And Then He Loved Me (A Highlander Novella Book 1)

by Rebecca Ruger

  Isla’s hands fell on top of the one circling her middle, her fingers clenching tightly.

  “Have you never been on a horse, lass?”

  She only shook her head.

  Poor Isla Gordon. Too many firsts today.

  James kept the horse just to a walk, and pressed himself against her back, to offer a sense of security. After a few minutes, she relaxed against him.

  Chapter 5

  James Cameron brought the destrier to a halt directly in front of her cottage. Isla had recovered, as much as one could when still within fifteen minutes of having seen four men gruesomely cut down because of her. She’d stopped shaking, at least.

  When he didn’t move behind her, she thought maybe it was because she still gripped his arm so fiercely. Slowly, she moved her hands, lifted them away. The arm slid away from her middle, the solid wall of warmth and safety disappeared as well as he dismounted. Isla looked down at him, this man she’d met only twenty-four hours before, who’d since then had annoyed and bedeviled and angered her, and who had just saved her life, she imagined. When he reached up those large and capable hands to her, she went instinctively into them, leaning down so that he swept her off the steed and set her on her feet before him.

  Once again, her arms held him, her fingers on his forearms, while his hands remained on her waist. He was everything that was warm and safe. “I feel ... I do no feel myself.”

  “Aye, that is normal, lass. Shock, it is.”

  “It’s jittery and rumbling.”

  He nodded. “And it will pass.”

  Isla lifted her eyes to his. “You saved me.”

  “Aye, I did, but hollering and running was a good start, lass.”

  She still felt feathery, light, not bound by gravity. She looked down at her fingers, dirtied from her foraging earlier, set into the tan linen of his tunic on his forearms. Experimentally, she tightened them, wanting just once more to feel how solid he was. She bit her lip and closed her eyes. It will pass, he’d said. She waited to feel herself settle, waited for his strength to permeate her with some sense of peace. When she opened her eyes and tilted her head back to regard him, he lowered his head.

  Isla stiffened as his lips touched hers, whisper soft, hovering, awaiting her reaction. She did not move, not quite sure if she were afraid he would stop or afraid he might continue. Her eyes drifted closed. The hands at her hips pulled her nearer, and his mouth covered hers fully. A squeak escaped her, some rougher sound answered from within him. His lips were warm and impossibly smooth, moving against hers. What little steadiness she’d managed to regain dissolved under the gentleness of his kiss. But he held her, bent her over the arm around her back. Isla clung to him, found herself trying to kiss him back, having no idea how to go about it other than to imitate his movements. She startled when he licked her lips, startled more realizing the shudder he’d evoked was not of revulsion, not at all. Isla pushed her tongue back at him. Some larger, wild growl rumbled inside him as their tongues met and danced. Gooseflesh raised on her arms. Legs that hadn’t quite returned from liquid form threatened to give way again. Isla did not—could not—think; all she knew was heat and skin, and strong lips and a coaxing tongue, solid wall of a chest, and something twirling in her belly and below.

  Thought never came, only a sound that wasn’t of their lips or tongues or bodies. James lifted his head, took his lips away from her. His fingers bit into her hips, as if no fabric were between them. Their faces were close still, the tightening of his jaw and the twitching of his cheek was all she saw.

  “No,” she moaned. Don’t let me go.

  He backed away, loosened his fingers. Finally let her go, kept hold of her only with his eyes. “Edine comes.”

  Edine. The healer. Wherever he had taken her with his kiss, they were no longer there, they were returned to Wolvesley now; she was no longer afloat, was aware of her limbs again. Isla nodded, pulled her cloak about her, turned to see the familiar wobbly old cart, possibly as old as the woman who drove it, coming down the lane from the castle.

  In the next minute, the cart had stopped next to James and Isla, just outside her cottage. If the little bent woman were surprised to see the chief’s son down in the village with the peasant, Isla, or if she’d actually witnessed him kissing her, she gave no indication.

