Highlander's Forbidden Love: Only love can heal the scars of the past...

by Faris, Fiona

  Margaret rolled onto her side and drew up her knees.

  “It is something I prefer not to see,” she said in a distant hollow voice.

  Joan sat up quickly, a triumphant grin lighting her face.

  “See!” she cried. “You are thinking about him now, aren’t you? The memory is making you tingle in your stomach and between your legs. Deny it if you can!”

  Margaret rolled to the edge of her bed and sat up too, to face Joan across their chamber. Her features were twisted in anger, and her eyes shot a look of intense dislike at her sister.

  “I cannot deny it,” she spat. “But I still do not like it. It brings disorder. It disturbs the proprieties on which the divine order depends. Unless we observe those proprieties in our intercourse with one another, we would be no better than beasts in the field. That is why we have codes of chivalry and womanly virtue.”

  “Och, for pity’s sake, tread the measure more easily.” Joan scoffed. “Those things are all very well and necessary. But we must allow some respite to our ‘baser’ instincts, let them out to play awhile. Otherwise, we would shrivel up like nuns in a nunnery. Those knights this afternoon were just giving their virtue a holiday, as should you on occasion. Where was the harm?”

  Margaret bit her bottom lip at this, and a look of mischievous complicity slowly dawned on her face.

  “Well…” she began, “that Gilbert one was rather tasty.”

  “‘A tasty morsel’!” Joan chimed in, echoing the sandy-haired knight’s description of them.

  They laughed.

  Joan stood and began spinning and flouncing around the room.

  “A fine dish!” she chattered excitedly. “Especially the Patrick one. Can you just imagine being crushed to that broad chest, to feel those powerful arms around you, with those long, strong fingers tickling your private parts?”

  She closed her eyes and let out a long, loud sigh.

  Margaret shifted her bottom on the mattress as if she were plagued by a sudden itch.

  “If I could have yon Patrick to play with,” Joan went on, dreamily stroking a long tress of her silver-blonde hair, “I would tie him to these bedposts and tickle his balls until his cock was standing to attention. Then I’d let it stand sentinel while I explored the contours of his rocky crags from throat to toe, ignoring the stout fellow all the while and obliging it to wait for my pleasure until it was bursting with the want of me. Then, when I was good and ready, and he had melted my cruel heart with his pleas for mercy, I would climb atop of him and ride him hard until his flanks were slick with sweat and his eyes were rolling like a pony’s and his balls were tight, and his dowp was raw. And afterward, in public, I would sit with him at the table, ‘yea’-ing and ‘nay’-ing at my lord’s words, while all the time knowing the power I had over him.”

  Margaret was staring at her, struck by awe that was tinged with a little fear.

  “Jesus, Joan; you should be at Court.” She breathed out the words. “The factions could never withstand your oratory.”

  Joan threw herself down on her bed again, her long blonde hair fanning out around her head, her long slim arms and legs spread like the points of a star.

  Margaret stood and walked to the small leaded window that looked out over the Tweed. She was suddenly pensive.

  “The way things stand, we are likely never to be able to put our virtues to the test. Father dithers endlessly over what would be the most advantageous match for the family. If he does not make up his mind soon, I imagine we will both end up withering away in Neidpath Castle like two spent wallflowers.” She sighed. “Neither of us is getting any younger. I am already eighteen, and you are sixteen. Some girls are married by the time they are twelve. All the desirable young knights of the realm will have been snapped up from under our noses, and we shall be left with only the poor old toothless ones.”

  “If it comes to that,” Joan declared to the ceiling, “I’ll find a callow, well-hung stable boy with all his own teeth to fuck.”

  Margaret spun round.

  “Joan! That would be beyond the pale of propriety.”

  “If it is good enough for Lady Beaumont, Countess of Buchan, cousin to a man who would be king…” Joan left the point hanging.

