Chapter Four
Teàrlach rode beneath the portcullis of Glengarnock. The gates were open to allow villagers to come and go as needed and the castle, smithy, stores, stables, and offices seemed well-stocked and prosperous. Laird Moreville had promised a healthy salary and now Teàrlach was certain he would get it. Good. It wasn’t as if his own pockets were thin. They weren’t. He earned money and hardly spent any of it. But eventually, he wanted to build a home. He approached thirty years soon and wouldn’t be able to swing his sword forever. For that, he would try to buy a plot somewhere, or, if worse came to worst, he would return to the MacGregors and ask for a plot of land. Padriag gave him hell, as older brothers did, but more than once the man had lamented Teàrlach living so far away. Everything else, the cottage, the equipment, and some of the materials to make furniture, would cost coin.
Until then, he would take up security employs. He trotted King to a halt in the inner bailey. A well-trained groom was already gathering King’s bridle in hand as he dismounted. He nodded a greeting and took out a coin from his purse, pressing it into the groom’s hand. The young man dipped his head in thanks while Teàrlach gave King a couple slaps on the neck before the stallion was led to the stables.
He climbed the stairs to the main doors of the keep, addressing the guard standing watch. “Can you tell me where I might find Laird Moreville?” he inquired. “I take up employ as the chief of Glengarnock’s guard. He summoned me from Laird Graham at Dalkeith Castle.”
The guard looked up at him. Most people looked up at him. Aside from his brothers and the occasional man blessed with height, he was usually the tallest man in any group.
“He’s in his solar, sire,” replied the man with a nasal English accent.
Teàrlach tried not to roll his eyes. Not that he had much against an Englishman, but they seemed to be everywhere these days. Rumor had it, Henry de Moreville was more English than Scottish and only inherited his title of Constable of Scotland. That would explain the English guardsman.
He nodded and the guard pulled back the door. He strode inside. A woman with dark hair, woven in the latest fashions from the continent, sat beside the hearth with a lady-in-waiting beside her, also dark haired, the two embroidering. They looked up. Both were fetching. The lady-in-waiting smiled at him but he looked away. People tended not to notice him unless he wanted to be noticed, and therefore when someone did, it made him uncomfortable.
There were servants coming and going while others cleared out the great hall. He had missed the nooning meal by the look of it, oversleeping at Dungarnock as he had. He could sense that the lady-in-waiting had risen and was walking his way. So he moved away to a set of stairs, unsure if this or the other set opposite him was the correct one to reach the solar.
A serving girl zipped by him faster than he could stop her. He sensed the ladies’ maid coming closer, could see her dark brown skirts swaying in his periphery, and finally, a man looking to be a steward walked into the hall.
“Pardon, sire,” Teàrlach called, striding over to him, and leaving the woman behind. “I seek Laird Moreville. I was told he was in his solar. Which path is the way?”
The man smiled. “Ah, you must be Sir MacGregor, the fabled Highland warrior.”
Fabled? He wanted to growl at the Englishman. Aye, another Englishman. He supposed he did have quite a work history. And being Harold Crawford’s head guardsman had certainly earned him years of experience that put him in demand. But “fabled?”
“I do nay know that ‘fabled’ is an accurate description, but aye, I’m Teàrlach MacGregor.”
“Follow me. I’ll take you to him. We expected you yesterday.”
“I came across his ward at Dungarnock,” Teàrlach said as he fell into step next to the steward. “She injured herself falling off the rocks at the Spout of Garnock and fractured the bones in her leg, so I remained to help her.”
“Ah, the Lady Madeline Crawford, no? Is she well?”
Teàrlach nodded. “She was lucky.”
The steward nodded. “She’s a fetching one. But I cannot help but think her daft. The few times I’ve been the one to take her supplies, she says not a word, only nods and smiles. I don’t even know that she has the power of speech. She seems to have no knowing of the ways of the world, clearly, if she fell off a cliff.” The man chuckled.
Teàrlach didn’t chuckle. His brow hardened. “She’s nay daft. I worked for her faither for many a year. He kept her cloistered and ignorant under the threat of his fist. ’Twould be enough to teach any lass to never open her mouth for anything.”
The steward must have sensed the protectiveness laced into Teàrlach’s response and his chuckle faded. He swallowed. “Indeed.”
He said no more. They arrived above stairs to an office door. The steward knocked.
“Enter,” said a husky voice.
The steward pushed open the door. “May I present, Sir MacGregor, youngest brother to Laird and Chief Padraig MacGregor.”
The introduction irritated. As if he needed any reminders that he was the youngest MacGregor brother. ’Twas why he worked so hard in the first place, to earn his own respect and amass his own coin.
“Yes indeed. Welcome, man,” Henry de Moreville said, rising from his desk. His hair was dark and flecked with gray at his temples, shoulder length, and combed backward, his grooming impeccable. He reached a hand out and Teàrlach strode to his desk to clasp wrists. “You’re even larger in person. My. How tall are you?”
“Tall enough,” Teàrlach replied, deflecting the scrutiny.
“I thank thee, sire.” Henry dismissed the steward who bowed and left, closing the door.
Teàrlach’s ever-assessing eyes landed on a ledger book open in front of his new employer. It was his personal accounts and showed his savings. An entry of fifteen pounds stood out on the parchment, for unlike the other entries that stated where the funds had come from, this one had no such itemization. His eyes had naturally gravitated to the empty hole in the accounting.
It wasn’t his concern, and as Henry found his seat again and looked up at him, Teàrlach’s eyes were already averted elsewhere.
“Well, my daughter will certainly be pleased you’ve arrived. She’s thrilled a real Highlander will be in my employ,” he said with a smile and shake of the head. “She’s convinced you’ll be both dashing and feral, and, despite my disapproval, she’s determined to flirt with any man who has caught her interest.”
“Does she sit below stairs with her ladies’ maid?” Teàrlach inquired.
Henry grinned. “Ah, you speak of my new, young wife. My daughter, Gertrude, sits with my wife, Pricilla, embroidering. Most likely the one you think is the maid. They’ve become best of friends and hardly leave each other’s side. But no matter. What man would be offended by a beautiful young woman’s attentions, hmm?”
Teàrlach didn’t react to Moreville’s remark. Moreville himself couldn’t be more than a decade older than himself, which was pushing the fates in terms of age, but still wasn’t ancient. Word had it his son, John, was already five and twenty years. Moreville would have been in his teens, a lad himself, when he seeded his son. And if the woman he mistook as a ladies’ maid was his daughter sitting beside his young wife, then the daughter was apparently begotten in his youth, too.
“I hate to disappoint,” Teàrlach remarked. “I’m just like any other man. Been living in the south and west too long to be much of a Highlander anymore.”
“Except for the way you speak,” Henry clarified. “Your voice is unmistakably MacGregor. Do sit.” He gestured. Teàrlach complied, taking a seat opposite him.
“As you know, I spend my time between Glengarnock and my estates in Cumbria,” Moreville continued. “My defenses here need strengthening for the months I’m away, and you’re just the man to whip my guards into shape. My former head guardsman moved home to the Borders after his brother’s farm was reaved, and my men have sat directionless for some sennights now. I’ll be in residence for a while, unfortunately. King William tasked me with wardenship over Lady Madeline Crawford, formerly of Ayr, and word has it, he’ll have a betrothal arranged for the lass soon—”
Teàrlach felt a kick to the gut. A betrothal? He struggled to listen to everything else Moreville said after that. Madeline, married off? To whom? He kept watching Moreville speak, focusing on his moving lips, hoping the man’s speaking would bring him back to the moment. Of course she would be married off. Probably to someone of the peerage. Why would she not?
“Many think Lady Madeline is daft,” Moreville continued. “But I’m of the opinion she’s terribly shy, well-mannered, and lacks tutoring. When I met her in December, when she came into my care, I could see that whilst she’s quiet, she was thinking. I think she’ll make quite a good wife to someone, no? A quiet wife is indeed preferential to a bossy one. And she carries with her an attractive dowry, for when her older sister defied their father and eloped, Harold Crawford combined what he would have spent on the older sister with Madeline’s dowry. And now the king sits in stewardship of it all. But until King William makes his decisions and negotiates the parchment work involved, she’s my burden.
