The Highlander's Virtuous Lady: A Historical Scottish Romance Novel

by Fiona Faris

  “Never!” William cried defiantly.

  She cracked him a swift blow across the knuckles.

  William yelped.

  “Yield!” she repeated her demand.

  “Alright! I yield!” William said quickly, rubbing his sore knuckles with a sour look on his face.

  Despite herself, Margaret clapped her hands and applauded.

  “Well done, fair squire!” she cried out, and even Lady Maria smiled approvingly.

  Joan released William, and he clambered slowly to his feet.

  “A fine sight.” Auld Wat regaled him with a broad toothless grin. “A big lump like yersel’ laid low by a wee strip of a lass.”

  Both William and Joan glowered at him.

  “Strip of a lass, my arse,” William grumbled. “She’s a bonny fighter.” He grinned sheepishly across at Patrick. “I dinna envy being her man.”

  Patrick laughed.

  “You just have to know how to handle her,” he assured him.

  Joan jutted her stave at him.

  “But I always have the last word as her lord and master, and that word usually is ‘Yes, dear’.”

  Auld Wat cackled with laughter.

  “We’re naught but a band o’ hen-pecked message-boys,” he lamented. “Look at us! It’s a good job the Kers cannae see us noo.”

  “Ah, the Kers,” William remarked of the Scotts’ sworn enemies. “Now you are talking wee strips o’ lassies. Our Joan here is worth any ten o’ them.”

  “Then she’s ready.” Wat nodded approvingly.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Later, after dinner, Wat and Patrick withdrew to the back of the hall to lay plans for the impending raid on the English supply train as it wound its way past the gorge of the Grey Mare’s Tail, the long plume of waterfall that cascaded from Loch Skeen into the steep, narrow glen of the Moffat Water.

  Joan repaired to the makeshift practice field to shred a straw manikin with her short sword, while Mary and Lady Maria went to find raspberries in the margins of the forest with which to prepare some cranachan for their supper.

  Margaret went upstairs to the solar. She sat in a chair and took up her embroidery again.

  But she could not settle to it. Her thoughts kept drifting to the events of the past few weeks, the events that had brought them there, to the margins of society, to dwell among strange rough folk who lived by an entirely different code from the one to which she had been bred.

  She reflected on how hard it had been for her mother to adapt, on top of the terrible trauma she had suffered. She thought of Mary Scott’s simple kindness and how it had helped her mother tolerate, if not accept, their new life and the simple joys it brought, like gathering raspberries in the wildwoods to furnish them a rude supper. She also thought of how their new life seemed to fit her sister, Joan, like a glove, how the wildness of Ettrick forest seemed to suit the wildness of her spirit. She also thought how much she missed her Gilbert, felt his absence like an ache in her tummy.

  A flash of jealousy flitted across her mind. Joan had her husband. She could hear them at night through the thin partition that divided her chamber from theirs, the grunts and squeals and groans of their lovemaking, the low murmur of their voices afterward. The sound of it ignited a fire in her own loins, and she longed for her Gilbert even more, with an unbearable longing that led her hand to her sex to sate it at least temporarily. The act shamed her; she knew that she should suffer her travails bravely and patiently, with dignity, until her lord could come and rescue her from them. Was there anything more undignified than lying in bed beside her mother, pleasuring herself to the sound of her sister’s lovemaking through the wall?

  But it did take the edge of her longing and made it a little more bearable.

  She also envied Joan her ladyship. That was what she, Margaret, had been educated to, to have charge of her lord’s table, and by extension, his household. The rude and makeshift household hardly compared with the modest grandeur of Oliver and Neidpath, but it was a household and Margaret felt keenly that she was a dependent rather than the lady of the house.

  She was reluctant to admit it, but she was also jealous of Joan’s spunk. Margaret recognized that she had not been made to ride and fight like her sister. It was not in her power to avenge the death of her father and set right the dishonor that had been done to her family. She had been made to be defended and protected, not to defend and protect herself and those whom she loved. She felt useless in her current situation, neither mistress of the household nor master of her fate. Joan was both. Margaret could not even take solace from the thought of being more beautiful than her sister, as they looked so much alike.

  She turned and held her breath when she heard a heavy tread on the stair. Her spirit soared as she half hoped it would be Gilbert, returned from the war, but she knew in her heart of hearts that it could not be.

  Her heart gave a start as the large head and bull neck of William rose through the trapdoor.

  He looked across with his wide puppy eyes, and his face broke into a beaming smile when he saw her. He continued up the stairs until he stood shyly with his powerful arms and large hands dangling awkwardly by his sides.

  “I came to show you the swallows’ nests,” he said simply, in a soft diffident voice.

  Margaret smiled a little uncertainly.

  “Oh, of course, the swallows’ nest,” she said. “I remember. I promised, didn’t I?”

  His grin broadened.

