by L. L. Muir
“I doona care, my love. If they send you back, I go as well. I go where you go.”
She twisted the thin cloth at his neck and pulled him down to meet her embrace. Her lips tasted like the most precious of nectars and he willed himself to remember it always.
“Swear it to me, Gaspar. Tell it back to me. I go where you go.”
He smiled again. “I vow…that as long as you live…I go where you go.” And he sealed it with a kiss.
She nodded and stepped back, but the tears on her cheeks told him the truth, that she knew he’d just lied to her. Did she also know that it broke his heart to do it?
“Enough of this bletherin’!” Monty bellowed. “Ivar, restrain Isobelle if ye must,” he pointed his sword at Gaspar, “but it is time to defend her honor.”
Isobelle raised her chin and walked back to the fence without an escort. Gaspar took the offered sword from Ivar, then faced the Scotsman. “Yes. It is time. But it is I who defend her honor. En guard.”
And with that, he attacked. The jolt of first engagement seemed to come just a hair’s breath before the sound of it. His bones shuddered as each blow was met with equal force, and he reveled in it. Occasions for concentrated battle had been rare of late.
If Ross was surprised by his strength, he hid it well. The man’s attention to his swordplay was frightening. Since he’d met the man, a storm of emotions had ever been at play across his features. But as soon he lifted his sword, all expression fell away. Gaspar did his best to do the same.
“I see ye ken yer debole from yer hilt,” Ross said, beating Gaspar’s blade sideways, trying to knock it from his hand.
“I spent a good deal of time fighting pirates, my lord.” He spun on his heel and came around to strike the back of Ross’s blade, but the man’s fingering was as sure as his own. He retreated a step when the man answered in kind.
A few blows later, they had their just distance. Gaspar was surprised to find his reach was slightly longer than his opponent, but he took no false hope in the knowledge. The man could easily pound him into the ground like a troublesome spike if he chose to, he was that powerful. And yet, his blows were restrained.
Gaspar could not afford to pace himself. His best chance to draw Ross’ blood would be to do so while his strength was fresh. So he attacked again. But the big man met his tempo with ease, never feinting, never retreating. And Gaspar realized with a certain amount of dread that the man was toying with him as a cat toyed with a mouse until it was bored.
The least he could do was to keep the man entertained.
He waited for the right opportunity and tossed his blade into his left hand, then attempted a falso filo, slipping his blade beneath Ross’s and flicking the tip of the blade to cut the man’s hand. For the first time, Ross stepped backward and corrected the angle of his sword, pointing it at Gaspar’s neck so, if he attempted the same again, he’d impale his neck on the tip of Ross’ blade.
They both broke the line and breathed deeply while they circled each other, taking half-hearted thrusts every few steps. Ross watched for Gaspar to reverse hands again, so he might take advantage. But he was soon to learn that the dragon was skilled with his left hand as well, and he attacked with force to test the strength of that arm.
“I have lived twelve years in Venice, my lord. We row a great many boats with heavy oars. I believe you will find me equal to the task.” He wasn’t going to divulge the fact that his servant rowed most of the time.
“Ye must have pitifully small boats, aye? Because ye seem to be flaggin’. Would ye like me to step back and give ye the chance to change hands? Seems yer right arm was a wee bit stronger.”
Gaspar laughed and shook his head. Then he dropped his smile to concentrate on defending a forceful attack. He was honestly surprised his blade hadn’t shattered, so powerful were Ross’s blows. And Gaspar’s arms felt as if he’d already rowed out to his island, that he may not have the fortitude to row back.
The other man’s jaw clenched and he lunged forward, his blade aiming low toward Gaspar’s legs. He parried and jumped just beyond the man’s reach, but he doubted he could react so quickly a second time.
Without daggers, he felt safe to move close and stepped forward, his blade sliding against Ross’ blade until their crosses caught. He spoke in a low voice so the others would not hear him.
“Laird Ross, we both know how this will end, but I would beg a favor, before the coup de grace.”
