The Thorn & the Thistle

by Julie Moffett

  It wasn’t much of start, but it was something. He had no other choice than to work with it.

  * * *

  Ill at ease, Megan walked beside Rolf as he led her to the entrance of the Great Hall. They stopped in the doorway and Megan felt her eyes fill with tears as she looked about the lit chamber, remembering the happy hours she had spent here with her family. So much had changed from those days. She had lost her home and everyone she had ever loved.

  No more gay laughter or squeals of delight would float through the corridors of her beloved castle...only the sounds of clanging swords and the heavy tread of enemy footfalls. Now the magnificent tapestries that had once adorned the walls were gone, as was the precious shield and crest of the MacLeod clan that had hung proudly over the hearth. There were no plaids adorning the tables, no musicians with bagpipes. It was a cold, empty place. It would never be the same. Never.

  Rolf indicated with a brief gesture of his hand that she was to sit. Megan slid onto the bench, glad that he had seated them near the great stone hearth. She felt chilled from the memories as well as from the wicked draft that swept through the hall.

  Rolf slid onto the bench beside her. His arm brushed her shoulder as he settled himself at the table. Megan sent him a quick, startled glance as she felt unexpected warmth from the contact. For a moment, his eyes met hers before a knowing smile curved the strong lines of his face. She felt her cheeks warm with mortification as she slid sideways, giving him plenty of room to stretch his large frame without making further physical contact with her.

  Examining the table with more interest, she realized that only two places had been prepared. A decanter of wine and two goblets were arranged beside a flickering wax candle. Although she thought it absurd that only the two of them sat at a table that could seat a hundred, she noted with growing alarm that he had created a rather intimate setting.

  Rolf reached across the table, picked up the decanter and poured them both a full glass of wine. Megan watched his movements, intrigued by his good hand. It was shaped as if sculpted from stone—long taut fingers callused from the sword, yet deft and agile. His misshapen hand remained gloved and lay on his lap. From time to time she saw him massage it with his good hand. She wondered if it pained him. In fact, she wondered if anything at all disturbed his poised demeanor.

  Curious, Megan studied his face as he turned on the bench to face her. He was rather handsome in a dark sort of way. Heavy brow slashed low over an aristocratic nose. His lips were firm and sensual, his mouth curved slightly as if perhaps on the edge of a smile.

  Despite that, she thought he didn’t seem like a very happy or reasonable man. In fact, there was something mysterious, even predatory in the way he spoke and moved. Sleek, restless and dangerous. Aye, those were the words that fit him. A cruel man who’d killed his wife in cold blood and would not hesitate to cripple and torture those who crossed him. She wondered if it was his injury that had made him so bitter. Again her gaze lingered on his left hand.

  “Fascinated by my injury, are you?”

  Megan flushed and looked away. “I don’t care a whit about your bloody injury.”

  To her surprise, he laughed. “You’re a poor liar. Why not satisfy your curiosity and ask what you are thinking?”

  “All right, I will. How did that happen to ye?”

  He lifted his injured hand and regarded it. “In Wales during a skirmish. I fell off my mount and my opponent’s horse tried to trample me. Fortunately only my hand was caught.”

  Megan shuddered at the thought. “Does it hurt?”

  “Sometimes, especially when it’s cold.”

  “Is that why ye hide it beneath a glove?”

  He raised a dark eyebrow in surprise. “Would you have me display it?”

  “And why no’? In Scotland, men wear their scars proudly.”

  “I’m afraid that Englishwomen have far more delicate sensibilities than Scottish lasses. Most would swoon if forced to look upon such an abomination.”

  Megan snorted. “Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me. Ye should know that Scottish women wear their scars proudly too.”

  A flicker of interest sparked in his eyes. “Is that so? Have you any scars?”

  “That’s an inappropriate question, Englishman.”

  “I asked only out of curiosity, I assure you.”

  She paused. “Well then, only on my heart.”

