In the darkness of a tanner's yard, the stink of ammonia in the air, her hem in the dirt, she was nonetheless a princess from a tale. Her hair was loose and unbound, the veil long gone. Her white gown was spangled with the fitful torchlight. Her sweet curves glimmered alluringly under the cloth and she seemed too lovely for mundane existence.
“Richard,” she whispered. “You found me.”
He smiled. “Aye, I did,” he nodded. “And now we'd best hide before that lot does the same for us both.”
Arabella nodded.
“The dress,” she whispered. “It's white.”
“Aye, it shines too much for hiding,” he nodded back, impressed she had the instincts of a tracker.
“I'll get rid of it,” she said.
“Milady?” Richard breathed.
With unabashed incredulity, he stood back as she unhooked the gate and marched into the tanner's barn. He saw her feel along the wall and find a blade. Then he heard the ripping of silk and costly Brussels lace. When she turned round, she was in a shift. He stared.
The old wall of the barn allowed fitful starlight in. Her curves gleamed where the silk under-dress clung, her hair loose about her. Richard felt his whole body ache with the need to take her right there and he would have groaned aloud but that she motioned with her finger at her lips, a silencing gesture.
“We need to change it,” she said.
Again, he watched with horror as she found the tanner's apron and wrapped it round herself, concealing the white silk from view.
“You need a new guise, too,” she nodded. Her eyes indicated the bagpipes he held.
Swallowing acute mortification, as she had thought of it and he hadn't, he hastily discarded the bagpipes in a corner and reached for a hoe that stood in the corner. It transformed him, at least in his own mind, to a laborer.
Nodding, Arabella joined him. They slipped out into the street.
Outside, the place was pandemonium. Guards ran past on the wider street, yelling and calling. Torches shone a fitful, wavering light everywhere. Someone yelled.
“I have nothing tae hide. Get off, scoundrels!”
Richard nodded to Arabella and they ran the other way.
“Father has the guards out,” she breathed in English.
He nodded, and answered in Scots.
“Aye. We'd best head back to the courtyard.”
“We should go the other way,” she suggested, indicating the town. “Less obvious.”
“Also more expected,” Richard countered.
She glared at him. He hung his head. Inside, he couldn't help a glimmer of joy at the way they talked as equals, her answering him in kind. It was new to him and he liked it. He nodded.
“You're right,” he conceded. “But what if they block the rear gate?”
She frowned, and then her vision cleared. “They can't,” she said succinctly. “There's the gate over the moat – and they'll not block that. Not at this time when the carters and colliers are leaving.”
“Fine,” Richard shrugged. He had no experience of living in a fortress, especially one as ancient as this in structure. If she knew the gate was open, he'd have to trust it.
He followed her down the path and into the darkness.
At the gate, more chaos awaited them. It was as she said – a dozen carts, heavy built, driven by sweating, red-faced drovers – all trying to get through a gap that was big enough for one cart at a time. Right past guards intent on closing it.
“No, rascals!” someone yelled. “I need to get back yonder! You think I can afford to make new cheese, if this lot spoils?”
“A curse on the earl, if my cows get milk poisoning because he kept me here! I need to get home.”
“By order of the earl, I need to close this gate!” The guard was yelling at the front men, a halberd in his hand, the staff of which he used to push back a rush of farmers. “Get back! I will close it!”
“Not yet, you won't,” Richard said grimly as, together, they walked toward the melee. He held Arabella's wrist as, together, they pushed on through the milling, heaving fight.
“Hey! You!” a guard yelled as Richard shoved toward the gate. “Get back. No one leaves the city.”
“Hear that?” A farmed shouted from beside him. “Despots! Who do they think they are? Prince Charlie? Let's finish them!”
Richard nodded absently, then, as he swung his hoe in defense of the farmer, who was bellowing like a bull in a pen, he realized something. He was fighting on the side of the Jacobites.
