The Black Room: Door Six

by Jasinda Wilder

  Given their greater numbers and firepower, I can’t imagine how this is going to result in anything but quick deaths for both Angus and Conrad. Four muskets against one man? Even if Angus is the doughtiest warrior in the land, I don’t see how he’ll manage this without dying.

  Angus waits until the small knot of men pass almost directly beneath him, and then he peeks up over the outcropping, tucks the butt of the musket against his shoulder, draws aim, and fires. The concussion is deafening even from here, followed by a detonation of white smoke and yellow flame. Then there’s the scream of frightened horses and the howl of an injured man, a scrum of chaos.

  I lose track of Angus for a moment, and then the wind clears the smoke and I see him, running down the hillside at a speed I wouldn’t have believed possible were I not watching it with my own eyes. His huge sword, fully five feet long and as wide as a man’s palm, is held in both hands, point skyward and scything in a crushing arc as he leaps the last few feet.

  His blow hits a horseman’s skull with a crunch that is sickening even from here, blood spraying. Angus yanks his blade free, kicks the horse of the man he just killed to send it into a mad gallop, and then he’s darting forward to slam the tip of his sword in a thrust across the distance into a second man’s belly. Mere seconds have passed since Angus fired his shot, and three men are dead or dying: the man he shot is on the ground writhing in agony, clutching his chest; the second is still on his horse, head lolling unnaturally to one side, connected by a strip of flesh to his body; the third—Martin—is toppling off his horse with a mortal wound to his gut.

  None of the Englishmen have yet managed to get off a shot and it is clear they have been taken by surprise. Markham is off his horse, ignoring Angus, his musket leveled at Conrad who is sprinting for his life, his hands bound in front of him, deking and juking left and right, hoping to throw off the aim, or perhaps even dodge the musket ball that is surely about to whistle his way. Markham takes a knee, hesitates a split-second, and then his musket bellows fire and belches smoke, and I see Conrad stumble, twist, and hit the ground rolling. The second his shot is off, Markham drops his musket and rises to his feet, sword whickering out of the scabbard with a ring that echoes across the valley.

  He darts forward, his officer’s blade aiming for Angus’s belly in a silver blur. I’ve yet to draw breath to cry for Conrad, who is on the ground writhing in pain, and the battle is already shifted to single combat. I don’t see how Angus can move that mammoth claymore fast enough to parry Markham’s much smaller and lighter one-hand saber. Angus changes tactics, from the moment he sees Markham move from the kneeling position, Angus tosses his claymore aside to draw his smaller broadsword.

  The clash of blades rings like a bell, Markham’s thrust turned aside with a neat parry, and then Angus is back-pedaling and desperately trying to parry a flurry of slashes from the English officer. Markham is wicked fast, his sword little more than the silvery blur of a striking serpent. Angus is on the defensive, backing, circling, dancing ever just of reach of Markham’s faster, nimbler attacks. Indeed, it seems one-sided, with Angus sure to be on the losing side. It’s only a matter of time, it appears. I know little enough about swordplay, but even I can see that Markham is far more skilled at this kind of combat. If Angus had his claymore in the wild heat of melee, it might be a different story, but like this? I fear for him.

  I cast a nervous glance away from the sword fight to look for Conrad, but he’s nowhere to be seen. There’s a damp, trampled patch of tall grass where he fell, stained dark with his blood, but he’s gone.

  I’m about to leave my position on the ridge when I feel a hand clap over my mouth, a hard huge body pressed against mine from behind.

  “Hush, Hannah. It’s only me.” Conrad’s voice, close in my ear, a rough growl. “Do not scream.”

  I nod, and he releases me. I twist in place, and see that’s he’s shot, a red stain turning the entire left side of his torso red. “Conrad, you’re shot.”

  He shoots me a grimacing grin. “I’d noticed, lass. It doesn’t exactly tickle, I’ll admit, but I’ll live. Didn’t pierce me, only grazed my side. ‘Twas a close one, but for the now it’s only blood.” He looks me over, sees the flintlock pistol in my hand, and snatches it from me. “Stay here.”

