The Highlander’s Challenge (Lairds of Dunkeld Series) (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story)

by Emilia Ferguson

  “Bloody heat.” The heat staggered him, and he whispered the oath to Blaine. Who laughed.

  “I'm red as a red currant, sir,” he said, pointing to his flushed face. The big fires still blazed and his face was livid in the orange-red glow, sweat beading on his broad forehead, darkening already damp hair.

  Duncan laughed, wincing as his own fingers swelled in the heat, turning red as the circulation returned. The two of them sat on the bench where the men-at-arms sat, while servants, only just retired from serving dinner, were roused to fetch them ale. Duncan took the stoneware cup and took a great mouthful, feeling unbalanced as the warm fluid raced through his blood, fizzling in his head.

  “...And oat bannocks and chestnuts and great big pies,” Blaine continued the litany as the servants returned, bearing bowls of steaming soup.

  Duncan laughed. He was glad they had brought something less substantial, at least for starting, for his stomach was hard and empty and he knew any hard food would have come straight back up again. He and Blaine sat in companionable silence, feeling the painful tingle of life returning to nose, fingers and ears white with freezing. The sword leaned against Duncan's knee.

  Thank Heaven they let me take it in. The presence of an edged weapon longer than an eating knife was strictly forbidden in the great hall. Concealed and padded as the sword was, the guardsmen had eyed it curiously but let Duncan carry it in when he and Blaine insisted. The weight of it leaning on his leg was a pleasant one, a reminder that they accomplished something. The first quest.

  All he needed to do was deliver it to his lordship.

  When he had eaten his fill, which happened surprisingly fast, he stood. Blaine, head down over his third plateful of stew, looked up dazedly.

  “I'm going upstairs, Blaine,” Duncan said. He lifted the sword from where it lay beside him. Blaine nodded.

  “Want me tae come with ye, sir?” He looked wistful and Duncan laughed, shaking his head.

  “No, Blaine. You stay here. Finish your dinner. I'll not be long.”

  “Aye. Ta, sir. Thanks.”

  He reached for his tankard of ale. When Duncan walked quietly out of the back entrance he was starting to sing. He grinned, glad to hear the young man return to rude health.

  He crossed the hallway, lit with flickering torchlight in sconces on the walls, then nodded to the guards who stood to attention as he passed. He must make an effort to learn more of their names, he decided. Shaking his head, he went lightly up the stairs in gray darkness, heading for the west turret. And Brien.

  When he reached it, walking lightly through the drafty hallways and up the long stairs, he stopped. The door was shut. He knocked. The sword was strangely heavy on his arm and he winced, rolling his aching shoulder.

  “Come in.”

  He opened the door.

  Brien was sitting at his desk, long dark robe drawn around his shoulders. A fire burned in the grate, the whiter light of candlelight flooding the desk before him. He looked up when Duncan entered, setting the sword down at his side with a slight ring of iron on flagstones.

  “Oh,” he said mildly. “It's you. Greetings.”

  Duncan stared at him. Of all the responses he had expected, almost total indifference was the last one. He cleared his throat. “I am returned, successful, from the first task, my lord.” He reached down to the sword at his side.

  “Let's see it,” Lord Brien said smoothly. He reached across the desk and took it from Duncan, holding it easily despite the weight. It could have been made for him. Duncan blinked. He supposed it was – at least, for a family member who was likely the same height and strength as Brien was.

  Duncan watched as he unwrapped it. He saw his face glow with warmth, a smile moving his lips.

  “Ah, yes,” Brien sighed. In the light, the blade glowed a grayish silver, the ghostly patterns of welding making black and bluish traces on the blade, as if it has been breathed on by a phantom. He smiled. The sword was a thing of exquisite loveliness, the hilt plain but decorated with a single green stone, a cabochon of some dark moss colored stone Duncan had never seen.

  He watched, heart oddly moved, as the old man held the blade, making a pass with it, and then resting it on the desk.

  “It is good to have it returned to us,” Lord Brien said simply. “You have done well and I thank you.”