Not that it was exactly a pitched battle, or one in which the views of either side were clearly defined. However, it seemed as if the farmers brought their ideals to everything, for there were cries of Jacobite sympathy abounding.
“For the Stuart king!”
“Here's to the Prince over the Water!”
Richard grunted as a halberd swung for his head.
Arabella twisted in his grasp, breaking away, and to his astonishment he saw her trip a guard, then turn back to him, dancing quickly aside as a man rushed past her, armed with a cudgel.
Then they were at the gate and breaking free, just as the motley warriors that were freedom-loving carters broke through the guardsmen, grunting and whooping.
“Hooray!”
“For Prince Charlie!”
Richard felt his cheeks hurt and realized he was grinning. He looked down at Arabella. A streak of dirt marking the side of her face, her hair loose and tumbledown in the darkness, her chest heaved. She laughed.
“Let's go, Richard,” she said.
Nodding, his heart as light as a lark must feel, swooping over fields, he squeezed her hand. They ran through the fields, down the road and into the safety of the trees together.
The woods were dark.
Richard, walking beside Arabella, felt his knees give way as he felt the exhaustion reach him. They had fought and he had felt nothing, only a wild elation of the fight. Now, in the darkness, finally safe, he could relax. With relaxation came crippling exhaustion.
“Whew,” he sighed. He sank to the leaf-mold, every muscle aching.
Arabella sat down. He heard the rustle of the debris on the forest floor as she lowered herself to seating, spreading her skirt around her ankles. He looked round at her and nodded.
“Feeling tired?” he grunted.
“Aye,” she nodded. She rubbed at her arm and Richard noted a rent in the fabric. He felt his heart tense in alarm as he reached for it. He hadn't even noticed she'd been hurt!
“What happened?” he asked, frowning.
“Naught,” she said, her beautiful face creased with a frown. “Just a blow.”
“Arabella!” he sounded horrified, though he was also amused. “You fight like a soldier.”
She grinned, then, her dirt-streaked face radiant with warmth.
“I played with the servants' children when I was a bairn,” she explained. “I learned much from them.”
“I'll bet you did,” he grinned, feeling a fresh wash of admiration for her. “You're remarkable.”
She laughed, though the laugh was laced with a bitterness he didn't yet fathom. “That's one way to put it,” she said wearily. “Father wanted that erased, too. I think he might as well have had a clothes stand as a daughter,” she added, casting a weary hand across the dress she wore. “It's all he cared about – appearances.”
“Well, it's tragic that he had you for a daughter,” Richard said feelingly. “So beautiful that it's easy to obsess about, but so spirited that no one could fail to see your soul first, your body second.”
Arabella stared at him. To his horror, her eyes filled with tears. Shiny with the starlight, she blinked them. A silvery patch tracked down her cheek as she lowered her gaze and sniffed crossly.
“Oh, Richard,” she whispered as he touched the wet track, drying her slowly falling tears.
He smiled. “What?”
“No one ever said something so beautiful, not to anyone. I'm quite sure of it. Least of all to me,” s
he added, sniffing. “Least of all to me.”
He held her as she cried and they sat, alone in a silent forest. Somewhere on a hillside, a dog barked. In the fortress, a light glowed on the turret, and then went out. A horn blared in the valley.
“We should go,” he said.
“Aye,” Arabella whispered. “Though little point – we can't hide if they've got hunting dogs.”
“We can't hide, no,” Richard agreed after a moment's worry. “But we can run.”
Arabella looked up into his eyes and their glance held. He held out a hand and she slipped her slim, pale one into it. She stood.
They walked silently into the darkness.
ON THE RUN
Arabella looked around, her horror giving way to a strange wonderment. She was in the darkness in the woodlands, an outcast from her home. She was wearing a tanner's apron, her face streaked with grime, her feet clad in slippers that were almost torn to ribbons. Her hair was damp and knotty, and bruises flowered on her arm, cheek and temple.
Her hand was in the hand of a man she was falling in love with. His touch made her shiver. They walked on into the woods.