“Once the girl is off my trencher,” he said, “I’ll return to Carlisle to catch up on my estates there, and it will be my steward in charge of my household, and you in charge of my men until my return. Times are relatively peaceful now, but I still would have my interests in Ayrshire secure in the event of a reave or the occasional skirmish between barbarians—I mean clans adhering to the old methods of justice,” he corrected himself, eyeing the look of displeasure on Teàrlach’s face.
And the look was certainly displeased. He might not dress or behave in the manners of his ancestral clan, but any slight about his heritage tended to make his ever-present Highland blood begin to pulse. Mayhap he was more of a Highlander than he thought.
Teàrlach frowned but remained quiet. He suspected he was going to hate working here. No. He knew he was going to hate it. Still. The employ hadn’t begun yet. Mayhap his feelings would improve with time.
“About your compensation,” Henry de Moreville continued. “You’ll be paid a purse of five pounds per sennight in addition to private quarters attached to the barrack house. Those quarters consist of a timber house containing your own privy and a bedchamber, table, and all your meals at the end of the head table in the hall below. I’ll introduce you tonight to Glengarnock’s people, though I expect you’ll want to unpack and meet the men this afternoon.”
“I also request one day a sennight leave, my laird,” Teàrlach added.
Moreville paused, looked at him, then took a drink from a tankard. “One day off each sennight?”
“Aye,” Teàrlach replied, offering nothing else. But he intended to check in on Madeline now that he knew she resided on Moreville’s property. And he intended to have a day every sennight to visit her with no excuses to be made for going there.
“That’s asking a lot,” Moreville remarked.
“I’m that good at what I do,” Teàrlach boasted, though his words always sounded firm. Moreville hesitated. “I require it,” Teàrlach pressed. “Otherwise, I’ll move on and take up another employment offer. I passed up two other offers for this. One on the Borders, near Berwick.”
“Are they willing to pay as much as I am? Should I increase your weekly purse?”
Teàrlach shook his head. “I’m nay hurting for coin and simply require the day leave. No hard feelings. ’Tis business.”
Henry considered him a moment longer, then finally acquiesced and reached his hand over the table to clasp wrists. “You drive a hard bargain. But I know you’re in demand, and I’ve seen what you can do. I visited Laird Graham at Dalkeith two months ago when you were under contract there, and the guardsmen you were whipping into shape were efficient, competent, and unified. I was impressed to learn that you were responsible for that. So I’ll give you your day off a sennight, though I do ask that you declare which day it will be and adhere to consistency.”
“I’ll take Fridays unless there’s a pressing matter that requires me to skip it.”
“Good enough,” Henry replied, a knock on the door diverting their attention. “Come in!” he called.
The door opened. A serving maid entered and delivered a tray upon the laird’s desk.
“Ah, Clara,” Moreville continued, giving her a pat on the rump. “My thanks, girl.”
“My pleasure, my lord,” the young woman replied, her accent from Carlisle, bobbing a curtsy so that her ample chest bounced. “Is there anything else you require?”
Moreville gave her a sly smile. “No. At least, not right now, dear. Allow me to introduce Teàrlach MacGregor. A Highlander in the flesh and our new head guardsman. Mayhap the man would like a warm welcome tonight.”
Clara turned and Teàrlach saw the full image of her. She looked innocent, her hair light brown and her eyes the same, but he wasn’t fooled. Whores had perfected the sweet and innocent look, at least the ones who were still young enough to get away with it. Clara had the air about her of an experienced tavern wench. Yes, he was going to dislike working for Moreville. He wasn’t averse to making use of a wench when needs be, but he generally liked to be the one to request it.
Not to mention he wasn’t hurting for stimulation. He had done quite well to satisfy himself the night before, while lying abed at Dungarnock, imagining Madeline still watching him from the roof of the tower as he stood beneath her, imagining that he slowly ran a hand down the planes of his stomach, into his trousers, to stroke himself up and down while she watched and blushed and bit her lips, never peeling her gaze away from his. The idea of her watching him had been plenty arousing. It had been a fantasy, of course, but he had finished in his hand in the darkness of his chamber within moments of imagining it. Any soldier would jest at the quickness of his spilling, if they knew.
As he looked up at Clara now, he almost wished he’d taken that offer in Berwick instead, except then he never would have stumbled upon Madeline. Now that he knew she was nearby, he wasn’t about to leave. And now that he knew a betrothal for her was being arranged, he couldn’t leave. What if she was betrothed to a bastard? A man who didn’t know the treasure he possessed? Or a man who simply didn’t care one way or another about her?
“Indeed, I would be happy to entertain him,” Clara replied and curtsied, giving Teàrlach her full attention. “Enjoy your refreshments, my lord.”
“Nay lord,” Teàrlach corrected. “I’m knighted, so ‘sir’ will suffice, but I’m nay a laird.”
She examined the riveted furrow of his brow and smiled an unabashed grin. “But of course, sire. I’ll come visit this eve—”
“Nay,” he cut her off. “I do nay require it.”
She didn’t back down, but smiled more brightly. “No requirement necessary.”
She bowed out of the room and Moreville, misunderstanding Teàrlach’s edginess, chuckled. “A ripe little English tart, is she not? She’ll have you shouting the Lord’s name in vain when she’s through with you. Ah, where were we? Oh yes, a day off a sennight, five pounds salary, and, that’s it. Enjoy a drink, man,” Moreville said, pushing the tray toward him to take a goblet. “Then go settle yourself and assemble the men. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
…
King William of Scotland’s messenger rode into the bailey four days later as Teàrlach stood sweating, naked to the waist as he exercised his men. Teàrlach had done well to avoid any encounters with Moreville’s daughter and had done well to avoid Clara, too. Clara had slipped into his new house and arrived at his bedside on the first night, though he was still awake in the darkness and had quickly dismissed her.
I’ll thank ye kindly to never welcome yourself into my house without invitation again, lass. He had scolded her. She had kept her distance since, and he had done well to place a bar across his door whenever he was within. Now he stood beneath the warm summer sun beating down on him, assessing his men and barking out commands.
“Use your other arm!” he called. His men, organized in pairs, shifted their swords to their other hands. “You spar well with your dominant arms, but the other needs be just as agile! Ready? Spar!”
Metal striking metal rang out, supplemented with the grunting of men as they heaved the heavy swords. Teàrlach wiped his brow and folded his arms, pacing slowly as he scrutinized each man’s strength and weakness, watching the royal messenger out of the corner of his eye. Of course, King William could be sending any number of correspondences. Moreville was, after all, one of his constables. But he could also be sending word about Madeline’s marriage suit.
Teàrlach strode to a soldier, took his sword, and demonstrated a controlled strike, then handed the weapon back with a slap on the soldier’s shoulder before moving to the drinking well in the middle of the yard where Moreville was walking to greet the messenger. Taking up the ladle out of the bucket, he was close enough to hear their exchange, yet far enough away to avoid Moreville’s suspicion. This was what Teàrlach was best at. Subterfuge. Eavesdropping. Making his massive body about as noticeable as a single thistle in a field of thistles. Right now, Moreville suspected nothing about Teàrlach, even if he was aware of him.
He wiped his sweat, smearing his hair plastered to his forehead, and watched his men some more. He would need to correct Christopher’s sword arm again. The Englishman always swung too wide and left his side vulnerable.
“The king’s twenty-pound disbursement for the Lady Madeline Crawford, my lord,” the messenger bowed, dropping a purse into Moreville’s hand.
Teàrlach, looking down at the ladle, noticed out of his periphery a purse leave the messenger’s hand and along with it…was that a tiny message? A piece of parchment, cupped in the man’s palm around the purse transferred to Moreville’s hand, went straight into Moreville’s surcoat sleeve. It was so discreet no one noticed. No one but a former spy and head guardsman for the Beast of Ayr, who had been a devious plotter. Teàrlach took another drink and kept assessing Christopher’s lousy arm, swallowing each gulp slowly. Twenty pounds? Where the hell was it going? Certainly not to Dungarnock’s woeful pantries.
