The Highlander’s Awakening: Lairds of Dunkeld Series (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story)

by Ferguson, Emilia

  Ettie frowned. Her stomach lurched at the thought of food and she recalled that she'd barely eaten at luncheon. She nodded. “Thank you. I would.”

  “Well, then!” Amice smiled. “Let's go.” She stood and crooked her arm so Ettie could slide hers through and, arm in arm, they left the solar, heading up the hallway where torches flickered to light their way to the north turret.

  “You are sewing a new kirtle, yes?” Amice asked. “Chrissie said so.”

  “For the gathering. Yes.”

  “Oh!” Amice clapped her hands excitedly. “You're making a gown? What color? Can I see?”

  Ettie smiled. She patted her hand. The younger girl was the sister she'd always wanted – lively, kind and sweet. She was glad to have met her: it was one of the best things about being at the castle, she decided. Amice and Brodgar were lovely people.

  “It's purple,” she said. “Chrissie is in charge. I think the seamstress cut the pattern yesterday.” She had spent a quarter of an hour in the attic with Chrissie while the woman measured her for the gown, then another quarter hour at the least of it, discussing the latest fashions with them. The gown was going to have no waist, with long tube sleeves and a high neck. Quite how the neckline would look they had not yet decided. The seamstress had said she had several ideas. Ettie described it.

  “Oooo!” Amice nodded enthusiastically. “I must have one made, too! Chrissie is right. Green, I think?”

  “Green would look nice,” Ettie agreed. “Your hair would show up well. It'd suit you.”

  “Oh! Thank you.” Amice smiled at her. “I'm glad you're here. I miss my sister. You're like a sister.”

  Ettie felt her heart glowing. “Thank you,” she said fervently. “I have no sister. But if I had one, I'd want one like you.”

  “Oh!” Amice blinked and Ettie was surprised to see the younger girl had tears in her eyes. “That's so kind,” she said. “You are sweet.”

  “No,” Ettie said firmly. “I'm honest. Now, we'd best go up singly...these stairs are narrow.”

  “Yes!” Amice chuckled, going quickly forward. “They are. Just as well Alec or Brod always make sure the torches burn here. Or someone'd break their neck here!”

  Ettie nodded, shivering at the thought. She clung onto the rope balustrade and followed her young companion up the dark stairs.

  The future is a ladder. You can't see the top.

  Swallowing hard, she concentrated on where she put her feet, keeping pace with her younger companion as they ascended blindly, guided only by the flickering, fitful gold of the torches up ahead.

  In the turret room, she was pleased to find a fire burning. Small, round-walled and cozy, the space was a relief after the dark, airy halls.

  “Ah, there you are, dear,” Chrissie said from a chair by the fire. “How's the dress going?”

  “I haven't asked Greere yet, Aunt.”

  “Oh. Well, last time I saw her, she had it all cut out and was busy stitching up sleeves. She'll be wanting you to try them on before long, mark my words. Sit down, dear.” She indicated a settee opposite. Ettie glanced at Amice, who was pouring ale at the low table, and then sat down. Across the room from her, Lady Amabel gazed at her.

  Ettie swallowed hard. She doesn't like me.

  She had no idea how, but she seemed to have offended the regal lady of the house. She looked at her hands, wondering what she could say. “Is Brodgar still out riding?” she asked.

  The instant it left her lips, she knew it was wrong. Lady Amabel's brow went up. “He and Alf left,” she said succinctly. “They'll return next week.”

  “Next week?” Amice said, dismayed. Her comment was exactly what Ettie wanted to say, which was good. It saved her having to say it herself. She was sure Lady Amabel would disapprove heartily of disappointment.

  “They'll be gone four days, or five,” the lady continued smoothly. “I expect that they'll come back with some news.” Her lips set hard and Ettie shivered.

  She seems to be expecting something to change.

  As she thought it, she looked into the pool of shadow near the door. Alina was there. The firelight shone into her eyes and the enigmatic seer smiled at her.

  There are changes. And they are all inside.

  Ettie swallowed. “I trust that the news will be good,” she murmured. Alina looked at her and it might have been Ettie's imagination, or it might have actually happened, but she seemed to incline her head in swift approval.

