Chapter One
Anno Domini 1191, eleven months earlier
The smell of freedom was so sweet.
Madeline Crawford inhaled the fresh, spring air, then exhaled, knowing her hair wasn’t coifed properly, knowing she wore an old kirtle that had spent more time than any lady’s gown ought sitting in an herb garden. But plants were so fascinating! And so was sitting in the dirt without anyone minding. And for that matter, so was not ensuring her hair was perfect. No one would scold her for imperfect manners or expect perpetual silence from her or thunder at her for doing any number of nonsensical things. No one cared. No one was here.
She overlooked the Spout of Garnock, careful not to come too close to the cliff’s edge, and watched as rainbows reflected in the cascade of water tumbling down the rocks to continue the river’s winding. This magnificent creation was so very close to her home. Only a half an hour’s walk from Dungarnock Tower.
Though the Moreville family possessed guardianship of Dungarnock, residing nearby in Glengarnock Castle when the family wasn’t in Carlisle, she lived unimpeded. Dungarnock was a simple tower, small, with only one enclosed yard, and hardly worth the effort for warring Scottish chiefs to squabble over. Hardly decent enough for the daughter of one of Scotland’s renowned earls, despite her father’s imprisonment.
But Madeline never complained. One pile of stones was as good as the next, and she had no desire to be noticed. Fancy castles and fancy gowns weren’t important. And because Dungarnock was hidden in a glen between two rolling hills with trees concealing much of it, it sat camouflaged in the countryside. An untrained eye might even pass by on the high road and never notice that a keep stood there.
Freedom, she thought, smelling the heather, feeling the razor-sharp stings of a thistle against her fingers and not caring in the least. To feel the thistles meant she was finally feeling life. Her father had been a hard man who had despised that he had seeded daughters, never once getting his heir. He had depended on his older daughter, Mariel, to pass along the family property and titles, though Mariel had fled his never-ending wrath and eloped with an Englishman. And though Mariel and her husband had begged Madeline to move to the grand Huntington Castle northeast of Londontown, Madeline could never picture herself anywhere other than Ayrshire, Scotland.
God’s country. Heaven. This beautiful waterfall confirmed it.
True, she had always lived in Scotland, and true, her father had kept her cloistered at Castle Ayr for all of her seven and ten years. But here, there were no guardsmen constantly jingling around the yard in their mail, overlooking every move from the parapet, and most importantly, there was no Harold Crawford, The Beast of Ayr—her father. She had become so used to keeping her head down, keeping to the shadows, and apologizing for things that weren’t her fault that she had lived her first sennights at Dungarnock as if she were still at home. It wasn’t until Fingal and Greta, her only servants, told her about the spout that she asked if one day she might see it. Fingal smiled, looked at her curiously, and told her she needed no permission to take a country walk.
Greta had regaled her with tales of the fae folk, of how the magical healing properties of the Spout of Garnock could cure everything from a sore thumb to a broken heart, how fairies would steal bairns and replace them with fae bairns. And more than once, the old woman had teased her that a man like the mythical Fionn might just ride out of the evening sunset to the gate and steal her heart. Imagine, a handsome warrior! Of course, she knew they teased, but it was the first time she had heard such tales, for her father had forbidden the traveling bards from setting up in his great hall, and she might have been beaten if he had suspected she had an admirer.
Now, here she stood, on the anniversary of her birth, with the wind lifting her unbound tresses, overlooking one of the most beautiful waterfalls she had ever seen—the only one she had ever seen. Today she was eight and ten, and not a single person knew except her, and she was the happiest she had ever been. This day at the end of April, in the year of the lord eleven ninety-one, Madeline Crawford could feel the sun, taste the rain, and ponder rainbows reflecting in waterfalls! And though King William had promised to find her an eligible suit, the pressures of a marital alliance were dramatically lessened due to her father’s downfall. She might very well be able to escape the institution altogether, if she kept to the shadows as always and made no royal requests.
Ah, nothing can ruin this birthday! Pity Mariel couldn’t be with her to share in her growing happiness. Nay doubt her wild sister would never believe she had actually walked for one half of an hour, unescorted, in the country. Madeline had learned quickly to be demure, quiet, and most of all, accommodating, for if she were those three things, her father would never notice how observant she was.
And she was observant. On a bending blade of grass at her feet, the color of the grass itself, sat a caterpillar. She had only seen a few in her lifetime. She smiled. Mariel had told her they were sweet wee beasties and tickled when they walked on one’s skin. She took another step closer, hoping to pick it up, when her slipper skidded on the loose soil in a crevice. Her arms flew up, and she flailed. Her foot slipped away. Before she knew it, she was sliding down the side of the rock embankment.
She shrieked.
Her hands grappled for anything they could clasp. Blades of grass offered nothing. Landing with a thud, her left knee and ankle jarred. She collapsed, crying out, buckling over into a heap.
Lord, but her bones were probably frail, for she had never needed to build up stamina. One didn’t need much strength while sitting patiently at board, sitting patiently with her needlework, or sitting patiently at Mariel’s side, begging her older sister to also be patient and for mercy’s sake, to not roll her eyes.
Madeline hadn’t run like the peasant children who accompanied their parents to Castle Ayr each morn, or her father might have meted out his discipline. And so she had always remained slender, watching the other children from her bedchamber, her pale hair resting on the sill, and more than once she had heard visitors liken her to the very fae Greta talked about. At the time, she hadn’t known what “fae” meant.
Her vision began to clear. Agony rippled through her leg. Spots covered her eyes. She moaned and felt nausea threaten to toss up the contents of her breakfast. She looked up at the sheer drop. How on earth would she get back up? It had to be at least three body lengths, if not more.
Panic threatened to set in, but she swallowed and muttered instead, “Okay, so there is something that can ruin this day.”
