by Carmen Caine
She leaned against him before turning in the circle of his arms. With a thoughtful expression, she ran her fingers over the folds of his plaid and adjusted his clan kilt pin to secure the material. Finally, she lifted her stunning eyes to meet his and the corners crinkled with amusement. “I will promise you this, my love, that when my duty is over, I will, as you say, ‘hie myself off to the highlands with ye’.” The last words were said in her best imitation of his Scottish accent.
Dorian felt his lips broaden in a grin. “Then I pray this duty finishes soon,” he replied, letting his eyes drop lustfully over her slimness pressed so warmly against him. His body stirred. “My mind strays in your company, lass,” he chuckled, allowing a teasing note to enter his voice. “Why do you tempt me to stay when you know I must leave and with haste?” He let his warm, green eyes scold her.
With a smile, she pulled out of his embrace but in the next moment, a somber turn of the lip replaced the smile. “’Tis your wellbeing I fear for,” she confessed. “Promise me you’ll stay safe, will you?”
He cradled her face between his palms. “Ach, ‘tis not I who is in danger, you bonny, daft lass. Not even from your husband should he discover where I’ve been this past fortnight.”
From the seriousness of her expression, he could see she took little comfort from his words.
He didn’t want to, but he knew he had to go. “I—” he began.
“Wait,” she interrupted softly. Moving swiftly to an iron-banded chest nearby, she knelt before it and lifted the lid. After a moment, she withdrew a small, leather scabbard and returning to his side, pressed it flat against his chest. “Take this, Dorian. Promise me, you’ll never let it leave your side. The blade within is made of solid silver.”
He slid his fingers sensually over hers before accepting the blade. It was small. A dagger fit only for a woman. The finely crafted leather scabbard and the sapphire-adorned and engraved hilt announced it a costly trinket, to be sure. And silver? Such an unsuitable metal for a weapon.
“Swear you’ll keep it with you, always,” she insisted, hardening her tone.
Aye, he’d keep it close to his heart, but only to remember her by. Such a knife would be of small use against men with broadswords and cudgels. “I will,” he promised with a bow. “I am your humble servant, my lady.”
“You are indeed, and I have many servants on the road,” she said earnestly. “Should you need help, Dorian, I pray they may find you.”
He raised a curious brow. “Dinna fret, lass, I’ll be safe.”
Apparently, she didn’t think so. “Humor me, I beg you,” she insisted. Leaning closer, she whispered, “You’ll know them by these words: Honor. Justice. Forever. Never fading throughout the long march of time.”
Dorian drew his brows together, slightly puzzled. Why the mysterious drama? Seeking to soothe her worry, he simply nodded and chucked her under the chin. “Aye, lass,” he said with his most comforting smile.
Elizabeth’s hand clamped over his forearm. “I am being quite serious,” she stressed. “You cannot forget these words, Dorian. Swear it.”
“Aye, I swear it,” he agreed quickly, bending down to plant a soft kiss on her forehead.
Something glistened in the corner of her eye. A tear?
“Then go now,” she whispered hoarsely. “May you live long and stay well.” Her voice caught, and abruptly she turned away. “I will not watch you leave.”
“Ach, you wee fool,” he objected, gently turning her around. “I’ll have my farewell kiss first.”
He saw the tears she wished to hide and wiped them away with his thumb before dropping the gentlest of kisses upon her lips. It was a poignantly powerful kiss, ripe with emotion, a kiss he wished could last an eternity but all too soon, with the last soft touch, they parted.
“I’ll soon return,” he promised.
Nodding, she bowed her head.
He left then, wishing to spare her feelings and with a quick step, passed through the doorway, closing the oak door softly behind him. For a moment, he stayed there, resting his forehead against it, but not for long.
‘Twas time to ride.
“Come home,” his sister had written.
Stepping out into the midwinter sun, he headed towards the stables, murmuring under his breath, “I’m coming, Gloria. Hold tight. You’re a Ramsey, lass.”
The Night Viper’s Scourge
By late afternoon, Dorian still hadn’t met a soul on the road—unless one counted the occasional white bunting or thrush twittering in the bare, snow-dusted trees. He rode hard, pushing his gray gelding as hard as he could, but still, the white-tipped peak of Ben Nevis seemed no closer.
