One Scottish Knight: A Medieval Novella (Perthshire Series)

by E. Elizabeth Watson

  As Gregor’s footsteps receded and the stable door fell shut, Eachann turned to Catriona.

  “Truly, all is well? You tremble, lass.”

  “I’m fine, sir. Your timing was fortuitous.” Catriona shook her head, her dark hair hanging loose down her back, and for some reason, the flower he had stuck there so many years ago conjured in his mind. “I, eh, was uncomfortable with Laird Murray’s arrangement.”

  Eachann nodded once, feeling his tension recede. Thank the Lord, for his blood had been boiling.

  “In truth, I saw you leave the hall at his hand, and thought you looked uncertain. So I followed you.”

  He had noticed Gregor luring Catriona away as she maneuvered through the great hall, boisterous with men seeking shelter from the afternoon rains inhibiting training. She had seemed hesitant, and the sight had irritated him. At first, Eachann had thought she was embarrassed. But now he knew she was scared. She had a patient to deliver herbs. And Gregor had the bollocks to interrupt her and vie for his own pleasure. And it was Gregor’s sister who needed Catriona, for Christ’s sake.

  She stood quietly, pulling her shawl more tightly around her to encase herself within, as if the shawl were a coat of chainmail. Eachann focused on his horse and pulled Ghost’s saddle off the stand in the corner, easing it onto the animal’s back and cinching the strap around the beast’s belly. Catriona Morganach might be his sister through marriage, but that still didn’t give him liberty to secure her in his arms to calm her.

  Not that women ever sought comfort in his arms. He’d had trysts before, aye, as had most men. But that’s all they had been. With lowly women in a tavern hall, to ease the immediate need and nothing more.

  When their father lost the barony and fled, leaving Eachann to tend to Stephen who still had yet to learn how to piss in a pot and not in his trews, Eachann and Stephen had both been too young to understand the shame upon them. But as they grew and made a home out of their cowshed, given them by Laird MacLaren when Eachann insisted at age ten that he was old enough to head his own family, neither he, nor Stephen, had allowed such scandal to hold them back. Stephen had gone to work as a lad of six years, helping shepherd Laird MacLaren’s flock, and had acquired his own small herd a few years later after Laird MacLaren, recognizing the lad’s hard work, gave him four ewes to see lambed. That starter flock had grown over the years, bolstering Clan MacLaren’s coffers, and elevating Stephen in the clan’s eyes.

  And when he, Eachann, had shown promise as a fighter, the MacLaren had seen fit to ensure a foster lord for him. Eachann had been sent to foster under Lord Reginald de Lough, a noble loyal to King Edward I of England. Longshanks of England was a fierce king, but Lord de Lough had been an honorable man. Eachann had returned home a fortnight ago, after seven long years in Lough’s rich household, knighted, trained, and educated. Laird MacLaren had just seen fit to elevate Eachann to a captaincy upon his return because of it, and appointed him lead over hand-to-hand sword and pike training.

  Now, here he was, at Laird Murray’s clan gathering, sitting at the tables for the knights, even if he still always bore the stain of his father’s disgrace. He owed his entire achievement to Laird MacLaren, who had seen merit in him and given him opportunity when his own father had failed him.

  He worked the bit into Ghost’s mouth, buckling the leather around his head. Then he draped the reins over the beast’s neck and rested them on the saddle pommel. Sliding his hand up and down Ghost’s sleek neck, he patted him stoutly and brushed his feathery white mane from his eyes. In truth, he had no place to ride. Laird Murray’s gathering wouldn’t end for another day and with the rain falling in steady sheets, there was no reason to be out in the foul weather.

  He turned back to Catriona, noticing her green eyes assessing him and her hand clenching her shawl at her throat. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes darted from his arms to his face, traveling the length of the scar on his cheek before turning away in embarrassment. Had Catriona Morganach been thinking of him just now? Such secret stares betwixt them had happened countless times already since his return. He had assumed she was intimidated. Perhaps, disgusted. Perhaps unsure how to interact with him after so long.

  Did she fancy what she saw now that she was grown up?

