Jamie had acted reluctant to join them at first—intimidated more like—for Dun Bhuird had that way about it, a darkness left behind by all yon men who had fought and died for the Dun. As if his ancestors, the Comlyns, would never leave nae matter who invaded its heights. In times past, they had gone to war with the Norse, Northumbrians and Angles, been a part of the Pictish clans until the McAlpine had gathered them into one nation and called them all Scots; and still they fought, mainly amongst themselves, had always done so until the day Erik Comlyn, through being throng, had lost everything he had cherished.
At least Nhaimeth hadn’t inherited that trait frae the man who had fathered him and cast him aside because he was misshapen.
“I’m sure the brute’s thrown a splint,” muttered Jamie, worrying about the mount he had ridden all the way frae Cragenlaw to Dun Bhuird.
Rob, the youngest of the three, grumbled at him, “Leave it be, Jamie. The groom will see to your horse. You have to stop trying to do every wee chore yourself. Act like the Chieftain of Clan Ruthven that you’re going to be one of these days.”
Nhaimeth could tell Rob was excited, that he hadnae wanted to be hanging about in the stables when he could be exploring. It didn’t seem so long ago since all three of them had watched the army Comlyn had gathered around him frae the battlements of Cragenlaw, had seen the lines of men march down the brae, half of them frae Dun Bhuird and the rest frae Wolfsdale, led by Gavyn Farquhar’s brother.
Families…
Sometimes Nhaimeth thought he was better off having been brought up by a woman who’d done it for the money … aye and for love of Erik the Bear.
Folk were scurrying around, making up boards and laying out chargers of baked bread to take the stew that would be served to the common folk. Nhaimeth was hungry enough to eat one of the oxen that had pulled the wagons, but that kind of feast took preparation. None the less, the ale would flow free to make up for that lack.
The three of them reached the gold-studded shield that Nhaimeth had last seen in the chapel at Cragenlaw as the man who had hated him for surviving his birth lay dying. ‘Twas the only time the Bear had spoken to him voluntarily, and then it was only to slap him down with Erik Comlyn’s version of the truth, which in nae way coincided with Nhaimeth’s memories. In Nhaimeth’s opinion, dying men facing the gates of heaven were likely to say anything to gain entry, make up any excuse. The Bear’s had been that by tossing Nhaimeth aside he had saved his life, and if he wanted to go on living he shouldn’t tell anyone who his father was. Thinking about himself to the last, about the shame of having fathered a dwarf.
As all three stood silently, each lost in thought, staring at the gigantic chair, the gold shield mounted behind its elaborate carvings. The irony of his position was not lost on Nhaimeth.
That chair should have been his by right of birth, of blood. The King handed it to Gavyn Farquhar, a man frae the borders and a Scot by choice rather than heritage, but then he wouldn’t be the first. Scotland had been invaded by all sorts of folk and had a way of gathering them into her borders and making them her own.
Nhaimeth was soon cognisant of Jamie’s meandering thoughts. Instead of being awed by the size of the shield and the strength it would take to wield its weight, his mind was on his mount. Jamie’s horse, Faraday, was a big chestnut with a likeable, almost sweet nature, until he faced a fight. Rob chuckled, uncaring that Jamie heard him. “Daisy will be all right. Like you Jamie, there’s no’ many can resist her big brown eyes and long lashes.”
“God’s teeth, don’t call the brute that here amongst strangers. He’s a gelding and well able to take care of me on the field of battle … aye and you as well, if my memory serves me right.” Jamie cast the insult back at him with a smirk, alluding to a day when Faraday had struck down a cateran with one of his big pale-feathered hooves before the outlaw could lay Rob low with a spear.
Jamie and Rob’s days at Cragenlaw had been well spent. The McArthur had taught them both to survive, Nhaimeth an’ all. His short stature should have been a hindrance, but Euan McArthur had shown them ways to make the best of what they had together and turned it into an advantage. ‘Warcraft’ the McArthur called the games and exercises he’d had them practice. Nhaimeth had nae doubt that one day they would all be thankful for the lessons to keep each other safe.
Nhaimeth looked at the shield for a moment longer then turned away. That was the past. His future had done an about face since he left Dun Bhuird for Cragenlaw.
