by Alyssa Stark
He wondered if he would ever feel the simple joy of sunlight warming his skin again. Having always loved winter and the calm that blanketed the earth as the snow fell, Lachlan ached to be out of doors. Days like this had always been his favorite. He relished crisp, chilly air stinging his lungs and the rare joy of winter sunlight to warm his bones.
“The sunlight is lovely,” Lachlan said, knowing that the maid would ignore his words. It was clear that she hated him and all things MacFarland.
He suddenly sneezed again.
Damn his ribs hurt.
“Twould seem as if there are thistles hiding in here somewhere,” he joked softly. Thistles always caused Lachlan to sneeze. He could hardly stand them.
Edith turned and arched her eyebrow at him.
“No thistles in here,” she said briskly as she yanked the curtains closed and left Lachlan alone in the dark room.
..ooOOoo..
The next morning, Lachlan awoke mid sneeze to a pitcher of water filled with a messy bouquet of thistles sitting right on the bedside table.
“Saints!” he cursed. He couldn’t help but smile under his breath. “Blast her,” he chuckled as he thought of Edith.
The chamber maid must have snuck in this unwanted gift in the dead of night.
Lachlan sneezed again.
His eyes itched like Hell. Thistles had always been the death of him, causing his eyes to water and his sneezes to come in uncontrollable fits. The Campbells were certainly succeeding at making his life a living Hell, all so that they could kill him when they saw fit.
He looked at the blossoms, if they could even be called blossoms. Winter had killed most of the prickly bastards, but a few of the smaller seed pods still had a purple cast to them.
Lachlan shook his head. He sneezed again.
His heart beat faster as the idea first crept into his mind.
He wanted to give Elizabeth something, some token of his gratitude.
He wanted to know if she felt the same inexplicable feelings that he did.
As Elizabeth had nursed him back to health, he had caught her watching him several times. Her sparkling green eyes told him of her longing. Lachlan had felt Elizabeth’s eyes upon his skin. He had felt her gaze settle upon his mouth.
He was sure that Elizabeth felt the same way that he did.
There was an inexplicable pull between them. It was as if an energy flowed between them, almost palpable in its realness.
She was a beacon of light into his dark existence.
Would she accept such a token from him?
The Highland custom dated back centuries.
Give a lass a thistle and promise her your heart.
Hell, Elizabeth Campbell had already stolen Lachlan’s heart. She had been so gentle and kind. Her daily visits were the only thing that Lachlan looked forward to. He was consumed by her. Her feminine, graceful movements delighted him. She had overtaken even his dreams.
Could he dare hope that perhaps she would acknowledge the energy between them and accept his gift of a thistle?
Lachlan eyed the dead flowers again, seeing them now in a completely different light. The prickly exterior of each seed pod was golden, a hue that he suddenly found quite beautiful. And the scant dusting of purple threads that crowned the few living pods reminded him of the gown that Elizabeth had worn this morning.
He reached out, thanking his lucky stars that Elizabeth had been able to get the length of his bed shackles extended. His fingers made contact with the prickly head of a thistle. He could just reach it. Breaking off the flower, he sneezed again as he enclosed the charm within his fist.
Lachlan kept the thistle in his hand, a hopeful secret that caused his heart to beat at a swifter cadence.
Could Elizabeth possibly share the same feelings that had taken root within Lachlan’s heart? He had watched her closely, studying her mesmerizing green eyes. When her fingers had danced over his bare skin, he had sworn that he had seen something in the green depths of her eyes.
What had it been? Longing? Perhaps desire?
Had it been hope? Did Elizabeth hope for a future that held more than a marriage of duty to strengthen an alliance for John Campbell?
The thorns of the thistle itched Lachlan’s hand, but he did not loosen his grip, for what he possessed was precious.
Pray that Elizabeth would accept his gift, for the prickly thistle nestled in his palm meant so much. It was more than just the gift of a token of gratitude, the thistle represented the gift of his heart to the woman that he desired above all else.
..ooOOoo..