  Duncan cleared his throat, feeling a strange lump well in it. “I may retire to my chambers now?” he asked. “Or...Is my lady Alina still awake?”

  Lord Brien looked at him strangely. There was compassion in his face, if Duncan chose to see that, though it vanished almost as quickly as it appeared, replaced with his even blandness.

  “The lady Alina is retired to bed,” he said smoothly. “She traveled far – visiting her sister. I think she will not be awake until tomorrow morning, late.”

  “Oh.” Duncan's heart sank. Of all the things that had sustained him, keeping him alive and awake on the journey home, it was the thought of seeing her again. The fact that she was here, yet asleep – tangible and unreachable – was crushingly disappointing. He swallowed. “Well,” he said a little helplessly. He shrugged.

  “Go now to your rest,” Lord Brien said cheerily. “You have well earned it, young man. And I cannot wait to see the results of the remaining tasks I set you.”

  Duncan swallowed again, feeling another, less acute disappointment. Somewhere in him, he had nurtured a vague hope that Lord Brien, on completion of the first task, would relent. See his scheme for the madness it was, and unburden him. That hope died slowly before him.

  “Yes, my lord,” he said dully. He walked out slowly, all the exhaustion of the previous week seeming to reach him at once, so that he could barely place a foot before the other. He reached the threshold and sat down heavily, heart thudding in his chest.

  The door swung shut behind him. Lord Brien worked long hours.

  Duncan fought to maintain his own wakefulness. He was heavily disappointed, and weary beyond anything he could previously have imagined.

  Perhaps she is still awake, he thought hopefully. Or, if she is not, I cannot simply wait without sight of her.

  Knowing it was wrong, he got wearily to his feet. He wiped his hands on his trousers, still wearing the same hose and tunic from the journey, and headed back the way he had came. Then, at the end of the hallway, he went right. Towards the family's bedchambers.

  Taking another flight of steps, he walked silently, aware that the territory was not one he should enter – certainly not at this time of night, in any case. He walked lightly to Alina's bedchamber, knowing which it was from when he was here last. It seemed at once like yesterday and, as if it happened a hundred years ago, in someone else's lifetime. He knocked. Listened for a long moment at the wood, seeking to hear any sounds of wakefulness. There was none. Knowing what he did was wicked, he rested his hand on the door handle.

  The door swung gently open, revealing a room the color of charcoal in the darkness, the shadows painted onto an uncertain backdrop of moonlight and the last glow of the fires.

  He listened. He could hear the sound of someone breathing. As his eyes adjusted to the softer light, he made out the edges of the bed, and the form within it.

  He tiptoed forward and stood at the bedside.

  Alina.

  It was her. Hair shimmering in the pale light, blue-shined, lashes resting on her porcelain cheeks, she slept.

  Duncan stared down at her. Her breath was smooth and even, her rosebud of a mouth slightly parted as she sighed in her sleep. He felt his loins stir and bit his lip, fighting away their prompting.

  His desire of her seemed misplaced. She was so beautiful, a beauty so pure and absolute that he felt it was almost wrong to long for her. He watched as she sighed in her sleep, turning slightly to reveal the soft rounding of her breast, covered with the night shift and the coverlets.

  He tensed. He had never seen her so undressed before – the long velvet gowns and petticoats she wore, with Heaven only kne
w what manner of undergarments under those – did not reveal her beauty so. Here, dressed only in a simple shift, she glowed from within, her form seeming too ethereally-lovely for words.

  He watched as she sighed and shifted again in sleep, a wrinkle of her brow showing that her dream disturbed her. He almost reached down to smooth it away, but stopped himself in time.

  Whisht! You don't want to wake her, he chided himself. Lord Brien was correct in saying she was tired. He was sure that, had she not been, she would probably have awoken as he opened the door, letting the light from the hallway in to fall, softly, on her face.

  Watching her a while longer, trying hard to resist touching, he stood at the side of the bed, heart like a coal inside him – glowing, but burning all of him within that glow, as if he would die of longing.

