By God's Grace

by Felicia Rogers

  “Arbella was alone when we arrived on the farm. According to the lass, Jonas and Martha became ill some time back and perished.”

  “Ye are telling me the lass was alone on the farm. How did she survive?”

  “The garden was tilled, and there was a good amount of salted meat in the smokehouse.”

  “Are ye saying she not only lived there alone, but she was running the farm as well?”

  “Well not the whole farm, mind ye, but at least enough for one person to live on.”

  Duncan mumbled. “So ye are saying little Arbella lost all her family, and ye brought her here to compete in the games so she could marry me?”

  “Aye, this is what I am telling ye, and at this moment ye have yer future bride in the dungeon.”

  Duncan stuttered as he left, “What have I done?”

  ****

  Arbella shared her story with Tamara. When finished, Tamara said, “All ye loss, and ye don’t seem to be that sad.”

  “Aye, I am sad and a little lonely as well, but it doesn’t change things now, does it? Each day God gives us should be lived to the fullest.”

  The maid leaned over, giving a conspiratorial wink. “Aye, I agree with ye, my lady. Begging yer pardon, but it will be mighty nice to have a kind mistress about.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t aware there was a current mistress of the keep.”

  “Aye, she won’t be the mistress once ye marry the new laird. And I can say I’ll be glad of it.”

  “Tamara, tell me about the current mistress.”

  Before the young maid spoke, she looked this way and that. Arbella assumed the girl was assuring herself they were alone. In hushed tones she said, “Well, mistress Lyall, that’s her name ye know. It means wolf, and she is as mean as one, I tell ye. I believe she eats children for breakfast and spits out their bones. Some in the keep believe she uses their souls for her sorcery.”

  Arbella’s lips twitched, making a hesitant smile. “Surely it is not all that bad.”

  Tamara’s eyes widened, as if pleading for understanding. “My lady, whether ye believe me or not, ye must stay away from her.”

  “Is this Duncan’s sister-in-law?” asked Arbella.

  “Aye, she was Cainneach’s wife. Although rumor has it the marriage was in name only.”

  Arbella patted Tamara’s hand. “I don’t see any way I can stay away from her. We will be family. I need to try to make her feel welcome, even though I will be the new mistress.”

  Tamara appeared distressed. Wringing her hands, she got down on her knees and stared into her eyes, imploring her to listen. “My lady, I can tell ye have a kind and gentle heart, but not everyone is like ye. Mistress Lyall is ruthless, and she isn’t happy Duncan refused her. Trust me when I say she won’t be happy with ye marryin’ him.”

  “Duncan’s sister-in-law wanted to marry him?” Arbella asked, as she struggled to maintain her rapid pulse. Tales and rumors of Cainneach’s wife’s great beauty had circulated the entire area. How was she to compete? Pacing back and forth across the confining room, she worried her nails.

  Tamara twisted to face her. “My lady, did ye hear me when I said he refused her?”

  “Aye, I heard you, but maybe Duncan didn’t comprehend the offer. Maybe he regrets turning Lyall down now that I am his choice for bride. Maybe this is why I remain in the dungeon.”

  The small maid followed her pace. “Nay, my lady, the laird understood perfectly well what Lyall was after. In fact, every time the mistress tries to get near him, Duncan retreats.”

  Arbella stopped. Pondering aloud, she asked, “Why would he do such a thing? I have heard she is very beautiful.”

  “Aye, men have said she has physical beauty a plenty, but they also say when they look into her eyes, they see the Fires of Hell burning.”

  “Tamara, you must stop listening to these rumors. I’ve never heard such tales. Fires of Hell, indeed.”

  Tamara’s lips moved when a rattle was heard outside the door. Keys clacked and knocked, the door squeaked open, and there he stood. The object of her dreams.

  Chapter Eleven

  Duncan sent the guard away and stood outside the cell door listening as Tamara warned Arbella about Lyall. It was a pleasant surprise to find the servants noticed his lack of interest toward his sister-in-law. When Arbella expressed doubts about her own beauty, he was a little shocked.