The scout dashed through the gates that guarded the castle, his lathered horse kicking up the muddy snow that covered the road. He had pushed the animal near death in an effort to reach MacFarland keep in time.
Lord willing, he was not too late!
The young man leapt from his horse and raced up the steps, taking them two at a time. He took a quick glance over his shoulder. The stallion’s sides heaved from exertion. His breath came in billowy puffs of white against the midnight sky.
He pounded on the door to the keep. Due to the late hour, it was not guarded and had been barricaded for the night.
“Open up, damn ye!” he bellowed into the darkness as his fist pounded desperately against the giant wooden door. “I’ve news of the Laird’s son!”
Metal drug over metal as the bar was removed hastily from the inside of the door.
The steward opened the massive doors and stepped aside as the young man pushed his way roughly inside.
“I’ll see the Laird. Now. He will want to hear this as soon as he may.”
“Aye? I’ll take ye to him,” the steward said sleepily. His hair was a snarled mess of curls and he wore a hastily pulled on night coat. He rubbed his eyes, trying to wake up and grasp what was happening.
“Hurry man!” the scout insisted as he ran up the stairs towards the Laird’s bed chamber.
Not waiting for the steward, he raced up the stone steps and pounded against the Laird’s door. Nervous anticipation filled him.
Pray that he had ridden fast enough. Pray that there was still time!
Laird Angus MacFarland opened the door.
He wore only his kilt. That and a deep set angry scowl.
“Why do ye wake me in the middle of the night, Malcolm?” the Laird asked with irritation.
“It’s Lachlan!” Malcolm said breathlessly. “He’s alive!”
MacFarland’s eyes lit up.
He had been mourning the death of his only son.
“Do not toy with me, Lad!” the Laird thundered, praying that this was not a misunderstanding, not some sort of cruel trick. His grizzled heart had broken at the loss of his only child. It began to beat faster, the slow and steady rhythm of building hope.
“The Campbells have taken him. But he lives still…I can assure you that he lives still!” Malcolm said enthusiastically.
“And you are sure of this?” MacFarland gritted through clenched teeth. The idea of his son being a prisoner of the ruthless John Campbell made his stomach churn. Lachlan would be better off dead than in the hands of the enemy.
“I saw it myself! Rode like the devil was at my heels to get here and tell you. He was injured badly…they carried him away on a pallet. But I assure you, my Laird, he lives!”
“Thank you, Lad. Your bravery will be rewarded,” MacFarland vowed sincerely as he reached out and placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Tell Liam to ready the men. We leave as soon as the men have been mustered and the beasts readied. Be my son dead or alive, nothing will prepare the Campbell bastards for the fury of Hell that is about to rain down upon them!”
..oo Chapter Five oo..
Elizabeth entered Lachlan’s chamber carrying a basket full of knitting.
She was pleased to see that a healthy pallor colored Lachlan’s face.
A warm smile also graced his handsome face.
Elizabeth’s heart flip-flopped in her chest.
L
achlan was happy to see her.
She sat the knitting basket down on the chair beside Lachlan’s bed. Elizabeth opened the curtains, allowing midwinter sunlight to pour into the small chamber.
“Thank you,” Lachlan said as he propped himself up in the bed.
“Tis the least that I can do to allow some sunlight to reach you. ‘Tis not right how you are being kept as a prisoner.”
“Perhaps you are the only one who shares my sentiment, but I thank ye,” Lachlan chuckled. He watched Elizabeth as she kindled his fire. The sunlight lifted his spirits, but in truth it was Elizabeth that made his heart soar. She was the sunlight in his day. He looked forward to her daily visits, relishing the time that they would spend together.
The thistle prickled his palm.
His heart thudded in his chest.
Lachlan said a silent prayer that Elizabeth would not rebuke him. He prayed that she felt the same inexplicable attraction that he did. He hoped that the longing in her green eyes had not just been a figment of his imagination.
She was the lass that sang to his soul.
Lachlan knew that he had not been mistaken.
Elizabeth was the one.
Elizabeth settled herself into the chair beside Lachlan’s bed. She held the basket of knitting on her lap and smiled devilishly at Lachlan.
