“Oh, Sir Camden,” she whispered. “Oh.”
“Rubina,” he said. “My sweet Rubina.”
Around them the garden was so silent that it could, it seemed, have just been them in the entire world, the whole of the castle, the town, the nation all silent, all melted at the edges of the flame of their love.
Afterward, as he stepped away from her, Camden felt like part of him stayed against her, those warm arms holding him close, her head resting at his shoulder.
“My dear,” he murmured. “I will never forget this moment.”
“Nor I, Sir Camden. Nor I.”
As he walked away, looking softly back, he knew that, no matter what happened in the past or in the future, he would cherish this forever.
Beyond the garden, the castle had a life of its own. He could hear the sound of soft voices spilling out of the great hall along with flame-light, painting the flagstones warm ocher-gold. Camden crossed the courtyard and headed to the stables. He needed time alone. Time to think.
Memories of her flooded his mind as he sat down on a low wall. He leaned back against the side of the stable and closed his eyes.
“Whew.”
His body was still throbbing and the thought of her was a torment of sweetness. He would have given so much to be able to slip back into that garden and cover her with kisses, to hold her and feel his body melting into her softness. To unwrap her precious body and enter her so that there was no way to part them.
He sighed, shivering. He pushed the sweet, fevered images from his mind and focused on the present – on what he should do.
She is so far above me, I might as well forget about all of that. But no one can take away what I just experienced.
Camden got heavily to his feet, running a hand through his hair. He was grateful he had taken that chance when he had it. Now, all he could do was stay on at the palace until the good Brother Mathis, sour-faced and grim, had decided he was ready to go. Then he would leave.
Whatever happened now – whether he lived out a life in quiet obscurity in the fortress, or whether he passed on in a maelstrom of battle, he didn't particularly mind. Somewhere in his heart, that moment in the garden, scented with roses, framed in dusk, would endure his whole life long.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MAKING SENSE OF THINGS
MAKING SENSE OF THINGS
The dress was ready.
Rubina let Mrs. McInroy, the seamstress resident at the court, drop it over her head and then step back, exclaiming.
“Oh, my dear lady! It fits like a treat.”
Rubina walked a pace or two back from the mirror on the wall of the small workroom. She stared.
The dress – a rich ocher red – hung down over her soft form. It molded to her breasts, went in at her narrow waist and then out at soft-carved hips. It swept the floor in a long train of velvet behind her. The sleeves were fitted and flared at the ends, lapping over her hands. The neckline was worked about the edges with gold braiding that did, indeed, enhance the fiery redness of her hair.
“It's...remarkable.”
The seamstress blushed. “Oh, it's nothing, milady. The wearer is everything.”
Rubina made a wry face. “It's a fine work,” she countered. “I love it.”
She looked at herself again, not quite believing it was her she could see there. With her long hair loose and curly, her dark red lips a shade lighter than the dress, she did indeed look beautiful. She had no idea she could look like that. Her pale skin and the red fire of her hair met in the color of her blushed face.
“My lady, I couldn't ask for more. Seeing you in that makes a fortnight's work a pleasure.”
Rubina grinned shyly. “Thank you.”
She looked again and then lifted it over her head in a smooth even motion. She handed it to the seamstress shyly. Then she put on her old green gown again.
Downstairs in her bedchamber, she was surprised to find Marguerite already there.
“Rubina! Oh! What does it look like?”
Rubina blushed. “I like it,” she admitted. “What of yours?”
“It's gray,” Marguerite said, “and blue, with a silver kirtle. I think it brings out my eyes but...well...let's show you.”
Rubina smiled and sat down easily as her friend shrugged off the blue gown she wore and lifted the gray over her head. Rubina stared.
“Marguerite! You look beautiful.”
Marguerite's pale skin blushed. “Thank you, Rubina. You think he'll like it?”