For a fleeting moment, she thought of her father’s head guardsman, Teàrlach. He had always kept his distance, yet once, during a confrontation in Castle Ayr’s yard last winter, he had pulled her behind him to protect her. That, and he had taken food she had smuggled out of the pantries to her sister, who at the time, had been locked in her father’s prison tower. Those moments were the closest she had ever been to him and the only time he had ever touched her. She had noticed him eying her from time to time, certain it meant nothing. He was an observant man and likely had been assessing his surroundings, even if she had imagined that he simply wanted to look at her. After the king summoned her to Edinburgh upon her father’s imprisonment, before placing her at Dungarnock, she never saw the brown-eyed guardsman again. But his moment of protection repeated itself in her mind. What she wouldn’t give for his vise-like hand to swoop out of nowhere and pull her back up now.
Even Fionn would be welcome, if the mythical warrior cared to emerge from the sunlight and transport her back to the top of the cliff. There was no one around, and it would be hours before anyone thought to come looking. I have to get out of this mess alone. She grabbed at the rocky wall, finding a hand hold, and began to pull herself to standing. Pain shot through her leg. She had never broken a bone in her life, but she knew instantly that something was wrong.
Balancing on one foot and leaning against the wall, she made the mistake of resting her weight on her left leg again. “Dear Lord!” she exclaimed, tears stinging her eyes.
She broke into a sweat. Her hair so free and flowing moments ago was now an irritable menace tangling in her face. She shoved the locks behind her ears and reached down, gathered her skirts, and pulled the back hem up between her legs where she tied it with the front so that the mass of fabric was out of the way. Her stockings were ripped. Blood oozed down her leg from the cuts she had received while sliding down the rock, like a side of meat across a knife. The sight of the blood did her in. Faint of heart, she crumpled over unconscious.
…
Teàrlach MacGregor heard a female shriek. It was a faint echo, but he recognized it all the same. His trained ears knew distress when they heard it. He turned his horse, King, off the path in what seemed like the direction of the noise and trotted into the countryside. Careful to avoid any hidden holes or crevices in the long grass, he slowly maneuvered his prized destrier, a brown mount the color of polished dark leather, with a thick neck and sturdy legs.
“Anyone there?” he hollered, cupping his hand around his mouth.
Nothing.
He knew this land like the back of his hand and decided the likeliest place for an accident would be the Spout of Garnock. Heaven forbid someone had tumbled over the edge to their death, for he had no desire to pick up broken bones this day. This day had been off to a decent start. Today, he hadn’t reached for his flask of whisky to give him the courage to rise from bed. Today was one of the few days he hadn’t thought of the lass he knew he could never have, the lass he envisioned when he would let a tavern whore suck him off to ease the base impulses that plagued every man.
Being the fourth son of a Highland chief had its benefits. He had coin if he needed it, and clout when he needed it. But being a fourth son had its downfalls. He would never be the important heir and would be lucky if he inherited more than a plot of land. No matter. Teàrlach MacGregor needed no recognition. His skills were what kept him fed and afforded him a good life. He could stand in a room against the wall, gathering information for an hour without anyone noticing, despite being a massive six feet and seven inches tall. And he could fight like the dirtiest scrapper, if needs be. Those were skills that had made him valuable to the Beast of Ayr. The former Sheriff of Ayr, he corrected himself.
But Harold Crawford, the sheriff, was in prison, and his second daughter, Madeline, was out of his reach, taken by King William, who was acting as her guardian in Edinburgh until a proper marriage could be arranged. Her marriage would probably be strategic in the growing politics with England. A Highland clan chief’s fourth son didn’t qualify as bridegroom material.
He’d had no reason to remain at Castle Ayr as the head guardsman. Fighting and training men to be ruthless warriors were skills at which he excelled. He knew he was good and made excellent coin. Teàrlach MacGregor might not have much in the way of hereditary claim, but he could kill three men by himself with nothing but a sword and a couple of daggers. And, if the lady he’d admired from afar was in the king’s custody and her father imprisoned, then he’d had no wish to stay.
So he’d left. Castle Ayr had been commandeered by the king. The fallen Sheriff of Ayr had been jailed in England under King Richard the Lionheart before being transported to King William of Scotland for seditious plotting. News had spread that Teàrlach MacGregor, the quiet, hulking guardsman, was on the prowl for new employ. He had been immediately contracted by a Lowland laird at Dalkeith Castle for a three-month contract in January, and now, as he maneuvered his horse toward the sound of distress, that contract was completed. Already he’d had three new offers. His training skills, teaching men to ruthlessly fight, were in high demand. They were what had attracted Henry de Moreville to him. Of the three offers, Moreville had offered the most generous purse.
Dammit, but he was almost to Glengarnock Castle and the Moreville family’s Scottish holding. All he wanted to do was get there, get working, and swing his sword arm a few times. He was growing lazy, for it had been over a sennight since he had practiced it. Imbibing in his whisky, raging against a quintain, or better yet, an opponent, had eased his restlessness and made him forget the woman he was daft enough to want. Searching for a bloody damsel in distress was not part of this day’s plan.
He approached a dip in the hill, then an ascent up rocky terrain, more treacherous than the tall grass, but easier to navigate with the sparse foliage. As he neared the waterfall, he surveyed the edge for weaknesses. Last thing he needed was for King to slip a hoof on the pebbly edge and plummet to his death, taking Teàrlach down with him. Avoiding the rim, he walked King as far as the horse agreed to go, turned him sideways, and peered over.
A woman lay below, hair pale gold, arms long and slender, and a horrible prickle shot up his spine and down his arms, standing his hair on edge. Usually, he would swoop into action, but this time he actually blinked, rubbing the corners of his eyes with his thumb and pointer to make sure he wasn’t seeing false images. But the same exact woman was there when he looked down again. His heart hammered his chest.
“Lady…Lady Madeline Crawford?”