  “I knew you wouldn’t forget. They’re through there.” He indicated by raising his arm towards Joan and Patrick’s bedchamber. “You have to open the window.”

  He lumbered towards the chamber door, then paused with a look of mild alarm on his face.

  “Do you think it will be alright to go in there?” he asked. “The lord and lady winna mind?”

  Margaret hesitated. She was nervous about being alone with such a big and powerful man, and a dangerous reiver at that. That could be her escape, her excuse to send him away.

  “They won’t know, though, will they?” she replied haltingly, flushing slightly, her heart in her throat, a strange thrill running through her veins.

  He looked at her uncomprehendingly for a moment, then smiled and winked conspiratorially when it dawned on him that she was raising no objection.

  “As long as we don’t touch anything,” he whispered and gave her another broad wink. “Dinna worry, Margaret,” he added. “I ken when to thieve and when no’ to thieve. I’m no’ daft.”

  She had no doubt about that. But he certainly was not the brightest star in the firmament. There was a childish simplicity about him.

  She suddenly wondered how old he was. It was difficult for her to tell. His height and girth, the thick muscles that shifted and rippled beneath his clothing, gave the impression that he was a man in his prime. But his boyish manner suggested he was still a youth. For all the world, he seemed like a little boy who was enjoying some forbidden adventure. His eyes gleamed with the thrill of being engaged in some naughtiness.

  “Very well then,” she agreed. “But we shall have to be quick and quiet. It would be unseemly of me to be caught alone in a bedchamber with such a handsome fellow.”

  He grinned at that also and emitted a little chuckle.

  “Ye needna worry, Margaret,” he assured her. “I wadna wish to harm ye.”

  He pushed the chamber door ajar and stood back to let her enter.

  The small room was filled by a large canopied bed, with a carved wooden headboard and footboard. A large kist stood at the foot of the bed, and the bed-curtains were drawn back all around to allow the bed to air. On the other side of the room, a small leaded window, identical to the one in the living room, looked out onto the forest.

  “We will need to crack open the window,” William whispered, “so you can lean out. The nest is tucked under the overhang of the parapet.”

  They squeezed around the kist at the foot of the bed and William lifted the window latch. With a firm b
ut gentle push, the window opened with a snap, letting in a gentle breath of air.

  William stood back and invited Margaret to stand in the narrow space he had just vacated.

  She was suddenly conscious of his proximity, his enormous physical presence, the sound of his breath drawing in and out of his massive barrel chest. She could also smell his musk, an earthy woodland odor, a little like the truffles Joan foraged with one of her father’s hounds back in the South Park Woods across the river from Neidpath. A dull yearning groan suddenly stirred in her loins.

  “Lean out over the sill Margaret and look up to your right-hand side.”

  Margaret leaned tentatively from the window and twisted her head upward.

  “I can’t quite see…”

  She felt his broad palms on her waist.

  “A wee bit further, then,” William’s voice said encouragingly from behind her. “Dinna fret, I’ve got a hold of you.”

  She leaned as far as she could, trusting William’s strong hands, and squinted up again.

  “Yes! I see it!” she cried excitedly.

  Up in the eaves of the parapet that ran along the roof of the tower, a small daub-and-spittle shell clung precariously to the stone. Seconds later, a swallow alighted on the lip of a small hole at the top of the shell, its beak full of squirming insects. The bird disappeared into the nest, only to emerge seconds later and dart off again. Within moments, a second swallow arrived with its beak full.

  “The mammy and daddy are feeding their bairns,” William explained. “They do it all day, back and forward, back and forward, stuffing the throats o’ the greedy wee so-and-sos.” He laughed. “It’s a wonder they’re no’ as big as me.”

  Margaret leaned out further, and William grasped her waist tighter.

  Then, suddenly, she slipped.

  She gave a little scream as her body jerked forward towards the ground far below. William’s powerful arms wrapped around her waist and hauled her back through the window. William fell back onto the bed, and Margaret fell on top of him.

  “It’s alright, Margaret.” He gasped. “I’ve got ye, I’ve got ye.”

  She squirmed around, trying to get up, but his arms enveloped her, and she only succeeded in wriggling around to face him.

  “Ha, ha!” He jeered, his eyes bright with triumph. “I’ve got you now.”

  “Let me go, William,” she protested, struggling. “This isn’t funny.”

  She felt his warm breath on her face and the solid flat muscles on his chest beneath her hands as she tried to pry herself free of his embrace.

  “Please, William; let me go.”

  But the force of her struggling began to subside. It was peculiar, but she felt so safe in those powerful arms, against that broad hard chest, safer than she had ever felt since the morning her father had ridden off to war.

  William raised a hand and smoothed her long fine hair away from her face. He gazed wonderingly into her sapphire eyes.

  “I’m very fond of you, Margaret. You know that, don’t you.”

  She renewed her struggle, but only fitfully.

