His to Keep: A Medieval Romance Read online

  “But perhaps there will be cause to end the betrothal before the wedding takes place. Ian might decide Whitfield is not worth marrying me for.” While she didn’t want to marry a Scot, she did want the best for Whitfield. If he backed out, her people might very well end up homeless.

  “He will do no such thing.” Edith waved her hand, dismissing Claire’s words. “Face your future with courage. I believe the Scot might be the man to right the wrongs of the previous lord.”

  Heavy footsteps sounded in the hall, and a couple of guards bearing buckets of steaming water paused at the open doorway.

  “Come,” said Edith, motioning them in. She continued laying out Claire’s clothing.

  The guards poured the water into the tub, filling it to almost halfway.

  “Thank you,” said Claire. The men left the room, closing the door behind them. Edith helped her undress, and Claire sank into the hot water. She wrapped her arms around her legs and rested her chin on her knees. She closed her eyes, as the heat from both the water and the fire loosened the tight muscles across her shoulders.

  Edith scattered crushed lavender into the bath, and the scent wafted upward, tickling Claire’s nose. “Do not tarry. There isn’t much time until sunset.”

  “The Scot can wait. I’m not going anywhere.” Per orders of the king.

  “You don’t want to make him wait overlong and start your union with him a disgruntled groom.”

  Disgruntled? Did it matter? Neither desired this marriage—he’d disclosed as much. He only desired the land. They had clashed from their very first meeting. Surely being malcontent at their betrothal would make no difference. Their union was not a joyous prospect for either of them.

  Claire soaped up and washed her hair. Though it wouldn’t dry before the ceremony, she’d be clean as Edith wished.

  After Claire rinsed off, Edith handed her a cloth to dry herself. She donned a chemise and then a sky-blue kirtle belonging to one of Whitfield’s daughters. It skimmed her body, flaring at the bottom, hiding all but the tips of her leather slippers. The long sleeves flared at the wrist. Once dressed, she sat by the fire and combed her tresses with her fingers.

  “Let me fix your hair for the evening.” Edith came to her side, brush in hand.

  “Nay, I shall leave it down.”

  “You cannot do that! Not for a handfasting. I will braid it and arrange it atop your head.”

  Claire sighed. Once married, she would be expected to wear a veil outside the castle or when company was present. While she was of an age that required it, she did not hold to this stricture at Whitfield. Did handfasting count? Would she have to cover her hair once she had handfasted with the Scot?

  Not if she could help it. “You may arrange it for tonight, but no veil.”

  Edith worked with Claire’s mass of waves, plaiting it into two braids, twisting them into a knot at the top of her head. Claire put a hand to her neck, feeling exposed without the covering of her long curls.

  The door opened and Leticia entered the room holding a spray of bluebells and primrose. “See what I found in the woodland nearby.”

  “’Tis just what we need, Leticia.” Edith pulled a couple of each flower from the bouquet and wove them into Claire’s hair.

  “I shall look like a foolish girl, anticipating her marriage with joy.” Looking eager was the last thing Claire desired.

  “Are you not? I thought you might be softening some toward the new heir.” Leticia grinned as she stuck her nose into the colorful blooms.

  “I am not!” She wasn’t softening, was she? Resigned, aye, but not softening.

  “Wear a scowl on your face, then you won’t appear eager.” Edith chuckled, her jowls shaking with mirth.

  Leticia giggled, and Claire’s own lips curved upward. “I’m sure Ian is used to my scowl by now.”

  “Ian, is it?” Edith’s brows rose. “And here I thought you weren’t softening toward the man.”

  “I cannot continue to call him the Scot indefinitely. We shall be joined in matrimony soon.”

  Edith patted Claire’s hair, admiring her handiwork.

  “Oh, mistress, you are beautiful,” said Leticia.

  Claire laughed. “I have never been pretty a day in my life.”

  “That is because you try your best to look unbecoming.” Edith shook her head and gathered Claire’s discarded clothes.

  “’Tis easier than fending off unwanted advances.” Claire shuddered, remembering the pawing hands of her guardian before he grew too weak to bother her. She would never understand why he had sought her out while raining insults about her lack of beauty.

