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how rare noble blood is becoming due to yer War of the Roses.”
    He reached out and grabbed the fabric beneath her chin. A moment later she was standing. Her feet shifted, her balance unsteady because her toes had gone numb sometime during the night.
    “Henry Tudor has wed Elizabeth of York. The War of the Roses is finished now, because York and Lancaster are united,” she explained.
    “But Henry has nae had her crowned queen, and ye are here, brought under cover of darkness to a lone tower where James of Scotland sneaks away to meet with ye. Now, that is suspicious, lass, and no mistake. But it is also dangerous for me and me clan, for we have enough troubles without ye giving James a son with York blood. Ye tried to flee when I offered ye freedom, which means ye might well be intent on becoming a powerful queen through yer son.”
    “I told you why I tried to run.”
    He chuckled, but it wasn’t a pleasant sound. “Am I to trust ye, then?” He stepped closer, maintaining a firm grip on the fabric to keep her in place. “Will ye offer to bathe me with yer delicate hands, Clarrisa? To show me how adept ye are at common chores? From what the young maid told me, ye claim to have more practice at polishing men’s weapons. Mind ye, I am no’ saying I would nae enjoy ye proving yer gratefulness in such a fashion.”
    Her jaw dropped open, but the sound that emerged was a snarl. Full of rage and frustration, she actually lowered her chin and tried to bite the hand securing her in front of him.
    “I shall not! You’re a fiend to suggest such a thing.”
    He laughed at her, jerking his hand away before she sank her teeth into his flesh. She stumbled and would have landed on her backside, but someone caught her floundering body from behind, and her face burned bright red as she listened to his men enjoy her shame. Someone yanked the length of wool off her, and she spun around like a child playing in a spring meadow. When the last of the wool plaid fell away, she was dizzy. Her captor gripped her wrists while she struggled to maintain her balance, and wrapped a length of leather around them. He knotted the ends firmly before giving a satisfied grunt.
    “I am Broen MacNicols, and ye will be leaving, lass, but ye will be traveling with me to the Highlands where I can be sure ye are nae adding to the troubles in me country. Give me men any frustration, and I’ll let them keep ye bundled like a babe.”
    “Brute,” she accused. “Uncivilized… Highlander.”
    He offered her a wink and a grin, which sent her temper up another few degrees.
    “Mount up, lads. We’re too close to England for me taste. The stench sours me stomach.”
    ***
     
    Beast.
    Broen MacNicols was uncivilized.
    Clarrisa felt her cheeks stinging with another blush, only this time it was born of shame. Her behavior had matched his. She had no idea where such an urge had come from—biting a man was the reaction of a street strumpet. For heaven’s sake, she could read and write!
    But she’d wanted to bite him; the urge had swept through her faster than any reason might intercede. Perhaps her mind had broken under the stress of the last few days.
    She scoffed at her thoughts. There was nothing unhinged about her reasoning. It had been her temper, flashing brighter than a fire catching summer straw. Besides, she was too young to be insane. That idea made her smile. Madness hadn’t taken hold of her—for that would have been a blessing. At least insanity would have kept her from worrying about the right and wrong of what her blood kin wanted her to do. Well, their ambition had landed her in Scotland and on her way into the Highlands, it seemed.
    Clarrisa twisted her hands again, in spite of knowing that the leather binding her wrists would hold steady. Pain sliced through her skin, reminding her that she would be the only one suffering for her struggles—but she seemed unable to master the urge to chafe against her bonds periodically.
    The day grew