Susan King - [Celtic Nights 02]

by The Swan Maiden

  Juliana dropped the bow, whirled, and launched into a run, streaming past Gawain, bow clenched in her hand. He turned and winged out his arms to stop the guards who rushed toward her.

  Running fast, she cleared the opening her friends made. The gap closed behind her as she headed toward the loch.

  Her heels pounded the grass, quick and sure. Behind her, she could hear De Soulis screaming orders, heard chaos and shouting. Moments later, the distinct thudding of horses' hooves sounded behind her.

  To her left lay the blue expanse of the loch, but the shoreline was open here. She would be an easy target for bow shots. Ahead, trees spread away from the loch to join the forest. Beyond the copse was the cove, and past that, another meadow, and Elladoune. She ran toward the trees and safe cover.

  Shouts sounded behind her, and an arrow thunked into the ground in front of her. She zigzagged between the tree trunks, surging onward.

  Another arrow split the ground behind her. She stumbled through a green skirt of ferns as high as her knees, her booted feet crushing and cracking through the undergrowth.

  Cool shadows enveloped her as she swung toward deeper forest, a dense thicket of greenish light. More arrows zinged by her, smacking into the undergrowth, whizzing past her ears.

  She glanced back. Guards followed, some on horseback, others on foot, crashing through the quiet with heavy feet, burdened by armor and weaponry, bellowing after her to stop.

  She never slowed, even when she felt the punch and sting of an arrow that tore through her side, ripping her tunic. The blow took her breath, and she staggered, but kept her feet, and ran on. Putting a hand to her waist, she saw blood on her fingers, but felt only a small, painful cut that she hoped was not deep.

  Thrashing and shouting sounded everywhere now. She skittered sideways and headed down a steep slope. Her footing slipped, and she slid on her bottom into a bed of ferns.

  Rising to her knees, she braced a hand at her side, for her wound wrenched painfully when she moved. Guards had reached the top of the hill, but they had not seen her. She stepped forward, ready to bolt.

  A steel-clad arm snatched her from behind, clamping around her. She was slammed backward into a hard, armored body. Gasping with pain, she kicked fiercely, finding his shin. He grunted and dragged her into dense tree cover, falling with her into shadows.

  Chapter 30

  "If you kick me again," Gawain muttered, "I may just leave you here." He pulled her deeper into the thicket.

  She twisted, staring up at him. "Gawain—oh, Gawain!"

  "Hush," he urged. He glanced at the slope, but saw no knights. Holding her, he ducked down into a nest of ferns at the base of an oak, hiding behind the breadth of the wide, ivy-covered trunk. "Be still."

  She wrapped her arms around him, resting her head on his shoulder. Her breathing was fast and ragged. He stroked his hand over the tangled silk of her hair, immensely relieved to have her safe in his arms, at least for now.

  He leaned his back against the oak, shrouded with her in shadow. Tense as a cat, motionless, he listened, and glanced over his shoulder.

  Saplings quivered as the guards descended the wooded slope. They shouted, their voices echoing slightly. Gawain held her close and waited, his hand quiet on her hair.

  Although the sheriff's men searched perilously close to their hiding place, the knights soon departed, climbing back up the hill, rustling and calling as they left.

  Gawain let out a long breath. "There, Swan Maid—it seems you needed one more rescue."

  She tightened her arms around his neck, and her little sob tore at his heart. Then she pulled away. "Go," she said, skittering back. "I can get away."

  "Ho, come back here," he said, and yanked her toward him into the shadow of the oak, gripping her around the waist.

  Juliana cried out, clearly in pain. He took his hand away and swore, low and keen, at the blood darkening his palm.

  "You are bow shot," he ground out.

  "'Tis naught," she said quickly. "A nick only. Let me go."

  "Stay here. We must be certain they are gone." He circled an arm around her, and with his other hand put pressure on the wound, located in the slim curve of her waist.

  She winced and tried to shift away, but he held her tightly. "Leave me here," she said in a fierce whisper. "If you do not join them soon, they will hunt you as well!"

