A Highlander’s Terror_A Medieval Scottish Romance Story Page 6

  “Forgiven, sir,” she said in a small voice. She moved her hand away. Her heart was sore. She wanted to stay here, talking sweet and wonderful folly with him, to follow him. To do more, too. However, she knew how inexcusably wrong it would be.

  In her head, she heard repeated her status, her need for manners.

  “We should go now,” he said quietly.

  “Yes.”

  Neither of them moved. A voice rang out.

  “None must remove their masks until midnight, by royal demand.”

  They looked at each other, a flash of guilt in their eyes. Then, grinning broadly they raised them.

  “Come, my lady,” he said. “Let us return.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Amabel let him grip her elbow tenderly and he led her onto the dance floor anew.

  When she had rejoined the group at the banquet table, Amabel felt her heart thumping loudly. She looked around the banquet with a mix of dismay and excitement. She wanted to talk to him again!

  She sat down with the rest of the party – somewhere between the duke she'd dined with the previous night and a tall, broad shouldered man with an aquiline mask, and spent most of her evening reliving the conversation. She found it hard to focus on anything else, though the meal was exquisite, the drinks warmed to perfection, the dessert delicious. She could only think on the kiss. How I wish to see him again soon, and for longer.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  SOME SURPRISING NEWS

  SOME SURPRISING NEWS

  The sunlight filtered onto the pillow. Rufus, feeling the subtle warmth before it hit his eyelids, rolled over. He stretched and yawned. Then he opened his eyes.

  He was looking up at the ceiling in the bedroom. He remembered the night before.

  That was the most wonderful night of my life.

  He sat up, ruffling a hand through tousled hair, amazed.

  How was it that he felt so wonderful? It wasn't like anything had actually happened. He chuckled. He felt as if he had spent the night in hedonism, and yet all he had done was talk to the lady! He chuckled.

  “What a lady, too.”

  He let himself bring her face to memory. Those plump, red lips, bright blue eyes. He knew he had never felt anything as wonderful as that kiss. He closed his eyes, recalling how wonderful it had been to lean against her, feeling her body hard below him.

  She is exquisite.

  He felt blood throb in his loins as he filled in her features in his mind. That slim waist, wide hips, those hard breasts. He could guess she was exquisite under those fine robes. He wished he knew more.

  He chuckled ruefully. “Keep dreaming, Invermore.”

  The likelihood of him ever finding out more about her – in the respect of bedding her – was incredibly small. She was a lady. He was a knight.

  If her family caught sight of me they'd likely banish me for looking at her. Who was he? A member of the household guard! A few ranks above a servant. His father was a minor lord, but that likely wouldn't hold much water with a family like hers.

  No. She's a thane for a father, most likely. And he'd take one look at me and send me hence!

  He knew he wasn't worthy of such beauty. Not in his life – a hard, barren life – but he could pretend.

  He slipped out of bed and walked to the window, shrugging his shoulders under the white nightshirt. He caught a breath, feeling a catch in the one shoulder – he had likely fallen asleep cramped and woken with it sore. He shrugged off the shirt and wandered through to dress.

  The mirror showed him a lean man, toned from fighting, his chest rippling with shadows, his biceps bulky, shoulders huge and overdeveloped. He frowned.

  Not bad. A bit brutish for milady, mayhap.

  His eyes rolled at his presumptuousness.

  The only time she would see him like that, he thought ruefully as he dove into a comfortable woolen tunic and black trews, was if he was about to be executed by drowning.

  She's not for the sort like me, and never will be. However, he could dream.

  As he brushed a comb through his hair and readied for breakfast, he dreamed of her. The feeling of her skin under his hand.

  He felt his loins tighten and he grinned, shrugging.

  You silly fool. You're tormenting yourself sore.

  He knew he would never be satisfied, but there wasn't any harm in indulging in some idle fantasy, now was there.