  “Dinna fret, lass. I’m no’ going to force myself on you. Like I said, I wad never wish to harm ye.”

  Margaret steeled herself to meet his adoring gaze.

  “Then let me go, William,” she said and quietly and as firmly as she could. “I will tell no one. We can forget this ever happened.”

  William frowned.

  “That I canna dae,” he told her. “Forget this, I mean. I love you, Margaret,” he added earnestly. “I have done the moment you set foot in Dryhope, all those weeks ago.”

  “Then let me go, William,” Margaret insisted. “If you really love me, then let me go.”

  It was as if William had never heard her. He nuzzled his face into her hair and inhaled deeply.

  “I ken I’m a simple loon,” he murmured into her ear. “I’m a big clumsy oaf, with nane o’ the airs and graces o’ a lord or knight, and an outlaw to boot. But could you not find it in your heart to marry me? I wad treat you like a queen, and you’d want for nothing.”

  Despite herself, she found his rough wooing touching. She knew that, with William, the violence of the world would never find her. Her future would be secure, and she knew that he would do his best to make her happy. He was a raw and violent brute of a man, who barely knew his own strength, but he was also a gentle soul.

  But she knew it would be wrong.

  “I am betrothed to Sir Gilbert Hay of Lochorwart,” she reminded him, “friend and fere of Sir Patrick Fleming of Boghall. Even if I was minded, I couldn’t marry you.”

  William pulled his head back and looked at her sadly.

  “I dinna want to be cruel, Margaret, but dae ye really think Sir Gilbert will be coming back from the war? He’s being hunted high and low by the English… aye, and by the Comyns too! It will only be a matter of time before they dig him and King Robert out like badgers from their sett and set their hounds on them, if they haven’t already done that.”

  Tears sprang to Margaret’s eyes, and she buried her face in William’s breast. She did not find it strange that she should seek comfort in the arms that were, at the same time, the trap that held her.

  “I don’t know,” she replied in a muffled sob. “There has been no news of him, and it has been so long.”

  “Wheesht noo, lassie,” William murmured, stroking her hair. “Thinkna the worst. Think only the best. No news is good news, as they say.”

  She snuggled into his chest, comfortable in the security she felt in the arms of that kind and powerful man. He loosened his hold on her, and she remained, clinging tightly to him. He cupped the side of her head, and she rubbed her cheek against his rough and calloused palm. He drew her face down to his and kissed her lips.

  She started to pull away, but then she surrendered to her need for comfort and sanctuary from the grief and uncertainty that had been assailing her for so long and kissed him back. His hands moved to her shoulders, and he combed his fingers through her long hair. She fell into the kiss hungrily, her hands clasping the sides of his massive head, her hair spilling forward onto his face.

  He reached down and began to pull her gown up over her long slim legs. She sat up on his stomach, and he drew it over her head, sending her hair cascading over her shoulders. She sat astride him in her chemise and braies, to the long tabs of which her stockings were attached by small bone buttons. He ran his hands over the firm flesh of her thighs, where they lay exposed between the hem of her braies and the tops of her stockings. She raised her face to the ceiling as a shard of desire shot up into her groin.

  “No, no; this is wrong,” she protested as she pushed his leather jerkin off his shoulders and began to untie the leather laces that did up the neck of his sark.

  He bucked her off and rolled her onto her back. She gasped at the sight of his enormous cock straining at the front of his hose. He pulled his sark over his head, and she marveled at the sculpted lines of the muscles across his stomach and chest, the distended biceps and powerful forearms. He pushed down his hose and kicked them aside with his boots.

  He pulled her to him, his bull-like cock and testicles hovering over her hips. She gave a little whimper and reached out to take the thickly veined stave of engorged flesh in her hand.

  Then she quickly withdrew it and burst into tears. She scrabbled back across the bed and rolled onto her side, drawing her knees up to her chest and clutching them in her long supple arms.

  “I’m sorry, William; I can’t,” she sobbed. “I just can’t.”

  “Margaret,” he pleaded, his face distorted in appeal.

  “I can’t,” she repeated. “I must keep faith with Gilbert. I cannot give up hope. He might be dead, he might be rotting in some English dungeon. But he might not, and hope may be all he has to cling to. I cannot betray him, not while there is still a chance that he may return to me.”

  William gazed at her in silence. He knew that he could just take her, that he was
strong enough. He knew that he was a reiver and had no qualms about just taking by force whatever plunder he desired. But he also knew that he could never harm his Margaret.

  He retrieved his hose and pulled them back on. He clambered over the bed to find his sark and jerkin.

  Once he was dressed, he sat on the edge of the bed and laid his hand gently on Margaret’s shoulder. She still lay on her side, curled up like an unborn baby; she could not look at him.

  “It is well, Margaret,” he said. “I understand.”

  He squeezed her shoulder gently and rose to sit in the living room until his erection had subsided.