“Come along, Mistress, best to keep busy; that will pass the time better.”

Ula was correct, but her voice betrayed that the housekeeper was no happier about waiting than Jemma was. They began to work, racing the end of the season to make sure the castle was prepared for the ice and snow. Every work room was piled high with dried fruits, oats, and grains. Men worked on the hen houses where the birds would roost during the winter while providing eggs. The birds were still being allowed to graze on the drying hillsides, and the young girls were sent out to find their eggs with large baskets to carry them back to the cook.

The afternoon turned dark long before sunset, black clouds dominating the sky. They huddled together while the wind ripped at her skirts. Jemma climbed up onto the hillsides to call the last of the girls back. They struggled to bring their heavy baskets with them, and she reached for two that were full of fresh eggs. With abundant food, the hens were laying twice a day.

“Go on now, it’s going to storm.”

The girls needed no further urging. They grabbed the front of their skirts and ran toward the side gate that led into the yard behind the curtain wall. Jemma followed but at a steady walk to ensure that she did not crack any eggs. She stopped outside the gate, hearing Ula’s voice raised on the other side of the stone wall.

“Are ye mad? Allowing the mistress out without an escort? The laird will nae be pleased, mark my words.”

“The way I hear, my laird will be plenty grateful to be rid of her. The sheets were white this morning. She’s a slut. An English slut that we have no need of.”

Jemma gasped. Thinking that it might be said was different from hearing it. Her face heated with a blush, and tears stung her eyes. She drew in a stiff breath and raised her chin, refusing to allow those tears to fall. She blinked them away and stepped boldly through the gate. The man arguing with Ula jerked his head around when he noticed her and his eyes narrowed in distaste. Thunder boomed in the hills above them, loud enough to make conversation impossible.

It was better that way. Kindness seemed to have abandoned her. Ula reached for one of the baskets, and they carried them both into the kitchens. The long rooms that served as kitchens were bustling with women coming in to avoid the rain. The cook snapped at them when they began to chatter, making the room an impossible place to concentrate.

Anyon stood near one of the hearths with other laundresses, all trying to dry their skirts. The girl smirked at her as she carried the basket toward a long table where the cook was laying out her ingredients.

“Better be careful that ye didna break any. The cook likes to hand out slaps.” The laundresses snickered.

Jemma raised her chin and shot a firm glance toward Anyon. “Well, I suppose that would be better than being ambushed for no reason beyond spite.”

Anyon propped her hands on her hips, and the action pushed her breasts out. “Ye see, there’s the problem with the English, they never did know how to fight.”

“Enough, Anyon, I have no time for pettiness.” Jemma turned her back, but the girl raised her voice.

“Oh, yes, I forgot. Ye have to be off to think of ways to get the laird to share yer bed since he could nae stomach the sight of ye last night long enough to plow ye.”

Jemma turned to face the girl once more. If she wanted to be mistress of Barras castle, she could not hide.

“But he was in my bed when the bells rang, not seeking out yours.”

Anyon stiffened but closed her mouth when the majority of the women working at the long tables refused to cross the laird’s new bride, even if the sheets had been clean this morning. They looked down at their work, abandoning Anyon to her temper.

Jemma raised her chin, casting a glance around to make it clear that she expected her words to be obeyed by all. “I was raised in England and therefore under the Protestant church. Since this is a Catholic nation, I expect that Christian values shall be used in this castle. My wedding-night celebration was interrupted. Any who claim any other reason for the lack of a stained sheet this morning will have the privilege of telling your laird that charge against me when he returns.”

Eyes widened, and several gasps made it past the hands attempting to smother them. Tension drew the muscles along her back tight, but Jemma remained firmly in place. She swept the room, aiming a hard look at anyone who did not lower their eyes when she met them. Only the cook stood up to her, the older woman staring back at her for a few moments. The woman wiped her hands on her apron before speaking.

“Aye, Mistress.”

Jemma turned around and felt everyone staring at her back. But she maintained her dignity, leaving the room with her chin level. Many a noble bride had failed to take her house in hand when she arrived. Failing to do so would earn her nothing but a staff set against her.