“My thanks, man,” Moreville replied. “Tell me, is there any word on the lady’s betrothal to my son?”
To his son? Teàrlach felt an angry tick in his jaw. Moreville had requested a marriage suit for his son to Madeline? The laird had mentioned nothing of it to him. He tried to take a calming breath and reasoned with his anger. Why would Henry de Moreville discuss such matters with a brand-new head guardsman? It wasn’t Teàrlach’s business.
Still, he felt protective of her. The young John de Moreville didn’t seem like a violent man, as Teàrlach had observed in his mere four days. But rumor had it he spent much time in York with a lady he fancied, a lass named Anna. He wouldn’t treasure Madeline the way she deserved to be treasured. And dear Madeline would never question John’s behavior, if they were married. She would always acquiesce, always placate, always remain as unnoticeable as possible while her husband partook of other endeavors and exploits. Why on earth did John care about pursuing Madeline? Or perhaps Laird Moreville was the one who pursued?
“Indeed, sire. He sent this missive with me. I’m not privy to the details, but I’m certain the information you require is within.”
The messenger handed over another parchment, folded, sealed with the royal insignia, and Moreville nodded his thanks, slipping it within his coat as well. Teàrlach noted the transaction on a sidelong glance disguised as him looking back to the water bucket to replace the ladle. Time to return to work. Standing overlong while they exchanged niceties would rouse suspicion.
“Good day, my lord,” came a sultry voice.
He whipped his head around. Gertrude, the lovely brown-haired Moreville daughter, stood directly at his back. He turned, facing her. Dammit, he had been vigilant to avoid her, until now, when he was distracted by Madeline’s marriage prospect. Ah, his Maddie had no idea how much of a distraction she was. He shook the thought away. She wasn’t his Maddie. Madeline had hardly noticed him during his time at Ayr. Being unnoticed was normally how he liked things, but he would have welcomed her sweet gaze.
“I’m nay a laird,” he corrected. She took a step back at the scowl in his eyes. “My oldest brother is our clan laird. I’m just the youngest brother.”
Why must I always feel the need to correct people?
“My apologies…Teàrlach.”
He watched her, a flirtatious smile creeping onto her lips and a hand coming out to touch his arm. Calling him his given name was unexpected, especially with her cultivated accent from Carlisle. No one called him by his first name except his brothers, who often chose to call him the more affectionate name of “Eejit.” “Coileach.” “Caora.” Idiot. Rooster. Sheep. Very affectionate, he thought. He had called his brothers their fair share of insults, too. And, of course, Maddie had called him by his given name. That had been welcome.
“You wish not to be called a lord, so I must address you informally.” She shrugged. “So I’ve finally managed to corner you. I don’t bite, you know,” she teased, then lowered her voice. “Unless you wish me to.”
He shook his head. Moreville’s daughter was indeed fetching, and Lord, but it had been some fortnights since he’d been serviced properly. He’d almost allowed Clara to administer her famed favors to get his pent-up rutting out of his system, except he’d be thinking of Madeline. That, and he didn’t like anyone, man or woman, allowing themselves into his personal chamber without his permission. Except Madeline. And he had certainly made a mess of that occurrence, hadn’t he? Part of him wished he would have gazed up at her from his pillows with the sunlight flooding through the window, setting her fair hair aglow, and dragged her down against his bare chest that she had so admired.
Gazing into Gertrude’s wanton and assuredly non-virginal eyes, he felt his smaller soldier give a warning stir, indicating he was rallying to attention, against his better judgment. It was involuntary. And for some reason, just feeling the desire from Gertrude’s flirting felt like a betrayal to Madeline. Which was preposterous, because how could he betray Madeline when he had no commitment to her in the first place?
He suddenly felt naked, like a slab of lamb tossed in front of a feral cur.
“No…nay,” he stammered, and blast it, but she smiled broadly now, giving his arm a gentle squeeze. She knew she flustered him. But she misinterpreted it. Because while flustered, he wished only to be gone. “I’m working, my lady. You’d do well to step aside, lest you find yourself injured.”
He attempted to turn away, but she stepped in front of him.
“Why have you avoided me?” she asked.
“I’m a busy man with much on my mind and as head guardsman have no reason to seek your company,” he replied. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
He wasn’t a talker, and this was already too much talking. He dropped the ladle back in the bucket and took a few steps away from the well when Gertrude pattered up beside him.
“What’s it like, being a Highlander?”
He crinkled his brow and cast a sidelong look down at her, righting his vision once again to assess his men. “What do you mean, ‘what’s it like?’”
“You know, to be so wild and…vicious,” she added with a predatory guttural, her body sliding in front of him and her hand now touching his bare chest. “Just the way you speak, it’s so…masculine. You must have ladies vying for your attention.”
He harrumphed. No, he didn’t. He didn’t consider himself a poor-looking fellow, but he had never been approached by women, unless he’d been imbibing ale in a whorehouse, and those women had only approached him to drum up business and earn his coin. And indeed, Henry de Moreville was right about his daughter. She had apparently conjured him in her mind as a noble savage. He needed to shake her interest in him, and he needed to do it unequivocally, before she tried to attach herself. And quite frankly, he didn’t care if he was sent packing because of it. After four long days, he already knew he hated it here.
“I eat, piss, and sleep, the same as any other man. Mayhap you did nay realize, but we fok our women the same way as an Englishman, too. I did nay know there was a different code of behavior for the wild barbarians of the north. Good day, Lady. Your needlepoint beckons and I tire of this idle chat.”
He didn’t look down at her again as he stepped away from her but did hear her intake of air at his crude dismissal. “I’m…I’m sorry…” she stammered. “I never intended to offend…”
“Christopher!” he called, ignoring her presence. “Closer to the body, man! Your elbow flails!”
The young man in question with sprouts of hair on his chin whirled around at Teàrlach’s voice, his sword accidently flinging from his grip and spinning like a disc toward Gertrude. She cowered, throwing her hands up. Teàrlach lunged forth, snatching the hilt out of the air with such precision, the men in the yard stopped to stare. He shook his head. Christopher was young and still learning, and dammit, but the daft lady should never have been there.
“My lady, I’m sorry!” Christopher exclaimed, jogging forth to bow.
“Halt,” Teàrlach growled. Christopher stopped.
Shocked, Gertrude looked up at Teàrlach and melted into the guise of an adoring damsel beholding her hero.
“Oh Teàrlach!” she cried, running to throw herself in his arms. “You saved me!”
He held out his paw and snagged her upper arm in his grip, whirling her around to march across the yard. His eyes burned and his jaw clenched. He escorted her up the stairs to the keep, despite her flailing and protests, in search of her father who had gone inside moments before with his royal message, coin purse, and secret missive.
They burst through the front door, Teàrlach still completely shirtless with Christopher’s sword still in his grip, his vise of a hand still around her upper arm.
“My laird!” he bellowed, terrifying the unsuspecting servants climbing the stairs leading to the gallery.
He marched her up the stairs, down the corridor, arriving at the laird’s solar. Letting go, he rapped his fist so loudly on the door, it echoed down the hall, then gripped her arm again. Moreville shuffled across the floor and wrenched it open, his eyes furrowing as he beheld his daughter and the displeasure on Teàrlach’s brow.
“What’s going on?” He examined Teàrlach’s grip on Gertrude. “What is the meaning of this, MacGregor?”
“My laird?” Teàrlach began, releasing her and nudging her into the solar. She was so much shorter he could see well over her head into Moreville’s eyes. “Your daughter almost lost her neck out there. Despite my direct order she should nay be so close to the training ground, she defied me and was nearly impaled on this stray sword.”
He held it up. Moreville looked at her, then him, then her. “Gertrude, what is he talking about?”
