by Tessa Murran
Ailsa was taken aback and did not know what to say. She stood up to leave. He pushed himself off the table edge and was towering over her now, looking down into her eyes. When he gently took her hand in his her legs threatened to give way. Why did he make her so nervous and why must she always appear the little fool in front of him? And must he insist on touching her?
‘Your damned ledgers are incomprehensible,’ he said in a matter of fact way but in a voice like silk, smooth and seductive. ‘I’ve no head for numbers, they bore me. Perhaps you can stay and help me unravel them.’
‘No I cannot.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’ve no wish to,’ said Ailsa pulling her hand free and turning to go, hoping he would not read the confusion on her face.
‘Ailsa’ he called after her and she stopped in her tracks with her back to him. ‘We are thrown together here by circumstance. I would not have wished you in this situation. This is your home after all and I know it must be hard to be amongst people you see as your enemies but rest assured this will always be a place of safety for you. We are here together and we must learn to get along.’
Ailsa ignored him and continued her exit.
‘Oh, and Ailsa, one more thing,’ his voice was all authority now, ‘next time you give my guards the slip and go roving around the village unprotected, there will be trouble.’
Ailsa walked from the room on shaking legs.
Duncan watched her go. Young, frightened and alone, with her pride in tatters, she had asked him a favour not for herself but for her people. And in checking on the welfare of the villages she had risked his wrath and that of his guards. There was bravery and also compassion in Ailsa MacLeod and he respected her for it, even as he in turns either pitied her or was infuriated by her coldness to him. He felt something else too, something far more base than lofty ideals of protecting and reassuring a young woman in his care.
He wished she had stayed for there was something about her that fascinated him. What a luxury it would be to spend hours taking in the delicate slant of her wide green eyes or to marvel at the luxurious fall of her chestnut hair. He longed to run his fingers through its silky lushness, to coil it round and round so that it bound her to him and she could not twist and turn away from him, snapping like a cornered fox. The softness and fragility of her hand in his made him want to bring it to his lips and kiss the elegant fingers one by one. And she smelled so good – like lavender and honey warmed in the sun.
There was joy to be had in staring at her and remembering their kiss in the moonlight, a deal more joy than dusty old ledgers or accounts. He sighed and got back to work realising that the more he tried to look at Ailsa the more she would try to hide.
In the days that followed, as spring softened into a warm summer, Ailsa kept herself busy. Despite her best efforts to avoid him, Duncan frequently sought her out on some pretext or other; advice on the wine stocks, a lame horse that needed her opinion, quarrelsome servants which only she could calm. This, she believed, was to keep her under his scrutiny and no doubt under his thumb, though he was always courteous in his brief dealings with her. She was considerably less courteous in return.
She had to begrudgingly admit that Duncan was a born leader and had achieved a great deal since taking possession of Cailleach. He was tireless in his efforts to shore up their defences and moved about with a kind of manic energy and urgency. It was exhausting to watch. Up at dawn barking orders, by nightfall, he could still be found amongst his men sharing an ale or striding along the battlements to check in with the watchmen. He seemed to know something personal about each one and made a point of being seen and of listening to their concerns. Even the villagers had started to warm to him, offering hesitant greetings as he rode about or offering food and ale when he stopped to talk to them. Though many were intimidated by him, they remarked that he was a fair master.
Rumours abounded about what kind of man he was. Apparently, he had only recently returned to the Highlands from the continent, where he had earned the name Black Wolf due to his ferocity and cunning in battle. Some said he had a demon inside him which made him invincible. It was said he had honed his skills as a mercenary on the battlefields of Europe and that he was a vicious and implacable opponent, a man born to fight. Some whispered that he might be a bastard, conceived on the wrong side of the blanket and that he was a prodigious drinker and had bedded more women than could be counted.
