Chapter Eight #3
She turned on the spot. Slowly. Cautious. The subject of their scrutiny. Narrowed eyes put her on high alert. It would seem her presence here in the Highlands, and perhaps her bold actions in the great hall this morning, had been severely judged. Was this some sort of silent retribution?
Helene turned towards a noise at her back and saw a tall, stocky man approach. He stopped, leaving a distance between them as long as the sword he held. A leather apron covered his sleeveless tunic and leather boots, and a girdle sat about his waist.
Helene recognised the smithy. Her gaze fell to the weapon he carried, which sent her heart hammering against her ribs. She’d seen one too many blades for today. One swallow was not near enough to moisten a throat parched and dry, and she became short of breath.
Run! She should turn and run towards the safety of the keep. Impossible. The brawny man ensnared her with eyes as grey as the steel he forged.
Lachlan! Would he hear her if she screamed his name?
She looked up at the tower from one window to the next, eyes darting back to the smithy when he raised the sword high with the blade’s tip pointing at the ground.
With a forceful downward thrust, he stabbed it into the ground and let go of its hilt.
It stuck out of the earth like a loyal sentinel by his side.
Helene expelled a lungful of air, and her knees almost buckled beneath her. All around her people stared, tormenting her sense of unease while she waited for . . . she didn’t know what.
The smithy stepped forward. Helene took a step back.
His gaze fell at her feet, and he removed his flat knitted bonnet in a gesture of supplication.
He repeatedly scrunched the rim of the woollen cap in both hands, and upon lifting his gaze to meet Helene’s, she saw that his eyes had softened to the grey hues of post-storm light.
She relaxed a fraction only to flinch when she heard a shout to her left.
‘M’lady! M’lady!’ A child ran towards her from the castle’s entrance. He skidded to a halt, cap in hand.
‘Donnie!’ Helene felt genuine joy at seeing the lad again.
He acknowledged her with a wide grin, then turned sheepish eyes on the smithy. The two exchanged words in sombre Gaelic before Donnie explained, ‘M’lady, this man is my uncle, and he—’
‘Your uncle?’ Helene looked from man to boy.
‘Aye. Hamish Ewing. My da’s older brother. He has something to say to ye.’
Helene gave Hamish her wary attention. He looked her fair-square in the eyes and launched into Gaelic with no hint of threat in his throaty intonation. She was helpless to understand him. When he’d said his piece, he addressed his nephew with a few more words in their mother tongue.
Donnie looked up at Helene. ‘My uncle thanks ye for what ye did for me today. He cannae understand why a Sassenach lass would do such a thing for a Scottish bairn. Ye’re not of our blood or culture, and he says it took great courage to stand up to the laird.’
Humbling words. It was the last thing Helene expected to hear.
Hamish Ewing replaced his bonnet, gripped the sword’s hilt, and yanked it out of the ground. He held the hilt close to his heart and spoke again in Gaelic to Helene. She awaited Donnie’s interpretation.
‘My uncle says for as long as ye’re on Scottish soil, he’ll have yer back. He’ll stick his neck out for ye just as ye did for me. Ye’re kin to him and my family now.’
Helene was left speechless. She blinked back moisture in her eyes and smiled her thanks to the smithy. He gave her a slow nod, touched a hand to Donnie’s shoulder, and then returned to his anvil.
All around her people continued to stare, but just as a pendulum swings, so did their demeanour.
Women acknowledged Helene with a smile, and men respectfully touched the brim of their bonnets or tipped their heads in her direction.
One by one they went about their business, the courtyard returning to a hive of activity.
‘Ye’ve earned their respect,’ said Donnie.
Helene favoured the lad with a kind smile. ‘That’s not what I set out to do.’
‘Ye have it all the same, and I need ye to ken how verra grateful I am to ye. Ye’re as brave as a Highland warrior, and I’m forever in yer debt.’
‘There’s nothing brave about what I did, Donnie. I just couldn’t let . . .’ Helene tamped down the emotion welling in her throat. ‘You owe me no debt. Just keep your promise to stay out of trouble and never steal again.’
‘Aye. I promise.’ He pointed. ‘That be my ma and da standing outside the gates.’
Helene saw Donnie’s parents acknowledge her, each with one hand raised in a wave.
‘Do ye see the wooden cage they carry?’ said Donnie.
‘Yes. What’s inside?’
‘A rooster and four chickens. A gift from the laird to replace the ones we lost to wildcats.’
Helene looked sharply at the lad.
Donnie’s gleeful smile faded. ‘Did ye not ken?’
Helene shook her head. ‘Lach—I mean, your laird said not a word about it to me.’
Donnie shrugged. ‘Must have slipped his mind, or maybe he’s yet to tell ye.’
Lachlan had had plenty of opportunity to do so. ‘Well, that was most generous of him. I’m happy all has been resolved.’
‘Aye. Well, I must be going now. Thank ye again, m’lady.’ He donned his cap and went directly to his parents.
Helene returned their parting wave and reflected on the day’s events.
Lachlan sat top of mind. Her opinion of him had shifted.
He might be a rake by reputation south of the border, but she’d seen first-hand that there was more to him than met the eye.
It was hard not to acknowledge an undeniable curiosity to discover more about the MacLanoch laird.