The warm summer breeze brushed across her, tugging at her hair. She brushed it away with an angry swipe. Independence. She shifted with a bitter huff. There would be no independence for the likes of her now. Her dark mood settled on the swaddled stump of her left leg propped on a stool.
Father Gideon had left her as much of her limb as he felt safe to allow. He had cut away the crushed bones and infection at a point just above her ankle. Done it to save her life, he had told her. Tilda blinked hard against the tears of all she had lost. It was not her left foot for which she grieved. She could hide the disfigurement easy enough beneath her skirts. Petty vanity wasn’t what set her burning gall to churning. She mourned the loss of all for which she had ever hoped. This accursed crippling ruined her ability to live her life without having to ask for help. Independence was a thing of the past.
“Father Wesley said I would find ye here in the gardens. ’Tis a fine, beautiful day, is it not?”
The caress of Duncan’s deep voice no longer sent a thrill coursing through her. Instead, it stoked the fires of her irritation. “Sunny enough, I reckon.” She squinted straight ahead, fixing her attention on the pair of monks weeding a bed of lavender and rosemary growing along the garden wall. “Where have ye been?” She almost cringed. Lord have mercy, she sounded as harpish as her mother. She bowed her head and massaged her brow. How had she allowed such a thing to happen? She had become as wicked and self-absorbed as Fennella Mackenzie.
Duncan squatted beside her, peering up into her face. Anxious concern shone in his eyes. “Are ye unwell today, love? Shall I carry ye inside? Ye should nay overtax yerself here in the sunshine.”
“No, ye shall not carry me inside! I am not some helpless bairn for ye to tote about!” She jerked aside, gritting her teeth to keep from sobbing her fury aloud. Before Duncan could respond, she leaned down, grabbed up the crude set of crutches, and thrust herself up from her seat. One crutch snagged between the flagstones and sent her pitching sideways. Duncan caught her before she hit the ground alongside the damned crutches.
With a hard hit to his chest, Tilda struggled against his hold. “Put me down, damn ye! Put me down at once!”
Jaw set in a hard line, Duncan strode over to a bench beside the wall, seated himself, then plopped Tilda down on his lap. “I am not yer enemy,” he said quietly as he kept her locked in his embrace. “Look at me, Tilda.”
She looked everywhere but at him, straining to free herself. By Almighty God, she could still crawl away if need be. She shoved against his hold. She couldn’t bear this. With an open hand, she struck him hard across the face. The popping slap echoed across the garden. “Why did ye not let me die?” she demanded, fueling the accusation with every ounce of rage and venom festering inside her.
Duncan didn’t flinch, just set his jaw harder and grabbed hold of her wrists in one hand and her chin in the other. “Ye will listen to me, wife. I shall not release ye until ye hear my words and take heed.”
She toyed with the idea of spitting in his face, but the look in his eyes stopped her. She couldn’t remember ever seeing Duncan look so fierce or deadly calm.
Duncan brought his face closer to hers. “Ye live, and I am more than glad of it. More than ye shall ever know.” His grip on her chin tightened, and the raging storm in his dark-eyed gaze grew even darker. “Ye made me love ye, and now I mean to see ye live out yer life with me whether ye wish it or no’. Do ye hear me, Tilda? Ye will never get rid of me. Never.” His hold hardened, his fingers digging into her jaws. He searched her face, pain battled in his gaze. Duncan’s voice lowered to a ragged hiss. “I never thought to have a wife. Never thought to worry with love. All I wanted was adventure.” His lethal tone grew even icier. “Aye, I have my adventure now. Ye will love me as I love ye, Tilda. If I have to hound ye to the end of yer days, ye will love me.” Still holding her locked in place, he forced his mouth over hers and sealed the oath with a kiss as harsh as if he had struck her.
Rage. Defeat. Injustice. Fear of the unknown. All stormed within her, pulling her down, threatening to drown her as she fought against the power of his kiss. A suffocating helplessness enveloped her just like the terrible dreams that plagued her every night. She felt the same in Duncan’s kiss, and the realization he suffered for her sake made her sob.