  He set down his wineglass. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “I’d rather not have your pity. Why is no one else dining wi’ us?”

  “It is my wish to speak with you alone without the inconvenience of others listening.”

  “’Twill make no difference, Englishman. I have naught to say to ye.”

  “We shall see.”

  A woman entered the room carrying a large tray. Sweeping a cloth off the top, she removed two plates laden with fruit, meat, bread and cheese. Rolf thanked her as she set the plates in front of them and left the room.

  Rolf put his arms on the table. “Before we eat, I have a request of you.”

  Megan met his gaze, alert and wary. “What kind o’ request?”

  “I have yet to learn your name.” A faint smile touched his lips. “It is the first time I have invited a woman to dine with me whose name I did not know.”

  Megan frowned. “What does it matter what I am called? Ye may call me whatever ye wish, Englishman.”

  “All right. Then I wish to call you Megan.”

  She couldn’t hide the shock on her face. “H-how did ye know?”

  Rolf picked up a piece of cheese and popped it into his mouth. After a moment he took another sip of wine and studied her face. “One of the men we hold in the dungeon claims that you are his daughter, Megan Kincaid. He went so far as to threaten me if anything happened to you.”

  “Kincaid?” It took her a moment to fully comprehend his words. Then, for the first time since she had arrived at Castle Kilcraig, she felt a small spark of hope. “K-Kincaid. Ah, o’ course.”

  “That is your name, correct?”

  “Ah, aye. Has he...errrr...my father been harmed?”

  The candlelight danced off the stem of his goblet. “He took a cut in his shoulder during the fighting, but the wound was cleaned and bandaged. In fact, all the men have been well treated and fed. You see, Megan, we English are not all barbarians.”

  “I’ve seen nothing.” Bitterness tinged her voice. “If ye expect me to be grateful, ye’ll have to let me see the men for myself.”

  Rolf shrugged. “It can be arranged. But first, I insist you eat something.”

  Megan looked for the first time at the food on the plate before her. She couldn’t remember the last time she had seen such a meal. Unwilling to appear weak in front of him, she bit her lower lip, convincing herself that she wasn’t hungry. Unfortunately, her stomach chose that precise moment to growl in protest. She flushed with embarrassment.

  Rolf motioned to the plate with his hand. “Eat, Megan. I promise you no harm.”

  After a moment of indecision, she surrendered to her hunger. Picking up a chunk of bread she bit off a piece and chewed, closing her eyes at the wonderful taste of it. The bread she usually ate was so old it had to be softened in water before it was palatable. This bread was fresh and practically melted in her mouth. Reaching for her goblet, she washed it down with a sip of delicious red wine.

  “Much better.” Rolf smiled at her. “May I now speak frankly with you?”

  Megan bit off another piece of bread, shrugging. “’Tis your right to speak however ye wish. I seriously doubt, however, that we have much in common to talk about.”

  “You’re wrong, Megan. We could talk about the Wolf.”

  “Aye, I suppose we could. But I’ll no’ discuss him wi’ ye.”

  “I will
capture him, you know.”

  The certainty in his voice sent a shiver up Megan’s spine, but she was careful to keep her face expressionless. “I think no’, Englishman. Ye know little o’ the Scottish and our ways. The Wolf is an excellent strategist. He’ll no’ be so easily caught in your paltry traps. ’Tis many tricks he still has up his sleeves.”

  “The truth is that it will take little time for me to break those in the dungeon. They will soon supply me with all the information l need to know.”

  Megan stiffened, her eyes blazing. “So is this how the English fight their battles? Torturing wounded men—interrogating helpless women? Is this what defines you as a great soldier?”

  He shrugged. “Torturing men for information does not bring me pleasure, Megan. But it is you Scottish who are defying the law. Justice must be brought or else chaos will rule this land.”

  “Law? Justice? How dare ye speak such words? Ye English who take what ye want without cause, without right.”

