by K. E. Saxon
So, Reys thought, ‘twas as he’d suspected. The poor girl had no idea of such things. Yet another reason to despise the brother who’d dared violate such an innocent, gentle maiden as she. Reys tried to take her in his arms, but she stiffened and pulled away. He dropped his hands to his sides and said, “‘Tis your first flowering, sweet Alyson. Proof that you are now a woman grown.”
Alyson bowed her head and was silent for a long moment. At last she lifted her gaze to his once more, saying, “So this is what my aunt said I’d learn of when I was older? She would never tell me what the strange, blood stained rags were that she had folded in her clothing chest.”
“Aye, but now, I think we should find something for you to use until I can get you back to the keep. The ladies will be able to speak with you with more authority than I, in any case.” He untied his tunic and lifted it over his head. “Here, I’ve an idea. Take my shirt and tie it around yourself. ‘Twill help to stem the flow.”
Alyson nodded and looked around to find a bush or something to go behind for a bit of privacy. “What about my hose? I cannot enter the keep looking like this! Everyone will know!”
“Here,” he said, quickly unlacing his own. “Take these. No one will think anything of seeing a warrior a bit stripped down.”
“But...they are so big....”
“Alyson,” Reys said, now with just a bit of exasperation in his tone, “‘tis the best I can do—and you’ll only be seen in them for a few minutes while you enter the keep and ascend the stairs to your chamber. Take them.” He was relieved when she did as he’d bade, but the dubious look on her face as she did so almost made him laugh out loud. Fortunately, he managed to hold back the untimely mirth.
She turned and headed toward a juniper bush.
Reys once again noticed the stain on the back of her tunic. Blood of Christ. He dared not mention it now, else ‘twould surely only embarrass her further. But, how to get her inside without others seeing it? A shudder of cold shook his frame. Lord, but it was frosty in these parts. He took a moment to put his tunic back on. Ahhh! He just remembered. Her cloak would do nicely. Except.... He dashed over to where they had their horses tethered and quickly looked at the outside of the garment. He relaxed then. Thankfully, since it was so thickly lined with fur, the blood had not soaked through to the outer woolen material of the covering.
She was behind the shrub for several minutes when he heard her growl, “I hate you, you witless thing! Why will you not just stay put?!”
Reys smiled, for ‘twas the first time he’d ever known her to lose her temper, and he admitted, ‘twas rather a pleasing surprise. For, with enough anger, and enough skill, one could thwart almost any enemy. And he fully intended on giving her the skill. But the lack of spirit had worried him, for he knew not how to train her in that. In his experience, fear enfeebled, whereas anger stirred one to action. And that was exactly what he wanted her to do in the face of any thing or person that might do her harm in future. “Is something amiss, my sweet?” he called out to her.
“I cannot get this...this...shirt to stay about me. Aargh! I fear ‘tis no use! I will have to—hic”—she began to cry—“go into—hic—the keep with my flower blood all over me-ee-eee!”
“Might I give you aid?” His face and shoulders scrunched in anticipation of her loud refusal.
She sniffled, but said naught. Then, more sniffles. “Yes, please,” she finally said, rather thickly.
Reys straightened, his eyes widened in disbelief, but, with a shake of his head, he started toward his young wife.
She peeked her head around the shrub and said, “But you must keep your eyes closed and your head turned away!”
“All right.” All right? Was he mad? How was he supposed to help her get the thing tied on properly without the use of his eyes, for Christ’s sake?
But, his concerns were for naught, and it actually turned out to be a rather comical, pleasing diversion, with him feeling his way to getting the thing adjusted in the way he’d envisioned and her giggling uncontrollably as his fingers tickled her torso. He’d drawn the hem of the shirt through her thighs from the back and brought it up to surround her hips before using the sleeves to encircle her waist, as well as the material, and then rolling it down a few times to ensure it was snug. And she’d only tensed a few times in the process. Evidently, him on his knees, blind, and with his head turned away, gave her the courage to allow his touch. “There, will that work, do you think?” he asked her when the complicated process was finally done. He made sure to keep his eyes tightly shut as he spoke.
“Yes, I think it will. My thanks.” A brief pause and then: “Will you go stand by the horses again?”
