Protected by the Knight's Proposal

by Meriel Fuller

  The footsteps were close now. Whoever was coming down the steps carried no light with them. Good, she thought. The darkness would conceal her actions. Her blood picked up speed.

  A key rattled in the lock and the handle turned. The gate pushed inwards with a clanking squeak and a dark shape moved into the dungeon.

  Lifting her arm high, Cecily lunged forward, bringing the stone down with the full force of her arm. Yet before the stone had even started its downward arc, her forearm was caught, snared in a vice-like grip.

  ‘Don’t kill me.’ It was him. Lachlan. His husky voice stole through her tense body, a gentle invasion. He towered over her, eyes sparkling in his shadowed face. His breath fanned her cheek. ‘I come in peace.’

  He released her and Cecily sagged back, the stone dropping from her fingers, hitting the dirt floor with a thud. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I thought you might need some clothes,’ Lachlan announced gruffly. A faint colour dusted the tops of his high cheekbones; his words seemed so intimate, too personal. He was treading new territory here; his life up to now had held no softness, just a headlong cacophony of barked orders; the sickening clash of swords. ‘Some food, as well, if you’re hungry.’ His gaze swept around the dank horrible space, the generous lines of his mouth tightening. It was not right that she had been locked here, when her mother and sister had the luxury of their chamber.

  ‘Why?’ Cecily’s voice jolted out, suspiciously. Had he come for something else, as well? She took a step back. Her mouth burned with the memory of his kiss in the cellar and she touched her fingers to her lips, wrapping her arms tightly across her middle. Her breath billowed out, a white mist in the chill. ‘You are loyal to Lord Simon, are you not? He’s your friend. Does he know that you’re down here?’

  ‘He knows,’ Lachlan replied. He shifted his weight slightly. ‘Your mother and sister are allowed food, so why not you?’

  ‘How considerate of you,’ Cecily’s voice wavered sarcastically. ‘To think of my well-being at a time like this. You could have sent a servant down to check on me. There was no need for you to come. It makes no sense.’ She paused, waiting for an explanation.

  No, Lachlan thought. It makes no sense at all. Yet something about the maid drew him constantly, made him reluctant to leave her. By rights he should be thinking about heading north; the pain in his leg had reduced to a dull ache, scarcely hindering him. But the thought of galloping north, alone, while Cecily was marched towards the King, her outcome unknown, filled him with dread.

  He cleared his throat. Her hair was the colour of frosted sand. The long glossy ropes fell like a curtain of tumbled silk, framing the sweet oval of her face. A luminous pearl shining out from the darkness.

  ‘It isn’t like you to be short of words,’ Cecily pronounced waspishly, sensing his hesitation. ‘Tell me, why have you come down here? Why have you brought me these things?’ She pinned him with her sharp green gaze.

  Uneasiness flowed through him. How could he explain himself? She was the prisoner of his friend and she was in the wrong, yet he wanted to protect her. Lachlan thought for a moment. ‘I’m not saying I approve of what you have done,’ he said slowly, ‘but I do feel responsible for this...the situation that you’re in now. I told Simon how I pulled you from the river and he realised that you must have come from this castle. That’s why he was outside with his men, when the baby was born. He sent me inside, to find out what was happening.’ Placing the heap of clothes on the floor, with the food wrapped in cloth placed on top, he took out a short piece of steel and a flint, a stub of candle from the leather pouch attached to his waist belt.

  ‘You feel...responsible?’ Incredulous, Cecily glared at him. ‘Why on earth do you even care?’

  Was that what it was? Did he care? It was a long time since he had felt any emotion, his heart blunted by what had happened in the past. He couldn’t explain the feeling, the feeling of wanting to protect her, to make sure that she would be safe, despite what she had done. Was Simon correct? Was the maid making him go soft?

  The silence stretched between them. Twisting her fingers in the corded tie of her velvet cloak, Cecily shivered slightly. Why would he not answer?

  She cleared her throat. ‘You’re right, you are partly responsible. But Lord Simon would have barged in anyway, whether you were with him or not, and who’s to say that Isabella would not have rushed out when I was still lying in the bed with the baby? You were not going to tell Lord Simon...remember?’ A ray of hope flowered in her chest. Would Lachlan be able to help her?

