One Scottish Knight: A Medieval Novella (Perthshire Series)

by E. Elizabeth Watson

  Would Gregor try to corner her again? After she had journeyed as far as she had on foot simply to give Laird Murray’s daughter herbs for a tonic? What a bastard. Catriona Morganach should be his, nay Gregor’s. Gregor would tryst with her and turn her out. Aye, if there was one thing Eachann’s worthless parents had taught him, it was to take care his responsibilities, and he would most certainly take responsibility for Catriona if he were lucky enough to take her virginity.

  He returned Gregor’s gaze. Thankfully, his anger was in check and he remained impassive, though just the unwavering stare was challenge enough. Gregor finally looked away as a serving wench passed by. He snagged her around the waist, pulling her down to sit upon his knee. She basked in his favor, smiling, laughing, allowing him to flirt with her while discussions continued and men ate and drank.

  Defensiveness clouded Eachann’s good sense. Thank God Caty was free of Gregor. That the man could attempt to swive Catriona hours before in a stable, and then pull this wench upon his lap now, told him how easily he would have discarded her. Better Gregor bed the wench teasing him now, for judging by the way the woman sprawled herself across Gregor’s chest and shoulders, she had done so before already.

  “…and yet, with Eachann Donnachaidh just returned from England, I feel that such a negotiation is a fair trade,” he heard his laird state. Damn, but his mind had wandered. Laird MacLaren, a man with thick-set shoulders in spite of his age, and a heavy beard woven with grey whiskers, looked to him and flicked his finger. “Come forth, Sir Eachann!”

  Eachann stood and lumbered out from between the men to stand beneath his laird.

  “You’re just returned from England, nay?” their host, the aging but formidable Laird Murray, addressed him as Laird MacLaren looked on.

  “Indeed, sir. A fortnight ago I arrived home after seven years in service to Lord Reginald de Lough.”

  Eachann heard a man snort at his pronunciation of “lord.” He glanced over his shoulder. No one’s face showed any guilt, but he suspected from the sound that it had been Gregor.

  “And I hear you’ve become quite the swordsman. And knighted, only aged nine and ten,” Murray continued.

  Eachann nodded. Aye, he was still that young, even though he tended to forget with how hard life had been.

  “I work hard, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Aye, you have worked hard, considering your father’s disgrace—” Sakes, but such a reminder, in front of the entire hall now hushing to hear their exchange, angered him. “Laird MacLaren suggests that you train my foot soldiers alongside his, in exchange for grain and coin. What say you?”

  “Coin for whom?” Eachann asked.

  “Indeed, he learned shrewd business from his foster family, aye?” Laird Murray remarked to his peers upon the dais. They chuckled. “Your laird would receive the coin, to share with you at his leisure, and so would the grain be received by him, to distribute as he pleases, for which I assume would benefit you all. You will come here to train my men, and your room and board will be compensated.”

  Wonderful. I can sleep in the cramped, stinking barracks.

  “A private chamber here,” Laird Murray added, as if reading his mind. “In case you bring a wife with you.”

  Eachann crinkled his brow, and now, his laird, Laird MacLaren, chuckled. “It won’t be long, Sir Eachann, before a woman wrangles you to the altar. You’ve overcome much and are skilled, attributes a woman likes in her man. I’ve a prospect in mind already. A lady-born prospect.”

  Lady-born? That was indeed an elevation from his impoverished stature, and a remark his laird clearly wanted to impress upon him. Such was an uncommon arrangement. Sons of penniless, disinherited nobles never ventured to marry a noblewoman. And yet, he felt no enticement. He wanted Catriona, peasant-born and bred.

  “With all due respect, my laird, I’d rather have coin for my labors over an arranged marriage.”

  Eachann’s remark was met with a rumbling of chuckles around the hall.

  “I suppose I can see your salary increased an increment. But keep in mind, by doing this, I will consider your debt to me repaid in two years’ time for arranging your fostering.”

