“Will ye tell me what performance I can expect tomorrow, lasses?” he asked as he held the door open for them.
“Of course not!” Kirsteen gasped with fake shock. “It is to be a surprise, sir. It wouldn’t be nearly as entertaining if you were expecting it. That’s partly what makes theater so delightful in the first place.”
As he watched them walk away, Beathan thought to himself that the same was true of life. It was not nearly so entertaining as when pleasant surprises occurred. And Kirsteen Roy was most assuredly a pleasant surprise.
Beathan’s good mood carried through all the way until the next afternoon, when his cousin requested his presence in his chambers. After their duel, Andrew had been cold to him, despite Beathan telling him that it was only because his cousin used an old sword that he had been bested.
In response, Andrew had said, “I have been using that sword in practice for months and I never lost. It’s not the sword, cousin. It’s me.”
This self-pitying attitude of Andrew was what most frustrated Beathan, but he knew from experience that the only thing to do was to let it pass. There was no comforting Andrew, no calming him down. The family just had to wait until he decided to stop acting like a petulant child, and start acting like a man again.
It could take anything from a few weeks to a few months, though Beathan was anxiously hoping it would be the former. However, it was not looking that way when Beathan entered his cousin’s chambers. He found Andrew leaning against his window, his arms crossed over his chest, sulking moodily.
“Ye called for me, cousin?” Beathan asked in a jovial tone as he entered the room.
It looked different than when he had seen it last. New tapestries hung on the wall, the coverlet on the bed had been changed, and a blue rug now occupied the floor, rather than the previous red. There too were new weapons leaning against the wall. Two new rapiers were propped up, and there was a quiver of arrows nearby. The fletchings were blue and green, and the case that held them looked to be of new leather.
“When did you get these?” Beathan asked, striding forward and picking up the case. He was reaching out to touch one of the feathers when Andrew suddenly jumped off the window and toward him, nearly tackling Beathan to the ground.
“Don’t touch them! They’re mine!” he shouted, ripping the case from Beathan’s hands and gingerly placing it back in its original position against the wall.
“Cripes, Andrew! Ye scared the life outta me! What’s wrong with ye?” Beathan shouted, his breath coming fast and hard.
“Ye touched my things. Ye ken I dinnae like it when people dae that,” he growled.
Beathan swallowed the comments he wanted to give in response, about that was how a child, not a man, acted, and instead said, “All right. Understood. Now, why have ye called me here?”
“I just wanted to talk about the duel,” Andrew grumbled as he took his place at the window once again.
“Och, Andrew. Leave it be. It was a simple swordfight! I told ye, if ye’d used a proper sword, ye never wouldae lost to me! Ye’re as good a swordsman as I am, if not better.” This was a lie. Beathan knew he was the better swordsman, but he knew it wouldn’t serve to tell Andrew that. He’d only grow even glummer with self-pity.
“I want a rematch,” Andrew said, looking up at Beathan. “Tomorrow, in the fencing room. We’ll use the rapiers,” he said, nodding toward the two swords Beathan had noticed earlier. “It’ll be an even fight that way.”
“Fine, fine, whatever ye like, Andrew,” Beathan said, growing truly exhausted with this line of conversation. Why did his cousin have to be so tedious?
“Good. Meet me at eleven tomorrow morning. And do not expect to beat me so easily this time,” Andrew said.
“Now go,” he added, turning back toward the window. “That is all.” He banished Beathan like he was nothing more than a servant, and he couldn’t help feeling a little disrespected.
He rolled his eyes as he said goodbye and strode out of Andrew’s chambers, wondering what he had done to deserve such a strange man for a family member. Beathan knew that his uncle had been a kind, gracious man, and he wondered why those traits hadn’t been passed to his son. It was an odd thing, indeed.
Kirsteen was standing outside of her tent, looking anxiously up at the castle in the distance. She was supposed to be walking to the stables, where she and Beathan were to set off on an afternoon ride around the hills. However, instead of striding forward, her feet were rooted to the ground as her mind raced.