“Hold fast, Gloria,” he muttered, reining his horse with a muscled arm.
For the past hour, the wind had risen, bringing with it dark, roiling clouds from the north.
“Ach,” he spat to his gelding, frustrated at the impending delay. “We’ll have to find shelter. And from the looks of it, right soon.”
The horse flicked its ears and huffed a breath.
Dorian sighed and turning the animal’s head, pressed urgently onwards into the bitter wind. He had no choice. He’d have to stop soon. But with luck, the storm would pass in the night and by late next evening, he’d be home with Gloria in their village nestled in Ben Nevis’ shadow. Concern over her cryptic missive occupied his thoughts as he plodded through the snow. But with only the words ‘Come home’, there was precious little to go on, so he did the only thing he could: ride faster.
As an early night fell, snow flurried down from above to magnify the silence surrounding him. Still, he plodded on, hunching deeper into his plaid until finally, the rising winds announced it time to stop.
“Only half a league more, lad,” he encouraged his horse. “We’ll halt for the night at the Fighting Cock, aye?”
The horse didn’t respond. Not even with a flick of an ear.
“Ach, what poor company you’ve been this day,” Dorian grumbled under his breath.
Something flashed in the corner of his eye.
Startled, he whirled in his saddle, his hand dropping to his sword, but he caught only a dark blur and a glimpse of a snowy, white wing.
Ach, an owl.
Brushing it aside, he drew his plaid over his face and spurred his horse on, and in only minutes, the welcoming twinkle of lights flickered in the darkness ahead.
At last, warmth and food beckoned.
Sensing the same, the horse quickened its pace, and soon Dorian was pulling rein before the Fighting Cock, a long white-washed building with a thatched roof and carmine-colored door.
Dorian dismounted in a creak of leather and headed for the stables first. After tending his horse, he made for the inn and ducked inside the inn, encountering a huge whiff of peat fire smoke that burned his eyes a bit, but he couldn’t complain. It felt gloriously warm. Squinting, he made his way to where the innkeeper stood behind a sturdy oak counter and paid for a bed, ale, and whatever the kitchen served as the nightly meal. As a tankard of brew slid his way, he grabbed the pewter handle and searching the dim interior, headed towards the only vacant table in the corner.
The din of voices and laughter washed over him, offering the welcome contradiction of companionship along with a comforting sense of anonymity. Heaving a sigh, he stretched out his long legs and took a hearty swig of the ale, which tasted strong and bitter, and just how he liked it.
Setting the tankard down with a satisfying crash, he wiped the foam from his mouth only to be startled the next instant by a tall, elegant, dark-haired man sitting across from him at the table.
Odd. He’d only looked down for the briefest of moments.
“Good evening,” the stranger murmured with a graceful nod.
“Aye, and a good evening to you,” Dorian replied easily enough, inspecting his companion curiously.
The dim light played over the man’s handsome face, revealing a strong chin and carved lips, but exaggerating the scar trail
ing up his jaw. Wide-set shoulders. Lithe. And from the expression in his dark eyes, clearly keen-witted. The fine weave of his cloak along with the glimpse of the superbly fashioned leather hauberk beneath, announced the man a noble.
Somewhat belatedly, Dorian tacked on a, “my lord.”
The man chuckled. “No, just call me Jacques,” he said, dropping his eyes to take in the color of Dorian’s plaid before adding an excessively belated, “and thy tartan tells me to name thee Ramsey.”
Ah. This Jacques clearly possessed a quaint sense of humor. Dorian grinned and introduced himself with greater detail and in turn discovered his companion to be a French noble with ties to Clan Bruce.
Thus began a light-hearted conversation that only grew more entertaining by the moment until finally, the innkeeper arrived with Dorian’s rooster-onion pie. “And again, my lord, are ye sure ye’ll have nothing now?” the man pressed Jacques in a curious tone.
Jacques’ lips creased into a mysterious smile. “I am well, fair innkeeper. I require naught from you.”
The innkeeper hesitated. “I’ve a Burgundy wine,” he proffered. “’Tis a fine red fit for a noble.”
