Medieval Romantic Legends

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Her eyes shot from her feet to her right, back up the faint, overgrown path she had walked along to reach the edge of the forest.

  All of a sudden, an enormous draft horse pulling a wagon crashed through the underbrush only a few yards away. She jumped back in surprise but tripped over her basket, which still sat on the ground next to her. She tumbled backward, landing on her bottom in the low bushes she had been scouring a moment before.

  “Whoa!” A commanding male voice shouted from the wagon, drawing the draft horse to a halt mere feet away from where Jossalyn had been standing.

  She quickly tried to get herself upright and give the rude wagoners a piece of her mind, but her skirt tangled in the brambles of the underbrush, and her thrashing only made it worse. Embarrassment mixed with ire, and a warm flush moved up her neck.

  Just then, she glanced up as the driver of the wagon leapt from his seat and strode toward her. Her thrashing stilled, and her jaw slackened. Walking—no, gliding, and with deadly grace—toward her was the most dangerously handsome man she had ever seen.

  His frame was large but lean, his broad shoulders tapering into a trim waist and long legs. He wore a pair of simple breeches and a white shirt, but due to the day’s warmth, he had the sleeves rolled back, revealing bronzed and muscular forearms. His dark brown hair was held back at his neck, and a day’s growth of beard shadowed the hard line of his jaw.

  She nearly gasped when she caught a glimpse of his eyes, though. They were almost black, and bored into her intensely. His brow furrowed as he took her in, which gave him an even darker, more intimidating look. He finally reached her, looming so large from her position on the ground that he blocked out the sun.

  “Are you all right, lass?”

  If it was possible, her eyes grew even wider. He spoke with a soft lilt. A Scotsman.

  Chapter Four

  Burke had warned him not to try to skirt the village on the west side, for the path was nearly overgrown by the forest. But Garrick had insisted that they would be less likely to be spotted, and so had forced their horse and wagon down the almost invisible path. It would look better for them to enter the village from the south, he had insisted, so that it would appear like they had already spend time in the area and weren’t coming straight from Scotland.

  He had gritted his teeth at the conditions of the path, if it could even be called that, and silently dared Burke to make a comment so that he would have an excuse to unleash his annoyance on his cousin. It wasn’t Burke’s fault, of course, but Garrick was strung tighter than his bow—which he had been forced to leave back at the safe house—and anxious to get this entire mission over with.

  He had been so distracted in his thoughts, however, that he failed to see the lass until it was almost too late. Luckily, his reflexes were sharp enough that at the first flash of golden hair and dark green skirts, he pulled up hard on the reins, forcing their enormous draft horse and cumbersome wagon to a halt before they squashed the lass like a bug.

  As it was, she looked squashed anyway. She had crumpled into a bush and was struggling to right herself. Feeling like an arse for not paying attention, and dreading having to beg apology from this lass he had nearly run over, Garrick swung out of the wagon and strode toward her. Her hair, which sparkled like gold in the sunlight, had slipped from its braid and partially obscured her face, but her eyes followed him as he moved.

  “Are you all right, lass?” he said in his least-Scottish sounding voice, coming to a halt in front of her.

  She shoved her golden hair out of her face with one hand to reveal flawless strawberries-and-cream cheeks. Her eyes widened, and Garrick suddenly found himself swimming in their emerald depths. Maybe drowning was more like it.

  His eyes traveled down to her berry-red lips, which were parted in a surprised O, and his mind went instantly to thoughts of how soft and sweet they might taste.

  He viciously ripped his mind away from such idling. He wasn’t here to seek pleasure with a Borderlands lass—no matter how incredibly enticing she was. And yet, there he stood, staring down at her like a dumbfounded lad. For some reason he couldn’t get his tongue to work. All he could seem to do was drink in the sight of her on the ground, rumpled, surprised, and just as speechless as he was.

  Burke cleared his throat from where he stood behind Garrick, which caused him to snap his head up, breaking the spell.

