The Highlander

by Ruth Ryan Langan

  “A bath? Oh, Dillon, how wonderful.”

  He smiled. “I thought you would approve.”

  They looked up as Gwynnith and two other servants entered, carrying an assortment of linens and jars and vials.

  Dillon touched a hand to Leonora’s cheek and gave her a smile, before crossing to the door. “I will leave you to your mysterious women’s rituals.”

  With the help of the servants, Leonora removed the heavy cloak. If the servants were surprised that she wore nothing beneath it, they were too polite to take notice. Nor did they mention the bruises that marred her flesh.

  After helping her into the tub, they began lathering her hair, which was matted with bits of leaves and twigs.

  “Oh, how glorious,” she sighed.

  “Close your eyes, my lady,” Gwynnith urged. “And rest a while, for your ordeal has ended.”

  She needed no coaxing. After what she had been through, the fragrance of perfumed soap, the soothing warmth of the water and the gentle massaging of fingertips on her scalp, were like heaven. With a sigh she closed her eyes and leaned back, allowing the servants to minister to her.

  “Were you frightened, my lady?” one of the servants asked timidly.

  Keeping her eyes closed, she murmured, “Aye. I was terrified.”

  “But you did not run, my lady. Flame said you were the bravest woman she has ever known. Though you could have fled, you stayed and helped her slay the monster.”

  “Hush,” Gwynnith admonished. “We will speak no more of unpleasant things.”

  The servants fell silent. Leonora was grateful. She had no wish to speak, or even to move. She was content to lie very still and allow herself to be pampered. It could have been minutes or hours that she lay in the water, feeling all the cares and tensions drift away.

  “If you will dip below the water, my lady, we will rinse the soap from your hair.”

  Leonora did as she was told, and came up laughing and sputtering. “Oh, I feel so clean. And refreshed, as though I had rested for days.”

  One of the servants brushed Leonora’s wet hair from her eyes and wrapped a linen square around her head. Another servant entered the chambers and placed an array of feminine clothing on the sleeping pallet.

  When Leonora stepped from the tub, she was wrapped in more linen, before being led to a chaise drawn up in front of the fire. While she lay, wrapped in linen, and then in fur, her waist-length hair was combed, again and again, until it was dry. Then, seated in front of a mirror, her hair was arranged in a mass of curls, held away from her face by jeweled combs.

  “Your clothes, my lady.”

  Gwynnith helped her into a beautiful, delicately embroidered chemise and petticoats, and then into the amethyst velvet gown she had been wearing when she’d been abducted from her father’s castle. It had been perfectly mended with fine, even stitches.

  “Oh, my lady, how fine you look.”

  “Thank you, Gwynnith. And all of you,” Leonora added to the others, “for all that you did to make my homecoming so comfortable.”

  The servants exchanged quick, knowing glances at her use of the term homecoming. Did the lady not realize what she had revealed?

  Before they could speak, the door opened. Seeing the laird, they bowed quickly from the room.

  Leonora, studying her reflection in the mirror, saw Dillon walk up behind her. For a moment, each stood, drinking in the sight of the other.

  Dillon was dressed in a clean shirt of softest lawn, the collar open to reveal a mat of dark hair. Billowing sleeves could not hide the muscles of his arms. Tight black breeches were tucked into tall boots. Droplets of water still clung to his hair.

  He studied the way her skin glowed from the bath. With her hair dressed in the latest fashion, and the lush curves of her body revealed in the elegant gown, she was once more the cool, regal Englishwoman he had first seen. And desired.

  Drawing her back against him, he bent his head and brushed a kiss across her shoulder.

  “Mistress MacCallum has prepared a special feast to welcome us home.”

  She shivered at the touch of his lips against her flesh. Tiny fires had already begun in the pit of her stomach.

  “Must we go below stairs?”

  He chuckled, low and deep in his throat. “Aye, little one. We would break the poor woman’s heart. But as soon as we have supped,” he added with a low growl, “we will slip away. For I cannot bear to waste a single moment, knowing what heaven awaits me in your arms.”

