A MOMENT OF PERIL
“What is happening?” Arabella shouted.
“Arabella, you know. Stay out of it.” Her father spoke from behind her, a tone of command.
“Father?” Arabella stared at him, horrified. “No! You cannot tell me you authorized this!”
She felt sick. Here she had been, promising the Englishman that her father would respect a truce, that there was no way he would ambush guests at dinner, breaking all the guest laws. However, no, her father had made her a liar even then. She looked at him, cheeks burning with rage.
Her father raised a brow. “I can't very well stop it, can I?” he asked grimly. “I didn't authorize it, I assure you. However, if Roger MacDowell, earl of Strathmore, chooses to shoot guests in my own hall, what must I do? Stand in front of him with my arms out?”
Arabella stared at him as if he'd struck her. “Mayhap, yes,” she whispered. It was unthinkable, to let guests be shot in your own hall, and do nothing! She felt ashamed of what she'd said. Luckily, he didn't seem to have heard it. She swallowed.
She looked where her father had indicated, and saw that he was right. There, indeed, was the earl, armed with a carbine, shooting at an English soldier. As she watched, he used up his bullet, and then used the gun itself to club a man. The man fell, blood on his white shirt. All around, the soldiers were being assaulted or quietly removed. She felt a complete horror.
The Englishman! Where was he?
She looked round the hall again, frantically. Spied a head of dark hair at the back.
He was near the rear door, the fighting breaking out in front of him as officers of both sides started to swing fists and draw weapons. Why are there weapons here?, she thought, distracted. No one bore weapons to a gathering! This was insanity.
“Douglas!” she yelled. Three heads turned, one of which was her brother.
He was in the corner by the door, and far too far away to help her. To his credit, he was struggling with a Scotsman himself, trying to make the man lay down his arms. She paused to throw him a mute but loving glance and ran on.
I cannot let them harm him. I cannot let them kill him. I promised he'd be safe. She tried to recall the soldier's name. He was a lieutenant. Asborne or Ashdowne or...
“Richard!” she screamed.
He turned toward her just as the Scotsman before him made a fist, aiming for his head. She saw Richard counter the blow, though his own strike lacked force. She noticed why – his arm bled freely from a cut in the shoulder. She felt her stomach twist. She wouldn't let the man kill him. She saw the Scotsman reach into his belt, drawing a short dirk – a sword-like dagger, designed for stabbing. She saw the blade flash and her heart twisted desperately.
“Aaah!” she yelled, throwing herself at the Scot. She grabbed the first thing at hand – a wooden chair – and struck him hard, using all the force she could muster.
She saw him twist round, wild-eyed, and stare at her in horror. “Lassie!” he yelled.
Arabella threw the chair, shocked at how much of her strength it took to move the heavy wooden object even so far. It skidded across the floor and made the Scotsman stumble. That brief inattention was all Richard needed. He turned to the door and opened it.
“Run!” he yelled.
As the nearby English soldiers – the few who were still able to – strove to reach the door, following his imperative command, Richard stood back.
“Go!” Arabella screamed at him. She hadn't dared this danger, dared the wrath of her own father, to save any besides him! What was he thinking of? Go!
She saw him pause there, letting others pass him. It seemed like the whole hall was empty, with only them left alive in it. His eyes met hers across the gap of running, chasing men. She felt the world stop.
This could be the end of everything, time standing still.
Then, suddenly, as a man ran toward her, shouting incoherently, the world exploded again into color, brightness, and action. Richard sprang out. He grabbed her wrist and ran with her, heading for the door.
They passed through.
Outside, the night was cold, and wild. The scent of dew was overpowering in her nostrils, mixed with the scent of earth and, faintly, of damp loam and blood. She looked round. The courtyard was a patchwork of shadows, fire and motion; men running this way and that way, screaming and yelling as they fought, pursued, and attacked.
She was rooted to the spot by her shock. As she watched, she saw a soldier chasing a kilted man, the two of them running toward the stables. Closer to, a man whooped as he fell on another, a shield in one hand, a dagger in the other. She heard the man scream and winced, trying to shut out the sounds of terror and pain. It was a nightmare. It was carnage. It was Duncliffe, which had been her home.
Arabella couldn't move.
“Let's go,” Richard shouted.
They ran across the flagstones, Arabella trying her best to breathe as Richard dragged her along behind him. She looked round, dazed. They were heading toward the back of the courtyard, where there was a gate where it met the forest.
“Stables...” she managed to wheeze. “To the...stables.”
He stopped. “That way?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “That way.”
They ran.
