The Highlander’s Challenge (Lairds of Dunkeld Series) (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story)

by Emilia Ferguson

  “Stay!” he commanded a man, snarling the order. “If you all go, who'll stop them?”

  The man blinked at him. While he was dazed, others seemed to hear Duncan's order and gather to listen. However, there were few of them left. As it was, the force was mostly on the front wall. With half of those left already dispersing in ragged order towards the back of the castle grounds, Duncan was left with a dozen men.

  “We guard the hall,” he said firmly.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The man he had addressed seemed to find his voice, and Duncan breathed out a sigh. Someone, at least, listened to reason.

  “Thank you, soldier,” he said. He led them into the hall.

  Inside, the lamps were lit. Duncan was impressed. The place was full of serving women, ladies' maids, the old, and the sick. The children and stable-hands. The old men-at-arms. As of yet, no one was panicked. Everyone was calm. Looking toward the dais, he realized why.

  Alina. She was there, a lamp in her hand. She was talking calmly to a small, older woman, dressed in pale blue velvet, who was nodding agreement before she headed towards the back of the hall. He stared at Alina.

  Her hair was loose and she wore her darkest gown. It fell in a narrow skirt from her waist, trailing from the silver kirtle around her small hips. She wore a fillet of silver across her brow and her oval face was tranquil and pale.

  She looked up, black eyes heavy lashed and serene. She looked straight into his eyes.

  “Alina.” He could say nothing more.

  “Duncan.” She smiled. She looked calm. Tranquil. Happy. He could not quite belie it, and yet he knew he should. She would be thus – the eye of any storm. He loved her then as he had never known he loved her.

  At that moment, havoc broke out. A splintering crack echoed through the room. The door of the hall fell back and men – wild haired and wild eyed – burst in.

  “Duncan!”

  Alina screamed it. One of them ran at her, and at that moment Duncan lost all thought. All he could see was the red haze of rage. All he could feel was the urgent need to kill. To do anything to save Alina.

  The man had her round the waist. His one hand was in her hair and he was dragging her back. Duncan took a swing at his head, but he could not risk a blow with his longsword without fear of the blade cutting Alina. He swore.

  “Blaine!” he roared it over the din, wishing the young man had come down with him. He cursed again, remembering that Blaine was in command on the wall.

  “Fergal!” he saw the old armorer.

  “Aye!”

  The old man grinned at him, blood streaking his white hair. Duncan had no idea if it was his own – there wasn't a chance to ask. He waved his arms to indicate that he had no weapon.

  “By yer feet, laddie!” the old armorer shouted. He chuckled, wheezing, and then delivered a death blow to his opponent. Duncan looked on the ground. Wishing he had thought of it a second ago, he picked up a spear.

  The man who was holding Alina had dragged her to the rear door. Duncan sprinted across the hall, stabbing at a man who reached out to grab him as he passed. He reached the door.

  “Duncan,” Alina breathed. The man's arm was around her throat and he could see she was struggling to breathe. He felt his heart fill with rage.

  He roared and lunged, aiming low for the man's knees. He was blocked by Alina's body. The man chuckled, drawing his sword. He dropped Alina.

  “Run!” Duncan shouted to her urgently. She was doubled over, coughing, unable to draw breath to run. Duncan turned and faced his assailant.

  The man swung a sword at him and Duncan dropped the spear even as he drew his own. He danced aside from the blow and then brought his own sword crashing down at the man.

  Who had moved.

  Duncan cursed under his breath as his sword hissed through air and then changed the angle, raising it afresh. The man's swing crashed into his and the impact shuddered along his arms.

  Duncan twisted the blade, freeing it, and raised it again. All around him men were shouting, weapons clashing. The few guardsmen he had brought with him were doing well. However, were there enough to fight so many? He could not guess.

  His attention had been torn by Fergal, shouting a battle scream as he swung his ax. When he looked back, there was a blade coming for his head. He moved, but no one can out-move a blade.

