Inextinguishable Love: Firefighter and Interracial Romance

by Kathleen Bunker

  “Aye, I can see that. Your definitely an angel.” His thin lips stretched into a smile that Alice would have found flattering if it wasn’t for the blood. She rolled her eyes.

  Men, they’d even die for it and the state he was in he’d most probably die before he finished. Definitely before she did. She smiled as she joked to herself, but couldn’t help wondering what those tittering girls in her village would make of this. Had she ever had a fantasy about coming across him wounded and alone in the woods? Or had he always been the hero? The meeting hardly ever mattered it was what happened next that she focused on.

  Luckily the scar on his face wasn’t that bad. It was very shallow and the skin had already begun to knit together although the young girls may never consider him pretty again. Distinguished maybe, but not pretty.

  She turned her attention to the stomach wound. She pulled at his shirt revealing his flat muscular stomach, muscles honed from the fighting of the past few months.

  “Whoa, slow down lass. You should at least tell me your name first.” If he was making jokes that terrible the wound couldn’t have been that bad.

  “Alice.” She stated her name and nothing else as she began to caress his hard stomach to wash away the dry blood and get a better look at the wound. The wound was small but deep enough to cut both skin and muscle. It didn’t look particularly life threatening and the bleeding had already slowed. That was a very good.

  “I’m Roland.” He offered his name back.

  “I know. You were the pretty young ladling that seduced my man off to war. From the battle?” Alice tried her best to keep the bitterness from her voice.

  “Aye.” His light mood changed to muted and sullen, maybe even a little guilty. “Who was he?”

  “Graham. He died a traitor.” There was a tone of accusation in her voice, exactly what she was accusing him of she didn’t know.

  “I know. He was a good man that one, maybe too good. That was a bit of bad business. If only I’d…”

  “I don’t want to hear it. I told him what would happen if he left.” Tear welled in her eyes, she still hadn’t forgiven him for abandoning her. Even so she had fantasized of him coming back, that there had been a mistake. For all she knew she was the last person alive that couldn’t see him as a betrayer. She knew she was delude. They’d been married months and he betrayed her twice. Why did he still deserve her tears, and her love? Why did she still care?

  “He said you were a harsh woman. Always talked about you he did, worshipped you like a damn goddess, though he did you little justice.” He tried to feign a brighter mood one again as he pretended to flirt.

  “So, what happened to you? Culloden?” she asked wanting to talk about something else. Anything else. Although she did find the flattery amusing, from a hag to angel to a goddess, but she did wonder how he’d escalated that one.

  “No. I wasn’t there. After our surprise attack failed and we marched back, most of my men deserted. They’d been suffering for months and that, that was the final blow. I followed them to try and talk them back and the battle had already started by the time we’d got there. It was obvious we were overwhelmed. The artillery had devastated us and where the fighting was the thickest there seemed to be one of us to every three of them. Charles Stewart had already fled. I knew they were doomed so I turned and fled with the few kinsmen I managed to entice back. We escaped battle without a scratch, just bone-wary and hungry. I just left them to die.” His tone was sullen again and Alice thought that he might actually cry.

  “You did the right thing. You couldn’t do anything. It’d have only led to more death. What else could you do?” Alice tried to comfort. She felt awful about bringing up Graham. He was already suffering enough.

  “I know. I tell myself that too. We were finished. There was nothing I could do. Our army was destroyed, those of us left were scattered to the wind and our spirit already shattered after months of hardship. And I thought that be it. I’d never imagined the savagery after. The English butchery and bloodlust knew no bounds. I saw things that’d make the devil queasy in the aftermath of that battle. I know if I’d entered the battle, I would be one of those men mutilated on the floor or a pleading captive who was executed. And despite that I still had a little voice in my head telling me I could have tried but I ran. I could have tried.”

  “You didn’t get stabbed running?” She hoped that this question would go better than the last one.

