“Some do.”
“Mine don’t.”
“Then, senhorita, you have very boring friends.”
***
When the chamber door was closed behind him, Gwen glanced at the window. The sun was slowly falling, signaling the end of day, and probably the start of dinner soon. But there was still some light and she wished to make use of it as much as she could.
She sat in an armchair by the open window, listening to the waves crash upon the rocks. She opened the small book of poetry Gaspar had given her days before. But as she skimmed the words, her gaze kept drifting out to the cliffs. In the sunset shades of red, purple, and orange, the water around the Portuguese ship below was alight with color.
Just as she was about to close the unread book and begin to dress for dinner, movement caught her eye. She stood, leaning slightly out the window for a better look at the small figure. It was too far to tell for certain, but she thought the person she spied was Gaspar. He was striding toward his ship in that confident manner he possessed. But suddenly, he stopped and turned, looking up toward the keep. Gwen almost drew back into her chambers, but thought he surely wasn’t peering at her. She was too far and too quiet for him to have heard or seen her.
But still, he looked, standing unmoving against the grass and rocks as the sunlight dimmed. And then he raised one hand—the uninjured one—as if in parting. As if saying goodbye to her. She lifted her hand slowly in return and only then did he turn back toward his journey to the sea.
Chapter Six
Gwen was riding slowly away from the MacLeod keep, balancing a basket of medicinal items in the crook of her arm. She was trotting toward the village below the castle—some several miles—for the wedding of Big Angus and his bride Grace. She had left ahead of the rest of the MacLeods in order to stop by the local healer before the nuptials. The healer, an elderly woman named Sorcha, often traded with Gwen, swapping her herbal remedies for the more modern tonics that often came into the keep.
She had just stopped to check one of her mare’s hooves for stones on the path nearest the docks when she heard her name called out amidst the crashing of the waves. Confused, she whipped her head about, looking for the source of the voice. But it didn’t take long to locate it, as Gaspar was heading toward her.
Gwen instinctively frowned, dropping the horse’s leg and picking up her basket. “Good afternoon, Gaspar.”
“Gwendolyn.” He dipped a short bow, rising with a grin. “On your way to the wedding of Big Angus and his red bride?”
“Peculiar way of saying that, but yes, I was going down before the ceremony to do some trading.”
“What a coincidence! I, too, am invited to the blessed event. I was on my way to the castle to borrow a horse, but now there is no need…that is if you do not object?”
“Object to what?”
“Why, me riding with you, Senhorita.”
Gwen bit her lip. While his company wouldn’t be all that intolerable had he his own mount, she wasn’t too keen on sharing the back of her horse with him. “Well…my business will be very boring.”
“Then I will liven it.”
“And my pony is but a small mare.”
“She is a fine, strong corcel and I am a trim man. Lighter than air.”
She looked over his tall, broad shouldered frame and almost laughed at his words. While he was smaller than her giant cousin Drummond, it wasn’t by much. “You are persistent.”
“A persistent professor,” he countered. “We can make a lesson of it, and you may learn all the words for the things as we pass.”
“Well, that does sound rather educational,” Gwen conceded.
“Maravilhoso!” He deftly leaped upon the saddle, much to her surprise, and then held out a hand. “Come, we will ride.”
“Have you ridden often?” she asked tentatively. While he had mounted easily enough, she wondered how much practice a ship’s captain had on land with such a beast.
“Often enough to get us to the village in one piece.”
“What about your arm?”
He held it down for her inspection. The wrappings were fresh and the cut was healing without issue. “You are a fine médico, Gwendolyn.”
Not wishing to be late, nor argue, she took his proffered hand and allowed him to pull her before him, so she was pressed between his chest and Faodial’s strong neck. Her basket stuck out awkwardly between them, but Gaspar remedied the situation with one reach inside his cloak. He produced a short length of thin rope, which he used to tie the basket to one of the flat saddle’s straps, so it lay off to one side of Faodial’s shoulder and out of the way.