  Unruffled, Rolf pulled a piece of bread from the loaf. “We have every right, Megan, and you know it. The Scottish were fairly routed at Culloden. Had they not committed treason by supporting your Prince Charles, perhaps we wouldn’t be here discussing this issue today.”

  “Fairly routed? Ye slaughtered wounded men and then went into the villages, murdering thousands of innocent women and children.”

  Rolf’s frowned. “I was not at Culloden, but I do agree that General Cumberland’s orders beyond the battlefield were most unfortunate. I do not agree with such tactics. It is my belief that every life lost in war is a loss for all mankind—the murder of innocents being the greatest loss of all.”

  Surprised, Megan heard genuine regret in his voice. “It doesn’t matter what ye say. The Scottish will never stop fighting ye.”

  Rolf reached over, grasping her hand. “The war is over, Megan. It’s time to stop fighting and start rebuilding lives.”

  She recoiled at his touch, but Rolf held on tight. Eyes blazing, she met his gaze. “Ye tell us to rebuild our lives under the heavy hand o’ the English. But what kind o’ lives can we have? We are not permitted to wear our plaids, bear arms to protect ourselves or even play the pipes. We will no’ live a life that we despise.”

  Rolf exhaled. “You are thinking only with emotion, Megan. How do you really think traditions are passed on from generation to generation?” When she didn’t answer, he released her hand and reached up to touch his lips. “By word of mouth. By sitting in front of the fire and listening to parents and grandparents speak of those traditions they have always held dear. But if the Scottish continue to struggle, to war in vain against us, you will have little time for such activities. All your energy will be wasted on survival, leaving you no possibility for enjoying the very things that make you Scottish. This is what will destroy you in the end.”

  As much as she wanted to deny it, Megan saw a grain of wisdom in his words and she hated herself for it. “I don’t care to have a history lesson. I’d rather know what ye plan to do wi’ me and the men ye hold prisoners in the dungeon.”

  Rolf sighed, leaning his elbows on the table. “They will be released to the village, once I have captured the Wolf.”

  “And once ye have captured the Wolf...what happens to him?”

  “I’ll not lie to you. He will be taken to London for execution. His crimes against the crown are severe.”

  Megan lowered her eyes, the gleam of hope she had felt fading. If she confessed to being the Wolf and was then executed, it would only lead her men to commit bloody retributions against the English. She knew they would fight to the death, every last one of them. And without a strong mind to lead them...they might all perish.

  Megan no longer felt hungry. Hands trembling, she pushed the plate away from her. “I’ve had enough.”

  She wished she were in the dungeon, among the trees, or even in the stables. Anywhere except here with this Englishman. Yet she had no choice other than to discourse with him. She only prayed her secrets would remain safe and she’d be able to soon free the people she’d sworn to protect.

  * * *

  Rolf glanced at her scarcely touched plate and then at her face. The blood had drained from her cheeks, her expression drawn and worried. He swore at himself for having frightened her. Her intelligence had taken him off guard and he had forgotten that she was also a young woman who presumably cared for the man he had just promised to see executed. He tempered his anger at himself with the knowledge that he was only trying to end this madness. Lifting the decanter, he poured himself some more wine.”

  “Megan, I know that a man called Robert McLeod is the Wolf. I assume you are someone of value to him or you would not have been sharing his bed. And there was only one bed in the tent.” He lifted his gaze to her face, expecting her to deny it.

  “Sharing his bed?”

  “Well, there was only one bed. And your clothing was found there as well.”

  She raised her chin and met his gaze. “Aye, there was only one bed, Englishman, And ye are right that those were my garments ye found there.”

  Rolf reached for his goblet, taking a sip of the wine. “I presume that makes you his mistress.”

  “Ye can presume whatever ye wish.”

  “Yes, I suppose I can.”

  An uneasy silence lengthened between them before Megan broke it. “So why do ye insist on keeping me here now that ye know who I am to him?”

  “Perhaps he’ll risk trying to rescue you.”

