My Something Wonderful

by Jill Barnett

  Around the castle was a wall of thick bushes and brambles and brush, and he ran to a spot that sloped downward into the wall of weeds, and he disappeared. She moved fast, running breathlessly across the silver field, keeping her eyes on where he had gone and once there, she moved down where a small cave-like tunnel, a black hole really, shone where its weeds were freshly torn aside and its bushes trampled.

  Without hesitation she stepped inside and all light disappeared. She froze. Chills ran up her arms. Inside, it was as black as the pit and to her horror it smelled the same. Her skin crawled and she shivered, looking for courage which had disappeared the moment she stepped into the tunnel.

  In a weak moment she turned back, catching and swallowing a sob that threatened to escape her lips, and she took a step toward the entrance, where there was moonlight and fresh night air. At that moment she heard the hollow echo of his running footsteps deep down the tunnel and she moved away from the safety of the entrance, cautiously touching the damp walls only to keep her balance on the stone and uneven rocks underfoot, telling herself she was not afraid. But it was a lie. Her fear was tangible.

  She rounded a bend in the walls and stepped back quickly. At the far end, light shone down from an open trap, revealing the carved rungs of a wooden ladder. She took five slow breaths, then ten, and edged around the corner just was the trap door snapped closed and the tunnel was bathed once again in darkness.

  Before long she stood at the top of the ladder, feeling for the door. She counted to twenty before she opened it--not wanting to come face to face with Montrose--barely enough to see and she panned the grounds, then flipped open the trap and climbed out, kneeling down to quietly closed the trapdoor.

  For a sweet moment she just breathed in the cool night air and composed herself and her fears. She was outside in the open air. No more dark, dank-tasting tunnel. No imaginary adders under her next blind step.

  Around her, the castle was eerily abandoned, with debris covering overturned wagons and the remnants of animal troughs, the gate from an old pen and pieces of burned walls still sitting atop stone bases, all covered in old, broken pieces of burnt wood and years of weeds and dead leaves.

  As she moved, she could mark buildings that had been, the stable, stalls broken and charred, a large center building that had crumbled, caved in from the sides, with pieces of stairs piled upon each other, and another building nearby with a tall stone fire hearth like that used by a village smithy.

  A cross hung at an odd angle over the lone door in the midst of a small burned out chapel; that was where she spotted him, standing at what must have once been an altar, the raised stone dais covered in debris starting at the very toes of his boots. He looked as if he was unable to go any further.

  She watched him for a long time, soaking in any clue she could from studying him. Before long, she could almost feel his sorrow, palpable and like the waves of the sea coming at you. Whatever this place was, it was painful to him.

  He seemed so far away, a tragedy standing raw and open, his hands open and out in front of him as if in supplication, and she understood she could see him this way only because he believed he was completely alone.

  She had not known that such emotion and pain could be found merely in a man’s posture, but there she saw a crushing sense of isolation so clear, as if he were in another world…alone, deserted, adrift and looking lost, the emptiness of which she understood all too well. He was a man at Gethsemane.

  The overwhelming need to reach out to him came to her, but she felt if she did so, somehow she would violate him when he was already wounded. Watching his pain made her belly turn and she placed a hand over it and closed her eyes. If only she could know what was wrong, perhaps she could find a way to help him.

  Before long watching him in such a state and saying nothing was too difficult. She felt if she stood there longer, she would have to pull him from the depths of that black place he inhabited, so she decided to leave him alone with whatever demons he possessed. She took a deep breath that turned into a sigh, and he spun around, his face hard and his eyes moist, glaring at her as if she were a rude awakening.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Caught, she had no out so she looked him in the eyes and admitted, “I followed you.”

  “I can see that.”

  Now, without the need for excuses, she walked toward the altar and looked down, where he had been cutting away the weeds and brambles when she first spotted him. There before him lay two old graves—one covered with a square stone plaque carved with a man’s effigy, and the other a cairn--a crude piling of old rocks. “Who are they?”

  He was stonily silent, unwilling to let her in. There were moments, she noticed, like now, where his solitude was like a shield he forced between them and his response was strong enough to make her believe he would gladly turn that shield into a weapon and wield it like some battering ram on anyone who tried to save him. “They are my ghosts.”

  “Not any longer,” she said lightly, bending and gently pulling more of the weeds from the cairn. “I am here.” On her knees, she dusted off her hands and glanced up at him. His expression she could not read.

  “Uninvited and unwelcome,” he said.

  “Nevertheless, you must deal with me.” She continued to pull the weeds from between the rocks. “Why is it secret?”

  He was weakening. His hands gave him away; they were in fists at his side.

  “I will not leave until you tell me,” she said.

  Still, only his glare and silence met her unwavering and calm gaze. Let me help you.

  He looked away from her, away from the graves and up to where some rooks were perched ominously on the highest part of the burnt wall, where a half of an old carved cross still hung. She looked from him to the graves set into the altar like those of ancient kings.

  “And you call me stubborn.” She brushed the leaves and grass from the stone carving of a man’s face. Sitting back on her heels she looked up at him and said, “He looks like you.”

  It was a long time before he spoke. “ ‘Tis my father.”

