Love For A Reluctant Highland Lass (Blood of Duncliffe Series) (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story)

by Emilia Ferguson

  “You bastard, stop!” he yelled, pursuing the lamp. He heard the sound of running feet and saw, as the rain lessened somewhat, the form of the man hurrying down the cobbled street, between the other warehouses.

  Garrick almost slipped as they slewed around a corner, then caught his breath, heart racing, and headed onward. The streets were dark and rain-wet, a trap for the unwary. He slowed his pace and continued ahead, walking fast across the slick, slippery cobbles under the rain.

  The light went wavering ahead, going first left and then right, weaving its way between the houses, around puddles, through alleys.

  Garrick followed it; mind narrowed to the single purpose of apprehending whomever it was who'd trespassed in the yard. He had to find the fellow and give him a thorough trouncing, or who knew when he'd be back? Or how many thugs he'd have with him, ready to carry off their goods?

  “I should have more damn sense.”

  Garrick swore, clutched his cloak around him and hurried down the cold, dark street after the light.

  He was getting closer.

  The form was tall, the shoulders under the swaying oilskin robe broad. It wasn't Mr. Crae, and Garrick was fairly sure it wasn't anyone else he'd seen before, either. Whoever this was walked with an easy, rolling confidence that suggested a rival merchant captain.

  Damn him. If he's going to strike tomorrow, we're finished.

  There'd be no way to get the harbor guard out by tomorrow morning, first light. Garrick quickened his pace.

  As he neared the fellow, almost close enough to clutch at his sleeve, he heard it.

  Someone screamed.

  Garrick whipped around at once, eyes wide. That was a woman's scream, he thought instantly. Someone out here on the dock at night, alone. She was certainly in danger.

  Without thinking, instantly forgetting the presence in the street before him, Garrick wheeled around, heading for the sound.

  He ran. He almost slipped, and strained for sounds, the streets silent except for the slow tap of the drizzle on the household roofs.

  He was about to turn back when he heard another cry. This one was not as loud, but more urgent. He turned toward it, running.

  In the blue dark of the alley, he saw her. Three thugs had cornered her against a wall, a scrap of a lass with dark hair wet straggles about her shoulders, her white dress clinging in the rain.

  He didn't stop to think. Bunching his hand into a fist, he swung at the nearest man. His fist connected bone and the man swore, spinning around to face him, even as the sting of the blow jarred up Garrick's arm.

  Not having time to think about it, he kicked out at his assailant's legs, and then doubled over as a fist slammed against his ribs. Sucking in air, he punched the man and wished he'd remembered, belatedly, why he'd sworn not to fight in the streets again.

  The third man was swearing, swinging his fists, trying to get closer. A fist swung at Garrick, aiming for his head. He ducked and pushed and the man before him stumbled, going down on the slick stone. Garrick, wincing, kicked out hard, and knew his foot had connected with the man's chest when he heard a wheeze.

  Hating doing it, he kicked again, and then saw stars as someone connected against his head with a ringing blow that clouded his vision, making his sights swim. He stumbled and would have fallen, but for the wall behind him.

  The woman screamed.

  That gave Garrick fresh strength and he slewed sideways, avoiding the blow that came down toward his skull, then flailed out hard, feeling his fist crack against someone's jaw. He winced, knowing the skin was split, but had no time to think about it as someone kicked at his knees.

  He felt his leg crumple under him and fell forward. The man on the ground was still gasping, trying to breathe through a throat too bruised for it. Garrick felt a small sense of despair as someone kicked him in the ribs. He was down too, now, against two assailants. He was sure to die.

  “Get away, lass!” he yelled, and then tried again in Gaelic as she screamed, wordlessly. “Get away!”

  She cried out and he felt that desperation reach into his soul, matching with his own fury. He grabbed the leg that stepped before him and savagely twisted the knee, hearing the man yell and then crash to the ground. Garrick reached, wildly, for his eyes, clawing at them even as a blow rained down on his head, making his entire skull ring.

