocksure and arrogant, drawing a chuckle from Curan.

“I promise you, Barras, you won’t enjoy this fight.”

“Neither will you.” There was thick promise in his voice but also a good amount of boyish merriment. Curan shook his head but not completely with disgust.

“I’ll be back, Barras, and soon.”

Curan rode back to join his men, and smiles appeared on their faces when they learned that they would not be ordered into battle. Gordon knew that his own men would be wearing similar expressions. He could feel their relief hitting his back while he maintained his position and watched the English baron turn his men around. There was a single knight who defied his lord’s command. Two white plumes were mounted on the back of the man’s helmet, signifying his rank. He remained facing the Scots, and Gordon could feel the heat of the man’s glare. But his lord jerked his head, and the knight bent beneath the order.

Kerry joined him with an expression that was smooth. But there were questions brimming in the man’s eyes.

“Keep yer thoughts to yerself, man. I’ve enough to think about.”

A low whistle was his captain’s reply, one that Gordon had heard before when the man was teasing him over something. Today, Gordon didn’t find any humor in the moment, and his captain’s whistle irritated him. He sent Kerry a deadly glare, but Kerry only chuckled.

“A wee bit touchy now, aren’t ye, Laird?”

It wasn’t really a question but a statement of how his man felt about his behavior. Gordon stared at the withdrawing English and felt satisfaction fill him. Too much satisfaction for his mind.

Maybe he should have given Jemma back to her brother.

His body rejected that idea instantly, but he couldn’t deny that his pride didn’t like the notion that any woman might become so important to him. Love wasn’t what he sought. He needed a family and felt that lack in his life more and more lately. That was the only explanation for how often he’d gone out to watch his neighbor riding across the border land. He didn’t seek love, only a woman who could give him the family he longed for without boring him.

Jemma had spirit, and her brother would think twice about invading Barras land if his sister was wed to his neighbor. It was a common arrangement along the border land. One that would serve him and his clan well.

It was a good plan, and he’d always followed through with a good plan. Jemma Ramsden would have to understand that.

Ula was a tough taskmaster to satisfy. The housekeeper came looking for Jemma the moment Barras left her. Jemma felt her cheeks heating because she was sure that the woman knew exactly what her laird had been doing with her, too.

“Idleness brings naught but trouble,” the older woman declared before beginning to direct Jemma just as she did with the other women that crossed her path. “Besides, winter comes sooner to us here.”

“Ula, Amber Hill is not so far from Barras Castle.”

“It is nae?”

Jemma shot the woman a glare. “No, it is not.”

Ula retaliated with a knowing grin. “Well then, I can see what the laird is thinking in courting ye.”

Courting. A misplaced word if ever she had heard one. It was like calling a goat a stallion. They both had four legs and that was as far as the similarities went.

But Ula offered her something to do, and there was part of her that loathed returning to her days of nothingness. It would be far worse to have time on her hands at Barras Castle because it would further alienate her. If she were a man, she would expect to find herself sleeping in the dungeon.

But that idea only gave rise to the thought that because she was a woman, she needed to worry about ending up in the laird’s bed.

Who would detest it . . . ?

Her inner thoughts were becoming quite bothersome. Jemma ordered them to stay away from Gordon, but her mind was full of nothing but the man. He was well built, and she found his frame quite pleasing. She could not say just why, only that she noticed him more than other men. He was certainly different from the men who followed her brother. There was his kilt, for instance.

Her cheeks heated even more because she suddenly thought about what was beneath that pleated garment. Or, more precisely, how quickly the man might be able to ride. Scots had a reputation for tossing skirts, even lowland Scotsmen like Gordon.

She wasn’t sure there was much difference. Gordon was far removed from the Englishmen she knew. His dress, his speech, and even his mannerisms made him Scottish to her.

Did he find me as foreign?

It was a fair question. In all her musing she had never considered how different she might be from the sort of woman he would have preferred for a bride.

Last night he had been certain that she didn’t possess the necessary knowledge to be his wife. Well, sense was a better word. Her pride still stung, but there was the fact that he had returned and found her more to his liking the second time.

How would she fare tonight?

That was a dangerous thought, one that stirred up the embers of the fire he’d lit in her with his kiss. The sun was already high above her head and beginning to arch back toward the horizon. Emotions swirled through her, building in strength as the day progressed.

What captured her attention the most was the excitement brewing inside her. It stunned her and pricked her temper, but she could not deny that it was flickering in the pit of her belly, eagerly awaiting another encounter with Gordon Dwyre.

Jemma hissed at herself. The word “foolish” seemed to be firmly attached to her.

Barras Castle did have a fine bathhouse. Jemma sighed as she leaned forward and washed her feet. She was happy to discover that at least one rumor she had heard of Scotland was true, that the Celtic people liked to bathe often, unlike many of her English brethren.

She had never been among those who believed bathing too often led to a lack of immunity from disease. Amber Hill had a bathhouse behind the kitchen, and she used it every day.

