Glancing about the stable full of horses and lacking in manpower, as his Master of the Horse was too busy dealing with the horses and carriages coming in droves, he finally spotted a groom. “Saddle Cliff,” he said, speaking of his horse whom he’d named after the drop off to the water below.
The groom hesitated, shifting from side to side on his feet, looking as if he was ready to either run or piss himself.
“What is it?” Alec asked.
“The weather, sir. Are ye certain?” The groom looked past Alec toward the courtyard, where gray clouds consumed the sky and rain drizzled.
Alec tried to control the irritation lancing through him but being quizzed by the lad after having been interrogated by his mother was a bit much. “Are ye questioning me, lad? I’m perfectly capable of handling my horse in all sorts of weather and do no’ need schooling from a whelp.”
“Nay, my lord.” The groom hurried to do his bidding. “Apologies, my lord.”
A little rain never hurt anyone, and Cliff was used to hard rides. They could both use the exercise and considering the number of horses invading his favorite mount’s space, if he were anything like his master, he would look forward to a short reprieve and escape from the dissonance.
“Ye’re forgiven. Let’s keep this conversation and the fact that I’ve gone between us, aye?”
The groom vigorously nodded as he grabbed the tack and saddle for Cliff.
Once his mount was readied, Alec vaulted onto Cliff’s back and left the stable, avoiding the crush of guests as he rode through the rear gate and headed north over the slick moors. Despite the rain slapping against his face, he felt he could breathe easier than he had in the castle, especially now that his mother was there and prepared to torment him with one potential bride after another. He could think of no greater way to torture him than thus.
In a kind gesture from Mother Nature, the rain slowed even more until it was nearly a mist. The lush foliage of spring came alive on the moors, spreading out before him in invitation. Green grasses and wildflowers dotted the rolling landscape, only disrupted by the sheep and cattle who grazed and the low thatch-roofed crofts of his tenants.
He dismounted near the craggy cliffs some two miles north of his castle, letting his horse munch on some sweet grass as he stared out at the ocean, rising and falling in wicked crashes of frothy waves. The rain might have slowed, but the sea had yet to receive the message to calm. Any ships out there in this weather were in grave danger from kelpies, the mythical horse creatures that would rise from the depths of the ocean and lure sailors to their death.
Fortunately, he didn’t see any ships—or kelpies—in the distance.
Alec remounted his horse and rode farther north to the ruins of what used to be an abbey. Over half of the roof had caved in. Two sides of the walls had also collapsed. The stained-glass windows had long since been pilfered or broken, and the doors were also gone, leaving the abbey open and exposed to explorers like himself. The ruins had been there since he was a lad. And he’d climbed over the stones, up the walls and traipsed like a lunatic, twenty feet in the air across crumbling stone, dozens of times.
Whenever he thought about the reckless things he’d done as a lad, he couldn’t help but wonder how he’d not fallen and broken his neck. The most damage he’d ever caused to himself while here was a scraped knee. Damned lucky. He’d not be caught climbing up the walls to balance at the top nowadays unless the wager was big enough.
In Alec went, staring up at the walls and seeing his younger self balancing and then pretending to be attacked by pirates. Those imaginings had given him a false sense of security that was proven wrong when he’d been in actual battle. There was nothing that could prepare a man for the death of men he fought beside. Nothing to train a man for the screams of the injured and dying. The acrid smell of cannon fire and the metallic scent of blood. Having no place to go for safety. Not being able to retreat.
Or the hate that came from knowing one had been betrayed. Orders not followed, which led to the death of others. How did one rein in that kind of anger? The need to hurt the person who had caused such disorder, damage and death?
Alec ran his hands over his face and through his hair, shaking off some of the rain that had soaked his locks. The thoughts and memories from battle often came in thunderstorms. For that had been when his failure had shown itself most. Rain pelted the men as they tried to fight. Thunder rumbled with the sounds of cannons.