“A fine red,” Jacques repeated softly, his lashes dropping as the corner of his mouth twitched. “Nay, fair innkeeper. I do not fancy wine.”
“Aye, then,” the man grumbled. “No food nor drink for ye then.” He strode away, the set of his shoulders announcing his insult more than his tone ever could.
Dorian shook his head. Whether his companion ate or drank mattered little to him. Digging into his tasty pie, he had his fill as their conversation resumed and Jacques shared the latest tidings from the continent.
Time passed quickly, and before he knew it, they’d talked long into the night.
“Ach, I must leave right early in the morn,” Dorian announced with regret, rising to his feet.
“I as well,” Jacques said, joining him. “’Twas a pleasant evening, mon ami. Mayhap we will meet again, eh?”
“Aye,” Dorian agreed. Reaching over, he clasped the man’s hand in a friendly farewell. Odd. His skin felt icy to the touch. Startled, he glanced into the man’s suddenly watchful eyes.
“Farewell,” the noble murmured abruptly, seeming eager to leave. With a final bow, he whirled upon his heel and left the inn as though his horse was just set afire, leaving Dorian standing there in the smoke-filled room.
“Odd,” Dorian murmured with a shrug. But he’d encountered many odd folks in his travels. Brushing it off, he stifled a yawn and stumbled down the narrow hallway to his assigned bedchamber. Softly, he opened the door and eyed the bed with a rueful smile. The thin straw mattress already housed five snoring travelers and most likely, a legion of fleas.
“Floor it is,” he muttered under his breath. Striding back to the common room, he picked a corner and stretched out on the floor, his sword at his side and Elizabeth’s dagger upon his heart.
Ach, his Elizabeth. But he’d scarcely let his thoughts wander to her curving hips, intoxicating lips, and creamy bare shoulders before sleep swept him away.
* * *
Dorian rose the following dawn to find the storm had passed and no sign of the friendly but odd noble, Jacques. And after a hurried breakfast of gruel and a withered apple, he saddled his gelding and took to the road once again. The day proved an uneventful yet strenuous one. He spent countless hours plodding through freshly fallen snow, crossing tumbling burns snaking through the heath, and huddling under his plaid to ward off the bitterly chill wind.
But this day, the snow-capped peak of Ben Nevis grew steadily closer—and with it, home.
As the sun began its afternoon descent, a mysterious fog rolled down from the gray skies above, carrying with it the promise of yet more snow. But still, he pressed on. Darkness fell. His horse’s temper frayed at the lack of rest. Clearly, the beast would stage a full-on revolt soon. Finally, he heard the barking of dogs and minutes later, he rounded the bend to see the welcome sight of home.
Home. At last.
He galloped down the village road with renewed vigor, but as he passed by the houses, he couldn’t help but notice most stood eerily dark, as if abandoned. By the time he cantered past the smithy to the stone, vine-covered cottage of his childhood, his nagging sense of concern had blossomed into full-fledged worry.
Not one glimmer of light flickered behind the shuttered windows or through the door.
Feeling caught in a disturbing dream, he leapt off his gelding, ran to the door and, lifting its latch, knocked it back. The rusty hinges creaked as the door bounced off the interior wall, dislodging snow from the thatching above onto his head.
“God’s Blood!” he swore, but more for the dark, dank emptiness of the cottage which greeted his worried eyes than for the cold wetness sliding down the back of his neck.
“Ho there, Dorian, is that ye, lad?” a man’s voice called from behind.
Whirling, he spied the blacksmith picking his way sprightly through the snow. The silver-haired man was old, but still boasted impressive muscles and a spring in his step.
He didn’t wait for the man to arrive before hounding him with questions. “Gloria? Tell me, where she is, aye? And Moira? Catriona?” When he’d left six months ago, his sister, aunt, and cousin had all been hale and hearty. “What misfortune has struck? Tell me!”
“Come to the smithy, lad.” The old man’s weathered face creased kindly as he dropped a heavy hand on Dorian’s arm. “Come and—”
Dorian frowned and planted his feet wide. “I’m not moving, Ian. Not until I know what happened here. Gloria?” His voice caught on her name. Swallowing hard, he forced himself to continue, “Gloria? Tell me … is she well?”
