Chapter 7
7
Alyth could see, even in the dim grey light of dawn, that Lachlan was holding a mighty broadsword in his hand. He was sweating, and his tunic was sticking to him, outlining every one of his impressive muscles. Either he had been training alone or he had something nefarious in mind; from the look on his face it was the latter. Or perhaps, like her, he had been fighting some imaginary enemy, and that enemy was probably her. The depth of hatred they had for each other was equal on both sides.
For a few moments he stood looking at her grimly, his brows drawn down in a fierce frown, shadowing his eyes and filling his face with menace. Alyth had often tried to imagine him smiling at her and found it impossible. It certainly was now.
Instinctively, Alyth backed away a few steps, but Lachlan stood still, his eyes never leaving hers. His body was tense, still, and silent, and somehow his soundless posture made him more intimidating, like a big cat about to spring on its prey. Indeed, Alyth felt acutely vulnerable and helpless. She was not a tiny woman by any means, but at this moment, Lachlan Carrick looked absolutely huge.
She could imagine another scenario when they would fight each other with a different kind of passion, this time kissing, sweating, limbs tangled in a frantic, lustful embrace. Alyth was baffled by the fact that she was both attracted to him and repelled by him in equal measures. What was it about Lachlan Carrick that confused her so much? He was just a man, after all; a very attractive man, to be sure, but there was more to life than a handsome face.
She took another step backwards, but this time Lachlan followed her. He had always suspected by the way she moved and the speed of her reflexes when she worked at some difficult task that she was no ordinary maid. Now that he had seen her using a sword, he was convinced that she had been trained to defend herself—no, not only defend, but attack too.
He was sure that if he took her on now, she would put up a good fight, even though it was unlikely she would beat him. A man always had the huge advantage of natural strength, over a woman, after all.
Lachlan felt himself harden as he contemplated the possibility of doing battle with Jeannie Dunbar. She was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen, especially in the breeches she was wearing, leaving her sensual curves in imagination. He pictured himself lying with her, skimming his hands over her soft skin, cupping them over her generously sized breasts and kissing her full lips.
He began to walk around her, his body thrumming with desire, while she watched him. Daylight was broadening now, and Alyth knew it would only be a matter of time before they were seen by someone, who would no doubt be extremely curious to know why their Laird was engaged in combat with a serving maid.
Although she was shaking with fear inside, Alyth stubbornly refused to let her feelings show on her face; she had become an expert in hardening her features into a stony mask. She kept her gaze fixed on the door of the weapons store, her eyes never moving a fraction.
“You are a very strange woman, Jeannie Dunbar,” Lachlan remarked, his voice a low, threatening rumble. “I have never met a serving maid who reads, handles herself with such grace, and speaks with an accent that is very, very different from the one the other servants use. I have heard it said that you are very adept at looking around the castle, even going into places you have no business being in at all. Several of my guards have seen you, but somehow you always convince them that you have a good reason for being there. You seem to think Leithmuir belongs to you.
One might think that being able to disappear from one place and reappear in another is witchcraft—or perhaps they might suspect that you are a spy.”
Alyth jumped in fright as the word hit her like a blow. For once, she had been unable to hide her reaction, and Lachlan Carrick had seen it all too clearly. He bent down so that his nose was almost touching hers, and suddenly, he was not aroused any more—at least, not in the way he had been. Now he was simply furious.
For a long moment, Lachlan stared at her, then suddenly he stepped back, and raised his sword, holding it upright in front of him. Alyth recognised the gesture as the formal challenge to a duel, and held her own sword up in answer to the invitation.
“I accept,” she said firmly. “And I promise you a fair fight, M’Laird. I am only a woman, and I am not as strong as you are, but I do not ask for any allowances to be made because of that. Treat me as you would treat a man. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” he replied. “We will fight for first blood.”
“First blood” meant that whoever was the first to draw blood from their enemy would win the bout, even if the wound was only a tiny scratch. All the weapons they used to practise with were blunt, so likely a scratch or a cut would be all they could inflict on each other anyway. The duel would likely be a short one.
