by Eliza Knight
Fear?
He hoped not.
She’d had a tough go of it on her first day. He would ensure the rest of her time at Castle of Park was enjoyable, even if it meant wresting her from his aunt’s care.
The music came then, a lively beat which pulsed around them and left even the most stoic of men tapping their feet.
Within seconds, the frail smile on Senara’s lips broadened into a wide grin. It was like seeing the sun break through the darkness of a stormy day and left him wanting to turn his face to the warmth of her joy.
Though her steps were unlike those at Castle of Park, she danced with the unfettered confidence of one who cared not what others thought of her.
It was beautiful to watch her. Lovely and graceful and so wholly natural, it made his heart ache for such freedom from the crush of societal constraints.
When at last their dance was done, she laughed and gave him a low curtsey. “Thank ye, laird.” In a soft tone meant only for him, she added, “For everything.”
It was with great reluctance he released her hand and allowed her to slip away to the attention of others. His clan had offered her ready acceptance with the hospitality only the Highlands could truly demonstrate.
He knew he needed to share her with them, even when he did not wish to.
It was not until much later, when the dancing had stopped and the people were all trudging home, that he realized he’d not once allowed himself to be weighed down by the burden of his marital predicament. Not when he’d spent the night discreetly noting Senara’s presence – her laughter, her smiles, her grace.
Aye, it was a hard thing, indeed, to think of a potential wife when all his thoughts kept straying back to Senara.
*
Happy exhaustion left Senara’s legs particularly heavy and tired. She’d danced perhaps one too many times, but wouldn’t take it back for anything.
She climbed the steps to her small room with the tease of a smile still clinging to her lips. Sweat from her efforts had dried on her brow, leaving her skin feeling gritty and tight. She relished the idea of passing a cool cloth over her entire body and then falling into the cradling softness of her bed.
The candle she held cast a flickering golden sphere of light around her until finally her door came into view. She pushed it open and stepped into her small space.
Her very own small space for only her with the simple bag she’d brought from home, as yet still unpacked, the neatly made bed, and the table. Something shadowed on top of the small table.
She walked closer and her heart caught in her chest.
Freshly cut heather. In a real vase. Not a clay pot or a chipped cup, but a true glass vessel with a bonny twist at its base.
A soft laugh escaped her before she could clap a hand over her mouth. It was all so wonderful. A dream come true.
Life in a beautiful castle with a kind laird and even a room with a bunch of heather to greet her in the morning.
She knew immediately she must thank him for all he’d done.
If she hurried, Gavin might still be in his solar. She quickly wiped herself clean and dressed in a clean, albeit somewhat wrinkled, gown.
Perhaps it was not especially appropriate for her to speak to him privately in the dead of night. The idea did niggle at the back of her thoughts. But then, she was merely a servant and did not have to worry after her virtue as highborn ladies must. It was quite a liberating thought and only served to further steel her eager resolve.
She pushed open the door with a decisive shove and headed down to Gavin’s private solar.
Chapter Four
Though disappointing, Senara determined it was most likely for the best Gavin had not been in his solar.
After all, girls ought not to wander the halls at night in search of single men. And it wasn’t as though he thought anything special of her as a mere servant.
Position and wealth might mean little to Senara, but it meant everything to Gavin. And she had nothing of either.
Still, Senara could not help the squeeze of disappointment deep in her chest as she made her way back toward the stairs. The air was prickly cold and left the hairs on her arms standing on end.
A cry sounded in the distance, a wisp of an anguished scream as if carried on a hearty wind. Though far off, the noise scrabbled over her nerves.
No, not so far away. Below.
Senara looked to where the stairs disappeared into a dark nothing. Anything could be in that nothing.
Her courage flagged for but a moment. Da would not be frightened of a noise. She may have left his sword upstairs, but she was never without his bravery. Or her dirk for that matter.
With the power of being her father’s daughter, she crept down the stairs with her dirk locked in her grip. On the first floor, the air was cold enough to nip at her nose and leave the bottoms of her feet chilled through the thick-soled slippers she wore.
The wailing cry came once more, louder though still distant, muffled almost. She followed the sound down the hall to where she’d been before where the cold stone had hummed against her palm.
The candle flame sputtered and set the narrow hallway bouncing wildly around her, but it did not go out.
Her breath fogged in front of her and hovered in a hazy white cloud. She stared at the frozen breath in wonder. While summer was not always warm, it seldom was ever so cool as to cause such a chill – especially indoors.
A grinding sound filled the quiet and mortar sifted down from the strange stone. Senara’s breath came faster and filled the air with white puffs.
Something was in there.
Holding her dirk in front of her with one hand, she carefully set the candle to the ground and approached the stone. Her heart was racing so fast, the point of her dirk trembled.
Be brave like Da.
She drew a deep breath and put her hand to the stone.
A howl of agony screamed around her, roaring in all directions at once. She jumped and tried to jerk her hand back, only to find her fingers were locked on the narrow lip of stone. Not stuck between the stones, but somehow adhered to the stone.
Be brave like Da.