  He shook his head at his daftness. He wasn’t a heart stopper with his raven hair and obsidian eyes. She’d been looking at the ragged scar marring his face. Women shied from his angry features, finding his size and expression off-putting, or so it seemed by the way their cheeks reddened and their eyes averted.

  Was it true that she was still innocent? In spite of her training as a midwife that had taught her all about husbandry? He thought for certain she would be married at first opportunity. The lass was eight and ten. Bonny. Ready to start her own brood. How had such a lass managed to remain unattached? It made him all the more thankful to have interrupted Gregor Murray now. Her first time should be special, and certainly not forced against the wall of a stable by a man she didn’t want.

  He encircled her waist in the span of his broad palms, lifted her, and placed her pillion behind his saddle, his bedroll as the cushion. He removed his tartan mantle from over his shoulder, revealing his chest encased in a leather jerkin.

  “Here. ’Tis wet outside and the rains continue to pour. Wear this.”

  He handed the fabric up to her, feeling her fingers brush against his, and he staved off the shiver that threatened to rack his body as she draped herself within his colors. But such a look was a fine one indeed. Catriona’s head encased in his colors, protected by his colors…

  Catriona looked down at the Scotsman from atop his saddle. Her memories of childhood, pleasant times, when she knew Eachann as a lad, rolled through her mind. Sakes, but they hadn’t ceased rolling through her mind since Eachann’s return.

  And he had returned unmarried.

  Such a man, accomplished at such a young age—for he had worked harder than any man she knew to overcome his father’s shame—would make a fine husband and father. It was a wonder he didn’t bring an Englishwoman back to Scotland with him, holding his bairns while her belly swelled with another. Why?

  And my, he had grown handsome, ruggedly so, his gangly, youthful limbs now toned with a man’s muscle. When he had ridden up to their door a fortnight ago, freshly returned, her pulse had faltered. She knew him instantly, had thought of him endlessly, off seeing the world, learning, growing, while she remained in the Scottish countryside pining for a lad who probably no longer remembered her…

  Yet he knew her right away.

  So tall, so broad, his waist so narrow. She had always fancied him, but they had been young the last time she had seen him, friends, her parents keeping an eye on him and Stephen at Laird MacLaren’s request. The cowshed that had once sheltered Eachann and Stephen was now Stephen’s sheep byre. So often, she recalled sneaking up to the open doorway to peer inside and watch Eachann sleeping on a mantle on the hay.

  But a fortnight ago, his unexpected homecoming proved he was no longer that gangly lad. And the moment his eyes had connected with hers from atop his white beast, he had sat stunned to silence. His eyes had slowly roved down and up the entire length of her, as if she were naked and on display. She had felt heat brewing in his eyes, casting its flame upon her skin, sending butterflies aflutter in her stomach. She knew a man’s lustful gaze, for she endured such looks wherever she went, except Eachann’s eyes on her had felt so good.

  “Catriona,” Eachann had said, his voice coarse and low. He had seemed to know her instantly, making her shiver. “I mean─ Miss Morganach.”

  “‘Catriona’ is fine, sir,” she had managed to reply, even if she sounded breathy.

  He had remained frozen moments longer, gaping boyishly at her. He had yet to shave his traveling stubble, but she could see his cheeks heat plain as day and the ragged scar tearing nearly from his eye to his jaw, brighten.

  He had seen her as a woman in that moment, and he had liked what he’d seen.
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  But he hadn’t gazed so openly at her since that first reunion. He cast her covert glances, his eyes shifting away as she turned to him. He might be knighted, but he was nothing like the other men who would so opening stare and flirt.

  It was as if she and Eachann engaged in a secret dance, for she did the same thing to him, quickly averting her eyes or pretending she was occupied if she sensed him looking her way. And yet, each time his attention shifted to her while she completed the most mundane of tasks, like kneading bread dough, peeling carrots, hoeing in the croft, she felt her skin tingle, felt her stomach warm.

