The Memory of Her Kiss

by Rebecca Ruger

  Her head moved again. “No doubt, I’ve disgraced my family.”

  “Did you ever hear from them after you were sent there?”

  “Aileen, the youngest, tried to send me some letters.” He felt a short giggle against his forearm. “But she didn’t know how to read or write, so I received only some scribblings. There might have been a picture she’d drawn in there, I never was quite sure.”

  “You’re not the youngest, but it was you who they sent off to the convent?”

  With a fair amount of practicality, she said, “My sisters had much greater chances of finding husbands. They are all very beautiful. Mari and Iona were courted very young, their loveliness celebrated even then. I know I’m not pretty, and that is fact, though it had always seemed to me quite unfair that a circumstance beyond your control—whether you were born ugly or not—should dictate the availability of choices in a person’s life. And then, of course, I know of many men who might easily be mistaken for the backside of a goat, yet they were never sent off in shame.”

  There were so many things wrong with all she had just imparted, Gregor didn’t know where to start. He knew that his brows had drawn down over his eyes and that he’d yet to comprehend fully all the words that had followed, “I’m not pretty”.

  The entire thing just seemed so ridiculous that he just started laughing. He couldn’t help it, wondering how the lass could have been taken in by such claptrap, such high-handed nonsense, and for so many years.

  “What’s funny? I wasn’t speaking of Kinnon when I said that about the backside of a goat,” she was quick to defend and define, in a hushed whisper.

  This only made Gregor laugh all the more. Oh, but this lass was something else!

  “Is he delirious then, sister?” Came a loudly called query from many yards away. Gregor recognized Fibh’s scratchy voice. He reigned in his mirth.

  He felt her stiffen and call back, “I don’t think so.” And, to him, “Shh!”

  She turned in his arms, not without difficulty, pulling at her woolen habit as it twisted around her legs. When she faced him, with her arms and hands between them, she put a palm once again to his forehead. Gregor closed his eyes and found all humor displaced by her touch.

  She lowered her hand and it joined the other near his chest. “What was funny?” she asked in a whisper.

  It wasn’t a bright moonlit night, but there were no trees and the skies were clear, so he easily found her eyes in the darkness. She was staring up at him, her brow lifted, her lips parted.

  He didn’t know why he bothered or cared to help her make sense of all the things she’d misunderstood or had been misinformed about over the years, but it did take his mind off other things.

  “First, lass, I ken your parents no at all, but I promise you, they didn’t send you off to the sisters for fear you’d no ever find a husband.” He kept his voice low. “Like as no, they only suspected that you were best equipped to handle being separated from family, or hoped you would prove the—well, no biddable, we know—” he said with a roguish grin, “most steadfast to bear the trials of life in a cloister.” He let this settle upon her before tackling the next inaccuracy. “And, lass, ugly people are ugly people, but surely the nuns taught you that pretty and ugly and all that is on the inside? Jesu, even me own wretched mam explained that to me.”

  “Lady Eugenia said—”

  Gregor put his fingers to her lips. “Aye, and that’ll be enough of that. What little I ken of the esteemed abbess, I dinna like at all. I’ll be taking you to Stonehaven with me, lass, but I’ll be thanking you to keep her drivel out of my ears on the way.” He had no trouble noticing her widened eyes or scandalized expression. “How old are you, lass?”

  “Twenty summers I’ve seen.”

  Gregor nodded. “And you’re a smart one, I ken. Do you think the abbess’s treatment of you was fair or just, or even Christian? Nae, it was no. And you knew that. You listen to your own head now. If it seems right and good, then so it is. If no, then it isn’t and dinna be doing or thinking it.” She digested this, he saw, watching her eyes lower with thoughtfulness. “Anice?” She raised those wide eyes to his again. “Believe me when I say, you’re no ugly. No at all.”

  “You have to say that—kind things—because I saved your life...but I thank you all the same.”

  Gregor’s brow raised at this while she snuggled closer. He made sure the furs covered all of her backside and folded his arm around her, holding her near. “Lass, I’m thinking I’m the one who saved your life.”

