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In the Warrior’s Bed
MARY WINE
This book is dedicated to the one and only Mama Zini. For
years of mentoring
and partnering in crime, my dear friend, Frieda, who can
size up any living soul and dress
them to the height of fashion, no matter the year. May you
always know how talented you
are and how much you mean to those you touch.
Beware the spoon!!!
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter One
Red Stone Castle, McQuade land, 1603
“Father writes that the king has given him leave from court.”
Bronwyn McQuade flinched. In spite of years of steeling her feelings against her father’s disdain, she still dreaded his return. Her sire was a hard man, and that was thinking kindly about him. Erik McQuade was laird and he enjoyed making sure that every man, woman, and child born on his land knew that bettering the clan was the most important duty they were charged with.
As his daughter, she felt the bite of his expectations more than most.
“I hope he has a safe journey home.”
Her brother snorted. Keir McQuade failed to mask his personal feelings completely, too. The parchment in his grasp crinkled when his fingers tightened on it. Born third, Keir was often relegated by their sire to the more mundane tasks of running the estate while their older brothers stood at their father’s side. Keir didn’t seem to mind, though. He had a keen mind and raiding alongside his father wasn’t the only thing that captured his attention. Their older brothers, Liam and Sodac, lived for night marauding—a fact that endeared them to their father. Keir shook his head before refolding the letter and storing it inside his writing desk.
“At least Jamie no’ sent him home with snow on the road.” A shadow darkened her brother’s face. “No’ that I’d blame our monarch for it.”
Bronwyn didn’t reply. She held her tongue with the aid of years of practice. Her father had no patience for any spirit in his only daughter. In truth, the man had little stomach for the sight of her at all. A girl child was of no use to Laird McQuade. Quite the opposite, and she’d grown up listening to her father lament the fact that someday he’d be pressed to dower her.
There was little chance of that happening, though.
Bronwyn sighed. She didn’t love anyone and still her father’s distaste for her chafed. There was no man wearing her father’s colors who would dare flirt with her. Liam and Sodac helped ensure that by telling one and all that she was a shrew cursed with a demon temperament.
“Och now, sister, dinna look like that.”
Bronwyn fluttered her eyelashes. “Look like what?”
Keir clicked his tongue. Raising a single finger, he pointed at her. “I know ye too well.”
“But Father does not, so there is no reason to warn me. He’ll see nothing but what he wants to see.”
Her brother grunted. The sound reprimanded her by reminding her that she was not the only child their sire valued lowly. Keir was a huge man, his hands twice the size of her own. His lack of zeal for war earned him the cutting edge of his father’s tongue. He was not a coward, simply a man who understood the value of finding other solutions that didn’t include using a sword.
“Aye, ye have the right of it and still I see the hurt in yer eyes.”
A soft smile lifted her lips. “My life is nae so hard as many have. Save yer pity for those that truly suffer.”
She didn’t want it. Nor need it. Holding her chin steady, Bronwyn pushed the floor pedal of the large loom she was working to switch the threads for the next pass of the shuttle. Rolled up on the finished end of the loom were several measures of the McQuade plaid. The loom itself was a prized possession. Modern and efficient, cloth could be woven as fine as any found in Edinburgh.
By a skilled hand, of course.
Trailing her fingers over the fabric nearest to the working edge, she smiled at how smooth it was. The heather, tan, and green stripes were perfectly repeated over and over throughout the length of fabric where they crossed, squares formed to perfection.
“Ye do fine work, Bronwyn.”
Keir’s voice was soft but she savored the approval she heard in the tone. Flashing her brother a smile, she pressed down on the opposite foot pedal.
“And ye are a master at managing the estate funds.”
One of Keir’s eyebrows rose. “I came to warn ye to take a ride afore ye canna anymore.”
Her brother bowed before turning in a swirl of pleated McQuade kilt, the back ones falling longer than the front. A sturdy, thick belt was buckled around his waist to hold the wool against his lean frame. His shoulders were wide and thickly muscled, because while Keir might not lust for war, that did not mean he was any less skilled in the art of wielding a sword than any McQuade retainer.
But her brother’s true worth was in his thinking. Keir had a keen mind when it came to investing. Their father had married three times in his effort to amass more wealth, but it was Keir’s careful handling of the family’s gold that saw the McQuade’s fortunes increasing now. Her brother had seen the value in buying the loom she worked. They had wool aplenty from the sheep that grazed on their land. Four more of the large looms sat in the long room built alongside the great hall. Other McQuade women sat working them now, each one of them having earned the right to use the modern machines by spending years working the smaller looms that produced rougher fabric.
Being the laird’s daughter did not mean she squandered the daylight hours