  Such was a good plan. Two years of double work, plus private quarters in the castle, nay the barracks, when visiting Drummond Castle, wasn’t bad compensation. And he would be assisting his laird in a trade agreement, acquiring necessary grain to feed MacLaren’s castle and villagers, helping the very commoners who had helped him. True, they farmed barley and wheat on MacLaren land, but what they couldn’t produce on their own, the laird bartered trade agreements.

  “All right. I agree,” he said, giving a nod. Laird MacLaren smiled approvingly and a toast was raised.

  Hours had passed when Eachann excused himself from his men to seek a place to piss. He wandered out into the nighttime. The castle ward was quiet. Blessedly, the rain had stopped, though little good it did him considering his clothes were still wet. Still, he took a stroll, rolling out his shoulders and inhaling. The air out here was clean of torch smoke and devoid of the foul odors of so many unwashed male bodies.

  Eventually, as his stress eased, he wandered to the barracks beside the stable and flipped aside his kilt, releasing his water from the several tankards he had consumed throughout the evening, when he noticed around the corner of the barracks, a figure striding silently across the yard. He wrung the rest of his piss off and let his kilt fall, leaning out to see the shape disappear into the stables.

  His skin prickled, the same intuition that warned him of danger, warning him now. He glanced around, over his shoulder, determining who might be watching him. The guards on the walls were strolling lazily, and no one seemed to be concerning themselves with the inner yards. He set off across the grounds, arriving at the door to the stable. It sat ajar.

  “Which mount do you prefer, m’laird?” the groom, a lad of four and ten years, was asking.

  “My destrier will do nicely,” Gregor Murray replied. “’Tis only a short ride to where I’m going, but I need a horse with stamina.”

  “As you wish it, sire,” replied the groom, and the rustling sound told Gregor that he had hastened to the stalls.

  Chapter 4

  Eachann’s blood pounded. What the hell is Gregor up to now?

  He waited patiently in the shadow, listening.

  “All finished, m’laird,” said the groom.

  No word of thanks or acknowledgment passed Gregor’s lips. He ventured out into the night at a trot, heading for the main gates. Eachann stepped back further into a shadow, glancing around to see if anyone had noticed him spying on Gregor. But the bailey was quiet, soldiers patrolling the parapet were still strolling slowly, unconcerned. Eachann returned to the keep. The hall was dispersing of men, soldiers returning to the barracks to sleep, a few lucky sods slinking off into darkened corridor niches with a maid in their grasp.

  Laird MacLaren was still upon the dais, in low discussions with Laird Murray. He approached his laird.

  “Permission to speak with you, my laird?” he said.

  Laird MacLaren glanced down at him. “Of course, Eachann. What be on your mind?”

  “I’d like to return home for the eve and sleep on my own pallet.”

  Pallet. A jest. The hard floor was more like it. Until he moved himself to the barracks.

  The laird scrutinized him. “Is something that matter?”

  Eachann knew his face was tight. He tried to relax it, but Gregor was up to no good. He could sense it in the way the man had departed, and the inexplicable urge to get to Catriona was intensifying.

  “In sooth, sir,” he bowed his head. “I traveled far a fortnight ago, and now I travel here with no chance to recuperate. I wish to regain my humors and find it impossible in a barrack of farting men on a hard cot.”

  “So you would rather rest upon a barrack cot at home instead?” said Laird MacLaren, referencing their home castle and lifting a bushy eyebrow.

  “My laird,�
� Eachann said. “I’ve been staying at the former Morganach cottage in the village, with my brother who married Beth. As you know, it’s been years since my brother and I have been in each other’s company…” Saying sentimental things wouldn’t garner him any respect, but he let the implication linger. “Stephen’s my wee brother, sir, and it’s been seven years.”

  Laird MacLaren smoothed his beard, thinking.

  “I suppose, man, I’ve thrust you right back into work upon your arrival home. I didn’t realize you weren’t staying in the barracks. But I remember that the Morganachs kept watch over you and your brother when you were bairns. I suppose your friendship with the peasants is a deep one.”

  “I’ve indulged myself in familial company. I was hoping for some more time with them, and consider my obligation here done for this clan gathering.”

