by Faris, Fiona
“Why, nothing is the matter, Nicholas.” She snuffled back her tears with a trill of reassuring laughter. “I’m just being silly.”
He looked at her skeptically, unconvinced. He walked slowly, hesitantly, towards the bed and scrambled up beside her.
She sat up and let him climb onto her lap. He reached his arms around her and snuggled the side of his head against the soft swell of her bosom.
She wrapped him in her arms and rested her chin on the top of his head. She gazed into the fire. She listened to the soft rise and fall of Nicholas’ breathing, and the frantic pulse of her heartbeat slowed to match its steady rhythm. A knot in the log that sat on top of the bed of peats sparked and exploded with a loud crack, but it did not startle her; she simply noted and acknowledged it as the fire settled immediately back into its steady, gentle crackling.
Maybe, she mused, that was how she should respond to the whole sorry affair with Duncan, as a life lesson that she should simply note and learn and move on from, not to take it too much to heart, not attach too much importance to it.
She pulled Nicholas more tightly to her. She traced her fingers across the smooth skin of his cheekbone and nuzzled her nose into the tangle of his light blond hair. In it, she could smell the sea, the smoke from the kitchen fire, the rancid odors of the tannery, the sweetness of the stables, the reek of the forge. She could also smell the merest elusive hint of his mother, the Lady Margaret, whom she loved like the mother she had never known, who had taken her under her wing, and who had lavished on her all the care and attention that a mother would.
She let her gaze run slowly around the chamber, taking in the rich vermillion velvet drapes that were tied back to the thick carved posts of the bed on which they were sitting, with its cool linen sheets and warm woolen blankets; the oak kist that contained her linen and gowns, the small side table bearing the glazed earthenware ewer and bowl and the piss-pot on the floor beneath it; the small square leaded window with its extravagant and expensive colored glass; and the large tapestry wall hanging that covered the entire wall opposite the foot of the bed, depicting a swirling pastoral scene in which unicorns had been corralled behind hurdles in a forest.
She belonged here and was loved. Duncan, she consoled herself, had just been a chance encounter, a sudden and unexpected spark that had exploded in the course of her destiny. She should not mistake it for that destiny itself, nor let the accident of his meeting her divert her from its course. She was destined to be a lady; that was why fate had brought her and Lady Margaret, her mentor, together. Moreover, to be a lady was what above all else she wanted. She could not let some silly flirtation and disappointment distract her from her true vocation.
* * *
They must have fallen into a doze. Elizabeth was awoken by Nicholas stirring against her breast. How long they had been asleep, she could not tell. It was still light outside, and the castle folk was still at their duties in the courtyard.
Nicholas raised his face to look imploringly into her eyes.
“Why were you crying?” he asked.
Anxiety still clouded his features. His voice quavered with doubt and concern. She combed her fingers through the jumble of his hair. She had frightened the poor wee soul, she realized, disturbed the harmony of the spheres in his firmament. She needed to reassure him, restore the peaceful order of his world.
“As I said, it was nothing, just silliness on my part.”
“But you were crying,” he insisted fretfully.
His eyes were pleading, brimming again with unspilt tears.Her heart ached in sympathy for him. He was not only worried; he was afraid. She had to give him some explanation or the fear would worry at him like a canker, and she did not want that; she knew what that was like.
“A man had upset me, that is all it was,” she confessed. “I should not have let him upset me so; that was the silliness of all those tears. But I see that now and feel so much better.”
Nicholas leaped to his feet and drew the toy sword he had been carrying in a loop of the belt that cinched his smock.
“What man? I’ll fight him for you, Lizzie. No man will insult your honor.”
Elizabeth was engulfed by a wave of fondness for the lad. She leaned forward and gathered him into her arms again.
“Oh, Nicholas.” She laughed. “There is no need. He dishonored himself by his actions, not me.”
Nicholas continued to wave his little wooden sword in the air, glaring towards the chamber door and issuing his challenge as if the miscreant was standing there.
Elizabeth smiled; he looked so comical. She untied and drew a violet-colored ribband from her hair and tied it to the hilt of his sword.
“There,” she said. “I make you my champion. Let no man ever again insult my honor, on pain of being slain in mortal combat by my brave and good Sir Nicholas.”
Nicholas began to parade up and down the bed, cutting the air with his sword until he overbalanced on the soft mattress and fell onto his bottom with a squeal.
* * *
Elizabeth wriggled to try and find a more comfortable position beneath the blankets. Through the small colored panes of the leaded window, the moonlight cast a slowly shifting phantasmagoria across the chamber, at the heart of which glowed the ardent red of the banked-up peats in the grate. A passel of dozing pigeons burbled in counterpoint from where they were roosting on the cornice of the tower above their chamber window. She felt far too warm beneath the blankets; her limbs tensed and twitched perpetually, jerking her awake whenever she was about to fall over the precipice of sleep. She also could not keep the image of Duncan Comyn out of her mind. Despite the sweet soporific scent of the smoldering peats on the fire, the stirring in her loins conspired with the heat of the bed and the tension in her body to keep her awake.