  He’s gone before I can respond, vaulting the sharp ridge and running slantwise down the steep hillside to where his friend and enemy are still engaged in fierce combat. Angus is bleeding from a slice along his ribs and another to his left thigh. He’s slowing, his parries weighted with exhaustion and pain. Markham seems to sense imminent victory, and presses the attack, scoring another hit to Angus’s off-hand arm.

  Conrad fires the flintlock, and Markham jerks to one side, his red coat stained darker at his right shoulder just above his pectoral muscle. Conrad doesn’t slow, though, but continues his mad rush, discarding the empty pistol and bending to scoop up Angus’s claymore. He hauls the enormous blade around one-handed, pivoting his entire body to impart momentum to the sword, spinning in place as he catches the hilt with his other hand.

  Markham, impossibly, manages to get his saber up in time to block the swing, but his smaller sword is broken in half by the crushing force of the blow. The claymore’s momentum is slowed but not stopped, and the blade bites into the round of Markham’s already injured shoulder, sending him staggering to one side.

  His horse, battle-trained as it is, only trotted away a few yards after Markham hurriedly dismounted, and is now grazing on the grass with the reins trailing, unfazed by the musket fire. Markham turns his stagger into a desperate run, still clutching the hilt of his broken sword in a hand now painted red with his blood. He catches at the saddle and hauls himself into it, gathering the reins and giving the mount a vicious kick to the ribs with his heels. The horse bolts forward in a startled leap, and Markham discards the remnant of his blade in order stay in the saddle as the leap turns into a wild gallop.

  Angus is leaning heavily on the pommel of his sword, the point jabbed into the dirt at his feet. He stumbles to one side, limping, and then topples to the earth on his back, gasping. Conrad is there immediately, kneeling by his friend, and I’m not far behind, gathering the skirt of my shift in hand and picking my way more carefully down the hillside.

  “Angus, you with me?” Conrad says, as I approach.

  Angus groans. “Barely. Markham is a damned fiend with that blade of his.”

  “Well I know it, having crossed swords with him once before my own self.” Conrad gingerly pokes and prods at Angus’s injuries. “Bah, you’ll live. Shallow cuts, all. He was toying with you, I think.”

  “That the bastard was,” Angus agrees, wrenching himself to a sitting position with a series of grumbled curses in Gaelic. “I wish your aim had been but a little better and we’d not have to deal with him again.”

  Conrad snorts in irritation. “I’ve been shot myself, and I was running downhill. Next time you try and see if you can do better.”

  “It was an idle wish, my friend, not a true complaint,” Angus says.

  Conrad waves a hand. “I wish the same myself, truthfully. A few inches to the left and that festering pile of English horse shit would be dead.”

  “Yet he’s not, and now it’ll be twice over you’ve wronged him.” Angus uses his broadsword to lever himself to his feet, and hobbles toward the corpse of one of the dead redcoats.

  Drawing his dirk, he cuts several large swaths out of the coat and shirt, ties them around his thigh, arm, and chest, and then cuts more strips and gives them to Conrad to do the same. Together, then, the two men raid the corpses for useful gear. Gunpowder, musket balls, a spare musket for Conrad, Martin’s officer’s saber, scabbard, and belt. Conrad makes his way up the hill and reappears a few moments later on horseback, leading Angus’s mount. Martin’s horse is nibbling at grass a dozen yards away, having stopped after Martin fell off, and Angus fetches the mount for me.

  “We should make for Kilchurn,” Angus said. “It�
��s the closest to us. Neither of us are Campbells, but they’ll not turn us away.”

  “Agreed,” Conrad says. He glances at me. “Are you up for more riding?”

  I can only shrug. “Do I have a choice?”

  “Not unless you wish to experience the hospitality of the redcoats.”

  “Then we ride,” I say. “But there’d better be proper clothing at the end of it.”

  I pull myself up into the saddle, flexing my bare toes in the chill.

  And so we ride once more. This time, thankfully, it’s not a desperate gallop, but a more leisurely canter. Time is still not our friend, however, as both Conrad and Angus are injured and still losing blood.

  ….

  We ride the night through, each of us drowsing in the saddle. The sun is pinking the horizon behind us when we see Kilchurn castle dark against the rippling waters of Loch Awe.

