Courage Of A Highlander_Lairds of Dunkeld Series

by Emilia Ferguson

  “I...excuse me. I would like to go out for a moment?” he made his face look urgent without much effort, hoping she'd think he was in search of the privies.

  “Of course, son. If you need the help of a servant to find something..?” she made it a question.

  “N...no, Mother,” he said quickly. He pushed back his chair and hurried out.

  In the courtyard, a breeze was blowing. It caught his cloak, cooled his skin, and rustled his dark-toned hair.

  A torch burned in a bracket on the wall, cracking as the wind blurred it. He let out a strangled breath. Tried not to think of the fact that he was wed to the most beautiful woman he'd ever laid eyes on. Tried, even more, not to think of the fact that she had no interest in so much as touching him.

  “Rubina,” he murmured.

  In the almost silence of the courtyard, he heard something. A sob. Someone was crying. He turned and stared.

  Over at the wall, the bridal veil just touching her flame-red hair, the red dress clinging to her body like a sheen of flame, Rubina stood in the light of the solitary fire of the torch. She was sobbing.

  He couldn't help it. He went over to where she stood.

  “Rubina,” he murmured. “Rubina. No...”

  She jumped as he touched her shoulder and turned to stare up at him accusingly. Her big brown eyes were wild. He wanted to swear. How could he startle her like that?

  “You...oh. Camden,” she murmured, her eyes focusing suddenly on his face. “Oh...take me inside. Please? Just take me in.”

  Camden swallowed hard as she looped her arm through his, leaning against him. Together they walked slowly inside. This close, he could smell the sweet, floral, clinging scent of her and see the ruby tones of her hair. He held his breath, clenched his teeth, and told himself, over and over, that he would resist her.

  He might be married to her, but he was not going to force himself on a woman who was afraid. Not now and not ever.

  She walked slowly up the stairs and he felt the sweet warmth of her body slide against him and wished that he could melt into that sweetness. They went up and stopped.

  “Here we are,” she said. Her voice was stiff and tense, every word forced through firm lips. He wished he could reassure her. They were outside the bridal chamber. The place was decked with greenery and he could smell the strewing-herbs they had thrown on the rushes to scent the place. It was beautiful. It must be terrifying, for her, to contemplate.

  “Rubina,” he murmured. “We don't have to...you don't have to.”

  She turned, then. Her eyes met his. They were defiant.

  “I'm wed to you,” she said. “I'm doing it.”

  Camden let out a long breath. Said nothing. Still, he let her lead him into the room.

  Rubina bit her lip to stop crying. Why wouldn't he just touch her? Hold her? Every time he came near her, it seemed as if he was doing some horrible duty, something he couldn't quite bear. She wanted to weep. She straightened her back. She felt him shut the door behind her and turned round.

  His eyes on hers were soft, and broken. Rubina wanted to laugh, a bitter laugh. She held it back between her teeth as he closed his eyes, bowing his head.

  “Well, are you ready to get it over with?” she asked harshly. Slowly, deliberately, she drew off the veil. Threw it onto the seat by the fireplace. Lifted her hair and let the flame-bright streaks fall defiantly. She was a virgin bride. If he couldn't come near her, that was his cowardice. If he believed her tainted, fallen; let him face her with that belief.

  I am not afraid.

  Slowly, deliberately, she drew down the strap of her gown.

  “Rubina,” he said, his voice broken. “Don't do it...”

  “Why?” she laughed. “Don't you want to touch me? Did my parents bribe you, then, to wed me?”

  He flinched as if she had slapped him. Looked up, hurt.

  “No.”

  She looked into his big, puzzled eyes. She was hurting him. Good.

  Every moment of that wretched day she had hurt. Every moment, since he found her and brought her back to face shame and silent censure and then misunderstanding and sorrow. She had hurt, every day for two weeks, and now it was his turn.

  She reached up and started undoing the buttons she could reach. It was hard to undress oneself, but she had some practice. She looked into his eyes as she did it. He was staring back, a kind of agony on his face.

