by Amy Jarecki
“’Tis not the de Moray coat of arms,” Andrew said.
“Nope,” said Lachlan. “I figured your mum should give you a brooch as important as that. But until you’ve earned the de Moray crest, I thought this one might serve you well.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Andrew pinned his cloak around his neck and regarded his reflection in the polished copper mirror. This had to be the best day since he’d come to Ormond. True, no matter how hard they tried, the clan folk couldn’t fool him, nor could they shower Andrew with gifts to make him forget he’d been left alone for so many years. He’d been abandoned. Especially when he needed his kin the most. De Vere had only paid him a bit of notice once he’d grown and proved to be sturdy enough for battle. The earl had been anything but nurturing, but Andrew was no longer a bairn who needed to be coddled. He’d grown past needing a mother ages ago. He didn’t want to be cossetted by anyone.
That’s why he tolerated Sir Lachlan. The big knight might support his mother, but Sir Lachlan gave him room to be himself, not to mention he was a damned good fighting man. A man Andrew could admire. Every day he learned more from Lachlan and, in time, he’d be as skilled in the sparring ring. No, he probably wouldn’t grow as tall, but Sir Lachlan always stressed the importance of using cunning and the opponent’s leverage to knock him off balance no matter his girth. It was helpful to have size and strength, but even a woman could defend herself if she knew how.
He also had to admit Ormond Castle wasn’t as miserable as he’d initially thought. In fact, he’d never had a chamber of his own before. Not that de Vere allowed Andrew to sleep in the donjon at the earl’s Hedingham Castle.
Still, Andrew had finally felt like he had earned his place when de Vere told him he would become a squire. For the first time in his life, he meant something to somebody. Did Ma have any idea what it was like to spend years locked in a chamber? Did she have any inkling what it was like to grow up without anyone ever giving him a word of encouragement? When de Vere told Andrew he’d one day become a knight, it was as if someone pulled a black shroud from his soul and lit a torch as bright as the sun.
Perhaps things would have been different if his mother and Robert the Bruce had shown any interest in freeing him when he was a child. But so many lonely years had passed. Lonely years where he had nothing to do but think about abandonment and pray for rescue. No one ever came for him. No one ever fought for him. As the years passed, Andrew couldn’t remember his mother anymore. He had never known his kin, his clan or this frigid land in which he’d been born. He’d been forsaken by everyone, left to fend for himself throughout his childhood. So many times he’d gone to sleep in the hay loft wondering if any of his kin still remembered him. He’d finally stopped yearning for a family of his own when de Vere promoted him to squire, saying one day he would be a knight who fought for right and good and honor.
But being a knight for King Edward and being a knight who supported Robert Bruce were two very different things. Ever since Andrew could remember, no one had a good word to say about the usurper and murderer, Bruce. What was he supposed to do? Accept the horse and brooch and kiss the false king’s arse?
No bloody chance.
Though he would take the gifts. They owed him that and more. He had agreed to spend a year at Ormond Castle and a year it would be. Sir Lachlan was right, if Andrew tried to escape, he wouldn’t make it to the border alive, not alone. Not that he’d been presented with any chances to escape. A de Moray guard accompanied him at all times unless he was with Sir Lachlan.
A knock came at his chamber door. “Are ye ready for the feast?” the guard’s voice carried through the timbers.
Andrew let out a sigh. No use keeping everyone waiting and no use wallowing in misery. At least Aileen would be there this eve. She made Latin lessons so much more palatable and everyone was right on one thing, anyway. If he was going to be a knight, it would behoove him to know the language.
Straightening his doublet, Andrew regarded his reflection, wondering if Aileen would see fit to dance with him. He’d told his mother he didn’t care to dance, but that was with her. Dancing with Aileen was completely different, even though he’d never tried it before. The lass was his age and she batted her eyelashes at him from time to time—surely she wouldn’t laugh at him. No, not a girl who was more adorable than a kitten.
Mayhap I’ll even be able to steal a kiss?
