Page 33 of Beloved Enemy
“Guid day, lass,” Reid said when she’d handed off the leashes.
“Yep,” she said and smiled. “You, too,”
As Reid turned and walked away, Charlotte watched him go, feeling a strange emptiness settle over her. She tried to shake it off, the unexpected sadness of his departure.
She was tickled pink by the tiny spark of warmth he’d shown today, and that she’d managed to crack through his stoic facade. She wanted more of that, of smiling Reid.
With a sigh, Charlotte turned and made her way back toward the village, telling herself that it didn’t matter—that it couldn’t matter.
Chapter Nine
“Getting on fine, she is,” Seumas said as he walked his horse next to Reid.
Of course he was speaking of Charlotte, on whom Reid’s gaze was fixed, as he and a large group of his men made their way from the training fields toward the keep. They used the narrow tract, lined on either side by a low wall, that cut two ploughed and planted fields in half.
Charlotte, in the company of Una and those wee bairns, along with several other women, were weeding the plots, a task that required regular attention.
Reid’s jaw clenched, Aye, he knew very well she was getting on fine, had witnessed many instances of this over the last few days. Much to his annoyance, for how little escaped his attention when it came to Charlotte.
From where Reid sat atop his horse, he could see her clearly—her figure distinct against the backdrop of the field. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows, but it also highlighted her silhouette, drawing his eyes to her slender form. She was crouched near the ground, focused on her task, but what caught his attention first and foremost was the fact that she now carried Una’s infant cradled against her chest, snugly secured with a woven cloth. The baby’s small head nestled just below the curve of Charlotte’s collarbone. One hand cradled the infant’s head while she moved gently as she worked, careful not to disturb the sleeping child.
Charlotte’s hair, a few shades lighter than the dark brown of the earth, was bound loosely, tendrils escaping to frame her face. The soft breeze brushed them against her cheeks. She wore one of Una’s simple gowns, the fabric plain and practical, which he knew to be too large for her. The gown’s hem was dusted withearth from the fields as it dragged a few inches on the ground. Today, the fabric that held the infant against Charlotte also cinched the léine in a way that accentuated her figure—modest yet undeniably feminine.
Unexpectedly drawn to the sight, Reid felt a hint of inexplicable pining surge within him, which he swiftly pushed away.Damn it all,he thought. He didn’t want to be entranced by someone who might be a witch or a person not of this time.
Yet his gaze stayed with Charlotte, who straightened and smiled at something Una’s older daughter brought to her in her wee hands. The sight sparked memories of a few days past, how he had stumbled upon her in the meadow, surrounded by the goats. Her ridiculous song had first alerted him of her presence, and he’d watched from afar as she’d enchanted to goat to come to her, charmed Reid as well, as he’d gone to her just as willingly as the daft animal. Her playful spirit of that morning had effortlessly captivated him, her easy smiles and laughter a far cry from the frightened, confused woman he’d brought down from the mountain. Christ, he was sure he’d dreamed of her brilliant smile overnight.
The wee blonde sprite wandered away presently and Charlotte’s gaze followed her for a moment, angling in Reid’s direction. The sun’s light caught the curve of her cheek as she glanced up, meeting his gaze for just a moment. A fresh, bright smile creased her face and she waved, rather excitedly, but then caught herself and glanced down with a guilty expression at the babe, possibly having disturbed her. When she returned her regard to Reid, and he didn’t wave in response, her smile faded before she turned back to her work.
Reid pulled his gaze away as well, forcing himself to focus on the path ahead, refusing to be fascinated by her.
“Guid with the weans, it seems,” Seumas said next. “That’ll line up the lads.”
Jesus Christ, Reid silently seethed, a flash of irritation sparked. He didn’t bother to enlighten Seumas that Charlotte didn’t want to be here, that she was intent on getting home. He certainly didn’t tell the man that though Charlotte might not be a sorceress, she wasn’t exactly as she appeared to be, that she wasn’t even of their time—Reid had yet to wrap his brain around this himself.