  At the height of the arc, the blade faltered. Seemed to lose its strength. He saw his assailant gasp, but no sound came out. The man was coughing, and foam appeared on his lips. He crashed forward.

  Duncan looked down. Alina was on the ground. She was looking at the man in horror as he twisted and writhed, the spear still in him, torn from her grasp as he fell.

  Duncan stared.

  White-faced, black eyes wide with horror, Alina looked up at him. She looked at the man, then at Duncan, and covered her face with her hands. Duncan bent to hold her and she breathed against him, breath shuddering, shoulders shaking.

  “I killed him,” she whispered.

  “You did, lass. You saved my life.”

  “I have never killed anyone or anything before.”

  She sat on the floor, white-faced. She had let go of the knife, but her hand still lay in her lap as though she no longer knew it as part of herself. She was rocking back and forth, eyes wide.

  “I killed him.”

  Duncan held her and rocked with her as she shuddered in his arms. All around him, the sounds of fighting were dying down. He looked across the hall. The older woman who had been with Alina was in the corner, still as a statue, somehow untouched. On the other side of the hall he saw another face he recognized.

  “Blaine!” he shouted.

  How had he got here? He looked around, information slowly filtering through to his weary mind. There was, somehow, suddenly, more than twice the number of guard he had brought with him. They filled the floor and they moved through the hall with brisk efficiency, dispatching any enemy who were too wounded to stand.

  Blaine must have brought them. If he had not, Duncan thought somberly, they would all be dead by now.

  “Blaine?” he called.

  Blaine seemed not to notice him and Duncan looked into the shadows, wondering what held his attention. Behind him, face white and streaked with tears, was Chrissie. Duncan felt relief at knowing the girl was safe, and, somewhere in his heart, he was pleased for Blaine – at least in protecting her he had a chance to prove his love to her.

  In his arms, Alina had stopped shaking. She looked up at Duncan. Together they sat on the floor while the hall filled with groans, gasps, and the sound of men and women recovering from a nightmare.

  Alina's body was very close to Duncan's, her heart fluttering, chest shuddering with gasping breaths. Her warmth flowed through to him and he could smell the scent of rosemary in her hair. He grit his teeth, feeling his body ache to possess her. Now was not the place or the time and he pushed that feeling away ruthlessly, knowing she needed care more than anything.

  “Duncan?” she whispered it. Her voice was even. He looked into her eyes.

  “Yes?”

  “Can we go elsewhere, do you think? I need air.” She asked it shakily, voice quiet.

  Duncan nodded. He stood and helped her to her feet. Her hands in his were like ice. She leaned on him and he held her, arm around her shoulders, as, together, they walked from the crowded hall.

  Outside, the courtyard was empty. Duncan could hear men repairing the shattered rear gate. The air was cold and his cloak snapped in the breeze. He drew it around Alina. She looked up at him.

  “Duncan?”

  “Yes?”

  “Thank you for coming back.”

  He looked down at her pale oval face. Her eyes were round and very black, her lips parted, moist and warm.

  His heart thumping, body shivering with need, he lowered his mouth to hers. His lips met the sweet softness of her mouth, tongue slipping, wet and hot, between them.

  Alina gasped. She, too, seemed posse
ssed by the same urgency he felt, for her arms held him close and her lips parted to allow him in. His body throbbed, his heart pulsing hard in his chest. His loins were aching and he shook and trembled with rising need.

  “Alina,” he whispered. His hands moved down her back, stroking her long, slim throat and burying themselves in the black satiny-softness of her hair. She moaned and pressed against him and he felt the soft curves of her body press into him. He closed his eyes. He moved his mouth to hers again and they stood, locked together in a place that was so close to heaven, he thought he had already died.

  Alina gasped and her mouth moved from his. She was shivering, too, and it was not all with cold – his cloak was wrapped around her, her body against his.

  “Duncan,” she whispered.

  “Yes?”

  “We should...stop,” she said. Her hips were pressed to his and he noticed, with panic, that his body had been thrusting closer and closer to hers, as if his loins had made the decision for themselves and acted outside his jurisdiction.