Alyth made the first move, thrusting her sword at Lachlan as hard as she could. However, he parried the thrust and launched into one of his own, but there were two attributes in which he could not match Alyth, and they were speed and agility.
When it came to sheer strength, she was, of course, outmatched, but now, as Lachlan’s sword tip came straight at her, Alyth sidestepped so that he missed her completely. He stumbled forward for a few steps and narrowly missed falling to the ground, and as he turned to face her again, Lachlan saw her sword swiping towards him again. He parried the stroke, sweeping her weapon away in a wide circle, but he had left the front of his body open to attack.
Too late, he saw his mistake and took a few steps backwards to reposition himself, holding his sword horizontally across his body to block her next stroke. He was astonished to find himself firmly on the defensive and wondered how this could possibly have happened—especially against a woman!
Alyth’s next stroke proved that she was definitely no amateur, as she raised her sword and was about to bring it down on his head before he lifted his own weapon to block it. The two swords clashed and for a second it seemed as though there would be a stalemate, with neither willing to move, before Alyth backed away. They circled around each other before Alyth sidestepped and attacked Lachlan from another direction.
This blow wrong-footed Lachlan, but only for a second, and he recovered quickly, but when he turned to face Alyth again she could see that his eyes were smouldering with a terrible rage.
Her stomach filled with terror, but there was nothing else she could do but keep on fighting because she could hardly give up now. She had a dreadful feeling, even though they had promised to fight only till first blood, that he would kill her.
Lachlan was astonished at the girl’s obvious expertise; it was clear she had been well-trained by an expert because she was not merely waving her sword around, but handling it with energy and purpose. If he had not known better, he could have imagined he was doing battle with one of his guards.
He could not help admiring her confidence, her agility, the speed of her movements and her stamina. He had no idea how long they had been fighting, but he was beginning to tire. Damn the woman! She was fighting like a man, although she most definitely was not one of his own sex; he almost laughed aloud at the thought.
Even if he had not had his suspicions before, the level of her skill told him that she was no ordinary maid: she must be a spy, but if she were, she was not a very good one. Her talents marked her out as someone quite extraordinary, and he had to know more —he would not sleep until he did.
Alyth was also beginning to flag; she practised regularly, but this encounter was different—of course it was. Her enemy was not imaginary, but a large, powerful, flesh-and-blood man with a very hostile attitude and a prodigious amount of strength.
It was Lachlan’s strength that finally won. They carried on with the duel for what seemed like hours before he swiped his sword across the front of her chest, narrowly missing her, but Alyth was too exhausted to battle any longer.
She tripped over a loose flagstone, lost her balance, and fell heavily onto the ground, landing on her left shoulder. Instinctively, she cried out in pain, then cursed herself; she wanted to show no weakness in front of this man. She was lying on her back, completely at his mercy.
Alyth had to restrain herself from spitting at him. She stayed quiet as he crouched down and leaned over her, his hands on either side of her body, caging her in yet again. She wanted to close her eyes so that she would not have to look at the anger in his eyes, but she would not give Lachlan Carrick the satisfaction. He might suspect that she was afraid of him.
A moment later, he put one of his large hands around Alyth’s neck. His grip was not tight, but its position was enough to terrify her. He only had to squeeze to choke the life out of her. This time Alyth could not hold back the fear on her face.
“Are you afraid of me, Jeannie?” he asked, his eyes full of dark glee. “Because you should be. You should be very scared indeed because I am a very powerful man in these parts. Right now, you are completely at my mercy. I could squeeze the life out of you and no one would know. Even if they did, I could still walk away scot-free because I am a Laird, and my men would never betray me. Think about that for a moment.” He sat back on his haunches and looked down at her with a smug smile on his face.
“If you long to kill me so much, then why do you hesitate, M’Laird ?” Alyth asked defiantly, sneering at his title. “Is it you who are afraid, or is it because of Davina? If you think so badly of me, why do you let me get so close to her? She is a very vulnerable child.”