Barras Castle put Amber Hill to shame. There were twice as many slipper tubs here. Quite a statement when one considered that each tub cost a large sum. There was also soap and linen for drying with. The bathhouse was built along the back of the huge hearths that were used to cook. The heat came through the wall, heating the room so much that the window shutters were wide open to prevent the room from becoming too hot. But the amount of heat made a cool bath soothing. A large water wheel gently lifted water from the river that ran alongside the castle. A portion of the bank had been dug out to form a pool that the water wheel might work from without risking damage to its wooden slats. The water poured into a long spillway that ran along the outside wall. Every few feet, a thick slab of wood was placed over a cut-out section of the spillway. With a tug it came free, and water spilled down into the tub below it. You only had to replace the slab to stop the flow of water.

There was a small hearth where iron kettles might be used to heat water, but the room was so warm that Jemma didn’t bother. The cool water felt good against her skin, and she sat down in the water wearing her chemise so that the garment might gain a washing, too.

“Here now, there is no need for ye to worry about wearing soiled clothing.”

Ula entered the bathhouse and placed a folded cream-colored garment on a nearby stool.

“This one should fit ye, but a dress will prove a bit harder to locate. Maybe on the morrow.”

“I appreciate the chemise, Ula.”

The housekeeper smiled. “Ye earned yer keep today. No one is forced to stink at Barras Castle. Perhaps the laird will bring a few of yer things back with him.”

That would mean that she was staying at Barras Castle.

Jemma felt a prickle of a chill cross her nape. Ula moved to the fireplace and lifted one of the kettles. She tested it with her finger before bringing to to Jemma. There was a hint of something in her eyes that suggested she was preparing Jemma for her laird and that she was quite happy to do so.

“Let us give yer hair a good washing.”

Jemma nibbled on her lower lip while she closed her eyes. The warm water soaked her head, running down over her chest to tease her nipples. The knowledge that the housekeeper was tending to her in order to please Gordon sent even more sensation across her skin until she felt like she was pulsing with anticipation.

Which was absurd, considering she was not interested in any further dealings with the man.

Liar...

“A clean head of hair always makes me feel better, more at ease.”

Ula took up a dab of the softer soap that was kept in a pottery bowl and began to work it through Jemma’s hair.

“You must have other, more important things to do.” Jemma tried to take over washing her hair, but Ula flicked her hands aside.

“Nonsense, there be naught that is more important than seeing to someone me laird made welcome. Mind yer eyes.”

Jemma closed her eyes, and Ula began rinsing her hair. The housekeeper even returned to the hearth to fetch another kettle of water to make sure there was no hint of soap remaining.

“Now let me have that chemise. Ye can nae get clean wearing that.”

Jemma didn’t bother to protest. Ula was already tugging the wet fabric up and over her head. It had been years since she had bathed with anyone near. Amber Hill had become quiet during her father’s illness. As it did in late fall when even the animals were still and there were no more leaves to rustle in the wind.

A maid entered the room, and Ula lifted her face to look at the girl. “Good. Now find her boots and give them a cleaning.”

“I’ll look after my own things, Ula.”

“Nae, ye will sit yerself in front of the hearth so that we can get yer hair dried.”

Once again Ula insisted on her way. Jemma found herself sitting by the fire in the new chemise while the maid cleaned her boots and even polished them. Another girl entered bearing fresh stockings. Ula set the girl to shaking out Jemma’s dress and making sure there was no dirt clinging to the hem.

A bell began to toll somewhere along the wall, the sound almost startling because of how quiet it had become in the bathhouse.

“The laird is returning.”

Jemma could hear the joy in Ula’s voice, but both maids turned to look at her and her throat went dry. They looked at her with assessing stares. From her feet to her head, they surveyed her, their eyes narrowing all the while.

“Come on with that dress. The laird will be wanting his supper, sure enough, having been out all day long.”

There were suddenly three women all intent on dressing her. Jemma stood in shocked silence because it had been a long time since anyone had helped her. She had been the servant to her father, helping him and wearing only the simplest of dresses so that she might more easily lean over his bed. She didn’t know the latest fashion, because none of it had mattered. There had only been her father and what he required.

Anything her brother might send from Amber Hill would be just as plain as the dress she now wore—a single cartridge-pleated pair of skirts that were sewn to one waistband. A modest hip roll helped to keep the weight of her skirts from pulling on her back, but the two-inch-padded roll that went around her hips also kept the garment away from her toes when she walked. Unless she was running, she wouldn’t need to grab her skirt and lift it else risk stepping on it and falling on her face.

She had on a good set of stays. The corset fit her well, and over that she wore only a simple doublet that buttoned up the front. It had a French cut to it, coming down in a square neckline. She’d worn an over partlet that covered her chest and the swells of her breasts, but it was lost somewhere on the land between Barras Castle and Amber Hill where the rogue knights had attacked her.

Simple clothing. And boots just as practical. They laced up, and if set beside the ones the maids wore, there was no notable difference.

