by Alisa Adams
Gordon could only stare at Godet; he was frozen in place. Her hair was a cloud of black curls that followed the gentle curves of her back and waist and fell down to caress the top of her buttocks. Her face was creamy white, only marred by the bruises that her curls softly tried to cover, and her lips were as full and red as they were during their last kiss. He stifled a groan and moved to the head of the table where Tristan sat at his right and the blond man sat at his left.
Godet was surprised that Brigda was not seated beside Gordon. Gordon introduced the huge, blond, warrior seated on his left as Loud Loughlin. Loughlin was one of his commanders under Tristan who was Gordon second in command. Loud Loughlin was not loud at all. He only grunted a greeting to the sisters, though his eyes were staying on Flori longer than the others, and then he concentrated on eating the food before him. Gordon, Loughlin, and Tristan continued their quiet conversation as they ate with Loughlin inserting a grunt here and there.
Brigda mumbled to no one in particular, “So quaint, ye are all wearing tartan plaid dresses. I remember when they outlawed the wearing of the tartans, but now, they are back, how lucky for us.”
The girls ignored that comment, though Ina murmured, “Ill whilly, naft, numpty!”
“Ah, the old Scots language. So quaint as well,” mumbled Brigda.
“Ill whilly…” Ina repeated.
Under her breath, Bridga then followed with, “How interesting to wear one’s hair down loose and it is so brave not to cover up one’s freckles with powder. Well, I suppose that is to be expected from women that ride like men and fight like men. And have bruises on their faces from fighting with men! No time for their hair or to powder their faces, though I don’t suppose there isnae enough powder in Scotland to cover those horrible bruises.” This last part was said with a shudder and spoken directly to Godet.
The sisters staunchly ignored her. They were too absorbed in Aunt Hextilda and her long-lost cousin, Aunt Burunild. Aunt Burnie, as she was called, was so excited to see her cousin and meet the four girls.
“They are rather like cousins of Gordons, I suppose, Hextilda?” Aunt Burunild asked, smiling in confusion.
“Yes, dear,” Aunt Hextilda said as she patted her hand then looked at Gordon who had looked over at that statement. Aunt Hextilda shook her head, noiselessly mouthing the word ‘no’. “Their dear departed mither was a MacDonell and like me own daughter, so of sorts, they have ties to this clan, but they have no direct relation to Gordon’s family. It was the girls’ parents dying wish that darling, dear Godet and Gordon would marry.”
“Oh, how lovely…” Aunt Burunild remarked with big eyes as she looked at Godet. “Gordon would be lucky to have such a beautiful girl for a wife. Why look at all that braw hair! ‘Tis wondrous.”
“Thank ye, aunt,” Godet said quietly.
“Ye killed a man, did ye? On the way here?” she asked Godet with those same wide, childlike eyes in her old, wrinkled face. Her gray hair was up in a tight bun though locks of it had gotten loose and the silver hair was falling haphazardly around her grizzled but sweet face. She wore the MacDonell plaid in the old style, wrapped around her shoulder and letting it fall into a skirt.
Godet gave her a genuine smile. “Aye, well, ‘twas Bluebell actually. But I commanded him to,” Godet answered her.
Brigda was bristling at Aunt Burunild’s comments about Godet’s hair and the comments about Gordon marrying her. She started to open her mouth to say something but Aunt Burunild cut her off.
“Ye killed him with bluebells? Are they poisonous? I had no idea!” she exclaimed.
“The woman is daft, Gordon,” Brigda said in a light, mocking voice. “Why dae ye let her eat with us?”
Gordon had sat at the head of the table with a frown permanently on his face. He had caught some of Brigda’s rude comments where she sat on the other side of Loughlin. He had not said a word while he ate. At least, until Brigda spoke up about Aunt Burunild.
“Will ye have me turn my aunt out at her age? I suppose when yer husband is old and gray ye will toss him aside as well?” he said in a gruff voice to her.
“Nonsense, ye will be my husband, and ye are the Laird.” She laughed lightly. “Another will take yer place as laird someday, but ye and I will continue to reside here.”
“My son will take my place,” he said firmly to her.
“Must we talk about children? Ye know I dae not want to damage my figure, Gordon.”