  With a last quick, hard kiss, he led her from the room.

  As Leonora descended the stairs beside him, she glanced around in surprise. Everywhere she looked, the dark wood gleamed under a coat of fresh polish. The floors were cushioned with new rushes, the fragrance of herbs and evergreen perfuming the air.

  When they entered the great hall, the hum of conversation died. All eyes were on the handsome couple as they made their way to table.

  “Ah, my lady.” Father Anselm, who had been bending solicitously over Flame’s linen-swathed figure at the table, hurried forward, his coarse brown robes swirling at his feet. “I have missed your smiling face and sparkling conversation.”

  “As I have missed you, Father Anselm.”

  “This house has not been the same since you left, my lady. Flame has just been regaling us with stories of your courage and loyalty.”

  “It was Flame’s courage that saved us, Father.”

  “I would say that you are both extraordinary women, my dear. I pray you will attend Mass in the chapel on the morrow. It will be offered in thanksgiving for the safe return of those we love.”

  “Oh, I would like that.” She turned to Dillon with a joyous smile. “Will you accompany me, Dillon?”

  At her easy use of his name, the priest studied the couple with new interest. So, the rumors he had heard were true. These two had not come through the danger unscathed. Their hearts had been pierced.

  “Aye, my lady.” Dillon closed a hand over hers, then looked up to meet Father Anselm’s curious stare. “If you wish it, it shall be.”

  He led her toward the table and bent to kiss his sister before he helped Leonora to sit. Taking the place beside her, he called, “Come, Father Anselm. Join us.”

  “Thank you.” The old priest sat down.

  As the food was being served, he suddenly got to his feet and announced, “I would say a blessing before we eat.”

  Amid a loud shuffling of feet and scraping of benches, the assembled stood and bowed their heads.

  “Father, we thank You for the safe return of our beloved laird and the ladies Leonora and Flame. We are grateful that You have protected us from the one who brought pain and death to so many here in our land. And finally, we ask for the safe deliverance of Sutton and Shaw from their English prison. Amen.”

  The serving wenches began moving among the crowded tables. As the servants approached the laird’s table, they welcomed Dillon and Leonora with friendly smiles.

  Mistress MacCallum waddled over to call out a greeting.

  “Look, m’lady.” She spread her hands to indicate the entire room. “Begging ye’r thanks, the servants have learned their lessons well.”

  “Aye, I see, Mistress MacCallum.” Leonora gave her a gentle smile.

  “What have you done to this venison?” Dillon asked when he’d tasted it.

  “In honor of the lady, I ordered the cooks to try her recipe. Do ye dislike it, m’laird?” the housekeeper asked timidly.

  “Nay, Mistress MacCallum. How could I dislike such perfection? It is the finest I have ever tasted.”

  The old woman beamed and signaled for another tray to be brought.

  “And this?” Dillon asked, cutting a thick slice of whole roasted pig. “Is this also the lady’s recipe?”

  Mistress MacCallum nodded.

  As each food was sampled, the housekeeper hovered nearby, awaiting the laird’s approval or rejection. When the sweets arrived, she watched as first Dillon, then Father A
nselm, and finally Flame, smiled their approval.

  “It is m’lady’s brandied pudding and fruited cake,” she explained.

  When Dillon had eaten his fill, he leaned back, replete, content. “You have outdone yourself, Mistress MacCallum,” he muttered.

  “Thank ye, m’laird.” In an unexpected surge of emotion, she caught Leonora’s hand and pressed it between both of her plump palms. “And thank ye, m’lady. Not just for all this, but for bringing home our dear Flame.”

  When the housekeeper waddled away, Leonora struggled to swallow the lump that threatened to choke her. What had happened to her, that she should feel such emotions at a simple meal and a few kind words?

  “We have prepared an evening of entertainment to welcome you home, Dillon,” Camus announced proudly.

  Both Leonora and Dillon had to swallow back a little groan of dismay.

  Clasping Leonora’s hand, Dillon shot her a glance. Though they both yearned to escape this noise and seek refuge in each other’s embrace, they could not hurt the feelings of those who had worked so hard to make their homecoming special. They would have to put off, for a while longer, the relief they sought.