  “Our apologies, my lady. We are unfamiliar with these paths. Are you hurt?” Burke said smoothly, hiding his brogue far better than Garrick had.

  Burke’s words made Garrick feel even more like an arse. Here he was, enraptured by this lass’s finely formed face while she was toppled over in a bush, struggling to get to her feet. He quickly extended his hand to her. She shifted her glance between the two of them, seeming to weigh Burke’s good manners against his poor ones.

  Finally, she placed her delicate hand inside his. He wrapped his other hand around her upper arm and hauled her out of the brambly bush she had fallen into. But he overestimated the force required, and ended up yanking her clear off her feet. She screeched as she came hurdling upward and toward him, but the sound died when she bumped into his large chest.

  Christ, this wasn’t going well, he thought with annoyance at himself.

  Thankfully, she bounced off his chest and landed on her feet, though she wobbled a bit. Placing his hands on her shoulders to steady her, he took a step back so as not to intimidate the lass—or inflict any more of his “help” on her.

  “I apologize for startling you, my lady, and for, er—for flinging you,” he said through gritted teeth. Damn, but he did feel like a lad—one who had been caught with his hand in the honey pot.

  The lass seemed to be gathering whatever shred of dignity and level-headedness she had left. She smoothed her dark green skirts with her slim hands, which Garrick noticed trembled ever so slightly.

  “Yes, well. You should drive more slowly on these overgrown paths,” she said. Her voice was strained, but her English accent was clear. So, she wasn’t from the Borderlands as he had initially thought. He felt himself grow slightly more guarded.

  “Again, we deeply apologize, my lady, and beg your forgiveness,” Burke said with a regal bow. “As I mentioned, we aren’t from here, and were trying to find our way to the village at Dunbraes.”

  “Ah, well, you are nearly there. The village is a stone’s throw from here,” she replied, then hesitated for a beat before going on. “May I ask what your business is? You see, I know the village and its people well, and could perhaps point you toward what you seek.”

  That sounded innocent enough, but Garrick suspected that his stronger Scottish accent was making the lass curious at best—or worse, suspicious.

  “How fortuitous!” Burke said, plastering a smile on his face, though his thoughts likely ran in the same direction as Garrick’s. “We are blacksmiths from a small village farther north. Though we were both apprenticed with our uncle with the aim of taking his place, he has stayed on as the head blacksmith back home, and sadly there wasn’t enough work to keep us employed. We were hoping to find more work in a larger village.”

  Some of the tension went out of the lass’s shoulders. Burke had managed to easily explain both their accents and their large, muscular frames, all while keeping a friendly smile on his face. Damn, he was good.

  “Hmm, John may welcome the extra help.” Her brow furrowed slightly as she thought. “In fact, he should be giving his bad hip a rest anyway.” Seeming to decide something, she gave a little nod. “I can show you where our village smithy is and make an introduction. I need to check on him anyway.”

  Garrick felt his own curiosity pique. Without thinking, he said softly, “Check on him?”

  The lass blushed prettily and lowered her eyes under his gaze. “Yes, I am—I am a healer.” Though she tried to steady her voice, it nevertheless faltered. Now it was Garrick’s turn to furrow his brow. What would cause the lass to feel embarrassed to name herself a healer? What was sh
e hiding?

  Perhaps he had spent too long alone in the field. Here he was, growing suspicious of a lass just because she blushed under his hard stare. He was likely scaring the wits out of her. Even without his kilt, metal-studded leather vest, sword, knives, and bow and arrow, he probably didn’t look like the friendly villagers she was used to seeing.

  “May we offer you a ride back to the village, my lady?” Burke said. “At least then you’ll know you won’t be run down by a few country bumpkins like us!”

  Country bumpkins? Even in their simple English clothes, Garrick doubted they could pass for bumpkins. But despite his skepticism, Burke’s charm worked yet again. The lass cracked a small smile, and his stomach pinched. Her green eyes danced and those rosy, supple lips arched into the perfect curve.