Should I have refused?
This thought had been running through her head for the last day and a half. She and Beathan had spent the last three days together, going on long walks, exploring the castle’s library and getting to know each other all the while. She had known halfway through that first afternoon that what she was engaging in was perhaps the most dangerous thing she had ever done.
The danger came from the fact that the more Kirsteen knew of Beathan, the more she liked him. And this was not a fascination like any she had ever experienced. With every passing day, she was growing more and more sure that with time, she could come to love Beathan Dunn.
He was an honest, amusing and kind man who told stories that made her practically shout with laughter. He had a caring greeting for every person, noble or not, that he passed, and he was even holding lessons for the local village children to learn archery.
He was, in short, exactly the kind of man she had always imagined spending the rest of her life with. Which was rather problematic, considering that she and the rest of the troupe were leaving in four days.
Kirsteen therefore knew it was dangerous to spend even more time with Beathan. Her feelings would only grow deeper, and that could not happen. She did not want to feel heartbroken as she left Castle Dunn. She could not afford to do so. She had kept hold of her virtue and thus far avoided men precisely because she only wanted to fall in love once.
She did not want heartbreak or the pain of lost love. She wanted her love to last, and for that, she had to fall in love with a man who could love her in return. And that man was, unfortunately, not Beathan Dunn. A man of Beathan’s status would not be able to be with her.
For one thing, Kirsteen knew that men of his station had to marry, and marry someone who possessed if not the same title and money as them, then at least some sort of connection that would behove their families. And Kirsteen was in possession of none of those things. She had no title, no wealth to speak of. All she had were her feelings, which were very much in danger of being dashed to pieces.
Therefore, Kirsteen knew she should stride to the stables and refuse to go ride with Beathan. She could make up an excuse; rehearsals, costume repair—there were so many things she could conceivably have to do instead. But every time she thought about the look of disappointment on Beathan’s handsome face, she paused.
You cannot stand here forever, she reminded herself. She could feel her boots beginning to sink into the wet mud beneath her feet, and she would have to move soon if she did not want to spend the rest of the afternoon cleaning them.
You can bend your body backwards and balance on your hands. Surely if you can do that, you can tell a man you don’t want to go riding with him?
“Lass!”
Kirsteen looked up to find Beathan riding toward her, a second horse tied to the one on which he was currently sitting.
Lord, he looks even more handsome atop a horse, she realized with dismay. Does he ever look unattractive?
“I couldnae find ye by the stables, so I thought I would see in the camp,” he said, smiling at her as he jumped down off the saddle and strode toward her.
“Would ye like some help getting onto yer saddle?” he asked, taking her hand and leading her to her own horse.
It was a lovely brown stallion with a speckled nose and a tail that was swishing excitedly back and forth.
“Er,” Kirsteen stuttered, but Beathan did not give her time to respond. Instead, he slid his hands onto her hip
s and, with seemingly no effort, lifted her up and onto the horse.
“I assume ye ride astride,” he said, fixing her skirts so they laid flat against her legs.
God, but his touch was delicious.
“Yes, I do,” she answered, trying to school her face into a mask of calm as she grasped the reins.
“The best women always do,” he told her with a twinkle in his eye.
“Is that so?” she asked as she watched him make his way back to his own horse.
“Aye, lass. It shows they arenae concerned overmuch with propriety. I might be the son to a laird, but I can appreciate someone who breaks the rules, ye ken,” he said with a wicked grin.
Kirsteen couldn’t help smiling at his sauciness as she set her horse off at a swift clop. Beathan followed, gaining in speed until he was in front of her, leading the way past the edge of the hills and into the forest.
They chatted little as they rode, both instead choosing to admire the scenery. The forest was scattered with leaves of every shade of red and gold, and sunlight dappled through, creating interesting shadows on the ground. The air was tinged with moisture, which was a blessing against Kirsteen’s flushed cheeks.