  Not long after, we’re in the courtyard, surrounded by kilted, hard-eyed Campbell warriors, waiting for the laird to decide whether to let us in and give us respite from our travels.

  It’s a long quiet wait, still in the saddle, with Campbell hands holding our reins. After what seems the better part of an hour, a steward emerges.

  “You have till tomorrow,” he announces, terse and brusque. “Then you’ll be on your way. We’ve no wish to share in your troubles, but the laird will not be so heartless as to turn you out.”

  “Our thanks,” Conrad says.

  “Servants are drawing baths, and the laird’s niece has been so kind as to provide dress for the lady.” The steward pivots sharply on his heel and precedes us into the main hall.

  We’re not given an audience with laird himself, but then we had no reason to expect this kind of courtesy. All Conrad and Angus are after is a few hours rest, someone to tend their hurts, and some refreshment. And clothes for me. Even so, we are pushing the limits of hospitality, especially given the trouble we’re courting—an English officer with a taste of blood and at least four soldiers slain by Scottish steel.

  I find myself in a guest room, a hot bath steaming in a tub, a young girl waiting to assist me. After I’ve been thoroughly washed and scrubbed and my hair washed and rinsed and re-washed and rinsed once more, the girl vanishes to let me soak away the chill that has lodged in my bones.

  The girl freshened the hot water before leaving, so the bath is hot once more, heat leaching the cold away and relaxing me into a grateful euphoria.

  Perhaps it turns into a light drowse, warmth tugging me under the veil of wakefulness.

  I’m not sure what wakens me. The scent of a man, wool and leather and whisky? The gentle swirl as water is scooped and poured over my breasts? A light fingertip tracing the dark circles of my areolae?

  His breath on my ear?

  His teeth nipping at my neck?

  He’s there, doing these things. They all rouse me, each one in turn. I wake with an aching core, thighs trembling, but I don’t open my eyes, and I don’t move.

  “I know you’re awake, lass,” he murmurs, his voice a rough croon.

  I blink my eyes open sleepily, a smile curling my lips. “How do you always know, Conrad?”

  He scoops a handful of water over my breasts, watches it sluice over the floating mounds of flesh. Another, and then his hands replace the water, caressing, playing. “You give yourself away. A twitch, a murmur in your throat, a slight smile on these plump red lips of yours, things you can’t quite hide. You always know it’s me, do you not?”

  “Always.”

  He’s kneeling beside the tub, clad in nothing but his kilt. His hair is damp and loose around his shoulders, thick waves of black scraped backward from his forehead. Bandages wind around his torso, stained red where his side is still seeping a bit. There are bruises on his ribs and shadows on his jaw, and a swollen lump on his lip and a cut on his eyebrow. Gifts from Charlie Markham and friends, I assume.

  He notices my gaze. “Don’t bother thinkin’ on my hurts, lass. I’ve suffered worse after a disagreement with Angus if we’ve been in our cups.” His accent deepens. “Markham is a weak-fisted fart of a man whose only strength is behind that skinny blade of his, and the stronger men he knows. I’ll have his head yet, worry you not on that score.”

  “You broke his skinny blade,” I point out.

  A fierce grin crosses his lips. “I hoped you’d seen that.”

  “How could I miss it?”

  “I’d have cleaved him in half had he not gotten that blade up in time.”

  “What will he do now?”

  “Retreat to his barracks and put together a hunting party,” Conrad says, sounding far too casual about it. “Scotsman is on his menu, I do believe, and I’m his prime target. Angus too, now, and I regret that heartily.”

  “He doesn’t seem to.”

  “I know, because he hates Markham near as much as I do.”

  “And why is that?” I ask.

  Conrad’s expression darkens. “A story for another time,” he says.

  “What will we do, Conrad?”

  A shrug. “Try to stay out of Markham’s clutches.”

  “What does that mean, Conrad?”

  He sighs, a slow breath out as he thinks. “It means I’m not sure where we’ll go, honestly. I’ll have to consult with Angus, come up with something like a plan.”

  I search him. “You’re worried.”

  “Markham is a dangerous enemy. I’d be a fool were I not worried.” He pulls me closer. “But I’ve other plans for this moment than wasting my breath on Charlie Markham.”

