One Scottish Knight
A Medieval Novella
E. Elizabeth Watson
Copyright © 2017 by E. Elizabeth Watson.
All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be reproduced in any way without first obtaining written consent from the author. The occasional instance of cited quotations for the purpose of articles and book reviews is acceptable. Cover art by Cheeky Covers. At the time of publication, the image used to transition between paragraphs or scene changes was free for commercial use by authors in the public domain, from: http://www.pd4pic.com/line-swash-ornament-divider-writing-paragraph.html.
For inquiries or to contact the author, please visit www.eelizabethwatson.com.
Candlelight Treasury
First Edition
Books by E. Elizabeth Watson:
Prince of Lions – January, 2016
Son of Ballymead – February, 2017
One Scottish Knight – April, 2017
Coming soon:
Earl for an Archeress – July, 2017 – Entangled Select Historical
Maiden’s Defender – November, 2017 – Entangled Select Historical
www.eelizabethwatson.com
Chapter 1
Eachann stood in the shadows of the sable joists, watching. Grinding his teeth together. Clenching his hands into fists. He tried to swallow his distaste, but couldn’t turn his head away from what he witnessed now. He had no claim on Catriona Morganach. And yet, she had always been his.
No, not distaste. Revulsion. Pure heartache.
Heartache? A man of his training, a man who had seen the places he had seen, prepared for knighthood as he had been prepared, shouldn’t know such a flowery sentiment as heartache, but indeed, that was what he was feeling now.
Don’t do it, lass.
God, he wanted to pummel something as he watched Catriona with the other man, together, in the dimness of the stable. He couldn’t see her. He could only see her clenched hands on Gregor Murray’s waist.
And then Gregor lowered his lips to hers.
And then they were kissing.
Pull away, Caty.
Anguish twisted Eachann’s gut. He had to intervene. And yet, he couldn’t confront a man like Gregor who outranked him in every regard, except, mayhap, in brawn. Eachann and his brother would forever be the sons of a lowly, landless baron stripped of his title. They would always be the pair of lads abandoned when they were wee things. No matter how much he wanted to beat Gregor, he couldn’t cross that line. Could he?
And what if Catriona welcomed this attention? She, too, was of low birth, and not beholden to the rules of chastity like a noblewoman would be. Mayhap she was sweet on Gregor, in spite of the man’s philandering ways. How that was possible, Eachann couldn’t fathom. But while he might hate that she sought pleasure with someone else, she wasn’t his, even if he wished her to be. She might be displeased with the interruption, and he might ruin their lifelong friendship because of it.
Back away from him, lass. Beg your leave. Do something!
Gregor turned, pulling her into view, and pressed her back against the stable wall. Eachann tensed, this time with anger. She was rigid, her posture guarded. Her hands clenching Gregor’s waist weren’t doing so out of passion, but out of fear. She was pushing him. And yet, no doubt she struggled to tell Gregor to stop, too, considering Gregor’s rank, for his father, the laird of Drummond Castle, was Laird Murray.
Eachann’s nerves jumped. Aye, he had no choice. He must intervene.
Gregor wasn’t heeding Catriona’s prickling and bore down deeper into the kiss, cinching her about the waist, surely enjoying the conquest by the way he pressed himself against her. Ever since returning to Scotland a fortnight ago after seven long years, Eachann had noticed how the men, noble and serf alike, eyed the young midwife. Catriona was wholesome, her lips full and lush, her long, dark hair shiny, her nose pert, and her soft green eyes shaped like almonds. Aye, she had grown into a woman who stirred a man’s lust.
Eachann had always known she would be beautiful. He’d known Catriona since they were young children, and had never forgotten their friendship in all his years fostering in England.
“Come on, Catriona! I’ll help you!” Eachann shouted, laughing, as the lass ran behind him to the stream.
They reached the water and Eachann sloshed into it, turned, and snagged Catriona around the waist to lift her over and deposit her on the other side. Her sister, Beth, and his brother, Stephen, weren’t far behind. Once the children were on the opposite bank, Catriona took Beth’s hand, and the two lasses dashed ahead, goading Eachann and his brother, Stephen, to chase them.
