The Scot's Oath

by Heather Grothaus

  The crack of the wooden swords rang in the air as the two men repeated the motion a score of times, Ulric adding in words of encouragement or correction. Each time Padraig defended and then counterattacked, his movements became faster, harder, and Iris noticed his feet moving more naturally beneath him.

  Lucan, too, appeared to be watching closely.

  “Your sword is an extension of your arm, lord,” Ulric said. “A sharp extension. Do not leave yourself open to your enemy—here”—he reached out and thumped Padraig’s chest and then his flank—“or here, yes? And keep your legs beneath your shoulders.”

  “Aye,” Padraig said and then nodded, readying himself. “Again.”

  Ulric laughed, and even Iris could see the gleam in Padraig’s eyes. The captain stilled, postured with his weapon, and then moved forward like a blur, swinging the wooden sword from a different angle. Iris winced, waiting for Padraig to lose his weapon once more, but to her surprise, the swords met with a crash, a slide; twin arcs raised in attack, parry. The sound of wood grating on wood filled the narrow valley as Padraig twisted and swung against Ulric’s efforts, matching the captain’s blows with such surprising, powerful grace that Iris was mesmerized.

  They parted after several moments, both men breathing hard, and Ulric threw back his head and laughed.

  “By God, me thinks we have a soldier in our midst, Sir Lucan.”

  Iris found her heart was beating very fast and she tried to calm herself with a long breath through her nose. But Padraig Boyd chose that moment to look over at her and his grin took her breath once more. She caught her lip between her teeth.

  “Good,” Lucan called out, breaking the spell, but Iris was infinitely glad. He walked toward the two men. “Very good, actually. You have a natural ability, Master Boyd.”

  “We’re nae finished, are we?” he asked, surprised disappointment coloring his words.

  Lucan chuckled as he plucked the wooden sword from Padraig’s hand. “With these, we are.” He handed it to Ulric, who at once returned them to the case and withdrew two metal weapons. “It will do you no favors to become too used to a weapon of such light weight. These are dulled but will still cause injury to the lazy.”

  Padraig took the sword in his hand, and Iris watched him heft it appreciatively, the muscles in his forearm flexing in the sunlight.

  Iris’s stomach fluttered.

  Stop it, ninny, she scolded herself. It’s only a child’s toy.

  But when the two men engaged once more, she could not help her gasps of surprise, her little sounds of dismay, as Padraig struggled to hold his own before the seasoned soldier. The sound of steel on steel rang clear in the air, and Iris was rapt by the Scotsman’s efforts.

  Ulric cried out and dropped his sword as Padraig’s clipped his bare knuckles. But rather than a curse, a laugh was again on the captain’s lips.

  “I’ll know to wear my gauntlets tomorrow, lord,” he said in a voice full of admiration.

  Lucan clapped Padraig’s shoulder. “Well done. Next time we should have a boon to pay.”

  Padraig looked to her suddenly, his smile still broad and sparkling on his face. “From the lass, perhaps?”

  Iris’s breath caught in her chest, but she composed herself. “That is a highly inappropriate suggestion, Master Boyd. Now, if you boys are finished with your sport, Master Boyd must return to the hold for diction.”

  She turned away to begin the trek up the hill as the men groaned in sympathetic dismay, but Iris’s cheeks were aflame and her lips were curved in a smile.

  * * * *

  A hunt has been scheduled. All the nobility within a day’s ride of Darlyrede are being invited. It is a dangerous time when so many strangers are gathered as—

  A solid but muffled thud coming from the corridor beyond the door caused Iris to lift the nib of her quill. She froze, listening to what sounded like garbled conversation. Another thud—a door, it must be—and then all was silent. She looked back to the page.

  —as there have been several—

  Another thud, this one closer. It was a door farther down the corridor, and if the echoing slam was any indication, doors were opening and closing all along her passage.

  And drawing closer. A search? Had someone else gone missing?