Tristan was taking a drink from his cup when she made that comment. He began to choke when he realized what she had said to his brother who was sitting there stone-faced, his jaw clenched. Ceena instantly started banging his back. Tristan was trying to wave her off while he coughed. Ceena only clapped his back harder.
Leaning in, she whispered to him, “Dinnae ye fash yourself noo. ‘Tis best she doesn’t breed. The world dinnae be needing more of the likes of that one.”
Tristan coughed even harder, though now he was laughing as well as coughing.
“Are ye with child dearie? I had no idea. Whose is it, dear?” Aunt Burunild asked. “The child is damaging yer figures? What are ye trying to figure out? Perhaps I can help ye, it is never wise to have a child outside of wedlock, quite scandalous, they’ll be calling ye a quean, a piece of baggage, I wager.”
Tristan was now laughing uncontrollably mixed with his choking while Ceena continued to slap his back. Brigda’s face turned red with anger, she shook her head furiously which caused her high coiffure to tilt dangerously. She started to say something, but Gordon laughed harshly.
“No, Aunt Burnie, she is not. Definitely not,” he said and looked at Brigda with a raised eyebrow. She had certainly never offered herself to him. She did not care for intimacies, including kissing. She had acted the righteous virgin and turned her face away whenever he had tried to kiss her.
Gordon looked at Godet who was staring at him. She blushed and looked away immediately when their eyes met. Godet had kissed me, Gordon thought, and she enjoyed it if her soft whimpers were any kind of proof. She kissed him back fervently, though her kisses were innocent and new, she was a quick learner. Oh yes, she wants me. Even her blush is telling, Gordon told himself.
“I am so glad she is not with child. I dislike red-haired babies. Godet, please explain how bluebell flowers killed a man,” Aunt Burunild demanded.
“Heather, Myrtle, and Whins almost killed a man as well,” Ina chimed in, but she was looking a Brigda.
Ceena grinned and groaned. “Ina,” Flori said quietly, “be kind.”
Loughlin looked up from his plate and stared at Flori. He had the smallest of smiles on his face. Flori blushed and looked away from him. Ina looked demurely down at her plate, picking at her piece of bannock. She said under her breath, “That cockernonnie of hers is about to fall doon. Aye, she’s a right corbin gomerel.”
“Ina!” Godet whispered firmly.
“What did she say?” Brigda demanded. “What does that mean?” Her voice was high-pitched and indignant.
“Goodness,” interjected Aunt Hextilda, cutting off Brigda’s wrath. “It does my heart good to hear the old language, ye have learned it well, lass!” Aunt Hextilda began quickly nudging Aunt Burunild. “Don’t ye agree, Burnie?”
“Aye, but didn’t ye hear, Hexy, we are surrounded by poisonous flowers out on the heath! Me own Scotland, my beloved Scotland, is a dangerous place with so many poisonous flowers!” Aunt Burunild exclaimed fearfully as Aunt Hextilda patted her arm. “Heather, myrtle, and whins almost killed a man. And bluebells did kill a man. Yer niece said so, ‘tweren’t ye listening?”
“Aunt Burnie,” Godet said with a kind smile, “Bluebell is my stallion and Heather, Myrtle, and Whins are my sisters’ mares.”
“Wait for it…” Ceena whispered to Tristan, who had leaned in to hear her whisper in his ear. “Wait for it…”
“Yer stallion is named Bluebell? That makes no sense,” Aunt Burunild said.
Ceena laughed lightly and leaned towa
rd Tristan again. “Happens every time. We tried to tell Godet, but she insisted on the name,” whispered Ceena to a laughing Tristan.
“Preposterous!” exclaimed Brigda. “That is a most ridiculous, awful name for a stallion. Only a stupid person would name a stallion such a ridiculous name.”
“He has blue eyes,” Gordon growled, his voice low with warning, “So, it is a fitting name, though unusual, for an unusual stallion.”
Godet could only stare at him. He had defended her! Brigda let out a loud snort. “So provincial, just like these girls are in their crude dress. What year dae they think it is anyway? Who let ye name a stallion, Colette?” This was said in a faint sneer to Godet.