There had been a time when her mother was alive that she had dressed in pretty dresses with slipper shoes, but none of those garments fit her anymore. They were packed carefully away now in some quiet, sheet-draped room at Amber Hill.

Jemma reached for the tie that had held her hair in a thick braid.

“Ye should leave yer hair loose, being as ye are unwed, lass.”

“Only brides wear their hair flowing.” And that was on their wedding day.

“Here in Scotland, ’tis a bit different. Ye’ll see the other girls letting their hair down once the day’s work is finished.”

Ula took only a small amount of her hair at the front and made thin braids of it that she looped around her head and tied at the back. The style kept her hair out of her eyes while the length of it still flowed down her back to her waist.

“Come on now.”

Ula didn’t give her a chance to protest being seen with her hair loose. The housekeeper grasped her hand and pulled her out of the bathhouse. Jemma fought the urge to giggle because it had been a long time since she had played about with her hair flowing behind her. It brought back memories of spring festival and dancing on the green when her father had been ruby cheeked and jovial.

“Well now, lass, yer a right agreeable sight.”

Jemma gasped and pulled her hand away from Ula. The housekeeper didn’t resist the motion; in fact, Ula released her hand and stepped behind her in one motion. Ula dropped a quick curtsy to her laird before the woman disappeared in a flip of her wool skirts. A tingle crossed Jemma’s nape again, but this time it was much more intense. Facing Gordon Dwyre instead of just her recollections of the man was to blame.

He was more imposing than her memory recounted. Too large for her comfort, because for some reason she was fixated by his broad shoulders and the fact that her head only reached his chin.

His dark-blue eyes moved to her hair, tracing the unbraided mass and flickering with something that looked like enjoyment.

“A right agreeable sight to greet a man indeed.”

“I didn’t dress for you.” But she liked the look in his eyes. Liked it too much really, for it sent a flicker of excitement through her, and the sensation was unsettling.

He shrugged, and the ends of his shoulder-length hair left tiny wet spots on his shirt. She looked closer to notice that he must have just bathed, too, because his hair glistened with water and he wore only a shirt with his kilt. The cuffs of that shirt were rolled up past his elbows, displaying hands and forearms that were clean and without a streak of dust.

“Well, I’ll be enjoying it all the same, lass. I’ve never been a man to pass up something I like because it was not intended for me.”

“I wouldn’t say that, exactly.” The words were past her lips before she considered whether or not it was wise to confess her inner feelings to him.

“What would ye say then, lass?”

There was a hint of challenge in his voice that pricked her pride. Jemma raised her chin and returned his stare without flinching.

“I would say that your housekeeper took delight in preparing me for you as though I was some sort of... of—”

“Gift?” His lips curved up in a mocking grin.

Jemma pressed her lips together, refusing to rise to the bait he was dangling in front of her nose. He chuckled softly and moved closer to her, his gaze roaming over her hair once more. There was a flicker of something in his eyes that made her tremble. He reached out and touched a lock of her hair, his fingers making the briefest of contacts before she twisted away from him, hissing at herself for retreating but unable to conquer the urge to do so.

“I am not your gift.”

“So do nae touch ye? Is that what ye are saying, Jemma?” He moved back and considered her. “Ye enjoyed being touched this morning.”

“Why do you do that?”

“Do what, lass?”

“Bait me. Do you truly desire to bicker, or is it simply a way to outmaneuver me and gain what you wish without my true consent?” Jemma shot him a hard look. “Needle me until I slap at you, and then claim that touching me was my fault. Is that your game, Barras?”

He drew in a stiff breath and released it while he crossed his arms across his chest. The pose was intimidating, but Jemma refused to bend beneath his scrutiny.

“Many a lass has fallen to such tactics, but in truth I have placed a bit more polish on tonight.”

He turned and extended his arm behind him, where candles illuminated a table with their yellow glow. The table was set with silver dishes that sparkled with the candlelight, and a salt cellar held expensive white salt.

“I thought we might dine together.”

Her throat went dry once more as her suspicions with Ula proved true.

“Since I’ve made an offer to yer brother for ye, I believe it is proper enough for us to learn a wee bit more about one another.”

Someone cleared their throat behind her, and Jemma turned to see a line of musicians entering. She wasn’t even sure what chamber she was in, only that it was lovely with arches on the ceiling and windows that allowed a soft breeze to blow through the room. The musicians disappeared behind a wooden screen, and she could hear them sitting down. Music began to drift over the screen, soft melody constructed of mandolin strings and flutes, while the screen provided privacy.

It was a scene set for courting the most highborn lady. But in her deepest thoughts, she didn’t care for it. Gordon did not belong in the courtly setting. Disappointment actually rose up inside her for the stately manner in which he was conforming to society and its rules.

“Or I could send them away if ye prefer to continue as we began yesterday.”

He raised one hand, and the music stopped. Challenge flashed from his eyes, but it was the look of anticipation that forced her hand.

