A Meeting Amongst the Willows

1380

Doune Castle, Scotland.

Marjory waited until the guards changed shifts before slipping out the postern door.

She’d paid attention for days, knowing that she would only have a short window of time to move unseen.

And now the moment had arrived.

Picking up her skirts, she hurried along the path beyond the gate. Halfway down, she glanced over her shoulder, where Doune Castle loomed overhead. Its walls glowed gold in the late afternoon sun. But, at present, there were no sentries on the walls to spy her.

A grin tugged at her lips.

She couldn’t believe she was doing this.

Her stomach clenched then, excitement sliding into nervousness.

If Captain Drummond noticed her absence, those flinty grey eyes would pin her to the ground—and she’d find herself confessing everything. Aye, her father’s captain had that effect on her.

One she didn’t understand.

Fortunately, Graeme Wallace didn’t unnerve her so.

The opposite, in fact.

They’d seen each other at clan gatherings a handful of times over the years, had even conversed, albeit briefly. She’d never forgotten the dark-haired warrior with an easy smile and warm peat-brown eyes. And then, at the Summer Games just a month earlier, she’d watched, enraptured, as he’d won contest after contest.

To her joy, he’d approached her during the revelry afterward and offered her a cup of wine.

They’d spoken at length that day, the rest of the crowd fading as they stared into each other’s eyes. Unfortunately, her father had ruined everything. He’d snarled at Graeme before dragging her away to where her mother and younger sisters sat on the edge of the revelry.

She’d been bitterly disappointed, had thought that was the end of it—until the message.

Graeme had acted boldly indeed, using a maid to deliver word. She’d been shocked, a little scandalized at first, until the thrill of it had caught fire.

He’d reached out to her, and she’d answer.

His instructions were clear. She was to slip from the castle, just after the guards changed shift for the afternoon on the first Saturday of August. He’d be waiting for her at the bend of the River Teith, east of Doune Castle, where a growth of willows formed a screen from prying eyes.

Such a meeting was illicit. But that had only made Marjory want it more. Finally, she’d have the chance to talk to him without interruption. To flirt, laugh, and be reckless together.

Life at Doune could be so dull. Her mother and sisters spent their days talking of nothing but weaving and embroidery, and her father—Robert Stewart, Duke of Albany—was a cold, dour man whose character seemed to permeate the castle walls. She just wanted to live—to be noticed.

Marjory quickened her step.

Her slippered feet crunched on pebbles, and the rush of water filled her ears, accompanied by the whispering of willows. This time of day, the world was dozing, but Marjory was wide awake—each sense sharp.

Further down the path, she passed the mill, where the wooden wheel slowly turned. The miller and his wife would be hard at work inside.

 Marjory hurried on. She couldn’t risk anyone seeing, let alone thwarting, her.

A short while later, she reached the meeting spot. She’d expected to find Graeme waiting. But when she ducked through the curtain of bright-green willow branches, the small space beyond was empty.

Surprised, she halted there and glanced around.

Had she got the day wrong? Or the time? Maybe this wasn’t the right place.

She checked her rising panic.

No, she’d got all of it right. She just needed to be patient.

The trouble was, Marjory had never been good at waiting—a shortcoming her mother always chided her over.

Glancing down, she smoothed the skirts of her favourite sky-blue surcote. She hoped Graeme liked it,

Her pulse fluttered, nerves resurfacing. Where is he?

The scuff of a boot made her whirl around. A moment later, a tall, broad-shouldered man with wavy black hair ducked into her hiding place.

Graeme Wallace straightened up. “Good day, Lady Marjory.” He flashed her a grin then, revealing a couple of missing teeth.

Marjory stared up at the warrior. Somehow, she remembered him as being more handsome. Why hadn’t she noticed the missing teeth or how close-set his eyes were? Today, there was a coarseness to his face she hadn’t marked before either.

Her belly tightened.

Maybe her mind had played tricks on her. Maybe she’d been so impressed by his performance in the Games that she’d been blind to all else.

Don’t be a shallow goose, she chided herself. A few physical imperfections don’t matter.

No, they didn’t. He was still the most exciting man she’d ever met.

Graeme stepped forward and took hold of her hand. “I have been impatient for this day, lass,” he said, his voice lowering intimately.

Marjory’s pulse quickened.

What was supposed to happen now?

“As have I,” she admitted, even as her cheeks warmed. “My father cut off our last conversation. I apologize for his rudeness.”

“He was just protecting ye,” Graeme replied, smiling. “A lass as bonnie as ye draws too many eyes.”

The warmth in her cheeks increased. She didn’t want the eyes of many men on her—just his.

Graeme’s gaze roamed across her face. “Come … let us walk.”

She tensed. “Is that wise? Someone might see us.”

“There’s no one about at this hour,” he assured her, looping his arm through hers. “The path along the river is pleasant.”

Marjory let him draw her forward, yet as they stepped out from the curtain of willows, she felt exposed. If any servants ventured down here and saw them, they’d go straight to her father.

Once they were on the path, Graeme led her east. The waters of the Teith bubbled and eddied next to them. A soft breeze tickled their cheeks.

“What have ye been up to since our meeting last month?” she asked after a brief pause.