  Instead of sleeping in the barracks with his men at Laird MacLaren’s stronghold, men he now trained, Eachann had returned home expecting to sleep in his old cowshed. But her mother and father were dead now, and her brother had long ago moved away. Stephen had bid Eachann seek refuge inside, and he was now sleeping on their bothy floor beside the hearth. The brothers had never abandoned each other in youth, and they weren’t about to now, either.

  Stephen had been elated at Eachann’s recent return. Catriona could still see Stephen running across the fields dotted with mutton, his coarse outland wool flapping around his long legs, with the enthusiasm of a wee bairn. At their reunion, her trance with Eachann was broken. Eachann had jumped from his animal and run to his brother with the same enthusiasm, slamming Stephen into a hug, man to man – even if they were both still so young – hands whacking each other’s backs, a bout of playful wrestling ensuing.

  And now that he was home and bedding on their floor, she had watched Eachann’s chest rise and fall as he slept shirtless, the dark shadows dancing upon him from the hearth’s flame. So fine a body… Eachann’s life had treated him well, she thought now, blessedly rescued from Gregor’s untoward advance. Heat swelled through her womb just picturing Eachann sleeping shirtless late at night, while the quiet rustling of linens and creaking of the pallet reminded her that Stephen and Beth did their best to conceive a child.

  She should be ashamed, and yet, all she could think about as she dragged Eachann’s mantle around her now, was what it might be like to lie abed, tucked beneath her blankets, and see Eachann’s silhouette against the nighttime fire as he peeled back her woolen partition draped around her bedding, giving her privacy. She imagined him coming to her side, kneeling, sliding beneath her covers, running his hands over her breasts, down her stomach…

  She squirmed now as Eachann hoisted himself up in front of her, the leather creaking. He reached back, found her hand, and pulled her arm around his waist—a practical requirement for riding behind another rider and yet, her heart still skipped a beat. Eachann’s broad back against her front was so massive, she couldn’t see over his shoulder. But she could smell his sweat intermixed with that of wet leather and his own unique scent. It was a fine perfume. She inhaled deeply.

  “It’s like old times, sir,” she said. “Except, instead of you leading me overland by the hand, you take me by horse.”

  “Aye, and I nay have to chase you anymore,” he replied, a smile on his lips.

  Her stomach fluttered at his words. What did they mean? Did they mean something?

  “Are you comfortable?” he asked over his shoulder.

  Lord, but his deep voice resonating so close to her ear, reverberating against her stomach, sent a wave of tingles over her skin.

  Comfortable? Aye, she was oblivious to the discomfort of her thighs wedged against the cantle. Eachann had cinched his elbow over her arm to hold her grip. She ought not think too deeply on the matter, and yet, she couldn’t help but notice his hand now resting upon hers. She looked up at the back of his head, dark hair falling in straight tresses over his shoulders. His jaw was stubbly from lack of shaving, what she could see, anyway. His head was turned to speak to her, even if he wasn’t craning to make eye contact.

  “Aye. My thanks, sir.”

  “Catriona?” he said, keeping his head turned over his shoulder. She held her breath, gazing at his features so chiseled, they could have been cut from the granites of Aberdeen. “We’re old friends, and related through marriage now. I’d be pleased to hear you call me by my given name again, as you once did as a lass.”

  “Sir Eachann?” she questioned.

  He shook his head and tapped his horse into a walk. “Nay. Simply Eachann.”

  She nodded, her face burning, but she smiled. “Indeed. Simply Eachann it is.”

  He chuckled as the rain poured upon him, matting down his black hair. Such an unexpected sound, so deep, husky. It vibrated against her and sent more shivers of pleasure over her skin. His laugh abated, but a soft smile remained.

  “You’ve become a saucy one, eh?”

  Saucy? She had never been called such, for she was much too quiet. And yet, hearing this massive man jest with her made her heart swell. He hardly sounded Scottish anymore, more English than naught. And yet, he comported himself with the ease of a man from the rugged country on which he had been born and raised.

  “Only with you, apparently,” she teased.

  He pulled back on the reins now. Heat ravaged her face. Why had he stopped?

  “Did I say something?” she asked.

