by Annis Reid
He belted his tunic, tucking the silver blade into its sheath before sitting on the edge of the bed as far from her as he could position himself. He had no desire to frighten the lass any worse than she had already been frightened, but it pained him to see and hear her this way. He never could stand to see a woman in distress.
“I dinna know your mother and father. Tis clear to me that they mean a great deal to ye, which tells me they must be decent people. They would not want to think of ye being afraid for them. They would wish for ye to take care of yourself and to get through it as best ye could. Any parent would.”
Slowly, her head turned until she caught him from the corner of her eye. “I wouldn’t expect somebody like you to say something like that,” she admitted.
“Someone like myself?”
“You just don’t seem like the type of person to think that way. You’re more a man of action, I guess. That’s the impression you give me.”
He considered this, chuckling to himself. “I suppose ye are correct. A man of action. That does not mean I canna think or feel.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean that at all! Please, don’t get me wrong.” In her haste to comfort him, she rolled onto her back. He could still see nothing but the barest outline of her body.
“If ye must know, I heard one of my men say something similar to another the night before we fought the English at Culloden,” he admitted.
He gazed out the window at the bright, brilliant morning. It was easier than looking at her when memories of that night hit him from all sides. Memories of men frightened beyond reason yet unwilling to admit their fear to one another. Men doing everything in their power to seem unafraid. Some of them no more than boys, many of them having never fought before except in the small clan skirmishes.
It was nothing compared to going into battle against men trained to murder Scotsmen.
He cleared his throat, pushing away some of the worst of it and reminding himself it was all in the past. “One of the youngest lads trembled so, and I overheard him say to another of the men that he was sorry for his mam. He felt sorry for her, as she must be terribly frightened for him. He did hate to give her cause to worry.”
He chuckled, running a hand through hair which he assumed must stick up in all directions. “We knew he was afraid for himself, ye ken, but we were willing to pretend otherwise for the sake of his pride. Of course, a man such as that brings danger to those around him. A coward, if ye will. My cousin, Donald, has a talent for understanding the reasons why a man behaves as he does. But more than that, he has a talent for pretending otherwise. He pretended to accept what the lad told us and reminded him of what I just told ye. His mother would not wish to think him worried for her, for that would mean he would not keep his head upon what mattered in the moment. She would wish to know he served well, and that he was the sort of man the men around him could rely upon to do the right thing at the right time.”
From beside him, Melissa made a thoughtful noise. “That’s pretty clever,” she observed.
“As I said, he has a gift. I believe the lad understood what he truly meant to say, and that was the last any of us heard of his fear that night.”
“And what happened to him?” she asked.
He rubbed the back of his neck, looking down at the floor. “Donald made certain he made it home to his mam afterward.” A slight pressure on his thigh made him twitch in surprise, and he looked down in time to see Melissa withdrawing her hand and pulling it under the blanket.
“I’m sorry. It’s just—”
He shook his head. “Dinna apologize.”
Even so, he all but jumped up from the bed as if it had caught fire. The lass did not wish to hear of his past, for it was her future she was afraid for. All he did was waste valuable time, prattling on like an old woman sitting by the fire with her knitting.
He cleared his throat, splashing water from the basin on his face and beard before combing wet fingers through his hair to tame it some. His face was hot, far too hot seeing as how he’d done nothing more than sit on a bed and tell a story which had been intended to soothe Melissa but had ended with her trying to soothe him.
“I will leave ye to it, then. We had best be on our way shortly. I would rather have this over with as quickly as possible.”
“Did I say something wrong?” she asked, still fully covered on the bed, as he went to the door,.
He paused with his hand on the latch, wishing that at some point in his life he had learned the words he wished to use just then. “Nay, lassie. Ye said nothing wrong. But we have quite a bit of riding to do, and my would-be bride is waiting.”
If only he knew how to thank her for her concern, how to explain the utter lack of feminine presence in his life until then. Yes, he’d been raised among women—the cooks, the serving girls, the maids—yet that was not the same as having a woman ask about his long-held memories in the early morning light.
Not the same as feeling her tentative touch as she tried to convey her sympathy.
It was not until just then, at that very moment, that Leith MacManus felt his life lacking that vital presence.
10
It made more sense for Melissa to ride behind Leith when they left the village. She didn’t have to sit sideways anymore thanks to her longer dress, the skirts tucked up around her knees. Under the dress, she wore thick stockings which itched like crazy and a pair of soft boots with soles that did little more than provide a layer between her feet and the ground.
“Are ye comfortable?” he asked as he took hold of the reins and prepared to set off.
Comfortable? That was another story.
She wasn’t exactly uncomfortable. Sure, she would have sores all over her butt and thighs by the time this ride was finished, and she already wished she had stretched before letting him help her into the saddle.
Still, it wasn’t her physical comfort that bothered her as she sat with her arms around Leith’s waist.
