She toppled from the back of the mount, falling sideways and spinning as the foot that was still atop the running horse’s back was whipped out from under her. The world blurred, spun, turned to a haze of arbitrary colors. Instinctively, she flung her arms out to break her fall–something that her teacher, Rose, had told her never to do if she fell.
“Tuck your arms,” she had set. “Protect your elbows and wrists. Let your shoulders take the brunt. Shoulders are hardy things.”
But Beatrice had never fallen, and so that advice had sat and gathered dust in the back of her memory.
She hit the ground hard, on her right side, arm outstretched, the breath knocked out of her in a great exhalation. Her wrist buckled under her and a sharp pain shot up her right arm. Then something cracked her against the left ankle–the horse’s hoof as it carried on cantering–and she cried out as her foot went instantly numb.
Then there was only the smell of crushed grass in her nostrils as she lay on the ground, and the buzzing, rumbling sound of the audience as it surged to its feet to get a better look at her breathless body.
I fell. I can’t believe I fell! How embarrassing! What will William think?
She tried to roll onto her back, but the pulsing pain in her wrist and ankle convinced her that a few more moments lying just as she was would not hurt. Instead, she tried to get her breath back. She had not noticed how badly she had been winded until she tried to take a breath and couldn’t.
All of a sudden, she was turned gently but irresistibly over by a pair of strong hands. She hissed through her teeth as the pain in her two injured limbs flared and then settled down.
“It’s alright, lass,” came a familiar soothing voice. “Hold steady now, I’ve got ye.”
Beatrice’s vision was blurry with tears of pain and humiliation. She blinked them away and her good Samaritan swam into focus.
It was none other than the ruggedly handsome Jeames Abernathy.
4
As Jeames locked eyes with the beautiful young woman on the horse he felt something hot fill his veins, as if his blood had suddenly boiled within him. The sensation of a connection being forged was so strong that he actually rose an inch off of his seat. He saw the woman’s eyes widen in the moment of recognition.
The next moment, she was falling.
He watched her tumble from the back of the tall white gelding. Turning in the air, spinning as the horse rode on. Then, with a thump that could be heard even over the noise of the circus crowd, she landed in an untidy heap in the center of the arena.
Jeames was on his feet before he was really aware of what he was doing. The two men in front of him parted like a couple of stalks of wheat as he used his broad frame to push between them.
“Jeames,” Lady Margery began. “What d’ye think–”
But her voice was quickly lost in the rising clamor.
He made his way quickly through the few rows that separated the seat he had occupied from the edge of the circle. He vaulted over the barrier that had been erected and hurried over to where the young woman was still lying prone. He could see her chest heaving as she fought for breath and he guessed that she must’ve been winded something fierce when she hit the ground.
With a careful tenderness that people might have been surprised to see in such an obviously rugged–albeit well-dressed–young Scotsman, he turned the woman over, murmuring comforting words to her.
When her hazel eyes fastened themselves on his, he almost sat back like a man who’d received a shove in the chest.
Lord, she’s a bonnie one. Bonnier than even a half-look and me imagination made her.
Her pupils expanded when they she saw who it was that had turned her over. There was also, to his surprise, what he thought might be a flash of anger deep within them.
Surely, she cannae blame me fer what happened?
She gulped and gasped a couple of times, but no words came out.
“Ah, daenae worry about anythin’ just now, lass,” Jeames said. “Ye’ve had the wind knocked out o’ ye. Just lie still a while and focus on me voice.”
Whilst Jeames cradled the hurt woman’s head in his hands, the rest of the circus performers had streamed into the tent from wherever it was that they waited outside. At Ballantine’s instruction, the crowd was calmed and distracted by Fritha and her team of contortionists, while the rest of the performers made a ring around the fallen rider.
“I’m just goin’ tae take a wee look at yer injuries, alright, lass?” Jeames said.
The woman fixed him with a skeptical eye, but then nodded.
“Yes,” she managed to say, as she slowly got her breath back.
Jeames had no intention of discomfiting the young woman in any way if he could avoid it. His hands moved cautiously down her shin, gently squeezing and poking in the same manner he would inspect a favorite hunting hound with a limp. When he got to her ankle, he skillfully ran his callused fingers around the joint, prodding it delicately.
“I daenae think anythin’ is broken, lass,” he said, after a minute or two. “Ye’ve just done a mighty fine job o’ twistin’ it. See how it’s bruisin’ already?”
The equestrienne grimaced as she looked down at her purpling foot.
“Aye, it’s a good one, all right, but ye should only take a couple o’ weeks tae get back in the saddle. Now, give me yer hand and we’ll see about this wrist.”
He took the girl’s shaking hand in his own big one.
“Ye’re alright, lass,” he said. Then he proceeded to give it a rudimentary examination. The young woman gasped a couple of times as he went.
