Castles, Kilts and Caresses

by Carmen Caine

  “No need for gratitude.” John held up a finger. “If she has an adverse reaction on your next visit, I shall have no recourse but to request that you stay away.”

  ***

  Mounted on his warhorse, Sean puzzled while he rode the six miles back to Dunollie Castle. Beltane seemed like it had happened years ago, yet it had only been a couple months. At the feast, he’d danced with Gyllis. She’d never looked so radiant—healthy and lively on her feet. How quickly the paralysis must have come on.

  He chuckled, remembering how delightfully forward she’d been. Ah yes, and the kiss he’d stolen in the garden had been sublime. That she had never been properly kissed was a certainty and it made his blood thrum to think he’d been the first gentleman to claim her lips. His grin stretched wider.

  She invited me to sit on her plaid—and then Angus and Jinny came to tell me Da had died.

  Sean pulled his horse to a stop and slapped his forehead.

  God’s teeth, I neglected to send my apologies. Has anyone informed her as to why I’d been called away?

  Chapter Nine

  Gyllis sat sideways on her bed, reclining into a mountain of pillows propped against the wall. John massaged the sole of her foot—the feeling must have been returning because it caused a mildly painful sensation of pin pricks.

  She squeezed her eyes shut. A picture formed of Sir Sean and how horrified his face had looked when he first saw her in the garden. Every time she thought about Sean MacDougall, Gyllis shook her head and forced her mind to focus on anything else. Presently, the story of how Sir Gawain had opted to allow Dame Ragnelle to choose whether or not she would be cursed by ugliness during the day or at night replaced imaginings of Sean’s azure eyes. Gyllis loved how Sir Gawain’s selflessness resulted in breaking the spell and thus turned Dame Ragnelle into a beauty forever. If only such chivalry existed.

  She sighed.

  If only Sir Sean could do something to break the miserable spell that plagues me. She tsked her tongue. Curses, there I go again, finding any way to allow that lusty laddie into my thoughts.

  “Push the sole of your foot against my hand,” said John, seated upon the stool beside her bed. He had been helping her more as of late, and for the past week, Brother Wesley had been away on an errand to Iona.

  Gyllis grasped the bedclothes and squeezed. Though the dexterity in her hands had not fully returned, in the past fortnight she’d become adept at turning the pages of her book. Threading a needle was yet to be accomplished. She grimaced and tried to push against John’s hand with all her might. Though her forehead perspired, he seemed not to be putting forth any effort at all. Gyllis let out a puff of air. “Blast it.”

  “Keep trying.”

  She wanted to scream. “I am.”

  “Good.” John grinned—he could calm an entire room of grumblers with his smile. “Now just a bit harder.”

  Gyllis pushed. “Och, you are killing me.”

  “Simply trying to make you stronger.” He rubbed his knuckles into the sole of her foot. “You made a good effort.”

  “Thank you.” She watched him while he lifted her other foot and started in massaging her leg. He was so different compared to Duncan. Her older brother was a commander of men, a warlord and chieftain. Somehow, John had inherited all the traits to make him Duncan’s opposite. Though they both had inherited the Campbell good looks.

  “What do you aspire to, John?”

  “Me?” He chuckled. “I suppose to spread the word of God and tend wee lasses like you who come to the priory in need of care.” It was typical of him to respond with something vague.

  Gyllis persisted. “Do you ever miss riding with the Highland Enforcers?”

  “Not really. I enjoyed the companionship, but I never could stomach living by the sword.”

  She adjusted her shoulders against the pillows for added comfort. “I suppose it would be unsettling to ride into battle knowing it could be your last day on this earth.”

  “It wasn’t my death I was worried about so much as worry for others. Even vile men who’ve committed crimes have souls. I never believed I had a right to take a life—not ever.”

  Gyllis admired his handsome face, now framed by dun-colored locks with the top of his head shaven. “You would have made a fine husband.”

  “And you talk too much.” He kneaded his fingers into her thigh. “What about you? You should be thinking about marriage soon.”