For the first time since they began, the man frowned. “Aye?”
They separated with a hard push, then Ross attacked again. Gaspar deflected a blow and the swords slid together again.
Ross growled. “Speak.”
“Vow to me you will not allow Isobelle to follow me back. She will never be safe there.”
The man nodded once. “Aye. With or without a vow, I would never have allowed it.”
“I thank you just the same.”
They parted again and Gaspar fought against the pain of his breaking heart by attacking with all his might. As he was pulling away, he twirled the end of his blade, attempting to cut the man again. All he needed was to mark the man! But Ross’ size did nothing to slow him. His arms and feet moved as deftly as a thin lad being chased by chickens.
Four times he thought his blade would connect with flesh. Four times, he’d been wrong.
He growled in frustration. There was nothing for it. He was about to lose Isobelle. A dozen blows more. He could defend a dozen blows more, that was all.
Was this God’s punishment? Was he truly unworthy of her?
He shook his head. No. That could not be. He well be the only man who could love her as she deserved to be loved. He understood her like no other man could. What other man would understand the heart that beat inside Isobelle Ross—the woman who would sacrifice all for the sake of love alone, even if it was simply the love between two strangers?
No. He would not leave her. To love Isobelle was to stay at her side, no matter what the cost.
Gaspar had no choice but to use the weapon Lady Ross had placed in his hands. He thought himself above trickery, but he would sacrifice even his honor if he must. He couldn’t leave Isobelle. He couldn’t take her with him. So he simply would not go.
Gaspar found the strength to attack again—three blows, clang clang clang, then retreat, leaving Monty room to recover.
“Tell me, Laird Ross. Does yer wife have a brother?”
Ross delivered two powerful blows. Clang, clang. The second, Gaspar deflected.
“Nay,” the man growled. “Why do ye ask?”
Three more. Clang. Clang. Clang! Gaspar nearly dropped his weapon. He took a few deeps breaths, then was able to speak again.
“I wondered, if she’d had a brother…”
Two more blows. Clang, clang. He could defend two more, surely.
Ross frowned and lunged. Gaspar deflected and spun, but his foot caught and he fell to one knee. Clang.
One more. He had to stand and face just one more. But he couldn’t. He was barely able to raise his sword and point it at Ross. The big man slapped the blade away with his own.
Clang.
Gaspar could lift it no more.
“I wondered,” he panted, “what you might have told such a brother, once he learned you’d been holding Jillian prisoner in your castle?”
Monty’s sword hovered in the air, drawn halfway back to his shoulder. His frown made Gaspar wonder if, in his current state of fatigue, he might have slipped into the Italian language. He watched the long-sword, waiting for it to change direction and come for his head. But the tip of it drooped to the ground and Ross straightened. Then he sent a frown in Lady Ross’ direction, and Gaspar recognized the opening for what it was.
Hope alone lifted his own sword and he made a molinetto, a small circular cut, on Ross’s forearm. In reaction, the man’s sword jerked up and caught Gaspar on the chin. He stepped back quickly and offered a small bow of apology even while he was seething.
> A small red spot bloomed on the big man’s flesh and he frowned at it for a moment before looking severely at his wife again.
Isobelle shrieked and jumped in the air with Morna and Juliet. Lady Ross stood stark still and stared at her husband. Eventually, she ducked through the center of the fence and started toward him, walking slowly, her strange green boots only slightly less disturbing than the fact she wore breeches. Her fingers were tucked into strange little pockets that did not show, and her look of remorse would sway any judge.
Gaspar clambered to his feet and faced the man quickly, before the woman was close enough to speak.
“Blame me, Laird Ross. I begged your wife to give me some way to distract you. I would not relent until she gave up the tale. My actions were shameful. I withdraw the victory. Just do not punish the woman, I beseech you.”
“It’s a lie, Montgomery. Don’t listen to him.”
Surely it was dangerous to step so close to her angry husband, so Gaspar tried to pull her back and behind him.
