The Rogue
Authors: Sandy Blair
The Rogue
~A Castle Blackstone Novel~
by
Sandy Blair
Dedication
For Becca,
Thank you for providing so much joy in my life.
Lock Ard Forest, Scotland
September, 1410
A
ngus MacDougall, astride his charger, ducked but not fast enough to keep a lashing pine bough from catching him on the back of the head. Cursing, he rubbed the welt. “I swear if a fair and fulsome lady is not offered to me at Beal Castle, I’m stealing the first winsome lass that crosses my path.”
But then he couldn’t. He’d pledged to bring home a chaste and educated lady, a chatelaine.
Worse, he didn’t want a wife. Had never wanted a wife. He liked taking his pleasure when the opportunity presented itself, then kissing the lass goodbye without worrying about her and home. Nor was he fit company for man or beast after battle. So why on earth had he bragged to his liege that he could take to wife any fair lady he chose—in three months time, no less?
His best friend, Duncan MacDougall had laughed and countered, “Ye braggart, I’ll wager ye
can’t
find such a lass by the Samhain solstice. If ye can, I’ll hand over the keys to Donaliegh. If ye fail, ye forfeit six months’ wages.”
Angus’s heart had stuttered. “Ye’ll make me liege of Donaliegh?” Once a Stewart holding and part of Lady Beth’s dowry, Donaliegh hadn’t had a true liege lord in years, not since Dumont’s death. ‘Twas by now in serious disrepair, but to be his own man...
a laird.
“And Albany has approved this?” With their boy king held in the Tower of London, the lad’s uncle, the Duke of Albany, now held sway over all.
“Aye, he has. But fair warning, yer lady must be a willing one and able to take on the responsibilities of Donaliegh.”
Angus had smiled into his cup. Three long months to find an agreeable educated lady seemed reasonable, if not excessive.
He held out his hand. “Done!”
But now, with two months gone and himself yet again in enemy territory—there wasn’t a way to get from east to west without going through some rival clan’s holdings—he wasn’t any closer to his goal than he had been when he’d left Castle Blackstone.
He huffed. Did he not stand six feet and a hand high? Was he not brawn from top to bottom with sound teeth and a full head of hair? Was he not a skilled knight, his laird’s confidant and right arm? What wasn’t to like?
But then, he was also known as Angus the Blood, supposedly a man of fearsome bloodthirsty habits—reputed to eat the livers of his enemies. It made him ill thinking his carefully cultivated and totally false reputation should now result in no Donaliegh and the loss of six months wages. Augh!
He’d been traveling for weeks from keep to castle, climbing mountains and slogging through bogs, sleeping on brittle heather most nights, and the only lasses offered to him thus far had been either terrified of him, curt—if not outright insulting—or of questionable mind, the last being a decidedly stout woman with oddly slanted eyes, low ears, and the mind of a child.
God’s teeth!
Another branch whipped back, this time clipping his cheek. Cursing, he dismounted and led his stallion toward a patch of ground sparkling in the moonlight—to what he hoped would be a wee pool of fresh water within the ever-deepening forest. “Ye’ve been a good lad, Rampage,” he whispered, “hauling my sorry arse across the breadth of Scotland and halfway back on this foolish quest.”
Breaking through the dense foliage and finding a dark glen free of inhabitants and with a fresh water pool, he loosened his horse’s girth.
“Go eat.” He smacked his mount’s rump. He never bothered with shackles. Like all cattle, his loyal charger preferred company to being alone.
As Rampage trotted into verdant fodder, Angus squatted within the edge of the tree line, opened his sporran, and pulled out the remnants of the hard cheese and oatcakes he’d purchased in Kelso. “A sorry supper for a man of sixteen stone.”
Were he home he’d be feasting on white fish, roasted pork, pudding, and the weeds Blackstone’s Lady Beth called salad. “I pledge never again to disparage her weeds.”
Aye, he would, henceforth, eat every bite with a smile, for anything was better than grinding on what lay in his hands.
His supper eaten but with stomach still rumbling, he leaned against a rough pine and pondered the morrow. He had one letter of introduction left.
Was there a possibility some winsome lass lurked in Beal Castle? Mayhap, a daughter or niece whom MacCloud was anxious to marry off? One who hadn’t heard of Angus the Blood, one not necessarily fair but with wide hips and lots of good teeth? A lass of sound mind and a quiet, accommodating disposition, one who knew how to cook, keep house, and wanted babes?
Now babes he did want. He’d often wondered what it would be like to have a son or mayhap a bonnie daughter as he’d watched Duncan and Lady Beth’s rambunctious offspring romp. And now he had serious need for children. He would soon have Donaliegh and needed an heir.
But not even for Donaliegh or heirs would he betroth himself to a handful like his best friend’s ladywife.
Lady Beth was precisely what he didn’t want. Castle Blackstone’s chatelaine had far too much fire in her belly for his taste.
The one and only time he’d naysayed the lass—the night he’d banned her, a newcomer, from Duncan’s room where he lay fevered—Angus had found his poke of sweeties in his throat. He shuddered and gave his balls a gentle pat, thankful they’d survived the day.
But to be fair, Lady Beth had been the first to wish him well on his bride quest; had in fact told him he looked dashing in his flame-colored tunic and polished mail as she handed him a wee book of sonnets. “Memorize a few of these,” she’d whispered after kissing his cheek, “smile, and, for God’s sake, chew with you mouth closed.” He’d laughed at the time.