It was a miracle now that the clamor of a storm didn’t leave him cowering, though there had been a day when that had been the case.
As if to test him, thunder crackled overhead, and lighting speared down from the sky, hitting a nearby tree with a loud clap and sparks that fizzled in the ensuing wet. The slowing rain picked up, and with it the wind, enough so that even Cliff wandered into the ruins for shelter, nuzzling Alec’s palm.
Alec might as well wait it out here. Not a great disappointment, really. Teatime wasn’t for at least another hour, and he could be late if he wanted to. Or not show up at all. Mother was going to be disappointed no matter what he did this week. Her plans to see him wed were dead in the water.
There was no way in hell he would capitulate. Alec didn’t want a bride, and he certainly didn’t want to choose one from the handful that was willing to travel out in this weather to see the beast he’d become.
If he were ever to wed, it would be to a woman who saw beneath the surface. A woman who shared his passions. A woman who liked reading and adventure. A woman who was strong in body and mind. A woman who could appreciate him for who he really was. One who looked at him and didn’t see his scars, his failures, but something else. A hero? Hardly. But a man. That was what he supposed he wanted most, to be looked at and not shied away from. To be seen as the man he was. To be desired for more than mere coin.
Alec laughed aloud at his pathetic thoughts. There was no such woman. He doubted she existed, and he was certainly not lucky enough to ever meet her. Besides, he was so resolute on never marrying that even if she did fall into his lap, he still had qualms about his ability to commit.
Aye, marriage was the great if. So great it was as mythical as the kelpies he’d imagined rising from the sea.
His poor mother. Alec hated to disappoint her, but there was no other way to go about it. His happiness—and misery—had to count for something, didn’t it?
And right now, he was perfectly fine wallowing in his misery.
Alec leaned against the stone abbey, staring up at the part of the roof that had not yet collapsed. Perhaps it would be fate for the abbey to be struck by lightning right there, and the wooden tresses and thatch would fall on his head, burying him in a place that held so much memory, so much fantasy, for him.
A sudden thrill rushed through his veins, and he had a hankering for being back in the boxing ring—though he’d only ever done it recreationally in his friend Lorne’s house in Edinburgh, and most recently in his castle here. Lorne was a damned good boxer, and the ring was a place Alec had been able to work out his demons enough times. With the lads having descended upon Slains, perhaps he could entice them into his new gymnasium for a match.
It was then Alec realized that the sense of adventure he’d been longing for had been so repressed of late. Alone in Slains Castle, not much happened. The only exploits he’d had were between the pages of a book unless one counted the rounding up of the escaped cattle who’d ransacked the local village. That had been interesting. He chuckled.
Dear God, he was becoming quite a sad specimen. Perhaps he should go back to the castle and attempt to enjoy himself. At the very least, he could play a round of cards with his friends and challenge to loser to a boxing match.
* * *
Bastard!
As soon as the door closed, Giselle covered her face with her hands, then bit her fist to keep from screaming. Why was he the man her parents had decided she must marry?
Giselle could still feel his dry, hard lips on hers. Still see
the wolfish glint in his eyes, the way he’d prowled toward her. The walls of the beautifully appointed room felt as though they were caving in on her. And there was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. No way to escape.
She’d have taken a man decades her senior on the cusp of death with a festering leg wound as Henry VIII had over Sir Joshua Keith.
There was something about him that made her skin crawl. On the outside, Sir Joshua was handsome, tall and strong, wealthy. All the marks of what a high society lass would want in a husband. But on the inside, he was rotten, devious. There lurked something that she couldn’t quite put a name to, only that she innately knew if she were forced to marry him, her life would be over.
A rush of panic swept her then, making her chest feel tight as her heart thudded against her ribs. Even her breathing became labored. This was not how she’d imagined her life going when she was a lass daydreaming of her future.
Giselle dashed to the window, staring out at the gloom below. She rattled the locks and shoved the glass open. Cool, wet air whipped her in the face as she took a great gulping breath.
