Adventures of a Highlander

by Emilia Ferguson

  “Yes.”

  Amabel donned the green dress, feeling oddly misplaced in the demure green design. She shifted it about, making it hang in a way that was more becoming.

  She smiled to herself. If she wasn't thinking about him, she wouldn't be feeling like that now, would she?

  After breakfast they headed to the market.

  “Come on, Glenna!” she called lightly as they walked through the rows of stalls. “Let's go! I think I can see something! Hurry.”

  “Whew, milady,” Glenna called, her hand holding her hairdo, which was in danger of coming undone. “I don't think they're going to move.”

  Amabel giggled. “No! Nor do I! But run! It's fun...”

  “Do be careful,” Glenna called out behind her as they ran across the market.

  Amabel was laughing as she ran ahead, running for the further booths with their brightly-colored fabrics. It was the silk banner that caught her eye – such fine silk was imported from Venice, she knew, where it was traded for from so far East no one she knew even spoke of the lands there. The stall must be owned by merchants who at least connected with Venice.

  In which case, they may have some masks.

  She had to hope. She ran to the stall and smiled at the man at the counter.

  “Have you masks? For a pageant?”

  A comfortable looking man with long white hair and kindly eyes that crinkled at the edges, he nodded. “I do, young mistress.”

  “May we see them?” Amabel demanded eagerly.

  “Of course, milady.” He smiled and rummaged in some boxes in the back. “Now I don't sell many of these, so I don't bring a lot with me, but for you to see, I have three sorts. Here we are...” he laid a box before her and Amabel stared in wonder.

  “That one's perfect,” she said immediately. She lifted it. It could have been made for her. Made of lace over which some sort of glue had been laid, and then layered with gold leaf, the mask was shaped like two long wing shapes, or leaf shapes – Amabel wasn't sure and wasn't really thinking about it, for the color and weave was what struck her hardest – colored shining bright gold.

  The man smiled. “That's three silver pieces, milady.”

  Amabel swallowed hard. Two silver pieces was a ridiculous sum of money, but she really did want it so badly. She looked at him. “And if I purchase two?” she asked boldly. “Will you take down the cost of each?”

  The man guffawed. “You strike a bargain, milady! Well, yes.” He nodded. “I shall give you two for half their price.”

  “Well, then,” Amabel said boldly. “You have an agreement. Glenna? Which one do you fancy?”

  Glenna stepped up to her shoulder. Amabel had the impression that she had never been offered something at a market stall before – she realized that probably she hadn't been. Certainly not something like this.

  “I'll take that one,” she said, pointing to a modest silver one of a similar design to Amabel's, only with less lace on the edges.

  “That's one silver piece,” the man commented.

  Amabel rummaged in her purse. “So, two silver pieces altogether?”

  The man grinned. “My lady, I would not dream of short-changing you. Indeed. Two silver pieces it is. Thank you!”

  Amabel handed the two coins over without comment, though it was half of all the money she had brought with her and an extravagance that it would be hard to justify later. She looked at her companion's face and knew that it was worth every cent of the purchase.

  Grinning with delight, they hurried home together.

  The rest of the afternoon passed in preparing for the ball. Amabel took a long bath and Glenna combed her hair. They sat by the fire and, when their hair was dry, they started trying on dresses. Amabel was not decided yet on which of her two blue dresses was best...one of Brussels lace or one of velvet. She tried them both on.

  “The velvet one,” Glenna insisted. “It's so lovely.”

  Amabel smiled. “Thank you, my dear. Do you really think so? I do.”

  “I do, too.”

  It matched perfectly with the mask, a blue a shade lighter than Amabel's eyes. It had a slashed front, the height of fashion, but the color was a subtle variant of the gown's own color. Amabel was pleased with it. It added to her excitement.

  “I should practice my dancing,” she commented. Glenna giggled.

  “I hope I can help you practice, milady.” She blushed. “Or I will worry that I am not ready for the evening myself.”

