His to Keep: A Medieval Romance Read online

  The lass looked around the room with fondness. “Better than this ruin?”

  Her humor brought a smile to his face. ’Twas true enough. She might find better living arrangements in a large village. But a woman alone … he dinna like the idea of her being unprotected, making a living on her own. “Your people are here. You have a roof over your head and food to eat.”

  “It won’t be long until we don’t even have that.”

  “I have plans for Whitfield. One day it will be a place of which to be proud.”

  Claire threw out a bitter laugh. “With what shall you make it grand? The strength of your arm?” She shook her head. “We need coin, and much of it.”

  “Coin I have.”

  Claire shot up straight in her chair. “What do you say?”

  Ian quirked a smile. “Methinks your ears may be clogged. ’Tis twice now you haven’t heard me.”

  She leaned forward. “Tell me you are not jesting. You have coin? You brought nothing with you.”

  “You dinna think I would bring all my coin into Whitfield without knowing the situation inside the castle walls, did you?” He shrugged. “I hid it in the forest.”

  Claire took in what he had to say, her stare fierce. Ian wished to know the thoughts running through her bonny head, though he wagered he wouldna be able to keep abreast of them. Would having money make the difference in her acceptance of their marriage?

  “So what say you?” Ian yearned to hear her agreement. Not that she had a choice, but he wanted her assurance that she acquiesced.

  After a long moment, Claire spoke. “Aye. I will handfast with you.”

  Relief flooded through Ian, but he kept the smile from his face. No sense in celebrating his victory and giving her cause to change her mind.

  Ian nodded. “’Twill be an adjustment, this life together, I ken, but …” he paused, as Claire tilted her head and frowned.

  “What do you mean, an adjustment?”

  “I … What I mean is … only that ’twill take time to become used to one another.”

  Claire frowned. “We do not need to get used to each other. We can live separate lives under the same roof. You take care of the guards and land; I take care of everything else.”

  Ian’s relief turned to icy foreboding at her words. Her disdain for him would eat him alive in time. Hadn’t he lived with enough of that already? He wanted more in life—in marriage. “We shall see how life unfolds for us, aye?” Surely that would placate her for now.

  Claire gave a terse nod, but the doubt in her eyes clouded her expression.

  Perhaps time alone would allow her to process their future together. “You should stay off your foot. Shall I take you up to the chamber? Or the solar?”

  Claire came to her feet with a frown. An ever-present expression, he was beginning to think.

  “I willna argue.” Ian stood beside her. “I am carrying you.”

  “Fine. To the solar.”

  Ian picked her up, her body supple in his hands, unlike the stiff board he’d carried only a short while ago. Was she already warming to him? To the idea of a life together? He carried her off the dais and stood before the guards and servants still eating.

  “Since there is no priest available, your lady and I will handfast at sunset. I want each of you present as witnesses.”

  The group murmured their protest, their shocked expressions fixed upon Claire.

  She pressed her lips together and gave a nod. “Aye, we shall handfast this eve.”

  “But my lady—”

  “’Tis alright. I am resigned to the marriage.”

  Whitfield’s people looked at each other, confused, angry … anything but happy.

  The lass in his arms cleared her throat. “While it is not what I would have wished, it is what must be. All will be well.” Claire stole a glance at him as his gaze trailed to her full lips, and she quickly looked away.

  Ian addressed the stable master. “Toly, I would meet with you after I see to your mistress.”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  Ian blinked. While he was no lord, he liked the sound of the title, which caused him to feel … worthy. Something he hadn’t truly felt before. He gripped Claire a little tighter and made for the solar.

  She was soft and warm in his arms, sending heat up his neck. These curves would be his soon. He looked to his bride-to-be, her face averted as he treaded up the stairs. A sprinkling of freckles trailed across her nose and cheeks. Odd, the things one notices when close. He liked the look of those light spots playing about her face.

  On reaching the solar, he set her in a padded chair near the fire. Pulling up another chair, he set her foot atop it.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Had he heard her aright?