  “And the other?”

  “Malcolm, my brother.”

  She frowned and stood, then looked around her and at the ruins. “These are your lands?”

  “No!” he said sharply.

  She stepped back as if his voice slapped her. In that single word, she heard the sound of a dark soul.

  “I draw strength here. As I stand before these graves I do not forget.” With a deep concentration she could almost feel, he stared off at some distant memory and time. Both elements hardened his features and it seemed as if he was somewhere desolate and vast; he looked as if he what he carried was insurmountable. “You cannot understand.”

  The rooks suddenly cawed and flapped away, one flying after a darting sparrow. When he did look at her, she caught a swift glimpse of emotion she could not name—something fragile and breakable behind the hard mask he wore and his often harsh manner.

  Then it was gone, lost in a slim moment of a time, and he said coolly, “We should leave this place.”

  The part of her that loved him could not ask him to explain the deaths; she could not ask for more from him. He had needed to be there and she accepted that. But not even to satisfy her natural curiosity could she make him stay where he was a wounded soul, open, bleeding. “Aye. We should leave,” she agreed.

  His expression held a hint of an apology and something else, another kind of sorrow, perhaps the same emotion she couldn’t read before. She held out her hand to him.

  At first he stared it at as if touching her would be a mortal sin. Waiting for him felt natural to her, as did walking by his side when he joined her, and as did the feel of his warm palm against hers, and the silence cloaking them not in awkwardness, but one of those moments where words spoken aloud were unnecessary.

  Each was a little puzzled by the other and lost in the curious darkness of their own thoughts and, hands still clasped, they walked out of th
e castle ruins together.

  22

  The bright morning sun bespoke of a hot day to come and brought with it some clarity for Lyall. He stood on top of the stack of rocks where years ago he had watched Dunkeldon burn, and he concentrated on the single thought that he had a mission to complete: to trade Glenna for Dunkeldon. Only one more day was left, because tonight would finally end this. Tonight, he would walk away from her.

  To most, Dunkeldon was nothing but a burnt shell of a keep, a place with its glory lost except to his own memory. What value did it have? Perhaps only to de Hay and his allies who sought to gain their desires by dangling his family ruins before him.

  He leapt down onto the ground and moved through the woods, his head clear, his mind focused on his goal. But before he was halfway back he stopped at the edge of the small clearing where he had played war games back when he was not living his own war.

  The last place he expected to see Glenna was beneath the ancient yew. But she stood there, talking to it

  “Did I imagine what I felt, Tree?” She touched the bark and stared curiously at her hand. “Do you hide fairies under your roots? Does magic pulse beneath your bark? Must I believe you are simply an old tree and my mind is bewitched?” She placed both hands flat on the trunk and leaned into it with all her weight, looking up into its wide crown. “Do you make wishes come true?” she asked and Lyall was struck by the coincidence, her image so like his own had been as a lad.

  Something else hit him--a strong sense that the two of them were bound by some emotion that was kindred and otherworldly. He felt her coursing through his blood and in the marrow of his bones, and some place he could not name. His heart? His soul? His evermore?

  “Hallo, little bird,” she said then she began to sing, siren music that pulled at him like before. “Bird on a briar, bird, bird on a briar…”

  His resolved shattered as her song spun up into the air and around him, lifted him with its joyous notes, as if she were his hope, and the next thing he knew he was standing next to her, his arms out to her. She turned as her song waned. Under the shade of the ancient tree, she stepped into his embrace, and he made the fatal mistake of looking at her mouth.

  He kissed her, because he had no other thought at that moment except to taste her, to hold her soft body to his, and yet he knew he was a madman to do this. His whole path was mad, and now his sanity constantly fought with a great and driving desire. His head cleared for a single thin moment of time and he pulled back as if he had touched hot coals.

  The sense of awe in her eyes made him unable to stop himself. His mouth was on hers again, denied the strength of will to leave her untouched because of the innocent hunger he saw in her expression, her own desire clearly there for him to read and try to not act upon. He was not that noble or valiant. He had no power of self-control…only the knowledge of what was right, and he had long ago given up on doing what was right.

  His mouth moved on hers, and as he pulled her against him, he knew he should turn and walk away. Some voice in his head said Go! Leave! Release her!

  Her hands were flat against his chest, warm, and she pressed, resisting. His hand gently cupped the back of her head and he softened his mouth, gave her sweet small kisses, his lips on her hers, sipping, before pulling back, kissing her again, and pulling back, so she knew he would not force her.

  Yet his intent was clear; he knew he was seducing her. Only his wants drove him. No minute slip of lost conscience miraculously appeared. Getting closer was his goal, inside of her. There was one truth in all of the desire and want. Some truth in his head told him if he could get inside of her heart, she could save him from himself.

  Then she surrendered to him and kissed him back, linked her arms around his neck; she was warm and fluid, melting into him. The longer he held her and kissed her, the closer he grew to her, the more he understood he was a doomed man. The taste of her mouth was all he needed for the rest of his life. Thoughts ran rampant in his head, fighting with the powerful emotion of what he was feeling.

