In the Warrior’s Bed Page 7

  Cullen snorted. “There’s been blood spilled near every season I can recall in me life by her father and his insistence that my father stole his bride.”

  “He’s going to be in a full rage when ye take his daughter as well.”

  Cullen shot Druce a deadly look. “McQuade should have thought about that afore he accused me of deflowering her in open court. It is my right to take her to the altar now that her father has said I took her maidenhead. That is the only thing that will save me from being labeled a blackguard.”

  “That’s a truth, sure enough, but ye’ll be the one that has to endure her as yer wife. Yer friends will understand if ye dinna shoulder that burden.”

  “I do not hold all of Scotland’s nobles as my friends.” Cullen slid a dirk into the top of his boot. He was arming himself for battle and Druce knew it well. “There must be fifty letters being written by those at court talking about me and my lack of honor. I wager few will take the time to debate the reasons.”

  He eyed the edge of his sword in silence, his full attention on the task of checking the blade for nicks. Druce held silent until Cullen sheathed the blade.

  “If that’s yer decision, I’m going with ye.” Druce reached for his own sword. “McKorey mentioned that he and a few of his men would be waiting outside the McQuade town house tonight.”

  Druce shrugged when Cullen gave him a confused look.

  “McKorey has as much reason to want that family laid low as the McJames do. The McQuades raid his land as often as yers. I hear Alarik was thinking of pressing the king for Bronwyn’s hand himself.”

  “She’s mine.”

  And the rest of Scotland could just forget that Bronwyn McQuade was born to a father who was a lying bastard that could not recall that he’d lost his bride thirty-five years ago through nothing but his own actions. His mother never lamented it. She’d loved his father until the day a battle wound took his life. His mother had followed her husband before a year passed. They had loved each other so strongly that death was not going to separate them.

  He refused to believe that he and Bronwyn couldn’t work out a decent marriage. His brother had married an English woman and managed to find love. Besides, Druce was right—his pride was stung. The sort of annoying pain that would never dull unless he did something about it. McQuade had called him a defiler of innocent maids so it would serve the man right if he did take Bronwyn to his bed.

  It was no more than the greedy, scheming laird deserved for his words. As for Bronwyn…she would adjust. His pride demanded action and Cullen intended to see the matter settled in his favor. The vicious gossip would transform overnight into words of praise when he stole Bronwyn and married her. If he didn’t, finding a good match would become much harder with his own reputation painted black by McQuade’s lies. No decent family would take him for a son-in-law because they’d think he was a marauder and defiler of any lass he came upon.

  As he’d come across Bronwyn…

  Chapter Four

  Locked away.

  Bronwyn felt her mouth go dry as she considered the men watching her. It was so strange the way she noticed them. It had never been a burning need of hers to roam or escape her kin, but seeing the burly retainers set to keep her inside her father’s town home, she missed the choice keenly.

  With a sigh she walked around the lower dining room. She was restless, so much so it was almost anxiety. There was no cause for her feelings but she could not cast them aside. Sleep felt like a torment best avoided as long as possible but she retreated to her tiny room to escape her brothers.

  Their stares reminded her of hungry rodents.

  But the room was too small to move around in. She could not even make eight paces before running into the wall and having to turn around. The shutter was open to allow fresh air into the house during the day. The fires used at night to warm the larger sleeping chambers left a thick haze of smoke in the hallways that the staff had to clear out each morning. Every shutter was opened to help the breeze sweep the house.

  A large splash from somewhere below her window drew her attention. Standing up onto her toes she peered down at the back of the house. Water glittered in the torch light. Two iron basket torches were set on either side of the kitchen door. Instead of a step, there was a ramp that led to the back door. It was more practical allowing for wheelbarrows to deliver heavy casks. The ramp also made it simple to cast used bath water out of the kitchen to flow down the gutter. There was a thick wall surrounding the back door to add security to the house. A wooden gate set into it had a sturdy wooden bar braced across it. The flicker from the torches shimmered off the bell hanging on the gate. There would be a cord that ran through the gate to the alley behind the house. Merchants could ring when they wanted to bring their wares into the kitchen. Only the master and his guests used the front door. There were no retainers at the kitchen door because of the barred gate.