  He nodded. ‘Yes, it was just after you offered me your body, if I remember rightly.’ One side of his mouth tipped up in a wry smile.

  ‘I was in an impossible situation.’ Cecily wound her arms tightly across her belly. ‘I was desperate.’

  Lachlan laughed. The sound was big, gusty, all-encompassing, filling the small, cramped space with a sense of light, frivolity. ‘You must have been, to want to lie with the likes of me.’ Kneeling down, he placed a small bundle of dry moss on the stone floor. He struck the flint along the steel. Sparks jumped, arcing out into the gloom, catching the moss and turning the bundle into flame. He touched the stub of candle into the flaming ball and the wick caught light.

  Cecily stared at the fine wool of his tunic stretched across the muscled breadth of his shoulders, the ridged sinew in his strong fingers as he lit the candle and thought I want to. I want to lie with you. Mortification rushed through her and she turned her hot face away to study the darkness.

  ‘I wanted to secure my family’s future.’ Her voice emerged jerkily. ‘We would have been homeless otherwise. Lord Simon was petitioning the King constantly and one day, the King would have listened and demanded that the estate be given to him. I wouldn’t be the first widow for that to happen to.’

  ‘I must say, your family don’t seem very appreciative of your efforts,’ Lachlan raised his blue eyes to hers. ‘Your mother barely looks at you. When she does, she stares at you with such hatred. Why did you agree to go through with this charade if this is all the thanks that you get?’

  How could she tell him that she wanted her mother to love her again, to forgive her for what happened with Raymond all those years ago? It sounded so ridiculous. Self-pitying. She fiddled with the collar of her cloak, her fingers restless. ‘My mother and I have...we don’t have an easy relationship. I did this because I wanted her to change her mind about me. To think well of me again.’ Cecily lifted her chin in the air, her expression bleak. ‘But obviously I failed.’

  ‘Why does she hate you so much?’ Tipping the candle, Lachlan dripped a puddle of molten wax on to the floor. He stuck the candle into the hardening wax. The flame cast a weak circle of light over the dismal surroundings, wavering dangerously in the chill draughts that seemed to ooze from the walls. The thick chunks of stone gleamed with moisture, slick and smeared with a greenish decay.

  ‘It was something that happened a long time ago.’ Cecily clamped her lips together, unwilling to elaborate. The candlelight flickered over her wan features, her dark eyelashes casting spiky shadows above her limpid eyes. If she voiced her guilt, she would surely weep and she had no wish to reveal such vulnerability. Besides, this man, this warrior with his flame-red hair who had burst so unexpectedly into her life would not be remotely interested in her woes. Her mind scrabbled to change the subject and her gaze fell on the wrapped parcels he had brought. ‘Did you bring food?’

  ‘So your mother forced you to do it?’ Lachlan undid the knot that secured the cloth parcel of food, his fingers deft, quick, laying back the edges of the cloth, the enticing smell of bread and cheese filling the small space. Her stomach growled.

  ‘No! She used everything she could to persuade me, but in the end I did it willingly. I thought we would get away with it. Yes, it was a risk. But surely you would do the same? You would do anything to help your family, wouldn’t you?’


  Her words stabbed at him. His brain reeled. He wanted to shout at her. Nay, I did nothing to help my family. I stood on the hillside like a snivelling coward, shaking in my boots! Lachlan’s eyes hollowed out, black pits of despair. He scrabbled for equilibrium. To push away the memories of that day: the plumes of black smoke, the war cries of the Macdonald clan as they burned his home. If only he had shouted out a warning. He had done nothing for his family that day, nothing at all. And then it had been too late.

  ‘Wouldn’t you?’ Cecily persisted. Lachlan’s head knocked back as if she had hit him. She saw the way he tensed his muscles, the sudden iciness of his expression. Lachlan tore at the bread rolls, segmenting them into smaller pieces and then into smaller pieces, crumbled across the linen cloth. Oh, God, what had she said? ‘I’m sorry,’ she muttered. ‘Maybe...maybe you...’ Her voice trailed away. ‘I’ve said the wrong thing.’ In consternation, she pressed her palm to her forehead, wondering what she had said.

  ‘I have a family.’ Lachlan’s voice was cold. He thought of his uncle, Duncan, who had come up from the south to rescue him after that awful day and had brought him up as his own son. He owed that man so much.

