The Reiver

Copyright B.Dian Addair 2007 Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Author. First e published 2007 For other books and stories by this author visit the website www.evesromance.com

THE REIVER Eve Asbury ENGLAND…. NOTRHUMBERLAND

Gillian La Roux stuttered in shock at her Aunt Lucia. ”Please, Aunt, can you not speak to him on my behalf?” Those eyes were not unsympathetic. “I’m sorry, my dear. I have no sway with George, and the king has approved the match. It is why you were brought here.” “I hoped I heard wrong, when Uncle said so. But… I was told it ‘twas because you are my mother’s sister, my only living kin, that I could-” “Gillian,” The woman came to her, taking her by the shoulders. “Men will lie, yes, even the king will lie. Do you think I would have wed a man so cruel as your uncle, given the choice? No. Your mother, Eleanor was fortunate to have that, to choose a wonderful man like your father and, it is rare that a woman ever gets to chose.” “But I’m a woman of property in my own right!” “You are but ten and four Gillian. And George has taken the measure to assure you are to wed Victor.” The older woman’s eyes were damp. “Take some comfort in the fact that my eldest son is neither as cruel as his father, and brother, nor will he live long.” Gillian found no comfort in that. “But the Earl will not stop there, will he?” Lucia let her hands fall and walked over to the slotted windows where the early morning fog proceeded another gray day. The fortress, like all boarder castles, was a mighty stronghold, with towers and battlements that had withstood many years of war with Scots. Castles and towers were thick on both sides of the borderlands, the clans on the other side, Armstrong’s, Grahams, Routledges and the like, whose long tradition of Reiving and warring amid their own. it made them powerful and ruthless enemies, and

made the wardens of the march necessary in the first place. Though the enforcement of the kings laws were supposedly being reinforced the incursions and disorder, the lawlessness continued in some sense. Barons, Earls, others who lusted for greed and power; were lured to the vastly dangerous stretch of land by the promise of position, titles, free land. For George DeWarren, unchecked freedom, to create his own little kingdom within the walls of DeWarren castle, and connected farms. and, toward any unfortunate soul to fall within his reach. The son of a traitor, George had been nurtured on the bitter taste of exclusion from all that he craved, under the shadow of disgrace. Fortunately for those like him, the political climate of England changed, and his well-connected mother had him fostered and eventually knighted. Though much intrigue and bribery he found himself close enough within the king’s sphere to redeem his family honor, and gradually become thought of as a most loyal and sacrificing vassal. In the passage of time, with his goal always before him, George looked for a foothold to gain him property and power, and so chose the lawless borderlands to grow his set of power. A man who learned to wear whatever mask necessary, he weaved strong associations with the Boarder Barons and cast his net wide enough on both sides, until he was secure in the knowledge that he would never be the fool his father was. Neither the King nor the Privy council questioned so loyal an enforcer of justice, a man who followed the Jedhart mode of bringing hundreds of outlaws to their fitting end ―and being zealous in the eyes of those who mattered, in upholding peace and affording protection for the hamlets, villages and towns that fell within his sphere. But to those closest to him― those who saw the true face behind the mask. There was hell on earth here where the devil himself ruled with absolute authority. ~ Lucia glanced over her shoulder at her young niece, a pang of love and mingled fear in her heart. She had prayed upon her sister Eleanor’s death, that Gillian would find a position of protection at court, whereby she might escape the notice of her uncle by marriage. But George had contacts. His excursions to London and the Palace awakened his interest in the d’Ambray family, having long since used up Lucia’s impressive dowry, his insatiable greed had tried and failed before; to lure Eleanor and her merchant husband Jean La Roux into his graces. Jean, having known through letters that Lucia secreted to her sister, how craven De warren’s mind was, sought to protect his daughter in the instance of their death, and made her his heir, under the protection of the king, with whom he thought he had some influence.

Perhaps in his naiveté, Jean La Roux did not understand the fickle ways of politics and the king’s interests, which was as most leaders, money to finance wars and soldiers to fight them. In any event, he did not understand that the moment he passed, and Eleanor followed, that the ruler would take stock of his assets and like most maids of property, Gillian Le Roux became less a human and more the mortar that linked together the complex web of power, wherewith the king and his vassals solidified their relationships. The common masses and peasants were merely taxes and rents and labor and bodies. But the nobility and gentry, the men of influence and affluence, were reared on the reward system— and no one knew this as well as George De warren when he saw his niece by chance at court, and was reminded of her wealth. Now Lucia, not aged in body, but in cynicism, in the truth of her lot, found herself more torn apart than she dare show, that her beloved sister’s only blood would be ensnared in her husband’s plans. She spoke, both for herself, and for the young woman who stood so hopeful a few feet away. Perhaps Lucia thought, it was better that she be hated for ripping that veil of innocence away, than later hated for giving no warning, no enlightenment at all. She began to speak… “When your mother and I were presented at court, your uncle was already growing deep roots here on the boarder.” She went on to explain George’s power and influence, the means in which he gained it. “I was just your age, only fourteen, and Eleanor has told you, that our father had us educated well? After my mother’s death we’d spent as much time in France as traveling with him on his voyages. He was part scholar, part merchant, and though he needed to make his living, did so when he wed into the family whose wineries led to his eventual overtaking of selling it. Due in part to his shrewdness of politics, he made strong connections here in England. For some reason, fear perhaps, and France’s own troubles, he purchased an estate and settled Eleanor and myself here under the guidance of the countess Pemberton. Not a bad guardian, but one unfortunately for us, who was most often in London and loved nothing more than the intrigue and affairs of those who were in constant attendance.” Gillian nodded. “I know this. My mother told me that it was the countess who pressured father to approve your betrothal to uncle.” Lucia smiled dryly. “There was no question of it, my dear. George had his eye on Eleanor and she being the braver of us, had turned him down and dared to seek protection with your father, whom we’d met through our own, as they were both merchants. He wed Eleanor and I was the appeasement for George’s wrath, and the king— who was not inclined to accept the marriage of Eleanor and La Roux until a near fortune had changed hands.” “I’m sorry.”

Lucia shrugged. “I was innocent despite my learned mind. I had a sense that George wasn’t what he seemed. But it wouldn’t have mattered what I felt or thought, because father died, and as a ward, I found myself wed with haste and brought here. “ Her beautiful face tightened. “Introduced to hell upon my wedding night, and learning rather quickly that aside from my wealth, and the producing of George’s sons, I am in no more respect or seen in any light above the meanest servant. “ She sighed. “I loved your mother. Through great risk I poured my terrors, heartaches and fears out to her. I am in no more a position to save you now, than I was my own self. But I will do what I can to help you adjust and cope.” ~ Gillian viewed the trim figure, the beautiful ruby and black gown, and silken blond hair that was intricately weaved with ribbon. Her aunt was beautiful, perhaps more-so than her own mother, who had been called handsome, but was most noted for her zest for life and joyful disposition, loved as she had been, by Jean and traveling the world for most of her life. The contrast of the women struck her, seeing her aunt Lucia consigned to this fortress, these lands for so many years, and, bound to the man that Gillian had met when he collected her―and disliked upon sight. It was cruel fate indeed, and one it seemed, that she would share. Inwardly trembling with the stark truth of her circumstance, Gillian had been given little information by the boarder Earl, who had seldom rode in the coach, but rather on horse back, with a heavy guard and intimidating force of men. She had not known herself to be given to her cousin, Victor De Warren then, but been under the misconception, thanks to the Countess, that she was going to the home of a loving aunt who lived much the same status and social life that the countess enjoyed. By way of talk at the posting Inns, and accommodating gentry, and through her young maid, Jeanne, she had grown wide-eyed upon discovering where DeWarren castle lay. As ignorant of Reivers and boarder wars as most young ladies whose time was consumed by maidenly arts and domestic and religious instruction, she had been sick with fear, though understanding the reasons for so numerous a party from her uncle’s vassals. The talk of lawlessness and raids, the frightening tales of kidnapping, murder, pillaging… It was not until now, two weeks later, that her uncle had given her the truth. More an order; and assuredly, as they had broken their fast last eve, a pre arranged wedding was set already, with all necessary legality seen to… without the least concern for Gillian wishes Which brought her to her aunt’s chambers in hopes of some way of escaping such a fate. It was not victor Dewarren himself, nor marriage that she feared, though she would have liked to make her own choice, control her own life. As she’d

been brought up with freedom and respect, the whole of the prospect repelled her. But she was hardly given time to digest the facts. Her uncle intended the union to take place in a week. Victor, in the times the family was assembled in the hall for dining―the only time a pretence of being family was kept and had only caught her notice because he was so thin and obviously not well. That he lived in fear of his father and brother Perrin was unquestionable. The younger son by one year, not only looked like his father, but also was of the same ruthless character. A character she was coming to know thorough the terror of the castle servants, the sights outside her chamber window, of DeWarren and Perrin humiliating and abusing the vassals under them— and her aunt’s reserve since her arrival, which she now knew to be that same intimidation and fear of George DeWarren. Gillian said uselessly, “I don’t want to live here.” “None of us do…well, save Perrin, who though of my blood and body is as corrupt as his father.” Her aunt shook her head. “It’s done, Gillian, and if I could undo it, I would. “ Her aunt came to her and touched her cheek. “Even life in hell has some small freedoms that keep us sane. I can’t change what George has done, but if you must wed one of my sons, victor is not likely to make it worse for you.” She touched at curl on her niece’s shoulder. “He’s always been sickly.” She appeared to debate and then confessed, “My husband beat me sorely when I carried Victor, and I had him early.” Gillian’s eyes filled with tears, she covered her aunt’s hand. “I’m frightened.” Their hands dropped, they stared at each other for long moments. Lucia whispered finally, “Give yourself time to comprehend it. George is off for a few days to Yorkshire. Take one of the horses and get away from the castle. The guards will be close enough should anything happen. Though there were times, when I first came I would have rather risked my fate with an outlaw than be behind these walls. “ Lucia laughed without humor but rather bitterness. “I would still let down the drawbridge for George’s enemies given the chance.” “Can’t you just…leave?” “And go where, with what? George has spies, and he knows this country far better than I do? Is being beaten and abused by him any worse than I’d get for being his wife? The Revivers and clan chiefs know and loathe him. They have a right to bear him hatred. He delights in torture and makes a mockery of justice. He’s hated by many and feared by not a few. Don’t you think too, that I plotted and dreamed and prayed? I did. But this is my prison, and though I feel for them I’m not sorry that George’s mistresses and whores take his perverse lusts from me. I can’t bear him anymore children, and he’s used up my dowry. No doubt when his mind twists to it, he plots to poison me, so that he can wed another helpless female…”

“Dear— God…” “Aye. You should pray. But you should also face the reality, so that you can save your sanity at least.” Gillian swallowed the lump that seemed to grow and choke her. “So, he weds me to victor, and when victor dies he has my inheritance… and-—?” “I don’t know. If he’d wanted you for Perrin, that match would have been made. George has always lusted and envied Sir Arlington, who is another powerful man in the region, he has a young daughter, twelve or so that George wants for Perrin. It’s well known that Arlington hates him, but that never stopped my husband before. He’ll find the means.” “And I shall be as trapped as you, destitute and without a place to run, or means to survive should I make it to safety.” “That is the stark reality, Gillian. The wisest course is to know your enemy, in this case, your uncle. He will not relent on this union. Do not incur his wrath by suggesting it. “ She shivered. “I’ve spent a week in the dungeons and more than that tied to the bed or beaten bloody. Save yourself the pain and do not defy him. Even the priests will not advise a woman to rebel. Indeed, two that ran off were burned for witchcraft, though in the village the truth was known. Men only, hold life and death in their hands. You are simply facing an eventual reality anyway.” Gillian, frightened anew by the added bluntness, hugged her aunt and left the solar for her own chambers― feeling the weight and oppression heavy upon her. What world had she come to? What insanity was this, that one man could rule without censure? It wasn’t the life her mother prepared her for. It wasn’t the fate that her father had dreamed of, and though she stayed in the background at court, it wasn’t a reality she’d known existed. ~

CHAPTER TWO

By late morning Gillian had taken at least part of her aunt’s advice and ridden out, away from the imposing and oppressive fortress. She felt as if she could breathe finally, in spite of the dreary gray of the sky that foretold rain by evening. The castle guards could see her from the towers. But she did have to

think, to try and quell the panic and fear that stirred in her breast. Her parents did not raise her to be without voice, or thought, or opinion, and they did not raise her to submit to a tyrant. Yet the king himself had supposedly sealed this union, and even she, could not defy that. Leading the white mare by one of the streams, she felt a dozen eyes from the guards atop the wall. Given that she had heard cries and the lash of the whip, seen the mockery on Perrin’s long, cruel, features— when he’d stripped men down and had them groveling for mercy, she supposed their diligence was out of fear of their master. Seeing that men had more recourse, she couldn’t understand why they tolerated such things. The servants, aye, she comprehended their desperation. These were hard times, harder still for those at the mercy of their overseer. She could now associate the noises she heard that first night, laying in her chamber and she did not think that groveling nude in the dirt was the least of acts her Uncle and his son forced on some of the youngest men. Gillian shuddered, recalling the slave markets around the world when she’d gone ashore with her parents as a very young child. She recalled in some of the most civilized societies seeing the degradation and base way the sellers handled them. Most times a bazaar or market was a world of excitement with vivid sights and sounds. But she’d gotten old enough to understand the darker side, to see the shackled children and women, and men of all races and mixed between, she’d known herself to be blessed. With her mother’s council, she’d come to realize that neither moral nor religious law could stop the evil that allowed men to treat their brothers as animals. Indeed, many of the religious sect held slaves themselves, so there was no thought given to the unfortunate who found themselves in that circumstance. But here in England, in this place where riches and status was displayed inside a magnificent stronghold, for a man to treat his flesh and blood, the mother of his children… and those put under his charge, with such cold blooded brutality― It was a another shock. And as her aunt said, a reality she needed to accept. ~ Gillian stood by an arched stone bridge, watching though not really seeing the water move toward and flow under it. Tears laying wet on her cheeks, seeking some soothing in them, some ease in the tightness of her heart, and the fear that threatened to strangle it. She idly glanced under the cool shade of the bridge, on the opposite side, and after staring some time, her gaze adjusted to the form lying there. Heart suddenly jerking, instinct led her to peek at the distant towers, before she looked at the sprawled male form again. A river of bright blood flowed from his shoulder and side into the clear water.

“Sir? Sir, can you hear me?” She dare not yell, but made her tone as loud as possible. “Aye, lass, and the guards too, if ye keep that up. ” He groaned slightly and slid higher upon the crushed stone, under the bridge. “If yer going to give the cry, lass, be about it, I’ve lost most of my blood already, and dunna relish letting the English have the rest.” She looked at his dirty boots, knee high and folded down, some sort of leather breeches and a dingy shirt, with wide sleeves under a hip length tunic. He had a strip of plaid half under him, half over his shoulder, and a wild mane of dirty auburn hair, a larger, taller, more muscular man, than her uncle and cousin judging from the dark sinew of his strong throat. “You’re a Reiver?” “A highlander,” he corrected grunting, then agreed, “An outlaw, aye.” He seemed amused despite his obvious pain. “I’ve given ye a weapon, lass. As weak as a bairn I am, and ‘twould take the least effort to drown me in yon stream.” “If you mean me no harm, I cannot count you my enemy.” She shook her head. “But I have some talent for healing. However, I can feel my uncle’s guards watching me.” “Ye be of the devil’s blood then?” “Nay.” “Aye. DeWarren is the spawn of Satan, if there ever was one.” Gillian agreed silently, but said, “I’ve only arrived here two weeks past. MY mother’s sister is my blood kin. I didn’t even know him. My uncle, until he came for me.” A dark hand pushed some of that tangle away from the face, a weathered one though young, twenty at the most, and even in the shadow she could see misty gray eyes between dark auburn lashes. “Ye hae my sympathy, then, given the tender look to ye, I expect yer to spawn more demons through that bastard Perrin.” “No. Victor.” She wet her lips, her eyes worriedly going to the flow of blood and the darker that had soaked in. “Were you Reiving on these lands?” “Aye. The devil ha the most prime stock.” He laughed and then hissed through strong white teeth. “But ‘twas a farmer who had a good aim wie an axe that brought me low.” She had a sudden thought, to lead the mare down to drink, that way she could use the horse as a shield between herself and the guard, and see what she could do for the man. Her riding boots were slick soled, with supple leather tops. She let the skirt of her habit trail heedlessly as she came closer to him, and let the reins go slack. The horse was 17 hands so being only a bit over five feet herself, Gillian made use of that bulk, turning now to look at the man who was less than a foot away.

“Och, but yer more tender than I thought.” She raised her brow but noted that his face was pale and strained. She could only admire his courage. Aye, He was around twenty-one or two. He was also armed. A pistol strap could be seen under the edge of the tartan and a short sword on his hip. But Gillian came toward him slowly and squatted on the uninjured side. She glanced at his face to find him watching her. “The best I can do in a short time is stop the bleeding. My uncle is away, as is Perrin, but ‘tis not safe to be any closer to the castle.” She plucked at the jerkin. “I’ll have to cut this.” He moved swift, causing her to jump, but had only removed the sword from the sheath and reached to split the shoulder of the leather garment. When he’d returned the sword, she leaned nearly across him, wincing as she peeled back the leather and saw the blood sodden shirt. “Can you lean up?” He did, not without a hiss of pain. Gillian saw the slash in the garment and a gash through a slab of muscled shoulder. “This needs stitching and cleansed.” She felt her stomach flip, but pressed it down mentally. She leaned back enough to look at him, their faces close and her wavy strawberry hair sliding forward on her cheeks. “If I pad it, perhaps I can slip out again after night fall….” She shook her head even as she said it. “‘Tis too far away and you’ve lost enough blood already.” “Do what ye can, lass, I didna crawl here to die, but to wait the darkness and be on my way.” “To where?” “If I can no make the journey, there’s a Kirk for sanctuary. But Liddesdale be my destination.” She nodded and then checked again toward the castle, before half standing to tear at the hem of her chemise. After cutting a wide swath, she tore half to pad the wound and half to hold it in place. Still leaning over him she said, “Don’t let anyone bleed you. A good washing and sewing up and giving the muscle time to heal, that’s all you can do.” “My thanks, lass.” “Gillian…Gillian La Roux, ” she said softly and sat back, hearing the sigh as the mare drank her fill and lifted her head. She let her gaze scan his face and wondered at the strength of it. It was her first up close look at a highlander, a real outlaw, but strangely she did not feel the aura of evil and menace in him― that she felt around her uncle and cousin. For another strange reason, she found herself saying, “I am just discovering my uncle’s plans for me, only realizing what sort of man he is. If you must steal cattle and sheep, I advise you to avoid the temptations here, for he doesn’t treat his wife nor his men with any regard, and from my aunt’s warnings, I gather he takes pleasure in torturing Reiver captives.” “I havena been in the lowlands myself but a year. It doesna take long to hear the mon’s name along wie his reputation. “ He half smiled. “Yer uncle be

