The Highland Hero (Lairds of Dunkeld Series) (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story)

by Emilia Ferguson

  At length, they were on their way. Heath paid the cottager, who looked at the coin as if it burned his hands, staring at Heath wildly. Heath grinned.

  “Thank you!” he shouted, and set off at a brisk pace, waving at the man who waved wildly at them from the safe threshold of his tiny cottage in the middle of the woodlands.

  Chrissie felt better after the breakfast. She sat forward, taking some of her weight off Heath, who loosened his grip slightly and let her do it. So thoughtful, she sighed. Heath was a perfect gentleman.

  “We should reach home mid-day.”

  “Yes,” Heath agreed with Blaine, riding a little to the right so that they drew close alongside one another. “I will be glad to get there.”

  They all laughed at that. Their spirits were lighter as they rode. Today was not as cold as the previous day and the rain had lifted, letting a golden-bright sun burn through the mists.

  By midday, they could make out the shape of Lochlann on the distant slopes. Chrissie felt her heart soar. Home! Her back ached. Her buttocks ached. Her arms, head, fingers, toes, sides, hips, and feet ached.

  “Home,” Heath echoed. “Another twenty minutes or so and we can all get warm.”

  “Hurrah!” Blaine shouted.

  Everyone laughed. They rode slowly onward and as Heath had said, near enough to twenty minutes later they rode, exhausted and frozen, to the castle gates.

  “Open up, Hamish!”

  Blaine's voice was instantly recognizable, as was likely enough his face, even if it was a little grimed, and the men on gate-duty opened the gates with a level of haste reserved for their head officer. Chrissie grinned, knowing that they never snapped to attention like that for her. She liked it.

  She smiled at Blaine, enjoying the instant response she got when with him and he blushed.

  The memory of that expression remained with her.

  Upstairs, Ambeal shrieked an expletive, and then ran to her, sighing her name. “Chrissie. Oh, Chrissie. My dear. What have they done to you?”

  Chrissie wearily explained that they had to flee, then, holding onto the door frame, requested a bath be drawn before she collapsed.

  She woke again in heaven's own bathwater. Warm, soapy, and soft, it flowed over her as Ambeal's voice carried over from somewhere in the bedchamber nearby to her.

  “...and I don't ken what they were thinkin'!” She was saying angrily. “Outdoors all night, and nothin' but a dress on. My poor Chrissie...”

  She heard a clank and guessed Ambeal was stoking the fire. She turned her head, realized her neck was too stiff and raised her voice instead.

  “Hello?”

  Her words were like a croak, so she cleared her throat and tried again. “Ambeal? Hello..?”

  Ambeal paused, for she heard her drop the irons on the grate. The wood hissed in the silence, the flames snapping at logs, sending a fierce heat to soak into Chrissie's back.

  “Milady!” Ambeal shouted, appearing at her side like a dedicated comrade. “You're not ailing, are you? Should I fetch Father Petros? He could help ye...”

  Chrissie laughed. “No, dear. I'm not ailing. I...” she coughed. Then she sneezed.

  Ambeal shook her head. “Oh, my lady. We must get you straight to bed...”

  Brandishing a towel, she helped Chrissie out of the bath and into her nightgown. Then she helped her into bed, which was warmed with a brick at the end, wrapped in cloth and warmed by the fire. Her feet on the hot brick, her body swathed in warmth, Chrissie slept deeply, probably more deeply than she had in all her remembered years.

  She had a cold. She spent the next two days coughing and choking, sneezing and sighing. Her head ached but it was a known ache, not dangerous, not like the dull, painful, all-over ache of the freezing nights.

  On the third day, Heath appeared. He paused in the doorway, waiting for Ambeal to let him in.

  “Chrissie,” he said, his voice tender.

  “Heath!” Chrissie beamed. She was feeling much better – the fever had broken earlier that morning, nursed on by Ambeal, who now stood by the fire warming a bowl of soup for her – and she had longed for some more company.

