by Jessi Gage
Wilhelm rode ahead of her on a black gelding that looked like a cross between a draft horse and a solid riding breed. A warhorse, he called it, by the name of Justice. If her horse had a name, he hadn’t gotten it from the seller. She would have to think of something to call it, but she would need to get to know him a little first.
Patting the horse’s neck, she spoke quietly to him. Riding hunt seat had been a passion of hers when she’d been a teenager. Her parents had bought her a Thoroughbred named Monica’s Journey, and Connie had won many ribbons jumping the mare in shows. The time for such entertainments had passed, though, once Connie graduated high school. She had done the sensible thing and arranged for the horse’s sale before leaving for college. She missed Monica, but her life didn’t have room for frivolities like riding and showing.
She focused on the horse beneath her because thinking about Terran’s warning made her tremble inside. His words reminded her that even though she sometimes felt she was on vacation, her presence in the past wasn’t a game. If she said or did the wrong thing, it could mean the difference between life and death. Hers or Wilhelm’s.
She’d meant what she’d told Terran. She would do everything in her power to help Wilhelm. But Terran had been right. Her first priority was returning home. What if she had to choose between helping Wilhelm or helping herself?
No. She wouldn’t go there. There were other, more likely problems for her to deal with, like what she would say when Wilhelm finally asked her all the questions she’d been anticipating since waking up in the monastery.
While he seemed to have thawed toward her since their initial meeting, he would still expect her to tell him who she was and where she was from. If he didn’t like her answers, he was capable of overpowering her, of hurting her if he wanted to. She didn’t think he would, but then, she wouldn’t have thought Terran would threaten her, either.
Atop his warhorse, Wilhelm seemed more imposing than ever. Straight backed and armed with a double-headed axe in a sling between his shoulder blades, not to mention the Highland broadsword at his hip, he was the quintessential Scottish warrior. If she were a villager and he a knight riding through with a cadre of men, she would be terrified.
Maybe a small part of her was terrified, but not of the warrior in Wilhelm. His kindness and softness frightened her more. Why she couldn’t figure out and decided to put it from her mind.
Wilhelm rounded a copse of trees. She followed and found him angling his warhorse toward an open vista. She did the same and found herself looking out over miles of farmland. They’d been riding ever so gradually uphill, and here at the top of a ridge, they had a perfect view of their starting point.
“It’s the monastery,” she said.
The collection of stone and wood buildings huddled in the rain on the edge of a sodden grazing pasture. Black patches of wooded areas wound between flat green fields. Beyond was the village where Wilhelm had gotten her horse. Past the village a body of water shimmered in distant sunlight like a spill of molten aluminum.
“Loch Tay.” Wilhelm’s voice was close and deep. He’d nudged his horse alongside hers. Justice was a good hand taller than her horse. This resulted in her thigh nestling just under Wilhelm’s as the horses nearly touched, probably enjoying each other’s warmth. She wouldn’t mind enjoying Wilhelm’s warmth, but there was no time for cuddling—thank goodness. They had an afternoon of riding ahead of them.
Besides the horses’ heavy breathing, the only other sound was the patter of rain on their tack and cloaks. Wait, no. There was another sound, a dull roar.
“That rushing you hear is the Falls of Moness.” Wilhelm lifted his chin toward a wall of tall, leafless birches.
Now that she concentrated, she recognized the sound of a waterfall. She couldn’t see it, but clearly, it wasn’t far beyond those trees.
“’Tis said Queen Joan stopped there with her son, the soon-to-be-crowned king, after her husband’s assassination. She was wounded in the coup in Perth and fled to the north to hide. Later, she appeared in Edinburgh, healed and with a healthy James the second in tow. But rumor has it the lad had been injured and was treated by a monk they met at the falls when they stopped to drink.”
“Maybe a monk from Anselm’s monastery,” she mused.
“Mayhap. Would have been more than forty years ago, before Anselm’s tenure.”
Who needed a travel guide when she had a real-live Highlander to show her around?
“Fascinating,” she said, feeling lighter than she had since her talk with Terran.
Wilhelm glanced her way with a hint of smile. “Aye,” he said, and she had the impression he wasn’t talking about Queen Joan’s flight from Perth. He clucked, and his horse returned to the path.
Her cheeks heated as her horse followed automatically. This man made her feel like a school girl with a crush. Even when she’d been a school girl, she hadn’t had crushes this potent.
Ah. That explained the fear. Having a crush on a man gives him power over you, Connie girl. Rein in your emotions or the next few days are going to leave a mark.
“You know a lot about this area,” she said, giving him an opening to boast. She needed him to reveal some kind of personality deficiency quick before she fell any deeper in lust.
He only grunted. It could have been assent or disagreement.
She wouldn’t give up that easily. She’d find another way to get him to expose some critical failing that would kill her attraction to him.
They rode in silence while she thought about that night at Ruthven’s home. It hadn’t escaped her attention that it had been a castle. Ruthven was well-to do. And Wilhelm had been present, apparently by invitation. Why? If Wilhelm was the moral, kind man she thought he might be what was he doing at the house of a cruel man like Ruthven?