  The only harm, he concluded as he marched briskly down the corridor, heading for the mess hall where the knights would take their daily repast, later than usual as a kindness following the pageant, was that he would be left with too much blood partitioned for his loins and none in the rest of him.

  In the hall he was met with rows of men already there, mostly in their white tunics and belts ready for duty. He sighed. He would have to go and change again before his shift.

  He spied a seat beside a man he knew, a fellow by the name of Blaine.

  “Good morning,” he said, covering his mouth to avoid a yawn. “Good rest, friend?”

  Blaine rolled his eyes. He looked weary. “Rest? Not jolly likely.”

  “Oh?” he looked at the men who all looked away, sheepishly. He was interested.

  “We had a bit much of the good ale,” one of the men, a fellow called Artair, explained hesitantly.

  “Oh.” He chuckled. “Well, it was a festival day.”

  “And we're groaning with regret now,” Blanchard, the man opposite him, grinned. A sandy fellow with a cheery, stub-nosed face, Blanchard was one of the few men-at-arms here that Rufus knew. A half-French nobleman by birth, he was the fourth of his brothers and so not in line to inherit anything. He had joined the Order briefly but had never been ordained as a knight, preferring to travel to Edinburgh to take up a position in the royal Guard. Which, apparently, was where he had stayed. It was good to see his cheerful, friendly face around the place sometimes.

  “I can imagine,” Rufus said.

  “No, you can't,” Blaine said dolefully.

  They all laughed.

  Breakfast was a hearty meal of bannocks and eggs, or porridge, with salt from the cellar to sprinkle on it. Rufus bit into a bannock, smiling as the wheat flavor filled his hungry mouth.

  He found his thoughts drifting to Amabel as he chewed, his mind filling in the line of her beautiful cleavage, the abundance of her coal-glossy hair. He felt his loins ache again and grinned to himself.

  “You're cheerful,” Blanchard commented resentfully. He chuckled.

  “I'm thinking.”

  “You look like you're seeing damsels,” Blaine replied regretfully. “I wish I'd drunk what you had.”

  Rufus laughed. As it happened, he hadn't actually drunk anything – well, some cordial, but nothing strong. He was feeling unaccountably good that morning, though he'd been sober at festivities before and it wasn't this good on its own.

  He knew he was happy because of talking with her.

  Amabel.

  He filled in her face in his mind, imagining her body below it. Her slim waist and her shapely thighs. She was a joy to see.

  I wonder if I will see her again.

  It was a thought that made him restless. He didn't want to consider the possibility that in that single night he had sampled her as much as he ever would, met her as much as he ever would. He was sure he had to see her again. She couldn't be put in his way only to be snatched from him. He didn't want to believe life could be so wretched.

  He took another bannock and chewed on it, thinking. At that moment, Sir Ivan came in.

  “Men,” he said. “We must to arms!”

  Rufus gaped. He looked at the man opposite, who shrugged, making big eyes at him. No one knew what this was about, clearly, and so they all gathered around to listen.

  “We have word,” Ivan continued. He had taken residence at the top of their table, which meant three and a half other benches of warriors were all staring at them, a fact which irritated Rufus sorely. He shook his head and focused on the man
's words. “We heard yesterday of an insurrection. A plot against the Crown.”

  All the men shook their heads, growling disgust. How could anyone foment insurrection? Against their Queen? How could someone consider it?

  “We must ride to Somerkirk to halt this threat.”

  “Yea!” One of the men shouted. Everyone else joined in.

  “Hang the traitors.”

  “Death for insurrection.”

  Rufus felt his own blood rise as men beat on tables, pushed back chairs, and growled.

  “Well,” he said to his friends as he stood. “That's breakfast ended.”

  Blanchard rolled his eyes at him. “Easy for you to say,” he said mulishly. “I haven't managed to keep anything down yet...”

  Rufus chuckled. “Your own fault, comrade.”

  Blanchard glared. “Of that, I'm painfully aware. Now if you don't mind, will you try and shut this lot up? My head's paining.”