Here, the trees grew close and a sort of silence hung over the woodlands. The silence had a scent she recognized: a fresh, cool smell that spoke of moss and damp and memories.
“The brook's this way,” she whispered.
“The brook?”
“Aye. It runs past the fortress. Feeds the lake and the moat.”
“Oh.”
Arabella nodded to Richard as his eyes brightened and she knew he was thinking what she was thinking: if they crossed it, the dogs would lose their scent. They walked together to the bank.
Richard hesitated.
“It's quite wide.” He looked down at the silvery, whispering water where it coiled between the banks, making a sound like whispers as it ran.
“It's easy, though,” Arabella countered. She lifted the trailing under-shift and stepped into the water. Richard, not to be outplayed, followed her in. Together, they emerged on the other side. Arabella gritted her teeth to stop them chattering. The brook was icy and the night, though a summer one, was cold.
“I...just think...we should stop somewhere, soon.” She forced the words out through teeth that chattered. Richard frowned with concern.
“Here,” he said. He was wearing a plaid – part of the rather unconvincing musician disguise – and now he removed it and draped it round her shoulders.
“Thanks,” Arabella muttered, feeling warmth seep into her as she pulled its rough-spun comfort round her torso. It seemed to help instantly.
Together, they walked on through the woods.
“Woodsmen,” she said.
“What?” Richard asked, bending down to listen closer.
“Woodsmen,” Arabella said loudly.
“Where?”
She sighed, cheek lifting in a pallid smile. “Nowhere yet,” she murmured. “That's the point. We need some.”
“Won't they detain us?” Richard asked, frowning. He looked down at them and Arabella took in at a glance what he meant – with his soiled kilt on, his shirt torn at the sleeve and clearly too small for his powerfully built body, and she in her stained silk shift, they could have been a painting of runaways.
“Well, no,” she said, smiling. “They like me.”
“Milady!” he breathed, horrified. “You can't risk your true identity.”
“I can – they knew me from when I was a child,” she insisted, knowing it to be true. “They like me, my brother and sister. Not our father – not so much.”
Richard raised a brow and she nodded.
“My mother was the lady of this place. She married an outsider and they have long memories here. Besides,” she added, grinning, “we played here with their children, too. They like us.”
Richard shrugged uneasily. “If you say so.”
“I do. Now come. Let's go and find them.”
Richard followed her, though Arabella could tell he didn't like it. He was hanging back, his steps slowing as they neared a path. In the dark, it was impossible to tell where to go. Though she'd known this forest all her life, Arabella wasn't sure of the direction. She knew it must be somewhere ahead, the woodsmen's cottages, but as to where she wasn't sure.
“Breathe,” she said.
“Milady?”
“I said, take a good breath in. Smell smoke. If you do, we're close.”
She did what she'd suggested and heard Richard do likewise. Together, sniffing theatrically, they walked on down the path. Arabella laughed.
“Richard, you're making me laugh. You'll inhale half the forest, like as not. Hush, now.”
She saw him grin. “I will not!” he said, smilingly. “I would need a snout on me like a truffle-pig to get even halfway close.”
“A truffle-pig!” They were both laughing helplessly, which was why, presumably, the man on the path heard them coming. Arabella jumped as he spoke out harshly.
“Who's that?”
“It's the lady Arabella,” Arabella said with complete authority. “And I need your assistance.”
Her voice fell into absolute silence. Beside her, she felt Richard tense.
Together, they watched as the man – tall, with a wild mass of curly hair and a vast chest – squint mistrustfully down at her. She swallowed hard as his eyes narrowed and he seemed to be thinking hard.
Maybe this was a stupid idea, she thought a little desperately, heart thumping, hair prickling on her scalp as the man studied them both a long while. What was he planning? Would he alert the others? Capture them? Call the guard?
As she glanced at Richard, planning to run, he cleared his throat.
“Milady!” the fellow said, astounded. “It is you! Bless me! What are you doing in that dress? Come on! Get on with you! Let's get out of this cold.”