A moment later a voice from that self-same past called his name.
He heard, “Nhaimeth,” said soft with surprise, a whisper he recognised and turned his head.
“Nhaimeth,” Lhilidh repeated. “Is that truly you?” She approached them, her step light, her smile delighted.
Ach, how the lass had grown, not what one would call tall, yet she topped him by head and shoulders. She was even more beautiful than he remembered. Four and a bit years ago, he’d left Dun Bhuird in Astrid’s cortège, a Fool with bells a-jingle, believing himself lucky to have at least that—to be alive and away frae his ferocious father, to whom, contrarily, death was a way of life.
He’d hated the man then and, dead or not, he hated him still.
As Lhilidh reached him, she bent her head to buss him on the cheek. “Welcome home, wee brother. I’d thought never to see ye again. It’s like a miracle.”
He felt his face redden, surprised by the flush of heat that rushed into inappropriate places. Lhilidh’s mother had been his wet nurse, feeding two bairns at once with her ample bosoms—both him and his aulder half-brother Murdoch—sons of Erik Comlyn but only one, by his true wife. He supposed he’d been lucky that Geala had shown a fondness for him because of his father, though not as much as she’d shown her lover’s son.
Lhilidh had always been like a sister to Nhaimeth, though not by any means blood kin. Now, as she bent close, he could smell her sweet perfume as she kissed his cheek, reminding him she wasn’t his sister and that he was more than a dwarf, he was a man.
Nhaimeth quickly tamped desire back where it had come from. He’d been taught since a child that such things as love and marriage were not for him. Geala and Astrid had reminded him of the fact often enough, and for years he’d never had ambitions to be more than the plaything, the toy, Astrid had made him. His three-and-a-half years of friendship with Rob had shown he could be more, have more.
But never that.
Lhilidh straightened, looked at the other lads then back at him, expectantly. And who could blame her? Rob and Jamie, they were everything a bonnie lass could hope for, but she wasn’t for them. A lot was expected of the sons of Chieftains like McArthur and Ruthven, and marrying a serving maid wasn’t the future their fathers had planned for them. No, like Comlyn, the other two would be keeping their eyes peeled for a daughter of some Laird they could come to terms with, to form an alliance.
By the looks in their eyes, neither Rob nor Jamie was keeping that in mind, and he didn’t blame them. Friendship or not, he would keep a weather eye on them and make certain Lhilidh didn’t get hurt.
Lhilidh had an innocence that shone like one of yon beacons that had been lit to signal their arrival at Dun Bhuird. He knew for a fact that the other lads had nae real knowledge of where a bonnie lass, a lad and a flirtation could lead to. They kept nae secrets where that was concerned. As for himself, he only knew second hand, for hadn’t he slept outside Astrid’s then Morag’s chamber. He wasn’t deaf, and some nights, pulling the bedding o’er his ears wasn’t enough.
“Lhilidh, let me make introductions. Yon two handsome lads are my friends, Rob McArthur and Jamie Ruthven. I’m showing them around the hall,” he said by way of explanation, then let nature have its sway.
Rob bent the knee first, “Greetings, bonnie lass. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Jamie stepped forward. His bow had more flourish, but then he could give Rob two years in age, nae bother. Today, Jamie was making the most of what he had learned whe
n his father took him south to the King’s court, one of the times when the King and Queen had resided in Dunfermline. ”’Twas well known that Canmore had lands a-plenty in Fife—properties that had come to him through his first wife—Macbeth’s widow, Gruoch of Fife—whom Canmore had taken to wife within days of killing her husband.
Jamie, trying to outdo Rob said, “I’ve seldom seen a more beautiful lass in all my travels.”
Rob butted in with, “You need to be aware that the compliment comes frae a lad who hasn’t journeyed any farther than Dunfermline.”
Nhaimeth could see that Lhilidh felt flustered. She stammered, “So … so you lads did nae gang tae France with the Laird? They say he’s brought back enough treasure to make one of what they call Arabian potentates jealous.”
All of them laughed, she sounded so serious. “And where did you hear about potentates, Lhilidh? Dun Bhuird is nae the sort of place for yon fancy kind of folk.”
