One

“Heave, lads! A bairn wouldn’t feel that gentle touch!” Grunts followed Gavynn’s cry, but little else. “Put your backs and arms into it!”

“Perhaps you could put your mouth into it as well?”

One of the lumps of straining men muttered it. Gavynn ignored him. He had to. Iain’s freedom depended on it. And the man wasn’t accurate. Gavynn had been right in the struggle with them until he’d stepped away to assess their progress. And lack, thereof, from what could be seen.

Rainfall washed them, making it difficult to see. That was just and right and necessary. Rain helped hide perfidy such as pulling down a castle wall, cloaking the thirty-four men anchored to its base with a series of thickly woven ropes.

“Courage, lads! You’re acting as if ’tis constructed with more than sand and piss!”

“’Tis solid cursed stone!”

One of the lumps quit straining in order to yell the answer. Gavynn shouted louder. “Verra well. I’ll admit they may have tossed in a bit of dung. But only on occasion. You’ll need to pull harder! Find the weakness! Move in rhythm! We just need a bit of luck.”

“We’ve na’ much luck tonight. What with the rain and nae light.”

“The night does its work. As does my cousin, Arran, with his pipes. You ever hear such loud disjointed playing?”

Gavynn used the same volume with each yell. He’d be hoarse if he didn’t cease, but that didn’t stop him. He had to keep men straining against the wall. Those that flagged needed constant needling and exhortation from a loud voice, regardless of how the words felt sucked away the moment they’d been uttered. Very little made it through to men aware only of the thump of heartbeat in their ears. Not even the loud sound of pipes playing discordantly somewhere in the castle.

“Arran and his men have vast amounts of … hot air tonight.” One of them put Gavynn’s thought into words.

“Aye. And na’much brawn.” Another man agreed, although it came with an insult directed at Gavynn. “Appears he’s na’ the lone one. Just listen to the laird!”

The slur galvanized Gavynn. “That’s it! Move your worthless hides. I’ll show you how ’tis done!”

Gavynn pushed his way to the front of a line of men, slipping more than once in brine-soaked earth. Such was the result of constructing a castle encircled by a trickle of sea-fed moat. They’d drained what they could just before dusk as they waited. Planning. Worrying. There were other things he’d rather be doing, lots of other things. But he didn’t have a choice. He had to rescue his little brother, Iain.

The rope was slickest near the wall, due to the water level. Gavynn looped an arm about hemp, scraping flesh as he pulled, feeling the strain against solid stone. He’d been denigrating the rock walls without proof. Lord Dillbin had built his castle well, funded by Sassenach silver. There was little give to it. Despite the rain, the mud they’d shovelled out of the way, the hours spent chiselling about the cornerstones, nothing moved. Gavynn yanked until tendons in his jaw hurt with the effort.

And then the rope slackened, going limp. There was the gravest rush of noise, accompanied by a thud of something large landing in the muck, sloshing brine-mixture all over him. He launched backwards, landing flat on his back in the mess, putting his hands out instinctively to catch whatever heaven sent at him.

He didn’t know he’d been successful until they lifted a chunk of masonry from atop him.

“We’re … through?” He sounded like a girl-bairn. Every word felt ground against bone. He suspected bruised ribs. If he was in luck. What was he thinking? Luck had deserted them.

“Help me lads! Quick! Get this off him!”

His clansman Rory said it. Gavynn groaned as little lights danced through his vision. It was joined by the chore of breathing. And then he was freed, hauled to his feet, to stand gaping at the size of rock they’d lifted from him. If he hadn’t been in soaked soft earth, he’d have been flattened. Fully.

He swayed, pulling in small chunks of air while the others stood about, indecisive. That got Gavynn angered, and that covered over any pain.

“Have we just … taken down a wall … to mill about?” The words were broken with each inhalation of air. His volume was missing, as well. He’d worry over that later.

“We have na’ reached Iain, my Laird.”

“’Tis truth. Look for yourself.” Rory spoke again, level-headed and efficient-sounding. As usual.

“We took down … his dungeon?” Gavynn asked.

“Aye. But we got the wrong one.”

“The man has but one dungeon!” Gavynn’s voice was coming back. As was his purpose. Strength couldn’t be far behind. He hoped. “And if fate played us so ill, then move your arses! Get out of … my way!”

It would’ve had more effect if he hadn’t gone down to a knee. Gavynn covered his weakness with a slap at the boulder that had pinned him, and forced his legs to support his weight.

“Is there a leader … out here?”

A voice filtered through the fog of rainfall and failure filling Gavynn’s ears. Someone answered, pointing at him. He couldn’t tell who. Muck covered the men, making anonymous lumps in the torchlight from inside the dungeon walls. Gavynn looked at the gaping hole in Dillbin’s English-built castle, blinked on rain that wouldn’t cease, and then his mouth dropped open.

A woman picked her way towards him, lifting her skirts with one hand, while the other slid along rubble. That manoeuvre kept her upright, although clumsy-looking. She was bare-headed, lengthy locks of an indeterminate shade clinging to her, mostly due to the night and amount of rainfall. It didn’t seem to bother her that a contingency of muck-covered men silently watched with their mouths open.

Gavynn straightened, breathing in small snippets of air that kept the ache tolerable. He swept a hand across his forehead to clear the water. Only he knew his hand trembled.

“Are you leading … this––?”

She’d reached him and looked up, motioning with her hand to the broken wall behind her.

“Rescue,” Gavynn supplied.

“Rescue?”

“Over here!”

Gavynn ignored her sarcasm and looked over her towards Iain’s voice. The squealed words betrayed weakness. Frailty. Youth. Gavynn could see an arm waving at them through a myriad of bars. “They … moved him?”

“He wouldn’t cease his whining and—”

He had her throat in his hand, his eyes narrowed to look her over in the dim light and he tightened his grip on her. “Whining?”

“The outer cell is most … damp.”

She whispered it but nothing on her looked cowed. She met his look unblinkingly. That was odd. Having a band of thirty-five men pull down a segment of prison wall should’ve put fear into those dark eyes. Gavynn loosened his grip on her throat slowly, keeping his hand where it was. There was a huge groan happening in the air about them, filtering through the rain sounds.

“That wall is coming down!”

“Greggor’s right! Better to banter words from a distance!”

“What of him?” Gavynn motioned with a head toss at his brother. And then other sounds added to the night. Defence sounds: a thrum of drums, blare of pipes, shouts of men. He got splashed beneath his kilt as something landed beside him.

“We need to move, my Laird! Now!”

“What of … my brother?” Gavynn asked again.

“We canna’ fetch him from the grave!”

Gavynn hid the failure. “Go then. I’ll bring the lass. She has … use.” He moved his attention back to the woman.

“Use?”

She asked it with sarcasm touching the words. He tightened his fingers. Another deep groan came from the wall.

“Gavynn … please! Doona’ leave me!”

His brother was at full-out screaming, although it was mostly muted. Gavynn didn’t look. There wasn’t any way to change it. The night was sending blocks of stone to pepper the sodden ground about them. It was due to luck that only more mud-tainted water hit Gavynn. He pulled at the woman, transferring his hand to a slender wrist, squeezing with intent. It wasn’t necessary. She wasn’t fighting. She was helping.

Once they reached the hill at the back of Castle Dillbin, she was the one pulling at him, forcing him up the steep sides and on to the moor; leading him to the largest horse … and then heralding his weakness by standing docilely at his side.

Everyone felt like they were watching for him to somehow get astride his stallion, Crusader, force the wench up there with him, and do it without succumbing to the chasm of faintness opening in front of him.

“He needs assist?”

One of the hired men asked it. There was a thump as someone silenced him. The remark was ill-advised. Gavynn slit his eyes. Concentrated. Willed away the effects of a night of work, getting hit by a chunk of masonry, and then forced to run uphill with little ability to gain breath. He refused to submit to anything as defenceless as a swoon. He was laird of Clan MacEuann. He hadn’t gained that through weakness. Gavynn pulled in short huffs of air and watched the wash of blur turn into horsehair again.

“Well, that horse is a handful to mount. And hell to ride.”

“I’ve got it in hand, lads.” Gavynn still held to the saddle.

“What of the woman?”

“Her, too,” Gavynn answered.

“How do you ken she’s hell to ride?”