  “Rubina, no,” he murmured. “Stop. Not...not like this.”

  She laughed.

  “Why?” she asked. “Because I was a whore to someone, and now I am whoring for you? Is that it?” she spat. “You think you're so noble, to take me on at my parents' bidding? To rescue my reputation? Yes?” She lifted her chin and glared at him, daring him to answer her.

  “No!” he shook his head. He looked desperately confused. “Rubina,” he murmured. “Please. I don't want to do this...like this. Not now. Not until you are ready.”

  He stood with his hands clasped before him, a picture of supplication.

  She whirled away, her red hair spinning round her shoulders as she did so. A pox on the wretched man! Was she so tainted, that he could stand there with his hands at his sides while she undressed for him? She caught sight of her reflection, all dark red velvet and bright red hair and big brown eyes.

  She turned, slowly, to face him. Let the dress slide off her shoulders.

  Camden stared at the loveliness in front of him. With her one shoulder bared, that sweet cleavage showing, spilling from her under-dress, her red hair a cloak of flame about her, she was unimaginably lovely. He felt his loins ache.

  She was looking at him with those brown eyes lit with twin flames. He held his hands tense at his sides and wished he could touch her. How could he though? She deliberately let the dress drop from her shoulder. Her eyes were questioning as much as they were defiant. She lifted her hands to the fastening of the undergarment. He let out a sigh.

  “Rubina, no,” he whispered. He couldn't let her do this. She was so angry with him. Why was she so angry with him? He reached out and gently took her hand, led her to the end of the bed.

  “You don't understand,” she said softly. “You won't understand.”

  Camden let out a long, explosive sigh. “I can try,” he said. In her big, sad eyes he could see tears, just trembling on the lids. He fought himself not to lean down and kiss her snow-soft skin.

  She sighed. “No, you can't.” She sniffed. A big tear rolled down that precious skin toward her red lips.

  Camden couldn't help himself. This was his bride, and she was sad. His heart wept for her. He leaned over and his lips met hers. Gently, so gently, he let his tongue taste her tears.

  She sighed and for a moment, for the briefest instant, she leaned against him. Her lips parted and admitted his tongue to slide between them, tasting and exploring. Her soft body leaned against his, warm and comforting and like the sense of home. He held her close and knew he had never imagined happiness so big.

  Then, just as abruptly, she leaned back. Her lips closed. She sniffed. Camden wanted to weep. He sat back and his eyes met hers.

  “Goodnight,” she whispered. Her voice was tight and small, the voice of a small child. He wanted to weep. It was so sweet, so vulnerable, and so lovely.

  He swallowed hard, swallowing his own tears.

  “Goodnight,” he whispered.

  She stood and, hastily, began to undress herself. When she was down to her under-shift, she moved to stand behind a screen. Then, while he stared at the outline of her, soft and curvaceous and silhouetted, she dressed in a shift and came out from behind the screen. It was soft linen, draping, down to her ankles. He still felt his whole body respond, seeing her sweet curves draped in such an informal dress. He caught her looking at his gaze and hastily dropped it away.

  “Goodnight,” he said gruffly.

  He waited until she was in bed before standing and going to the darkness at the other side of the room. He tugged off his clothes, shrugged
on a clean linen shirt and then walked over to the bed.

  She was curled up with her head on the pillow, back to him, her red hair a sheet of fire around her shoulders. He wanted to weep. Her form was so solid, so resolute, so sure in shutting him out.

  “Goodnight,” he whispered quietly. His voice wept.

  He wanted more than anything to reach out and lie beside her. Not to do anything else, necessarily, just to stroke her hair, comfort her, and let her know it was all going to be well. His own need was not as great as his need to comfort her.

  He sat down, hearing the bed creak a little under his weight. It was soft and inviting, the sheets cool fine-spun linen. A fire burned in the grate, sending the scent of floral herbs about the room. He slid into bed and lay down on the pillow.