“It is lovely.” Jemma forced her feet to move toward the table and felt her heart rate accelerating with every hesitant step. Gordon sat down across the table from her, but the small piece of furniture caused their knees to feel no more than a whisper from one another. His lack of doublet suddenly drew her attention, her gaze moving over the light fabric.

“We Scots are a bit more accustomed to the weather, lass. I don’t need a doublet inside this time of year.”

Her cheeks heated because he’d noticed where her eyes had settled. Well, in all truth she shouldn’t be surprised, the man was facing her, but most men wouldn’t have mentioned it out loud. She drew in a deep breath and reminded herself that Gordon was very far removed from the men she knew. Her brother was controlled and pensive, always weighing his thoughts before allowing anyone else to share them.

Gordon picked her up and carried her where he pleased if she refused.

“I believe that the idea is for us to have a conversation, lass.”

She jumped. “Ah . . . well . . . I suppose so.”

Maids were carrying in food now, but they didn’t stay long. They left two large platters, removing the tops to reveal beautifully arranged plates. There were summer vegetables, roasted chicken, and even baked apples.

“Ye sound unsure? Does that mean we may dispense with the English tradition and go back to the Scottish ones?”

Jemma offered a roll of her eyes, but she couldn’t help smiling at him. “You are a boy.” She pointed her knife at his chest. “Right there inside you is a boy no more than ten.”

He chuckled and speared a piece of chicken with the point of his eating knife. “Well now, that’s just the playful side of me nature. Ye have one, too.”

Jemma shook her head. “I have matured, sir.”

His face turned pensive for a moment while he chewed. “Nae, lass, ye just pushed yer own desires aside to take care of yer father. It’s time for ye to allow them freedom from that chest ye have them locked inside of.”

“I see, and does that mean you would have to wife a woman who was busy coddling her heart’s desires?” Jemma shook her head. “Marriage is duty, and it is best met with maturity.”

He frowned. “Now that is just plain pitiful. I swear I don’t know if I need to put ye out of yer misery or”—his lips parted to show her his teeth—“chase ye around this table.”

One of the musicians struck a wrong note, proving that they were listening intently to every word.

“Both would defeat your effort to court me gently.” Jemma had to bite her lip to keep from smiling at the idea because it was so absurd. It was also quite exciting, because she had no doubt that he would capture her.

“Ah, but I think we might enjoy chasing more.” He pressed his hand flat on the tabletop, rising partially from his chair. Jemma gasped and dropped her knife.

“You wouldn’t dare.” The words had barely left her mouth before she recalled his words from that morning.

“I’ll show ye how much daring I have inside of me . . .”

He growled and his chair flew backward. The musicians stopped, but there were several smothered sounds that were anything but horrified. Jemma was grateful for her plain dress because it allowed her to slip out of her chair and make it around the table before Gordon gained the upper hand.

“This is absurd.” But she was breathless and far from outraged.

“Aye, but ’tis fun.” He lunged for her, and she danced away from his grasping hands.

“Stop it, Gordon, you are going to ruin all this fine table dressing.”

“I employ good laundresses, and I know a competent silversmith.”

This time he thrust his hand over the table, using his large body to bend over the table and catch her skirt.

She let out a shriek, but no fear crossed her mind. It was simply too ridiculous to become frightened over. Gordon growled with victory and pulled her into his embrace. He ended up behind her, crossing his arms over her body to cage her.

“My prize!”

“I believe the idea was to court me, not capture me, you brute.”

“’Tis the same thing in Scotland.”

Jemma wiggled, but he held her firmly in place. It was an oddly comfortable position, one that didn’t overwhelm her but allowed her to feel him against her without triggering the need to fight him off.

“Ask any Highlander and they will tell ye that stealing women is a time-honored tradition. In fact, I’m nae sure they get their wives any other way.”

“I heard that one of your kings married his mistress.”

“Ah . . .” He released her, keeping only one wrist clasped in his hand, and she turned to face him.

“Now that is seduction and I like that, too.” He raised her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss against the tender skin of her inner wrist. Sensation raced down her arm, raising gooseflesh as it went. The excitement that burned in her belly began spreading through her, touching off a desire that made her breathless. He lifted his lips away and rubbed over the same spot with his thumb, clearly feeling the accelerated throb of her heart.

“I think ye may be liking it as well, Jemma Ramsden.”

He folded her gently into his arms, moving slowly enough for her to evade him if she chose. Jemma was too intrigued to do anything but comply. This was a side of him that threatened to undermine her resistance. His hand threaded through her hair, lifting the stands and drawing a handful up to his cheek. He rubbed against it for a moment.

“Silk. Rare and coveted and worth every bit of effort it takes to get yer hands on it.”

She suddenly stiffened, recalling the musicians. Jemma turned to look across the room to where they had been. Gordon turned her face back to him with a hand on the back of her head.

“They’re gone and not a moment too soon. I need to kiss ye.”

Yes . . .

It was the only thought in her head. Her lips parted and her chin lifted, even without the hand on the back of her head guiding her. The first touch of his mouth against hers sent a shiver down her back. Just a brief touch, a mere whisper of a kiss that teased her more than it satisfied.

