“You must not.”
Her voice was too high pitched, but that didn’t even slow the man down. He climbed the stairs and carried her right over the threshold while his arms bound her to him. He spun her loose, and she retreated from his larger frame. Her cheeks flamed with temper.
“I have and I am nae sorry for it. Fate already gave you more luck tonight than ye have any right to expect. If me men hadn’t discovered yer mare, you’d be lying dead out there.” His voice tightened, and he stepped closer to narrow the gap between them. Once again he moved with a lightning quickness that took her by surprise, his hand latching on to the fabric of her skirt near her waistband where the cartridge pleats were deepest.
“And it would nae have been an easy death, Jemma. Be very sure of that. For all that they are yer own countrymen, they would have raped ye until ye bleed and then kept at ye until ye died beneath them, shivering and helpless. Ye will stay in this tower where the walls can offer you protection.”
His eyes flashed with emotion so powerful, she stepped away from it. But her unconscious motion carried her back into the tower, so he released her and grunted softly before turning around. His kilt fell in longer pleats in back, and they swayed with the motion of his walking. Beyond the open doors she could hear men working to unsaddle the horses. There was low conversation and the sharp sounds of the hooves hitting the stones of the courtyard. A hush fell when their laird appeared, proving that the man was not one of the lazy nobles who enjoyed his title while sending others to do the tasks his position required. Gordon Dwyre moved without hesitation back into the night while the doors were shut and the lanterns remained inside with her.
“I do suggest ye mind the laird.”
“Is that so?”
The woman holding the lantern didn’t take offense. Jemma blushed deeper when she heard her own tone, because it was surly and the woman standing in front of her was Jemma’s elder. It didn’t matter if the servant was peasant born or not, age was worthy of respect. Instead of frowning or shooting her a cutting look designed to instill some manners in her, the woman’s lips curved into a smile.
“I am named Ula, and ye would not be the first woman to discover herself placed exactly where the laird wants ye. If ye are in fact Lord Ryppon’s sister, yer sister-in-law should have told ye a thing or two about our laird when it comes to following a course that he’s set on.”
Jemma stiffened, but her temper did her little good. Bridget hadn’t needed to tell her about her time in Barras Castle. Her brother had been enraged when his bride fled across the border to her kin before celebrating her marriage. Her kin had promptly gifted her to Gordon Dwyre because the man was their overlord. As far as Scotland went, he was a very powerful man. With a baby wearing the crown here, lairds were more powerful than ever. On their own land, their word was law. She shivered because instead of being frightened by that fact, she took solace in it. His words echoed inside her head as the expression on the English knight’s face rose up to sicken her with just how correct Barras was.
“My apologies for being ungrateful. I seem to have forgotten how to be polite.”
Ula nodded her head. It was a small reminder that the woman did expect respect even if she was a servant in the castle. That was only right and something that brought shame to Jemma again. Her father would not have approved.
Jemma sighed, suddenly feeling lost. She didn’t recognize a single face or wall; even the clothing was foreign to her gaze. Coupled with the fact that she had nothing to call her own but what she wore, the feeling of being misplaced grew until it threatened to overwhelm her.
“Come along, lass. Let us see if yer face can’t be cleaned up a wee bit.”
Jemma stared at the woman but nodded because it was something to do besides standing in the door frame.
But her misgivings grew with every step that saw her going deeper into the Scottish fortress. The stories told around the winter hearth whispered across her mind with tales of women who never returned from such places.
Gordon couldn’t recall the last time he’d felt his temper burn so hot. He was a man who knew full well that controlling his impulses was wise, but tonight he was being tested beyond everything he’d ever known.
“Ye look ready to kill.” Beacon Barras spoke softly, but he knew that Gordon would hear him. The man was his friend, but Gordon still snarled at him. Beacon shrugged, unconcerned.
“No one would think ill of ye if ye did. That was a right nasty bit of doing that we interrupted.”
“I daresay the English would consider it ill if I ran those pitiful excuses for men through. ’Tis a worry we do nae need with the winter creeping down from the mountains.”
“Is that truly Ryppon’s sister?” Beacon was watching the darkness beyond the curtain wall, keeping his gaze moving because he wasn’t as at ease as his words might make a person think.
“Aye, and much as I like the man, I had more respect for him this morning. What manner of fool allows any woman out so late in the day? She didna go riding this morning and ’tis my thinking that she should have waited until the sun rose on the morrow.”
Gordon clamped his mouth shut. He’d spent too much time watching Jemma. Rumors were already making the rounds that he lacked the courage to approach the lass. It might sound innocent, but any hint that he wasn’t bold enough to take what he wanted was an invitation for some clan to think his borders were easy pickings. There would be raids if that happened and blood flowing when he rode out to protect his people.
“Well now, she’s nae a timid thing. I’d wager her brother didna give her leave to ride out.”
That posed a very good question, one Gordon felt beginning to burn in his mind. Was the lass truly so foolish as to ride out on her own without considering that the night held dangers? Her sister-in-law had fled across the border, so maybe Englishwomen were being reared in ignorance these days.
He hoped not.
He’d thought the lass spirited, not foolish. The last thing he needed was a marzipan bride—a woman who was nothing but pride and pretty features. He needed a woman who could use her wits when the time called for it.
“It seems that ye have gotten yer wish to meet the lass after all.” Beacon offered him a slight nod of his head. “So I’ll bid ye good luck, Laird.”
Luck indeed. Gordon frowned because his hope was strangling on a rope made of facts. He’d allowed his fascination to lead him astray. A bride was chosen for her family connection and gain it brought to the clan. Not because he’d become infatuated with an idea spun from his own imagination.
It would be better to not see the lass again.
He ground his teeth together and lost the battle to resist the urge to discover exactly what sort of female she was. Girl or woman? God help him if she was the woman he’d imagined her to be.
Because he didn’t think he’d be able to give up such a prize now that he’d managed to bring it home.
Jemma sat still, listening to the sounds of the tower. It was strange and yet familiar. Ula had left her while muttering about fetching warmed porridge. Jemma found herself scanning the room and noticing where the glow of the lantern ended and the shadows took control. The shapes of the walls were different, but the feeling of the stone around her one that she was accustomed to.
Or should be.
Yet she still felt ill at ease. Standing up, she paced to the end of the large chamber, stopping when she reached a window. The shutters were still open, allowing in the night breeze. The air smelled fresh and full of winter. But what she felt most of all was the presence of the master of the castle. Gordon Dwyre, Laird Barras. Her rescuer and captor. It