by Tessa Murran
‘Stop, before you kill him,’ he shouted. ‘It’s not worth it.’
The Scot had rage in his eyes, the like of which Giselle had never seen in her life. He carried on trying to hurt Banan, and it was all the other man could do to keep him back.
‘Stop, I say. The lass is yours, you have won. There’s no need to hammer it home,’ said the other man.
The Scot pushed the man aside and went over to Banan, now rolling in agony on the floor. He spat on him.
‘You’ll not hurt her now, you twisted whoreson,’ he said.
He turned, wiping blood from his nose with the back of his hand and stormed towards her. Before Giselle could protest, the Scot grabbed her wrist with a bloody hand and dragged her out of the hall.
Behind her, she heard Lord Douglas shout out. ‘Well fought Buchanan. Enjoy your victory and having something soft to cushion your aching bones this night.’
As they sped through dark passageways, Giselle spied an archway she recognised. Just days before, she had climbed that stairway up to the top of the keep and looked out, longing for home. It could be an escape of sorts now.
She twisted quickly and tore free of the Scot’s hand. He lunged for her, but not fast enough, and she managed to get to the arch and tear up the steps, stumbling in her haste and hurting her knees.
She plunged out into the twilight and sped to the edge of the battlements. The Scot was only seconds behind, his face a fury of blood and wild eyes.
Giselle shrank from him. ‘Get away. You’ll not touch me.’
The Scot took a step closer.
‘Go away. Leave me alone,’ she gasped, with a hammering heart. She climbed up onto the battlements, slippery stone, still clinging to the day’s warmth. ‘One step closer, and I’ll jump.’
He stopped dead in his tracks.
‘Get down. It is dangerous. Come,’ he beckoned, in a voice that was all authority.
Giselle clung to the capstone with both hands, wobbling on the apex of the arched middle stone, where the sole of her shoes dug in painfully.
‘I’ll not let you do anything to me. I’d rather die first.’ Her voice was a plea and a whisper.
‘And die you will if you don’t get down. Come to me, now,’ he said, again beckoning to her.
‘No.’ She glanced over the edge and back at the Scot. Maybe this was the best way. End it all now and stop her suffering. It was not as if she had much of a future anyway.
The Scot took a step closer. He stood just in front of her, one hand on the wall. His voice turned softer as if he was reasoning with a child. ‘Your virtue isn’t worth dying for, lass. It’s an awfully long way down, but the fall may not kill you. You could just break your limbs and linger, in agony, for days.’
His gaze flicked from her face to the drop below.
‘Come away now, lass. I’ll not touch you, I swear on all that’s holy. No harm shall come to you by my hand.’
Something in his voice made her want to trust him as he held out a blood-soaked hand to her. It shook violently. Giselle took a deep breath and reached for it, but, as she did, her foot slipped. For one awful moment, she was falling, clutching wildly at the capstone. Her stomach lurched and then she came to an abrupt stop, wrenched to a standstill by the swinging grip of his hand on her wrist. The Scot grunted in pain as he hauled her back up and dragged her back over the edge.
He said nothing as he hauled Giselle to her feet and pushed her before him, back down the stairs. When they got to the bottom, he threw her up against a wall.
He came close, his mouth an inch away from her face, pulled into an angry snarl. ‘That was close. You almost lost your life. It is too precious to throw away on foolishness and honour. Don’t ever run from me like that again.’
Chapter Six
Giselle tried pulling free of Lyall Buchanan’s hand, but his grip was firm, and besides, where was she to run, back to the hall where that awful Banan still lurked? Though she was in danger, she was better off with this Scot than the other. The lesser of two evils, he had said.
He dragged her into one of the upper chambers of the keep, well-appointed and somewhat grand, in an austere, manly, kind of way. He let go of her and slammed and bolted the door behind him. Giselle scurried away, with a fearful glance at the huge bed dominating the chamber. The glow of sunset pouring through the shutters turned everything blood red.
