Love For A Reluctant Highland Lass (Blood of Duncliffe Series) (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story)

by Emilia Ferguson

  That's just typical.

  He sighed. His mind filled with images of his life, feeding him reasons to try and fight off the blows that rained down on him constantly.

  I can't escape.

  He was too injured already and he knew it. There was no way he could fight this – there were too many assailants and he was too far gone. He might as well not make matters worse for himself by fighting it.

  He lay where he was and composed his thoughts, letting a slow peace wash in and numb him from the legs up. He was five again and running on the docks. He was a teenager, grinning as he stole things from a stall in the market-place. He was twenty, and on board ship. Sunlight blinded him, shimmering on the water, and he smiled, feeling the peace. Waves, coruscating with light, lapping against the boat, one wave at a time, slow and bright. So peaceful...

  Suddenly a sound shattered the water and his peace, cutting through it like a dagger through hay-bales.

  The thugs heard it too. The blows stopped. Garrick noticed that first, before his brain made efforts to return and identify the sounds.

  A horn. A patrol?

  Nonsense, Garrick. Who'd be patrolling out here?

  A hunt.

  He heard the horn again, and the sound of hooves.

  The earl must have returned early, he reckoned. Perhaps he was returning with a hunting party, heading to his manor.

  It occurred to him, just before he collapsed, that it was little past five in the morning and the earl was unlikely to be hunting at that time, especially if he'd lately returned, but by then it was too late to think of some other rationale.

  The thieves had fled. He was alone.

  The noise of the hunt got closer, the horn more insistent, rising with urgency. He heard hoof-beats, hard on the forest floor, though, strangely, not sounding as if they were getting any closer. Then, abruptly, all sound died.

  It was replaced by a sob, and a hand on his shoulder. The sound of a horse, somewhere, huffing in distress.

  Someone gently turned him over.

  Garrick opened his eyes. He stared. He was looking up at a face he knew. Lady Marguerite.

  Ettie looked down at the form lying on the leaf-strewn forest-floor. She stared in utter astonishment. “Mr. Hale?”

  Beside her leg, the flask she'd been carrying slipped sideways and fell, a cold shape against her calf. She ignored it. She bent over and gently stroked the hair away from the man's forehead. His head was hot to the touch, a bruised lump on his scalp already swollen. She could see a cut on his forehead, and feel another lump, more worrying, on the back of his head.

  “What've they done?”

  She felt down his back, checking that no ribs were broken. She had some experience with injuries – she'd once saved a dog two thugs were kicking to death in the street. The creature's injuries came back to her now, as this man's were not dissimilar.

  His back isn't broken anywhere.

  She felt over his kidneys, and watched for wincing, or any other sign that they were harmed or bleeding. One of them throbbed and she guessed he'd received blows there. She turned him over, gently feeling down his front.

  A rib's cracked.

  It was hot to the touch, already badly swollen. She winced and ran her hand lower, feeling down the long bones of his thigh, checking for breaks. She encountered none. She was about to do the other leg when he stirred and cleared his throat.

  “Milady?” he croaked.

  Ettie drew her hand away. She had been utterly absorbed in the task of healing him and had entirely forgotten the facts of their acquaintance. She had seen only wounding, and forgotten the man.

  Now, cheeks flaming, she realized that she'd run her hands down his body and that, even now, her other hand rested on his back, supporting him. She withdrew it gently and he rolled a little, and then steadied himself.

  “Milady...what happened?”

  “A band of robbers attacked ye,” she said, then flinched. She'd spoken in her own dialectic. Not the Marguerite voice.

  “You scared them away?”

  He sounded incredulous. Ettie nodded. She'd had no idea of the identity of the rider – she'd been out in the woods, collecting mushrooms for Merrick, when she'd heard the cries.

  “I made noise, sir,” she said. “Scared them away.”

  He rolled over, staring up at her. She saw fear there, and swallowed hard. Why was he afraid? Of her?

  “The...horses,” he whispered. “Hunting...”

