Courage Of A Highlander (Lairds of Dunkeld Series) (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story)

by Emilia Ferguson

  “Yes,” Rubina nodded in return, feeling a frisson of excitement despite herself. She couldn't help it. She imagined what it would be like if he was at the ball. The man from the woods.

  It isn't likely.

  She sighed and closed her eyes, thinking about him. His pale hair and those eyes. His firm mouth and the way he looked at her with such tenderness. She blushed and shivered deliciously. There was no harm in imagining, after all.

  The day of the ball was cold, the last snow still falling. All that week, family had been arriving at Buccleigh. Rubina dressed in her new mint-green velvet gown and went to join her relatives.

  “Oh!” Aunt Ettie, her blonde hair graying now, piled elegantly up onto her head, smiled at her, blue eyes kindling as she looked at Rubina in her gown. “You look stunning.”

  Rubina blushed. “Thank you, Aunt.”

  She felt a little restless that evening, despite the joy of seeing her aunt and uncle and cousins. She found her eyes kept straying to the hall, her heart thumping and her feet wanting to dance. She had told herself to stop being silly – that she knew everyone who would be there – but still a strange excitement seemed to grip her.

  Maybe it is that, since meeting that man, I know a little more how it is to feel...as a lass feels for a lad, as my maid Greere would say. She wanted to laugh at herself and she blushed red.

  “Well!” Uncle Brodgar chuckled. “You will have to come and see your cousins! They'll be astonished by your beauty, my dear.”

  Rubina blushed and smiled, flapping an admonishing hand. “Uncle, stop your teasing.”

  “I'm not teasing. Callum! Will! Come and see your cousin.”

  Rubina flushed as she found herself facing her cousins. Callum was as handsome as she recalled him, with his dark brown hair lustrous in the flame-light of the torches, his firm, strong-jawed face the exact likeness of his mother's face made manly. She smiled up at him shyly.

  “Cousin Callum,” she said. She cleared her throat. She had always been shy of Callum – a distant cousin, it had been that they were expected to marry. Now, seeing him at twenty years old, she felt a little different.

  “My fair cousin,” he greeted her. As he kissed her hand gallantly, Rubina was surprised that she didn't feel as she might have expected. There was none of that excited tension she had felt when she met him. The man in the woods.

  “I am pleased you are visiting,” she said politely. That much was certainly true. Callum was, she realized with sudden clarity, a dear friend.

  “I am too,” he nodded. “So. Have you been on any good rides?”

  “No,” she admitted. “Though I have had one or two brushes with danger.”

  “You always were a very adventurous rider,” Callum teased gently. “Remember when we went into the woodlands when you were – how old? Not even eight years old?”

  She chuckled. “Yes! You and Will taught me to ride astride.”

  Callum went red and laughed. “Yes! We were real scalawags, weren't we?”

  “Yes,” she grinned.

  They both laughed.

  The guests were filling the hall – mostly family, but a few of the local gentry. Rubina sniffed and smelled the spicy savor of mulled ale and pies and felt her own stomach rumble. A fire crackled, vast and heating, in the hearth, making it perfectly comfortable to wear only the long-sleeved velvet dress. She heard the music start and suddenly she wished she was dancing.

  I do want to dance. But not with Callum. Not yet, anyway.

  Callum was a friend. It was fun, she realized, to dance with Callum. Some strange and indiscernible call in her blood did not wish, just then, for fun.

  Taking a measure of boiled ale, she looked about the room. The spiced, rich scent worked into her blood and she sighed, feeling the pulse of the drumming move into her soul.

  She let herself sway a little to the music and surprised herself by twirling in place, a little dance. She felt her skirt dust against something solid and whirled round, an apology on her lips to whomever she'd bumped into.

  “I'm so sorry. I...oh!”

  She stared. It was him. It couldn't be. How could it be? Yet it was.

  “My lady?”

  With his dark blond hair and his long, lean face, it most certainly looked like the man from the woods. His height suggested it, too. When he looked into her eyes, she knew.

  “My lord,” she said, giving a low curtsy.