It couldn’t be. Madeline was in Edinburgh at court, a ward to the king. It had to be a trick of the eye, a woman who looked a hell of a lot like her. Otherwise, those impish Scottish fae were proving themselves real and playing a terrible trick on him. The woman, her leg bleeding through her stockings, didn’t move and by all accounts was dead.
“Lady Madeline? Is that you?” he asked again. He had rarely spoken to her directly, even if he knew her well, and her name felt foreign on his tongue.
Still no response, not a twitch or a groan. But his eyes didn’t lie. Bloody hell shite bastard… “Be damned, ye daft eejit,” he scolded himself. The woman needed help, regardless of who she looked like, and he was sitting in his saddle looking down at her like an imbecile.
Another string of curses tumbled through his mind as he threw himself off the horse’s back and looked down at her tangled hair. A feeling of dread, unlike anything he had felt before, sank in his gut like an anchor. He had a rope withdrawn from his packs and wrapped around the nearest tree faster than he had ever moved before, dashing back to the edge and tossing the remaining coil over to slap the rock below.
He scaled down. It wasn’t hard, but the lady beneath him didn’t look strong enough to climb a flight of stairs, let alone climb up from such a drop. Reaching the bottom as the spray of water from the fall misted over him, he jumped down and knelt at her side. His heart, hammering moments ago, came to a dead halt and plummeted to the ground.
It was her. It was Madeline Crawford. It was her. In this remote area. Lying at the bottom of a waterfall, miles from Edinburgh. Alone.
“Lady Madeline?” he asked, squatting beside her, placing his fingers to her neck to feel a steady pulse.
Relief doused the dread burning his stomach. He exhaled a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Questions flooded his mind. Why was she not in Edinburgh? How did she manage to fall off a cliff, shallow as it was? Where was her escort? Had she been a victim of foul play? Bile turned his stomach in somersaults. Had she been…raped? And dumped over the edge? God in heaven no! He reached to her arm, giving her a gentle shake.
“Lady Madeline,” he prompted again, too fearful to move her in case something was broken. Such a fall could kill a man, snap his back, or leave him paralyzed and invalid.
A moan escaped her. He exhaled another lungful.
…
Madeline could hear her name as if spoken from a distance, muted. She reached up to rub her eyes. They fluttered open, squinting into the sun hammering down upon the earth. She blinked. The male voice saying her name became clear. Her eyes focused. Hovering over her was a robust head of dark, curling hair that hung scruffy over the ears, piercing eyes the color of whisky, and both belonging to a looming man with the breadth of a warhorse. Coming to her senses, she shoved away, hastening to scoot out from beneath him, dragging her injured leg.
“Lady Madeline,” he started, holding his palms up in the spirit of peace.
She paused, scrutinized him. Her eyes widened. And recognition dawned. Was she imagining it? She had just been thinking of him.
“Teàrlach? Teàrlach MacGregor?”
Her scrutiny was replaced with wariness. Had her father been released from prison? Had he sent MacGregor, his head of guard, to retrieve her from Dungarnock? Fear washed over her and she paled. Life had been a wonder. She couldn’t go back to him! How had the guardsman found her out in this remote way? What would he do with her? She began shaking her head, her chest rising and falling as she attempted to hold her composure. She had always been able to remain calm, composed, and patient. But all those traits now threatened to flee. “No… How did you find me? Does my faither go free? Does he demand me back?”
Teàrlach shook his head. If she wasn’t mistaken, his eyes furrowed and his jaw hardened angrily. Why? Was he angry about her father’s imprisonment? He had, after all, been her father’s head man. Her father had been cruel. More so to her older sister, Mariel, but to her as well, and Madeline knew the fear she had done so well to hide from everyone now sprang across her face.
“Nay, Lady. I chanced upon you. I heard a scream. Are you injured? Can you walk? Who did this to you? Who threw you over this cliff?”
She shrank back at his intensity, more like an interrogation, when he visibly tempered his anger, swallowed, and gentled his voice. Madeline was used to forceful men, but Teàrlach MacGregor was typically mild-mannered, quiet, able to go unnoticed as easily as a fly upon the wall. Anger from him was ill-placed.
“I apologize. I’m frightening you. It’s nay my intent,” he stated. “I travel to Glengarnock Castle. Laird Henry de Moreville has hired me. I heard you scream. Did someone push you off this cliff, Lady? If so, I’d like to know because he’s a dead man when I find him.”
She shook her head, biting her lip nervously. His gaze darted to her lips and lingered there before rising back to her eyes. She studied him, his unmarked surcoat draping between his thighs like a gray curtain belted around his middle. She knew he was a Highlander, but he wore the garments of the more civilized world. And yet he boasted a massive claymore strapped over his back, a mail habergeon beneath his surcoat, and the hilts of several daggers protruded from his belt and sleeves as well as the traditional handle of the sgian dubh in his boot. So not all Highland traditions had been abandoned with his tartan.
“Nay body threw me off. I slipped on loose ground and fell.”
She would die of embarrassment to tell an experienced warrior she had fallen because she’d been fascinated by a caterpillar. He would think her daft. Likely he had seen his fair share of caterpillars, losing interest in them as a lad.
…
Okay. He breathed. So he wouldn’t need to slit some rapist’s neck after all, but be damned if he couldn’t stop watching her bite her lower lip. The act was sensual, though he knew she didn’t mean it as such. But her lips were full, pink, and biting them seemed like a skilled tactic to lure a man away from his senses. He rolled the lingering tension from his shoulders. Knowing the cause of her fall didn’t cause the questions tumbling about his head to cease, but it did ease the tightness of his muscles, and before he could figure out why she was here in the first place, she needed her injuries assessed.
“Next question,” he continued, like the commander he was, his voice imposing. “Your leg is bleeding. Is anything broken?”
Blush raged across her face as her eyes darted down to the dress tied up between her knees. She hastened to undo the knot. “What an embarrassment,” she whispered. “I thought I would have to climb out alone and only meant to make my skirts less of a nuisance. I meant no impropriety.”
