by Aileen Adams
He was still a soldier, could still ride a horse, swing a sword, and was adept at other forms of fighting, even on foot. The only physical activity that continuously reminded him of his lameness was in his ability to walk and, obviously, run. It galled him to no end. He tried to push himself every day, but a man could only take so much. Besides, Sarah had warned him that if he overtaxed his muscles, he could damage them even further.
He trusted Sarah, her skills and her knowledge of the human form. He had struggled to pay attention when she tried to explain to him how muscles worked and how they were attached to the bones.
She told him that most muscle was able to repair itself, as well as a number of connective tissues that attached muscles to bone, but it took time. His thigh muscle, or group of muscles as she explained, had been severely damaged not only by the sword thrust that had severed them in the first place, but by the infection that had eaten away much of the muscle tissues around the wound. So much so that when he rubbed his hand down his thigh, he felt the large crater.
He had hidden his dismay at the severity of the injury. Still, he had no doubt that Sarah knew what he felt.
She had tried to tell him that, given time, there was a chance that his muscle would regenerate and renew itself. But he must not overuse it. When he asked how long it would take and she told him up to a year, he had growled in annoyance. What was he supposed to do in the meantime? Sit around in the hall of the manor house, getting fat and weak?
She had laughed. No, he was to stay active. But this? Chasing a scamp through the woods in the middle of the night? He doubted that was what she had in mind.
Still, if Jake Duncan was anything, he was patient. He took a shortcut, positioned himself where he thought the lad would come, and waited.
He didn't have to wait long.
Soon he heard the sound of the lad approaching, gasping for breath. Exertion had taken its toll on the boy. Jake was right in his path, and the lad wasn't even aware of it. He barely held back a chuckle, pleased with himself. Lame or not, he was still a worthy opponent. Even if his opponent at the moment was no more than a boy.
What he hadn't expected was the force with which the lad ran into him. Despite his preparedness, the impact nearly knocked him off his feet. He grabbed at the boy’s arms while panicked sounds erupted from the lad’s throat. After several moments of struggling, he literally picked the boy up off the ground by the back of his shirt and propelled him toward the meadow where he could get a better look. The boy was thrashing against him, and he shook him again. He grabbed the lad's face and lifted it toward the moonlight, but all he could catch was a shadowed profile.
“Who are you?” he growled, his face so close to the lad's he smelled his breath.
Odd. It smelled like mint tea.
Come to think of it, the lad was rather puny; couldn't weigh much more than a sack of wet grain.
“Let me go!”
The boy's voice cracked.
The next instant, Jake felt the sting of the boy’s boot on his other shin. He shook him so hard that the boy's teeth clacked. “Try that again, and you'll regret it,” he snapped. “Now tell me who you are right now, or you'll be facing the laird, and I can guarantee you that if I have to wake him up and tell him about trespassers on his lands, he's not going to be happy!”
“Wasn't… tres… passing!”
The boy's denial came out a gasp. His cap fell back further on his head.
Jake noticed his hair was blonde but didn't fall over his face. Rather it seemed to be combed straight back.
He grew impatient. “You one of the village boys?”
“No… yes!”
Ineffectual fists landed on Jake's arm, one on his shoulder and then one glanced off his chin. He growled, low in his throat, growing tired of this. He shook the lad again.
“Which is it, boy?”
This time there was no answer. The boy grew fatigued, and in a matter of moments, the blows lessened, both in speed and ferocity.
Finally, out of nowhere, came a sniffle. Then another. Gradually, the squirming boy stopped fighting and sagged in his hand as if boneless.
At first, he startled, thinking he might've hurt the lad. Then he just grew annoyed.
“What's the matter with you, boy? Lost your backbone? Stand up!”
The boy made an effort, but it wasn't very successful.
“And quit your caterwauling!” Another shake, but this one gentler. He wasn't a bully.
“Not caterwauling,” the lad mumbled.
Nothing happened for several moments. Since the boy had quit thrashing around, Jake began to loosen his grip.
The moment he did, however, he felt the boy tense, as if he were going to try to make another run for it.
“And don't think you're going to run the minute I let you go, because I swear to you right now, the next time I catch up with you, you'll be facing the laird. Is that what you want?”
The boy stilled. “No.” The boy shifted from one foot to the other, keeping his head down. “Let me go,” he muttered. “I’ll go right home. Promise.”
Jake frowned. “What were you doing out here in the first place? Who was that you were with?”
“Not telling.”
Jake gave the boy another shake. “Who was he?”
The boy glanced up and spoke before quickly turning his face to the ground again. “Why does it matter?”
The lad's voice sounded different now, more belligerent than frightened. The sniffling had also stopped.
Still holding onto the lad's arms, he bent down further, ignoring the pain in his leg as he did so. “Who are you?”
At that exact moment, the lad looked up. The moon caught the reflection of pale skin.
A niggling sensation ran through Jake.
No. It couldn't be.
Muttering under his breath, he straightened, swiped the cap completely off the boy's head, surprised to find a clump of long, blonde hair that had escaped the back. He frowned and reached for the clump, realized it was a braid.