  “I suppose I could accept a ride. But not from strangers,” she said.

  Burke matched her smile and swept another gallant bow. “I am Burke Ferguson, and this is my cousin, Garrick Ferguson.” They had decided to use their first names to avoid any dangerous slip-ups, but had chosen a nice, safe Lowlander surname, despite how ridiculous their names now sounded to his ears.

  She bobbed a curtsy to them. “And I am Jossalyn W-Williams.”

  Garrick didn’t miss her little hitch—the second one in mere minutes. Now he was suspicious. Good thing his mission was to ask questions around the village and gather information. He would have to keep a special eye on this lass—not that such a task would be hard.

  After she had collected her basket full of herbs, the three of them walked over to the wagon. Before Burke could prove himself a gentleman and make Garrick look like a bumbling arse again, though, Garrick wrapped his hands around the lass’s slim waist and lifted her onto the bench at the front of the wagon. Then he swung himself into the driver’s seat, leaving Burke to take up a perch in the back of the wagon, which was mostly empty except for some supplies to give the appearance that they had traveled from a nearby village.

  As Garrick took the reins in his hands, he was acutely aware of the lass’s presence next to him, in no small part because she smelled incredible—like sunshine and wildflowers. He gripped the reins hard, trying to get his hands to stop tingling from the memory of the feel of her trim waist and that perfect spot where it flared gently toward her hips.

  Aye, he would be staying close to Jossalyn Williams—for the mission, he told himself firmly.

  Chapter Five

  Jossalyn tried to still her racing heart, but it hadn’t stopped pounding wildly since she had laid eyes on the two Scotsmen—well, only one of them had her chest hammering, actually.

  Even now, as the one named Garrick turned the wagon down the cart road that ran through the middle of Dunbraes village, she couldn’t quite seem to catch her breath or think straight.

  It was because she had nearly been run over, she told herself for the umpteenth time.

  It was because he had wrapped his large, strong hands around her waist and lifted her like a feather. Men simply didn’t touch her like that; she was Raef Warren’s sister after all, and a lady.

  It was because she had nearly let her name slip, then lied badly to cover up a mistake that would have likely ended her forbidden foray into the village to see to the ailing.

  But a little voice inside whispered that the uncontrollable fluttering in her chest was actually because the man sitting mere inches from her in the wagon was the most stunningly, strikingly, dangerously handsome man she had ever seen.

  His eyes—which had appeared nearly black at first, but had revealed themselves to be a steely gray—cut into her like a knife. He seemed to be able to see directly into her, knowing her lies and understanding her girlish blushes. And his body—he was built like stone but moved like silk. She had seen muscular men before—after all, Dunbraes was one of the central gathering points for English troops before they advanced into Scotland. But something about his build sent shivers through her like no other. It made sense that he was a blacksmith, for nothing but warfare or smithing could hone such a physique.

  Something tickled her mind about such a thought, though. Why hadn’t these two brawny, able-bodied men in their prime been drafted into either the English army or the Scottish resistance?

  Perhaps it was because they were Borderlanders. These unfortunate people in whose midst she lived had suffered the worst of the conflict. They often got hammered by both sides, and had to maintain fluid alliances just to survive. Jossalyn could understand not wanting to join the fight and risk everything if—or rather, when—the tide turned to one side and then the other. She had seen enough of the cruel treatment by the English against the peaceful farmers and villagers in the Borderlands to know just how dangerous it was to be Scottish, let alone a supporter of the Scottish cause for independence, in these times.

  These two men were likely just trying to survive, even if it meant working in an English-held region. Plenty of other Lowlanders had done the same, so why did she keep feeling that tickle in the back of her mind? Something about these two—and particularly Garrick—made her curious. She had a hard time picturing him as a simple blacksmith from a small village. He seemed too—dangerous.