  She went red. “I had a flask with me,” she said, embarrassed. “I made the noise on that. The hunting-horn sound.”

  Garrick Hale stared at her. Abruptly, he chuckled. The chuckle turned into a fit of coughing and he rolled over onto his knees, retching and choking.

  Ettie watched, knowing his ribs were aching and one at least was cracked. She knew his chest wasn't punctured, so it was unlikely he couldn't breathe, but she had no idea how else he was hurt. “Come on,” she said. “We have to get back.”

  If nothing else, she thought, shivering, the woods were still dangerous. Even if she'd temporarily scared away dangers, the wolves – and there were wolves in these woodlands during the wintry months – and the outlaws could return.

  If they came back to discover the earl's hunt had been a girl blowing on a flask and the horse that had run away from them, they would show no quarter.

  She shuddered. How could they get away? Garrick Hale was injured. “Sir, can you stand?”

  He coughed. “I'll try.”

  “Your legs are unbroken,” she remarked. He nodded. Laughed again, and managed not to cough.

  “Thanks,” he said. “I'll remember that.”

  She tried not to smile. There was something she really liked about this man and his ways. She knew he could really die if she didn't get him back and warm soon, though, and she shelved her amusement for another moment.

  “Can I help?” she walked over, hand outstretched.

  Coughing, he batted it away. “'s...alright,” he managed to say. “I can walk.”

  She stood back, heart thudding, and privately dubious of that assertion. He was on his feet, but his weight was all braced on one leg, the other still half-flexed. He leaned forward, hands on the one knee, gasping.

  “Sir...we can call...”

  “No,” he said harshly. “Don't call for help. I can walk still.”

  She frowned. His horse, who had clearly managed to escape the robbers, was standing at her shoulder. Ettie had never feared horses and she reached up, stroking his nose. He rolled his eyes at her, and she realized he was still mistrusting of her.

  “Speak to your horse,” she said. “Tell him to stand fast. You reckon you can ride.”

  He chuckled again, painfully, making her wince. “I reckon that'd be a bit too far,” he managed to say. “But I can...walk...” He grunted and stepped forward, step by agonizing step, until he was alongside his horse. “Easy, fellow.”

  The horse snorted and stood firmly, letting his injured rider lean against him. Then, to her surprise, he looked up at her.

  “Thanks,” he said. “Come with us.”

  Ettie nodded, swallowing hard. She had no other choice – the woods were far too dangerous to stay here alone. As it was, she would never have ventured so far in had she not heard the horse's scream and the sounds of violence.

  She walked over to join the man. Tentatively, he reached out and his hand rested on her shoulder. She stiffened, every nerve in her body responding tremulously.

  “Sorry,” he said, apologetically. “Just can't...balance.”

  She nodded. “Lean on me, sir.”

  He winced. “Milady, I shouldn't. I am too...It's wrong.”

  She shook her head, feeling suddenly angry. What did it matter if he thought she was above him, social wise? And why did it have to happen that they met with him having no idea who she really was? In a less urgent moment she might have wept. Instead, she drew a steadying breath.

  “Come on, sir,” she said. “We
need to get back.”

  Garrick Hale nodded and, grunting, took steps forward, out of the clearing.

  The journey to the edge of the woodlands, which was really not altogether far, took a longer time than Ettie would have thought possible. They went slowly. He breathed steadily. He swore.

  Ettie bit her lip. Part of her was shocked by the language and part wanted to laugh.

  “Sorry, milady,” he said. “Sailor's words.”

  She nodded. “It's alright.”

  They walked along the path.

  When they reached the edge of the tree-line, it was already light. They looked out onto the manor, lit with sunshine. The clouds had blown away for the moment, and the place shone brightly with the dew, outlined crisply against a blue autumnal sky.

  “Here we are,” Ettie whispered.

  Abruptly, she ran out of plans. What was she going to do?

