Page 15 of Highlander's Sinless Nymph
It was quite the captivating sight for a man that had spent so many days alone in the wild of the Highlands. It was, to Edward’s mind, like finding a precious stone out in the middle of nowhere. She was not just lovely in the way that many women were lovely. She was set apart from them, in his eyes, by her keen wit and ready mind.
But that is nae to say that her beauty does nae stir me blood up somethin’ wicked.
To try and take his mind from running off down the rabbit hole of this particular line of thought, Edward asked, “Lass, why do ye talk as if ye have lived such a cruel life? And why is it that ye sneak back into yer own camp, bein’ the Captain’s own blood as ye are? Surely, ye have nothin’ to fear, even from the most rambunctious of troops?”
Charlotte plodded on for a little while longer, her arm through the handle of her wicker basket, her hands hiking up her trailing skirts in an attempt to avoid the worst of the mud.
“Do you always speak so bluntly?” she countered after a moment.
Edward thought about this. His manner had changed somewhat since his mother had been murdered.
By this lass’s own faither. Keep that in the forefront of yer mind.
“I s’pose things happen in life that make ye realize that there are more important things than worryin’ about makin’ proper with everyone that crosses yer path,” he said, watching the hypnotic sway of her hips as she made her way over the uncertain ground. “Sometimes, ye need to voice a question plainly if ye want to get an answer that is real.”
Charlotte paused in her climbing and looked back at him. Her expression was difficult to read in the dark.
“You say things,” she said, “that make me think there is more to you than at first meets the eye. You are not the simple ruffian that I first took you for, are you, Edward?”
Edward flashed her a wolfish smile and rubbed thoughtfully at his stubbly jaw. “Not a simple ruffian, perhaps,” he said.
Charlotte turned away, as if to keep walking. Then she turned back. “My mother is dead,” she blurted.
Something inside of Edward twisted at these words, spoken so matter-of-factly as they were.
“Aye,” he said, not knowing what else to say.
She is the daughter of your mortal enemy. Spare her nay pity.
“My father was always a hard man. Military men must be, I suppose, if they are to command men and survive their campaigns. But after my mother died he became colder, crueler.”
She looked at Edward, but he said nothing, not wanting to break whatever spell had fallen over the young Englishwoman.
“She was the only one who shielded me from the brunt of his temper,” Charlotte continued. “I understand that now.” She swallowed, in the manner of one trying to gulp down a rising lump of emotion that threatened to overwhelm them.
“Yer mither, she sounds much like me own mither,” Edward said.
Charlotte flashed him a smile of her own, but it faded quickly. “Yes. Well. She is gone now. I think that my father views me as little more than an extension off himself––like a fine sword or a good horse. Something to be admired by others, but ultimately completely under his control.”
“And, if ye try and live yer own life, he beats ye?” Edward shot at her.
Charlotte’s face fell. Her mouth drew into a thin line. “How did y––”
“The escapin’ into a forest ye have nay notion of how to get back out of suddenly makes perfect sense,” Edward said. “Plus, there’s somethin’ of the whipped dog about ye,” he added, without thinking.
Charlotte’s mouth opened in shock at his words. Edward braced himself for a torrent of anger.
“Oh, and suppose that you would be well acquainted with whipped dogs, sir?” she said, her voice icy.
“What am I to take from yer meanin’ there, Sassenach?” Edward asked, nettled, despite the fact that he had asked for her rebuke.
“Just that, if what my father says is to believed, then whipping dogs––as well as other things––is somewhat of a Scottish specialty.
Edward barked a bitter laugh. “Aye, yer faither would ken well enough the sort of low deeds that men are capable of, but it sounds like he’s getting’ me people confused fer his.”
The two of them lapsed into an awkward silence.
Out on the distant moorland, set next to a small clump of stunted, wind-ravished hazel trees, Edward could see the twinkle and flicker of lights and cook fires.