  Claire blinked away the memories and rose. “Edith, do you think Ian can manage Whitfield? Make it sustainable?” She’d bravely face what was ahead if she knew with certainty that Whitfield’s future was secured.

  Edith drew near and took hold of Claire’s hands. “I cannot say for sure, but he is strong and seems kind. You could do worse. Much worse.”

  Claire gazed at the wrinkled face of the woman who had taken care of her the past ten years. She slipped her arms around Edith and hugged her close. “You are right. I must keep reminding myself of that.”

  Edith pulled away. “Perhaps God has sent the Scot to heal your heart. All will be well. Wait and see.” With a smile, she turned and headed for the door. “Come, Leticia. We shall send Claire’s intended to help her down the stairs.”

  Claire watched her friends leave the room, Edith’s words ringing in her ears. Would God truly send her enemy as a husband in order to heal her heart? More likely to torture her for ignoring him and his teachings. Aye, she attended to the priest’s words when he visited, but put them into practice? That was another story. She hoarded her bitterness and hatred of life’s injustices like rats amassing food in their nests only to have it spoil over time. Healing her heart was not what God had in mind. Of that she was certain.

  She took a step and winced. She had forgotten about her hurt foot. She’d have to abide Ian’s aid as best she could. Her heart skipped a beat at the thought of Ian’s arms about her once more.

  Treacherous feelings, indeed. If she must suffer through the tingly warmth of his hand around her waist, then suffer she must.

  Chapter 9

  As Ian entered the hall, Bardsley was sitting in a chair near the fire. Instead of taking their drinks at the tables, his men stood around him in a show of ostentatious superiority. It was enough to make Ian want to throw the odious neighbor out on his pompous shield. But with only a handful of guards—poor guards at that—Ian would be risking Bardsley’s return with his whole garrison and instigating a small war. He must learn diplomacy as well as backbone if he was to become lord over this piece of land.

  Ian passed through the room with only a nod to Bardsley and entered the kitchen. A wave of savory spice hit him, and his stomach tightened with hunger. “By the saints, what are you preparing?”

  Alma stepped back from the oven and wiped her sweaty face with her apron. “We be preparing a feast. Not like what you are probably used to, but ’tisn’t every day a mistress gets handfasted.”

  “If the smell is any indication, it will be a grand meal. Could you send Edith to Claire?”

  “Already done, sir,” said Alma, stirring a pot over the fire. “Shall I send Noah to you?”

  “Me?” Why would he need Noah?

  “Aren’t you going to bathe and change?”

  “’Tis only a handfasting.”

  The woman looked him up and down. “You need a change of clothing, at the very least.”

  Ian glanced at his attire. While his clothes had been washed since his trip up the garderobe shaft, blood still stained his torn sleeve from two days ago. He should at least don a clean tunic. “I suppose you have it aright.”

  “I’ll have Noah send up a tub for ye.” Alma waved him away. “We shan’t have ye keeping the mistress waiting.”

  “I’m sure she is pleased with any type of delay,” he muttered as he headed
back through the kitchen. He grabbed a piece of bread off the center worktable on his way.

  “Och! My food! We don’t have much to spare.”

  Ian winked at Alma over his shoulder and left the kitchen, the woman’s grumbling fading behind him. Once Ian reached his room, Noah brought in steaming water and filled the tub. Ian sank into the hot water, wishing he could easily wash away the tension the past few days had wrought. He bathed and then donned the only other set of clothes he owned. A burgundy tunic, with dark brown hose. Noah had cleaned his boots, and while they would never look new, they were free of dust and grime. He pulled his hair back into a queue and tied it off with a cord.

  Ian glanced out the window. Orange rays streaked across the lavender sky as the sun neared the horizon. ’Twas time to change the course of his life. Ian’s leather boots echoed in the corridor as he walked to Claire’s chamber. He adjusted his tunic and then knocked on the door.

  “You may enter,” came a muffled voice.

  He opened the door, stepped through, and came to an abrupt halt. Claire stood before the fire, clothed in a blue, form-fitting gown. Embroidery decorated the edge of the neckline and sleeves. Her plaited hair was pulled up to the top of her head. Curls escaped the braids and fell down the nape of her long, slender neck. The regal and serene display left him immobilized.