“Do you care for Shakespeare?” she asked, her eyes twinkling with mischief.
“Aye,” Lachlan nodded. He delighted in the excitement that sparkled in Elizabeth’s eyes.
She dug in the basket, moving aside knitting needles and balls of yarn. Beneath the unfinished projects and multi-colored spools of yarn, she had hidden a secret. A well-worn copy of The Taming of the Shrew.
“Would you like me to read it to you?” Lachlan asked. He noted that Elizabeth held the book in her hands reverently, as if it was her most valuable possession. Books were rare to come by, expensive and difficult to find in the Highlands. Perhaps the book was Elizabeth’s most valuable possession.
“Nay!” Elizabeth laughed. “I had thought to read to you,” she smiled as she opened the book.
“You are able to read?” Lachlan asked, his eyebrows arching in surprise.
“Aye,” Elizabeth said proudly. “My mother taught me.”
“Tis a rare gift,” Lachlan remarked. “She was wise to teach her daughter such skills.”
“I wish that my step-father shared your notions about women and reading!” Elizabeth exclaimed. “He says ‘tis a sin for a woman to read. Last time he caught me, he…” Elizabeth trailed off, catching herself before yielding too much information to Lachlan.
“He what, lass?” Lachlan demanded. His eyebrows were knit together in blatant disapproval.
“Nothing,” Elizabeth said, shaking her head.
“What did he do to you?” Lachlan asked, the anger in his voice daring Elizabeth not to answer him. Elizabeth’s apparent fear of John Campbell made him hate the bastard even more. How could any man hurt sweet Elizabeth?
“He had me beaten,” Elizabeth whispered, her eyes locking with Lachlan’s.
“And that did not stop you from reading?”
“Nay, it did not stop me. It just taught me to be more careful,” Elizabeth said with a devious smile.
“Ye are a braw lass,” Lachlan said, nodding in approval.
Elizabeth opened the tome.
She started reading the book from the beginning, unsure if Lachlan would be familiar with the story.
Elizabeth’s voice was melodic as she read the words of William Shakespeare. The words were like magic rolling off her tongue. Lachlan watched her eagerly as she read, certain that never in his life had he encountered such an intriguing woman as Elizabeth Campbell.
The thistle prickled the inside of Lachlan’s palm.
Today he would give it to her, bearing his heart openly to her.
But first he would listen to her read a bit more. Lachlan reclined against the pillow and soon found himself lost in the story of Katherine the shrew. His eyes were trained upon Elizabeth as she read. He smiled as he watched her lovely face animate as she spoke the lines of Shakespeare’s characters.
“This is one of my favorite parts!” Elizabeth exclaimed excitedly. Her eyes darted towards Lachlan’s to discover that he had been watching her as she read. The look in his eyes caused her heart to thunder. Elizabeth smiled shyly and returned her eyes to the book.
“Petruchio: Come, come you wasp; I’faith, you are too angry.
Katherine: If I be waspish, best beware my sting.
Petruchio: My remedy is then, to pluck it out.”
Lachlan laughed, delighting in the playful words.
Elizabeth smiled at him and continued.
“Katherine: Ay, if the fool could find where it lies.
Petruchio: Who knows not where a wasp does wear his sting? In his tail.
Katherine: In his tongue.”
Elizabeth paused. “Can you imagine a lass so wicked as Katherine?”
“I’ve met one or two,” Lachlan chuckled as he thought back to his younger years.
Just then, the door burst open.
Elizabeth gasped as Edith stormed into the chamber. The book lay open in her lap. There was no time to hide it in her skirts.
“What is that?” Edith asked accusingly as she stalked over towards Elizabeth. “Yer father has warned ye about the sins of reading books!”
“I…I was only…” Elizabeth stammered as Edith came and ripped the precious book from her grasp.
“Tis mine,” Lachlan said calmly. “The book was in my sporran. I meant no harm by showing it to the lass. I did not know that her father had forbidden her from reading.”
Edith looked down at the worn leather volume.
She glared at Lachlan.