  As the tables were cleared, a juggler leaped onto Dillon’s table and began to entertain by tossing and catching glittering knives, razor-edged swords and even a series of flaming torches. Leonora was so amazed by his skill, several times she caught Dillon’s arm and pointed, much to the delight of those around them. Dillon, in turn, drew her closer and murmured words that made her blush and laugh. Both of them, it would seem, had given up all attempts to hide their feelings from the others.

  When the juggler had finished entertaining them, a minstrel began playing the lute and singing. The songs, of warriors and the women they left behind, of knights and ladies, of birth and death, and mostly of unrequited love, had the women sighing and the men lifting tankards and drinking deeply.

  Dillon and Leonora became more and more quiet, but the looks they sent to each other became more intense with each song. When at last the minstrel finished his last song, Dillon gave an exaggerated yawn.

  “I fear the journey has caught up with me, my friends. I will bid you all good night.”

  With Leonora’s hand on his arm, he almost ran in his haste to lead her from the room.

  Behind them, Father Anselm watched them go, his forehead wrinkled with concern. “This time, Lord,” he whispered, “I fear Dillon Campbell has chosen a path too steep.”

  The once-roaring fire had burned to hot embers that punctuated the darkened room like fiery stars. On a side table, two half-filled goblets remained. An amethyst gown, discarded in haste, lay on the floor like a wilted flower. Beside it lay boots, breeches, a hastily removed shirt.

  The two figures in the sleeping pallet lay in a tangle of arms and legs, exhausted by their lovemaking, drifting on a cloud of sheer bliss.

  Leonora snuggled closer, pressing her lips to the pulse at Dillon’s throat. She heard his little intake of breath and thrilled to it. “Will I always be able to make your pulse quicken, Dillon? Or will you grow weary of me and look for another?”

  He framed her face with his hands and kissed her with such passion, she felt her own heart skip a beat. “Do not even jest about such things.” His voice was rougher than he’d intended. “I will ne’er love another woman, Leonora. No matter what happens, know that you will own my heart always.”

  “So serious, my love.” She kissed him, then drew back, trying to see his eyes in the darkness. “Why have you suddenly become so solemn?”

  He took in a long, ragged breath, then said softly, “I had hoped to wait until the morrow to tell you the news.”

  “News?”

  “In order to show young Rupert that he is still in my good graces, I entrusted him with a most serious mission.”

  “Rupert?” Leonora realized that the lad had been missing at table. Wrapped in the glow of new love, she had taken no notice. “What is this serious mission you speak of?”

  “I sent Rupert with a missive to your father.”

  “A…missive?” Her palms were sweating. Her heart was pounding.

  “I assured him that you are safe. And that you are to be returned immediately to his loving arms.”

  “Returned.” Her heart plummeted. “Why, Dillon?”

  His arms tightened perceptibly around her, as if bracing her for what was to come. “Because I love you, Leonora. It is the only honorable thing I can do.”

  She pushed away, feeling the sting of tears. “You speak of honor? You declare your love, and then you send me away? I do not see honor, Dillon Campbell. I see a coward who stole my love when I was weak and vulnerable, and now absolves himself of any wrongdoing by sending me away.” Against her will, the tears flowed freely. “You are mean and cruel and—”

  He pressed a finger to her lips to silence her. “Hush, my love. We have so little time left together. Let us not spend it inflicting pain. Know always that I love you, Leonora. I could not love you more. But I must do the honorable thing, even if it means a lifetime of unhappiness for me.”

  “And what about me? What about my unhappiness?”

  “I am vain enough to hope you will miss me. But you are a noble Englishwoman, with an enviable dowry of fine estates. Your future is secure.”

  “But my future does not include you? Is that what you are saying?”

  “I see no other solution, love. If we are to prevent a war between our people, I must show my good faith by returning you safely to your father, without condition. I pray he will send my brothers safely home in return. Though I would not have risked such a thing before, my love for you has made me bold. I can no longer use your life to barter for theirs.”