The stables were quieter. The horses could clearly hear the maelstrom of killing, and mayhap also scent the blood on the air. They were restless and Bronn, the big, dark stallion, let out a snort and tossed his head when he saw them near.
“Whist, Bronn,” Arabella whispered. “'Tis me. Barra?”
She whispered it to her own horse. The name meant “bright”, but her horse was black. She had chosen it more for his personality than for his looks. She whispered to him now.
“Eh, Barra. We're going to have to ride you hard. You'll run for us? Good. Thank you, boy.”
The other horses had smelled the blood now – she saw them start to twitch and one of them screamed, setting the others kicking and stamping in the stalls. They hated this uncertainty. This violence.
“Easy,” Arabella whispered. She let Barra out. Her horse stood firm. “Good boy.”
She waited as Richard, raising a brow at her, mounted up, stepping onto the gate of the stable to help himself up. It wasn't easy – her horse was not tacked up, and they'd need to ride bareback, without reins to guide him, but Richard managed.
“Now,” he whispered. “Your turn?”
Arabella nodded grimly. She usually rode side-saddle, but luckily she'd tried astride a few times when she thought no one was watching her. She bit her lip, stepped onto the gate as he had done, and let him help her up, dragging her to sit before him.
“There,” she said, flushing red and trying to ignore the fact that her body was pressed to his chest, his hand clutching her waist to steady her. She hoped he forgot. “Let's go.”
“Yes,” he whispered. “Off we go,” he added, squeezing with his knees. He wrapped her tight in his arm, nudged their horse forward. They shot off into the yard.
“To the trees!” Arabella yelled.
“Where?” he asked. “Oh, there.”
“Yes!” she shouted. The courtyard was still full of fighting, fierce men. She heard the clang of swords and her heart twisted painfully. This was a nightmare.
“Go!” she screamed as, suddenly, in the space where they were meant to ride, there appeared a man wielding a broadsword, another man struggling with him. The man saw them and raised his weapon, seeing them as fresh foe.
“Yes,” Richard whispered. He squeezed with his knees and Barra, valiant and eager, shot forward, heedless of the steel and danger before him.
They made it.
As Barra's hoofs fell, muted, on the pathway of the forest, Arabella felt her whole self suddenly relax. They had done it. They were safe. They were in the woods.
She felt herself collapse. She slumped forward, as suddenly her head ached and the whole world rushed in, too horrifying and numbing for belief. Had that really happened? Was her home a place of such horror? Her own father so treacherous?
“No,” she murmured.
She felt tears pour down her cheeks. She was leaning on Barra's furry neck, her whole body aching. Why was she so tired? She felt like all her strength was sapped, her whole body numb and insensate.
She could still feel, though, she realized, as a hand gently stroked down her spine. She tensed, but she could also hear him speaking. He spoke as he might to a dog, or a wild horse, gentling it.
“Easy, lass,” he murmured. “It's well. You're safe.”
Arabella let out a shaky sigh, feeling some of her old asperity return. “I was not weeping for myself,” she said tightly. “My home is a slaughterhouse.”
She felt that knowledge sink into her again and sobbed then, and he said nothing, just held her on the horse and let her cry.
After crying for about a minute, Arabella stopped and drew in a long, shuddering breath. Sat up and wiped her face on her skirt. She noticed absently that it was green velvet. That would have been funny, were it not so tragic.
“Velvet,” she said, hiccupping. “It...it was a ball.” The thought was so hideous, so poignant. She wanted to cry.
“Yes,” a voice said in her ear. “You're in the forest now. Look at the trees. Where should we go now?”
She drew in a long, shuddering breath. That was what she needed – a reminder of where she was now. She needed a reason to forget where she had just been. She let the pleat of her skirt fall from her fingers, and sighed.
“We should go to Duncliffe village,” she said. “Down there, beyond the hill. In the valley. Safe, there.”
“Yes,” he murmured. “Yes. We'll go there. Then we'll be safe.”
It was only as they set out on the road that the thought occurred to either of them that the village might not be safe. It was a village loyal to her father. Most of the villagers were Jacobites. If they found an Englishman in their midst, they'd either slaughter him then or ask her father to. Then what would she do? It wasn't safe for her, either.
I have just run away with our enemy. I am a woman of good breeding, alone with a man.
Either way, she was as good as a social outcast now.
She leaned forward on her horse's neck, the enormity of the situation slamming into her like a fist. What was she going to do?
“What?” he whispered.
“I can't go home,” Arabella whispered back. “I can't go back.”
Richard – she still couldn't recall his surname – said nothing. His grip on her waist tightened a moment, and then relaxed.
