Between a Highlander and a Hard Place

  Also by Mary Wine

  HIGHLAND WEDDINGS

  Highland Spitfire

  Highland Vixen

  Highland Hellion

  Highland Flame

  THE SUTHERLANDS

  The Highlander’s Prize

  The Trouble with Highlanders

  How to Handle a Highlander

  The Highlander’s Bride Trouble

  HOT HIGHLANDERS

  To Conquer a Highlander

  Highland Hellcat

  Highland Heat

  COURTLY LOVE

  A Sword for His Lady

  STEAM GUARDIAN

  A Lady Can Never Be Too Curious

  A Captain and a Corset

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  Books. Change. Lives.

  Copyright © 2018 by Mary Wine

  Cover and internal design © 2018 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover art by Alan Ayers

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Apart from well-known historical figures, any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

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  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  An Excerpt from Wicked Highland Ways

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  One

  Grant Tower, 1579

  “Hiding in me chambers again?” Brenda Grant was a beauty and had a lyrical voice to match. Symon didn’t take any pleasure in it, ripping his bonnet off and throwing it onto a table before he landed in one of the huge chairs she had placed in her receiving chamber just for his visits.

  The man had cracked two chairs before she’d ordered new ones made.

  “How fortunate that we are first cousins,” Brenda continued as she poured some whisky into a glass and offered it to him. “Otherwise, the gossips would say we are lovers.” Her lips twitched as she tilted her head to the side. “No’ that I am saying no one says such a thing, mind ye.”

  Symon glared at her and then at the delicate glass in his hand before tossing the whisky into his mouth and setting the glass on the table.

  “I take the look on yer face to mean the bride hunting is not going well?”

  Symon drummed his fingers on the table. “I’ve a fine, sharp memory, Brenda. The day is going to come when ye are the one being—”

  Brenda humphed at him. In private, she didn’t much care for how inappropriate interrupting the laird might be. He’d come to her chambers, after all. “I have been wed. Done my duty, and now I will have no more of it.”

  “I wed as well.” Symon reached over and refilled his glass. But his taste for the liquor was gone, and he left it sitting on the table as he started to brood, the specter of his wife dragging him down.

  More than one member of the clan had claimed they’d seen her ghost in the passageways.

  “Do not.” Brenda moved closer to Symon, reaching out to grasp his hand. “Ye must begin living again.”

  Symon tilted his head and eyed her. “I am no’ the only one who needs to listen to that advice.”

  Brenda didn’t care for the reprimand; however, she acknowledged it as her due. “There is a difference between us. Yer wife was taken by cruel fate.”

  “And yer husband was just cruel,” Symon finished for her.

  “Ye do nae become the property of yer spouse when ye take marriage vows,” Brenda answered bitterly.

  “This castle will always have open doors for you. If the man ye wed is in fact a bastard once he’s won yer hand, there will be sanctuary for ye here.” Symon spoke clear and firmly, a promise in his tone.

  A promise she held dearer than all the gold in the world.

  Silence hung between them for a long moment. Time enough for them both to feel the chill in the air. They were the last of their line, and the clan looked to them to maintain order by leaving a clear heir. No one wanted fighting over who would be Symon’s successor.

  It was more than just securing the bloodline. The castle needed life breathed back into it. Hope needed to be kindled before there was nothing left but crumbling stone. Their line was dying; both of them had wed and had no children. And now both of them were widowed as well. Perhaps if Symon’s wife had not died in childbirth, Brenda might allow herself to be free of the burden of making sure their blood continued.

  “I will join ye below,” she said softly.

  Symon slowly nodded. “So now ye will shame me if I do nae go as well.”

  “It is no’ a matter of shame, for we have both faced our duty in the past.” Brenda took a moment to check her appearance in a mirror. Behind her, Symon stood, the pleats of his kilt falling down to just above his knees. “Now ’tis more an act of desperation, for the truth is we are both entombed alive in this chamber. For all that I have no desire to wed again, sitting here is no’ much better.”

  Symon grunted as he pulled his cap on. “Wait until you get a look at the men sitting at our high table, sweet cousin. Ye will understand true desperation once ye sit and listen to them trying to auction their kin to one of us.”

  “I have no doubt.” Brenda took a deep breath and went through the door Symon held open. “Just as I do nae doubt ye came up here because ye have it in the back of yer head to see me wed first and save yerself from the same fate.”

  He made a low noise in the back of his throat.

  Brenda shrugged.

  They were a fine pair and the only kin either had left, so better to be united.

  * * *

  “I adore you, Athena.”

