by Trisha Telep
She let it drop and as it clattered on the floor, there was that awful moment when Kathy realized that she couldn’t save herself. She was falling and the next instant strong arms were around her, catching her.
She grabbed on to the person and found herself looking right into Calder’s blue eyes. Seeing him again made her speechless.
Calder’s astonished expression swiftly changed into delight. “I’ve been looking all over Edinburgh for you and I’ve finally caught my wild golden-eyed Kat.”
“Goddamn you! Put me down.”
“Not even a welcome home kiss? Or more? I recall a promise …”
She brought her arms forwards and shoved at his chest. She could feel his firm flesh under a fine dove-grey cashmere sweater. When he let her down, he said, “Why did you leave and how did you find me?”
Kathy stepped away from him, catching her foot in the fallen valance, then kicking it away. “I left because you’re married, and I didn’t find you. I’m staying with my friend’s relative, Humphrey MacNeil.”
“You’re Kathy?”
“Yes, I’m Kathy. Does Janna know you’re here?”
“I suppose so.” He looked towards the doorway and called out, “Isobel, did you tell Janna I’m here?”
Kathy followed his glance and saw the beautiful blonde woman come in. She was dressed in an elegant shell pink sweater and tight jeans tucked into boots. The woman, Isobel, said to Calder, “Of course, I told her,” while gazing at Kathy. Then the woman shrieked and cried to Calder, “That’s her! That’s the woman!”
Kathy felt sick with guilt and anger. She wanted to push Calder out the window. She wanted to scream. She wanted to disappear.
Calder looked confused. “Calm yourself, Isobel. This is Kat. I told you about her. Kat, or Kathy, is it?, Isobel.”
“You told her?” Kathy said with horror. To Isobel, she said, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know, or I never would have …”
“Kat is the woman I saw!” Isobel cried, looking at Calder.
He looked at the blonde as if she was mad. “Isobel, not now, please.” He turned to Kathy and said, “Ignore her. She’s crazy.”
“I am not!” Isobel pointed at Kathy and said to Calder, “She’s the one you slept with? The one in the blue coat?”
“Her coat is green, Isobel.”
Kathy thought that Isobel must have remembered her from the street. “I had a blue coat. He splattered it with mud when you were driving on Princes Street.”
Calder tilted his head and said, “You saw me before we met at dinner?”
Isobel glared at Calder and said, “I was right, you fool! I knew you wouldn’t be able to stay away from her.”
Kathy took a breath and said, “He said he wasn’t married.”
Isobel’s expression softened. “Of course, he’s not married. He’s supposed to marry you. I’ve been telling him to find the girl in the blue coat, and when I saw you with the umbrella, I screamed at him to stop the car, but he never takes the MacNeil sight seriously.”
“But the wedding photo of you two …”
Calder laughed. “Isobel is my sister!”
“That was my wedding,” Isobel said. “It didn’t last and that’s the only photo from it I can bear to look at.” She smiled at her brother. “Humphrey, next time you’ll believe in my sight.”
Kathy said to her, “My friend Emma has the sight, too. She told me to get a blue coat.”
“I think you both have something to discuss,” Isobel said, and left the room.
Calder looked Kathy up and down, and she became self-conscious about her grimy jeans, dusty sweater, and the kerchief tied over her head. “You said your name was Calder.”
“So it is. Humphrey Calder MacNeil. When my father was alive, they all called me Calder, but since he passed, they insist on Humphrey.”
“Like the castle.”
“Aye, lass,” he said, with a sheepish grin. His expression became serious and he said, “I didn’t know why you left me.”
“I thought you were a wicked trow, deceiving me, with your drawer full of condoms and a wife.” She glanced down at her clothes and said, “I was the one deceiving you. I’m not a woman who dines alone in expensive restaurants. This is how I look most days. This is who I am really.”
“Who you are really is a lass who can tease me, a lass who can laugh while she dances in a crowded pub, a lass who can take as good as she can give, a lass who wears silk stockings.” He reached for her hands and held them. “I knew these weren’t pampered hands, darlin’.” He lifted them to his lips and kissed them.