  Her voice was muffled now, buried against his chest. “Not at all, sir—”

  “Gregor,” he corrected.

  “Not at all, Sir Gregor. I’m thinking you are the person who has caused me to be excommunicated.”

  THE SLOW-ROLLING CART, which normally would only carry and transport an assortment of supplies to cater to man or beast or war, had never been the object of so much attention, Gregor was sure. These supposedly war-weary and hardened soldiers found more reasons to sidle along the cart, slowing their own mounts to match the nag’s speed, sometimes being so casual and close as to rest their hands upon the side rails of the cart.

  Each soldier did initially profess an interest in their laird’s condition, and likely some of this was genuine, but invariably, they hung about, even after given assurances that the Kincaid was recuperating satisfactorily. He’d traveled with these men or most of them for many months, some of them over many years, and had never observed so great a talent for useless chatter as he’d witnessed today.

  It had started with Kinnon, who was their driver. He’d brought them bread and ale shortly after they woke and had helped Anice alight from the bed of the wagon while the rest of Gregor’s army began to break camp. At this point, Gregor had only been amused by Kinnon’s nervous tagging along beside the lass, who was obviously in need of only some privacy as she headed toward the tree line. Gregor had watched as the lad had kept up conversation with her, even at the edge of the trees she’d rather be ducking into, no doubt. She’d stopped there while the dough-face boy prattled on, listening politely. And when she’d moved again and the lad had followed, she stopped once more and was forced to ask the lad for privacy and Gregor was sure he’d never seen so much color upon the boys’ face.

  No one approached the cart while only their chief occupied it.

  Anice reappeared and was joined again at the edge of the tree line, this time by Fibh. Gregor hadn’t any idea what the stocky man—with more beard than the lass had hair and who had only last winter buried his wife and welcomed his first grandchild—had to say to her, but Gregor was content to watch her walk with the man. Whether it be an innate thing, or a convent-learned thing, her gait was unhurried and graceful, her hands almost still at her sides and only the slightest sway to her hips, hardly noticeable under the drab gray habit.

  “...and I did say to the chief not so long ago, sister, the good book has messages we can all benefit from,” Fibh was saying as they reached the cart.

  Gregor had all he could do not to roll his eyes at this, recalling Fibh’s actual words from several months ago as being something closer to, “...these heathen God-botherers, with the good book shoved up their arses, spouting verses like they was prophets....”

  Fibh assisted Anice into the cart, and then, at Gregor’s less amused and challenging stare, recalled work he should be about.

  “You must be very proud, Sir Gregor,” Anice said cheerfully, settling down upon her knees beside him. “The men of your army are so very kind and considerate.”

  “Aren’t they, though?”

  He watched as she unraveled the linen that had covered her head, thinking that he recognized the striped piece as belonging to his captain, Torren. She gave the fabric a good shake and her hair a good run-through with her fingers, which moved it not at all. Gregor wondered if grown out, it would show more of the blonde teased within those short strands now.

  He sat upright in the back corner of the ca
rt, dreading the many hours ahead, and debated if he should ride instead.

  And then Sim Kincaid approached the wagon, already mounted, not even bothering to feign interest in his chief’s well-being, and asked Anice if she had need of anything. More ale? Another fur? The petite gloves he’d purchased from the market in Haddington for his mother?

  “Or, I’ve still some bread left, sister, if you have a hunger,” Sim said, seeming to stretch out his slim frame in the saddle, likely wishing to appear taller than his true diminutive size. His eyes, which were generally half-lidded, always giving the impression of great fatigue, rested favorably upon Anice as she busied herself with folding the furs.

  “Oh, you are very kind, Sim,” she said, and Gregor thought it might be just a natural quality, the way she managed to sound so sincere, and wholly oblivious to the motivations behind all this attention. “I’ve had plenty, thank you, but mayhap your laird would enjoy it, if you’ve bread to share.”

  Sim’s eyes reluctantly left the lass and found Gregor, who only shook his head, resisting the urge to steal the bread from the lad by way of Anice’s innocent offer. He fixed the boy with a meaningful frown, which sent him scurrying away.