When Andrew arrived at the bottom of the stairwell, the great hall was already full of merrymakers. Smells of roast beef, freshly baked bread, and mince pies wafted from the kitchen. Servants swarmed through the hall, laden with ewers of ale and wine. Andrew grinned. Aileen waved from the dais, patting the seat beside her. Music swirled through the hall—similar to the fetes he’d attended at de Vere’s castle, at least when he was allowed. Though Andrew never got to sit at the high table.
Mother clapped, looking happy as she always did. Hell, the woman was happy to a fault.
“Your new brooch looks quite handsome,” she said.
Andrew opened his mouth to tell her he wasn’t about to don a plaid as Lachlan across the table had, but Aileen clapped and beamed just like Ma. “Indeed. Your brooch looks stately.”
He clamped his lips together and slid into his seat—right on top of a leather parcel with “Mother” written on it. Lachlan told him about the gift earlier, but Andrew felt awkward. What was he supposed to do? Hand it over and say happy Yule?
“Lachlan gave the brooch to him this morn,” said Ma. Though she was smiling, Andrew could see through her ruse. She tried too hard to be the mother he’d never had.
“Did he?” asked Aileen, turning with a radiant smile. “The entire clan is agog with news of your new destrier.”
Andrew puffed out his chest and gave the lass a wink. “I’m in training to become a knight.”
“Oh, that’s so romantic.” She clasped her hands over her heart. “Will ye give me a ride on your horse?” Holy hellfire, she was bonny.
Andrew grinned. “Certainly. I named him Jupiter.”
“After the Roman god?” asked Father Sinclair.
“I did,” Andrew said, wishing his mother didn’t have to look so pleased. He was bloody going along with her terms…though it didn’t hurt that he’d asked Aileen to sit with them. No way in hell would de Vere allow a commoner, let alone a girl to sit at the high table. But a wee lassie with red tresses and a smile happier than a kitten?
Might as well enjoy the festivities. Playing the role of Mother’s grumpy antagonist can wait for a day.
Lachlan kicked him under the table and nodded his head toward Andrew’s seat.
Feeling like a curmudgeon, he reluctantly reached under his bum and pulled out the parcel. Bloody figs, his palms perspired. “Uh…” He shoved the parcel toward his mother. “This is for ye, Ma.”
Good God, did she have to look so rapt? It was as if he’d given her a pot of gold and she hadn’t even seen what was inside. Hell, Andrew hadn’t seen what was inside and that made him feel even more like a boob.
And then she had to go on making a show of slowly opening the gift. Gasping, she held up something made of yellow silk. “Oh my, that is lovely.” The look in her eyes was so deeply appreciative, Andrew could watch no longer.
“It’s the perfect color for you,” Sir Lachlan said, giving Andrew’s shoulder a firm pat.
“I love it. Thank ye, Andrew.” She clapped her hands and beckoned Ellen. “Will ye please do me the honor.”
“Of course, m’lady.”
In no time, the entire hall was agog with Mother’s new veil. Perhaps he should have gone shopping with Sir Lachlan. At least he wouldn’t have felt like such a charlatan. After wiping his hand across his mouth, Andrew reached under the table and grasped Aileen’s hand. “Will ye dance with me after the meal?” he asked in a whisper.
A lovely shade of pink blossomed in her cheek while she nodded. “I hoped ye would ask.”
“Do ye know how?”
; “To dance?”
“Yes.”
“Of course.” She giggled some more. “Doesna everyone?”
Andrew clenched his fists so she couldn’t hurt his heart. “Not me…but I’ll give it a try if ye’ll show me.”
She patted his arm. “Then I’d be even happier to dance with ye. Besides, any chieftain of Clan Moray needs to ken how to kick up his heels.”
Andrew froze for a moment. Chieftain? Aileen considered him a chieftain? It sounded so different when she’d said it than it had when his mother had yammered about his birthright. He didn’t understand why. Perhaps the admiration in the young girl’s voice?
Can I be a chieftain under a tyrant king?
Throughout the meal, Andrew pondered his question with no resolve. Things had been so clear when he’d been a mere squire for de Vere. Now his head buzzed with questions—things that made him uneasy inside.