  She rolled her eyes to the cross on the wall above her head. “Oh, you are full of practicality—all lassies stricken with paralysis leap from their beds and proceed to the altar.”

  “I’m serious. You are beautiful and charming.” John looked up and narrowed his gaze. “Why only a fortnight or so ago, Sir Sean MacDougall inquired about you—he showed genuine concern.”

  Gyllis harrumphed. “Sir Sean is the last person I’d marry. Besides, he’s the type to take his vows and the following day ride off with Duncan and never look back.”

  “I suppose he has an adventuresome spirit—though I’ve not met a more trustworthy friend.”

  “I cannot fill my head with thoughts about that man. He’s vile.” Her voice trailed off and she swallowed. If only she could actually void her heart of her feelings for Sir Sean. Before she’d fallen ill, he had thwarted her. How would he treat her now that she was a cripple? “Let us talk about something else.”

  “Very well.” John reverted to long languid strokes that made Gyllis’s leg tingle. “I’ve been thinking. When you return to Kilchurn, we could move your things to the first floor solar.”

  Gyllis shook her head. “When I return to Kilchurn, I will be walking and able to climb the tower stairs.”

  John stopped rubbing and looked up. Sadness filled his eyes. “What if…”

  “Do not say it. I…I am making progress.” Gyllis strained to pull her foot from his grasp. “I will walk again, whether God sees fit to help me or I am forced to do it on my own.”

  “I appreciate your fighting spirit, but….”

  “But what?”

  “As humans we are only flesh and blood. Sometimes we can picture our bodies doing things they’re incapable of.”

  “Enough!” Gyllis scooted to the edge of the bed and inched her feet onto the floor.

  John stood and held out his hands. “Let me help you.”

  “No. I’ll do it myself.”

  His lips formed a thin line, but he took a step back.

  She leaned forward until her chin was over her knees. Giving herself a healthy shove, Gyllis attempted to stand. Her legs faltered. With a startled gasp, her weight shifted too far forward. Having given too much of a push, she teetered then fell straight into John’s outstretched arms.

  A wail caught in her throat. She balled her fists and pounded them into her brother’s chest. “Curses, curses, curses to paralysis! Why did this happen to me? Why can I not walk away from this damnable bed? I hate this. I hate it, I tell you!” Gyllis had been sick for so long, she couldn’t take it anymore—couldn’t face her miserable life. She was hopeless, useless and without a single prospect.

  When she burst into tears, John lifted her into his arms and sat on the cot. Oh his lap he cradled her for what seemed like an eternity, patiently rocking back and forth while she bawled like a bairn. “There, there, Gyllis. Everything will be all right.” His soothing voice calmed until sleep took away her pain.

  ***

  Swaying in his saddle, Murdach, pointed. “There she is, m’laird.”

  Sean had never been so happy to see the ominous outline of the Dunollie battlements looming against a sultry summer sky. They had spent the last fortnight visiting every crofter who paid rents. True, Sean relished being on the trail, but this excursion with his factor had no adventure. And though this mission had been extremely important to renewing and securing loyalty, he was relieved it was at an end.

  Chatting with clansmen about the rents wasn’t at the top of his list of entertaining subjects. If a crofter’s r
ents were up to date, the conversation turned to more interesting pursuits. But more often the people who made a living off his lands had fallen behind, and thus it was necessary to sit down and discuss a plan to set their accounts back to rights.

  Murdach had been some help, but the aging factor proved to prefer his quill over his tongue.

  Sean grinned at the portly man, then turned round to face his guard. “Let us make haste and we shall enjoy Dunollie whisky tonight.” He dug his heels into his horse’s barrel and led the canter along the shoreline to the castle.

  Once inside the gates, he led them to the stables and dismounted.

  Murdach hopped off his gelding with a grunt. “Will you be needing me for anything else, m’laird?”

  “Nay. Put the ledgers in my solar and then go home to your lady wife.”

  “My thanks.”

  Sean gave his reins to his squire and sighed. Even the air at Dunollie smelled fresher than it did outside her walls.

  “M’laird.” The man’s voice came from behind.

