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Lena wasn’t in the hall when they returned, or in the inner bailey. He shouldn’t have hoped for her to be, but why should she?
Shabib left his horse in the hands of a stable lad, and rather than heading for the hall with the Bruce as most of the returning warriors did, he retreated back out of the palisade, searching for the MacMillan crofts.
Many of those who flocked to the Bruce’s banner during the summer had been settled in small crofts around the keep with plenty of land for tents so the lairds and their men, and any women who traveled with them, might be well set whilst attending the king and fighting for Scotland.
Some women elected to work in the keep directly and sleep in the maid’s quarters instead of sleeping in a drafty tent on the hard ground.
Lena was not one of those women. She kept close to her cousin and mistress, feeling a deep sense of obligation to her. And since where the king went, so did the MacMillan, they were destined to linger at Auchinleck, or wherever the women of the clan were assigned to be.
Shabib wrapped his blood-stained robes tight around his lean frame as he moved like the wind among the tents toward the croft. She wasn’t outside, and he didn’t think she’d sleep in one of the tents.
No, most likely she’d be by her cousin’s side. Lena’s sense of obligation and responsibility was unrivaled. It was one of the traits about her that he noticed.
And it made a stark impression on Shabib.
That, and her understated, dark-haired beauty. She reminded him of the all the good from his homeland, but her skin and dress were different enough to help him forget the bad. His heart had been locked away in iron since the slaughter of his betrayed wife and son, locked away so much that he didn’t believe it could be revived again.
Then came Lena, in her russet kerchief tied over her lush blackish-brown waves, her soft voice and attention to detail, and Shabib lost himself in her.
He made it to the croft and froze, his hand aloft, ready to bang on the warped oaken door.
Aye, as Douglas would say, Shabib had lost his heart to her, but did Lena feel the same? She behaved properly around him, never getting too close or spending a scandalous amount of time with him. And he was a Moor, which brought a wealth of complications to the pale northern land.
Yet she wasn’t of this land either. She was French, with hair as dark as the night and a bronze undertone to her skin, and a way of smiling at him where her lips barely moved but her eyes crinkled and narrowed and sparkled.
Shabib threw his shoulders back and pounded at the door.
Hesitation be damned!
There was only one way to find out if Lena’s heart turned toward him, and that was to ask her.
The door whipped open faster than Shabib imagined, and he stepped back in surprise. The woman at the door was the MacMillan woman, Lena’s cousin.
Stray locks of her honey-brown hair escaped her calf-colored kerchief from her labors of the day, but her silvery-blue eyes sparkled brightly with interest.
“Ye are Black Douglas’s man, aye?” she asked with a raised eyebrow. Shabib clasped his hands before himself and gave a deep bow.
“Yes, milady. May I ask if your cousin, Lena, was in the house?”
The woman’s chest inflated as she gazed at Shabib down her nose, licking her lips.
“Och, so ‘tis like that, is it?”
Shabib couldn’t stop the grin that tugged at his lips with her suggestive question. He dipped his head to her.
“Yes, it’s like that. Do you think — I mean, would Lena be —?”
She held up her hand. Thank Allah. He felt like a green stable lad, unable to form the question to ask after Lena.
“Lena!” the woman hollered over her shoulder into the flickering depths of the croft. “Ye’ve a visitor. I think ye shall want to meet with him!”
Oh, but the MacMillan woman was enjoying this! Shabib kept the light smile on his face and tried to hide the embarrassment that burned under his skin.
Lena appeared behind the MacMillan woman, her rich, chestnut locks unfettered by a kerchief, and Shabib struggled to control his breathing. It was like seeing her completely undressed. Her eyes widened at his appearance, but he didn’t miss the roses that bloomed in her cheeks.
“Milady, might you join me here in the gardens this fine evening?”
Lena tilted her head, studying him, and Shabib froze so as not to squirm under her intense gaze. Then she dipped her head slightly.
“Oui, you might.”
“It is refreshing to hear the French language again. I’ve missed it,” Shabib told her as he walked with her toward the stables where men busied themselves with the horses. Better to stay within sight and not appear inappropriate with her. She was a woman who seemed to take stock in propriety.
She looked up at him, her eyes reflecting the sparse moonlight and flickering torches. “You have the French?”
His lips relaxed at her accented English. The sound was refreshing, a bit like coming home. He had pleasant memories of France, of meeting James and joining up with him, of forging a friendship that rivaled a brotherhood.
“Oui,” he answered with a grin. “I lived in France for a while. It is where I met the Black Douglas. We had many good times there before he returned to join the Scottish cause.”
“I, too, had good times in France, before most of my family died of a strange disease. A wasting away disease. My cousin here offered up the generosity of her clan, they call it? And her home. I am fortunate to have her. She makes me feel more welcome than I might have imagined.”
