She saw some sheep move on the hill along from her, and recalled another worry from the morning. I should ask Bet about the farmer.
The matter of the rancid butter bothered her. Why had nothing been delivered since last week? It was odd.
The sudden crack of thunder jerked her head up.
“Storm Surge?” she said nervously to her horse, feeling her suddenly tense.
Her horse snorted, shaking again as if she was bitten by flies. She was restless. Feet stamping, tail flicking. Joanna, looking around, realized why.
The sky was almost black. She could see nothing across the valley, the hill and the castle all swallowed up in mist. If she had not known this hillside, she would have been completely lost.
“Easy,” she said to the horse, patting her neck. They halted and Joanna looked down over the valley, trying to stop herself from panicking.
When the next roar of thunder shattered the silence, Joanna felt her finally lose calm. Storm Surge threw herself back, rearing in alarm then she bolted.
“Stop!” Joanna said loudly. “Calm. Calm down, dear.”
Nothing was going to calm her frantic steed. She had enough, clearly, and bolted for home.
Except she was facing the wrong way.
“No!” Joanna shouted, really alarmed now. They were, she was sure, heading the wrong way. The castle was behind her, surely now?
It was dark, the rain starting. She could not see from here the rocky summit where the castle stood. The valley between was swathed in mist and torrent. She was lost.
“Storm Surge, whoa!”
She was almost crying now, terrified. Her whole body shook with the bone shattering speed of the ride. Her arms ached from trying to stay upright, holding onto the pommel of the saddle with one hand, then with both, the reins wrapped in her left, gripping wildly. Her back hurt.
She was cold, in pain, frightened. Lost.
“Please,” she whispered, though she did not know any more to whom she spoke. “Help us.”
The sky roared at her, the darkness shattered with a sudden burst of fire. Her horse screamed with it, and Joanna let her own voice out in a wordless, horrified cry.
They were heading to the edge.
She knew this ridge, she remembered. She had ridden it once when she was much younger, perhaps ten years ago. She had been with Fergal, the head of their guard. He had told her of the dangers of riding here alone, and in winter.
“You dinnae see the edge, milady, not afore you're too late.”They were heading, at a breakneck speed, towards the cliffs.
Sobbing with panic, soaking, cold, Joanna closed her eyes.
She couldn't do anything to stop. All she could do was hope.
The storm was different. The rain had started, a sheeting, drenching tide that scalded her eyes, freezing her to deep in her bones. The roars had softened, the gap between the lightning and thunder longer now than earlier. It was still hazy, impossible to discern where she was, or where they went.
Her eyes closed again, Joanna listened. Something else had changed. They were on rocky terrain, and she could hear a second set of hoof-beats.
At first, she thought she imagined it, but the more she listened, the more certain she became.
There was someone with them, keeping to their pace.
She wet her lips, cleared her throat. “Hello?”
Her voice must have carried, for she heard someone shout.
“Joanna? Wait!”
“Can't...,” she screamed. Her horse, who had slowed somewhat, was going faster now. She had evidently heard the voices too, and the second hoofs, and spooked again.
“Hold on!”
The voice shouted behind her, and she knew then who it was. Somehow, somewhere, Dougal had arrived. He was here. Behind her. Racing to catch up.
Joanna closed her eyes. Prayed. Gripped with her knees. Tried to lean, to draw on the reins, to grip. To do all the things you were taught to do to slow your mount.
She slowed.
At the same instant, she heard the hoofs alongside theirs. It was Dougal.
“Here!”
He reached across to her. His arms came around her waist, holding her tight. As she screamed, terrified, he drew her from the saddle, hauling her across his knee. Then he grabbed the reins of her horse.
Shouting, he reached out and covered the horse's left eye. She did what horses do when they are suddenly impeded. She turned.
Away from the cliffs.
Dougal halted their horse. Watched as her horse ran a little down the hillside, and then paused. Stopped. Waited.
Joanna lay where she was on his knee. She was panting with terror, her body shuddering with exhaustion and relief and the aftermath of horror.
“You...saved me,” she gasped.
He looked down at her. “You mad fiend,” he almost shouted, shaking her. “How could you do something so wild, so dangerous? You nearly died!”
Joanna looked at him. He had just snatched her from certain death. Now he shouted in her face? Shook her, as if she was a child in the kitchen-patch, stealing shelled peas?
She slithered off his horse and landed on the ground, her sodden boots making a sloshing noise as she made an impact. He scrambled down from his horse, seeming horrified.
“What?”
“What!” she laughed, knowing she sounded hysterical. She didn't care: she was. “I could ask you the same thing! You shout at me, shake me, treat me like a child! Have you no feelings? I would have died!”
“Why do you think I'm angry with you?” he shouted back. “How could you! I almost lost you.”
She stared at him. His breath was heaving in his chest. The storm had died down, the thunder a distant roar. The rain was slowing also. His face was tortured, slick with rain, eyes dark.
Joanna felt something move in her chest. She went to him. Held him close.
He lifted his own arms. Very slowly, tenderly, he folded them around her body. Held her close. His cloak covered them both. He held her tight. He smelled of leather and smoke, of musk and peat and dust. He felt safe.