Eachann watched her run, giving her a head start. She was only ten years old at the time, he, only eleven, and readying to leave on his twelfth anniversary to foster in the south of England. They were young, but he could already see Catriona blossoming into a fetching lass.
He picked a lavender bindweed and decided she had teased him long enough. He bolted off to catch her. Their chores were done for the day. There was time to romp before suppertime, when Eachann and Stephen would return to the cowshed they’d turned into a home, to sup alone. Easily, he chased her down, catching her hand. She giggled. He pushed the lavender blossom into her hair, over her ear. She batted at his hand, feigning offense at his flirt, but he saw her flash her happy green eyes his way.
“Ye fancy Catriona, aye?” teased Stephen as the two of them abandoned the chase, watching the lasses crest the hillock and disappear over it.
Stephen punched him in the shoulder. He punched Stephen back, and the two shared a laugh. They walked to the top of the hillock to gaze over the fields below, seeing Caty and Beth already far away, waving at them.
“Aye. I’m going to marry the lass someday,” Eachann said…
It had been so long since he’s seen her. They had grown up, and grown apart, he in southern England earning his way as a page, then a squire in a wealthy household, her, in their village. It was only a fortnight ago that he had arrived back in Scotland on his massive warhorse, fully a man, and ridden up to the Morganach bothy, now occupied by Stephen who had married Beth, and Catriona who remained unattached.
He hadn’t thought his childhood feelings ran that deep, but one look at her upon his return and it all came flooding back – his father setting him and Stephen down in a field below the MacLaren’s castle gates at the tender ages of five and three, telling them to be good lads and that he would return for them soon. For over a day, Eachann had waited for that bastard to come back, holding Stephen’s chubby toddler hand in his, ever confident that the man would return as he’d promised.
Laird MacLaren, out inspecting the stone walls surrounding his vast flocks of sheep, had found them, hungry and shivering in their dirty tunics, and had taken them in. It was then that Eachann had learned the truth: their worthless father had been a drinker, and had drunk himself into debt and disgrace. He had failed to answer the king’s summons, and had been stripped of his barony. Then he had dumped his wee sons in a field, so young and trusting, where they would be found. To where he had gone after that, no one knew, but it became clear that their father and mother didn’t want the added burden of children when they no longer had anything to their name.
Gregor shoved his lips against Catriona’s.
Eachann trembled with unchecked fury.
It should be him tangling his limbs with her, not Gregor. If only he’d had the nerve to inquire about her as the years passed by. If only his backbone on the vast, lush battlefields of England would serve him whe
n it came to women, too. He could have already secured her promise to him, which would have prevented this from happening now. But nay. He was thick with muscle, riddled with nicks from training, with a blaze of angry scar tissue streaking down his left cheek. Women didn’t find him appealing. Women found him menacing. And the way Catriona had stared at him when he had arrived home a fortnight ago, told him she found him menacing, too.
Still, Catriona was kind and reserved. Unless someone required her services, she normally kept to herself at home where she prepared herbs for medicinals. Where she cast furtive glances in his direction on the occasions that they were together and promptly looked away when he met her gaze. Which made her presence here, at Laird Murray’s hall in Crieff, concerning.
It was two hours of walking from their village in Crianlanch on the outskirts of MacLaren land where Catriona lived with her sister and Stephen, and Catriona didn’t own a horse of her own. Eachann and Catriona were now siblings through marriage. And now that Eachann had returned from England a knighted man from Lord Reginald de Lough, in spite of his meager childhood, it was Eachann’s home too. For a fortnight, he had shared a roof with Catriona, still too afraid to mention how he felt toward her. For a fortnight, the lass he had laughed so freely with as a child, watched him surreptitiously now, as if unsure what to say.
Gregor, with his dusty blond locks, his even features, his broad shoulders and confident—nay, arrogant—posture, loved women and left them. He didn’t deserve the young midwife in his clutches now. And if Eachann’s eyes told him the truth, he forced women to his will, too.