“Papa,” she threw her arms around her father’s middle, burrowing into his embrace. “He’s so vulgar…so crass! He attempted to humiliate me—”
“Nay lass, do nay play the innocent maiden.” Teàrlach seethed. Lord but he’d never been so forthright with a woman. Then again, never had a woman tried to play him for a fool and mislead her father’s opinion of him. “I’ll tell ye what’s going on,” he growled, his brogue coming out thickly. “Ye ken how ye thought I’d nay be offended by her innocent flirting? Nay. There’s nothing innocent about yer daughter.” They both gasped, and he jabbed his own chest with his thumb. “I’m here to train men, to protect, and fight, if needs be, nay childmind ladies with nary a morsel of common sense in their heads. She must learn her place on the matter. When I tried to dismiss her politely, she only tried harder to sidetrack me, putting herself in immediate danger. Ye can thank me for the fact she’s alive.”
Moreville’s irritation shifted to Gertrude, who he pushed away from his chest so he could look at her.
“I want it clear, in no uncertain terms,” Teàrlach continued, “that my directions are nay to be ignored. And since ye, Lady, were so convinced I’ve avoided ye these past days, the answer is aye. I’ve avoided ye on purpose. I have a lady in my life that I care about and most certainly will nay succumb to the likes of yer roving hands on me chest.”
He looked back and forth between them, his eyes burning, his chest rising and falling.
“Gertrude, is what he’s saying true? You were touching him intimately?” Moreville questioned.
Teàrlach stayed the urge to shake his head and mutter. The man clearly had no clue about his daughter, thinking her flirts girlish. She looked back and forth between them.
“There’s a bailey full of men out there, lass, some of whom were watching ye more than their work. Shall I fetch one of them?” Teàrlach pressed.
She pursed her lips and thrust up her chin, clasping her hands like an irritated spinster. “That won’t be necessary.”
Moreville shook his head. “Pricilla was asking about you, dear. Why don’t you seek her company for now and we’ll talk about this later, when I’ve concluded my present business.” He glanced at Teàrlach again.
“Do I have yer understanding?” Teàrlach pressed, ignoring Moreville’s suggestion for privacy. “I can nay afford the distraction of a woman on the training ground. Accidents happen when men practice with swords.”
“Indeed,” Moreville replied, looking down at Gertrude. “Do you hear the man, Daughter? I don’t think his anger is unwarranted.”
She nodded, sent Teàrlach a glare, then gathered up her skirts and flounced away. Teàrlach held his ground a moment longer, noting the edge of the missive sticking out of Moreville’s coat. Curiosity niggled at him, but he turned to go back outside before Moreville could stop him.
…
It was Friday. He had survived a sennight as the head of Moreville’s guard. It had dragged on like a god-dammed year. Still, he woke early, anticipation over visiting Madeline making the days worth it. That, and the Glengarnock soldiers were good men, making up for the fact that Teàrlach didn’t like Henry de Moreville or his daughter.
He finished dressing, pulling on the tunic that Madeline had sewn for him. It was precisely stitched, and she had approximated his size without measurement quite well. In fact, the tunic fit just as well as the ones that had been measured to his size. The material was less fine than the tunic he had ripped, but still sturdy, light, clean, and unblemished. And it felt soft against his skin, not coarse or itchy. She was a talented tailor. He would do well to thank her for her craftsmanship.
Pulling on his leather boots and strapping his weapons upon his body, he left his coat of mail in a chest and exited into the early morning. The men were already waking for the day. He strode to a Lowlander named Duncan, Moreville’s second in command.
“I leave for the day, man,” he began. “Plan to drill them through the morning, but let them rest their arms on my orders for the afternoon. A break in training and some leisure time each sennight has the power to make a man stronger.”
“Will do, sire,” Duncan replied. “Enjoy your day. To where do you go?”
Teàrlach smiled, then realized he smiled, and quickly extinguished it. “I’m visiting a lass.”
Duncan grinned. “A lass, eh? Is she fetching?”
“Aye,” he replied.
“Blonde or brown hair?” Duncan persisted. “Or perhaps she’s a bonny Scottish ginger?”
“Her looks concern ye nay,” Teàrlach answered, an edge of jesting on his voice. “For if I describe her, ye might seek her out and steal her from me.”
Duncan chuckled, his face dimpling. Duncan was the epitome of a handsome man. He was charming, his presence commanding, and his personality easy and confident. His teeth were white, his jaw chiseled, his nose and brow prominent, his hair light brown, and his eyes a fine blue. He was shorter than Teàrlach, but not by much, and was in fit form. Why on earth couldn’t Gertrude fawn over him? Thankfully though, Gertrude had been wise enough to leave Teàrlach be. A mild relief.
“Aye, anything would be better than Clara,” Duncan replied. “The girl has a talent for bed sport, but she’s in high demand and I’ve nay a wish to get in the queue for her.”
Teàrlach folded his arms so that his biceps bulged and grunted.
“Say, are ye going to ask your lass to go to the fair with ye?” Duncan continued.
Teàrlach furrowed his brow. “What fair?” He never went to fairs, not since he was a child. As a man, the idea always struck him as a frivolous waste of time. If he was going to celebrate anything, he much preferred a ride in the country and an ale at a tavern. But it was spring. May Day would be soon. Latha Bealltainn, the May Day Fair, would be celebrated with excitement across the land. Games would be aplenty. No doubt Highlanders would come down from Lanarkshire and beyond, and perchance there would be a caber toss. He was good at that. And the pagan goddess would be honored and food tributes to the fay folk would abound.
“Latha Bealltainn, of course. I’m thinking of going myself to find a maiden to help me pass the day. They’ll have a Maypole. Dancing lasses, man,” Duncan grinned, jabbing him with his elbow. “All of whom have gone to great pains to look bonny.”
Teàrlach lifted the corner of his mouth, trying to play it cool. Going to the festival sounded ridiculous…but what if he asked Madeline to go? The lass had likely never experienced such merry making. There was merit in the idea. “Do the men of Glengarnock usually go?”
Duncan nodded. Teàrlach frowned. If they went, then they would see him with Madeline. “Moreville prefers his men travel south to the Montgrynan fields. It’s a bit farther away from here, but he holds the land as constable and hosts his own festivities. His wife traditionally heads the planning, though Lady Pricilla is still learning the wifely duties, so he has been assisting her in the process. Kilbirnie Fair is just a mile away, but the Barclays are the stewards of those lands and while Laird Moreville is friendly with the Barclays, he harbors, shall we say, animosity, that Barclay holds stewardship of any land in Ayrshire at all.”
Teàrlach noted the sarcasm in Duncan’s voice. If Teàrlach asked Madeline to a fair, it would work to his advantage to take her to the fair in Kilbirnie, considering Moreville was pushing for a betrothal between Madeline and John. No one would spot the two of them in Kilbirnie if the entire castle was headed for Montgrynan, for last he needed was Moreville watching him consort with the woman soon to be his daughter of marriage and label him a scoundrel.
“I suppose I might ask her,” he finally replied, when he heard his name being called and glanced over his shoulder.
“MacGregor!” Henry de Moreville called to him.
“See ye tonight when I return,” Teàrlach said to Duncan.
“Aye, take care, sire,” Duncan replied, turning back to assess the soldiers gathering in the yard, and Teàrlach walked to the door of the castle keep.
“Good morn,” he offered, and Moreville returned the greeting.
“Come inside, man. I know you’re off for your day, but break your fast with me. I have a request to make of you.”
Teàrlach nodded. Of course, this set him back. He wanted to be on the road already. Dungarnock was only a short ride, but he wanted to make the most of his day.
They climbed the steps to his solar, light fare already laid upon a table.
“Sit, man, sit,” Moreville gestured, closing his door.
He sat, and at Moreville’s urging, took some meat, an egg, and some bread onto his trencher as Moreville tucked himself in, too.
“I want to thank you,” Moreville began.
Teàrlach furrowed his brow. “Why?”