  “Yes! We must dance.” Amabel nodded.

  She spent the afternoon helping Glenna with dancing. It was good practice for her. Glenna proved to be a natural grace, her style flowing and effortless. Amabel was pleased.

  They were dressing before she had realized it was time.

  “I shall help you with the buttons,” she promised Glenna as her maid fastened the buttons up the back of her gown. She stepped back and looked in the mirror, delighted by the appearance.

  She grinned trying to fasten Glenna's buttons with similar dexterity that the maid had shown. It was an exercise in amusement.

  They both stood back from the mirror. The result was striking.

  Amabel wore bright blue, her long black hair curling like flames. She was a brighter, bolder version of her maid, who wore soft subtle slate and had long chestnut-brown hair that she wore in a plait. She had arranged it subtly but elegantly and Amabel had to admit she looked lovely.

  “Well, then,” she giggled. “Aren't we a pair?”

  Then they were heading downstairs to the ball. Her heart was full of excitement.

  The hall was full already when they arrived. They were early, but still it seemed the whole court was, too. The queen herself hadn't yet arrived, but the rest of the court was there and a group of court musicians played. Amabel joined in at the back, excitement and tension built as well in her.

  “Look!” she whispered to Glenna. “Doesn't everyone look so different with their masks?”

  Glenna and she giggled, noting the way masks transformed people's faces. All sorts were there – plain ones, pretty ones, grotesque and frightening ones. She tried to remember to hold hers up on its long gold-leaf encrusted stick, but she kept on thinking she would forget.

  “How am I going to dance with this thing on?”

  Glenna chuckled. “I don't know, either.”

  Amabel shrugged. “We shall have to try. Oh! I can see Lord Glendower. Let's go to join in.” She noticed an old friend of her father – he would at least be a safe place to start their adventure. She and Glenna hurried across the floor to the banquet table.

  “Milady!” the old man said. He probably knew her identity immediately, Amabel guessed, but he still made a show of not knowing. She smiled.

  “Good evening, my lord.”

  “Well! What a pair of beauties, eh?”

  Amabel smiled and Glenna looked shyly around. They stood and chatted with him a while and Amabel nibbled on some pastries at the table. Then she felt someone stand behind her. She couldn't have said what alerted her to the presence other than that she felt a strong, firm body fill the gap behind her, a warmth radiating from whoever it was. She turned.

  “My lady.” He had a low, resonant voice. Commanding, as if used to giving orders. She felt a tickle of interest in her. It couldn't be.

  It wasn't possible, but it was. “My lord.”

  She bit her lip, feeling her heart thump. Whoever this was, he was tall and lithely muscular. He was wearing a plain mask, serviceable and ordinary in brown. However, he was dressed in a rich velvet doublet, also of brown, and wool trews of exceptional quality. He moved with a grace that surprised her. Was it him?

  “If you would care to join me at the end of the table?” he said lightly. “I think we will not manage to find room on the floor unless we stake our hold on a piece of it before time.”

  Amabel chuckled. She nodded. She had attended enough balls at the court to know how one jostled for room on the dance floor. “Indeed, sir.”

>   He tensed and she guessed she must have been correct. This was the young knight she'd met earlier. How could it be?

  The Guard are essentially a rank or two above service. How is it that they attend here? Most odd. However, then, she remembered, Glenna was also here. The court followed the traditions of France, not the more sober traditions of her own country. If carnival was a time of license, then that included allowing certain of the serving orders to mix with nobility. That meant he was here.

  Amabel followed his direction and went to stand on the edge of the dance floor. She looked around with interest. The dance floor was a colorful tapestry of brocade, silk, velvet and high-gloss wool. She saw masks of all description. A lady stood out – in a dress of golden cloth, a graceful mask made by a master jeweler held over her eyes, she must be the queen. Of course she had arrived without retinue, understated and unadorned...it was a pageant and she was as anonymous as the rest. Or pretending.

  “Look there,” she whispered to the man beside her.