  Sean whipped around and a grin spread across his face. “Fraser!” He embraced his friend and slapped him on the back. “I was wondering what had happened to you.”

  The warrior’s eyebrows drew together and he inclined his head away from the guard. “May I have a word in confidence?”

  “Of course.” Sean led him to the rear of the stables. “Did you find Alan?”

  “Aye, at least where he’d been hiding.”

  Sean rolled his hands in anticipation of more.

  “An eyewitness reported he was holding up on Kerrera.”

  Sean drummed his fingers to his lips. “That island is chartered MacDougall land.”

  “Aye, but Alan told her it was his.”

  “Her—a woman?”

  “A whore named Osla.”

  Sean smirked. “Credible source.”

  “She wasn’t the most refined of women even for a whore, but she described him well enough—described his men, too.” Fraser frowned, his gaze darting left then right. He leaned in. “She said he’s amassing quite an army.”

  Sean didn’t believe it. “I ken he’s got a following of roustabouts, but an army? She must have been jesting.”

  “I’m nay so certain. She kent a number of names—and clans. Said he’s not only got disgruntled MacDougalls, he’s drawn in some lowlife Campbells and it gets worse.”

  “Aye?”

  “Lowlanders—hundreds of them. Osla said that’s where he is now.”

  “In the Lowlands?”

  “Aye—training for a reckoning.”

  Sean studied the concern on Fraser’s face then swiped his hand over his mouth. “It sounds like the old hen grasped ahold of your ear and gave it a good tug.”

  “I ken, it sounds farfetched, but Alan is a snake. I wouldn’t put it past him to be scheming something.”

  “True, but I doubt he has the coin or the gumption to command an army. A handful of vagrants, I’d believe but no more.”

  Fraser scratched his beard and glanced away. “I’m sure you’re right, but why not let me track him to the Lowlands—see for myself if the whore’s claims have any merit.”

  Sean glanced over his shoulder to ensure no one was eavesdropping. “I’d rather have you by my side as henchman. I trust you more than any other in the Clan MacDougall. You’re the best with a sword, too.”

  “Thank you, m’laird, but my gut is telling me Alan MacCoul is up to something. I wouldn’t feel content to leave things unresolved with that man and his army.”

  Sean reflected on Lorn’s advice. There had been raids and any threat must be investigated no matter how absurd. “Very well, but I do not want you traveling to the Lowlands alone. Choose two guards with whom to ride and I’ll expect to see you return in a month—two at the most.”

  ***

  When Sean retired to his solar, he poured himself a well-deserved glass of whisky. He stood at the window for a moment and gazed out over the Firth of Lorn. A sultry breeze caressed his face and he sighed. Summer had always been his favorite season. The gardens were alive with greens and colorful flowers and the sea yielded an abundant harvest.

  Sean sipped his whisky and savored the oaken flavor as it slid over his tongue. Every moment he’d been away, he had thought about Gyllis. I shall set out for the priory at first light. He turned and looked at the ledgers spread out on the table. But first I must make some sense of Murdach’s chicken scratch.

  With a sigh, he placed a quill and inkwell on the table and sat in his upholstered chair. He spread a sheet of vellum to his right, opened a ledger and began to record sums, listing them in an orderly fashion as he deciphered the random splotches of ink made by his factor.

  Two pages in, Sean had no doubt Murdach was blind. That’s bloody wonderful—how the devil hadn’t Da noticed all the errors?

  A breeze blew in from the window and mussed the parchment. Sean glanced toward the sound of the roaring sea. Oh to be shed of responsibility and walking along the shore at sunset. Holding Gyllis’s hand. Warmth spread through him. Paralysis? I want to be the one massaging her thighs, not some recalcitrant monk.

  But will she accept my help? She told me to stay away. How can I possibly do that? I’ve cared for her since... He thought back to all the times he and Gyllis had danced or talked or shared a meal together during his fostering. I’ve been such a dolt all these years. I should have asked her father for her hand whilst he was still alive. If only I’d had the sense to do so.

  And now she’s…

  He shook his head and stopped himself.

  Ballocks. I need to see her.