  “Oh?” I breathe the word.

  He doesn’t need words to answer. He leans in, presses his nose to the side of my neck, inhaling deeply. His fingers tweak my nipple, sending a thrill through me, and then delve lower, under the water. He turns his face into my throat, lips touching, touching, touching. His finger teases over my belly, and then he touches the pad of a single finger to my clit, and lightning strikes. My back arches as that touch sears through me, sending need billowing hot and wild. As my spine bows, my tits leave the warmth of the water, and his mouth latches onto my flesh, his tongue laving away the water, circling my nipple. And that fingertip of his, it touches ever so gently, teasing in small light circles. Not enough, not nearly enough.

  “Oh…Conrad—” I groan.

  “Keep quiet, lass. All the castle is rousing.”

  I bite my lip as he moves his fingertip a little faster, nudging me closer to the edge. The water splashes and sloshes as he moves his hand, and I begin to grind against him, pushing my core against his touch.

  Just the tip of his finger, barely brushing the tip of my clit, and it’s enough to make me crazy, enough to make me writhe in the tub until water splashes over the side, until I’m gasping through clenched teeth.

  Conrad’s touch vanishes, and I wrench open my eyes to see him backing away from the tub. He lifts a rectangle of thick, rough wool from a nearby bench, holds it out for me. “Out, lass.”

  I stand up, water dripping down my body. My tits throb, my core aches. The need to come is a taut, desperate heated tension inside me. He beckons to me, and I step shakily out of the tub; he’s there to wrap the wool around me, the loose, rough fibers wicking away the wetness. He scrubs me gently, pats my hair until it’s merely damp, and then tugs me from the bathing room into the bedroom. I don’t see much but the wide four-poster bed with a canopy, the walls rolled up. There’s a window overlooking the loch, glassed in with thick, wavy glass, which is pushed open to let in a light cold breeze,.

  He puts my back to the window, stands facing me, the wool wrapped around my back and open at the front, baring a slice of my flesh down my middle from throat to slit. I clutch the edges of the makeshift towel, stare up at him, pussy throbbing, and every fiber of my being desperate to return to the edge of climax and fall over it. His hands touch the upper swell of my hips over the wool.

  “I left you wondering, earlier.” His voice is low, a quiet, intimate murmur.

  �
��Wondering,” I repeat, knowing exactly what he’s referring to and how he left me after our kiss. “Yes, that’s one word for it.”

  He shifts his hands under the wool, to my bare flesh, caressing the curve of my hips. I need more of his touch, but I don’t say so; I want to hear what he has to say.

  “That kiss, though, Hannah. I’ve felt nothing like it in all my life. It took me by surprise.”

  “I find it difficult to believe that with all the women you’ve kissed, you’ve never—”

  “There’ve been a few other lasses I’ve kissed, aye, and I’ll admit it readily enough, but that kiss, last night—it was…it was singular, Hannah.” He stumbles over his words in a way I’ve never heard from him before—he’s not a man to trip up in speech. “It wasn’t merely a kiss. The way you felt as I was inside you—all of it. It felt…different. And I don’t mean the actual physical feel of you.”

  As I listen to him I trace the lines and ridges and grooves of his torso, the curve of his pecs, the sharp hard furrows of his abdomen. “Conrad, I—it felt different because it was different.” My fingers find that V-cut and tease it gently. “It was more. More of everything. And it…it meant more.”

  “It’s always meant something with you, Hannah. You’ve never been just some lass to me.”

  “I know. But last night, it meant more. That’s why you ran off.”

  “Now hold on—”

  I keep going, “It meant something, and that scared you. But it’s all right Conrad, I understand. I wish you’d have stayed, but I know why you ran.”

  “I’ve never run from anything in my damned life, woman,” he snarls.

  “You’re wrong, Conrad. You ran from me, from what you were feeling.” I clutch his waist, leaning back against the stone blocks of the wall, the breeze ruffling my hair.

  His touch roams lower and slides around to my backside, cupping, kneading, and exploring the generous swell of my ass. “Perhaps I did. Perhaps it was because I’ve never had a notion of settling, not for anyone, not anywhere.”