Duncan swallowed her muffled cries and kissed her harder, holding her so tight against his chest that his hammering heartbeat pummeled against her. Tears streamed down her face. She wept for all they had lost and all that could have been.
Duncan’s words replayed through her mind, battling their way through the storm of her emotions. How could he love her as he said? How could this man, this man who she had tricked and saddled into marriage, possibly love a cripple? And that was the crux of it. Her secret fear. The true food that fed the demons who tormented her night and day. They had nay married for love. Duncan, gallant, caring man that he was, had bound his life to hers first out of necessity and then, because they had forced him. And now she was a cripple. A burden to him. How by the stars above, could she ever make him happy?
She stopped fighting him and went limp.
Duncan lifted his head but kept his lips within a hair’s breadth of hers. He stared deep into her eyes. “I love ye, Tilda,” he whispered. He took the hand she had slapped him with and pressed it hard to the center of his chest. “With every beat of my heart, I love ye.”
“How can ye love a cripple?” she forced out between clenched teeth. “A burden to ye?” There. She had said the demon’s name aloud, spoken her greatest fear.
“Ye are no more a burden to me than I am to ye.” He brushed another kiss across her still throbbing lips, a gentler kiss this time. “The British want me for murder. The MacDonald wants me for treason. I have no home, no land, and I endanger anywhere I rest my head for more than a day or so if I dinna hide my identity. The way I see it, we’re a fine match, we two. Find yer courage, Tilda. Find yer fire. I know it’s still there. I see it in yer eyes, and I know ye can do it. We can fight through this life together, lass. Trust me. I meant what I said. Ye shall never rid yerrself of me.”
Tilda closed her eyes and drew in a weary breath. Life had gotten so very hard in such a short amount of time.
Duncan released her chin and resettled her on his lap, tucking her head into the curve of his neck. “Ye asked where I had been,” he reminded.
“Aye.” It didn’t matter. All that mattered was this moment. Here. Right now. Cradled in Duncan’s arms and blocking all else away.
“Father Wesley sent me to a craftsman deeper inland. A man renowned for his work with wood and metal.”
He spoke as though that should mean something to her. All she could think he meant was a finer set of crutches. Surely, such a thing wouldn’t put such excitement in Duncan’s tone. She didn’t give a whit about another set of crutches. The infernal things would still be an accursed chore. She obviously had failed to conquer the first pair of the blasted things. But why fight him? Let the dear man find his joy where he could. She patted his chest and heaved out a deep sigh.
“’Tis good of ye to run errands for Father Wesley. They have taken good care of us here at New Duress. I fear we may have to winter with them.” It had been almost three months since the shipwreck, over two months since she had lost her foot. With late summer nearing, the weather would soon be too fierce to attempt travel to Cape Wrath.
Duncan’s chuckle rumbled against her cheek. “It was nay an errand for Father Wesley that took me from ye, love. ’Twas an errand for ye.”
Tilda pushed herself upright, giving him a look she prayed he’d understand. There was no errand the man could do that would improve her mood. Life had proven to be quite the dismal chore. “For me?”
“Aye.” Duncan rose, cradling her in his arms. “Will ye come see?”
“Do I have a choice?” She did her best to roust the bitterness from her tone. She was tired of hearing Fennella Mackenzie whenever she opened her mouth.
“
Nay.” Duncan pecked a quick kiss to her cheek and grinned. “Ye dinna have a choice.” He carried her into the abbey through the side door and down the narrow hallway leading through to the main sanctuary.
Tilda held tight to his neck, attempting to drum up some form of excitement for another set of crutches. It seemed to mean so much to Duncan. She had been wretched to him for a long while. She would see him happy.
Duncan sat her atop one of the long trestle tables.
“Duncan!” Tilda pointed down at the bench beside the table. “Father Wesley will nay appreciate my sitting where the brothers eat their supper. Help me down to the bench.”
“On the contrary, Mistress Tilda,” Father Wesley announced as he entered from an archway on the other side of the long meeting room. Father Gideon and his two novices followed at a respectful distance. Mathias carried a rather large, blanketed bundle in his arms. Lucan carried what looked to be a new pair of lady’s lace-up riding boots. “’Tis the perfect spot for us to fit ye with yer new foot.”