  Iris scrambled her pages together, sending up a little prayer that the ink wouldn’t smear too badly as she shoved them into the portfolio. She scooted from the edge of the bed, causing Satin to blink and regard her disinterestedly for a moment before curling back into himself and closing his eyes. Iris placed the portfolio and bag into the hole in the panel and fastened it into place just as the knock sounded on her door.

  She straightened and composed her expression as she rested her hand on the latch. “Who is it?”

  “Beryl?”

  “Master Boyd?” She slid back the bolt and opened the door a crack. His wide form blocked the corridor beyond him so that she had no idea if he was alone.

  He stood there, his chiseled face in the shadows, staring at her, saying nothing for a long moment.

  “Master Boyd?” she prompted.

  “Is Sir Lucan with you?”

  Iris knew her eyes widened. “Why would you ask that?”

  “Och.” He gave an awkward, hitching bow. “Good evening, Beryl,” he said solemnly.

  Her face softened. He’d thought she’d been questioning his manners.

  “Good evening, Master Boyd. No, Sir Lucan is not here. What made you think he would be?”

  “I…I doona know where his chamber lies. I assumed it was along this corridor…” He trailed off.

  “I believe Sir Lucan is residing in the soldiers’ quarters,” she supplied. “In the bailey. Remember?”

  “Oh, aye. That’s right.” He nodded, his handsome face a mask of seriousness. “He’s nae here at all, then.”

  “No, he’s not.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “He’s in the bailey.” She began to push the door closed. “Good night, Master Boyd.”

  “Wait,” he said, grasping the edge of the door and moving forward. “Beryl.”

  Her heart skipped a beat. “Yes?”

  “Could I…could I come in?”

  Iris’s eyes widened again. “Master Boyd, that is not at all proper for a gentleman to suggest to a lady.”

  “But you’re nae lady,” he rushed, and then at her indignant expression, he realized his faux pas. “What I mean is that I have some questions about—” He glanced down once and then backed up suddenly into the corridor. “What the hell’s that?”

  Satin slinked through the crack in the door and into the corridor toward Padraig, his tail stiff in the air, only the tip waving.

  “Oh, God, get him,” Iris whispered frantically as she came into the corridor.

  Padraig was still backing up. “Get him?”

  “Pick him up!” Iris hissed. “Please!”

  Padraig stopped his retreat at once and then bent down obediently and reached his hands like two giant baskets held sideways.

  Satin likewise ceased his advance and began to shrink back on his haunches, a low, ominous mew his only warning.

  “Oh, no,” Iris whispered as she quickened her footsteps. “No, no; Satin, don’t—”

  The moment Padraig’s hands closed around Satin’s middle, the cat turned into a screaming white dervish.

  “Jesus Christ!” Padraig shouted, straightening and flinging up his arms, a living stole seemingly attached to his wrist. “Get it off!”

  Satin was growling low in his throat, his front paws wrapped around Padraig’s forearm, his mouth clamped down on the fleshy part of the man’s palm below the thumb.

  “Satin! Stop it this instant!” Iris hissed, reaching out to take hold of the cat by the scruff, but it was proving quite impossible with Padraig swinging h
is arm like a truncheon. “Master Boyd, hold still!”

  She finally sank her fingers into Satin’s thick fur, causing the cat to uncouple from his victim and whip his head toward Iris.

  “Don’t you dare,” she warned him through her teeth as she peeled the cat from Padraig Boyd’s person.

  But he only yowled at her crossly for her effort, and Iris rolled him into a ball against her chest, still keeping firm hold on his scruff.

  A door down the corridor opened. “What the bloody hell is goin’ on down there?”

  Iris reached out and grabbed Padraig’s shirt and jerked him through the doorway and into her chamber, closing and bolting the door behind her.

  She glared down at the cat, still restrained in the crook of her arm. “That was bad, Satin. Very bad.”

  “Good God, what sort of hell beast is that?” Padraig Boyd demanded as he stood with the backs of his legs touching her bed, his right hand gripping his left wrist where a small trickle of blood was finding its way up his forearm into his sleeve.