As he marched ahead, muttering about crazy youths and what they got up to, Arabella took Richard's hand. Together they followed the man into the darkness. They walked to his house.
“Och, milady! Get yerself by the fire now!” the man demanded as soon as they were inside. Arabella grinned at his peremptory speech and then grinned more widely at Richard's astonished expression.
“He knew me as a babe,” she said to Richard, who sighed.
“I suppose that authorizes him to boss you about,” he said in English. “Myself, I'd box his ears for him.”
“Richard! He's helping us.”
He nodded. “I know. All the same, it chafes at me to hear him talk so to you.”
Arabella smiled as he sat down beside her and together they held their hands to the blaze. She couldn't help the sweet warmth in her heart as she noticed how protective he was. She leaned back a little, conscious of the warmth of his body behind her. The heat flooded into her hands and she felt herself relax even as she heard Richard lean on the stone mantel, turning to face her.
“You look beautiful,” he whispered.
She turned and grinned at him, feeling a flush warm her face with sweet excitement. “Och, you,” she said dismissively, though she couldn't keep the soft note from her voice. “In this?”
She swept a hand down her body, indicating the tattered remnants of her under-dress, the rough linen apron still girded over the front, vaguely odorous of whatever it was that permeated the tannery.
He reached over and, carefully and deliberately, tucked a stray hair behind her ear. Her body flooded with warmth. His eyes held hers and a sort of melting longing spread up through her being and made her want something she didn't quite understand.
“Arabella,” he said.
She swallowed hard. The longing inside her became slowly stronger and she felt it grow to flood her body. She smiled and lowered her eyes.
“Richard.”
His hand, on the hearth rug, slipped over hers. She let hers lie there, her heart beating so loud she was sure he'd hear it as his fingers stroked her own. Her whole body shivered as he touched her skin, stroking it g
ently and firmly in a way that thrummed through her. She sighed and made herself open her eyes as she heard someone cross the earthen floor behind them.
“So. Milady, milord,” he added, bowing to Richard as though he'd only just seen him. “It's time for me to go abed. Up with the lark.”
“Yes, Dougal,” Arabella nodded, recalling the old woodsman's name.
“Aye! Thank you, milady,” he added, though she'd done nothing. “Goodnight milady.”
She heard him walk across the floor, his heavy, dragging footsteps first quieting and then disappearing.
Arabella looked at Richard, her heart thumping hard. They were alone together.
Arabella breathed out as his fingers closed on her own. He lifted her hand. Clasped it in his. Very gently, he lifted it to his lips.
She stopped breathing as his lips nibbled at her knuckles, so gentle on her skin. She closed her eyes and he turned her hand over, kissing the palm, then the wrist. It felt as if flames flickered down her body, intense and warm, consuming her, as he kissed down to the tops of her fingers.
“Richard,” she whispered. “Please, don't.”
He let go of her hand. His eyes were haunted. He looked at her with a mix of intensity and pain.
“Forgive me,” he whispered.
“No,” Arabella said, feeling the slow heat start to grow inside her again.
He frowned. “No?” he asked.
“No,” she made herself say, though her lips were tense as if they did not want to let the words go through. “There's nothing to forgive.”
He sighed and leaned forward, all the tension going out of him. He closed his eyes, his one hand clasped on the cornice of the fireplace, his head pressed onto it.
“My lady,” he said raggedly. “I am...I should not. With you here, beside me, it's difficult not to...” He stopped. His eyes met hers. Wild and passionate, they held an intensity that she felt, though she could not put it into words.
“Oh, sir,” she whispered. “It is difficult.”
He smiled at her and gently reached out to touch her chin. She sighed and shivered as his touch brushed her neck, stroking the sensitive skin under her chin. She closed her eyes and it was natural, after all, to lean forward just a little so that his hand rested on her shoulder and then, without their planning it, he drew her into an embrace.
The Highlander’s Trust_Blood of Duncliffe Series_A Medieval Scottish Romance Story Page 11