“I needed to kiss ye the moment ye entered this room with yer hair down.”

His mouth returned to hers, this time lingering longer. He pressed a light kiss onto her lips, slipping his along hers and filling her with delight. A soft murmur escaped her mouth, and he pressed her lips farther apart to deepen the kiss. Now his mouth demanded, gentle at first and then increasing pressure. The hand cradling her head was tilting it so that their lips fit together even more. The tip of his tongue slipped along her lower lip before it thrust smoothly into her mouth, teasing her tongue in a long thrust. She shivered again, her entire body quivering in his arms.

“Aye, lass, now that is courting at its best.”

She was suddenly free, Gordon stepping away from her. Frustration burned through her, but she clamped down the urge to demand that he return when she looked into his eyes.

Desire burned there. It was no mere flicker but a roaring blaze that she witnessed testing his control.

“I’ll bid ye good night, lass.”

“Yes, good night.”

The church bell tolled at dawn, bringing an end to her dreams of Gordon. For everyone it was another day to struggle to finish all the tasks that needed doing before winter arrived. Jemma followed them to church and then into the hall for her morning meal.

But her temper turned her cheeks pink when she watched the same maid push the others aside so that she might serve Gordon.

How could she dream of the man?

How could she not?

Jemma rubbed her head before going to find Ula and something to take her mind away from the man occupying too much of her time.

“He is mine.”

Jemma jerked her head up to find the girl she’d watched serving Gordon standing around the corner of where the hallways crossed. Jemma had to look around the stack of newly ironed sheets to see her. What she saw was a close-up view of the scowl that the girl had sent toward her fellow maids that morning.

“So keep yer English hands off him or I’ll make ye sorry ye ever set eyes on him.” There was venom edging each word and the girl inching closer with each one.

“What are you talking about?”

She laughed. “I’m Anyon and ye’d better dispense with yer innocent airs. The laird might believe such, but I know the truth.”

“Which is what?” Jemma felt her temper rising. She was not going to suffer Anyon’s wrath meekly.

Anyon propped her hand on her hip and sneered. “That ye are nothing but a doxy at heart. Ye dangle yer chastity in front of men, hoping to get them to bid against one another for the right to plow ye. But beneath it all, ye’re selling yer flesh just like the rest of us.”

“What do you suggest? That I refrain from polite behavior while you press your breasts into the man’s face during his meal?”

Anyon snickered and actually rocked her bosom back and forth. “The laird likes me tits good and well. You wouldn’t know the first thing about pleasing a man like him, nor would ye ever learn. He’d plow ye to keep yer dowry, and then come to my bed where he might gain true satisfaction.”

“Well, I have no intention of wedding the man, so you may take comfort in that truth.” What did a man like Gordon need to be satisfied? Her gaze swept the Scottish girl from head to toe, trying to judge what it was that she knew about pleasing men. Anyon smiled with glee.

“Ye know that I am right. I can read yer horse face very well. Don’t be swayed by that display he put on for you last night. He is nae a gentleman, but a wild Scot who likes his women knowing how to please.”

“Fine then. Be content.” Jemma took a step away from the nasty creature. If that was what pleased Gordon, well, Anyon was welcome to him. She stiffened and refused to show the disappointment that surged through her. Instead she forced herself to look at the girl and see that she was not lying about knowing her way around Gordon’s body.

It was very likely that he’d gone to her last night after leaving her standing there with her eyes wide and her body softly throbbing.

Anyon stepped into the hallway directly in front of her with both hands propped on her hips. “Ye are so stupid, English chit. Ye think I will swallow yer lies about not wanting the laird, but ye stay here, and that tells me that ye are a lying bitch. Ye’re just trying to sway me with yer words, but ye remain here tonight just the same, tempting the laird as you try to snag him.”

“I’ve heard enough of your spite. If you want that man, I suggest you go and find him. If I had the means to leave this place, I would, but I will not stand here and listen to you spit your venom at me for something that I cannot change.”

And if the man spoke one further word about wanting to court her while his mistress lived beneath the same roof, she was likely to hit him.

Anyon scoffed at her. “Don’t have a way? Another lie, not that I expect anything else from yer English lips.”

“I do not have a way to leave, and if you know otherwise I would appreciate you sharing the information with me.”

The Scottish girl smirked at her, obviously enjoying her moment of knowing that she possessed something that Jemma wanted to know.

“Well, speak up, I am listening.” Jemma refused to put up with the girl’s surly nature. Sometimes it was necessary to show that you were not meek if you did not wish to become the victim of those who enjoyed being nasty. “If all you are going to do is insult me, I was given a task to do by Ula.”

“Proving what a good little wife ye will be? Is that yer game, English slut?”

“Enough! I am not a slut, and you have no right to call me something that your behavior says you are.”

Anyon’s face turned red. “I am the laird’s mistress.” The girl growled each word. “Ye’d better understand something about Scotland, English slut; here even the king has been known to wed his mistress. Scottish men like to know what they are getting before they marry.”