  “Yes,” he agreed. His heart sank. He wanted her. He wanted her more badly than he had ever wanted anything. His body was stretched taut with need, urgent and quivering with it.

  “I...am sorry,” she gasped. She turned away, hands smoothing her skirts. “But we cannot.”

  She turned to face him, long hair swinging around her slim body. In the faint light of the empty courtyard, she was a shadow, sweetly curved and made living by the silver of the starry sky.

  He stared at her, his eyes drinking in her form – high breasts, narrow frame, and long legs. His whole being vibrated with need and he was sure there was nothing more beautiful than she who stood before him now.

  Reluctantly, he broke the contact, turning away to look up at the wall of the hall behind.

  “Duncan?” A voice called from the door, thirty feet away. The voice was weary, barely reaching them. Even so he recognized it.

  “Blaine?”

  “Yes. We're repairing the damaged wall. We need some help?” It was a question, a request.

  “Of course,” Duncan called. His voice was a strangled whisper, so he cleared his throat. “Coming soon,” he explained. He turned to Alina, who was looking at the sky, face grave and still. “Thank you,” he whispered. He wrapped her in his arms again and kissed her hair. This was a chaste kiss, a kiss of solemnity.

  “Thank me?” Alina asked, confused. She looked up at him, lips parted in an expression of confusion.

  “Yes,” he said, smiling.

  “What for?”

  He smiled again. “For saving my life?” he said, then, when she closed her eyes, he added, “for the kiss. For being you.”

  Alina looked into his eyes, and her own black ones were wide, long lashes framing their inky darkness.

  “Thank you, Duncan MacConnoway. For all of that, and more.”

  Duncan smiled and closed his eyes, wrapping her in his arms. She closed her eyes and leaned against him, head against his heart. He bit his lip and thought that, even in this world that the priests insisted was wicked, there were moments that were completely, entirely perfect.

  Around them the ash drifted from the part-burned rear gate, the men grumbled, and the castle settled, slowly, into silence and gathered itself from shattered peace into order once again.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  FINDING INFORMATION

  FINDING INFORMATION

  “So it is our old enemies. The MacDonnell's.”

  Alina looked up from her breakfast of oats porridge. She was so weary she could barely find the energy to raise a spoon. She could still smell smoke from where the gate had smoldered and, somewhere, behind the building, the hammers rang out as joiners reinforced the gates. She gave her great-uncle a long look. For someone who manned defenses all night, he looked remarkably energetic.

  “You found proof?” she asked mildly.

  He directed his keen gaze at her. “We did. A brooch. And the testimony of some prisoners. I do not think they lied. It is hard not to reveal the truth in such...travail,” he said piously.

  Alina closed her eyes. Under the “travail” of torture, you would confess to flying on a broomstick, she thought privately. Anyone would. She felt a slow, bilious anger against her uncle, an impatience borne partly of tiredness and partly of anger against his need to blame and revenge, to be always in control, as he was of her and Duncan's lives. She did not voice the comment, however, but reached wearily across to the salt-cellar where it stood at his right hand.

  “Here.” One of her uncle's house guests, a handsome man of around thirty called Dougal, passed it to her.

  “Thank you,” Alina said quietly. She took a spoon of salt and passed it back.

  She was exhausted beyond imagining, numb with the shock of having taken a life, and angry with her uncle. The anger and tiredness wore at her. She poured the spoon of salt onto her porridge and stirred it in, hoping it would revive her.

  Chrissie, white and drawn, faced her across the table. She, too, looked exhausted, black rings around her pale eyes. Alina lifted a brow and gave her a sour smile, inclining her head towards their uncle. Chrissie dimpled and looked down at her hands. She did not want to giggle openly. Alina was pleased that, at least, she could make Chrissie laugh.

  “You plan action against them?” a young man spoke from down the table. Alina looked across at him. The voice was Heath, the fosterling. His lean, clever face turned to Uncle Brien, seeking his approval.