One of the mercenaries joshed it. The woman at Gavynn’s side stiffened. “I’ll answer that slur on … the morrow. With fists. Now mount!”

Hurt thumped through his chest, but nothing felt broken. Bruised. Pained. But not broken. As was just and right. He’d be hell-bound before he let a Sassenach castle kill him. He turned to the wench. She was watching him with an unblinking gaze. As if she knew he was staying upright by willpower. That was disconcerting.

“Can you ride?” He lowered his voice to ask it.

She tilted her head back a bit, allowing night-cast light to caress and mould her features. Showing off beauty. There was worse than eyes that seemed to look deep into a man. Even in a rain-filled night he knew how much worse. This wench was bonny enough to cause argument and dissent. If Gavynn was too weak to stop it.

He set his jaw. Looked her over dispassionately. She had use: Iain’s release. For that she had to remain unmolested and safe. And he had to guarantee it.

“Well?”

Brielle nodded. Something about him clogged her throat, taking air she needed to speak. That was strange. Unfamiliar. Unfair. And unacceptable.

It wasn’t lack of knowledge. She’d been around men. Lots of men. Sometimes dressed in costly fabrics, smelling of lye soap and spirits. Sometimes covered in armour and leather and reeking of sweat and other odours she’d rather not decipher. And other times she’d administered to men who’d been clothed in nothing but fear, pain and blood while they trembled, groaned and sometimes died.

But she’d never been near a man like this.

She started with his size. He was immense. The top of her head reached mid-chest. She added in his strength. He was fit. Brawny. Seemingly immune to pain. He should be suffering. She’d seen the boulder lifted off him. No man could’ve endured that and be standing barking orders and glaring at her. He’d be dead.

For the first time she tasted uncertainty and fear. This was a real Highlander. Not a spineless youth like Iain. This was a man fitting the tales. She’d heard them. Everyone had. From the moment she’d left civilization to reside in Scotland, she’d been regaled with tales of prowess, strength, endurance, regardless of the odds. She’d shivered when she was younger, and then disbelieved. And grown cynical. She’d thought them fables. Lore dreamt in fertile minds, conjured to frighten. Demons. Barbarians. Brielle couldn’t stop the goose flesh running her body. She didn’t even try.

“Well? Can you or canna’ you?”

“What?” she mouthed.

“Mount.”

Low snickers came from the horde about them. Brielle didn’t move her gaze from his. “Cup your hand,” she requested.

“Why?”

“Have you never mounted a woman before?”

She had her cool tone back. The one that usually meant immediate obedience. This time it got jeers and laughter. Her face went hot as she assigned meaning. Then she had large hands gripped around her waist as he tossed her on to the span of horse. On her belly.

Brielle hadn’t time to gasp before he was mounted, an arm about her midsection, plastering her to him with an iron grasp. He wasn’t even breathing hard while her heart felt lodged in her throat, choking off the scream.

He clicked his tongue and the horse moved. That gave her another bit of information about Highlanders. They knew horses. That could put leagues between her and safety. A flicker of worry started. Brielle swallowed before she got more impressions to deal with. The feel of him made her head spin. This much proximity to any man was alien. Odd. Foreign.

They hadn’t ridden long before something changed. It might’ve been the slight groan attached to each breath he made. It might’ve been the feather touch of air across her forehead and on to her nose. It could’ve been the heavy thud of heartbeat emanating from where her ear pressed, creating sensations she’d never felt before. And wouldn’t have believed.

The totality of it got worse as they reached treeline and started ducking and dodging. He seemed to possess a second sense, swaying, bending and dipping to avoid rain-blurred obstacles before they were seen. Brielle tried ignoring the arms about her, muscle flexing everywhere, even in the hard thighs that pinned her legs together. She felt sensitive. Alert. Aware. Alive with a tingle that just kept coming. She had to change it. Brielle moved her head slightly, the only range of movement he left her, to put whispered words against his neck.

“You shouldn’t be riding,” she whispered. “You’re injured.”

He grunted but didn’t deny it.

“Loose me. I won’t escape,” she added.

“Doona’ fash. ’Tis … little.”

His words gapped with a catch of breath. Brielle stirred and the hand at her cheek pushed, smashing her to him.

“I … I’m versed in nursing.” She tried again, biting her lower lip this time. She only did that when beset. Worried. “The longer you wait … the worse it may get. Loose me, and I’ll see to it.”

She got a grunt. This wasn’t easy. The man was dense. Immune.

“Why not?” She said it louder, with a cross tone.

“I canna’ protect you”

“Protect me? From … what?”

“A man does na’ claim what he canna’ hold, Lass. We reach Feegan’s Roost … you can nurse me there. Or kill me off. Until then, cease … this argue.”

“I’m not––” Brielle stopped. Anything she said could be perceived as arguing.

A slight sniff that could be his amusement touched her eyelashes. It was instantly followed by a tremor all through him.

“You’ll never make this Feegan’s place,” she informed him.

“I need rest, Lass. Less … woman-words.”

“Men.” The word held her disgust. And got a few snorts of laughter from about them.

He settled somehow, forming a cocoon about her that contained a steady, thick heartbeat at the core. Brielle shifted, but little moved. She debated struggling. Kicking. Twisting. If only he didn’t make such a comfortable berth; kilt-covered thighs about hers; a chest formed for snuggling into; a rocking motion of the horse beneath them. All of it combined to close her eyes and relax into him … and sleep.

Two

The woman smelt clean. Fresh. Wondrous. Her form felt good in his arms, too. Almost like she belonged; swaying slightly with every step from Crusader … taking them further from Iain. Gavynn stopped the thought. It heightened the dull ache pumping through his chest.

“You’re in pain?”

Her quick breath cursed him, brushing at his chin with sweetness.

“You should be dead. I saw the stone that hit you.”

He grunted slightly; tightened the arm about her chest, crushing full breasts against his arm. He thoroughly enjoyed it, before the lass pestered him with words again.

“You needn’t hide it. I told you. I’ve … nursing skill.”

Gavynn looked heavenwards, gaining a raindrop for his trouble. She didn’t obey the slightest thing. Her presence caused trouble. Hired men weren’t easy to control when filled with bloodlust. They obeyed a strong leader. One who could keep and protect a captive he claimed. The lass might be versed in nursing, but she knew nothing about warring men.

“I doona’ need nursing.”

He heard sounds of amusement from about them. Somewhere in the rain-filled night, men rode pillion, listening, evaluating. Gavynn frowned. He’d hired the strongest, stoutest men silver could purchase. He needed them to pull down a wall. He hadn’t worried over trust.

“But—”

“If you doona’ hush, I’ll gag you.”

“What? Why?”

Gavynn pulled the rein into his mouth, lowered his freed hand to his kilt hem, and started ripping.

“What … are you doing?”

“Getting your gag,” he replied through his teeth.

The lass went stiff and then she went silent. All about could be heard movement, murmurs, jangling of harness. Gavynn waited, while the lass hardly seemed to breathe.

“You’ll hush?”

He whispered it and got a nod along his throat. It came with another tremor from her body. He didn’t like that. And wondered why.

Feegan’s Roost turned out to be a portion of ancient monastery, frozen in jagged chunks of disembodied stone that reached heavenwards. It was shrouded in a thick layer of mist, lit by the glow of a new day. Brielle opened an eye, caught her breath at such beauty and then yawned. Her eyelids felt heavier than usual, her limbs stiff.

The moment Brielle moved to stretch, memory returned, awakening her fully and rapidly. She yanked both eyes open, to a span of male chest glossed by air that sparkled. Blinking didn’t change it. Then her vision got peopled with shaggy-looking horses, worse-looking hulks of men, and everywhere they had weaponry. Sharpened spear-tips, arrows, hand-axes and large swords honed to edges that caught light, were speckling the area with glint.

Brielle felt completely out-of-sorts. Damp. Sweaty-warm. Cramped. Her captor was a brute, too. She wriggled, trying to ease the numbing of both legs. She got tighter arms and legs about her. She’d never slept atop a horse before … nor locked in a man’s embrace. She knew why now: misery.

“Let … me … go!” Her hiss of voice halted as one of his men spoke up.

“You need assist with that, MacEuann?”

One of the hulks lifted a mud-covered head to grin, his teeth brown against a full beard.

Her captor grunted, and then yelled a name. “Pells?”

“Aye?”

“Get to Reeb. As planned. Rory?”

