by Aileen Adams
“You’ve coins in that purse about your waist, make no mistake of it.” That ham-sized fist moved from her shoulder to her waist, where a leather purse indeed hung beneath her tunic. She’d taken pains to conceal it but supposed the shape was still clear enough to make her a target for thieves.
“Let’s see that face,” one of the others muttered with a dark laugh before pulling the hat from her head with a violent jerk.
So many things happened at once.
Margaret’s heart sank when her hair tumbled out, falling past her shoulders.
Gasps sounded from behind her as the two men realized what they’d trapped.
The man before her, however, only smiled. Two of his front teeth were missing, somehow adding to his menacing appearance. “Och, so you’re hiding somethin’ else under that tunic, are ye?”
With that, his hands were on her, pushing her into his friends while running over the length of her body.
That was simply too much.
She dropped one of the full buckets on his foot while using her now-free hand to join in lifting the other to throw it in his face. He sputtered and cursed as wine ran down his greasy hair and soiled tunic.
He parted the hair hanging over his eyes just in time to see her swing the empty bucket around, smashing it against the side of his head.
As he crumpled to the ground, stunned, she whirled on the other two.
“Come on, then,” she whispered, swinging wide, the two of them jumping back to avoid being struck.
Their eyes kept darting over to where their friend lay—she had a strong arm, as evidenced by the way he fell.
But perhaps her confidence was a weakness, as one of the pair grabbed the bucket and pulled. The move was so sudden, she did not release the handle in time to avoid the other taking her by the arm.
She pulled. When he did not release her, a knee between his legs did the trick, but a pair of hands took hold of her from behind, leaving her ensnared again.
The stench of wine and blood mingled in her head.
“That’s right. Fight it,” he whispered in her ear, wine dripping from his hair and onto her tunic. “I like it better when they fight.”
She squirmed, kicked, but it was no use once one of his partners pressed against her, pinning her body between them. There was no helping the whimpers and groans which escaped as she struggled, and this only seemed to excite and amuse her attackers.
Then…
A high-pitched voice bellowed, “What do ye think you’re doing?”
A curly-haired figure barreled into the man who had all but squeezed the air from Margaret’s lungs. He let out a cry of surprise as fists flew at his face, and a moment later Margaret realized it was a woman.
No, two women, the other older, but no less fierce, as she kicked the man still on the ground, still holding the sensitive spot which Margaret had driven a knee into. “Like to harm women, do ye? Like to take advantage? Like to force yourself on them?” Each question was accompanied by a kick to the midsection, the back.
Margaret turned on her attacker, who watched the scene with a mixture of surprise and awe, and drove a fist into his nose.
He swung at her, but it was a slow swing, lumbering, and she ducked it easily before jabbing a series of hard, swift punches into his ribs. When he collapsed to his knees, gasping for air, she took his shoulders in both hands and drove a knee into his face which sent him reeling back, blood spurting from his nose and mouth.
She took hold of his throat, his windpipe beneath her palm, her eyes trained on his. It would be so easy to crush, would it not? To squeeze just enough that he’d no longer be capable of breathing.
Her fingers tightened. It would not be the first time, nowhere close to the first time. He would merely be one more man who’d fallen at her hand.
But she was not alone, and the fighting behind her had ceased.
Instead, then, she released the throat and delivered a sharp, slicing blow with the side of her fist which made the man cough and gasp. He fell on his side, hands clutching his throat.
“You’ll think of that the next time you wish to bedevil an innocent lass!” the younger of her two rescuers snarled, and Margaret turned in time to see her spit upon the bloodied, crumpled form of the man who’d rubbed his body against hers. She shuddered at the memory.
Both women came to her, the older of the two holding her hands palm-out. “We mean no harm,” she murmured with a tentative smile.
“I do not fear you,” Margaret whispered, her eyes moving back and forth up and down the narrow street. Little surprise they’d not been interrupted by any of those living inside, as this was not a pleasant part of the village and those accustomed to it had likely learned to keep to themselves.