It was Leith’s waist that bothered her. His back, shoulders, the way his thighs bumped against hers. The broad expanse of muscle in front of her, muscle that bunched and flexed under his tunic. Muscle which she almost wished she could see without the linen covering it.
Not that she was interested in him in any sort of special way. He was like a statue, like a sculpture at the museum. Something to be admired.
Not to mention the fact that she had barely gotten a wink of sleep and wanted nothing more than to rest her head against his back and let the gentle motion of the horse rock her to sleep. But something told her that was a recipe for trouble. She could easily slide from the saddle, and she already had more than enough problems without adding injury to the list.
“I’m fine,” she assured him, even though she felt anything but fine.
And he knew it, too. “Ye dinna have to pretend for me,” he chuckled as they started out. “In fact, it would be better if we were honest with each other. Dinna ye agree?”
“I guess so,” she murmured, looking around. Why did it feel like there were so many eyes on her as they traveled the wide road with its stunning array of smells and sights? “Do I look funny or something?”
“Funny? I dinna ken your meaning.”
“Why is everyone looking at me?” she whispered, her arms tightening around him like he could protect her. She guessed he could if it came down to that, but there was nothing he could do to keep people from staring.
“Are they? I had not noticed. I dinna pay much mind to others.”
“That must be nice for you,” she said with a snort.
“Dinna mistake me. A laird must be aware of those he protects. His clan, those living in the village. Yet he canna listen to every opinion, ye ken. He must rely on himself and those he trusts the most. I suppose I tend to pay little heed to those whose opinion matters not.”
She respected that. It was refreshing to know a man who understood himself, who was secure enough in himself that he didn’t need to always rely on the opinions of othe
rs. Not like some men she’d known who would go through ten different outfits before a gig, struggling to find just the right one.
“Well, these people are looking at me,” she whispered, catching the eye of a sour-looking old woman hauling a pig down the road with a length of rope around its neck. The woman scoffed at her and practically spat on the ground. They were dressed similarly—Melissa could see the big deal if she was still wearing a sundress, but she wasn’t—yet still, the woman looked offended.
“Because ye are so bonny,” he offered.
“Stop it,” she snickered. “Not me.”
“Och, lass, dinna ye know it? Dinna men of your home appreciate how pleasing ye are to the eye?”
Good thing he had his back to her, since she went from zero to looks-like-a-lobster in no time flat. Even her eyelids stung from the flush covering her face. “I mean, I guess so,” she whispered.
“Surely your man must have found ye pleasing, or else he would not have been your man.”
“I guess,” she repeated. “I don’t think I’m anything special.”
“Ye have a way about ye which most lasses dinna—not nowadays,” he added. That was the truth. She had all of her teeth, and they were all white and clean. That alone gave her a leg up on the rest.
“What’s Flora like?” she had to ask. “Is she pretty, at least?”
He growled, the sound reverberating all through him. “She is pleasing, I suppose. Bonny in her way. Have ye ever found a person to be less pleasing the more ye knew of them?”
“Sure! If they’re mean or nasty, they might as well have warts all over their face.”
His laughter made her smile. She liked making him laugh. For all his kindness, he was a very serious person. Especially when it came to the woman he was willing to go to these lengths to avoid marrying.
“I agree with ye,” he chuckled. “As such, I dinna care much for her looks.”
“She’s pretty awful, then. I’m sorry you almost got stuck with her.”
“It will be no trouble once we arrive at the keep and I explain to Niall MacNeill the mistake my da made in not telling me of my bride-to-be,” he explained.
She didn’t want to burst his bubble, so she kept her mouth shut against her concerns. He seemed way too confident that it would be easy going. Like his word would be taken as truth, like there wouldn’t be any protests.
Was life as the son of the laird so easy? He had fought like many other men, sacrificing his life for the cause of securing freedom for his country and his people. He had to know what it meant to live like a common man.
Yet he still acted like everyone would bow and scrape the minute he made up his mind about something.
“Tell me about your father,” she suggested as they rode out of the village, hoping to change the subject to something they wouldn’t disagree on.
It was a relief to have the village behind her, to not have to avoid looks of curiosity and outright hostility. She wondered—and she would never have spoken this out loud to him, not even under penalty of death—if some of the attention had stemmed from jealousy. After all, Leith was pretty extraordinary, especially when compared to some of the men she’d seen so far. Those had been coarse, loudmouthed, filthy.
Granted, that was the way most people were in those times. Particularly people who lived in the busier villages and turned their hands to dirty trades. They weren’t much for bathing back then, either, and already Melissa felt dirty and uncomfortable after not having her morning shower.
He glanced over his shoulder, one eyebrow cocked in an expression of interest. “My father? Whatever for?”
“For one thing, we’re not supposed to be strangers. Remember? I’m supposed to know something about you, husband. Besides, I’m interested. What’s he like? What’s his name?”
“Ye are a marvel,” he murmured, shaking his head before turning his attention back to the road in front of them.