“My Laird?”

“Send a message to the earl. Tell him I demand my brother’s freedom.”

Sounds of what could be hilarity and might be argument, filtered through the throng. Brielle subconsciously leaned back into the mass of man holding her, much to her own dismay.

“Tell him I offer a trade! This woman … for Iain.”

“Her?”

“Aye. And a-fore her presence wearies me further. You write that?”

Brielle’s eyes went wide as they all looked, grins splitting more beards. She swallowed on the moisture in her mouth, and then again as it got replenished. She didn’t know fear had a taste. Bitter. Metallic.

“How do you ken he’ll trade? He kept her in his dungeons.”

“I would house her there, as well. As punishment for a displeasing tongue. Go. Deliver my message. Use Greggor. He’s the best aim. And you! Get a fire going. Set a kettle to boiling. You! See to the horses. And Gleason?”

“My laird?”

“Hunt a stag for roasting. At the verra least, a hare or two. Take as many men as you need. We’ve a long day ahead. And I, for one, am na’ waiting with an empty gullet.”

He was trembling by the end of his speech, moving Brielle with his tremors. None of the others noted. She watched as men scurried to do his bidding until there were none left. Brielle wriggled again, fully expecting tighter bands about her.

“You want me to loosen my hold?”

She hunched her shoulder against the puff of whisper; nodded.

“You promise you’ll na’ run?”

Where was she going to run? She didn’t have a weapon, a horse, knowledge of the land, and she was thoroughly exhausted; cramped into immobility. Then there was the threat of so many men … all looking like they wanted to devour her. This Gavynn was dense.

Brielle tipped her head and suffered the most annoying spate of sensation when she connected with his gaze. He had light green eyes, totally at odds with his hair and brows. He hadn’t grown a beard, leaving lips and jaw uncovered. Brielle gulped, her heart dropped to pound heavily from her depths and there was something wrong with her breathing as well.

“I … need … a moment.” She replied with such a shaky whisper she knew he felt it. And then he frowned.

“As do I. But first … your promise.”

“I’m no fool,” she told him.

He lifted an ebony-shaded eyebrow.

“You’re injured, you can’t control your men, and you’re all I have for protection. Why would I run?”

He lifted his head away, clicked his tongue and that moved the horse around a far wall and into a small cleared area framed by ruined walls and a fringe of trees. Once there, he loosened his hold and slid her to the grass. He motioned her towards the greenery, shadowed and private. She was pushing her way back through to him when she heard the thud as he fell off his horse.

Brielle was on her knees beside him quickly. She shook her head. “I was right. You’re injured.”

“Jesu’!”

The hunch of man cursed it, while the naked back he displayed flexed and moved. Brielle looked over four scars scoring his flesh.

“Can you move?” She waited long moments before he answered. And then she had to lean to hear it.

“Aye.”

“Then do so. Before someone spots you.” She stood.

“Is this … what you call nursing?”

“No. This is called survival.”

He sighed, shuddered, and started unfolding from the pile of limbs until he became a seated male with long legs before him, bare from thigh to socks.

“How bad is it?” she asked.

“I’m bruised a bit and numbed to deadness.”

“Then recover quickly, Gavynn MacEuann.”

He looked up at her through his lashes. “You ken my name?”

“Your brother never ceased talking. Or whining.”

The jibe hardened his face, as well as everything else he’d put on display. She stepped back as he went to a crouch, using his arms for stability. And then he went to a stand, stretched, yawned, and then growled. And then he walked past her to the shrubs.

Brielle whirled, giving him privacy. But that was stupid. One kept their eyes on the enemy. Then they wouldn’t have to rely on sound to locate them.

“Verra well, Lass. I’m up. Relieved. What would you have of me now?”

Brielle kept her back to him while shivers rippled all over her. She crossed her arms and glared at the wall. She refused to let him unsettle her. It made her reply harsh. “You’re not injured.”

“I dinna’ say I was. ’Twas your summation.”

A yell came from somewhere. Something about breakfast. Gruel. Griddle cakes fried in fat. Brielle’s belly answered. It’d been two full days since she’d been put on bread and water. The single crust she’d saved was long gone. She studied the ruined wall and tried ignoring the man behind her.

“You thinking to run?” he asked.

Of course she wasn’t running. The only thing that changed was his health. Brielle sighed, turned, and hadn’t realized how close he stood. Her spin knocked her into him. Hands grabbed each arm; not to catch, but imprison. He lifted until her feet dangled and even if she had more than slippers on her feet, it wouldn’t have done much as she kicked and twisted.

“You’re fair … vexing. You ken?”

He grunted several times until Brielle conceded. If he was injured it didn’t affect his strength. She could only hope her father answered the message … and soon.

Gavynn felt her give up, but that didn’t loosen anything about his hold. He’d been right earlier. She was a beauty. Lengthy locks of russet-coloured hair covered her back messily, obviously needing a brushing. Nothing marred the perfection of her skin, either. Not one pock, freckle, or even a bump. He was alarmed even before he factored in her smell. He stood, breathing her scent, while his body reacted. She was definitely affecting him. His senses told him even as his mind ordered against it. She was his bargaining wedge. Nothing more. Touching her was foolhardy, holding her like this pure insanity. He almost wished for an injury vast enough to stay his body from the priming that happened. Hardening him. Gavynn pulled his hips back, hoping the sporran hid him well enough. He watched her catch at her bottom lip, tip her chin, and move her gaze to him, and then endured a roar that went right through his ears.

“You can unhand me now. Truly. I won’t run.”

Sarcasm filled the words. They still sounded of honey. Gavynn lowered his head and caught her inhalation of breath with his mouth. As he did the strangled cry that followed. If she hadn’t turned it into a moan before flicking her tongue at his, he’d have been better able to stop the kiss and leave her be.

Maybe.

A hand snaked around his neck, fingers twined about the ends of his hair, taking him closer, and that’s when Gavynn ceased anything resembling thought. All he could do was feel; firm breasts against his chest, the heft of her buttocks once he slid a hand to lift her, clenching and moulding her exactly to him, and the solid tremor matching her frame exactly to his. It wasn’t just her moan riding through his senses as he sucked his way about her mouth, deepening the kiss into something tangible, raw … urgent.

A hiss of air at his cheek stopped him. Gavynn went to a crouched spin, pulling his claymore while one arm pinned the lass to him. But it was only his man, James MacPherson, nodding at them before walking past to pull his arrow from a far tree. Gavynn was standing, his sword tip at the ground when James returned. The woman had moulded fully to him, her face hidden against his shoulder. Gavynn watched James note it.

“I’ll be for paying that back,” Gavynn informed him.

The man grinned. “I had nae other choice. You dinna’ hear my call.”

Gavynn shrugged. The woman moved with it. “Now that you’ve interrupted, what do you want?”

“Rory sent me. He averred you might need … assist. I doona’ ken with what.”

Gavynn grunted.

“I’ll fetch your repast. For the woman, as well. Try na’ to miss me.”

She jerked then started to shiver. Gavynn held her through it. He was still in a fog of want. He tried tamping it. She smelt of womanly delight and warmth. She felt better. She sent small snippets of air feathering across his upper arm. She was in a cling of provocation. None of it helpful. James nodded as if he realized all of it, before he turned and left, whistling the entire time.

Three

Purgatory wasn’t deep enough to hold the embarrassment and shock. It was enough that the combination sapped at her strength. Brielle hadn’t any experience with passion and desire … and with a Highlander? It wasn’t fair!

She kept her head averted, pulling in gasp after gasp of his smell. Her skin rippled with shivers, her frame trembled, and it was difficult to breathe. She felt as tightly strung as a lyre, with every sense heightened and alert and tensed. She’d been kissed once, by a drunken lord who’d over-stepped his boundaries and received a slap for his effort. It was nothing like this. She’d never felt a whoosh of warmth so vast her entire being throbbed. Such a thing was immoral. Illicit. Unbridled. Wanton. And it just kept radiating outward, sending tremors with it. Why was it this man to do this to her? Within moments of time? Using little more than his mouth?

Brielle trembled and endured and worked at squashing a reaction she hadn’t known existed. It was so mortifying, tears drilled at her eyes. She didn’t know if she could face him again. Or his man.

“Lass?”

She shook her head slightly at the rumble of voice. The motion rubbed her forehead against his skin.

