The Highlander Who Loved Me

by Adrienne Basso

  “Jesus, Davina, I thought ye were a ghost.”

  “James.” Davina wiped her sweaty palms on her nightgown. “Ye startled me.”

  A shiver raced up her spine at the look he gave her. The voice inside her head was shouting for her to get away. But her feet refused to obey.

  His eyes hardened. “I thought ye had gone to bed.”

  Davina braced herself. She was shaking at his nearness, yet refused to let him see how intimidating she found him. “I felt the need fer some air.”

  “Ye plan on climbing up to the battlements dressed in yer nightclothes?”

  Unless ye offer to carry me. The thought struck, but wasn’t spoken. She no longer had the right to joke and tease with him.

  “No one saw me. I stood at the top of the stairs in the shadows fer a few minutes.”

  “The guards should be disciplined at their lack of attention, though I suppose ye are small enough to easily remain unseen.”

  She thought she could see a flash of humor lurking in his eyes, but it was too dark to tell. “I wasn’t there very long,” she replied, not wanting to cause trouble.

  “Come, I’ll escort ye to yer chamber.” James’s fingers closed around her upper arm.

  Davina’s body tingled, the contact between them unsettling. “’Tis but a few steps away,” she protested. “I can see the door from here.”

  She made to push past him. James immediately released her arm, but stepped in front of her.

  “I dinnae believe my eyes when I entered the great hall and saw ye sitting so regally beside my brother, looking as though ye belonged there,” he said.

  “I . . . uhm . . .” Davina’s mouth went dry. She swallowed and tried again. “Yer mother invited me to share the Christmas holiday.”

  “So I’ve been told. Yet somehow that doesn’t ring true.” He leered down at her. “Why are ye really here, Davina? What cruel twist of fate has brought ye within my grasp, allowing ye yet another chance to torment me?”

  Davina felt no surprise at the flash of anger in his eyes. After the way things had ended between them, she fully expected him to lash out at her. ’Twas no more than she deserved. Yet the sight wounded her all the same.

  Trying to conceal her dismay, she answered him truthfully. “I had no idea that ye would be here, James. If I had known, I can assure ye, I never would have come.”

  He made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “Are ye going to marry my brother?”

  The note of jealousy in his tone brought on a rush of melancholy. Avoiding James’s eyes, Davina deliberately gazed over his shoulder into the darkness. “Nay. I cannae marry Malcolm. I cannae marry any man.”

  James growled. Grasping her chin, he forced her to look into his eyes. “God’s truth?”

  “God’s truth,” she answered.

  As quickly as it came, the anger seemed to suddenly drain out of him. “Christ’s bones, Davina, ye still have the power to unman me with a single look.”

  “James.” She whispered his name, then extended her hand to him. “I dinnae want to anger ye or stir up any bitter memories. If ye believe nothing else, ye must believe that is the truth.”

  He gazed down at her hand for a long moment, then looked away without touching it. Without touching her. Davina felt a fist close around her heart.

  “Our memories shall remain where they belong,” he declared. “Buried in the past.”

  “I’m not yer enemy, James.”

  “Truly?” He cocked his head. “I’m not so certain.”

  Lightning cracked and flashed through the open archway window, the white light illuminating James’s features. Davina felt herself pull back. He was as handsome as the devil, but the harsh line of his jaw and the hardness in his eyes frightened her. His hard gaze held her captive for a long moment.

  Listening to his voice in the darkness, she could momentarily fool herself into believing all would be right between them, but seeing him in the bright, shocking light clearly brought the reality into focus.

  He was not the lad she had loved; he was a hardened, bitter warrior. And she was no longer the lass she had been. Hearing the pain in his voice made her knees feel weak. She had not been the only one to suffer these past few years. Knowing she was the cause of James’s pain made her guilt surge.

  Another crack of deafening thunder hit, quickly followed by a bolt of lightning. Davina felt as though it struck her body, straining every nerve and muscle.