  “No. On the run I headed straight for my father’s castle trying to outpace and outfox the yapping hounds nipping at my heels. I just wanted to go home but found it burning. Those English bastards had dragged my father from his home to ridicule, torture and prepared to execute him just because I was a rebel soldier. I turned and run. What could I do? I asked, and it answered again. I could have tried. I returned just in time to see them kill him. My blood burned for vengeance. I shot the maggot who took pleasure in humiliating him before lopping off his head. I wish I could have killed the others who pinned him to floor too, and taken my time doing so. I wished I could have saved him. I got in a tangle with a couple of soldiers as I escaped and one of them got in a lucky stab before I gutted him. My father would have been so proud. he used to say that only true warrior get stab in the front, everyone else is weak enough to get stabbed in the back. And then I just wandered.” He went sullen and quiet again. Just how much could one man go through in a single week? She wished there was treatment as simple for soul as there was his flesh.

  “I think I’d better look at this back in my hut.” She tried to help him to his feet.

  “I’ll be fine girl.” He battered her hands away and struggled to his feet. “It’s just a scratch, nothing a stomach full of food and a good drink can’t fix.” He groaned in pain as he doubled over and shrunk back against the tree to support himself. His knees trembled as he struggled to stand. A fresh patch of blood bloomed on his shirt as the wound reopened.

  Why were men such pig-headed fools? she thought. She ducked under his arm and pressed herself into his warm body propping him up. She couldn’t help but think about how Graham used to feel. He was the gentlest man alive, his head full of warm-head ideas and notions and yet he had to life through that too. It most probably broke him too.

  “You know they’ll kill you if they find you with me?” Roland grunted between gasps of pain.

  “Here.” She gave him her bloody shawl. “Press this against the wound while I get you back to my cabin.”

  “Bloody hell woman, you work fast.” He moved back to stupid jokes.

  “Although, if you keep on with those corny jokes, I’ll happily leave you here to die.” She wasn’t joking.

  *****

  Alice carried Roland up the dirt path toward her dilapidated log cabin. Two English soldiers stepped out from a rocky outcrop and she froze. Their vibrant red coats, and dirty white trousers stood out against the green of the highland. She cursed herself. She should have seen them from miles away. She knew she should have left him to rot.

  “Put me down and run girl.” The same thought was running through her mind. She hesitated and the decision was taken out of her hands. One solider dropped to his knee and raised the musket to his face ready to fire.

  “Put him down and stay there,” he ordered. She lowered Roland to the ground as gently as she could.

  The musket wielding soldier ordered the other soldier to approach as he covered him with the rifle. He was big and looked a little slow witted, a think stubble covered the lower half of his face. A thick cross-like scar stretched across down the side of his face and across his forehead distorting his skull. It just looked wrong. He gave Alice a stupid but creepy smile.

  “Hi.” He waved at Alice before unleashing his sword.

  “Sorry.” The sullen guilty washed over Roland face again.

  “Well what have we got here a rebel scum and the doting wife. How sweet.” The musket wielding solider came up and joined the first. His tapering over-shot jaw, narrow beady little eyes a
nd long whisker-like sideburns made him look like a rat.

  “I think she’s pretty,” the dumb one stated in a tone fit for a five-year old. His eyes groped over the curves of her body. Alice felt a little dirty at the look.

  “Yeah, she’ll be a fine bit of sport. Will you enjoy watching your wife spend some time with us?” The rat-faced soldier threw his red coat to the ground.

  “She’s not my wife. The bitch was just bringing me to you for the bounty. Tear her to pieces for all I care,” Roland snarled, lying to save her.

  “Problem is us and the King, God bless his soul, have had a small disagreement. If we take your head back, they’ll take ours right along with it. So, we just take our rewards where we find them now. And it will be a pleasure taking this one.” Rat-face began to take off his white shirt.