“You need to unhinge from me. A-fore James returns.”

Brielle shook her head again. He sighed.

“Doona’ take offence. I’m na’ against tupping with you.”

“Tupping?” The word was choked.

“Aye. With great force and passion. That sort of tupping.”

Her eyes went wide.

“I’d na’ thought a Sassenach wench would be so … ardent. Or free. It … makes me hard and readied for you. I vow, I’ve rarely felt such need. Canna’ you face me? ’Tis difficult to speak to the top of your head.”

“Don’t say … one more word. Not one.” Brielle enunciated carefully and then stepped back. Nothing about the morn felt warm. It was cold. Harsh. Brielle wrapped her arms about her, looked up to face him, and ignored the lurch her body made. He’d lowered his chin, favouring her with a look she had no trouble deciphering. He hadn’t been speaking of his condition idly, either. He was definitely readied for her. His plaid was distorted with size and hardness. All of which was shocking and frightening. And yet enticing at the same time. Brielle forced her eyes to stay focused on his face.

“Doona’ look at me that way, Lass. You ken I canna’ take you. Na’ now. And for certain, na’ here.”

“No.” The word sounded strangled but he ploughed right over it anyway.

“Cease looking at me that way. You doona’ ken how ’tis.”

“Nor do I wish to,” she replied.

“What?”

His confusion was real. A line etched across his forehead with his frown.

“I don’t wish … anything to do … with you,” she clarified.

He crossed his arms about his chest, thrusting defined muscles into her line of sight. And then he pushed his upper body forward in an aggressive-looking stance.

“That is a lie,” he stated.

“It is not.” She tossed her hair for emphasis.

“You deny what your frame displays?”

His glance flicked to her completely covered breasts as if he’d find validation. Brielle moved her crossed arms higher and gritted her teeth so hard she heard the sound through her skull.

“I suffer … morning chill,” she told him.

“Morning chill?”

“If … a lady is denied a bed … and then forced to endure the elements … she gets chilled.” Her teeth were chattering. Her voice warbled with it.

“What’s your name?” He surprised her with the change of topic as well as his gentle tone.

“Why?”

“So I have a name other than wench and lass.”

“Either will do … at present.”

He grinned. “Verra well. I’ll state it. You’re the lady Brielle, heiress of Dillbin.”

“No.” The word warbled.

“Another lie? No wonder he placed you in his dungeon.”

“How do you know I wasn’t there … visiting prisoners? Bringing broth … a-a-and thick blankets to the poor souls?”

“Because you escaped with me. And only prisoners do that.”

Brielle clamped her lips shut and fiddled with the bit of lace at her elbow.

“What does your father want with my brother?”

“I don’t know.” She bit her tongue the moment she answered, but it was too late. She didn’t need his chuckle to verify it.

“That … was too easy, my Lady.”

Brielle lifted her chin and watched him for long heart-pounding moments. She didn’t say a word.

“I’m hungry. James had best return soon. And with a full platter.”

With that, Gavynn MacEuann sat down with the wall at his back and tanned bare legs before him.

The wench unsettled, annoyed, and totally frustrated him … yet still he was hard for her. Despite everything he kept telling himself. Gavynn was contemplating the toes of his boots when James walked back around a section of vine-draped stone, carrying a wooden slab that sent steam into the air.

“Lover’s spat?” The man asked it as he set his burden down, winking as he did so.

Gavynn regarded him without expression until the humour faded. “You’d be of more use checking on Rory.”

“Nae need. They’ll be back a-fore long.”

“They could na’ have reached the castle already.”

“Dinna’ have to. His lordship has men out. Armed and mounted. Spanning the demesne. Searching.”

“Go then. Await word.”

“I’d best stay here.”

“Why? I’m na’ much injured. Just a mite sore.”

“You still need a guard.”

Gavynn tore into an oatcake; blew at steam before pushing it into his mouth. He chewed silently, and had the bite swallowed before he replied.

“I’ve na’ turned into a spineless sapling.” Gavynn tore off another bite. Shoved it in. Chewed.

“You canna’ protect much … if you’re occupied.”

Gavynn swallowed. Winced. “You saw wrong, James. The wench means naught to me.”

“You offering her up?”

Gavynn felt her tense. Evaluated it. Lady Brielle feared his answer. Standing beyond reach and pretending, he could still sense it radiating from her.

“Nae,” he finally replied. “She has value. Just as I suspicioned last eve.”

Gavynn folded the last bit of the cake, shoved it into his mouth, and spent his time chewing. He lifted the sporran and twisted the stopper cork from it. He caught her glance while he gulped at whiskey that burned and revived, and then returned his attention to James.

“How so?”

“She wears costly clothing and possesses an educated, albeit sharp, tongue. All signs of value.”

“Why was she housed in his dungeon?”

“She does na’ say. Yet. A bit more time in my presence with naught else for company, and that may change.”

James grunted, and left them. Gavynn picked up another cake, motioned for her to join him, and found her amusing when she turned her back on him, preferring hunger and a view of trees.

The wait was the worst part. It was interminable and broken only by the presence of her captor. Brielle practiced ignoring him as morn lengthened into mid-day, and then further. This Gavynn rarely rested. If it was weakness causing him to groan, drop his burden, or take a knee with his head bowed and everything taut on him, it didn’t slow him much. Sweat covered him before long, darkening his kilt and putting sheen to his skin, totally exposing her idiocy in worrying over nursing him.

Brielle surreptitiously watched him about his regimen, even the times he rested, panting for breath while apparently deciding another bit of work. He acted as if he was alone the entire time. And he was rarely still.

It began right after finishing the entire platter of breakfast, once she’d turned her back on it. He’d started with hand-sized stones before graduating to larger and larger boulders; hefting them above his head, squatting with them, toting them about the area, setting them down, re-lifting them, and occasionally pitching one into the trees, making leaves and deadfall rustle. Sunlight invaded the area, cursing her with the weight and heft of her velvet over-dress. It was thickly-woven. Warm. But what had seemed practical in a castle two nights ago was a curse now. Brielle lifted hair from her neck to cool and dry her skin throughout the day while her belly rumbled and pained with emptiness.

His activities wearied her. Beneath it was the worry of what Father would do. Or not do. The heat added to it. If she dozed, it was to jerk awake, focusing on the stained skirt, the grasses beneath her, or the ruin of stone wall and forest fringe.

The aroma of roasting venison filled the air near dusk, making her mouth water and her belly ache. Then into her misery came Gavynn, going to his knees to look across at where she slouched against a bit of rock. He had a bag slung across one shoulder, hooked on his sword. Everything on him looked sweaty or dirty. Or both.

“Come.”

He held out a hand. Brielle shook her head.

“I’ll force you.”

She shoved his hand aside, went to a crouch before collapsing, her legs spiked with pain of inaction. Brielle held the cry before getting pulled across his free shoulder. As if she was another boulder he’d decided to heft. He stood then, tossing her slightly for balance.

She could kick. Struggle. Beat at his back where her hands kept slipping on sweat-covered skin. She could also easily lose consciousness from lack of food, two days incarceration, and now being dangled upside down. Brielle endured until he tipped forward, set her on her feet, then waited for her wobbling to cease.

“What … do you want?”

If she’d eaten when he offered and slept when possible, she wouldn’t be stammering and stuttering, and having to blink through a stupid film of tears. All of which was caused by her own obstinate nature.

“Take off your dress. And whatever else you can spare.”

Brielle’s eyes went wide. “No.”

“You’ll take it off, or I’ll force you. And I tire of the threat.”

He was working at the clasp of his belt as he spoke. Brielle backed a step, then another, before he reached out, snagged an arm, and yanked her back.

“Don’t do this!”

Fright made her voice shrill. He had her twirled into him, bound by an arm while the other hand covered her mouth. And then he was whispering harsh words.

“I’m doing little! You reek. I’ve my fill of the stench. You’ll bathe in yon burn with me or I’ll toss you in. Fully clothed. You ken?”

She nodded. He moved his hand.

“I do not reek.”

He had his hand back. She heard a hissed curse, followed by more words. “Do you ken naught, lass? I want you. ’Tis massive. Hard to staunch. I’ve spent a full day trying and I’ve na’ much left.”

Shock iced her. Staying her tongue and catching at her breath.

“You’re verra bonny … and I’m nae saint!”