His eyes fastened to her legs. Fine legs indeed. He had always maintained a sweet image of the lass he had admired. Until now.
“I understand. I’m nay offended.”
Lord no, he wasn’t offended. If it weren’t for the blood seeping through the rips in her stockings, he would have admired the slender curvature of each leg with slower appreciation. She finished untying the gown and threw the underskirts and kirtle over her legs, covering her feet completely.
“My leg is injured, my laird.”
His face remained impassive, his brow perpetually firm, but he grew distant. “My oldest brother, Padriag, is Laird. Rabbie is next in line, followed by Seamus. I’m nay a laird, Lady. I’m just the son of one.”
Her face paled and she looked down, clasping her hands together in her lap. “I’m sorry for the offense, sire, and will do well never to make the mistake again. My apologies.”
He looked at her, her head bowed, her words spoken with smooth precision. He had watched her perfect the art of acquiescing over the years, but he didn’t like her feeling as if she needed to do so with him.
“Just thought you should know,” he muttered. “I’m a sword for hire, but nay much more.”
Squatting, he leaned over his knees.
“What of your head?” he continued, taking hold of her face on either side, turning it to inspect it in its entirety. “You were rendered unconscious. Where did you hit it?”
Surprisingly, she didn’t recoil from him this time.
“I didn’t, sire. I’m ashamed to say that I was quite well, apart from my leg, when I landed, and only fainted upon seeing my own blood. ’Tis foolish, I know.”
He felt the heat of her blush against his palms. It was the most he had ever touched her, and the feeling made excitement shoot through him. Lord, but this was the woman he had wanted for so long and had resolved himself to never see again. Yet here he was. With her. Alone.
No one, not her father, her sister, or the other guardsmen were around to dictate how he should conduct himself. If he chose to talk to her, he could. If he chose to hold onto her face and head a moment longer than necessary, he could. And what if he chose to steal a kiss? He could probably do that too and Madeline, the quiet and obedient maiden, would never yell at him or slap him, even if she was shocked. But that wasn’t his style. His older brothers had always teased him, calling him shy, a caora, but he wasn’t that either. He was careful.
“I once worked for a skilled fighter who lost his supper at the sight of his own blood,” Teàrlach replied, hoping to ease her mind, deciding not to tell her it was her own father who did so, for the Sheriff of Ayrshire had been a hard man who certainly had no trouble with the sight of another’s blood. “Be ashamed not.” He dropped his hands and stood. “Keep your leg still.”
He grabbed the rope hanging over the ledge and walked back up the cliff, hoisting himself, weighted in mail, with rhythmic pulls.
…
“Wait!” she called, before remembering her voice was naturally soft. He took no notice anyway.
But was he leaving? For a moment, her heart thumped harder. She took a deep, calming breath. Of course, he wouldn’t leave her after the concern she had seen on his face. At first, his intensity had looked angry. But no. It had been concern. There was something eager about him that she had never noticed at Castle Ayr, where he used to send covert glances her way whenever they were in the same space. He had never crossed a line. Never spoken to her. Always went about his business. Did his duty. With her father’s reputation, he knew better than to engage her in idle chat, which made his eagerness now curious.
She watched him. The man made climbing a cliff look simple. And what serendipity! The stars had aligned perfectly to ensure he would be passing through at precisely the right time, just as she was imagining his arms pulling her to safety. His touch upon her face had been kind, and aside from an appropriate kiss on the hand from various noblemen, she had never been touched so carefully by a man. She had never been touched at all. Just feeling his fingers kneading over her cheeks, scalp, and nape, as he’d assessed her for injuries, had caused what she could only describe as butterflies shimmering over her skin. It felt most pleasant and made her stomach turn flips.
Moments later, she saw him return to the top of the cliff with a broken branch as well as a linen shirt in hand. Planting a foot on the branch, he yanked it upward with a jerk and snapped it in half. Then he tucked the sticks and the tunic under his arm and shimmied back down the rope, jumping more than a foot to the ground, falling back to his knees.
He didn’t speak, but removed two daggers from his waistband and boot, one a short, wedged blade, the other with a robust hilt. He set the wood down, placed the short blade against the end of the branch, and began hammering with the butt of the other so that the short blade split into the wood. Pulling it out, he repeated the regime from one end to the other, neither talking nor allowing his eyes to stray from his task. His brow beaded with sweat, and at long last, the branch split apart lengthwise.
He then lifted the perfectly good tunic, a garment that no doubt had cost a pretty coin, and ripped it. Madeline’s mouth dropped open and she almost protested, but she withheld it. If the man wanted to destroy such a fine garment, he should be left alone to do so. Her sister Mariel, would have made an astonished exclamation and chided him. And it was that which would have incited her father’s wrath.
Teàrlach ripped it again and again until it lay in strips. Then his ever-industrious hands stopped, and awkwardly, they didn’t seem to know what to do. He looked at her, then her leg, then rested his hands on his thighs with indecision. “I mean no disrespect,” he said, “but I need to see your leg.” She didn’t move. “So I may splint it,” he amended. “It needs to be bound to keep any breakage you’ve acquired from worsening.”
Finally, she nodded, heat creeping onto her cheeks. “Of course, sire.”
Hesitantly, he reached to her hem and folded it back. She sensed him glancing at her face, but she couldn’t meet his eyes, staring at his hands lifting her skirt instead. Finally, she chanced a look at his face, but he was looking at her legs, and was he going to an effort to breathe evenly? Were his hands unsteady? Was he…nervous?
With her skirts now pulled up to the knees, he took her leg, straightening it, and wrapped the leg in a layer of white. She winced but couldn’t look at her blood. Teàrlach glanced up at her, gauging the wince, no doubt to assess whether or not she might pass out. Then he slid four pieces of linen beneath her calf and lay them outward. Next, he placed a piece of wood on either side of her calf.
“Hold these in place, Lady, like so,” he directed, finally speaking.