  She had no idea yet if this man was dangerous. Her mistress had wished her to stand in for one meeting. She had given her no directive as to what to do should she ever see him again. She was patently not supposed to be about in the woods at this time, and she had absolutely no permission whatsoever to bring guests – wanted or unwanted – to the building.

  Moreover, this guest was likely an unwelcome one.

  She sighed. “We need to get you help,” she whispered softly. “Follow me?”

  Making a decision, she led him around to the side gate, the one that had led around to the stables and then up to a winding path leading to the kitchen. Used by traders in former times, when the manor was a fortress, the path afforded little view of the house.

  It was safe to bring Garrick Hale, and the horse, in through that way.

  “Here we are,” she whispered, pushing the metal bars of the gate open. “Can you enter?”

  Garrick winced. He was white, his face sweating with effort, though the morning was bitterly cold. He nodded his head, hair damp with mist-water and his own perspiration.

  “I'll try.”

  He went in, step by step, leaning heavily on the wall. His leg still dragged a little. His horse and he couldn't pass through the narrow gate together, so he had to let go from where he leaned on the supportive creature for help.

  “You next,” Ettie whispered to the horse. He snorted, but seemed to know his companion needed help, for he followed Garrick Hale inside. A sturdy black stallion, the horse was clearly the veteran of many shared journeys.

  Lastly, she followed them inside and shut the gate behind them. Inside, she tensed, looking around.

  “The storehouse,” she decided. She pointed up the sloping ground. Her companion went a shade paler – if it was possible – but nodded.

  Biting his lip, he walked step-by-step up the slope, heading to the outbuilding she'd indicated. The cluster of three small barns was meant to house provisions, hay and wood. The one that opened around the back – the one for the hay – was the easiest to enter unnoticed. It was also the least likely to be entered today.

  They mucked out the stables three days ago. We have four days before it's done again.

  She watched as Garrick reached the back of the barn and sank down into the hay. He suddenly seemed to collapse, abruptly running out of energy. She understood – it had taken everything he had to get here. The relief of having finally arrived had crippled him.

  Looking around, she nodded to herself. With the door shut, it would be warm enough. She'd unsaddle his horse – a task she'd never done, but she was sure she could achieve somehow – and leave him near the stall. She was relying on the hope that Camry Waite and the rest were too daft to recognize the horse from before.

  Unlikely, but we have to hope.

  A groan from her patient brought her back to the present moment.

  “...Cold...”

  “I know,” she whispered. “I'll fetch something. I'll be back soon.”

  She wished she could do something right now to help, but she had nothing with her. She had to take care of things one step at a time.

  The horse snorted and she turned toward him. First things first.

  “I'll come back shortly,” she whispered, aching to leave the man alone for even a second. Then she closed the door, making herself shut it firmly and turn away. She faced the horse.

  “Right,” she said nervously. “Let's get this off.”

  Hands shivering with nerves, but strong with stubborn will, she tugged at the clasp where the band – almost like a belt – buckled the contraption round the creature. The saddle loosened and fell backwards. She hauled it sideways, grunting, and dropped it.

  The horse snorted, stamping.

  “Right,” she said, feeling relieved. She straightened, back aching, and looked at the contrivance of straps holding the reins to the creature's face. She gave up.

  “Sorry, lad,” she whispered. “I can't untie it.”

  She led the horse forward until they were in sight of the stables. Then she gave him a gentle nudge on the leg, and left him alone.

  She was on the path back up to the house when she heard one of the horses call a greeting, and he answered, a neigh that could be threat or welcome.

  “That's that.”

  She headed up to the house.

  IN THE BARN

  “Ettie?”

  Ettie froze where she was in the act of lifting a bundle of old linen out of the cupboard. She turned, shutting the door, heart thudding.

  “Yes, Mrs. Laney?”

  “I need a hand with the starch. Can ye get it down?”

  Ettie nodded. She was in the laundry area. She ran to the shelf, reaching up to get the tin box Mrs. Laney needed from the top of the row of shelves over the table.