“My what?”
“Yer new foot,” Duncan said, his broad smile lighting up the sanctuary. “The craftsman fashioned three for ye to try. When ye decide which one suits ye best and get used to it, we can visit him and get him to fit it properly and make ye an extra to have on hand.”
“Ye fetched me a peg leg?” Panic filled her. She didn’t want a peg in place of her foot. Da once had a man working for him who had a peg leg. She didn’t want such an ugly, cumbersome thing.
“Mathias.” Father Gideon waved the young lad forward.
He placed the bundle on the table and unfolded the cloth from around the three wooden limbs inside. With a shy smile at Tilda, he tapped a finger on the more refined one of the trio. “This one looks fit for a lady. The other two seem a bit too thick.”
With a frown at the odd-looking contraptions, Tilda had to admit, Mathias was correct. The one the lad had selected could almost be called petite and curvy. The wood was dark with a fine grain, sanded and polished to a sheen that looked smooth as satin. A different sort of hinge made of black metal connected the foot-shaped part of the thing to the short section meant to replicate the bit of her missing leg. A metallic ankle of sorts. All manner of leather strapping, buckles, and metal strips sprouted from the top of the strange apparatus. Tilda assumed that part of the odd contraption served the purpose of keeping it secured to the stump of her leg.
Lucan set the pair of knee-high boots on the bench in front of her. He kept his gaze locked to the floor and gave a humble bow of his head. The lad spoke so softly, she had to lean forward to hear him. “These will fit over the wooden foot and help hold it in place, mistress. No one will ever know unless ye tell them.”
“Are ye ready to try it, love?”
The excitement in Duncan’s voice eased her level of trepidation down to a manageable knot in her throat. His childlike anticipation made her smile. A real smile. The first one she had felt in a very long time.
“How can I refuse?” After a hard swallow, she picked the thing up and fitted it to the end of her leg. She pulled the strapping and metal bracing up along her leg, noting that every monk in the room had spun around to give her the privacy of their backs. She buckled it snug above her knee and stretched out her leg, turning the attachment first to one side, then the other. “It sort of resembles a foot.”
“Aye, that it does,” Duncan said. “Set it snug beside yer other foot on the bench. He told me to be sure and check the height of the leg part.”
She did as instructed, feeling odd that her knees were once again level without her having to lift the much shorter leg to make up for the lack of her foot and ankle.
Duncan squatted down in front of her, comparing the height of her knees and the length of her shins. He nodded. “Looks good, but the true test will be how ye adapt to it.” He picked up the boots and handed them to her.
The shaft of the boots reached to her knees and laced up tight from the middle of her foot all the way to the top. A fragile hope sprouted within her. The apparatus’s strapping paired with the laced boots would surely hold the foot good and snug to her leg. She lowered herself from the top of the table to the bench, then fluffed out her skirts all around her. “Ye may turn around, gentlemen.”
Both monks and the two novices spun about, obviously anxious to witness her first steps.
Duncan moved to her left side and held out a polished cane made from the same wood as the artificial foot. “He made a cane to help steady ye, but said once ye grow accustomed to the foot, ye may have no need for the cane at all.” He gave her a reassuring smile, hope and excitement flashing in his eyes. “Come, Tilda. Walk for me.”
The cane held tight, Tilda pushed herself up from the bench, keeping all her weight on her own foot. What an odd feeling. To stand as though once again whole. She looked down at the two boot tips peeping out from under her skirts. Lucan was right. No one would ever know. Pride fed the flame of hope growing within her. Another realization warmed her cheeks. Mayhap, she had been a little vain after all.
“I be right here.” Duncan stood close beside her. “Try a few steps.”
Tilda clumped forward. The left heel of her boot struck harder than she intended, clattering against the flagstones. She struggled to keep her balance. It felt so…unnatural. “I sound like a draft horse.” She frowned down at her foot, willing her left side to step softer.
“Ye will learn, lass. It takes but a bit of practice.” Duncan walked along beside her, one hand resting on the small of her back. “Would ye like to try it alone?”