  The rest of the afternoon was spent in lively discussion. Chrissie told a story about a dress that had been made too small for her, and having to make last-minute adjustments moments before the event, and Amabel teased Amice about dancing at the gathering. Alina was mostly quiet during the talk, Ettie noted. She was stitching something, watching the others with an odd look on her face.

  She saw her looking at her sister, Lady Amabel, with a soft amusement. She was surprised. Could it be that, despite the evident enmity the lady of the house felt, Alina was on her side in this? She shook her head. Alina and Amabel were sisters, their love legendary. Even she had heard how they had saved each other’s lives once, in a feud caused by the MacDonnell, a fearsome local clan and the bitter enemy of Lochlann and Dunkeld.

  No, she thought, looking at her hands, which held a tankard of mulled ale, it must be imagination.

  Amice grinned at her. “Ettie?” she asked, “if I get some parchment, could you help me to draw a picture of what I want for the gathering? I have a clear idea in my head of how the gown should look, only I can't think how to ask Greere for it.”

  Ettie nodded quickly. “Of course. I think drawing it's a fine plan.”

  Amice dimpled. “Sometimes a picture is better than words. And Greere is so particular. She knows all the fancy words for designs of dress, and I just know how it must look. Now, I was thinking, the sleeves should go like this...” She gestured, then went to the table where there was parchment and a charcoal stick, for drawing. “I want them to come out from the wrist, like that...”

  With her eyes squinting slightly in the half-light from the fire, Amice proceeded to draw the dress she wanted. Ettie encouraged her.

  Sitting there, firelight playing warmly over them both, Ettie felt a profound sense of peace. She looked over at the three older women, but they were sitting closer now, talking among themselves in low voices. Ettie felt a sudden flutter of nerves.

  Where did Brodgar go? Why was he going to be away for so long. And, more importantly, what might change?

  She had no way of knowing: all she could do was trust.

  CHAPTER NINE

  MATTERS OF THE HEART

  MATTERS OF THE HEART

  Brodgar felt his back starting to ache. He and Alf had been riding all day through the forested hills, heading north and east all afternoon. The light was just fading now, and Alf shouted. “Here! Hell. At last.”

  Brodgar let out an explosive sigh of breath he hadn't known he was holding. Finally. “Good.”

  “Quite so!” Alf laughed. “My bollocks are aching.”

  Brodgar flashed him a grin. “I have to agree.”

  “I didn't need to know,” Alf laughed.

  “Well, you told me,” he said kindly.

  “Yes. I suppose I did. I just couldn't hold back.” Alf chuckled and shook his reins to encourage his horse as he trotted.

  Brodgar laughed and, relieved and cheerful, he followed Alf up the path to the high, arched gates.

  “State your name,” a sentry challenged when they reached the place. The fortress walls rose above them, gloomy and barely lit by the two torches that burned in brackets at the walls behind him.

  “Alf MacNeil,” Alf said quickly. “Of Dunkeld.”

  “Lord Brodgar, son of the thane of Dunkeld,” Brodgar said almost at the same time. He cast a glance at Alf, who grinned.

  “Well done,” he mouthed. “Keep them edgy.”

  Brodgar grinned back, feeling his heart thump. Though the new thane was friendly with his fathe
r, they were still riding into a history of conflict, and he had no idea how they'd be met. It seemed almost likely they'd be run off the land with arrow-fire at their backs as invited.

  “Welcome, Lord Brodgar,” the guard said instantly. “And Alf. Enter.”

  Brodgar and Alf looked at each other, feeling surprised. Brodgar swallowed hard. “Thank you, my man.”

  He rode past the sentries, who saluted, and tried to pretend that he was his father. Kept his back straight, his eyes fixed on the wall of the fortress ahead. I am the thane's son. I am accepted. No one will harm me.

  “Brodgar?” A voice echoed on the edge of his thoughts. Brodgar barely noticed.

  I am the thane's son. I am...

  “Brodgar!” Alf hissed again, cutting through his thoughts. He turned sharply.

  “Yes?”

  “Up there. Who's that?”

  Brodgar stiffened. Up on the ramparts of Bronley Fortress was a tall form. He squinted up. It had long hair, glinting softly in the firelight. The body was slender. The posture elegant.