  The door now open, he stared at her. The gown she wore was several sizes too small, emphasizing a waist so tiny he could grasp it in entirety. Roving his gaze over her frame, his breath caught as Arbella slumped. His hand reached forward, but he was too late. Quicker in reflexes, Tamara slid under Arbella in time to keep her head from slapping the cold stone floor.

  “My laird, I believe the lady has swooned.”

  Sighing, Duncan said, “I believe ye are correct.”

  Tamara was pinned under skirts and Arbella’s slight weight. Duncan walked toward them and hoisted Arbella into his arms like a rag doll. It was like carrying a feather. Why, one swift wind could carry the young lady away forever.

  Cradling Arbella to him, his gaze roamed the length of her. The changes since last they met were beyond measure. Long, black lashes lay against pale, white cheeks. Freckles lay scattered across a delicately designed nose. Long, dark brown hair cascaded over his arm.

  Her pale countenance sent his legs into double time. When his quarters were reached, he laid her upon the large feather bed. The lass sprawled — legs askew, arms flung wide. Straightening her into a more suitable position, Duncan left in search of nourishment. Tamara helped Arbella out of the tight-fitting gown and found a shift for her to wear, then once again settled her in the bed.

  When Duncan arrived, he said, “Tamara, ye can leave, and I will watch the lass.”

  Tamara hesitated before responding, “But my laird, it wouldn’t be proper.”

  Rubbing his stubbled jaw, he replied, “Ye are correct. Ye may stay for now.”

  On the Sinclair plaid, she stretched out beside the big four-poster bed. The floor wasn’t overly comfortable, but exhaustion caused her to fall asleep.

  Duncan settled into a leather chair and stretched out his legs. It was going to be a long night. A glance at the pale figure lying in the bed made him wonder what he was thinking. The lass participated all day at the competition, then he had thrown her in the dungeon. Consumed by worry and fear, she may have neglected to eat or drink. Why had these thoughts not entered his mind earlier? Had he turned heartless?

  Bent over holding his head, the sound of movement caught his ears. Arbella was stirring. Rising, he rushed to her side.

  “Thirsty,” she croaked.

  Duncan grabbed a cup of watered-down ale, dribbling a couple of drops on her parched lips.

  “Thank you,” Arbella whispered.

  “Ye are welcome.”

  “I’m hungry.”

  “Wait a moment, and I can get ye some broth.”

  “Nay, I want biscuits and eggs.”

  “Biscuits and eggs?”

  “Aye, biscuits and eggs.”

  Leaning in and crossing his arms, his lips twisted upward. The renewed spirit of the lass made his heart feel lighter. “And who do ye think is going to prepare this feast of biscuits and eggs?”

  “I will.” Arbella went to stand, but as her feet hit the floor, her knees buckled. Duncan grabbed her upper arms. Her brown eyes met his. “Or not,” she said, crawling back into bed.

  The lass shifted and wiggled. He grabbed the coverlet and pulled it up to her neck, tucking it around her. Stepping toward the door, he was halted when she asked, “Where are you going?”

  “To get ye biscuits and eggs.”

  “Are you going to cook it?”

  Guffawing, he shook his head. “Nay, of course not.”

  “So you will wake the cook then?”

  “Aye.”

  “I’ll drink the broth.”

  “Nay, the cook will be glad to feed ye.”

  “Nay,
please let the cook sleep. I can eat the broth. You shouldn’t bite the hand that feeds you.”

  Duncan shrugged and headed to the fireplace. He filled a bowl full of broth, retrieved a spoon, and sat beside the bed. The hot broth in the spoon, he started toward Arbella’s mouth.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Feeding ye.”

  Sitting straight, the coverlet fell to her waist. The large, thin shift hung from her frame, exposing a creamy white shoulder.

  “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

  “Well, I do. Now lay back, cover up, and let me feed ye.”

  Settling back against the pillows, she pulled the covers up to her neck. “Are we alone?”

  “Nay.”

  “Who is with us?”

  “Tamara is asleep beside ye.”

  “Oh, because being alone with you would be, hmm…”

  “Scandalous?”