  He looked and nodded.

  The two of them watched, enraptured, as the small, slender and graceful form opened the dance floor. Then other couples flocked gracefully on. No one remarked on the fact that they knew, but it was clear who was who in this hall. The masks were a game, really, allowing the wearer to be more at their ease, not really because they actually were in disguise, but because it was acceptable to loosen the bonds of politesse when one was not oneself.

  “My lord?”

  “Shall we dance?”

  He took her hand and then suddenly, without warning, they were swooping onto the floor. It was a quartet – a dance for two couples – and they stood with another pair, Amabel thinking she knew the identity of the man as Lord Arnsley, duke of Westmoreland, the lady an unknown charmer.

  She was brought back to the moment from watching the others when a hand descended onto her own. She felt a tingle as his hands touched her. It was a big hand, warm and caressing.

  “My lord,” she whispered. Her voice was tight in her throat.

  “My lady?”

  “Nothing.”

  She swallowed, noting that she must be making a fool of herself. Her gestures were less fluid than they could be, her conversation forced. She was nervous of him.

  Why?

  She let him lead her through the dance, feeling her heart thump. His hand touched her more often than she would have liked – or she told herself she was affronted. In truth, she longed for feeling his warm, strong fingers against her.

  There was no call for his hand to stroke her shoulder or for his fingers to grip her wrist. However, he did so, and, when he did, it set her alight with wonder.

  I have never felt like this before.

  They were a good dancing pair, for Amabel had never felt this.

  She let herself follow his lead. She had never felt so safe with a man before, never felt that he knew her and she could lean on him, let him take control without fear of him.

  It felt as if she danced with another part of herself, as if he knew her intimately like she knew herself and he was partnered to her from a time before either were conscious of the fact they had been apart.

  I never felt so wonderful, as she thought as she whirled and took his hand again, cherishing his touch on her.

  They curtsied and bowed. He was looking at her when she lifted her gaze once more, and the look ran through her blood, thrilling her with wonder.

  “My lord,” she swallowed, saying quietly, “you dance well.”

  “My lady.” His voice was a small, surprised sound and it made her shiver. “I am surprised to hear you say it.”

  She giggled. She couldn't help herself. “Why, prithee?”

  “Well, because I'm a shocking dancer.”

  She giggled again. “Well, whoever told you that had not the advantage of your current level of expertise,” she said. “I can only imagine you've learned more recently.”

  “Yes?” he asked. There was a smile lifting the corner of his lips and Amabel felt a touch of excitement.

  She bit her lip, trying to judge if she should say more. “Well, I have reason to wonder if you haven't lately transferred to court,” she said. “Perhaps from some place beyond the Capital? Some distant landholding?”

  She saw his jaw relax. He looked at her, eyes staring through the mask in evident surprise. “What, milady?”

  She giggled. “I think I can guess a lot about you,” she said.

  She saw his eyes flash. He was interested. She felt her heart flutter in her chest. “Indeed?”

  She nodded. Bit her lip again, making a show of it, studying him. “Mm. I think you are a very interesting fellow, under that mask,” she commented. Her voice was teasing and she knew it. She felt the muscle of his arm tense and realized that they were still standing with her hand on his arm, as they did when dancing.

  Amabel blushed and withdrew her hand. He coughed. “My lady,” he said awkwardly.

  She smiled, a quirked grin. “Yes, sir?”

  She saw him grin. He knew that she knew who he was. He looked startled, then chuckled.

  “Well,” he said. “I think I can guess aught of you, too,” he said.

  Amabel frowned. “Pray guess,” she said.

  “Well,” he put his head on one side and she heard his voice go taut with emotion. “I think you are a lady of adventure. A woman who sets her mind on freedom. A bold and courageous spirit. I think I would find much to discuss with you.”

  Amabel stared at him. Uncalled, a tear trickled down her cheek. She cuffed it away carelessly. How could he have seen so much about her? His assessment of her character was more correct than anyone in her family would likely make. He knew her better than anyone she'd ever met. Yet they had only just spoken to each other. How was that possible?

