Which accounted for the war of rough wooing that had almost cost her so much last night. The room was brightening, warm yellow sunlight spilling through the glass windows like water. In the winter there would be light but no freezing wind. In the yard below a bell began to chime. Slow and steady, the sound rose up in the morning air to touch the ears of everyone who inhabited the towers of Barras Castle.
“Well, ’tis the only service there is here, so ye’d be best to come along and leave the bickering over church policy to the kings and nobles. ’Tis praising the Lord, no matter the manner it is done in.”
Jemma couldn’t suppress a small sound of amusement that bubbled up from her lips. It was actually quite refreshing to have someone poke a little fun at all the fighting over what service was considered correct. She had read many a letter to her father on the new policies that were sent out from his secretary in London. Always it was little things that were altered, and truthfully she did not see so great a difference. Yet men had died for those changes.
“I agree, but my father warned me often to never say so.”
Ula merely shrugged. “At my age, speaking my mind is na so forbidden. At least no when there are no men about to hear me.”
There was a truth if ever Jemma had heard one. Men were often power hungry and didn’t take kindly to any woman who forgot that they didn’t like to share that authority. What was allowed in private was not the same as how she was expected to behave when others might overhear her. Refusing to attend morning Mass might very well see her branded as a heretic. She stood on Scottish ground, and it was a Catholic nation with priests empowered by the crown. Public disobedience would be chastised.
So she followed Ula, lowering her head when she entered the church, but she noticed the looks of approval from the Barras clan members. She found herself listening to the service and noticing the details. So much blood had been spilt over the split between England and Rome. Even now, the English soldiers were intent on capturing Mary, Queen of Scots, just to prevent her from being raised Catholic. There was also a growing pressure from Catholic France to take the girl for their prince and form an alliance against the English because they were Protestant. Scottish and English shared one island, but it was faith that kept them divided. Henry the Eighth had a good idea to unite the two nations.
Jemma cringed at her thoughts. They just kept rising up, ignoring her more logical thinking that reminded her she had no control when it came to the man. That was dangerous, very much so.
Her eyes widened while she searched for a counterthought. Aye, but the man was a brute the way he swept her off her feet and carried her inside his tower like some bundle of goods he’d taken as his prize during a raid.
Her cheeks heated, and she became annoyed with herself as she recalled exactly how much she had enjoyed the scent of his skin. Strong and powerful. It was more than just the fact that he was clean, she had enjoyed the way his scent filled her senses during that kiss. Somehow, it had added to the intoxicating power of his mouth against her own.
She was not applying herself well. Jemma tried to concentrate on the priest, but instead her gaze wandered to the kilt on the man standing on the end of the row on the other side of the sanctuary. His legs were muscular, too, but she still preferred Gordon’s. There was a power that radiated from the man, and just thinking about him stirred the excitement that had flared up so brightly, deep in her belly last night.
And just what would that have gotten her? Nothing but dishonor. Jemma used that harsh fact to sober her thoughts. Her insides might have tormented her with how much they craved more of Gordon’s touch, but she was still a virgin this morning and that was what she needed to focus her attention on. It was true that there was nothing at all about Gordon Dwyre that was so unique, nothing at all. The change was within herself. Now that she had recognized she needed to stop grieving, her body was telling her it was time to marry.
There was nothing unusual about her host, except his ability to annoy her. She would return to Amber Hill and allow her brother to arrange a good match for her. Obviously there was too much tension between Scotland and England for her to continue to consider Gordon. Henry the Eighth would die soon, leaving his young son Edward to wear his crown. Two children could not bring peace between the two nations. If she married into Scotland, her own brother would have to call her husband his enemy. Even if Curan had given his permission for Barras to court her, that was not permission to wed. Better to leave before her longings gained too much hold on her.
It was logical, but she felt disappointment creeping across her heart. No amount of thinking dispelled it. She needed her virtue, and just because she craved something did not mean it would be hers. There was nothing to do save endure.
That was something she understood well how to do.
The first meal of the day was served soon after Mass. It was a simple offering of porridge topped with the last of the season’s fruits. The cereal might be stored and left in large iron pots while the staff attended Mass. The cook used a large ladle to fill wooden bowls with the thick sustenance. Maids brought trays of bowls that gently steamed in the cool morning air. The main hall became crowded and noisy as everyone filled the long tables that ran across the space. Benches skidded on the hard stone floor, and men whistled to their comrades before sitting down to partake of the morning fare. If it hadn’t been for the rust and orange tartans they wore, she might have thought she was at Amber Hill.
Except that she didn’t recognize a single face. A lump lodged in her throat as she realized how alone she was. There was nothing to force Gordon to return her home. She might never get the chance to stare down those who doubted she was still pure because she was unsure of her host’s intentions. He was a difficult man to understand or anticipate. The way he had handled her was clear evidence that he would do exactly as he pleased in spite of her arguments. The lump grew larger and the porridge looked too coarse to force down her throat.
Commotion from the end of the hall drew her attention. Gordon entered with his captains on his heels. Gordon wore a knitted round bonnet tipped to the side of his head. On the right side of the band was a solid gold broach in the form of one rampant lion. The eyes of the animal were set with rubies, telling her that Barras blood was considered noble. Each of the men following him wore a pheasant feather in his cap. It was a mark of their position, and the hall quieted while they passed.
Jemma felt the color drain from her face, for this was not the man who had teased her last night. The man who strode so determinedly down the center aisle, without a doubt or any hint of mercy, was Laird Barras. His stride was purposeful, carrying him quickly toward the table that waited. It was set up on a dais, further reinforcing the authority of the man. Bowls had not been placed on the table yet. A maid lifted a tray and hurried to serve her laird the moment he sat down. Every one of his captains waited until Gordon sat. Women attended the table