‘What you just did was a singular piece of stupidity,’ hissed the Scot. ‘You could have taken us both over the edge. You’d best not give me any further trouble, lass, for I am not in the best of moods.’
He looked at her intently for a moment, and she looked back in horror at what Banan’s ferocity had wreaked on him. His eyebrow and his jaw were swelling, his knuckles raw, oozing blood. When he spoke, it was in savage, slurred words.
‘I believe this is Lord Edric’s chamber, where you were to spend your wedding night, no doubt enjoying his attentions.’
He felt along his jawline and then took a step closer to her.
‘Don’t you touch me,’ she squealed.
The Scot sighed. ‘I have no intention of touching you, unless you want me to, that is?’ he said, raising his eyebrows. ‘We could pass a pleasant night together, and you could make me forget how much everything hurts.’ He flexed his bloody knuckles.
‘No,’ said Giselle, emphatically.
‘Shame. Perhaps I could have taken your mind off your heartbreak at losing your beloved.’
Giselle gathered her courage. ‘Do you enjoy mocking those who are at your mercy? Does it make you feel powerful?’
‘I don’t mock, lass. I can see full well that you are terrified, and I’ve no wish to torture you further. It’s just that you seemed happy to be rid of your betrothed, and I wondered why. Did you not love him?’
‘You saw him for yourself, what do you think?’
‘I think he was a fat, cowardly toad, not unlike most English men. I say you are well rid of him. Lucky for you, I am much better company.’ The Scot smiled wickedly and Giselle was struck by how it softened his face, in spite of the violence written all over it in his wounds. He did not look quite so intimidating when he smiled, for it lit up his eyes, which were green and compelling. She was on her guard, however, as this man was probably just working up to doing something unspeakable. He was a nasty Scot after all.
He took another step closer. ‘My name is Lyall Buchanan of the Clan Buchanan, and whenever you are ready, you can thank me.’
‘For what?’
‘Fighting for you, saving you from that brute, Banan.’
‘That fight was a disgusting spectacle. I wouldn’t have needed saving if it weren’t for you Scots attacking this castle. You are all animals, and I hope you die horribly when an English army comes to take back this castle.’
‘We’ll be long gone by then, back over the border to Scotland.’
‘Of course, now you have wreaked havoc, you will run away like cowards because you don’t have enough men to hold this castle.’
He frowned. ‘What the hell would you know about holding a castle?’
‘Get him on your side,’ Agnes had said. She had to find a way.
‘My father, Guy de Villers, was named a hero of the crusades for defending Acre from the infidel. He talked of it often. He told me stories of sieges and war machines and such, how they would undermine the foundations, poison wells, how they would hurl bodies over the walls to spread disease. I know plenty about taking and holding a castle.’
‘Your father talked of war and butchery to a soft girl?’
‘He had no sons so, yes, he talked to me, and come anywhere near me, and you will find that I am not soft at all.’ she said, with false bravado.
‘In that case, I’ll keep my distance.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘Your father can’t have been that much of a knight, Giselle.’ On his lips, her name sounded sinful as if he put a caress in it. ‘Acre fell to the Mamluk hoards, as I recall.’
‘But my father did not. He
survived that awful siege, as I will survive you.’ She squared her shoulders to hide her fear.
‘I don’t doubt it, lass.’ He smiled at her. ‘And you are right. We do not have enough men to hold Wulversmeade, but that was never our intention. We’ll be heading north, tomorrow, most likely, back over the border into Scotland.’
Giselle swallowed hard. ‘And…and what becomes of me? Will you let me go when you leave?’
‘No.’ He shook his head, and his face grew harder. ‘You have value as a hostage, and you command a great ransom from your heroic, crusader father. I won you so that ransom is mine, spoils of war.’
‘You can’t win me. I am not a possession, something for you to own.’
‘Oh but you are, lass, and trust me, the alternative is not pretty. Banan is a brutal whoreson who would use you far worse than I. Do you doubt that?’
‘No.’
‘Strange, isn’t it, how the world turns? When I attacked this castle, I hoped there would be a great prize hidden inside it. I did not find it. Instead, I am burdened with you, a frightened, English lass who shakes when I look sideways at her.’
