Christina’s chamber overlooked the courtyard. She hooked the window furs to the side, opened the shutters, then took a seat in the window embrasure to watch Lachlan spar. Aside from his bout with Hamish, she had only seen him fight on the battlefield and she’d been too distraught to give him a fair assessment. At least that’s what she told herself as she leaned forward. Of course, at the mature age of four and thirty, she was too old to admire his good looks. Though anyone could find a talented display of brawn fascinating to watch. And if she, indeed, intended to fold him into the de Moray army, she would need an iron-clad opinion of his level of skill.
My interest is purely for the good of my clan. I must remain completely impartial. If he is the right man to fetch Andrew, he will have my support. Once my son is returned to me, God willing, we will spend our Yule with King Robert then return to Ormond Castle and strive to put these years of oppression behind us.
Below, Sir Lachlan strode around the circle of men, his arms outstretched—at least as far as the chain between his manacles would allow. After two turns, Sir Boyd removed his weapons and his mail, handing them to a guard. Raising his fists, the king’s greatest knight stepped into the center of the courtyard. Mirroring his stance, Lachlan faced Robert the Bruce’s champion. Christina’s stomach squeezed. Lachlan was perhaps a hand taller, but Boyd had squired for William Wallace. There wasn’t a man in Scotland who could best him.
In a blur of fists, blocks and kicks, the two men engaged like a pair of wildcats, weaving in and out, deflecting blows with one hand while issuing punches with the other. Lachlan spun with a lightning fast kick aimed at the head. Ducking, Boyd clipped Lachlan’s heel. The larger man drew his knee in—Christina had never seen such a move. Then he snapped a forward kick so fast, she didn’t realize what he’d done until Sir Boyd’s head snapped back and he toppled over.
With a gasp, she covered her mouth.
Lachlan shuffled back, crouched and ready for another bout while he waited for Sir Boyd to recover. Who on earth would be so polite when sparring? When Sir Boyd wiped his nose with his shirt sleeve and was met with a swath of blood, the entire courtyard erupted in mayhem.
As she sprang to her feet, Christina’s heart nearly burst from her chest. The men rushed poor Lachlan. Except for a man who jumped on his back, the warrior fended them off with sweeping blocks. The man on his back slipped his arm around Lachlan’s throat, choking him. Still fighting off multiple men at once, Lachlan’s feet skittered backward until he slammed the choking cur into the wall. With a bone-jarring grunt, the attacker dropped to the ground. Downed guardsmen peppered the courtyard, yet still more ran in to take a swing at her new champion.
“Halt,” bellowed Sir Boyd, marching forward and shoving men aside.
“He’s a beast!” someone shouted from the back of the ranks.
“I am merely a man.” Lachlan held up his arms, stretching the length of chain between his wrists. “I could have used this length of chain as a weapon. I could have strangled the life out of half of you, but I chose not to because I am a man of honor.”
Christina’s heart hammered so loudly, she practically had to lean out the window to hear what was being said.
Sir Boyd shook Lachlan’s hand. “Bloody oath, how did ye manage to kick me after I blocked your spin?”
“Just a countermove I picked up along the way, I guess.”
“And then ye fought off the whole mob of soldiers?”
“Not exactly. I was only trying to defend myself.”
Boyd grabbed Lachlan’s upper arm and squeezed. “Jesu, ye are Goliath.”
“I’m a warrior. I’ve dedicated my life to fitness, to toning my body and studying different forms of defense. I’ve studied how motion can flow from one movement and build to the next, and to the next.” Sir Lachlan pointed to Sir Boyd’s chest. “May I show you something?”
“Of course.”
He held out his hand. “Grab my wrist and wrench it up my back.”
“As hard as I can? ’Cause I’m likely to break it.”
“Do it as hard as you like.”
“Break it,” shouted Hamish.
Christina would have a word with her boisterous man-at-arms.
Sir Boyd snatched the wrist and whipped Lachlan around, brutally yanking the poor man’s arm up his back.
Instead of crying out with pain, Lachlan rolled out with the force of the move. He slammed his elbow into the side of Sir Boyd’s head, spun around, flipped Boyd’s arm over and kicked him in the backside.