“If you ever want to have a French conversation, you can search me out. I’d enjoy speaking with you.”
She halted her steps and squinted her eyes up at him. “Why do they call him the Black Douglas? It’s not just for his hair, is it?”
Shabib stiffened. Oh, what if James’s reputation was too much for this fair woman, and she rejected Shabib for his affiliation with the Black Douglas? He took a deep breath before answering.
“You are right. It’s not. Surely you’ve heard of some dark battle strategies that have led to Scottish success as of late?”
Lena shrugged. “Oui, but I try not to listen to gossip. Too much to misconstrue in rumor.”
Ahh, beautiful and brilliant. Shabib’s shoulders unclenched a bit.
“There is a bit of truth to a few of the rumors, and he’s been dubbed such for his supposed black heart.”
“But he can not have so black a heart, if his fair, dainty wife tempers him so well?”
So she had noticed how the mighty beast that was James became nothing more than a wee pup when his wife was about. The Bruce’s plan had worked exactly as he, and Shabib, had hoped. Shabib smiled widely.
“Oui, but titles do stick.”
“And he is to move to Threave soon. Are you to join him there?”
Shabib swallowed. Here was where the conversation grew murky.
“Well, that rather depends on you.”
Lena’s hand flew to her ample bosom. “Moi? What of me?”
Shabib’s heart threatened to burst from his chest, beating as hard as it was. When had he last felt such heady sensations? Not since before his wife and son were slain, and he’d made the rash vow that his heart was dead. Allah indeed could perform miracles.
“I know it is much to ask, but we are both strangers in this land. I have found it to be a fine home, a place I would like to stay. Especially since you have arrived here. I have spent the past fortnight trying to garner the courage to ask if I might woo you?”
“I have heard rumors of you as well. Ones I tried to ignore. But they persist the same. Are you ready for such a thing? Despair doesn’t cloud your judgment or your heart?”
Shabib understood her question, and his eyes scrunched up as he gazed upon her curious face.
“It did. For a long time. But by James’s side, I saw how anger, despair, and vengeance can wreak havoc upon a man’s soul, and how the love of another is the only healing balm. But then, I could ask you the same. You said you’ve experienced the death of your family. Am I asking too soon for you to consider opening your heart?”
Lena turned her face to the stables, losing herself in the steady work of the men. Her profile was strong, with a high, clear forehead, a sharply defined nose, and pouty lips. Shabib believed he could look upon her face and never tire of it.
“Oui, I lost family, but unlike you, not a spouse or a child. My mother and father, but mon pere was elderly. My younger brother who was ready to leave the house died, too. We weren’t overly close. There is sadness in my heart, but it has not locked my heart away.”
She turned to face him again. “But you are leaving, oui? Joining the Black Douglas when he removes his wife and household to Threave?” she repeated her question.
“Not if I might court you. The MacMillans are set to remain attached to Auchinleck for a time and will move only when the King’s household moves. I have permission to become part of the King’s household. I will always be loyal to James, but now that he has Tosia, I don’t need to be his conscience anymore. And after seeing the joy and hope in these northern people, I am anxious to contribute to it, find the same for myself. I have been given leave by the Bruce to remain at Auchinleck before we travel to the Highlands.”
“And you would stay here, pour moi?”
“Oui, for you. I’d not depart to Threave if there is something that might keep me here. My sword is sworn to the Douglas and the King, but my heart, such as it is, is my own. I offer it to you.”
Lena stilled, so quiet and motionless it seemed as if she stopped breathing.
“Yours is yet so fragile a heart, Shabib,” Lena finally answered in a tender voice. “What if I can’t hold it well and only bruise it more? And what of your beliefs? You know I do not share the same.”
Shabib risked it all and reached for her hand. She let him take it, and another scar on his heart healed.
“First, we each must come to our Allah in our own way. I am not one to dictate that, and while it may cause a complication here or there, we don’t live in a land where those complications might matter much. As for my fragile heart, I am a courageous man, a warrior. More importantly, I have faith, in both Allah and you, that you will tend to it with the utmost care. If you will take it.”
His blood pounded in his head as he awaited her answer. Perchance it was too soon. Perchance he overstepped. Perchance his faith, his appearance, and his draping robes were too much for her. But if he didn’t ask, he’d never know. And he’d rather take the risk than miss out on what could be a passionate, loving future.
Her hand warmed as he held it, and the fact she didn’t pull her hand away made his heart soar with hope. After so long a dead, leaden thing in his chest, the light sensation was glorious. Who knew that he’d find family, kin, and perchance even love in a cold northern country so far from his own?
Her hand moved, and he had a moment of panic that she was pulling away, that he had grossly missed his mark with her interest in him. Then she adjusted her hands so she was holding both of his. His massive dark hands swallowed her smooth ones, and his insides shivered at her touch.
“Then I will take and cherish your heart, sa coeur, Shabib.”