  His vision went dark and he knew he was not far from the end now. Two men were gasping and downed, but the third was still fully able to finish him off and he fully expected him to do so. He felt the man tense for the final blow and he closed his eyes, ready for whatever death brought him.

  The blow never landed.

  Instead, to Garrick's utter astonishment, his assailant made a small, pained gasp and fell forward, eyes wide, mouth opened from surprise.

  Garrick scrambled out of the way as the fellow crashed forward like a tree, felled by a blow to the back of the head. He stared. His mind tried to make sense of it, but failed. He looked up.

  There, in the wet and cold of the alley, hair plastered to her cheeks, dress plastered to her body, was Marguerite.

  The last thing he knew before he fainted was whispering her name.

  IN THE STREET

  Ettie stared at the man who lay on the street before her. It was Garrick, undeniably so. Her first thought was no thought at all, only a complete, unreasoning numbness, an empty blank. She stared down at him, heart stopped in her chest.

  Then her mind flooded back in all at once.

  “Garrick,” she whispered. “No. Come on. Wake up. We need to get you inside...”

  She slapped his cheek, as gently as she could, to see if he would wake. He grunted, but didn't sit up. Her heart lurched. He was clearly still alive, just unconscious.

  “Aye. Good,” she murmured to herself, as her knowledge of healing started to flow through her. “Now, come on. We'll get you inside, out of this rain...”

  She looked around as she spoke, bending and drawing his strong, heavy arm about her neck. It was heavy, insensate as it was, and she winced, dragging him to sitting. Her eyes quickly scanned the street. One of the brigands groaned and she felt her heart beat as she looked around. They had to leave, fast.

  “Och, Garrick,” she said speaking to him as she sat up and then tried to stand, keeping her hold on his arm. “We need to find somewhere tae shelter ye.”

  In times of distress, her accent slipped back to its origins, losing the polish that months with Marguerite had set to it. She heard it and didn't really care. There was more to worry about than the possibility of someone hearing her real voice.

  “Come on,” she said to him again, and groaned, straining, getting him to his feet. She couldn't quite believe how heavy an unconscious person was, and winced as she let his weight rest against her back. She took one step, and then another.

  Garrick grunted, loose arm swaying. She winced, knowing that she was probably causing him pain, dragging him like this. She could feel the rain get faster now, sending cold tendrils to run down her face and soak through the neck of her gown. She didn't think about it, other than to wonder how she was going to get Garrick to shelter.

  “I hope those are open...” she said aloud to herself, walking step by aching step up to the corner. It was only six paces away, but it seemed an eternity too far. She reached the wall and leaned against it, breathing heavily. Here, the rain was less intense and she felt her knees collapse, trying to lower herself as gracefully and easily as she could to the ground, so as not to jar Garrick.

  “There. Och, you daft man,” she said, looking at his unfeeling, pale face where he leaned against the wall, rain dripping down one smooth-skinned cheek. “You daft man,” she whispered. Her voice cracked and she knew she sobbed and it wasn't helpful and knew she couldn't stop it.

  He loved her. She looked at that gentle, handsome, rugged face and wanted to weep. He had come to warn her, not because she was Marguerite, but because he cared. Now here he was, rescuing her, and so vulnerable he might catc
h his death of chill if she didn't get him inside soon. But where?

  A person was walking past. She heard the boots on the cobbled street, moving fast. She didn't think about it. She shot out her hand and grabbed their arm.

  “Can ye help me?” she said. “Please. I need tae get my man tae shelter.”

  The person she'd stopped – a man – looked down at her, round-eyed. His expression was distasteful, as if she might somehow carry some deadly disease. Then, as he looked into her eyes, his face changed.

  “Aye. There's a barn round here – ye can shelter there while ye wait for the mail coach.”

  “Och, thank ye,” Ettie whispered. “Thanks.”

  She bent down to try to lift the unconscious Garrick again, but the man gently pushed her away.

  “He's heavy. I'll take him.”

  Ettie could have cried. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “Not from round here, eh?” the man asked. “Should know, it's not safe on these streets. Not for ye alone, nor for him.”