“Training … gathering allies.”

She cut him a curious look. “It sounds as if ye are preparing for something.”

He smiled again, and this time, the expression seemed a trifle wolfish. “Aye, lass … something big.”

He quickened his pace then, and Marjory found herself nearly running to keep up with his long stride. When he’d suggested a walk, she’d imagined a gentle stroll, not this march.

“Wait,” she panted. “Slow down.”

“Can’t do that.” He cast her a long look then, his peat-dark eyes hooding.

Her step faltered. “Why not?”

“Others are waiting … we’ve got a long journey ahead.”

She sucked in a breath. “What?”

“We’re leaving, lass. Now.”

“No!” Marjory tugged hard at his arm and dug her heels into the dirt, yet he continued to tow her forward.

Cursing, she kicked him in the shins. A hiss of pain sliced through the bubbling of the river. She turned to flee, but he grabbed her.

Yanking her around so her back was pressed up against him, he slapped a rough hand over her mouth.

“I said we’re leaving.”

Marjory squirmed in his grip, kicking and clawing, but it was like trying to move an oak, and the hand covering her mouth also pressed against her nose, cutting off her breathing.

She went wild then, uncaring of whether he hurt her.

Graeme intended to steal her away—whether she was willing or not. Why?

She had to get free.

Heedless of her violent struggles, he dragged her with him down the dirt path.

Her ears were beginning to ring now.

Hades. He was smothering her.

And then, suddenly, he wasn’t.

His grip on her turned painful for an instant before slackening. And then it fell away entirely.

Gasping, Marjory lurched forward out of his grasp, collapsing to her knees onto the dirt. Heaving in lungfuls of air, she scrambled away, uncaring of the stains that would mark her fine surcote. Such things seemed frivolous now.

She was frivolous and foolish, lured by the promise of excitement and romance.

Whipping around, she braced herself to fight Graeme off.

And she would. She’d claw his eyes out if he tried to grab her again.

But the warrior wasn’t focused on her. Instead, he’d sunk to his knees. A steel blade, its tip coated in crimson blood, protruded from his neck.

His mouth opened and closed, yet only a strangled sound came out. His eyes drew impossibly wide, and then they rolled back in his head.

A big man clad in a heavy mail hauberk stood behind him, with cool grey eyes and pale hair cropped against his scalp.

Relief washed over Marjory, weakening her knees.

Captain Harris Drummond.

Yanking his dirk free savagely, Drummond let Graeme slump to the ground.

The warrior lay there, twitching, his blood pooling in the earth.

Marjory swallowed hard, her pulse hammering in her ears. She’d never seen a man die before. It was messy. Brutal.

Relief slammed into her then, and she raised her gaze to find the captain staring at her, jaw tight.

“What took ye so long?” she gasped. The question was blunt, yet shock tore the words from her.

“Did he hurt ye?” His powerful baritone shivered through the air.

Marjory rubbed at her bruised hand before shaking her head. “How did ye …” she began, her voice faltering. “How did ye know … that we were here?”

His stone-hewn face grew even more severe. Drummond might have been an attractive man, for he had well-cut features and a strong jaw, but his expression was usually so harsh that few people likely noticed.

“I saw ye leave the castle,” he replied gruffly. His gaze flicked over her, assessing. “I followed ye.”

Her belly hardened. So much for thinking she’d slipped away unseen—although it was just as well.

The captain stepped over Graeme then and bent at the hip, lowering a hand to her. “Come. Let’s get ye back inside.”

Her heart kicked. “He was trying to steal me away.”

“Aye … he has a band of men waiting, just east of here.” His smoke-coloured eyes glinted. “There are plenty who resent yer father’s wealth and power … those who’d wield ye as a weapon against him.”

Heat flushed over Marjory. They planned to ransom me? Graeme had used her, right from the beginning.

What an idiot she was.

Reaching up, she took the captain’s hand. It was strong and warm, swallowing hers. And yet, unlike Graeme’s grip—his wasn’t bruising, but firm and steady. Protective. That surprised her. She’d always thought of Drummond as a bit of a brute. For years now, he’d been her father’s right hand. Silent and intimidating. The duke’s iron fist.

And yet, just as well he’d been paying attention. If he hadn’t seen her slip out the postern door, Graeme would have taken her.

“Thank ye, Captain,” she said huskily, letting him draw her to her feet.

Drummond took hold of her arm, and then they were moving down the path toward the castle. “Ye put yerself at great risk today, Lady Marjory.”

She glanced up at him, her pulse skittering. “We don’t have to tell my father about this … do we?”

Drummond’s gaze narrowed. “Ye want me to lie to him?”

She stumbled over a tree root then and would have fallen if the captain hadn’t caught her, hauling her upright once more. Heat flushed over her. “Aye … please.”

Drummond drew to a halt on the path, staring down at her.

Likewise, she gazed up at him, imploring. They both knew how harsh her father was—what would happen if he discovered how recklessly she’d acted. He’d lock her away in her bower until Yule.

“Very well,” Drummond said after a pause. His gaze held hers, unreadable now. “But ye’ll not be slipping out of my sight again, Lady Marjory. That’s a promise.”