“Yes.” Reys rose from his position and walked away.
When Alyson emerged a moment later from behind the shrub, her tunic was only slightly more bulky around the waist than it had been. And though his hose drooped at her ankles, they were clean and there was no longer any trace—except, of course, the stain on the back of the tunic he had yet to tell her of—that she’d had any mishap with her clothing.
When she was next to him once more, he took her cloak from the back of the saddle and settled it around her shoulders. “Wear this until you get into your chamber, all right?”
She gave him a questioning look and he sighed. “There is a stain on the back of your tunic as well.”
“Oh, no!” She immediately twisted around to see the offending mark.
“It’s not very big....”
“Yes, but this belongs to Branwenn! How am I ever to tell her! Oh, God!”
“Alyson, do you not think that Branwenn has stained more than a few articles of clothing in this very same way? She will not be angered, for she will know ‘twas not due to carelessness on your part.”
Alyson, turned back to Reys, giving up her quest to see the offending mark, and, her head bowed, nodded slowly. After a moment she said in a small voice, “Think you she will give me instruction in this ‘flowering’ thing my body does? I have no wish to speak to any of the other ladies, for Branwenn is the one I know best, and she was always so kind to me during our time at my uncle’s holding.”
Reys’s voice was gentle when he replied, “Yes, I do. She has a very warm and giving nature, as you well know.”
“Good.” Then, lifting her eyes to his once more, she said, “Let us return to the keep then, for I have need of a bath and fresh clothing.”
Reys settled his young wife on her mount and, after picking up the bow and arrow, mounted his own horse before leading them back to the keep.
* * *
What luck! Gaiallard thought as he walked his mount out of the cover of trees. He’d found them with no need to question anyone—which, he knew, this close to his quarry, might raise suspicions and all could be lost.
But, what was all the disrobing and scurrying behind bushes? He’d thought, when he’d first come upon them and seen Reys taking off his clothes, that he’d stumbled upon a lover’s tryst. But when Reys put his tunic back on, he began to wonder. And then later, when Alyson had come from behind the shrub, it had been clear the girl had somehow used the shirt Reys had given her, and his hose as well. Gaiallard shook his head. ‘Twas truly a puzzle.
He waited a bit longer to begin trailing them. For now, all he intended doing was a quick study of the area before finding a place to make camp. He made note of the direction in which he was traveling, just in case he had to return to the wood for the night.
* * *
Callum gritted his teeth behind the counterfeit genial smile he’d had plastered on his countenance these past long minutes. The morning meal had proved a bit more of a trial than he’d anticipated, for not only was Branwenn not speaking to him after his drunken lark the eve before, but she’d also turned her attention instead to their guest. Robert would be here until the morrow, when he would be taking his sister’s corpse back with him to their family’s holding for burial.
Branwenn giggled at something Robert said
to her and Callum nearly leapt from his seat and pummeled the man to a bloody, oozing, pulp. ‘Leave my lady be!’ he wanted to shout, but he dared not show such emotion to the man, as that would surely only egg him further into his already improper dalliance with someone else’s betrothed.
The same betrothed that had all morn spurned his own attentions. From the first sighting of her in the great hall earlier, he’d attempted to speak with her, share some gentle words, learn of her progress in her preparations of the wedding feast and such. Just the same easy manner of speaking they’d fallen into these past sennights as they awaited the priest’s availability to give his blessing. But he’d been summarily cut to the bone with her sharp tongue then, and each time after, no matter what words he’d used to appease her anger at him for using hard drink to assuage his—and Robert’s—grief the night before. Although, he did admit, parts of him—his roiling stomach and thick head, to name but two—were at this moment in direct concordance with the spirit, if not the execution, of her disgust.
But ‘twas the execution she’d been using with him that had him worried. For ‘twas the same mode of punishment that Lara had used upon him at every turn when she was displeased with him—which, Lord knew, had been more oft than not. Was he doomed now to a life of snubbing and cutting words whenever he displeased her in some way, instead of gracious forgiveness and calm discussion?