more than justice hereabouts. He and his son are known Reivers on the other side of the boarder, and nay, I dunna murder women and children, nor burn their crops as some. I hae my own reasons for getting vengeance on the likes of DeWarren, his bloody hand reaches far into the highlands. The English have murdered my kin and driven me and mine ‘til we be but a blown speck of sand in the desert. “ She saw his gray eyes darken and his semi full lips thin. “I threw my lot in with the laird of the Armstrong’s, because I hae been fostered by a kinsman to him. My Da was a tacksmen before our enemies set to drive us out… Scattered we were and thin in number, I served in France, sailed to Holland, and thought to make a fortune, to buy back what was rightfully our own―I return to find my Da breathing his last in the tollbooth, my mother dead from starvation. I canna find my brother, nor my sister Eden. And my anger has no bounds. ‘Tis a truth, I be an outlaw under the name of my birth in the highlands, long afore I was forced to flee. They hae left me nothing but my wrath and grief. I use many names now, and every one naught but a cold and rotting corpse thanks to the English.” “I’m sorry.” She was too, hearing his pain, see the mingled pain and anger, aye, oddly enough a guilt too in his eyes. He shook his head, looking over the angled bones of her face, the dewy youth and health that sat upon it. “Och, but yer a bonny young thing . ‘Tis as much a curse to know ye be in the hands of such a beast. ‘Tis well for you, that innocence sets so well upon yourself ‘til now. There be many of my kind who have known ought but hunger and poverty and ill use. “ His hand came up and touched a silken strand of her hair, letting it slide between his fingers. His voice changed, turned soft and dreamy. “Gillian Le Roux… No more than a child, and wie your kind heart shining in eyes of emerald, Guard yerself, riding alone from here on out. I hae no say over what others such as myself do, a ransom or a rape, ‘twould be a likely fate for a lone gentlewoman.” She looked toward the castle, then slid her hair free, stood and gathered the reins. “I am beginning to think my aunt is right. She said that she herself would suffer likely at the hands of uncle’s enemies. I do not fear that at the moment, so much as I do not trust these plans he has. Victor is not long to live― and what then, when my dowry is spent? I will likely end up as Aunt Lucia, a beaten and abused prisoner, or worse yet, wed time and again for his advantage.” “I hae not heard of this younger son.” “He hardly leaves the chambers. I haven’t spoken to him myself, but the king sanctioned the match.” She shuddered and looked over the high-backed saddle to the heavy clouds gathering and seeming to crouch over the castle. Her own tone reflective, “I was loved as a child and well taught. I was fed the dreams and fairy tales that all will be. I came from a place of hope, was told my husband

would love and cherish me, that my wedding night would be sacred.” Tears burned and streamed again down from her eyes. “What nightmare this has turned to be, and how horrified my poor loving parents would be, to know that for all their plans, I still fell into wicked hands.” She wiped the tears away and glanced over her shoulder to see him watching her, holding his injured shoulder and having slid higher and more sheltered for the storm to come. “What is your real name?” “Stuart McLeod.” She nodded, her eyes seeming to memorize his face. “I hope you find your kin, and that you live a long life with more joy than the pain that has passed.” His gray eyes softened. “And yerself, Gillian— would that yer young dreams hae not turned so black for ye. God’s mercy ,for the kindness ye done a stranger, a thief, an outlaw, and yer enemy.” Gillian smiled then. “Nay. No woman tells her fears and secrets to those who could use them as a weapon. I don’t know why I did to you, but you are not the kind of man my uncle is, for all you break the king’s laws. Would that I could give you half the wealth I own, I would. For I have the feeling in my heart that― I will be in want of a something mere coin cannot gain me, in the coming months.” His gaze held hers. “Yer a brave and wise lass, for all ye be a youth. Take this from a mon that has lost more than blood, and felt more than the sharp blade of an axe. Hold to yer soul and dunna let them break you. They be those of us sprouted up amid the craggy rocks, reared upon the bittersweet memories of a better time. To the body they can do much, but they’ll ne’er be a day when the highlander be broken and silent and still. “ “I can see that.” She nodded again looking over his strength and seeing his expression. “I shall make a pact with you Stuart McLeod, keep yourself alive and pray for a maiden who gave some small aide in your time of need, and I will meet my fate with thoughts of you and yours, and strive to find the spirit in me to remain unbroken.” “Aye, lass.” He nodded, holding her gaze and then looking down before tossing her the dagger. “A lock of you hair, to bind your oath.” She picked up the dagger and cut a thick long strand from under the back. The color glowed a golden red as she reached it to him. Stewart McLeod cut a strip of plaid and kissed it saying, “Keep it well hidden, lass.” “I will.” She tucked it in her bodice, and mounted, riding out of the stream and meeting the storm on her way to the castle. Somehow feeling less alone, and changed, heartened by that impulsive oath.

Chapter three Two weeks after that fateful day by the stream, Gillian sat at the Lord’s table with her ears roaring from the hundreds of guests and musicians. She’d been wed at sunrise to Victor DeWarren, a pale groom whose lank blond hair was covered by a wig and who’s wasting body seemed thinner still, in his velvets with lace spilling over his lean hands and fluffed at his throat. Her aunt performed her duties; looking lovely in deep blue and having those piles of golden locks weaved with pearls. But having talked with her over the passing days, Gillian found an echo of her own strain around those pink lips. However, she had attended every word of caution; every piece of advice from a woman who knew her husband and son’s far better than the richly dressed guests. Gillian was and had been, detached, from the moment the maids awakened her and the rituals were seen to. The gown, white satin and velvet, weighed by stones and pearls was fit for any princess or wealthy merchant’s daughter. Her hair was covered in a long lace veil, held in place by a band of gold around her head. She had suffered the night’s vigil with the priest, who reminded her of all the laws of God and man that put her in submission to those in mastership over her. She had answered those edicts expected and taught to her for so different a union and― she had shed the bulk of her tears in private, not giving her uncle the knowledge of her thoughts, allowing him to be fooled by her submissive pretences. But inside, she railed and pleaded, and went through the storms of spirit and mind, born from helplessness. Each time she looked at the head of the table, at her uncle dressed in brown velvet, wearing an amulet and many rings, she saw that long face under the wig, saw the eyes black like an abyss, so echoed in Perrin, who sat on his other side. She saw the mask come and go; as Baron’s and

Earls, Sheriff’s, more gentry and nobility were close by. It was a face of bloodless calculation when no one was looking― and it hid a mind that only God knew the darkness of. ~ Her aunt leaned over and said under the music, talk and laughter. “We will go above now, for the bedding.” She stood, her hand upon Gillian’s arm to give comfort rather than led. Gillian went, blocking out the catcalls, trying not to think on the strangers who would witness the act. That her uncle would stand witness repulsed her more than the fear of breaching. Given a few moments time in a chamber she had not entered before, Gillian focused on her aunt and not the busy maids turning down the bed, sliding open the red velvet drapes that shielded it. Her aunt was stripping her, but softly talking so that only she could hear. “Twill only take a short moment, just a stinging burn and then ‘tis over. Do not think of who is watching you, just take your mind outside your body, and it will be all right.” “I love you.” Gillian clutched those cold hands a moment. Tears stood in her aunt’s eyes. “And I you.” She kissed both cheeks and led her to the bed. Gillian at first saw in her mind’s eye what they must; A lithe form with childhood only stubbornly giving way to womanhood, a nude female with cream white skin, pale pink nipples on shallow breasts, the only shield to her womanhood a soft nest of strawberry curls between her legs. She looked straight upwards and felt the chill when the door opened, heard the whispers as Victor came to her. Her muscles tensed, panic hit her for a moment, and chills spread over her skin like quills, desiring to resist what was to come. The paler flash of white, and the colder still, form of Victor DeWarren; so thin, and face a mere blur, feverish eyes of aqua blue, showing her that he himself was distant and numbed to the performance they must give. His frame hardly weighed more than her own, and when her legs were parted she grit her teeth, blinking, feeling more burn in her tears than the swift plunge of his sex tearing through her hymen. She lost thought after that, hearing a roar of cheers, aware he moved in some vague way. She was being stood on her feet again, the sheets stained just barely, with a mere smear of pinkish watery substance, was taken away and displayed. Once more placed upon the bed, she lay counting her heartbeats and hearing her breathing, feeling the body next to her, wondering, if he would go below or sleep at her side.

The first words victor spoke to Gillian were more a wisp of air from his wasted lungs. He said them in the one breath, “I cannot give you a child as he expects, so unless you wish Perrin to supplant me in this bed, I suggest you do as my mother has done, and find a trustworthy man among the guards for a lover.” She raised up then, not so much in shock that her aunt had a lover, but that he obviously knew something she did not. “He expects me to…” “Yes. And I have hidden my condition well enough, though the females here know it, he has not guessed. “ He finally looked at her, and for the first time pity welled in Gillian. She saw that as weak, he was no more to his father than she— a means to an end, and no more loved, happy, or of hope, than the others. He may have in heath; been handsome, where his younger brother was not. He bore the color and bones of his beautiful mother, but ill heath had stripped even that. He added, “If he knew, if we do not produce a child, he will have Perrin do it, and you’ll count yourself lucky to survive. I’ve seen the scars and torn flesh from his rutting.” She was trying to gather her thoughts. “You have a woman—among the servants?” “Aye. But not often. The breaching just done, will take me weeks to recover. I, like my mother, find some softness and warmth, more from kindness than lust amid the people here. But the quacks tell me, that the poppy and other cures will take even that ability away.” “I’m sorry.” “Save that for yourself.” He looked away and sighed. “Were it not for facing perdition for self murder, I would end my useless life. Living has its own torture―nothing my father or brother does comes close to it. “ She laid her hand on his frail shoulder, feeling the dry skin and seeing the chalk white glow of it. She slid down in the bed and pulled the cover over her. “How long?” “I have a year at the most.” Gillian sighed and nodded half to herself. “I shall consider your suggestion.” He grunted and rolled to his side, coughing and wheezing before he told her, “It is amazing how strong the spirit craves to live, no matter if the existence afforded us, is more painful—and hopeless, than death.” ~ It was two weeks before Gillian identified the man who came to her aunt’s chambers, when Perrin and George were out and gone. He was discreet. It was only because she could not sleep, and was prowling the castle, that she was able to stand in the dark shadows and watch him enter Lucia’s chambers. Cloaked and hooded, she caught the merest glimpse of a handsome face

when he scratched on the door and Lucia answered. Sir Aiden Wyndham, a knight of twenty and eight, strong of body and possessing courage. He captained the guards, and she later learned, was as good as George at playing out his role. He had a head full of raven curls, a strong Roman nose and impressive chin, not a prince perhaps in looks, but a handsome warrior still. That he cared for her aunt she doubted not, for he took such risk as could not be dismissed that her face flushed from the sounds when she passed by the door, wasn’t ignored either. She took her questions to the woman herself the next day. “Let us go out into the courtyard.” Lucia, who wore a rich gown of sky blue, fetched her light cloak. From her calm voice Gillian knew she was not at all upset by the shy inquiry from her niece. Gillian followed having donned a green silk with cording and snug sleeves. She had braided her hair and wrapped it around her head, securing it like a crown. Many of the married women wore lace caps or elaborate hats and headpieces, since she could not wear her hair down, outside the bedchamber, she chose the braids, for she’d never liked her head covered save for a scarf or light hood. The usual busyness met them under the weak sun, as they walked toward the walled gardens on the side: Guards, servants, craftsmen, and squawk of chickens being readied for the evening meal. It was deceptively like any stately manor of its day, with orders and duties being carried out. Lucia stopped her by the benches, and let down her hood to gaze at Gillian. Even the weak light caught on golden strands, and the cream skin with only a few lines of strain was lustrous. She began, “Just as you’ve said victor spoke of death and life, the passions we think have been murdered when lust and violence and all mingles; can instead become more than we imagined beforehand. For it’s the soul’s way of surviving and being fed, to know true want and desire, to feel a touch that intends only your pleasure or to heal what’s broken. I did not command Aiden to me, but he cared for my poor bruises and carried me out of the dungeon that last time. Despite the difference in our ages, he is more a man than my husband in all ways. It is only because of him I live at all.” “I was not judging you,” “I know.” Her aunt took her hand as they sat side by side. She looked at the ring on Gillian’s finger, a beautiful one of ruby and onyx yet, a brand of ownership with the crest inside, and a symbol of her fate. “I wish that Victor had told me first. But he is right too, my dear, George will have Perrin fulfill the duty if you do not bear a child.” “He.. doesn’t… ah, he cannot…” “I see. Well, ‘tis no wonder for his poor body is giving out day by day, and that he consummated at all is a marvel, yet a gift from God, considering. “ “I have heard the servant girls screaming and seen them after Perrin. They

look… in horror and shock.” Gillian shuddered. “Though I cannot imagine giving myself to a stranger. I do not want to suffer that.” “No. I could, of course, send you Aiden?” “Nay. I couldn’t.” Gillian shook her head and could not help looking around for that knight, seeing him by the wall, as if he lingered to get a glimpse of his love; she looked back at her aunt. “No. You are his, and he is yours. I will not repeat the teachings against it, given that your husband taints every vow he himself spoke. “ “My God, you are so like your mother.” Lucia laughed softly and squeezed her hand. “She was so loyal and brave.” “But not so brave as you. I do not think my mother was tested, and endured what you have.” Gillian shook her head. “Would that I could face this life with half your courage, I’ll have done well.” “Thank you.” Lucia stood and turned lightly touching a drying leaf. “I thought I had lost that bravery after my stubbornness got me beaten. I fought back for awhile, saw death looming too many times. I thought I had died finally — when I realized there was no one to rescue me or help me― and no way of waking up from the nightmare. But perhaps, I have made Eleanor a little proud of me, for she used to always be the leader of us two.” “I’m sure that she is.” “And you. I weep with frustration, at not being able to help you. But stay away from your uncle and cousin, as much as you can. I’ll take you with me to see to the tenants and go to the farms. You will go mad brooding, and there’s some comfort and normalcy in fulfilling those duties. So long as you are wed to victor, and so long as he lives, George will go about his usual business and feed his power through the offices he holds― and sadly, on the flesh of those he chooses. He’s presently obsessed with getting the Arlington maid for Perrin, and though I shudder at the thought, Sir Arlington is not a fool, thus far. My hope is that he will thwart George, though we’ll likely all suffer under the wrath of it.” Gillian nodded. “He doesn’t look at me, Uncle. And Perrin, he only smiles that cold way when I have passed by him. I aim to do what it takes to keep them that way, but I am leery to involve any man under the earl, for unlike your Aiden, they may be of lesser character.” “I shall speak to him of it,” her aunt said, and motioned her to rise. “Meanwhile, we will introduce you to the tenants, and go about life as we should.” Arm in arm, they walked into the great hall, holding their secrets between them with a strange bond—that surpassed being blood kin. ~ A surreal normalcy prevailed over the month that followed. Under her

aunt’s quite command, Gillian oversaw many of the chores, and like Lucia learned to express her compassion in unspoken ways; tending the backs of beaten maids or mixing herbs and teas to treat burns and wounds, inflicted when her uncle was in a temper. In the cottages and farms she found the same weary faces and cautious eyes, but it was obvious they trusted Lucia, and in time Gillian knew, saw that she too, had none of her uncle’s cruelties. One rare day of brightest sun, Gillian watched her uncle stride across the courtyard, absent his wig, as he was apt to do formally, and having forgone his normal rich clothing for a linen shirt and plain breeches and bucked shoes. He was no softer in the bright of day than by the flickering candles and fire in the castle. The wide forehead bore a few scars and the tanned skin was oily. He had the unfortunate luck to be born with a long jaw and smaller mouth, a thin nose and straight brows over blackish eyes. She didn’t know what he was about, as her attention was moved to Perrin who swaggered out in the bloomer like trousers and high boots with silver spurs he favored. There were so many ruffles on his silk shirt that his slim frame actually looked better than it was. He too was unwigged, but having still lush brown hair that flowed over his shoulder. Pressing herself against the back wall, and wondering if she could slip past them, Gillian was stunned to watch her uncle grab one of the vassals by the nape and fling him to the ground. The man was thirty perhaps, and of equal height and weight. His helm rolled with a clank on the stones whilst he merely lay there as if bracing for the blow. George held the man by placing a boot to his spine. He looked up at Perrin who had reached them. “Inform him, Perrin, what the punishment is for not following orders.” The man gasped. “What have I done, your lordship? What order have I not—” But Perrin had squatted down and grasp the man by the hair, yanking his head back until it nearly snapped. Whatever he murmured, it was cold and seductively cruel, before he ground the man’s face into the dirt. Gillian saw the tension in the other guards, as father and son grasped an arm each, and half drug the man toward the stables. She stood there, eyes closed, breathing shallow― hearing the screams that followed. She vomited when the man returned, dressed but trembling from head to toe, his eyes wide and stark as he picked up his helm and took his position. There was blood dripping from under his tunic and pouring into his boots. That night she lay beside victor, who slept deep after chewing a hand full of poppy seeds. She stared at the shadows on the canopy, hearing the distant weeping of a female filtering through an open window. Gillian rolled to her side and curled up, placing her hands over her ears. She could not forget the wide stare of the solider, nor the smile on Perrin’s face. And an hour later they had

broken their fast with those same hands, and shared a look, a dark smile, that put chills down her spine. There was something beyond unnatural in the way they needed to slake their perverse lust after these beatings even after the hangings and worse they often spoke of performing on captured Reivers or local outlaws. Always, they seemed to vibrate with some inner black fire that sickened her. ~ The following morning one of the kitchen maids hung herself from the rafters. Gillian clutched her aunt’s arm while the men cut her down. George and Perrin sat at the table playing chess and drinking claret. ~ “Have their been more?” Gillian asked her aunt as they rode with six guards into the village. “One. And two smaller lads. Several vassals have fled.” Lucia reached up to adjust the hood of her sapphire cloak. “I would that they all turn their pikes and bows and pistols on him. I can almost bear it better for myself, than be witness to their plight.” “Do you think the king knows?” “I doubt he cares, “ Lucia said dryly. “What is a woman, a few poor servants compared to a man with wealth who can raise an army? Nothing. “ It was august, the time of harvest, and Gillian murmured, “I heard Tomas in the stables say, that the boarder raids increase from August to Candlemas, February.” “Yes. And on both sides. It’s a shame that innocent farmers and villagers have to suffer. Still, one only has to know George, to believe men do and did rape and murder and burn many of them out. Tit for tat, for they suffer the same from this side, and what talk I heard at your wedding, twill be worse for those clans in the Highlands, daily driven out….” Gillian said, “Some of the servants at the castle came from there, from Inverness and from the isle of sky and others deep in the highlands. ‘Tis hard to understand the love they have for so harsh a place as they describe. Many they say, have been forced into indenture or shipped to plantations, impressed in the armies, what haven’t died in the tollbooth or from hangings. Magda, the washerwoman said, that though the clans have always warred, it was never as it has been these few years.” “It will be worse. That England has alliances in lowland aristocracy, some who now hold of what was once a vast property. In some cases, the highland laird’s are dead, beheaded as traitor, more leaders forced to forfeit lands, and the tenants and cotters starved―put off the land. ” Lucia sighed and shook her head. “One questions God when humans are supplanted for beasts, and animals are

