Chapter 4
This is a mistake.
Gordon knew it the moment the words left his lips, and Agnes surged to close the gap between them.
Her arm sought to loop around his neck to hug him, her hand grazing his skin, but she was too short, and the baby was in the way, letting out a whine of annoyance as she narrowly avoided getting squashed.
“Oh, thank you! Thank you, my Laird!” Agnes yelped with a grin, trying again, clearly expecting him to stoop to allow her to embrace him.
He didn’t. Instead, he caught her by the arm and held her back. “Ye can stop that, too.”
“What did I do now?” She frowned at him.
“I daenae like people thankin’ me,” he replied coolly. “Means they owe me or I owe them. So, keep yer thanks to yerself, eh?”
She groaned, shaking her head. “It seems you don’t like a lot of things. How fussy you are for a big and powerful laird.”
He had clearly wounded her by not allowing her to show her gratitude, and that was probably for the best. Let her stay at arm’s length, where she would be safe.
“But you helped me,” she added obstinately, “so I want to help you in return. That is the way things are done, whether you like it or not. I will not be indebted either. So, you just let me know what I can do for you, and I—”
“Stay out of me way for as long as ye stay here, and all will be well,” he said roughly.
Daenae seek to be close to me. Daenae try. Daenae think me doin’ this for ye is anythin’ more than protectin’ me own territory from English interference.
His frustration with the cheerful, smiling, defiant lass softened as his gaze landed on the baby in her arms. The little lassie was a sweet thing, with the same big eyes as her aunt, though the baby’s were a brownish green, instead of the bluer green of Agnes’s eyes.
And I suppose I’m doin’ it a little bit because yer faither is evidently a worthless weasel, wee lassie.
To his surprise, the baby burbled as if she understood, her happy face lighting up.
He turned, and with a nod to his man-at-arms, he made his way out of the breakfast hall, knowing the other man would follow without question.
He was not leaving to chase down those English interlopers, not yet, but to swing his sword at something until he got the feel of Agnes’s hand against his neck out of his head.
“First blood or first surrender,” Gordon growled, drawing his broadsword.
The loyal, powerful young men who had kept Clan Buchlann feared and respected exchanged amused looks. It wasn’t uncommon for their Laird to join the day’s efforts, far from it, but they were probably grateful that he hadn’t asked one of them to duel him.
“That bad?” Keith asked, laughing.
Gordon pulled off his shirt and tossed it onto the fence that ringed the training yard. “Enough talkin’. Draw yer sword, or it’ll be first blood faster than I’m willin’ to permit.”
“It’s nae like ye to be so grumpy in the mornin’,” Keith teased.
“Will ye just fight!” Gordon snapped as he began to pace back and forth across the sawdust-covered yard, impatience bristling in his tense muscles.
Keith put up his hands in mock surrender. “Aye, aye, give me a moment.” Still chuckling to himself, he pulled off his shirt and drew his sword.
Gordon didn’t hesitate. He swung his broadsword with all of the frustration that simmered within him, the blade cutting so close to Keith’s chest that even Keith looked surprised. A gasp of excitement rippled through the training yard, soldiers forming small groups to spectate.
Of course, Gordon wasn’t without his discipline; he wouldn’t cut his man-at-arms just yet, not when there was more tension that he needed to get out of his body. A short fight was no good for either of them.
The smile dropped from Keith’s face, and just as Gordon had hoped, the man leaped into action.
Like dancers, they twirled and ducked and feinted out of each other’s way, swords arcing and slashing, legs coming up in graceful, powerful kicks.
They had fought together since they were boys, each aware of the other’s style, often able to predict one another’s next moves, which was what made Keith the only person Gordon could duel with when he was in such a fractured state of mind.
Anyone else in the yard would be at genuine risk of death if they were to take on the challenge.
“Nae like ye to lower yer guard like that,” Keith taunted, his blade singing so close to Gordon’s cheek that Gordon felt the rush of air, like a kiss.
Gordon recovered quickly, ducking underneath the blade and lunging forward. He jabbed Keith in the ribs with the pommel of his sword as he passed by, and as he ended up behind the man, he whirled around and delivered a hard kick to the back of his knee.
Keith staggered but didn’t lose his balance, turning quickly. “Just some constructive criticism,” he muttered, wincing. “Och, that’ll leave a bruise. I’ll have to get Leanna to rub it better for me.”
“I daenae want conversation,” Gordon retorted, curving his blade through the air, the sharp edge slicing a deliberate gash through the wool of Keith’s belted plaid.