She was trembling. With that came even more weak feeling.

“I’m for a swim. In cold water. I canna’ do it and protect you at the same time. So you’re coming with me. To help … or curse us both. You ken what I speak of yet?”

She nodded. At least the limp woman in his arms did. This time when he removed his hand, she didn’t make a sound. She wasn’t capable of it as he simply tugged his belt, bent forward slightly, and let his attire fall off. That left nothing but a strap across his chest holding his sword at his back. Brielle spun but the movement upset her balance, gaining her the feel of him against her again. Naked. Taut. Large. She held her breath and watched odd-shaped dots dance before her eyes.

“You doona’ listen to anything! I’m begging here. I need a dunking and I need you to cease fighting. Get that velvet off. Keep the kirtle and what-all else. I doona’ care. They’ll dry. Now move!”

He released her and if she hadn’t felt so faint, her fingers would’ve worked better.

Four

She’d be the death of him yet.

Gavynn ducked his head under the water, then slid his hands though his hair, ignoring where the lass stood, arms wrapped about her while she shivered in place. The burn was hip-deep on him. Cold. Clean. Fast moving. Difficult to hear over. Gavynn amended that. He couldn’t hear much over his own heartbeat. All of it made him vulnerable. This wasn’t a good idea, but he hadn’t had one since meeting her. His chest and belly were tender with bruising, his muscles throbbed with the work he’d forced on them, and the woman’s linen under-dress was as useless as a film of white mist would be.

She was true beauty … in form as well as face. Well-formed. Lush. Curved in all the proper places. Possessing heavy, handfilling breasts, a narrow waist, and hips well-rounded to greet and satisfy a man. When she’d bent forward to wash her face, his groan almost made it through clenched lips. Gavynn grabbed hand-scoops of water, angrily splashing cold and wet all over. Then he bent his knees, dipping to his armpits in chill. All in an effort to divert the pressure building in his groin as blood filled the area, engorging and hardening, and angering him with how little his mind controlled anything.

Nothing worked. He couldn’t keep his eyes and thoughts off her. Gavynn lifted his head to the twilit sky, close to howling his frustration. And when he brought his head back down he got a full dose of his utter stupidity. He hadn’t even heard them. Gavynn sent the curses soundlessly before rising to face a solid wall of armour-clad men atop horses. They carried torches. Full weaponry. And all he claimed was the sword at his back.

Gavynn had it drawn and the woman to his front, ignoring her gasp as their wet, chilled linen-covered flesh contacted. She’d probably be fighting him, if the steel across her throat didn’t silence her as much as the men they faced. Nobody said anything as the horses parted. Gavynn blinked water out of his vision at the sight of a friar picking his way through the knights. The man shoved the cowl from his shaved head and then he started yelling, sending words into the air at a volume impossible to overlook.

“Greetings, your Grace!”

Gavynn flexed, pushing the edge of steel against her throat in reply.

“Are you Gavynn MacEuann? Duke of Ethelstone, Earl of Euann, Laird and Chieftain of Clans Ethel and MacEuann?”

Brielle sagged, gaining him dead-weight. Gavynn was forced to move his sword away as helms were removed and weapons lowered. None of them looked angry. They were mostly smiling. Amused. Entertained. At Gavynn’s predicament. He’d faced death before but never against such odds and at such a disadvantage.

“You are the duke … are you not?” The man pestered again.

Gavynn nodded slowly. Once.

“Good. ’Tis for your ears that I address these words.”

“Address them, then.” Gavynn had to be satisfied with the threat his voice carried. He had nothing save his sword. And Lady Brielle’s life.

“I bring words from the earl!”

“Where’s my brother then?”

“At the castle. Awaiting.”

“I’ll na’ give her over unless I have Iain.”

“The earl is aware of it. ’Tis why he sent me. You doona’ care if I join you?” The man squatted at the bank, pulled off his boots, and stepped into the stream. “’Tis powerful cold, your Grace.”

“’Tis deadly, as well.” Gavynn slashed at the air before returning the blade to her throat.

“I am a man of God.”

“You’ll still bleed.”

“Ah. Therein lies a truth.” The friar raised a hand and pointed a finger in the air. “You dare na’ kill me. Or her. Because of your brother.”

The man took a step closer. It didn’t look easy. Gavynn noted how the water darkened and weighed down the cassock he wore.

“Have you na’ wondered why there was no ransom demand for Iain?”

Gavynn twisted the sword hilt, sending glints on to the water from the torches they carried, letting the steel speak for him.

“The earl decided it served little purpose. He’s tired of ceaseless wars and killing with you and your kind.”

“My kind? You’re Scot, too, Father.”

The friar smiled. “’Tis true enough. I’ve also seen too much of war and killing a-tween the Sassenach and us. The earl has decided to change it. Using her. The woman you hold.”

“Call it true, old man. She’s his daughter,” Gavynn answered.

“You ken that?”

“’Tis known the earl’s daughter has beauty, alongside a tongue of spikes.”

“And you dinna’ wonder at why she was there? Easy to reach? Ripe for the kidnap?”

“She has a mouth of spikes. As I just spoke.”

The friar chuckled. The others might have, as well. Brielle wasn’t breathing. Or it was so slight he couldn’t feel it.

“The earl tired of her refusals to wed. So … he selected a bridegroom for her. And sent her to the dungeons to consider her refusal.”

Gavynn inclined his head to one side. “My brother, Iain?”

The friar stepped closer, moving his arms against the water for the movement. “Perhaps. I’m not privy to the workings of the earl’s mind. All I ken is that he’s verra satisfied with events. Verra.”

The man was smacking his lips and rubbing his hands as if to demonstrate. Gavynn swallowed and lowered his chin, touching minutely on Brielle’s head before moving away.

“The earl believes a much more suitable union is with you.”

“I canna’ marry her. I’m wed.” Gavynn tried a bluff.

“Nae longer. You’re widowed. A season past.”

Gavynn felt his shoulders twitch slightly.

“You need forgive me, Laird MacEuann, but you doona’ have the choice. Look.”

The friar motioned again with his finger. Gavynn twisted, taking Brielle with him and swishing water. Now he knew where his Honour Guard had gone. As well as the men he’d hired. They were bundled into a group encircled by countless archers, all poised with bows pulled taut, arrows readied. Gavynn felt an emotion close to fear. And then defeat. The combination weakened a man. He’d thought them long vanquished. He could feel it happening now, though, sapping strength. He’d been hooked, reeled in, and netted like a salmon. The worst was that he’d done it to himself.

All of it.

“You do see? You’ll marry the Lady Brielle … right now. And in exchange your brother will be freed. And wouldn’t we all be better off moving from this water first? Although I’m na’ averse to wedding you both right here … but ’tis powerful cold for the consummation. All of that aside … your roasting sup is making my mouth water.”

Gavynn lowered his sword, hefted Brielle up against him, and worked at controlling the rage making his heart thump, his muscles tense, and smearing his vision with red. He knew he wasn’t successful.

“Verra well, Father. I’ll wed with her. But from shore. Attired in my feile-breacan. As is proper.”

“And the consummation afterwards?”

“Doona’ force it, Father. I’m warning you. I’ll wed her, and then I’ll bed her. But there’ll be nae witness. Or you’ll be responsible for what ensues.”

Gavynn didn’t care if the friar agreed or not. He was beyond it.

If Brielle could’ve halted her hearing, she would have. Long before the acid-toned vows Gavynn spoke during the ceremony that included her father’s Man-At-Arm to speak for her, and well before the words pronouncing them wed. Deafness would be a blessing. Or oblivion. Despite everything she’d fought against, she was being wed against her will. Exactly as Father had ordered, and to the man he’d aimed for.

Brielle realized the extent of their treachery while standing motionless and silent at the Highlander’s side, suffering shivers caused by more than a wet under-dress, covered over with a plaid blanket. It was as clear as the night sky above them. She’d been naïve and blind. She’d known the king needed Highlanders at his court. The most powerful clans. The fiercest warriors.

That was why she’d been sent to the dungeons for arguing; the true reason she’d been put in that particular cell; the purpose behind the marks weakening the stone. They’d planned this. All of it. The cunning amazed her even as the success of it stunned.