  Roland struggled to his feet and the small flintlock pistol sprang into his hand. Unsteady on his feet, he could hardly prepare the gun, let alone aim straight and Rat-face knew it. He was bemused if anything. The dumb one appeared more worried and lifted his hands to his ears and began to shriek while dancing on the spot. Roland discharged his shot into the ground, missing them by a mile.

  “It’s okay, George. It’s okay. Calm down.” Rat-face sound worried and concerned. “Break his nose George.”

  George rammed the hilt of his sword into Roland’s nose and it made a sickening crunch. Roland was sent sprawling to the ground, blood rushing for his shattered nose.

  “God man. Make up your mind. Are you happy to watch or not?” Rat-face jeered.

  “What shall I do boss?” George squirmed anxiously. “Should I kick him?”

  “It’s okay George. He should be fine now, he’s already shot his load.” Rat-face smirked at his own joke.

  “Okay boss.”

  Alice’s paralysis faded as the dread of what was happening sunk in. An overwhelming urge to run gripped her, and she prepared to bolt. She knew they might shoot her as she fled, but she’d be better off dead than this. The Rat-face’s hand darted out, clasped her arm and yanked her forward.

  “Oh no, you don’t love.” He must have read her body’s intentions before she had. She froze again.

  He pressed his face close to hers and she could smell his hot rotten breath on her face as he tried to kiss her. She screamed, as she struggled to break free, slapping and clawing at his face with her free hand. His hand rocket into her stomach. The air exploded from her lungs, and her legs tumbled out from underneath her.

  “Oh, feisty wench, I love myself a feisty one.” He pushed against the ground as she almost choked on the air she sucked back down into her lungs. Straddling her, he pulled out a small worn dagger and began cutting at her clothes.

  A single musket resounded across the highlands and Rat-face grunted and toppled to her side. George began shrieking again. His hands over his ears and he danced about frantically.

  Roland grabbed the dagger from the dead soldier’s hand, and leapt to his feet with a fierce groan. He ran the dagger across George’s throat and both collapsed back to the ground.

  Another English soldier appeared from behind a rocky outcrop with his musket smoking. This whole day had been cursed and it was starting to feel like she’d never get a break. She was as doomed as this country. As he closed on them she could see his uniformed was worn, the red was darker from dirt and it had been torn repaired poorly numerous times. Unlike the other two he had the mark him of a deserter. His square jaw was clean shaven without a hint of stubble, and he had neat hair short blonde hair. His hair was shiny and clean despite the time on the road, and there was something delicate and sensitive about his thick lips and piercing blue eyes. He was almost the exact opposite of the clansman at her feet.

  “Ma’am,” he said, greeting her with a bow, his eyes brushed against the cuts and tears in her clothes. She found her hands crossing her chest, and he swung his red coat off and draped it over her shoulders with an apologetic look. The heavy coat stunk of lavender though it barely masked the stench of sweat.

  “By the heavens’ lad, are you still alive?” Roland sounding shocked.

  “I’m doing better than you at least.” There was something bitter and angry in his voice.

  “And Graham?” Roland asked his eyes flicking towards Alice.

  “He took a bullet helping me escape from your…,” he paused as he sought for the word he wanted, “care. He died soon after.”

  “Come for your revenge then lad? Aye, you deserve it.” Roland seemed to accept his fate. Alice stood there confused. Graham? Where they talking about her husband? What did any of this have to do with her husband? Had he run off with an English man?

  “I’ve seen good men - God fearing men who’ve contemplated the service of priesthood rip apart defeated and injured soldiers, family men rape, and pillage entire villages. I’ve come to realize war makes monsters out of us all. I want no part of it. I merely came to pass on Graham’s last words to his wife. It was his final wish. You must be Alice?”

  “Yes?” She was sure she was Alice, but pretty unsure of everything else.

  “I’m Perceval. I was with your husband when he died. He was talking about you when he passed. It was his final wish that you knew how he felt.”

  “She was all he ever talked about, had I known she was a real goddess though I’d have been more understanding,” Roland laugh.

