His to Keep: A Medieval Romance Read online

  As the women servants headed to the kitchen and the men moved benches back to the tables, Claire limped toward the dais where the head table sat decorated with greenery and flowers. Ian scooped her into his arms.

  “Nay! I can walk to the table on my own.” She gripped his neck. “’Tisn’t far.”

  “But then I couldna be chivalrous to a lady in need.”

  Claire snorted.

  Ian saw her lips hint at a smile. His intended had a wee bit of humor lurking behind her belligerent exterior. “Perhaps lady is too refined a word for one who snorts in the face of chivalry.” He deposited her in a chair and placed a hand over his heart, giving her an extravagant bow.

  Another snort issued from his fair bride-to-be.

  Ian slid into the chair next to her to await the feast. “You do not appreciate my attempt at gallantry?

  “Playing the chariot for me does not constitute chivalry in my mind. Slaying dragons and defending the poor and needy are more in line with my idea of being gallant.” Claire smoothed her gown across her lap.

  “Ah, then repairing Whitfield should play in my favor. ’Tis certainly poor and in need.”

  Claire lifted her chin, and Ian bit back a smile. Proud, she was, even in the face of truth.

  “Are you now attempting to win my approval?” she asked, one brow winging high.

  “I want to ease the tension between us—to make you comfortable in the situation in which we find ourselves.” ’Twas the truth, regardless of his desire for her support.

  Ian spied Bardsley standing near the fire conversing with his guards. While he wished the man would leave, he motioned to Bardsley to approach the high table. “Come and eat.”

  Bardsley joined them on the dais and pulled out the chair on the other side of Claire. She stiffened.

  “Nay, sit by me, Sir Bardsley.” Ian wouldn’t subject Claire to the man after hearing her disdain for her neighbor.

  Bardsley paused, but then moved to the chair beside him. Claire’s shoulders relaxed.

  Ian leaned close and whispered into her ear, “How was that for chivalry?”

  Claire choked, coughing through the sudden smile that lit her face. After she gained her breath, she nodded. “’Twill do for now.”

  The servants brought trenchers filled with roasted fowl, cabbage, peas, and bread. ’Twasn’t the grandest feast Ian had eaten, but he assumed that for Whitfield it was resplendent indeed. They ate in silence, which suited Ian. He had no desire to converse with Bardsley.

  “From whence do you hail, McGowan?” asked Bardsley.

  Ian’s silent haven dissipated. “The McGowan land is located in southwest Scotland, just north of the English border.”

  “Your family?”

  “My father, Hammish, is laird. I have three older brothers and one sister.”

  “You are the youngest? How did you manage to obtain Whitfield?”

  “’Twould seem my father and elder siblings thought too little of the land, it being on English soil.”

  Claire sucked in a breath. Ian shot a glance her way, almost expecting her to douse him with her drink. ’Twas nothing she hadn’t heard him speak before, but her pride, mixed with the fiery temper, created a volatile woman at the best of times.

  “So why would you accept the land?” Bardsley asked.

  “I have served in England for thirteen years, mostly at Ramslea. England has treated me well. I have no cause to hate it.”

  “You’ve never had land of your own?”

  The man’s questioning increased Ian’s ire, and he wanted to lie. What man his age, knighted and with coin at his disposal, served under another? He could have approached the king and attended him in order to build a name for himself. He should have, but the voices thundering in his head telling him he wasn’t capable paralyzed him. Ian shook away the thoughts. “I have not.”

  Bardsley cleared his throat and faced Ian. “What makes you think you can command Whitfield with no experience?”

  Indeed, ’twas something he asked of himself every day since learning of the inheritance. “I am equal to the task.” Perhaps if he spoke it aloud, it would ring true. He had managed to rise to the rank of head guardsmen at Ramslea. Squaring his shoulders, he added, “Time will prove that well enough.” Ian turned his attention to his food but felt Claire’s gaze upon him. Did she doubt as Bardsley did? He didn’t look at her, not wanting to view the scorn—or worse, pity—on her face.