Kirsteen was about to call out and ask if they might not make their way round to the lock, when her attention was distracted by a sound like whistling. A second later, an arrow flew past her, its fletching brushing against her neck as it passed, landing eventually dead center in a tree just ahead. She gasped in surprise, nearly falling off her saddle as she craned her head to see who had shot at her. Her heart was beating rapidly, her breaths coming quickly as she looked around, seeing nothing but trees and Beathan’s horse just ahead of her.
Beathan had stopped the moment the arrow hit the tree, rearing his horse onto its hind legs in his haste to turn around. He didn’t even think of stopping to retrieve the arrow. Instead, he was focused solely on Kirsteen. He rode straight toward her, stopping his horse close enough that he was able to reach across her and lay a hand on her cheek.
“Lass! Are ye all right?” he asked.
Kirsteen shook her head. “No, I don’t think I am,” she said, still looking around her. “I think someone just tried to kill me.”
7
Kirsteen’s eyes glazed over as Beathan leaned toward her, checking to see if she was wounded. Her porcelain pale neck had the slightest scratch to it, a bright pink mark that made his blood boil when he saw it.
Beathan didn’t care if what happened was an accident. He blamed himself; he should have been riding next to her, not in front of her. He would have heard the whistling sound she was describing as well, and known instantly that it was an arrow and that she was in danger. He had been careless, and now the lass was paying the price.
“Kirsteen?” he whispered, turning her cheek to face him.
She looked through, rather than at him, and he could tell that no matter what words he spoke, she would not hear them. Still, he spoke anyway, hoping that at the very least, his voice might calm her.
“Lass,” he said, stroking his thumb over her cheek, “I’m gonnae take ye back to yer camp. I will send someone to take care of the mark, but ye should be with yer family right now. They will ken how best to care for ye.”
He hated that he couldn’t care for her himself, couldn’t spirit her away to his chambers and protect her, but he didn’t have that luxury. She wasn’t his to protect, after all. They had not even kissed!
Beathan took hold of the reins of Kirsteen’s horse and led it and his carefully back through the forest and past the hill. It took far longer than it normally would have, but he did not want to spook Kirsteen when she was looking so fragile and scared.
Madame Blanche and her husband Frederick saw him coming. They were smiling at first, but their smiles vanished the moment they caught sight of the look on Kirsteen’s face.
“What happened?” Blanche yelled as she hurried toward them. She practically dragged Kirsteen off the horse and into her arms, hugging her close to her bosom and cupping the back of the lass’ head.
“We were shot at. I dinnae ken who did it, or why, but an arrow grazed her neck. She doesnae seem to be hurt, but she looks a might shocked, so I thought it best to bring her to ye.”
Blanche nodded, barely listening to Beathan. Instead, she seemed intent on calming Kirsteen with quiet words whispered in the lass’ ear. Beathan noticed that the lass did not seem to be reacting much, her eyes still unfocused, her mouth slack as she leaned her head on Blanche’s shoulder.
He wanted to go over, lay a hand on her, do something, but one look at Fred told him that such overtures would not be welcome. Indeed, Kirsteen’s father figure was looking rather enraged as he stood, his arms crossed, his face set in a scowl. Beathan knew the sign of a man about to explode, and so he waited, bracing himself for the words that came next.
And come they did, a torrent of invectives and slander that made Beathan wince as he heard it.
“This is your fault, Mr. Dunn! Yours and yours only! I might respect your father, but it’s clear that your clan is just like the rest of our patrons. They don’t care a wit for people of our station. Someone from that castle has seen you and Kirsteen spending time together and, rather than objecting with words, they have done so with their actions.”
“I...” Beathan stuttered, struggling to formulate an answer. “I’m not entirely sure what ye’re meanin’, Frederick. I dinnae ken how my clan has anythin’ to do with this attack,” he said, shaking his head in confusion.
Fred scoffed, rolling his eyes and looking over at Blanche and Kirsteen as if to say, “Can you believe this dunce?”