  After inking his quill, he calculated the sum of his figures. He then compared it to the balance written on the ledger. Short by five crowns.

  The hour was growing late, but he couldn’t rest before he rechecked the numbers. After deciphering Murdach’s entries a second time, Sean again came up with a five-crown shortfall. It wasn’t a huge amount in comparison to his vast holdings, but over the course of a year, such losses would add up. He rested the quill in the silver holder and reached for his whisky.

  Shall I confront Murdach first thing in the morning or head to the priory to see Gyllis? His mind made up, Sean closed the ledgers, rolled the vellum of sums and secured it inside his doublet.

  Chapter Ten

  If there was anything Sean hated, it was waiting. How difficult was it for a priest to announce his arrival? Was Gyllis having a bath? He continued pacing. If John doesn’t return by the count of ten, I shall go looking for him—or Gyllis, whomever I find first.

  When he reached nine, John stepped into the cloister, looking stern. “I’m sorry. Gyllis refuses to see you.”

  “What?” Sean spread his arms to his sides. “I will not leave until I gain an audience with her. At the very least, she must give me a chance to explain why I hastened to away from the fete last May. I’d agreed to sit on her plaid, but before the feast I received word of my father’s death.”

  Opening his arms, John strode toward him. “Is that why she’s so upset with you?”

  “I can think of no other reason.”

  John grasped the cross hanging around his neck. “I do not believe—”

  Sean pushed past him and marched ahead. “Where is she?”

  John hastened to keep pace. “She is vulnerable.”

  “Do you not think I ken?” Sean barreled around the corner and opened the first door. “I’ll find her if I must open every door in the priory.”

  John skirted in front of him. “Please. She needs more time—she’s incredibly frail.”

  Sean again pushed past and flung open another door. “That is exactly why I must see her now.” Sean slammed it, grinding his back molars. “Damn it all, tell me where she is.”

  John’s gaze shifted along the corridor to a door at the far end. “Perhaps I could deliver a missive on your behalf.”

  Sean turned in the direction of John’s stare. “There’s no time for that.” H
e strode directly to the door at the end.

  “Please.” The priest scuffled after him. “I have parchment and a quill in my quarters.”

  Sean ignored John’s plea and yanked open the door.

  Gyllis gasped, her eyes horrorstruck, she clapped a hand over her mouth. A monk had her skirts up around her thighs, his fingers clear up to her…

  “Unhand her!”

  Shoving her kirtle down, Gyllis scooted back.

  Sean grabbed the lecherous monk by his collar and yanked him up. Before the man could raise his arms, Sean slammed his fist into the sniveling maggot’s pasty face. With a high-pitched wail, the monk toppled to the floor. Sean advanced.

  “No!” Gyllis shrieked.

  John darted between Sean and the monk, seizing Sean’s shoulders. “Have you lost your mind?”

  Enraged, Sean broke from John’s grasp. “Did you not see him? He had her skirts hiked up so far I could see—”

  “Miss Gyllis requires stimulating massage several times per day. I assure you, Brother Wesley has taken an oath of celibacy.”

  Sean glanced at the monk now sitting on the floor, rubbing his jaw.

  “Are you all right, brother?” Gyllis asked.

  The monk nodded. “Aye.” He stood, giving Sean a wide berth.

  “How could you barge into my chamber and accost a man of the cloth?” Gyllis moved slowly, but folded her arms, her face redder than a boiled lobster.

  “Apologies, Miss Gyllis.” Sean couldn’t have made things any worse with his bravado, storming into her chamber like a jealous cur. “I did not think.”

  Gyllis pursed her lips—God, her face was still as lovely as sunrise. “No, you did not.”

  “Miss Gyllis, please,” Sean pleaded. “Allow me a moment of your time, ’tis all I ask.”

  John grasped Sean’s elbow and squeezed. “If I must resort to force to make you leave, I will.”

  If anyone in this God-forsaken priory could pose a challenge, it was John Campbell. He’d been a damned good knight before he became a priest, but Sean doubted he’d sparred much as of late. He steeled himself for a fight.