“Because I’ve heard from several men how you caught that sword headed toward my daughter so swiftly from the air; most men couldn’t believe their vision. Like a ‘dark-haired Fionn’ is what Duncan said. I admit I was perturbed you would handle my daughter in such a way at first, but after hearing their accounts, I realize a punishment was in order. She reigns over my house and I allow it, for she’s fetching and dotes on me, and how that pleases me,” Moreville continued. “Her mother was a fine lady, though my daughter is a bastard, and I suppose I’m soft on her for the curse of such a label. But the ways of the world are what they are, and the dangers of men engaged in sword fighting are real. I thank thee for teaching her a valuable lesson.”
Teàrlach nodded once.
“I was wondering in which direction you travel today,” Moreville asked, serving himself some food.
“North. Kilbirnie,” he answered by rote, not knowing where the answer came from.
“Ah, perfect. I have a cart of goods to send to Dungarnock for Lady Madeline. I know Dungarnock is westward and a bit out of your way, but would you mind hitching the cart to your fine horse and delivering them on your journey?”
Teàrlach nodded his usual nod, his face impassive, but he would gladly take the lass the goods she so badly needed. “I’d be pleased to.”
“Good, good. I also have news to impart to her. The king has agreed to a betrothal for her, finally.” Teàrlach felt his wind leave his lungs. “You’re a literate man, and not all of my men are. I’ve penned a missive to her and would be obliged if you would relay the letter to her, for the woman doesn’t know her letters.”
Teàrlach swallowed. No, this task wasn’t something he wanted to do. “Who is her betrothed? Did she agree to it?”
Moreville shook his head dismissively. “Her approval of it is of little consequence. She’s to marry my son the beginning of July.” Two months, Teàrlach tallied instantly. “She’s a dutiful lass. I’m sure she’ll be content. My son is the one who will kick and scream about this. He fancies himself in love with an English lass he met in York. But the girl offers me nothing strategic, so a suit of marriage for her isn’t worth seeking. Madeline, however, is a ward of the king. Despite her father’s disgrace, she’s of a proud Scottish lineage. She brings with her a dowry so plenty rich, many men of the court have secretly been trying to outbid me for the alliance to her. Such a prize is highly sought after.”
Moreville swallowed his bite and took a long drink.
“Here is the missive,” he continued, pulling out a sealed parchment. “And the cart is by the main gates, ready and waiting. Normally, I have one of my men take it, but it makes no sense to send one of them out when you’re already headed in that general direction. Would you mind doing so each Friday morn when you leave?”
“Nay,” Teàrlach replied. Hell no, he didn’t mind. This was sanctioned permission to visit the lady each sennight. Besides, he could inspect the goods and determine where her provisions lacked so he could bolster them with more things she needed.
He downed his food, stood, offered an efficient head bow, and quit the room with the missive in hand. Upon exiting the castle keep, he strode to the stable and asked the groom to hitch King to the cart by the gate. Now this would be fun. He smirked. King was going to hate being so tethered. He was trained to carry Teàrlach and was certain to thrash his disapproval at being reduced to a mule.
“Careful, man,” he told the groom as the man led King out of his stall. “My horse might protest.”
Teàrlach accompanied him to the cart, seeing only a small crate of goods. His blood surged angrily. Hoisting himself up, he lifted the lid to see a woeful amount of candles, some wicks, and a few vessels of cooking goods. His blood, pulsing with anger moments before, now raged through his veins. A twenty-pound disbursement from the royal messenger and this box of shite was all Moreville would spare?
“Foking bastard,” Teàrlach muttered under his breath.
Madeline needed more supplies, bandaging, candles, torches, fabrics and sewing materials, some decent candelabra to brighten the cave she lived in, more seeds for sowing, for her garden beside the tower was only a meager eight rows, not nearly enough carrots and parsnips to feed three people. She needed sacks of flour grains, ladies’ accessories, tools for repair, not to mention a couple more serving staff ought to be on that cart as well. It took more than one young lady and two elderly peasants to maintain a household. Where in the hell was Madeline’s royal disbursement going to, if it wasn’t filling this cart with abundance? This wouldn’t do. He jumped off the cart and strode back into the keep.
Taking the stairs two at a time, he marched around the gallery and knocked on Henry de Moreville’s solar door.
“Enter,” came the reply.
He pushed it open, noticing Moreville at his desk, counting out the coin purse he had seen the royal messenger slip into his hand three days before into two stacks, and as incensed as he was feeling, he almost remarked upon it. Thankfully, his discipline stayed him. Moreville didn’t need to know he’d been spying.
“Ah, MacGregor. I thought you’d be gone by now. Is something the matter?”
“Aye. Dungarnock is poorly stocked. I noticed that there was only one crate of supplies on that cart. But my quick assessment whilst there sennight last tells me she needs grains, seeds, gardening tools, bandaging, candles—”
“There’s candles in the current crate,” the lord interrupted.
“Aye, a few. Not nearly enough,” Teàrlach argued. “The Crawford lass almost died when I burned down a few tapers simply so I could see my supper trencher. ’Twas obvious I disconcerted her by wasting them, even if she was too polite to remark upon it. If truth be told, the lass is living like a pauper. Have you no additional supplies to spare?”
Moreville leaned back, bracing his fingertips together at his chin, and rubbed the tuft of a hair beneath his lips with his pointer fingers.
“Lady Madeline gets what I can send her based on the king’s disbursement. She’s never raised a complaint before.”
“Nay, she wouldn’t,” Teàrlach replied, swallowing the snarl that attempted to escape. But you get twenty bloody pounds, you bastard!
“If she had, I would have been sure to send her more of what she needed.”
“Ye ken good and weel—” Dammit man! Control your tongue, Teàrlach scolded himself, and restarted. “She’s always been an agreeable lady. I doubt she’d raise a complaint about anything. But the fact of the matter is, that she’s in need. And I feel a particular obligation to her, having served her faither for so long.”
Moreville thought some more, considered Teàrlach with a narrowed gaze, as if trying to see inside his mind. “I suppose we have a bit of a candle surplus. You’re welcome to visit the chandlery and take a handful more. I’m afraid I have not much more to spare, not without compensation, that is.”
“If what the king gives you is nay enough, have you thought to ask him for more? The man would surely increase her purse, if he were aware of her sparse circumstances.”
Moreville studied him. “In sooth I didn’t think it necessary. Surely, if someone has not enough to live on, they would speak up. But now that you mention it, I will. I thank thee for bringing this matter to my attention. You seem to be…observant.”
“How much?” Teàrlach blurted out.
“How much, what?” Moreville crinkled his brow.
“How much to purchase from you the things she needs, sewing supplies, seeds, oil…” everything, he thought. Every bloody thing you’re depriving her. “How much?”
Moreville’s mouth turned up into a grin. “You wish to buy the lady supplies?”
He gave a nod. “I nay hurt for coin. If ye nay feel that ye can give the lass more than a handful of candles, then I’ll make up the difference. How much?”
Moreville looked at him curiously. Teàrlach swore to himself. His eagerness was going to tip his hand and show Moreville how interested he was in the woman now betrothed to the man’s son.
“Why, I’d say five pounds…your weekly salary,” Moreville concluded.
“Done,” Teàrlach replied, withdrawing the coin purse he had just been paid the day before, tossing it onto his empty trencher, which had yet to be cleared away. “I’ll go collect the supplies and be on my way.”
He quit the room as Moreville’s eyes widened with surprise and marched down the hallway, down the stairs, and out to the supply houses. He would take what he wanted, since Laird Moreville hadn’t specified what five pounds would purchase. The woman would get what she needed, and he would gladly relinquish his entire salary to get it to her.
Moreville was a sly bastard. Something was wrong here. He recalled the coins he saw Moreville counting on his desk. If he remembered accurately, the lord was counting a stack of five pounds, and a stack of fifteen pounds, and for some reason that caused him to ponder.
But Madeline needed supplies and he couldn’t waste the time thinking about such discrepancies. He also needed to make sure her leg healed well. If he was a little excited to share her company and look upon her fair face, maybe there was some truth to the sentiment. He pushed open a door to the grainery. Sacks of flour, both the finer wheat for Moreville’s household, as well as mixes of oats and rye, sat in piles along the walls on wooden beams to minimize vermin crawling through them. He grabbed one large bag of each, carrying them upon each shoulder across the yard, one by one heaving them off onto the cart.
