Page 73 of Highlander's Sinless Nymph
There was silence. Such a long spell of silence that, almost, Charlotte started to think that she had imagined the reply. Then, there were a couple of loudthunks, a clattering of chains and a brief squeal of protesting metal, and the gates opened ponderously. They did not open all the way; only enough for a single person to walk through.
“Leave yer horse and enter on foot!” a voice commanded.
Charlotte did as she was bid, hurrying through the gap in the great portal as quickly as her tired legs would carry her in. Once she was through, she came up short with a sharp gasp.
She was surrounded by a semicircle of men, all armed with broadswords. Behind them, were a couple of others with drawn bows.
Charlotte opened her mouth to speak, but the words stopped halfway out of her mouth when she felt the light, cold kiss of a sword blade against her neck. Her eyes darted right. She saw a stern-faced Highlander hold his finger to his lips, signaling that she should be quiet.
He does not look at all amused or impressed by me or what I have said.
Another Highland guardsman stepped around Charlotte and peeked quickly around the edge of the gate. Then he turned and shook his head.
“All’s well! Close the gate!” someone bellowed, and the gate creaked shut.
A man stepped from the middle of the throng of armed Highlanders. Charlotte recognized the moustache at once.
“Dunnet!” she exclaimed. “I must––”
“Bite yer tongue, Miss Bolton, the old physician said, cutting her off. “Save yer words fer the Laird.” He took her roughly by the arm and steered her towards the main door of the looming keep. “And be aware,” he said, in an ominously low voice in her ear, “that every word ye utter now shall be weighed against yer life.”
They were far from comforting words, and so it was with no little trepidation that Charlotte sat, once again, in Tormod MacAlpein’s grand study a little while later. The room was different in the quiet of the deep night. There was a fire, but that was the only source of light. The walls were swathed in shadow.
There was a creak from outside in the corridor, the door opened soundlessly on its well-greased hinges and the Laird stalked slowly into the room. Despite the lateness of the hour, he looked as leonine and lordly as he had the last time that Charlotte had seen him. Not a hair was out of place.
“Miss Bolton,” he said, on seeing her, “please, ye may sit.”
It was only then that Charlotte realized that she had jumped nervously to her feet when the door had opened.
“Thank––thank you,” she said, momentarily forgetting just why it was that she had ridden all those miles at such a breakneck pace.
Silence bloomed between them, broken only by popping of the logs in the hearth. Vaguely, Charlotte noted how the Laird did not offer her any sort of refreshment.
He is furious, yet even now his manners stop him from directly insulting me. Only through an almost accidental lack of courtesy can he make his displeasure known.
“Well?” the Laird said, breaking the quiet. “Do nae been reticent now, Miss Bolton. Me men at the gate say that ye were makin’ quite the tumult not long ago. Tell me, why have ye come ridin’ back like a thief in the night to me castle?”
Despite how daunted she was by the imperiousness of Edward’s father, something bristled inside of Charlotte. She realized that it was her growing pride––her burgeoning sense of self-worth.
Who is this man to speak to me like this? After all I have accomplished this evening. After all I have had to endure at the hands of men not so very different from him.
“I’ve ridden through the night to bring you news, your Lairdship,” she said. Her words were courteous, but she made it clear in her tone that she was not in the mood to be trifled with––not even by him.
“Well,” the Laird replied, “it must be mighty important news to come wakin’ me at such an ungodly hour. I best be hearin’ it, lass.”
There was something smug, something condescending about his tone that really rankled with Charlotte. So, it was with a certain grim satisfaction that she delivered the news that she had ridden so far to bear.
“I rode back, your Lairdship,” she said bluntly, her face as stony as the bluff that MacQuarrie Castle was built upon, “to inform you that my father––and an extended force of about five-hundred seasoned fighting men––are only a half a day’s ride form where we now sit.”
The silence that followed this frank declaration was not of the same variety as the sleepily untrustworthy kind that had followed the Laird entering the room. This type was charged with tension, a tingling tautness that throbbed between Charlotte and the Laird like some sort of effervescent mist.
“What,” the Laird said, no trace of a sardonic smile on his craggy face now, “are you talkin’ about, Miss Bolton?”
His answering bluntness made her a little uneasy, and it was no good her trying to tell herself that this was precisely why the Laird was now acting like this. In the sporadic light of the fire, his weathered face was a collection of sharp lines and craggy features. As he turned towards her, his eyes were suddenly lost in the shadows cast by his nose and heavy brows.
“I––uh, I––” she tried.
“I would advise ye strongly to tell me all ye can in as few words as possible,” the Laird said. “Me patience, whilst extensive, is nae inexhaustible I fear, and perhaps the bit o’ news I have fer ye will explain why that might be. But…ladies first.”