Obviously, it had been too long since he had seen Lhilidh. She took instant offence at their laughter. “Frae a travelling minstrel, a storyteller.” She looked at their faces, satisfied she held their attention and continued, “And we had one here at Dun Bhuird. He paid a visit afore I became my lady’s serving maid. I was standing by the gatehouse and saw them all arrive. I only got a peek at the man, just enough to see he had skin as dark as a walnut. He wore cloth of gold around the neck and sleeves of a bright robe more full of colour than the leaves turn in autumn. He came to Dun Bhuird along with yon laird that my lady was supposed to wed before Laird Farquhar killed him.”
Nhaimeth immediately caught Rob’s scowl and felt nae surprise at his friend’s reaction. Kalem, the one Lhilidh spoke of, had been the reason Rob and his mother, Morag, had fled Wolfsdale to escape death at the hands of Doughall Farquhar, acting at Kalem’s instigation. A pederast, Kalem had thought to add Rob to his list of victims and had killed Morag’s father to prevent her frae reporting him to the auld Baron.
Rob had trusted Nhaimeth with his story on a dark, dreadful night when a foul man had attacked Nhaimeth and frightened him. That night, both he and Rob had exchanged their secrets and fears and, because of that sharing, became fast friends. Some might think it an unlikely comradeship—a lad of fourteen years, already bigger than most men, and a dwarf with almost twenty years under his belt—but then few folk were aware of the bond they shared, both victims of persecution.
At that moment, there was nae way he could set Lhilidh straight by sharing, and he was astounded when Rob did it for him, “Be glad a wee peek was all you had of him, Lhilidh. Yon was a terrible bad man, an abomination. And as for the Baron of Wolfsdale, Kathryn’s erstwhile bride’s-groom, the Laird didn’t kill him, the Bear did. And, aye, he was the Laird’s brother and my uncle, but he needed killing. If I’d been of an age to do it, I would have without a second thought. Scotland’s a better place without the likes of them.”
The conversation had become too deep for Nhaimeth’s liking, spoiling the convivial air that had accompanied their entrance to the hall. So he made an attempt to turn their thoughts in another direction. “Well, Lhilidh, if you are the Lady’s maid, why are ye no’ helping her into her finery for the feast that’s being prepared?”
Lhilidh covered her mouth to hide a gurgle of laughter, but she couldn’t disguise the blush suffusing her fair skin by looking down at the floor and letting long black hair swing forward. Her dark lashes threw shadows on her cheekbones as she hid blue eyes brighter because of her confusion. Nhaimeth felt certain he was not the only one of the three struck by her beauty.
“The Laird sent us off. We were all helping to prepare a tub of hot water, as he ordered. The men fetched water and I fetched linen for the Laird to dry with when he was done.” If anything, the colour flushing Lhilidh’s skin grew deeper as she told them. “He said he needed naught but Lady Kathryn to assist him, then shooed us frae the Chieftain’s apartments.”
Jamie and Rob chuckled knowingly—a male version of Lhilidh’s blushes.
“Ach well, ye’ll be free to help me show the lads around the hall, though I doubt much has changed in the years since I left.”
“I have other duties. Kathryn says I must make certain Geala got back hame. She was brought inside the palisade when we thought ye were cateran attacking the Dun. I’ll walk down the hall with ye on my way out,” she said as Nhaimeth changed direction away from the high table and the glowing shield that had been made for his great-grandfather.
Lhilidh’s next words rang a toll around their heads, “Lady Kathryn has made many improvements. I think she felt entitled, since few folk expected the Laird to come hame.”
Chapter 7
Gavyn had long become used to attending to himself. Even while the lad who had served as his squire was alive, he had required him only to fetch, carry, bring his meals or his horse, and look after his mail and weaponry, he never needed his help to dress. Or undress, come to that. Not that he had stripped to the buff on many occasions. His was the life of a fighting man, a warrior. Unlike the French knights they’d fought alongside, he’d believed an unshaven face looked fiercer, less likely to give quarter to the enemy. He didn’t need any fancy silk cloaks, only the silk he wore against his skin under his quilted gambeson where it helped to prevent chafing on his many scars.
Aye, he was more than capable of hauling his chain-mail over his head, after undoing the laces, then ridding himself of both that and the lambskin tunic worn beneath it.