But even that was not the worst of it. Nay, ‘twas the clear delight Branwenn was taking in the attentions she received from Robert that bothered him the most. It rankled in a way much like, but far more painfully disturbing than, Lara’s enjoyment—and outright pursuit—of every man’s regard. Did Branwenn suffer from the same need? He’d dismissed it before, but now, with this new flirtation, the old doubt resurfaced. He recalled how merry she’d been this Hogmanay past as she’d danced around the bonfire with first one, then another, and then another still of the young soldiers at the Maclean holding. And, again, there had also been that young guard several sennights past who’d clearly wanted her and to whom she’d freely given her kind regard. Mayhap this was not some passing interest, but a thing he’d be dealing with for their entire lives together.
Branwenn took a sip of wine from her cup and flicked her tongue across the drop on her bottom lip.
Callum stiffened, his eyes flying to Robert’s face. Aye, he’d noticed as well. ‘Twas a clear invitation she’d just given the man. Would he accept it?
Mayhap ‘twas a good thing that he’d seen this side of her before they’d said their vows.
* * *
“Do you not think you’ve made poor Callum suffer enough for his indulgence in ardent spirits last eve?” Robert said to Branwenn as he spied his friend eyeing them for at least the thousandth time that morn. “Go speak to him, I beg you, else I’ll surely be without my scalp in just a moment more.”
Branwenn glanced at Callum before settling her eye once more on her companion. “Aye, I’ve made him suffer enough, I trow. But I’ve had some direct, and loathsome, experience with…well…someone who drank heavily of the hard spirits. And so, I am not pleased to be wed to a man who uses the stuff to the extent Callum tends to do, you see.”
Robert’s gaze turned keen. “Your brother Bao? The one who raised you?”
Branwenn shook her head. “Nay! Never. Bao drinks not—or at least not very much.”
Robert tipped his head in Callum’s direction. “He’s not a drunkard, if that is your worry, lass,” he said. “But, Callum’s spent his life on the Maclean holding; and that lot do enjoy their uisge beatha, ‘tis a well-known fact.”
“Aye, but ‘tis a habit I’d like to break him of—at least by a wee bit.”
“Well, I do believe, that after this morn, he will think twice before crossing you on that score.”
Branwenn smiled. “I do hope ‘tis so.” She turned, saying, “I will give him another chance to make amends, I think. But this time, I shall accept his confession of sorrow.”
* * *
When Lady Maclean and Maggie saw Branwenn headed in Callum’s direction, they rose from their seats by the hearth and moved to stand with Chalmers and Daniel a bit further away. They—all the family—had got in the habit these past sennights of giving the two lovers a bit of chaperoned privacy whenever they were all together in the hall.
“Good morn, my love,” Branwenn said brightly as she settled next to Callum on his bench by the hearth. Silence. She tipped her head and studied her betrothed’s tightly controlled mien. His eyes were the color of the storm-tossed Irish sea she’d nearly drowned in last summer. “Do you not wish to confess your sorrow to me once more for your bairn-like behavior this night past? For, I am now ready to accept it.”
“Truly? Well, it seems I am now not of a mood to give my confession to a devious tart-mouthed siren such as yourself,” he said for her ears only.
Branwenn chuckled, thinking him only a bit vexed by her delay in forgiving him. “Siren? Me?” she said, just as quietly.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
Recognizing now that his anger at her ran deeper than she’d first believed and that laughing was not the best way to soothe him, Branwenn sobered and began, “Callum—”
“Tell me,” he said harshly, “do you enjoy dallying with all the men, my love? Stirring their desire for you to such a degree that they’d give their fighting arm to have you beneath them, sweating and straining in the age-old rhythm?”
Branwenn’s entire face flushed hot with both mortification and anger as her gaze darted about the chamber to make sure no one had heard him. Her molten amethyst eyes narrowed as well when she settled them upon him once more. “No, I do not,” she whispered.
Callum’s smile was cold when he said, not as loudly as before, “Oh, I believe you do, sweet.” He tipped his head in Robert’s direction. “See you how avidly the man awaits your return to his side. His eyes have not left you since you came into the hall this morn. And he told me this night past that he was set to give you his troth last Hogmanay after you danced so prettily with him ‘round the fire.” He studied Robert more closely. “Oh, aye, he wants you. Badly.” Turning back to Branwenn, his eyes shot daggers at her. “Just, I’m sure, as was your intent.”