  “Aye, scandalous. But I have this feeling you enjoy being scandalous.”

  He emitted a low chuckle. She closed her eyes, mouth opening to accept the broth when the spoon was near.

  In between bites, Arbella talked. “Do you remember the last time you saw me?”

  Duncan squirmed. In all honesty, the last time he saw her had been going through his head for most of the day. His silence on the matter must have led her to believe he didn’t remember.

  A deep sigh escaped her lips as she continued. “I guess not. I’m afraid I’m just not that memorable. But I remember it like it was yesterday. I was the tall, gangly, freckle-faced girl sitting on the sacks full of grain watching you. You were shirtless, and the sweat was glistening on your body in the sunlight. You were carrying sack after sack of grain and loading it on a wagon. You had just gotten into a good rhythm when a tall fair-haired woman sauntered out of the woods. She came up behind you, wrapped her arms around your middle, and snuggled against your back. Then she turned you around toward her face and gave you a most thorough kiss. She backed away and crooked her finger, as if she was urging you to follow. You just shook your head and went back to work.”

  If Arbella had not kept opening her mouth for broth, he would have thought she was talking in her sleep, so still was her body.

  After swallowing another spoonful she continued, “There were four more girls that day who did the same thing. I used to dream I was one of those girls until I realized you never left with any of them. Your labor was more important than what those girls offered you.”

  The last words came out in a whisper. Her eyes opened and connected with his. “Why didn’t you leave with them?”

  Duncan knew exactly why he hadn’t left with any of those ladies, but now was not the time to tell. With face downcast, he answered, “I don’t know for sure.”

  Almost as if talking to herself, she added, “I always wondered that. The last was more beautiful than the first, but you turned them all down.” Opening her eyes and looking at him in a serious manner she asked, “Duncan, what do you want in a wife?”

  Duncan was floored by the switch in topics. Recovering, he answered, “Well, quite honestly, I have never thought about it until recently. When my father passed away about five years after your last visit, and my brother became laird, he gave me permission to leave and do my own living. I have spent quite a few years just being selfish, and I have never worried about my wife because I never planned on marryin’.”

  Another spoonful of broth was given, then he added, “And what would ye be looking for in a husband?”

  Wiggling down and settling herself, her mouth continued to open at regular intervals. She took so long Duncan feared he might not receive an answer. When she did speak, he was surprised.

  “For one thing, my husband will appreciate my vast talents.”

  The seriousness of her tone, begged Duncan to poke fun. “Vast talents, ye say. Do ye mind sharing some of them with a curious friend?”

  “I believe you’ve witnessed most of them.”

  “Hmmm, yer beauty is a vast talent indeed,” he mumbled under his breath.

  Arbella blushed but gave no other indication his statement had been heard. With earnestness she continued, “I have vast talents. I can run quickly and jump far. As you saw at the tournament, I am a decent horsewoman, and I believe I could wield a sword if need be. I can till a garden and keep a house.”

  “All those talents, as ye call them, are all right if a man is looking for a warrior or a servant. Why, I bet ye even chop wood.” He watched the blush creep up her neck when he made light of her abilities then added, “But a man looking for a woman as a wife is looking for other talents.”

  She whispered in a hurt tone, “I can sing.”

  “Aye, I am sure ye have a beautiful voice.”

  Her eyes opened and tears slipped down her cheeks. “Do you really believe I would make a poor wife?”

  Duncan was jesting, but he knew most men wouldn’t be happy she could best them in manly pursuits. He said, “I guess it would all depend on how well ye performed in other areas.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I hate to spell this out for ye in such a blunt manner, but for most men, it all depends on how ye are in the marriage bed.” He frowned. Now why had he said that? He was sure Sarra would have disapproved.

  Arbella sat straight, the covers slipping. She leaned forward. Duncan’s gaze was drawn to the sight before him like a moth to the flame. He averted his eyes.

  “And how do you think it would be?” she asked, shyly.

  Blood pumped in his ears. He didn’t think he could answer. What he wanted to do was sling her across the bed, throw her clothes aside, and test his theory that she would be as good at lovemaking as she was at everything else. But he must control these thoughts, or they would only cause him trouble.