  He flushed.

  “My lady. I...beg your pardon, but you are...you're familiar.”

  She laughed. “You're here!” she said. “It is you! Now, how is it that you come to be here?”

  He grinned. Then he bowed low, an extravagant bow. “My lady! You recalled me.”

  She blushed. “Of course I did! How could I fail to recognize you?” She laughed and saw him go red.

  “I am honored to be remembered so. I, too, would recall you anywhere. You have occupied my dreams.”

  Rubina stared at him.

  The poor man went pink, as if just realizing how frank he'd been. She smiled as he coughed awkwardly. “My lady. Forgive me! I meant no impudence.”

  She interrupted gently. “I heard no impudence: I am honored, my lord.”

  The mood of the music changed, becoming lilting and lively again. Rubina tried to stand still, but couldn't resist swaying along with it.

  “May I have the honor of a dance?” he said suddenly. He was still flushed and Rubina grinned, curtsying.

  “I would be pleased to dance with you.”

  It was exactly what she wanted.

  She let him take her hand and he led her out onto the dance floor. He bowed and she curtsied. Then, suddenly, they were dancing.

  I have never felt so light in all my life. So wonderful.

  Rubina closed her eyes as they danced together. Every turn, every gesture, every press of their hands, seemed perfect, part of a dance in which they were two halves that met and glided and parted and met again. She felt the music come alive inside her, a thrumming tone that carried her and wove into her blood, making it heat and warm.

  “Whew!” she sighed in appreciation as they stopped, finally, the jig at an end. She curtsied.

  His eyes met hers. He bowed and then slowly, deliberately, kissed her hand.

  “My lady. You are a wonderful dancer.”

  She smiled warmly. “Thank you, sir.” His touch tingled through her blood, warming her all the way to her toes and making her feel giddy and happy as she looked into his eyes once more.

  She saw his eyes widen as he noticed the tapestry on the wall behind her. It was the boar, sigil of her father's house. It was a design subtly echoed in the embroidery on her bodice. She saw him notice it and nodded.

  “It is my father's badge,” she said. “That of the house of Buccleigh.”

  “Oh,” he said. He seemed to have gone pale and Rubina frowned, feeling suddenly as if he had withdrawn a step from her.

  “You have a picture of your house's sigil, too?” she asked, to make conversation.

  He swallowed hard. He looked awkward.

  “My father's house takes the sign of the stag for theirs, milady.”

  “Oh!” Rubina smiled, glad to have at least broken the ice momentarily. “A fine emblem.”

  “Indeed,” he said shyly. There it was again, that awkwardness! Rubina shifted uncomfortably, wondering what had affected him.

  “Come,” she said impulsively, reaching out a hand to take his. “You must meet my cousins. I am sure you would have much to discuss.”

  “I...no,” he said hastily. “Forgive me, milady,” he added, seeming desperately uncomfortable. “But I...I would be reluctant to meet the scions of so noble a house unprepared.”

  Rubina chuckled, thinking perhaps he teased. The thought of Callum and Will as intimidating anyone was unsupportable! Then she saw, to her amazement, he was earnest.

  “Well,” she said, feeling awkward herself now. “Should we dance another measure?” She raised a brow, hopeful.


  He nodded. “My lady,” he said intensely, “I would like nothing more in all my life. Truly, I wouldn't.”

  She flushed red. His hand took hers and she felt his touch echo down her arm and warm her heart.

  “Well, me neither, milord.”

  He smiled and they headed back toward the dance floor again.

  As they danced and that strange, wondrous thing happened that had happened the first time they danced – that seamless blending, touching and parting that had been so very wonderful – Rubina found her thoughts wandering, confused.

  This man is not as high born as I am.

  Why else would he truly fear her cousins? Feel discomforted by her sigil? Be so shy? Yet at the same time, he was easily the most exciting, the most handsome, and the most compelling man.

  And he saved my life, she thought stubbornly. That had to count for something.

  “My lady,” he said, bowing low as the dance came to a sudden end.

  “My lord.”