“You were dressed as a lad,” the younger woman observed, hands on hips. “Are you in danger? Do you need help?”
“As a matter of fact, I believe I might,” Margaret admitted. “They’re likely to remember me, and they may be able to describe me to others. I shall never go unnoticed after this.”
The older woman placed a soft hand on her shoulder. “Och, now, ‘tis not as bad as that. If ye need protecting from men such as these or anything else, come with us.”
“With you? Who are you?”
“My name is Sorcha McMannis, and this is Moira MacDougal. We live in the house of Padraig Anderson.”
Padraig Anderson.
Would wonders never cease. She’d only just been wondering about him earlier that day.
“Ye can come and work for him,” Sorcha offered. “He’s charged me with the run of the household and ‘tis not bragging to tell ye I’ve done a wonder there.”
“It is not bragging when you tell the truth.” Moira’s curls bounced when she nodded, and Margaret wondered at her strength and skill. How had she come upon either?
“He’ll be certain to take ye on if I tell him he ought to,” Sorcha assured her.
“But… I cannot,” Margaret demurred, shaking her head. “I cannot bring my troubles to you, though you are terribly generous.”
“Nonsense. Where are your things, that ye might bring them with ye?” Sorcha looked around as though expecting to find them lying about.
Margaret pointed down the street—if either woman recognized the house for what it was, neither was indiscreet enough to make mention of it. She explained all upon stepping foot inside, leaving the food and the empty buckets behind.
The women at the house did not ask many questions, for women such as themselves had likely learned not to. They understood the way of things without being told. Margaret realized she would miss them upon leaving, now wearing the kirtle and cloak she’d worn from Aberdeen.
But the lad’s clothing, what she’d come to think of as her costume, was tucked into the burlap bag she slung over her shoulder. One never knew when one might need to fall upon old disguises.
“It suits ye much better,” Sorcha decided on seeing Margaret again. “Come, then. Ye might ride behind me. We were on our way home.”
It was as simple as that, with neither woman cunning enough to know who they’d just taken into the bosom of their hearth and home.
With Margaret unwilling to tell them.
“What shall you tell your laird when we arrive?” she asked as she mounted Sorcha’s chestnut mare.
“Leave it to me.” Sorcha winked.
While Moira chuckled over the quick work they’d made of the three unfortunate attackers.
It was enough to make Margaret wonder exactly who she’d fallen in with.
5
“Ye have a bad habit of telling me exactly what ye have in mind.” Rodric lowered his sword, his brows knitting together beneath a forehead devoid of the sweat which soaked Padraig’s brow.
“What do ye mean?” he demanded, struggling to keep his breath.
“I mean your eyes tell me everything I wish to know. There is never a surprise while I’m fighting with ye, because I’m already aware of every move ye plan to m
ake. Ye make entirely too much noise, as well. Too much grunting, too much snarling.”
Padraig’s eyes narrowed. “I heard men grunting and snarling on the road to Ben Nevis. I’ve heard many men grunt and snarl while in battle.”
“Aye, but we’re merely training.” Rodric grinned, running a hand through hair only slightly disheveled. “I’m in need of water. Ye must learn to ease up on me, brother. I’m an old man compared to ye.”
Padraig knew too well that revealing his frustration would merely make things worse, so he bit his tongue while his brother fetched a dipper of water from the bucket nearby. “I didna think the purpose of training was to hold back. It seems I ought to have heard that before now.”
Rodric poured some of the water over his head with a scowl. “Ye know what I mean to say. But ye are coming along nicely, truly. Warriors are not trained in a day.”
“Dinna smooth things over with pretty words ye think will calm me.” He pointed to his brother with the sword still in one hand. “Ye dinna use your full strength and skill when training with me. Ye refrain from it because ye dinna wish to wound me.”
