Chapter 26
It was no coincidence that Gordon had not seen anything but a glimpse of Agnes for the remainder of the week. He was no fool; he knew she was actively avoiding him and making no secret of that fact.
What he didn’t know was whether she was staying away to punish him, to spare herself, or because he had carved a chasm so deep between them that she had no further desire to be anywhere near him… or if it was perhaps a combination of all three.
“Lookin’ forward to the cèilidh, me Laird?” Keith asked with a knowing smirk as they dried off in the bathhouse beside the training yard.
The two men had sparred so fiercely and so relentlessly that time had slipped away from them, the pair still fighting as afternoon had faded into early evening.
It was only the lack of light that had stopped them, although Gordon might have argued that it was his final blow to Keith’s neck with the blunted practice sword that had actually ended the fight.
“What do ye think?” Gordon muttered, pulling on his rough-spun shirt.
“I think a man spars another man until both have sweated away half their weight and are covered head to toe in bruises because he’s overjoyed by the notion,” Keith quipped.
Gordon rolled his eyes. “Ye’re an idiot.”
“Aye, perhaps, but I’m nae wrong.” Keith belted his kilt. “I, on the other hand, am very much lookin’ forward to a reel or two. It’d be nice to remember that lasses exist out there in the wide world. The lads havenae talked about anythin’ else since ye announced it.”
“Och, because they daenae sneak out to the villages when they’re supposed to be asleep in the barracks?” Gordon tutted under his breath. “Daenae forget, nothin’ happens in this castle without me kennin’ about it.”
Keith chuckled. “Aye, but at the cèilidh, they willnae have to sneak. They can just dance with a lass. I cannae wait.” He paused. “Do ye think people will come?”
“I couldnae tell ye,” Gordon replied as he belted his own kilt into place. “Some lairds will be there, but as for an array of lasses for ye all to gawp at? Yer guess is as good as mine.”
Tired of the cèilidh conversations, for he had heard enough of it from Iona and Marcus, he wished his man-at-arms a good night and headed back across the now-empty training yard.
Some yawning men were retiring to the barracks for the night, while others rubbed bleary eyes and made their way to the battlements.
The castle was always protected by someone, no matter the time of day or night, though he had taken pains to remind them all of the consequences if anyone else managed to slip through the guard unnoticed.
The one who had allowed Agnes in was still cleaning latrines as punishment.
What would I be doin’ now if he hadnae let her in?
Not much, he wagered. He would have his peace and his solitude, which he had thought that he wanted for such a long time.
He walked in the direction of the castle proper, his muscles sore, his bones protesting, so fatigued that his mind couldn’t possibly fixate on Agnes tonight. Not in a way that would deny him another night of good rest, at least.
The hallways were as quiet as ever as he made his way through, headed in the direction of his study to look over a few of the RSVPs before he retired for the night.
But as he wandered past the door to the library, he noticed a crack of amber light spilling out, and a soft, sweet voice faintly reached his ears.
“Thou fair-hair’d angel of the evening. Now, whilst the sun rests on the mountains, light thy bright torch of love; thy radiant crown put on, nd smile upon our evening bed!
Smile on our loves, and while thou drawest the blue curtains of the sky, scatter thy silver dew on every flower that shuts its sweet eyes in timely sleep… ”
It wasn’t a poem he recognized, but Agnes spoke it so well, so ardently, that it somehow felt familiar.
“Let thy west wind sleep on the lake,” she continued.
“Speak silence with thy glimmering eyes, and was the dusk with silver. Soon, full soon, dost thou withdraw; then the wolf rages wide, and then the lion glares through the dun forest: the fleeces of our flocks are cover’d with thy sacred dew: protect them with thine influence. ”
Gordon waited to see if she was done. When she didn’t speak again, he pushed the door wider and stepped inside.
There in the apricot light of the fireplace, Agnes sat in the comfortable reading chair with Lizzy in her arms and that fox cub at her feet, both baby and animal staring at her adoringly.
Gordon could understand the impulse, enchanted by what he had just heard.
Agnes glanced up, her eyes flying wide.
“I didnae want to disturb ye,” he offered, a note of apology in his voice. “But I was passin’ by and heard that poem. It is so familiar to me, but I cannae figure out why.”
He glanced at the book in her hands, but the light was too low to read the title on the spine.