  “My dear Chrissie,” he said. He came to sit by her bedside. “I am so glad you are recovered. I had much less affect myself, I assure you. However, I know how horrible being confined indoors can be. Here,” he said, producing a gaming board. He had a little drawstring bag to match it, out of which he produced counters for playing with.

  “Heath?”

  “Yes?” he asked, looking into her eyes.

  “What of Dunkeld?”

  “Well,” he sighed. “The message was given to his lordship of the siege – he was furious, I hear. He sent an exploratory force, but...” he raised a shoulder. “I pray they were successful.” he looked at his hands.

  “I pray so.”

  Chrissie felt her heart sink. She was almost entirely convinced that her cousins, and their home and family, would come through unscathed, but she could not help but be worried. She had to know what had happened to them.

  “You are frightened for them. I know,” Heath said, taking her hand and then gesturing to the game pieces, handsome face open as if regretting that they needed a distraction and offering her one, reluctantly, at once. She nodded, offer accepted.

  They set up the board and spent the next hours laughing ruefully at each other’s – and their own – lack of skills at playing at chess. They were both losing horribly – one to one – when someone knocked at the door.

  “Heath?”

  “Yes?” Heath turned, his long, darkly handsome face moved into a look of mild inquiry.

  “His lordship requested your presence.”

  “Oh,” Heath sighed. He gave a rueful glance at Chrissie, and took her hand.

  “I am well, Heath,” Chrissie smiled agreeably. “I can practice while you are gone. I need it.”

  “Well, I look forward to being beaten entirely when I return,” he grinned. “I must go now. I shan't take long, I pray.”

  “See you soon, Heath,” Chrissie agreed. Once he had left, she lay back on the pillows, wondering about all that had happened and what she had discovered from it.

  Her thoughts were with Dunkeld and her family. She prayed for news. At the same time, she could not help but consider Heath and how she felt about him and Blaine.

  I like Heath. I admire him. I think he is the best man I have ever met before: sweet, gallant, thoughtful. I also feel something completely different for Blaine.

  She sighed. Blaine...his craggy face appeared before her mind's eye, his expression cheerful. He grinned at her in her thoughts and she felt a tingling happiness. His dark eyes teased her.

  I feel completely different. When he is near, I feel alive. Jumpy, it's true. Irritable, even, because of the jumpiness. But completely amazing.

  Her heart thumped, thinking of his eyes. Her body tingled, thinking of how his hand had felt, reaching hers. Her abdomen tightened with delicious tension as she recalled his leg pressed to hers.

  I like him more than I have ever liked anyone.

  She leaned back on the pillows, contemplating that sweet thought. While she was lying there, listening to the quiet sounds of Ambeal preparing luncheon, her mind wandering in a haze of sweet thoughts, smiling at memories, she heard the door open.

  “Chrissie?”

  “Blaine!”

  Her eyes flew open, recognizing the voice. Ambeal rose from the hearth, seeming ready to deny him entrance – he was, after all, no member of the family at all, but a guard – but Chrissie sat up and cleared her throat.

  “He may stay,” she opined.

  Ambeal sighed and went back to the fire, though she seemed unhappy with that decision. Chrissie caught her watching Blaine very carefully, as if ready to spring on any transgression of propriety and send him marching.

  Chrissie bit back a grin. Having him here was very...affecting. She saw his eyes move over her and her heart thumped as they moved across her chest, st
raying at the neck of her gown where it fastened over her chest. She raised a hand there, carefully, aware that the ties strained a little there, giving a sight of the pale skin of her cleavage.

  “Chrissie, my lady,” he said, bowing low. “I...” he cleared his throat, coughed and started again. “I had to come here immediately. As soon as you were well. I have news...” he trailed off, eyes widening as her expression clearly changed.

  “Blaine!” she exclaimed. “Thank you. Please, sit. I crave news.”

  Blaine nodded and took the seat at the bedside where Heath had sat. Having him here felt completely different. Her heart was thudding and she knew her cheeks were red. He had no place in her bedchamber, and that very fact made having him here so...so...

  “My lady, Dunkeld is safe.”

  “Oh!”

  Chrissie collapsed, feeling her heart flow freely. She let out a few ragged breaths, as the tension she had not known she held slowly dissipated.