She should feel anger and shock. Hatred. Disgust. Embarrassment. Humiliation. Brielle tried to find even one of those. And failed. It would be easier if the man they’d forced to her side wasn’t this particular one. Gavynn MacEuann was more male than she knew existed. He affected her more in the one day she’d known him than anyone else had managed. Just standing beside him, she felt him. Everything seemed to spark a reaction; an unbidden glimmer of desire and passion; a stir of longing. Yearning. She was at a full tremble when he turned, watching the friar bind their hands together, blessing their union. Her fingers were cold. She wondered if he noticed. Brielle dared the tiniest glance up before getting held. An ocean wave of noise went through her ears, her heart fluttered about like a caged bird, and his fingers tightened on hers. She heard the words pronouncing their union. Until death.

And then she heard all kinds of things. Intruding. Frightening. Extolling. Shouting.

Something was yelled about requirements being fulfilled. Sending word. Gaining Iain MacEuann. Above that, Brielle heard calls for a bedding ceremony, sending her heart to the bottom of her belly, pounding weakness through her from there. Jeering happened. Angered voices got louder. Arguing. Challenging. Blending into a cacophony of noise. And then without warning, laughter erupted. Like a bubble bursting. Someone started singing, the thump of a keg getting opened sounded. Ale got dipped out, mugs tippled.

And then all of it got obliterated by the sight, feel and smell of her new husband pulling at her, using the bond of their hand. Brielle seemed rooted in place. Unmoving. His visage grew larger. His frame more immense. The feel of ground beneath her bare feet faded, changing to a cloud substance.

Someone yelled about consequences. Proof. It got answered with a man’s word being his bond, and the laird had already given it. She heard more angered voices about blood proof … and then someone said to hush and watch what was happening and they’d not need witness. Nor further argue.

Her humanity was replaced with a reality that was Gavynn. His chest felt chiselled from stone, his belly cut from rock-hard ropes of muscle, and his shoulders might be blocks of flesh-covered iron. Brielle was crushed to all of it, breathing every inhalation with him as the din about them grew and then ebbed. And then grew again.

Brielle felt stewed, as if she’d drunk a tankard of their strongest ale; heated, as if she knelt before an open flame; adrift, as if the berth in his arms were a cradle. Alive. Tingly aware. She’d been lifted; her knees arched over his forearm, while the other supported her back; mesmerized in place by light green eyes that glowed whenever torchlight touched them.

Laughter came in spurts about them; ribald and lewd, loud and full. More murmurs of voices. Speaking of lust being a grand thing. It excelled through the most acrimonious of unions. Covered hate. Tempted angels from their perches. It was a panacea for all ills. Hatred. Dislike. Marriage to an enemy. Toasts were spoken, heralding great things of progeny … especially given the virility of the husband. That remark got more swells of laughter.

Music started; first as a melodic strain from a lute, leading men to sing in off-key voices. A horn joined; drums. The addition of bagpipes only added to the melee encircling them, making a whorl of noise with Gavynn at the centre of it.

Brielle barely heard anything. Her entire sphere was Gavynn, his breathing harsh and quick against her forehead, his eyes intent. Dangerous. He ducked slightly, swivelled, and passed through a tent flap, without releasing her gaze and without blinking. She’d never felt so odd. Tense. Primed. Needful. Brielle licked at her bottom lip before pulling it into her mouth. His eyes dropped there for the briefest moment before he bent forward, releasing her to an unsteady stand on the fabric of a pallet.

“Can you ride?”

He was sideways to her, adjusting clothing and grabbing at weaponry slung in pegs on the walls. Tucking wicked-looking knives along his belt, slinging a bow across his back where it joined his scabbard, ignoring her.

“R-r-ride?”

“Can you sit a horse or na’?”

“Now?”

“Aye. Now.”

His words were curt. Angered. Causing a flurry of emotion all over. Sending tears if she didn’t get them staunched quickly enough. Brielle locked every limb in the fight against them. And hid it with a nod.

“Good. Here.”

He flung a pouch at her. Brielle missed it and got a snorted sound from his lips as she reached for it.

“You need to hurry, Wife. We’ve na’ much time.”

Wife? Brielle blinked tears into existence on her cheeks, then wiped at them as quickly as she could. It was bad enough he didn’t wish intimacy with her, without feeling how it rankled. It would be immeasurably worse if he saw … and guessed. Yet despite her efforts, more stupid moisture cursed her eyes, and that got more wiping.

“We may yet catch them!”

“Catch … them?” She should’ve kept the question unsaid. The sound of his movements halted momentarily. She knew why. He had heard her fighting tears.

“Reeb. My brother. Going about the war I ordered.”

Brielle blinked more tears down her cheeks. Used the woven material of the pouch to absorb them. Nodded again. Swallowed. Barely kept from sobbing.

“Do you need an assist?”

She shook her head. He went to a knee, one of their short thin knives in his hand. The blade paused. And then a hand came into her vision, cupping her chin and raising her face. Brielle shut her eyes.

“You … cry?”

She shook her head again. She didn’t trust her voice not to howl with horridness. It had to be the effects of incarceration; going without food, water, or rest; being kidnapped; forced to wed a barbarian … anything but this rejection. Anything.

He dropped her chin. She watched him slice his forearm, opening a cut that immediately welled blood. He swiped it in large swooping motions on to the pallet; ripped a strip of plaid from his hem; bound it tightly on to the wound; tied it with his free hand, all the while punctuating his movements with vicious-toned words.

“You cry without reason. I’m na’ a bad choice to husband. There are many families wishful of my hand, should I offer. And look. I am full cursed. Again. There. We’ve consummated this. Now, come. A-fore we’re stopped.”

Fresh tears obliterated the reddish streaks on the pallet. She blinked but more came. Filling and refilling her eyes to the point of madness.

He sighed. Heavily. The next moment she was lifted, being jostled about as he slipped through a back opening of the tent. The jog to his horse was worse, as was the feel of him behind her, pulling her close, and clicking his tongue.

Her tears slowed when they reached open moors, before dissolving to hiccups of effort. Brielle had never been so exhausted. Limp. Drained. She felt his legs tightening on the horse’s sides, the long strides that rocked her in place, Gavynn’s heavy breath touching her nose with precise rhythm. All combined to total security.

And then she felt absolutely nothing.

Five

He heard Reeb before he saw him. It wasn’t difficult. Clansmen were about the chores of feeding a group of battle-hardened men, pushing a wheeled siege tower towards their objective, while an onager gave them trouble in the sodden fields, carving at a downed tree in rhythm that would ram the gates. He whistled the alert at his presence. The activity grew slack and then died away as Gavynn rode up, to where Reeb was atop the catapult, hammering lines into place so they could send missiles against Dillbin Castle walls.

Gavynn spurred the horse, held his wife closer, and galloped into the centre of camp, looking across and up at his brother.

“Reeb! Halt!”

Gavynn’s brother was an older image of Iain; immense, sturdily built, awe-inspiring … unless one saw him standing beside his older sibling. There any resemblance ended. Reeb had a head of red-blond hair and a beard to match. He was wearing little more than paint beneath his battle-scarred, faded feile-breacan, as were the others milling about. He stopped pounding at the onager bolt and turned.

“Good. You’re here. Right in time. Help me with this!”

“Call off the siege.”

Reeb’s jaw split, parting his beard. And then the shock transferred to his voice, proving he possessed the MacEuann power of speech. “What?”

The word roared through the early morn camp, stopping anyone still working. It didn’t affect the woman in Gavynn’s arms in the slightest. He knew why: exhaustion. He’d faced it often enough.

“You heard me. Call it off.”

“The man will na’ release Iain!”

“He will now. I have his daughter.” Gavynn tilted his head towards the unconscious woman in his arms.

“What wizardry is this?” Reeb jumped down, sinking into ground that was full saturated, and then stepping towards Gavynn’s horse. He looked from the bundle in Gavynn’s arms back to him. “Where’s your Honour Guard?”

“Last seen, they were splitting a keg with Dillbin’s troops.”

“Good news! The castle will be unguarded. You hear that, lads?”

“I ordered it called off, Reeb. I meant it.”

His brother gave a huge sigh. “I already sent word of what he’ll face once we break through.”

“Nae need.”

“The man has na’ even answered! He’s the basest coward. You expect me to accept that? And back off my demands?”

Gavynn shook his head, getting a whiff of her hair. “The man possesses cunning, Reeb. Mount your men and ride with me. He’ll open the gate willingly. You’ll see.”