As they began their journey down toward the village—naught but lines of smoke against the sky—Gaspar held both reins tightly. Gwen found herself enclosed between his tanned and muscular arms, which were firmly visible past the rolled up cuffs of his shirt. She tried to make herself small, so she would not touch him overly much, but found it impossible. Her back was pressed against his breast and she imagined she could feel his heart beat as they trotted down the path. And his legs cupped behind hers on the horse, powerful and sturdy. She felt secure in the notion she would not fall off if Faodial spooked, but still felt ill at ease at being in such close proximity to a relative stranger.
And most unsettling was how much she enjoyed the closeness of his body. She longed to lean into him, to touch the bared tan skin and savor the human closeness he could offer. Before she could control her thoughts, the vision of Gaspar dipping down to kiss her upon the neck filled her mind. It flustered her and filled her cheeks with a searing heat. She had never had such a thought in her mind before. While she knew the thought was sinful, it was also thrilling.
“Do you often carry rope with you?” Gwen asked, hoping to break the silence and take her mind off his healthy warmth and solid arms, which all but embraced her.
“When I am traveling any distance, sim. I do not like to be ill prepared.”
“Do you carry anything else?”
“A small knife, some flint…no more than other men, I expect.”
Gwen, unable to think of anything else to say, cursed her suddenly blank mind, which was still whirring madly, the vacant cogs not producing anything of substance for her to work with. So she stayed silent, trying desperately to ignore Gaspar’s presence and thinking how grateful she was that he could not see her face, which she was certain must have been beet red.
“Does she have a name, your horse?”
“Oh, yes,” Gwen answered, thankful to have a safe topic to speak about at last. “Faodial.”
“Faodial…Fao…dial…” he murmured, as if testing out the unfamiliar language.
“It means lucky find. My father gave her to me just before—” She broke off, not wishing to bring up her father so soon. “My father had been at an auction in the Lowlands, looking for some good Clydesdale breeding stock to bring home. He told me that once he caught sight of this little Eriskay foal, he had instantly been reminded of me.”
“Reminded of you? This horse is gray and stocky. Not like you at all.”
Gwen smiled a bit, hearing the bewilderment in his voice. “I think it’s because she was so small, much smaller than the others, as I was with Conner and my sisters. I had been begging him for a horse of my own for months, but he was certain I’d break my neck if I took one from the stables. So he got me Faodial so that we could grow together.”
“I see…much like when a boy in my village first builds a small raft to take out to sea and fish—well, I suppose my old home is now much larger than it once was.”
“Have you not been back in some time?”
He paused, staying silent for a moment, the sound of hooves against pressed ground the only sound that surrounded them. Then he said slowly, carefully, “I have been to Portugal, but not my old village in many years. The sea is my true home.”
***
Gaspar waited outside Sorcha’s hut while Gwen traded several small vials of new medicines
from London for bushels of dried bog myrtle to bring down fever and tormentil to stop the bleeding of cuts. She could have gathered such plants herself over the course of a few hours’ search, but Sorcha wouldn’t take the modern English medicine for free. An honest trade was the only way to get the traditional healer to accept Gwen’s help.
“Finished with your business?” he asked as she stepped back out into the early afternoon sun.
“Yes, I am.”
“But where is your basket?”
“Sorcha’s grandson will bring everything owed me up to the keep tomorrow.”
“Then where is your next appointment?”
“That was all I needed to do before the wedding. It’s at the chapel, just down this road.”
Gaspar held out his elbow for her to take, which she did with some trepidation, as being in close proximity to him seemed to ignite strange thoughts and emotions within her. But to refuse the arm would be rude, so she gently took it, as she would that of any other man. With his free hand, he led Faodial by the reins toward the far edge of the village, where the local chapel stood.