“He?” Rubina frowned. She herself had become resigned to the idea that Sir Camden would not be at the ball. Though he was here – Brother Mathis insisted he stayed until that Sunday, and they had met and talked in the courtyard several times – she was resigned to him not attending. He was only a visiting knight, and the ball was one of the most important at the court that season.
“Sir Sean!” Marguerite insisted.
Rubina frowned. “But Marguerite, he...”
“Oh, whist to that,” Marguerite said, the Scots term sounding strangely foreign on her tongue. “He'll come anyhow.”
“He will?” Rubina stared at her. “But how..?”
Marguerite giggled. “Well, no one's guarding the door, are they? And even if they are, with some ale being passed around, the moment the dances start their guard will slip. You mark my words. Getting in's not hard.”
Rubina laughed. “Marguerite! But that's quite risky.”
“I know.” Marguerite smiled a little recklessly, as if the danger of it was half of the fun. Rubina shook her head.
“Please be careful.”
“We will be,” Marguerite insisted.
Rubina felt a flutter of alarm in her chest. What her friend suggested was quite wild. However if her venture succeeded, what then?
“If Sir Sean will attend, then mayhap...” she trailed off, heart flaring bright with hope.
“Then Sir Camden can as well. Of course he can,” Marguerite said brightly. “Leave it to me.”
Rubina shook her head, amazed. She felt like the sun had come out in her world.
Later, after Rubina had tried on her dress, they had a bath drawn up and brought into the room. Rubina, floating on her back, looked up at the ceiling and let the tension drain from her body. She was so excited.
“We are foolish,” Marguerite said warmly.
“Foolish?” Rubina asked.
“Well, yes. Who knows what tomorrow will bring? But then,” she added with a sly smile, “that is what makes it exciting, no? Nothing like some urgency to stir one.”
Rubina laughed, a little shocked. Marguerite had already bathed and was sitting on a chair, her long pale hair wet and brushed out around her shoulders.
She frowned. “Marguerite?”
“Yes?”
“Do you think Mama would be very wild with me if I wed Sir Camden?”
Marguerite chuckled warmly. “Rubina, you know she wouldn't be. Your mama is like mine – she would allow you anyone you chose.”
Rubina nodded, frowning. “All the same,” she said. “I do not wish to misuse that privilege. If Buccleigh were to suffer because of my choice, it would be ungrateful of me.”
Marguerite snorted. “You think Camden would mismanage it?”
Rubina shook her head slowly. “No...”
“Well, nor do I,” Marguerite agreed. “Got a head like granite, he has. So Sean thinks.”
Rubina covered her hand with her mouth, laughing warmly. She was wrapped in a big linen square, warm in the sunshine. The bathwater slapped gently on the side of the wooden tub, giving the scent of rosewater and warmth to the still air.
“And why does Sean say that?”
Marguerite laughed. “When they were lads, or so Sean said, they used to place bets. Sean bet him he'd not climb the brewery roof. Strictly forbidden, of course, that they'd do that. For the baron's son and ward it's unforgivable.”
They giggled. “And?” Rubina frowned. Any story about Camden held her rapt int
erest.
“Well, of course he did it. He fell, too. When he came down, their tutor gave him a sound thrashing for disobedience, but he still didn't give up. The next day he was back again. It took three days, but eventually he reached the top.”
“It seems not much is different,” Rubina smiled. “He's still persistent as a rust-spot on clean linen.”
They both laughed.
“He and Sir Sean were raised together?”
“Mm. His father's ward, was Sean.”
“Almost like us,” Rubina smiled.
“Indeed, sister mine,” Marguerite smiled fondly.
Rubina nodded. “Indeed.”
She leaned back, arms wrapped round herself. She was so happy. In that moment, with the sweet truth of her love for Camden, her friend's warm presence and the drowsy sound of bees in the creeper beyond the window, she could not have been more contented.
“Oh!” Marguerite said suddenly. “I can hear the bells. What hour is it?”
Rubina frowned. “Almost one of the clock.”
