The Scot's Oath

by Heather Grothaus

  Looking upon her was the only pleasure to be had at the long, awkward meal, even though the food had likely been quite good. He’d used all his concentration to hide his discomfort and strive to remember Beryl’s many rules for eating, and now he felt as though he’d been wrung out like an old rag and draped over a stone to dry.

  He pushed open his door. It was quiet inside, dark save for the cheery glow of the fire. It suited Padraig well—he longed for dark and quiet, like the inside of his cottage on Caedmaray—to soothe his skull. He closed the door behind him and slid the bolt, already loosening his shirt ties as he walked toward the bed.

  The coverlet moved. Padraig froze.

  “Feasgar math, Maighstir Boyd.” Searrach’s exotic features flickered in the firelight, the covers around her waist, naught but a thin, white, sleeveless underdress covering her upper body. Padraig could clearly see the outline of her breasts through the gauzy material. Her dark hair was down over her shoulders.

  “What are you doing here?” Padraig blurted out.

  Searrach smiled. “Your voice is a salve to my ears.” She pushed down the covers and leaned forward to crawl toward the end of the bed, her heavy breasts swaying with her movements. “I’m sick of hearing these English, their stuffy ways, their foolish rules. You’ve the sound of the Highlands about you. Lord Hargrave has done me a favor.”

  Padraig backed up a step as she reached the edge of the mattress. “You must be a favorite of his, then.”

  Her smile flickered, but Padraig wondered if he’d only imagined it, for her expression immediately brightened once more. “He has given me my fondest wish.” She drew her legs around from beneath her and slid from the bed.

  Padraig took another step back. “Your fondest wish?”

  “Next best thing,” Searrach said, padding up to him on her bare feet and taking hold of his shirt ties. She looked up at him and then leaned forward until her breasts were pressed against him. “I want to go home. But…” She twirled the ties around her forefingers until the length of them was gripped in both her fists, and she drew Padraig’s head toward her upturned face. “There’s naught left for either of us in Scotland now, is there? We can be home for each other, for as long as you’re here.”

  Padraig halted what had just a moment ago seemed his inevitable descent to her mouth. “I’m nae going anywhere, Searrach. Darlyrede belongs to my father, and soon it will belong to me.”

  The woman gave a careless shrug and then rose on her tiptoes to press her soft lips to the corner of his mouth. “You’ll nae be able to prove that,” she scoffed lightly.

  “I can, and I will.” Padraig was trying to remain focused, but Searrach’s mouth was moving along his jaw, and now down to his neck. Some physical comfort would be welcome after such a trying day.

  “How?” she murmured against his skin. Padraig opened his mouth but then closed it again, remembering almost too late Lucan’s warning about enemies and allies.

  “I will,” he repeated.

  But she didn’t press him, only hummed against his skin while she pulled away the placket of his shirt and kissed his chest.

  “We might enjoy each other’s company either way then, aye? Let me tend your wounds in a more pleasant manner.”

  Padraig scraped together his meager reserves and took hold of the woman’s shoulders, stepping from the reach of that seductive mouth.

  “I doona think it’s a good idea that we…have that sort of relationship.”

  “Sounds like aught that haughty Beryl would say. Were you hoping I was her?”

  “What?” Padraig winced and pulled the ties of his shirt from her grip. “Nay.” He moved to a chair to sit and take off his boots.

  “Everyone’s seen you watching her,” Searrach continued, coming to sit in the other chair at the small table. She rested her chin on one fist and leaned toward him, her breasts propped on the tabletop and straining at the underdress. “Already, there’s talk. Surely you expected it after you demanded her to your service. But you’re a fool if you think she’ll bed you.”

  Padraig paused in his actions and looked up at her sideways. “I’m nae trying to bed Beryl.”

  “Well, that’s fine, then,” Searrach soothed. “Since she’s already spoken for.”

  Padraig kicked off his boots. “Nae my concern.”

  Spoken for by whom?