Beathan did not particularly appreciate this, but he knew the man was being protective of the woman he considered like a daughter to him, so he kept his mouth shut. It would not do to get on the wrong side of Kirsteen’s parental figures, not if he was hoping on extending their assignation into the long term.
“Kirsteen is below your class, Mr. Dunn,” Fred explained. “You’re the heir to a lairdship, while she is a performer, and though I think her the most outstanding woman, other than my wife, that I have ever known, I am well aware of how she is viewed by the rest of society,” he said, looking as though the words pained him to admit.
“I believe your clan holds these same beliefs, and someone within your ranks does not appreciate you two running around together. I think they wanted to eliminate Kirsteen. To what end, I do not know. All I know is that my daughter is wounded, and that it is by association your fault.”
“If ye will pardon my language, Frederick,” Beathan said, now truly angry, “that’s a load of shite. No one in that castle would do such a thing. As you said, I am heir to the lairdship, and therefore anyone, lass or otherwise, that I decide to spend my time with is treated with due deference. My clan wouldnae do this, I can assure ye of that.”
Fred and Madame Blanche were silent after he finished, no doubt shocked that he had cursed in the presence of not one, but two lasses. But Beathan, while mild-mannered in general, would not stand for someone insulting his clan. He knew that Madame Blanche and Frederick were of a similar mind; he had seen it that first night when Madame Blanche so vehemently defended Kirsteen’s honor, and again just now with Fred.
There were not many Sassenachs who would so willingly take on a Scottish laird’s son, and Beathan had respect for any man who did so. Frederick was a head shorter than Beathan and twice as wide, and yet he had the same ferocious gaze of the warriors Beathan had done battle against. Kirsteen, her mother and father, were all more than deserving of his respect.
However, though Beathan knew they were good people at heart, he could not help feeling a little disgruntled at how Madame Blanche and Fred were glaring at him now, as if they did not believe a word coming out of his mouth. This was confirmed when Fred spoke.
“They might be loyal to most, but I have seen prejudiced actions like this before. None so violent, mind you, but similar at the root. I will not hesitate to leave, Mr.
Dunn, if I feel that my people are in danger.”
Beathan’s heart plunged down into his stomach at the thought of Kirsteen leaving. He could not bear it. Not when he was just getting to know the lass.
“Please,” he said, looking from Fred to Madame Blanche and back again. Kirsteen’s eyes were following him as well, but he knew if he looked in them now, he would be lost, incapable of speech. He needed to concentrate if he was to get his point across.
“This willnae happen again. I can assure ye of it. This castle is full of the best warriors in Scotland. Please trust me to use my men, my resources, to find whoever attacked Kirsteen. I willnae rest until I have found who did this to her. Of that I can well promise ye.”
Fred glared at Beathan rather than responding, so Beathan added, “Sir, I might not ken Kirsteen as ye dae, but I care for her. I dinnae want nothing bad to happen to her, an’ I’m sorry she was harmed today.” He hoped that the noble form of address, coupled with the confession of his feelings, would go some way to swaying the troupe to stay.
“Fine. But if you don’t find them –” Fred began, but Beathan held up a hand to interrupt him.
“I will, Frederick. I promise you. I promise you, Madame Blanche, and Kirsteen that I will not rest until this person has been found.”
This seemed to somewhat appease Fred, whose face gradually reduced in color until it resembled a pale peach rather than a blood red apple. He lost the angry gleam in his eye as well, and bowed slightly at Beathan before turning back to his family, effectively bidding the man adieu.
Beathan was glad to have won over Fred and Madame Blanche, but he did not know how Kirsteen had taken his words. Did she believe him when he said he cared for her? That he would do his utmost to protect her?
Kirsteen raised her head from Madame Blanche’s shoulder just before Beathan was about to turn around and walk toward his horse. Her beautiful green eyes met his, and he felt his desire for her in every bone in his body. She burned him with a scorching look, one that spoke of her own feelings for him, which he could only hope were a fraction as deep as his own.
Highlander's Untamed Bride Page 4