  "Will I leave you in danger to save my own hide?" he growled. "Do you think so little of me?"

  She shook her head. "But you must go," she murmured.

  "Hush." He tucked her head against his chest. "Just hush."

  She quieted, and he sat warily, listening for the return of the sheriff's knights. He kept a hand over Juliana's wound. The bleeding had stopped, but it would need attention.

  After a while, certain of the quiet surrounding them, he exhaled. "They have gone elsewhere to look for you."

  "If they find me," she said, "what then?"

  He cocked an eyebrow. "What did you think would happen when you cooked up your scheme?"

  "I hoped De Soulis would let my brothers go, and allow us to live in peace, if I could show that he was naught to fear."

  He wanted to laugh. He leaned his head back against the trunk and huffed out in disbelief. "There is more to defeating the man than proving his armor... invisible, as Iain says."

  "I know that. I could not think what else to do."

  "You could have waited for me to do something about it."

  "I... we could not trust you to help us."

  Gawain blew out a breath, wordless and remorseful. He slid his fingers through her hair. "You can," he said hoarsely.

  She closed her eyes. "'Tis hard to trust a Sassenach. Even you," she added in a whisper.

  He said nothing in reply, and pressed his brow to hers, realizing how much ground he had lost with her, how much he must tell her. He felt the pain of it like a wrench in his own gut.

  "What would you have done," she asked after a moment, "if I had shot De Soulis? Would you have captured me, as a prisoner and a criminal, or would you have let me go?"

  He drew back. "He would not have been shot."

  "He would. I never miss my aim."

  "I would have snatched the arrow before it hit its mark."

  She stared up at him. "You could not do that."

  "I could. And I would not have missed my aim, either." He shifted to his feet and helped her up. "Come. Can you run?"

  She nodded. He led her along a fast course, where the trees were dense and high. As they ran he watched for the guards. The loch was to the left, and he angled toward its long tip.

  "Elladoune?" she asked. "We cannot hide there."

  "Not there. Around to the other side of the loch. A long walk, I know, but there is a place we can go for the night. I want you to rest and be safe." Near the edge of the greenwood, he stopped in the shade of an elm, his gaze scanning the loch. At the nearest end, Elladoune rose high on its promontory, silhouetted against the tinted sky that waned toward twilight.

  "There is a shorter way. Come with me." She grabbed his hand and turned toward the little cove between Elladoune and the abbey. Gawain ran with her into the shelter of the trees. She stopped in the green shade of a stand of birches.

  "Quick," she said, "take off your mail!" She fumbled at the leather thongs that tied his chain mail hood to the hauberk.

  "Do you mean to swim across the loch? Are you mad?"

  "'Tis not far from this point," she said. She yanked at his belt. He sighed, realizing she would not listen to arguments. He removed the sword belt and sheath while she tugged at his surcoat and the lacing of the hauberk.

  He slid free of the hauberk, taking it from her to drop it on the ground. Juliana untied the laces of his quilted gambeson.

  "But your wound—" he began as he pulled the garment off.

  "'Twill be cleansed in the water," she said. "I will be fine. Hurry," she urged as he slid out of the padded tunic.

  "Juliana, this is madness," h
e said.

  She pulled on his shirt. "Can you swim?" she asked bluntly.

  "Aye, but you should not swim so far, with your side—"

  "If you do not want to go, I will go myself," she said. Pulling on his leggings, she stopped. "Ach, you should stay. The sheriff will hunt you and arrest you for escaping with me. The king will have your head. 'Tis safer if you stay here, and protect your good reputation in England. Your orders are to leave Elladoune." She looked up at him. "Leave Scotland."

  He took her face in his hands. "Show me the way across this loch," he said fiercely. "And then I will show you something."

  Gaze searching his, she nodded. She bent again to divest him of his armor. When he was down to his braies, he knelt to shove his sword, boots, clothing, and the mound of chain mail under a fallen tree trunk.

  He turned to see that she had stripped off her cloak and boots and stood in a long shirt, her bare legs lean and well shaped. She ran along the bank to the cove's outer edge, where tall reeds verged, and slipped into the loch. Gawain followed.