It seemed the people needed strong leadership and in Duncan Campbell, they had found it. With King Charles I struggling to retain control of his parliament in England and the tide turning in favour of civil war there was unease in the Highlands as to the Scots’ role in the coming conflict. The people of Cailleach needed a leader with certainty and purpose. So despite the fearsome and somewhat infamous reputation of its new laird, a kind of uneasy calm had descended over the castle and a sense of relief that the main danger of violence from the Sinclair’s had passed and maybe things were going to improve. But that calm was not to last.
It was a rare, fine evening and Ailsa had ventured up to the battlements to find some peace while watching the sunset turn the distant horizon to gold. A horseman came galloping in, full pelt, and skidded to a halt at the gatehouse, shouting agitatedly. She rushed down to see what the commotion was about. By the time she got there the man had gathered himself enough to blurt out his message and Rory and some of his men had arrived.
‘An ambush,’ he gasped. ‘Sinclairs, lots of them, came upon us unawares, out of the trees. There was a fight.’
‘And casualties? What of Duncan?’ asked Rory.
‘I don’t know. He sent me off to get help. When I last saw him he was in the thick of it and by then we had lost several men and some more had been wounded. We were sorely outnumbered. We weren’t prepared.’
Ailsa’s heart leapt into her throat. Was he wounded or dead? She hardly dared think on it. Duncan was her enemy and his death could be to her advantage so why did something cold and dreadful claw at her belly at the thought of it.
Rory busied himself despatching a force of men to Duncan’s aid and then turned to her. ‘Can you rally the castle Ailsa, fetch bandages and such, we are going to need them.’
Several tense hours passed before Ailsa heard the clatter of hooves outside. She couldn’t bear it, the suspense, waiting for news. Then there was great tumult in the hall as men poured in, some limping, some having to be carried, some already past all help and then she saw him and the relief of it shocked her like a slap to the face.
Duncan was covered in blood, down the side of his face, on his shirt, a sticky mess in his hair. It seemed a miracle he was still standing there was so much of it. Rory took hold of him and lead him to a quiet corner, beckoning Ailsa over.
‘See to his wounds Ailsa.’
‘Why me?’
‘Because he has asked for you,’ he said before rushing off to organise the others.
Duncan was slumped on the settle by the fireplace, his elbows on his knees, hands and head hanging down towards the floor. Ailsa knelt on the floor before him and set down the bowl of water and cloth to clean his wounds.
‘It would seem the Sinclairs have some fight in them yet,’ he said.
‘Are you badly hurt?’ she asked in an unsteady voice, soaking the cloth and wringing it out with trembling hands.
‘No I’m weary is all. It’s just a couple of scratches, the worst is here,’ he said touching his temple gingerly.
He winced as Ailsa started to gently wipe away the black blood encrusted in his hair, revealing a deep cut to the scalp. ‘What did this?’
‘The tip of a claymore. One more inch and I would be a corpse.’
‘Well thank god you are not.’ The words came out before she could stop them and earned her a sharp look from Duncan. She swallowed hard. ‘This thicket of hair probably saved you.’
‘What’s this Ailsa, have you begun to care for me a little, forgiven my many sins against you? Would you miss me
if I were gone? Would you cry and place flowers on my grave?’
‘No I would dance on it as you well know, now hush and hold still for I must attend to this wound.’
‘Talking distracts me from the pain.’ He grimaced as she continued to clean the wound, scrape, scrape, scrape, softening the congealed blood so that it ran down his face in a pink stream. ‘That hurts,’ he snarled as she delved deep into the wound to remove all the dirt so it would not fester.
‘It serves you right for fighting. Has there not been enough trouble already, must you Campbells go looking for it?’
‘I did not choose this fight I was merely sent to win it.’
‘So you attack like a dog at your master’s command.’
Duncan straightened his back and grabbed her wrist in a dirty hand, his jaw clenched. ‘I protect my clan as you do yours. I’ll make no apology for it.’
‘I do not kill for mine,’ she said, pulling away.