Right arm held out for balance, left hand clutching the cane, Tilda watched the floor, then glanced back up at Duncan. “Nay. Not yet. Stay close, aye?”
“I be right here, love.” He winked and added, “Always.”
She took a few more steps, her spirits rising with each of them. With a look back over her shoulder, she smiled first at Duncan and then the gathered monks. Her focus returned to Duncan. “I be turning now. Dinna let me fall.”
Duncan stayed within easy arm’s reach and gave her a nod.
With slow, careful steps, Tilda turned in a complete circle without losing her balance. The monks cheered and clapped, and Duncan swept her up in his arms and spun her in a circle.
Happy tears streamed as she hugged her arms tight around Duncan’s neck. “It works. I canna believe it works.” She spared a glance back at the monks’ beaming smiles. “Thank ye all so much. Thank ye for not giving up on me.” She cradled Duncan’s face between her hands. “Thank ye most of all. I know I have been the vilest of creatures.”
Duncan shook his head. “I would do anything to make ye happy. It does my heart good to see the light returned to yer eyes.” Ever so gently, he lowered her to the floor and helped her regain her footing. “I am so verra proud of ye, love. Verra proud, indeed.”
“Well done,” Father Gideon said, approaching with his hands clasped in front of him. “Well done, Mistress Tilda. All ye need remember is to keep yer leg well-padded and wrapped to avoid any blistering, aye?”
“Aye, Father.” Resettling the cane in her grip, she stepped forward a few steps, heading toward the outer archway. A sense of freedom and excitement surged through her.
“Where are ye off to, lass?” Duncan called out.
Tilda turned and held out her hand. “A walk in the gardens. Would ye care to join me?” Her heart had not been this unburdened in a verra long while, and she wished to share it—especially with Duncan. She missed the way they had been before. A new determination filled her. She promised herself they would be that way again. “Come with me, please? I promise I will not snap off yer head nary a time.”
Duncan chuckled and took his place at her side. “As ye said earlier, love, how can I refuse?”
They walked outside and took the path to the private garden at the back of the chapel. Walled in by ivy-covered stones and dense hedging, the area was barely large enough for the small pond at its center and the wide stone
bench along the far wall. ’Twas a secluded place. A place for quiet reflection. A place to mend her ways with her husband.
“Watch the uneven stones there.” Duncan pointed out a moss-covered flagstone, its corner pitched high enough to catch her toe.
“I see it.” Tilda found if she led with her good leg, she managed much better. She looped her hand through Duncan’s arm and hugged him to her. “The more I walk, the less I’ll sway back and forth. Do ye think so?”
Duncan patted her hand. “I believe ye can do anything ye’ve a mind to do, lass.” He tossed a wicked look back at her arse. “I rather like the swaying, though.” He turned them toward the bench. “Shall we sit and count today’s wondrous blessings?”
“Aye.” She had to admit, she was feeling a fair bit winded. Must be from all the excitement. Still holding tight to Duncan’s arm, she snuggled up against him as they sat. “Ye are a true godsend, Duncan,” she whispered. A contented sigh escaped her as she rested her head on his shoulder.
Duncan tightened his arm around her and pressed a kiss to the top of her head.
The water bugs sent rippling rings across the dark waters of the pond. Birds fussed and chirped among the bushes. Peacefulness filled her. All the venom that had festered since the shipwreck disappeared like a mist struck by the sun. And she had Duncan to thank for it. Tilda smiled to herself. She had missed this so. The safety and comfort of Duncan’s arms. There was no one to blame but herself.
Her smile faded, replaced by a gnawing sense of guilt. Duncan had been so very patient. She had lashed out at him at every possible turn, vicious as a wounded animal caught in a trap. Weeks ago, when he had finally asked her if she felt well enough for him to return to their bed, she had shut him out and told him to never attempt to do so again. Most men would’ve done one of two things: either forced themselves upon their wives or stormed off and found a mistress. Duncan had done neither. He had merely said he would give her all the time she needed and would be there for her when she was ready. She pulled in a deep sigh and slowly eased it out. She had been so cruel to him. How could she have treated such a loving man with such heartlessness?
The Warrior Page 17