Dammit! Eachann didn’t have much time to get creative. Eachann Donnachaidh, despite being broader, an inch or two taller, and well-trained under one of England’s finest lords—and he suspected, a morsel more intelligent—would overstep his bounds if he confronted Gregor directly and told him to stand down.
Catriona turned her head. “M’laird, I, I need to return home. My sister will wonder—”
“Ah, Catriona, the village lass with such wanton lips and eyes, nay. Remain with me.” Gregor delved in for another kiss. She pulled back again. “Why so skittish, lass?” Gregor’s deep voice rumbled.
“I only thought to visit your sister, I, I never intended to—”
“Therese won’t miss you. She’s preoccupied with her handmaidens.”
“But I promised my tonic to her, I—”
Gregor peeled away the pouch of herbs hidden in Catriona’s grip, intended to brew a tea to soothe his sister’s pregnancy nausea. He slid it into his sporran.
“I’ll take it to her and have the maids brew it.”
“But, m’laird, I, such an encounter as this, now, it—”
“Hush, lass,” Gregor chuckled, placing a finger across her lips, “I take my pleasure gently. You’ll endure me well, and…” Gregor’s finger began tracing circles upon her lips, then her neck, then trailed downward, toying with the lacing of her bodice, a simple woolen garment. She jumped beneath his touch. “Ah, is the gossip true? That no man has yet to sample such goods?”
Her chest heaved up and down as she inhaled and exhaled great gulps of air. Eachann frowned. Catriona was still a virgin? This fetching peasant lass? How was such a thing possible? He didn’t like the idea of other men rutting upon her, but he was also realistic. Peasant women weren’t beholding to the strict requirements of chastity like noblewomen were. He always assumed there were others. She was beautiful. Why wouldn’t there have been lovers before him?
Before him? He nearly snorted at that. He wasn’t her lover, because he lacked a backbone and looked like a menacing beast, nay a man that stirred a woman’s interests. Women didn’t like him.
“Think of the honor, the bragging rights you would have, surrendering such a gift to me?” Gregor pressed, sliding his finger along the hem of her bodice.
The piece of shite, Eachann fumed, his jaw pumping.
“I really will be missed,” Catriona said. “I, I have to go—”
“Not until I’ve had my way, woman,” Gregor replied, and though his words were still spoken gently, they were unyielding.
Catriona trembled now. Eachann felt positively ill. He might not be a laird himself, or in line to ever be one, but Catriona was one of Laird MacLaren’s peasants, nay Laird Murray’s. Eachann couldn’t allow this rape to progress, and it was clearly turning from a tryst into a rape. Gregor ripped up his kilt to grip himself and ensure his readiness. Eachann was out of time.
Catriona tried to wrench away. Gregor chuckled, giving chase, grabbing her wrist and pulling her back to him. “I promise, Catriona, you’ll like it. Just stand there like a good lass and allow me to proceed.” His words were growing more insistent as he braced her to the wall. Eachann racked his mind. This was Caty, his sister through marriage, his childhood fancy, and everything was happening too fast.
“I’m going to marry the lass someday…”
Hell, but what was he, the son of a fallen, penniless baron stripped of his title, going to do? His honor was at stake, but he would be disciplined, mayhap irreversibly, if he attacked a nobleman. Be damned, but Catriona had been on his mind all his years in England, even if his memories had receded with time. He had thought of her often, wondering where she was or what she was doing.
God, his first vision of her a fortnight ago, after so long, had rendered him speechless. She had been a sight. Aye, lush lips as Gregor had noticed, that any warm-blooded man could imagine kissing. Aye, wanton eyes that could warm the coldest man’s interest, simply with a bat of her thick, dark lashes. A pleasantly slender body, sloping hips, breasts that, while not overly large, were plush and inviting. He might have always known she was going to be beautiful, but he still hadn’t been prepared for the image that met him on her threshold after seven years of separation.