Jemma scoffed at herself. Her words might have ensured that the Barras staff was indeed set against her, for Anyon was one of their own. But a sharp slap came from the silent kitchens, a solid flesh-upon-flesh sound that Jemma could not mistake. The cook was clearly a woman of her word, and it would seem that Anyon was learning that the hard way. A flurry of work sounds followed, chopping and dishes connecting with the hard wood tabletop. The cook resumed issuing orders, but there was not one word in response.

“I’m glad ye put that girl in her place.” Ula nodded with approval. “I’m ashamed to claim her as kin.”

The thunder cracked above their heads so loud it felt as if it shook the very air. Jemma shivered, something raising the hair on the back of her neck. It was more than the wind, something other than the storm raining its fury down on the towers. She could feel the hate being directed toward her. It was thick and choking, frightening her with its darkness.

“I hope it brings peace. That is all I seek, Ula.”

The border land . . .

“Damn miserable rain.” Curan Ramsden offered his opinion in the place of a greeting. He pushed the visor up to expose his face. “Makes a man want to seek out his home and family.”

There was no mistaking the barely concealed threat in his tone. Gordon turned his hand over to feel the rain pelting them and shrugged. “Ye have spent too much time in France if ye find this weather disagreeable, my brother by marriage.”

Curan held his emotions behind a tightly controlled expression. It was admirable because not every man learned to hide what he was thinking so well. The only hint was the way the man’s stallion jerked its head, clearly feeling the man tightening his thighs around the saddle.

“Is that so, Barras?”

“Yer sister did me the honor of becoming my wife yesterday.”

There was a flash of something dangerous in Curan’s eyes. It was something Gordon knew about the man, that he was a noble who took action rather than talking. Curan was a knight who backed up every word he spoke.

“Yesterday? And you failed to invite me to the ceremony.”

“I had yer permission.” Gordon returned the baron’s stare, refusing to back down. Jemma belonged to him. “That was always my goal, and I told ye plainly.”

“But did my sister agree?” Rage edged each word.

Gordon leaned forward. “She did.”

Curan glared at him, holding his next thought while lightning flashed around them. The thunder came next, and Curan’s expression looked just as fierce as the rumble sounded. “But you have no way of proving that, Barras, seeing as how you moved forwards without sending someone to inform me of your impending wedding so that I could ask Jemma that before the vows were taken.”

“I do nae send any men out without a full escort with yer English knights roaming these hills looking for me queen. They nearly ended yer sister’s life, and fired one of me farms last night, dragging us both out here to enjoy the weather.”

“Your point is well founded.”

Gordon nodded, accepting the slight easing of tension between them. “Ye are welcome at Barras Castle to ask Jemma yerself.”

“That will not resolve my question now that the deed is done.” His eyes narrowed with judgment. “Nothing can.”

“Well now, lad, that’s where ye’re wrong.” Gordon watched his neighbor’s face register surprise. Unlike most men, Curan waited for him to continue instead of blurting out another comment that would delay him gaining the answer he sought.

“I married yer sister and took her to bed, but the attack on my people took me away before I consummated the union.” Gordon felt his frustration peak once again, but he offered Curan a smirk. “Ye might recall that little challenge from yer own attempts to celebrate yer wedding with pretty Bridget.”

“And you have no issue with sending my sister to me outside your walls to tell me she is pleased to be your wife?”

“If that is what is needed.”

“Possibly.” Curan’s reply lost some of its edge when his eyes lit with satisfaction. “I am pleasantly surprised, Barras. I didn’t believe there was a way for you to prove the matter to me; I stand corrected.”

Gordon nodded, feeling the tension release between his shoulder blades. He valued his neighbor’s goodwill even if there was little the man might do to reclaim his sister. It was a harsh fact but one he realized he’d have resorted to if it was the only way to keep Jemma.

“Then I’ll leave ye now, Ryppon, for I have a bride to seek. Ye might recall the feeling.”

“I do, Barras.”

“And as much as I like ye, I’d appreciate some time alone with me bride before ye come to visit.”

“Something else I understand.” Curan considered his next words. “A few days.”