She rolled over onto her side, throwing the blankets back from her side of the bed and sticking a leg out from under the sheets. The chill of the night air caressed the fair skin of her naked calf and thigh, bringing her some relief. The burning peats had been smothered with ash and embers from beneath the grate, to keep them smoldering throughout the night and avoid the bad luck of the fire going out before it could be replenished in the morning, and it was giving out very little heat. Elizabeth let out a small sigh of relief at the touch of the cooler air.
She knew that, only a few hours earlier, she had resolved to put Duncan from her mind, but that was proving easier said than done; the mere thought of him had her body yearning and the temperature of her blood rising. She needed to see him again, not only to satisfy her physical hunger for the strong lines of his handsome face and limbs but also to set his opinion of her straight and overturn the injustice he had done her. She wanted an apology from him as well as to sate her carnal hunger.
She closed her eyes, and behind them, a picture of Duncan as he had appeared to her in the fisherman’s cottage rose unbidden once again.Like the last time she had daydreamed, he stood up on the far side of the fire from her and let the plaid fall from his shoulders. The firm muscles of his torso and limbs were sharply sculpted by the firelight. His member stood long and thick and erect, pointing at her through the flames as if it were choosing her. It was rigid and rock-hard, its veins standing out like cords along the full length of its shaft, its smooth round head peeking out from the half-retracted hood of its foreskin.
He came around the firepit and held out his hands to her. She took them in her own and pulled herself up, letting the blanket fall to pool about her feet. She looked down at her nakedness, at the small dimples of her breasts with their strawberry-colored nipples, each aproned by a rose-colored areola, her anvil-flat stomach, her flinty-boned hips, and her slim, gleaming thighs.
He pulled her over to a stack of nets and laid her gently back on it. Mairi Cullen came to stand behind her, by her head. Her kirtle was undone, and she stood naked to the waist, her baby in the crook of one arm suckling at her breast, her other hand gently brushing the tresses at Elizabeth’s temples. She began to
croon softly:
Husha-baa Mammie's wee flower;
Sleep, o sleep, come to ye soon.
Mam shall watch ye hour by hour
Till thy bonnie sleep is done.
Bide, for the summer days are coming;
Then we'll run about the knowes,
See the bees all flying, humming,
Little lambs and muckle yowes.
Duncan parted Elizabeth’s thighs, hooking an arm beneath each of her knees and lifting her legs up until he had them clamped against his flanks, and stepped between them. He entered her, smoothly, and she felt her vagina expand to accommodate his girth. He began moving slowly and rhythmically, his heavy testicles slapping against her buttocks, his hands running up and down the fronts of her thighs. She wrapped her legs around his hips and pulled him deeper into her with her heels. Mairi continued to stroke her hair and croon her lullaby. Elizabeth arched her head back and closed her eyes, as pleasure rose through her body like a tide rising in a small enclosed gorge of a sea corrie. Duncan drove harder and harder, faster and faster until the tide spilled through her head and she could feel his seed gushing inside her…
She awoke suddenly in the aftermath of her orgasm. Beyond the window, clouds had slithered down from the mountains to cover the moon, and the glass no longer cast its phantasmagoria of light across the room. A mouse fled with a whispered rustle through the rushes on the floor. A warm glow spread through Elizabeth’s stomach. She found that she must have cast off the woolen blankets altogether in her sleep and her limbs lay loose and relaxed beneath nothing but the thin sheet.
She also found that she was wet and aching for Duncan. She could smell the sweet perfume of her own perspiration and taste it on her engorged lips.
She shifted her legs languorously beneath the sheets. She knew now that she could not give him up, that she wanted him, that she had to have him, but she was also still afraid that he would not be reconciled with her, that he would reject her as summarily as he had before. But she felt that, if she could only win the opportunity to put her side of the story, he would return to her. The problem was: how was that opportunity to be won?
She remembered their parting on the clifftop path, of the posy of wildflowers that he had hastily gathered and given her. That could be her sign. He would surely recognize it.
As she drifted back to sleep, she resolved to return to the shieling every few days and leave a posy for him there, in the hope that he too might be moved to return there and find the token of her reaching out to him.
She prayed that, like a selkie, she would capture his heart with that lure.
Chapter Twelve
Slains Castle
Courtyard
Two months later
Elizabeth took a step forward from the group of indoor servants that stood in attendance outside the door of the tower house.The Hays and their entourage passed beneath the archway of the gatehouse, Sir Gilbert at its head, on his giant caparisoned charger, and clattered into the cobbled courtyard. The horses pranced, snorting and whinnying, and their hooves scraped and sparked on the cobblestones.
The train was immediately enveloped by the clamor and excitement of the grooms and stable lads, as they swarmed around the mounts, taking charge of bridles and reins.