“What’s that mean?”
“I had not thought of it. Perhaps I ought to listen more to ye and listen to myself. “
“No, really?” She snickered. “I’ll hold you to that. Okay. Tell me what I should know about your family.”
“To start, my father’s name is Kirk. Kirk MacManus, son of Dougal. He’s a good man, a fine man. The sort other men look up to. The sort whose opinion men seek out. He is fair, and wise. Some lairds are not suited to the task, ye ken. Too quick to temper, to say nothing of how easily they are drawn into arguments and petty disagreement.”
Melissa could see that in Leith himself, could tell how much of his father’s goodness had been passed on to him.
“However,” he continued, and he spoke more slowly then, “he is a bit vague at times. As if he has forgotten something, only he canna remember what it is he has forgotten. He only knows something is missing or wrong.”
The pain in his voice was evident, and she winced. “I’m sorry. Has he been this way for long?”
“From what I have heard, it started with the death of my mother, but it has gotten worse over the last few winters.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know your mother had passed away.”
“She was giving birth to my sister, who also died,” he explained. There was a tightness in his words now, like this was something he didn’t enjoy talking about. She could imagine why, of course, and was close to telling him he didn’t need to say anything more. She would’ve spared him the additional pain if she could. He seemed intent on continuing, though, and it was probably for the best.
“I was barely six years of age, but I remember well. Though there are times, I must confess, when I ask myself if I remember her or simply as I wish to remember her.”
“I understand that. I feel the same way about my grandparents. They died when I was really little, and don’t know how much of what I remember is true or what I want to think is true. How much I’m remembering through a child’s eyes.”
“Aye, ‘tis the way of it. Da is sharp and clever when it comes to matters of the clan. Tis a wonder, truly, how much he can hold in his mind at once. Yet he forgot to tell me about this. My betrothment, ye ken. It simply slipped his mind for all these years. I suppose some of it had to do with my mother’s passing. He found it easier, I suppose, not to think of too many things which occurred while she was living. Ye see, he is more the sort who would rather not torment himself with such matters. He does not ponder that which he canna change and does not think of that which causes him grief. I admit, I dinna find it is easy to live that way as he does.”
No, he struck her as a thinker. It couldn’t be easy, being a thinker in a world full of men who would have rather done anything but while away their time in thought.
“What about your brother, Malcolm? Is he your only brother?”
“The only one who lived past his first year.”
She winced again. Just the thought of it made her heart heavy. His poor parents. “I’m sorry.”
“Tis common enough.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Is it not in your time?”
“Not as common. We know a lot about illness that isn’t known right now.”
“Ye might change history, lass. Ye might tell us about it now and—”
“And I’m sure any men would listen to me.” She chuckled, grim.
“Och, ‘tis true. Perhaps ye might tell me, and I might tell them.”
She shouted in laughter, and he joined her. No, this man would never have done well married to a girl like the one he described—Flora.
Melissa could hardly wait to get a look at her.
“Malcolm is a good lad. He likes reading and is keen with figures and making plans. He has hardly ever wielded a sword except in training with the other men. He must learn, of course, though he has not seen battle. I have no doubt he would avail himself well if the time were to come.”
“Does he do a lot of thinking, the way you do?”
“What gives ye cause to believe I think overmuch?”
“Not overmuch
. Just a lot. You think a lot, I can tell.”
He grumbled, clearly he didn’t see it as the compliment she had intended. “Perhaps in your time, ‘tis a fine thing for a man to think a great deal. There are men nowadays who pass their days in thought. I am not one of those men.”
She gulped, noting the tension in his back and shoulders. For a fleeting moment, she was sure he would’ve thrown her arms from around him if he could get away with it.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“Ye know all ye must know for now,” he decided, and an instant later they were veering off the winding road and into the trees. “The horse needs to water, and I must take care of nature. I suspect ye will as well.”
Her flush deepened. Like she needed him to remind her to pee. “Yeah, I do.”
“See to it that ye take care of what must be done, for we have a long road ahead.” He brought them to a stop along the banks of a stream not a hundred yards from the road. She’d heard it trickling alongside them for a while. A pleasant sound.
It looked pleasant, too. “Talk about scenic,” she whispered as she dismounted, barely noticing Leith’s hands at her waist in favor of the idyllic stream with its flower-strewn banks.
Barely. There was no ignoring his touch, even when he was annoyed with her and she didn’t have the guts to look him in the eye.
She’d hurt his pride. The passage of centuries hadn’t changed the needs of a man’s pride. If he didn’t act so dismissive, turning his back to her so he could tend to the horse, she might’ve felt sorry.
“I’ll go over here,” she said, gesturing vaguely.
Leith didn’t even turn around to see where she pointed.
Message received.
She wandered off, picking the thickest tree she could find to squat behind. How dignified. It was a wonder anybody lived through these times. Maybe she could put a bug in somebody’s ear about the beauty of sanitation.