taken to well fed pastures― whole families and clans are treated worse than dogs. People, have little choice but to do whatever necessary to survive, given the situation. ” “Aye.” Gillian was thinking of Stuart McLeod. She fingered the edge of the plaid tucked between the round neck of her gown and her chemise. “I do not think wherever they are driven, or what they endure, that they become less of what they are. It must be wonderful and terrible, to be inseparable from the place you were born, a place of joy and suffering.” Her aunt glanced at her. “Your wisdom amazes me, Gillian. But then, your grandfather, our father, was like that. There have always been dark days, and somehow or perhaps because he was a merchant and had seen so many lands and leaders, he had the capacity to feel for his fellow man. “ In quieter tones she finished, “I know he was never the same, after my wedding. It was as if he faded away in his helplessness. Perhaps it was realizing, that men who sat on thrones of power are not as loyal to subjects, as they are to him. I think it broke his heart.” Gillian had heard her mother say as much, and tried not to think of her own parents. She was a married woman, no longer a virgin, and she, in the eyes of the world― was an adult, not a child, yet in no wise liberated or equal to men. ~ Her aunt gave the guards leave to wait at the Green Tavern, except for Sir Wyndham, and a seasoned old warrior who, Gillian noted, was generally around Aiden, and likely a trusted confidant. The market stalls were overflowing. Crowds moved, amid pens of chickens and tables laid with bolts of cloth. Dyed wax candles hung from pegs on one booth, while herbs teased the nostrils, wafted on the same wind that carried nut breads and sweet cakes being baked and sold, to feed the usual crowds and many visitors. The shop doors on the main streets were just as bustling. Lucia carried a basket over her arm, to tote her purchases, for larger ones the wagon had been brought. Gillian brushed back lose strands of hair trying to work out of her crowned braid. The moss hued gown she wore, was split sleeved and round necked. She flipped the edges of her cape back to enjoy the warmness of the afternoon. She thought wryly to herself, that she was catching onto her aunt’s suggestion more and more, since the tragedy of the maid, she was thankful for any brightness or soothing. It was a conscious thought to find something to be grateful for. She glanced around, seeing the peasant women, distinct by their ruffled caps and wide ankle-length skirts of homespun. White blouses showed on the upper arms and above a laced corset piece, low round necks, gathered yet displaying an ample bosom, many tied their shawls around their waist as they

worked to serve the customers. Men ranged from the identifiable farmer, to the passing caviler. Soldiers bumped elbows or smoked a pipe with rugged fishermen, and well dressed gentry, the latter… wearing the typical red heeled and buckled shoes, nip waist, and split tail coats with white shirt and jabot. Hats ranged from wide plumed to tricorns and banded bonnets or knitted long ones. She understood from her aunt that the greater presence of men was due to the Reiving season. The usual fairs would be held in the coming weeks, but under a heavier guard than normal. Since Lucia was occupied buying from her list, Gillian nodded to a few rudely staring people, smiled at a flushed faced child who’s face was sticky from eating hot buns, and was about to turn around again when she saw Stuart McLeod. For a second her body tensed and her eyes widened, but quickly her brain realized he was dressed to blend in, and that he was keeping well away from the soldiers. She turned around and murmured something to her aunt, motioning to a stall. When Lucia nodded Gillian headed off, walking slowly but feeling her heart race with a mixture of emotions. Joy that he was alive and fear that he was so daring as to walk amid his enemies. She reached the stall and walked around it toward a wagon, somehow not surprised when he appeared, yet completely blocked from the other’s view by the dyed yarn hanging by his shoulder. Their eyes met as she looked over and up him. Under the baggy brown coat and lose breeches and scuffed boots, was a fit man. He reached to shift up the floppy hat brim, showing a much cleaner face than last she’d seen. “You are well?” She asked, noting again the craggy strength and struck anew by the smoke gray of his eyes. His hair was back in a que but he deep auburn tint was shadowed by burgundy strands. “A bit sore, but healed.” His gaze flickered down. She realized she was twisting her gloves in her hands nervously, and stopped. He wasn’t looking at the gloves but the ring. When they once more met gazes she said, “I was wed, over a month past.” His look held something soft but explicit. “I’m sorry, lass. Would that ye be given a bit more time to be a maid.” It moved over her face then back. “Still, there’s nae a mark of a less bonny and pure upon ye. “ He smiled then, a slow widening of those semi full lips. “Ye be a fair maid when yer a hundred, with that milk skin and blush of rose upon yer cheeks.” She bit her lip, smiling for the first time in a long time. Then she looked over her shoulder to make sure no one was within hearing. She found herself saying, “The marriage was consummated, but victor cannot give me a child. He cannot do more than the wedding night, which taxed him greatly. If he does not give me a child, Perrin will be put in his place…” “The bastard.”

Gillian muttered, “One of the maids hanged herself after suffering him, God alone knows what she endured. The noises, cries and screams… I cannot do it.” “Can yer aunt not help ye?” “Nay. She’s in worse a state than myself.” Gillian was able to meet his gaze again. “For now I am ignored, whilst she suffers insults and worse from uncle’s foul moods. But as my menses are near, I fear what victor said is true. He told me, to seek a man amid the guards, but I have seen their harsh lot. I will not be a party to their death or worse, should something go wrong.” She shuddered. “I can only imagine what compelled the maid to take her life. Much I can endure, even a future, such as it is, but whilst the breaching was not bad, I have but my body and my mind to myself. No other thing, can I control.” The Scot stared at her, a struggle clearly held in check, before he muttered a Gaelic curse and shook his head, “‘Tis not as God intended for any soul to live. “ She nodded but whispered, “Should you be here, in plain sight? ‘Tis dangerous.” “Aye. But I am known to a few and have business today.” He sighed and wiped his hand over his mouth before letting it drop. “I’m far from a saint and even further from a monk, lass. But though I find ye fair and comely ‘twas in my mind, the guilt― of seeing ye a few years in the future― imagining ye could turn my head and tempt my heart. It doesna sit well in any part of me, to know you speak the truth. The bastard will gie ye to his spawn, and the maid nae be the first to seek death after Perrin De warren finishes wie them.” Gillian may have flushed at his confession before coming to DeWarren castle, but whatever innocence she had before, or modesty, was erased at the mockery of a marriage and the public bedding. She asked him, “Does the softness of your words reflect your handling of those you take to your bed?” A slight flush touched his cheekbones. “I canna answer that truthfully, for there be more to the act— least ways for what I― The truth be, lass, I dunna take them often. When I do, they be of greater age than me, and more knowing. But I wouldna hurt a woman in such a way.” “I know.” She smiled again. “You’re stronger and bigger than my uncle, than many of the guards, and likely a skilled warrior. But your eyes… they are like the peace of morning mists. There’s more a heart there, than I’ve seen in a long time.” He seemed to know what and where she was going with the question, and murmured, “I canna do it, Gillian. I canna take a maid not fully grown.” “I’m a wife, and no longer a virgin. I would rather choose― and if there’s pain and fear, to have a man who’ll comfort me and care for me. I cannot bear the thought of being abused in that manner.” Her eyes tear’d up. “And Perrin will, I know it.” “Ye dunna know enough to understand what ye ask. “ Again he flushed.

“If twere possible, and some means of meeting be found. Sometimes it takes… more than that, to see the seed take hold.” “My aunt told me.” She nodded. “Bedammed…” He looked beyond her a moment, his strong throat working as if to swallow more curses. He said finally, “In the woods, at the edge of the Sanford farms, there be a half standing cottage…” She cut in, “I know it. I’ve been visiting farms and tenants with my aunt. “ “‘Tis a risk in the light of day, but I gather ye canna get away at night?” “No. Only to the courtyard, and for you to come inside the walls, 'twould be too risky.” “The cottage, then. Tuesday at noon.” “Yes.” She stared up at his face until he finally could look at her again. Gillian tried to smile, but she knew what she’d asked of him, and she knew it went against his inclinations, as much as it was her own desperate hope. “Whatever becomes of me. I shall love and care for a babe. I would not die for myself, perhaps, but I would before I’d see it harmed. I am young in years― but I have full knowledge of what I ask of you. “ “I dunna think so.” “I do. But as odd as it sounds, I cannot trust another, nor do I risk some life under my uncle’s command. You are shrewd and knowing enough to escape such a fate.” She turned to go, saying, “Until Tuesday.” ~ Not until they were back at the castle did she finally confide in her aunt, not only telling about the arrangement, but confessing the first encounter by the bridge. Lucia’s eyes widened. They sat on the window seat in the solar. “Not only is the plan a risk, but a Reiver… a highlander… an outlaw!” “What choice is there? I trust him. I don’t know how to explain it. I do. He’s also strong and brave enough to see to himself.” Her aunt stared at her some time before she sighed and whispered, “All right. I shall help you all that I can. But I must tell Aiden, and we must not vary any routine.. And Gillian?” “Yes?” “You must tell victor.” “I will. None of this is easy for me. I would have as much truthfulness and mayhap, some blessing on his part. The marriage is not a true one, and we we’re but pawns. Still, I would keep as much respect as can be granted between us.” “Very well.” Lucia stood and motioned her up. “Let us get through the meal. He’s not well today, so you may tell him when you retire.” And Gillian did. Victor ate from a wooden tray then sat swathed in

blankets by the open window, In pain, and having that far off look while he gazed outward. She knew he heard her words, all of them— for he smiled, and then laughed at the end of it. “What irony, and what justice.” He closed his eyes. “Father hates the Scots. He hates and envies many, but ‘tis the clans he hates more. He envies the boarder chiefs and calls highlanders savages. “ He laughed and coughed. “I have heard his tales, when he joined in the soldiers so called suppressions of violence. He’s done his share of harm to them, and means to do more through his lowland contacts. What sweet justice it would be, to have one spawned under his own roof, inheriting from the wealth he has gained by robbing and murder.” “I cannot think of that aspect, Victor. I mean only to selfishly save myself from Perrin, and perhaps yourself too, the humiliation he would heap upon you should he uncover your condition.” Victor’s long fingers emerged from the quilt, his eyes that hazy blue. He pat her arm and then clasp their fingers together. “I know this. And I cannot but thank God, that you found a way to prevent Perrin replacing me. I pray, that upon my death, you will have something we have not known. You are kind, and you will love the babe, and God willing, my father will not corrupt it as he has Perrin.” She squeezed back, and then dropped his hand to stand by his shoulder and lightly embrace him. “Had you health and wholeness, Victor, I could almost bear the future here, content as your wife.” Tears rolled down her cheeks and sparkled in the dusky light. “ He leaned his head against her slim hip. “I believe that you would, and it almost as good, as having love and a future… to being whole.” They stood as they were, looking out as the moon arose, each far away in their thoughts. ~ ( Rud nach cluin cluas cha ghluais cridhe ) That which the ear doesn't hear won't stir the heart. Stuart McLeod arose from the pallet and held his trembling hands outward, feeling a bit of irony that he’d faced the hangman, a hoard of soldiers, and never found himself as beset by nerves as he was now. He walked to the door of the half-fallen cottage, his eyes toward the farm, and his mind racing through the past days. He’d come close to asking the Irishman Jarred Danbye to take his place. The lad was just twenty and green as grass with maids, but a seasoned Reiver. Amid the bands of outlaws, outside the clans, there were individuals who made a name for themselves with the old chiefs, and, in Jarred’s case, he amused old

Armstrong with his deft touch at cattle lifting, Sheep too. But the younger man had a place at most tables across the boarder, and a good number of men to back him should he ever get in a fix. He and Christian Rayner, another non-Scot, were two of the handful that Stuart trusted. Hell, he didna even trust the old Liards, come to that. They had their own agenda in these boarder wars. Stuart sighed and pushed a hand through his loose locks. Big hands he thought, not ones to caress a once-bedded maid, and none clean enough bloodwise to be touching a woman of such stature, no matter what age she be. He had an unceasing pain in his belly ever since he’d heard himself agree to do it, and it was coiling tighter as the noon sun rose. Not of fear for himself, but of the task before him― that in all his burdened life, he hadn’t imagined. He wished he had at the least confided in Jarrett. Mayhap even Christian, being worldlier could have some knowledge of tender lasses. His only exposure at all with females of that age was his sister. And any sexual relations he’d had since fifteen were with skilled whores. He didna know if he should get it done and quickly, or take his time, for fear of harming her. When a flash of doe brown caught his eye, Gillian’s riding habit, he had no more time for debating it. The risk to her at lingering and the chance she was taking was clear to him. “Hello.” “Yerself.” He stepped back to allow her inside. She was unbuttoning her habit in haste, pulling off the jacket, and then going to work on her other clothing. Stuart didn’t want to see her body, oddly enough. He knew he had to, but he didn’t want to be reminded that he was bedding a lass of tender years. He began to pull off his own clothing; aware of the sun and birds, the caress of the wind, and the nerves, that may well keep him from functioning in the necessary manner. When he turned around, she lay upon the bed; a milk white body upon his plaid, with her hair roped in braids, and her eyes seeking his. Stuart was conscious too, when he lay carefully down, that she did not look at his body the way a lover would, nor at all. He propped on his elbow, and placed a trembling hand, callused and rough, upon her soft warm stomach. He was never more conscious of being brawny and above six feet tall, more aware that he had a full-grown warrior’s frame and muscle― and she, this half-grown lass, seemed as small and fragile as a snowflake. After searching his brain, he realized that she had likely had the traditional bedding and knew nothing of kisses and touches. He began to give that, in a hesitant manner, battling between drifting into lust, and not… So that he could stir her enough and bring her past fear, to some basic mating instinct. He let her return them, as she would, trying to feel past his own anxiety when ‘twas time to go further.

He would recall in years to come, a distance―watching himself and watching her— yet a bond of heartbreaking sweetness weaved by what and why they were together. When her body dampened and Stuart entered it, he would recall feeling thankful that it was himself, and not the bastard Perrin, for he broke a sweat from fighting his flesh, to give her tenderness and ease, to see the thing through with lips that kissed away her tears, and whispered Gaelic words of love against her scented skin… It was a mixture of soothing the child, wooing a maid, and loving a woman. Stuart would recall that week, not in days, but in the four separate hours, of the four days they met. And he would think of it in fragments… of her soft smile, and her lips on his throat, a trembling sigh, and the touch of her hand on his cheek, as if she, a lass so inexperienced, was comforting him instead. On the last day, after they had dressed, he told her that he would be gone, for he must check the ships and passengers, prisons and poorhouses again, for his siblings. Somehow, they both knew the seed would take hold. It was in her eyes― and the long sigh as she stepped out the doorway. “Good fortune, go with you, Stuart McLeod. Be alert, and stay out of harms way.” Stuart murmured something and watched her walk toward the farm. Not knowing that many years would pass. A lifetime would fly by, before he laid eyes on Gillian Le Roux again.

CHAPTER FOUR Victor De Warren passed from the earth, in February. A month afterward, his daughter Jonet was born. His father, so disgusted that his weak son had spawned a daughter, made only pretenses of mourning him, and doubled his efforts to win the Arlington maiden for his favorite son Perrin. George DeWarren came to his wife’s bed in rage after the first refusal. It was only her niece’s cries of help and Sir Aidens bravery that saved Lucia from being beaten to death. For his part, Aiden was flogged sixty lashes and thrown into the dungeon for a week. Gillian nursed both her aunt and the man who risked his life to save her. She began to see that George’s character was so twisted, she suspected him to be insane. While the young man healed, Lucia suffered much until her lover could be slipped into her chambers, her tears and torment cried out in his strong

arms.

In time, George and Perrin made arrangements and hastened to London to pledge their loyalty crown and renew their vow to maintain peace on the borderlands. They brought expensive gifts, and enough money to bribe whomever they needed. Their absence with a large number of the guards spurred a surprise raid on DeWarren’s pastures at night― and resulted in a good number of missing sheep and cattle. Gillian watched from the tower, hearing the surprised cry and signal bells, seeing the moonlight flickering off the old steel bonnets and jeddart staffs of at least two hundred men. She was tempted to wave and call out “God speed” as the dust settled behind like a night cloud. She noted with some satisfaction that the guards gave chase, but never too close, and none too enthusiastically. It was likely cattle and sheep they themselves had stolen for her Uncle George. It took three days for the men to put out the fires set in the haystacks. Even without George, the English boarder guards gave chase and fifty hangings followed. It brought home to Gillian that though the raids had died down, the laws more stringent, the boarder lands would never be completely safe, and though each one to a man had likely suffered in the past years George DeWarren― to seek to avenge themselves was certain death. What a fitting and more apt way to drive home to him their rage, than to revive the spirit of the Reivers once more. ~~ Gillian often wondered, as time passed, where Stuart McLeod was, and rather thought that he was out of England and Scotland, perhaps one more trying to make his fortune? Her eyes would linger on the burgundy haired child, bright and lithe and having that slow crooked smile, she would have hoped that someday a woman ruler made some difference to all females. However with Spain and France as the target for war, she realized that it did not matter which sex the crown sat upon, as always, the laws would never protect women or give them a voice. Perhaps in Jonet’s time… perhaps then, they would be more than chattel and brood mares and fortunes. She had pondered what her feelings were amid a tangle that made her the mother of Stuart McLeod’s child, planted in a young body filled with fear and dread, but given by a man with sweet words and tender heart. A hard warrior even then, which would, she knew, be more carved and hardened by the plight of his beloved people and homeland. So little she knew of him, yet so intimate as the sound of his voice and the feel of his skin lingering in her dreams. A stranger, yet not and though the birthing had been difficult, had she a chance to give life only once, it would be of the same manner, with the same face before her eyes, and the same man who

fathered her beautiful Jonet.

~

Perrin somehow wore down the Earl of Arlington and won his daughter, the fair maiden Edith, and wed her. This time, Gillian and her aunt both tried to advise the girl, an ivory haired, blue eyed beauty, who lasted less than a month before killing herself. No advice would have helped what she suffered behind the chamber door. Gillian, so distraught, had decided to poison her cousin, so ravaged was her heart by the bride’s pain―so sickened was she, by the nightmare in which they lived. Only Sir Whynham’s council kept her from it, that and the fact he locked her in her chamber for a solid week, and guarded it himself. This time there was a scandal― for lord Arlington, deprived of his beloved daughter and hearing the horrified reports from the physician who examined the body, took his complaints to the crown. Many testified against Perrin DeWarren, not surprisingly, when it became apparent that his son would be found guilty, George turned against him and allowed Perrin to be imprisoned in the Tower, scourged, and eventually consigned to the galley of a slave ship, never to see England again. Gillian and Lucia had been unable to testify truthfully to the manner of DeWarren castle, gave the clerk only the information George dictated to them, and returned to DeWarren without him― to face the rage and scandal from all who heard of it. No doubt with much help from Sir Arlington, the castle was raided and razzed, the guards abused in both village and town until many of them fled. Sir Arlington removed his family, and took himself off to war in his inconsolable grief, George DeWarren returned to his castle― stripped of his Earldom— and finding only three guards and two servants, one the guards being Sir Wyndham. George, now a back on the status of lowly knight, was made to sell much of the rich furnishings in his home, to pay restitution to Sir Arlington and fines to the crown on Perrin’s behalf. He sold the bulk of DeWarren lands and was delivered a shock when he attempted to liquidate the dowry given to Victor through Gillian, and was blocked. Having not gained the Arlington dowry, he was enraged to discover that Victor, through some means, had left the wealth to his daughter Jonet, and in the trust of some heathen Highlander! Gillian, who had not known this, discovered that it was Sir Aiden who secreted the witnesses into Victor’s chamber that last week of his life. And though the name of the executor of her inheritance was kept from George de Warren, it was given to Gillian via the priest who had delivered the last rights to her husband. Stuart McLeod.