  Megan laughed. “Me? Do ye really think the Wolf would risk our cause for me?”

  When Rolf nodded, she shook her head. “Och, ye gravely underestimate the Wolf, Englishman. I assure ye, there are plenty o’ women waiting to take my place.”

  For some reason, her answer disturbed Rolf. The thought that this remarkable woman could be so easily cast aside filled him with an unusual sense of anger. Yet there was something in her words that did not quite ring true. Rolf couldn’t rid himself of a small nagging doubt that lingered in his mind.

  Pushing away from the table, he stood. Megan looked up in surprise.

  “Will ye take me to the dungeon now? I supped wi ye.”

  He shrugged. “I haven’t yet decided. Frankly, the evening looms before me and I’m rather enjoying our banter. Perhaps you would be so kind to join me for a brandy in the sitting room.”

  “Ye wish to drink wi’ me? Your enemy?”

  “We don’t have to be enemies. To tell you the truth, I’m rather enjoying our discussion. You are a very intriguing and beautiful woman.”

  He lifted a tendril of her hair. She jerked away so fast she nearly fell, a flash of panic crossing her face.

  Rolf sighed. “You have nothing to fear. I won’t harm you. My request is innocent enough. After dinner I often retire to the drawing room for a brandy and a game of chess.”

  “Chess?”

  “Yes. I don’t suppose you play.”

  “But I do. In fact, I used to play often wi’ my da. That is before he...um, before the English came.”

  “May I interest you in a game now?”

  She studied his face, suspicious and as a precaution, he kept his expression neutral. He knew she suspected his request was not as innocent as it sounded. It was not. A chess game might offer a glimpse into her inner self and knowing how her mind worked could prove very useful to him. His father had always told him that in order to conquer one’s enemy, it was necessary to assess both their weaknesses and strengths. What better way than a game of chess to discover how her mind worked? If he could learn something of her thinking, it might offer a glimpse into her inner character.

  He could tell the offer intrigued her and it surprised him that she might be thinking the same thing he did. He almost smiled.

  Finally she nodded and he could tell she was trying
not to seem too interested in the prospect.

  “Your offer does interest me. I am willing to meet ye across a chessboard, Englishman.”

  “Splendid.” Rolf held out a hand and drew her to her feet. “It seems that this is going to be a most fascinating evening after all.”

  Chapter Seven

  Megan watched from the doorway of a small sitting room as Rolf arranged the furniture for their game. He dragged a small table near the hearth and then brought two heavy chairs, positioning them alongside the table.

  She pressed her lips together, thinking he moved with surprising grace and elegance despite his injury. Although he appeared to use his left hand for little more than balance, his movements were so smooth and effortless that she hardly noticed the deformity.

  He straightened, lifting his good hand and removing his neck cloth with one firm pull. Uttering an audible sigh of relief, he cast it to the back of one of the chairs and knelt in front of the hearth. Picking up the fire iron, he prodded several squares of peat until a small blaze burst forth. The distinctive smell of burning peat drifted through the chamber, both comforting Megan and painfully reminding her of another time, when she had called this castle home.

  Apparently satisfied that the chamber was ready, Rolf stood. “Shall we sit?” He swept his hand toward a chair.

  Megan walked past him, her bare shoulder brushing against his hand. As his fingers touched her skin, a flare of warmth shot through her and down her arm. Horrified, she felt a hot flush rush to her cheeks.

  A slow smile curved across his month. Megan sat down with a thump, arranging her skirts around her legs.

  “Would you care for a brandy, Megan?”

  “Nay.” She needed to keep a clear head around this Englishman.

  Shrugging, he walked over to a side table, pulling the glass top off a decanter of brandy. He poured a glass and lifted it to his lips for a taste. Satisfied, he joined her at the table and opened a wooden box, pulling out a board and several intricately carved chess pieces. He arranged all the pieces until they sat face-to-face, enemy-to-enemy, with naught more than squares on the chessboard between them.