  “I thought you might have sent a guard for me,” she said.

  Ian swallowed, trying to remember his reason for being there. “Nay, I came to carry you down.”

  “You mean, to make sure I didn’t escape.”

  Ian blinked. In the face of her beauty, he’d all but forgotten her attempted escape and desire not to wed. “That is reason enough, to be sure,” he said with a grin, “but today I only thought to give you aid down the stairs.”

  “Oh.” She glanced away, her fingers reaching up to brush a curl away from her cheek.

  Fascinated by the turn of her head, he stepped toward her. “You look lovely, Claire.”

  Pink suffused her freckled cheeks. How fortunate he was to handfast with such a beauty. Sensing her discomfiture, he took another step forward and held out his hand. “Shall we?”

  As Claire slipped her small hand in his, a strange sense of peace washed over him. It was almost as if destiny had made an appearance and settled in deeply. A feeling of coming home.

  Now if only he could convince his bride that life together could be harmonious and enjoyable. And, if he were being honest, even desirable.

  The warmth of Ian’s hand enveloping hers sent a stream of heat through Claire’s body, a slow burn turning her knees to ash. ’Twas good she had him to hold on to, for her limbs ceased to respond properly. Remember, no matter how handsome he is, he is still a Scot!

  Ian tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and gently led her to the door. “Wait,” she said, coming to a stop. “My flowers.” His presence—and the fact they were about to become betrothed—scuttled all intelligent thought from her head. “On the bed.”

  “Of course.” Ian gathered the bouquet and handed it to her. “The greenery matches your eyes.”

  Claire lifted her gaze to his, and his gentle smile further addled her mind. She dropped her focus to the cluster of flowers, plunging her nose into the soft blooms. Anything to give her time to think of a response. “Thank you,” she managed. What was it about this man that created such havoc in her mind, her actions, even her body?

  “Let us join the others downstairs.” He took her free hand in his and placed his other hand at the small of her back, guiding her into the corridor. “Where did you come by the flowers?”

  “Leticia found them in the woods.”

  “She dinna go by herself to gather them, did she?”

  “I do not know. She didn’t say.”

  “No maiden should wander from the castle unattended, servant or no. There must be rules about such things.”

  Claire pressed her lips together. New rules? While this rule was for the women’s protection, would Ian’s future dictates be troublesome? Demanding? Would he force his edicts upon her? Whether or not she followed them remained to be seen.

  They entered the great hall, and Ian’s grip on her tightened as they neared Bardsley and his men. His touch oddly eased the tension that crept into her bones as Bardsley lavished a devouring gaze upon her.

  Ian brought Claire before the fire. “I must speak with Phillip for a moment before we start.” He left her side, only stepping feet away, and she glanced around the room, marveling at the beauty the servants had wrought for the occasion. Benches for the workers and guards had been set in rows several feet back from the fireplace. Garlands of greenery and flowers graced the high table on the dais, as well as either side of the fireplace. ’Twasn’t much, but their efforts spoke of their care—their support—for her.

  “You look beautiful, Maid Beaumont,” said Bardsley, sidling beside her.

  “Thank you. I’m surprised you remained. Did you not become bored with the wait?”

  “I wouldn’t leave you in the hands of a foreigner without seeing that things were properly done.”

  “I would not do anything improper. Nor would I do anything against my choosing. Unless forced by the king, of course.”

  Bardsley tilted his head. “Should I have sought the king for your hand?”

  Claire held his gaze. “’Twould seem if you truly desired to wed me, you would have done so.” Thank goodness he had not, for life would have been a much darker place with him by her side. She glanced at her intended, still in conversation with his man. She noted his calm demeanor and the hint of a smile around his mouth. How she wished for nerves serene as his.

  “’Twas not the lack of want.” Bardsley clasped her hand, but she snatched it away, clutching her hands behind her back.

  “It is time.” Ian nodded to their neighbor. “Bardsley, if you would have a seat along with the others.”