“Tis no surprise that ye would seek to defile Lady Elizabeth with the evils found in books! Spawn of the Devil that ye are yerself,” Edith said heatedly as she regarded Lachlan.
“I’ll have my book back,” Lachlan said with an air of challenge as he glowered at the hateful maid.
Edith thought for a moment and then tossed the book on the foot of Lachlan’s bed, well beyond the reach of his shackled arms.
“Tis unwise for you to be alone with this devil,” Edith said reproachfully as she looked directly at Elizabeth.
“The Laird assigned me to his care!” Elizabeth said defensively.
“Aye, he did. I know as much. But when the Laird assigned ye tae care for this MacFarland bastard, I reckon that he did not know ye would enjoy it sae much,” Edith said accusingly. Her eyes locked with Elizabeth’s for a scant moment before she stormed out of the chamber.
Elizabeth looked to Lachlan, fear evident in her eyes.
She stood and captured the book in her hands, stuffing it quickly beneath the balls of yarn in her knitting basket.
“She’ll tell him. He will know that the book was not yours!” Elizabeth said, her voice shaking with fear.
“Give the book over, Elizabeth,” Lachlan said coolly. “He may not believe that it is mine, but perhaps he will. ‘Tis a chance that I am willing to take if it will spare you from his wrath.”
Elizabeth dug the book out of her basket. She carefully put in into Lachlan’s outstretched hand.
“He will beat you,” Elizabeth said remorsefully. “It will be all the reason that he needs.”
“I would rather him beat me than raise a hand against you, for I am a dead man already.”
Elizabeth’s heart sank.
How could John Campbell harbor so much hatred against Lachlan, for just his clan name? Lachlan was a good man, a brave man that was willing to sacrifice of himself to give her protection.
“Elizabeth,” Lachlan asked as his heart raced in his chest. “There is something that I would ask you.”
“Aye?”
“Will you come closer, please?” Lachlan cursed the restraints that tethered his arms to the bed. He wished to have his hands free for what he was about to do. He wi
shed to have his hands free so that he might touch Elizabeth, if she permitted him to do so.
Elizabeth sat on the bed, so close to Lachlan that her sweet, enticing scent reached his nose. The lass reminded him of sunshine, and lavender. She smelled so lovely. Lachlan looked upon her, her beautiful auburn hair spilling down her shoulders, unbound and curling in loose ringlets in contrast to her soft pink gown.
“I’ve a gift for ye,” he said huskily.
“You’ve no need to give me a gift, Lachlan!” Elizabeth refuted. “Taking the book, taking the punishment for the book in my stead is more than I could ever ask!”
“Nay, it is a gift that I want to give to you. ‘Tis a gift that I am hoping with all of my heart that you will accept.”
The expression fell from Elizabeth’s face.
Her heart flip-flopped in her chest.
Lachlan extended his tethered hand towards hers. He stretched out his index finger and brushed it tenderly down her forearm and across her knuckles.
Elizabeth did not move away from his touch.
Lachlan’s gentle touch set a fire in Elizabeth’s blood. Her skin rippled with gooseflesh from the thrill of his skin against her own.
Her eyes flitted up to meet with Lachlan’s.
He watched Elizabeth intently as he transferred his gift into her hand.
She looked down, feeling something prickle lightly against her sensitive skin.
There resting in her palm was a thistle.
Elizabeth’s eyes darted up to Lachlan’s face. Her expression was one of surprise. A light blush colored her cheeks and her mouth was open as if she meant to speak, but could not find the words to do so.
“In my clan, the thistle is a symbol of love,” Lachlan began, his heart thundering wildly in his chest. If Elizabeth rebuked him, if she refused to see him, it would be as if the very light had been stolen from his life. “When a man gives a thistle to a woman, it is seen as a promise.”
“What sort of promise?” Elizabeth asked. Anticipation thrummed through Elizabeth’s body.
“Tis a promise of his love,” Lachlan said as he closed Elizabeth’s hand gently around the thistle. “And I hope that you will accept such a promise from me,” Lachlan said with a needful smile.