“M’laird, I truly need to return home. My sister will be most concerned—”
“She thinks you visiting my sister, nay?” Gregor said. “She’ll never know.”
Eachann fumed, nearly giving himself away, but dammit if Gregor wouldn’t let her finish a single, bloody sentence! Gregor held Catriona against the wall, his kilt pushed aside, his cock hanging heavily between his thighs. He leaned into her, claiming another kiss from her, pressing himself against her while sliding a hand upon her thigh. He tugged her skirts up, the coarse wool sliding up her calves, her knees…
Eachann backed away, exiting outside, taking deep breaths to steady the urge to beat the shite out of Gregor’s fine face and stuff every one of his God-damned teeth down his God-damned throat. He had to order his thoughts. With composure regained, he barged back through the door so that it swung open and thwacked the wall.
He marched in, pretending to head for his mount’s stall. Gregor’s head whipped toward him.
“Sir Eachann.”
“Apologies,” Eachann said, faltering as if startled. And pretending not to see Catriona in the dimness. Her skirts fell. Blessedly. He exhaled. “Just need to gather my horse. The groom wasn’t here to do my bidding.”
“I know,” Gregor drawled. “I dismissed him.”
“Sir Donnachaidh,” Catriona addressed him, and to Eachann’s relief, Gregor didn’t restrain her now that they had an audience.
“Catriona?” He feigned confusion, though he knew his brow had furrowed and his dark eyes were casting daggers at Gregor. “What are you doing here?”
He barked out the words like the military man he was, and tried to temper them, hoping the trepidation on Catriona’s brow wasn’t directed at him. He wanted her to trust him as she once had in their youth. A quick glance at Gregor told him that the laird’s son had heard him address her informally. He cared not. Catriona was his sister through marriage. He could be more familiar if he wanted to be.
“Will you see me home?” she asked. “I shouldn’t tarry, for I’ve wasted much time already.”
Eachann stayed the smirk on his lips. But now Gregor’s jaw pumped. Wasted time? Indeed, Catriona had just insul
ted Laird Murray’s son, even if she hadn’t intended it.
“Of course,” Eachann replied. “I saddle Ghost right now, but I’ll be ready momentarily. Come.”
He held out his arm to her in welcome.
Gregor opened his mouth. “Actually, I’m nay finished with her—”
“We’re finished, aye,” Catriona interrupted, hastening to Eachann’s side.
“I can take her home, Sir Donnachaidh,” Gregor stated, making no effort now to hide his irritation.
“I live with Catriona and my brother, Stephen, who married her sister. I journey there right now myself,” Eachann replied. Sakes, how he wanted to hit Gregor’s smirking mouth and lively blue eyes. “She’s my responsibility. I’ll take her, though I thank thee for the offer. Come, lass.”
Gregor gave a resigning nod at Catriona. “Indeed. We’ll meet again, my fetching Catriona,” he added. “You may count on it.”
Eachann noticed Catriona shiver at the veiled threat in Gregor’s statement, and led the way to Ghost’s stall, seeing her into it in front of him to block her from Gregor’s glare. The stallion, a grey-white creature who he had seen foaled in England, grunted at his arrival and nuzzled his shoulder. Eachann stroked the horse’s nose.
It is my hope you will return to us someday to offer your sword arm as a guardsman, Lord de Lough had said, handing over the reins to gift Ghost to him, shaking Eachann’s wrist as he prepared his accoutrements to ride through Lough’s proud gates. I understand your Lord MacLaren has required you to repay him for financing you here, but when such service is complete, you will consider my offer to live here, at Black Hall, no?
Aye, he would consider it. He had grown fond of the Loughs in spite of their abhorred Englishness. The family was benevolent, looked after their servants and serfs, and sought peace between the lands of England and Scotland, even if such peace seemed to be becoming more and more impossible. But he was loyal to Laird MacLaren, too, for taking Stephen and him in, for giving them opportunity, and for seeing them brought up, even though neither he nor his brother were of MacLaren blood.
One Scottish Knight: A Medieval Novella (Perthshire Series) Page 1