  A bath sounded good. Bronwyn sighed. At least it would be better than trying to sleep.

  Cullen would be waiting in her dreams…

  A shiver shook her. She felt heat travel across the delicate skin of her face in another blush. It was absurd, the way her flesh responded to him when he was not even near. With a snort of distaste she picked up her hairbrush and began pulling the tie off the end of her braid. She needed to set her mind to forgetting the man. The men standing guard gave her all the information she needed. Her father was going to see her living under his roof until she died. Red Stone was set in the heart of McQuade territory. The walls had never been besieged much less breached.

  Sadness washed over her as she brushed her hair free. It fell around her in a soft cloud of honey silk. As she slipped her fingers down a portion of it, two tears escaped her eyes. No bridegroom would ever see her with her hair unbound. Somehow, knowing that was a hard fact, made it hurt. Perhaps she had been guarding a secret bit of hope that she might in fact marry, but now that was gone. Swept away by her own father’s powerful hand. And there were girls who lamented the fact they were not born the daughter of a laird.

  What was…was.

  Reaching for her small bundle of belongings, she found her clean chemise and stockings. Clean skin would be nice. Maybe she would even sleep after her bath. Opening her door, she peered into the hallway. She listened for the creaking of the wood floor but all was silent. Using soft steps, she headed toward the back stairs that the servants used to bring food up from the kitchens. They were narrow and dark with only two tin lanterns set to light them. There wasn’t even a door at the bottom; the steps simply ended in the kitchen.

  Two maids were sitting at a small table. Their voices were soft while they chatted. One worked a lump of pastry dough while the other chopped leeks. They both stood as she entered.

  “Evening, ma’am.”

  Only the older one spoke, the younger maid watching, her fingers gone still on the pastry.

  “I thought to bathe.”

  The younger girl dusted her hands off using her apron. She turned and pushed the iron bar that held large caldrons inside the fire pit over the flames. There was a faint sizzle as water that had been dripping down the side of the copper caldron connected with the heat of the fire.

  “Shall I build up the fire?”

  Bronwyn shook her head. The glowing embers suited her mood. Besides, she did not want to call attention to where she was. Perhaps it was a small thing, but knowing she was not being watched felt better.

  “There is no need to waste wood.”

  The maid took her words kindly, thinking her a frugal woman. With winter due to encase the city in snow and ice any day, being wasteful for one’s comfort was unwise. She’d heard that many a noble daughter lingered in their baths while huge fires blazed to keep them toasty warm.

  That had never been her lifestyle.

  But that was not something to lament. She was strong and sturdy. Her hands added to the good of everyone at Red Stone. The respect she had was respect well earned, not demanded like
her brothers often did.

  There was a rush of water. Bronwyn turned to watch water running down a wooden trough and into the tub sitting near the door. The maid waited until the tub was half full and then quickly pushed a thick slab of wood across the trough where it went through a window. Outside there would be a large rain barrel set up at the roof level. It would catch rain water and gravity would allow it to flow into the tub when the wooden shingle was removed.

  It was quite a modern bathing convenience.

  Only the hot water needed to be added. Bronwyn set about removing her clothing as the fire heated the water. She laid aside her skirt, doublet, and stays. Next came her stockings and boots. Placing her brush on the table top she pulled a bar of soap from the store box.

  When the copper kettle was steaming, the maids dipped large ladles into it. They added enough hot water to raise the level of water by half a foot. Reaching for the hem of her chemise, she pulled her last garment off. The maids had returned to their work. Having them in the kitchen did not bother her; bathing was rarely private.