  “I do, lad,” Brien said wearily. Heath's face fell and Alina wished he had not been so dismissive. “But we must consider things before we act,” he continued loftily. “Can we face them now they have allied with those eternal running sores, the Duncraigh's?”

  Alina looked at him. “We face both of them at once?”

  He nodded, reaching for a linen square to dab his beard. “Indeed.”

  Alina looked across the table at Duncan. He was looking at the old man with disbelief.

  “You know this, and you do nothing?” he asked.

  Alina drew in a breath. She looked at Duncan as if to say to him: no. Do not provoke him.

  Her uncle looked down at his plate, cutting a slice of ham. Not looking at Duncan, he replied mildly. “I know this, and I pause and reflect. It is a wise thing to do, young man. Though I think it comes more naturally to those of advanced experience. The young are impetuous and foolish.”

  Alina choked. They all looked at her and she waved a slim hand, trying to convey that she would not choke to death. When she had recovered, she looked about, eyes damp with coughing.

  “I accept the wisdom of that, my lord,” Duncan said when he, too, had recovered his power of speech after the shock of Brien's reply. “But I do question the wisdom of delay in the face of such an alliance. Should we not be gathering our own troops?”

  “Against that lot of wind and water?” Brien chuckled. “They make a foray against our gate, enter with less than thirty men and are repelled within two hours?” he waved a hand at the rest of the company, as if dismissing something trivial. “I know their thane. He'll sit in his fortress in Inverglass and mumble about the turret rooms being cold and the flour being stony. I see no cause for concern.”

  Duncan raised a brow at him. He leaned back, contemplating his words. Alina watched him and felt her own worry subside.

  On the surface, what her uncle said was correct. The thane of Inverglass was old – older than Uncle Brien, who was by no means young himself. He had not been a threat for many years. The feud between them had passed away over the years, neither party interested in maintaining it for longer. However, with the MacDonnell's, intent on avenging the death of Lord Thomas, as their allies? Alina was not sure her uncle's simple assessment was correct. She leaned back, long fingers plucking at green velvet skirts as she considered the implications.

  “We should send scouting parties there, my lord?” Heath spoke up again, making a suggestion. “Determine the magnitude of their threat.”

&n
bsp; “We could,” Brien agreed mildly. “But they will tell us nothing we don't know, so why throw men into the task fruitlessly?”

  “What if the Duncraigh's are increasing strength?” Heath bravely persisted.

  “They have an army of two hundred, lad,” the earl said tiredly. “And if they haul in their tenants, they'll number twice that. But they're safe in their hill-fort and they know they are. They've never brought the army out yet. It'll be the same now.”

  Heath leaned back, handsome face confused. Chrissie looked at him with a little frown and Heath smiled at her affectionately and then looked down, clearly worried.

  Alina set her spoon aside, watching the two young people. Heath had changed recently: where he had been courtly and attentive on Chrissie, clearly interested, he seemed to have retreated. Always a serious young man, he focused even more on his books and his fighting than before, staying out of the castle for hours at a time. Alina wondered what had caused the change.

  “I should leave,” Duncan said suddenly. He stood and pushed in his chair, surprising everyone.

  Alina looked up at him. He looked back at her, his brown eyes full of love. His lips lifted in a smile which he quickly hid, but not before Alina saw it and felt herself shiver with surprise.

  She looked back down and caught Chrissie looking at her with an expression of amazement. She bit her lip. Chrissie managed to tear her eyes away and looked down at her hands, flushed at having been caught staring at Alina.

  “I, too, have much to do,” Alina said wryly, as Duncan walked through the door. He stopped and Alina wanted to smile. “I will retire upstairs shortly.”

  She made a final valiant attempt to take some porridge, but was sure she would keep nothing down. She pushed it away and stood. “I think I will go and sew. We're in dire need of new tapestries in the hall, I am sure.”

  Uncle Brien regarded her tranquilly and said nothing. The rest of them looked up at her, surprised.

  “Can I help you later?” Chrissie asked, looking at Alina with wide eyes. Alina guessed she was troubled and wanted to talk.