  “Aye. I ken now,” Ettie said softly. In truth, she had always known that, but not how dangerous it was. She shivered as rain-water ran down her back, making her cold.

  “It's not far now,” the man said, slowing his pace as he walked with Garrick beside him, dragging him along in much the same way Ettie had done herself, except that he could do it a little faster. “Just round the bend.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Ettie whispered. She wondered why it was that she trusted this man – after all, he could just as easily be as bad as the rest of them – but she had trusted him instantly. With big dark eyes and a long, smooth-shaven face, the man had an earnest, open quality to him.

  “I just hope you'll not catch cold here,” he said, looking around. “It's on the left. Ah...here.”

  He turned left and indicated a warehouse. Ettie took a deep breath as he unlocked the door, wondering again why she was trusting this man. He opened it and set down Garrick carefully at the back, and then walked out. Ettie paused on the doorstep. If she went in, he could so easily lock her in here, but somehow it didn't occur to her to think he would.

  “Easy, lass,” he said gently. “I'll not lock it. I'm just going to that office there. While I'm busy, the mail coach'll come by at that stop, see?” He pointed across the street into the rain. “When it does, hail it and ask someone for help. And wedge the door shut when ye go, see?” he asked. “I'd not like tae think of brigands getting in there while I'm checking the accounts.”

  He looked worried, and Ettie nodded. “I promise, sir.”

  He nodded. “Thanks.”

  Then, with no further ado, he walked out into the rain and across the street. Ettie ran to Garrick, kneeling at his side. The man had leaned him back against the wall, and he lolled there, one hand hanging at his side. Ettie grabbed it, chafing the fingers for warmth.

  “Garrick,” she said firmly. “Ye should wake up. The coach is coming and we're getting on, see. Och, look at that,” she added, gently reaching up to stroke the lump on his head.

  It throbbed under her fingers, the skin red in the center of the swelling, not yet showing the color of a bruise. Ettie shook her head, her fingers gently probing, feeling for fractures of the skull. There was nothing to feel.

  She sighed in relief and turned her attention to his ribs. Out of the rain, knowing he was dry or at least could not get any wetter, she could focus on what she needed to do to heal him.

  “Not broken,” she said, feeling over one rib. “Cracked,” she added, wincing as she felt a growing lump on another. Like the bump on his head, it was hot to the touch and throbbing. She shook her head. If she could get him safely home, she could rub a salve on it to reduce the bruising and to ease the ache, but she had nothing here.

  “We'll get you home,” she told him, making herself believe it. She spoke firmly to him, almost as if he needed convincing. “You'll be sat before the fire in no time. You daft man,” she added fondly.

  Here, in the almost-dark, illuminated by a crack in the boards, letting in the light from the shop windows across the street, she felt as she had in the barn at home; a deep closeness toward Garrick in a space that was just their own.

  She gently reached up and touched his hair, heart aching. Silly fool of a man! How could he let himself feel such things for her?

  “You daft man,” she told him again. He groaned as she moved her hand off the lump on his forehead and she sighed, gently stroking his hair.

  He seemed to be regaining his consciousness slowly, as he moaned again and she saw his hand twitch.

  “Garrick, I ken ye can hear me,” she told him firmly. “And ye're not going tae die. We're going to get you home,” she added, blinking fiercely as the real possibility of his dying, if not from injuries, none of which seemed fatal, but instead from cold, occurred to her.

  He grunted and twitched and she looked through the door, shivering, watching for the coach the man had said would come soon. She wondered what he meant by soon – it was still cold in here, even if it wasn't wet, and she was starting to shiver. She clutched at Garrick, warming her body with his, and his with hers. The need to keep him – and her – warm was intense. It was only after she'd sat there for a minute that she realized how intimate the contact was.

  She blushed.

  Och, if Marguerite or anyone could see me now! If Garrick saw me now. What would he say?

  She smiled as she imagined those dark eyes lighting up as he teased her about the situation. He would laugh, she knew. And she would laugh too. They would end up sitting beside one another on the floor, rain dripping off them, laughing hysterically.