Reeb sucked in his belly, puffed out his chest, and looked angered. “’Twill na’ matter which MacEuann he faces, brother. The man is Sassanach. Overly boastful, and full-bold. He does na’ ken what it means to face us. He’ll na’ open those gates.”

“He will. I’m his new son-by-law.”

This time Reeb’s jaw completely dropped. Gavynn couldn’t help his smile.

“Up, my Lady! Up. You can’t sleep much longer … although heaven knows, you have need.” The cheerful words accompanied movement about the room, pulling drapes and opening shutters. “Now Elspeth. Mary. Direct the freemen about the bath. Before the fireplace. And be quick on it!”

Brielle opened her eyes to a coverlet, embroidered all over with stitches she’d designed and executed, using thread of a pristine white against the ecru-shaded linen. She lifted her head, groaned at the ache that happened, and dropped back to her pillow. It smelled fresh. Clean. And she’d slept on her belly. Face-down. That was totally foreign and made her neck hurt, too.

“You needn’t rush it, my Lady. There’s plenty of time a-fore the banquet.”

“Banquet?” Brielle addressed the word to her pillow, moving numbed arms in position for a roll to her side. Or something. Her mind was in denial of what her senses told her. She was in her own chamber, her own maid in attendance. All of it impossible.

“Aye. A grand affair. I vow, there’s not been such goings-on since your dear mother passed on, God rest her soul. Why … the preparations alone are mind-spinning. They’ve got more game meats roasting than we had spits for. They had to construct more out on the list, where the smell rouses more than one appetite. And for certain the cook staff is flustered, what with orders to prepare all sorts of tempting breads and puddings. The aleswoman is beside herself. She’s had to break into the stock for enough brew. Even her mead. And you know that woman brews a stout mead.” There was the sound of smacking lips. “’Twill be quite the affair. His Lordship even hired real musicians this time. Not like that horrid Arran fellow from the other night. That man can’t play a pipe to save his arse!”

The maid chuckled at her own jibe, and then sent a scraping sound through the chamber. Brielle rotated her head and watched her privacy screen get set up. Just like normal. As if she hadn’t left this room four days ago with a cowl about her for warmth and an escort of guards on her way to the dungeon. Brielle groaned.

“Here, Lady Brielle. I’ve brought you a bit of that mead. Warmed. Just as you like it. It’ll be just the thing. You’ll see. We’ll have you up and dressed in your finery for presentation in no time.” Brielle was on her side, and then she was working at sitting up, all of it accompanied by massive ache that had no centre. She scooted back into layers of pillows fronting her headboard, accepted the mug of steamed liquid and sipped. And then she looked over at her maid.

“Presentation?” The word was low-toned and harsh. It was a good thing she’d swallowed the mead, otherwise she’d possess no voice at all. Brielle frowned. Sipped.

“Your new husband ordered it so.”

Her throat revolted and Brielle choked, coughed and then had to wipe the moisture from her cheeks. Through it all, she could feel ache spreading. She knew where it originated now and hated everything about it. She didn’t dare feel anything for him. She couldn’t. And nothing that could be labelled as love. It wasn’t warranted. It wasn’t feasible. It wasn’t possible.

And she knew she lied.

“The MacEuann is a prime catch. Your father is announcing it to all. Has sent word to the king! He’s proud of you, My Lady. You’ve gone and captured the MacEuann laird!”’

“’Tis a shame he doesn’t want me. Is Father announcing that?”

“What nonsense is this? You’re an heiress! MacEuann’s been assessing your dowry all afternoon. What man wouldn’t want that?”

“I said he doesn’t want me. Not the riches that come with my hand.”

The maid stopped her fussing, put her hands on her hips and regarded Brielle. “He looked full pleased to me.”

“When?” Brielle lifted the mug and took a sip.

“I was here when he carried you in, held real close. He placed you with extra care. Stood looking at you, and I’m telling you. He sure had the look of wanting his bride. Now come. Drink up. We’ve got to bathe and dress, and that water is na’ getting any warmer while you tarry.”

Brielle sipped at her mead and regarded her maid. And hoped.

No afternoon had seemed longer or more tedious; filled with looking over the castle, examining the treasury, listening to everything that came with Brielle’s hand. As if they hadn’t already wed, satisfying both families’ honour. Gavynn was bored before reaching the armoury, long before a tour of the battlements, looking at the land claimed as a demesne, and nothing kept him from swaying from foot to foot when they examined the stables. It was Brielle’s hand that mattered, not what came with it.

Gavynn followed the steward’s words, hiding the sense of anticipation just beneath the surface. It had been there when he’d awakened, and it just kept growing. Preparing. Readying. Going to a dizzying increase of pulse-beat whenever he thought of seeing her again. He had no choice but to temper it. And then hide it.

And now, here he was, at the time when the meats would be removed from the Great Hall, and his new wife had yet to even show herself. Gavynn put another tasteless bite in his mouth, chewed it and glanced at Iain, looking pale and thin in a position beside Reeb. Gavynn knew the lad expected and dreaded punishment for being the catalyst behind this marriage. Iain didn’t know there wouldn’t be any. And Gavynn wasn’t saying. Yet.

He smiled slightly at his brother’s discomfiture. Such a thing was punishment enough for being caught reaving without taking a clansman for assist.

The slightest change alerted Gavynn of Brielle’s entrance. A ripple went along the crowded tables below him, lifting man after man to his feet. Silently. In homage. Gavynn half-stood as well, despite being on an elevated dais. Then he settled back into an indolent position, as if she meant little. He couldn’t do anything about the increase of heart-beat as Lady Brielle neared, wearing a silver-cast satin that shimmered in the torch-light, while the same shade of veil trailed from the point of her headdress. It framed and highlighted her beauty. Needlessly.

Despite the hold he exerted, Gavynn couldn’t prevent a lurch towards her … as if beckoned. As if she actually wanted him. It also evidenced how little he’d managed to temper his own desire. The anticipation was humming through him, sending frustration with it. Gavynn shook in place. This was much worse than his first wedding. He’d been eighteen then, and forced as well. His bride had turned her nose up at him, too, but it hadn’t felt like this. He’d had to force his feet to her bedchamber. This time, he’d be doing the opposite: running away.

Gavynn rubbed his palms along his thighs, moving wool plaid with the motion. He missed her approach due to it, but he knew it was happening. Silence seemed to fill the area about her, a reverent kind of sound. And then she was there. At his side. Being seated with a swish of satin, the slightest scent hovering about, sending his senses into alarm and fright, and kicking his heart into sporadic, heavy thumps that had nothing rhythmic to them. He turned his head to watch as she put a morsel to her mouth. Chewed it. Swallowed. His throat made an answering gulp. And then she spoke.

“My Laird?”

Her whisper carried even more sweetness! Gavynn tightened his fingers about each knee before turning fully to her and forced his gaze to hers. The moment their eyes touched, she jerked hers away, putting dark lashes against her cheeks.

He reached for his tankard. “Aye?”

“I need to ask you … something.”

Her voice was hesitant and light. It was going to haunt his every waking moment! It already was, he decided.

“Ask it,” he replied curtly.

“I need you to keep silent … a bit … longer. Please?”

Gavynn wasn’t pretending the confusion over her words. His entire body suffered it. He grunted what went for an answer.

“He m-may not … release your b-brother … if he … knows.”

Her stammered words tied him in a thousand knots and then pulled at each of them. Gavynn lifted the drinking vessel to his lips to disguise the shake. “Kens what?”

“That I … displease you.”

Displease him? Gavynn choked, felt the sear, and forced the cough away by sheer will. It made his eyes water and his throat burn, but it was done.

“What?”

The croak of voice carried his surprise. He put the tankard back down with a slam, blinked moisture out of his eyes, and watched her look out over the assemblage, the slightest pout to her lips.

“You were forced to – to … wed me.”

“What of it?” And God curse the effect she has on me! Gavynn held his sporran in place with both hands before it alerted any who looked of his inability to control his own desire for his new wife. He waited two full heartbeats. Then she moved, tipping her chin to meet his gaze full on, stopping every other sound in the room.

“I … don’t understand, then.”

“What?”

“Last eve … when you – you––”

Her voice trailed off. His pulse ramped up, sending rushing water noise through each ear. “When I … what?” he prompted.