“Well then, since I have no intention of showing your laird what he will get with me if we were to wed, you may go on your way, free of concern.”

“Prettily spoken, but those words do not change the fact that you are still here, doing Ula’s bidding while yer mare is standing idle in the stable.”

“What?” Jemma felt her face heat. The Scottish girl smirked at her, but Jemma wasn’t in the mood to be toyed with any further.

“Where is my mare?”

Anyon raised an eyebrow at her tone. “Listen to ye. Ye’d think ye were already the mistress of this castle, the way ye demand.”

Jemma cast a quick look toward the window. The light was now coming in at an angle, telling her that sunset was approaching. She feared the coming night because it would bring Gordon back to his fortress for certain, and she doubted her ability to resist him.

“If you want me gone from here, tell me where my mare is and how to leave this place.”

Anyon abandoned her taunting stance when she heard the determination in Jemma’s voice.

“Yer mare is in the back stable, the one closest to the gate. Saddle her if ye know how and no one will stop ye from taking what is yers and leaving.”

So simple. Jemma swallowed and fought the urge to sputter with outrage. Gordon had never said that her mare wasn’t in the stable. The man had cleverly avoided giving her that bit of information, and she had been too blinded by his presence to realize that she wasn’t asking a direct enough question.

“Well, are ye going? Or just spinning more lies?”

Jemma thrust the stack of sheets at the Scottish girl and didn’t wait to make sure Anyon took them. She relinquished her hold on them and turned her back on the woman. Urgency filled her, pushing her to quicken her pace. She resisted the warning that was trying to stop her. She had ridden every day for months; one bad encounter was not going to turn her into a quivering-kneed coward who hid behind the walls of a tower. Life was too full of wonderful things. Besides, she could feel Gordon. Actually feel the man tightening the circle he was walking around her. It wasn’t the man she was running from.

It was her response to him.

Most men had a mistress, and she would have to accept that from any husband she wed, but there was something inside her that wanted to scream at him for having one. It made no sense, so leaving was the only logical thing to do unless she wanted to risk going insane. There was no controlling her responses to him, and that frightened her.

There was still plenty of activity in the main yard. Boys were training under the supervision of older men. They wielded wooden swords, and the sound of those blades striking against each other echoed off the curtain wall. Women were hurrying to bring in the last of the drying laundry near the south side of the yard where huge water wheels lifted water from the river to pour through slots in the curtain wall. Men were stationed up on that wall, but their attention was on the horizon. The scent of roasting meat drifted to her nose. The cook had a deer roasting in one of the huge hearths that served the kitchen. She had been carving strips off it all day long so that the meat underneath would roast. What she cut was diced and combined with vegetables to be cooked into pies for supper. The Barras clan ate well, which was yet another indication of their power. Lesser clans would not cross them for fear that they could not appeal to them in the dead of winter when their own stores ran low. Alliances were most often based on need. Her own sister-in-law had been handed over to Gordon because her cousin wanted to prove his loyalty to the laird of the Barras clan.

Jemma scanned the yard once more, seeking any hint that she was being watched. But she didn’t find any. Everyone seemed intent on completing their tasks before the cook rang the supper bells. The older men training the boys were pushing their young charges to teach them perseverance.

Just as she needed to persevere.

Entering the stable, she slowed down and waited for her eyes to adjust to the dim light. The smell of fresh hay and alfalfa filled her senses. The sunlight illuminated hundreds of dust particles floating in the warm air. Horses snorted and pawed at the floor. Jemma forced herself to move slowly among them. She reached out to rub a muzzle here and there, soothing the beasts before they alerted anyone to her presence. Her eyes were becoming more keen, able to distinguish colors in spite of the low light. It was not dark, merely dim. She scanned the stalls and smiled when her mare appeared. Standing near the back exactly as Anyon had said.

For all the insults the woman had thrown at her, Jemma decided she would have to think kindly of her for giving her the means to leave.

Lament rose up from inside her, but she refused to let it stop her. She reached for her saddle, making sure it was well seated before placing the reins on the mare’s head. She smoothed a hand over the soft neck and offered her a soft sound that made the mare’s ears twitch with recognition.

“Yes, my beauty, we’re off again.”

“No, ye wildcat, ye are not.”

Chapter Five

Jemma cursed. The words rolled out of her mouth instantly, and she meant every one of them. She turned to find Gordon standing in the aisle, his chin tucked low so that he could see her in the dim light. His body was tense and imposing, and she felt a ripple of apprehension cross her skin.

“Ye have a very bad habit of disregarding wise advice that is given to ye, lass.”

Jemma choked before she sputtered with her outrage. “Advice? You purposely misled me when I asked you where my mare was.”

The barbarian had the audacity to shrug in the face of her temper. “Well now, I did do that sure enough.”

Jemma tossed her head and maintained her grip on the reins.

“So it is advice well ignored.”