The long gravel drive below beckoned her, teasing her with the way it pointed toward freedom. The drop wasn’t too bad, only two stories. But she’d still probably break something, at the very least twisting an ankle. Either way, she’d be immobilized and then truly stuck, which would only make things worse.
Or maybe not. If her parents thought that she’d simply leapt out the window, maybe they’d take pity on her. But somehow, she doubted it.
Her gaze was drawn toward the direction in which they’d come. Her mind stretched over the hundreds of miles between here and Edinburgh. She’d never make it on foot. In a carriage, it had taken them days. Walking would be weeks, and she had no provisions to sustain herself nor any way to protect herself from brigands and outlaws.
But what was worse? Being accosted on the road or have her spirit crushed daily for the rest of her life?
An image of the massive castle, perched on the cliffs that they’d passed on the road, came to mind.
The Beast of Errol…
How far was Alec Hay’s castle from here? She thought it was several miles—it had been at least an hour in the carriage. That would be nearly half a day on foot or more. Unless she could somehow steal a horse…
But how would she even get out of this place?
And, if she did attempt to run away, there was every possibility her parents would disown her. She didn’t hate them so much as never to see them again. She merely wanted to take charge of her future and safety, for she did not feel safe within these walls at all. But the thought of never seeing her parents again made her pause. Could she go through with that?
Giselle shut the window, tears coming to her eyes, not for the first time since she’d learned she would be forced to wed Sir Joshua Keith.
As much as she despised the way her parents treated her, they were all she had. If she deserted them, she would be abandoning any semblance of safety and all sense of home.
And yet, she couldn’t consign herself to a lifetime with a man that was so...cruel. So forceful. He did not stir any feelings of passion within her—quite the opposite. He repulsed her.
Again, Giselle looked longingly out the window. She did have a few friends who might be willing to take her in if her parents did disown her. Though the number of people she could count on her friend list had sadly dwindled over the years. Her parents had seen to that. Her secret friendship with Jaime Andrewson, now the Duchess of Sutherland, was one they’d tried to forbid. Her mother had gone so far as even to steal the letters Giselle and Jaime attempted to exchange. Perhaps Jaime would be able to help her, at least get her on her feet.
Another knock at the door had Giselle freezing in place, and she watched as the door crept open, fearing it was Joshua back for another dispassionate embrace. But it seemed for the moment that luck was on her side, as it was her mother who entered the chamber.
The relief Giselle felt was palpable and clearly noticeable as her mother looked at her concerned. “What is it, dear? Are ye unwell? Another megrim?”
Giselle rarely had an actual headache, but her mother believed her prone to them as they seemed to be the only thing that got her out of events. “I thought ye were Sir Joshua.”
Lady Bothwell frowned. “Oh, why would he be here?” She glanced about the room as if he’d come melting from the silver silk wallpaper.
“He came by a few moments ago.” Giselle paused, wondering how much she should tell her mother and decided that if her parents were going to force her to wed, they should at least know the manner of man they tied her to. “He kissed me, Mama.”
Her mother’s hand fluttered to her chest, and there was for a moment a look of horror before she whisked it away like every other problem. “Oh my. We’d best hurry things along then. It would seem your bridegroom is quite eager for the wedding to take place.”
Giselle’s heart stopped then, and her mouth fell open. She stood still, stunned at her mother’s reaction, and for a moment speechless. Perhaps her mother did not understand the situation fully. “Nay, Mama, I did no’ want the kiss. I asked him to stop for propriety’s sake, and he refused.”
Her mother shook her head. “Perhaps ye should have been better about denying him. There’s nothing for it now. He is to be your husband, and ye might as well get used to having to agree to his demands. Your fate is sealed. Ye let him take liberties, and I will no’ stand for a daughter who does such. Ye recall Shanna Andrewson, do ye no’?”