“Nay.” Even so, Rodric would not meet his gaze.
“Ye must not think of me as your brother now,” Padraig insisted. “Dinna even think of me as your laird. For the sake of the gods, not that.”
Rodric snickered. “Ye ask for the impossible, ye ken?”
Padraig turned away, throwing the sword to the ground with a cry of frustration—and took note of the approaching horses emerging from the wood which stretched out before the house.
Two horses. Three riders.
“Who is that, behind Sorcha?” Rodric asked, clearly glad for the distraction.
Padraig did not offer reply, for he did not know. A lass, one with long, light hair which waved and shone in the midday sunshine. She wore a faded kirtle which he assumed must have once been the color of wine that complimented her creamy skin. Moira turned to her, said something which made her full mouth quirk in a smile—that smile lit up her face, making her glow.
She was bonny, pure and simple.
As though she heard his thoughts, her head turned in his direction, her gaze fixed on his. Even at a distance, she stunned him.
He suddenly felt foolish, holding a wooden shield, a sword intended for training. As though he were a child caught in the act of pretending. Perhaps it was the lifting upward of one dark brow which brought this upon him.
He’d never spoken to the lass, yet her slightest gesture had undone him.
He shook this off, raising his chin to meet the silent challenge. “I suppose I ought to see who your aunt brought us,” he muttered to his brother.
“Ah, I see. She brings a lass from the village, and she’s my aunt,” Rodric snorted. “Never mind the efficiency with which she manages your household.”
Padraig paid no mind to his brother’s jests, walking across the training field and further, to the courtyard where the women dismounted. His eyes kept drifting back to the new lass, no matter how he fought against the impulse to stare.
“Who’s this, then?” he asked, certain to raise his voice above their chatter.
“Och, Padraig,” Sorcha said as she unloaded the saddlebags. “This is Margaret. A lass from the village. She’ll be living with us, working with me in the house.”
He blinked, looking about himself. “You’ve decided this, then? Without asking if ye might bring on another lass?”
“I know better than ye what we need in the household.” She handed off the saddlebags, finally favoring him with a straight look. “Unless ye wish to send the lass back where she came from, which I assure ye would be the greatest cruelty.”
The lass flinched. A small flinch, but still, one he caught out of the corner of his eye.
But his attention was on Sorcha, whom he’d allowed far too much influence for far too long. It was easy, to be sure, leaving the managing of the household to her when there was so much that took up his time.
Yet here she was, speaking so brazenly, and in front of a stranger.
“I would like to speak to the lass on my own, to determine whether I wish to bring her into the house,” he declared, turning on his heel and striding inside. It was time for a great many things to change, it appeared. Beginning with Sorcha’s misguided views about him, and how she could speak to him.
Both in front of bonny strangers and otherwise.
He waved the lass in behind him but did not look over his shoulder to see whether she followed. He simply trusted that she would. And she did, the leather soles of her boots slapping against the stone floors. It was not Sorcha’s determined gait—the woman behaved as though she were marching off to war no matter where she went or what she did.
This strange lass moved like water, flowing smoothly. When he reached the study and stepped aside to allow her entrance, he watched with great interest as she walked past. She seemed to glide, unbothered by everything around her.
Yet for all her slow, gliding, flowing movement, her eyes were something else entirely. They never ceased moving, darting this way and that, and Padraig could sense her sharp, inquisitive mind.
And still, for all her looking about, she held her tongue. No questions.
He answered one which he supposed she must have asked herself first and foremost.
“I am Padraig Anderson, and this is my home. These are the lands of Clan Anderson, and if ye come to live and work with us, you shall come under my protection as any member of the clan would.”
He forgot what he’d intended to say next, as her beauty was far too distracting. It was unlike him to first take notice of a lass’s appearance, but that was all he could think about when he set eyes upon her. The long, shining hair, the wide eyes of purest blue. Innocent and knowing at once. Full lips curved into a smile as she dipped into a curtsy for his benefit.