  “I am not without manners.” Claire pushed her hair away from her face.

  “I dinna say you were, ye ken.”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  Ian rubbed a hand over his jaw, not knowing how to respond. Knights kept a tight rein on their emotions. That he couldna hide his feelings showed a lack in his training—or could it even be a lack in his own character? Once again, he dinna measure up. He shook off the dismal thought. “Shall I get you anything?”

  “Perhaps my needlework from the trunk.”

  Ian went to the corner and opened the wooden case. He searched through its contents, pushing aside parchment, a bottle of ink, and a small dagger. Gathering the small tapestry and thread, he brought it to her. “Your work is beautiful.” Indeed, the colorful thread she had stitched displayed a detailed scene of Whitfield in better days with green landscaping surrounding the walls and a sun resting above the clouds.

  A flush crept across her face. “’Tis something to pass the time when I need a rest.”

  Ian wasn’t sure what to say. That she should rest more often if it produced bonny items like that which she held in her hand? Nay, she’d think he’d gone daft. “I shall leave you to your rest, then. Good day.”

  Ian left the room. He couldna be more of an awkward, bumbling fool. Here he was, trying to make peace with her, to show how their life together might be agreeable if they put aside their differences, yet he couldna string together a sensible thought. Mayhap, he was the one in need of aid if this marriage was going to be a happy one. Was he fooling himself to think he could make a good life with her? One of substance and worth? Only time would tell. But he’d do everything in his power to get along with the crimson-haired lass. He’d work hard to improve Whitfield, to be a knight worthy of her respect. Maybe then they’d be able to converse without each wanting to best the other.

  Chapter 8

  I’ll be handfasted to the Scot. Today. The unthinkable thought refused to dislodge from Claire’s mind. Not even in her most frightful nightmares—and she’d dreamt many—had she believed she would marry one of his ilk.

  Claire had stitched, taken a nap, and then stitched some more until she wearied of the tedious day resting her foot. She tossed her needlework away and blew a strand of hair from her eyes.

  Pushing to her feet, she hopped to the small window in the far wall and peered out over the bailey. The weight of her burden bore down upon her chest, suffocating in its intensity. She breathed deeply of the cool spring air, relishing the invigorating breeze whisking her hair behind her. If only she could be free like the wind, traveling whichever way she pleased without the structure or overbearing nature of a man’s rule. How she wished she was free to live in peace with her people. She closed her eyes. Alas, even that dream was a fading mist. She must marry, and her life would not be one of peace.

  But the Scot had coin. Hope sprouted within her, and for the first time in a long while she grinned, considering a bright future for Whitfield. While she loathed marrying McGowan, if he brought coin, her people would be cared for. She’d run the castle affairs, while the Scot tended the land. Life at Whitfield brimmed with possibility—a better prospect for them all, truth be told. Now if only she could keep her fut
ure husband at a distance and out of the marriage bed.

  “Riders coming!” The shout from the barbican drew her attention. “Fetch Sir McGowan!”

  One of the guards rushed through the bailey toward the stables. McGowan stepped out of the paddock and held his hand over his eyes as he looked across the yard. The guard met him, spoke a few words, and then McGowan sprinted to the gate.

  Claire pushed away from the window and grimaced, forgetting her wounded foot. Faith! She should be at the gate. ’Twas her home. She gritted her teeth and hobbled out of the solar. She’d not sit one more moment with visitors upon them—or worse, enemies at their gate.

  By the time she’d limped out of the keep, McGowan had taken charge.

  “Let them in,” he called, stepping closer to the gate.

  Claire put a hand to her chest as she shuffled closer. Who was he allowing inside the castle? More of his men? Family?

  The wooden doors creaked open and a band of four men trotted in.

  Nay! Sir William Bardsley rode atop a black stallion, a smug smile pasted upon his bearded face. His unkempt blond hair hung to his narrow shoulders. Claire shuddered. She had turned him away from Whitfield the past few months after he kept asking for her hand in marriage. She’d sooner marry the Scot.