The cries pitched into a continual wail that made her head ache as though it would split. She pulled hard at where her hand clamped the sharp edges of stone.
It gave the slightest bit.
She set the dirk aside, planted one foot against the stone wall, and pulled back with all her might using both hands.
Being brave was far easier when one faced potential victory.
The rock slid a bit more. With a great cry, she yanked hard and wrenched it free. The stone released from her fingertips and dropped to the ground with a clacking thunk. Everything went as still as her breath, which still hung in the frozen air.
A shiver of apprehension shot up her spine with such suddenness, she had only time to regret the loss of her blade before a gust of wind rushed from the gap in the wall. It blew with enough force to make her hair feel as though it were being yanked from her scalp. It was cold enough to burn.
The breath sucked from her chest.
Thoughts poured through her mind, memories that were not hers, and she was powerless to stop their onslaught.
Hope, eagerness, and brilliant warmth. Senara was filled with them all at once in a dizzying swirl until she realized she stood outside under a wide blue sky with the velvety softness of lush grass against her bare feet.
Nearby, there was a humble stone priory with an aged monk speaking to a young man with dark hair.
The old man smiled down at the lad, his eyes crinkling with genuine kindness. He pressed into the lad’s hands a bundle of plain brown cloth and a simple chain affixed to a wooden cross.
“For yer temporary vows, Balthasar.”
The name pulled her from the reverie before another sucked her back.
Fear prickled with excitement and so much mixed in between. Castle of Park rose before her, very similar to how she knew it.
The youn
g man was older now, his face leaner.
Balthasar.
The odor of sickness hung heavy in the air, but he did not appear afraid – only determined as he trudged toward the castle. Each footfall kicked out the hem of his coarse brown robes she saw him receive and set the cross hanging from the chain at his waist bobbing and twisting.
He turned then, and his gaze fell on a woman with dark eyes and dark hair. Her clothes were fine, like that of a lady, but her blatant interest was as bold as any tavern slut. The young man bowed his head forward and continued away. He did not see the woman stare after him, nor the coy smirk lifting at her lips.
Senara was sinking into the memories too fast, drowning in them. She rasped in a ragged breath of air so icy it pulled her away before plunging her in once more.
Everything was so alive! The air hummed and snapped and crackled with vitality. With Want.
With Sin.
Balthasar held the dark-haired woman in his arms. He shook his head but left his heavily-lidded eyes fixed on her. “Nay.”
“Ye dinna love me?” The woman pouted.
He straightened. “Ye know I do.”
The woman pushed her finger to his lips before dragging her nail down his chest to where the simple chain belted at his waist.
And pulled.
Senara wanted to look away but could no more do so than she could leave.
The woman parted Balthasar’s robes, and the chain fell from his waist into a pile of linked metal with the cross buried beneath.
Senara rebelled against the overwhelming emotions, managing to pull away for only a moment before one last vision gripped her and locked her in its unyielding hold.
Her heart was beating too hard, too fast, as though it were a runaway horse ready to gallop out of her chest.
The clink of shackles pulled her attention to where Balthasar was chained to the wall. Several men stood by. She could tell they were soldiers by the way they held their hands over the hilts of their swords.
The dark-haired woman was there with a man much older than she. They were staring at Balthasar.
The woman started to weep and buried her face in her hands. The chain was looped between her fingers, the cross swinging in mockery. “It was rape.”
Balthasar’s eyes flashed with palpable hurt. “It isna true. Ye said—”
“Ye’re ruined.” The old man’s upper lip pulled back from his teeth. “Worthless to ever marry off.”
The old man rushed toward Balthasar with suddenness and landed a blow on his jaw so hard, the wall spattered with blood. Balthasar blinked away the tears showing bright in his gray eyes and shook his head to clear it.
The old man cradled his hand. “Wall it up.” He nodded to a man who stood by with a bucket of gray sludge.
The craftsman dropped to his knees and the room filled with the gritty scrape of a trowel to stone, over and over and over until a wall appeared in front of Balthasar.
The craftsman kept his eyes downcast, as if he did not want to see what it was he did. He worked with sweat beading his brow, his actions fast and sloppy as if he had the devil whipping at his back. And perhaps he did.
Balthasar did not fight, nor did he cry or yell. His head bowed forward in resignation, bleeding, broken and forsaken.
One final stone remained when a soft cry escaped behind the wall.
The dark-haired beauty stared into the remaining hole with cold black eyes and turned away as the last stone was fitted into place.
Senara staggered backward against the force of a lifetime experienced in only a matter of moments. Or perhaps hours?
She had no idea.
The world was still dark. Too dark. Black.
The way Balthasar’s world must have been when the final stone was placed.
Her heart went wild with panic and her hands stretched out in front of her. And kept stretching.
She was not behind a wall. It must have been the candle, either snuffed or having burned out at some point.
Her throat ached and the darkness around her was so thick and black, it felt as if it were pressing into her eyes.
She put a hand to her chest and found her heart still racing.