He then went to the linens, weaving around the main keep, through a servant entrance, and entering through a back door into a room with vats of dyes. He ignored the curious stares of the working women, their hair covered in wimples and dye-stained aprons protecting their dresses, and walked the length of the wall. The shelves were stacked with fabrics that had been newly folded yet not delivered to the castle storage.
He turned to an old woman who was shooing the others back to work. “Do you run this office?” he addressed her.
She dipped into a curtsy and replied. “I do, my laird. How can I help you?”
“I’m nay a laird, madam,” he corrected. “Just a man who wields a sword well. I need fabric for a lady.”
A few of the nearby women giggled, and, blast it, he felt redness creep up his neck. Of course, they thought him smitten with someone. He shook his head. They were probably right, he conceded, though it didn’t stop him from leveling a quelling gaze at the tittering maids who stifled their laughter.
“Of course, sire. Any particular color?”
He had no idea how to pick colors for a woman. In truth, it would be better to learn from Madeline what she preferred before showing up with a bolt or two. But common sense, he was finding, didn’t factor into much of his thoughts regarding Madeline.
“I’ll defer to your judgment, madam. I haven’t a clue what to select.”
She nodded and pulled down a bolt of cream-colored linen. “Nightshifts and chemises can be made from this. And does the lady fancy the brighter fabrics of the court?”
He shrugged. He was a fish out of water on this particular mission.
“What does she look like, sire?”
“Fair hair, quite pale actually, and green eyes, though nay really green, but somewhat blue and gray, too.”
The woman looked at him, and he realized too late his folly. What hired sword described a woman’s looks so poetically? None of the women would consider him an aloof and apathetic guardsman after that description.
“What about this, then?” the woman replied, shifting several bolts aside as she reached over her head.
She pulled out a bolt of fabric that was the color of the southern sea off the coasts of Spain. Aye, it was perfect indeed. The fabric was delicate, not exactly utilitarian or practical for Madeline’s situation. It was a frivolous purchase, if truth be told. She needed sturdy wool, nay something so high quality.
“’Tis fetching—Fine,” he corrected with a curt nod.
“And any embellishments needed?”
He shrugged. “Whatever you deem appropriate.”
The woman nodded and scurried to another chamber. He followed and peered through the door, realizing it was a sewing room. The walls were lined with shelves of handwoven laces and trims. The old woman was tossing a roll of lace, a roll of leather lacings, a pouch of beads, a pouch of glass buttons, four different spools of threading, and a pouch of needles into a basket.
“Does she embroider?” the woman asked.
He had no earthly idea. He recalled seeing her sewing by the fire in the great hall of Castle Ayr long ago on the occasions he sought out her father, but didn’t know if she enjoyed it.
“I know nay,” he replied.
The old woman nodded and took several spools of embroidery yarn off a shelf, fetching a roll of cloths, and a ring to clamp the fabric within, adding them to the basket.
“Best to be prepared then. This should do, sire. Please, take these things to your lady.”
“She’s nay my lady, madam, but I thank thee all the same,” he said.
The woman nodded, almost patronizingly. If her knowing smile was any indication, she didn’t believe one whit of his denial. He shook his head, took the basket from her outstretched hand, and marched back through the room to grab the bolts of fabric. As he readied to leave, he turned, pulled down a bolt of practical brown wool, added it to his stack, and strode away with the giggling of the maids at his back.
He continued to visit the various offices and made a point to take an entire box of candles as opposed to the “handful” for which Moreville had given him permission. There had been a wealth of boxed candles to choose from. Once everything was tethered down, he mounted atop King, scolded him with a firm grasp of his mane to settle his frustration at being so harnessed, and tapped him into a walk.
Duncan lifted his hand in farewell as he exited through the gates, and he was certainly aware of Laird Moreville at his back, standing vigilant before the main doors, assessing him and the cart laden with goods. Teàrlach cared not. Moreville should have seen to such benevolence a long time ago.
The midmorning was beautiful and sunny. The countryside buzzed with insects. Wildflowers were beginning to open their blossoms. Madeline would look fetching with such flowers woven into her hair, he thought, feeling his mouth upturn into one of those rare smiles again. Be dammed, but just the thought of her all sennight long had been enough to coax the happy look onto his firm-set mouth.
Finally, the stone tower of Dungarnock arrived into view. With his missive within his new tunic, his weapons strapped around his body, he felt the urge to trot his horse just to speed up arrival. He didn’t. Doing such would surely jostle all the goods. The gates were open and as he came closer down the road, he noticed Madeline standing in the yard, her posture rigid, watching him.
As he entered under the gate, she recognized him and, to his pleasure, she visibly relaxed. Then smiled. Then walked on her crutches—good lass—to come meet him.
“Sir MacGregor,” she greeted, her eyes squinting in the sunlight. “’Tis a surprise to see you. How do you do?”
…
He came back! Greta was right.
He nodded to her and didn’t fight his smile.
Lord! She gazed up at him, her mind swirling with excitement, but his eyes were like liquid whisky in the sunlight. His hair was dark, wind tossed, and highlighted with lighter tones of brown…and he wore the tunic she had made. She resisted the urge to beam, for there was no greater compliment than a man donning the garments made for him.
“I do well, and how do you fare, Madeline?” he replied, swinging his leg over and dismounting.
King tossed his head and lurched the cart, but Teàrlach stayed him with a firm hand. She opened her mouth to answer when she looked to his disgruntled horse, only to then trail her gaze along behind him, at the cart, at the mountain of goods, the handles of tools, canisters of kitchen goods, sack of onions, bolts of fabric…no, he brought her bolts of fabric? Ready-made?
A smile sprang to her face, and she turned back to Teàrlach with wonder in her eyes, only to realize he had been watching her intently.
“Wherever did all of this come from?” she asked.
He shrugged, a tick in his cheek indicating he wanted to smile, even though he didn’t. “A few things from Glengarnock. Nothing of import. Dungarnock seemed in need of some items, and I thought to bring them to outfit this place.”
“Nothing of import?” she blurted out, biting her tongue. Where on earth had such an unladylike disagreement come from? If Teàrlach said it was not of import, she should be gracious, but acquiescing. But she couldn’t. Not now. She moved to the cart, giving everything a slow perusal.
“Though it may be of little import to you, I would be remiss to nay tell you how much it means to me. Goodness, this fabric…” Her voice left her as she reached out a hand to caress the blue silk. “Such richness…”
“Do you like it?” he asked, unable to contain himself. “I can return it for a different color if it’s nay what ye like.”
She shook her head, tears springing to her eyes. She refused to look at him or let the water drip over her lids as she looked stoically at the bolts.
“It’s beautiful, sire. So beautiful…” Her fingers lingered on the fabric, then she turned back to him, grabbed his hand, and squeezed. “My thanks, sire. I’ll never be able to repay you this.”
…
His hand tingled where she had so boldly touched it. He didn’t want her crying, no matter that they were happy tears. God, but her smiles pleased him greatly. He stepped to her, picked up her hand again, and brought it to his lips. Slowly, his eyes never leaving hers, he pressed his kiss to her knuckles. A blush raged across her face as the breeze lifted her unbound hair on the wind.
“’Twas my pleasure, lass.”
She cleared her throat but did not speak. He let go of her hand. Turning to the cart, he began unhitching King, who shook out his mane with relief as he was walked out from between the cart posts.
Teàrlach looked around. Fingal had been attentive to stable King on his first visit. The yard was quiet. The outbuildings were shut and barred. Now that he was noticing, it was nearly abandoned, except for the sounds of bird calls and the occasional fly zooming near his ear.
“Where are Master Fingal and Greta?” he asked, turning to look at her.
“They left this morn,” she replied, her eyes taking an inventory of the pile of goods.
“When will they return?”
“Oh, they’ll be back on Sunday eve, sire,” she replied, now looking back at him.
His brow furrowed. “They left ye unprotected?”
It wasn’t as if they were much protection to begin with, but there was a sense of security in numbers.
