DISCUSSION WITH FRIENDS
“What's wrong with me?”
Brodgar stood on the ramparts, watching his breath plume out in frosty tendrils when he exhaled. He shivered, stamping his feet to aid the blood to reach them.
At least the cold will clear my mind.
Ever since luncheon – ever since Heath arrived – he had felt restless.
It's her.
The moment he saw Ettie Fraser, he'd become daft. At least, that was how he described it to himself. Unable to think straight, or, for that matter, to think of anything but her. He paced, restlessly; wishing he could make himself think of something else.
My blood's fain warmed to boiling.
His poor body was helpless. The merest thought of her sweet pink lips made his loins tense and he wished he could kiss them, his tongue plundering that soft, pink cavern...
“Och!”
He clenched a fist. The images were fit to drive him wild. But why?
She arrived three hours ago. She's new here.
He shook his head. It was ridiculous! He knew her not at all. Nevertheless, all of a sudden he couldn't tear his mind away. It was frustrating.
“Brodgar?”
“Mm?” Brodgar twisted around, hearing Alf nearby.
“Was looking for you,” Alf commented. “Why're you out here? It's cold!” He ran his hands down his biceps, breath plumes in the frosted night air.
“Looking for quiet,” Brodgar said, giving him a sidelong look. His friend laughed.
“If that's a hint, I'll keep me mouth shut.”
“It's not you,” Brodgar said, pushing his shoulder playfully. “If you talk away all night you won't disturb me.”
Alf chuckled. “I'm glad. Feeling restless?”
“You might say so,” Brodgar said distantly. “Don't want to sit still.”
“I know the feeling,” Alf agreed. “Mayhap we can take a walk in the hills? Be better by far than standing up here, so still, shivering our heads off.”
“I don't know,” Brodgar shrugged. “I told Father I'd see him later. Don't want to go far.”
“Very well,” Alf nodded. “I thought mayhap I'd practice my back-swing. It's still incorrect.”
“Very well,” Brodgar agreed. “Want a bout?” He rolled his shoulders hesitantly, not sure that facing Alf with their practice-blades in the yard was how he fancied spending the last daylight hours.
“I'll try alone,” Alf said. “I need to practice the wretched thing by itself, 'till I get it right. Father said.”
Brodgar chuckled. “Your father's a harder taskmaster than Ethan.”
Ethan was their master-at-arms, a serious man about a decade older than they were who had taught them since they were lads.
“I'll say he is,” Alf made a face. “He's skilled, though.”
“Indeed he is,” Brodgar acknowledged sincerely. He knew enough of his father's story to know that Blaine MacNeil, Alf and Conn's father, was once the master-at-arms at Chrissie's home. That was how they’d met, after all. At that time, she was betrothed to Heath Fraser.
He realized the link suddenly. Heath had been a ward of his aunt's family, and they had been informally tied since their youth. Aunt Chrissie and he had settled matters amicably, or so he'd heard – Heath Fraser had wanted to pursue the monastic life of a knight of St. Lazarus.
It would explain his serious manner.
Heath gave the impression of being very reserved, quite strict. Not the sort of guardian I'd choose, he shivered. The thought of his home – probably cold and barren like a monk's quarters – made him shiver harder.
Poor Henriette! I hope he at least has one room that's warm and comfortable at his home.
He greeted Alf, who, already rolling his arms experimentally, was hurrying off to the practice yard.
“I should go,” he told himself when he was alone. The sun had set, and the night was blue and frosty with the first stars. He could hear the guard changing down below at the main gate, and the air smelled cold and crisp, not even the scent of pine-pitch from the torches rising this far in the chilly night wind.
Something made him stay where he was. He jumped when, a moment later, he heard the crack of a footstep on the icy stone of the ramparts.
“Oh!” a breath drew in sharply. Brodgar stared.
“Lady Ettie,” he said, swallowing hard. “My apologies. Don't be startled.”
