The thought of resting here for two more days while he waited for his men to find him in Haddington near sent him into fits. But what choice did he have, with no mount and likely unable yet to walk any great distance?
And he supposed he now had the girl to consider as well. He couldn’t very well leave her with Cairstine. But what in the hell was he supposed to do with a woman-child who’d been bound by the church for so many years? Disgruntled further by the lack of answers, and more so still by the prospect of wasting more days here, Gregor eventually returned to the small cabin.
Inside, he found the lass not as he’d left her, but wakeful now, and upon her knees, her hands folded solemnly before her. She lifted her head when he entered and appeared almost relieved to see him.
Not quite sure why he’d held his breath, nor why the sight of her anxious face did disturb him so, Gregor exhaled slowly. “Just exercising my legs,” he said, not without some truth, answering the question in her eyes.
Anice stood and stepped closer to him, near enough to notice that her remarkable eyes now clearly expressed calmness and that her short, choppy hair was rather more askew.
“And what might you be about, awake at such an hour?”
“I was...praying,” she said.
“What do you pray for, lass?” He wondered. What did a girl like this, perhaps lowly born and unappreciated, surely, ask of her Lord during prayer? She’d come to the abbey many years ago, she’d said. Not by choice then, he guessed. Did she pray for deliverance? Greater faith? Acceptance? Friendship?
She hesitated only a moment. “I pray for my family and for the sisters,” she said. “And for Scotland to have peace.”
“Family?”
She nodded. “Aye. Da and Mother, and three sisters.”
“Have they taken the veil?”
“No. They are to marry. Or, possibly, they are married already.”
So few words, so much said.
“You do no pray for the veil, lass? To become a nun, proper?”
She appeared nonplussed, as if that entreaty had never occurred to her. “No, I guess I do not.” A little bubble of laughter escaped her, brightening her eyes and bracketing her very alluring mouth. “Aye, but mayhap I should have been.” She clapped both hands over her mouth, as if she truly only just now realized she’d not ever offered prayers for what was supposed to be her life’s vocation.
Gregor gave a short laugh as well. “Aye, lass, that might’ve been the problem.”
GREGOR DOZED AGAIN in that chair and the lass did likewise again in that corner. When next he woke, he guessed it might be just before dawn, and he realized that the healer had not yet returned to her own cottage. The fire had died completely again, the single room shuttered to almost complete darkness. The lass was curled up, not against the wall, but upon the floor, her knees drawn into her chest, as if she’d been cold during the night.
He stood quietly and stretched only enough as the bandaged wound would allow, peering out the only window of the cottage, into the grey gloom of a foggy morning.
Some small sound he’d made must have roused her. He turned as she sat up quickly, as if jostled roughly from sleep, and shifted to face the door. Gregor could see her shape and now noted that she stared at him but could discern not much else in the darkness.
“Is aught amiss? Are you feverish again?” Her voice bespoke of slumber, laced decently with concern. She stood and approached him. One hand found his chest, whether to detect illness or steady herself as she’d jumped up so quickly, Gregor did not know; the palm of her other hand covered his forehead, then moved down to his cheek, so close to a lover’s caress.
“There is no excessive heat,” she determined.
“I am not unwell,” he said unnecessarily and felt her hands leave him, both at once. A pity, that. She must have been on the tips of her toes to reach his forehead, he guessed, as the shadows which showed the lowering of her hands and arms also brought her lower to the ground, the top of her head now barely reaching his shoulder.
“You are leaving,” she guessed.
Gregor nodded, narrowing his eyes in the darkness, trying to pick up a reaction from her, any reaction at all. He wasn’t sure what he expected or wanted, or why he cared. Only a small grimace of a smile was detected, and short-lived at that. Maybe he’d misinterpreted it.
“I know you must,” she said softly, “though I’d like to suggest a few more days to heal would be of greater benefit. Riding hard to home, as I’m sure you would, will aggravate the wound. Have you a healer at your keep to see to the damage you surely will cause?”