  Once the guards and servants had eaten, they pushed back the tables, clearing a wide space in the middle of the room.

  Ian turned to Claire. “There will be dancing?”

  She pointed to the stable hand holding a lyre. “Toly plays quite often for us.”

  Toly sat on a bench close to the dais and began to play a merry tune.

  “But you canna dance with your hurt foot.”

  “Nay, but you can.”

  “I willna dance without you.” ’Twas a good excuse to not dance the English jig.

  “You would deprive Whitfield of celebrating with their new master?” Her brows rose mockingly. “Leticia and Alma will be sorely disappointed. They tire of Noah and the guards stepping on their toes.”

  Ian gave her a rueful smile. “I do not know I shall be a better partner.” He came to his feet. “Only for Whitfield, but just one dance.”

  “Well said, sir.” Claire gave him a nod as he rounded the head table and stepped off the dais.

  “Shall you join the festivities?” Ian asked Bardsley.

  “I believe I shall pass this time.” The man’s solemn face spoke of his disinterest. If only he would take his men and leave.

  Ian entered into the dance, giving both Alma and Leticia special attention as Claire suggested. As he stepped to the music, he glanced at the high table. Bardsley had moved to sit next to Claire. Ian stumbled and stepped on Leticia’s foot.

  “Ouch!”

  “My pardon,” said Ian, wishing he hadn’t agreed to display his poor skill on the floor. He continued the dance, casting a glance back at his betrothed.

  Claire leaned away from Bardsley as he spoke to her. Ian tamped down an urge to leap onto the dais and pull the man aside. They were only conversing. Nothing to start a war over. Ian kept his attention on Claire, wishing he had remained with her for protection. Not that she needed it, but she shouldn’t be subjected to whatever was making her uncomfortable.

  The music finally came to an end, and Ian made for the high table, coming to stand behind the usurper. “I would have my seat, Bardsley.” He’d not take the insult from the man, no matter if a fight ensued. He had a reputation to build, respect to maintain.

  Bardsley looked up at Ian. “Oh, of course,” he said as he scooted back the chair to stand, forcing Ian to move from behind. “I was telling Claire—”

  “Maid Beaumont to you.” Ian clenched his hands at the man’s boldness.

  Bardsley gave a nod. “I shared with Maid Beaumont that should she need aid—for anything—she could come to me. I would—”

  “She will need nothing from you.” Ian stepped up to Bardsley, bringing him almost toe-to-toe with the man. “I think it is time you departed Whitfield.”

  Ian held Bardsley’s gaze and put his hand on the sword at his waist. “I shall find someone to show you out.”

  Claire rose from her chair. “I am weary and need to retire, Sir Bardsley.”

  Bardsley finally stepped away. “Thank you for your hospitality.” He gave her a slight bow. “Remember my words.”

  Claire nodded.

  The man traversed the great hall, and his guards fell in line behind him. The music faded as Whitfield’s men ushered the visitors out of the keep.

  “I need to make sure they don’t cause trouble.” Ian stepped off the dais and then glanced at Claire. “Do not try to help the servants or walk on your own to your chamber.”

  Claire waved him away. “I shall sit here awaiting your return.” She clumsily sat back into her chair, a frown marring her compos
ure

  Ian barked a laugh. “Ever the obedient one. I shan’t be long.” As he hurried across the hall, he felt the arrows her gaze shot into his back. She most likely rained curses upon his head. ’Twould seem he’d have a lifetime to get used to such things.

  Claire watched Ian exit the great hall and came to her feet. Wait for him to return? Nay, her foot was better. She could help the servants. They had worked so hard to prepare a feast and decorate for the ceremony, ’twas the least she could do. While it hadn’t been necessary, her friends had exerted themselves to make something special out of a difficult circumstance.