  “Come on, scoundrel.” He whispered it to himself, feeling somehow tainted, as if his presence here was brutish and wrong in the face of loveliness.

  He walked quietly to the door and slipped out, closing it as silently as he could behind him. Then he sank down to sitting on the floor.

  Lost in thoughts, heart glowing with his love for her, Duncan curled up beside the door and, sooner than he would have thought, he was deep asleep.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  PRECIOUS MOMENT

  PRECIOUS MOMENT

  The sea was gray and misty, the waves rolling in a muted, metallic light. Alina gasped as they rose and the light poured down on them, turning them from pewter to brilliance.

  She opened her eyes.

  Sunshine.

  Her vision had shown her Duncan in the sunlight, happy and successful. Perhaps the sunlight of the dream was him, smiling and happy. As she sat up, wincing at the ache in her temples, rubbing sleep from weary eyelids, she felt growing conviction.

  Duncan has returned.

  She could not have said why or how, but she had a strong sensation he was here, in the castle. And not too far away, either. Standing, she pushed her feet into silk slippers and walked lightly towards the door. She could hear her maidservant breathing regularly, asleep, behind the screen that divided her sleeping place from Alina's own. She felt the door handle, cool under her hand. She turned it and stepped out into the hallway.

  The moonlight cast a patch of molten silvery light on the floor before the door. Alina looked at it, eyes adjusting to the brighter glow beyond the door, and then turned to her right.

  She breathed in sharply, in sudden fright. There was someone there! A man. Then her eyesight sharpened and she stared.

  The light washed over his hair, casting the flaxen locks in pale silver. His eyes were closed, the light lining the proud outline of his well-chiseled nose. His high brow was relaxed, the one or two lines smoothed out in sleep. His hands – big and strongly muscled – were open, the fingers curling slightly as he slept.

  Alina dropped to one knee beside him. He was here. He was returned safely. She drank in the sight of him, her cheeks stretched with smiling.

  “Duncan.”

  She had not meant to speak, but the name escaped her lips, soft as a breeze.

  As she watched, he stirred. His eyes opened, and then closed. He took a shuddering breath. Then another. His eyes opened.

  They looked straight into her own.

  His eyes tensed, narrowing, clearly frightened and confused then, as sense began to register, he relaxed. He stared into her eyes, his own tawny ones slightly bloodshot, but glowing with a warmth she had never seen in anyone, man or woman, before.

  “Alina,” he breathed.

  He reached his hand forward. She took his fingers in her own. They were cool and firm, hardened with years of sword-hefting. She clasped them. They were the dearest fingers on earth.

  “Duncan.”

  He smiled at her. “You're awake.”

  She chuckled softly. “Well, yes. Or we are both dreaming. But your hand in mine feels real.” She whispered it, their voices soft in undisturbed darkness, close and velvety, holding them close.

  Duncan smiled at her, a smile of particular sweetness. He squeezed her hand, tensing his fingers in her own. “If I am dreaming, may I stay forever in this realm,” he whispered. “Just you and I. And moonlight.”

  Alina smiled at him, and then shivered. It was not just with cold. “You are awake,” she reminded him. “Do not speak of eternal sleep.” She smiled, taking the sting from her words. “At least not unless I sleep as well.”

  The words were light, teasing. Yet, the mention of sleeping alongside each other, even slightly referred to as a metaphor for death, made her cheeks flush. She heard him swallow and knew his thoughts were similar. She blushed and looked away.

  “I think you should rest,” she said briskly. She still whispered, but there was an edge to her voice. He should be somewhere warm! What was he doing here, alone and cold? Outside her bedchamber? She shivered at the thought. If he was discovered here, they would both be disgraced.

  “I am resting,” Duncan said, giving her a wry grin. “I was asleep, if you recall.”

  Alina breathed out wearily, shaking her head at his stubbornness. “Yes, you were. But sleeping in a drafty hallway is likely to make you sicker than if you stood awake in the cold. Come. The solar is still warm.” Taking his hand, leading him firmly down the stairs again, they crossed the hallway into the solar.