A man of few words. She did as he bade. He wrapped each stretch of fabric around the wood and cinched it tightly. Again she winced, her leg tender and the coarse edges of the wooden splint pressing into her skin. Now she knew why he’d wrapped her leg in linen first.
His handiwork complete, they both sweat as the sun beat down upon them. She knew that the tip of her nose and the rises of her cheeks were burning. He stood, stashed his daggers on his person, then without asking, he reached beneath her arms and stood her up. She fell against his chest, gasping, and he stilled.
She looked up at him. He looked down at her, his hands still holding her beneath her arms as she braced his chest to push away and right herself. Clad in chain mail, she could still feel his thumping heartbeat beneath the bulk of his muscle and layers. And she felt his hands still holding her, as if frozen. His pulse was fast, hard, and for one moment, she truly looked into his amber eyes. And she wondered all matter of things about him. What kind of man was he? And that only for a moment, she was in a man’s arms, her breasts against his chest, and such a moment felt wonderful.
“My apologies, sire,” she mumbled, severing her gaze. “You must think me no better than a harlot.”
The corner of his mouth quirked into a smile. His eyes danced. Whatever he was thinking, it clearly humored him.
“Never compare yourself to a harlot,” he replied, and righted her on her good leg. “I’m going to fashion this rope around you and pull you up.”
He didn’t look at her again. Instead, he draped the rope hanging over the edge under her rear and legs so that she sat in a sling, then scaled up the wall using his hands and feet, finding holdings in the crevices. She watched him in awe. The man’s physique was remarkable, thick with muscle, robust in breadth.
Yet his eyes… That moment she had stared into them after losing her balance, she had been lost. They weren’t just the color of whisky. They were rich brown, flecked with various golden nuances all wrapped in one. They were beautiful. There wasn’t much about him that wasn’t beautiful. His nose was evenly proportioned, if not mildly crooked from an old break, his cheeks and jaw were chiseled, and it was clear he had shaved before setting out that morn. He might be rough around the edges, his skin coarse from so much time spent in the elements, but he was an excellent specimen of man.
Some might not find him overly attractive. He didn’t have the flashing blue eyes of a heartbreaker, the straight blond hair of an ideal man in his prime, or the showy charisma of a knight at a fair. But his looks were…classic, subdued, reliably fine. He didn’t wear the plaid of a Highlander, but all knew Highlanders to be wild, savage fighters who swore no allegiance to the king, per se, but rather followed Highland justice and clan loyalty. True, they knew King William to be the king of Scotland, but indeed, the crown had little influence in many remote parts.
A jolt jerked her from her ponderings. He was hoisting her up, having given her no warning, his arms making powerful drags. She clenched the rope to keep from toppling backward, until she felt his arm, thick and corded like the chain of a portcullis, cinch around her waist to lift her. Then his other arm cupped under her thighs, and just like the proverbial damsel in distress, he cradled her, carrying her to his horse where he finally set her down, placing her rear upon the earth.
Her shock at the intimate contact was soon replaced with awe. She gaped up at the massive horse, incredible in height and rippling with muscle, covered in a stretching of dark brown coat, darker than a bay, just browner than a black. He was much like his master, she couldn’t help but notice, his mane unruly brown, kinked with natural waves as he turned to look at her with a thoughtful gaze.
Still, Teàrlach didn’t speak, but untied his rope, whipped it around and around his arm, and looped it around the bundle to tie it to the saddle. His task complete, he turned back to her and lifted her, this time by the waist. Before she could gasp, protest, or even widen her eyes, he set her gently above him in the saddle.
She clenched the pommel on either side, knuckles white. She froze. Sat stone still as rigid as a menhir.
“My lady?” he asked, pausing.
She couldn’t look at him, her eyes fixed on the back of the horse’s head instead, her brow crinkled.
“Are you well?” he asked.
She didn’t answer.
“Lady Madeline? Are you going to swoon?”
“Nay,” she whispered.
“I think ye might,” he said.
Still, she sat frozen.
“What’s wrong?”
She swallowed, relaxed her grip on the pommel, and turned to give him an acquiescing smile. “I’m fine, sire.”
“Nay, you’re concerned,” he corrected. She startled at his gruff voice. He quickly tempered himself again, as if realizing that he wasn’t barking at a foot soldier. “Lady,” he continued. “I wish to know what’s wrong, so that I might put your mind at ease.”
She didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. No wonder her father always cursed her as daft. She seemed thus at this moment.
“Are you scared of my horse?” He put words to what she was feeling.
She hesitated, but at long last, when she sensed he was not irritated, she nodded. “I’ve never ridden upon a horse,” she replied, her words soft. “Only in carts. ’Tis high above the ground.”
…
Teàrlach had been riding horses since he could walk, quite possibly before that, too. He was so accustomed to it, he’d never thought about it. But when he swung up behind her, lifting her so he could slide onto the saddle and settle her upon his thigh, he took note. King was nearly eighteen hands. It was indeed a long way to fall.
“I’ve had King for seven summers. He’s a fine animal, well-trained, but lazy, if truth be told. Too lazy to either throw you or bolt unless he sees the feeding trough. The piglet enjoys mealtimes overmuch.”
His horse grunted and shook his mane indignantly at the insult. Madeline giggled, as if sensing the affection he held for his horse in his voice. Teàrlach froze. That happy sound, he had never once heard pass her lips. It was sweet, melodic, and pleased him deeply, warming a tiny part of his heart. Indeed, he prided himself on his straight face and his few words. Had he just…jested?
That, and he had placed her upon his knee, her shoulder to his chest, and she hadn’t cringed or even widened her eyes. That pleased him, too.