She held her chin steady and stared straight back at him. Their wills were clashing, and the friction produced enough heat to send a tingle racing down the back of her neck while Gordon considered her. Determination flickered in his eyes, but she refused to bend in the face of it. Her will refused to surrender while the feel of the leather was still against her palm. She was so close, and yet Gordon was such a large obstacle to overcome.

“Ye are nae going anywhere except back into me tower, lass. The only choice is how ye go there.”

“You have no right to keep me here.”

“I have yer brother’s permission.”

Her jaw dropped, disbelief flooding her. “That cannot be.” Her voice was a mere whisper, but the emotion lacing it caused her mare to dance. Gordon reached forward to grab the reins, and Jemma dropped them in order to step out of his reach.

Why was it that she never seemed to judge just how close the man was until it was too late to avoid his reach? Frustration burned enough of her shock away, but an aching pain remained deep inside her.

She glared at Gordon. “You have spoken to my brother since I have been here? Curan gave you his blessing on keeping me?” It was two questions fired off together, but her mind was working too fast to slow down.

“It is true, lass, but I did nae seek out his permission to cause ye pain.”

His voice was low, and she looked back at him to notice that he saw far too much of her true feelings for her comfort.

“I care not what your or my brother’s reasons are.”

She turned her back on him and left the stable. The pain followed her, digging into her heart like a dull knife. Curan was her brother. How could he grant such permission?

She felt like her throat was being squeezed past the point of endurance. As far as the law went, Curan had every right to decide whom she married. If it pleased her brother, she might warm the bed of some man old enough to be her grandfather, or someone like Gordon who would use her to breed his children while continuing to enjoy his riding with any woman who took his fancy.

But the memory of last night conflicted with her temper. There had been true effort applied to courting her, something that many a bride never received, especially in a time when two queens of England had lost their heads. Men followed their king’s example, doing what they pleased no matter what misery their actions loaded onto a woman’s shoulders.

Gordon hadn’t treated her that way last night. The memory was precious, and she discovered desperation inside her to reach for it and pray that it was a glimmer of hope that would grow into a bright future.

The chamber where she had slept was the only place Jemma’s wounded mind thought to take her. She really had no right to think that her brother would consult her on the matter of her marriage, or to believe that he would waste any more time deciding the matter. She would not be the first sister handed over without warning. Her agreement to meet with Barras had been more than enough discussion upon the topic.

“Does it truly displease ye so much to think of remaining with me, lass?”

Jemma jumped and stumbled when she turned. Her ankle complained as it twisted slightly, making her hop to relieve the odd angle she’d landed on. She growled and clenched her hands into fists because her frustration was so great.

“Why ask me? Neither Curan nor you seem to think my feelings on anything matter in the least.”

Relief shone on his face, and she felt some of her temper cooling. She couldn’t see what had troubled him so much, but something clearly had. Her heart leaped at the chance to think it might be her feelings. It had been a very long time since she had stopped to consider how she felt. Every hour had been about her father for so long, what he wanted, needed, and how she might give him enough of herself to heal him.

“Marriage is normally negotiated between men, lass, but I was hoping to change yer mind last night and get ye to want to stay here so that we might court a bit.”

Jemma felt suspicion ripple through her mind because Gordon’s face was smooth and calm, telling her nothing about his mood.

“I appreciated the effort you placed into last night, but keeping me here is not courting.”

His lips split to flash his teeth at her. “Well now, I disagree with ye there, lass. Name me another man that would have dealt with ye instead of yer brother.”

He was correct and she hated it. Helplessness assaulted her, and she shook her head to deny it. “I suppose you think your grand experience in ‘riding’ has taught you how to court, but I must quibble with you, sir, for ‘riding’ often is not the same thing as courting.”

“Oh, well I see yer thinking, lass. Ye’re looking for pretty prose. Allow me to quote ye a few that I know . . . I once took a walk on a dock, Looking for to ease me cock—”

“That is the wrong sort of prose for courting.” Heat returned to her cheeks because she instantly began thinking about his cock.

His lips were curled up in a mocking smile now, and it had spread to eyes sparkling with mischief. One of his dark eyebrows rose innocently.

“It is? Would that be the dock part or the—”

“Both,” Jemma shouted, to drown out the word “cock.” She didn’t need to think about his cock. Knowing what his kiss was like was torment enough for her to try to resist. But his cock . . . The excitement that had swirled and flared so brightly in her leaped in response to that single word. She suddenly knew exactly what she craved. It wasn’t her belly, but her passage, and it felt empty.

“Well now, lass, it does tend to cut the courting time down and get right to the point of the matter.”

Jemma felt her cheeks burn bright with a blush. “You are the most audacious man. Go and find your mistress if you want to talk about your . . .”

“Me cock?”

“Exactly.” Jemma slapped her hands on her skirts and turned her back on him. She knew it was a mistake almost before the fabric of her skirts stopped moving. Gordon was not a man who would respect her dismissal of him. His arms closed around her in the next moment before she had the chance to correct her misjudgment. He pulled her against his larger body, trapping her arms against her sides just as he had last night, only now she knew how much she enjoyed being held against him and her body rippled with delight.