  Sitting down in the tub, she worked the soap across her skin. She was oddly aware of the smooth texture of the water. Her nipples were far more sensitive than she could recall them ever being. Her body felt alive with some sort of anticipation. It made no sense at all, but when she rinsed her hair, the water stroked her cheeks, sending little ripples of pleasure through her.

  When she stood up, the night air brushed across her nude body, but she wasn’t cold. She felt bold and free. A blush stung her cheeks and she reached for the toweling quickly. There was wickedness twisting through her blood tonight. A taunting desire to immerse herself in thoughts of Cullen McJames and what a man did with a woman.

  Since she carried the charge of guilt, her mind wanted to know what the sin felt like. It would seem that she was as foolish as she was unlucky. Nothing good would come of her mental wonderings.

  She worked the fabric through her wet hair for many long minutes to remove as much water as possible. Lifting her clean chemise from the chair, she let it cover her body and reached for the hair brush. Standing close to the fire, she drew the bristles gently along the strands of her hair, lifting the strands so that the heat from the fire would dry them. Soon the linen of her chemise began floating gently around her knees and her hair became a soft cloud.

  She did love being clean. The church might call it wicked but she could not deny that she enjoyed the way her skin felt after a bath. With a sigh she reached for her stockings and covered her lower legs with them. She stepped into her ankle boots and laced them for the return trip to her room. At night the rats could make it into even well-kept town homes. In the crowded conditions of the city, the vermin were desperate to find food. Walking barefoot was an invitation to spread disease. Red Stone was much cleaner.

  A rush of cold air made her shiver when the back door was opened. But there was no splash of water against the cobblestones. A startled gasp from one maid made Bronwyn turn in a flutter of unbound hair. A hard body collided with hers, turning her around once more so that her back was pressed to his front. Fear spiked through her as she bucked wildly, a snarl rising from her throat.

  The sound never passed her lips. One hard hand sealed it inside her mouth. There was iron strength in that hand, such as she’d never felt. The dying firelight glittered off the spinning blade of a dirk as it sailed across the kitchen to embed its deadly blade several inches into the table a mere foot from the younger maid.

  “Nae one sound, lasses. Not a one or the next dirk goes through yer hand.”

  Recognition was instant. Her memory recalled Cullen McJames’s dark voice. Her fear died in a sizzle as her temper erupted. The maid’s eyes grew huge while they stared at the slowly vibrating handle of the dirk.

  Bronwyn jerked against the arm holding her, rage making her stronger. His grip slackened for a moment and she twisted violently, even biting at the hand lying across her mouth.

  There was a soft hiss from Cullen but his body twisted and moved at the same time. His hand slipped away from her mouth but gathered up most of her hair. He twisted it around his hand, jerking her head backward. She opened her mouth to yell but a wad of fabric was pushed between her open teeth, smothering the sound. His larger body pushed hers forward until she was pressed against the table, her hands becoming useless when he leaned his body weight against her back to imprison her against the hard surface of the table.

  “Now imagine my surprise to find ye here in the kitchen, lass.”

  Bronwyn spat the cloth out of her mouth only to feel a thick strip of leather sliding through her open teeth. Cullen tightened it down around her head, pulling some of her hair as he made sure her tongue was trapped and useless.

  “And here I thought I’d have to search through the house for ye.”

  A garbled sound made it past her gag. Cullen leaned down across her body, letting her feel his strength. His breath brushed against her ear, enraging her with how easily he subdued her.

  “Easy, lass. I’ve no desire to bruise ye.”

  Dark shadows moved past the kitchen. Blinking her eyes, she watched as men quickly bound the two maids without a squeak out of either of them. The ease and smoothness of their action enraged her further. She screamed behind her gag, pushing against the tabletop. There was a soft word in Gaelic from her captor before her arms were folded behind her in an iron grip.

  “I warned ye, Bronwyn.”