Lachlan saw red. “Leave my daughter out of this,” he growled. “She has nothing to do with it.”
Then he was silent, breathing heavily but looking down at Jeannie Dunbar with murder in his eyes. In truth, he had to let his expression speak for him because he could think of nothing else to say; this woman was not only skilled in self-defence, she was extremely intelligent too, and presently, she was running rings around him.
For every one of his questions she had a smart answer which was often another question that he found it difficult to reply to. Every remark he made was treated with contempt and cynicism.
“Why are you here?” he asked angrily. “You are not a maid of any kind. Your speech is cultured and you can read. These are not skills an ordinary housemaid would learn in the course of her duties. Who are you?”
Alyth swallowed nervously. “I used to be a ladies’ maid,” she told him. “I needed to learn to read for my mistress.”
“I see.” Lachlan’s tone was suspicious. “What was the name of the lady you worked for?”
This came totally out of the blue, and for a few seconds Alyth had no answer. She had thought she was prepared for everything, but lying here on the hard flagstones with a huge threatening man leaning over her seemed to have wiped her mind clear of an answer. She was tongue-tied.
“If you cannot even tell me your mistress’ name,” Lachlan said grimly, “then I am forced to believe you are lying to me. You were not a ladies’ maid.” Lachlan shook his head firmly. “Now, the truth, please.”
However, before she could answer, Lachlan saw that the sun was a little higher now and knew that any moment now, the guards of the first watch of the day would be taking their positions. Quickly, he hauled her to her feet, grabbed her by the elbow and strode back inside the castle, practically dragging her with him.
When they reached his study, he pushed Jeannie inside and locked the door firmly behind them. He poured himself a glass of ale, then, after hesitating for a moment, poured one for her too.
Alyth sipped it gratefully, closing her eyes and savouring the yeasty taste of the cool liquid. When she opened them again, she found herself staring into his bright blue-green eyes.
“The truth,” he repeated grimly.
Alyth looked at the size of his big hands laced together on the table-top; they looked like a heavy club. She nodded slowly, deciding that she could give him half the truth, but only enough to temporarily satisfy him. She doubted that she could allay his suspicions entirely, but perhaps she could make him leave her alone for a while.
“I told the other maids that my mistress often abused me,” Alyth said sadly. “But you are right—I was never a ladies’ maid. I am running away from violence, but not from my employer.” She took another sip of her ale to give herself a moment to think. “I am a merchant’s daughter, and my father has great plans for me. He thinks that by marrying me to another wealthy man, he will garner more business among the upper classes.
He imports silk and trades in wool, and there are many wealthy ladies in the district. They always need ball gowns and other special clothing for grand occasions. However, he saw an opportunity to marry me off to another wealthy businessman who has a dreadful reputation for being an absolute brute, and I was not prepared to stay and be abused, so I ran away. I am not prepared to be sold for my father’s gain.” She shuddered. “I was not used to looking after myself, especially outside in the cold, and I had no idea where I was going. I was in a terrible state when I came here, as you know.” She dropped her gaze from his to conceal the anger she felt.
“But you are obviously well-trained in self-defence,” he countered. “Why?”
“My mother was murdered,” she replied. “So I forced my father to have me trained.” She was about to make a joke about being employed as one of his guards but decided that it would only anger him further. Then another possibility occurred to her. What if she could use her skills against anyone who tried to harm Davina?
Alyth opened her mouth to make the suggestion, but suddenly realised that Lachlan Carrick was bending over her again, his blue eyes dark with rage. “If you harm one hair of anyone under my roof,” he growled, “or steal so much as a stone, I will have you hanged here in front of everyone in the castle.” His deep voice was throbbing with fury. “Do you understand?”
Alyth had no idea where her next words came from. They escaped from her mouth before she had a chance to take them back.
“I do… but what if I stole your heart?” she asked, with a mischievous smirk.