  The man’s hooded gaze marked Ian with contempt as he turned and made his way to the closest bench. The seats quickly filled with Claire’s men, plus Edith, Alma, and Leticia. All were present except James, who’d drawn the lot to guard the castle.

  A hush fell over the people as their attention fastened upon Claire and Ian standing in front of the fireplace.

  Leticia stepped forward and handed Claire two long ribbons, one white, one crimson. One for purity, one for passion. Heat suffused her face as she clutched them in her hands.

  Ian faced her and smiled. He took the ribbons and then held one of her hands within his own, his warmth seeping through her cold fingers. He laid the ribbons over their joined hands and carefully wrapped the ends around their clasped fingers, the red and white meshing together like blood-spotted wool. Was this visual a portent of things to come? Would the fiery red stain their future, or would the pristine white win in the end?

  Claire looked into the dark eyes of the man before her as he finished wrapping their hands together.

  Ian placed a free hand over the ribbons and breathed deeply, his gaze upon her. “I, Ian McGowan, take thee, Claire Beaumont, to be my intended wife, till death us part, and thereto I plight thee my troth.”

  The low timbre of his voice pebbled her skin; the words he uttered caressed her soul like an intimate whisper.

  Ian dipped his head, giving her … encouragement? Direction? Claire placed her hand over his. Thrusting up her chin, she looked to his brown eyes and forced her mouth open. “I, Claire Beaumont, take thee, Ian McGowan, to be my intended …” She paused.

  The hand beneath hers shifted.

  She frowned, knowing she had no choice but to finish the vow. “To be my intended husband, till death us part, and thereto I plight thee my troth.” ’Twas done. Before witnesses.

  Bound forever.

  Ian slowly unwound the ribbon, freeing their hands, cooling the warmth that had encased her fingers.

  “I dinna have a ring with such little time, but this I have.” Ian reached into a pouch attached to his belt. He held out a coi
n, broken in half as was custom for those of little wealth. Claire opened her hand, and he placed one half of a coin on her palm. “I have the other,” he said, holding his half between his fingers.

  Claire closed her hand around the cool metal and tried to smile. Not for Ian, but for those present. Her people needed to see her strength. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “I will have a ring made for the wedding.”

  Claire nodded.

  Leticia appeared by her side, and Claire started. “Lady McGowan, your drink.” The serving girl held out two goblets of wine.

  “Thank you,” said Claire, taking the drink, “but I shall remain a Beaumont until the priest comes.” Lady McGowan. It never occurred to her she would bear a Scottish name. She gulped down the wine, relishing the liquid. Claire handed the cup to the girl and then waited, eyes downcast, for Ian to finish draining his cup. Would he kiss her as was custom? Fear and curiosity waged war within her.

  After a moment, Ian faced her.

  Claire’s heart raced.

  Ian placed a finger under her chin and lifted her head. Tears pooled in her eyes, the anger—the fear—returning at how unjust life was in forcing her to be trothed to a Scot. The very people who killed her parents.

  “Ach, lass,” whispered Ian. “Dinna cry. I am not an ogre. ’Twill be alright.”

  His breath fanned her face, and Claire tried to resist the pull of his whispered words. She fought against the warmth of his finger. She was bound to a Scot, her mortal enemy, yet his continual compassion waged war against her prejudice against his people.

  Ian leaned in, and she closed her eyes, feeling the tears trickle down her face as she breathed in the familiar scent of leather and spice.

  His lips claimed her own, warm and soft. So brief a touch. Had she imagined the kiss? The cheers of the people behind her spoke of the truth. She was betrothed.

  Now her mission, with him here, was to live each day as if he were not.

  Chapter 10

  The ceremony ended, and Ian rubbed the back of his neck. ’Twas done. He had ensured his inheritance by handfasting with Claire. The relief he expected remained at bay. Perhaps it was Claire’s soft lips beneath his own that addled his brain—or possibly the tears pooled in her green eyes, looking both fearful and sad. She’d not protested or rebelled as he thought she might, though she did hesitate, giving his heart a jolt. For a moment he thought he would have to remind her about her duty to the king—something he’d not care to do in front of Bardsley.