  She believed him. Galwell’s eyes were full of appreciation as he reached out and delicately fingered one of her curls. A tiny one had escaped her caul and was hanging in front of her earring.

  A love lock…

  “You are simply perfect,” he murmured as he trailed his fingertip across her jaw to her chin. He lifted her face, leaning down to press a kiss against her lips.

  Her uncle cleared his throat.

  Athena released a little sigh as she opened her eyes. Her uncle was working at his bench, carefully crafting wax into what would one day become a tiny flower made of gold for one of his clients.

  “I cannot wait for our wedding day,” she muttered s
oftly to Galwell.

  Galwell was dressed smartly in the latest fashion. His slops were paned and worked with lace. The doublet was made of silk and edged with pearls. He had the top two buttons open at his throat, exposing the blackworked collar of the shirt she’d gifted him when he’d asked her uncle to allow them to wed.

  Her cheeks warmed as she saw the linen collar settle into position on him. She’d spent hours with it in her own hands, making it an intimate thing to see it against Galwell’s skin.

  He offered her an elaborate reverence, stretching out his leg in front of her to show off his trim calf encased in a knitted stocking.

  “I must away to court,” he announced as he retrieved his hat from where it rested on a table nearby. “Elizabeth Tudor enjoys having her courtiers dance attendance upon her.”

  Galwell settled the hat on his head, moving toward the door. Beyond it, his personal servants shifted as they noted their master’s imminent arrival.

  Galwell was a blue blood. As such, he had obligations to his family’s name and reputation. As his wife, she would be expected to support him in gaining the Queen’s favor.

  “I will continue to practice my dancing diligently,” Athena promised. “The coin you pay the dance master is not being squandered, I assure you.”

  Galwell turned and sent her a small smile. “Yes, practice, my dear. I shall have you dance for me next time we dine together. You shall wear the cream-and-green dress.”

  Athena lowered herself in obedience as the manservant waiting outside the shop opened the door for his master, and Galwell was gone with a flip of his velvet cape.

  She felt her heart might burst. But her elation was cut short by her uncle’s stern look. “He will attend to the contracts, Uncle,” she assured her guardian. “Why else would he come to visit me if he was not sincere?”

  Her uncle was a strict man. But she had learned to respect his sternness in all things because he did so in order to ensure his family did not want. He had taken her in when her own parents had failed to think what might befall their tiny daughter when they both defied their families to wed in secret. Her noble father had been promptly cut off without a silver penny to his name, and her mother had died in child bed. Once her mother was dead and she only a daughter, her father had returned home to beg forgiveness for his disobedience, leaving her to fate and the mercy of her uncle.

  Her uncle, Henry, let out a little grumble. “You are dear to me, Athena. Do not begrudge me seeing to the duty of being a proper guardian.”

  She smiled warmly at him and lowered herself in truest sincerity. “I am fortunate beyond all riches to have you. You are always in my prayers.”

  He made another grumbling noise before sitting back down to work. “A good thing,” he said as he looked up and bestowed one of his rare smiles on her. “For I have spent my life making things of gold that feed naught but vanity. The Lord will have something to say about my lack of Christian dedication.”

  Athena bit her lip to stop from arguing.

  If they were in private, she might be allowed to speak her mind, for her uncle had always allowed her the freedom to do so. However, there were three apprentices in the workshop. Their eyes were on their work, but she’d be a fool to disrespect her uncle within their hearing.

  Her uncle sent her a wink. “Off to your studies. Soon you will be a wife and have to prove I have provided you with an education worthy of Galwell Scrope. He will need an accomplished wife. Make certain your French is flawless.”

  “Yes, Uncle.”

  She loathed French.

  Henry knew it quite well. However, her uncle was correct. Galwell required a wife who could run his estate and make a good showing in front of the Queen.

  So she would persevere and learn French.

  And soon, oh so very soon, she would be Galwell’s wife.

  * * *

  Brenda and Symon sat together in the evening as the sun faded and the castle became quiet.

  Deathly still…

  “Ye do nae have to tell me I must decide on one of them,” Symon muttered as he lifted a mug and downed the cider. “It is me duty.”

  “Ye have time.”

  Symon was making ready to take another drink when she spoke. He stopped, mug halfway to his lips, to look at her with a raised eyebrow. “Have no’ ye been the one advising me no’ to tempt fate by putting the matter off for another season?”

  Brenda nodded. “The spring has not yet broken.”

  Beyond the walls, snow still lay on the ground. But the rivers had thawed, and frothy water flowing down from the melting snow could be heard through the open shutters.