“Is Ruthven an acquaintance of yours?” She had to raise her voice to be heard over the rush of the falls.
He nodded and glanced at her over his shoulder. “And my father’s before me.” His dark expression reinforced her suspicion that he and Ruthven might be acquaintances but they were not friends.
The path was wide enough that she could ride alongside him, so she clucked to get her mount to speed up until it was neck and neck with Wilhelm’s horse.
“You are competent in the saddle,” he commented, mild surprise on his face.
“Yes,” she said simply. “But I want to hear more about how you know Ruthven. Who is he? And what were all those well-dressed people doing at his home?”
With a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold, she remembered the eager anticipation on the faces in the crowd. Those people might have looked civilized, but they’d wanted to see her burn.
“I will tell you, if you will tell me where you learned such horsemanship.”
“Agreed.”
He grinned as though he’d won a concession. But he hadn’t, really. She could tell him about the riding instructor her parents had hired without admitting where—or when—she was from.
“Well?” she demanded. “Out with it.”
Wilhelm chuckled. The sound turned her insides to jelly. Despite her best effort, she liked amusing him. She liked him.
“Ruthven is a baron, like my father, but that is where the comparison ends.” His voice darkened. “Ruthven’s a corrupt deceiver of men who seeks naught but his own gain. My preference would be ne’er to deal with the likes of him, but he has alliances my father canna match. Being so near to Edinburgh, Ruthven travels in circles I canna hope to touch until I attain a seat in parliament. As that is a long way off, I must occasionally seek supporters under the noses of my enemies. That is why I was present at Castle Ruthven.”
Wilhelm was a politician? He wanted to be in parliament? She hadn’t even known Scotland had a parliament in the fifteenth century. It had to be a young system. Goodness, might Wilhelm have a hand in shaping the very political climate of Scotland? Her heart thumped hard at the thought.
“I thought you were going to
be laird one day. Why do you want a seat in parliament? Do you hope for power? Riches?”
Wilhelm laughed. “Nay, lass. Such goals would be sooner reached by serving my clan as laird alone and cultivating alliances and resources from Dornoch. ’Twill be the more rigorous path, dividing my time between clan and country, but improvements willna come without good, moral men supporting the crown.”
“Improvements for your clan?”
“Aye,” he said with a shrug. “But for all of Scotia as well. If our nation is to survive and thrive alongside England, she needs reform.”
Darn the man for sounding both logical and compassionate. She could find no fault with him, and that was saying something because she could always find fault with someone if she set her mind to it.
“For example,” he went on, “the judicial act my father and I hope to bring before the spring assembly would require all children of the nobility to obtain education from the age of nine until qualified for university. If such a law had been in place when Ruthven was young, he might be less ignorant. One can hope, at any rate.” He smirked her way.
Great. He had a sense of humor too.
“Such an act would vastly decrease the injustices plaguing our judicial system,” he went on. “What nearly happened to you would become rarer and rarer.”
“Uh huh,” she said. She’d lost the ability to think clearly, because in the past five minutes, her world had turned upside down.
Milt had fit most of Connie’s requirements for what her prospective life partner should be like. Most, but not all. He’d been kind, motivated, attractive, sensible, and successful as a lawyer in the Chicago District Attorney’s office. He’d had a promising legal career ahead of him.
But Connie had always imagined that if she married, she would like her husband to have political aspirations. She’d grown up watching her mother organize fund raisers as a hobby. She’d shaken hands with the senators and congressmen her father supported. Participating in the political engine, even in her small supportive role, excited her. She’d always imagined finding some way to continue those endeavors while having her engineering career.
Passion for policy and public service had been on her list. It was the one area in which she’d found Milt lacking. Whenever she had discussed policy with him, he would steer the conversation back to law. When she suggested doing something about ineffectual laws, he would insist that wasn’t the point. The point to Milt always seemed to be manipulating translations of the law to suit his client’s purpose, not changing laws themselves, not benefiting society at large.
As she rode across the Scottish countryside with Wilhelm, she realized that aside from being born more than five hundred years before her, he was pretty much her perfect man.
Chapter 13
The rain continued throughout the afternoon and into the evening, but Wilhelm had sunshine in his heart as he conversed with his intrepid lady. Though she avoided divulging her clan name and her nationality, she told him stories of her youth. She had grown up in a wealthy family, of that he was cert, since she had been given access to tutors and riding instructors. Her parents had clearly devoted themselves to giving her the best life had to offer.
At least a dozen times, he’d come close to asking those necessary questions that had been plaguing his mind. He must ask them before they reached Inverness, but each time he came close, he curbed the impulse.
She was talking with him. She was laughing with him. Doorways of trust were opening between them. Pressing her would undo that progress.
Besides, he noticed a change in her since leaving the abbey. Before, when she looked at him, her eyes held friendliness and caution, also an unmistakable interest, fragile as a new sprout.
More and more, the caution seemed to be leaving her. That sprout of interest seemed to be growing. Once, he had made her laugh and glanced over to find a secret smile on her lips and her eyelids lowered. Another time, after he told her about his valiant father and beloved mother, her eyes were large and liquid and filled with soft wonder, as if she’d never known a man to openly admire his parents before.