‘If you don’t want me, why fight over me?’
‘Who says I don’t want you?’ He came up to her and put a filthy hand into her hair, running it through the red waves and twirling a strand between his fingers. Giselle tried to breathe, but she could not seem to get enough air into her lungs. Lyall Buchanan smelled of blood and sweat and iron and he seemed more animal than man.
‘Your hair is like copper, so beautiful,’ he said, holding her eyes with his. ‘You are the first pure and honest thing I have seen in a long time. You remind me of my sister. She is about your age, bonnie like you, but not quite so soft in her manners.’
The way this man was looking at her was anything but brotherly. Giselle stared up into his eyes, and though he smiled down at her, there was some kind of sadness in them.
He sighed heavily. ‘I could just reach out and take you now, and it would be my right.’
‘What right is that?’
‘You are the spoils of war, a prize, for risking my life for my King. I could ease my loneliness and the ache in my loins.’
For one insane moment, Giselle wondered what it would be like to have the Scot’s full lips pressed to hers, his hands taking hold of her and pulling her close. No man had ever looked on her with such open admiration before, and she so needed comfort, so wanted to feel safe, if just for an instant. But no Scot was safe, nor could they be trusted.
‘You won’t do that,’ she gasped.
‘How do you know? Seems to me you know little of men, or what they turn into when their blood is up.’
‘If you were going to hurt me you would have done it already, last night when that man…when he…’
Lyall Buchanan seemed to snap out of his strange mood. ‘Aye, well, thank God I was there to stop him. Men like Banan MacGregor, they prey on soft women like you. Fresh meat, that’s all you are to him. I didn’t want to see that bastard chew you up and spit you out. I didn’t want to see you spoiled by him.’
‘Are you trying to tell me you fought for my honour?’
‘Or mine, I know not which. In truth, I fought Banan because I hate his guts, and I wanted to deny him the satisfaction of hurting another woman in the worst possible way. But this I can say to you, Giselle, and you may depend on it. I will not hurt you, and I will not force you. As far as you can feel safe with a filthy, barbaric Scot, you should feel safe with me. I swear this on my honour.’
‘Such as it is.’
‘Aye, and far more than you English deserve. Now, make yourself useful and light the fire.’
‘I am not your servant.’
‘Oh, yes, you are. It will be nightfall soon, and if we have no fire, you will be stuck here in pitch darkness with me. How would you like that? The flint over there, take it up and light the fire.’
Giselle glared at Lyall and went over to the fireplace. It was best not to vex him. He swore she was safe, and she had no choice but to believe him.
There was already kindling laid and logs, but she had no idea what to do. Her servants always did such things for her. She struck the flint weakly, with shaking hands, over and over, with no effect.
Suddenly she felt him at her shoulder, kneeling, and then the Scot took her hands in his big, dirty ones and squeezed them slightly. How large he was up close, but his touch was gentle. She looked up into his eyes and thought she saw pity, and something else, was it longing, or sadness? His mouth was so close to hers that it was indecent.
‘Lord saves us, can you not even make a fire for yourself,’ he said, breaking the spell. ‘What a child you are.’
‘Do it yourself then.’
‘I will before I freeze to death,’ he said with a grin.
He struck the flint briskly, and sparks soon flew, setting the kindling alight. The Scot took up a taper and lit several candles from the flames.
‘Tend it a while, add more wood, until it gets to roaring. Can you manage that?’
‘Yes,’ said Giselle, humiliation taking her.
Her captor went over to the window and flung open the shutters. A stiff breeze filled the room, bringing with it the smell of smoke and ashes, of death and hopelessness. Giselle tended the fire, terrified to let it go out and risk his disdain as Lyall Buchanan stood motionless and silent, just a black silhouette against the sky. Was he deciding what to do to her? Would he turn in a minute and wreak violence on her in that big bed? She wanted to trust in him, but the terror of the last day would not leave her and, any moment, she expected the axe to fall and her life to disintegrate a little bit more. It was already in pieces. But he said nothing, seeming to enjoy the relative silence in the chamber.