  “True,” Laird Murray interjected to his peer. “There’s nothing more to be discussed that would concern him.”

  Laird MacLaren thought, then his eyes reconnected with Eachann’s. “I suppose, you and Stephen never had anyone but each other growing up. I remember your abandonment. I remember your faither’s disgrace.”

  Eachann swallowed. Damn their bastard father and spineless mother for thrusting their shame upon him and his brother. Stephen and he wouldn’t have minded being poor. They were cast into poverty when their parents abandoned them anyway. His brother and he would have been content with their parents, even if losing the barony had meant they would be raised in coarse wool. ’Twould have been better than growing up unwanted, working their fingers to the bone at such tender ages. If Eachann should ever be blessed with fatherhood, he couldn’t imagine casting out his seed.

  My seed.

  If the fates were kind, he would work up the nerve to talk to Catriona and apologize for his rude behavior that afternoon. If he were wise, he would work up the courage to ask her if she would welcome his attention. And after seeing Gregor leave moments before, his uneasiness continued to burgeon. It would only be assuaged by getting home and ensuring that whatever exploit Gregor pursued, it didn’t involve Caty. He felt the need to be there, in case Gregor was planning to make good on his promise—more like a threat.

  He glanced to Laird Murray. Did the man know what his son was capable of? Did he care? The laird seemed like an upstanding man, but Eachann didn’t know him well enough yet, even if it had only taken him a short time to figure out his son.

  Still. Eachann was about to work for Murray now, training his men. And as no one seemed to be able to let Eachann forget, he was the son of a fallen, low-ranking noble, raised as a serf. Would the Murray take kindly to him bringing a complaint against his son? It wasn’t his place, and he had worked so hard to elevate himself out of impoverishment, as had Stephen. He didn’t want to risk everything he had accomplished, only to be dealt these lairds’ disdain.

  But if Gregor goes to Catriona right now, you’ll never forgive yourself for not being there to toss his arse on the ground and give him a fine bell-ringing. If he touches her again, all bets are off.

  He knew he needed to leave, and he knew he couldn’t depart for the night without his laird’s permission. He had already taken a risk that afternoon. If he was needed, but no one knew he had left, he would be disciplined.

  “I suppose, aye, you may go.”

  He hadn’t realized how lost in thought he was until Laird MacLaren’s permission brought him back to the moment.

  “My thanks to you, sire.”

  “But after tonight, I request you move into the barracks, where you oughts be with your men.”

  Eachann nodded. “I will, sir.” Aye, because you blurted out to Caty that you were in the mood to rut upon her, then took out your frustration on the rushes in the cowshed.

  Damn, but he was a blundering fool around the fairer sex. But just remembering how his body had reacted to seeing Caty’s virgin breasts made his cock give a warning stir even now. She had been so bonny, so soft and unspoiled, in that tiny slice of time.

  He strode into the night again and made his way to the stable with purpose. The groom, dozing on a bale of hay, sprang to his feet. “Can I help, Sir Eachann?”

  “Nay lad, get back abed. I return to the comforts of home and a warm hearth for night and will saddle Ghost on my own.”

  “It’s no trouble,” the lad replied, but Eachann cut him off with a raised hand.

  “Nay. You’re tired. I’m nay nobility, lad. No need to roll a carpet out for me,” he jested.

  The groom smiled. “My thanks, sir.”

  Eachann tried to move nonchalantly as the lad flopped back down on his bedding. If he hurried, it might look as if he had a reason other than his given excuse. Though it wasn’t long before he led his white destrier out into the yard, closed the stable door, and mounting up to ride into the inky nighttime.

  Catriona sat by the hearth, her bare feet tucked beneath her, warming herself. She pulled the darning needle. Her basket of mending was accumulating, and with so many people needing her care, she was well behind. Her stockings had torn today when Gregor had cornered her, and she only had two pairs.

  The hour was so late, but her mind wouldn’t rest. What Gregor had done scared her. What if he did such again the next time she went to visit his sister, Therese, who was having a difficult time with her pregnancy sickness? She couldn’t fathom it. And yet, as she sat by the firelight, warm and dry, all she could think about was Eachann and the vision of his brute masculinity in the stable.