  James stepped away from Isla, assisting the ancient Edine from her perch atop the wheeled cart behind a palfrey who looked in desperate need of a good meal. When Edine stood before them, bent as always into the shape of a long bow, she stood not quite as high as Isla’s shoulder. Perhaps her hair had once been a gorgeous auburn, or maybe Isla had always only imagined that would be the color most suited to her remarkable eyes, green as the newest grass in spring. But the hair was gray, and untidy, stringy; the eyes, despite the glorious color, were sunken and shriveled.

  “Saw yer da, sir,” Edine said to James. “He’ll no get better, but he’s no worse now.”

  Isla threw a glance at James. Edine’s candid manner was certainly off-putting, mostly when discussing so fragile a thing as life, and so tragic a thing as death. James’s jaw clenched again but he only nodded in acceptance of this news. His gaze found Isla again.

  “I will check on you on the morrow,” he said.

  Isla shook her head. Rational thought was indeed returning.

  “I will,” he insisted and left Isla to follow Edine into the Gordon cottage.

  The sunshine and crisp but clean air were left outside as Isla followed the crooked little woman inside. Edine seemed unperturbed by either the dimness, so dark as to suggest evening, or the smell, so foul as to suggest death.

  Yet, Isla heard her father’s raspy speech as he reacted the healer’s coming.

  From just inside the door, Isla let Edine observe and question her father while she closed the door and leaned against it. She pressed her hand to her belly, reviewing the events of the morning. Dear Lord, she’d been assaulted and then kissed, both firsts, both within the last half hour. She reached her hand up to her lips, pressing her fingers softly against them, but found no discernable change though they’d been party to so amazing an occurrence only minutes ago. Isla bent her head, wondering if James Cameron, too, now reflected on that kiss.

  Edine’s voice pulled her out of her reverie. Isla raised guilty eyes to the woman, who stood now facing Isla, her arms akimbo as if she waited a response.

  “What?”

  “The blood, lass. How long ‘as the blood been coming?”

  The blood? Oh, that her father had been coughing up. Isla shook herself and pushed away from the door. “It started only two days ago.”

  Edine nodded and pivoted to glance down again at Randall Gordon, who lay on his back, much as Isla had left him, with all the pillows of this small house under his head.

  “Aye, that’ll take him off then,” Edine said, with no attempt to hide this grave news from the patient. “Won’t be long now.”

  To have this confirmed by Edine softened Isla and racked her once again with guilt. But the guilt was short-lived, tempered by the harsh reality of her sire’s role in her life. He’d never been more than a frightening figure inside these walls, blustering and occasionally violent, having never shown love to either of his children. Isla had decided some time ago the guilt was essentially regret, for having been born into this circumstance, with this man, and not actually a father who gave and received love, who was kind and brave and honest. And worthy.

  Edine had laid several of the small leather purses at her waist onto the lone table in the room, loosening the drawstrings so that the squares of leather lie flat and open, showing several different herbs and roots and seeds. She plucked nips from each offering, set them onto the wooden surface of the table and told Isla, “Grind it up, girl. Mix it with ale or such and give it several times a day. Will make the passing easier.”

  Isla nodded, her eyes locked on her father, who stared back at her, seemingly coherent and...not miserable. Just drained. Maybe the sadness
hinted in his gaze was only him wondering if she would offer him even this slight relief.

  “What will ye do after, girl?” Edine wanted to know then, closing each satchel, tying them onto her belt, where hung many fist sized purses of medicines.

  Isla considered this, “I’d thought to hold on here until Gavin might take over the lease.” She blew out a weary sigh. “I’ve been advised this is unlikely to come to fruition. They’re insisting Gavin become a soldier.”

  “Ye canna manage the sowing and reaping by yerself,” Edine told Isla what she already knew. “Ye can wed.” A gruff bark of laughter from Edine followed Isla’s rolling of her eyes. She looked at Edine and shrugged. She hadn’t a clue but wondered suddenly about Edine’s interest. They’d been friendly, since Isla had chased her up to the castle yard almost a year ago when her father had broken his leg, but not much more. Edine’s regular visits since then were mostly brief and succinct, and never strayed away from the patient.