“And?” she asked him.
Jeames frowned. “I’m nae sure,” he said.
“Not sure of what?” she asked him, through gritted teeth. There was that little hint of anger again, as if some sort of resentment was simmering away somewhere inside of her.
“Whether ye’ve managed tae break it or nae,” Jeames said.
The woman’s head fell backwards, her brow creased with worry and pain.
“I think it’d be best if we brought ye back tae the castle,” Jeames said, thoughtfully. “There’s a fine physician there. He’ll be able tae take care o’ ye far better than I.”
“What’s this, what’s this?” a loud voice said from over Jeames’s head. “What’s this talk of physicians and broken bones?”
William Ballantine had arrived on the scene, still dressed in his elaborate ringmaster’s attire. The tall man’s face was a picture of worry as he looked down at his star performer.
“Are you all right, Beatrice, my dear?” he said in a voice wrung with anxiety.
Ah-ha! Beatrice!
Jeames kept his face impassive, but privately he delighted at having a name to put to the beautiful face.
“I’m fine, William,” Beatrice replied. She shifted herself, attempting to get into a sitting position, but fell back wincing. “Maybe a little less than fine,” she admitted.
“Ye’re the owner of this circus, sir?” Jeames asked.
Mr Ballantine drew himself up. “William Ballantine of Ballantine’s Circus, sir,” he said, pride coating each word.
“I see. Well, Mr Ballantine, I made the suggestion tae Miss Beatrice here, but would ye do me the great honor of allowin’ her tae be taken tae the MacKenzie Castle? It’s nae far from here, and she’d be able tae get the best treatment of anywhere in these lands.”
“No, I really can’t–” Beatrice protested weakly.
Ballantine cut quickly across her, however. For an instance, something very much like the light of avarice sparkled in the worried green eyes. Then he said, “Castle, you say? You reside there?”
“I–aye. Aye, I dae,” Jeames said.
“William–” Beatrice tried to say again.
“No, no, no, my dear, if this man is offering you the help of the castle physician then it would be churlish of us not to accept such a gracious offer.”
Despite a few more feeble protestations on Beatri
ce’s behalf, Jeames helped her carefully to her feet. The fact that she had injured her right wrist and left ankle meant that she could not lean on someone, as she’d have to put weight on either her hurt arm or hurt leg.
This made maneuvering through the still-milling audience a glacially slow affair.
Eventually, Jeames had had enough.
Jeames lifted the lithe woman easily. There was not a spare ounce of fat on her, and he found himself–despite his best, most gentlemanly efforts–extremely aware of the shape of her body under her tight circus attire. He could feel the press of her shoulders and ribcage against his bicep, the shape of her thighs against his arm where he cradled her legs under the knees.
Focus on the task at hand, Jeames, ye’re the bloody son of a laird, for cryin’ out loud!
It was hard, though, concentrating. Pressed together like this, he was extremely aware of the smell of the equestrienne. It was a heady and intoxicating scent. Horse and sweat and something uniquely unidentifiable; something that hinted at lavender and fir trees and cool water running through stony channels. A wild smell.
Beatrice looked up into Jeames’s eyes. A welter of emotions seemed to flicker across her pain-filled face, too many for Jeames to read with any great degree of accuracy. He thought he saw apprehension there, excitement, happiness, and umbrage, too.
“What do you think you’re doing, Mr. Abernathy?” she said in a dangerously soft voice.
“Miss, I’ve nae the patience to pussyfoot ‘round these people when ye’re injured,” Jeames said. “I just want tae get tae the horses.”
Beatrice put her uninjured arm around Jeames’s neck. Rather than having her eyes cast down, as Jeames thought would be the case, Beatrice looked him boldly in the eye. It was almost as if she was challenging him to do anything inappropriate. Anger at his presumption flickered under the pain on the surface of her eyes.
“Well, let’s go on then, Mr. Abernathy,” she said.
Jeames shook his head and began to make his way through the crowd. His size and physique helped, of course, but many of the crowd recognized him for who he was, the son of Laird Abernathy.
Jeames made it to the horses, thankfully, without bumping into Margery Brùn. He imagined that she might look at him, carrying a beautiful female circus performer as he was, in askance.
When they reached the horses, he hefted Beatrice easily into his saddle. She groaned a little and winced.
“This is a very fine horse for a man in the employ of the Laird,” Beatrice said with a hint of suspicion in her voice.
O’ course she’d notice the nags!
“Aye, they belong tae His Lairdship,” Jeames said, truthfully.
“And he lets you ride them?”
“Ah, well, ye’ll see that His Lairdship is a generous man.”
Jeames pulled himself up behind Beatrice.
“Excuse me, sir, but what do you think you’re doing?” Beatrice said mildly.