  “Tush!” Margaret said dismissively. “You can hardly compare Sir Patrick to a stable boy.”

  “Alice le Latimer in her station is as high above a knight as I am a stable boy in mine.”

  “Well,” Margaret conceded, “not quite. But you may have a point.”

  “And it’s not as if I’d be taking him across the mounting block in the castle’s courtyard. I would exercise some discretion, as does every virtuous lady who fucks her inferiors.”

  Margaret covered her ears and grimaced.

  “Joan! For pity’s sake, will you stop using such a coarse tongue in public?”

  “But we are not ‘in public’,” Joan retorted, reasonably. “We are close in our own private chamber. That is the very point. One does not disturb the divine order in the closeness of one’s own private chamber. In your own private chamber, you can be free.”

  She kicked her heels in the air, her kirtle cascading to her waist to reveal again her long, lithe legs, her bare backside, and the long pink slash of her sex.

  “And, in any case,” she added, “it is all very well for you to speak of ‘a lady’s virtue’ when at least you will have need of it. There will be no fine marriage for me to play the lady in. As the younger daughter of a minor knight, I shall be lucky to marry a bonnet laird and count the cows as part of my household. There will be little need of ladyship there: just a fine pair of childbearing hips and a strong back for the work of mucking the byre.”

  Margaret traced the lead that held the tiny panes in place in the window.

  “That still does not excuse your lasciviousness and your lack of self-respect as a daughter of the house.” Margaret looked over at her sister and gave her a small sympathetic smile that belied the harshness of her words. “It may be a small consolation, but with Father’s indecision, a bonnet laird could be my fate as well.”

  Presently, it was time to prepare for that evening’s meal.

  Their mother, Lady Maria Fraser, had informed them that their father would be entertaining guests at the table and they knew that he was wont to put on a show of hospitality on such occasions. In consequence of this, the sisters were especially careful in their preparations.

  Both bathed from a pitcher and bowl. Then Margaret dressed in her finest celestine-blue gown and a surcoat of orange-tawny embroidered with silver fleurs-de-lys. She brushed out her hair, which reached almost to her waist, and plucked out a thin tress to plait into a narrow braid with which to circle her crown.

  Joan had discarded her customary kirtle for a popinjay gown and surcoat of vert. Her unruly hair she drew back into a long flowing ponytail. She even condescended to wear stockings and shoes.

  “You have remembered to put on your braies, haven’t you?” Margaret enquired archly.

  Joan stuck out her tongue.

  Suitably attired for the occasion, they descended to the hall.

  Chapter Three

  The hall had been lavishly furnished to receive Sir Simon’s guests. Late afternoon sunlight poured through the high windows on the south-facing wall, filling the high-ceilinged room with a cheerful glow. Fresh rushes had been strewn on the flagstones and sprinkled with fresh herbs. A harpist stood in the musician’s gallery at the opposite end of the hall from the raised dais on which Sir Simon, Lady Maria, and his guests already sat at the table. He tuned his instrument while the rest of the household chattered excitedly at the benches arranged in lines in the body of the hall.

  As soon as they entered, Margaret wished for the ground to open up and swallow her. At her father’s table sat the same two knights that she and her sister had earlier that afternoon watched cavort in all their naked splendor in the Boat Pool.

  Margaret slid a sideways glance towards Joan, who was beaming from e
ar to ear and breathing hungrily, and Margaret suspected not in anticipation of the food. Margaret’s heart turned somersaults as they stepped up onto the dais, approached the table, and curtseyed their obedience to their father.

  “Ah, my precious gems!” Sir Simon exclaimed at the sight of them, his eyes lighting up with unalloyed pleasure. “We were beginning to think you had been lost.” He shifted in his high-backed chair, which was carved with pointed steeples, intricate arches, and biblical scenes. “Let me introduce you to our guests, Sir Gilbert Hay of Lochorwart and Sir Patrick Fleming of Boghall.”