Thinking it was a better way to keep hold of the boy anyway, he then realized it didn't stop when he expected it to. It was quite long.
The boy froze as Jake pulled the braid from beneath the boy's tunic, realized what he was holding, and, gently tugging on the braid, and lifted the boy's face up higher.
He let loose with a string of old Gaelic curse words.
“Heather MacDonald, what in bloody blazes do you think—” His words choked in dismay and anger, rendering him absolutely speechless.
Finally, he managed to find his voice. “Heather, what are you doing out here dressed like that? Sword fighting?” He shook his head.
Realizing he still had a very tight grip on the lad’s… on Heather’s arms, he slightly eased up, but not enough to let her go. Still holding onto one arm, he quickly gathered his thoughts.
“I'm going to let you go. You're not going to run from me. You understand?”
Nothing.
He gave her a small shake. “Do you understand me, Heather MacDonald?”
“Yes,” she snapped.
Tentatively, not sure that she would keep her word, he released her.
She remained standing, her only movement to rub her arms where he had grabbed her.
He felt bad about that and hoped he hadn't left bruises on her tender skin, but by the gods, it served her right. His anger burgeoned again.
“Would you mind telling me what you're doing out here in the middle of the night, playing with wooden swords?”
“I wasn't playing! I was practicing.”
“Why?”
For the life of him, he couldn't imagine what had gotten into her. Why was she doing this? He asked her that.
She didn't say anything for several moments but then finally, and quite abruptly, she sat down on the ground. Cross-legged, she began to idly pluck at the grass.
Muttering under his breath, Jake laboriously sat down next to her, stretching his throbbing leg out
in front of him and gently massaging his thigh muscles.
He didn't press her.
Whatever her reasons, it was something important enough to her to entice her to sneak around, even put herself in danger. Finally, after what seemed like an interminable delay, she spoke.
“I'm learning how to use weapons so that I can join the King's army.”
At first, he thought she was joking.
What foolishness was this?
He snorted. “You’ll never pass as a boy.”
“I fooled you, didn't I?”
“It's dark outside,” he snapped back. “Why in the world would you want to join the King's men?”
She said nothing for several moments, but continued to pluck out more strands of grass.
Finally, he reached out his hand and stopped her, and held onto her soft, warm fingers even though she tried to pull her hand back.
When he didn't let her go, she surrendered.
“I want to fight the Norsemen. Like you did. Like my father did. I want to fight with the King of Scots to avenge my father's death—”
“You’re not talking about Patrick MacDonald, are you?”
She scoffed. “No. I'm talking about my birth father. Sarah’s father. Our real father. He died at the hands of the Norsemen, fighting with the King. I want to avenge his death.”
Jake sighed. He couldn't begin to understand what was going through her head, but revenge? He could understand that. Avenging her father? An honorable desire, but not one well-suited to her. And why now?
“And you think you can do that by sneaking away from the manor house at night? Then what are you going to do? Run away, disguised as a boy? Do you even know where the King's men are at this moment?”
She said nothing.
“Well do you?” He tried to keep his voice gentle even though he wanted to shout at her for being so foolish.
“No.”
“You don't think people would find it strange, a young lad wandering about on his own, looking for the King's men?” He chuckled.
She looked up at him. Even in the wan moonlight, he could see anger written all over her features. “You don't have to make it sound so foolish!”
“Aye, I laughed,” he said. “Forgive me. I don't… I didn't mean to imply that your desire was foolish. Only that you are ill prepared.”
“Well, that's why I've been sneaking out. I want to train! I doubt you or any of your men would have agreed to train me. So I found another way.”
“You’re right. I would have refused—”
“Why?”
The answer seemed obvious to him. “You’re a woman—”
“So? Does that mean that I can't learn how to fight? That I’m somehow incapable of learning how to fight?”
The challenge in her voice was unmistakable.
“I don't mean to imply that at all, Heather. Women can be extremely fierce.”
He scowled as he recalled Ceana and her thirst for revenge. This brought him back to the task that Phillip had charged him with. He had enough to do with just trying to find Ceana and bring her to justice. He didn't have the time nor the patience to be dealing with Heather's… plans.
At the same time, he liked her. Maybe this was an opportunity. An excuse to spend more time with her.
“Please don’t tell my sister what I’m planning, Jake… please?”
He was fascinated with her. Imagine that, dainty, petite, demure, well-mannered Heather MacDonald wanting to learn how to fight so she could sneak off and join the King's army and fight against the Norsemen.
Incredible.
And more than a little amusing. Not that he doubted her emotions, or her tenacity.
“Does Sarah have any inkling that you feel this way about avenging your father?”
“No,” she said softly. “But it's something I've dreamed of ever since my father died.” She looked up at him. “My mother loved my father very much, but when he died, and with two young children…”
“I understand,” he said. He did.