The man growled. “If I will not allow ye to put yer hands on me sister. What makes ye believe I’d allow ye to touch me wife?” His voice had grown louder with each word.
Gaspar put his offending hand in the air and stepped to the side. Their audience laughed, but Gaspar could not see the reason.
“Did you hear him?” Ross asked his wife as he reached out and pulled her to him again, her rounded belly notwithstanding. “He was defending ye. And to me. Have ye ever heard such nonsense?”
The woman’s hands worked their way up the man’s arms and behind his neck, though he had to bend far forward to allow it.
“I did offer him a little advantage, husband.”
Monty smiled. Smiled! “Aye, because he was sorely disadvantaged.”
“As are we all,” she whispered. “As we should be, yer lairdship.”
It might have been Jillian’s exaggerated brogue, or the fact that she’d called him laird, but the big man lowered his mouth to his wife’s in spite of an attentive audience.
Since Gaspar was forgotten, he turned to take advantage, and had just enough time to open his arms before Isobelle flew into them.
“Gaspar, my love! Ye’ve beaten him!”
He held her tight a long moment, remembering all those days and nights when they’d had a cold metal wall between them. He reveled in the feel of her while he could, before he had to dash her hopes again.
“No, Isobelle,” he whispered. “Your brother has beaten me.”
She looked up and her lips parted when she noticed his chin. She shook her head frantically then pressed her head to his chest and wrapped her arms securely around him.
“What is this?” Montgomery barked. “I’ll not take a victory that isna mine. Yer dragon looks a bit long in the tooth, Sister, but ye can keep him if ye still want him. He tried to defend my guilty wife. He’s a saint for all we ken.”
Gaspar remembered what Isobelle had told him in the beginning about the men she knew who treated their women well. Isobelle claimed Monty was not one of them, but she’d been wrong.
He bent to kiss Isobelle again, this time in the dizzying knowledge that they could truly be together. There were no secrets left to bare, no other’s approval to seek. Nothing to separate them—most especially 500 years. Isobelle seemed to be celebrating the same as she met his passion with equal fervor. In the distance, he heard the clearing of a throat or two and dredged up the will to at least pause for a breath.
He opened his eyes and was a little too pleased to find Isobelle was having a more difficult time opening hers. He also found that Lady Ross had been set aside and her husband was moving toward him. Gaspar had scarcely released his hold on Isobelle before he fell onto his backside. Again.
“Saint or no,” the man bellowed, “the next time ye kiss my sister will be after ye’re wed and not before.”
Gaspar got to his feet and fisted his hands, then leaned close to his would-be brother. “How far is the church? For I will be kissing her again, and soon.” He held a hand out to Isobelle and pulled her close again, ignoring her snorting brother. “Will you have me to husband, Isobella—Isobelle?”
She nodded and rose onto her toes to whispered close to his ear, sending delicious chills up his back. “Perhaps when we’re alone in the night, ye can call me Isobella.”
He thought that sounded like an exceptional idea and wished to reward such inspiration with a kiss, but he remembered the brother before he laid his lips on Isobelle’s again. He looked at Ross and asked permission with a raised brow. The man rolled his eyes and nodded, and while Gaspar kissed his Isobelle, he realized the laird of the clan, the mighty Montgomery Ross, was all bluster when it came to matters of the heart.
EPILOGUE
University of Edinburgh library, a year later…
“Who is that?” A brunette American student, approached her blond English flatmate and slid sideways onto a chair. “Tell me he’s not a professor.”
“Unfortunately,” said the blond, “he is, alas, a professor.” She was trying not to spend any more time staring at the man at the other end of the table, but failing. His face was pure perfection, except for the minor detail of an angry white scar that slashed across his face. But it simply made him look…perfectly imperfect. “Teaches History, Art History, and Italian. Oh, and some class on the Ottoman Empire.”
“I’m changing majors,” said the brunette.