  “It’s nae surprising, really,” Searrach continued. “Him thinking he’s so high-and-mighty, and Beryl the same—Lady Hargrave’s little French pet. The rumor is she got in trouble with a man in France and had to stay behind to bear the bastard. It wasna a full day after you’d come before she had lured his prissy self with that doona-touch-me manner of hers. Made for each other, they are.”

  Padraig sat back in his chair with a sigh, as if he was bored with the conversation.

  “Sir Lucan, you mean.”

  “Aye, Sir Lucan. I heard them myself in her chamber while I was coming back from fetching bolts of cloth for that coo, Rynn.”

  “Is that so?” he asked in a bored tone.

  “I couldna help it. I had to pass her chamber. I heard them speakin’ that ugly language to each other.”

  Padraig swallowed. It had to have been when Lucan foisted Padraig off on Rolf. And not long after that, Beryl had deigned to finally appear. It had obviously been Lucan who had convinced her to come—Padraig supposed he should be grateful.

  “What Sir Lucan chooses to do is nae concern o’ mine. Beryl is only serving me as a maid.”

  “As am I,” Searrach said with a mischievous grin. “But in a much more enjoyable…position is my hope.”

  Suddenly, the passion Padraig had had to fight for the Scotswoman across from him was no longer there. His head ached; he was tired, and a little angry with Lucan, although he was not ready to explore the reason why just yet.

  “I’m going to bed, Searrach,” he said, and then added, “alone, for tonight.”

  Her pout deepened, but only for a beat of time. “Verra well,” she conceded. She got up in a fluid motion and seemed to pour herself across the space separating them to lean into Padraig. Her hand caressed the front of his trousers. “I’ll be back on the morrow, Master.” Her hand cupped him firmly and then she pulled away, strolling to the door barefoot and without so much as a wrapper against the chill. In a moment she had unbolted the door and was gone.

  Beryl and Lucan. Already.

  Padraig recalled their meeting in the foyer, the way Lucan had reached out and grabbed Beryl’s arm. And then, later, the way she’d spoken to him in this very chamber, demanding his attention; the casual way he’d regarded her. Casual because they were no longer strangers?

  It was fine, he told himself. Fine.

  He didn’t know Beryl. She was a beautiful woman, that was all. A woman with manners of the sort that Padraig was not yet used to. A woman with manners of the sort that Lucan Montague appreciated. After his life on Caedmaray, Padraig was only taken with Beryl because she was a novelty. And because she was helping him.

  It didn’t matter that no other woman he’d seen before or since had caused such a visceral reaction within him.

  It was fine. Good for Lucan, finding a woman with a bit of experience with whom to pass his evenings while held here at Darlyrede. Lucan obviously didn’t think too much of her, for he’d forsaken the place at her table at dinner. In a few days, Padraig was certain, he himself wouldn’t even be able to stand the sight of Beryl, with her lessons and her little sounds of disapproval. Her shiny hair and sweet smell and soft hands and—

  Padraig’s teeth ground together. Maybe Searrach was wrong.

  Her chamber is just down the corridor…

  He sat up in the chair once more and pulled his boots toward him but then paused, one boot dangling between his knees.

  “Idiot,” he muttered aloud.

  He began to
pull on his boot anyway; then kicked it off again, leaning his temple on his fist with a sigh. He looked down at the limp, thin leather of his shoe—evidence of his rough, meager livelihood. Nay, his subsistence on Caedmaray. The only home he’d ever known. Now he was sitting in a chamber as big as his island cottage, on a grand English estate, considering venturing out in the unfamiliar dark to spy on a maid.

  Padraig got up, kicking at the boot for good measure. “I’m tired,” he muttered at it accusingly as he crossed to the tall bed. He took off his pants and crawled beneath the cold coverlet and stared at the ceiling with his head pounding. Searrach could be lying. And he found he was curious as to why a lone Scottish lass should be at a place such as Darlyrede when she obviously longed for their shared Scottish homeland. What had she said?

  I want to go home…

  If Searrach wasn’t lying about the knight and the maid, how had Lucan convinced Beryl to cooperate? Had he threatened her? Had he promised her something?