“Aye,” he said, not dismissively of her question, for that lent itself the time and concern spent on his repair, but rather with a tone that said her further concern was unnecessary. “I should find parts of my army in Haddington, I’m thinking. If no, I can figure out getting back to Stonehaven.” His eyes had adjusted to the gloom and shadows, so much so that he was quite sure that the exquisite little elf was staring at his lips.
She breathed deeply.
“I wish you safe travels, sir, and—”
“I could take you with me.”
Her lips parted at this unexpected offer, just as shocked as he was, his own mouth open still even after the words had been let out. She was quiet for a long moment.
Gregor closed his mouth and clenched his jaw.
“I don’t even know your name,” was all she said though.
“I am Gregor Kincaid,” he said, “chief of Kincardineshire, and master of Stonehaven, and, by God’s will, defender of Scottish freedom.” If she were impressed with his name and position, she gave no inkling. Even within the depressing walls of Jardine, he imagined he might have been known to be a steadfast companion of both William Wallace and Andrew Moray and that he had for years been referred to, first by Wallace himself, as the ‘fist of Scotland’.
ANICE SWALLOWED AUDIBLY, though not fearfully. “The Fist of Scotland,” she breathed.
Friar Trindall had come weekly to Jardine to say mass and give lengthy sermons. For as long as Anice could remember, the little round man had spoken of the perils of present-day Scotland. No one was safe, and safety should not ever be taken for granted. Many would die—family, friends, loved ones—throughout the long years of this war with England. His sermons had so often left her feeling helpless and anxious for days afterward. Friar Trindall had advised prayer, plenty of it, imagining God was surely on the side of good Scotland. Anice had indeed prayed. For the war to end, for Scotland to triumph with freedom, and for a savior to come.
She considered the braw and powerful man before her. The Fist of Scotland.
Anice almost smiled at him.
But for the life of her, she could not imagine what had prompted the man to offer such a thing. Take her with him? Away from here?
Away from Jardine. Truth be told, Anice had suspected she’d have no choice but to return to Jardine, having no other options available to her, once the big warrior left.
But this, now—the thought sank into her with a heart-pounding rush. It felt much like cherries in the summer, sweet and tempting, and so longed for, yet something you didn’t know you were craving until they were set before you.
She considered that he seemed just as surprised as her by his statement. Yet, no words followed to yank it back.
“Yes,” she said simply, not daring to entertain all the practical questions clamoring to be addressed.
“Just like that?” He asked. His expression now was indecipherable.
Anice nodded and found it hard to keep at bay the thoughts that circled her mind, ones of relief and uncertainty and hope and fear.
Perhaps uncertainty and fear were prominent, even if she refused to acknowledge it, for he informed her, “Stonehaven is a hard two days ride and,” he said and grinned slightly here, “and I have no a steed yet. But ‘tis a safe keep, no English would dare traverse so far into Scotland. A hundred souls live inside the walls, hundreds more in the villages around it. You woul
d no be troubled by anyone... and we have no employed the stocks in centuries.”
Anice’s lips quirked at this.
Was he trying to convince her? Did she need him to?
She only nodded again, the jumble of her thoughts not allowing for coherent words to be spoken.
He glanced around the healer’s cottage, as if assessing what she might need to gather for a leave-taking, if any of this debris might be hers. “I haven’t any possessions,” she told him, to which he nodded, his brow knitting.
“We’ll need to find you some clothes that dinna scream that you are running away from the abbey.” His words were clipped now. Was he already regretting his offer?
They of course had to walk to Haddington, and Anice imagined they looked an odd pair, the mighty Scottish warrior with his bonny face and long sword, and the waif-like almost-nun, with her hacked off hair and rather pathetic habit of gray. Luckily, the Kincaid chief kept them just off the road, within the trees that flanked either side of it, so there was none to witness their movements.