Giselle bit her tongue for the retort she prepared regarding Jaime’s wayward sister would not at all be appropriate.
“Prepare to be wed, young lady, and I’ll no’ hear another word on the matter.” Her mother snapped her fingers as if that were some magical gesture that denoted the sealing of a vow.
The one person she’d hoped to appeal to had once again abandoned Giselle. How was it her fault that Joshua had kissed her? She’d tried to explain that she’d not wanted him to, but that didn’t matter at all to her mother. She’d only sped up the timeline to her doom. Why did the Countess of Bothwell refuse to see reason?
Again, Giselle found herself looking out the window, gaze roving toward the barn. If she procured a horse, it would be less time than walking.
But how was she going to get a horse?
The more she thought about it, the more imperative it became to run away. Maybe if her parents realized how serious she was about not wanting to marry Sir Joshua, they would stop all this nonsense.
She knew how to saddle a horse. All she had to do was sneak into the stable and then out again without anyone the wiser. The gate had been wide open when they’d approached, and she prayed it wouldn’t be closed now. She’d be able to ride through and be on her way.
Tugging on her cloak and changing into dry riding shoes, Giselle silently traversed the hallway toward the staircase. However, the biggest problem was that anyone could see her go down the stairs and stop her. She was obviously dressed for going out. She stopped before rounding the corner, hearing voices approach. Sounded like her father and Sir Joseph, coming up the steps.
Och, but she couldn’t get caught; she just couldn’t.
Giselle whirled, and as quiet as she could, made her way in the opposite direction, hoping that one of the doors would lead to a servants’ staircase and that she’d reach it before the men saw her. Her sweaty palms slipped over several knobs and she was lucky to find the right one, but only because one of the maids came out of the chamber and disappeared down the stairs.
As soon as she yanked the door to the concealed stairwell closed, she caught sight of her father with Joshua in the tiny crack before it shut. She pressed her ear to the door for only a moment to listen, hoping they’d not seen her and were not running to snatch her back. There was nothing but their casual and slow chatter. Thank the heavens.
As quietly as she could, Giselle descended inch by inch to the bottom and then through a long corridor
in hopes of finding an exit. Everything down here was so stark and plain that it was hard to figure out what went where, but she eventually found a doorway that led outside.
A gust of wind nearly pushed her back through the opening, threatening indeed to take the door off its hinges. Giselle managed to fight the wind and shut the door behind her. The hood of her cloak flipped off, and her hair went wild in the gust. Battling the hood seemed futile.
She stood in a small courtyard covered in puddles and free of any animals that might normally mill about. Rain splattered down on her head. She kept to the wall of the castle in case anyone happened to look out a window as she crept toward what she thought might be the stable. They’d still see her if they looked hard enough, but at least she wouldn’t be a sitting duck in the middle of the courtyard. The stables were easy to find, and so was the tack she needed to prep the horse.
The sound of whistling had her ducking into a stall as a groom passed by, mumbling things to the horses he passed. The horse whose stall she’d taken refuge in nickered at her, nibbling at her hair, and she shooshed it, rubbing a hand over its muzzle to keep it from giving up her secret.
“I’ll have a nice treat for ye if ye keep quiet,” she whispered, patting the pocket of her cloak that held an apple she’d swiped from a bin.
She was quick to saddle the mount, then gave him the apple as she rode him right out of the stable without any of the grooms seeming to notice, thank heavens. Giselle urged the horse into a gallop down the road, praying all the while that no one happened to look at the window and see her riding hell-bent for leather.
The gate was indeed open, and she sailed through it. The first of her triumphs complete. Escape was at hand. Giselle’s heart thundered through her chest hard enough that she thought her ribs might crack.
Across the moors she went, in the general direction they’d come. The road was a river of muddy earth, splattering up into her face and body, but didn’t seem to bother the horse at all. With every stride that they were away from Boddam Castle, the easier she could breathe.
The Scot is Hers: The Scots of Honor Series Page 5