“So you’re Humphrey, a loyal workaholic, who spends all of his time here.”
“The very one. When you talked about your retreat, I thought, that’s it. That’s what I need to do to create jobs here and to share the beauty.”
“But I lied,” she said. “All I have is a puny business. I love it, but it’s just me and a few classes.”
“Then I wouldn’t be asking you to give up everything if I asked you to stay, Kat. Would you stay here with me? Help me set up your retreat here?” He pulled the kerchief off her head and kissed her temple.
“Well, I don’t think I should leave before you replace my blue coat.”
His arms went around her, bringing her tight against his large firm body, and she sighed at the touch of him, the scent of him, and slipped her arms around his waist. He said, “The lambs won’t be born until next spring. It will take some time before their wool is ready to sheer. Then there’s the cleaning, dying, spinning and looming. It will be best if you settle in for a long stay. Since you’re a visitor, there may be problems, unless …”
“Unless what?”
“Would you consider marrying a Scotsman, Kat? You said I could ask you later.”
“I did say that, and it was a very special coat, Calder. Besides, would it do us any good to fight the MacNeil vision?”
“I think not, darlin’. We may as well give in to fate, to long days of work and longer nights of making love. The trow in me especially enjoys the nights. If that’s what you want.”
“What I want, Calder, is to hear you beg me please, please, please.”
He lifted her up until they were face to face. “That’s what I hoped you’d say, my beautiful wild Kat.”
Forever Knight
Jackie Ivie
One
“Heave, lads! A bairn wouldn’t feel that gentle touch!” Grunts followed Gavynn’s cry, but little else. “Put your backs and arms into it!”
“Perhaps you could put your mouth into it as well?”
One of the lumps of straining men muttered it. Gavynn ignored him. He had to. Iain’s freedom depended on it. And the man wasn’t accurate. Gavynn had been right in the struggle with them until he’d stepped away to assess their progress. And lack, thereof, from what could be seen.
Rainfall washed them, making it difficult to see. That was just and right and necessary. Rain helped hide perfidy such as pulling down a castle wall, cloaking the thirty-four men anchored to its base with a series of thickly woven ropes.
“Courage, lads! You’re acting as if ’tis constructed with more than sand and piss!”
“’Tis solid cursed stone!”
One of the lumps quit straining in order to yell the answer. Gavynn shouted louder. “Verra well. I’ll admit they may have tossed in a bit of dung. But only on occasion. You’ll need to pull harder! Find the weakness! Move in rhythm! We just need a bit of luck.”
“We’ve na’ much luck tonight. What with the rain and nae light.”
“The night does its work. As does my cousin, Arran, with his pipes. You ever hear such loud disjointed playing?”
Gavynn used the same volume with each yell. He’d be hoarse if he didn’t cease, but that didn’t stop him. He had to keep men straining against the wall. Those that flagged needed constant needling and exhortation from a loud voice, regardless of how the words felt sucked away the moment they’d been uttered. Very litt
le made it through to men aware only of the thump of heartbeat in their ears. Not even the loud sound of pipes playing discordantly somewhere in the castle.
“Arran and his men have vast amounts of … hot air tonight.” One of them put Gavynn’s thought into words.
“Aye. And na’much brawn.” Another man agreed, although it came with an insult directed at Gavynn. “Appears he’s na’ the lone one. Just listen to the laird!”
The slur galvanized Gavynn. “That’s it! Move your worthless hides. I’ll show you how ’tis done!”
Gavynn pushed his way to the front of a line of men, slipping more than once in brine-soaked earth. Such was the result of constructing a castle encircled by a trickle of sea-fed moat. They’d drained what they could just before dusk as they waited. Planning. Worrying. There were other things he’d rather be doing, lots of other things. But he didn’t have a choice. He had to rescue his little brother, Iain.