“I've always despised Patrick. He was never nice to Sarah or me. Nothing like our real father. I miss him terribly. I was very young when he died, but I remember some things about him…” She glanced up at him. “It wasn't until I saw the way that Sarah and Phillip are so well suited to one another, the way he looks at her, the way he protects her, that prompted me to recall the injustice of it all. Seeing them together only reinforces how much I miss my father.”
Jake said nothing, but allowed her to talk.
“Only now do I understand how my mother must've felt when my father went off to war. I see the way that Sarah looks at Phillip and the way he looks at her. I'm sure my mother had the same kind of love for my father. His death should be avenged. It's only proper.”
“Aye,” Jake agreed. “But it is a man's job to do the avenging.”
“And if there is no man? Then what?” she challenged. “Do you believe that my feelings would be any different than your own? That I can't hold onto anger or a desire for retribution? How would you feel if you were me?”
“Likely the same way that you feel right now, lass.” He meant it. She said nothing for several moments, but then looked up at him.
“You're not going to tell my sister, are you?”
He shrugged, hiding his grin behind a swipe at his chin. “I can keep a secret, for the right price.”
He almost laughed at the look she gave him.
“In what way do I have to bribe your silence? Food? Clothing? You have all those things.”
Now he understood that she had bribed one of the village boys to teach her. Likely one of the lads training with the soldiers in the meadow by the pond on a daily basis. No matter.
“There's one thing I don't have.”
“What?” she grumbled.
“In exchange for my silence, and to keep your secret, I demand… a kiss.”
“Again?”
The way she said it prompted him to chuckle.
It was nice to see this side of her; the strong-willed, defiant, recalcitrant Heather MacDonald. No, she was certainly no dormouse.
Truth be told, she had everyone fooled. Not because she was trying to be someone she wasn't, but because she was afraid to show her true self.
Did her sister even know the depth of Heather's hatred for Patrick and her desire for revenge against those who had killed their father?
He doubted it.
He also had no doubt that Heather had long lived in the shadow of her sister. It was only natural, especially after everything that had passed, that she become more independent. But running off to fight the Norsemen disguised as a lad?
No. Still, he didn't have to tell her that.
“I'll tell you what, Heather. I will keep your secret. I’ll even help to train you. What do you say about that?”
She stared at him, eyes wide. “You're going to help me train?” She frowned. “Why?”
“Why? Because I think that everyone has a right to learn how to defend themselves. It shouldn't matter just because you're a woman.” He did mean that. Actually, he thought it was a good idea for Heather to learn how to protect herself. Her sister was strong-willed both mentally and physically. She was more headstrong than Heather, but still, Sarah had succumbed to kidnapping and even capture by members of the Orkney clan. No woman should be defenseless.
She sat up on her knees, voice tempered with excitement, but then her shoulders sagged, and she sat back on her heels. “And what is it I have to do to guarantee your silence and to have you train me?”
He chuckled. “All I demand in payment is a kiss.”
She frowned, contemplating.
Finally, she nodded. Leaned forward, lips pursed, ready for his kiss.
But it never happened.
At least not that moment.
“I get to choose the time and the place, Heather,” he said. He held back his smile.
She looked disappointed. Almost.
“And with your prom
ise of a kiss, we have a pact, Heather. I will teach you how to fight and how to use a wide variety of weapons.”
“And that kiss… that's all I have to do?”
He nodded.
That promise of a kiss had been enough to convince him that he wanted to see more of her. If he had to sneak about and do it, so be it. Of course, he had no intention of allowing her to go off and fight the Norsemen. He could see to it that she never left the boundaries of the Duncan lands. But, he could placate her.
It wouldn't hurt to teach her how to learn how to defend herself. Actually, he thought it a very good idea. So much so that he might even suggest it to Phillip. Perhaps the women under the laird's protection could at least learn the rudiments of self-defense from the warriors who defended their lands.
In the meantime, his pact with Heather would allow him to spend more time with her. He wanted to get to know her better.
She was captivating, and he was intrigued by her. His surprise at what lay beneath the surface of Heather MacDonald was not only sufficient to encourage his curiosity, but to increase his desire to kiss her.
And, with that thought came another.
He wanted to spend time with her.
He wanted to know everything there was to know about Heather MacDonald.
First, it had been merely idle curiosity. Now, it was much more. He would keep her secret, for now. He would placate her, teach her how to fight, and in the end, whenever that might be, maybe she would see him as more than the laird's younger brother.
The cripple.
Not quite the man he used to be, but man enough for her?
7
Over the next couple of weeks, Heather and Jake met at the meadow on numerous occasions. At first, she was filled with trepidation. He was so much bigger than Kevin. More powerful. Definitely more experienced. On occasion, his leg gave him trouble, but even so, he was always a formidable opponent. While Kevin had been able to show her the rudiments of archery and sword fighting, Jake told her that battle preparedness required more than mere knowledge of how to use weapons.
To her dismay, he informed her that in the next few days, he would start teaching her how to defend herself in hand-to-hand combat. He certainly didn't expect her to have to fend off an attacker in close quarters with a weapon, but the more he practiced with her, the more he seemed to stress the fundamentals of self-defense.