  They greeted and parted. As Rubina watched him across the hall, she found herself wondering about her future. He had, in those brief encounters they had, given her more of an idea of what men and women felt for each other than any ever had. Yet, the more closely she observed him, the more it seemed apparent to her that it was not her who was awkward, but him.

  He doesn't like me. He probably thinks I'm too big for myself, that I'm arrogant because of the family I have. Maybe that's why he's so distant sometimes.

  It was a discomforting thought. One, she had to admit, that sat ill with any other observations. The way he touched her. The way he danced with her, looking into her eyes or watching her with such intensity! The way the slightest touch tingled right inside her belly.

  How to make sense of it all?

  Rubina sighed. She had no idea.

  All she knew in that moment, in a hall filled with music, dance and the scent of spice and perfume oils, was that she had never met anyone in her life who moved her quite as much as he did. For that matter, she had also never met one who confused her more.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  DISCUSSION AND DECISIONS

  DISCUSSION AND DECISIONS

  “Rubina.” Camden let the name settle on his soul, like honey under his tongue. “Her name is Rubina.”

  He said it to his companion, Sean. It was easy enough to find the name of the only daughter of a powerful duke. His companion sighed.

  “Well, at least you have a name for her, now.”

  Camden shot him a look. “What's that s’posed to mean, eh, Sean?” He was really offended.

  Sean closed his eyes, his handsome face contrite. “Sorry, Cam. It's just...I felt someone on your mind for the last few days. You've been distracted, like. Knew summat was bothering you. There, I said it,” he said, looking up tiredly. “No need to glare at me that way – you asked.”

  Camden sighed. “I know. I shouldn't have.”

  His eyes caught Sean's pale brown ones and they both smiled.

  “Fine,” Sean said. “You win. Now. How's that blade going?”

  Camden sighed again. They were doing repairs to their armor. He had been supposed to be sharpening his dagger – slightly shorter than a dirk, longer than a hand-dagger. However, he'd forgotten; the thing lay desultorily by his hand. The edge was sharp from where he'd last polished it. He lifted it in one hand, the rag with its mix of sand and vinegar in the other.

  “It's better,” he assessed the effects on the blade optimistically.

  “Good.”

  Camden looked across the gray, bare room. He was here since his father thought it prudent to prepare for conflict. Where and with whom, Camden still didn't fathom. He had no faith whatever in this current theory about the English king.

  “Too many people restless,” he said.

  “Sorry?” Sean was polishing his chain-mail, the scrape of sanded cloth on steel too loud to hear words over.

  Camden let out an exhale. “Talking to myself, that's it.”

  Sean raised a brow. “Well, you could share it,” he said with the faintest hint of offense in his voice. “Or d'you reckon I'm not intelligent enough company?”

  His lopsided grin bisected his lean, strong face. Camden found himself feeling a slight pang of wistful envy when he contemplated his companion. He was far better looking that Camden himself was, or so he considered, anyhow. With hair a sandy russet, eyes almost the same, and a lean, squarish face, he was always knee-deep in a flock of admirers whenever he took to journeying. Or so Camden always noticed.

  Which leaves me on the edge of the field with a long lance in one hand, no one around me, watching the lasses watch him.

  He smiled humorlessly. Raised together, the two young men were like brothers, though they couldn't have been more different in character, Camden reckoned, if they'd been sent as a lesson in opposites for everyone. Sean was funny, with a sort of dry humor that made everyone like him and set the girls shrieking with laughter. He was modest, too, with that lopsided grin, and easygoing personality. Camden was, well, intense.

  Quiet, intense, brooding. My father always said Sean and I were shadows and flame. With the emphasis on Sean being the flame, that was.

  He sighed. Though Sean was the ward of the baron, sent by his own father, Baron Almswray, he was closer to the baron. Anyone would think he'd wanted him as a son instead.

  “You planning for the joust?” Sean asked lightly.

  Camden shook his head. “Thinking of Father,” he said.

  Sean raised an eyebrow. “This new focus?”

  Camden nodded briefly. “It's his mind.”