As they strode in companionable silence through the dirt lanes and walkways, dodging stray chamber pots and small children running about, Gwen couldn’t help but notice how the villagers responded to them. They were always kind to Gwen, having known her all her life, but they peered curiously at Gaspar, almost as if he were some sort of traveling exhibition. She knew why. He was as brown as a berry, compared to the ruddy complexions of most of the Scots. One might think him a Moorish mercenary or a mysterious cutthroat from a distant land. But based on the appreciative glances at him—and the jealous glares at her—from some of the young women, she knew a good deal would think him handsome.
She herself couldn’t deny that Gaspar was a striking man, as well as very educated. If he were only a bit more polite and less of a ridiculous flirt, she might wish for his company more. However, his constant dallying made it difficult for her to take him seriously. Although she noticed his gray eyes didn’t wander as they walked and he looked past the village girls as if they were empty barrels or trees.
Gwen would be lying if she said that didn’t please her, in some small hidden space within.
“This is it?” Gaspar asked, jarring Gwen out of her musings.
“Oh, yes. I’ll just take the horse to the public stables to be looked after.”
“No, I will do it. Where should I take the beast?”
“It’s there, beside the blacksmith’s shop. Have you not been here before?” She knew the Portuguese sailors had often gone to the village to dine, and probably to sample some of the girls who dwelled in the local brothel. She assumed Gaspar would be no different.
As if reading her mind, he said lowly, “I have told you, I will never touch a woman who does not wish me to touch her, and that includes those one could pay. So I have never been to this village. Wait for me, I shall return presently.” With a small smile, he turned and led Faodial past the slowly congregating crowd.
Gwen’s face heated so rapidly, she could almost hear it boiling like a kettle over an open flame. She couldn’t imagine how he was able to know her thoughts so easily, but she could curse herself for making them obvious. She didn’t mean to imply he was one to visit the house of ill repute…or at least, make it known that’s what she was implying.
When Gaspar rejoined her, they entered the small church together, sitting side by side on a worn wood pew near the door. She looked around for Conner and Charlotte with the children, but they were initially nowhere to be found among the crowd. When she finally did spy them, she found that they sat close to the front. Normally, she might have moved to be near them, but the chapel was almost full and she didn’t wish to give any fodder to Charlotte’s claims that Gaspar was attempting to spark a grand romance.
When the ceremony began, and Big Angus took his place beside the priest, Gwen allowed herself to relax and watch the proceedings. The gentle giant Big Angus had been a staple in her life since she was very young and it warmed her heart to see that he finally found a woman. And that day he was scrubbed clean in a new shirt and a kilt in the woven colors of their shared clan.
From outside, a band of bagpipes, flutes, and drums suddenly assaulted her ears, the mishmash, joyous music announcing the arrival of the bride. Grace entered, her red hair filled with early spring foliage and wearing a new green dress. There were tears in her eyes, and Gwen thought she spied Big Angus wipe one of his own away as she stopped beside him before the altar.
As the priest spoke in Gaelic, she closed her eyes, drinking in the words. She was allowing it to lull her peacefully into a place of pure contentment when she realized that this might be the last Gaelic wedding she ever saw. From what she read about the Spanish court, there was no way her old traditions would be kept while marrying the prince. There would be no pipers, no penny tucked in her shoe, no heather in her hair. She felt a sharp pang at the thought and opened her eyes to watch the ceremony with renewed attention.
But as she looked around her at the rapt faces, all turned toward the altar in interest, she found that one person wasn’t looking at the newlyweds. It was Gaspar…and he was looking at her.
***
Gwen watched the makeshift band setting up near the town square, bringing out fiddles, flutes, bagpipes, and drums. As for her and the rest of the guests, they were seated in the collection of chairs and tables that had been dragged outside from the various homes. Woman laid dishes of food and plates of bread while two men were turning a pig over an open fire off to one side.