The rope was slickest near the wall, due to the water level. Gavynn looped an arm about hemp, scraping flesh as he pulled, feeling the strain against solid stone. He’d been denigrating the rock walls without proof. Lord Dillbin had built his castle well, funded by Sassenach silver. There was little give to it. Despite the rain, the mud they’d shovelled out of the way, the hours spent chiselling about the cornerstones, nothing moved. Gavynn yanked until tendons in his jaw hurt with the effort.
And then the rope slackened, going limp. There was the gravest rush of noise, accompanied by a thud of something large landing in the muck, sloshing brine-mixture all over him. He launched backwards, landing flat on his back in the mess, putting his hands out instinctively to catch whatever heaven sent at him.
He didn’t know he’d been successful until they lifted a chunk of masonry from atop him.
“We’re … through?” He sounded like a girl-bairn. Every word felt ground against bone. He suspected bruised ribs. If he was in luck. What was he thinking? Luck had deserted them.
“Help me lads! Quick! Get this off him!”
His clansman Rory said it. Gavynn groaned as little lights danced through his vision. It was joined by the chore of breathing. And then he was freed, hauled to his feet, to stand gaping at the size of rock they’d lifted from him. If he hadn’t been in soaked soft earth, he’d have been flattened. Fully.
He swayed, pulling in small chunks of air while the others stood about, indecisive. That got Gavynn angered, and that covered over any pain.
“Have we just … taken down a wall … to mill about?” The words were broken with each inhalation of air. His volume was missing, as well. He’d worry over that later.
“We have na’ reached Iain, my Laird.”
“’Tis truth. Look for yourself.” Rory spoke again, level-headed and efficient-sounding. As usual.
“We took down … his dungeon?” Gavynn asked.
“Aye. But we got the wrong one.”
“The man has but one dungeon!” Gavynn’s voice was coming back. As was his purpose. Strength couldn’t be far behind. He hoped. “And if fate played us so ill, then move your arses! Get out of … my way!”
It would’ve had more effect if he hadn’t gone down to a knee. Gavynn covered his weakness with a slap at the boulder that had pinned him, and forced his legs to support his weight.
“Is there a leader … out here?”
A voice filtered through the fog of rainfall and failure filling Gavynn’s ears. Someone answered, pointing at him. He couldn’t tell who. Muck covered the men, making anonymous lumps in the torchlight from inside the dungeon walls. Gavynn looked at the gaping hole in Dillbin’s English-built castle, blinked on rain that wouldn’t cease, and then his mouth dropped open.
A woman picked her way towards him, lifting her skirts with one hand, while the other slid along rubble. That manoeuvre kept her upright, although clumsy-looking. She was bare-headed, lengthy locks of an indeterminate shade clinging to her, mostly due to the night and amount of rainfall. It didn’t seem to bother her that a contingency of muck-covered men silently watched with their mouths open.
Gavynn straightened, breathing in small snippets of air that kept the ache tolerable. He swept a hand across his forehead to clear the water. Only he knew his hand trembled.
“Are you leading … this––?”
She’d reached him and looked up, motioning with her hand to the broken wall behind her.
“Rescue,” Gavynn supplied.
“Rescue?”
“Over here!”
Gavynn ignored her sarcasm and looked over her towards Iain’s voice. The squealed words betrayed weakness. Frailty. Youth. Gavynn could see an arm waving at them through a myriad of bars. “They … moved him?”
“He wouldn’t cease his whining and—”
He had her throat in his hand, his eyes narrowed to look her over in the dim light and he tightened his grip on her. “Whining?”
“The outer cell is most … damp.”
She whispered it but nothing on her looked cowed. She met his look unblinkingly. That was odd. Having a band of thirty-five men pull down a segment of prison wall should’ve put fear into those dark eyes. Gavynn loosened his grip on her throat slowly, keeping his hand where it was. There was a huge groan happening in the air about them, filtering through the rain sounds.
“That wall is coming down!”
“Greggor’s right! Better to banter words from a distance!”
“What of him?” Gavynn motioned with a head toss at his brother. And then other sounds added to the night. Defence sounds: a thrum of drums, blare of pipes, shouts of men. He got splashed beneath his kilt as something landed beside him.
“We need to move, my Laird! Now!”