  Sean let out a huffing sigh. “I dunno, Camden. It's a big problem...”

  Camden clenched his jaw. He really didn't want to hear anything more about this. As far as he was concerned, his father was getting both too suspicious and too worried about his reputation, which was why he focused on the threat of the English.

  If he could fight them, Camden thought, then he had a chance to go out in a blaze of glory, the fighter he was. He wants that, not to molder here in this fort.

  He could understand. He could sympathize. He just wished it didn't mean he had to skulk about in woods, collecting intelligence.

  “Maybe it is,” he said softly.

  Sean sighed. “I dunno whether it is or not,” he said with a gentle grin. “All I care about right now is my technique.”

  Camden had to chuckle. “You training with Master Eugene?”

  He nodded. Their trainer, Master Eugene, hailed from Paris. He had trained many jousters and had been a fine one himself. He was strict, stubborn and so fond of lecturing and hectoring on every finer point that Camden had to keep a grip on the lance's handle not to throw it down and storm off.

  Sean grinned. “My patience torments me. But yes. Starting to improve.”

  Camden laughed. “Good for you.” He was sure he would never manage to go through his paces without the venerable teacher rolling his eyes or practically frothing at the lips.

  “He said you're improving,” Sean informed.

  Camden dropped the knife he held. “Say that again.”

  Sean chuckled. “He did. I assure you. He said you're doing well. We both are. We'd be ready for the tournament.”

  Camden found he was laughing, though a moment earlier his mood had been low.

  “Well, if that isn't terrific.”

  His companion laughed. “It's true. So let's get these spots of rust off, get this armor packed and go to the practice ground. I desperately want to improve my forward lunges...”

  Camden nodded, feeling his high spirits return.

  “Yes. That sounds good.”

  He finished sharpening the dagger and they started to pack the different pieces of armor away safely. Camden stood, stretching.

  “Let's go.”

  They went.

  “Well,” Sean breathed, lifting the visor and then taking off his helmet altogether, shaking out his thick red hair. “That was good
.”

  Camden felt frustrated. He sheathed his sword – they'd moved on to sword craft by the end of the hour – and let out a ragged out-breath. “Mayhap.”

  “What?” his friend asked, confused.

  “I couldn't think.”

  He sighed. He had no idea why, but as soon as he started practicing, the girl occupied all his thoughts. Rubina Invermore. Daughter of a duke and a formidable lady.

  And here I am, a second-rate knight with a chilly fortress in the woodlands to inherit, and no fortune to speak of.

  He bit his lip, trying not to let his wry distaste show on his features. All the same, Sean must have seen the sadness on his face, because he gave him a teasing glance.

  “Well, I think even Master Eugene would say we did well,” he said. “And that's all the praise a man needs. If I could die afterward, I'd consider my life well-lived.”

  Camden had to chuckle. “Sean?” he said inquiringly.

  “Yes, old friend?”

  “What would I do without you?”

  Sean laughed. “Be sane?”

  Camden felt a laugh start to bubble up inside him. “You're saying, I assume, I'm not sane now?”

  “Precisely. I...ow!”

  Sean laughed as Camden gave his armor a resounding whack with a practice blade. Then the afternoon training disintegrated into a playful game of tag as they ran about the practice ground like youths, striking at each other with the wooden spars.

  “I deny it!” Sean panted, grinning wildly. “You're as sane as I am.”

  Camden grinned. “That's not a denial of insanity, Sean McLoman.”

  Sean laughed. “Fine. But it holds.”

  “Fine,” Camden agreed. He gave him a playful shove and they both staggered in, weary and tired-out, up the fortress steps into the dark hallway.

  “An hour before dinner?” Sean asked, squinting in the dark, stone-damp place.

  “Think so,” Camden agreed mildly. The quality of the light was such that it was likely six of the clock. He sighed.

  “I'm going to warm up.”

  “Me too.”

  He headed up to his bedchamber, where his manservant, Seamus, had lit a roaring fire in the grate. He collapsed wearily onto a stool opposite. The warmth enlivened his feet.