  “I can teach ye the healing,” Edine surprised her by saying.

  “But wouldn’t that...compete with you? Interfere with your livelihood?” Her initial thought was the lure of the independence of it; Isla knew well that Edine did as she pleased, went where she pleased, and answered to no one.

  Edine let out her own sigh, and said with her usual frankness, “I’ll be following yer da and the Cameron chief, girl. I’ve no too long myself.” She ignored Isla’s genuine shocked and sad expression. “Wolvesley needs a healer, everywhere does.” And without waiting an actual response, or acceptance of her offer, she said as she neared the door, “Ye ken where I be in the forest. Come when yer da’s gone. We haven’t much time and much to do.”

  Isla’s nod was unheard, and her quiet, “Thank you, Edine,” was given after the old woman had left the cottage.

  “There ye be, then,” said her father, his voice belonging to someone much older. When Isla faced him, he added, “Yer life all set then.” He coughed a bit and slumped yet more.

  Isla found the stack of linens she’d cut purposefully for his sickness, pulled a thin one from the top of the pile and sat next to her father, handing him the strip.

  “Are you afraid of dying?” She wondered.

  For once, he didn’t bark at her, seemed only to consider the question, even favored her with a thoughtful look. Finally, he shook his head. “I never much liked livin’. Figure I deserve what’s comin’.

  After a few minutes, “But father, why did you not like living?”

  “Seems I canna recall.” This was followed by a self-derisive snort and more coughing.

  Isla wondered if she had ever had a decent and kind conversation with him. Ever. “I’m sorry it has to be so awful for you,” was all she could afford him just now.

  Randall Gordon stared at his daughter. “Ye deserved better, and dinna I ken it. Yer brother, too. Suppose I’ll pay for that as well.”

  This begged the question, “Was there something worse than no loving your children?”

  “Guess ye think no.”

  “Gavin will become a soldier,” Isla told him.

  He nodded, resting his head back on the mound of pillows. His tunic, old and frayed in so many places, was spotted with dribble and blood at the chest.

  He tried to breathe deeply, slowly, so as not to bring the cough. “Aye, he’ll die young then, get back to yer mam. She’d like that.” Everything about him was twisted—his hair, knotted tufts upon his head; his logic, thinking he knew that the worst would be reality; his love, if there ever been any, for anyone.

  “Do you want the priest, Father?” Isla asked as she rose from his bedside, watched him shake his head again. That was too bad; there was something peaceful, if sorrowful, in watching the priest from the castle, in surplice and stole, atop the slow donkey, make his way down through the village. Usually, he was preceded by a lad, his personal servant, carrying a softly glowing lantern, and ringing a bell repeatedly, in precise slow intervals. Isla had seen this too many times, had watched from the lone window of their cottage, beckoned by the chime of the lad’s bell, wondering for whom he called. The priest would carry the blessed sacrament and offer prayers. If her father had allowed it today, other persons of the village would gather at their windows, would watch the cleric stop in front of the Gordon dwelling. Would they rejoice? Would they care?

  “Rest now, da. I’ll be near.”

  Chapter 6

  “You’re young yet, lad, and will need more strength before you can handle the longsword with ease,” James instructed Gavin. The lad needed extra help to get him caught up to the other lads his age, so far ahead of him in terms of skill, as they’d been training on and off for years if they were some of Wolvesley’s own.

  Gavin was an eager and earnest student, standing now with his arms folded over his chest, while he soaked up every word and studied every movement, always with that piercing but angry mien about him.