  The men’s eyes glowed ardently as they appraised the daughters of their host.

  Margaret and Joan inclined their heads demurely, in acknowledgment of their inferior station and in submission to the superior sex, though Joan, Margaret noted in alarm, was desperately trying to suppress a smirk.

  The knights remained seated but leaned back to bathe leisurely in the radiance of the beauty that stood before them. They took in the tall, willowy grace of the elder sister and the equally tall litheness of the younger. They could have been twins, sharing the same silvery blonde hair, duck-egg blue eyes, long limbs, and fair complexion; only, the younger comported herself with a greater athleticism and with slightly lesser grace and vulnerability than her older sibling.

  “Your beauty’s fame is not exaggerated,” Sir Gilbert remarked gallantly. “Its reputation precedes you and is greatly deserved.”

  At that, Joan gave a throaty purr and a feline flash of her eyes, which evoked a look of puzzled amusement from Sir Patrick. Margaret kept her eyes demurely lowered, but she could not help but smile at Joan’s impudent allusion to the earlier conversation they had overheard.

  “Nicely put,” Sir Simon said. “Now, my dears, please be seated. The castle is famished and clamors for the feast to begin.”

  He clapped his hands, and the serving folk began to carry in the first steaming platters.

  Sir Simon occupied the center chair, with his wife seated on his right and Sir Gilbert on his left. Margaret thus noted that Sir Gilbert was the senior of the two knights – since he had been favored with the place of honor on her father’s right hand. Margaret had been placed on Sir Gilbert’s other side. Sir Patrick sat next to Lady Maria, with Joan next to him. Joan looked almost elegant, Margaret reflected approvingly, tall and lithe in her green gown. But her brow was tanned and her hands, Margaret noticed, were marked with little nicks and grazes from their misuse on the training field, cliffs, and trees.

  Wine was poured from large beaked flagons, and the first courses were served.

  “You keep a fine table, Sire,” Sir Patrick observed in compliment.

  “Aye,” Sir Gilbert concurred. “We have lately been traveling the length and breadth of the realm and have seldom enjoyed finer.”

  Lady Maria dropped her eyes and smiled contentedly at the praise. Sir Simon shifted his hand to cover Lady Maria’s where it lay on the table and gave it a warm squeeze.

  “Thank you, sirs. I am indeed blessed in having such a virtuous lady as my tablemate. Lady Maria keeps my household measured.”

  Lady Maria’s smile bloomed more fully, and she colored with pleasure at her husband’s words.

  “Our compliments to the lady of the house,” Sir Gilbert proposed, raising his wine goblet in salute.

  “Hear, hear!” Sir Patrick followed suit.

  Sir Simon’s expression became mischievous.

  “Of course,” he said deviously, “not having been blessed with a son, this well-run household will pass in due course to the husband of my elder daughter, Margaret.” He dug Sir Gilbert softly in the ribs with his elbow. “My hope is that she will prove as virtuous a lady as her mother has, as I am sure she will, having benefited from the tutelage of such a paragon of household virtue as Lady Maria.”

  Margaret felt her spirits soar. Never had her father so openly invited the attention of a potential suitor. He had virtually handed her to Sir Gilbert on a platter, like that on which a serving wench was at that very moment proffering him a roasted pigeon.

  Sir Gilbert speared one of the pigeons with his knife and transferred it to his trencher. He turned his head and caught Margaret’s eye.

  “The Lady Margaret’s husband will be a lucky man indeed,” he murmured before Margaret could avert her eyes to her lap.

  The look and his words thrilled her. Her heart felt like it was in her throat so that she could not have spoken even had she felt at liberty to. It seemed that her father’s dithering was at long last over and that he had designs to marry Oliver and Neidpath to Lochorwart. The prospect sent shivers down her spine, as a sudden breeze sends ripples across the surface of a pool. Sir Gilbert was indeed a handsome catch. She could just imagine him bedding her in the master bedchamber upstairs. That thought warmed her and stirred a longing in her loins.