  Cecily read the hurt, the rawness in his eyes. She sensed him drawing away, distancing himself from her. The ease of their conversation vanished; she wished she could take back her words. Had something happened to his family that he felt unable to talk about?

  ‘Lachlan?’ Taking a step forward, Cecily sank to her knees opposite him. She stretched out her hand, laid it gently on his sleeve. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve upset you.’

  ‘You haven’t. It’s nothing.’ His dark eyes were blank as he churned out the answer. The black turmoil clagged his heart, but he felt the gentleness of her hand upon his sleeve, drew comfort from it. Her presence softened the hacked edges of his grief, lifting him from the hell of his own mind. He threw her a terse smile. ‘Will you eat?’

  Cecily picked up a piece of bread roll. The loose flour dusted her fingers. ‘Thank you.’ She took a quick couple of bites, chewing hungrily.

  ‘Why don’t you tell me everything from the beginning?’ he suggested. The rugged angles of his face shimmered in the candlelight. ‘Then maybe I might be able to help you.’

  She searched his face, the defined contours of his beautiful mouth, the dip of shadow above his top lip, as if someone had left a permanent finger-mark in the middle of his mouth. ‘If you want to help me, Lachlan, then let me walk out of this castle now, right now. And I would go, disappear, and no one would ever find me.’ Exhaustion dulled her voice.

  And I would never see you again. Is that what he wanted?

  The candle flame danced, flickered in the draught that sidled down the dungeon steps.

  ‘Don’t be naive.’ Lachlan stuck one hand through his hair, leaving fronds sticking up haphazardly. It made him look younger, softening the hard angles of his face. ‘Lord Simon would hunt you down, like a dog. And he would find you. You would definitely lose your life for that.’

  Cecily stood up, so abruptly that the hem of her nightgown swept over the flame, dousing it. ‘But surely it’s worth taking the chance? At least I would have tried.’ Her voice echoed into the sudden darkness, clear and melodic. ‘Instead of being led, like a lamb to the slaughter.’

  Lachlan struck the flint and lit the candle once more. One long leg was bent upward; his arm rested upon his knee. ‘You might buy a few more months of freedom, but you would be continually on the run, never settling. Do you really want to live like that?’

  ‘What other choice do I have?’ she said, nibbling at her nail. ‘Let me go, Lachlan. I will survive.’

  He stared up at her, at her slim, upright figure, at the assured, confident set of her neat head and thought, Yes, you, of all people, might just manage. Every bone in her body, every muscle and ligament sang out with an undaunted courage, a determination and hope that would carry her onwards.

  Yet he also knew how cruel Simon could be. How relentless.

  ‘I cannot let you go; I’m sorry. Simon is my friend and I owe him a certain loyalty. But I will talk to him on the morrow. Leave this with me and don’t do anything stupid.’

  * * *

  Lord Simon liked to break his fast early. Not long after the sun peeked over the horizon, he marched into the great hall at Okeforde, his childhood home, and swept his gaze over his sleeping knights. Most of them had bedded down on the floor around the fire, rolled into the blankets provided by the castle servants. They had rushed about, preparing food and drink, all anxious to impress their new lord. Simon smirked. He remembered some of them from his childhood. How assiduous they all were now, worried about their positions within the household. Christ, it was good to be back here.

  Moving around the hall, he prodded his boot into the flank of every sleeping man, nudging them awake. As they groaned and yawned, Simon leapt on to the high dais, flinging himself into the oak chair, the very chair his father had sat in when he had been a child, sat back and smiled.

  ‘You look very pleased with yourself.’ Lachlan strode into the great hall. The icy breath of morning clung to his clothes, his high cheekbones ruddy from the cold.

  Simon lifted his chin, acknowledging his friend. ‘I am,’ he replied. ‘And you have helped me to sort out this sorry mess. I thank you for that, my friend. Come...’ he held out his hand ‘...come and help me break my fast.’ He scanned the bare tablecloth, briefly irritated, then clicked his fingers at one of his men. ‘Go and find someone to bring us some food. And you—’ he pointed at another man ‘—throw some sticks on that miserable fire.’ The fire in the grate had burned down to a smouldering pile of ashes, with only the smallest chink of visible orange glow.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Simon leaned forward to rest his elbows on the tablecloth, watching Lachlan climb the wooden stairs up to the dais.