  It was still warm. The fire in the great fireplace had only just burned down. Here, the wide windows let in bright starlight, so that the edges of the furniture were frosty silver and the flagstones glowed like molten steel. She sat down on a chair by the fire, leading him to the settee opposite her.

  “It is warmer here,” Duncan nodded. He spoke more loudly – there were no servants to overhear them, and the nearest family member, Chrissie, slept in a room near to Alina's, one floor higher. They were alone.

  “Yes, indeed,” Alina said dryly. “The coals are still glowing.” She gestured to the fireplace beside them where a ruddy light leaked forth.

  She was feeling more awake now, and with the wakefulness came a restless questing. Her mind was studying him, considering the state of his health. He needed warmth. He needed rest. He needed a long soak in a bath. “Why are you not in the west wing, in the guest chambers?” she said suddenly.

  Her black eyes met his, lids raised in question. He looked into her eyes, and gave an uncertain smile.

  “You are more frightening than the villager's physician,” he said. The churchman who oversaw the religious life of Lochlann village also worked as the apothecary and doctored their ills. That was, until most people started turning to Alina, whose skills were growing daily.

  Alina chuckled. “I will assume that is meant to be complimentary,” she said dryly.

  “It was, it was!” he said, raising hands in surrender. They both laughed.

  “I am so glad to see you,” Alina said. There seemed no words to describe her racing heart, the joy that suffused her chest. All words seemed so insufficient, and so she did not try, but said the least of what was possible.

  “As I am to see you,” Duncan breathed.

  He was not, after all, so far away. When his hand reached for hers, she let him. When he drew her towards him, she went with the grip on her hand.

  Their lips met. He kissed her.

  Alina closed her eyes as she felt his mouth move over hers, the kiss slow this time, as if his lips were trying to remember hers, moving slowly, nibbling, over each bump and swell, his tongue flickering across the curve of them.

  Alina sighed and parted them, letting his tongue find entry. She felt the jolt of surprise shudder through her as his tongue pushed between, the tingling sensations spreading from her lips through her body. She pressed her body to his, letting the fire that seared from her lips to her belly and back again fill her every part.

  They sat like that for what seemed like half an age, his lips on hers, her arms wrapped around him, his hands stroking her back. There was no sound in the room save the ones they made, which were
small and gentle ones – the gasp of a breath, the sound of mouth on mouth.

  Alina shivered. She wore only her night robe and shift, and she was glad she had thought to pull the velvet garment about her before she left. As it was, the two layers of cloth were the least there had ever been between them. He wore only jerkin and trews, his cloak concealing nothing. She could feel his heart, steady and slow, and she thought she might actually die, caught between intense contentment and a steady longing, demanding more.

  More closeness. More contact. More time.

  She sighed. Moved back. He gasped, lips still parted from a kiss. She rested her hands on her knees, noting, with some shock, that they were shaking. She could not afford to let her own longing overwhelm her.

  “You will stay long here?” Alina asked. She cleared her throat, noticing how tight it sounded.

  “Yes,” Duncan said quietly. Then he bit his lip, shaking his head, eyes closing. “No. I mean...I don't know, sweetling.”

  Alina sighed, the term of endearment shuddering through her already aching soul like thrown darts. She closed her own eyes briefly, and then opened them. “You do not know where to go?” she asked carefully.

  “Yes.” Duncan nodded emphatically. “You helped me with...the first question,” he said carefully.

  “The second?” Alina asked slowly. “The pearl.”

  “Yes.” He nodded. He looked utterly wretched. “I have no idea...”

  “I think I have some sense of something that could help us,” Alina said carefully. Duncan stared at her. His brown eyes stretched with hopefulness.

  “You do? Tell me!”

  Alina bit her lip. His eagerness showed he was as ready for wedding as she was. She could not help smiling at the thought of that. “I think I do,” she said carefully. “I am not certain.”

  “Tell me?”

  Alina told him. About the pearl being someone precious to her uncle. About the Duncraigh alliance. About her uncle's disappointment and sadness, recalled by Amabel when they talked last.