  “Blaine,” she sighed after what felt like an hour, though it must have only been two minutes or so, “thank you. I am so grateful you came with the news, as soon as you could. Thank you.”

  “I would have come sooner, my lady,” he said, running a tense hand over hair. “I just...you were...”

  “Thank you for waiting until I was better.”

  He sighed. “I had to. Milady, I didn't want the shock – the relief, that is – to harm you. Any strong feelings can cause a relapse, you know, and I didn't want to hurt you...” he trailed off, biting his lip. He choked, swallowed, and looked at her, level.

  “Blaine,” she said softly. “You are so thoughtful.”

  He turned red as a raspberry. It was spectacular to witness, and Chrissie bit her lip. She didn't want to shame him by smiling.

  “Thank you,” he said hoarsely.

  Chrissie laughed. She felt so happy with him here. She was almost sorry he would have to go so soon, but, now that he had delivered his news, there was no reason for him to remain here. Having him in her chamber with no pretext at all for being there really was improper, Ambeal's stoically disapproving witness or no.

  “You should go,” she began. She noticed how reluctant her own voice sounded and was surprised. He smiled ruefully and stood, but stayed where he was.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “I will try and walk tomorrow,” Chrissie said lightly. “Perhaps you'll escort me to the garden?”

  Blaine grinned. “Yes, milady! I'd be happy.”

  “Thank you,” Chrissie smiled. Her eyes met his and held.

  At that moment, there could have been an army in their castle, tearing up the hangings in the great hall. The place could have been on fire. They could have been invaded by ogres, and she would not have cared. All she saw – all that occupied her – was that boyish smile he gave her and his eyes on hers.

  “Good day, milady Chrissie.”

  “Good day, Blaine,” she sighed.

  He bowed and walked swiftly out of the door, as though if he did not do it quickly he would simply not leave. When he had gone, Ambeal seemed to spring into action, stoking the fire, removing the gruel from the place it warmed on the stone in the center of the range, fussing with the covers and drawing the curtains.

  “Heavens, milady. But you should be resting. If you want to be about tomorrow, you need to be much less tired-looking than you are now. I tell you...” she trailed off, heading to the table to fetch the soup.

  As she ate, Chrissie thought about the discoveries she had made that morning. Her family was safe – which was the most important. However, her own personal discoveries were as exciting. She loved Heath, it was true. Nevertheless, her devotion to him was sisterly, and his to her was that of a loving brother. The way she felt for Blaine, now that was different. Her heart caught fire when he was there, her breath quickening, her pulse thumping.

  She wanted Blaine in a way she half-understood herself. She also sensed he felt the same way. As she sat, demure and obedient, eating gruel slowly with a spoon and listening to Ambeal tell her news, she could not help but think over what it might be like to walk with Blaine in the gardens, listen to his deep voice talking and laughing with her. Feel the touch of his hand on hers, perhaps, steadying her as they walked around the circling pathway in the garden near the kitchens.

  Yes, she thought, with a slow smile on her face, she really was looking forward to tomorrow. She would be well enough for it. She had to.

  She lay there and thought of Blaine, remembering the way his eyes had wandered over her body, and feeling a strange and new sensation pulse through her.

  She could hardly wait until the next day arrived.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  A WALK IN THE GARDENS

  A WALK IN THE GARDENS

  The next day saw Blaine waking early. He had barely slept. The whole night, he had tossed and turned, finding it impossible to let his mind slip easily into haze and sleep. He could not stop thinking about her.

  Had she really meant it, when she said we could walk today? He shook his head, squinting at his reflection in the mirror as he sluiced icy water over his hair.

  For all his comparative age – he was one and twenty – and his experience, he could not understand how she had changed so suddenly, seemingly overnight. Why had she suddenly consented to talk to him, to laugh with him, to deign to walk in the garden with him, by Heaven!