  She cleared her throat, voice tense with emotion.

  “My lady?” he said gently. “I meant no ill will.”

  She coughed. “None was taken, my lord.” she sniffed. Abruptly, she felt his hand on her shoulder. He looked around surreptitiously. “My lady, come. You should take some refreshment and fresh air...”

  Amabel sniffed. “I'm well, my lord.”

  He shook his head. His hand heavy on her shoulder, he led her to the door. Here, they were standing behind everyone. He looked into her eyes.

  “Milady,” he said gently. “Why the tears?”

  She sniffed. “I'm not crying.”

  He smiled, tender and amused. “No. Of course.”

  She bridled at his tone and she knew he saw her eyes flash, because his smile deepened. “Sir,” she said, tightly.

  He put his hand on her shoulder. “Your identity is secret with me,” he smiled.

  “Sir?”

  She watched him as, very carefully, he lowered his mask.

  “I can show myself to you,” he said and his voice was very grave. “Here, where you know me so well already, all my masks are off.”

  Amabel swallowed hard. “I reveal myself to you,” she said in a voice thick with unshed tears, “though I think you know me now. Better than any before.”

  She lowered the mask as he had. She looked into his eyes.

  It felt as if a door opened in her mind that was too long closed as she felt his stare into her eyes. She shivered. He was so familiar to her, so well-known, though she had met him only a day ago.

  “I am pleased to meet you again,” she said in a low voice.

  He smiled. “I'm not sure if you can call our first meeting that.”

  “It was,” Amabel contradicted. “I think we saw much of each other in that moment.”

  “You saw my bad manners,” he countered, a smile playing over his mouth. She shivered at the warmth in his eyes, their lingering possessive look.

  “How observant,” she teased. “Yes, your manners appalled me, milord. Yourself, not.”

  He guffawed. “Your honesty is charming.”

  She raised a brow. “My honesty is candid.”

  He
nodded. “I know you don't intend to charm, milady. You do it heedlessly.”

  She smiled. “Now you flatter me.”

  “I may have no manners, but apparently I flatter.” Somehow, he seemed angry. His brow lowered. He put his hands on her shoulders and drew her close. “I do no flattery, milady. It is true. You enrapture me.”

  She blinked. “You misunderstood, sir,” she said quietly. She felt her heart thud in her chest, something akin to fear playing through it.

  “Mayhap I did,” he said quietly. “But I wish you to know I would not lie to you. Can you trust me?”

  Amabel frowned. She had only just met him. He was requesting much. Nevertheless, she did indeed.

  “You lowered your mask, sir,” she said as answer. He smiled.

  “With you, there are no masks. I like that. I would not presume to fool you.”

  “So I trust you.”

  “Yes.”

  He rested his hand on her shoulder and together they walked to the door to the terrace beyond. For now, it was closed. There was a recess there, however, and a shadow. She stood in it, feeling her heart thump.

  “Sir,” she whispered. “I think we should go back.”

  “Why, milady?” he asked urgently.

  She frowned. “Because it isn't proper.”

  He smiled. “I think you are one who makes rules, not a follower, milady.”

  She bridled. “I follow no man,” she said stiffly. “But I'm not improper.”

  He chuckled. “No. You're a lady.”

  “Indeed.”

  “An irresistible lady. One who makes her own rules. But a lady nonetheless.”

  “Not in spite of. Because of.” She chuckled. “Ladies make the rules.”

  He really laughed there. She saw his brown eyes dance with mirth, full lips slightly damp as he smiled at her. It ignited her heart.

  “My lady, you're right.”

  “I know I am.”

  He chuckled. “How is it I have ne'er before met you?”

  “That is because you've never before attended court,” she said simply.

  He laughed. “You are certain of't?”

  “Of course.”

  “How?”

  “Your manners?” she said candidly. He roared.