  Iris walked to the chair and sat, drawing Satin beneath her neck in a snuggling embrace. “He’s my cat, Satin.” She kissed his naughty, furry head. “Mind his dish there behind you, if you please. The pitcher is empty and I’ve no desire to trek to the kitchens again.”

  Padraig snorted. “Fitting name, Satan.”

  Iris sighed. “It’s Satin.”

  “’S’what I said.”

  “No, you said Satan,” she mimicked. “Perhaps, as we’ve discussed in our diction lessons, if you attempted enunciating clearly the whole sounds of each word you mean to speak.” They stared at each other for a long moment. “Satin,” she repeated slowly, her patience strained by both his large, unnerving presence in her tiny chamber and the interruption to her work.

  “Satan,” Padraig repeated.

  “He’s not the devil,” Iris said through clenched teeth.

  Padraig drew back his head and looked away, muttering, “Me arm and me speech say different.”

  Iris sighed around a reluctant smile. “Satin was born in an abbey of nuns, and thus doesn’t at all care for the company of men. But I couldn’t allow him to escape into the hold.”

  True.

  “He’d nae be hard to find—just follow the trail of blood. I prefer a dog, meself.”

  Iris bit her lip, but the corners of her mouth ached from the urge to draw upward. “I’m not actually supposed to have him.” She winced toward his arm. “Is it very bad?”

  He gave her an indifferent frown. “A scratch.”

  “I think he bit you,” she ventured.

  “I’m fine,” Padraig insisted, clasping his hands behind his back. He suddenly seemed at a loss for what to do with himself inside the chamber. He was too large for the little cell and seemed to take up all the space between where Iris sat in the chair and where her bed pressed up against the wall.

  Iris wondered how old he was. She shook herself.

  “You wanted to ask me something?” she prompted.

  He blinked at her. “Aye. Aye, I did,” he rushed. “Ah…Searrach.”

  Iris tried to steel her expression against the distaste she felt. “What of her?”

  “How long has she lived at Darlyrede?”

  Iris frowned. “Perhaps two months. Why?”

  “Do you know from where she hails?”

  “Don’t you?”

  And then Padraig smiled too, and like all the other times he had forgotten himself, his face transformed, emphasizing the grand shape of his mouth, the merry tilt of his eyes. Iris didn’t think she’d ever met a man so blatantly…sensual.

  “Scotland, aye,” he allowed. “But how did she come to be here? I assume she’s nae family with her.”

  Iris shook her head. “She appeared on the bridge one day. Not unlike someone else recently. Only she claimed to have been attacked. She stayed on to work, once she had recovered from her injuries.”

  Padraig’s face bore a keen expression. “Attacked?”

  Iris’s cheeks tingled. “I can only speak to what the woman said. The band of criminals terrorizing Darlyrede’s wood and road are well known.”

  He nodded. “Nae family, then.”

  Iris shrugged. “I suppose not.”

  “Is she to be trusted?” he asked suddenly, as if unsure whether it was the right question but desperate to know the answer.

  Iris paused, feeling that she was suddenly on unsteady ground. She could see the discomfort on his face. “Trusted to what?”

  His ears went red. “Hargrave was eager enough to offer her up. Either she’s worthless or he’s sent her to spy on me.”

  Iris was impressed. For all Padraig Boyd’s inexperience, he seemed to have taken quick measure of the Scottish woman whom most of the other servants regarded with extreme wariness.

  “I’m sorry, Master Boyd,” Iris said, letting Satin go when he slithered from beneath her hand and bounded to the floor. She stood. “You seem to have mistook my position at Darlyrede. I have been in the employ of Lady Hargrave, exclusively, until your arrival. Perhaps it would be better to pose your question to Sir Lucan, as you intended. I believe he is more familiar with such matters.”

  True.

  Padraig’s eyes narrowed the tiniest fraction. Perhaps someone else would have missed it, but Iris’s brother had taught her well.

  “Should I nae tell him about your hellcat when I see him?”

  Iris couldn’t help her smile. “They’ve already met. Our secret is safe with him.”