  The thought made her cry. She wiped away the tear that ran down her cheek and sniffled. “Och, I'm daft,” she said, laughing rather shakily. “I should ken better than tae make myself wetter.”

  She sniffed and tried to stop the tears that slid down her cheeks. In the end, she gave up and just sat there, her arms around Garrick, his one arm draped heavily about her shoulders, keeping each other warm.

  She could feel her head start to float, her body cold. It was cold, so cold. It would be so good to sleep. Just let go and sleep...

  Lights moved across her sight – orange light, bobbing and wavering. Moving closer. The lamp of the mail coach! Ettie shot upright, feeling her heart pound. She shook Garrick, then leaped from her seat and ran to the door, heading for the stop and the mail coach, which was already waiting.

  “Hey!” she yelled, gesturing wildly. Passengers were alighting in what must be the central street of Queensferry. Ettie felt her heart pound as she stood before the coach, the horses regarding her warily. One stamped his foot. They twitched their ears back and forth. “Please! Stop! My man needs tae get to somewhere safe.”

  The driver looked down at her. The passengers had stopped alighting. Ettie ran to the door.

  “I have money,” she said, fumbling in her pocket. She had brought her month's wage, and had no idea how much it might cost to go on the coach to wherever it first stopped after here. “I need a passage for two. To Lowkirk?”

  The man nodded. “It'll be two shillings,” he said. Ettie held out the coins she had in her pocket. He took them and grunted in agreement. “Get in,” he said.

  “My man's in the barn,” Ettie said, worriedly. “Please. He's out cold. I have tae get him...”

  “I'll not have funny business,” the driver said, eyes narrowing.

  “It isn't!” Ettie protested. She looked around desperately. At that moment, Garrick appeared in the doorway. He had managed to get to his feet. He was deathly white and stood in the doorway of the barn, slumped painfully forward. Ettie ran to him, calling his name.

  “Garrick!” she yelled. “Come here, quick!”

  He stumbled forward out of the door and she grabbed for him, letting him lean on her shoulders. He went forward with her, step by achingly-slow step. The coach, miraculously, stayed where it was.

  They reached the door. The coachman looked down and his eyes
widened.

  “He's been beaten badly,” he said, shaking his head. “Och, let me help.”

  To Ettie's surprise and pleasure, he slid off the driver's high seat at the front of the coach and jumped down to help her. He lifted Garrick into the coach as if he weighed nothing, and then helped in Ettie beside him.

  “Off we go,” he said, and slammed the door. Ettie heard him clamber up onto the seat and then he was shouting to his horses, and they were off.

  It was deliciously warm in the leather-upholstered, close space. The passengers had recently been tight-packed in here, and their warmth still lingered in the seats where Ettie leaned back, too crippled by relief to do anything other than sit there, eyes closed, and breathe quietly.

  Opposite her, Garrick groaned and she reached out a hand to him. “Och, Garrick,” she said gently. “You'll be alright. We're on the way to Lowkirk, see?”

  Garrick blinked, and then she saw the moment when he recognized her. He stared. “The road,” he said. “The men...”

  “They've gone,” Ettie assured him. “You finished them. We're safe.”

  “Good...” he whispered. His eyes closed and he slept. Ettie stayed where she was, her hand in his. She studied his face. Her dress was soaked from the rain, hair dripping, and she was still cold despite the close, snug space, but all the same, she couldn't remember ever being happier.

  Garrick was with her, he was safe, and they were going home. She felt her cheeks lift in a smile.

  As the coach rattled along the road, and she started, finally, to feel warm, Ettie felt her heartbeat return to normal. She held Garrick's hand and as they jostled and rattled along, she began to sing gently.

  “The sun...sets over the pine trees...the mist...does slowly fall...”

  It was an old ballad, a song about a lass who loved a soldier, and pined for him when he went away and then was reunited with him at last. Ettie had forgotten she knew it – she could barely remember learning it or where she had – but the words came back to her now.

  “And the lass...she waited, as leaves were falling...and spring...it came to the trees...”