  So lost in her thoughts was she that she nearly forgot to instruct Garrick to stop as they approached John’s smithy. Without thinking she gripped his forearm as she pointed to the smithy and told him where to guide the wagon so that it would be out of the way. His hard muscles flexed under her touch, and his skin was warm and smooth where her fingers brushed past his rolled up sleeve. She jerked back as if burned, but he didn’t seem to notice—or at least he pretended not to for her benefit.

  Garrick pulled the draft horse to a halt where she had indicated, then swung out from his seat. Before she could begin her own descent, though, he moved like lightning to her side of the wagon, extending those large hands toward her to help her down. She placed her hands on top of his shoulders, feeling the ripple of his muscles as he tensed under her touch. Then those hands were on her waist again, sending waves of heat from where they firmly gripped her. She could feel another blush creeping up her neck and willed it away, but to no avail.

  As if she weighed next to nothing, he lifted her first up so that her feet would clear the wagon’s bench, then down until her feet gently touched ground. For some reason, though, she felt like she was still floating in the air. His hands lingered for a moment, and his steel-gray eyes collided with hers. His look was unreadable, but there was something fierce in it, though she didn’t know why.

  A quiet cough from Burke, who had already started walking toward the smithy, snapped both of their eyes away. Garrick’s hands instantly left her waist. She could still feel where they had been, though, as if she had two large handprints branded into her now.

  Garrick gestured for her to lead the way, and she grabbed her basket and moved past him, trying to keep her chin level and her cheeks from flaming again. Crossing the wagon road, she tapped on the smithy door lightly. When she heard John’s bellow to come in, she pushed the door open.

  Despite the brightness and warmth of the summer day outside, the interior of the smithy was dim and roasting hot. A large fireplace with several tools sticking out of it dominated the back wall, and except for a few tables strewn with more tools, the only other feature of the room was the huge anvil in the middle, where John was currently working.

  John squinted into the light of the open door, his bald head dripping sweat. When he recognized Jossalyn, he tossed his tools down immediately. “My lady! What brings you here today?” He gave a quick bow, then straightened, moving around the anvil toward her. She took note of the slight limp and the way he was favoring his right hip.

  “I’ve come to make an introduction. John Elliot, these two men are here to inquire about work. This is Burke and Garrick Ferguson, from a village to the north.” She stepped aside to let each of the large Scotsmen enter the smithy. John removed one of his gloves and extended his hand to each man, then grunted in satisfaction.
r />   “Well, you’ve got enough hand strength to work for me, and that’s a start,” he said with a nod.

  As Burke explained their circumstances and their desire for work, Jossalyn began digging in her basket. Though most of her attention was taken trying to find the comfrey root that would ease John’s hip pain, she could feel Garrick’s eyes on her, following her movements. Her fingers fumbled slightly, but she took in a steadying breath. It must be the heat from the fireplace that was making her cheeks feel so warm.

  Burke concluded and the smithy fell silent as John considered them, one hand rubbing his square chin. Finally, he spoke. “I’ve had a few jobs piling up ever since this old hip of mine has kept me from working like I used to. It won’t be permanent, mind you, but I suppose you lads could help me get caught up.”

  “That sounds fair enough. We’d be much obliged, even if it’s only for a few days or a week,” Burke replied.

  “Now that that’s settled, I have one more matter of business with you, John,” Jossalyn said firmly, putting on her most serious face. She handed him the comfrey root. “Boil this in water until it turns into a thick paste. Then soak a cloth in it and wrap the cloth around your hip. That should ease the pain, especially when the fogs start to roll in.”

  She turned and nearly ran into Garrick’s broad chest. She hadn’t realized it, but he had taken a step closer toward her as she had been speaking.

  “I—I have to go,” she managed to get out as she quickly skirted around his towering frame and toward the door. “I have other patients to see. Good luck with your work.” She didn’t know who these last words were directed at, but she felt so flustered in such close proximity to Garrick that she rushed toward the door, longing for the fresh air outside.

  “How would you lads like to get started right now?” She could hear John’s deep voice behind her as she passed through the doorway. She felt Garrick’s eyes following her, the sensation burning into her back even as she hustled down the road.