  He didn’t reply. His smile had fallen, replaced with that burning she had seen upon his face at his homecoming a fortnight earlier. His lips—what she could see—were parted slightly, soft compared to their typically stern line.

  He wants to kiss me.

  A thrill raced through her. His grip upon her hand eased, his thumb brushing back and forth across her skin, and she felt the years of affection for him now mixing with her desires as a woman. He was no longer a lad and she, no longer a lass. She felt her chest rise and fall, felt her body tingle with anticipation, felt his hand begin to tighten upon hers again. And then it was gone. The light in his eyes, black like onyx, was banked. He turned forward, steering the reins toward Drummond Castle’s gatehouse.

  “Nay. My apologies,” he said, tapping the horse into motion again.

  Chapter 2

  They arrived through the downpour to the cottage. He had survived two hours with Catriona’s soft warmth at his back, her breasts pressed to him, her hand holding his waist. His nerves were wound tight. Stephen was likely in the byre or still accounting for sheep in the fields. A shepherd didn’t have the luxury of coming within simply because the weather was poorly.

  Christ, but Caty had been teasing him. It had been everything he could do to interrupt the direction of his thoughts, for he had wanted only to kiss her. She probably wore Gregor’s taste upon her lips still. He couldn’t plunder her mouth after what had just happened. Nay. She would have thought him a man as any other, cut from the same cloth as Gregor, ready to take what he wanted simply because he wanted it. It would not have been chivalrous. And having been fostered in Lord de Lough’s polished halls, the manners of chivalry were forever beaten into his head.

  But he had been stirring to life beneath his kilt even as he sat in the saddle, his wee soldier reminding him of just how much he fancied Catriona. Wee soldier. He harrumphed at the lewd name dubbed him some years ago when Lough’s other squires had seen him changing, his stallion hanging free. The jest had been meant to tease, for he was indeed a man of healthy proportions, and his brother squires had called him such for the remainder of his time there, much to his embarrassment.

  Thank God Catriona was sitting behind him, nay in front, or else she would have felt him burgeoning exactly as Gregor had. She would have thought him a bastard. And he couldn’t bear for her to think so ill of him.

  Eachann dismounted, his boots lined with sheep’s wool and laced up his calves, landing in the mud with a splash. He lifted her down, ensuring her footing cleared the mud puddle, and walked Ghost to the byre.

  “My thanks for your help today, Simply Eachann,” Catriona said, dipping her head with a smile on her lips. She ascended the steps to the cottage and disappeared inside as a grin sprang to his face.

  Some of that tension between them had eased
today, and yet, it had become pleasantly tauter. He didn’t watch her go. Staring at her backside as she walked away would only make him tenser. Stephen wasn’t in the byre. That meant his younger brother was still out collecting his livestock. He removed Ghost’s bit, hanging the tack upon a hook, but leaving the beast saddled. He needed to return soon to Laird Murray and his men, but he would sit by the fire for a spell to dry out before finding his spare mantle and wrapping himself within it for the return journey. If he were lucky, the rain would cease by then.

  He glanced in the corner of the byre and paused from his chore. The slats of wood had been replaced over the years, and yet, there were still a couple original pieces of wood from when he was a child, knot holes he remembered tracing late at night with his fingers while he thought about why his parents had abandoned them. He had slept in that corner, after making sure Stephen’s belly was full, on padding made of hay with his mantle as a blanket. The garment had grown so threadbare, Catriona’s mother had gifted him with another that she had woven in the Donnachaidh colors, just for him. He still kept the mantle in his belongings, one of the few kindnesses he had ever been given.

  He turned away from the memories and strode through the rain to the cottage. His parents had done what they’d done, and there was no changing it or trying to understand why. Such sentiments distracted a man from the things important in life, such as a bonny woman inside her cottage, with dark hair and fetching green eyes.

  Fresh smoke rose onto the air from the chimney. Climbing the two steps to the threshold, he pushed through the door. It was quiet. Beth was gone as well, it seemed. Another villager was ill and all the womenfolk were taking turns caring for her, spooning her broth, keeping her comfortable, and that was probably where Beth was now. Which meant he was alone with Catriona.