Charlotte and Conner, along with the boys, had greeted Gwen quickly after the ceremony, but then left to tend to some village matters, leaving her alone with Gaspar. It seemed to be a pattern, ending up alone with him unintentionally. She found she didn’t really mind all that much. It surprised her to discover she felt that way, but one may never have too many friends, even if the friend in question was a terrible flirt, and she thought it was high time for her to embrace his ever-present company, in the most proper of senses.
“I thought all fine ladies had chaperones,” Gaspar said, leaning back in his seat. “Why do you not?”
“Conner says that I was born a grown woman with more than enough sense to stay out of trouble.”
“Is that so?”
“Oh, yes. Now, Flora…she needed a chaperone. All she thought of was getting married and going to balls.”
“And you do not?”
“Me? Hardly!” She laughed a bit, her gaze following a group of boys who hungrily eyed the simple wedding cake. “Have you ever been to a Scottish wedding? I mean, besides Flora’s, of course.”
He shook his head, grabbing two mugs of ale from a passing platter. “I have not had the pleasure. This is different than that of your sister, sim?”
“Sim. This is a traditional wedding. Much less formal than the ones we’ve had at the MacLeod keep. In truth, I find this much more enjoyable than the rigid ways of the castle.”
“That surprises me.”
“How so?”
“You are a very…structured lady, yet you enjoy this more than a wedding planned to include every detail.”
It was then that the band struck up a lively tune and Big Angus pulled his bride to the empty cobblestone square that had been transformed into a makeshift dance floor. They whirled around in a spin of plaid and green, looking at each other with such devotion that Gwen could barely keep the smile off her lips.
“Thinking of your own wedding?” Gaspar asked.
“What?”
“You looked happy yet sad,” he informed her, pushing her cup of ale closer to her fingers upon the table. “Happy to be married, sad to leave your home? Or happy to leave your home, sad to be married?”
She was surprised to find truth behind his simple question. She was sad and couldn’t quite place her finger on the reason her rapidly approaching engagement had made her feel that way. But she hid her rush of unease with a swig of strong ale
. It settled in her stomach, quelling the discomfort that filled her. She didn’t care much for the taste, but it gave her something to do with her hands.
“Did I overstep again?” One brow was raised and there was a cocky tilt to his lips that Gwen almost wished she could smack off. Smug cad.
She opened her mouth to answer, but was saved when many of the guests and townspeople joined in on the dancing and the noise in the village rose to a roar. Their hoots and yells overpowered her hearing as people left their seats and the band grew more animated in their playing.
“Dance, Gwendolyn?” Gaspar stood and extended a hand.
She looked up. “Truth be told, I’m not a great dancer.”
“Neither am I. But it is a wedding and we came to celebrate, sim? Or we could sit and talk?”
A dance would be the only way out of his probing questions, so she rose from her seat, leaving her cloak upon the chair with Gaspar’s. Luckily, the dances the villagers favored weren’t like those in the keep. The men danged jigs while the women swung with hooked arms, swapping partners. Gaspar and Gwen joined that round, linking elbows and skipping around through the crowd. And every time their circling brought them back together, the moment their hands would touch—for those fleeting seconds—she swore she felt her fingers tingle.
Despite her initial reservations, she found the beat of the drums and laughs of the other dancers infectious and couldn’t recall when she’d acted so carefree. It had been a long time, perhaps even before Flora was wed, or longer still. And even when they spun with other partners, circling the cobblestones, Gwen always felt Gaspar’s gaze boring into her, watching her as if she was the most beautiful and graceful dancer of them all. And with that knowledge, she threw her head back and danced with even more vigor, somehow hoping to keep his attention.
When she was finally winded, and the sun had set with candles and lanterns lit all around, Gwen left the dancers and slogged back to her chair to rest her tired feet. When she was seated, she scanned the crowd, catching sight of Gaspar. He was no longer passing through partners like the rest, but had one girl by his side. Gwen didn’t recognize her, but immediately felt a hot pang of irrational dislike. But the girl was pretty—she had to admit—with long dark hair and cream-colored skin that glowed in the candlelight as she spoke.
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