  Feeling like a lead weight was in his chest, he closed his eyes and curled up tight. The bed must have been very comfortable because, despite the sadness and exhaustion, he soon found himself falling into a deep and oblivious sleep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  SOME NEW THOUGHTS

  SOME NEW THOUGHTS

  The light shone through the window onto her eyelids. Rubina woke. She felt a soft, delicious coolness under her body. She stretched down to her toes and remembered that she was in the bed in the main bedroom. She rolled over, letting a little sigh escape her.

  Memory came back, piecemeal. Him. Our embrace. That kiss...

  She looked. The gray dawn light lined his profile in white hazed light. He was on his side, his eyes closed. She stared at him. With no animation to his face – no hurt, no pain, only stillness – it was possible to feel affection and warmth for him. Possible, even, to feel desire. However, he hadn't wanted her. Hadn't touched her. He really did think she was soiled goods. The pain made her throat tighten with pain and hurt.

  His eyelids fluttered. The lashes rested on his cheeks and his breath sighed through full, well-made lips. He was, she thought with a strange tingling sensation, a handsome man. Handsome, well-formed and desirable.

  He rolled over and blinked. Rubina froze. She sat up slowly, trying not to move the coverlet, to disturb him.

  I will sneak away while he sleeps.

  That would address the difficulties of what to say to him. She didn't want to talk to him. Hoped that she would never have to talk to him about...about any of that. He would never, ever understand.

  And he will never see me differently now. Not without that cool diffidence. That distaste.

  She wanted to spit. She had faced fear there in the forest. It was not fear that kept her away from him, if that was what he thought. It was anger. It was pride. Defiance.

  “He married me for expedience.”

  She whispered it to herself, slipping out of bed and standing before the mirror. In the long night-dress with her red hair loose and burnished around her, she had to admit she looked good. Tired, but good.

  He didn't ever want me, though! He did what he had to do out of compassion. To help me out of a difficult situation.

  She didn't want to think that. Yet it seemed that it was easy for him to resist her. After all, there he lay, fast asleep.

  She looked down at him and wished, suddenly and bizarrely, that she could reach out and stroke that soft hair. It was a physical compulsion and she had to hold her hand back. She would not wake him.

  She looked about the room. Someone had thoughtfully laid out a blue velvet robe for her to wear. She lifted it, and her under-shift – a fresh one – from the top of the clothes chest in the corner. Then, wrapping her night dress round her, she tiptoed out of the room into the hallway.

  The place was empty, the hallway white with the pale morning. She tiptoed silently down the hallway and to her bedchamber.

  “Greere?”

  She closed the door behind her and called her maid again.

  “Greere?”

  “Oh! Milady!” She must have been sleeping, for Greere suddenly vaulted to waking from where she lay on the chair by the screen. “Oh!”

  “Greere?” Rubina said quickly. “Will you help me dress?”

  “Oh?” The woman frowned but one look at Rubina's face must have told her it was best not to pry. She nodded. “Oh, of course, milady. Here. Let me...”

  Rubina set her teeth, clamping them in her lip, as she let Greere undress her and then dress her quickly and easily in the blue gown. She hurried down to the solar to breakfast.

  “Hello?”

  The solar, thankfully, was empty. Rubina tiptoed in and sat down. It was already all set out for breakfast, with oats porridge in a vast ceramic pot on the center of the table, pitchers of milk and a tray of butter set nearby. Oat bannocks were piled on a salver and another held slices of cheese.

  Rubina selected a bannock and some cheese and tiptoed out of the room. She took it to the colonnade to eat. The last thing she wanted at this moment was company. Prying eyes and inquiring questions. No.

  She leaned on the railing and looked out over the distant view of forests, stretching ever onward to the not-quite-evident coast.

  Will this war come to us?

  She sighed. The scent of oats, warm and delicious, filtered up to her as she leaned on the railing. She ate, feeling her stomach growl in some enthusiasm as she did so. She had eaten very little at the dinner the previous day.

  War, with England. She shuddered. She had seen a fore-runner of it. Those hard-eyed, cruel men that she would not think about and yet who would not stop haunting her. She knew what was coming if war came. Knew its face.

