Dark Seduction. Brenda Joyce
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been wrong. The walls and floors were stone, of course, and wood rafters supported the high ceiling. But there were several fine rugs on the floor, obviously from France, Italy or Belgium, instead of rushes. While there was a crude trestle table with two benches before a huge hearth in which a fire roared, there were also several arrangements of upholstered chairs, each finely and intricately carved by the best medieval craftsmen. A magnificent sword collection was displayed over the hearth. Several beautifully carved trunks served as tables. Oil paintings were on the walls, the portraits highly stylized as was standard for the period, and a stunning tapestry was on one wall. Claire had expected far more primitive conditions. She had expected dogs, mice, vermin and rushes on the floors. Black Royce’s home was very well furnished for the fifteenth-century Highlands and as livable as a modern manor home. Still, something was missing—a personal touch. Claire would bet he was not married.
Royce had been helped out of his armor and was sitting in the room’s largest chair, the upholstery burgundy velvet. A young woman handed him a mug of what Claire assumed to be ale. She now noticed that another young woman had taken his brat and mail and was carrying it away. Both females looked to be no more than twenty, if that, and they were blond and pretty. As Claire came to the realization that she was not the only young and attractive woman in the Highlands, a third woman appeared. She offered Malcolm a mug, smiling and blushing as she did so.
“Tapadh leat,” he said, smiling back at her.
She was very pretty, with strawberry-blond hair, half Claire’s size and nowhere close to twenty-one. Claire had always liked being tall, but suddenly she felt gawky and more like a giant than a woman. The blonde murmured, “De tha sibh ag larraidh?”
Claire’s heart lurched with dread. Was this woman his love? And why did she care?
Malcolm shook his head, speaking softly in reply. His smile was terribly seductive.
The girl’s color increased. She glanced at Claire and hurried from the hall.
Claire realized she was hugging herself. If he wanted to bed someone that young, it wasn’t her affair. And of course he would. He was macho and oversexed. He was a medieval lord. He thought it his right and the dumb blonde probably thought it an honor to jump into his bed.
Claire was jealous. And that was even worse.
He took her arm but spoke to Royce. “I will show Claire t’ her chamber.”
Royce had stretched out his long, boot-clad legs and seemed to be utterly indifferent. He sent them both a lazy, knowing smile.
Claire flushed. If he thought she was Malcolm’s lover, he was wrong. Claire carefully shrugged away from Malcolm’s grasp. She followed him up a narrow staircase, trying to keep her distance from him while also trying not to stare at the back of his bare legs.
He pushed open a wood door and stood aside. “Ye can sleep here. We’ll go to Dunroch t’morrow.”
Claire wondered grimly if that would allow him a more leisurely romp in the hay with the strawberry blonde. She stepped past him into her chamber.
The room was very small, but there was a good-size fireplace on one wall and the bed had four carved posters and a fur coverlet. There was a single window, a slit without glass, the shutters open. As no fire had been started, it was icy in the room.
She knew she would never sleep. Her mind would race in circles.
The strawberry blonde appeared, sending Malcolm a smile before kneeling to start a fire.
Claire bristled. “Get a room.” She smiled sweetly at him, belying her caustic tone.
He grinned. “Yer jealous o’ the maid?”
Claire could not believe she had been so transparent. “Hardly. Oh, by the way, thank you for the loan.” She fumbled with the brooch to give him back his plaid. She didn’t want it. It reeked of his masculinity.
He reached out and grasped her hand, stilling it.
Claire stiffened, certain he was preparing to make a pass. That certainty increased when the blonde glanced at them and silently left the room, closing the door behind her.
Claire knew she should move away. Instead, the man’s sex and heat pulled at her, encouraging her to step closer.
“’Tis cool and ye have nay clothes.” He released her hand, moving to the single table in the room. There was one roughly carved wood chair there, along with a pitcher, a flask and two mugs. He poured liquid from the flask into a mug and handed it to her. Claire smelled the red wine and was immediately diverted. She was, she realized, thirsty and ravenous.
“’Tis a fine claret, from France,” he said softly.
Claire saw the glitter in his gaze, and felt her own pulse escalate. She took a drink, wondering if he hoped to loosen her up, and then another. “It is good. Thank you.”
He smiled, clearly having no intention of leaving the room. “Why do ye care if I bed the wench?”
His tone was casual but Claire almost leaped out of her skin. “I do not!”
“I dinna want the wench, lass,” he murmured.
His meaning was beyond clear. He had the ability to speak in such a suggestive tone that all she could do was think of sex. She had to do something before he put his hands on her.
He turned away, stunning her. She saw him pour another mug, his hand rock steady. When he faced her, he leaned one hip against the table.
“We ha’ matters to discuss,” he said bluntly, clearly aware of her discomfiture.
Claire inhaled. This was safer territory, indeed. But before she could ask a single question, his expression hardened. “I dinna ken the way o’ yer world, Claire, but in my world, no one—not man, not woman, not child, not wild beast or dog, no one—disobeys me.”
She stood at attention now. “I am sorry.”
“Ye nay be sorry. Ye plot yer own causes!” he exclaimed.
She had been caught. “Sometimes I feel you can read my mind!” she said furiously.
“I can sense yer strongest thoughts as if ye speak them aloud,” he shot back, standing. He set the mug down hard, hard enough that the table jumped. “In battle, I will protect ye. But that means ye hide if I say hide and run if I say run and ye dinna think, ever.” His eyes flashed.
Claire knew she should not allow herself to debate him. She fought her temper and lost. “My lord,” she said, meaning to speak demurely and failing. Instead, her tone was undeniably sarcastic. “In my world, women are leaders, warriors, queens without kings!”
“Ye argue now?” He was incredulous.
She flushed. Appease him! she thought frantically. “I am sorry. I don’t know why I didn’t hide. I am an utter coward. And I didn’t intend to disobey you. It just happened.”
His expression eased slightly. “Ye be nay coward, lass. Ye be strong an’ brave.” His gaze slid over the brat as if he could see through it. “I never seen such a body in me entire life.”
He stared at her, his gray eyes fiercely intent.
This was the time to set some boundaries, Claire thought, if she could. Her body raging just as it had in the woods, she took a long, deep breath. “In my world,” she said carefully, “a man does not touch a woman without her permission.”
His expression did not change.
“Do not pretend not to understand!” she cried desperately.
His tone was dangerous. “Oh, I ken, lass. I ken.”
“What does that mean?”
Very softly, he said, “I took what ye offered an’ I gave what ye wanted.”
She gasped, outraged. But she also recalled wanting him desperately and having