  It had been raw, unbridled, and had left her so flustered for the remainder of the day. She hadn’t been able to eat due to the butterflies in her belly. His scar was menacing, and no doubt, men were intimidated by the sight of him, his sable hair, dark, assessing eyes, and muscle yoking his shoulder and encasing his arms in bulk.

  But scars and hair aside, she couldn’t shake the sight of him, his manhood in hand, his solid thighs tight as he braced himself to the wall. Shocked, she had been unable to peel her eyes away. And yet, as he had rutted his fist, the task had seemed more pained than pleasured, more hostile than enjoyable. He had said he would bed her if he stayed, and clearly not bedding her had frustrated him further. Where had his sudden agitation come from? They had ridden home quite companionably before that. Still, he had been respectful enough to take his leave, to sate himself where he thought he would shield her from his beastliness. Such was an act of kindness.

  She shifted her position, feeling warmth for him flood her limbs and settle in her womb. She had felt such restlessness for the remainder of the day, so much more intensely than she had before when she imagined him sliding beneath her blankets. Ah, but she would imagine him tonight like always, but this time, she would envision him as he had been in the stable, and sleep would elude her. She had always wondered what had become of Eachann as she watched her wee sister of only six and ten years marry his brother, who was only seven and ten. She had never expected to remain unmarried longer than her younger sister, nor had she imagined Eachann, a year her senior, to return to Laird MacLaren unmarried, even if she had hoped he would.

  She had just started her first womanly courses the year he departed. She had still been too young to understand what it meant to love a man, even if she was beginning to have that fluttering feeling each time she looked at him. He was still a lad in most regards and she, an early bloomer into a womanhood. But he had been starting to fill out, his muscles taking on the shape of a young man of green years from the gangly, awkward limbs of a child. Time had been so good to him. And now, she knew without a doubt, that he fancied her, too.

  “What would his kiss be like?” she thought on a whisper, for her sister and Stephen slept.

  Would Eachann be warm on the tongue? Gentle? Or would he be coarse and demanding? True, she was untouched herself, but she had still been kissed before.

  And then, Stephen and Beth shifted on the pallet, the sound of gentle creaking becoming soft and steady. She froze. They were making love.

  They w
ere always so quiet, and she knew it was because they needed privacy they couldn’t get. Catriona held her breath, waiting for the moment to pass. Finally, it did, and they seemed to be back asleep. Ah, but she was the older sister. Their roles should be reversed, and they weren’t.

  She heard horse hooves trot up outside. The shutters were drawn closed and barred to keep out the damp chill. Her heart skipped happily. Mayhap the gathering at the Murrays in Crieff ended early and Eachann is home! She jumped up, hoping to see him, hoping that if she gave him a warm smile and a welcoming greeting, she would make clear to him that he hadn’t offended her earlier, for she sensed he had worried about how she had perceived his reaction beneath his kilt before he departed. The way his face had bloomed red with embarrassment and the gruffness of his departure told her he was upset with himself.

  Knocking sounded on the door. At first, she crinkled her brow. Eachann would enter on his own. And then, she realized the bar was already across the door. She moved to open it when the knocking came again.

  Stephen stirred, rose from bed, and hopped his way into a pair of trews.

  “Who is it at this hour?” he said, his voice scratchy from lack of use as he pushed his way through his curtain, shirtless.

  “I think it’s Eachann,” Catriona replied.

  She slipped aside the bar and pulled back the door. Gregor Murray stood at the threshold, his forearm propped over his head on the frame. He looked distraught.

  “It’s Therese,” he said. “Ride with me and we’ll cover the ground quickly back to Crieff.”

  Wary prickles spiked up Catriona’s arms. “What are her behaviors? Of what does she complain?” she asked.

  “Cramping. She continues to double over, holding her belly. She cries.”

  “You best go, Catriona,” Stephen said, grabbing her mantle for her.

  Catriona stood rooted. What if this was a ploy to get her alone? To finish what he had started? True, Gregor looked unnerved, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t pretending. She shivered.