  “Ah, I see.” Now Padraig’s smile was enigmatic, and his eyes bored into hers and rattled her in a way Iris couldn’t recall since his arrival at Darlyrede. “I reckon it is safe with me as well.”

  He had formed an opinion of her somehow. And perhaps it wasn’t a good one.

  She followed him to the door, where he paused, turning to face her. “Good night, Beryl. I’m looking forward to our lessons tomorrow.”

  Iris knew she should smile at him, ease his suspicions, whatever they were. But despite the fact that she seemed to have done nothing but smile since he’d come into her chamber, looking up into his face now, she could not. Something in his eyes made a sound in her head like the loud hush of wind over waves, surface peace hiding dangerous depths below. Not the danger of Vaughn Hargrave, where the end was painful and sudden, but a slow, sinking descent that meant holding your breath for years and years and years.

  Did she see the danger Padraig Boyd faced reflected in his eyes, or was it the potential danger of the man himself?

  “Good night, Master Boyd.”

  Satin swirled around her ankles after she had closed and bolted the door, meowing as if his best friend had just abandoned him.

  “Your behavior tonight is why some people kick cats,” she lectured.

  Chapter 9

  “Nae more!” Padraig moaned as he collapsed onto his back on his bed. “I canna do it again.”

  “Master Boyd, you’re being dramatic,” Beryl accused. “I’m doing most of the work. Surely it’s not your legs that are tired.”

  “It’s me brains,” he complained staring at the gathered fabric over his bed. “If it’s this, make a bow; but if this, just a nod. The lady goes first, except when you should. Doona touch her, but offer your arm. Never offer your hand, except when so; but nae if the moon is full and you’ve just eaten tripe. And doona pick your nose, ever, apparently.”

  He heard her sniffle of laughter and grinned, pushing himself up onto his elbows to have the pleasure of her face relaxed in a smile.

  “Fine, we’ll move on. Come on,” she cajoled, stepping to the bed and offering her hands. She waggled her fingers. “Come on—up with you.” She pulled him up and then released him. “Now. Dancing.”

  Padraig howled, turned on his heel, and collapsed back to the bed, facedown this ti
me.

  “Master Boyd—” Beryl began.

  His voice was muffled by the mattress. “Nae! I willna do it, and you canna make me.” He knew he was being childish and he didn’t care.

  “There will be dancing at the feasts. Perhaps you shall notice a lady you care to become acquainted with. As you now know, there are few proper ways a gentleman may interact with a lady unfamiliar to him.”

  Padraig stayed where he was, the only thoughts going through his mind that he would want to dance with no one save Beryl, and as she would not be in attendance on him at the feasts, he didn’t care to go at all. It seemed a waste of time when he could be practicing his sword play with Ulric and Lucan, or spending time with the lovely maid who had been his near-constant companion, when she was not indulging the Lady Hargrave.

  “I’m hungry,” he spoke into the mattress again, his voice comically muffled. But it gave him an idea, and so he sat up.

  “Let’s take nuncheon out of doors.”

  Her eyes widened. “What?”

  “Nuncheon,” Padraig repeated, warming to the idea as he gained his feet. “You ken, where one takes food and drink at midday. Nae reason we couldna place a bite in a basket to eat out of doors.”

  She blinked at him.

  “Do ye nae ken nuncheon, lass?”

  “Yes, of course I know what nuncheon is, Master Boyd,” she scolded. “But nuncheon will not move you any farther along in your studies.”

  This time it was he who moved toward her and took up her hands, and he knew it unnerved her by the way she blushed and dropped her eyes.

  “Please?” he cajoled. “Have a meal with me under the sky, Beryl. I’ve not been imprisoned inside walls for such a length in all my life—nearly a month, and most o’ that’s been rain. Today, the sun will shine on us.”

  She gave him a sideways look.

  “Only an hour,” he promised. “And then if you wish, I’ll practice stepping on your toes all afternoon.”

  “It can’t be all afternoon,” Beryl warned. “I’m to help Lady Hargrave dress, and I do believe Marta and Rynn have your costumes ready for their final fitting as well. Perhaps you should take Searrach.”