“William Blake,” she said tightly, closing the book. “I found it in one of your bookcases.”
“Are ye fond of Mr. Blake?”
She gave a small shrug. “Sometimes.”
“The bairns seem to like it.” He nodded toward the baby and the cub, then noticed the time. “Should they nae be abed by now? Or is this ye tryin’ to make them sleepy?”
An odd look fell across Agnes’s face, her gaze flitting to the door.
“Truth be told, I am hiding from Iona. I know that she will be waiting for me in my chambers, and… and… and I simply cannot discuss gowns anymore. I cannot try on any more dresses. I shall go mad if I do, but she is so happy that I dare not dismay her.”
Her honesty disarmed him for a moment, a smirk lifting his lips before he could prevent it.
So, he was not the only one who had been trying to fend off Iona’s aggressive enthusiasm over the past days. Fortunately for him, however, he did not have to concern himself with matters of fashion.
“Ye cannae fall asleep here,” he told her, walking over. “Yer back will ache if ye wake up in that chair.”
She blushed a rather lovely shade of pink, though the hue was not quite as deep as it had been on the night he forgot himself. That was a color he would have done anything to see again.
“It is my hope that she will give up before long and I can sneak back into my chambers,” she explained.
He nodded and sat down on the floor, right beside the baby fox. Snout leaped into his lap and curled up in the well of his crossed legs.
Gordon did not have the heart to evict the tiny creature. Instead, he stroked the cub’s soft fur.
“Read somethin’ else,” he requested. “It’s been a while since I heard yer voice.”
Her brow furrowed. “And whose fault is that?”
“Ye’ll have to tell me.”
Her frown deepened, her lips puckering. “If you want to hear my voice, then you should not have asked for distance.”
Shaking her head and muttering something he couldn’t quite decipher, she opened the book again and began to read, regardless of what she had just said.
“Little Lamb who made thee, dost thou know who made thee, gave thee life and bid thee feed. By the stream and o’er the mead, gave thee clothing of delight, softest clothing wooly bright; gave thee such a tender voice, making all the vales rejoice!
” She paused, glancing at him, blushing more furiously.
“Little Lamb who made thee. Dost thou know who made thee. Little Lamb I’ll tell thee, Little Lamb I’ll tell thee!
He is called by thy name, for he calls himself a Lamb: He is meek, and he is mild, he became a little child: I a child and thou a lamb, we are called by his name.
Little Lamb, God bless thee. Little Lamb, God bless thee. ”
Gordon nodded slowly. “I liked the other one better.”
“Yes, well, I am not reading for you,” she remarked as Lizzy suddenly started to fuss. Her chubby little hands reached down toward Gordon, her body straining away from her aunt, her whines waking up the cub.
Instinct compelled Gordon to reach for her, though it was Agnes who released her into his hold.
“What’s all that grousin’ for, eh?” he asked, cradling her against his chest. “Did ye want yer aunt to read more poetry for ye?”
Lizzy ceased her whining and grasped curiously for his hair.
“Nay, ye cannae pull,” he warned with a smile, removing her hand before she could yank out some strands.
She wriggled in his arms and settled for a handful of his shirt instead, her chubby little legs kicking wildly. And as she did her strange little dance, she began to babble, little bursts that sounded like, “Da… Da… Da… Da.”
Gordon froze, a sharp pain shooting through his chest, right where his heart used to be, piercing straight through the high, thick walls he had built around it.
Deep down, he knew it was just the gibberish of a child who had not yet learned how to speak and had no notion of what noises she could make, but his heart wasn’t listening to logic.
His eyes stung as he stared down at her, his chest suddenly tight.
It wasn’t hard to imagine a different red-haired child safe in his arms, calling him Dada, with an entire future stretching out ahead of them.
It didn’t take any imagination at all, for at such a young age, there wasn’t much difference between the appearance of a son or a daughter.
But that was taken from me, little one. He was taken from me.
He held the baby tighter for a moment and inhaled the sweet, milky scent of her tousled hair until he thought he might shatter if he didn’t let her go.
Clearing his throat, he handed the baby back to Agnes, who was eyeing him strangely.
Carefully plucking the fox cub out of his lap and setting it down on the hearth rug, he rose to his feet and muttered something about distracting Iona. That done, with no idea if he had been coherent at all, he left the library as quickly as possible.
There was only one way to fix this… sentimentality.
His tower was calling to him.