At her name, the old man winced.
The movement cut Dorian’s heart like a knife. Fighting back his emotions, he choked, “How? How then did she die?”
“Die?” the blacksmith cut in quickly. “Nay, Gloria dinna die, lad. Aye, Moira and her wee daughter, Catriona, passed last summer, but Gloria lives still.”
Some relief greeted those words, even as he felt his heart tear upon hearing of Moira and Catriona’s deaths. “How did they die? ‘Twas it a fever?” Tears stung his lashes.
The old man sighed and nodding at his horse, said, “Put your beastie in the barn, lad. I’ve a bit of soup that’ll do ye some good. Then we’ll speak, aye?”
Dorian’s frown darkened. “But Gloria?” he asked, waving towards the abandoned cottage. “Where is she?”
Again, the man winced. “Ye’ll see her in the morn,” he grumbled. “Mayhap ye can speak some sense into the daft lass’s head, no?”
With that, he turned away and plodded back to his smithy, leaving Dorian standing there in the snow.
He took a deep, calming breath. Right now, he felt so relieved to learn she was yet alive, he really didn’t care just what daft imprudence she’d embroiled herself in. She lived. Little else mattered. And with both Moira and Catriona gone, ‘twas just the two of them left now. The thought was sobering, and with a heavy heart, he tended his horse before making his way to the blacksmith’s cottage.
Lifting the latch, he stepped inside to weave between the braided ropes of garlic hanging from the rafters and joined the blacksmith at a table near the fire.
“Barley mutton soup,” the old man said, nodding his chin at the black cauldron suspended above the flames. “And I’ve bannocks—”
“I’ve no stomach now, Ian,” Dorian said gently. “Please. Tell me, now. Where’s Gloria?”
Ian’s mouth twisted into a disapproving line. “With a man,” he grunted, refusing to meet Dorian’s gaze. “She wouldna listen to me, lad.”
A man? Dorian blinked, surprised. “What clan?” he asked, and then noting just how censorious the blacksmith’s reaction had been, paused and gasped, “Surely, she’s not with a Douglas?”
“If only ‘twere so,” the old man sighed. His shoulders deflated before he replied, “Nay, ‘tis a Sicilian.”
; Dorian stared at him blankly. A Sicilian? “She wed a Sicilian?” he repeated, bewildered. “And in such haste?”
“Nay, nay, lad. Aye, she’s with the man … but she’s not wed,” came the startling reply. “And I dinna know exactly where she is, but she’ll be here in the morn. This past month, she goes with him into the night, but comes back each morning to work at the inn … now that my Maggie’s passed along with the rest.”
So much death. And Gloria with a man? ‘Twas difficult to digest it all.
Dorian bowed his head. With so much anguish in the village, ‘twas no small wonder she sought comfort in a man’s arms, wedded or not. He couldn’t judge his sister harshly when he’d done a similar thing himself. Not that he wouldn’t be speaking with this Sicilian forthwith and demanding the man set the matter straight, of course. But for the moment, it could wait. “So many have died,” he said. “’Twas it a fever then?”
Silence greeted this question. It took some time before the blacksmith seemed willing to answer. “A Night Viper,” he finally replied, his expression a pained one. “A snake of a kind I’ve never seen afore, lad. It struck them in the night, leaving them with skin whiter than snow and marks upon their necks. I ne’er even heard my poor Maggie strugg—” The old man’s voice broke off at the sad recollection.
Dorian put a comforting hand on the widower’s shoulder, and arched a brow. “’Tis the first I’ve heard of a Night Viper,” he admitted curiously. “A snake so devilishly murderous in these parts? Has it been caught?”
“Nay,” Ian said. “’Twas too dangerous a hunt once the wolves arrived. We mainly keep to our houses since, and with the wolves about, the Night Viper has stayed away.”
“Wolves?” Dorian repeated curiously. “I canna recall wolves near the village afore.”
“Nor I,” the blacksmith replied. “And these? Well, you’ll hear the howls, lad. Unholy. And the tracks they leave in the snow?” He shook his head and muttered, “’Tis strange times, lad. Strange times.”