By the time the fire started to crackle and spit, Giselle’s head was lolling with tiredness. A light tap on the shoulder, and she was awake with a shriek.
‘I need your help,’ he said, beckoning with his hand to a table, where a bowl and jug was set out. He leant over and splashed water on his face and then wiped it clean with a rag. Now it was clear of dirt, Giselle could see its true beauty. How raw and wild he was, with his dark hair and startling eyes.
‘Come here, lass. Wash me,’ he said, holding out the rag
‘I cannot possibly do that. It is not fitting.’
‘What?’
‘I would have to touch you. A lady cannot touch a half-naked man like that. It is shameful. I should not even be looking at you in a state of undress, for we are not wed.’
‘Well, I’m not planning on trotting to the altar with you any time soon, and I am stiff and sore, and I am filthy. My muscles are seizing up after such a long day, and I can’t reach around my back to get the sweat and grime off. I want to get clean, and I need you to do it.’
‘I will not, it is not proper.’
‘How about I put you over my knee and thrash your backside until you do as you are told. How about that for proper?’
The hard look in his eyes made Giselle step forward and take the up the rag. She doubted it would make him much cleaner as the water in the bowl was already pink with washed-off blood. It gave her a moment’s pause as she wet the rag again.
‘I should not be doing this,’ she said.
Lyall Buchanan laughed, a deep manly sound. ‘How feeble you English are, how careful with your manners and what is right and proper.’
‘Would you prefer we were all mindless killers, like you Scots?’
‘Open your eyes, and you will see who the killers are,’ he said bleakly. He turned to her and said, ‘Come on, I’m not a monster, just a very dirty Scot, and no one can see us, there’s nothing to be ashamed of.’
‘God can see us,’ replied Giselle.
‘He gave up all hope of salvation for me a long time ago, lass, so I’m only risking your soul.’
He smiled again, those green eyes so warm and seductive. Lord, this man could persuade her to do anything with those eyes, she thought, as sh
e put the rag to his skin.
Giselle bit her lip hard as she drew the wet cloth down his back and what a back it was. Long and lean, with smooth, pale skin, vivid here and there with bruises, from Banan’s fists or elsewhere? There were a few scars too, some smooth, white slashes, some ragged, with raised pink edges, as if his flesh had been sewn together, in haste, with clumsy hands. She almost felt a stab of pity at the sight of them. He winced as she touched him, as gently as she could, rubbing him dry with another cloth.
Then she turned her attention to his arms, powerful and roped with muscle. The hair on his forearms was darker than on his head, and his hands were broad, with dirty and cracked fingernails. They were shaking a little. She took hold of one to and scrubbed at it.
‘The blood won’t come off,’ she said, glancing up at him.
‘Scrub harder,’ he whispered. Giselle took his fingers in hers, and it felt surprisingly intimate. As she washed the blood away, she daren’t look at him, but she could feel him staring at her. The water in the bowl grew dark with blood. She turned his palm over and rubbed, feeling callouses, rough against her fingers. From wielding a sword all day long, she supposed.
He didn’t seem to like it for he said, ‘Enough, do my front,’ in a hoarse voice.
Giselle’s hands shook as she touched his hairy chest. Surely he could do this himself? She could feel him towering over her. Oh, this was wrong. She was acutely aware of his breath on her forehead, the rise and curve of the muscles on his tight stomach as she cleaned lower. He was not bulky like a bull, as some men were. Instead, he was long and strong and perfect.
‘You are gentle with me, Giselle, and I thank you for it,’ he murmured.
Giselle looked up at him and gave him a fearful little smile. She was so distracted by his beauty that her hand went too low and encountered something standing hard in his braies.
She leapt back, which just made him start laughing again.
‘You should take that as a mark of your beauty and the skill of your hands,’ he said.
It was mortifying and shameful. Something inside Giselle snapped. Tears stung her eyes and began pouring down her cheeks.