Victor had his revenge on his father, and had thwarted him. It made her smile despite the chaos and harshness of their present straits. Because victor proved himself more wise and shrewd, much more brave than his sire and brother. Merely stating that it was a highlander was enough to send his father into a slobbering fit of rage. Over time, Castle DeWarren was being reduced in standing and wealth, joining many of the other desolates castles and towers stripped by the change of politics and fortune. George DeWarren’s tenants and neighbors took up the petition to have him exiled from their midst. Gillian and her aunt having no say in the matters and prevented by law from recourse, quietly visited what few tenants they could, and left gates open for flocks and horses to be accessed by those who had for many years been oppressed by the master. He punished those whom he could, the people of his household, reducing the amount of meals to one per day, and forcing his wife and niece to beg for even that much. Meals were nothing more but miserable long hours of filth spewing from his lips, as he degraded them, and relayed with relish all the perverse things he’d done to the weaker sex over the years. But they quietly packed ― while George raged, and kept up a futile round of visits trying to use his old tricks and bribe to save himself from total ruin. For the next few years during rebellions, uprisings and the usual intrigues, which kept both England and Scotland in continual conflict on some part, George De warren found himself so alienated by those around him, and in London, that he could only seethe whilst men much less deserving in his opinion, gained brave reputations serving their monarch. . Left out of the circle of intelligence and influence, George de Warren turned back to the very things he’d used to climb to the top as a young man― He reinvented himself, and looked for an alternate means of satisfying his dark and restless hungers. Gaining less satisfaction from tormenting his wife and niece, he needed another outlet to satisfy the darkness in his soul. ~

Gillian and Lucia with the help of Sir Aiden already had their trunks and bags in the stables, with the bulk of what they deemed necessary. They took from the worth in the house, and sent the last of the servants away, except for Jeanne, who refused to leave Gillian, and was a help with little Jonet while their lives were being dismantled. Times George was at the castle were not without danger to them personally, for they suffered a few slaps and blows, and only Aiden’s diligence

and care kept Lucia from suffering the worst. But when he was out in his frenzied missions, they taught Jonet and educated her well, and cooked their own meals and lived strangely enough― the most normal life either of them had known in adulthood. When George was not there, Sir Aiden and Lucia were as man and wife, openly loving each other. He sat at the table and walked with them around the eerily empty grounds, and rode to the woods to hunt their food. But there was a kind of desperation in the days when peace was theirs, an unspoken fight to hold onto their sanity, and assure each other that he had not completely broken them, that they were still human… and still in the world. Nine years to the day that Gillian had given birth to her daughter. Jonet was a lithe young lady with serious gray eyes and a riot of curly auburn hair. She had an expression in those mist eyes that seemed far too knowing, until she smiled or laughed, and brought them to tears of hysterics with her frank humor. Jonet was the product of an uncertain life, a strange and different kind of existence where her mother was as open and honest as she could be about all things. Thus, the girl was in some ways spared the gullibility both Lucia, and Gillian had known, yet faced each day wisely, being in those times her uncle was there, an absent shadow who knew the depths he would go to feed both his madness and his greed. She flourished in spite of George, and because her aunt and mother determined that she would, and she became the reason they survived and had in hope of the future. ~ Twenty-two years was ending for Gillian Le Roux when George, whose lean looks had only hardened in his plight, returned and ordered the house packed up. An order of course they had anticipated many months prior. He informed him that he had taken a partner from Edinburgh, who would venture with him into some business matters, and that with the money from the sale of the castle which they discovered was not exactly impressive―they were removing to that city. ~

Chapter five

Gillian arose and washed from the bowl of scented water Jeannie had prepared. Looking in the long mirror she could hear the bustle and sounds filtering through the half-raised window. This was a crowded and thriving place upon appearance, with all the advantages and ills of London and the like. After living in near isolation of the borderlands all the females were jarred and blinking from the sudden plunge into civilization. It was as if they had forgotten what the rest of the world was like. Any sort of human could be encountered in one place on the bustling streets, nobles and justices, preachers, merchants, sailors and military entities, masses of poor beggars and hawkers, tinkers: an alewife doing her shopping to a tartan, bonneted highlander, distracted looking clerks hurrying from the docks or one of the businesses housed in the tight packed buildings. Construction of all sorts was going on in parts of the town, adding to the already intense and crowded atmosphere. She stood in her chemise a moment, t after brushing her hair, which Lucia had cut for her to the shoulders, touching her face with her fingertips, amazed at the passage of years though they had been turbulent enough. It seemed to Gillian, that everything that had passed at the castle had been another world and time, and she’d told her aunt that the hair on her arms raised the moment they had left it, her eyes had seen brighter with the passing landscape… as if she’d been asleep, or somehow dormant, or perhaps just existing for that many years. For certain she had watched Jonet’s round eyes and excitement as they’d entered Edinburgh, the girl twisted and leaned and made sounds that any child would who had been isolated and who’d lived in that small world where they were subject to George’s coming and going and madness. Dropping her hands, Gillian took stock of herself, seeing her strawberry hair rippled from braiding it and eyeing the face that like her mother’s had turned more handsome, instead of the beauty her aunt somehow kept from fading. Her green eyes, for once, were sparkling and clear. She supposed too, that she hadn’t thought of it, aside from keeping fit and alive, with all there had been to do at DeWarren, particularly once the servants were gone. But she’d grown to the five feet and five inches, that she deemed a good height, and after her daughter’s birth, there had finally came that form of womanhood. Behind the sheer linen of the chemise was the shadow of slopes and curves that she recalled on her mother. She sighed and began to dress first the silk stockings and high heeled shoes, then the green velvet gown that was trimmed in black ribbon. The bodice fit snug, laced tight, snug sleeves were slit in down the outer arm, to show black silk between, the much pleated skirt fitting over hips. It was almost like stepping into a New World with new skin. It was an act, that over the years, she hadn’t thought of, but now for some reason, she was conscious of being a person, a female, and a human. “Shall I do your hair up?” Jeannie came in to fetch the water.

“Is my daughter awake?” The blond servant smiled. “Aye, up and dressed and hanging out her window. I vow, she barely slept last night, and her exciting tossing had me jumping off the pallet in fright.” Gillian laughed and shook her head, sitting down at the vanity. They had started the custom of Jeanne sleeping nearby Jonet, because of George’s unpredictable ways. None had forgotten that he lusted for her dowry, and none of them believed that he ignored her as much as he pretended. He may be unbalanced, but it was still able to do his plotting in a sly manner. Apparently, his goal with this mysterious partner was to invest in mines and take advantage of the poor who supplied the near slave labor for them. He was also already ordering himself a gentleman’s’ wardrobe, and according to Sir Wyndham, making the rounds of taverns, inns and coffee houses to get investors. While the maid brushed her hair then drew it back in a bun she told her. “Aunt and I mean to take Jonet out. Would you like to come with us?” “I’ve still the unpacking to do.” “Nonsense. We’ll all do it. You’re only one person, and I’m sure uncle will hire more servants. Put on your best dress. I feel as if we’ve all been liberated in some small way.” She sighed and stood. “For however long, let us enjoy something as normal as walking down a street.” When the maid left, Gillian went to help her daughter into a blue and white gown, noting how she was growing and figuring, she’d have her father’s height and be tall for a girl. She stood behind her pulling those auburn curls up and securing them, letting a few fall before she pinned on a small lace cap. Hands on those shoulders, she met Jonet’s exited gaze in the mirror and smiled. That curly head already met her shoulder and the child looked at the least eleven. “Get your cape. Meet us below.” She kissed her cheek. “Mother?” Gillian turned, at the doorway, “Yes?” Jonet’s face flushed. “Is he here, do you think?” Gillian did not have to ask whom her daughter meant. “I don’ t know. It has been many years, and here— this is another country. “ “Of course.” Jonet’s smile was forced. Gillian felt a tug at her heart. She understood all the reasons her daughter wished for a father, not just a savior to come and rescue her in those worst days at the castle. She knew what he was, and outlaw, had been when Gillian met him. She’d prodded Aiden to teach her all about the clans and the highlanders, and as much of Scotland as he could. She had in her reasoning, justified his raids on his English enemies. And she had in some way, made the whole of it into a fairy tale, even with Victor’s sharing a hero’s part. To a girl who lived in such a way, it was a way to tolerate a life filled with

no fairy tales, only stark reality, and though she and Lucia had brought lightness and laughter when they could; knowing only Sir Aiden and her uncle… aye― there were so many reasons to long for a real father. But one thing Gillian always tried to make clear was that Stuart McLeod did not help her, to become a father, and that he may well have a complete family under a safe name if he was still outlawed. Gillian smiled softly and walked over, giving her a hug. “The kind of brave man he was, I’m certain he’s alive though. And, if there ever should be a meeting between you someday, he will be wonderfully astonished at the beautiful and intelligent person you are. “ Jonet gave a small laugh and stepped back. “Of course he will.” Her look was dry. “Never mind me, mother. I was just wondering.” She took Galleon’s hand. “Let us go fetch aunt, and see what this place is like.” Walking the stairs to the second floor, Gillian told herself she was going to arrange a meeting someday, mayhap, when her daughter was older. If he was alive, and she thought he likely was, she would do that much. “There you two are.” Lucia was already waiting, tying the strings of her buff cape. “Excited are you, darling?” She kissed her niece, her blond hair piled high and a tidy cap atop it, the bronze of her gown seen between the edges of her cloak. “Yes.” Jonet admitted laughing and taking their hands. “I want to see everything,” When they stepped out Gillian looked over her shoulder seeing Sir Aiden waiting. She nodded to him. The handsome fellow winked. Since George had grown worse in circumstance and reputation, he did not make anymore pretense at serving the man. He offered himself as a sort of bodyguard for the ladies, but there was no love lost between himself and George. ~ As the walk progressed down the Royal Mile, which consisted of a number of connected streets, starting at Edinburgh Castle, and its boulevard, flowing downhill, from west to east; Castle hill, followed by Lawn market High Street Canon gate Abbey. Jonet’s enthusiasm wavered a bit, due mostly to the scent of unwashed bodies and sewage mingled with that sea scent of fish. But as children will do, she soon overlooked the smell in great excitement over the diversity of humanity clogging the streets, and the crush of traffic down the royal mile; everything from armed horsemen, donkey carts, mounted cavilers and palfrey riding monks, vied to get to their destination. Most seen were pack animals, horses with huge baskets or sacks on either side, a crude but necessary way of transporting goods to market. Gentleman, elaborate dressed patrons, nodded, titled hats and wig-

covered heads toward fat merchants and newly dubbed tobacco lords, those merchants who through American trade, made their fortunes shipping the plant, owing to vast plantations in the colonies, and not a few owning the warehouses where it was stored and shipped to other parts. Or sellers with their tobacco merchant signs painted on the stone storefronts. It was most prominently a merchant city, the hub of enterprise not just in the closely built shops but outside on the streets and in the market areas. The overwhelming masses were wretched and poor, a stark witness to the current state of displacement for so many of Scotland’s population. They passed crowds of fractious people, drunken or in the midst of feverish arguments, individuals too who stood on crates yelling above the din all sorts of unintelligible speech because of the very thickness of tempo. Coaches weren’t abundant, a few carried those dignified figures of the township and aristocracy cabs clipped by drays and handcarts. Around noon, they procured food and ate, the women watching Jonet mostly-- as she fed stray animals and gave most of her bread to the beggars and cripples were licensed to beg from the crowds. She had gained her awe of Edinburgh castle, towering and visible, seeming to rise out of the craggy rocks. Its history more palpable with the knowledge that that Charles Edward Stuart was born there, that King James had been deposed in favor of William of orange was in no wise accepted by those loyal to him. Gillian too eyed the stronghold with a shiver of awareness, all around them, in pubs and baths and shops, inside the tenements and on the wharves, in the prisons, there was still a living, breathing, populous waiting for the moment to rise up and restore whom their felt was the rightful house, and blood of Mary Queen of Scots to rule England and Scotland. Though Holyroodhouse was the preferred residence for the royals, Edinburgh castle was no doubt symbolic, having been besieged and controlled by English and Scots over time. Grass market and then Grayfriars, foot sore, their walk consumed most of the day. The Royal Palace of Holyroodhouse, outside the city walls, beside the Abbey of the Holy Rood Holy Cross, at the foot of the Royal Mile, thus viewed at a distance, as Sir Aiden was desiring to keep an appointment at the White Heart Inn, so he could put his ear to the ground, he said, to try and keep an eye on Sir George and his doings. Lucia was attempting to do the same, rifling though what he left at the six story rented house, for he was seldom there. They did though, recognized that lad’s hanging about were there to spy on them, and report their coming and going. ~ The sounds from the harbor in the background and her eyes on Jonet,

Gillian murmured, “Have you been able to discover what uncle is up to?” “Somewhat.” Lucia wiped her hands on a handkerchief and then rested them in her lap, her eyes also watching her niece. “Aside from some mining venture, he’s managed as usual, to draw a few sly characters with income into several profitable schemes. He’ll succeed. His kind always does somehow, and no matter what his reputation in England, he knows how to tap into men’s greed and their emotions, how to play any side if it serves his purpose. George’s evil is restless. Since I’ve been closer to death than he has, I hold no hope that death or punishment will find him. He will flourish as well in the darkness as he did at the pinnacle of his life.” Standing behind them, Sir Aiden said discreetly, “I have followed him to meetings with men of some unsavory habits— Satanist some would say, most definitely secretive and delving into the darker side of sex. Though it’s no secret to more than us, the bastard is the devil incarnate, I don’t like it. I've heard rumors that very young girls are the target of their perverse rituals, and even if ‘tis some fake religion, however dangerous, given that witches and sorceress are burned daily―it still bodes ill for the both of you, and most especially for Jonet.” “No.” Gillian muttered feeling her skin crawl. “I will not let that— demon near Jonet.” “Then you both should get out,” Aiden said angrily, as he had been saying for years. “I can support you. I know Lucia, that you feel I have tied myself to you for other reasons, but I love you, and I don’t give a bloody damn who knows it, I’d risk dying for it if― you didn’t need me alive more.” He sighed heavy and short. “You used to say you’d risk it, when the opportunity was ripe. It was when your husband lost his position and power. And still, you hang onto the fear. I tell you both, that there is more to fear now, than before, for a desperate and insane man like George, with a black soul you have seen, felt time and time again, will never willingly let go of those he can use.” Gillian looked at her aunt who had stiffened. “I won’t let him harm Jonet.” Lucia’s aqua gaze met hers; there was tightness around her mouth. “I’ll help the both of you―” “No. We won’t go without you.” Gillian took her cold hand and squeezed it. “Please. This is the first chance we’ve have, the only time we’ve not been surrounded by walls and his threats, since we were both too trapped and young to help it. I know your doubts, your fears, but Aiden does love you, and ‘tis better to be in hiding with him rather than suffer at George’s hand. You aren’t young anymore, though your beauty says otherwise, take some happiness and some freedom before it is too late. You said yourself if he wanted to put you aside, to see you dead, there are a dozen legal ways he can. I don’t like this atmosphere of suppression here— only look at those postings in the square on witchcraft and such? It’s too bloody easy for an inconvenient female to be condemned to death.”

Her aunt swallowed, and Gillian knew that no matter what she had been before George wed her, the abuse and beatings, the degradation, had worn done parts of her, that once would have embraced independence. Now Lucia likely did not know where to begin again, or what to do with a normal life. At the castle, they all lived an existence that wasn’t real, hour by hour, day by day, because they had a future that was uncertain. Lucia murmured, “It will take planning. George doesn’t sleep in my chambers and I have no access to documents or money. “ “I’ll see to that.” Sir Aden dared take a step closer, so that through the slit in his cloak and under the guise of turning, he could touch Lucia’s shoulder. “I think, that Gillian should try and find Stuart McLeod. “ “He told me himself, he didn’t use his real name.” Gillian watched the breeze lift her daughter’s hair. “I suppose he would know where to take his daughter… He should know that her inheritance is under his guardianship. The priest said that he had contacts who could take the papers here to Scotland, through discreet inquiries they could find him, but that was years past and not a word.” “It doesn’t mean the worst.” Sir Aiden persisted. “He may well know it, have confirmed his legal warship, and believe you will contact him when Jonet is of marriageable age…” “In these times, she can be betrothed even now…” Gillian shook her head, saying to her aunt. “We never want her to suffer what we have, and I know deep in my bones that Stuart wouldn’t either. He was so… He expressed that opinion that girls of tender age should not be forced to wed young. I don’t want Jonet wed for her dowry or for power. She won’t be a puppet if I can help it, and I don’t think he would do so.” She saw her daughter turn and head back toward him. “I’ve no idea why he has not sought me out, save the fact that he honored me, enough to give nothing but what I asked. If he is somehow pardoned or free from the old warrants, I would stoop to begging one more favor of him― that he take Jonet to safety and protect her.” Lucia stood as Gillian had for Jonet was reaching them. “We’ll find him. Or word of him. Could be he was in England the whole time, for many who sought the Queen gained a pardon for what went before. But even if he is an outlaw, he knows this country far better than George does. He is a highlander after all. And If I am to take the risk and allow Aiden to do it, run off with the wife of another man. I’ll see you safe though Stuart McLeod too— or we’ll both stay and remain in uncertainty.” “He owes me nothing.” “My dear, “ Lucia looked at her. “He is your only chance, and the only future your daughter has. If you do not care for yourself anymore, I know you care for her. “ On the walk back, when Lucia stopped by a shop, holding Jonet’s hand as

they pointed to something, Sir Aiden said from behind Gillian, “I would have taken her away many years ago and cherished her. I would have her in any state. I mean not to hold you responsible, but she stayed the last nine for you and Jonet, diverting and deflecting much of George’s rages, allowing him to spend it upon her instead. I want her free, Gillian. I want a few years, to make her laugh and smile, to have her in my arms a free woman.” Gillian felt tears burn her eyes. “I know. I have known it for a long time. I felt, when we arrived, that t’would come to this moment. I shall do whatever it takes to give you both what you deserve.” He said softly, “I love you as a dear sister, and Jonet— who cannot love her? I will do everything I can to find Stuart McLeod. Then, I think for Lucia and myself, it is to France. But I vow, I promise you, I will see you safe first.” “I know.” Gillian turned to smile at him, wondering anew at his passion and love for her aunt. Never having known such for herself, and if she ever believed in fairy tales, she hardly recalled it now. “Will you kill him, George?” “No. I know that I should. I have come close more times than Lucia knows. But I cannot save her and take care of her, hanging from a rope. It is the only thing that has stayed my hand.” Gillian nodded and turned around again. Hoping that Stuart would have retained that sense of honor she’d sensed in him before. She wanted nothing for herself, save to see her daughter someday happy― to finally be rid of the oppressive life her uncle kept them under. She would live in a hovel and have some freedom, to see Jonet reach an age to choose her own future. Older, and perhaps, more apt to listen to those conversations between Sir Aiden and her daughter, Gillian was aware that the Highlands were as lawless and dangerous as the borderlands had been. The long held feuds of the clans no less than they had been under past rulers with titled lairds holding power though a complex system of fealty, exercising lordship over various branches and sub branches of their clans. Now with the stew pot still brewing over the Jacobites, she had no idea what those ties and alliances were like. Stuart’s own kin had been highly connected at one time, according to Aiden, and highland warriors were as fierce and feared as the boarder chieftains and their men. It fit the young man of her memory, the stature and vengeance in his eyes, despite his encounter with her, the unusual convergence of their lives at such a time. Gillian oft times thought that her very naiveté and youth likely served her well― given what she now knew of his people. It came back to her memory over time that he had left his country and lived a man’s life with all its dangers before he’d even met her. That he was an outlaw, though still with strong and loyal connections to some clan leaders, hardly mattered in the face of her terrifying circumstances at the time. He would be in his thirties now, and unlike herself, he was and ever would be a warrior of some sort, his passions running deep for things he

believed in and suffered. She could see where her daughter’s dreams of connecting to such a man stemmed from, and with her only option being a dependence on Sir George, she would take her chances with a man that could said to be a stranger, yet whose character, however fierce, was not cruel and twisted as George’s was.