“What the devil?” the knight shouted as Lachlan forced his wrist downward. Now poor Robbie could do nothing but drop to his knees. “Arraagh.”
In the blink of an eye, Lachlan released his hold, took two steps back and bowed. “A continuous flow of motion, sir—and believe me, I’d be a fair bit more effective without these bloody manacles.”
“Aye, that’s what I’m afraid of,” said Boyd, rubbing his wrist and rising to his feet.
“I can help you. If you are willing to trust me.”
Boyd scratched his beard as if considering. “These are trying times and trust comes easy for no man. Especially someone who appeared out of the blue. Why havena I heard tale of ye afore?”
Lachlan’s gaze shifted to Christina’s window, but he pretended not to see her. “Like I said. I’ve been away.”
“I ken of a woman who claimed the same.”
“Was she friend or foe?”
“Friend—for the most part, I’d reckon.”
“Did she betray you?”
“Nay.”
“Then why did you say ‘for the most part’?”
“’Cause she had a way of disappearing that nary a soul could explain—not even Father Blair, God rest his soul.”
Lachlan again looked at Christina, but this time, his gaze lingered. “People say I’m a patient man, but I wouldn’t recommend pushing me too far—that cell you’re locking me in is a bit too cramped for a bloke of my size. I’ll stand beside your army. I’ll do what I can to help Lady Christina find her son, but if you continue to treat me like a criminal, I’ll be like that woman you knew and you’ll never set eyes on me again.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Sir Boyd as he snapped his fingers and hailed a pair of guards.
Lachlan continued to stare straight up at Christina’s window. His eyes bore through her like a drill. Her heart thumped like she’d been running a footrace.
She had no doubt his words were intended for her ears as well as Sir Boyd’s. He turned one palm up, making a bowl and pretended to use a spoon to feed himself with the other. Goodness, the man was telling her he needed food. Hadn’t they given him enough?
Most likely they hadn’t.
She nodded and gave him a subtle wave before the guards led him back to his cell.
Lachlan sat cross-legged in the center of his cell, his wrists on his knees, his palms turned up and his eyes closed. Focusing on the sun, imagining a cool breeze on his face, he transported himself to a place of peace—a place where the pain from the bruises he’d sustained in the courtyard no longer felt like iron pokers jabbing into his flesh.
He might have grown sick and tired of being treated like a criminal, but Lachlan could still compartmentalize his emotions. Martial arts had taught him many things, the most useful being self-control. Meditation was like a hypnotic drug for him. When things were at their worst, he could transport his body and mind to a place of peace and tranquility.
“Ah-mm, ah-mm,” he silently whispered as if the air flowing in and out of his body was the source of wind. With each “ah”, he filled his lungs and with each “mm” he slowly let the breath rush through his nose until his air completely dissipated. Over and over, he repeated the meditative sequence while his body transitioned to a place of weightlessness.
When the guardhouse door creaked open, he didn’t move. But he did know who was walking toward his cell and that she was alone. Her light footsteps gave her away, as did the swish of her frumpy skirts. Inhaling, Lachlan caught the hint of roasted meat—lamb perhaps—and freshly baked bread. He caught something else with his next inhale. Oiled leather.
“Are ye planning to sit there all night and ignore me?” asked Lady Christina, sounding like a true aristocrat who was by no means accustomed to being snubbed.
A long exhale released from his lungs while Lachlan opened his eyes. “Forgive me, m’lady. I was meditating.”
She squinted, drawing her eyebrows inward. “What say ye? Med-i-tate-ing?” She pronounced the word clearly like a foreign language teacher would to a class.
“Concentrating,” Lachlan revised.
“Ye have an odd way of doing it if ye ask me.” She set her basket on the ground. “And what are ye concentrating about?”
“Clearing my mind.”
“Why would anyone want to do that?”
“If I didn’t do it, I’d be one angry bastard.”
She flinched at his course language, but didn’t admonish him.
He looked from one claustrophobic wall to the other. “Wouldn’t you be angry if you were locked in this miniscule cell after you’d helped someone escape from an attack? After you proved to others that you were not a threat?”