  “I don't know,” Brodgar hissed back. Whoever it was, the figure seemed to have noticed them. They looked down, and then leaned over the wall, hands braced there. Brodgar suppressed a shiver. The form was slight, and he thought he saw pale skin. An idea formed. “Do you think that's..?”

  His words were cut off as a man called out before him. “Lord Brodgar! Alf! Welcome, sirs.”

  Brodgar found himself looking at the face of a tall, lean man with a slight stoop in one shoulder and weathered cheeks. It was a handsome face, well-formed, with full lips and wide eyes. Whoever the man was – Brodgar assumed it was Lord Edward, the father of his betrothed. He slid off his horse and bowed low.

  “My lord,” he said, feeling nervous. He glanced at Alf, who had done the same, and looked to him, encouraging.

  “Welcome, welcome.” The thane stepped forward, clasping his shoulder. He did the same with Alf, who looked up with a nervous smile.

  “My lord, apologies for not sending word,” Brodgar began. “We were in the area and found ourselves without shelter. If we could crave repast here?”

  The thane beamed at him. “My lord Brodgar, my hospitality is yours. Come in, come in! Hand your reins to my men, there – they'll take care of your horses. Fine horses they are, too. Men? See those horses are well-tended. Now, come inside.”

  Brodgar and Alf exchanged nervous looks. The thane of Bronley was supposed to be a fearsome man, stern and cruel-hearted. This man was like an uncle. Alf shrugged, as if to say, It seems safe. Brodgar nodded.

  “Elric?” the thane said to a guard, who was tall and clearly Nordic in descent.

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “Fetch Lady Ambeal. Tell her we've guests.” He smiled at the two young men. “My daughter is the chatelaine here, following my blessed Margaret's demise, Heaven rest her.”

  “Indeed,” Brodgar said, crossing himself and kissing the fingers. Alf did the same.

  “Now, enough misery. Let us feast! Ambeal will make sure we want for nothing. It's just time for a fine dinner. Come upstairs.”

  Brodgar and Alf followed him on dark stairs to the solar, finding their way mostly by feel. His lordship, clearly, knew the way blind. He led them along a long corridor, reminiscent of the one at home, and to the right.

  “Ah!” he said. “My daughter. We've visitors. If you could let the cook know? We'll be feeding four now.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Brodgar and Alf looked at the speaker. They stared. Red-haired, tall and slender, the speaker was none other than, as Brodgar had suspected, the figure on the walls. She was pale-skinned, with huge gray eyes and dark lips. Brodgar was sure that, beside his mother and aunts, and of course Henriette, he had never seen such a beautiful face. He glanced at Alf.

  “Alf?” he whispered urgently. His lordship had gone. However, Alf was deaf to everything.

  Brodgar looked at him, where he stood, rooted to the spot. He was staring at her as if he had seen a heavenly host descend in the hallway. He had a focused expression on his face and Brodgar would have laughed had the situation not been so very serious. Here they were, in an enemy stronghold – for Brodgar was still not sure he trusted the thane of Bronley – and the last thing they needed was to offend the thane by staring at his clearly admired and much-loved daughter.

  “Alf,” he hissed. “Alf!”

  His friend blinked. Turned, dreamily, as if just awoken. “Oh,” he said, seeing Brodgar there as if for the first time. “Sorry. I was...um, excuse me, my lady.” He grinned ingratiatingly.

  Oh for heaven's sake...

  Brodgar wanted to swear under his breath. Now was not the place, nor the time! If he could have, he would have shaken Alf like a terrier shaking a brace of rats. However, he couldn't. “Excuse me, milady,” he said politely. He took Alf's sleeve, drew him away.

  “Alf,” he whispered. “Pull yourself together...”

  He trailed off as the thane loomed beside him. “Ah, there you are!” he said. “Come. The fire's warm.” He gestured them onward. “It's a chilly night. You must be frozen.” He rubbed his hands down his arms in emphasis.

  “No, not overly,” Brodgar observed mildly. It was warm in this corridor, with its many lamps and torches ensconced along the walls. Besides, his worry about Alf and his blatant staring was making him nervous, and he was sweating accordingly. “But thank you,” he added, sitting down. “Warmth is welcome.”

  “I'm sure 'tis!” the thane rumbled. “Now, once you've warmed yourselves, come over to the table. I've sent a word to the kitchens. Dinner's ready when you are.”