“They have a daughter who was crippled in childbirth. They go to Kilbirnie at the sennight’s end to help with her care. But I’m quite fine here. Naybody bothers me.”
“I’m displeased to hear this, lass. How often has this been happening?”
She dropped her gaze to her hands at his censure. He kicked himself. He hadn’t meant to chastise.
“About a month, my l—sire.”
Now he really kicked himself. He had flustered her and made her nervous.
“I meant nay to scold you, Maddie. Does Laird Moreville know you’re left unattended each sennight?” A daft question, he realized. He was coming to realize that Moreville didn’t care about her; he only cared about her money.
“I…I didn’t want to burden him with requests for another servant,” she stammered, taking a deep breath and considering. “But I had nay the heart to refuse Fingal and Greta their leave. ’Tis their daughter. I’ll make sure to mention it to Laird Moreville when he visits again.”
“When last did he visit?” Teàrlach pressed, and wasn’t surprised with her reply.
“He normally sends a guardsman or his steward. In sooth, I have nay seen him since my arrival here. But I make do nicely, sire.” She offered a smile, though it was premeditated and distant.
Moreville wasn’t taking care of her. He wasn’t abusing her, certainly, but he was neglecting her. And why on earth was he pushing for a betrothal between his son and her? She offered no political clout now that her father was imprisoned. A substantial dowry didn’t seem to be enough for a man to sentence his first and only son to a loveless, political marriage.
He dropped King’s bridle and left the horse standing in the yard. Taking the few steps between him and Madeline, he closed the gap once more, taking up her hand again.
“Lass,” he started. “I’m nay disappointed in you. I’m disappointed that you’re nay better cared for. Speak freely to me. Always.”
She nodded, her face reddening again, and she clearly wanted to change the subject. “Your tunic,” she remarked, playing off her discomfort and taking hold of his sleeve in her fingers. “The sleeves are too short. I apologize. Please allow me to let the hem out. ’Twill only be a short while. If you wish to refresh yourself before your drive back to Glengarnock, I can mend it.”
He looked at her hands, one still held between his callused fingers, the other fiddling with his sleeve. He let go, took a step back, and kept his gaze on her eyes as they fluttered up to him. He lifted the strap across his shoulder securing his claymore to his back, and with one hand, reached out and laid the heavy steel across the harness posts. Then he pushed up both sleeves to reveal a strap of leather around each wrist, both of which contained a dagger a piece. He laid both daggers upon the cart, too. His eyes still on hers, he untied the lacing at his neck.
Her face was raging with blush, blush he realized he enjoyed seeing, and his memory of that night a sennight ago, as he stood bare-chested and watched her, knowing she was appreciating his form, spiraled through his mind. The little jumps of arousal a few days ago, as Gertrude had all but propositioned him, were nothing compared to the surging of heavy blood now flowing to his cock at the mere thought of Madeline finding him attractive. Untucking the tunic, he let it billow out, reached over his head to his back, and dragged it up.
…
She inhaled. This was much, much closer than that night she had watched him from the rooftop. He had been on her mind ever since that encounter. She had grown flustered lying abed alone each night, imagining his kisses, imagining what it would be like to be kissed, to be held. By Teàrlach MacGregor. The warmth that had traveled though her body at the sight of him was unexplainably pleasant, yet insatiable, and many a night she had lain awake into the wee hours of morn trying to shake the thought of him from her mind and find some peace to rest. But now he was within touching distance when she never thought she would see him again, removing his tunic to stand bare-chested before her once more.
And as the fabric pulled away from his skin, her eyes were assaulted with the tall, beautiful bulk of his suntanned muscles, thick neck, broad chest, rippling washboard of a stomach, and, oh, the dark hair rising up from his trousers to speckle his chest. And spanning that broad chest was a leather thong, looping over his shoulder, and sheathing a sgian achlais under his armpit and a sealed missive held fast to his chest by the strap.
She glanced to his belts, seeing more daggers at his waist. She exhaled a breath she didn’t know she had been holding. The man exuded masculinity and quiet command, and his searing gaze on her was reddening her face, as if she had issued him a challenge when asking to tailor his tunic.
He reached out a lazy hand, giving her the garment. She swallowed, gave him a perusal, and took it from him.
“I’ll, eh…” She fumbled. “I’ll begin mending right now.”
She ducked her head, her nerves jumping around her stomach as she hobbled away on her crutches, when Teàrlach stopped her.
“May I stable King?”
“Of course, sire. Please,” she replied, her face still downward.
“And when I’m finished, may I check your leg?” he asked.
She turned back to him but didn’t look up, and nodded. She kept crutching along, entering into the keep, and finding her basket of mending by the hearth in the corner. She had learned after he left the last time to bring everything she normally used downstairs, so as to not have to climb up and down two floors again and again. She couldn’t climb the ladder to light the candles, and the precious firewood she had she couldn’t justify burning for one person. So she brought the basket outside to make use of the daylight.
She took a deep breath. That warmth that had filled her each time she imagined Teàrlach kissing her was raging through her body, filling her belly with fire, making her cheeks tingle and her limbs feel weak. He had done what he’d done on purpose. And he had indeed come back, with gifts in tow, even if they were from Laird Moreville, just as Greta had suggested. What did it mean? Why was she so flustered?
She took a shaking breath and sat on a bench aside the tower wall. It was cool in the shadows, but the sun always seemed to burn her nose. She noticed Teàrlach in the byre, patting King’s neck, rubbing him down with a cloth from his packs, and watched the muscles in his arms and back ripple under his skin. Was this what women considered to be sinful attraction? It had to be. There was no other way to describe it. Sinful.
She lowered her gaze and pulled out her supplies, snipping open the hem on each sleeve so that she could get her hands busy and her mind off the half-naked man in her byre. Surely there were many an indecent assumption to be made, being completely alone with a man she found wildly handsome. He would unload her cart, eat a bit, and when she was finished sewing, he would be on his way to get back to work.
But still. The warmth in her abdomen and, lord, her netherparts, made her wish he wouldn’t leave so soon, even if the only thing she could do in his company was look dumbly at him and stammer over her words. She busied herself with her thread, shaking her head, and tried her damnedest to ignore the butterflies in her stomach. But the man threatened her resolve, her one line of defense over the years growing up under the ever-present hand of a tyrannical father. And without her resolve, she felt as naked as Teàrlach.
…
Teàrlach watched Madeline go inside the tower. He wouldn’t be a warm-blooded man if he didn’t have fleeting thoughts of the number of things to do with a woman when no chaperone was present. But he also wouldn’t be a decent man, if he actually thought to act on any of those fantasies. And yet, here he stood, bare-chested, allowing her a close-up view, wanting her to see him. For a change, wanting to be seen.
Wee caora. His brother’s nickname bestowed upon him came to his mind. They had tormented him with that nickname time and again. Caora. Sheep. As if he were shy. Nay, he wasn’t shy. Just careful. And with Madeline, he wanted to let that guard down and lay himself out. He already sensed he had her attention, which was amazing, since he was certain she had never noticed him before. He wondered if he was the first man she had ever been attracted to. What would it be like to be the first man she touched, even if it was just a hand on his chest or his arm? He looked down at the warrior in his trousers. It was good indeed that she had gone inside, for he looked like he had a spear straining to stand upright between his thighs, forced into submission down one leg.
Looking down, however, he saw the missive again: John de Moreville’s betrothal to the woman who had just entered Dungarnock Tower with Teàrlach’s tunic in hand. He stifled a growl. His anger succeeded in dousing his lust and, painfully, his cock conceded defeat this round, the blood waning away from his loins to pump angrily through his veins. Wee coileach, (rooster) his brother Rabbie would tease after his feisty outbursts when they’d needled him with the nickname caora. As he’d grown, he’d learned to not give into the anger so notorious of the “barbarous Highlanders.” He’d learned his quiet nature was an asset. While all three of his older brothers commanded attention wherever they went, even if they weren’t trying, wee caora Teàrlach would observe, slide in and out of a chamber with little notice, and collect all forms of information to blackmail them in front of their father. And after their hides had been duly tanned by their father’s strap, the older MacGregor lads had come to realize their littlest brother was a silent force to be reckoned with. They loved him and grew to respect him, and eventually, the disparaging names became affectionate and humorous.
