Historical Hearts Romance Collection

by Sophia Wilson

  He drew a steadying breath. “I love you, my Annabel. Dinnae worry for me. I’ll be back to you in time for us to breakfast together.”

  “Blane! I don’t want to lose you.” She flung her arms around him and clung.

  “You won’t.” Although he wanted to crush her to him and kiss her soft lips and so much more, he stopped himself. Those were pleasures he could look forward to once the duel was over.

  If he survived.

  If God willed it so and he did not leave the duel the victor, at least Annabel wouldn’t belong to his uncle. He would speak with Murdo to make sure she was safe, no matter the outcome.

  Blane caressed her damp cheek and patiently waited until her frantic breaths calmed down. He tilted her chin up so their eyes could meet. His love blinked up at him, all of her open to him and filled with love.

  “After the sun rises, we will see each other again.” He briefly kissed her soft lips, then her forehead.

  She sniffled and drew back. “Verra well, my lord.” Annabel wiped the tears from her cheeks with trembling hands. “But if you lose this duel and end up dead, I shall resurrect your stubborn self and kill you all over again.”

  “You have my permission to do just that,” he said with a soft laugh.

  Soon after, he left her to spend the rest of the night with his father. While the storm spat rain and the wind howled, he simply sat in the sick room and shared the silence and occasional glances with the man who’d shaped him into who he was.

  ***

  Dawn came all too soon.

  The storms drifted away long before dawn. Everyone who had been in the banquet hall flooded out to the jousting field to watch the duel. Blane sat already mounted on his horse with Murdo looking on at the crowd, a sneering look on his face. Far down the field, Duff's friends and support stood with his riderless horse, occasionally throwing worried glances at Blane.

  The day's light was still rising, flowing over the hills and through the tall trees surrounding them with an otherworldly light. Mist floated above the nearby loch. Cool air brushed the parts of Blane’s face that weren’t covered by padded cloth and chain mail, and he breathed it all in.

  Something in the air made it feel like one of the many mornings when he had ridden out with his father, sometimes to check in on the tenant farmers, or to make sure the Campbell boundaries were secure, or simply just to take a ride together and talk about things that only mattered to them.

  His heart ached for his father. His heart ached for himself.

  "Your uncle is confident," Murdo said, bringing Blane’s attentions back to the field.

  "Aye."

  Blane had seen the over-confidence himself. During the festivities, Duff hadn't taken a single sip from his mead, at least none that Blane had seen. But, walking down the hallway in the castle after leaving his father, he'd heard the sound of animal rutting through Duff's door, Duff tupping a woman who wailed and carried on as if she were being gored to death.

  The woman’s pain and pleasure-filled voice sounded alarmingly like Davina’s, but the thought disturbed Blane too much for him to dwell upon.

  Blane's horse shifted beneath him, stamped its hooves against the rain-softened earth and grass. They were both ready for this to begin, and to end.

  Blane's chest rattled with nerves, but his hands were steady on the reins. His young servant stood beside Blane’s horse holding his lance. The boy spared occasional looks toward the other side of the field, but most of his attention remained focused on Blane and on his horse. The intense look on his face said he wanted to be ready when Blane gestured for the lance.

  The sun rose higher, a slow lightening of everything around them. And Blane again breathed in the crisp and cool air to calm himself. He was aware of Annabel nearby but he could not look at her. The fear and worry on her face would only unman him.

  The steady and slow trot of horses’ hooves brought his attention to the other end of the field and the horse making its way to where Duff's own war horse stood waiting. Two riders sat on the horse, a slender young man in front and Duff, armored but with his helm off and in his hand. He slid from the horse with a rattle of armor. As soon as his feet hit the floor, he slapped the rump of the horse that had dropped him off and the beast whinnied and jolted across the grass to where a groomsman waited with other horses.

  Blane waited until his uncle climbed onto his horse and Fergus, ever the mediator, walked to the middle of the field before he signaled to the young boy for his lance. Once Duff began walking his horse toward the center, Blane did the same. The horse rocked under him, hooves loud against the grass. From somewhere in the crowd, he could hear a woman's steady cries. His mother.

  "Did either of you change your mind?" The gruff voice of Fergus sounded out loud and clear in the early morning.

  "Nay," Duff said with a sneer and a telling look thrown toward Annabel.

  Blane echoed him but kept his eyes on his uncle.

  "Verra well. Then let us get on with it." He outlined the rules that had not changed in the years since Blane’s father had fought Duff, and won.

  "I understand," Blane said as his horse shifted under him and huffed his steaming breath into the chilled air.

  Once Duff stated his own acceptance of the rules, they walked in opposite directions, lances in hand, bodies covered in chain mail and armor, visors of their helms down. Blane’s hands felt cold inside his gloves, but his nerves were steady. Whatever happened, Annabel would be taken care of and that was the most important thing.

  He slipped down the visor of his helm and readied himself.

  When the signal came, he was more than ready. He and his horse moved as one, flying toward Duff and his horse like a cannonball. Horse hooves rumbled against the wet earth. His breath huffed. Shouts and screams echoed around him. But all of his attention was focused on Duff and his horse. This man who had caused him much pain. The man who had threatened to take Annabel from him. The man who he suspected of doing so much more.