  Rufus laughed.

  They headed out together to the practice yard to make ready.

  “Now, men,” their commanding officer declared as they armed themselves. “I'll give you an hour before we meet in the forecourt to ride. A detachment of twenty – the band with Dunstan – will stay here. The rest – we leave.”

  Rufus strode through to the castle, following the rest. He headed up to his lodgings, hoping he would have someone to help him pack his armor for the ride.

  “Seamus?”

  No reply. Rufus groaned. Where was the blessed man when you wanted him?

  “Seamus?”

  He sighed. That was that, then. He had to pack his armor himself. He hurried to the chest and started to unpack. He would need his greaves. He considered wearing them and decided he might just do it. It would save having to fiddle with the strings when they got to the site, in case he needed to spring into action at once.

  As he tried to tie them, he found one of the laces needed replacing.

  “Oh, for...” he sighed and hefted the thing, heading downstairs. He considered what to do about it. It wasn't a bad challenge – it just needed lacing again. He went to the armory, but there was a line of men there, waiting for their swords to be honed. He sighed in impatience. If he waited in this queue, the hour would pass fast and he'd still be left with broken straps.

  He headed to the hall.

  “Masie?” he called. No answer. He had hoped to find the serving girl who brought them their usual meals. If nothing else, she would likely have string or some strapping on hand to bind it. He looked around him and when there was no one, he shrugged and went out.

  “Is there no one?” he sighed under his breath. The castle seemed deserted except for a dark-haired officer who walked quickly down the steps, heading into the outdoors.

  He shrugged and went up the stairs. He stopped.

  “My lady?”

  With daylight on the blue-dark strands of her hair, she was more remarkable even than she had been when he saw her last evening.

  “My lord?” she blinked at him.

  He chuckled. “Sir Rufus, milady. We can dispense with the courtesies of mummery.” she had called him “lord” because he wore a mask and she did not know who he was. He would not let her keep it up.

  “Well, then.” She grinned, inclining her head. Then she frowned. “What is it?”

  He sighed. He had not realized how strange he must appear, standing in the hallway with a broken plate-armor component strung idly from his hand. He shook his head.

  “My lady, forgive me,” he said, sighing loudly. “I am on duty.” He pointed to the courtyard, just showing the men lining up outside at the front.

  “You must go, mustn't you?” She looked down at him and Rufus twitched.

  She is looking at me as if she can read the secrets of my mind. He felt uncomfortable. He sighed. “My lady, yes.” he watched as their commander strode about, directing the men to their places. He should really go.

  “Sir Rufus,” she said. She walked down the stairs and he walked up and they were opposite each other. She wore a beautiful gown of tapestry fabric, a deep red hue. Completely unbidden, she put his hand on his shoulders, looked at him.

  “You are going to ride far,” she intoned. “You will see action on a field there. There will be a battle. Be safe.”

  Rufus blinked. How was she..? As he tried to understand it, she kissed him.

  “My lady!” he heard how squeaky his voice sounded and cleared his throat, feeling shamed. She had withdrawn now, though she still looked up at him with those sapphire blue eyes.

  His heart flipped. Her lips, full and wet with kissing, were a sight that set his loins on fire. He was hard pressed not to grab her and draw her into his arms again, hungering for kissing.

  She was clearing her throat, though, a small whisper. He strained closer, wanting to hear her words.

  “You will struggle, but you will emerge,” she whispered. Then, as he watched, her eyes rolled up in her head and she collapsed.

  She fell towards the steps, her eyes closed, body dropping slowly, like a sapling falling in a springtime-wind.

  “What..? My lady?” He cried out.

  Without thinking about what he was doing, he bent down and lifted her to her feet. Then, without any more ado, he marched up the stairs and carried her to the floor of bedchambers. There, he stopped. Which one was hers?