‘You would if you had to, I have no doubt about that. I don’t take pride in killing like the Sinclairs.’
‘Nor should you.’
‘So I am a monster in your eyes then? You think that I want people to shrink from me, for your clansmen to dread my very name? Do you think I want to see fear and loathing in your eyes when you look at me? That is the last thing I want.’
‘And yet you can kill so easily.’
‘It’s not easy Ailsa. When you kill a man you have to look in his eyes as your sword crunches through muscle and bone, see his flesh burst open as your musket ball hit its mark. But you do it. Stop to think about what is right or wrong and you are a dead man. But afterwards you feel it, over and over, and those corpses walk in your nightmares for years to come. So no, I do not do it easily but anyone who threatens me or mine – yes I will kill them if I have to.’
Duncan drew his breath in through his teeth as Ailsa scraped harder at his wound but he did not complain and they fell silent for some time. Ailsa could feel his stormy eyes on her and she tensed as if someone had taken a shard of ice and traced it down the back of her neck. She did not want to touch him and dare not look at his face. Bitter words had tainted the air between them and the silence that followed felt suffocating so Ailsa resolved to break it.
‘Have you never wanted a more peaceful life without fighting?’ she asked softly so as not to anger him.
‘I have been fighting since I was but a boy, it is in my blood.’
‘Why so young?’
‘I had no choice. I was orphaned when I was seven and went to live with my uncle. We didn’t get along very well and when I was old enough and had a belly full of his rules I stole a horse and left. Eventually, I found my way south, crossed the sea and ended up as a mercenary. I found ways to survive to manhood, I learned to fight and so in time, I became this heartless killer you see before you.’
‘So you are content with being a brute.’
‘Aye, I am, though maybe not such a terrible one as you would think. Make no mistake Ailsa, I am a hard man and I have had little time to acquire courtly ways and fine manners. It is unlikely I will soften to gain your good opinion for there has long been a black hole where my heart should be.’ Her hand faltered and she risked a glance at him. What she saw on his face caused her heartbeat to thud in her ears.
‘Sometimes Ailsa, when I look at you, I feel something stir in that hollow,’ he said frowning. ‘It is a strange feeling and one I would rather not have.’
‘Then you must have taken a very hard blow to the head to talk such nonsense, Duncan.’
Ailsa looked down at the bloody rag in her hand, feeling his eyes on her. She wanted to run out of the hall so he would not see embarrassment redden her face. She struggled to hide the tangle of emotions at play there, confusion, anger, pity and something more, shy pride at his acknowledgement that she could arouse such feelings in a man. When she moved to wipe away more blood his hand shot out and stopped her short.
‘Enough, I can tend to myself now,’ he said quietly. He stood up unsteadily, pulling her to her feet and put his hands on her shoulders.
‘Thank you for tending to me. I know what it must have cost you in pride to help your enemy.’
He stood so close Ailsa could feel his breath on her forehead and smell the blood in his hair. Some strange compulsion to comfort him threatened to overwhelm the hate she bore him and it was with some effort that she quelled it.
‘You need to wash, you have blood on your hands,’ she said, removing his hold on her and then she walked away from him as fast as she could without breaking into a run.
Duncan sighed heavily. It was not the fact that she was beautiful that unsettled him, for he had known many such women. Her exterior was soft and lovely and he ached to his bones with wanting her but inside she had a core of steel, a fierce independence that he admired and yearned to conquer. Why couldn’t she accept his protection and warm to him? He suspected that were she ever to meet a man she wanted she would love him fiercely but that man could not be him.
Duncan had never allowed himself to need anyone, the idea appalled him. If he let Ailsa into his heart she would just be one more thing he would inevitably lose, one more hell he would be dragged down into. There was no future for them anyway, given the circumstances.