  “It seems impossible,” he muttered to himself. He looked about the small space of his bedchamber, taking stock. His good cloak – a thick wool one of dark brown – hung over his chair, slightly creased. His tunics were hanging in disorder over the edge of a wooden trunk pushed up against one wall, one of three pairs of trews – all the trews he owned – thrown carelessly onto the nightstand in the corner. He lifted them, squinting in disapproval.

  I suppose I shall have to make do.

  He sighed. He wished he could be presentable and grand, like some knight or lord, but that was not who he was. He was the guardsman – well, the chief man-at-arms, when being picky – but he could barely afford the cloak and boots he had, never mind anything extra or fancy.

  He ran his fingers through his hair, persuading it to dry, and donned the cloak. It billowed around him and he squinted in the mirror, assessing the effect. With his black hair curling slightly as it dried, dark eyes and square jaw, he had been reckoned handsome by several women. He prayed now that they were right. That he was handsome enough for her as well.

  He was wearing a dark wool tunic – a green so dark it was almost brown – dark trews, and the cloak. The deep color seemed to make his eyes and hair look darker, the cragginess of his features balanced somehow by the rough texture of the cloak. The man who looked back at him looked firm and confident. This was, he had to admit, incorrect.

  I'm bloody terrified.

  He coughed, and then cleared his throat. He had faced battles, enraged boars, and being lost on the moorland. He had not felt half as scared in any other circumstance as he did right now. He suddenly felt like walking with her in the gardens was the worst thing he could possibly do to himself.

  Why was he doing it? He imagined her body beside his, the sway of her hips as she walked. The way her breasts lifted and fell as she walked fast. His loins ached. She had such an arousing body! He longed to touch it. He longed to kiss her.

  He shook his head. He was fantasizing, being unwise. As if she would really let him do such things! He was fortunate in the extreme to be walking with her. He should not allow himself to get flights of fancy, even here, alone in his bedchamber.

  “Be reasonable,” he told himself crossly. “She asked you to walk with her, not to wed her!”

  He chuckled. It would be hard to walk beside her without touching her, but he could do it. He wanted her to like him. He wanted her to trust him.

  Drawing his cloak about himself, he walked briskly from the room.

  Breakfast passed with little to notice and, as soon as he was done, he ran to the solar, feet clicking on th
e flagstones as he walked as fast as possible through the higher hallway toward it.

  “Hello?”

  He burst in to the solar, surprising Lord Brien, who was evidently finishing his breakfast. “Blaine! Come, man! Is the castle catching fire? Why the haste? Tell us!” He set down the knife he was holding, giving Blaine a mild raised-eyebrow.

  Blaine looked around wildly. Besides the lord and two people he presumed to be his house-guests, there was no one else present. He couldn't have chosen a worse moment and he wished he could vanish.

  “Um...I...” he licked dry lips, looking around and clutching for inspiration. “One of the men thought they saw something up here. A hallucination, I'm sure. Just proving it,” he said hastily. “Please, finish your meal...sorry to disturb, sir.”

  Brien raised a brow. “Your men hallucinate often, sirrah?”

  Blaine prayed that the floor would open and entomb him. It didn't. He looked at the hangings that covered the arches and got a burst of ideas.

  “No, sir. Just this one, sir. He keeps on thinking there are troops infiltrating. He got hit on the head in a raid, sir. I'm just down to talk him out of it...don't want the nerves spreading around, sir. So to speak.”

  “In the current circumstance, Blaine? No,” he said thinly. “I think not.”

  “Quite, sir,” Blaine nodded firmly. “Right then, I think I'll go and assure him there's nothing up here to see. Yes, sir?”

  “Exactly,” he said, giving him an ironic grin.

  “Thank you, sir. Enjoy your breakfast. Sir, madam.”

  He bowed to the guests, who were looking at him as if he had just broken wind in a crowning ceremony, and exited fast. When he pulled the door shut he heard Lord Brien explaining to his guests.

  “Our chief guard is quite excitable. Pray, ignore his...dedicated attitude.”

  Blaine grinned and walked quickly away. He hadn't meant to do it. However, discomforting Lord Brien was an achievement. He was sighing with relief, laughing weakly to himself as he remembered the terror of earlier, when he walked up the staircase towards the topmost chambers.