Chapter six (Cuimhnichibh air na daoine bho'n d'thainig sibh) Remember the people whom you come from…. Stuart McLeod stood on the rocky shoreline, the breeze ruffling his wavy auburn hair back from his craggy face. In full highland dress of saffron shirt and plaid, crossed over one shoulder and tucked in his belt, his broadsword in a sheath across his back, and the pleats of the garment ending mid knee. He wore supple boots, carried too a decorated dagger, a gift from the Armstrong when they had parted ways many years back, he also carried a short sword and a pistol against his side. His sporran held a good amount of precious coin and other necessary items, and one folded peace of paper bearing an official seal, that he’d looked at so many times by the light of campfires and candles, that he memorized every line and signature. On the ground lay two satchels with various garments, a long hooded cloak of gray and more necessities to sustain a man’s life where ever he dwelled. The vessel Jarred and Christian had transported him in swayed and rocked in the forefront of a setting sun. Wafts of smoke from the fire his friends sat around, cooking the fish that would serve as their evening meal mingled with the sea scent. In his mid thirties, Stuart McLeod was a large man of six feet four inches, carved, cut, honed from the most rugged existence. As it had been from his early years the choices forced upon him, a life mostly solitary and not given to trust, save for the two men he gave that invaluable gift to. He had been a vagabond warrior, even when in alliance or serving under a laird, he was separate, his own man, having only the vaguest memories of hearth and home when simplicity made up a lad’s daily life. Stuart rarely ceased fighting—did not know if he hadn’t, would it follow him anyway, given the events that set his course in the first place. He was a highlander no matter where he walked― and there was no separation between that and the man, it was more than a place of birth, but rather a preset

characteristic, he bore like the mark of Cain, when banished from the garden of Eden. But for the first time in years, he had ceased fighting long enough to answer another call, and he stood there wondering that he had done so, Acknowledging, that the feeling in his stomach he’d felt once before― years ago. He had been able to tell himself he’d forgotten it, until the papers had reached him. It was in his mind that he’d not allowed himself to think of the child: what sex or name it was, nor anything beyond that day when he’d given it of his loins. Stuart was reminded when the priest found him, and when he’d gone to secure her inheritance and set a lawyer to oversee it. The babe was a female and she had a name… and somehow, for whatever reason, he had ended up having all the authority of fatherhood anyhow. Now that Sir Aiden Wynham’s letter had reached him, and that both Jarret and Christian had spoken with the man, he had to ask himself, as he had on his journey, what means had he of making his daughter safe and getting her from under DeWarren’s roof? And, he had to consider the last part Sir Aiden had written… “And it is with all due respect that I plead with you, to take Gillian too, and place her in safety. If you have no personal care for her, consider that she is the mother of Jonet and has suffered George these many long years for your daughter’s sake. I take my life into my hands, for the love I bear Lucia, and will leave Scotland with her. But I cannot endure that Gillian would remain and feel the brunt of his rage, black as it tis. It is not safe for her. We are all in hopes that George might not take it upon himself to hunt us down by legal means, given his standing of late. But we know what sorts of characters he may bribe and pay to do it. I beg of you, do her this kindness…save her life as she once spared yours.” Stuart now faced a choice, and a set of decisions, if he chose to fulfill it. The kind of life that required he be responsible for two females, and that he be a different kind of man, in a different role―one he knew nothing about. Jarret spoke, drawing Stuart’s eyes to the Irishman. Long and lean he sprawled on his leather capped coat, the firelight glinting on his tightly curled black hair, and putting red flecks in his brown eyes. He and Christian had long since left the life of Reiving and became smugglers. Each bore a few more scars and the sea darkened skin. They kept contact with Stuart, and told him the enterprise was lucrative, and served their purpose for the time being. Like himself, they drifted from one job to another, usually on the wrong side of the law, and for their own personal reasons. Christian squatted to tend the fish, his blond mane tied back and the

normally bright blue eyes hooded against the wafting blow of smoke. “I didna’ hear ye,” Stuart admitted, turning fully and giving his friend his full attention. “I said, you need to marry her. Not just for her safety and to put her out of the bastard’s reach. But for your daughter’s sake.” “It crossed my mind.” Stuart sat down by his satchels when the meal was ready and served up on plates from Christian’s pack. Setting back against a stone, Christian chewed a bite then offered, “You could do it in the highlands. You told us there are clans there that would succor you on their lands for awhile. It’s not as if you couldn’t offer your usual services. I hear raiding and droving is just as thriving. A year or so, however long it would take, to make her uncle understand that she was beyond his reach. And, then you can decide what sort of future to embark upon.” “There is always America,” Jarrett put in. “I will as like end up there myself, once I’ve enough money. I’ve a mind to breed horses and there’s land, freedom.” Stuart was looking at him when Christian said, “It’s serious business to be a father, which is why I’ve avoided such things. It changes things for you, Stuart, and the woman— If she pleases you, gives you a chance to have the family you lost.” Stuart set the empty plate aside and uncorked ale which he sipped before returning, “I didna ken it in that light exactly. ‘Twould be the second time the lass be wed for the wrong reasons, and be tied to a Mon because of circumstances. ‘Tis and act of desperation, sacrifice on her part, in truth, to see wee lass safe.” Jarret grinned wryly. “You’ve held nothing in your hands but your sword for too long, my friend. Once she is your wife, I’m sure you can convince her how fortunate she is.” “And you’re nothing like the DeWarren’s, ” Christian added. “It’s not the same at all. She already trusts you.” “Or ‘tis the lesser O’ two evils.” Stuart grunted. “No. It’s not.” Christian wiped his hands and went about opening his own ale jug. “You’ve lived wild and free so long, that you’ve forgotten how nice it is to have a woman, outside of the usual whores and camp followers.” Stuart eyed him sourly. Jarrret snorted. “I think Stuart’s more afraid of domesticity than he is of war. It will be a union of necessity, but there's nothing to stop you from making more of it than that.” “We’ll see.” Stuart looked around and then back. “‘Tis too bad I cannot simply kill George DeWarren. That’s a request I would relish.” The friends nodded, and Jarrett said, “It’s like Sir Aiden told us, neither of you would do the females any good at the end of a rope. It’s hard enough for a man to make his way these days, and there’s plenty men like DeWarren out there

who would step right into his place. She needs your protection, and the lass too.”

~~ Dinner had been a strain, with her uncle looking at both herself and Lucia as if he knew the plots going round in their head. Gillian only glanced at her aunt when George announced he was leaving for a week, to view one of the mines he’d invested in. “Keep yourself to the house,” he had growled at Lucia. Then, looking around asked, “Where’s Jonet?” “In her rooms,” Gillian lied taking a sip of wine. “She’s a bit of a fever.” “And no wonder, what with you dragging her about all the day.’ He snapped, “If you do not have any good sense, Lucia should have. The very filth of humanity walks these streets.” Gillian was tempted to tell him that there was no lower form but himself, though she kept silent as usual during his tirades. “Her future needs to be settled too.” He stabbed a piece of meat. “I’ll get her connected to one of the better houses in Scotland. She’s a respectable enough dowry. It’s high time she faced her future and served some purpose to me other than another mouth to feed.” As his rattled on, telling them the names of these better houses, earls and barons with influence and lands, Gillian’s fingers tightened on the napkin in her lap, and she did not look again at Lucia until George left to do his packing. Lucia, her eyes quite distressed muttered, “He’s up to something.” Gillian nodded, and they cleaned up the table, not seeking out Sir Aiden, who arrived after George and his cronies were off, until the house settled down. In the parlor, Sir Aiden stood by the window, looking out onto the streets. “He’s here. He sent word to me that I was to have you and Jonet ready at midnight.” Gillian’s heart thudded. “But.. I can’t leave first. What of Aunt Lucia?” Aiden turned to look at her. “I’ve everything ready for us, false papers that will get us to France. I have enough to live on, and will employ myself as soon as possible. We too, will depart this house by dawn.” Lucia look scared, but she smiled and stood to embrace her lover, then she hugged Gillian and murmured, “Allow me to help Jonet pack, and to talk with her.” “I’m going with you.” Having nodded to her aunt— Gillian looked in the doorway to see Jeanne who had spoken those words. The servant’s face was set, her arms crossed. “I’ll find her a horse.” Sir Aden smiled.

“Very well.” Gillian nodded, “But I’ve no idea where he’s taking us or what we’ll encounter. The highlands aren’t exactly safe.” “Never mind that.” Jeanne shrugged. “I’ve survived the devil’s den for neigh on ten years, a few heathens won’t deter me.” “Go and pack then, and bring extra provisions.” Gillian turned to Sir Aiden after she had left, and sighed. “So we all part now… into the unknown?” He reached out and took her hand. “Wish your aunt well and encourage her in this thing we do, for her sake. I know she loves me, and it will be years before her fears of George subside. She’ll be looking over her shoulder…” “I will. “ She hugged him. “God speed to you, and take care of her.” When they parted he said, “He’ll have pack horses. Take what you will need. The weather has already turned and twill be colder. “ Upstairs Gillian packed, hearing her daughter’s excited chatter next door. She felt both that and fear, and she felt all the uncertainty of seeing Stuart McLeod again. But George had indeed gave much thought to Jonet, as they expected. And, if George was looking into a means to gain her wardship, trying to find the man on the papers or in any way petitioning to transfer those rights— she knew that it was only a matter of time before he succeeded. After the trunk and bags were by the back alley door, Gillian helped her aunt pack, often drying Lucia’s tears or taking something from her trembling hands. “You’re going to be happy. More than you ever had been. Sir Aiden will take care of you, and you him.” “I know… ‘Tis just… now, that the hour is here, I cannot believe I am going to do it.” She closed the last bag and sat down on the bed. “I have not been free since I was nearly fifteen. When I look back on the years, the sons I gave him, the things we all suffered, I feel as if lifetimes have come and gone― and mayhap I lost her, that hopeful young girl.” “No.” Gillian smiled. “She’s the woman in love with Aiden, and the one he loves in return. I've seen you two together and despite the age difference. In any other lifetime you would have found each other from the start ―and lived happily. He knows where that woman is. Be happy with him.” After a last hug and check on Jeanne, Gillian spent time with Jonet, making sure she wore her cotton chemise and wool stockings and black wool gown. Her heaviest cloak was laid out, and after braiding that curly hair Gillian cupped her face and told her, “I don’t how difficult this journey is, or where it will end, but I shall never be sorry you were born, and that your real father is taking you from here.” “And you.’ Jonet smiled covering her hands. “Aunt Lucia said he wanted you too,” yet.”

“Yes, well—” Gillian laughed and shrugged. “We are a pair for awhile

“He’ll keep you,” Jonet said firmly. “Just wait and see.” At the midnight hour, Gillian nodded to Jeanne who opened the back door. They filed out and stopped, seeing the shadowy and cape'd figure a few feet away, a string of three shaggy ponies behind his bigger mount. “Wait there, “Stuart’s deep tones reached them. He brushed just past Gillian, fetching their bags and the trunk, talking in low tones to Sir Aiden, who helped secure them to the mounts. When he again faced them, he slid back his hood. Gillian saw his features by moonlight, strong and mature, with those years carved in, yet no less handsome in that untamed way. She laid her trembling hand on her daughter’s head and cleared her suddenly tight throat. “This is Jonet.” His gaze flittered down to where the girl’s face was upturned, moon beams glowing on cream skin, and catching on curls that escaped the braid and framed her face. “Ye look like me sister.” He reached out and touched a big hand to her cheek. Jonet smiled that slight curling one. “I look like you, mother says.” He grunted and laughed. “Let’s hope not, lass. I dunna think a mon such as I would make for a comely female.” “My hair and eyes, and my smile,” she persisted. Then she moved his hand, looked at the rough palm and up and down him. “You look like a warrior. You’re quite large.” “So I am.” He reached for her hand. “Come. Ye’ll ride wooly, and have the task of keeping the baggage secure.” Gillian’s heart swelled watching him lift Jonet up and put her on the pony. She smiled as he said something that made the girl giggle, then he tested her seat, having her scoot father on the rump, until he was pulling her hood up, and saying she must stay covered. Jeanne didn’t wait to be told; she hiked up her skirts and cloak and climbed on the next pony. “I’m going too.” “I see ye are.” He seemed amused, then came to Gillian. For a moment he seemed to probe in the depths and shadows of her hood. “Ye’ll ride with me.” “All right.” She looked down seeing that he had his hand out. Placing her own in it, she walked with him to the larger horse, feeling herself lifted as easily as Jonet, and then settling back against his solid form as he mounted behind her. They rode out at a sedate gait, but once they had cleared the walls, he quickened the pace. The night air on her face, Gillian felt her skin tingle and her senses sharpen. Her heat beat as if she had run the miles afoot. Who knew, all those years ago, that she would put her fate in the hands of an outlaw… that she would escape in the dead of night… and find herself riding in his arms, to the very place he so loved.

Chapter seven

It was a difficult journey. There were few real roads, though Stuart seemed to know exactly where he was going. Gillian worried about Jonet, but he called back several times and her daughter cheerfully answered that she and the baggage would do. Hours passed, the horse grew lathered, and burning hot so that steam rose off its body and foam dripped from its mouth. Stuart finally halted by a flowing stream. Easing down and reaching for her, then seeing to Jonet, before taking the horses to water. Jonet ran to Gillian, whispering in her ear. They called to Jeanne, before finding a place to see to their bodily needs. Upon returning, they sipped from the stream and Gillian sat on a stone, watching Jonet make her way to Stuart’s side, talking to him, no doubt, asking him questions, which he didn’t seem to mind answering. After a short rest they were on their way, riding what seemed to be a steady incline until nearly daylight. Then they led the horses until sun up, nearly falling asleep on their feet when he stopped at the mossy carpeted clearing, and gave them leave to slumber. He saw to the horses and then hobbled them, checking the area in a way that was obvious to Gillian that he was on his guard. She had taken off her cloak and rolled up her sleeves, and was kneeling by a thin stream to wash her face and hands, shivering at the bite of cold. Jonet, after doing much the same with her handkerchief, had gone with Jeannie to fix a makeshift camp. Stuart dug out a circle of the moss and started a small fire. When he joined Gillian, he was also without a cloak, drawing her gaze as she noted his highland garments. He drank from the spring and rinsed his mouth, while she had time to register the high and breath of him, the changes and the sheer power in the musculature that no clothing could hide. Stuart finally looked over at her while the first beams of sunrise came like shafts through the towering trees. It sparkled on the water, and the drops at the ends of those shorter pieces at his temples. And finally lit fan like over them both. Gillian let her gaze roam his rugged features, aware he was doing the same to her own visage. She was registering things different from the younger man in her mind: the broad forehead and slight bump from a broken nose, a pink scar on the high ridge of his cheekbone, and dark tanned skin. His mouth was still shaped as she recalled, semi full and his chin ruggedly impressive. When she

looked at his eyes, the thick auburn lashes and deep set of them, lines fanning from the corners, she was struck anew at the color. Here in the deep green of the woods, the gray mists were unlike any she’d seen in her life, seeming to hold mystery and emotions storms and smoke. Gillian blinked, seeing that his gaze had dropped and was slowly going over her black and green gown. When they lifted again, she realized her bun had loosened and some of the strawberry strands were lying against her cheek and brow. Not one to consider her looks since before DeWarren castle, she was suddenly self conscious, and wondering how much of those years had worn on her, and knowing that the young lass, as he’d called her then, had long since given way to womanhood, as doormat as it was. “Well be wed as soon as we reach the Kirk.” Gillian swallowed, meeting his gaze. “When?” He looked toward the camp and she followed it to see Jeannie and Jonet wrapped in blankets, asleep side by side near the fire. “Before night fall.” His gaze turned back to her. “Though this be safe land and we could leave them to rest, ride the five miles and return..” “I want…Jonet with me.” He nodded. “Verra well.” He stood and reached for her hand. Gillian took it, arose, and walked back with him. She said nothing as he made their bed on his cloak. After she lay down, he reclined with his back to her, his sword within reaching distance. When her eyes closed, she was aware of the smell of the fire, the earthy moss and woods, and Stuart McLeod, of wind and sun and man, and his strong heart beating against her back. Stuart’s eyes were not closed. He gazed through the forest, seeing the almost white sun, stripped by the towering trees. He was seeing in his mind’s eye the woman laying at his back, and never in his memory had he recalled her without that blush of youth and childish freshness. This woman was grown and matured, changed by the handsome bones of her face and strength there beyond her years. He could envision the light pink of her lips and the shaft straight nose. Her brows were slightly winged, eyes round but with titled edges and very long light lashes. Her hair not dulled from the gold, red and white of his memory, straight and silken with uneven pieces refusing to stay contained. She was taller, still not very much so, but the body rounded and curved and had the assets of womanhood. Where in that brief time he’d felt another feeling looking at her, laying with her, now it was the opposite. Stuart could detect the faintest scent of roses and feel the shape of her despite their clothing. He closed his eyes and breathed in deep, let it out slowly. The stirrings in his body and blood washed over him as if covering his skin with a silken blanket. He let it seep down, deep and slow, until the hum and throb of it was at the forefront of his mind. Stuart savored it, as unexpected and as rare as a woman like Gillian was in his life. He slept finally,

half alert to her slightest movement and sigh. ~ “It’s a roe,” Jonet whispered to Stuart as they stood by the tree line, after breaking camp. He’d pointed it out and slowly approached it with her. “Aye, and a fine one too.” He gazed at her watching that smile and the rounding of her eyes. The animal paused and sniffed the air before taking off so fast she blinked. “I’ve never seen one up close.” She turned to walk back. After a few steps she glanced up at him. “Mother said, when I used to speak of you, that you may have another family.” “I dunna.” He glanced at her. “‘Tis my aim to wed yer mother, when we reach the Kirk.” Her auburn brow arched. “We’re becoming a family, then. I mean, you’ll really be my father.” “I hae always been by blood.” He stooped and detained her too, looking at her a long time. “She told ye how it was, then, lass?” “Oh, yes. Aunt too. Sir Aiden told me about this, the highlands. I knew you were an outlaw, a Reiver when I was made. I have always known victor DeWarren wasn’t my father, though I think he was nobler than my uncle, and that horrid old Perrin.” “Aye. “ Stuart rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ll see to ye, Jonet , until yer old enough to chose yer own life.” “Then you won’t…. make me wed, before I’m ready?” “Nay. I wilna.” She smiled and sighed. “I knew you wouldn’t. I think mother knew it too.” He looked around then back. “There’s still dangers here, an I’ll do my best tae see ye safe, but ye’ll have tae learn the ways here too, and the cautions. I dunna if ‘tis still habitable, but there be a small manor I may rent from the cousin. Life here can be harsh and not that of the gentlewoman ye’d be in England. “ “I can do chores. I helped Jeannie, and mother and aunt and I worked together.” He smiled at her eagerness. “I’m sure.” He laid a hand on her thin shoulder. As they walked back, she asked softly, “When can I call I call you father?” “Never,” he said, then seeing her eyes water, he laughed and pulled her to his strong side. “Ye can call me Da, though. I dunna like the other word.” Jonet slipped her arm around his waist. “I’ll call ye Da…And be proud to.”

