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

by Emilia Ferguson

  “Ask him how he knew us,” she whispered.

  Garrick's eyes widened. “Why were you following us?” he asked.

  The man laughed. “He said...trouble,” the man managed. “Told me you knew.”

  Garrick's eyes widened. “He knew?”

  At that moment, the man managed to twist aside. Ettie shouted in alarm, but it was too late. Somehow, he'd got to his feet and was heading, as fast as he could, down the dark street.

  Ettie got to her feet and ran after him. Garrick followed, more slowly. They were in time to see him disappear down the next street.

  Ettie shook her head. “Let him be,” she said. She was too tired to pursue him. She leaned against the wall, feeling utterly drained.

  Garrick shook his head, sighing.

  “Garrick,” Ettie whispered. “No. It's enough – we found out all we could from him.”

  He leaned forward, resting against the wall, and she could see how exhausted he was, how near collapse. She reached to touch his shoulder and he turned, his eyes full of pain.

  “We can't let him get away,” he said, and then doubled over, coughing. “He'll let them all know we're coming. And he knows.”

  Ettie nodded. Of all the things that they'd learned, that one bothered her the most. She didn't like to think what would happen to them should Crae catch them here. Yet going to confront Crae was precisely why they were here.

  If he is even who he says he is. What if he's milady's uncle, after all?

  Ettie dismissed the thought, shivering. They were here, in the darkness, and together they had staved off the one threat she had foreseen – the man in the shadows. They were not going to give up now.

  “We should go then,” she said, voice trembling. “The Watch should be there by now.”

  Garrick blinked, and then nodded. “Maybe,” he agreed. He turned and started to walk back.

  Ettie followed him.

  As they walked down the street, the sense of dread that had held her heart shifted, mixing with the sense that soon they would be where they had to be. Finally, all this fear would be over and they could feel free, at last, to live as they had longed to live.

  “I hope it's not too far,” Ettie whispered, giggling. For some reason she couldn't stop wanting to laugh. It was fear, she knew, but she couldn't hold it back. “It's cold out here.”

  Garrick squeezed her hand and nodded. “Not too much further.”

  They walked down the street and toward a dark warehouse.

  “It's on this street,” Garrick whispered.

  They had reached the quay. Somewhere, not too far away, Ettie could hear the sea, sighing and rolling, the waves crashing hard against the docks. She bit her lip. They were so close now. She squeezed his hand again and they continued.

  “Here,” Garrick whispered. They stopped outside a warehouse and he drew her into the shadow. “I'll go in the front door. You go round the back?”

  Ettie looked at him, eyes wide. It made sense, she had to admit. Somehow, she had never imagined entering separate ways though.

  “It's safer that way,” he whispered. “And better if one of us can sneak up on Crae.”

  Ettie nodded. Her heart started to beat faster. She looked around and took a step backward. “Yes,” she whispered back. “I'll go round.”

  “There's a window in the back wall,” he said. “It's never latched, as far as I know. Push it and it should open inwards. Nobody's in there. There's a door in the front wall that leads into his office. That's where I'll be.”

  Ettie heard how tight and tense his voice sounded and knew that he was nervous, likely much more nervous than she. She nodded to him reassuringly, and he gripped her hand and looked into her eyes.

  “I love you, Ettie Lomond,” he whispered.

  Then, almost before she could remember to breathe, he was turning away.

  “I love you too, Garrick Hale,” she whispered back, tears flowing freely down her cheeks. She sniffed. “I love you too.”

  Then she was walking away, blindly, heading around the back of the warehouse to the window. She pushed against the diamond-paned window and it swung inwards with the barest resistance. She climbed through automatically, without really thinking about what she did.

  She was inside.

  The space was cavernous, the floor damp where water leaked in from the rain beyond the front doors. She walked across the wet stone, heart thudding. There were barrels and boxes stacked on planks against the one wall, piled on top of one another to keep out the rain. She heard her own footsteps scraping on the floor, seeming so loud, and winced, trying to walk more silently.