Keith glanced down, brow furrowing. “Oi! This is me new one!”
“Then concentrate,” Gordon replied, though he was the one struggling to focus.
Every time Keith’s blade came close to his skin, changing the pressure of the air, making it whisper against his flesh, he felt the shy brush of Agnes’s fingertips instead.
And where he should have been predicting Keith’s next movements or watching the subtle shifts that meant a strike was coming, he kept seeing her smiling face when he had offered a temporary, fake betrothal to her.
Why did she smile like that?
He parried a swing, the clash of steel ringing out across the yard.
Why did she look at me with… hope in her eyes?
He ducked another attack and punched Keith in the kidney.
Why did she smile like it wasnae a fake offer, like I’d done somethin’ good?
His sword slammed into Keith’s once more, his free hand coming up to grab Keith’s wrist and shove him bodily backward.
If only she kent…
He smacked the flat of his sword hard against Keith’s shoulder, dodged a kick, and whirled around until he was behind the man again.
If Agnes had any idea what sort of monster she had chosen to involve herself with, she wouldn’t have tried to embrace him. She would have run as fast and as far from this castle, and him, as she could, straight back to the border and onward without bothering to look back.
Bony knuckles skimmed Gordon’s cheek, and he blinked in surprise at the faint tingle of pain.
He had known that the lass was going to be trouble, and this just proved it. If he couldn’t concentrate on a simple duel with a man he’d fought a thousand times before because of her, then that was a problem.
Spurred on to finish this fight without embarrassing himself in front of the young men who looked up to him as their Laird and commander, Gordon glanced at Keith. He noticed the ripple in Keith’s abdomen, the slight twist of his hip, and saw the kick before it arrived.
He grabbed Keith’s ankle and pushed upward with all of his might. His man-at-arms’ eyes flew wide in alarm as all hope of balance was snatched away from him.
Keith fell to the ground with a hefty thud and groaned, winded.
Using the opportunity, Gordon stood over him, one foot pressed on the wrist of Keith’s sword-arm, and asked, “Do ye yield?”
Keith bucked a little, as if trying to test how pinned he was. Then, with a sigh and a weary grin, he nodded. “Aye, I yield.”
Gordon released the pressure on the man’s wrist and reached a hand down to help him up.
“Do ye feel better now?” Keith asked wryly, dusting himself off.
In truth, Gordon did. He was breathing hard, his blood pumping, his muscles warmed and loosened, his mind not quite quietened but not as loud as it had been before.
“Aye,” he replied.
Keith chuckled. “Good. Glad I could be of use to ye.” He turned, gesturing to the soldiers who had all been standing around, watching. “Enough of yer gawpin’. Get back to yer drills, before I have to fetch me whip.”
The men hurried into the yard and resumed their training, some sparring, some practicing with a wooden post, some working on their precision with a bow and arrow, while a select few practiced with the small quantity of rifles in the clan’s arsenal.
Despite his lighthearted nature, Keith never trifled when it came to the men under his command. It was one of the reasons the Buchlann army was one of the finest in the Highlands, as skilled in stealth and ambush as they were in facing the enemy on a battlefield.
Gordon and Keith wandered off to the water barrels at the side of the yard and splashed the sweat from their bodies before leaning against the fence to let their skin dry.
“So, who’s the lass, and why did she make ye want to cover me in bruises this mornin’?” Keith asked, smiling. “Is that bairn yers?”
Gordon grimaced. “Nay, the bairn isnae mine. And the lass… She’s a Sassenach in need of protection, who happened to get through one of yer guards last night. Walked right into the castle grounds and then climbed through me window.”
“An English lass?” Keith straightened up, his humor vanishing. “Which guard? I’ll have him whipped right away, me Laird.”
“I thought ye might be able to figure that out,” Gordon replied. “It was one of the guards at the gates.”
Keith clicked his tongue in consternation. “I ken she’s a pretty thing, but the lads ken nae to be fooled by that. Och, I cannae be havin’ this. Why did ye nae wake me up last night so I could interrogate her?”
“Because she was scared enough,” Gordon answered.
He thought of how he must have appeared to her in the dark of that barrack room where he slept more often than in his fine bedchamber.
She had been scared; he had felt it radiating off her.
Yet, she had shown courage that not many possessed, holding her ground in the most dangerous of situations.
All for the sake of that smiling baby. A mother’s strength, a mother’s bravery, and Agnes wasn’t even a mother.