  That's really forward thinking. He sighed. Here he was, a beautiful woman in his arms, on a floor of bedchambers. What was someone going to think when he tried to explain it? Um, I picked her up when she fainted and carried her up to put her on her bed. Honest. I didn't do anything to her, not so much as touch her. She just fainted clean away in the middle of our conversation, easy as a tree falling in a storm. And so I grabbed her and picked her up and carried her up the stairs. But I don't know where her bedroom is.

  Were he to see something like it, he would presume that the man's intent was to seduce her and he'd found him red-handed.

  He called out for help, but nobody came. He looked around desperately. Then he looked down at her face. Her soft body lay against his hard chest. He just noticed the tender line of her lips, moist where her tongue had just been, the white of her skin. She had such delicate softness to her, from the skin to the soft curling of her hair. Her full curves. Her long lashes. He felt his heart suffuse with a feeling that was almost pain. He wanted to kiss her. He breathed heavily.

  “Someone...” he began a call for help. He couldn't very well stand there, longing, holding her.

  “My lord?” A manservant appeared, the broken greave in his hand. “I found this, sir,” he added, tensely.

  “Thanks, really.” Rufus sighed. “If you could just carry it. I was talking to her and she collapsed,” he explained tentatively. He didn't expect to be believed but the man nodded.

  “I know her, sir,” he said quickly. “She's lady Amabel, yes?”

  “That's right,” Rufus said tiredly.

  “Room in the south and east wing, sir,” he said succinctly. “Follow me?”

  CHAPTER SIX

  A SURPRISE ENCOUNTER

  A SURPRISE ENCOUNTER

  The field she looked at was gray and scrubby in a fretting wind. She stood on the deserted plain and knew, just knew, that a hundred men had died here. She felt their screams and groans of pain on the wind, heard their sighs and knew the breeze that shivered at her garments had heard them give their last cries, had received their last exhales.

  She felt the clash and cry of the battle and she reached for the one person she cared for, the man who had seen into her soul with those brown eyes, though he was someone that she'd never discoursed with in her life.

  She knew he was gone, then. Her soul cried out and she screamed her pain heavenwards.

  She felt the gray of fog close around her eyelids.

  She was somewhere, an ocean of sensation that was neither the stable world of life nor the glass-edge clarity of vision. She was lying on something soft, and fog drifted before he
r. Light, thin and uncalled for, heated her eyelids.

  As she felt the mists disperse she felt the pain fill her body. It was as if she had been bruised all over, as if she'd run for days and days. Everything hurt.

  “Where..?”

  The voice from her deepest dreams spoke into her confusion.

  “You're safe.”

  She drew in a hiss of breath. She wanted to open her eyes but the merest touch of light hurt her brain and so she closed them tight.

  She felt something tighten round her fingers and realized with some surprise that it was his hand, warming her sore fingertips. She tensed, withdrew.

  “You will explain, sir,” she said through a tight set of lips, “how it is that you are here, with me. In what seems to be my bedchamber, or a good facsimile thereof.”

  She heard him draw in a breath.

  “My lady, I...”

  She opened her eyes a bit but the light still hurt so she kept them half-shuttered by her long sleep-glued lashes. “You don't have much of a case to defend that.”

  She heard him open and shut his lips, then start. “My lady, I...”

  “Don't tell me,” she said dryly. “I collapsed and you carried me.”

  “Well, yes,” he blinked.

  “Which is why you're sitting by my bedside like a priest attending the last rites, with your hand in mine, keeping sentinel.”

  “My lady, I...”

  She chuckled. “I'm not cross. Merely curious.”

  She turned her head. Here, the light was not as bright and she could risk seeing him. She stared. His face was drawn and he looked miserable. His eyes were wide and appeared tormented.

  “I thought you dead.”

  She smiled, a humorless expression for all its former amusement. “I am not.”

  “I noticed.”

  She chuckled and this time her smile was warmer still. “Well, good. Now could you help me sit up? We will need to do some explaining about what you're doing in here, and we also must chat.”

  “Oh?” He frowned.