  She reached the wall at the front and felt about, trying to feel for the difference between wood and stone. It was dark in there, and she could barely see. She could tell the difference between the dull blankness of the stone wall and the gloss of the wood in starlight, and managed to find it. Then she leaned on the metal handle. It creaked. She drew a breath.

  Don't open it. You don't know what's on the other side. Look down.

  She knelt, ignoring the cold stone and the way it made her legs instantly numb. Instead, she pressed her eye to the door and peered through the keyhole, staring inside.

  She could see candlelight, ruddy and orange. And Garrick. He stood perhaps ten paces from the door, looking down at someone who sat at a desk. The form was black, shadowed by the candles that burned on the desk. All Ettie could see was the bulkiness of it, and the outline of the chair below.

  That is Crae.

  She held her breath. Garrick's posture was relaxed, though she couldn't imagine how he managed that. He was leaning with one hand on the desk – probably to take the weight off his injured leg – and bent to talk to the man. She could see his expression – intense, intent – and she wished she could reach out and lay a hand on his arm, as much for reassurance of herself as for him.

  She stayed where she was, watching intently, which was why she saw the moment when Crae stood, and Garrick doubled over, coughing.

  She stared, transfixed in horror, as he collapsed on the table, and, as she saw something glint in Crae's hand, she screamed. Without stopping to think, to look, to pause, she leaned on the door and turned the handle and then, suddenly, she was in the room and running, heading straight for the man who loomed over Garrick, a knife in his hand.

  A FIGHT UNPLANNED

  Several things happened very fast. Garrick felt the blow to his ribs – his injured rib – winding him, shooting rays of unmitigated agony straight to his mind. He doubled over on the desk, felled. Crae moved again, and Garrick heard his chair tip back, and then a sound like Hell had opened to disgorge all the demons at its heart. He felt a hand descend on the back of his neck, dragging him upwards. Then, just as suddenly, everything was thrown off balance as someone screamed.

  “Garrick!”

  He twisted around as Crae stumbled backwards, losing his footing. As he did so, he grabbed a chair – the only weapon he had near him – and ran.

  He heard himself yelling as he held the chair before him, like a shield, like a weapon, and ran at the dark bulk of his master where he leaned against the wall, fur-lined jacket torn from one shoulder, breathing hard.

  The short dagger glittered in the dark as the man bunched his muscles and ran at Garrick, but the legs of the chair were in the way and Garrick caught the blow on them, wincing as he saw how it carved into the bar that held the legs straight. If that had landed in his vitals, he'd be dead now.

  Or he'd be wishing he was.

  He grunted, pushing against the superior weight of Crae. The man was clearly the veteran of many street fights himself, for he knew all the tricks, even better than Garrick did. He leaned back, made as if to go right, then moved left, and Garrick felt a strange heat in his right shoulder.

  Ettie snarled. He saw her grab a book from the desk and suddenly the book was flying at Crae, who ducked it, and then directed himself at Ettie, who was utterly unprotected.

  “No!”
<
br />   Garrick ran at the man, holding out the chair again. The legs took the brunt of the rush, but Garrick, holding it, was slammed backward. The villain was strong!

  “You won't get out of this,” Crae yelled. “I'll have you both taken to the warehouse and killed. They'll not find you before I've had your bodies taken out to sea.”

  “They're going to find us,” Garrick said, trying to shout. His ribs burned and his chest was tight. A plague on those wounds! If he had been fully recovered, this fight would have gone differently. As it was, he barely had the strength to put himself between the man and Ettie, fending him off with the battered chair legs.

  “Aye, they will,” Crae agreed. “But somewhat too late.”

  Garrick stepped forward as he lunged again. He was no longer armed, he noticed, and realized, even as he realized that the fluid running down his arm was blood – that the dagger must have become lost at some point during their clash earlier.

  He realized that if he could go back to the corner he'd find it, and thus be at an advantage, but he couldn't move from where he was, bracing the chair between Crae and Ettie.