He had long since learned to keep a tight rein on his emotions. In the heat of battle, the noise, the terror, the confusion, survival often depended on it. But at that moment, in the quiet calm of Ailsa’s company, that control had all but come crashing down. Having her hands on him had been an exquisite form of torture. Her soft touch banished the pain from his wound and the awful memory of the day’s events, the dead and the dying, the fear and the blood. She had turned his mind and body to sweeter things, but having her so close, wanting her, yet doing nothing about it, well that was almost beyond his ability to bear.
Ailsa sat alone with her thoughts in the relative sanctuary of her chamber. Duncan’s wound had healed well over the last few days and there was no fever on him, though she only surmised this from a distance. Since that strange moment, she had barely seen him. She assumed he had been preoccupied with the arrival of his uncle, Hugh Campbell, whose visit had sent the castle into a state of feverish activity.
When she had finally been presented to Hugh, laird of the Clan Campbell, he had lived up to her late father’s assessment of him as a ‘slippery eel of a man and just as slimy.’ He had none of his nephew’s rough-edged charm and good looks. When he kissed her hand, his wet mouth lingering there a little too long, Ailsa struggled to choke back revulsion. In his shrivelled, age-ravaged face there was neither kindness nor pity, only the knife edge of ambition glinting in his bird-like, darting eyes. She had made a point of avoiding both Duncan and his uncle since then.
A manservant entered hurriedly. ‘My lady, your presence is requested in the great hall for supper.’
‘Why?’
‘Lady there is to be a victory banquet for Laird Hugh and you are required to attend.’
‘Tell the laird that I am indisposed and will most definitely not be attending.’
‘Forgive me, my lady,’ said the servant nervously, ‘but my Lord Duncan said that if you did not attend he would come to your chamber and carry you down to supper himself.’
‘Did he now? Well, tell him I am indisposed …and that he can go to the devil!’
The servant scuttled off no doubt dreading passing this message on to Duncan. Ailsa smiled. There was some fight left in her yet and why not cause a bit of mischief. Thwarting Duncan’s plans felt good. Maybe she wasn’t so powerless after all and it was about time she wiped that smug smile off his face with her defiance. Why on earth did he think she would agree to join this humiliating banquet and watch his disgusting relations revel in her defeat?
Duncan received Ailsa’s message with bad grace.
‘Dammit man, did you not tell her the consequences of refusing my invitation.’
‘Of...of course, but my lady Ailsa is indisposed,’ sputtere
d the servant in terror.
‘Be gone then’. Duncan dismissed him with a wave of his hand.
Hugh Campbell, Laird of Dunslair laughed. ‘It seems to me that the lady Ailsa has her father’s belligerence and a deal more courage than that brother of hers. Or have you so terrified and mistreated the girl that she is afraid to sup with you nephew?’
‘Hardly, it’s just that she hates me is all.’ His face twisted into a resigned smile.
‘Well this indulgence of yours must stop and she must learn to do as she is told. The girl will be brought to heel once she is your bride.’
‘My bride!’
‘Yes, your bride,’ Hugh replied in a voice of steel. ‘Your marriage will secure the allegiance of Clan MacLeod thereby strengthening our position. They will never accept you as laird unless you merge your bloodline with theirs. Get a son on her and all will be secure.’
‘God’s teeth will you never stop your plotting uncle. I’ve scarce drawn breath since the battle and now you wish to burden me with a wife and one who despises me at that’.
‘You have to marry; for a man in your position, it is not a choice. This is how you grow your power lad. You can’t go the rest of your life seducing village sluts and widows and throwing your seed to the wind.’
‘I have sired no bairns that I am aware of.’
‘No not that you are aware of but I’ve no doubt there are several black-eyed little bastards running around the Highlands that bear your looks.’
Duncan tried to steer his uncle in another direction. ‘She’d never agree to this marriage anyway and she hates me so there’s a slim chance of my siring an heir.’
‘Then you force her.’
‘I will never do that as you well know,’ he replied, angered at his uncle’s ruthlessness.