  Claire stumbled but caught herself. When had marrying a Scot become a better choice than wedding a wealthy Englishman? Though Bardsley was overbearing and pompous, no Scottish blood contaminated his veins.

  Though it galled her to admit it, the Scot was not a demeaning sort like her neighbor. McGowan had been almost considerate at times. Claire continued her belabored walk forward.

  Bardsley caught her gaze and veered his horse in her direction. McGowan stepped in front of him, and Bardsley reined in his mount, which pawed the ground in protest.

  “The guards tell me you are Whitfield’s neighbor, Sir William Bardsley.” McGowan rested his hand on his sword.

  “Aye. Who would you be?”

  “I am Sir Ian McGowan, new heir of Whitfield.”

  Bardsley shot a glance to Claire, tilting his head slightly. “Are you quite alright, Maid Beaumont?”

  The Scot said nothing while he waited for her response.

  Claire swallowed, thrusting her chin higher. “Aye. ’Tis truth he speaks. He has a missive from the king.”

  “You’ve seen the letter?”

  “Aye, with the king’s seal,” replied Claire.

  “But why a Scot?” Bardsley dismounted and faced her future husband.

  McGowan stood a little straighter, piercing Bardsley with a stare that likely made most men wilt. “I would temper the words you utter. You are on my land.”

  Claire stifled a smile. That McGowan would not take insults from Bardsley thrilled her. ’Twould be interesting to see what transpired.

  Ian continued, “What is the purpose of your visit?”

  “To call on Maid Beaumont.” Bardsley’s gaze roamed around the bailey. “I have attempted to see to her welfare since Whitfield’s death.”

  See to her welfare? More like to pressure her—bully her even. ’Twas the reason she had barred him from Whitfield. She’d been fortunate he had never forced his way in, for he could have easily gained entrance with the many guards at his disposal. McGowan caught Claire’s gaze. She narrowed her eyes and gave a small shake of her head, willing him to turn Bardsley away.

  The Scot granted Bardsley a grim smile. “I’m sure your concern is much appreciated, but she has me to take care of her now.”

  “What?” Bardsley shot a thunderous look toward Claire. “You are remaining here? As his mistr—”

  “As my wife.” Ian’s powerful voice cut through the bailey.

  Bardsley’s fair skin reddened. “But—”

  “Once again he speaks truth.” Claire looked from one man to the other. The Englishman with blond hair and beard seemed almost sickly standing next to the Scot with his dark hair, brown eyes, and fine form. While Bardsley was overbearing and manipulative, the Scot was … overbearing, aye, but not unkind.

  For the first time since the Scot appeared, she didn’t loathe the thought of marrying him. At least now Bardsley would leave her be.

  “You are already wed?” Bardsley’s hand clenched his horse’s reins.

  “We shall be handfasted tonight,” said Ian.

  “So, not married yet.” A slow smile crept across Bardsley’s face.

  “But bound together legally until a priest arrives.” Ian took a step toward the man. “Would you care to stay and witness the ceremony?”

  “Nay, he does not need to remain.” Claire did not wish him near. What if he interfered or interrupted the ceremony? How had her thoughts transformed from despising the Scot to fearing their marriage might be delayed? She shook her head to clear her confused mind. ’Twasn’t fair, this emotional turmoil within her. ’Twas insufferable to have so little power in the choice of a husband. She pressed fingers to her temple, her head beginning to throb. She had no other option. The king had forced her future upon her.

  Bardsley gave a clipped nod to McGowan, his mouth grim. “I shall stay and witness the deed done.”

  “Toly, gather the men’s horses and tend to their needs.” McGowan motioned for Noah to give aid and then faced Bardsley. “The ceremony will commence at sunset. You may rest by the fire in the great hall until then.”

  Claire turned and limped toward the keep. The Scot was daft. He didn’t know their neighbor and how he manipulated situations to suit his purposes.