She looked up at him.
“Thank you.”
He stared at her. “My lady, I...”
He moved and she moved and, as if they had discussed it, their lips met. His lips were hard on hers, wet from the rain, hungry and questing and warm. Her own needs met his and she felt a wild joy break loose inside her.
He stepped back. “Lady Joanna...”
“Joanna,” she said firmly, breath heaving in her chest. “And you are Dougal. I think, now you saved me, we can set aside formality?”
She laughed a little unsteadily, and he laughed with her.
Joanna looked up at him, his head thrown back, rain soaking his face, wetting his hair, plastering his cloak down to his body. She felt wonderful.
“Dougal,” she said softly. “Dougal.”
“Joanna.”
They embraced. Their lips moved over one another's once again. This time, the kiss was soft, slow, and eager, an exploration of one another's bodies.
When they drew apart, Joanna felt as if her heart might break. She wanted him. She longed for him. Without ever having done or felt any of this, she knew her body knew what it wanted.
Who it wanted, now and always.
As if they had agreed it, they reached for one another's hand.
Slowly, shivering, drenched with rain and holding hands, they walked down the ridge.
Heading for home.
CHAPTER EIGHT
SURPRISING REALIZATION
SURPRISING REALIZATION
Joanna felt herself grow faint as they reached the gates. The night was falling then, and it was cold – mercilessly cold. They had Storm Surge with them, though Dougal insisted she ride with him. His warmth behind her was, she was certain, all that was preserving her.
“Cold,” she whispered through teeth clenched tight to stop her voice from wavering. “Cold.”
“I know,” Dougal whispered from be
hind. He sounded scantily better off, his teeth chattering, body shaking behind hers.
“Home?”
“Almost home,” Dougal said gently, arm tightening where he held her round her waist. “Almost home.”
Joanna knew she must sound about ten years old, but her whole body was numb, her mind thinking in slow packages, information fed piece-by-piece to her thoughts. She was starting to drift. By the time they rode in, she was seeing her family – Aunt Alina, the way her mother would laugh with Uncle Brien when they visited, Chrissie, playing the spinet...
“Almost home, dear. One step and then we're indoors. Carefully...”
Joanna felt a hand guiding her. She realized she was walking, Dougal behind her. They were in the entrance.
She felt her knees lock.
“I...I think...”
She collapsed as the last of her strength deserted her. She heard Dougal hiss in consternation, and then he knelt beside her. She knew he was finished, too. Someone would have to help both of them, or they would never reach their chambers, fire, and safety.
As she fell out of consciousness, she felt someone lift her. The guard, she realized hazily. They must be carrying both of them upstairs.
The next time Joanna came conscious again, she was in her bedchamber. She was wrapped in covers, seated before the fire. Someone had put a warming brick on her feet, and she was starting to feel her toes. Her hair was brushed, damp strands drying where the fire reached her. She shivered.
“Dougal...”
“He's well, milady.” A familiar voice said gently. Bet. “Safe and sleeping.”
“Whew.”
Joanna let out a sigh. She shivered. She was under so many covers she did not think she could move, and someone had disrobed her and dressed her in a clean, dry shift, toweling her dry. Even so, she was not certain she would ever be warm.
“Come, now. Take a sip of this. It's warm. It'll warm you up.”
Bet was there – dear woman, so kind and homely. Bet, with a cordial in a stone beaker to press into her hands. Joanna took it, feeling her teeth clink on the rim, shaking intensely as she tried to drink it.
“There, there,” her friend was there, Bet, holding the beaker, helping her to drink. She sighed and breathed out. It was helping.
Her mind slowly cleared. She recalled the ride. The storm. The cliffs.
“Storm Surge?”
“That's the horse, yes? Aye, she's well. Stabled and drying off. Len saw to it.”
“Oh, thank you,” Joanna breathed, weak with relief.
She sat back, the small effort of questions and drinking exhausting her. Let her mind clear.
“The master? Is he well?”
“He's safe. Not much better a state than yerself, mind. He was roaring like a foreman when we brought him up, though,” she chuckled. “Said we should leave him. See to you. Wouldn't take a mite o' anything until he knew you were settled.”
“Oh?” Joanna felt a flush of warmth through her body. She was surprised. She remembered the way he had looked at her. His rage at what he thought of as risk. His laughter.
She let herself slump as the beaker was taken away. She felt her mind fill with memories of him. She didn't want to be awake. She wanted to sleep. To rest, and drift in memories of him.
That night, she dreamed again. Her dreams were troubled, complex. In them, she was in the castle, talking to Dougal. She kept on trying to reach him, to see his face. However, the other face, the younger one, was in the way, covering him. She tried to brush it aside, tried harder. However, then her vision filled with blood and blackness.
She woke stiff and aching. Everything hurt.
She opened her eyes, looking up at the ceiling. It took her a moment to remember where she was. She looked around the room, seeing the fireplace, the chair by the bed. An older woman sat there, half asleep herself.
“Bet,” Joanna moaned.
“Oh, milady! You're awake. Here. Let me help you.”
Joanna nodded, sitting and shuffling to the edge of the bed, feet dangling over.