  “Hmm,” Symon replied as he took the drink. “Are ye suggesting there may be other offers once the roads clear a bit?”

  “Aye. For ye made it clear last year that ye would be wedding this year.”

  “I did.” There was an unmistakable look of relief in his topaz eyes.

  “So.” Brenda reached for her mug and took a delicate sip. “It would be rash and perhaps even rude not to allow all the offers to arrive before making a choice.”

  “I’ve a feeling Bothan Gunn may be intent on a visit.”

  Brenda sent him a hard look. Symon merely raised his mug in a silent toast to her in response. “I’ll no’ have him,” she declared.

  Symon contemplated her. “Did ye no’ just advise me to no’ be hasty?”

  “It’s a very different matter, and ye know it well. Bothan Gunn has simply decided I shall be his. I know little of the man, and I shall no’ be claimed like a prize.” Brenda put her mug down and got up, her mind set.

  “Sneaking up on ye is no’ a simple matter. Admit the man earned some bit of respect for being able to do it too. Ye’re running away like a startled mare, and the man is no’ even here. Has he even kissed ye? If he did and it left ye cold, well, that is one matter. Yet if ye are to choose yer next husband for naught but passion, best ye consider how Bothan has managed to stir yers with only a single meeting.”

  His words stopped Brenda in her flight. She turned around so fast her skirts flared out before settling back down.

  “Think on that matter for a good long bit, Brenda.”

  “I do no’ need to contemplate Bothan Gunn at all,” she announced. Her voice was carrying, and she didn’t care if the other members of the clan heard her. Let them judge her as unbridled—she’d already done her duty and wed a horrible man for the sake of alliance.

  “He unsettled ye.”

  Three little words were all it took to undermine her determination. Of course it was because Symon had sworn to honor his father’s word that she was her own woman. He’d not force her to wed, but he would insist she stop hiding in her chamber.

  It was an agreement between them: to keep the other from drifting away from life.

  So Symon’s words were ones she could not dismiss because he cared only about her happiness. Symon raised his mug to her.

  “Good night to ye, Cousin. I thank ye for yer counsel today.”

  Brenda lowered herself, earning a few nods from the men sitting at the tables in the hall. Supper had been cleared away, but most of the men would sleep in the hall. As the weather warmed, more of them would find their way outdoors to huts near the fields. There would be weddings, and the fields wouldn’t be the only things ripening by the end of the summer.

  There would be babies in the fall.

  He’d never seen the face of his child. His wife had died before giving birth. One week she had been glowing with happiness, her belly round and large and their child kicking so hard he’d been able to feel it.

  A week later Tara was being laid to rest, her eyes sightless in death.

  The babe had been turned wrong and too large, or so the midwife told him.

  And it’s your duty to wed again…take another woman to your bed…to face the
same fate…

  Symon was no coward.

  At least, not when it came to facing a battle, a fight, or even the judgment of those men to whom he answered.

  But a woman…

  It was his place to protect his family.

  Everyone thought he still mourned because he’d grown to love his bride. It was partially true. For all that Tara’s and his had been a negotiated union, he had enjoyed her laughter and looked forward to joining her in their bedchamber.

  Was that love? Perhaps. It had been affection at least. And now, he was stuck facing fear. Perhaps fear was too strong a word. He was a man who knew when to be practical.

  Reluctance, then.

  And he truly was reluctant to bring another bride into his bed where she’d accept her duty. For certain he had the right to expect such devotion as the laird, but he admitted he found it distasteful to have a document written and sent off to a father who would pack his daughter up and deliver her.

  There was a coldness in the method that left him with a bitter taste in his mouth.

  Well, as Brenda had said, there was time yet before he would have to conform to what was expected of him. Duty was something he understood.

  He’d shoulder his load.

  * * *

  “Athena…”

  Galwell was calling to her. In the last light of the day, with the bells of the evening service ringing out behind her, Athena turned to see her beloved leaning out the door of his carriage. It rolled up to where she was, the footman jumping down and rushing around to open the door for his master.

  Galwell didn’t come out.

  “Join me for supper, Athena.”

  She wanted to.

  Galwell noticed her hesitation. His lips thinned with annoyance before he schooled his expression. “You don’t think I would try to lure you away without the permission of your uncle?”

  “Of course not.” A ripple of guilt went through her as she realized that was exactly what she’d been thinking.

  Galwell smiled at her. “Come…supper awaits.”

  The footman stood with a hand out to steady her as she climbed into the carriage. The door was narrow and the ceiling low. But the seat across from Galwell was padded, even the back of it. The moment she was inside, the footman closed the door and ran for his seat on the back of the carriage.