Marguerite giggled. “We should make ready – it's time for luncheon.”
Rubina stared at her. “It is!”
Laughing, darting about the room in haste, they helped each other dress and braid their hair. They would be late. They hurried to the great hall and slipped in behind the other courtiers.
“Ah! Daughter,” her father smiled as she came to take her place at the table. “There you are.”
Rubina blushed. “Sorry I'm late, Papa.”
“Not at all, my sweetling,” he murmured.
Rubina noticed that he looked a little strained. She glanced at her mother. In a deep purple gown, her hair rolled back from her high, fine brow, her mother looked as serene as ever. All the same, Rubina, who knew her well, could see the lines of tension about her eyes.
“Mother?” she murmured.
“Yes, dear?”
“Is there news?”
Her mother sighed. “Nothing definite, my dear. The protectors of the realm are summoned to a meeting. That is all I know.”
Rubina's heart thumped. “Will Father..?”
Her mother shook her head. “I am thankful: no. He has elected to stay behind and oversee the defense of the castle, should it be necessary.”
Rubina let out a shuddering sigh. “Thank Heaven. Though...” fear gripped her heart like ice. “Though what of the others...” her words trailed off.
Her mother covered her hand with her own. “It is best not to think about it, my dear. Enjoy the ball. Let the morrow take care of itself.”
Rubina swallowed hard, looking down at her luncheon. She felt like the whole world had suddenly gone cold. She didn't want to eat. Didn't want to think. Yet what could she do? Her horror and her sadness would not change it.
“Yes, Mama.”
Her mother's enchanting blue eyes met her own. “Whist, daughter. In the face of such uncertainty, all we can do is treasure every moment.”
Rubina nodded slowly. That was wisdom. She breathed in, smelling the rich, spicy scent of the stew, the sweet smell of freshly baked bannocks and looked about her at the oak boards of the table, the velvet tunic of the man beside her. The beeswax of the tapers in the lumpy silver sconces. All around her was the murmur of talk around the table, the genteel rise and fall of voices. The sound of trays rattling as the servants carried dishes in and out.
It seemed, suddenly, as if she saw the whole scene like a tapestry: lords and ladies, salvers, servants and silver. A perfect cameo. A world that might shatter at the next drawn breath.
Please, she thought with quiet urgency, please. If it shatters, do not let it break him – for it would break my heart.
She held the thought a long moment. A servant let a dish fall with a clash, startling her out of her reverie. Rubina blinked and the scene changed, the tiny perfect cameo stretching and reforming into the great hall in the full, noisy, present state. She raised a hand and a serving man poured sweet summery cordial into her glass, the fluid dark and gurgling against the pewter of the cup.
Rubina lifted it and drank, the richness of summer fruit overwhelming her senses. It was a talisman against the future doubt. She would do as her mother said and enjoy the moment, live it to its full.
No one could say what would be in the morrow.
CHAPTER TWELVE
TAKING A RISK
TAKING A RISK
“Sean,” Camden whispered urgently. They were in the hallway just beyond the Great Hall. The place was dark with dusky grays and mauve, the light from a distant torch flaring on the mail shirt of a guardsman by the door.
“Whist,” Sean whispered back. “Stop acting suspicious. No one'll know you're not supposed to be here. Be natural.”
Camden sighed. Easy to say, “Be natural”. He felt so far from natural it was unbelievable, what with a borrowed tunic in rich blue, trews that clung to his legs and an elegant doublet of worked velvet completing the ensemble.
“Sean..?”
“What?”
There was no time to articulate what a bad idea this was. They reached the door.
He halted in the face of the guardsman. A sturdy fellow with massive shoulders and a cross face, Camden didn't much fancy the idea of facing him armed. Or unarmed. He drew in a breath and composed some suitable explanation for who they were and why they were trying to sneak into the court's first ball.
It wasn't needed.
“Weapons?” the guard asked. Camden stared at him.
“Beg your pardon?”