  There was no lament in his voice, only solid determination. More leather was wound around her wrists and a good way up her forearms before it was knotted firmly. He kept his body against her legs, pinning her to the table. Her head knocked against the hard surface because she refused to stop struggling. The pain from each collision only spurred her on. She bucked and jerked, snarling through the gag.

  “Such a temper.”

  She cursed when she heard the soft desire in his voice. How dare he? She suddenly stiffened to the point that every muscle felt as if it might snap. Cullen slid his hands down to her waist and over the curves of her hips before continuing right along the sides of her thighs. The touch shocked her. Her heart pounded inside her chest so hard it felt as though it might burst. With only her chemise, she felt the heat of his hands. He pressed her thighs together with that iron strength of his and bound her legs tight at the knees with another length of leather.

  He stood up when it was knotted, releasing her from the tabletop. Bucking upward, she was rewarded with a hard connection with his chin. He grunted and satisfaction surged through her in spite of the sharp pain that jabbed into her head from the blow.

  He leaned over her once more, his body forcing hers back to the tabletop.

  “Enough, lass. Ye hurt yourself more than me.” He remained there for a moment letting her feel his strength, his power. Her temper burned but she was helpless against his larger body.

  “Play with her later, Cullen. After we’ve quit this house.”

  One of the shapes in the dark finished tying the older maid to the table leg. He leaned across the table to keep his words a mere whisper.

  “Aye. Fortune has smiled on us. No reason to tempt her to turn sour. I have what I want.”

  Cullen stood up, releasing her. He turned her around and bent one knee so that his shoulder lowered to her belly level. He moved forward and straightened up in one fluid motion so that her body tumbled over his wide shoulder with an ease that horrified her.

  It was far too simple…

  She refused to yield, keeping her head up. Her neck strained, the muscles aching. The only thing she gained was the sight of both maids’ legs stretching out on the floor. They were bound to the thick legs of the table so that they might not even push over things to gain attention. The table was too heavy for them to move, even together. With night having fallen, they might not be discovered until dawn.

  That would be far too late for her…

  Despair raked its unrelenting claws across her when she felt the night air on h
er thinly covered body. More shapes moved in the dark as Cullen lifted her up alongside the wall that had seemed so hard to escape but an hour past. Hands gripped her and pulled her over its top with ease. She heard the horses before she saw them in the dark. A narrow alley ran between her father’s house and another town house. There was the dank scent of water from the kitchens that used the alley to drain their waste water toward the main gutter.

  She was handed up and pulled atop a horse.

  “A pity I had to bind ye so tight. Now ye have to travel like a sack of goods.”

  Cullen’s voice held a note of amusement that sent her struggling once more. Her effort earned her little. He pulled her over his saddle, her head hanging down on one side. A sharp whistle and the horse moved, its hooves splashing through the water. She kicked frantically, trying to gain attention, but the horse kept moving and there was no shout of alarm from her father’s men.

  Instead she felt that hard hand of her captor pressing her down onto the back of his horse. Her head began to spin in a dizzy circle as it filled with too much blood. Bronwyn resisted the pull of darkness but there was no fending it off for long. She went lax as unconsciousness claimed her.

  Cullen felt the change in his captive. He stroked her back, testing her compliance. He ran one hand lightly over the soft curve of her bottom and yet she remained still. He hadn’t expected to find her in her bath. The light color of her chemise drew a frown from him. A bound woman lying across his saddle might draw attention that he didn’t need. Pulling Argyll to a stop in a shadow, he looked around.

  “Cullen, cover her with this.”

  Druce tossed a length of McJames plaid toward him. Pulling Bronwyn upward, he leaned her against his chest and wrapped her quickly in the wool. At least it looked as though she were simply sleeping. A common enough sight on the road at night.

  Alarik McKorey watched him with a brooding expression.

  “Treat her kindly, McJames, or I’ll regret aiding ye.” He turned his horse about, his men following suit. “Ride strong, man.”