But he didn’t want to think about such troublesome matters this eve. With music and ale and a lovely lass sitting beside him, he pushed his worries away. And when the meal ended, Aileen took his hand and pulled him onto the floor along with the boisterous crowd of merrymakers all anxious to kick up their heels in a circle dance. These were not murderers and thieves as his English comrades had called them. They were families, people who were born in the Highlands who farmed the lands and raised their children with little care to who sat on the throne and governed them.
Though the men would take up arms against England in a heartbeat.
Once the minstrels started playing, Andrew discovered he liked dancing. The steps were lively and he couldn’t help but laugh with Aileen smiling at him as they locked arms and skipped together.
After the fifth circle dance, Aileen patted her chest, breathing heavily. “Oh my, I canna remember ever dancing so vigorously. I can scarcely catch me breath.”
Andrew brushed her tresses away from her face. “Would ye care to take a turn in the courtyard? The cold air might do ye good.”
Her lips formed an “O”. “’Twould be scandalous.”
Nodding, he waggled his eyebrows. “Mm hmm.”
He didn’t need to ask again. She took up his hand and skipped toward the door. Pushing through, Andrew took the lead, both of them laughing. He glanced over his shoulder and saw not a single guard. Oh, blessed be the stars above, it invigorated him to be free to run outside with a maiden’s hand grasped in his. Her giggles served to make him laugh harder as he led her to the stables while snow crunched under foot.
“I think Christmas is my favorite holiday,” he said, feeling giddy inside.
“I ken ’tis mine.”
She stumbled a bit and Andrew slowed his pace. “Do ye want to see my new destrier?”
“Oh, yes,” she dashed ahead.
Darker than the depths of the sea, Andrew felt his way toward the lantern affixed to the stone wall. Striking the flint, he lit the wick and a muted glow spread across the barn. “Jupiter,” he called, wishing he’d had time to train the horse so he would pop his head out of his stall door at the sound of his voice.
One day soon.
“Jupiter,” Aileen giggled, tiptoeing down the alley. “Which one is his stall?”
“Second from the end.” Andrew grabbed a scoop of oats and hastened to catch up to her.
She grinned at him, her teeth chattering.
“Are ye cold?”
“Aye. I was so warm I forgot to collect my cloak afore we stepped out.”
He draped his over her shoulder, pulling her close. “I’ll keep ye warm.”
She leaned into him, looking up with shiny eyes. He liked Aileen a great deal. She made him feel important.
Together they stopped at the stall.
“Jupiter?” Andrew called, peering into the total darkness inside.
With a snort the horse thrust his head out above the gate.
Throwing her arms around Andrew’s waist, Aileen squealed. “He frightened me half to death.”
Andrew tightened his grip around her shoulder. “He will not hurt ye.” He held up the oats. “Give him a taste of this.”
She did and the horse’s lips gathered the grain from the scoop in a matter of seconds. Andrew reached in and smoothed his hand along the destrier’s mane. “There’s a good boy.”
Aileen traced her finger down the white blaze on Jupiter’s nose. “He’s beautiful.”
“He is.” Andrew’s chest filled with pride while he inclined his nose toward the girl’s tresses—tresses that smelled like roses. “So are ye.”
With a tiny gasp she shifted her wide-eyed gaze his way.
Every fiber in his body stirred to life. His heart thrummed and a fire churned low in his loins, hotter than anything he’d ever felt before.
Parting her lips, Aileen lifted her chin. Holy Moses, she looked more enticing than a plum tart.
Everything around him faded into oblivion as he focused on her bow-shaped mouth. The moist lips beckoned him like a thirsty man to water. Andrew licked his lips. Could he kiss her? Would she kiss him back? Something pulled him closer. What if she recoiled?
All of his thoughts shattered and dissipated as if with a boiling explosion of steam when his lips touched hers. Small hands slipped to his waist. Soft breasts melted into his chest. Oh Lordy, Lordy, Lordy, who knew kissing a girl would feel this good? He cupped her face in his hands and brushed her lips with his tongue, just like his mates had described back at the stable loft in England.