“You cannot,” her friend snapped. “Apparently, there has been a rash of girls trying to get into his classes. They’re full up. And the counsellors are positively snarky to anyone wanting to change any major to History.”
“I bet Italian’s not full.”
“Full. I have already tried.” The blond tried to concentrate once more on her book.
“Ottoman Empire?”
She shook her head.
The brunette sighed. “How do you say perfect in Italian?”
“Perfetto,” said a red-head as she passed their end of the table and headed toward the professor. She leaned down and gave the guy a long, sexy kiss. Then she slid into a chair catty-corner from him and laced her fingers in his.
“Who does she think she is?”
“Has to be his wife,” said the blond.
“Oh? How can you tell?” Her friend glanced casually at the other end of the table again.
“Because she’s showing us the ring on his finger,” she whispered, then sat forward so her hair would cover her embarrassed face.
“Oh, wow.” Her friend hunched down in her chair and looked away.
“What?”
“Pregnant as a cow.”
The blond looked up through her bangs at the couple. Mr. Perfection pulled out the chair for his wife who literally appeared to be hiding a basketball beneath her gray sweater. He kissed her hand as she stood, then led her back toward their audience of at least two. He glanced at the blond and gave her a polite smile that lasted a thousandth of a second and she was fairly certain her heart stopped and died happy.
She and her friend held their breath as the couple passed. The brunette sighed in relief, a bit loudly at that. The wife stuck her head around the bookrack, and the blond gasped.
To be tediously honest, the woman was as beautiful as her husband. Though she looked a bit odd when she mooed!
The blond literally died of embarrassment and dropped her head onto her book. After she was sure the couple was gone, she looked up at her friend and grinned.
“I think she’s a freaking lucky cow.”
THE END
*Thank you for your precious reading time. An excerpt of Book 4, What About Wickham is next.
Excerpt from WHAT ABOUT WICKHAM
I had seen a kissing booth before.
Every fall I was allowed to accompany Gay to Douglas, Wyoming where the State Fair was held. Gay’s one vanity was her love of cooking competition, and if she didn’t win a ribbon, it was a damned long ride back to Casper. So of course, I had many reasons for
wishing her well.
There was no chance of running into our family cook, however, in the small Scottish village of Sillerbirch, so I had no qualms about watching the goings on at the kissing booth. No one was going to walk up behind me and slap me on the back of the head for doing so.
“Be careful,” said Mary, as she watched alongside me. “See that placard? No MacKays Allowed.”
Then a saw it. A sign no bigger than a bread box, hanging off the front of the booth.
“But don’t worry. There’s another on the opposite end of the row with a sign that will read “No Rosses Allowed.” We’ll just go there. They always have the cutest boys anyway.”
That was all the encouragement I needed to pry my eyes away from the young man leaning into the first booth to kiss the female attendant.
“He must have bought a lot of tickets,” I said, then realized I’d spoken to myself as Mary was already ten feet away and fading fast.
I held my sweater to my shoulders and ran after her, only to bump into a young man wearing a black leather jacket.
“Pardon me,” I said quickly and ran away.
Since I’d failed to look him in the eye when I spoke, which was a poor show of manners on my part, I turned back to give him an apologetic smile. The boy didn’t seem to appreciate it at all, however, and only stared at me with startling green eyes.
I mouthed the word ‘sorry’ and turned away for fear of becoming forever separated from Mary, but not before the young man’s face softened, if only slightly. A chill ran up my spine at the idea that he might yet be watching me as I hurried down the row. I resisted the urge to turn back a second time.
So distracted by the memory of his face, as I was, I nearly passed Mary before I caught sight of her turquoise headband—the one my mother had purchased for me in New York—the one Mary informed me she was trading me for one of hers covered in genuine Scottish plaid wool. I didn’t bother to inform her that Wyoming was not only on of the biggest supplier of oil in the United States, but also famous for wool. I let the exchange stand, however, because as soon as I chose to wear my torquoise dress, I’d be borrowing back my headband.