  “I thought he’d exaggerated about her beauty until now too. I think it’s hard to admit such a beauty could exist without experiencing it.” Perceval smiled, and blushed sweetly at his own words.

  “Smooth English. Don’t make the mistake that a clanswoman will drop her panties for pretty words like your courtiers. Scottish women prefer action to poetry.” The thumping of Alice’s heart and his earlier talk of angels and goddesses contradicted that statement.

  “We need to talk but I better hide the bodies and scout around a little, too. His eyes refused to meet hers, as he was embarrassed at his words. “The gun-fire might attract more, and we are all wanted men here.”

  “Good God,” Perceval exclaimed looking down at the body of George.

  “What is it?” Roland asked.

  “I knew him. He used to write the most beautiful poetry and send it home to his wife. The last battle we fought in together he got shoot in the head. They said he’d never survive. It’s just hard knowing the person I knew would do something like this.”

  “I don’t think he did,” Roland answered as Perceval bent down and grabbed the body dragging it toward the valley.

  Alice tried to ignore the thousands of questions that swamped her mind. She bent down and carried the wounded Roland into the cabin. The small run-down cabin was really just a tiny room with a bed stuck in one corner and stove in the other. Alice couldn’t help but think it’d be a far cry from the luxurious rooms at the castle his lordship was used to. His carried him to her bed and draped him across it.

  “I feel like the luckiest man alive.” His voice was distorted due to his bloody, broken nose.

  “More lucky to be live,” she delivered as deadpan as she could manage.

  “I told you, it’s just a scr…” His words ended in a painful grunt as she pressed a cloth against his nose to help stem the blood.

  “And I warned if you continued those jokes it wouldn’t the wounds that kill you.” She smiled as sweetly as she could and gave him a wink.

  “God lass. You’re no fun,” he said through the cloth.

  “Now you’re getting it. Stay still, rest and keep pressure on that. I have to go and gather some stuff. I won’t be long.” She left the cabin before he could reply.

  *****

  With the ingredients and herbs collected for a numbing ointment and a healing poultice, Alice went back to the brook to collect her bucket and some water. As she drew the brook she could hear someone splashing about in the water and mutilating a hymn. Whoever it was should just bash the poor chorus on the head and put it to rest. She’d heard goats with a better voice. She crept i
n closer, picking her way through the undergrowth slowly and carefully. The enigmatic Perceval stood in the stream naked. He scrubbed down his hard, flat chest over his rippling abs with some kind of plant. Alice could feel herself hold her breath as she watched him and a small stab of disappoint when he turned his back. His back was covered in thick crisscrossing scars and burns. She couldn’t even imagine the amount of pain he’d suffered through. Who’d do such a thing?

  The song died as he waded from the shallow stream and led on the wild grass. He set about cleaning his uniform, trying his best to scrub out the fresh patches of blood and dirt. He poured over examining the tiny holes and all threads of disrepair. Alice couldn’t help but think he showed a diligent and loving attitude for a man that had abandoned the army and forsaken all wars. Just why did he care about it so much?

  Alice felt ashamed for spying and crept back up the path. Once a safe distance away she started down once again making as much noise as she possibly could. Perceval had managed to pull his breeches on and was struggling with his shirt when she arrived. It was with regret that she watched his amazing body being hid behind the tattered old shirt.

  “Oh hello.” She tried to sound shocked that he was at the brook.

  “Hello” His face flushed a deep scarlet red and he glanced away timidly as he pulled at his shirt making sure it covered his body.

  “Just come to get my bucket.” She pointed at the discarded pail before moving to collect it. He said nothing and the silence hung heavy in the air.

  “Oh lavender.” She picked up the crumpled plant he left littered along the bank. “Continue perfuming your body like that and all the men in Scotland will be chasing you.”

  “All the men in Scotland are already chasing me. One half for being an English Solider and the other for not being one.”