  James showed him how he held the longsword with his right hand gripping the pommel, the end of the handle. The pommel of his practice sword was wrapped in good leather. “Now this will take some time, to wield it efficiently with only one hand, and only upon the pommel.” He pointed at Gavin’s new belt, indicating he should draw his own sword. “You will start with two hands, one on the pommel and the other hand above it, under the cross.” James demonstrated, squeezing both hands around the sword handle. He watched Gavin copy this and pointed to the cross bar at the bottom of the blade. “’Tis the guard, or the cross. Now while you’re learning, you put your thumb like this,” he said, and moved the thumb of Gavin’s topmost hand up and over the cross and flat against the blade. “And there you have it. Solid, steady grip, and the thumb allows you to learn how to direct it.” James pointed a teaching finger at him. “Two hands, all the time, until you master the weight and length of it.” James then expertly turned his own longsword around and around, one handed, using only his thumb and fingers. He gave Gavin a cocksure smirk.

  Gavin’s auburn brows lifted, his mouth formed an O.

  Spying a person running toward the practice field, James stabbed the blade into the ground while he squinted at the distant figure.

  Gavin’s gaze had followed James’s. “It’s me damn sister.”

  This jerked James’s dark frown onto Gavin. He poked him in the chest. “You respect your sister. Always.” James’s eyes spun back to Isla, his chest tightening as it dawned on him that this was eerily similar to the scene he’d come upon two days ago, Isla Gordon dashing along the trail, chased by four English soldiers. James wasted no time but leapt into the saddle of the nearest horse and raced toward Isla, for the second time in three days.

  When he was near enough that she recognized the coming rider was him, she stopped, placed a hand over her chest while white air puffed out of her mouth. His fear eased, because she’d stopped. Nothing chased her today, but James kept up the hard gallop.

  He was growing accustomed to her garb, gray skirts, gray cloak, linen covered hair, so that only her eyes and lips showed any hint of the magnificence of her person. Though even these hadn’t given him any clue that her kiss would have haunted him for two whole days.

  “Isla,” he called as he neared. He pulled up harshly, dismounted with ease.

  She was still trying to find her breath.

  James grabbed her arm, hoping to steady her. “Isla?”

  She tilted her head up at him. “I’ve come for Gavin.”

  James frowned at her; he’d thought she’d accepted Gavin’s training with the army.

  “Father is dead.”

  “Ah, lass, I’m sorry.”

  She accepted this with only a nod. James recalled her words of several days ago. A father who should, God willing, be put into the ground very soon. Mayhap, his sympathies were unnecessary.

  “I’ll fetch your brother. Come.” He meant to take her up on the horse, give her a ride back to the village.

  Isla Gordon shook her head, taking a step back. And another. “I wou
ld....” She stopped, shook her head again. “But I thank you to make sure Gavin gets back home.”

  WELL AFTER MIDNIGHT, Isla, having found herself in receipt of no support from either her brother or any of the villagers—though well she recalled how many homes she’d entered with compassion, and how many bodies she’d sewn into the shroud—prepared her father’s body herself. It wasn’t as if they couldn’t have known; she’d draped the black fabric upon the Gordon door as soon as she’d returned this afternoon. Tomorrow, to the funeral, the black pall would cover the body into the church and then the ground.

  Randall Gordon’s entire body had stiffened, as Isla had expected, and only now, more than twelve hours later, did it return to its familiar flaccid form. Having washed and changed him soon after death, she had now only to sew the shroud around him. She’d spent most of the day inside with his body, crying, though not for him, not for the loss of him. More so that this had been the father she’d been given, and later in the evening, when no neighbor came through the door, she’d cried pitifully for her own solitary existence. Her own brother, having showed his face earlier to cry beside the bed only fleetingly, had disappeared and not since returned.

  As was her custom, when about some unpleasant task, Isla consulted a predetermined list of topics of discussion, for her mind, to keep her sane while she began to sew. Tonight, she hadn’t need of her well-used list, didn’t need to review chores and schedules of meals or fret over how long the laundry would take to dry while the winter wind howled through their cottage. She had been chased by despicable Englishmen intent upon grievous harm, had barely escaped; she’d received her very first kiss, and from a man she was quite sure was more dangerous than those foreigners, for his weapons were devilish eyes and beguiling lips and kisses that challenged everything she wanted to believe about him; and now, her father had died.