“I’ll nae have ye try and ride this animal and come off, miss. He’s a spirited young nag. Used to huntin’ and war. I’ve already picked ye up off the ground once this evenin’. I’ve nay wish to do it again.”
Other women might have put up more of a protest, but Beatrice was clearly more practical and less easily offended than the women Jeames was usually obliged to mix with. Life in a circus, no doubt, had little in common to the life of one born into Scottish nobility.
Beatrice cast one eye over her shoulder and then gave him a curt nod. “Very well, sir. I trust you to behave like a gentleman.”
Jeames looped his arms around the woman’s waist, took hold of the reins and turned the horse.
They rode through the resin-scented dark of the Scottish forests. The fragrance of the pines seemed to act as a balm to the injured woman who sat in front of Jeames. He could feel her relax in his arms slightly, losing some of the rigidity that pain and apprehension had put into her.
After they had been riding some fifteen minutes and had passed up through the heather-filled valley, Beatrice stirred and said, “Your friends are following along with us, sir. Did they not wish to stay for the festivities after the circus?”
Jeames glanced over his shoulder at the four Highland guardsmen trotting along behind him at a polite distance.
“Nay, it’s nae really an option when a man is on guard. He goes where he must.”
“Who were you all guarding?”
“We? I must confess, Miss Beatrice, that we were guardin’ nothin’. These fine soldiers are guardin’ me.”
Beatrice stiffened in an instance–as Jeames had feared that she would.
“You?” she asked in a tight voice.
“Aye, miss.”
“Who are you?”
Jeames sighed through his nose. He had been hoping not to have this conversation.
How did ye expect her nae tae find out, though?
“As I said, Miss Beatrice. Me name is Jeames Abernathy. I’m son and heir to his Lairdship Andrew Abernathy, head o’ the MacKenzie clan.”
Silence reigned for the rest of the journey.
As they trotted down the road that led to the front gate of the MacKenzie Castle, Beatrice turned her head and asked, “So this–this is your home?”
Jeames was glad that it was dark, and that the woman was facing forwards, for his cheeks were suffused with a blush of embarrassment.
“Aye,” he said. “I ken it might look grand, but it’s a home like any other.”
Beatrice snorted, though it didn’t sound too derisive to Jeames.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “It’s just like my bunk in my circus wagon.”
“I’d be delighted if ye’d come tae think of it as yer own home, so long as ye’re here gettin’ well,” Jeames said.
And with that, they rode under the portcullis and into the bailey of Castle MacKenzie.
5
Staying at Castle MacKenzie, of course, was about as far removed as it was possible to be from the bunk in Beatrice’s circus wagon.
Whether word had gone ahead–or the serving folk at the castle were just that competent and informed–Beatrice never knew. When Jeames reined in at the front of the castle, there was already an elderly, kilted footman awaiting them with a small set of steps.
Jeames dismounted and helped her down.
“Those will nae be necessary, thank ye, Ables,” the Laird’s son said.
Beatrice could not help but keep glancing up at the imposing structure that towered above her into the evening sky. It was, by a comfortable margin, the grandest edifice that she had ever been so close to, excepting a church, of course. Torches in brackets lit the rugged stone walls with flickering yellow light. It leant a very impressive air to the building, standing as it did against the deep dusk of the evening sky.
And I’m to stay here?
It was a thought tinged with incredulity.
“Miss?”
She started. She looked down at the Highlander and saw that his hand was extended towards her.
“Yes?” she asked, rather more frostily than she perhaps intended.
“Can I help ye down?” Jeames asked her.
Almost, Beatrice’s pride made her say that she could manage. However, when she shifted her weight, her ankle gave an almighty throb of protest. So, instead, she raised her hand – and had to stifle a cry when she unthinkingly extended her injured wrist.
Wincing, she swung her undamaged leg dexterously over the back of the horse and allowed Jeames to lower her, with gentle ease, to the ground.
She watched him, with a slightly bemused expression, as he shuffled his feet awkwardly in the gravel of the courtyard.
“Is there a problem, sir?” Beatrice asked him, laying a slight stress on the last word.
Jeames glanced at her, “Aye, well, there’s a fair few stairs tae the visitor’s apartments, ye ken. I’m thinkin’ that, hurt as ye are, it’s goin’ tae prove a wee bit taxin’ and–”
“And you want permission to carry me?” Bea
trice said, acidly. “Again?”
“Might be that it saves ye pain, and both of us time.”
“Making quite the habit of this, aren’t you?” Beatrice said.
She refused to see the logic behind the Highlander’s words, or the more lighthearted side of the situation. Not after he had intentionally refrained from telling her who he was when they had first met in the forest.
Awakening His Highland Soul (Steamy Scottish Historical Romance) Page 4