“Now, sweet Jemma, where did ye get the notion that I’d tuck me tail and retreat just because ye turned yer back on me?”

He tilted his head, the warmth of his breath brushing the side of her face as his words filled her ears. His tone was low and dark, tempting her with all the things her body craved. The moment seemed perfect for it, and no one appeared to think she should do anything but surrender.

“It was a poor choice, I agree.” She jerked against his hold, only to gain a chuckle from him. His arms were crossed over the front of her, and his hands began to rub along her arms. It was a delightful motion, one that sent enjoyment racing through her.

“I don’t. ’Tis a fact that I like the result full well.”

He pressed a kiss against the side of her neck and then a second one. A soft gasp escaped her lips, drawing a sound of male approval from him. She was pressed so close that she felt the sound vibrate inside his chest.

“I simply forgot that you do not respect me.” Jemma forced her voice to sound prim when her thoughts were torrid.

He lifted his head away from her neck, and she felt frustration claw its way across her skin. Her body protested her desire to argue with him when submission felt so much better.

“Ye have that wrong, lass.” He scooped her up and off her feet, cradling her against his chest for a moment while he crossed the distance to the bed. She stiffened when she realized that was his destination, but he tossed her onto it once more and stood over her while she bounced.

“If I held no respect for ye, I assure ye the kiss I claimed from ye last night would have gone much deeper. But I can see that ye are still distrusting of me.”

“Of course I am, why do you expect different? I am not some meek little girl who will do as she is told with a lowering of my head. If that is what you crave, I am not it.”

When she raised her head to glare at him, she felt a prickle of fear cross her mind. Her words were not annoying him. It looked as though he was hearing exactly what he craved. This was the man she had witnessed striding through the hall that morning. There was nothing teasing about his expression and no hint of any will except his own. His eyes were lit with anticipation.

“I do admire yer spirit, Jemma, and that is a compliment that I do nae give to many men, much less women. ’Tis a fact that I believe ye would have mounted that mare and set out without bending to the fact that danger lies beyond the walls of this castle. There is much to be said for that courage. ’Tis no often found in women and it is one of the reasons that I rode out and gained that permission from yer brother to keep ye.”

“Your compliments are not gaining you any of my favor.”

He chuckled, but it was not a warm sound. Instead it warned her that he was contemplating a new strategy for gaining what he wanted from her. There was a challenge shimmering in his eyes, and her insides tightened because she realized that he considered her something worthy of his time.

“I believe ye do like hearing that I admire the steel in yer spine, lass.” His lips pressed into a line that reminded her of the hunger she’d witnessed on his face last night.

“I think there is a part of ye that enjoys it very much, because that part of ye is no interested in any man that ye can run off with a few barbed comments. Admit it, Jemma, ye are too proud to allow anyone to court ye who does not stand up to ye.”

She quivered, his words striking her as true, but she pressed her lips together to seal any hint of that admission inside her.

Gordon blew out a short breath in response. It was a tiny sound, but one she had to hold steady to resist flinching from. All her senses were attuned to him. She noticed the way that his nostrils flared and the manner in which his fingers moved where they were lying on his thick biceps. Her heart increased its pace, and her hearing seemed to become keener. Everything about him, her mind drank in.

His gaze swept her from head to toe, studying her and missing not a single detail. “So something will have to be done to keep ye where I put ye during the day, because I’ve lands to see to and I’d prefer no to chase ye or to worry that ye are in the grip of danger again.”

“You have already told me that my brother approves of me being here. That means I have nowhere to go.” She couldn’t conceal the emotion that edged her words, and that made her angry for she would not whine to him for comfort. She refused to whine to anyone. She would console herself; she’d been doing so for the past few years and now would be no different.

His eyes narrowed. “I never meant to hurt yer feelings, lass, and be sure that yer brother was nae an easy man to bring around to my way of thinking. I hear the hurt in yer voice, but I’ll nae be trusting that to keep ye down past the morning. Ye have too much spirit.”

His attention lowered to one foot that was sticking out past the hem of her dress. “I’ll be having those boots.”

“You will not.”

His eyebrows arched as challenge lit his eyes again. “Well now, lass, are ye sure ye want to make another choice about gambling on whether or not I’ll do what I please in spite of yer denial?”

Jemma pulled her leg back but felt every muscle tighten in her body. Her courage rose, refusing to allow her to submit.

“You shall simply have to deal with a little uncertainty, just as I seem to be forced to endure this agreement between you and my brother.”

“It seems that the first thing ye will learn during our courting, lass, is that I never leave anything to chance. I’d be a dead man if I did.”

The bed rocked, drawing a shriek from Jemma, but it wasn’t a fearful one. The need to resist erupted in a flurry of motion that refused to be controlled. Gordon reached for her foot, his hands sliding beneath her skirts, and she launched herself at him, shoving his shoulders with every bit of strength she possessed.