The guard looked at him. The inscrutable face shifted, conveying displeasure with a fractional tilt of the eyebrow.
“Your weapons, my lord. No swords, daggers or knives permitted in the hall,” he explained with long-suffering patience.
“Oh! Of course.” Camden quickly unclasped his belt, which supported a long dagger about the length of his forearm. He handed it over somewhat reluctantly. The guard sighed. Looked over his shoulder.
“You too, sir?” he addressed Sean.
“Of course.” Sean had already taken his dagger out of its place and handed it over graciously. He rolled his eyes at Camden.
“What were you hesitating for?” he inquired. “Trying to make sure the man keeps an eye on us?”
“Whist, man,” Camden sighed. “I need to gather my wits.”
He could almost hear Sean thinking some quip about that being difficult when he had none. He let out a long sigh, stood at the edge of the room, uncomfortable in his borrowed clothes. He surveyed the scene.
The royal court of Edinburgh spread out before him. A tapestry of fine velvet and linen, rich colors and the flicker of flame light, the place shimmered with a beautiful excitement. He swallowed hard, feeling a flutter in his belly.
Where was she?
Camden let his eyes roam the hall. He felt nervous and out of place. He had never been to a ball before. His own father rarely entertained. They would have a gathering at the fortress once a year, all dour uncles and quiet aunts, maybe a piper or two to play a reel. This was entirely different.
There were, for a start, so many people in the vast, vaulted expanse that Camden didn't even try to count them. This company was also anything but dour and quiet. Standing on the edge of the room he felt as if he watched a flock of birds. Ladies chatted, men laughed and servants moved through the group with goblets of boiled ale or something stronger. The air smelled of fine delicacies and the sweet, spicy scent of unguents.
His body ached with the need to see Rubina. He looked about the vast, confusing space again. He thought he saw something.
There! The glimpse of dark red hair.
He went toward it then, five paces off, he stopped. Then he stared.
In a long brown dress, the velvet rich and soft, her sweet curves showing to perfection, pale skin offset, there she was. He drank in the impossible loveliness.
As he watched, she turned and looked at him. She had been talking to a tall, lanky courtier. Her eyes drif
ted over Camden, then paused. Came back. Stopped.
He saw her say something to the man she spoke to and then, a moment later, when he moved on, she turned to him.
Her face flushed, her eyes warmed, and she smiled.
“It isn't you!” she grinned. “My eyes lie.”
He bowed extravagantly. Maybe it was the courtly clothes, or maybe just her presence. However, suddenly, he felt every inch the gallant.
“Your eyes see true.”
She giggled. “My lord! I...it's a pleasure to see you here.”
He smiled. “The pleasure is all mine.”
She grinned and suddenly it seemed as if it were just them. The ball melted away. He felt the neck of his tunic grow too tight as he stared at her and he loosened it with a finger, coughing softly.
“My lady,” he said. “I am...you look...remarkable.”
She blushed. “Thank you.”
They looked at each other and it seemed like neither of them could tear their gaze away.
“You look wonderful too,” she said softly. “I must say, I...I've never seen you dressed like this.”
“My lady, you are not alone,” he grinned. “I too am astonished.”
They both chuckled fondly.
“It becomes you,” she said. The sound of her voice was so sweet and warm that his whole body throbbed with a sudden longing.
“I am glad,” he managed to say. Whist, why was his throat so blocked? Again, he tried to loosen the collar of his doublet, making it easier to breathe.
They looked at each other again and he felt himself lean forward, his lips drawn to the sweet dark luscious ones. He tensed, drawing back. His position here as an unwelcome guest was perilous enough without compounding it.
At that moment a violin sounded a sweet, lilting refrain. He raised a brow. Crooked his arm.
“My lady?” he asked gallantly. “Shall we dance?”
Rubina smiled warmly. “Of course, sir.”
Courage Of A Highlander (Lairds of Dunkeld Series) (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story) Page 8