But that wee rooster was itching to explode at the thought of Madeline lying abed while John de Moreville rutted upon her, her hands upon John’s naked chest. There was a strangeness in Teàrlach’s serendipitous encounter with her: the fact she lived so close after all this time, that he would be serving her warden, that he would now be expected to see her every sennight to bring supplies, that Greta and Fingal were conveniently gone on exactly the day each sennight he had requested leave time. It felt as if he had found her for a reason, even if he couldn’t understand what that reason was.
With King watered and rubbed down, hitched inside the little byre, he grabbed the missive and pulled it free, noticing Madeline now sitting outside on a bench. She had done it again, moved about without his observation. She was just as much of a shadow as he, in that regard, for very little got past him undetected. Taking his thumb, he began to slide it under the seal to open the missive when he stopped himself, glancing at her pulling loose his hems. If he opened the letter, then Madeline would know he had already peeked at her correspondence.
He didn’t want to tell her. He wanted to rip up the parchment and use it as kindling, pretending it never existed. Whether she fancied him or not—and he got the feeling that she might—Moreville’s missive might surely douse any spark between them. Madeline was dutiful and obedient. She would never question the king or Laird Moreville. She would do what was expected with quiet fortitude, and he would never see her again after she walked down the aisle.
Instead, he went to the cart and began unloading gardening tools, carrying the armload to the side of the tower where the garden plot was located. He intended to help her get her seeds in the ground before Latha Bealltainn. He felt her gaze upon him again and glanced her way.
“Is this a good place for them?” he called.
She smiled and nodded. “I thank thee!” she called back, though her version of calling barely rang out.
He went back and pulled down the crate, hoisting it into his arms and carrying it to her. He set it down at her feet and pulled off the lid.
“There’s oil, some cloths for scrubbing, a bag of salt, a bag of sugar, a box of candles—”
“Candles? Sugar?” she blurted out, before throwing her hand over her mouth and giving him an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry for my poor discipline. It’s just, those items seem like such a luxury these days.”
He swallowed the anger that he still harbored for Laird Moreville, the anger that had earned him the affectionate label of coileach, and focused on the pleasure she could not contain, lighting her eyes. She was so pleased, and he was proud he had been the one to please her.
“Where would you like these things?” he replied.
“Inside by the hearth is just fine. I’ll get the items put away when I’m finished mending your tunic. ’Twill give me a way to pass the time once you return to Glengarnock for the day, for certainly you didn’t intend to waste your working hours here.”
“Actually.” He shrugged. “I did. I wish to finish seed sowing for you and, if truth be told,” he added, looking down with an expression he knew appeared sheepish, “I’d like to pass the afternoon here, I mean, with you…that is, if you’re agreeable,” he added hastily.
He glanced at her once more, noticing the blush raging across her cheeks yet again. She looked down in her lap, nodding. “You’re most welcome to be here, sire.”
“Teàrlach,” he corrected gently, reaching to one of her hands and laying his over it. “I’ve told you before, you’re welcome to call me informally.”
She nodded her understanding, keeping her eyes on her frozen fingers clenching his hem and her needle, his hand encasing the back of hers. His so large, hers, so slender.
He withdrew his hand and hoisted up the crate, depositing it by the hearth as directed and nearly stumbled in the dark doing so. No wonder she was outside. She was alone, unable to light the tapers in the chandelier over the board, and likely unable to haul heavy armloads of firewood to stoke the hearth. It was a cave. He marched back out, returning within with the torches, and ensconced them in the empty brackets on the wall, then unpacked the three candelabra he had managed to, maybe not buy, but borrow from Glengarnock, and placed one on the board, one on a side board, and took one into the kitchen, which was also dark, though thankfully, did have tapers upon the work surfaces and a ready pile of wood by the ovens.
Soon, the cart was nearly empty. He gathered up the three bolts of fabric and the basket of accessories and sewing tools. He carried them to her, stopping once more, but this time he took a seat beside her on the bench. He looked down at her and noticed her frozen gaze upon the materials, then, without warning, she thrust aside his tunic and reached a hesitant hand toward his basket.
She looked up at him. “Eh, may I?”
He noticed she veritably quivered with excitement. He handed her the basket. “It’s all yours. In honesty, I knew nay what you would want, so I asked the advice of Glengarnock’s serving maids and seamstresses. I’m happy to return it for different colors, if it pleases you.”
She shook her head and lifted a hand to cover her mouth. He could tell immediately she was about to cry again.
“This lace, those colors… How did you come by it?” She shook her head, her beautiful hair stringy from the wind falling around her face. “It’s all so lovely. I know nay what to say…”
He had no idea what to do with a crying lass. Just being around one made him uncomfortable. But somehow, the right words came to him. “You needn’t say a thing, lass. Your happiness makes it worth it.”
She looked up into his face. He gazed down at her. She was so close, and she was looking back and forth between his eyes and his lips. Even in her innocent state, it had to be obvious to her that he fancied her. And it had to be obvious that he wanted to kiss her as he gazed back and forth between her eyes and lips, too, just as he could tell that she wanted to be kissed. The attraction sizzled. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to lean in to steal the kiss he kept imagining.
“Well,” he sighed, standing, severing the connection. “I’ve a couple more items to unload. I best finish. Where would you like these bolts?”
She cleared her throat and in doing so cleared the stars from her eyes, handing back the basket. “Inside, with the crate, is fine,” she whispered.
He nodded once and carried everything through the door, returning moments later and hoisting a large flour sack off the cart and over one shoulder while scooping the second one under his arm. He walked back to her.
“Is the kitchen a good place to put this?”
“Is that flour?” she gasped, her eyes widening more than they had as she’d beheld the fine fabrics.
Her hands, he noticed, that had begun to busy themselves with his tunic once again, stopped, the needle stuck in mid-stitch.
“Aye, a sack of milled barley and oats, and a sack of milled wheat.”
“Wheat flour?” She jumped to her feet with such spritely energy he was hard-pressed to believe her to be the frail woman whose leg was splinted.
He grinned. Aye, he was the bearer of gifts today, and the unbridled reaction from her was a fine compliment. She did have a personality beneath her careful facade, after all.
“Indeed, the kitchen is fine.” She smiled, her lips splitting wide and her eyes sparkling.
He entered the tower again and this time she followed. She inhaled. He turned to see her looking around in wonder, turning in a circle. He had lit the torches and set the tapers to flame in a chandelier and candelabra. He had stoked the hearth, too.
“I don’t know what to say…” he heard her whisper, though the remark wasn’t intended for him. He continued to the kitchen, which was still dark. She trailed him. He heaved down the bags in the small pantry within a stone niche, sweeping past her out the doorway again, and returning moments later with one of the torches. He used it to light all the candles and opened the back kitchen exit—a small, arched door of solid wood leading to the garden—for added light.
She turned to him, her hands clasped, and with a little bounce of excitement, gave him a giddy smile.
“Why don’t I make some bread,” she blurted out. “’Tis almost midday, and though time is limited, I can make a flat bread that will go nicely with the vegetable stew that sits in the cauldron.”
He smiled. His tunic was good and truly forgotten, and it seemed he was doomed to remain bare-chested for much of the day. “Fresh bread sounds fine, lass,” he agreed. “Let me tend to your garden whilst you cook.”
“You needn’t labor, sire. You’ve brought me the world today, and I would be insulted if you continued to take charity on me.”
Insulted? He smiled. It seemed his gifts of supplies and foods had relaxed her agreeable tongue, which suited him just fine.
He gave her a grin and a wink. “I’ll work in your garden, Madeline, because I’m twice your size and you would be hard pressed to force me to do otherwise.”
Her eyes widened at his obvious jest. His grin never faltered, a rusty chuckle working its way out of his throat, and he brushed his thumb quickly down her cheek and left her.