  ‘Outside,’ Lachlan replied, flinging himself into the chair next to his friend. ‘I thought I would check on the horses. I wanted to make sure they had been fed.’

  ‘Good idea,’ replied Simon. ‘Although I don’t intend to travel today. There’s too much to sort out here. Only two or three horses will be needed to take Lady Cecily to the King. Two men, I think, to escort her and she can be led on a horse. She can ride, if my memory serves me correctly.

  Her name on Simon’s lips pierced him like an arrow. Lachlan shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His sleep the previous night had been restless, disturbed, beset with vivid images of her. The slender whip of her body pressed against his as he pulled her from the river, the translucent green of her eyes as she glanced at him. The ash-brown colour of her hair. He wondered how she had spent the night after he had left her, down in that cold, dark cell.

  ‘...don’t you think?’ Simon was saying. ‘Wake up, Lachlan! It’s not like you to be half-asleep!’

  ‘Sorry... I beg your pardon?’ Lachlan dragged his mind back to the present, to Simon’s loud voice rapping at him.

  A servant appeared, carrying a tray covered with a cloth. Moving along the front of the table, he placed it before the two men, removing the cloth with a flourish. Bread rolls, slices of meat and cheese, and two bowls of steaming porridge were revealed. Another servant arrived with a jug of mead, plates and goblets.

  Simon eyed the food, then switched his gaze back to Lachlan. ‘I was talking about the woman... Lady Cecily. Do you think that’s a good idea? Two men to escort her to the King? Would she try to escape, do you think?’

  He remembered how she had struggled against him as he carried her from the river, how she had sprinted away from him when he had told her to stop. The determined quirk of her mouth when she asked him to let her walk out of the dungeon. Oh, yes, Lachlan thought. She would definitely try to escape.

  ‘She would be easily caught, if she tried anything. I think two men will be enough.’

  Lachlan’s heart burst with a
pang of despair, of loss, at the thought of her running away, running for her freedom, pursued by two of Simon’s thuggish house knights. ‘I wanted to talk to you about Lady Cecily,’ he said, fixing his friend with his bright blue eyes. ‘I will take her to the King for you. I wouldn’t trust her with your men.’

  ‘Oh, Lachlan, I couldn’t ask you to do that.’ Lifting up an earthenware pot, Simon spooned honey into his porridge. The golden liquid oozed over the steaming surface, glistening. ‘I thought you would stay a few more days with me, help me sort things out here.’

  ‘I must head home, Simon. My leg is almost better. I am certain I can ride longer distances now. And the King will be in Exancaester in a few days. If I start heading north with Lady Cecily, then we can meet him there.’ To his surprise, a faint line of sweat appeared around the collar of his tunic—what would he do if Simon disagreed? She would be safer this way. With him.

  Simon compressed his mouth, thinking. ‘I suppose... I suppose that does make sense, but...are you sure, Lachlan? I mean, surely you would rather someone else escorted her? It’s a massive imposition on you.’

  No, it’s not, he thought. Thank God. At least this way she would be safe. He could protect her. He shovelled another spoonful of porridge into his mouth. ‘I will take the road north, anyway. What difference would it make, taking her with me?’ But as the words left his mouth, he knew he was lying to himself. It would make all the difference in the world.

  * * *

  As the chapel bell tolled six times, one of Simon’s household knights came into the dungeon to fetch her. A young lad, who averted his eyes respectfully as Cecily struggled awkwardly to her feet. Her eyes were crusty, blurred from lack of sleep; her muscles cramped and chilled. She bent down to pick up her nightgown, crumpled into a bundle on the floor. She had changed into the clothes that Lachlan had brought: a slim-fitting dress of pale lilac wool and a looser, sleeveless over-gown of a deeper purple, embroidered around the hem with a silver thread. She had plaited her hair into two braids, securing the ends with thin ribbons from her nightgown. Pulling on woollen stockings, she wriggled her cold toes inside the leather slippers. Her heart twisted with Lachlan’s thoughtfulness; he had come down to the dungeon of his own accord to give her food and clothing. It was the first time anyone had shown her kindness in a very long time.