She pursed her lips and glanced sideways. Then she gave him a nod. “Aye. But ye need to hold on to the reins for another day or two. I’m working on Sir Boyd. He’s found favor with ye for certain.”
“Wonderful.”
“Mayhap your meditating is a good idea. If it keeps ye from growing too angry.”
“It does.” Feeling like a schoolboy sitting cross-legged and craning his neck, he shifted to his knees and grasped the bars.
She gave him a coy look with those pixie doll eyes. “Ye ken we are only trying to win back our freedom.”
“Yes. I’m a Scot, too. Remember?”
“A different sort of Scot, but a Scot nonetheless, I suppose.”
No use trying to argue with that nutty logic. Lachlan gestured toward the basket. “It smells like you brought my supper.”
“Forgive me.” Christina swept down and plucked a parcel wrapped in leather. “Ye indicated ye needed more food, so I brought ye a leg of lamb and a loaf of bread.” She grinned, plucking something else as well. “And an apple.”
The apple was about the size of a plum. A crabapple at best and looked as sour as an unripe lemon. But the lady beamed, incredibly pleased with herself as if she’d climbed a tree and plucked the measly piece of fruit from the highest limb and somehow lived to tell about it.
“I am in your debt, m’lady.” Lachlan reached through the bars and took the gifts.
“I hope it is enough. All that food should feed three or four men.”
He set the parcel and apple beside him, wishing he could stand straight and give her a proper thank you. “Men as large as me?”
“Nooooo.” Her gaze slid down his body while her tongue slipped to the corner of her mouth. “There are not many men about with your—ah—girth.”
He laughed, ignoring the quick rush of goosebumps rising on his arms. “It appears not.” In his lifetime, Lachlan hadn’t met many men his size and fewer who were larger.
“Are ye going to eat?”
He untied the leather thong around the parcel. “Will you join me?”
“I’ve already had my meal, thank ye.”
The bread was half-soaked with juice from the meat and she hadn’t exaggerated when she’d said she’d brought him a leg of lamb. She’d given him an entire leg, shank and all. The only problem? There was nothing to cut it with. He ripped off an enormous bite with his teeth while she watched.
Then her dainty mouth formed an “O”. After reaching into her basket, she held up a pair of shoes. “The cobbler finished your boots. Goodness, I’d wager both of my feet would fit into one of these.”
“Thank you.” He pulled them through the bars and kept chewing.
She pointed to the footgear. “Are ye aiming to try them on?”
Gulping down his bite, Lachlan looked them over first. He’d never had a pair of handmade shoes before. They had thick soles of a woven fiber—possibly hemp or thistle. The leather uppers were soft, with two loops stitched into each side and a leather thong to tie them with, crisscrossing over the foot and again at the ankle, making them boot-like.
“Are they not to your liking?” Christina asked.
“They are very nice.” He gave her a smile—at least as much as he could. Presently, there wasn’t any place on his body that wasn’t sore from the gang fight in the courtyard. He slipped his foot into one and tied it. “Perfect fit, though it’s unfortunate I can’t walk around a bit to test them.”
“Mayhap on the morrow.” She smiled like she was about to tell him something exciting. “I’ve talked Sir Boyd into allowing ye a turn or two upon the wall-walk. Ye were asking about the abbey and ye’ll be able to see it from there.”
That was the best news he’d heard for days. Who knew a turn on the wall-walk of an archaic castle would be thrilling? But it would give him an opportunity to see Kelso Abbey. From his last visit he had a clear picture of the ruin in his mind’s eye. Seeing something familiar would be a relief—and with luck, he’d spot a few power lines—a cell tower—a paved road—contrails. Any sign that he hadn’t completely lost his mind or his…century.
She clasped her hands—a gesture he’d noticed her often do. “I’ve a question to ask and I want ye to promise ye’ll tell me true.”
Finished with tying the second shoe, he held up his hands. “I’ve told you the truth about everything so far.”
“Verra well.” Her knuckles turned white. “Are ye a sorcerer?”
Christ, he nearly blew snot out his nose. “I am not, never have been, and do not intend on becoming one, m’lady.”