“Ye need not waste your strength or time with such pleasantries,” he was quick to say. “I’ve never been one to demand a curtsy or praise when I didna deserve it.”
“You’ve a village named for you,” she was quick to point out in a rich, throaty voice full of the same innocence, the same knowing.
A cheeky thing, then. “Not for me. For my clan.”
This did not move her. “Is there a difference?”
“I was led to believe ye need a position, lass.”
One of her brows lifted. “I do.”
“Has no one ever told ye ‘tis best not to provoke a man to anger when you’ve come to him for a position, then? Especially in his household?”
Her cheeks flamed. “Forgive me. Of course. I was merely—”
“Curious. Aye, I’m certain of it.” He took a seat, gaze fixed on her. “Perhaps this curiosity is the reason why you’ve no position at this time? Perhaps it led ye to ask too many questions. Men with little patience do not take kindly to questions.”
She possessed the good sense to at least appear embarrassed. “I ought not to have challenged you. I was curious, as you’ve already said.”
“Where do ye come from?” The question was so sudden, even he was surprised.
“Leeds. I was brought up in a noble household, where my mother served the lord.”
“Which lord?”
“Cornwell.” She answered without hesitation.
Though he merely asked that he might judge whether she hesitated in providing names. Hesitation meant lies. If she was lying, she was the best he’d ever seen.
Was there a Lord Cornwell in Leeds? He knew not. Would she have said she’d come from the Highlands, or even from Edinburgh or some such village, he might have a notion of who she referred to.
“You’ve a good hold on what goes on in a house of this size, then?”
“Yes, indeed.” She offered nothing more.
“Why have ye no hint of the English in your tongue?” That was what had bothered him most, and why he’d asked where she’d come from. She spoke not at all like himself, nor like anyone in the house. Ysmaine, perh
aps, but she’d been educated by a French mother.
“My mother wished for me to speak properly, that I might one day find a position for myself in a decent house. Perhaps marry well.”
“I suppose you’ve disappointed her in that area.”
“Sir?” she asked, her head tilting to the side.
“You’ve said nothing of a husband.”
“Ah. Well, I have none.”
Was the sudden lightening of his heart relief? Why would he feel relief at this? He cleared his throat. “Aye, just as well. I’ve no need for both a man and his wife working here in the house.”
“You’ve accepted me, then?”
Another rumble as he cleared his throat. “Sorcha is a woman I respect a great deal, and she’s managed to stir even the slowest and dullest to action. She also has a good sense of judgment. I would be a foolish man, indeed, to question her decision to bring you on.”
She nodded slowly, and he willed himself to look away as the light coming in from behind him caught strands of gold in her hair and made it gleam. A man could lose himself in hair such as hers.
He could hardly tell her to stop moving so as to keep her hair from gleaming.
“Why did Sorcha say it would be cruelty to send ye back to the village?” he asked, leaning forward, elbows on top of his work table.
When the lass’s eyes widened at the question, he lifted a hand to silence her.
“I have no desire to pry secrets from ye, mind. But if ye have an angry father or brother or group of cousins after ye, I ought to know prior to taking ye under my protection.”
She pursed her lips, bringing to mind a woman in search of a kiss. He swallowed back the rising tide of longing while chastising himself and his lack of control.
“I see,” she murmured. “There is no man after me. I have no brothers, no father, no uncles. No landlord, no laird. Nothing of the sort.”
“Why the cruelty, then?” he asked. “What would be so cruel about sending ye back to the village? ‘Tis a fair place in which to make a life, or so I’ve seen.”
“You have seen?” she asked, and coming from her it sounded like a challenge. “You’ve seen the conditions in which some of the villagers live, then? You know how dangerous it can be for a young woman to move about on her own there? You know nothing of it, and I would not expect you to, living as the laird of a great clan. With a village named for you.”