“What of … my brother?” Gavynn asked again.
“We canna’ fetch him from the grave!”
Gavynn hid the failure. “Go then. I’ll bring the lass. She has … use.” He moved his attention back to the woman.
“Use?”
She asked it with sarcasm touching the words. He tightened his fingers. Another deep groan came from the wall.
“Gavynn … please! Doona’ leave me!”
His brother was at full-out screaming, although it was mostly muted. Gavynn didn’t look. There wasn’t any way to change it. The night was sending blocks of stone to pepper the sodden ground about them. It was due to luck that only more mud-tainted water hit Gavynn. He pulled at the woman, transferring his hand to a slender wrist, squeezing with intent. It wasn’t necessary. She wasn’t fighting. She was helping.
Once they reached the hill at the back of Castle Dillbin, she was the one pulling at him, forcing him up the steep sides and on to the moor; leading him to the largest horse … and then heralding his weakness by standing docilely at his side.
Everyone felt like they were watching for him to somehow get astride his stallion, Crusader, force the wench up there with him, and do it without succumbing to the chasm of faintness opening in front of him.
“He needs assist?”
One of the hired men asked it. There was a thump as someone silenced him. The remark was ill-advised. Gavynn slit his eyes. Concentrated. Willed away the effects of a night of work, getting hit by a chunk of masonry, and then forced to run uphill with little ability to gain breath. He refused to submit to anything as defenceless as a swoon. He was laird of Clan MacEuann. He hadn’t gained that through weakness. Gavynn pulled in short huffs of air and watched the wash of blur turn into horsehair again.
“Well, that horse is a handful to mount. And hell to ride.”
“I’ve got it in hand, lads.” Gavynn still held to the saddle.
“What of the woman?”
“Her, too,” Gavynn answered.
“How do you ken she’s hell to ride?”
One of the mercenaries joshed it. The woman at Gavynn’s side stiffened. “I’ll answer that slur on … the morrow. With fists. Now mount!”
Hurt thumped through his chest, but nothing felt broken. Bruised. Pained. But not broken.
As was just and right. He’d be hell-bound before he let a Sassenach castle kill him. He turned to the wench. She was watching him with an unblinking gaze. As if she knew he was staying upright by willpower. That was disconcerting.
“Can you ride?” He lowered his voice to ask it.
She tilted her head back a bit, allowing night-cast light to caress and mould her features. Showing off beauty. There was worse than eyes that seemed to look deep into a man. Even in a rain-filled night he knew how much worse. This wench was bonny enough to cause argument and dissent. If Gavynn was too weak to stop it.
He set his jaw. Looked her over dispassionately. She had use: Iain’s release. For that she had to remain unmolested and safe. And he had to guarantee it.
“Well?”
* * *
Brielle nodded. Something about him clogged her throat, taking air she needed to speak. That was strange. Unfamiliar. Unfair. And unacceptable.
It wasn’t lack of knowledge. She’d been around men. Lots of men. Sometimes dressed in costly fabrics, smelling of lye soap and spirits. Sometimes covered in armour and leather and reeking of sweat and other odours she’d rather not decipher. And other times she’d administered to men who’d been clothed in nothing but fear, pain and blood while they trembled, groaned and sometimes died.
But she’d never been near a man like this.
She started with his size. He was immense. The top of her head reached mid-chest. She added in his strength. He was fit. Brawny. Seemingly immune to pain. He should be suffering. She’d seen the boulder lifted off him. No man could’ve endured that and be standing barking orders and glaring at her. He’d be dead.
For the first time she tasted uncertainty and fear. This was a real Highlander. Not a spineless youth like Iain. This was a man fitting the tales. She’d heard them. Everyone had. From the moment she’d left civilization to reside in Scotland, she’d been regaled with tales of prowess, strength, endurance, regardless of the odds. She’d shivered when she was younger, and then disbelieved. And grown cynical. She’d thought them fables. Lore dreamt in fertile minds, conjured to frighten. Demons. Barbarians. Brielle couldn’t stop the goose flesh running her body. She didn’t even try.