A man appeared suddenly, his body cast in a milky light. He wore the plain brown robes of a monk. His thick dark hair was mussed and he looked as if he had not shaved in several days. But it was his eyes which turned all the blood in her veins to ice. White-gray and so deeply cold, they appeared to glow. He stared at her, unblinking and fiercely intense.
Her heartbeat stuttered in her chest. “Balthasar.”
He lowered his head in a nod and his form began to fade until only his eyes were left, chilly gray and staring.
Then it was dark and strong arms clamped hard around her.
*
Gavin had meant to calm Senara.
But her screams only intensified when he caught her in his arms. A sharp elbow jabbed into him and his hold loosened on her. She quickly darted to the other side of the hall and came up with a dirk pointed in his direction, her body crouched low and tense for a fight.
Her eyes were wide and wilder than he’d ever seen. They caught his gaze and widened further still.
“Gavin?” she gasped his name. The dirk fell from her hands and landed with a clang on the flagstones.
Even in the yellow-orange glow of the candlelight, her face was white, her expression stricken.
“Senara, what happened?” The hall was warm and the air thick with a suffocating stuffiness. Her candle stood upright on the ground, the wick black from where the flame had been snuffed.
“Did ye see him?” she asked and pointed behind her to where a stone was missing from the wall.
Gavin shook his head. “There’s no one there.”
“No’ now, but there was.” She kept her hand raised and pointing toward the spot in the wall. Her finger trembled.
The missing stone lay on the ground amidst a sifted white powder. Most likely the mortar from the stone.
Gavin reached for her and folded his hand over hers. Her flesh was so icy cold, he almost jerked back in surprise. “Senara.” Perhaps he’d said her name too harshly, but an urgency prodded at him, demanding something was not right.
She looked up at him. Her pupils were pinpricks of black in the sea glass green of her large eyes.
“Who did ye see?” He worked his fingers over her hand in an effort to warm her. She winced, and he realized her fingertips were all scraped raw. Clearly, it was she who had taken the stone from the wall.
She was silent for a long moment, watching him warm her small hands. She drew in a long, deep breath and blew it out. “It must have been a play of the shadows.”
He looked into her face and her gaze slid away. She was lying.
At least her pupils were of a normal size once more.
“Did ye pull the stone from the wall?” he asked.
Her stare swept to the ground. She pursed her lips and nodded. “Forgive me, laird. I’ll pay for its repair with my wages.”
Her hands were warm now, yet Gavin still held them in his own. Her skin was so silky soft, save for the little balls of calluses where she’d obviously been doing sword work. The idea of her training on a small farm somewhere lifted his lips in a smile. “If ye give all yer money away, ye’ll no’ ever afford Geordie a knighthood.”
“But I shouldna have—”
“I believe ye had yer reasons.” He released her hand and found his fingers reaching for her face before he could stop himself. “Though I hope one day ye’ll trust me enough to tell me what’s happened here.”
If her hands were silk, then her face was gossamer – flawlessly smooth and warm beneath his palm. He curled his fingers around the delicate line of her jaw and she tilted her gaze toward him. Her green stare was so deep and fathomless that he could imagine himself lost in them.
“I’d left my room to find ye.” She spoke softly, as if she didn’t want to offer this confession and hoped he wouldn’t hear
her.
“Ye’ve found me.” There was an implication in his tone he hadn’t meant. Or rather, hadn’t intentionally meant.
Where Senara’s cheeks had once been devoid of color, they were now brilliant with it – rosy and warm with the bonniest of blushes. She flicked her tongue over her lips, wetting them so they shone like temptation in the candlelight.
Gavin had prided himself on never taking advantage of his position with his staff. Never once had he allowed himself to sample the women in his employ.
Since having met her earlier that day, all he could think of was Senara. The way she smelled like sunshine, the way she laughed and smiled as if she held enough joy for all the world, the way she moved through life without the burden of others’ opinions to drag her backward. His mind ached for more of her conversation and his body burned with a throbbing lust.
And now she was beneath his fingertips, all smooth temptation, and gazing up at him as if he were the only man in all of existence.
“I wanted to thank ye.” Her sweet, warm breath whispered over his lips when she spoke.
God, how he longed to press his mouth to the fullness of hers. He near groaned with the desire to do so.
“For the heather,” she said.
Heather?
She must have caught his pause of momentary confusion, for she gave him a smile, which could have felled a weaker man. “The vase of heather. It’s lovely.”
Her hand went to the expanse of his chest, small and hot and so damn inviting. “Thank ye.” She rose higher and pressed her mouth to his.
It was an innocent’s kiss, close-lipped and over far too quickly, but it was the most beautiful kiss he’d ever received. She did this not once, but twice and then lowered herself and stepped back from him, her fingers to her lips.
“Forgive me. I forget ye’re the laird.” Her brows flinched and the confidence she wore with such ease wavered for the first time since they’d met. “No’ that ye dinna seem to be a laird, only I find ye…that is…ye dinna act as if ye’re better…” She stopped and shook her head with a self-chiding, mirthless smile. “Forgive me.”
She snapped up her candle and darted off into the dark.