  She shivered. There was no reasoning with men like that. Killing was what they knew now, all they did. They had learned on the killing fields of Wales, a war whose brutality was whispered of even as far away as Edinburgh. Now they were coming here. She shuddered.

  I wish we could all just leave this place.

  Her thoughts turned to her own situation. The castle, the present. She looked down into the courtyard. A servant led a fine white palfrey to the stables, the horse fighting him, wanting to run. She smiled, knowing the feeling.

  I feel trapped here. Mayhap at least the war would change that.

  If there was a war, she thought reasonably, then Camden would be taken away. She closed her eyes, imagining that. Without him here in the castle, her life would be back to normal.

  Strangely, that did not make her feel happy. She bit her lip. A thousand memories of tenderness spiraled through her. Camden, rescuing her in the forest all that time ago. In the infirmary, holding hands. Camden, kissing her. The ball together. In the sick room when she first returned here. In the inn. Kissing her.

  I don't know how I feel about him. I wish I did know.

  She let out a long explosive sigh. Scraped a red curl away from her forehead.

  “Hello?”

  She whipped round to find a servant standing behind her.

  “Yes?” she asked.

  “Beg pardon, milady,” she said. “But Lord Camden, he...he was calling after you.”

  “Tell him I'm out,” she said briskly. Then she turned and walked hastily down the hallway.

  In the hallway she headed downstairs toward the stables. She walked stiff-backed and angrily.

  How dare you summon me? Like I'm a dog, to do your bidding. Like I am your servant! She wanted to shout it at him.

  “How dare he?” she muttered under her breath as she went. Some small part of her wanted him to appear and try to stop her rush to the grounds outside.

  She was heading briskly down the courtyard, heading to the stables, when something caught her eye.

  Up on the turret, a single figure was standing. She could see the color of the hair, the set of his back. His tense, watchful pose. He was just too far away for her to see the detail of his face. Nonetheless, it was clear who he was.

  “Camden,” she whispered.

  He was a pale pillar against the gray morning light. She felt her heart twist. A part of her wanted to march to the stables. To walk away from him – right away – and never
come back. Another part of her wanted to run up to the turret and throw her arms around him, holding him close.

  She turned away, blinking back tears.

  At the stables, she walked into Fergus, the groom.

  “Milady!” he jumped back. He bowed low. “My congratulations,” he added.

  She stared at him. “Thank you, Fergus,” she said coldly. “Saddle Merryweather for me, please?”

  He nodded. “Yes, milady.”

  Glad that she had brought her own horse from Lochlann, she let the groom lead her out to the mounting post in the courtyard, stepped up and headed out into the field. Round the back of the castle, the field was surrounded by a wall. She was safe here.

  “Let's go,” she whispered to her horse.

  They streamed out across the field. It was good to feel the wind whipping her hair back from her face. She let her horse have her head and they went at a gallop.

  “Yah! Yah!” She was yelling, leaning forward, holding the reins but barely needing them.

  The horse streamed forward and it was only after they had slowed to a canter that Rubina realized the chill and wetness on her cheeks was from tears.

  She sniffed and cuffed them away. Why was she crying?

  “I don't know,” she murmured aloud. “I don't know.”

  It was the frustration, she thought, sadly. The feeling that, no matter what she did, Camden would be aloof to her. Why didn't he love her? Why didn't he want her anymore?

  “Am I so horrible?” she whispered. “So tainted?” He seemed to resist the idea of even touching her, even approaching her too closely. It hurt, cutting into her heart and wounding her. She sniffed, eyes filling with slow, blinding tears.

  In the stable yard, she walked into Marguerite.

  “Rubina!” her friend smiled. “Congratulations! Come inside. I've wanted to talk for ages!”

  Rubina nodded. “Yes.”

  She let her friend take her hand and lead her into the castle. Upstairs, they went to the turret room where, until recently, they met to sew and talk. Though it was only a little blustery out, a fire crackled in the grate. The room was darkly lit and cozy. Rubina leaned back on the padded cushion on the settle and regarded Marguerite. Her long, slender face was worried.