  “They'll find you,” Ettie shouted, grabbing at a bottle from a sideboard Garrick hadn't noticed. Like the book, she pitched it at Crae. Garrick saw his face darken as the bottle missed and smashed at his feet. It was, he judged from the smell, expensive brandy.

  The shards of glass were on the floor now, the liquid running across the stone, making it a treacherous trap for the unwary. Crae looked down. He was clearly reluctant to step on it himself, and the dark stain became a barrier between them. Garrick stepped back, the chair temporarily not necessary to hold back Crae.

  “You think the boys will let you do this?” he shouted at Garrick. “I've called them. They'll be here in a moment and then you'll be in the cellar, quick as winking.”

  Garrick felt the blood drain from his head. The boys were the dock-workers. Fiercely loyal to Crae, they would indeed truss them both up in the cellar without thought. In addition, that would leave him and Ettie both dead, on a boat, their bodies cast out to sea before anyone could know. What could they do?

  “They won't come,” Garrick said confidently. “The Watch will stop them.”

  “Why?” Crae asked, looking between him and Ettie, swaying like the professional fighter he doubtless had once been, working up the balance for the strike. “My workers, my warehouse.”

  “They're going to investigate,” Garrick said confidently, then ran out of breath as Crae launched himself toward him, landing a blow on his arm that made him lower the chair, gasping in shock.

  The chair dropped. Crae jumped back, thus avoiding a crushed foot. Garrick looked around, feeling utterly unsafe. He was backed against the wall, with Crae and all his muscled bulk before him. What could he do? He looked around, feeling desperate.

  Head to the corner.

  He knew the knife was there. Stepping sideways slowly, so as not to let Crae see he was leaving Ettie's side, he inched that way.

  “You're a fool,” Crae shouted at Garrick, stepping back to avoid the spilled brandy. “You could have stayed here, kept your mouth shut, worked for me. I paid you well.”

  “My soul isn't for sale,” Garrick called. He had reached the corner now, and was bending down for the knife. As he was about to reach it, Crae whirled around. In two steps he was against him, butting him with his head in a way that slammed Garrick back against the wall, jaws clicking.

  His vision was white, shot through with gray. He sucked in a breath. Someone screamed.

  Crae stumbled back and the hold on his arms was loosened. He swung around and Garrick, staring, saw him strike a blow.

  Ettie stepped back, gasping. Her face was contorted in pain, her posture stooped.

  Garrick heard himself roar. He had no idea such a noise could issue from a human throat and at that moment, he didn't particularly care. He raised the chair and brought it down on Crae's head, hard. He had forgotten in that moment about the knife.

  Pain. Heat, slicing across his chest. Garrick turned, instinctively, which was why the knife did not go into his stomach, as intended, but skittered across his ribs.

  The agony made him gasp, but it was short lived. Crae's eyes opened, wide in surprise, and then he whirled around as a blow struck him, hard, between the shoulders.

  Garrick saw Ettie standing there, a staff in hand. He had no idea where she'd found it, or even what it was, because it seemed to be heavy. He wanted to yell his thanks for it though. She'd saved him! As he watched, Crae rounded on her where she stood, holding the staff. She stabbed it outward, warding off Crae, but then stumbled back against the wall, suddenly exhausted.

  Garrick felt his vision start to narrow and cloud as he took a step forward, hissing in pain. He had to reach Ettie, had to get the man away, but he was so tired, the blood draining from the wound in his chest, and he fell forward as the door burst open and he heard the sound of running feet.

  “Take them,” Crae said aloud.

  Garrick felt someone grip his shoulders, pulling up in a way that made raw agony sear through his cut left shoulder. He let out his breath in a hiss. He tried to fight, but someone slammed a fist into his stomach and the ribs and dagger-cut combined to make the pain so intense Garrick's mind all but stopped.

  He heard someone sob. Ettie!

  He fought, and was kicked, and hit, and lost consciousness. The last bit of awareness in his head was of being lifted bodily, and carried from the room. Then everything went dark.

  Cold. Bitter, aching cold. It gnawed at his face and made him open his eyes.