“Oh! Silly me,” Ettie said, putting her hand on her chest. “I didn't mean to get a fright. Only I...I thought I was the only one walking about here this evening.”
“I thought the same,” he smiled. “It appears I'm not the only restless soul this evening. Welcome.”
He stood back, letting her come and stand beside him at the crenellations. She leaned against the firm stone, looking out, hands clasped. She was wearing white gloves, he noticed, trimmed with fur. They suited her long, delicate hands. He looked down at her expression.
Mercy me, but she's bonnie.
He felt his loins clench as he stared at her. A strange feeling took up residence in his chest, like the flutter of moths' wings. He coughed harshly.
Her lips were a pink, full bow, her skin soft and porcelain-pale. Her hair was golden and scented faintly with some herb he did not know. Her eyes were thick-lashed and, when she looked up at him, the color of slate – somewhere between gray and storm-racked blue. He shivered.
“My lord?” a pale pink tongue licked across her lips as she spoke, hesitant.
Oh, my. He winced as his loins stirred. He looked at his hands. He wanted so, so badly to kiss her.
I can't do that.
Not only was it the certain knowledge that it was far, far too soon in their acquaintance to do anything like it. It was also a suspicion that he'd mess it up.
With limited experience in kissing girls, Brodgar wasn't sure he'd know how to kiss her in a way she'd like.
She is a lady and one I barely know anything about. He coughed again.
“My lady?” he asked.
“Yes?”
Brodgar winced. Her voice is lovely too. Sweet and low, liltingly-musical. Brodgar breathed in the scent of her hair and clamped his lip in his teeth a moment. “You are staying nearby?”
She looked away. “We're guests here, sir.”
“Brodgar,” he corrected softly.
“Yes,” she agreed.
They stood silently a while. “The turret room?” Brodgar asked.
“Sorry?”
“I asked, did they settle you in the turret room?” As he asked it, he realized what a silly question it was. The only cause for asking it was because he was imagining her in the turret room, on the bed, combing her lovely hair. He coughed.
“Yes, I think so.”
“Good,” he said, searching for some feasible reason for asking. “It's warmer.”
“It's very warm, yes,” Ettie agreed in that low, musical voice. “A relief to be able to change my clothes to something cooler.”
Oh. My. Brodgar closed his eyes, fighting with the images that conjured. Ettie, naked, her pale skin licked with flame-light, clad only in her hair. She was standing before the fire in the turret room, her sweet, curvaceous figure pale as polished silk. He imagined her turning, the play of light changing on her skin, her lips slightly parted with smiling.
“Ahem.” He coughed quietly, looking away. Outside in the courtyard, he heard the soft clang of a sword on wood. He smiled.
“What was that?” Ettie asked, looking up with those gray-blue eyes so wide.
He grinned. “My friend Alf. Practicing back-swing.”
She nodded. “It's cold to be outside,” she added, running her hands down her own arms.
Brodgar blinked. “It is cold,” he agreed. “I'm sorry, my lady. Should we go indoors?”
Ettie nodded. “I think so.”
Brodgar stood back, letting her go ahead along the ramparts and duck first through the small door that led into the interior of the castle. Though not over-warm, the stone hallway seemed like a tropical paradise in contrast with the icy weather outdoors. He shivered, stamping his feet and knowing his face was flushing dark.
“Well,” Ettie said, turning to look up at him. “I should go.”
“I suppose I should go too,” Brodgar agreed. “Help Alf out.”
Ettie nodded. “I suppose.”
Neither moved. She looked up at him and for a heart-stopping instant, Brodgar felt himself lean in. He considered what would happen if his lips touched hers and, quick, stepped back smartly.
“Goodnight, Brodgar,” she said in a small voice.
“Goodnight, Ettie.”
She walked to the top of the stairs and turned, briefly, her blue eyes raking his before she moved again and, her hair swaying with her gentle motion, headed away downstairs.
Leaving Brodgar rooted to the spot, looking after her and wondering why he felt as if he would stay rooted to the spot endlessly.