Ah, sweet Madeline, comparing herself to a harlot. She couldn’t possibly know what a harlot acted like. She was the furthest thing from a harlot he could imagine. A harlot’s actions were ten times more brazen and conducted with purpose in mind. However, he wasn’t stupid enough to mistake her sweetness as daftness either. He had watched her transform before his very eyes, her fear at riding King melting away as she willed a facade of agreeability onto her face. It didn’t take a scholar monk to know, thanks to her father, that she was too afraid to answer anything honestly, while also knowing that if she were dishonest, she might suffer censure. What most considered to be slow wits, he now realized was her biggest strength. If she simply found a way to be agreeable, most men would dismiss her.
“So, my next question then. Why are you so far from Edinburgh?”
His hands holding the reins came to rest on her thighs.
Legs. He instantly thought of her slender legs. Be damned, but they were indeed fine legs, and more of any noblewoman’s leg than he had ever seen. She sucked in air now at his contact. His awareness at their proximity heightened. Of course, she hadn’t breathed in so heavily because she was sweet for him. He knew that. She knew not the heat that a simple inhale could generate when a man touched her thighs. But it spoke to his primal urges anyway. A soft inhale, a quiet moan, a contented sigh. Foking stop, man.
“King William placed me at Dungarnock Tower after my faither was…”
“Incarcerated,” he prompted. “Continue.”
“I’m a ward of the Moreville family until such time that the king negotiates a marriage suit for me. His Majesty felt I was ill-suited to life in court and thought I might be happier in the country.”
There seemed to be shame on her face at the explanation. Though in truth, she should be pleased. Life at court was suffocating. The gossip was relentless. Ladies who fawned over another lady’s beauty to her face, tittered that she was a toad behind her back. The ladies’ maids to the queen were the worst. He had watched them befriend others, engage them in talk, and then spread vicious falsehoods about them. And men were predators. There was no denying it. More than one man had gone to court for business with hopes of luring a beauty to his bed for the night, frequently succeeding.
He pictured Madeline at court—a philandering laird bracing her to the wall of a back corridor, kissing her, shoving his tongue into her mouth, ripping open her gown so he could fondle her breasts, hoisting up her skirts to sate himself between her legs—and felt a shadow overtake his brow. Cinching his arm around her waist and taking up his reins with his right hand, he was indeed thankful that this gentle maid hadn’t been fed to the courtier wolves. No doubt the king had sensed her naiveté and sent her to the country on purpose.
“The king did you a favor. So we go to Dungarnock Tower?”
She nodded. “But you needn’t go so far out of your way. I’d be happy to walk so you may continue on your business.”
He had just nudged King into a walk when her words stayed him and he pulled back, stopping again.
“Madeline,” he chastised, and she looked up at him, her lips only a breath away from his, her eyes widening at the familiar use of her name. “You insult me. What decent man leaves a woman with an injured leg more than a mile from her home?”
Her face bloomed red and she dropped her eyes, looking to her lap. Her fingers began twisting the fabric of her gown together. He kicked himself. He had rattled her yet again with his abrupt manner. Shite, but he’d never been any good with social graces.
“I’m sorry for insulting you,” she said. “It seemed I was always doing so to my faither but never learned the lesson. I meant no offense and am indebted to you. I’m most grateful for a ride. If you would stay on for the night as a guest so that I might recompense you with a meal and a warm bed, for the afternoon grows late—”
He placed a finger across her lips. “I said the words to make a point. But I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I meant that I consider myself a decent sort and hope you do, too. You did nay insult me. If I may say so,” he pressed on, his brow still stern, “you did indeed learn the lesson of kindness long ago. And if I may add, ’twas your faither who never learned the lesson of mercy. For you were treated unfairly, by any decent man’s standards.”
She sat silently. He noticed her fingers had stopped twisting. He also felt the relaxed posture of the giggling maiden moments ago replaced with the rigidity of a pike. Indeed, her chest barely even rose and fell with each breath. Feeling anger at himself for hurting her feelings, he decided silence was best. He hated talking to people, and that was partially why. He was too blunt, too direct, and most knew not how to interpret that.
He nudged King with his heels and the beast lumbered into motion. At first, Madeline continued to stare at the ground, but as they moved onward, she began to look around. The wind caught her hair, tickling his face. She didn’t speak. She didn’t relax back to his chest again, either. It chafed. For one brief moment, he had jested and she had laughed and she had been comfortable in his arms.
And blast it, but he’d put his giant foot in his mouth.
As they rounded a bend, Dungarnock Tower came into view. It was, in truth, two simple stories over the ground level, with a wall around it, a wooden gate consisting of two swinging doors that met in the middle, and a few thatched huts within those walls. In terms of strategic location, the stone keep had none. It was nestled in the crux between two hills, tree covered, and could be easily pushed over with a fingertip should it ever come under siege.
There was a byre within for sheep, though Dungarnock didn’t appear to keep sheep anymore. However, there were chickens clucking about the yard and one older man outside. It certainly wasn’t the home the daughter of an earl would deem proper, whether her father was imprisoned for seditious plotting or not. She was a lady born and bred.
The old man looked up, saw them coming, and raced through the open gate. “Greta!” he called over his shoulder. “Greta, come!”
An old woman peered out of a thatched hut, saw her husband running, saw Madeline within the arms of a strange man, and hobbled over the threshold.
“Milady!” the man called, arriving beside Teàrlach’s horse to see her leg splinted. “Dear lady! Who is this man? What happened to you?”
“Fingal, this is Teàrlach MacGregor, a man who used to serve my faither as head of his guard. He’s on his way to take up employment for Henry de Moreville, my warden. He happened upon me after I slipped over the edge at the waterfall and injured my leg. We would do well to increase supper by one and prepare a bed so he may relax for the evening before he moves along to Glengarnock in the morn. Sir MacGregor is the son of a Highland chief and a skilled fighter. We are indeed honored to serve him this eve, in thanks for his kindness for helping me after my foolishness.”
Teàrlach nodded to the old man who bowed his head and smiled, offering an abundance of appreciative remarks. But he couldn’t help but notice how gracefully Madeline had given her introduction. Proper as it was, not an ounce of her personality was detectable. It was the trained speaking she had learned throughout her upbringing—to keep her father satisfied.