“Thank you,” she said.
Luckily, the older woman was in the room at the time, or she wasn't sure she could have stood up alone. Everything ached as she got to her feet with Bet supporting her, and she felt as if she had fallen down the hillside, bruised and broken.
“It's the cold, lass,” Bet explained. “Makes the joints ache.”
Joanna groaned, thanked her, and stood so that she could dress her. Brushing her own hair was a special torture, her elbows burning and bruised. Bet helped her and together, much later, they hobbled to the hallway, Joanna bracing herself on her elbow.
“You shouldnae get out of bed,” Bet said firmly. “There's nae a need to. Rest and recover.”
“I have to go, Bet,” Joanna said. She had to go. To see to him.
She paused at the doorway to the solar. She could smell breakfast, and fire and spices. If no one minded, she might drink some mulled ale; maybe try to eat a bannock, if there was one to be had.
She turned, hearing someone drop their knife. He was there.
“Good morning,” Dougal said softly.
“Good morning,” she said, hand on her cheek in surprise. She felt strangely flustered. It was strange to see him here after yesterday.
After we embraced, and kissed, and talked...
“My dear Joanna,” he said. His voice was soft. It felt as intimate as kissing. Joanna flushed hotly.
“Dougal.”
A small part of her had half-hoped he would forget, would dismiss it as a fancy borne of exhaustion, cold, and fever. However, he was no more feverish than she was.
“Are you...you are not unwell?” Joanna asked softly. He looked well – better, if anything, than he had when she saw him the previous day. His skin was not so grayed, his eyes clearer. Well rested.
“I am well,” he said gently. “Yourself?”
“Yes,” she said, feeling the intense gaze of his eyes as it moved over her, like a kiss.
“I hope you are well enough to break your fast?” he asked.
“So do I.”
They laughed.
She took a place opposite him and reached for a slice of bread. There was nothing else, besides a few slices of cured ham, but the bread, at least, was fresh and warm. She bit into it, breathing in the warm scent of fresh baked bread.
She was not sure why, but, despite the pain, all her body seemed born anew. Her nerves tingled and everything was rich, intense and fragrant. It felt as if she had come alive.
“You are well enough to walk about?” he asked.
“Well, I suppose, yes,” Joanna said, looking at the hallway where she had recently been abroad. He laughed.
“Well, I assume you didn't simply appear here in a wisp of smoke so, yes. I admit to the senselessness of my question.”
She laughed. “Well, it wasn't inane, Dougal. Not really. I have no idea if I can walk much more.”
“I know how you feel,” he said softly. “I'm awfully tired.”
She looked into his eyes. Soft, they held her gaze. They asked questions as well, and hers ached to answer.
Yes. I remember. We kissed and it was wonderful. I want to kiss you now.
She was not sure if he knew what she thought, but she saw his eyes narrow slightly and he leaned forward. She leaned forward too. The table was too wide to kiss, but their fingers met. He stroked the back of her hand. She shivered.
“Such soft skin,” he murmured. She shivered again.
“Dougal...”
He stood. She thought she had disturbed him, that he wanted to leave. Her heart tightened but instead of leaving, he came and sat beside her. Looked deep into her eyes. He sighed.
“My dear Joanna,” he said raggedly. “I...” he paused. “On that hilltop. Yesterday. I realized something. I think you know what it is. But I...” he ran a hand down his face. “Oh, for...why is this hard?”
Joanna felt her own heart turn over. She wanted to comfort h
im. However, touching him would lead to kissing him, and kissing him would lead to the longing that grew inside her and would lead her down its own paths of wonder to dangerous, forbidden places. She tensed.
“Joanna,” he said with intensity. “I would...there is so much I want to say.” His voice tensed. “But my father. You understand...”
“Yes,” she said softly. She did understand. She understood perfectly.
She was free to choose. She would choose any she liked. She would choose him. However, he was the son of a duke. He did not have her freedom. He was bound.
She reached his hand and held it. His fingers stroked the back of it, moved round to her palm. Their touch sent needles of fire into her veins, prickling and burning, igniting the well of longing deep inside her.
They kissed.
When they drew apart, his face was tortured.
“I can't do this, Joanna,” he said brokenly. “I want you. But...but I cannot.”
“I know,” she whispered softly. “I know.”
They sat quietly, their hearts returning to their normal rhythm. They could not do as they wished. Though there were no other obstacles, there was ambition. There was, also, at least right now, the problem of a ghost. They had work to do.
CHAPTER NINE
A WAKE AND A VISIT
A WAKE AND A VISIT
The room at the top of the turret was the warmest room in the castle. That at least had not changed, despite the rest of the changes in the castle. It was still a cozy room, the walls thickly covered with tapestries, a fire roaring in the grate. A settee faced the fireplace, a soft linen cover over the carved wood surface. Joanna sank onto the settee.
What a relief.
She felt the coldness in her start to melt, the fire adding its warmth to that of the thick woolen gown she wore. The hearth was covered with a rug that kept her feet warm, and the tapestries reminded her of her aunt and mother, who had sewed them. It was always Joanna's favorite room for thinking.
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