“Whist, lass,” he said gently, lapsing into the Lowland Scots they both shared. “We'll go to the village you speak of, and set ourselves to rights.”
“No,” she said urgently. “We can't go there. You'll be killed there!”
“Why?” he asked, quite reasonable- sounding, in Lowland Scots. “I'm a Scotsman, a soldier, back from the borders. And my lady wife with me. Nae, lassie. We'll be quite safe.”
Arabella nodded. He was right. She was being foolish.
As they started off again, one of the words stuck in her mind. “Wife?” she said aloud.
He tensed. “In name only, milady. I would not touch you without your willing it. I promise.”
She sighed. “Good,” she whispered.
She was so exhausted that she hadn't the strength to say any more as they headed down, step by slow step, toward the village.
When they arrived, it felt as if they'd been plunged into a bowl of silence. In contrast to the clash of swords and the screaming and shouting, the village was still. Nobody moved, not a carter or a soldier. Even the crier on the street had gone to bed. The place was empty.
Arabella looked round wearily.
“The Barley and Bale,” she whispered, thinking of the village inn. They could stay there.
“Where is it?” Richard asked.
“There,” Arabella motioned listlessly, indicating the main road.
Richard turned Barra and they went down it, the road a space of yawning silence between the darkened houses. Arabella shivered. There was something wildly eerie about a midnight town.
They reached the inn. To her immense relief there was a lamp lit outside it. She sighed.
“Here,” she said.
She slumped forward and felt him slide off behind her. Her body collapsed so that she was leaning on Barra's neck, breathing in the scent of fur and horse-sweat, comforting, familiar, and safe.
She tensed as a strange sensation filtered through – she felt his hands clasp her waist and draw her from the horse. She shuddered.
“Let me help you,” Richard whispered. “There you are. Easy now.”
Arabella tensed as he helped her down. She felt relieved as she felt the cobbles, firm and stable, under her feet. She took a step and fell forward. Richard wrapped an arm round her to steady her. She twisted in his grasp, turning to look into his eyes.
He looked back. Again, she felt that strange, slow sensation, as if the whole world had stopped and left them alone in it. Here, now, with the sky sapphire above their heads, it could have been true. They could have been the only two people.
If that were so, she thought, blushing, there were many things she'd do. Her body leaned closer to his, as if seeking the warmth of it through her velvet clothing. She leaned against him without conscious thought and his arms wrapped round her, holding her close.
She closed her eyes, leaning on his arm. Here was so safe, warm, and nurturing. Here, there was no war. Only peace. As well as the sensation of warmth and fullness inside her.
She sighed, he sighed, and his lips hovered above her own.
She backed away.
“No,” she whispered. “No. This isn't sensible.”
He looked into his eyes. She was amazed at the slow, steady pounding of her heart, the way her body was shivering a little, though in the autumnal evening in the velvet gown it was not overly cold. She sighed.
He nodded.
“No,” he admitted. His thin lips twisted in a smile. “No. It isn't sensible. Not at all.”
She noticed, though, that he had not moved away any more than she had. She sighed and leaned against him a little longer, reveling in the sweetness of the contact.
Then she stepped back.
“Hie you within, sir,” she whispered. “And find a room for me?”
Not needing to be told, it seemed, that she wished him to find her accommodations separate from his own, he nodded.
“Yes, milady.”
He disappeared inside. Arabella, shivering, walked closer to the wall and leaned against it, shivering with emotions and weariness, while she listened to the low voices from within the chamber.
She could hear him speak in Lowland Scots, and hear the answers, also in the language. So far, nobody suspected him. She waited, tense and with a strange sense of unreality, until he returned.
“I've found two rooms,” he said. “You're my sister. You're to have the last one on the first floor.”
“And you?” Arabella asked, feeling a sudden poignant sadness at their approaching departure. “Where will you sleep?”
“In the hay-barn,” he grinned. “Above the stables.”
Arabella felt her jaw drop forward in shock. He chuckled.
“It's well, lass. I've slept in worse places.”
“But...but?”
“Easy, lass,” he grinned. “Let's help you up the stairs.”
Arabella nodded and, not protesting further, let him lead her up the stairs to the bedchamber. There, she shut the door and sank down onto the bed. She was too tired to move.
Eventually, she persuaded her body to stand, to disrobe, and to wash.
As she slid into the cool, clean bed, between freshly laundered linen sheets, she wondered where Richard was. She hoped he was well.
She was surprised how much it mattered to her, how he was.
Foolish, she told herself.
It was foolish. Even so, she couldn't help hoping he was safe. Or thinking, as she fell asleep, exhausted, about the soft light in those pale blue eyes.