Each new expression of hers filled him with affection. He would be daft to put an end to their easy conversation by becoming the inquisitor again. He wanted nothing more than to nurture her interest in him and welcome its blooming with open arms.
Gentleness with her. Going slowly had worked so far. He had four days of riding and three nights of camping to earn her trust enough that he could show her the sack he’d brought with him, the one that belonged to her.
He would coax answers from her little by little, proving to her each step of the way that nothing she told him would change how he acted toward her. Wherever she was from, whatever trouble she was in—for he was certain she had trouble nipping at her heels—he would not only help, but he would deal with it as with his own trouble.
She was already his. She just didn’t ken it yet. She would. By the time they reached Inverness, his intentions would be clear.
The rain stopped around the time the sun began setting, but the clouds remained. There was so little light after darkness fell, he debated stopping and camping beneath the trees, but if they pressed on two more hours, they would find shelter, complete with a fireplace and a bed for Constance. He, of course, would take the floor.
“How do you fare?” he asked her. “Are ye warm enough?”
“I’m fine,” she said.
“A little farther and I’ll see you warmed and fed.”
The sounds of hooves on frozen ground accompanied their climb up to a share lodge he had used many years ago, when traveling to and from university. In remote areas, if one kent where to look, shelters waited for a traveler’s use. Manners dictated that a person leave somat of value to other travelers, such as some freshly-chopped wood or a ration of preserves or a skin of wine. He and Terran, on their journey to gather support for his judicial act, had ridden mostly through populated areas where lodging was easy to come by, but on occasion, they had used share lodges. One evening, they’d lodged with a young couple and their children on their way to a physician for their sick bairn. While Wilhelm enjoyed meeting other travelers, he hoped this night to find their lodging unoccupied.
Finally, the log building came into view. No path led to it, but markings on rocks and trees pointed the way. ’Twas a single room structure, just large enough to accommodate a fireplace and a pallet. Behind, he kent he would find a lean-to where they could store their belongings and mayhap find some hay or grain for the horses.
With relief, he noted the barred window at the top of the door was dark, and the clearing was silent. Solitude with his lady would be his at last.
He brought Justice to a halt and dismounted. The warhorse was well trained and would remain where Wilhelm dropped his reins until he returned. “Good lad.” He praised Justice before taking the reins of Constance’s mount. Not kenning if the gelding would ground tie, he led horse and rider to the rear of the share lodge.
To his dismay, Constance dismounted before he could offer his aid. Her feet hit the ground with barely a sound. If the day’s ride had caused her discomfort, she didn’t show it.
“Go inside,” he told her. “Rest while I tend the horses.”
“I’ll do no such thing.” She immediately lifted the stirrup and began unfastening the girth.
He ought to scold her for disobeying, but he found himself grinning instead. “You are a disagreeable woman, my Constant Rose.”
“Constant Rose?” Humor laced her speech. “That’s some epithet. Maybe I should think of one for you.”
He chuckled as he untied the heavy saddle bags and lifted them down before his lady could do it. “To you I will answer no matter what name ye call me by.”
“You must not find me too disagreeable, then.”
’Twas too dark to see her smile, but he heard it. Even better, by jesting with him, she declared her desire for him. Though he still sensed hesitancy in her, she seemed to grow bolder every hour
. Aye, she was slowly accepting what existed between them.
“Speaking of names, have ye thought of one for this lad?” He reached for the saddle and blanket, but Constance beat him to it, hefting them off the gelding and setting them on a log someone had arranged under the lean-to for the purpose.
She straightened and buried her fists in her back, likely working out the aches from riding. Her eyes reflected the meager light as she looked at him. Another of those secret smiles played at her lips. “I was thinking about Honesty.”
Silence filled the air. He’d named his warhorse Justice because acting honorably and justly was of utmost importance to him. He held truth and honesty in high esteem as well, because without them, justice would be impossible. Was honesty important to Constance? He wouldn’t have thought so since she had already attempted to lie to him.
Mayhap her horse’s new name was a sort of peace offering. Mayhap she invited his questions.
“’Tis a fine name.”
Working together, they cared for the horses and stowed their supplies for the night. It didn’t take long for him to start a fire in the small indoor hearth and for Constance to follow his instructions for preparing parritch.
The interior of the share lodge glowed with the fire’s light and soon filled with enough warmth they could remove their outer layers. Peat smoke and the grainy scent of their meal infused the air as they seated themselves on the dirt floor and partook of their late supper.
He’d brought several skins of a spiced wine made by Anselm’s monks, one of which he would leave for a future traveler. When the pot of parritch had cooled enough to wipe it clean, he poured half a skin of the wine inside and replaced it over the fire. The heady aroma of cloves and alcohol wove a spell of peace around him as it heated, and he found he enjoyed the tight quarters of a share lodge much more when his company was so lovely. Not that he minded Terran for a bedmate, but not even kenning he would sleep on the floor tonight could dull his excitement at occupying in the same intimate space as Constance.