“I do not want to wed, nor do I have a desire for, Robert MacVie! And,”—her eyes followed the same path as her angry betrothed’s—“he looks not at me, he’s talking to my brother, Bao, for heaven’s sake.” She turned her gaze upon Callum once more. “Truly, Callum, what has got into you this morn?”
“And all your seductive smiles,” he continued his diatribe as if he hadn’t heard her, “your whispered words, your sweetly trilling laughter, the glide of your tongue over that lush lower lip of yours, your gentle touch to his arm, were not meant to entice him? Ha! I think you play me for a fool.” He grabbed hold of her hand and squeezed it tightly in his fist.
“Ouch! You hurt me, loose your grip!”
He ignored her dictate. “I’ve played the cuckold before, and I won’t do it again. Do you ken me?” He tossed her hand down onto her lap.
Branwenn rubbed her abused digits, though, in truth, the pain in her heart was much harsher. She gritted her teeth against them, but tears still formed in her eyes. “I did not do this thing you accuse me of,” she said, her voice trembling. “‘Tis not my nature—I thought you knew that, for I”—she swallowed down a whimper that threatened to rise up—“was a v-virgin that first t-time we...” She turned on the bench and put her back to him as she lightly touched her pinky to her lower lids, hoping that none of the others in the chamber would notice her breakdown.
He took hold of her upper arm and forced her to turn back to face him. “Aye, the barrier was there, but how many others, I wonder, have felt the sultry cavern of your mouth about their cock? Have felt you spasm against their tongue? Will Robert—or, mayhap, he already has? Last night?” He shook her arm slightly. “Do you give to him what you hold back from me? Have you lit the tapers for him so that he might see what yo
u have yet to allow me sight of?”
Her brows slammed together. “NAY!” she hissed. “If this is what you believe of me, then we should not be wed!” She’d said the words without thinking, acting purely on her hurt and anger. Turning her back on him once more, she prayed he’d settle and beg her forgiveness now that that horrible volley had been thrown. For, no matter what, she knew he wanted to wed her—hadn’t he nearly begged her for such? But, when, after several very long, doom-filled seconds, she’d not got the response she’d been hoping for, her heart began to pound in her chest. This was followed swiftly by a mad whirring in her ears, until, finally, she was overtaken by dizziness as she at last gave a nod of understanding. ‘Twas the thing he’d been set on from the moment she’d sat down next to him a moment ago. “I believe we must tell the others forthwith of our broken betrothal,” she said thickly, “as ‘tis not too late to keep Maryn and Jesslyn from beginning their journey here.”
Dead silence met her words and then: “Aye.”
Did her heart actually crack in two in that moment? She felt the weight of his eyes on the back of her neck as he stood up and paused briefly. Then he was gone, his footsteps pounding against the stone floor as he stormed from the chamber.
Branwenn leapt to her feet and fled to the first place she could find for a bit of privacy: the buttery. She broke down in truth then. Her heart wrenching so harshly inside her chest, she couldn’t take a breath. She pressed both hands over her gaping mouth as silent sobs formed, moving her vocal cords up and down in her aching throat as a flood of tears splashed over her cheeks, her lips, her chin, finally forming into wet rivulets that streamed down her neck and dampened the front of her chemise and gown. Her entire body quaked and her knees grew so weak she crumpled to the ground and lay on her side with her hands covering her face. Callum, Callum, Callum, Callum. How was she to live without him now that he’d taken her very soul into his possession?
* * *
Callum leaned against the wall just outside the doorway of the great hall, his breathing harsh, his head thrown back, and his eyes clamped tightly shut. Had he just made the worst mistake of his life, or the best decision? Had she given him falsehood or truth? His heart was screaming that he’d been wrong, wrong, wrong and should go back in there right this minute, delay not another second, go down on his knees and beg Branwenn to forgive him for his lackwitted words. But, his mind would not listen. For, what if he wed her and she turned out to be just as Lara had been? Could he bear it? And what was more, was that the sort of woman he wanted raising his daughter—having more bairns with?