  With only Toly, Noah, and the women left in the hall, the festivities came to an end. The two men put the tables and benches back where they belonged while Edith and Leticia took the dishes and food to the kitchen. Claire limped across the hall and entered the bustling room.

  “You shouldn’t be in here!” Alma set a handful of trenchers on the center table.

  “I’m always in here to help you. Today is no different.” Claire wasn’t about to change her routine now.

  Edith wagged her head. “But your foot—”

  “’Tisn’t hurting overmuch.” She walked to the table as surefooted as she could and began to put the extra bread in a crock. “Say no more about it.”

  The door slammed open as Leticia pushed through carrying a tray filled with empty cups. She hurried to the table and then saw Claire. “Mistress!”

  “Leticia!” Alma shook her head, piercing Leticia with a warning glare.

  The girl jostled the cups as she set them down. “But I thought …” Her voice drifted off at another shake of Alma’s head.

  “’Tis an ordinary day, with ordinary work,” said Claire.

  Hurt washed over the women’s faces, and Claire’s heart plummeted. Her unthoughtful words dismissed their attempts to make her handfasting special as if ’twere nothing. While dealing with her feelings about the Scot and marriage, she had become a selfish shrew with little consideration for her people. While she had pondered their welfare and security here at Whitfield, she hadn’t taken into account their hope of a brighter future for themselves.

  Claire placed a hand over her heart. “I am sorry. Truly, sorry. You worked hard to make the occasion notable. You even decorated. I am remiss in giving my thanks.”

  “Apology accepted. Now, off to bed with you.” Edith shooed Claire with her hands.

  “Edith!” Alma shook her head. “You don’t want to get her riled up, do you?”

  Claire laughed, enjoying Alma’s fierceness. “I shall help, as always.” She picked up the bucket of water near the fireplace.

  “I don’t know what the Scot will say about you working on your wedding day,” said Edith.

  “Handfasting. Not a wedding.” Claire rolled her eyes. There was a difference … of sorts.

  “Humph.” Edith shook her head. “Sir McGowan seems to have his own idea of how things should run around here. He may have something to say about your working in the kitchen.”

  Claire lifted the bucket onto the table. “He can say whatever he wants. I am in charge of the keep and will do what I will.” She dipped a cup into the water.

  The surrounding women grew quiet and stopped their work. Claire lifted her head and turned her attention to where they stared. She gulped.

  Ian stood in the doorway, his broad shoulders filling the frame.

  Had he overheard? By the way his dark brows lowered over his eyes, aye, he had indeed.

  “You told me you would wait at the table.”

  “You were busy, and I had things to do.”

  “Helping in the kitchen while hurt isna one of them.”

  Claire’s body tingled, anger teeming through her veins. He would not tell her what she could and could not do in her own home. “I am not yours to command.”

  “We are now bound. You are mine.”

  Her hands itched to throw the cup in her hand at the man standing before her, so tall and imposing. Nay! She would never be his! Her fingers ached as she gripped the cup tighter. She didn’t want to be his—though in truth, his she was. Her shoulders slumped at the realization. She was no more than chattel to be tossed around by the whim of a king.

  What was there to say?

  She lifted her chin and fixed her gaze on the formidable man in the doorway. “In my heart, I shall never be yours. And while Whitfield is your inheritance, the keep and the running of it is my domain. I will work as I see fit.”

  Ian crossed his arms over his broad chest. Claire shifted her attention to Edith, whose wide eyes met her own.

  “Why don’t we give the master and mistress some space?” Edith turned and waved the other two women toward the back door.

  “That willna be necessary. We are leaving.” Ian stepped toward Claire and swept her up in his arms.

  “Put me down!”

  “I think not.” Ian left the kitchen and strode across the great hall. Claire beat against his hard chest, which did nothing to deter his stride.

  “You have no right to force me to my room.” Claire kicked her good foot, thrashing it against him, but he only gripped her tighter. It was his strength against hers, and she was no match for him.

  Once Ian reached the stairwell, he halted.

  Claire ceased her movements. “Why do you stop?”