  “Och, thank ye, lass,” the woman nodded. “I cannae reach it there.” She beamed her thanks, then her eyes narrowed and she studied Ettie carefully.

  Ettie froze.

  “Och, lass, ye're all messy. What happened?”

  Ettie reached up to her forehead, and realized her face was streaked with mud. She must have touched Garrick's shoulder, soiled from lying on the dirt, and then scraped hair from her eyes.

  “Um...I fell,” she murmured, clutching for an explanation. “I was gathering herbs and I fell.”

  “Och, lass,” the older woman chuckled comfortably. “Just as well ye've not gone upstairs yet! Ye look right messy.”

  Ettie sighed. “I'll wash my face.”

  “For certain, ye shall,” the laundress insisted. “And wash yer hands after – I'll not have all this lovely white linen spoiled for want of soap.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Laney.”

  She sighed. She had been so close to getting out with the fabric she needed. She washed her hands, splashed her face – feeling suddenly reduced to the old, plain Ettie – and then carefully dried her hands on a linen towel.

  Then she snuck back to the cupboard. The old linen – worn in places and no longer useful for its former functions – was kept there.

  If I don't use it, it'll just be cut up for rags for blacking boots or polishing grates.

  She grabbed a sheet off the pile, threadbare in the middle, rolled it up and concealed it under her shawl. Then, the bundle wrapped in her arms, she ran out to the storehouse.

  Linen, for bandages. Warm water. Feverfew, mallow, and yarrow.

  She went through the list, ending with some victuals. She needed to feed the fellow, if he was going to survive.

  He must be so cold.

  She walked briskly to the barn, where she hid the sheet in the foremost storehouse, and then ran for the kitchens.

  “You need to make some tea?” Mrs. Merrick asked, turning as she entered. “Mistress is awake?”

  “Um, she's resting,” Ettie said. She had checked on her when she got in, but she had still been asleep. It was only half an hour past six, and her mistress could easily sleep until eight o'clock, sometimes later.

  “Good,” Merrick said.

  “Um, I need hot water, though,” Ettie said. “I need to wash.
”

  Merrick shot her a look and Ettie instantly regretted the lie. Without excusing it, she helped herself to some thyme from the shelf. She knew it would do almost as well to stave off the infection as yarrow would, and she couldn't see any of that.

  “If you need to make a wash for something, there's tansy in the airing-room,” Mrs. Merrick said flatly. Ettie stared at her.

  Black, flint-hard eyes met her own.

  “Thank you,” Ettie said. She felt her cheeks go red – she should have known she couldn't pilfer from Mrs. Merrick covertly.

  “Take what you need – I know you respect other people's things,” Mrs. Merrick added as Ettie shot out of the door, heading upstairs.

  “Thanks, Mrs. Merrick,” she called back. She heard no answer.

  Up in the attic, in what must have been a turret, was the airing-room. Merrick used it for drying herbs and it was, to all intents and purpose, her place. Ettie crept in, feeling like an intruder.

  Seeing the bunches she needed, she pulled out enough to do with what she needed, and then ran downstairs again. There was a stone jug of water – fresh-boiled – left on the counter without comment. She took that and ran for the storehouse.

  “Mr. Hale?”

  No answer.

  She knocked and opened the door a fraction, then slipped inside. She had a horrified thought that he might not be there when she went in. There he was though. She ran to him, disturbed by his posture and stillness, the whiteness of his pallor.

  “Hale?”

  She shook him. He stirred, groaning. Then his eyes shot open, wide and terrified. He tried to struggle upright.

  “Shh,” she whispered. “It's alright. It's me.”

  Abruptly, his eyes closed and he leaned back against the wall, completely exhausted. He shivered and let out a long, shuddering exhale.

  “I brought some bandages,” she said, carefully not mentioning the fact that she'd scared him: he looked the sort of fellow who didn't want to be scared. “I need to set your bones.”

  He opened his eyes, looking at her, a little apprehensive. “I have breaks, eh?”