Gordon Dwyre cursed.

Low and deep and he meant every last syllable.

Chapter Four

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ye should not have slept in yer dress.”

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

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

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

“But I am a Protestant.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He kissed well...

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

He also smelled good . . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was something she understood well how to do.

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