Later, as they were on their journey once more, Stuart said to Gillian, “She’s a bonny wee thing, ye did well with her.” “Thank you. Jonet is… well, at the moment she’s a practical mind and a happy soul, in spite of how we lived. Too brave sometimes, though wise enough to stay out of Uncle’s way.” “How was it, Gillian, after we parted?” Gillian told him, talking a long time and filling in those years. She herself didn’t realize how terrorizing some moments were, until she was describing them, and she felt Stuart’s tension, heard his muttered curses as she relayed the reality of their lives. They came upon an old church with grayed and moss covered stones. Stuart let her finish the telling, and then dismounted, holding her by the shoulders when he’d helped her down too, and looking at her a long time. “I know not what I’ll bring tae ye here, Gillian Le Roux, but I’ll never raise my hand to yourself and the lass. I hae a fierce temper and I be as human as the next man, but yer nay to fear me the way ye did George and Perrin.” “I know that,” Gillian told him, holding his gaze. He nodded and stepped back. “Let’s get the wedding done and recorded. Twill be a long trek to the manor, and I’ll hae to ride another twelve miles to speak with Dougal.” The four of them entered and were greeted by Father McMurry; a thin man, whose black garments gave him even less bulk. he spoke with Stuart for a space alone and then went about the formalities with speed and a memory of having performed the service thousands of times. “Will ye baptize my daughter?” Stuart asked as they stood in the sanctuary. “Aye.” The priest nodded and performed the ritual on a solemn Jonet. All of them lingered at the alter for a brief time, in their own private prayers, Gillian, aware that Stuart gave the priest a handful of coins when they stood to leave. ~ The manor house had been abandoned and suffered the usual neglect. But Gillian was so glad to get off the horse, she would have been glad to see a cave. It was square and towering with little of the walls and gatehouse standing, but there was something quaint about the profusion of wildflowers and wild vines twining around it. The doors looked sturdy and the courtyard still flagged with stone. Stuart checked the interior before bringing in their baggage. “I’ll return afore dark,” he told Gillian and then handed her the dagger. “There be outlaws and bandits here too, lass. I’ll teach ye to use that thing once we’re settled in.” She nodded and watched him walk to the horse and mount, and then he

was thundering off, up a narrow path worn by time. She looked down at the blade and the jeweled hit. She knew how to use one thanks to Sir Aiden, she’d been tempted many times to try her skill on her uncle, but she’d let Stuart teach her what he wished anyway.” “At least there’s a stream nearby,” Jeannie said, as Gillian entered, having come from the kitchens. “I’ll set to cleaning and we’ll have a nicer bed than last night.” “I liked the forest,” Jonet piped up. The women laughed and Gillian told her, “Go on, explore the rooms and choose one for yourself. “ When the girl skipped off, the woman found crude brooms and pans and set about making the place habitable. They worked on the main hall and while Jeanne saw to the kitchens and started a fire with dried peat. Gillian found the main solar and looked around it. Most of the bed was intact, though someone had obviously put gashes in the wood. She took the mattress off and hung it out the big window, beating the dust out and checking for bed bugs. While it was airing she went below and lugged up a steaming copper kettle, to give the room a general cleaning. By dark, the stones were drying and the bed fixed with clean linens and a fire started in the fireplace. In her own chambers, Jonet had worked hard, quite excited to have a real home, and telling Gillian it was much better than the castle, despite the riches there. Shutters thrown back, the girl made her pallet on a clean floor and fell upon it with a happy sigh. She was asleep when Gillian checked on her before hearing Stuart’s horse in the courtyard. He’d brought a sack, which they discovered had bread, and vegetables, and there was three rabbits hanging on his saddle, which he gave Jeanne to skin. After seeing to the horse, he came inside the main hall and spotted Gillian by the fire. “It’s not a castle by no means, but better than a cottage.” “It’s fine.” She smiled at him. “I’ve had my fill of castles for awhile.” She looked up at the high ceilings and back to him. “We made do in the castle after uncle began to sell off anything of value. Once the guards left, there was only Aiden and though a few servants lingered aunt and prepared meals and such. “ He was still looking at her as he took off his weapons and lay his sword on the mantle. “I’ve given my services to Dougal in exchange for rent. Likely there’s herbs gone wild in the gardens, but chickens, a few cows and the like, and we’ll survive.” She watched him scrap his hair back before turning to warm himself by the flames. “We will. Jeanne even unearthed a copper bathing tub in the kitchens and some very good claret well hidden.” His mouth curved. “Sure and we’ll all be spoiled by such luxuries.” Then he glanced at her. “There’s peace for awhile yet, and I’ve nay been gone so long that I’ve forgotten how to work. For however long we’re here, I’ll make it as best

as can be for ye.” Seeing softness in his eyes so at odds with the strength of him, Gillian was touched. “I know that too, Stuart. We’re strangers in some ways, but I don’t doubt your character.” His brows rose. “The word of an outlaw is not counted for much.” “I knew what you were then and it mattered little to me.” She shrugged. “There’s many things that should have been— we should have been enemies, and you’d have hated me along with all English, but that wasn’t between us and we made a child. I trusted you and believed enough in what I discerned, to do that. “ He breathed in deep and looked away. “Aye. And mayhap, I would have taken ye from there long afore now, had I known how it would be for ye and Jonet. But I didna think ‘twas neither my place nor part of what ye asked. “ Gillian was looking at him realizing he would have. Jeanne told them the stew was done. Gillian took a bowl up to Jonet before sitting down to eat, her daughter having filled her belly then gone back to slumbering, muttering about a sore backside and tired from the cleaning. It was full dark when Stuart built up the fire in the solar before leaving to bath at the stream. Gillian bathed in the kitchen and padded back up the stone stairs wearing her chemise, after saying her goodnight to Jeannie. The firelight softened the stone chamber, and warmed the pristine bed linens. Gillian sat on the side and combed her hair. She brushed it back and flickered a glance at the door, when Stuart entered, pausing in her task as he went to the fire and leaned over, squeezing water from his wavy mane. He straightened, having only the plaid about his hips, and dug through his satchel for an ivory comb. Gillian turned, sitting against the scarred headboard, watching a man comb his hair for the first time. The same glow of flames played over his torso and shoulders, lighting shifting muscles and showing that long ago scar wasn’t the last he’d gained over the years. Still, he was a tautly fit man, with strong arms and legs, ridged over his ribs and stomach. When he lifted his powerful arms it showed the amazing width of his back. Gillian had few memories of him in that cottage, expect for his words and whispers. She had noticed his build because it was much stronger than most, but not in the ways she did now— and not with the same awareness. He shook his head and worked until the strands were only damp and lying against his shoulder blades. Placing sitting the comb on the mantle, he then turned and met her gaze. There was a current, a hum of tension, while they looked across that space. Gillian thought that being more in shadow, she had the advantage of hiding a flush to her cheeks, but something in his own expression told her

otherwise. Eventually he came to the opposite side of the bed and sat down, sliding himself to sit much the way she was, with less than a foot between them. Gillian wet her lips and placed the comb on a stool beside the bed. She fiddled with the folds of her chemise. “Did you find your brother and sister?” “Aye. My brother died, three years past. He was in London, living and working for some lord in the stables. Lung fever they say, but ‘twas likely from starving and the few cold winters he spent in hiding. A friend of mine, Christian Raynor was able to discover that Eden indentured herself to a family sailing to America.” “I’m sorry.” “Many hae done so, lass, tae keep from starving. Her chances be far better there than here.” “How old is she?” “Same as ye.” “I’m twenty and two.” She looked at him. “And your brother?” “He was but ten and six when he died.” Gillian sighed. “I don’t know what to say.” “Naught to say. He was hiding out and didna know where to find me. Made his way to London with a tinker and worked as groom. I would hae saved him, had I known, but t’was not safe for me to pass through some of the northern towns with a price on my head.” “Is there still?” “One or two.” He smiled slightly. “For Stuart Duncan and McBain.” He shrugged and scratched at his chin. “But I paid as many fines as would clear my real name when the Mon reached me about Jonet.” “I wasn’t sure he had.” “Aye. And I hastened to Nottingham and secured an overseer. They know ye there, Gillian, least ways, an old Gardner asked of ye.” Gillian frowned then looked at him. “Penworthy…. Something like that. I was only there once to see the property because father thought… well he thought the King would see that it remained with me, that I’d have independence.” At Stuart's snort, she added, “Yes. He, like my grandfather, apparently trusted the wrong people. He and my mother thought to spare me having to become a ward of George DeWarren. Aunt Lucia had written my mother and told her how it was. But George had power and my parent’s were dead.” “He hasna any favor now, lass, save for the scum just like him who thrive on shady dealings.” “I pray he doesn’t go after Aunt Lucia.” Stuart said, “Sir Wyndham told me that she wrote out a long letter he was putting in safe hands. It will be delivered to the authorities. I dunna think she has ought to lose by telling the whole of it. Could be, that your uncle will find himself before the Privy Council for his abuses.”

It was Gillian’s turn to look cynical. “If they did not punish him in England, they won’t here. It drove him mad, being stripped of his title, but it didn’t alter his thinking, that he could own people, punish them. I feel sorry for any poor soul he encounters, and he can cannot contain his compulsion for cruelty for long.” “My faith in justice died long afore now, lass. I hae seen the worst of it and a mockery it is, nae matter which side and whose hand ‘tis served from. But Sir Aiden is nay a fool. He speaks of loving your aunt through the worst of it. He’ll be vigilant in keeping her safe, now that’s she’s free of the beast.” Looking across the room at the fire, they sat in silence moments more. For all they had a daughter between them, it was apparent to Gillian that marriage didn’t fill in a gulf either. He was not going to force a consummation of the marriage vows. Yet considering her limited experience with men in general, she was starting to feel the awkwardness of the situation. She’d witnessed some things between her aunt and Aiden, sensed the passion and tension between them, that invisible desire for each other. But like everything else― it was outside of her personally …and distant. Finally Gillian murmured, “I want to honor our union, no matter why it was made. “ She glanced aside, to find him studying her. “I was… naive when I came to you those times, and I asked much of you, but you gave me more, and I’m aware of that. I do remember parts. Still, I am ignorant, because of the way and the reason. I had dreams once, the kind all girls do, the kind Jonet will have. But I think I would have died, in my soul and spirit had not Jonet been born. Looking at her reminded me of what you said, and taking care of her, gave me a reason to keep my heart softer, when it would have hardened and turned cold.” “I didna sacrifice myself tae save ye, Gillian, “ he said almost dry. “If that’s were ye confession is headed. I’ve a few years and a life time on ye― and when a mon leaves his home, and picks up his sword as I did, long afore I met ye. He hae already traded war for home and family, and the dreams a lad will have until he gets a good dose of reality. I didna believe in fate, but I wouldna hae thought I’d meet ye the first time, let alone have tae ye wife, and be a da to Jonet. ‘Tis a truth, that neither of us, not you nor me, have thought on a life bound to each other, nor how’d we get in the normal way. I dunna expect, nor want, ye tae honor the vows or the union, in the way ye speak of it.” She was looking at him now, hearing a hardness under those words that she knew wasn’t meant toward her― but rather, that he did not want to be seen in the same light as the men in her past, nor did he want her to submit to the situation. She bit her lip a moment, thinking, and then asked, “Do you remember what you said, at the market? About your thoughts and if I were older and could…” “Aye.” “Is that what you want?” She watched his face carefully. “Is that possible

for us?” “A man and woman can want each other, Gillian, ‘tis more normal a state than what comes of forced unions or arranged marriages. Grown as we are, it would be natural.” Before she could say more, he added with a long sigh and slid down in the bed, resting his forearm over his eyes and one hand on his taut stomach. “Dunna force it, Gillian. I want ye in the normal way, but ye be too new to having yer freedom, and deciding for yerself.” She arose and pulled down the cover and slid in, feeling him arise and do the same, after she’d rolled to her side. The shadows were deepening in the chamber when Gillian murmured, “My aunt said, that she didn’t know if she could find the person she was, before she knew George, and I told her that I believed that was who she was to Aiden, and that was the woman he loved.” “Likely so,” Stuart murmured in the darkness. “I have never been in love.” After a heartbeat, Stuart muttered, “Neither have I.” Gillian fell silent as the riding and the days toil caught up with her. The fire died low and the drafts in the manor cooled the room. She had slept or been somewhere in slumber, when she felt Stuart gathered her back against him. Against her hair he whispered, husky with sleep, “Yer shivering, lass. “ Heat and strength surrounded her, like strong protective walls against the cold. Flesh and blood, but a feeling too, that seeped into her bones, and remained until she awoke at dawn. Pushing her tangle of hair back, Gillian rolled to the flat of her back and rubbed her cold nose with the blanket. Blinking, she slid up, watching Stuart lay the fire to warm the room. As sleep faded, she watched him adjust his tartan and buckle on his short sword, their conversation drifted through her mind and lingered there while he combed his hair and tied it back with a thong. He was aware of her, because he said before leaving, “Jonet is up and there is food below. I’ll be taking the lass out for bit.” “All right.” He turned by the door and looked back, glancing over her face and form under the covers. “The floors are cold, dunna walk about without yer shoes.” The door closed and Gillian smiled rather silly. The man actually cared if her feet were cold or not. She lay there awhile then arose and found her slippers, dressing in brown wool gown and yellow blouse, tying her hair back. She went below for Jeanne to lace the back up tightly on the bodice piece. After a quick breakfast, they put on their cloaks and went out to the herb garden, working there for two hours before going through the trunks, and taking out a pair of tapers, which they put on the table amid a vase of wildflowers. Stuart returned, but he and Jonet didn’t come inside. It was later that

Gillian found them, in the narrow courtyard by the stables. Jonet, having divested her cloak and rolled up her sleeves, was holding the wood pegs while Stuart drove them into a board. Leaning against the stone wall, she watched a bench take shape. And then from wood he’d salvaged from somewhere, and hauled on a sled like device, came the makings of a bed which she learned from Jonet was to be her own. Having seen the warrior, Gillian now watched the craftsman, wondering if he’d helped his father and uncles make things at that age? There was quite a bit of conversation; mostly Jonet’s endless questions, while the pieces were finished. When food was served, Stuart carried the pieces to the bed inside, and used a mallet to drive the pegs in while they ate. He came down and grabbed only bread before going back out, bringing the bench in to put before the fire, then out again. Evening saw Jeannie making the mattress for Jonet, and the lass assigned the task of seeing to the horse and ponies. After unpacking most of their things, Gillian once more went to courtyard, taking up her spot to watch him use a slightly curved blade to whittle a handle. He worked with focus and skill, she noted; guessing that he took for granted the things he knew how to do. But he’d sharpened a hoe and scythes and replaced the handles, then did several more items that were a mystery to her. She followed along, when he made a U shaped thing of about two feet, watching with fascination as he slid it through a slot in the wall then went into the kitchens and adjusted it. It was then she realized it would divert rainwater, which would run into the stone cistern. “That’s very clever.” He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his sleeve. “It will freeze up come the snows, but for now, it will keep Jeanne from carrying sae many pails. She can fill the spare ones here. I’ve seen piped in water in the lowlands, heated water too, but winter is neigh upon us, and there’s a greater need to smoke meat and fish and stock the storehouse. I’ll hunt in the next few days and then risk a trip south to buy milled grain. The barn is standing well enough for a cow and some chickens. “ She walked out with him to the barns, where he praised Jonet for her brushing of his horse and gave her leave from her chores. Jonet went a space from them, exploring and picking up stones and blooms. After washing off in a pail, Stuart leaned against the opening watching her . Gillian could sense his already growing bond with the girl. “I’ll have to pick up her lessons soon,” she mused aloud, watching Jonet leap from a rock and twirl around. “Though she’s a hunger for more than I can teach her. I don’t know that females ever will have access to the kind of things men are taught. She’d like that though.” “She’s bright sure enough, and curious too.”

Gillian smiled and glanced at him. “So you got a taste of that,did you? Endless questions about everything." “Aye. She’s wantin’ to learn the language.” Gillian’s brow rose. “Gaelic,” he said as if she should have known that. “I’ll be teaching her.” “All right.” He folded his arms leaning more of his shoulder on the entry. “And about her people, my kin.” “I don’t have an objection to that. Did you think I would?” He shrugged. “I’m English because that’s where my father brought me. But I was born in France. I can speak French and English, but that doesn’t mean I have some aversion to your language, or your people.” He nodded slightly but was looking at her and she felt it as she watched Jonet play. When he didn’t cease, she turned― and their eyes met and held. A man and a woman, not yet lovers but man and wife, and bound to each other. “Look, Mother!” Jonet’s voice jerked Gillian’s gaze away. She pulled from the building and walked up the incline to admire the odd shaped stone Jonet had found. Remaining with her for another hour, as they plucked leaves and sometimes smiled, and laughed over Jonet’s comments, Gillian was aware that Stuart did not move, and at one point he sat down, lighting a pipe and leaning against the sun warmed stone, When Jonet ran down to the main keep at Jeanne’s call to supper, Gillian sat there on the stone, looking down the distance at him, as he gazed up at her, feeling a stir inside that was new and light, a kind of tingling warmth and awareness that he was interested in watching her. That day, and the rest of the week, he worked close to the manor. And normally wherever he was, Jonet was nearby, having her lessons in Gaelic as she helped in her small way with the chores. Jeanne skinned and smoked the meat when Stuart brought it, and the time came that he left, once for two days and returning with a cow and squawking chickens tied by their legs onto the agitated mount. Another trip lasted nearly a week, and saw a snow falling when he arrived. But the packhorses were loaded, and the pantry much fuller after he unloaded them. He handed Gillian a package, which she discovered was left to her by her aunt and relayed through a trusted party by Sir Aiden. The case held beautiful bottles of scented oils and a sack of coins. There were two silver combs she’d often seen in Lucia’s hair and a string of pearls for Jonet as well as gossamer lace gloves. Jonet had her own package, which she showed her mother, the paints her aunt had kept in a chest, with the brushes, and a bracelet with diamonds and rubies that Gillian figured she must have sewn in her skirts when they’d left