“My name is Godet not Colette,” she reproached the woman firmly, putting up her hand to still Gordon’s retort to Brigda. “And my parents let me name him. He was to be mine after all. I had chosen the breeding parents and had bred him for his size and temperament.”
“I suppose ye raised and trained him yourself,” Brigda commented with a laugh and turned back to her food. She missed Gordon’s look, his jaw was clenched in anger and his eyes were steely slits as he stared at her.
“Yes,” Godet said simply.
“Each of us trained our own horses,” Ceena added.
“Godet’s horse can rear and strike and Ceena’s horse, Whins, can spin and kick out his hind feet. Heather and Myrtle are more like battering rams,” Ina said with a chilling grin on her face that clearly said she did not like Brigda and would like to ram her with her mare.
“Aunt Burnie,” Godet said, “that is how Bluebell killed the Ross warrior. He struck him.”
“Knocked him clear off his wee horse and smashed his skull into something that looked like bloody brose and haggis in the process,” Ina described proudly.
“Goodness how exciting!” said Aunt Burunild.
“How bloodthirsty and abnormal,” cried Brigda in disgust as she gave a false dramatic shiver.
“There is nothing like the sound of yer horse’s back hooves smashing in yer enemies’ skull,” Ceena recalled with relish.
Tristan stared at her with a raised eyebrow. She stared wide-eyed back at him and shrugged her shoulders as she took a bite of bannock. She was having trouble not laughing at Brigda’s shocked expression. Tristan saw it and stifled his own laughter.
“Lady Godet,” Gordon began, “ye trained yer horses for battle?” His voice had lowered and deepened, it was quiet and calm now.
“Yes, of course.”
“Why?”
“Yes!” Brigda said with a triumphant grin. “Dae tell us why in the world ye would dae such a thing?”
“The Clydesdales are bred to carry men into battle. Not just pull carts and logs and equipment. We want them to be useful for many things,” Godet explained.
“I dae not see any knights in armor anymore, dae ye? A heavy horse is no longer needed, Colette,” Brigda said with superiority.
“Ye are wrong Brigda,” Gordon replied harshly, “though warriors dae not wear armor, we still require a larger mount to carry us.” He looked over at Godet. She had actually trained that horse? Herself?
“Scottish men are large and muscular after all,” Ina said innocently. “Though not the Ross men,” she added with a slight frown and shudder.
“Good grief Ina,” Godet said quietly while she stifled a laugh.
“Ina is correct,” Aunt Hextilda chimed in. “Scottish men are uncommonly well-muscled and large. Aren’t I right, Burnie?” she asked as she nudged her cousin. Aunt Hextilda was looking at Gordon’s big muscular arms, tanned by the sun where the sleeves of his linen shirt were rolled up. His tartan crossed his wide chest and his kilt showed a hint of big, muscular thighs. She let out an audible sigh.
“I’m lost,” Aunt Burunild finally replied. “I’m still shocked we have so many poisonous flowers here in Scotland.”
7
The next morning the girls were happy to see that their traveling coach with all their trunks had arrived. They were overjoyed to see Abigail and Amos, the coach driver and his wife since they were the last of the servants that the girls had known when their parents were still alive. Mungan had brought his own servants and had dismissed the rest. The girls had gotten word to Amos and Abigail to come to the MacDonell clan with them and they had agreed. With the crofters all moved out, they had nowhere else to go anyway.
Abigail helped them unpack their trunks and went off to see to pressing the travel wrinkles out of their clothing. The girls split up and went to explore the castle and grounds. Godet wandered down to the stables. She wanted to visit Bluebell. She found herself instead in a long bank of stables full of horses, row after row after row. Each stable looked out on huge fields full of horses. There was also a large grass area where she could see men on horseback doing military maneuvers.
Her eye was caught by one warrior in particular. His legs were wrapped strongly around his horse’s sides and he sat as naturally in the saddle as any horsemen she had ever seen. He charged his horse full speed at a stake and then pulled a musket out of his belt before he shot at a sack of dirt on top of the stake. Dirt spewed everywhere; his aim had been true. She watched as he wheeled his horse around the stake, never breaking his speed. He pulled his broadsword out of its scabbard and swung it at the stake, cleaving it in half. He called to the other men in a loud, deep, and authoritative voice. Then they, in turn, went through the same pattern on their own horses with their own targets. Godet watched as the warrior called out encouragement and instructions to each of the men.