  “Maid Beaumont, may I assist you?” Bardsley came alongside her.

  Claire opened her mouth to refuse, but a hand slid along her back and she gasped.

  “I will see to her.” McGowan pulled Claire close to his side, his palm warm against her waist.

  McGowan’s nearness sent her pulse skittering, and she ventured an upward glance. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  She caught his fleeting smile. How strange that after two days she recognized the subtle nuances of his face. The hint of a smile, the clench of his jaw, the crinkle around his eyes.

  McGowan led them into the great hall and toward the fireplace. Claire leaned close to Ian’s ear to speak and caught the scent of leather and spiced soap. She breathed in deeply, the scent intoxicating to her senses. Faith! She must fight against the man’s pull. She quickly whispered, “Please do not make me stay in the hall with Bardsley. Take me to my chamber. You may say I need to prepare for the ceremony.” She did not want to engage the neighbor and answer what would undoubtedly be a litany of questions and concerns.

  McGowan turned his face toward hers, close enough that his warm breath bathed her cheek. His dark eyes, framed in long, black lashes, searched hers. Air stuck in Claire’s throat, and she hoped he didn’t question her, for she was uncertain her voice would cooperate. Faith, but he was a handsome man!

  His fingers curved around her waist and he pulled her closer to him as he turned toward Bardsley. “Take your rest while I deliver my lady to her chamber. I will have someone send drink to you and your men.”

  Claire ventured a glance at Bardsley, whose face darkened in displeasure. Good. ’Twas time he was put in his place.

  McGowan led Claire to her room and helped her into the chair near the fire. Instead of leaving the chamber, he occupied the seat beside her. “What is that man to you?” His grim expression belied the calm of his voice.

  “A neighbor of wealth who wanted my hand in marriage.”

  “And you refused him?”

  “Aye.”

  “Does he love you?”

  Claire laughed. “Nay, he does not. He only needed Whitfield pastures to graze his sheep.”

  “But the land was not yours, aye? It belonged to Whitfield’s daughters.”

  “But they did not want the land. He assumed they would allow him full access to the pasture if he wed me, but he didn’t realize they cared for me as little as they did for Whitfield.”

  McGowan rubbed a hand over his jaw.
“Why would he stay for the ceremony?”

  Claire frowned. “You asked him!”

  “I dinna think he would say aye. Why would he, unless he cares for you?”

  “I couldn’t say. Mayhap he wants to change my mind.”

  “He canna change an order of the king.”

  Claire shrugged. “I know not, nor do I care. He is a boorish man, one I’m grateful to be rid of.”

  Ian stood. “I will send Edith to help you prepare. Is there anything else you require?”

  Claire blinked, surprised by his consideration. She hadn’t been cordial to him since his arrival, yet he still treated her with dignity.

  She could become accustomed to such treatment. Especially if offered by someone who smelled of leather and spice.

  Claire watched the Scot leave the room and then sat back in her chair, rubbing the back of her neck to ease the tension. She could handfast with the tall Scottish man, couldn’t she? Though she had no choice in the matter, the prospect wasn’t as adverse since learning he had coin to better their lives. Also, eliminating Bardsley as a suitor was another mark in the Scot’s favor.

  A knock on the door sounded, and Edith entered the room, her arms full of clothing and a bathing cloth. Noah appeared behind her, bearing a large wooden tub. Edith motioned him toward the fireplace. “Place the tub near the fire.”

  Noah did as she bid, and then he stoked the fire until it roared to life. Once he left the room, Claire came to her feet, stretching her arms high above her. “Edith, I do not need to bathe. I have done nothing strenuous this day to warrant one.” Stitching a tapestry did not count as exercise of any sort unless one counted the number of times she’d thrown the piece aside in frustration.

  “Every woman needs a bath on her handfasting day.”

  Claire snorted. “’Tis only a betrothal. Not a wedding.”

  “It might as well be a wedding. ’Tis as binding as one. You know ’tis so.”