Anice was filled with so many emotions, she surely couldn’t name them all. She acknowledged joy at the possibility of never having to step foot inside Jardine again, of never again having to bow her head before the almighty Lady Eugenia. She concentrated on these for quite some time, loathe to give up this joy for the apprehension that was bound to surface.
They were likely halfway between Cairstine’s cottage and their destination of Haddington when she realized that the Kincaid’s steps, as he walked in front of her, were slower, more plodding.
“Might we sit for a while?” She asked. “I fear I’m wearier than I’d suspected.”
He stopped and turned, gauging the truth of this with his piercing amber eyes, only a shade lighter than the color of his thick hair. He seemed to accept this as Anice had given a decent show of blowing out a distinctly fatigued breath. He glanced around a bit, then pointed to a fallen tree, which stretched through the woods, parallel to the path, only several yards ahead.
Furtively, she watched him perch upon that deadened log, his breaths pained if not exactly labored. Of course, she might chastise him, reminding him that she had suggested he wait several days. But there was something about this man that bespoke of a rare history of taking orders, or even suggestions, from any but his own self. She’d stolen some of Cairstine’s herbs, which she’d tied up in pieces of linen and had secured to the rope belt of her habit, but these wouldn’t help until they came upon some ale or another liquid in which to stir them.
She leaned against the log beside him, pretending to feel appreciation for this respite. Possibly, he was too busy with his own actual pain to consider her imaginary discomfort.
They hadn’t sat for more than a minute when the sound of a galloping horde approaching was heard. Anice lifted her head to this noise just as the Kincaid stood again and drew forth his long sword. He presented a powerful picture, this massive warrior wielding his great sword, but she immediately decided they were doomed if discovered, if not because of the vast numbers obviously advancing as told by the increasing and thundering clatter, then because of his pitiful state, which showed him unsteady and perspiring.
Anice stood, and placed her hand on his back, peering through the trees to see dozens of mounted men whirring by, the concealing foliage and the speed at which they did fly being a hindrance to any sort of identification.
And then the Kincaid surprised her by calling out loudly his own name. Anice gasped at this, wondering why they’d bothered to stay off the road if he were going to announce their presence. But this was forgotten as he fell back onto the fallen trunk. She was quick to right him, lest he keep tipping and tumble over the backside. He did it again, drew in a long breath, to bellow through the trees, “Kincaid!”
“Stop,” she begged, frightened now that with this current fever and weakness had come some deficiency of mind. As he slumped again upon that log, his face was now at a height with her own. Anice took his face in her hands, trying to bring his wavering amber eyes to focus on her. “Stop,” she demanded.
But it was perhaps too late. Riders halted, voices rose in confusion, even as she still cradled the Kincaid’s pale face in her palms.
Horses and riders began to dash into the woods, but Anice kept her hands upon him.
“Kincaid.” His eyes were closed, his face almost ashen, his shoulders drooped. “Wake up,” she cried, tears actually falling for what he had just done, for having brought this party right to them.
He did open his eyes, just as riders were almost upon them. One of his hands covered hers at his cheek. “Aye, lass, ‘tis all right.”
Anice shrieked as they were surrounded, dozens of horses pressed into the tiny space between the trees around them, and just as many swords pointed at them. She turned and presented her hands, up and out, but pressed herself closer to the Kincaid to protect him so that she actually stood between his legs. The tip of the closest blade was mere inches from her face. Anice whimpered, her eyes following the blade, up and over the hand that held it, and onto the face leering down at her, into very angry dark eyes. The Kincaid’s arm slid around her, across her middle, pulling her back against him.
“They’re with me, Anice,” the Kincaid whispered into her ear, his breath hot, just as the multitude of menacing swords were lowered or sheathed all at once.
The angry eyed man was the first to drop to the ground and he came directly to Anice and the Kincaid. It was only then that she noticed these men all wore plaids sporting a similar tartan—blue and gray and green—as the Kincaid himself. And she breathed, turning in his arm just as the angry man lifted his chief’s other arm to wrap it around his neck.