Then Aileen did the miraculous and parted her lips for him. God’s bones, his heart nearly burst out of his chest when her tongue brushed his ever so gently.
“Ahem,” a rumbling throat cleared behind them.
Before he could blink, Andrew dropped his hands and jolted away from the lass. “Hamish?” his voice cracked while his heart practically flew out his chest.
“Aye, lad.” The man-at-arms gave him a one-eyed scowl. “Came out to see why there was a light coming from the stable on Christmas.”
Regaining a modicum of composure, Andrew gestured toward Jupiter. “Just showing Aileen my new destrier.”
“He’s a fine specimen—picked him up from Inverness myself, but ye’d better haste back to the hall afore your mother sends out the guard to search for ye—that could spoil everyone’s fun.”
“Sorry,” said Aileen, looking down and rubbing her arms against the cold.
“Ye wouldna want that, would ye, lad?”
Andrew wanted to put his arm around her, but he felt like such a damned fool. Why did Hamish have to go and spoil his fun? “No, sir.”
“Well then I suggest ye make haste afore this lassie catches her death.”
That was it? No shouting? No lashings? No threats? Andrew raised his arm and opened his cloak. “Come, Aileen. I’ll keep ye warm on the way back.”
Thank heavens she complied with his bidding, else he would have run for the wood and never looked back.
As they left the stable, Hamish’s chuckle resounded between the stone walls. But Andrew didn’t care anymore. With Aileen nestled beneath his arm, being caught was worth a modicum of humiliation. He’d just been blessed with the most amazing kiss ever.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Wearing a plaid belted around his waist and pulled across his shoulder, Lachlan paced outside Christina’s chamber. In truth, he liked wearing a plaid far more than chausses. Maybe because he wore a dress kilt from time to time back home. Anyway, it was damned comfortable and he’d be wearing the plaid a whole lot more in the future.
He glanced down at the parcel in his hand, wrapped in grungy leather. Maybe he should have tried to find some ribbon with which to tie it, make it look prettier. After all, Christina was prettier than a rose blossom. But frills were hard to come by around these parts and they’d used most of the lady’s ribbon on the tree. Nope, not a single sheet of Christmas wrapping paper was to be found in the fourteenth century. In truth, he liked the simplicity of the times. He liked not seeing flashing Christmas lights and Santa
Claus or hearing jingle bells while he pushed a trolley around the grocery store. He enjoyed the greening of the castle, filling the passageways with pine scent. He loved the wood smoke and amber candle light, and the dusting of snow he awoke to most mornings.
But none of his thoughts allayed his need to give the cross he’d purchased to Christina. He wanted her to have it, wondered how often she received bonny gifts. All through the gathering, he’d waited for the perfect opportunity to give it to her. Surrounded by the crowd, dancing, food and drink, there hadn’t been a single chance. Besides, he didn’t want to upstage Andrew’s gift to Christina. The lad mightn’t have been appreciative of it, but the gesture meant a great deal to his mother. And the color suited her.
Lachlan raised his fist to knock on her door. Surely she would allow him a moment or two.
Ellen answered, a look of surprise making her eyes grow wide. “Sir Lachlan? ’Tis late.”
“I was about to say the same to you.” He hadn’t expected the chambermaid at this hour—would he never find Christina alone? “I’d like to speak to her ladyship for a moment if I may.”
Ellen shook her head. “I dunna think—”
“He may enter,” Christina’s voice came from within.
“Verra well.” Pursing her lips, the chambermaid opened the door wider and stepped aside.
“I need to have a word with Sir Lachlan in confidence, if ye’ll excuse us.” The lady placed her hand on Ellen’s shoulder and kissed her on the cheek. “Ye may retire for the eve. Happy Yule.”
“Happy Yule, m’lady.” Ellen looked to Lachlan with a discerning eye. “Are ye certain ye dunna need me to stay?”
Lachlan crossed his heart. “I promise to protect her ladyship’s virtue.”
The chambermaid blushed scarlet. “Yes, sir.” Then she curtseyed and hastened out the door.