While he watched Kathryn fill a basin from the tub, he shed everything but his trews and boots. His cock stirred like a giant asleep for two years—a goodly male reaction to the sudden discovery that more than fighting men inhabited its world. Kathryn returned with both basin and soap by the time he had stripped down to his skin above the waist with only his belt to discard.
He rubbed his palms across his chest, enjoying the air on skin that had at long last been released from confinement. He ruffled the fine dark hairs that curled across the width of his chest then speared between his ribs in a shadowy line to his navel where it dived under the waist of his leather trews.
Kathryn was curious. He could see it in her eyes, watched them courageously follow the direction of his hands as she placed the basin and soap on a stool next to the tub. Facing him, Kathryn tilted her head to one side as a bird might. “Do ye have a knife here, or should I fetch mine and shave ye with it?”
He slid a hand down the side seam of the leather trews moulded to his leg and, in reply, gathered up the dirk, the skhean dhu, he wore tucked in the top of his boot by the outside of his knee. “My thanks, but as you can see, I came prepared.”
Holding the blade betwixt finger and thumb, he let a wry smile narrow and skew his lips, though his gaze never left hers as he finished by saying, “No offence, but though you’re still as bonnie as I first remember you, I’d as lief not put temptation in your way, wife of mine.”
She stepped back, letting out a gasp that didn’t appear feigned. Unperturbed at having offended her, Gavyn quirked an eyebrow in Kathryn’s direction, an expression he shaped to take the sting from his pronouncement. Suddenly intent on making certain she wouldn’t take his teasing seriously. “Can you swear on your life Kathryn, or mayhap swear on mine, that the thought has never crossed your mind?”
He rubbed the fingertips of his free hand across his belt buckle, it was warm from his body—hardly a surprise seeing as how Kathryn’s eyes followed the movement. Then her eyelids drooped, hiding a burst of blue that he might have told her reflected the sky, had he not been certain that someone had already passed the compliment. In their chamber, there was no sky to compare them to, just a ceiling darkened by smoke and age
No matter. He wasn’t the sort to get his way through dishing out flattery, nor for waiting forever for a response. Instead, he filled the gap with words, “Be assured, it would be of little use to kill me. For instance, the King wouldn’t be best pleased. Canmore’s a man who likes to pull all the strings that set us dan
cing to his tune.”
He took a minute to clear his throat and study her face for a reaction, in vain. Her eyelids remained dipped and her expression bland.
“All of that aside, when Canmore is in receipt of the gifts of silver and jewels I sent south frae Cragenlaw, he’s bound to feel obligated to take my side in any squabble we lay afore him.”
Kathryn looked him straight in the eye and snapped, “And will ye tell the King that I shot an arrow at ye when ye arrived at the gate?”
“Ah, but then, dearling, you missed.”
“Not through any mistake of mine,” she sniffed, lifting her head to pin him with her gaze. “I’ll have ye know I’m a good shot. Though I would have been quite within my rights to shoot ye in return for yer blatant arrogance, if naught else.”
Gavyn drew his heavy brows together in a frown, indignant. The action pulled on a small knot of skin where his scar crossed o’er the eyelid. He’d expected an apology and instead faced a lecture. And Kathryn, it seemed, wasn’t done with him. She tossed her head back, hair flying, angry. All he noticed was the way her long hair shimmered in the candlelight, floating in pale gold swathes that settled back down between her shoulder blades, worn in the way of a maiden instead of looped up tight in the style favoured by women—by wives. “It was arrogance,” she continued to harangue him, “that made ye think to march upon our gates without the courtesy of sending a messenger ahead to warn us of yer impending arrival. And … and because of that, now you will have to wait for your dinner.”
Her voice trailed off, as if from a lack of air, her high, rounded breasts lifting as she sucked a breath in betwixt her full, red lips. Again, her bright blue gaze fixed not on his face but on his torso.
For a moment, silence filled the short distance separating them. A silence so loud he felt as if the whole hall vibrated within its tense grip. He, too, felt it tingle across his skin, raising goose bumps. The darkness that lived in the corners seeped closer while the candle flames danced, casting both of their shadows to merge with the dark boundaries of the chamber.
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