  “I’ll leave in the morning,” she promised, knowing it was the least she owed him.

  “Aye,’tis what I expected. After all, that’s what ye do best.”

  “Best?”

  “Aye. Run away,” he said softly.

  Davina felt herself stiffen defensively. But curiosity won over pride. “I thought that would please ye. Do ye not want me to leave?”

  He cleared his throat. “I have little care fer yer comings and goings. It makes no difference to me if ye stay or go.”

  With those parting words, James turned on his heel and left.

  Shaken, Davina struggled to gather her wits. A loud cough from above alerted her to the changing of the watch. Fearful of being found lurking in the hall, she hurried back to her chamber. Once safely inside, she pressed her back firmly against the solid wood, willing her heart to slow and her breathing to return to a normal rhythm.

  She climbed silently back into bed. She forced her eyes to close, but sleep would not come. She turned to prayer, for strength and guidance, and then offered a prayer of hope that tomorrow would be a better day.

  For surely ’twas impossible for it be worse than today.

  Chapter Eight

  Despite a near sleepless night, James came awake as the first rays of morning light entered his chamber. Remaining still for a moment, he rolled his head toward the door and took in his surroundings. A table with two chairs around it, three windows lined with heavy glass, a thick carpet in a pattern of blue adorning the floor, a cozy fire burning in the hearth.

  ’Twas only one place in the world he knew that boasted such luxury.

  McKenna Castle. Home.

  He was surprised at the rush of pleasure he felt at the realization. Five years ago the idea of returning here had been unthinkable. The shame too great, the guilt too strong.

  He had struggled mightily under the weight of dishonor that plagued him for being unable to defend Davina. It had taken years, yet gradually James realized he would carry that burden no matter where he laid his head each night. And thus, tired of the battles, blood, and death that had been his companions for far too long, he had come home.

  To what felt like a more intense inferno.

  James grit his teeth, rotated the tightness out of his shoulders, and got out of bed. A sudden rush of dizziness told him he had drunk far too much last night, and he fought to remain on his feet.

  Staggering, he made his way to the door and flung it open. The leather hinges squealed, the irritating sound reverberating through his aching head. Annoyance spiked anew at the sight of a young page sulking in the hall. Clearly, the lad had been assigned to wait upon him, a lowly task that somehow did not appeal.

  James dragged a hand over his face, then pressed his fingers against his temples. “Fetch hot water fer washing, a pitcher of ale, and something fer me to break my fast,” he barked.

  Terror replaced the sulking expression on the lad’s face. Eyes wide, he took off at a run. Cursing beneath his breath, James watched the lad scamper away. His throat was parched and his belly growling for food. He only hoped it would not take an unreasonable amount of time for the lad to gain the courage to return.

  James shut the door and returned to sit on the edge of his bed. The piney scent of rosemary, mixed with a dash of lavender, wafting from the sheets called to him. ’Twould be so easy to turn and rest his aching head against the downy soft pillow, but James refused to succumb to the lure.

  It would take more than his mother’s sweet-smelling linens to break his discipline. Trainin
g and conditioning were always his first order of business and that would not change just because he was home.

  Besides, a morning of tough physical activity would keep him away from Davina. The events of last night had made him clearly see that he needed to banish Davina from his thoughts, for he could not stomach the notion of reawakening his feelings toward her. That would only lead to disillusionment and shattered dreams.

  Yet it would be no easy task when he would see her each day.

  The door reopened and the lad stepped inside, his skinny arms straining under the weight of all he carried. James moved forward to help, but then pulled back. The boy seemed to lack confidence. Successfully accomplishing this duty on his own would build character.

  The youngster nervously drew his bottom lip back and forth between his teeth as he carefully set down the tray of food. Next came the pitcher of ale, then a none-too-clean-looking tankard. The final item was the bowl of water for washing, which the lad balanced precariously on the inside of his left arm.

  “Put the water on the table near the window,” James commanded.

