Page 4 of Highlander's Sinless Nymph
He had the hood of his cloak pulled over his head to try and keep out the rising mist. Charlotte could not make out too much of his face, but it seemed that he had a strong jaw and powerful features. Peering closer, she could make out the glitter of his eyes.
Charlotte got to her feet slowly. She was not quite sure what to make of this man who had suddenly appeared in her midst. Clearly, he was not a member of her own party. He was dressed simply, in weather-stained breeches, shirt, and cloak. His boots, strangely, looked to be of fine make, which made her doubt whether he was as simple a man as she initially thought.
Charlotte stood there, clutching her arm, feeling the blood run slowly through her fingers, down the back of her arm and onto the back of her hand.
For a long few moments, neither one of them moved or spoke. They were frozen in a tableau that could have been quite easily used as the inspiration for a woodcut for one of the folk stories that Charlotte’s mother used to tell her: the lost princess being stumbled upon by the mysterious stranger.
Only, I am no princess and, as for this man, I have no idea what sort of person he might be.
She shifted slightly, moving towards her dropped foraging basket. It had been her mother’s. If this stranger turned out to be a rogue, she still hoped to be able to grab the basket before she made a dash for freedom.
As she took a step towards the basket, pain shot up her arm. She gave a little yelp and felt her knees sag slightly, as if they had suddenly turned to water. She hissed and clutched at her wound. Clearly, the fox cub’s claws had cut deeper than she had initially thought.
The stranger took a step towards her then. Charlotte tensed instinctively. The man, seeing this, raised his hands in a placating way. Then, reaching slowly upwards, he pulled back his hood so that Charlotte could make out his face.
Well, the doubt is removed, heishandsome. Very much so.
His face, though honest, was slightly weathered and tired-looking. There was a thin white scar running through one of his eyebrows.
Even though she was still weighing up whether to flee or not, Charlotte paused at the sight of him.
It gives him something of the look of a rogue or bandit, a man who lives by his wits and by his sword.
Unexpectedly, she found excitement prickling her insides.
His hair was thick, blond, and fell to his shoulders, but was slightly tangled and wild.
In the manner of one who has spent more than a few nights sleeping outside.
His jaw was, as Charlotte had suspected, a strong one, and covered in a short beard. His eyes, now that she could see them clearly, were brown and guarded. His whole demeanor was wary. Charlotte had the distinct impression though, that despite his slightly wild outward appearance and circumspect air, here was a man that would––hopefully––do her no ill.
Though I would never presume to be so foolish as to guess at the workings of a man’s heart. Not after the way my own father treats me…
“Are ye all right there, lass?” he asked.
Charlotte recoiled instinctively. The man’s broad Scottish brogue was thick enough that she could have slathered it on her morning slice of toast.
A slight frown creased the stranger’s handsome face when Charlotte did not reply.
“Lass?” he prompted her. “Are ye all right? I thought I might’ve heard ye yell back there? What are ye doin’ out here, anyway?”
Still, Charlotte did not know what to say. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.
Then the man saw her arm and the blood that had started to drip off of her fingertips and patter onto the leaves at her feet.
“Ach, ye’re hurt!” the man said, and moved forward.
Charlotte took a couple of stumbling steps back at this point, almost tripping over the hem of her cloak.
“You’re––you’re a Scot,” she said.
That seemed to bring the man up short, as if she had caught him out in something.
His guarded brown eyes searched her face for a minute and then he gave her a slight smile. “Aye,” he said, slowly. “Aye, that I am. Ye’re nae just a bonnie lass, then––if ye’ll pardon me fer sayin’ so––ye’re a perceptive one too.”
Charlotte had the rather uncomfortable feeling that this man, this rascal, was making fun of her. Bizarrely, she felt herself blushing.
“Who––who are you?” she asked.