It was fascinating to watch for Godet. Just as fascinating to her was the kilt the warrior wore which was showing off powerfully muscled thighs as the kilt blew up his legs at times. He wore tall, black boots that encased strong calves. His billowy shirt made his hard-bodied chest look even larger and his hair was windblown and tussled.
Godet watched him—not the others, just him.
She knew it was Gordon from the first moment she had seen him. He was the most handsome man she had ever seen and the best rider she had ever seen. She could not take her eyes off of him.
Gordon felt her eyes on him. He looked over and saw her watching. Her hair and her skirts blowing out behind her in the breeze. His world stilled. Everything slowed down to a halt.
He sat atop his horse and just stared at her. Her wild, black curls were whipping out in the wind over her shoulder. Her skirts were molded to her legs by the wind as well. She had changed her dress, he noticed. This one was the color of the sky and matched the light, silvery color of her eyes.
They stared at one another. For a heartbeat and then another and another …and another.
One of his men called out and he had to force himself to turn away from her and answer the warrior. Then he instantly looked back at Godet. She was still watching him and a faint blush had crept up her cheeks. He urged his horse forward to her side and looked down at her—just looked. Drinking in those mysterious silver eyes, those full red lips, and her lovely sun-kissed skin.
“Good morning,” Godet greeted in her husky voice.
“Good morning to ye,” he answered quietly in his deep voice. “I trust ye slept well?”
“Aye, I did,” she told him shyly.
“I missed ye this morning for some brose,” he said. “Dinnae ye break yer fast in the morn?”
“Oh, aye, I had some oatcakes, but Abigail and Amos have arrived with our trunks and that took my attention,” she said and paused when he just stared at her. “Our servants…?”
“I know who they are and that they have arrived. We have given them an empty crofter’s hut seeing as they are a married couple. I thought it best they have their privacy.”
“I thank ye for that,” she said with some surprise at his kindness. “Theirs was one of the crofter’s cottages that was burned to the ground by Mungan,” she said looking up at him.
“I am sorry for that,” he said quietly staring into her silver eyes.
“This training
ye are doing looks interesting.” She watched the men, many of whom seemed curious about her standing there.
“Interesting is it?” he questioned with a raised eyebrow at her.
“Yes, it looks rather challenging. My sisters would love it.”
“And ye?”
“Oh, aye! Most definitely me as well.”
“As in ye would actually dae this?” he said in surprise.
“Yes,” she replied simply, shielding her eyes from the sun and looking up at him.
He studied her a long moment; she was watching his men now. Though her cheeks still bloomed with pink. “Care to try it, lassie?” he asked. His voice was slow and deliberate—challenging.
Startled, she looked up at him and was surprised to see the grin on his face. “Dae ye mean it? Dinnae be teasing me noo. I’d love to!”
Gordon did not think she really would take him up on his challenge, but she was looking up at him so happily, eager to have a try at the exercise. “Tell me where me horse is pastured and I’ll go saddle Bluebell up and try it,” she said to him.
“Dinnae ye fash yourself about a horse to ride, ye can ride one of ours,” he told her, wondering if she would be able to handle one of his faster, lighter, more maneuverable mounts.
“Oh, but I’d much prefer to try this on my horse,” she stated as she backed away, almost bumping into one of the warriors who had come up behind them.
“Och now, is the warrior lady afraid to ride these fast horses then?” the man teased her. “’Tis a man’s war game, not a lady’s.”
Gordon growled something at the man and he moved off, but then Gordon looked at Godet with a raised eyebrow, challenging her. She placed her hands on her hips and looked up at him with laughter on her lips.
“Still teasing me, Laird MacDonell? Aye then, I’ll ride one of yer horses, but I dae think it would be rather interesting to try this on Bluebell,” she mused.
“Very well then, ye try it first on one of mine, while I send one of the men off to saddle up yer Bluebell for ye to have a second go on him,” he compromised as he watched her closely. Would she really dae this? This woman did not cease to fascinate him.