  The cool shock of the water soon faded, and felt refreshing in the lingering warmth of the day. He treaded water quickly past the reeds, keeping his feet free of the silty bottom. With a deep breath, he plunged after Juliana, surging with long strokes and deep kicks to where a group of swans circled.

  He glanced over his shoulder and saw men and horses on the shore. Beyond Juliana, a flock of white swans glided nearer. Gawain hesitated, knowing how territorial and tempestuous the birds could be.

  Juliana dove under, coming up in the middle of the circle of swans. She waved toward him.

  He skimmed under the water too, and came up beside her. She cast him a quick smile and stroked ahead, staying inside the ring of white swans. Astonished, Gawain went with her.

  Sooner than he expected, they reached the other side. Juliana dove under again, and he followed her along the layered stone of an underwater cliff. They came up under the shelter of huge pines that hung out over the water.

  She climbed onto the bank and he followed. The swans had accepted their presence, staying with them all the way across the loch. Now they skimmed away. Juliana ducked low under the protecting branches of the pines.

  From a shaded hiding place, she produced a cloth sack. Gawain, sopping as he knelt behind her, watched in amazement as she pulled out dry clothing. She shoved something at him, and he grabbed it—a woolen blanket.

  Yanking off her wet clothing, she knelt, nude and dripping, under the eaves. She turned to him, tugging at his tunic. A moment later, stripped and wet, he took her into his arms.

  The breathless kiss he gave her was somehow the finest, the most pure, he had ever shared with her. His hands skimmed the graceful curve of her back, and her breasts, nubbed and firm, rubbed against his chest. He nestled against her, rising hungry, and kissed her again. Her arms encircled his waist.

  He wanted her fiercely, yet he inhaled sharply and forced himself to turn away, to cool his passion. This was not the time. Snatching up the blanket, he wrapped it around her.

  "Your wound," he said raggedly. "Let me see it."

  She turned to show him a small, ugly tear in the perfection of her skin, below the lowest rib on her left side. Though it was clean and scarcely bled, he saw a flash of pink muscle beneath the gap of skin. He frowned, and turned to rip a wide bandage from a shirt in the sack of clothing.

  Wrapping her slender form securely, he picked up a dry gown of bleached linen that lay folded on the ground. He drew it over her head and arms, tugging it down.

  He kissed her chastely, quickly. "Later," he said, "when your wound is healed, and we have time, this secret place of yours could serve a fine purpose."

  She nodded, teeth chattering. "Dress now, and hurry. They may have seen us cross the loch!"

  "I think your swans hid us well," he said, but he grabbed the blanket, a tartaned length, and pulled it around himself. Then he stopped and looked at it.

  The plaid was the red, purple, and brown pattern of the MacDuffs. He held its bright thickness in his hands. Slowly, deliberately, he spread it out on the ground. He had seen a leather belt in the pile of clothes, and he grabbed it, sliding it under the cloth.

  He pleated the plaid carefully, leaving a length free, as his father had showed him so long ago. He had not forgotten, although he had not been aware of it until that moment.

  Juliana knelt and watched him in silence. He lay on his back, wrapped the gathered plaid around his waist, and stood, head and shoulders ducked under the tallest part of the pine overhang. He fastened the belt quickly and flipped the extra cloth over his bare left shoulder. Then he looked at her.

  She looked puzzled. "Where did you learn—"

  He watched her, heart slamming. "My father taught me."

  "Your father?" She gaped at him. "Henry Avenel?"

  "My own father," he murmured. "Adhamnain MacDuff."

  "MacDuff... Gawain," she said, and gasped. "There was a wee lad who left long ago... Gabhan MacDuff. He was taken south by his Lowland mother—oh! His English mother!" She raised shaking fingers to cover her mouth.

  "Aye," he said quietly. "I am he." He held out his hand, while she gazed wide-eyed at him. "Come with me. There is something I want to show you. Mo cridhe," he added.

  My heart. The phrase came to him so easily.

  * * *

  She stared at him. Somehow, in the space of a few breathless, wondering heartbeats, she had watched him transform from a king's knight into a Highland warrior.