  Blane roared, and the sound boomed through his body like thunder.

  Duff raced toward him, shield up, lance out, his covered face carved into unyielding silver. They slammed together like two boulders. Pain rattled through Blane's body and his very bones shook but he grabbed his horse's reins to pull the beast backward and bared his teeth when Duff still came after him, lance at a killing angle but with his shield down.

  An animal growl left Blane's throat, and he dipped low on his horse's neck, avoiding the lance's blow then whirled in the saddle, came back to use his shield as a battering ram and slammed it into Duff's side. His uncle grunted, and his horse staggered. Roaring still, Blane swept his lance sharply around, throwing his entire body into the blow.

  Duff fell from his horse and hit the ground with a crash just as his helm flew off and rolled away. Blane jumped from his horse and ran toward his uncle who crabbed backward while reaching for his sword. The crowd's noise rose up around him, a scream. He paid these things no attention. Just as Blane grabbed his sword, Duff jumped to his feet and swung his own sword up in defense.

  "You have more in you than I thought, boy." And he lunged at Blane.

  But Blane had learned more than love and patience from his father. He’d learned to fight, and although he did not fight as dirty as some, he knew the maneuvers his uncle preferred, had watched him in battle, both practice and real, for long enough. He slashed his way into his uncle's space, grunting as their swords clanged and sparked. Duff gave as good as he got but Blane was furious and maddened. Duff backed up with each blow he could not fight off, his face going from arrogance to fury to fear.

  "Did you poison my father?" Blane shouted the question, spittle flying, his heart booming loudly in his own ears. “Did you get my mother to plot this filthy business with you?”

  Duff gave a breathless laugh. "Your father poisoned himself." He hissed the reply. "No one told him to go out riding with me that morning. He was already weak from the poison of his own stupidity if he did
not realize that."

  A body-shaking roar left Blane's throat. The sound rattled his body again and again with each slash of his sword at Duff.

  “As for your mother, she’s always belonged to me.” Duff’s remaining eye glittered with malice.

  This man had taken everything from him, and had planned to take even more. A haze of red washed over Blane's entire world. He slashed his uncle's steel again and again, beyond reason now. He was already waiting for the moment, hatred burning in his heart, when his uncle's sword slipped from his grasp and tumbled to the ground. Duff tripped over it and cursed as he landed on his back. His hands flew up and true panic crossed his face.

  "Mercy, nephew!

  But there was only one kind of mercy this man deserved. Blane raised his sword one last time and aimed the blade at his uncle's remaining eye. Duff’s scream rousted birds from the trees and sent them flying skyward.

  Blane’s chest heaved. His breath burned hot. His fury bellowed into the air.

  When he came back to himself, his uncle rolled around at his feet, blood gushing from his eye, voice hoarse from the endless screaming.

  "This is your mercy, uncle." He slid his sword back into its scabbard and raised his head.

  He nearly stumbled back when a slight body slammed into him. Annabel. She clung to him, her face pressed tight against his mailed chest. Over her head, more than half of the clan shouted and cheered.

  "Long live Blane, Laird of Edinburgh!

  At the edge of it all, his mother stood with horror etched on her features, hands pressed to her mouth. But Blane had no sympathy for her.

  He held Annabel close. "Come, my promised wife. The day awaits us and our bath is getting cold."

  THE END

  Highland Heartbeat

  ©2018 by Blair Keith

  All rights reserved. No part of this may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are a product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, events or locales is completely coincidental.

  Chapter One

  “Jean, mind the bread! You were about to knock over the tins!”

  Jean Maxwell swung around to the voice of the cook, Aggie, admonishing her. It wasn’t unusual. It seemed to Jean sometimes that she was always being told off since she had come to help in the kitchen of the great Castle.

  “Sorry, Cook,” she said, biting her lip and stepping away from the tins hastily.

  “The Lord above, you are a fey girl,” the cook said crossly. “You have to keep your mind on what you are doing, lass. There’s so much going on in here, it’s no time for daydreaming, now.”

  “Aye, I will try harder.” Jean hung her head.

  It was important that she keep the work that she had there. It had taken her mother, Brenda, a long time to get Aggie to take her on.

  Brenda had worked in the kitchens at the Castle ever since Jean could remember. She remembered her mother setting out at day break from their little cottage, for the long walk to the castle. When she arrived home, she was always dog tired. Her feet would be aching, and her eyes drooping from tiredness.

  But they had no choice. Jean’s father, Burns, was the farrier for the laird and all the horses in the castle. It didn’t pay very much. The family needed the money that Brenda provided to keep a roof over their heads and feed them.

  So when Aggie had finally been persuaded to take Jean on for odd jobs in the kitchen when she turned sixteen, the family had rejoiced. It was a bit more for them – not much, but every penny helped.

  Aggie, the cook, softened as she looked at the girl. Such a pretty lassie, with the bright red hair that was always threatening to escape from beneath her cap. And those large grey eyes, so expressive and full of sweetness.