“Sir MacGregor, Master Fingal and his wife, Greta, are caretakers here and help to look after me. If you continue into the yard, Fingal will see to your horse.”
Introductions complete, Teàrlach nudged King into a walk again and passed through the gates. He lifted Madeline off his knee with one arm about her waist and slid out from underneath her as if she were a mere feather, dismounted, and turned to look down at the old man, offering his wrist. The old man shook.
Teàrlach reached to Madeline’s waist, and she braced both her hands upon his shoulders. Her waist was so small, his hands nearly spanned it. Her body was warm and pliant, her palms on his shoulders, so trusting. Just the feel of it made him feel warm, satisfied.
He wasted no time relishing the intimacy of such an act. There was nothing inappropriate about a man helping a woman down from her horse. He himself had done it many a time and never thought much about it. But with Madeline, he wanted more. Had wanted more. For a long time. And never did he think the chance would come to simply lift her on and off a saddle, let alone share a word with her. She was out of his rank. And dammit, but he would be working as head of her warden’s guard, only a handful of miles away from her. The urge to visit her would be a regular feeling now that he knew she was here.
Swinging his other arm under her legs, he cradled her to his chest and marched across the yard as Fingal took King by the reins and walked him to the byre.
“Milady,” fretted Greta, an aging woman with a slumped back and hair woven into a graying braid. “You must be in so much pain. How on earth did you tumble over the falls?”
“I’m in pain, aye,” Madeline answered smoothly. “Would you mind pulling a chair closer to the hearth?”
In spite of a possibly broken leg, Teàrlach noticed her seamless words, calm and practiced in any situation, as she offered directions, giving the elderly woman a purpose. Madeline would make a fine chatelaine of a laird’s estate. Yet imagining her on a laird’s arm chafed. He wouldn’t mind her on his arm, though he had nothing to offer her. He had no estate, even if one day he planned to build a respectable home of his own.
He carried her over the threshold and into a small, dark, but well-maintained hall. A simple board sat in the middle with room enough for six high-backed seats, no dais, and at one end sat the hearth, moderate in size, where Greta now pushed a chair. Aside from a woven chair cushion and a crucifix cast in metal upon a wall, the room exhibited no character. A chandelier made of wood and shaped like a cart wheel hung from a chain over the table with a placement for five tapers in it. None had been lit. Iron sconces were bracketed around the walls, but they contained no torches. Only the hearth fire brightened the room, and not by much.
Teàrlach set her in the chair, though his arms protested relinquishing her. Still. Like it or not, he put her down. Once he was certain she was situated, he extracted his arms. Except he was certain she didn’t let go right away. He was certain she kept her arms wrapped about his neck a moment longer than necessary. Mayhap he had imagined it. Most likely. He shook the notion away.
“I go to check on my mount. I’ll be back momentarily to rewrap your leg and check the wound properly,” he said, standing upright, dipping his head with his hands placed at his back.
“My thanks, sire,” she replied, offering a smile, though her eyes only met his for a moment.
True to her word, she had not once slipped up and called him “laird” again. No doubt she had learned well to never make the same mistake twice.
…
Madeline watched him go. He was so quiet, so efficient, so detached. No doubt, the life he led required it. And yet, she had felt content in his arms. He’d carried her as if she were as light as a basket of bread and as delicate as a piece of coveted stained glass. What a silly notion. She smiled, shaking away the thought. But for a moment, it had felt as if his arms had been especially designed to carry her.
She looked down at her splinted leg. Blast it, but the lights above needed to be lit for her company and neither Greta nor Fingal were stable enough to balance on the ladder. It was a task she normally handled. Not today. They would have to sup in the dark. Candles were expensive and Henry de Moreville provided only a small allotment per sennight.
Still. She wouldn’t ask for more. The fact she had not been turned out to starve was a miracle. Her sister, if she knew, of course, would never let Madeline live in such a state. Mariel would insist her wee sister travel to East Anglia to live in her husband’s English estate, but Madeline was a simple lass, requiring little, content with enough. Her future was uncertain, but one thing was unwavering. She would remain in Scotland and adapt to whatever circumstances life threw at her. Nothing could be worse than growing up as Harold Crawford’s daughter.
“Take some watered wine, milady,” Greta fussed. “Oh, how frightened you must have been! But what thinks you of your rescuer, eh? It seems you know him? What fate—”
“He has been ever kind,” Madeline deflected. Greta loved to tease her about hypothetical suitors. “We’ll prepare the venison freshly tonight, only a portion, but the finest cuts. Sir MacGregor has gone to great lengths for me, and I’m happy to suffer a few lean days in order to provide him adequate sustenance.”
“As will we all.” Greta nodded.
“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Madeline chastised. “You and Fingal need your nourishment. I’m young and have nary a bad back or a sore foot as you both do. But we don’t have enough to last for so long without asking Laird Moreville for more. And I know he tires of providing for me, so I’ll ask him nay and will endure on oats and porridge for a sennight. I’ll be the better for it.” She smiled, patting the old woman on the hand.
“I’ll nay stand for it,” they heard Teàrlach utter, and both women whipped their heads around. He had reentered as silently as a mouse, his dark eyes and hair making him almost as unnoticeable as a shadow. “I require no supper, Lady.”
Her face heated again and Greta backed up a step. Madeline looked up and gave her a nod to indeed proceed with preparing the venison. The old woman scuttled away to see the task completed just as Fingal entered the hall.
“Sire, what sort of hostess would I be if I didn’t extend a full welcome to you? ’Twould embarrass me to leave your stomach empty, and rest assured, I can provide it. Little does Greta know, I’m nay entirely fond of meat.”
It was the most forceful thing to ever leave her lips, and she found it curious that she had only taken a stand against him when it was a matter of her pride. When had she ever talked back to a man?