DeWarren castle. Stuart had left them to bath and shave, and his weariness showed as he sat silent during the meal, while they chattered with Jeanne, admiring the beautiful scarves Lucia had sent her, lace edged and two in silk, they were in jewel tones and never worn. That night after Jonet was abed and Gillian retired, she lay under the covers listening to the wind pick up, wondering if the snows would deepen, and thinking of Lucia in France, hoping that she was happy. “Did you hear anything of Uncle?” She asked when Stuart came in the room. He was merely wrapped in his plaid, barefoot and by the fire. “No. He’s nay returned. I did hear that word of your aunt’s letter. There’sa whisper that they’ve sent a messenger to London. To discover his dealings there, and I expect they’ll question his old vassals and servants.” “Good.” She rolled to her back as he turned. Gillian realized he was completely unclothed …save for the yards of plaid. Her eyes skittered away, and she rolled to her side again. He came across and slid into the bed, murmuring as he turned toward her back, “Scoot back, lass, my bones are fair frozen.” She did, feeling the absence of any covering on his skin that was far from cold. Indeed, through her chemise, he was solid and warm. His arm over her hip moved, and his hand came up, cupping the side of her face that rested on the bed, nudging; so that she knew he wanted her to look at him. Gillian did, as he lifted his torso, leaning over slightly. He looked down at her in the muted light. When he lowered his head, face framed by those waves of auburn hair, she did not need to be trapped by the hand on her cheek― because Gillian was too curious not to let the kiss happen. His mouth, much softer than she expected, and velvety in texture, pressed light at first and then brushed across hers. He raised an inch, gazing at her through his lashes before lowering again and rubbing them lightly across, around, until slightly parted; his tongue traced the crease of her lips. By the time she parted hers, and his tongue slid inside, she was aware his hand had moved and was resting at her throat, splayed, and somehow arousing as his thumb brushing up under her chin. For a time her head was full of lightness, while his tongue stroked over hers and under. His barely pressing kisses, a kind of testing that she answered with timidness, and then something else… because his flavor and the slow lave and stroke of their tongues made her breathing quicken. Stuart pulled back with slowness. He kissed across her damp lips, touching the corners and kissing just under the lower one. His hand shifted

when he returned again for a more intimate taste, covering her breasts and causing an instinctual jerk in Gillian’s frame at the newness of it. Breathing hot and mingled when he raised his head again, Gillian looked at him in a kind of foggy wonder, seeming to awaken all at once from the inside and out. Again he returned, kissing her cheeks and brow, close to her ear, and once more her mouth. His fingers were flexing over the mound, lastly his thumb rubbing at the nipple in a way that brought a soft moan from her throat. When his lips touched her ear this time, his breathing was heavy and fast. “Turn around, Gillian.” She did, rolling fully toward him and sliding, so that their faces were more even. He pulled her to him a moment, long enough for her to feel the hard hammer of his heart. Then raising more― he pressed her to her back and leaned over her, his eyes lighter mists in the subtle light, while his fingers pulled the tie of the garment covering her. The gathers relaxed, widened, until it clung only by her arms. He traced the edge, across her upper breasts, the pad of those fingers leaving a trail of fire behind and raising the fine hairs on her body. He was watching her parted lips, the pulse beat at her throat, before he murmured huskily, “Ye carry the smell of roses, and feel of fine silk.” He caught her gaze while the fingers slid down, taking the edge with it until both breasts were exposed. Gillian’s throat flexed when he looked down. She could feel the tightening of her nipples, the taunt skin drawing toward them. He suddenly shifted, lowered his head and his mouth covered one. She buried her hands in his hair and cried out softly, panting as the intense sensations burning through her, sparks of heat and some strange hunger. Hand cupping the opposite one, he laved, suckled, and remained doing so for so long, that Gillian’s fingers were tugging harder at his hair, and her frame atremble. “Ouch.” He raised his head, laughter mingling with heavy breaths. “Leave a strand or two, lass. I wouldna look sae good bald.” “S...Sorry.” She pulled her hands away, wincing as strands clung to her fingers. He smoothed it, then took her hand and lay it on the side of his neck. “I was teasing ye, Gillian. “ He left it there, and held her gaze a moment. “You’re feeling it, are you?” “Yes.” He touched the pulse at her throat. “Touch me, anywhere. Yer hands are sweet and softer than I remember.” His eyes closed a moment, while she touched his throat and then slid her hands across his shoulders. He opened them, and smiled slightly. “‘Tis hard to think on proper bedding when my blood is running so fast, and so hot.” His hand moved to her ribs and then lower. He was gathering the thin chemise, until his knuckles

scrapped against her warm thighs. He worked it up to her waist and leaned down to kiss her again, doing it until the breath was robbed from her lungs. “Stuart.” She drew air deep when the kiss ended, her hands restless now and palms skimming his strong arms. But he adjusted and worked the material up. She had to let go and let it slip over her head. Gillian felt completely exposed while he looked her over, wondering what he thought of her body… and flushing, when his gaze lingered on the golden red curls between her thighs. He returned for more kisses, soft ones. She relaxed. Not until her tongue laved his, did he return his touch to her breasts. There were moments after that, where warm turned to hot and tingles became a skin hunger that was so strong Gillian no longer registered where her hands roamed. His moved, touched, molded and skimmed, and she was arching slightly, and whispering words she wouldn’t remember later. At some point, his body was more over hers, and his mouth following his hands. He was everywhere, skimming and kissing. Head arched back; she bit down on her lip when he nudged her legs apart. Then he was back to kissing and skimming, his strong teeth scraping erotically on the inside of her thighs, followed by a lave that spread chills over her skin. It seemed necessary, vital instead of shocking, when he’d parted those curls and began to kiss her there too. Heart stopping and then starting, Gillian felt the movements of his head, his silky cool hair against her inner thighs while flames of velvet pleasure came with every lave of his tongue. His voice rumbled in some uniquely masculine way, vibrating against that tender skin before he suckled a place of gathered nerves, bringing her hips off the bed and her hands back to his hair. She was lost in a haze for moments that strung together with no meaning. He brought her to a point where Gillian become so engulfed she found herself sliding under the warmest waves of pleasure, an impossible kind of falling apart, yet so wonderful there was no thought of retreating from it. He slid up, posed over her, letting her limbs adjust and widen for his larger frame. Forearms by her head, he kissed her silkily, and seemed to wait for her to focus on his face, before his hips flexed and the crown of his sex entered just enough to mimic the kiss they had shared; shallow and yet full. He stilled himself. Gillian had in no way calmed, but had enough awareness to realize her body was contracting, trying to draw him inside. He locked their gazes, and answered the primal welcome of hers, inch by inch, slowly filling her, until she arched again and closed her eyes, her thighs sliding higher, his sex sinking deeper… they were locked tightly and sealed flesh to flesh. Stuart began to move then, and Gillian felt such pleasure that her harsh breathing became moans and cries. Her body lifted, meeting, chasing the feel of

his, and her hands molding, clutching with every shift of his frame, while he moved and stroked end to end. “Gillian.” His husk was deep in smoky in the haze of pleasure between them. He thrust firmer, hands clutched the headboard, while her body undulated and arched, and her limbs held him captive. When the pleasure peaked Gillian had no warning, so deep was she in the world of sensual pleasure. She knew he murmured something, shuddered and thrust before his weight relaxed, but ripples were floating under her skin again. The sweetest lightness had filled her, so that she did not stir even when he left her and came back to cleanse his seed from her thighs. In fact, she was in his arms, her cheek against his chest before her head cleared. She felt his hand on the back of her head, and closed her eyes, drifting into sleep that was dreamless, save for mists, white ones carrying wisps and whispers of what they had shared. ~~ Day had long since dawned before Gillian left the bed and bathed. She dressed and went below to eat, seeing Jeanne and Jonet walking in the snow toward the barn. Washing her bowl, Gillian turned as Stuart came through the door. He glanced at her, while he removed a lined cape, hanging it on a peg before tending the fire. It was then she noted he wore leather trousers and boots, a doe skin shirt that laced half way up his chest. He dusted his hands and turned, then walked the distance to look down at her… before he bent and kissed her. Gillian didn’t expect the first one, nor the second, but by the time the third, deeper one came— she was sliding her hands over his shoulders and standing on tip toe to return it. His breath trembled out his nostrils. He half lifted, half walked her back out of the kitchens. Somewhere up the stairs Gillian’s back was against the wall, her skirts up, and he was thrusting, moving inside her ―and the hunger surprised her, at the same time it overtook her too, making her forget where they or what time of day it was. Later, refreshed in their room, she sat on the bed and shook her head. She never knew nor expected that making love would feel like that, that she could lose herself when he kissed or touched her. And she went through the morning and noon chores―got through supper, in a preoccupied state of mind, wondering why she felt different in that bed and on those stairs, amazed, that it was her, that she could feel such intense desire. At sundown she sat in parlor with Jonet and went over their studies, making herself focus on that, while she watched her daughter sew mittens and fur linings for their boots from the rabbit furs. When the lessons were over, she retired to the solar, to lie across the bed-- and stare absently at the fire. Gillian didn’t move when he entered and undressed, nor did she say anything, when he

lay across the bed with her unclothed. “Ye’ve been quiet, lass?” Her gaze flickered, seeing that he lay with arms folded and cheek against them. “I didn’t expect what happened… what it felt like. I hardly know where those feelings came from.” He lifted his head and smiled. “From yer desires and hungers, Gillian. It’s a passionate woman ye are, and happy am I to discover it.” He sat up further and touched her wrist. “I hae never felt sae much myself, but I’m no sorry that we’re matched in it.” She turned her hand and lay it in his. “It’s a bit overwhelming.” Stuart moved and nudged until she lay on her back gazing up at him. “For me too.” He leaned down and kissed her, rising to murmur, “I wanted ye again as soon as it was over, and I want ye now.” Gillian shuddered. “I want you, too.” Her clothing was discarded with tugging in between kisses and touches. And this time, he stayed and lingered, stopped to kiss and rest his head against hers, before thrusting steady and deep. When he shuddered and murmured her name, Gillian stroked his back. A brief spell apart to clean themselves and they were under the blankets, touching and kissing, exploring each other and rolling, shifting to accommodate a seeking hand or brushing lips. There was complete freedom in the following hours, an uninhibited string of tasting texture and flavors. Gillian knew his scent, felt the hidden places, urged on by his deep groans, and sharp draws of breath. She was over him head to toe, behind and around him, every inch of skin knowing skin― and learning how to touch and stoke. His hands covered hers, moved them, drug them over him, to bath himself in her touch. When he entered her afterwards, it was untamed and fast, completely primitive, until his seed spewed deep and warm and his body shuddered and calmed. ~ With winter’s snows upon them, the next weeks were little more than chores and time with Jonet, until Gillian and Stuart were alone again. Making love no longer had a number or stop and start. They wanted each other whenever they were together ―and whenever, wherever possible, they satisfied the need to be kissing, touching joined. Neither noticed Jeanne’s smiles nor Jonet’s muffled giggles over their leisure time spent in bed. They were starved for touch and holding, for that wholeness of making love, as if the years had stored it behind a wall that came down― and they poured that into and over each other, few words but intensely strong emotions, that perhaps they had no words for. ~

The summons came, as Stuart predicted, to fulfill his service to his cousin. He’d taught the women how to use the short sword and instructed them on staying safe. It was obvious that Jonet was afraid for him to leave, so he spent his last day talking with her, only having a moment with Gillian for a kiss and murmured farewell. Winter lingered. Gillian made herself not worry. He sent a runner, usually a youngster to bring word of his welfare and check on them. She knew he was raiding, running cattle up from the lowlands, though he didn’t say so. And though he had done it before he met her― that he did it now, to support her, weighed on Gillian’ s mind and robbed her sleep many hours. With a full belly of oats and milk, and a coin, she had coaxed information out of a lad calling himself William. It seemed there was a big raid, long since planned and some meeting of the clans to do with the Jacobites. But there were spies he said, even amid the highlanders, enemies who served nothing but themselves, and would be happy if their rivals did hang or rot in the tower for treason. This gave her less comfort and more worry. It was in February― and after a deep snow had fallen. Jonet came through the door, screaming, agitated, and falling to her knees. The women rushed out of the kitchen as the girl puffed to catch her breath, “Riders…coming up the pass….six…one looks like… Uncle George.” Gillian helped her daughter up and glance at Jeannie. “Quickly, get yourself dressed. You and Jonet slip to the stables, take the ponies…go north.” “And leave you here!” The servant cried wringing her hands. “No. Mother, No.” Jonet clung to her. Gillian squatted down, taking her by the shoulders. “Listen to me. You must be very brave and ride very fast to reach the cottages. Remember the strip of plaid I gave you?” The girl nodded and Gillian went on, “Show it to them and tell them you’re Stuart McLeod’s daughter, and tell them we need help.” “Come with us. We can get away,” Jeanne pleaded. “No.” She shook her head. “I’ll distract him. They won’t give chase to you and Jonet, if he’s here to question me about Aunt Lucia.” Holding her hands over the child’s ears, the servant hissed, “He’ll kill you when he finds she’s not here.” Gillian looked at the short sword sitting on the mantle. “Not without a fight. Now go, hurry! “ Jeanne ran tugging the girl with her up the stairs, and then came below swathed in a hooded cape. Gillian pinned the plaid on Jonet’s mantle and kissed her forehead. She said, “We’re on his cousin lands, so if you can reach the tenants someone will take word to the laird, and to Stuart. Perhaps someone will come, but either way, I want you safe. I won’t take the chance of George having come after you.”

She pushed them toward the back doors. “To the stables now. And don’t look back.” Jonet was weeping but running with the servant, and Gillian stood in the frosty air, her body already shaking with dread, and her eyes straining until she saw the two figures exit the stable and head north, the shaggy ponies cutting through the drifting snow with good speed. Shutting the door, she ran to the mantle and grabbed the sword, looking down at her clothing, Gillian muttered and finally tucked into the band of her skirt, hiding the hilt at her side by pulling the blouse lose over it. Her heart beating so rapid her head was trembling. Gillian ran up the stairs to the solar to look afield. She saw them, six riders, three up front and three behind, and Jonet was right. Without a wig and even with his head swathed in wool, she would recognize George. She blew out a long breath trying to calm herself, chanting in her mind that she could divert him until someone came―knowing― she would not have wanted Jonet here if they did not. She didn’t want to die, not now, but if she must, she would spare her daughter that… for she knew if George killed her, it wouldn’t be quick. And Jonet would not escape with only that either… No, she could take that chance. When the riders entered the courtyard, Gillian made herself walk down the stirs and across the main hall. Her fingers trembling as she fumbled to open the door. George had dismounted and unwound the scarf to show his strangling strands of hair. His face was blotchy and leaner, his eyes blacker as they landed on her. Gillian noted that four of the men were wearing tartan and bonnets. Highlanders. George signaled the men who dismounted, and then came forward. “Is she here?” “Who?” His mouth twisted. “You know well who. Lucia, the bitch!” “No, nor do I know where she is.” His hand lifted so fast she hardly saw it, but felt the back handed blow that stung her cheek and mouth and forced her back a step. “Bitch! Slut! Liar!” He grabbed her arm dragging her inside. The men followed, a few of them laughing. Pulling her arm away, Gillian touched her swollen lip and blinked back the tears. “I don’t know where she is. I’m married now, and you’ve no right to strike me.” “Married?” He sneered. “Yes. To Jonet’s father. Her real father.” His eyes widened and then filled with fire. “Filthy slut!” He screamed and

came at her, slapping her rapidly with both hands. “You dared….” Trying to dodge his blows she screamed, “Stuart McLeod is Jonet’s father. He was a Reiver and an outlaw. Yes I dared, you evil bastard! I dared and so too did Victor approve. You’re the devil and more evil than any m…” His fingers had curled; the fisted blow knocked her to the ground. The men watching had been laughing― but now Jonet wiped the blood from her mouth, her face swelling, stared at them. “I’m the wife of Stuart McLeod and you are on his kinsman’s lands. If any of you take part in this, he will hunt you down and kill you.” “A Scot,” One of the men yelled at George. “Ye lied, mon! Ye said we was leadin ye to a run away wife. I’ll no be a part of this.” “She’s a slut. A whore. And she’s English.” George was raving, trembling and sweating as he pushed the oily hair out of his eyes. “I’m nothing to him,” Gillian screamed. “Stuart McLeod is the father of my child, and we were wed four months ago. He’ll kill any man who has helped this bastard.” Four of the men were already leaving. George grabbed the one non-Scot by the collar. “Hold her, get down there and hold her.” The man looked at Gillian. “I’m not here to abuse a man’s wife. You lied to us, DeWarren.” George had unsheathed a sword. He ruthlessly stabbed the man through the stomach. With a scream, the man ran bleeding for the door. The other didn’t wait for his companion to make it. He took off out the door too. Gillian watched the blood drip off the point of the sword, as George put his foot on her leg… and held the weapon to her throat. “Where’s the little bastard?” “My daughter is safe, with her father.” He put more pressure. “So. You take after your bitch of an aunt after all.” He sneered. “Oh yes, I knew of her whore’s ways with Wyndham. It amused me to watch them. Did you know that? Aye, from the passageway I could see them and many times she thought I was gone, I was right there…close enough to kill them. ” He laughed. “Poor fool that Wyndham was, to lust for so spiritless a bitch. I gained more from watching them, than I ever found between her cold thighs.” “They were in love. Something you know nothing about.” Gillian was trying to scoot back so that she could get to her feet and the sword. “You’re twisted and cruel. There is nothing my aunt or even I did, that was as unnatural or as sinful as you― and that spawn, Perrin.” He chuckled coldly and leaned over; letting the blade lay against her cheek. “I watched you too.. What bliss I passed seeing you go ripe and round." “Shut up! Cease your filthy tongue!” He stepped on her skirt when she successfully slid back. Taking the sword down her cheek, her throat, he poised it at the bodice― and sliced it through.

“Beg me.. Beg me not kill you, and I may just ride you instead.” “My husband will kill you.” She grit and used her palms to brace herself. Gillian waited until his eyes were leering on her breasts, before she used her arm to knock the sword up, cutting herself, but quickly ripping the skirt free― and rolling away. She jumped to her feet, grabbed the short sword, holding aloft and panting with fear and adrenaline. “Or I will.” George held his sword at point, and untied his cape, letting it fall. He was dressed in dark purple and lace, the mockery of a gentleman. He took a step toward her. Gillian took up a defensive stance. “Perhaps you have spirit after all,” he murmured smiling and waved the sword. “Perhaps― I will let you cut me just a little, just enough to give you a satisfying look at fresh blood. I enjoy the occasional sting of a blade, you know.” He wet his lips and watched her face. “You’ve never done that, have you, Gillian? Writhed necked and covered in blood, felt your loins bursting with metallic smell of it in your nostrils.” “Diseased bastard,” she muttered. He made as if to thrust to the left, and when she crossed to deflect it, George dropped his weapon, grabbing her wrist with both hands squeezing hard. Gillian groaned, attempting to keep her hold on the sword while the bones felt near to snapping. He came close, so close, their bodies touched, and raised his elbow, scooping her in a perverse embrace, by slipping it over her head. His hands on her wrist tightened, his fetid breath caressing her brow as he growled, “Shall I break it, darling? Would you like to hear the sweet snap of bone?” Fingers numb and the pain producing the tears that spurt from her eyes, she felt the lack of blood from the merciless hold. As if of their own will, the fingers opened and the sword clattered to the floor. George took instant advantage, grasping her hard by the chin, grinding his mouth against her already bleeding lips. Gillian screamed wildly as one hand grabbed her hair cruelly. He stepped back, pulling hard, half throwing her toward the stone stairs. She stepped on her skirt; stumbled, fell, sobbing as her knee hit the edge. But Gillian turned and was almost standing when George shoved her down. He sent his knee into her stomach causing nausea and pain to swirl within her. His long hands and fingers splayed on the sides of her head, pushing it back, back against the pointed edges of the stair. Panting and huffing he murmured, “Beg me…Beg me to rape you instead.” Gillian gathered the blood and salvia in her mouth and spat, eyeing it clinging to his brow. “Burn in hell, you savage!”

