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MY FAIR HIGHLANDER,
out now!
MY FAIR HIGHLANDER,
out now!
“Tell me you did not tell the
barbarian Scot that he could court me.”
Jemma Ramsden was a beautiful woman,
even when her lips were pinched into a frown. She glared at her
brother, uncaring of the fact that most of the men in England
wouldn’t have dared to use the same tone with Curan Ramsden, Lord
Ryppon.
Jemma didn’t appreciate the way her
brother held his silence. He was brooding, deciding just how much
to tell her. She had seen such before, watched her brother hold
command of the border property that was his by royal decree with
his iron-strong personality. Knights waited on his words and that
made her impatient.
“Well, I will not have
it.”
“Then what will you have, sister?”
Curan kept his voice controlled, which doubled her frustration with
him. It was not right that he could find the topic so mild when it
was something that meant so much to her.
But that was a man for you. They
controlled the world and didn’t quibble over the fact that women
often had to bend beneath their whims.
Curan watched her, his eyes narrowing.
“Your temper is misplaced, Jemma.”
“I would expect you to think so. Men
do not have to suffer having their futures decided without any
concern for their wishes as women do.”
Her brother’s eyes narrowed. She drew
in her breath because it was a truth that she was being shrewish.
She was well past the age for marriage and many would accuse her
brother of being remiss in his duty if he did not arrange a match
for her. Such was being said of her father for
certain.
Curan pointed at the chair behind her.
There was hard authority etched into his face. She could see that
his temper was being tested. She sat down, not out of fear. No,
something much worse than that. Jemma did as her brother indicated
because she knew that she was behaving poorly.
Like a brat.
It was harsh yet true. Guilt rained
down on her without any mercy, bringing to mind how many times she
had staged such arguments since her father died. It was a hard
thing to recall now that he was gone.
Her brother watched her sit and
maintained his silence for a long moment. That was Curan’s way. He
was every inch a hardened knight. The barony he held had been
earned in battle, not inherited. He was not a man who allowed
emotion to rule him, and that made them night and day unto each
other.
“Lord Barras went to a great deal of
effort to ask me for permission to court you, Jemma.”
“Your bride ran into his hands. That
is not effort; it is a stroke of luck.”
Her brother’s eyes glittered with his
rising temper. She should leave well enough alone, but having
always spoken her mind, it seemed very difficult to begin holding
her tongue.
“Barras could have kept Bridget locked
behind his walls if that was his objective. He came outside to meet
me because of you.”
“But—”
Curan held up a single finger to
silence her. “And to speak to me of possible coordinated efforts
between us, yes but an offer from the man should not raise your ire
so much, sister.”
The reprimand was swift and solid,
delivered in a hard tone that made her fight off the urge to
flinch. Her brother was used to being in command. His tone was one
that not a single one of his men would argue with even if she often
did. But that trait was not enhancing her reputation. She noticed
the way his knights looked at her, with disgust in their eyes. When
they didn’t think she could hear them, they called her a shrew. She
would like to say it did not matter to her, but it did leave tracks
like claw marks down the back of her pride. Knowing that she had
earned that slur against her name made her stomach twist this
morning. Somehow, she’d not noticed until now, not really taken the
time to recognize how often she quarreled with her brother. He was
a just man.
“You are right, brother.”
Curan grunted. “You admit it, but you
make no apology.”
Her chin rose and her hands tightened
on the arms of the chair as the impulse to rise took command of
her.
“Remain in that chair,
Jemma.”
Her brother’s voice cracked like a
leather whip. She had never heard such a tone directed at her
before. It shocked her into compliance, wounding the trust she had
in her brother allowing her to do anything that she wished. The
guilt returned, this time thick and clogging in her
throat.
“Has Bridget complained of me?” Her
voice was quiet, but she needed to know if her brother’s wife was
behind her sibling’s lack of tolerance.
“She has not, but I am finished having
my morning meal ruined by your abrasive comments on matters
concerning your future. You may thank the fact that my wife has
been at this table every day for the past six months as the reason
for this conversation not happening before this.”
Bridget, her new sister-in-law, had
taken one look at the morning meal and turned as white as snow. No
doubt her brother was on edge with concern for the wife who had
told him to leave her alone in one of the very rare times Bridget
raised her voice in public to her husband. Curan had slumped back
down in his chair, chewing on his need to follow his bride when
Jemma had begun to berate him.
Her timing could not have been
worse.
But hindsight was always far
clearer.
“I will not speak against our father
and his ways with you, Jemma. However, you will not continue as you
have. You were educated well, just as my wife, and yet you spend
your days doing nothing save pleasing your whims. You have refused
to see Barras every time he has called upon me as though the match
is beneath you—it is not.” Her brother paused, making his
displeasure clear. “Well, madam, I believe a few duties will help
you place some of your spirit to good use.” Curan drew in a stiff
breath. “I will not force you to wed, because that was our father’s
wish. Yet I will not tolerate anyone living in this castle who does
nothing to help maintain it. You may have the day to decide what
you prefer to do, or on the morrow I will have a list of duties
given to you. Food does not appear from thin air, and you shall
help make this fortress a decent place to reside.”
Her brother stood up and strode away,
several of his knights standing up the moment their lord did to
follow him. Conversation died in the hall and the sounds of dishes
being gathered up for washing took over. Jemma watched the maids
and cringed. Shame turned her face red, for she noticed more than
one satisfied smile decorating their lips.
Standing up, she left the hall,
seeking out the only living creature that she could trust not to
lecture her.
But that was only because a horse
could not talk even if she often whispered her laments against its
velvety neck.
In the dim light of the stable, she
moved down the stalls until she found her mare. The horse snorted
with welcome, bringing a smile to her face, but it was a sad one.
Jemma reached out to stroke the light gray muzzle, the velvety
hairs tickling her hand. Storm had been her constant companion
since her father’s death and she realized that she had never really
dealt with that parting. Instead she’d refused to admit that her
sire’s departure from this life had cut her to the
bone.
Instead of grieving, she had become a
shrew, irritating everyone around her, and escaping to ride across
her father’s land while the rest of the inhabitants toiled at all
the tasks required to maintain a castle keep.
Curan and the others labeled it
selfish but in truth it was running. She had swung up onto the back
of her horse and ridden out to avoid facing the fact that her
father was dead. It had never been about escaping her chores or
thinking the match with Barras beneath her, she had sought out the
bliss of not thinking at all which removed the need to grieve from
her mind. She simply ignored the fact that time was passing,
choosing to remain locked in a few hours that never progressed.
That way, she didn’t have to face the sadness that threatened to
reduce her to a pile of ashes.
Barras . . .
The burly Scot was something else that
she liked to avoid thinking about, yet for a far different reason.
He looked at her as though he wanted to touch her. Even now, a
shiver rippled down her spine at just the memory of the way his
eyes traveled over her curves, tracing them, lingering on them
while his gaze narrowed and his lips thinned with hunger. Some
manner of sensation twisted in her belly and it set her heart to
moving faster but she was unable to decide just what it was. Or
maybe she had merely avoided naming it to remain locked in her
fairy bubble where she didn’t have to face the grieve that wanted
to assault her.