  “If you continue your temper, you shall kick the wall on the way up and hurt your foot further.

  Claire blinked. He thought to protect her? What an odd man. Lording his power over her, yet careful to keep her from harm.

  “Will you remain still?” he asked.

  Claire wanted to cry nay, her pride crowding to the forefront, but she gave him a nod and acquiesced to his … concern.

  The torches set along the wall flickered as the couple moved up the circular stairs. She struggled to keep her breath even as her heart hammered within her chest. She heard the steady drum in her ears, felt it pulsing through her veins, the strokes of anger and, if she were honest, fear. She knew nothing of the man holding her in his arms. The man who soon would become her husband. To live under Whitfield’s roof until death took them. The only thing she knew was what Ian had shared with Bardsley during supper and what he shared about his mother’s death with her yesterday.

  Ian gained the corridor and looked down at her, his brown eyes shining in the dim torchlight. She wanted to look away but couldn’t. His gaze seemed to pierce right through her. He turned his attention forward, and she felt … bereft—nay, relieved.

  She closed her eyes against the strange sensations in her stomach. She was tired. Weary of the day’s events.

  Once they reached her chamber, Ian set her on the bed and took a step back. “’Tis sorry, I am that we are at odds with each other. ’Tisn’t my intention to battle you at every turn.”

  “But you order me about as if I am a servant.”

  “You insist on working like one.”

  Claire shook her head. “As I have explained before, with so few workers, I must help. ’Tis better to work than lie around all day letting people wait on me.”

  Ian nodded and rubbed a hand over his face, the scratch of his stubble loud in the quiet room. “I do not begrudge you work. Only while you are hurt. You must let your foot heal properly.”

  “I stayed off it all morning. ’Tis much improved.”

  “But you canna walk without pain. I see it.”

  Ian’s gaze traversed her face, heating her cheeks. How she wished her skin didn’t grow rosy with every emotion. Whether happy, sad, or mad, a blush flooded her face.

  Claire glanced away and smoothed the skirt over her lap. “Aye, but you don’t have to lord over me in the process.”

  “I shall try to temper my words in the future.” Ian turned and lifted a couple of logs from the stack by the fireplace. “Tomorrow I would like you to accompany me on a tour of Whitfield’s land.” He tossed the wood onto the dying fire.

  “One of the guards could do that.” ’Twould be difficu
lt to cultivate distance between them if she had to endure his company for overlong.

  “I assumed with your passion for Whitfield and its people, you would give me a more detailed history. I’d like to know your ideas for the land.” The logs caught fire, crackling in the grate.

  Claire’s mouth dropped open, and she snapped it shut. He wanted to hear her ideas? Lord Whitfield never listened to her—or his daughters, for that matter. He’d dismiss her as if she were nothing but a bug to be stepped upon.

  “I will go,” she said.

  “Very good. I’ll leave you to your rest.”

  “You trust me not to escape again?”

  Ian paused at the door. “We are bound, you and I. I’ve obeyed the king, and even if you should leave, we are legally bound. There is nothing to keep me from Whitfield since I’ve done all that is required.” He stepped out of the room and pulled the door shut.

  Claire threw herself back on the bed and put her hands over her face, weary in both mind and body. Weary of battling for what was rightly hers. Nay, not rightly hers. Not truly. She was an orphan. A woman with no real family, only having a roof over her head because of a distant relation between her father and her guardian. She owned nothing. Not even the clothes on her back. Now she was beholden to a foreigner.

  ’Twas a frightening thing to be at the mercy of your enemy—your betrothed.

  Was he an enemy, truly? She pulled her hands away and rolled to her side, watching the fire dance in the grate. Ian had seen to her comfort. He would listen to her ideas regarding the land on the morrow. He was such a confusing mixture of power and gentleness. She’d not experienced the like. Would he continue on this path of interest in her thoughts and ideas? Or was this only to placate her so she would take care of the keep, the people … him?