  “Oh, Dillon. How can I leave you?” With a sob, she fell into his arms.

  Her cry shattered all his cool control. “Aye,” he muttered raggedly. “And how can I bear to let you go?”

  Their lovemaking became crazed, frenzied, as they sought to hold back the inevitable dawn.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  “I s it not good to feel the sun warm upon your face?”

  With Flame leaning heavily upon Leonora’s arm, the two young women walked along the overgrown path of the rose garden. They sat wearily upon a stone bench, and Flame struggled to catch her breath.

  “I hate this feeling of helplessness. I am as weak as a bairn, and just about as useless.”

  “You grow stronger every day,” Leonora said good-naturedly. “Besides, look at how Mistress MacCallum and the servants fuss over you.”

  “Aye. If I eat any more of Mistress MacCallum’s pudding, I shall be as plump as she.” Shading her eyes, Flame stared into the distance. “I yearn to feel a horse’s hooves beneath me once more, and the wind in my hair. I want to be free to do as I please.”

  She happened to turn. The look of pain on Leonora’s face twisted like a knife.

  “Forgive me, Leonora. How can I think of myself when your heart is so heavy? I am being selfish.”

  “Nay.” Leonora patted her hand. But the questions she could not bring herself to ask Dillon tumbled from her lips. “How can we be certain Rupert will deliver Dillon’s message?”

  “The lad may be slow to speak, but he is not slow-witted. If there is a way to slip into England and reach your father’s castle, Rupert will find it.”

  “But even if he does, how can my father’s soldiers enter your land without being accosted? Surely they will be delayed many nights by fighting.” It was not that she wished harm to her father’s men. She only yearned for more time, to spend with those she had grown to love.

  “Nay. They will not be accosted by loyal Highlanders. Rupert will give them Dillon’s banner to carry. That banner will assure them safe passage. As long as it remains unfurled, no Highlander would dare to attack them.”

  “It has been two days since Rupert left.”

  “Aye.” Flame’s eyes narrowed as she calculated. The English would, in all likelihood, be here on the
morrow. She needed to keep Leonora’s mind off that gloomy fact, even if it meant doing something she detested. Struggling for a cheerfulness she didn’t feel, she said, “You promised to teach me how to embroider.”

  Seeing through her scheme, Leonora smiled gently and helped her to her feet. “So I did. And I know how anxious you are to add to the lessons of the good sisters in the abbey.”

  She nearly laughed aloud at the look in Flame’s eyes. It would be sheer torture for the lass to spend time on such frivolous female work. “Mistress MacCallum has left cloth and thread in Dillon’s chambers. Come.”

  For at least a few more hours, Leonora reasoned, she would keep herself busy, and for the sake of Flame and the servants, she would force a smile to her lips.

  And tonight, for perhaps the last time, she would lie in Dillon’s arms and pretend that their love would never come to an end.

  Leonora stood on the balcony and watched as the English horsemen made their way up the steep incline toward Kinloch House. Dillon’s banner of blue and green on a black background fluttered in the breeze. As Flame had promised, no Highlander accosted them. Though more than a dozen of Dillon’s finest archers kept them in their sights, not a single arrow was notched into a bow. And though a line of swordsmen lined the trail, not a single weapon was raised in challenge.

  While the horsemen clattered into the courtyard and dismounted, Leonora leaned over the balcony railing to see their faces. She had expected a long column of soldiers, escorting Sutton and Shaw. Instead, there were only a half a dozen soldiers. The only familiar faces belonged to Lord James Blakely, his handsome son, Alger Blakely, and George Godwin, the Duke of Essex. There was no sign of Sutton and Shaw.

  She watched as Dillon stepped through the doorway, flanked by Camus Ferguson and Father Anselm.

  “I am returning Waltham’s daughter to him unharmed. Will he now do the same for my brothers?” he asked sharply.

  “Lord Alec Waltham wishes to be assured that his daughter has not been harmed. When he has such assurance, he will release his prisoners into the hands of your young messenger,” called the Duke of Essex.