George growled in a feral rage and leaned down; using his teeth to grind at hers while his hands ripped her gown from the bodice. Gillian fought. She slammed his head, gouged and tried to buck him off. The edge of the stone seared the back of her head, her mouth in agony and her own blood sliding down her throat. She at last reached for his eyes, clawing and growling herself in helpless fury. “Bitch! Bitch!” He raised and slapped her hard three times. Wiping his face with his hand and blinking, he held her wrists with one hand, his body trembling and his breathing faster, darker. His long nails raked her hip as he ripped the rest of her gown away, digging, clawing up the chemise, while the wild black orbs pinned hers. "I’ll plow you ‘til you bleed, you Scot’s whore! I should have long ago.” Gillian was praying, chanting, not that…not that… not the one part of her that was hers.. She couldn’t stand the thoughts that his dark seed would spew in her womb… that his devil’s rod would violate her. Something snapped inside of her. She bucked and screamed to the top of her lungs, “Noooo! Noooo! “ Her mind rebelling when she felt him force her legs apart. Wildly now, she had her wrist free though it tore flesh with it― and she became just as savage as he, fighting with everything in her, screaming over and over, “Nooooo!” Locked in a death battle, George grabbed her hands, spreading them wide and having freed himself, laughed cruelly and flexed to inter her. Amid Gillian’s screams and his wild laughter, neither heard the door fling wide― and hit the stones with a resound boom. Only Gillian in some breath between her screams― heard a roar so deep and ferocious it filled the keep, and seemed to shake the very stones. Her eyes closed in attempt to summon her fighting strength, she did not see George bow in a different manner, the last taunt catching in his throat… as the sword blade sliced across it. Warm blood gushed like fountain when Stuart McLeod raised him with a single hand, lifted him above his head, throwing him with raging force against the wall. Gillian had stopped screaming when the body left her, but in the mental vise she simply lay there trembling and moaning, her bruised and bleeding hands out flung. “Ah God! Ah Christ!” Stuart reached out his hands to her; her face stark and nose and mouth covered with bright red blood, blood that had ran down her chin and breasts. Blood was everywhere, flecks and drops and smears with no telling where it came from. Her forearm bled down the stones and her hair wildly tangled. Her ivory body marred with red and blue scratches and bruises, she was dry-eyed now, the tears having slid into her hair.. But she starred at nothing, neither moved nor spoke. He looked over at the crumpled and bleeding form lifeless against the

wall. With another roar of rage, Stuart went to it, drug it outside in the snow and across the courtyard. He ripped the head from George DeWarren’s body and left the halves for the animals…. A widening red pool around it that melted the pristine snow. Inside the hall, Stuart quickly divested himself of his plaid and went to his wife. Tenderly he gathered her in it, his heart and stomach tightening at how lax and lifeless she was. Christ… Oh God…was all he could think… After carrying her above, it was a frantic hour of bringing up the copper tub and heating water. Gillian lay on the bed; the bleeding stopped by the mild washing he’d given her and the thick salve. They were shallow cuts save for the places her teeth had ravaged inside her lip. Stuart watched her face as he grasped it and held the wet cloth tight, to stop the flow. She didn’t even flinch. He talked to her then, in Gaelic, soothing, and over the shaking of his own tones. He spoke sweet nonsense in fragments, and husky whispers that hid his own emotional state. Nude, he took her in his arms and sat in the steaming bath, Gillian on his lap. While he washed her as if a child, kissing her brow and stroking the clean locks, he bathed her face, all of her, always whispering and soothing, always looking in her eyes. When he was done, he sat there with her ‘til the water cooled. Feeling her finally shudder and sigh, before her eyes were closing. Gently he stood, and laid her before the fire on his cloak, drying her and then himself before checking her wounds again. His large hands so dark in contrast, he re-salved the cuts and tied on fresh bandages. Her face was distorted and swelling, he carefully salved it, and then carried her to bed. Stuart lay a hand on her heart under the cover, knowing she wasn’t dead but in some other place. He prayed for her then, in that darkness, prayed she’d heal there and come back to him when she felt safe enough. He leaned down and kissed her sometime later, then built up the fire, and emptied the tub out the window. Below he cleaned up the blood that George had defiled his home with. And then he sat on the stairs… and held the tatters of her gown against his mouth, his eyes closed tight and his throat working. Stuart would never banish the sounds of screams…. He’d heard them a mile away, felt them like the cold blade of a knife piercing his heart. The last mile he could not recall riding, just the deep pump of blood and the mingled rage, fear ―and mental screams that matched her own, Nooooooo A shudder worked down his big frame .He breathed in the cloth, smelling roses. Stuart moaned and rubbed it roughly against his face, trying to wipe out the site of DeWarren poised to rape his wife. His strong teeth bit into the material. Every day he had been gone he’d worried. His mind was not on raiding and rustling, nor did he relish the feel of his sword in his fist or a chance to fight the English. He wanted only to see his daughter’s happy face in the morning, to feel his wife’s touch, hear her whisper and sigh, and to know the welcome of her

body, the fire of her passion. He opened his eyes and sat back, still holding the gown and looking at the water stains that now replaced the blood on the stairs. He hadn’t known what danger there was when that scrap of plaid reached him. The tenant had nearly killed himself running through the snows to reach one of the laird’s guards. And he’d been readying himself to depart; coming down the stairs when the hall erupted and the guard roared his name. But he did not look from that scrap and tore it from the man’s fingers, running for his horse without waiting for help. The old man had somehow reached the stables and grabbed the bridle. “Yer daughter be safe, and the servant…” “Bring her to the castle, to the laird,” he’d said, jerking the reins and spurring his horse southward realizing it was Gillian in danger— Gillian who could be dead before he reached her, Gillian who needed him. A second less and she’d be more than beaten and bruised. He didn’t underestimate the effect of the abuse she’d taken however, the fear built up from years of that life, nor of the ferocious fight she’d put up, against a man twice her size and insane. No, he could see the corpse-less head outside she’d fought, and by the type of wounds to her own body. Having most her life lived with the demon, seen the result of his rutting, the terror must have been tenfold. He was thankful George had not put his filthy flesh in her… Nonetheless… the past half-hour must have been the worst kind of nightmare. The Gillian he knew, or thought so, had suffered much in silence, kept her rage and frustration buried deep, her pain too of what was visited on them in the castle. She was a lady, a gentlewoman, with spirit and humor that was only now starting to show itself again, a will to survive. He imaged she had done so for her daughter’s future. And aye, passion, she had that too now that she was free. Yes she fought… until he’d torn the attacker from her. In his sporran was a lock of hair he carried with him for years, she’d remembered that exchanged vow then, and he believed she would now. George did not take her spirit and soul and break her… she was not broken… The wind howled outside amid sound of horses filling the courtyard. Stuart looked up as the door opened. Fifty clansmen piled inside. It was the Laird and his lieutenants, fully ready for battle and spilling blood. The chieftain looked at him. Stuart rose to his feet in respect. The man’s brow cocked. “I see from the bloody pile outside ye dunna need an extra hand.” “No.” Stuart looked over the men’s faces, seeing a respect and a hint of sympathy there too and some curiosity. “How fair’s yer woman?” “Beaten but not raped. She fought….” Stuart stopped and swallowed. “She fought him bravely—to her own pain. “ The men smiled slightly and the laird nodded, looking at the tattered

garment before saying, “I’ll have the women see tae the wee one. Though yer sword arm be envied, ‘tis more important ye help yer wife through this.” “My thanks. Dunna tell Jonet… Tell her, that…” One of the men Stuart's age stepped forward. “I’ve three her age, and with good hearts and spirit. My wife will see she’s nae distressed.” Stuart Nodded. He felt brittle suddenly, like old rattling bones in a shell. The laird said, “We’ll be leaving ye, then. “ He headed for the door adding, “The wolves be almost done wif their meal. We’ll have us some good pelts tae carry home.” When the door closed, Stuart walked slowly to it and slid the bolt, then fed the tattered gown into the kitchen fire. When the last ash was gone, he went out to tend his poor horse and then washed again. He sighed and headed up the stairs to the solar, and lay down beside his wife. The cold and hot surge of emotions had drained him. He kept his eyes on her injured profile, until his lashes fluttered down and wouldn’t rise again. ~ The next two days, inside the stone manor, there was only the sounds of the wind and trickle of water as Stuart took care of Gillian. His own footsteps were almost silent in the chambers when he went to the kitchens or fed the fire, or took care of the animals. The food he ate had no taste, and his skin and bones no real feeling. His focus was on Gillian, her breathing and her wounds. The third day he cut straws she would need to use until her mouth healed. He bathed and shaved, he slept, and he waited for her to awaken. On the fifth day she did. Not with a start or screams, but he walked into the room and she was laying there, her eyes on the door and then him. “Ye’ll be hungry,” his voice sounded scratchy. “I’ll be right back.” But when he had gone, Gillian got up out of the bed, staggering at first, and then walking on weak legs to the fire. She looked over when he came in with the tray. “Aye, ‘tis better to gain yer strength and move around.” He set the tray down and brought over a stool, handing her the food when she sat down. While she ate, he changed the bed and used the clean linens he’d brought in, carrying the others below. The bowl of stew was empty, the bread and cheese eaten when he returned. Stuart took the things below and came back. “I want to comb my hair.” She sat on the edge of the bed. He gave her the comb from the mantle, and to keep from staring, he walked to the window. “Jonet is well. She’s safe and well. Jeanne too.” He clasped his hands behind his back and closed his eyes. His shudder this time at hearing her voice again, at knowing she’d be all right. The comb clattered and he turned, taking a step toward her. But she bent and picked it up, carefully, slowly, walking to the mantle and laying it there. Though she was clean she asked him for hot water and he brought it, going

below to give her privacy to take her bath. When Stuart went above, she was dressed, wearing a green silk gown with black velvet bodice and green lacing, black velvet slippers with silver buckles. Her hair was back in a coil. She had pulled the stool by the window. Her face looked more blue than white, with a knot over her eye and a welt on her cheek. Her bottom lip was not so swollen, the snow he’d held on it likely helped. He didn’t know how he knew it, but he discerned that letting her go through her rituals was important, letting her bath herself, dress and fix her hair… as if she was saying, that she was not a victim of George’s. Stuart had warmed the claret below and he brought her a pewter cup with the straw in it. When she took it, he sat on the ledge just two feet from her, looking out the window unseeing. They sat and silence until he left to do the chores, and she was sitting there when the moon rose, and until she was nearly asleep, then finally undressed for bed. He held her and slept, and went through the ritual the next day. She came below to the kitchens while he warmed the stew. They ate at the table and she washed the dishes. It was after the chores, and a rain came, melting the snow and making thick mud outside, that she spoke. He’d come inside and removed his boots and hung up his cape. The steady drum of rain heard even through the stones. The sky was dark and thus the main hall, but she’d lit a taper and placed beside her on the stairs flickering. He was walking toward her when she whispered, “He’s dead, isn’t he?” “Aye.” “You killed him?” “I did.” He sat beside her; the light between them as he rested his bare feet on the edge of the sitar below and finger combed his damp hair. “Did you bury him?” “Nay. There wasna a thing left to bury. The wolves got him.” Gillian stretched her arms somewhat out and looked at her hands, the forearm that was uncovered now. She wore a sleeveless garment more fit for summer. “Do you recall the moment you realized what hate was? Not dislike, but hate that burned your bones?” “Aye. I do.” “I didn’t know it has a taste and smell, you know? And the desire to kill— I thought I had that, felt it before— but, you can cross some…threshold, can’t you? An invisible line where nothing exists but wanting to kill.” “Aye.” “All pain, the burning, the stinging, the blows, you can’t feel it, not really. It fades at that moment― and your blood is hot and cold too. You have no feeling outside. You’re skin and bones, they don’t matter. It’s the surge, the wave of… not fury but…” “ I know what ye speak,” he said quite. “I thought it was there for the old

score of bein’ robbed of our lands. I thought it was there while I froze and starved and slept amid the rocks. But when I saw my Da in death, my mother frail in death too. I knew the gnawing of starvation was a slow torture terrible way to die. It fueled me long enough tae joined the Reivers. And when I learned of my brother. It fed the flames awhile more. “ She folded her hands in her lap. “Yes, I suppose you do know then.” He glanced at her. “But I didna, lass. I didna watch them die and suffer. It gave me a bitter rage and that thirst to avenge them. I knew though― when I held that scrap of plaid. and when I heard ye screams.. And I didna hae a care how to kill the mon, when I reached ye.For I could have done the same, wie me bare hands. “ She turned her head slowly and met his gaze. Stuart tried to smile past the tremor in him at the memory. “And each time I bathed yer cuts and looked upon ye in the past hour. I willed him alive long enough for me to kill again.” Gillian sighed and shook her head. “I’m sore and aching, but I feel as if a storm ripped through me when I faced him. And now he’s dead… gone from the earth and the storm has passed. I don’t even have the hate and anger anymore. Just nothing—just—nothing.” His hand raised and his fingers caught a strand of hair against her brow. “It always seems so quite after a storm. All the force and noise and raging. “ His fingers moved to touch under her chin in a light stroke. “And for a time ‘tis dark and ever thing seems hollow.. But ye sleep and it’s passed, barely remembered in the light of day.” Her hand raised and caught his, softly lowering it but holding it in her own. She looked from his eyes to their fingers, hard and smooth, light and dark, sinewy and soft. She watched his hand cup; his fingers slowly curl, until her hand was swallowed in the warmth of manly one. And they sat that way, in the sputtering of the candle. until the rain stopped and all was quiet. Stuart arose then and waited, walking up the stairs with her to the solar. They undressed, slid into the bed, and he held her. Somewhere in the night she turned toward him― and Stuart gathered her close, feeling her limbs and arms sliding through his, her head tuck just under his chin. She sighed long and heavy. His hands soothed her back. They slept deep, past a bright sun rising and birds singing on the window ledge. ~ When Gillian's bruises and mouth healed enough, so that it wouldn’t frighten the lass, Stuart went to fetch Jonet and the maid Jeanne. The spring thaws began and they settled into the routine of a new season. After a few days of crying Jonet finally relaxed, and found her smile and energy, laughing and riding the ponies or feeding the chickens. She trailed along behind Stuart, talking

chattering, but at times simply playing her imaginary games, twirling under the sun, or lying on the ground to watch the lazy white clouds with her hair adorned in wild blossoms. It was an end of the weekday, and Gillian helped Jeanne do the wash and hang it dry before she went in search of Stuart. She had on plain skirt and blouse with drawstring neck; her hair loosely braided as it was a house chore day. She found him in the barn, the doors pushed wide and sunbeams warming the scattered straw. He had been raising at dawn and working ‘til night, repairing and plowing and chinking gaps in the stone, and other tasks that were hard and dirty. He split the old stones and used the pony and sled to haul them, fixing the barn too. A week past, he had gone to see the laird and returned to tell her they were going to raise sheep… sheep he bought legally and would be driven up along with a few displaced souls in need of work, a herder he said, and cook and a few more. He told Gillian that his cousin offered to sell him the manor and lands, and in three good years he could pay for it. She realized that Stuart wasn’t thinking of himself and his old grudges, he was thinking of Jonet and herself, his family. Leaning just inside the door, she watched him methodically sharpen the tools, his eye and hands sure, his fingers running across the ends to test the edge. She thought too, of what he’d added that she was a lady, a gentlewoman and would have in another circumstance, enjoyed wealth and all the finer things in life. That it was different here and it would take a few years for him to give her all that she deserved. He’d said, promised, that Jonet would have tutors, and that he would take her to her dower lands and he’d move heaven and hell to see she had the life she wanted. But for herself, Gillian was aware that Stuart had already given her more than he realized. Even now, healed and healthy, he did no more than hold her and treated her with respect and kindness, offering smiles too and coaxing her to talk. Sometimes she’d stop and find him simply watching her, listening to her with a slight curve to his lips. Looking at him, seeing him now, and dressed in his plaid, the dark skin and auburn locks bathed in light. She watched the taunt muscles move on strong bones, always amazed at the strength and breath of him. But his profile, the face, those lighter tipped lashes, and the eyes she met a dozen times a day, so misty and mysterious. Stuart was the warrior, the outlaw, and the man who’d mercilessly killed George DeWarren. But he was also the man who bathed her wounds, held her at night― and months ago, had given her wings and passion and gave her life in ways she’d never imagined. Her eyes filled with him, her heart met it, and Gillian said amid the rhythmic rasp of the sharpening stone, “I love you, Stuart.” His hands stilled, and for a breath his body too seemed of stone. Only his head moved, his face turning toward the entry, and he husked, “What did ye

say?”

Gillian wet her lips, walking closer so that she stood in that square of sunlight a foot from him. “I said… I love you.” His face didn’t move, but his throat worked and his eyes turned lighter, brighter. He let the tool drop and dipped his hands in the pail and washed them, before he was standing, almost touching, looking down at her. He reached hesitant, cupped her jaw, titling it so that they locked gazes. Then his thumb moved, stroking while his arm went around her, drawing her against him. He searched her gaze, probing and seeking. His kiss came with equal slowness, bending down, first brushing, and rubbing softly until parted lips allowed their tongues to enter, to slid and taste. Gillian's arms went up, around his neck, and his shifted, lifting her tight against him. Heads moved, circled, tongues sought more depth, more access, more flavor. No more just a kiss— but a need, an outpouring mixed with hunger, passion and desire converged― with deeper things, soul deep, and almost painfully aching. Stuart’s head lifted, their breaths choppy, strident, and hot against moist lips. He stepped back enough to lift her into his arms. He did not carry her to the main house, but down the back path, beyond the piles of stone to where the sweet spring grass was tender and ripe. He set her on her feet and removed his boots, deftly, then his plaid, which he spread upon the ground. Gillian sat down and removed her shoes and stockings hearing the chatter of birds, feeling the sun on her hair and face. He had walked unashamed to the stream and washing, and why should he be modest, she thought undressing herself. The man looked natural there, elemental, primal. She lay her clothing aside and finger combed her hair, sitting as nude as he, until he walked back to her, lowering himself beside her, touching his fingers to her spine as he lay back to allow the sun to dry him. Gillian reached back for his hand and turned, reclining on her side, half over him, meeting those smoky eyes. She took that hand, resting it against her face, her hair sliding over it, covering it. His fingers moved, until he could draw her downward, his arm sliding around her when their mouths met. Skin to skin and hearts racing, they kissed until Gillian trembled, moaned soft in his mouth. His hand around her had shifted to the roundness of buttocks; fingers sliding low, finding more heat and moist desire. His sex throbbing and full against her stomach, Gillian did not let him nudge her back as he intended― but slid her leg across him, her body down, taking him inside so swift their lips parted, their gasps echoed each other. She sat up and began to move, to raise and lower, undulate. Head back and hands on his wrists, she gloried in the feel of him, in the wholeness and the passion, the sounds of his fast breath, his deep groan―- and touching of his

hands when they found her breasts. Too fast he was shuddering under her, whispering words in Gaelic that was a jumble of husky sounds. Gillian lay upon him until their hearts slowed and then cleaned up at the stream, lying on the plaid while he did the same. This time he lay beside her, leaning so that he blocked out the sun. “I love ye too, lass, with all that I have in me..” He cupped her cheek and kissed her soft before rising again and saying, “I loved ye then— when I knew I shouldn’t have — and I knew it when I saw ye again.” Gillian smiled soft, her eyes misted with tears. “You should have told me.” “Nay.” His smile answered hers. “It wasna the time. But today is, wife. And every day after that your ears can hear the words, and yer body and mine are one.” “Stuart,” she whispered. “I would never know this with another,. Never feel this wonderful belonging. It is not like losing myself as the past. But a finding the life, the breath and heart in me, that couldn’t live before.” She slid her hands up his arms to rest on his shoulders. “When you kiss me, when you make love to me, I am freer that I knew the word to be. You give to me, and give yourself in a way that makes my heart tremble, my very soul feel as if you’ve touched it too.” He leaned down and rested his forehead against hers. “I feel it too, Gillian. ‘Tis both humbling and powerful at the same time. I dunna have your words, your ways of saying it, so I speak in the tongue of my birth. But I hae said it from the very first joining.” His head moved and they were kissing, sweet and soft until he covered her. When he entered her and stroked, there was comfort before the fire, before the emotions gathered and the sparks of passion spread through them. Then it was a fierce and hungered joining, a swifter pace of bodies arching and flexing, and sounds that drowned out the song of spring…. Sounds of soul’s whispering and hearts crying out from the overflowing love within “Gillian,” he rasped and closed his eyes, feeling her love and passion, her bodies wrapping him in the silk of ecstasy. “My love…. My love.” she cried as he gave her everything and more, with each trust and stroke, reaching beyond flesh to her soul. And when the sun burst inside them, quaking and shuddering, they held tightly until the stillness came. Her name was upon his lips, a vow and promise that she returned.

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