Anice felt his arm slide away from her waist as he was made to stand. She nearly cried out, wondering if, with the removal of his arm and his near unconsciousness, also went her own escape.
But she heard him say to the man who led him away, “The lass comes as well.” The words came slowly, though fiercely. “She goes to Stonehaven, even if I dinna and you keep her safe, Torren.”
“Aye, laird.”
Chapter 4
He dreamed he was drowning, sinking under the heavy and icy water of a loch, weighted by his own sword and plaid. He tried to kick his feet off the bottom, to push himself back up to the surface, again and again. While the bottom never seemed too far, the surface was ever out of his reach. He choked on the gritty water, burning down his throat, coughing and retching.
And then he heard her voice.
Anice.
“Drink,” she insisted, forcing more liquid down his throat. “I don’t understand. He was better yesterday. I thought the fever had passed. Oh, I should have forced him to stay at Cairstine’s."
The low-timbred voice of his captain, Torren Beyn came to him, seeming only a whisper just now. “Aye, sister, like as no, the chief pushed himself just to see you and him to us.”
“Sir Torren, please stop calling me ‘sister’.”
“Aye, when you stop attaching the ‘sir’ to my name, I will.”
WHEN HE NEXT WOKE, it was to see the lass’s face hovering above his, her eyes bright with worry, darting about his features. ‘Twas a shame the skies were crowded with clouds and no sunshine illuminated the fabulous blue of her eyes. His brow furrowed a bit and his hand lifted of its own accord to touch a length of fabric now wound around her head. It was a simple green and cream stripe piece, which she’d wound several times to cover her hair, the ends hanging down over one shoulder.
“Your man thought it necessary—might raise fewer questions,” she explained vaguely.
He knew he was prone, upon a cart, while the lass sat next to him, or rather, his had rested in her lap, perhaps. The swaying and light bumping and knowing she was with them, had not in fact been left behind, lulled him to restfulness again, his hand still holding the ends of that fabric which covered her bonny head.
IT WAS NEAR TO NIGHTFALL when they finally stopped. Anice hadn’t wanted
to bother them to do so previously but did now have needs that required immediate attention. ‘Twas fine for the riders, they only skipped off the narrow road, sometimes not even bothering to duck into the nearby trees and took care of their own personal business. She’d felt that her requesting a stop might have halted the entire army and hadn’t wanted to cause any inconvenience. While they had yet treated her with only kindness, she had overheard time and again their desire to be at Stonehaven, as apparently, they’d been gone now for many months.
But now, she lifted the Kincaid’s head off her lap as gently as possible while trying to scooch out from under him. He’d slept now for several hours uninterrupted. As his fever had seemed to stabilize, she would not waken him only to pour more of Cairstine’s remedy down his throat. Anice jumped down from the back of the cart as dozens of Kincaid soldiers saw to making a camp for the night. She approached the man who’d led the cart’s team—Kinnon was his name, she’d learned earlier—and asked delicately where she might find her release.
Kinnon glanced around, his pale skin and eyes and hair giving him a rather colorless façade and pointed to an area beyond where the horses were even now being penned.
“Aye, sister, go deep into the trees and dinna forget to hum or whistle. It’ll keep anyone away from...whatever you might be about.” He was colorless no more, his youthful cheeks pinkening a bit over their topic of discussion.
“Just Anice, and thank you, Kinnon.” She smiled up at him.
He nodded, eager to please. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Still just Anice,” she said with a little smile and headed off in the direction he’d indicated.
When she returned, she found several of Kincaid’s soldiers gathered around the back of the wagon, Torren included. She hurried her steps, wondering if the Kincaid had woken now that they’d stopped moving. She squeezed between two of them, much the size of their chief, and peered over the side rails. He slept still.
“We’re thinking to move him nearer to the fire,” Torren said when he noticed her small face pushed between the arms of the two very large men.
The Memory of Her Kiss Page 4