  His eyes closed as his mind betrayed him. All he could think about was Arbella’s beauty. Desire to kiss her caused his palms to sweat and blood to rush through his veins. There were muffled sounds of movement. He heard the sound of sliding sheets and covers being thrown back. The feel of a silken calf coming into contact with his hairy one meant Arbella had thrown her legs off the side and placed them near his own. The linen tunic he wore was parted, and a smooth, cool hand was spread wide across his exposed chest, resting against his fluttering heart.

  His tongue darted out and licked his dry lips. She leaned toward him, their lips brushing across one another. The touch was light and brief, causing Duncan to question if it was real. With his eyes still closed, he stayed silent. Then just as suddenly as the warmth had been felt, it dissipated. His eyelids fluttered open. Arbella was gone.

  Arbella lay on her side with her back facing him. Breath was rhythmic like she’d slept for hours. Had it all been a dream? Had he conjured up a fantasy? Was he so desperate he’d reached the point of having fantasies about sleeping lasses?

  Rising from the seat and resting the remaining broth on a table, he crossed to the window and peeked out. The moon shone. The light bounced into the room, landing on Arbella’s sleeping form. While he’d been turned, she had rolled onto her back, the soft brown curls of her hair flared out around her, enhanced by the glowing of the moon.

  Duncan’s mind mulled over the question Arbella asked about what he wanted in a wife. With suddenness he realized he knew the answer. One final look in her direction, and he tiptoed to the door, leaving to find a place to rest his own head for the night.

  Chapter Twelve

  The next morning Duncan walked to his quarters, weaving a way through the temporary tent housing of the festival participants. Once inside the keep, the stairs were taken two at a time. There was no slowing of movement until the room was reached. Filled with an uncommon jubilation, he knocked. If the lass remained asleep, he held no desire to wake her.

  “Come in,” said Tamara, with a tremor in her voice.

  The first thing he noticed upon entering the room was Tamara straightening an empty bed. His gaze shifted around the room. Perhaps Arbella was
standing in a corner or hiding in the wardrobe. After a few minutes he knew she was nowhere in sight. Trepidation filled his voice, making it gruff. “Tamara, where is she?”

  Intimidated by his brusque manner, the young girl’s voice quivered as she stumbled and tripped, groping for the correct words. “Well, my laird, the lass said she was going home.”

  “Going home!” shouted Duncan, causing Tamara to squirm. Unhappily, he added, “Thank ye,” and strode out the door.

  The need to find Arbella consumed him like a raging fire. Not sure why he wanted to speak with her, he just did. With a finger tapping his head, he pondered what Arbella would consider home. As his mind wondered and considered this question, his feet led him to the Kincade tent. On the right side, Duncan stopped, leaned around the corner, and looked.

  There she sat crossed-legged in front of a small fire. She was covered in a heap of furs. On the fire sizzled eggs and salted meat. Whistling left her lips as she worried the meal. Once done, she retrieved it and disappeared.

  Duncan followed. With a sweeping arm, the flap of the tent was pulled aside. He strode inside and planted his feet. His hands strayed to either side of his hips. Jaw clenched. Eyes set. Authority exuded.

  Arbella had yet to notice him. The lass sat on a pile of cushions in the corner enjoying the cooked breakfast. A study of the tent revealed few luxuries. A changing screen took up most of the room. Made with a wooden frame, it held a design of oriental women with pale skin and delicate fans covering their faces. Just behind the screen one could see a feminine dress hanging next to a kilt and a head covering. In the opposite corner, leaning against one of the supports, was a long sword and a bow. A quiver sat nearby holding a set of arrows.

  One brow rose in question. What kind of woman had this young lady become?

  ****

  Upon awaking, Arbella knew she couldn’t stay under Duncan’s roof, especially not in his rooms. Heat infused her cheeks from the memory of crawling toward him and laying her hand upon his chest. Where had the audacity come from? Mortified by her behavior, she rolled over and feigned sleep. She’d been unable to stay in her position until Duncan’s eyes opened.