  The army rolled out soon after, stretching into a thin column, riders trotting three or four across with the cart being somewhere in the middle. Anice had settled herself upon the stack of furs, holding on to the side rail, content for quite some time to simply enjoy the lush and changing landscapes. Low hill ranges and sweeping vistas of green and brown shrub heath gave way to lusher and steeper mountains on either side. Clusters of mature woodland upon small knolls dotted a long stretch of flatland once they’d exited the mountain glens. She pointed excitedly to a large group of game birds of grey and brown plumage with fanned tails, the males sporting red-rimmed eyes and white shoulder patches and sending out rather distinctive popping and clicking sounds.

  This gave Tamsin Laine cause to engage the lass in conversation, that one having been riding just behind the wagon, casting what he supposed were furtive glances at the girl.

  “Those there be capercaillie, sister,” he said, his voice just now deeper than Gregor knew it to be under normal circumstances. Evidently, the attendance of Anice within this traveling army bent normal into peculiar. “That grouse is mean, you ken, and the meat is strong but with a bit of mushrooms and kale, makes a nice stew.”

  Gregor sat watching, one arm stretched upon the wooden rail behind Kinnon’s driver’s seat, the other along the side rail, pressed into the corner, while Anice was perched only a few feet away, along that same side above the rear wheel.

  “Capercaillie,” she repeated and smiled. “I’ve never heard of them, never tasted them.”

  “Aye, sister, there’ll be some hunting at Stonehaven. I can bag you a capercaillie,” Tamsin promised, a worshipful grin creasing his youthful features.

  Kinnon laughed behind Gregor as the cart rolled on. “Tamsin, you ain’t never ‘bagged’ a bird in all your life.”

  Tamsin’s face reddened just a bit. His eyes left Anice to throw a menacing glare at the back of Kinnon’s head. “I hunted with me da all the time,” he insisted.

  “Aye, when you were a younger boy,” returned Kinnon, who was in fact a year or two younger than Tamsin.

  Anice was oblivious to the strutting and underlying tension, while Gregor now found himself quite entertained.

  Throughout the day, Anice had several times crawled up to where Gregor lounged, touching her soft hand to his forehead, smiling at him with approval upon finding no fever. Gregor watched her coming, his eyes on hers, not for the first time transfixed by the astonishing shape and color of them. Once, just as she removed her hand, the wheel of the cart dipped into a crevice upon the ground, momentarily jostling her that she lost her balance and rather crashed against him.

  His hands moved quickly to catch and steady her, gripping her upper arms as she left out a surprised, “oomph” sound. Their faces were close, her hands pushed into his chest, her fingers splayed over the leather of his breastplate.

  “I’m so sorry,” she cried. “Did I cause you harm? Your wound....” But she was looking down at her hands upon him, and he felt her fingers move, almost imperceptibly. Her blue eyes darted back to his, widened with embarrassment. Her lips parted and Gregor held his breath.

  He shook his head in answer, still holding her, her body all but draped over him. Brusquely, he set her aside, to his left, directly under where Kinnon sat.

  They sat like that, her shoulder touching his arm, both staring straight ahead, which actually meant their view encompassed all that stretched out behind the moving cart. After a while, when he wondered if she, too, felt a stiffness with her own attempts to remain completely unmoving, he did again lift his arms to rest them along the boards. He dozed for a bit, the motion of the cart easing his way into daytime slumber and roused at one point just enough to find her sleeping as well, her head now leaned into his chest, under his arm. Gregor saw that with each dip and shake of the cart, her head did bounce lightly against the wooden boards. And he knew he shouldn’t, that it would only bring him discomfort, but he shifted her forward and slipped his arm down behind her so that she turned in her sleep further into his chest, the back of her head now cradled by his body. Her left hand had sagged upon his thigh as he’d turned her, her thin and pale fingers stretched out to be within only inches of his groin.

  Gregor stiffened again. Luckily, her hand did not move at all, and she remained sleeping so that he did relax after a fashion. Eventually, he tipped his head back and nodded off again himself, determined to give no attention at all to how soft and warm and right she felt in his arms.