  The precious daughter of the king? She was the farthest thing from safe, so why did his instincts tell him she was his salvation? He was mad…mad…mad….

  His mind reeled backwards to another time, another woman who had jumped from a tower to escape his desire. Although everything that was right in the world shouted for him to cease this insane act now, his passion flared like oil on fire, blinding him with its intense light and burning through his doubts and whatever handful's worth of conscience and honor he might have had left.

  There was nothing but her soft mouth open and yielding, nothing but his need to get inside of her innocence. There was her tongue against his, her scent swirling around him as if the air held nothing but her.

  The time for his salvation was past. He was too far gone to save. But for the sweetest of moments, he found a taste of the life he could never have.

  Just one more moment, he told himself.

  The passion, brilliant and golden, began to wane and a heart-crushing sound, pitiful and innocent, made him freeze.

  She was crying.

  As recognition cracked through his senselessness, he broke the kiss. His kisses, gentle though they were, had made Isobel cry. He stepped away, needing some distance between her soft body and his.

  She cried out softly on a breath, and her moist eyes flew open. Her expression told him she was unable to understand what had just happened. Bewilderment, the same confusion he felt, pain and something close to horror ran across her expressive and lovely face. And it was like watching someone crush a perfect rose in their fist. Tears fell from her eyes. Her hand went to her mouth and she looked up at him with honest desire and something else he wished he did not see there.

  Her heart was on her sleeve, and his heart was in the way.

  Lyall wished he were capable of love, of believing he could put himself in someone else’s hands, but he might as well believe that if he held very, very still, a bee would never sting him.

  “Do not look at me like that,” he said gruffly. He was a man who could never love. His love would be pure destruction and he would take down with him any poor female soul who believed he was worth loving...worth saving.

  As she searched his face he forced himself to look passive, unwilling to give anything, afraid if he did he would take her to hell with him. He could never let her see he had almost given into everything he was feeling. So he grew tense, and she looked down—shamed by him. He had taught her that with their first kisses—to be ashamed. Proof of the bastard he was.

  She turned her back to him, a sorrowful cry escaping into the air.

  He stepped forward, his hands on her shoulders and he pulled her back against him, resting his chin on the top of head, closing his eyes against all that was going through him.

  She was quivering like a frightened hare when she said, “I am supposed to feel ashamed. I am ashamed this time.”

  “No, Glenna. You are innocent.”

  “But you do not understand. I want you to kiss me. I want you to touch me. Oh, how I regret what I feel!”

  He turned her around and she would not look up at him. He lifted her chin with his knuckle. “You have nothing to regret or be ashamed of. Your heart and what you feel is pure. ‘Tis not you, but me.”

  She gave a quick and humorless cry and shook her head. “I do regret what I am feeling because of how you look at me when we stop. As if this is horrible, what I feel. It consumes me and I cannot stop myself.”

  He laughed bitterly then because her words were the same as his thoughts.

  She stepped out of his arms and faced him.“You can stand there, as I bare every thought in my head and feeling in my heart and still laugh at me?” She stared at him in disbelief. “I unfold the deepest of my secrets and you mock me?” She was truly angry and her face crumpled as surely as if he had crushed it in his fist. “I think at this moment,” she said. “I truly, truly hate you.”

  Perhaps hate was the best thing between them, a
t least he could let her believe that she hated him. It was not true. And if nothing else, she deserved some truth in this whole tangle of lies.

  Lyall took a long breath but his chest was so tight he could barely fill his lungs. When he spoke, the words were the most honest he had ever spoken in his whole miserable life. “What we feel is not hate.”

  He turned then and walked away. He had said all he could. ‘Twas not hate he felt, but the opposite, yet there was no possible way he could ever say the other words to her.

  ***

  The hot midday sun beat down on the links of Donnald Ramsey’s cowl, cooking his head like a roasted boar…all he needed was an apple in his mouth. He signaled for his men to stop. The thunder of horses’ hooves ceased pounding the ground and a cloud of dust swirled up around the troop, now speckled with pieces of sun-dried grass.

  He tightened his grip on the reins as his horse danced along the wide, dry crest of high ground overlooking the valley to the west that cradled the Beauly River, its abbey, and in the distance, a sparse pattern of crofts. Off to the west stood the blue shadows of the western coast. They, however, were headed south, and east of Ben Nevis, which lay far in the distance like giant sleeping cattle.

  Ramsey pushed his cowl back and took a drink from a skin of water before pouring some of it over his sweaty head. He swiped at his brow to keep his eyes clear and took another drink, then exchanged a look of misery with his men at arms. “I do not know if we should pray for rain and suffer battling the rust, or continue on only to swallow more dust than air.”

  “‘Twill only become worse if we keep following this trail another twenty leagues,“ said his captain.

  “There is a small stream and falls over that distant rise, my lord,” offered another. “We can rest and water the horses.”

  The rise was in the wrong direction but Ramsey knew he could not ride his men and their mounts into the ground, no matter how desperate he was to catch Lyall before he destroyed his future and made himself into the traitor Ewan had been. The horses and men needed respite from the sun. His itching, sweaty skin and dust-burned eyes could use some shade and water.