  Had he slept with her?

  Stop, he told himself. He closed his eyes.

  Maybe they’re together even now, while you’re tucked abed like a wee laddie. All that shiny hair of hers falling down…

  It was a long time before Padraig was able to sleep.

  Chapter 8

  Padraig had assured Lucan Montague that he could find his way to the barracks on his own the next morning, but now he was relatively certain he had just passed a particular tapestry for the third time.

  He paused in the mouth of the corridor, looking in both directions again, trying to get his bearings. He scrubbed at his face with a growl of frustration. He could navigate the featureless sea between Caedmaray and Thurso in a gale, and yet he couldn’t escape one bloody wing of Darlyrede. He turned around and headed in the direction in which he thought the entry hall lay, hoping to reset his internal map.

  Servants crisscrossed the marble paving like ghosts, going about their errands and chores in solemn silence beneath the watchful eyes of the portraits. Padraig stopped in the center of the patterned floor and looked up, studying the figures and their features while the household staff flowed around him without acknowledgment.

  Who were all these people? he wondered. There were several portraits of what appeared to be the same girl, as well as much older portraits of people wearing the dress of another age. None of them were Tommy Boyd, though, which was not surprising since the current occupiers of the home had accused Padraig’s father of murder, among other heinous crimes. Padraig didn’t really expect to see a portrait of his father hanging in a place of honor.

  “Lost your way, have you?”

  He was both relieved and dismayed to see Searrach. “Nae at all,” Padraig lied, looking back up at the portraits. “Only wondering who all these people are. Do you know?”

  The Scotswoman came to a stop at his side, mimicking his upward-looking posture, although unlike Padraig, her arms were burdened with evidence of employment—more of the dreaded bolts of cloth for Marta and Rynn.

  “Nae bloody idea,” she replied at once. “Nor do I care to.” After a moment, she commanded, “Look at me.” And when Padraig turned his gaze toward her, she seemed to examine his face.

  “Huh,” she huffed. “Must be the English of you.”

  “What?”

  “Your eyes,” Searrach said. “The color of them.”

  Padraig frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Good morning,” another woman’s voice called out, and Padraig didn’t have to turn to know at once that it was Beryl.

  Searrach tossed a bitter glare over her shoulder before giving Padraig a warm, slow smile. “Until tonight, Master Boyd,” she said in a raised voice. “This time, wait for me to help you undress.” And then she turned and left the entry as Beryl came to stand before Padraig.

  His mouth went dry, so he cleared his throat before speaking solemnly. “Good morning, Beryl.”

  “Master Boyd,” she replied. “Have you forgotten your lesson with Sir Lucan this morning?”

  “I’ve nae,” he said. “I was…ah…just asking Searrach about the people in the portraits. Do you know who they are? Besides the Hargraves, obviously.”

  “I’m sorry, I can only point out the portraits of Lady Euphemia,” she said stiffly. “Lord and Lady Hargrave’s niece. I never met her, though, of course.”

  “Lots of her,” Padraig said, looking back up and mentally counting the portraits he recognized as the young woman.

  “Yes, she was very much adored,” Beryl said.

  “Searrach said I have English eyes.” Padraig didn’t know what had prompted him to confess it, but now that he had, he turned his head to look at the beautiful maid, and to offer them up for her own inspection.

  Beryl’s porcelain features cocked thoughtfully, and Padraig thought he saw her own gray eyes widen the tiniest bit, perhaps in surprise.

  “Perhaps,” she admitted, but then her lovely pink lips pressed together like some of the grandmothers’ he’d known on Caedmaray. “Although I don’t know that I would place much value in Searrach’s opinion. Shall we meet Sir Lucan?”

  Was she jealous of Searrach? The very notion of it caused a warmth in his stomach, but he marked himself as nothing more than a hopeful fool—he’d no business speculating on his value to the enchanting woman when he couldn’t even find his way to the bailey.

  Then Padraig remembered a queer habit his da had always kept with Padraig’s mother.