  Brodgar nodded. He and Alf stood by the fire. He held his hands out. Glanced at Alf.

  Alf shrugged. Brodgar fought the urge to shake him.

  I need his help! The last thing I need is for him to be moping about, hoping for word from Ambeal. It's not seemly.

  As he thought it, another thought occurred. If Ambeal and Alf...he discarded it. There was no real point. If he asked his father to transfer the betrothal to Alf, he would surely anger them all. Alf was a MacNeil, so the betrothal of the two would, in the end, solve nothing.

  Chrissie is a daughter of Lochlann though. And was it not Lochlann who feuded with MacDonnell initially?

  He dismissed the thought. No. They would do better to negotiate with the McDonnell later. A suggestion of swapping him for a MacNeil would not be well-received.

  “My lords?” the thane said, waving a hand. “Dinner arrives.”

  “Thank you.” Brodgar inclined his head, noticing a mouth-watering scent issuing from the salvers carried in by two men. He went across to take a seat at the table. He went to the thane's right. Alf sat across from him. The dinner was laid on the oaken boards. The thane cleared his throat.

  “Ah. Now all we have to do is...” he trailed off as footsteps, light and barely-heard, sounded behind them. “There you are, my dear! Just talking of you.”

  “Oh?” a sweet voice asked. “That sounds worrisome.”

  The thane guffawed. “Nothing bad, daughter. Come,” he added, as Alf stood respectfully, narrowly seconded by Brodgar. “Meet our guests. This is Lord Brodgar, son of Dunkeld. And his companion, Lord Alf.”

  Alf looked as if he wanted to protest at the title, but Brodgar shot him a stern glance and he didn't speak. He was looking at his hands, but as Lady Ambeal approached, he looked up shyly.

  She was standing at the chair beside his, opposite her father's. She looked into his eyes. It seemed for a moment as if everything stilled. The two stared at each other. Brodgar saw her incline that red-haired head. He felt for Alf, who looked as if he was being ignited.

  “Well,” the thane said, clearing his throat. “Now you've met Ambeal. Now, let's eat.”

  They all sat and, as Brodgar poured his drink, he glanced across at Alf.

  You poor lad, he wanted to say. Alf was staring at Lady Ambeal as if she were priceless glass. She was beautiful, he had to admit. With creamy-white s
kin and those wide, fine eyes, her face a long, solemn oval graced with big red lips, she was like something out of his most fevered dreams. All the same, he had to admit, he preferred Ettie. She is softer than Ambeal. More gentle. Sweeter.

  Just the thought of her made his loins twitch and his heart thump.

  No, he thought, looking at Alf and Ambeal together opposite. I know who I want. Unfortunately, Alf too.

  He cast a sidelong look at their host, who was busy carving the main dish, which seemed to be roast salmon. He was talking about some anecdote around hunting, the beginning of which Brodgar hadn't heard.

  “And the thing is,” the thane continued, carving the fish carefully, “you have to consider, when the snow is thick, that your pace is going to be slower than normal...”

  Brodgar tried to focus, but he was too aware of Alf and his plight to pay the story much attention. He made suitable noises of encouragement, watching the two.

  “Can you pass me the jug?” Ambeal asked in a low voice, indicating the pitcher by the center of the table.

  “Of course!” Alf shot out a hand at once, as if getting the jug to Ambeal as fast as possible was a highly-urgent quest. “There, milady.”

  Brodgar grinned as she thanked him.

  “Oh! Thank you, sir.” She blushed, taking it from him. Her fingers were long and creamy-colored in the firelight and Brodgar almost felt Alf tense as, passing the pitcher back, her hand touched his.

  “Ahem,” Alf coughed. Brodgar grinned to himself, relishing his friend's discomfort.

  “You hunt, Lord Brodgar?” their host inquired.

  “Sometimes,” Brodgar agreed. “We have falcons at Dunkeld and I confess I prefer hawking. My sister is an avid hawker too – I am afraid she outmatches me.”

  The thane chuckled. “Hawking, eh? You tried, m'daughter?”

  “Once,” Ambeal admitted. “Our mews is not so well-tended as I believe yours to be,” she said, low-voiced, to Alf, meaning the mews that housed the hawks.

  “I believe Dunkeld has a fine mews,” Alf stuttered. “Though I like riding, myself.”