“You forged proof of … the consummation.”

He guessed from her lips what the words were. It wasn’t possible to hear them. “I will na’ take an unwilling woman to my bed, Lass. Ever.” His answer was cold. Curt.

“You … thought me … unwilling?”

Gavynn went still. Coiled both hands into fists about his sporran. Gulped.

“Aye.”

“Oh, no. I mean … I––” She lifted dark eyes to his, and blushed. He watched the pink suffuse her cheeks. “I don’t know … what to say,” she offered.

Gavynn cleared his throat. “Here is what you say. ‘I am na’ averse to wedding with you, Gavynn MacEuann. And I am willing to tupp with you as well.’”

She gasped. He watched her silver-satin-encased bosom rise with it. “I can’t say that!”

“Infer it, then.” He was stirring. Growing heavy and hard for her right then. And right there. He couldn’t help it.

She twisted her fingers together. Looked away. Flitted back to look at him. Away again.

“Perhaps you could just nod, Wife. That would suffice for the same.”

She nodded and went even redder. The rush overtaking his body was severe enough he shook with it. She lifted her gaze to his. Stilled. He watched her eyes widen at what she saw.

“I’ve a great need of privacy. And little need of food. Or drink. You agree?”

She nodded.

“Good.”

“But … the guests.” She waved a hand out towards the faceless crowd.

“Can finish without us. Rory! Greggor! Reeb!” Gavynn yelled the names as he stood.

“My Laird?”

There was reaction happening about him. Laughter. Jibing. Hilarity. Gavynn wasn’t facing it. Maybe tomorrow, when tales of his eagerness would probably get written into love-imbued sonnets. Maybe then. But not now.

“See us to my chamber. Now!”

She was walking at first, taking steps so small they irritated with delay. Gavynn had her in his arms before they reached the archway leading to the towers. Much to everyone’s further amusement.

Six

They’d given him the largest tower room, where a fireplace warmed the interior. Brielle kept her face firmly into his neck the entire time it took to reach there. She knew the sounds of entertainment filling the great room they’d left, felt the firm grasp holding her for a jog up the stairs, heard the slam of the door, felt the instability of shaky legs on a wooden floor, and then watched as he dropped the bolt, sealing them in.

Alone.

Her legs were trembling, threatening a drop as he approached, moving with steady silent strides towards her, before stopping within reach, his chest expanding with huge gulps of breath.

“I … uh …” Her voice was missing. Brielle swallowed.

“Doona’ say anything. Please?”

“But, I—”

“You doona’ obey the slightest thing! I warn you, Wife.” He moved a step closer, taking up her entire vision, while both hands reached, stopping just shy of clasping her about the waist.

“You’ve a voice to melt ice, breath that torments, and words that steal wits. I’ve little left to fight it. Verra little.”

“Fight … what?”

“This!”

He had her yanked into an embrace, her feet off the floor, and his lips at her forehead. Heavy heartbeats pumped from his chest into hers, while each breath cooled heated cheeks. Brielle’s heart met each and every beat. Her breaths mingled with his, and then he trailed his mouth to hers, taking her lips in a kiss unlike any before. If she could have, Brielle would’ve swooned. She knew it would feel like the disembodied sensation of him carrying her to his enclosed bed, tossing her without thought on to the coverlet and following the motion with his body.

She felt her shoulder strap slide, warmth following as his fingers trailed her arm, pushing fabric. He went to a bow shape to press his kiss to her throat. His hands shoving and sliding fabric, until the naked awareness of her nipples met the linen of his shirt. Brielle gasped, moved her hands to his shoulders, rubbing and massaging and gaining vast reservoirs of wet and want that started at her core and spread from there. And then he was sending the torment to higher levels, using his tongue to trace a trail of ice and fire right to where her nipples were hard darts of ache. And then he lapped at a nipple, sending her body into an arch of sensation and wonder.

Brielle melted. Throbbed. Pulsed. Careened. And sent a cry until her breath ran out and she had to gain another. His chuckle made the sensation worse. So much worse, Brielle grabbed at his arms to hold him in place. Was still there as he lifted, brought his kiss back to hers, and lapped where she couldn’t gain enough.

His belt fell, landing momentarily at where the satin pooled at her waist, before he shoved it aside. His kilt followed, as a sail of fabric she barely saw. Brielle was beyond it. Her arms were wrapped about his chest, glued there to keep the sensations of both nipples to a livable level. Panted with him. And then accepted his weight.

Her skirts tore. She heard it as well as felt the release of material separating their loins, and then she felt the strangeness of him. Hard. Thick. Hot. Huge.

“Open for me, Love. Open …”

The whisper trembled through her ear, sent in gasps of breath that slithered over where he’d lifted in a push-up from her. His hair had come untied as well, leaving strands to brush and tickle her cheeks, her nose … her lips. Brielle held on.

“Wrap your legs about me.”

He lowered his head, into the space beside her shoulder, using it as a fulcrum to release his hands. Brielle felt them at her hips, lifting her. Holding her in place so he could slide against her innermost area, toying. Exciting. Stimulating. Inciting and agitating and creating a whorl of pleasure unlike anything she’d ever known.

Brielle went wild.

Surges of absolute bliss flew into her, and she shoved back, accepting and expanding, and then learning absolute agony.

“Easy, lass.”

“It … hurts, Gavynn. It—”

“I ken, Love. ’Tis only the first time. Truly, and – Lord! Doona’ do that again!”

Brielle’s eyes went wide as red suffused every bit of his flesh. His entire body went tense, taut, and statue-still, trembling with a vastness that moved her with it. A long groan fled his lips, pushed with his exhalation. Gavynn dropped his head, found her mouth, and sucked every breath she gave.

Brielle’s moan matched his, her tongue as well, rinsing the pain into a memory with every lunge he made. Every pull from the embrace of her flesh. Return. Over and over, with increasing need and energy fuelling each thrust.

Brielle clung harder, holding to every bit of the wild thing that was Gavynn as he bucked and heaved. Her arms and legs strained, filled with the ache of holding, her mouth moved, sucking on the delicate skin just below his ear, while her entire experience filled with tension. Building. Rising. Sending flickers of excitement with every touch of his body into hers. Creating tendrils of sensation that kept coming. And just when she didn’t think she could catch another breath, everything erupted.

Brielle cried aloud, her eyes clenched tight as waves of wonder flowed over her, taking her higher than the room could contain and wider than the sky could manage. And keeping her there for entire heartbeats of time while he continued pumping into her, sending waves atop the others. And just when she thought she might die of the ecstasy, he ceased all movement.

Brielle held on as Gavynn’s entire body tightened as he groaned, long and low, his body heaving and pulsing against hers. And then he stopped, opened his eyes to look down at her, and then collapsed; rolling at he did so, and taking her with him.

His heartbeat was at thunder level, hurtful to her ear, while each breath was heavy, matching hers and sending his muscled belly into hers. He was covered in a thin film of wet, making a godlike creature that glowed with each flare from the fire. Brielle had never seen or experienced anything so beautiful. She reached with a finger and trailed it alongside his face, and then traced his lips. He kissed it.

“Gavynn?”

“Aye?”

One eye slit open, catching her rapt gaze, and then his body pulsed alongside hers, moving her with it.

“That was …” Brielle stopped. She didn’t know how to describe the ecstatic feeling still filling her.

“I dinna’ hurt you overmuch?” He asked.

Brielle’s eyes widened. “You meant to hurt?”

He smiled, showing every bit of handsomeness and making her heart lurch. She was frightened for what that could mean. And with a man she barely knew. She watched him lift a lock of her hair and take it to his lips. And place a kiss reverently on the hair strands, his eyes never leaving hers.

“Nae. Never. The first time always pains, love. ’Tis na’ much a man can do to prevent such. ’Twill na’ pain the next time.”

“Next … time?”

His smile widened. “I’m verra certain there’ll be a next time. And a time after that. And then more. That is how a man shows his wife he’s verra much in love with her.”

“In love?” Her voice was missing. It got lost in tears that obliterated him until she blinked them out of the way.

The smile spread to his eyes. “Damn my tongue for admitting it, but aye. I’m in love with you, Wife, or I’m ill. Either frightens me.”

It wasn’t the best time to cry, but that didn’t stop her. Brielle would tell him later why. For now he had to guess it from her happy embrace.