  “You just need to concentrate, lassie,” she said now, but a grin softened her words. “Why don’t you take your break now. Only five minutes, though. I will need you to mop the pantry floors straight away when you get back. Geilis spilt some milk in there again.”

  Jean brightened. “Thank you, Cook,” she smiled. She scurried outside before Cook could change her mind and find another chore for her.

  Once outside, Jean collapsed onto a bench, taking off her right shoe and rubbing her foot.

  Another callous. It seemed they popped up overnight. Her feet had become so calloused since she started this work she could almost walk over hot coals and feel nothing. But her hands had borne the brunt of most of the heavy work.

  Jean glanced down at them, sighing inwardly.

  They had been beautiful, once. People had remarked on her hands, how thin and pale they were, and as soft as a newborn duck’s down.

  Not anymore.

  Since she had worked there, they had turned rough and ragged. Washing a thousand dishes a day would do that to anyone’s hands, she guessed. She shouldn’t be prideful. It wasn’t as if she were a lady, meant to embroider and do nothing else. No one would ever care what her hands felt like.

  But she cared. And then her mind turned to him.

  Alan, the laird’s son. She used to dream of him taking her hand and raising it to his lips, the way the noblemen did to their ladies. Slowly, he would take it, raising it ever so slightly, bending his head to it. She would feel his lips against it like the landing of a butterfly.

  She had dreamed of Alan since she had first laid eyes on him.

  When she first came to work in the kitchens, Aggie would sometimes send her to polish the balustrade on the main staircase, if her kitchen duties were done. And when she was there with her rag, he used to sometimes come, tearing up the stairs two at a time.

  She would watch him, taking off his helmet, still in his armor from jousting. He would rake his fingers through his shoulder length blonde hair as if the weight of the world were upon him.

  He never glanced her way. But she would replay the vision of him, over and over in her head, in her little hard bed in the cottage.

  Angrily, Jean shook the thought away. She was a kitchen skivvy, and would be for the rest of her life. She had no right to be dreaming of the laird’s son.

  Restless suddenly, she put her shoe back on and sought out her father in the stables.

  She saw him as she entered, bent over the hoof of a horse as always, inspecting it like it was made of gold. Her father was the best farrier in the Highlands, she knew that. Everyone said so. If anything was wrong with a horse, her father could fix it. She was very proud of him.

  “Papa!” She ran to him, not thinking of anything but being close to her beloved father.

  Burns looked up in surprise. “Ach, lassie,” he said. “What are you doing here? Old Aggie will tan your hide if she sees you out of the kitchens.”

  Jean stopped. “It’s alright, Papa, she let me have a break.”

  “Wonders will never cease,” her father replied, putting down the horse’s leg and picking up the other. “That woman is a slave driver. There’s been many a time your poor mother has come home complaining of how Aggie ran her off her feet all day. She must have a soft spot for you, lass.”

  He turned to her, smiling. “And who wouldn’t, hey? A bonnier lass has never walked the Highlands before you, Jeanie.”

  “Oh, Papa,” Jean smiled. “You are too kind to me.”

  A noise from behind startled them both.

  Jean turned her head, not believing what she was seeing.

  It was him.

  Alan, the laird’s eldest son. Walking his stead into the stables, dressed in full armor. He had taken his helmet off and carried it in the crook of his arm. His shoulder length blonde hair stuck to his head from where the helmet had made his hair sweat. His blue eyes were full of life as they looked around.

  Jean ducked behind her father, backtracking her way out of the stables. She knew another way, however, and that meant she didn’t have to walk past the laird
’s son.

  Burns looked at her, puzzled, as she waved a farewell and made her exit.

  Running swiftly, she made it back to the courtyard. She would make some excuse to her father later, about why she had to rush without saying goodbye. She was breathing heavily, leaning against the stone wall as she tried to catch her breath.

  Her father wouldn’t understand if she told him the truth. That she couldn’t be near Alan without fumbling and dropping things, blushing to the roots of her scalp. How even being within an inch of him made her feel so panicked that she thought she might faint. He would just look at her and wonder if she had gone mad. A girl like her had to remember her station in life, after all. It did no good to be day dreaming about the laird’s son.

  “Jean!”

  She swung around. Her mother, Brenda, stood there with a broom in her hand. She was frowning.

  “Where have you been? Cook is on the warpath, looking for you. She said she gave you a short break and you wondered off, as always.”

  “I was just saying hello to Papa…”

  Her mother stopped her. “Well don’t do that, Jean. You have to be mindful of how long these things take.” Brenda came up close to her. “It took a long time to get Aggie to take you on. I had to persuade her for months. We need the extra income, lassie. Your father spoils you too much. You aren’t the lady of the castle now.”

  No, thought Jean sadly, I am not. And never will be. Which is why I must stop dreaming about Alan. He will marry a fine lady one day. I am just a kitchen skivvy.

  Sighing, she took the broom from her mother.

  “I’m ready to get back to work,” she said, hanging her head as she walked back to the kitchens.

  Chapter Two