  Cold air. Smells of the sea. Night. They were outside.

  Garrick felt his senses return to him and with it, his need to fight. He was over someone's shoulder and he bent his knees and doubled over, forcing the man to bend.

  The man shouted a curse word, but Garrick barely noticed. He had one foot on the ground and was reaching for the fellow's head, clawing to find his eyes.

  “Guards!” he yelled as he did so. “Here! Here!”

  The man snarled and a fist connected with Garrick's chest, making him sob and collapse forward. Where was Ettie? Was she here? Why was she silent?

  He tried to get up, but his leg shot out from below him, nerveless. Cut, bruised, and broken, he seemed to have finally finished every ounce of his reserves.

  As he tried to stand, he heard someone scream.

  Again, the world shifted too fast to make any sense. He saw two of the men step back, snarling, and the screaming was abruptly silenced. He tried to stand again, but someone kicked out at him and then, as he yelled in pain, the street was filled with the sound of running feet.

  “Aye! That's enough!”

  “Off with you lot! What're you doing?”

  “Here! That's enough.”

  The sound of blows mixed with the sound of feet and the assailant who had loomed at his side abruptly disappeared.

  Garrick felt his heart sing even as his body decided it had finally had enough and crashed forward, making his cheek meet the ice-cold cobblestones. It was the Watch. They were here. They were safe.

  “Ettie,” he whispered softly.

  Then he passed out.

  Ettie felt a hand descend on her shoulder as she crawled across the cobblestones. She could feel they were wet and cold, and yet it seemed nothing touched her, as if she floated in a haze beyond sensation, beyond pain. She could see Garrick laying there, a shattered statue. His cheek was on the cobbles, his face white.

  She reached for his shoulder and felt cold stone. She shook him, but she couldn't make him move. Her mind went slowly, thoughts coming down a long empty tunnel to her mind. “Garrick?” she whispered. “Garrick?”

  “That'll do, lass,” a voice said. The hand on her shoulder gripped, making her wince. Her whole shoulder felt as if it was in agony. She twisted around to protest, but her vision swam before her, making it seem as if two men stood there, a lamp illuminating them. She tried to focus on the home
ly faces, but they blurred more and she felt her mind lose its grip on the present and fade away altogether.

  Her next awareness was of warmth. She was somewhere near a fire. Her whole body was encased in swathing blankets and she was sweating. She murmured, shifting below them.

  “Hot,” she murmured. “So hot...”

  She heard a chair grate back on the wooden floor and someone stood. A male voice, dry and distant, said, “She's awake.”

  She heard another voice join it, a distant mutter of words too quiet to follow continuing in the background. She made a small noise of protest. Whoever it was, could they not go away and let her rest? And what of Garrick? Where was she...?

  “Garrick...” she whispered.

  “There, now, that'll do. More of the poppy, you think?”

  Ettie shook her head. The last thing she wanted was someone to make her sleep. She would have said so, but it clearly wasn't her who was being asked, for she heard glasses clink somewhere on her right and then, almost before she was aware of the coolness on her lips she was already drifting back to sleep.

  The next thing she knew was white-gray light. She opened her eyes, groaning. Her body ached. Her mind felt dull, as if someone had removed it and stuffed her head with cobwebs. Her mouth had a foul taste in it and she wanted water. She looked around, looking through the window at the foot of the bed. She could see the rise of a steeple and the outline of a distant hill behind and, somewhere on her left, she knew, was the sea.

  They were in Queensferry, in the inn. Ettie rolled out of bed, feeling her feet connect with cold flooring, and leaned on the bed as she gasped, trying to forget about the pain that lanced through every inch of her. She felt as if she had been ground in a mill, every part of her aching and throbbing, wearied and pained.

  She gritted her teeth and stood, reaching for the pitcher of water that stood on the table at the end of the bed. She drank some, wincing at the cold, then cleaned out her mouth, spitting out the sour taste. She looked down at the town. It was gray and dark out there, the dullness an echo of the dullness in her heart.