  Chapter 6

  When they camped again that evening, just as the sun had slunk behind picturesque distant hills, Torren approached the wagon to advise his chief that the archers had hunted a bit during the day, and they would feast upon rabbit and snake and pheasant tonight.

  Gregor gave a laugh at Anice’s scrunched up face and he wondered if it were the mention of the rabbit or the snake that had wrought such a grimace. He’d carefully climbed down from the cart, thankful for the day’s end that he might stretch his legs. Anice did the same, standing next to him and stretching her arms over her head, as one might find ease first thing in the morning. She reined it in only to roll her head from shoulder to shoulder, exposing all the perfectly creamy skin of her neck to him. Gregor stared at the generous expanse of skin revealed to him and swallowed hard, not even removing his eyes when she straightened and watched several soldiers clearing a bit of ground and throwing kindling and twigs and some larger chunks of wood into the spot. He had no way to know for certain but nevertheless was quite sure that the skin there at her neck, that graceful line that curved from her shoulder to her jaw and up to her ear was as exquisitely soft as the image of it promised.

  “There will be a fire tonight?” She asked, her hands on her hips, as she now twisted her midsection left and right, likely suffering the same stiffness that Gregor did.

  “Aye, lass. Tis safe in this region. There’s not another soul around for miles. You’ll have hot victuals tonight. Come, let’s walk a while.”

  Gregor fetched his sword and belt, cinching it loosely about his waist so it rode lower than his bandaged middle. He and Anice meandered away from the cart and the fire and the soldiers and walked along the well-traveled road.

  “I should like to run, I feel,” she said beside him, though she did not match any action to her words. And so she clarified, “Or, rather I feel like I should run—just to move. But I’m too tired.”

  “Lying about all day is exhausting work,” he said facetiously.

  She laughed softly. “But it’s true!” And a moment later, “I need to—I have to—”

  “Aye, lass, duck in there,” Gregor said and pointed off the path, into the even duskier light of the trees. She did so, going quite far into the brush. He grinned when he heard her soft and very tuneless humming. He took care
of his own business off to the opposite side and had just stepped back onto the path when her hum was interrupted by a shrill cry. Instinctively he moved toward her, picking his way through the undergrowth, drawing his sword as he went. He imagined only some critter had startled her. He called her name, but she did not respond.

  “Anice!” He called again, with greater volume. There was no reply. The brush had thickened and now trees stood tall all around, shrouding the wood with much larger gloom than the path. He’d gone almost twenty or more feet from the road, then stopped, sword poised, pivoting to scan all around. “Anice!” This, with some sense of dread.

  “Laird?” he heard Torren call from outside the trees.

  “Aye,” he called back, so that Torren might follow his voice. Just as Torren and others crashed noisily through the trees, he heard her voice. “Shh!” he barked when Torren, Fibh, and several more men reached him. “Shh!”

  No one moved.

  Several seconds passed.

  “Help?” Came a nervous appeal, sounding not very close at all.

  Heads and eyes darted around the area but saw nothing save more Kincaid men and so many tall trees.

  “Lass? Where are you?”

  “I’m here.”

  Now, they all turned in the same direction, further into the woods and began moving toward the sound of her clearly frightened voice. When she spoke again, they all stopped as one, to hear her words.

  “I fell,” she called to them. “Over—off a cliff.” This last ended on a whimper.

  Torren’s hand pulled on Gregor’s shoulder to keep him from moving forward. It was dark enough now that they could see very little, possibly not even the ground disappearing beneath their feet.

  “Torches!” Torren shouted over his shoulder. The call was repeated several more times through the lines and they waited.

  Gregor sheathed his sword, but that only meant that two hands fisted instead of one.

  “Torches, dammit!” He hollered when they seemed to take too long. Only seconds later, dashing brightness sifted toward him, from several different angles behind him. A torch was pressed into his hand and another in Torren’s. They held them low and began to move again. More torches illumined the immediate area, showing dozens of Kincaid men moving methodically through the trees. The ground was hard and uneven, with spots of rugged rock.