  The lad jumped, barely muffling a yelp of distress. Eyes wide, he hurried to the table and hastily set down the bowl. It wobbled unevenly, spilling a good half of the contents.

  James’s jaw tightened in exasperation as he watched the precious hot water drip onto the floor. Though he prided himself on being an intimidating warrior, the lad’s obvious fear was making him clumsy.

  “What’s yer name?” James asked.

  The lad’s chin trembled. “Co . . . Colin, sir.”

  “And what day is it, young Colin?”

  Confusion darkened the lad’s face. “’Tis Tuesday, sir.”

  “Aye.” James absently rubbed his fingers over the thin scar under his jaw, remembering the feel of the knife blade as it was pressed against his throat. Remembering, too, the look of surprise on the enemy’s face when he had slipped a blade between the man’s ribs and twisted. “Well, I dinnae eat pages fer breakfast on Tuesdays.”

  “No, sir.”

  “I reserve that delight fer Fridays. Best ye remember it.”

  The hoped-for smile never emerged. Instead, Colin seemed even more uneasy, his eyes growing as round as a lost kitten. Taking pity of the lad, James dismissed him with a curt wave of the hand.

  “I can go?” Colin asked hopefully.

  James nodded. The lad gave a ragged shudder and ran from the chamber, even as James was sure he spied a spark of gratitude in the lad’s eyes.

  James felt his lip curl as a familiar guilt mingled with the anger brewing inside his gut. The lad’s grateful I gave him permission to leave me. First, Davina and now Colin. Seems I’ve mastered the art of frightening women and children. God’s teeth, what’s next?

  James splashed his face and upper body with the now lukewarm water, then used the rest to wash the tankard. His stomach rebelled at the idea of food, but he ate the oatcakes and hard cheese anyway, washing it down with the ale.

  He took his time getting dressed, wanting to ensure that the great hall would be empty. He was in no mood to make small talk with anyone, especially his family.

  As he picked up his sword, he wondered again if he had made the right decision to leave the Holy Land. The life of a Crusader was fraught with danger, but it was in many ways a simple, uncomplicated existence. You practiced, you fought, you cleansed your wounds, buried the dead, ate a hearty meal, slept, awoke, and began again.

  It was a methodical, isolating life that James had come to accept. He had grown accustomed to the physical discomfort of his body and learned to ignore the suffering that plagued his spirit.

  The sun struggled to emerge from behind a large, billowing gray cloud as James walked purposefully through the bailey. He felt his blood stir as he glanced at the horizon and beheld the rugged hills soaring into the distant mists. They had been shrouded in darkness when he arrived last night. Seeing them now in all their regal splendor reminded him that there was no place on earth more beautiful than the Highlands.

  Even the air smelled different, he mused, as he inhaled deeply. Filled with tangy pine and a crisp dampness, it lifted the spirits even as it seeped into the bones.

  Lord, how I’ve missed it!

  The bailey was alive with activity at this hour of the morning. Women with baskets of clean, wet laundry on their backs hurried to hang the items out to dry before the temperatures dropped low enough to freeze the garments. The fragrant smoke of fresh baked breads and savory treats streamed out from the kitchen, contrasting mightily with the scents emanating from the stables and barns.

  The practice yard was crowded with men, though the usual sounds of metal clanking against metal were missing as most were engaged in conversation rather than training. When James approached, an eerie hush filled the practice yard. He spied Malcolm sparring with a young man whose chin barely sported any whiskers and suddenly knew how to banish his conflicted mood.

  His brother turned, then greeted him with a broad, toothy smile. “Och, ye’ve finally left the warmth and comfort of yer chamber. We were wondering if ye were going to spend the entire day abed.”

  “Not all day,” James replied. “Just a good part of the morning.”

  “I thought the men of God’s army trained and fought tirelessly,” Malcolm teased.

  “They do. ’Tis a harsh life, far more difficult than the easy one the Highlanders lead.” James eyed his brother, wondering how quickly he could get a rise of temper from him.