“Please, sire, take a seat and rest. I’ll see to refreshments.”
She made to stand, her hair, stringy from the wind, dangling in her face.
“Nay,” he replied, his voice stern. “Sit.” He pointed down. She paused, looked at him, and complied. “You’ll never heal if you continue to walk around.” He turned and said to Fingal, “Go, man, and fetch some clean bandages and two planks of wood so I can make a proper splint and relieve Lady Madeline of this crude travesty.”
“And please fetch refreshments for Sir MacGregor,” Madeline added.
She saw Teàrlach’s concerted effort to resist rolling his eyes at her undermining of him. Still, he didn’t offer an argument, even if it was obvious now that her pantry was thin.
“Aye, Lady,” Fingal replied, dipping his head, and hurrying across the hall and up the stairs to the second floor.
Obviously, the old man had chosen to follow through on Teàrlach’s request first. They remained in silence until he finally returned. In his arms was a bundle of clean rags, a pair of shears, and a clay jar of homemade poultice.
“We haven’t a plank, sire, of any size. Nor bandages. But these cleaning rags have been sun-bleached and should do well.”
Teàrlach frowned, then nodded once. “So be it. I’ll need more light,” he replied.
Fingal hesitated, then looked to Madeline. She dipped her head down demurely, unable to answer, sensing Teàrlach might grow more irritated than he already seemed to be.
“What?” Teàrlach said, his tone curt.
“Eh, normally the lady lights the candles above,” Fingal replied. “Me back is bad and she insists I’ll topple off the ladder…”
“You light the candles?” Teàrlach asked, rounding back to her. It took all her focus not to cringe at his intensity. “Are you inviting death? ’Tis a miracle you haven’t already fallen before today and broken your neck. Bring a ladder,” he demanded, “and a burning wick.”
…
Anger threatened to bubble over, but Teàrlach offered no further remarks. He was clearly making her nervous. But Madeline was living like a pauper, and he had it on good authority that Henry de Moreville was wealthy. An extra servant at Dungarnock and a meager increase in resources wouldn’t kill the bastard. And yet, not once, it sounded like, had Madeline complained. She simply made do. He needed to complain on her behalf, even if it embarrassed her. If he stayed the night, he would achieve Glengarnock Castle on the morrow, midmorning, and could then describe to the laird himself her woeful state.
Fingal did as Teàrlach bade, hastening outdoors and bringing a ladder from one of the storage huts. He went into the kitchen where the fire burned throughout the day and brought back a lit wick. Teàrlach propped open the ladder and took the wick, climbing up, which because of his height took him only five steps up the rungs, and held the wick to each candle.
The room brightened and he handed the wick to Fingal who smudged it out upon the wall. Returning to Madeline, he dropped to his knees, sliding the bundle of rags closer. He took the shears and cut away the tunic he had used as rags. The splint fell apart and she exhaled in relief, he supposed. He looked at the makeshift splint he had made. It’d been crude, aye, but he hadn’t realized that it had caused her discomfort.
“I’ll have to reuse one of these, Madeline, until I can fashion you something finer.” She froze and looked at him, and he realized this was the second time he had slipped and spoken her name without her title. “I leave in the morn, but rest assured, I’ll craft something better. First, let me assess where your breakages are. Pray it’s just a fracture or a sprain, for it will heal faster. Come down to the rushes. You keep your floors clean, and I have need of a flat surface.”
She didn’t question him but allowed him to take her waist and ease her to the floor. He straightened her legs in front of her, taking care when she winced in pain, still saying nothing more. Then he lifted her skirt, his eyes lifting to hers though not quite making contact. Her face bloomed with redness once more but he set to work, prodding her calf in various parts and noting where she winced.
“I can nay tell for certain,” he finally concluded, “but you seem to only have a fracture, or mayhap just a sprain. There’s no swelling. I feel no bones out of alignment. Still, you’ll need to stay off it. No climbing ladders, and your servants will need to compensate for a while.”
Madeline frowned but nodded, glancing around to ensure that Greta and Fingal weren’t in the hall. His extensive experience studying the people Laird Crawford required he spy upon told him she withheld information.
“You frown,” Teàrlach remarked.
“Fingal and Greta are old and can nay do everything,” she replied. Teàrlach frowned, too. There was more to it, though she didn’t speak further, and he decided not to pry.
Mayhap he could help Madeline prepare for tomorrow before leaving and speak to Henry de Moreville about taking a day off each sennight. He noted her gown, made of finely combed wool, though nearly as practical as a serf’s. Just the thought of leaving her in the morn nagged at him. It felt wrong. Her whole life had tipped over when her father’s title had been stripped, and certainly King William thought she was better supported than the rations Henry de Moreville was tossing her.
“For now, you sit,” he stated.
He placed one of the splints beneath her leg along the back and took to wrapping the rags around it to hold everything immobile. Once completed, he lifted her back into her chair, pulled free a tartan mantle draped over the back denoting the Crawford plaid, and laid it across her lap.
“I assume supper begins soon,” he said, standing upright and righting his surcoat and belt. “I’m going out to harvest wood and will be back within the hour.”
Without anything else said, he walked out. The sun was now below the hill and dimness was cast over the yard, the sky darkening to gray and purple.
“Have you woodworking tools?” he asked Fingal who was heaving hay into a cart using a pitchfork.
“In the shed, there,” the old man replied, bracing a hand to his lower back and motioning with the tool toward an outbuilding made of branches lashed together.
“May I make use of them?”
Fingal nodded. “Please help yourself, sire. You’re welcome to anything you require, assuming we have it.”
Teàrlach nodded and walked across the yard to the byre where King was stabled. Without resaddling the beast, he worked the bit into his mouth and the bridle over his head. He swung up bareback and trotted toward the gate, the animal understanding Teàrlach’s nudges with his knees.
“Leave the gates open until my return,” he called out to the old man, and kicked King into a canter, exiting out into the twilight.