  "Gabhan MacDuff?" she said again. Blinking, she wondered suddenly if he had gone mad, surrounded by Highlanders and stories and legends for so many weeks at Elladoune.

  "I am he," he repeated. "The one who left here, so long ago." He took her hand to draw her with him out of the pine eaves and into the forest. Turning, he strode so fast, barefoot and plaided, that she could not ask the host of questions that rioted through her mind.

  She followed him through the trees and up a hill. He slowed and took her hand to help her over some rocks. Wildflowers tumbled in crevices and heather swayed, bright and beautiful in the dimming light.

  They passed a rushing burn, and she paused, breath heaving, her hand to her aching side. Gawain—Gabhan, she corrected herself, as she had always called him without knowing—stopped, looking back at her.

  Somehow, he belonged on that hillside, with the heather cushioning his feet. Behind him, the mountain was dark and cragged, the setting sun bright on its upper face. For a moment, she saw the countenance of winter, old Beira, on a high slope.

  "The face," she said. "'Tis there again."

  "I know," he said quietly. "Come." He held out his hand and led her upward carefully, slowing for her, placing his hand, warm and strong, at her back.

  They passed a trickling waterfall, where Gawain stopped to drink with her. He took her up a long, grassy slope, a wide pathway deliberately cleared of rocks by the hand of mankind.

  At the top, he drew her with him through a wild, feathery edging Of bushes and bracken. On the other side, she saw a high and broken wall of gray stone.

  "Oh!" she said. "What is this place?"

  "Glenshie," he said. "I was born here."

  Again she gaped at him. Mad, certainly, she thought—yet in her heart she knew that he was in deep earnest.

  He pulled her with him inside the perimeter of the square keep. She sat on a fallen stone, while the gloaming descended, soft and purple, around them.

  Propping a foot on another stone, staring out over a slope that overlooked the loch far below, he began to speak.

  And she listened, and at last began to understand his secrets.

  * * *

  "I betrayed them all," he said, after telling her much of his story—his childhood, his secret dreams, his gradual disillusionment as a young knight. He had even explained his mother's reticence. He finished by telling her about his sojourn with James Lindsay and his rebels.

  Through it all, she had listened quietl
y, and he was grateful for her patience and acceptance. The night darkened and deepened toward dawn, yet he still sat with her among the stones of Glenshie and talked. With each new revelation, he felt a burden lift from him, heart and soul.

  "I betrayed everyone, Juliana," he continued. "They had faith in me. But I went over to the Scottish side with your cousin and his rebel band. I betrayed my family, and the English heritage my stepfather had granted me. I broke the word I had given King Edward—more than once. My stepbrother died because of the choice I made." He had explained the forest skirmish and its aftermath. "And I abandoned the friends who needed me."

  "You betrayed no one," she said. "You acted for honor, which many of your comrades did not do—and so it seems wrong, when 'tis right. Now that you have found Glenshie, and found the part of you that you thought was lost, you will have peace of mind."

  He sat on a fallen stone and stared at his hands in the darkness. "Peace? I cannot redeem what happened to Geoffrey."

  She sat forward, placed a hand on his arm. "But death is a risk of war, and every knight knows it. You did not kill him. Be true to your own heart, Gahhan. You think much about others, but forget to tend to yourself."

  He smiled a little. "I do tend to what I need. I looked for Glenshie. And I allowed myself to fall in love with you."

  She rubbed her hand along his arm. "And I am glad you did. But now you need to tend to the rest."

  "My allegiance," he said softly.

  She nodded. "You love Scotland."

  He looked at the mountains. "I always have," he murmured.

  "Then you must choose as best suits your heart."

  "I know what you want to hear from me. But 'tis not so easy to cast off all that I am, and take up the plaid, and the cause of Scotland with it."

  "I understand you better now," she said thoughtfully. "You are one of those who are caught in this war. One side and the other pull you fast between them. You care for both sides."

  He folded his fingers together. "If I declare for the Scots, my family in England will bear the brunt of it."