  “I see that ye still enjoy training with the youngest, untried recruits. ’Tis hardly difficult to display skill and agility when one is partnered against an inexperienced youth.”

  The taunt had its desired effect, for it was the sort of comment James knew his brother would be unable to resist.

  “Teaching our men to fight is but one of my pleasures,” Malcolm replied tersely. “Care to join us?”

  “I might.” James assumed a disinterested stance. “If ye can find me someone worthy to spar against.”

  “Sir Malcolm is our best swordsman,” one of the lads proclaimed, as a murmur of agreement spread through the crowd.

  “Is he?” James glanced over his shoulder at his father and the McKenna nodded. “Then I suppose he is the one I shall train.”

  Any hint of humor faded from Malcolm’s expression. “I’d be pleased to face ye.”

  “Yer mother willnae like it,” the McKenna stated bluntly, coming to stand between his sons.

  James lifted his eyes to the sky, noting the position of the sun. “Does she not usually attend Mass at this hour of the morning?”

  His father looked at him, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. “She does.”

  “Then we best hurry.”

  Several of the men shouted and clapped their hands in excited anticipation and James could hear friendly wagers being made. He was not surprised that very few favored him to win, for it was not the McKenna way to bet against the clan heir. Yet as James donned his helmet he was determined that those few who had bet that he would be victorious would be rewarded.

  And all would see clearly that he, too, was a worthy son of the laird.

  James grinned as he heard the satisfying hissing sound of his brother’s sword being drawn from its scabbard. Muscles taut and ready, James used the element of surprise to gain the advantage. Instead of raising the usual battle cry, he charged, silently, the steel of his blade whistling through the air.

  He caught Malcolm square in the gut with the flat of his sword, knocking the breath from his lungs. Malcolm released a loud grunt. Though off balance, he managed a clean sword swing, aimed directly at James’s head.

  James ducked and spun around so quickly his brother barely had time to blink. Yet the blade had come close enough that James swore he could feel the breeze on his face. James feinted left, then swiftly swung his sword right. Malcolm was prepared, bringing his weapon up to block the strike.

  Steel struck steel in sharp clangs. Again. And aga
in. There were cheers from the crowd at the sound. Each man moved agilely, their power and strength nearly equal. James could feel the sweat pouring down his back as he and Malcolm crossed swords up and down the yard. His brother had the advantage of height, yet James knew he was quicker.

  Curses fell from Malcolm’s mouth as time and again he came close, yet failed to gain an advantage. James felt the blood pounding through his veins. His battle-hardened senses were humming as he drove forward, striking again and again. Malcolm successfully deflected each blow, but he could see his brother was tiring.

  Then suddenly, Malcolm caught James’s blade on an upward stroke. James planted his feet firmly, but could not stay upright. He crashed to the ground in a jarring bounce. For an instant his sight blurred, but he recovered just in time to see Malcolm’s blade slicing through the air toward him in a clean arc.

  Howling, James raised his sword to meet the blow. It came down hard, much harder than he expected. Pain shot up James’s arm and he swore he could feel the vibration in the soles of his feet. Tucking his chin to his chest, he rolled to his side and leaped to his feet. Ducking low, he threw a fist into Malcolm’s stomach.

  “Did ye ever see a man move so fast?” the McKenna asked in an approving tone.

  Malcolm doubled over. Staggering clumsily on his feet, he lifted his chin, his eyes stirring with grudging admiration. “Ye are far more skilled at swordplay than I remember, little brother.”

  Appreciation for Malcolm’s none-too-subtle attempt to distract him flashed in James’s eyes, yet his concentration never wavered. Nor did his determination to win.

  Marshalling his strength, James circled left, hoping to pull Malcolm off his feet with the next strike. But as he raised his sword, his mother’s angry voice filled his ears.

  “Why are James and Malcolm fighting?” she cried.

  “The lads are just having a bit of fun,” the McKenna explained.

  “By hacking each other to bits?” Aileen retorted in annoyance.

  “Not hacking, just sparring,” the McKenna answered.