Mary Wine - In The Warriors Bed

Kensington Publishing Corp.

www.kensingtonbooks.com

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!!!

Red Stone Castle, McQuade land, 1603

F ather writes that the king has given him leave from court.

Bronwyn McQuade flinched. In spite of years of steeling her feelings against her fathers 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 fathers side. Keir didnt seem to mind, though. He had a keen mind and raiding alongside his father wasnt the only thing that captured his attention. Their older brothers, Liam and Sodac, lived for night maraudinga 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 brothers face. No that Id blame our monarch for it.

Bronwyn didnt 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 shed grown up listening to her father lament the fact that someday hed be pressed to dower her.

There was little chance of that happening, though.

Bronwyn sighed. She didnt love anyone and still her fathers distaste for her chafed. There was no man wearing her fathers 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. Hell 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 fathers tongue. He was not a coward, simply a man who understood the value of finding other solutions that didnt 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 didnt 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.

Keirs 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 Keirs 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 brothers 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 Keirs careful handling of the familys gold that saw the McQuades 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 lairds daughter did not mean she squandered the daylight hours away. Now that winter was creeping over the land, Bronwyn would work the loom almost every day. When she was not passing the shuttle back and forth between the threads, another woman would be. Not a single machine was allowed to be idle during daylight. In a single year, the looms had paid for themselves and Keir intended to see a profit by next spring.

That was her brothers way of proving his worth to their sire. She was not so confident that her father would see the part she played in turning coin for the family. Her feet and hands moved as her mind turned ideas over and over. She should have learned in twenty-three years to stop lamenting her sires lack of affection for her. From her earliest memories he had told her often and bluntly that he had no use for a girl child. It was the harsh truth that many men agreed with him. Her mother was the one to pity. Her fathers third wife, she had suffered every day until her death for birthing an unwanted daughter.

But Bronwyn remembered her kindly. For the first seven years of her life there had been loving arms that held her. Soft kisses placed on her head and a mother that had delighted in sharing time with her daughter. Who knew? Perhaps it was the difference between men and women. The kitchens were forever full of new tales of lovers forsaking their lady loves once their bellies were full. Maybe men did not love. At least, it seemed they did not love women, anyway. Her father loved his land and money; that was a fact for certain. But Laird McQuade had never loved a woman as far as she knew.

Still, there was advantage to her struggle to please him. Her cloth was so fine no one could deny that her hands were skilled. Her entire life had been devoted to bettering herself, and the lack of interest from the men around her was more a blessing than burden. Her older siblings might label her ill-tempered but they could not call her slut. Some might say she was foolish to value her chastity when her sire planned to keep her unwed, but she still cradled the knowledge that she was pure close to her heart. Besides, her sire might change his mind and she had her own pride, too. Enough of it to make sure there was a soiled sheet to fly the morning after her vows, anyway. If that was a sin, so be it.