  Sir Patrick turned to Joan.

  “Are you too looking forward to being wed?”

  She looked him straight in the eye, boldly, and, as it were, appraisingly. He felt suddenly uncomfortable beneath her scrutiny, as if she were taking his measure, considering his possibilities.

  “I fear there will be no fairytale ending for me, sire,” she replied with ironic regret. “I am but the poor goods in all of this commerce. I just hope to avoid being palmed off cheaply onto a bonnet laird as his cowherd and breeding mare. I would rather have a good strong man, of whatever station, who could meet my measure and allow me the liberties I currently enjoy of my father at Neidpath.”

  Lady Maria choked on a morsel of bread. Sir Simon threw a solicitous arm around her shoulders, while Sir Patrick proffered her a goblet. Joan looked quite pleased with the effect she had provoked.

  Margaret bore down a look of intense disapproval on her sister.

  “Your… impertinence… ill becomes you,” Lady Maria spluttered. She gulped down a large mouthful of wine. “I apologize on behalf of my daughter, Sir Patrick, though I would disown her as any pupil of mine.”

  “There really is no need,” Sir Patrick placated. “She was just giving a truthful response to the question I put to her. Maybe the impertinence lay in my question rather than in her honest answer.”

  “Stuff and nonsense!” Lady Maria replied. “She is much too forward in her words. She should not have expressed herself so… so… brazenly.”

  Sir Simon chuckled as he rubbed his hand deep into the hollow between Lady Maria’s shoulder blades.

  “If the fault lies anywhere, then it perhaps lies with me,” he said. “What Joan said is, of course, the truth, though she could maybe have expressed it a little nicer. Whoever marries Margaret will gain a fine lady to manage his household, while he who marries Joan will gain a fierce ally in all the travails of life, such is her nature. For the rest…” he added, waving a hand at each of them, like a shopkeeper indicating the quality of his wares, “well, you can see for yourself. They are both comely lasses.”

  He smiled fondly at both of his daughters.

  “In the absence of a son, I am afraid that I have indulged Joan a little,” he went on. “My good lady, Maria, might say that I have ‘spoilt’ her. From her earliest childhood, Joan always showed a propensity and aptitude for more boyish pursuits, which I have not discouraged…”

  “Which you have positively encouraged,” Lady Maria corrected, shooting her husband an accusing look.

  “Perhaps,” Sir Simon considered, pursing his lips. “She rides, she hunts…”

  “She spars on the practice field with sword and staff, scrambles the corries in search of birds’ eggs, she consorts with page boys and others who lie beneath her station…” Lady Maria enumerated.

  She runs barefoot and scuddie-arsed beneath her kirtle, Margaret silently added, and leers at knights as lasciviously as squires leer at scullery maids.

  “The point is,” Sir Simon raised his voice to reassert his authority, “that we should perhaps not blame the girl for her nature, which I have shaped in my fondness for her, daft o
ld bugger that I am. Condemn, if you will, but condemn me for my folly and not Joan for her innocence and sincerity.”

  He then turned to Sir Gilbert and drew a line beneath the matter by asking:

  “But what news do you bring, Sir Gilbert? What mischief is afoot in the wider world beyond our petty troubles here at Neidpath?”

  Sir Gilbert leaned forward, and setting his goblet aside, placed his elbows on the table, making a steeple of his hands. This was a subject that warmed him.

  “Exciting times, Sir Simon, exciting times. Great events have been taking place, and affairs are coming to a head.”

  Around them, the din had grown louder as the beer and wine flowed down the throats of Sir Simon’s retainers. Shouts and laughter pealed out from the benches that lined the hall. Here and there, singing broke out in ragged clusters. Beneath it all ran a steady hubbub of chatter, while above the heads of the rabble, the dulcet trills and runs of the harp sounded largely unremarked.