  “O’ course,” he said, gesturing toward the open area of the entry with a palm. “After you.”

  Beryl’s thin lips softened and she inclined her head. “Thank you, Master Boyd.” She turned with a swirl of gray skirts.

  Padraig blew out a silent breath of relief as he followed her from the chamber.

  * * * *

  Iris felt Padraig Boyd’s gaze touching her the entire way through the corridor. He at last came to her side as they passed into the courtyard, but neither of them said anything and the silence was awkward.

  Had Searrach spent the night with him? He’d only just arrived at Darlyrede.

  He is a handsome man, she told herself reasonably. And if he succeeds, he could be a powerful man.

  Regardless, whoever Padraig Boyd chose to spend his time with was absolutely none of her business.

  Lucan was waiting for them, along with the captain of the guard, when they arrived outside the barracks, but rather than pause to talk, Lucan only motioned them to follow. The captain accompanied them with a sort of long quiver strapped to his back, and Iris thought she saw at least one sword hilt from beneath the soft flap of the bag.

  Their small party departed through a postern gate in the wall, then trekked down the steep slope away from the hold, and the sun’s bright rays warmed the air in a welcome change from the recent cold weather. Iris was wearing her sturdy servant’s cape and was glad for its protection from the breeze, but Padraig Boyd seemed quite comfortable in nothing more than his—now clean—shirt and trousers, his old plaid across his chest.

  “This will do,” Lucan said abruptly, coming to a stop at the bottom of the hill, where a trickling brook coursed through the narrow valley toward the river on the north side of the grounds. The captain swung the bag from his back, laying it on the ground with a clatter, then kneeling at once and flipping open the flap.

  “Master Boyd,” Lucan continued, “this is the king’s captain, Ulric.”

  The captain glanced up with a curt, “Lord.”

  “He shall give you your first combat lesson,” Lucan continued.

  “Combat lesson?” Padraig repeated, just catching the wooden sword Ulric tossed to him as he gained his feet, wielding a similar weapon.

  “Yes,” Lucan said. “A lord must be ready and able to defend himself and his hold. In any case, I don’t think it would hurt to familiarize yourself with a weapon in case
you are again attacked.”

  “With a wooden sword?” Padraig said, looking down at the thing with disdain.

  “So I don’t inadvertently injure you, lord,” Ulric said apologetically, and then handed him a metal helm. “At Sir Lucan’s insistence.”

  “Then he can wear it,” Padraig muttered, and flung the helm to Lucan. The corners of his fine mouth pulled down, he spun the smooth, wooden handle in his palm and then raised his gaze to Ulric. “Come on.”

  The captain hesitated. “Prepare yourself, lord.”

  “I’m prepared.”

  Ulric looked to Lucan as if for help, but when Iris’s brother only shrugged, Ulric turned his attention back to Padraig, his brows lowering.

  He charged without a sound, and although Padraig tried to block the captain’s blow, the man had not earned his rank through privilege. Iris gasped as the wooden sword went flying out of the Scotsman’s hand with an “Oof” and then a muffled cry of surprise as Ulric kicked out Padraig’s legs from beneath him. In a blink, the captain stood over Padraig’s prone body, the wooden sword poised over his heart.

  Iris cringed as she glanced at Lucan, but her brother seemed unbothered by the sight of the large Scotsman so quickly laid upon his back.

  Ulric extended his hand and helped Padraig to his feet, even fetching his weapon and returning it to his hand once more. Then Ulric tucked his sword beneath his arm, taking hold of Padraig by his elbow and wrist.

  “Like this.” He swung down Padraig’s hand sharply. “And get your weight behind it—elbow up. On your back foot, there—brace. Now an upward thrust. Look.” The captain released him and brought down his sword slowly, allowing Padraig to repeat the motion on his own.

  “Good, lord,” Ulric said. “Now, step forward, hard; come around with it, full circle at my shoulder, here”—Ulric slapped his own arm—“or here, at the ribs.” The pantomime played out. “Again.”