He wasn’t laughing now.
Despite smiling ‘til his cheeks smarted, spouting poetic drivel ‘til his head throbbed, and chewing most carefully ‘til his teeth ached, he still lacked a proper lady to birth his children and keep Donaliegh’s fires burning.
He blew out a lungful of air and rose to find his mount at the pool’s edge. He clucked and Rampage’s head came up, ears twitching. As the horse ambled toward him, sampling flowers along the way, Angus glanced skyward. A falling star streaked across the sky and his spirits rose.
“But most important,” he murmured, his gaze on the star, “if I must take a wife, I wish for one who will not see scars or Donaliegh when she looks upon me, but will see,” he tapped his chest, “what lurks in here.”
~#~
Birdalane woke with a start to find her heart thudding, her breast tingling, and moisture between her thighs.
My word!
What on earth ailed her?
She placed a hand on her forehead. No fever. She placed a hand on her stomach. No upset there either. Yet the odd feelings persisted.
She stared at her wee croft’s rafters and tried to recall her dream. Had it caused the chaos within her?
Dredging up the image of the huge faceless man with gentle hands, the odd tingling in her middle and within her breast intensified. She gasped.
The yearnings!
Her mother had spoken of this.
Never tempt fate,
her minnie had warned.
Never.
Ever. Not even in your mind. Better to go without sleep than to dream such dreams,
she’d preached.
Birdi jumped out of bed.
Pulling her woolen blanket tighter about her, she shuddered and opened the door. She heaved a sigh finding dawn breaking, the sky turning the color of heather. She didn’t have to return to bed to wait out the sun and mayhap fall back to sleep, only to have the wretched
yearnings
return.
Her candles long gone, she let the door fall wide on its leather hinges, shed her blanket, and shivered into her soft cotton shift. Using water from the sheepskin pouch hanging by the door, she made quick work of her ablutions and slipped on her coarse green kirtle and threadbare apron. She reached for her slippers.
“Ouch!”
She yanked on the thick strand of hair caught in her apron strings. “What I’d not give for a sharp pair of shears.” Her shears—so dull they barely cut thread—were no match for the dark curls billowing below her waist, spirals that defied braiding and were forever getting caught on something. Picturing herself shorn like a villager’s ewe, she giggled and reached for a length of hide lacing.
Her hair secured, she brushed the supper crumbs she’d left scattered across the table into her apron, walked out her door, and settled on the willow chair her mother had crafted so many years ago. She flapped her apron, sat back, and waited for her company.
Several minutes passed and then, as expected, came the flutter of wings batting air.
Cooing puffs of white and gray landed at her feet. She held her breath, not daring to move, though she dearly wanted to kneel and touch the floating bodies. As the doves pecked at her crumbs she wondered if the birds were soft. Softer than Hen?
Poor Hen. The speckled beastie hadn’t survived the winter, had been caught in an ice storm, but she still resided with Birdi in spirit, her flesh having provided sustenance and her feathers a new pillow.
Birdi leaned forward to get a clearer view of the doves she’d been trying to tame all summer, the chair squeaked, and the doves took flight on frenzied wings.
“Ooh...cattle pies.”
She was alone again. Through burgeoning tears she looked about her fuzzy world of green blobs, brown spikes, and great expanses of pale blue; a world she could see only by daylight, and then none too well. She twisted a loose lock around her finger. Another fair day loomed before her. Aye, and she should be thanking Mother of All.
She dashed the wetness from her cheeks with the heels of her hands and gave herself a good shake. She should be harvesting blackberries and grain for the coming winter before all the beasts and vermin ate them, not sitting here sniveling and feeling forlorn because she had no one to talk to.
With luck she might again spy Wolf as she roamed the woods and crept along the outer edges of the villagers’ fields gathering wayward stalks of grain.
The moon had gone from new to full since last she’d seen Wolf, had last felt his soft tongue lick her cheek. It still didn’t seem possible three whole seasons had passed since she’d discovered him in a hollowed log, a skinny pup with an injured leg. Nursed back to health, he’d grown quickly. But one night she’d awakened to howling and then he was gone.
How wonderful it would be to stroke his soft underbelly, to have him tugging at her skirt in play again. Aye.
Heart lightened by the prospect of finding him again, she went into her croft and reached for her gathering basket beneath the table. As she picked it up, her fingers began to itch and tingle.
Ack! ‘Twas the
need
again.
Birdi cursed and pushed the basket back under the table.
She no longer fought the
need
—the urge to create or help—as she had as a wee lass; experience had taught her it would only grow into a formidable distraction.
She plopped down onto her three-legged cuttie stool, took a deep settling breath, and opened her mind to it. After a moment she reached above the water-worn stones that formed her hearth for the basket containing her collection of woolen threads, scraps of cloth, and trinkets. She pulled out her bone needle and squinting, threaded it. Setting to work she muttered, “Tis a wonder I get anything done.”
An hour later, she studied her creation: a doll with wood-button eyes and combed fleece hair dressed in a kirtle made from a scrap of linen. Now why had she made this? She wasn’t a child nor had she one. She heaved a sigh and added a blue ribbon to the doll’s yellow hair.