“Then how can ye fight with the strength of five men?”
“I’ve said I’m a warrior and that is true. I started training at a very young age.” He wanted to say he’d joined the armed services and had done a turn in the Holy Land …or Afghanistan. Did Afghanistan exist in the fourteenth century? Bloody hell, Lachlan didn’t know. His mother was the historian in the family. He gave Christina as sober a look as he could. Who knew how much fighting techniques had improved over the centuries? One only needed to look at boxing pictures from the early 1900s and compare them with modern photos to know mankind had made great strides in understanding physical fitness in the past hundred-plus years. It was one thing to be strong and oafish. It was another to turn a man’s natural aptitude into a fighting machine. “I work hard every day to maintain my strength. I eat well, too. A man cannot be at the top of his game unless he has a well-rounded diet.”
“Ye mean meat?”
“I mean everything—especially meat, dairy, grains, fruits and vegetables.” He’d said the same to Boyd.
“Och, if only all that was in season year round.”
“If only.” If he ever got out of this cell, he’d find out about their cellars and storage and canning, pickling—whatever they did to keep food through the winter.
“So if Scotland’s army ensured they ate hearty, they’d become better warriors?”
“I’d bet on it.” He eyed her. “I can help them…and just maybe that’s why I’m here.”
“Ye dunna ken why ye’re here?”
“No—it’s as if I’ve suffered a concussion and awoke in the midst of a battle.”
“Ye’d suffered a what?”
“A blow to the head.”
“Well, for what ’tis worth, I reckon ye may be right. But I think ye were sent to me to rescue my son.” She twisted her lips. “The only question is…”
“What?”
“Will ye do it?”
“Yes,” he said without hesitation. If it meant he’d awake the next day back in Uncle Walter’s flat, he’d do just about anything as long as it wouldn’t land him in jail for the rest of his life. “Unless…”
Her crystal blue eyes grew startled. “Unless?”
“Unless you aim to continue to keep me in here like a criminal.” If that happens, I’ll dig my way out of this hellhole.
“Please. I will bring ye anything ye need and I’ll speak to the king again. I give ye my word I’ll find a way to see ye released from this cage and those irons removed, mark me.”
He tipped up his chin, insuring he didn’t appear too trusting. “From the hospitality I’ve seen thus far, I’m not convinced.”
“Och, ye dunna understand. We are a kindhearted people.”
“Really?” he held out his manacled wrists. “Who knew?”
“Ye’ll soon discover we are hospitable once a man proves his worth. Ye must ken, after years of war, we’ve had no choice but to be suspicious of newcomers—especially folks who appear out of the blue, fight like Goliath and have no kin to speak on their behalf.”
She reached through the bars and grasped his hand between her palms.
Lachlan’s heart skipped a beat as if her touch thrummed with electricity.
And on the other side of the bars, the lady’s lips parted with a wee gasp. Had she felt the sudden zing, too?
Slowly, he raised his eyelids until he met with the intensity of her blue-eyed stare. A pink tongue moistened her lips. “Trust me,” she whispered.
His heart squeezed. Hell, she was prettier than a rose in full bloom. Rarely did Lachlan ever do anything without thinking about his action first, but when he raised her hands to his lips, pure emotion seized his sanity. Closing his eyes, he inhaled her scent—the heady fragrance of woman—the same ambrosia he’d noticed when they’d ridden together. Unfortunately, it had the same effect on him now as it had the last time he’d kissed her hand—a scent heady like jasmine, winsome like the sea. A slightly stuttered breath slipped through his lips as he kissed, then again inhaled her delightful fragrance.
The lady opposite politely cleared her throat.
His eyes flashed open. The poor woman turned redder than a ruby as she slipped her hands away and clasped them over her heart. “Until the morrow,” she said.
Lachlan nodded. “Tomorrow, m’lady.” Christina may have vexed his heart for a moment, but with a blink, he regained his senses. Who said “the morrow” unless they were performing Shakespeare?
A complete and total nut.
No, no. He mustn’t let a soft-spoken, blue-eyed woman with a pretty face get under his skin—especially when he was the idiot who’d allowed himself to be locked behind bars.