Elizabeth raised a hand to her shoulder to nervously twist a braid of her auburn hair, as she awaited her mistress with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. She pinched her lower lip between her teeth and wrinkled her nose at the sudden stench, as the horses took the opportunity, after the unceasing press of the last few miles, to relieve themselves.
It seemed only days since her mistress had departed, Elizabeth reflected, leaving her in charge of the household, but – oh! – so much had happened during the months of Margaret’s absence. Elizabeth was proud of how well she had managed the affairs of the castle, but she was also relieved that Lady Margaret was now back to resume the responsibility. As she watched their arrival, she felt a weight lift from her shoulders
Sir Gilbert slid down the flank of his massive mount, and Lady Margaret was handed from her litter by one of the two postilions.Margaret looked stunning in her pale blue gown and scarlet surcoat. Her sliver-blonde hair was coiled in braids over her ears and held in place by a thin-spun net beneath a feathered cap. She stood a head taller than the attendant postilion, who bowed smartly as she released her gloved fingertips from the cup of his palm and rose to her full height.
She was still as beautiful, Elizabeth reflected, as she had been when she had first met her, all those years ago, in the solar of Neidpath Castle. A little thicker around the waist, perhaps, following the birth of little Nicholas, but still the tall, willowy beauty with the noble bearing, whose easy grace had matured into the elegance of a countess. She still could not believe how fortunate she was to have Margaret Hay, Countess of Errol, as her patron and mentor. She smiled inwardly in gratitude and satisfaction.
“Welcome home, milady,” Elizabeth said, stepping forward and proffering a formal curtsy. “Slains awaits your pleasure.”
Margaret nodded an acknowledgment, bestowing on her protégée a fond smile, before turning to meet her husband’s approach.
“Well, Gilbert, I see that the castle is still standing,” she observed impishly. “It has not fallen completely into ruin under Elizabeth’s care.”
“Didn’t I tell you that you had nothing to worry about?” her husband replied, flashing Elizabeth a wink of complicity. “I didn’t doubt you for a moment, you have such an excellent teacher. I knew my house was in hands that are as competent as those of my good lady herself.”
Elizabeth blushed with pleasure.
“Good day, my Lord,” Elizabeth greeted him, repeating the curtsy. “I trust that your journey from Scone was not too onerous.”
Gilbert gripped the lapels of his surcoat and flexed the stiffness from the muscles of his neck and back.
“It was pleasant enough,” he replied, “if you like traversing corries and peat bogs. I would have preferred to have taken a galley from Perth to Aberdon…”
Margaret made a face, as if to let him know that she did not want to worry that old chestnut again.
“It would have taken so much longer,” she pointed out, in a tone that suggested the words were no strangers to her lips.
He slapped her bottom sharply.
“But it would have given us much more time to have some sweet sport on the way,” he quipped.
“Gilbert!” Margaret protested, her eyes widening in affront, but a small smile twitching the corners of her lips all the same.
Elizabeth could not suppress a small giggle, which she sought in vain to stifle behind her hand.
Elizabeth became aware of a movement by her shoulder. Ewan Sanderson, Gilbert’s steward, stepped forward, his head bowed, and his shoulders hunched in an obsequious cringe. He turned his cap fretfully in his grubby hands.
“My Lord,” he said in a meek voice, as if apologizing for having the temerity to address his master.
“Sanderson,” Gilbert acknowledged, serious and businesslike again. “I trust all is well with my estate.”
Elizabeth half-turned her face away from the odor of stale sweat that emanated from Sanderson’s robes. She wondered what mischief he had up his sleeve; she could tell from his insinuating manner that he had something in mind.She overcame her distaste of the man to force her head around and cast him a curious look, but the ease that had settled over her with the friendly reception she had received from her master and mistress began to dissipate, and a vague misgiving lifted its head in her breast like a hare that suspected the nearby presence of a hound.
“I wish I could assure you on that point, my Lord,” Sanderson said, rubbing his bristly chin and shaking his head slowly with a frown of regret. “All is mostly satisfactory, but… well, there has been one unfortunate incident, though a serious one for all that.”
What is the old devil up to? Elizabeth thought.
Her misgiving grew. She s
hifted uncomfortably. Sanderson’s eyes flicked almost imperceptibly in her direction.
“Well, then, man; spit it out,” Gilbert snapped impatiently.
Sanderson shuffled his feet and shifted his weight from one to the other of them, as if he were loath to betray a confidence.
“Well, I don’t like to say, Sire, but…” He gave Elizabeth a small grimace of remorse. “… it would seem that Elizabeth, here, has neglected her duties and, as a consequence, two firkins of ale have been pilfered from the stores. I’m not suggesting that she knew about it,” he added quickly, “but she should have known about it, shouldn’t she, ma’am?”
Elizabeth bridled at his appeal to Lady Margaret. So, that was his game, she reflected bitterly. His nose was still out of joint at her being left in charge, and he was trying to put her back in her place by discrediting her in the eyes of her benefactors. Thank goodness, she supposed, that he did not know about Duncan. Anger flared, and defiance stirred in her breast.