“Might cast my lot as well,” Seumas stated, and then shrugged, misinterpreting the dark glower Reid cast his way, challenging, “I’ve as much a chance as any.”
Reid forced himself to remain silent.
His plan to keep a distance between himself and Charlotte had seemed sound at first—though it had swiftly proven unachievable, for how eagerly he’d gone to her the other day rather than riding right on by—but it was beginning to backfire in ways he hadn’t anticipated. Dressed now in a léine and kirtle had made her blend in more, but it had also revealed just how bonny Charlotte truly was. The simple garments accentuated her natural beauty, making her stand out in a way that attracted the attention of every man within sight, stirring a possessiveness he hadn’t expected and which he did not care for at all.
It wasn’t justtheirinterest that bothered him; it was his own. No matter how much he tried to ignore it, he couldn’t seem to stop himself from seeking her out whenever he was out and about. His eyes were always searching, always finding her, whether she was tending to the bairns, fetching water from the burn, or simply walking through the village.
Bluidy hell, but he actually looked forward to supper in the hall each day simply to see her, as other sightings were few and far between and normally at a greater distance. Inside the hall, he found himself stealing glances at her, noting the way she interacted with others, her laughter, her expressions, her everymovement—all improved as the days passed, and she became more familiar with Kingswood and its people.
And yet, he hated how she had wormed her way into his thoughts, how she had become a constant presence in his mind. This persistent interest, this inexplicable draw, was something he neither wanted nor welcomed, and yet it refused to be dismissed.
The following morning, Reid sat at the high table, surrounded by his officers and Kingswood’s steward, Muirchertach.
Muirchertach was a man well into his sixth decade, and though Reid himself recalled that once the steward’s hair had been as dark as a raven's wing, his thick locks were now silver and thinning at the crown, though it was still long enough to be neatly tied back. His face was deeply lined, with age and—Reid sometimes supposed—with the weight of decades of service to the Nicholsons. He possessed a sharp, calculating gaze, his deep-set eyes the color of stormy seas, always observing, always assessing. Despite his age, Muirchertach’s mind remained as sharp as ever, his memory for accounts and details unmatched, and his loyalty to Kingswood unwavering.
Fiona was also present, having insisted on attending. She claimed it was because she had a vested interest in the affairs of Kingswood and the well-being of its people. But Reid suspected the truth was far less noble—Fiona was simply bored, and her curiosity often got the better of her. It wasn’t just concern for the denizens that drew her to these sessions; it was the promise of intrigue. Fiona had a nose for gossip and a knack for inserting herself into the thick of things, always eager to catch wind of the latest scandal, conflict, or even smaller, petty crimes. Reid imagined that she rather thrived on the tension that often hung in the air during these gatherings, where grievances were aired, disputes settled, and secrets sometimes unintentionallyrevealed. In the main hall, whenever court was in session, there was always the potential for drama, and Fiona would not miss it for the world.
Unless there were pressing matters that he’d been made aware of, and which he’d be pleased to have settled, Reid did not look forward to overseeing the court. Unlike his sister, he did not revel in drama or any of its kinfolk, gossip, strife, turmoil, and tension. He was, in fact, annoyed to see the hall so crowded as he waited for Muirchertach to review his prepared docket and call forth the first case. While a necessary guard of twenty soldiers stood at attention around the perimeter, with Tavish, Artur, and Ruairidh directly in front of the dais, the interior of the hall was crowded with as many as fifty people, peasants and villagers.
When Muirchertach was ready, and with a nod from Reid to proceed, the steward rose from his seat, clearing his throat as he adjusted the parchment in his hands. Though his voice was raspy with age, it carried easily through the hall.
“Hear ye, all who are present, the grievance brought before the laird this day. Tormod MacRae of Kingswood charges Caoimhín MacPherson with causing him grievous injury during a brawl outside the house of Eilidh MacGregor on the first night of the last full moon. It is said that in a state of drunkenness, Caoimhín did strike Tormod with ill intent, leading to wounds that left him unable to tend to his duties. The charge is one of assault, with recklessness and a breach of the peace. Let it be known that this matter shall be heard, and judgment passed by our laird.”
