Page 9 of The Beast of the Highlands
Evidently, Mary had lied about Leighton being excited to meet Autumn, but the young tutor was undeterred.
Straightening up, she winced as her stays constricted against her bruised ribs. “Would you like to get to know me before you dismiss me? You never know, you might find me entertaining, at the very least,” she replied, peering into the darkened corner to get a better look at Leighton Duncan.
A sullen head turned. The boy could not have been much older than Laurel—four-and-ten, at the most—with an unruly mane of dark locks, and the same intense black stare as his elder brother. His face was sweeter, though, where Flynn’s had the gravitas of adulthood. And he was lanky, like a newborn foal, where Flynn was muscular as a stallion.
“A Sassenach? Why am I nae surprised?” Leighton snorted. “I knew me brother was desperate to keep me from bein’ a fool, but I dinnae think he’d send word across the border.”
Autumn arched an eyebrow. “I hail from close to Bamburgh. Do you know the meaning of “burgh,” Master Leighton?”
“Do ye think I’m a dobber?” Leighton retorted. “It’s… a place.”
Autumn smiled. “It means it is, or was once, a royal borough, Master Leighton, as devised by King David in the twelfth century. And as “burgh” is of Scottish origin, I like to think I am close enough to avoid the usual insults.” Her grin widened. “Call me Sassenach, if you like, but I will make the word my own, and relish in it.”
A look of interest briefly flitted across Leighton’s face. “Ye’re nae shy with yer mouth, are ye?”
“Why should I be? It is the greatest vessel of expression that people possess.” Autumn took a few steps closer. “It separates man from beast, though perhaps you would prefer it if a lowed like a coo?” She mimicked the Scottish accent, hoping he would not take offence.
Leighton frowned. “Ye’re a strange one, and nay mistake.”
“Strange is merely a synonym for interesting, so I appreciate the compliment,” she fired back, placing a hand to her side as her nervous breaths became harder to draw.
His frown took on a different air. One of slight concern. “Are ye well? I heard ye got yerself in some trouble last night.”
“Master Leighton, I am afraid my chest is ablaze, and my body feels like it has been rolled through a mangle, but I like to think this shows the strength of my determination to educate you,” she wheezed. “We might begin with anatomy and decide how many of my bones and organs have been pulverized.”
A genuine chuckle slipped past the fortifications of Leighton’s lips. “I daenae want ye as me tutor, but ye should sit.” He got up from his chair in the corner, where it appeared he was reading covertly, and came over to take Autumn’s arm. He led her to a chair by the window and had her sit down.
“What are you reading?” Autumn seized her opportunity.
Leighton paled. “I amnae readin’ anythin’. I daenae read. I daenae see the use in it, when I could be out practicin’ with a broadsword in me hand.”
“Ah, I must have been mistaken. Books can look rather like weapons, in a particular light,” she teased. “Tell me, which weapon garnered your interest?”
He shrugged. “Some foolish story about a lad who turns into a wolf.”
“Bisclavret?” Autumn prompted, racking her brain for such a tale. She settled on one of the poems of Marie de France, which were, fortunately, some of her favorites.
Leighton’s eyes widened. “How did ye ken that?”
“I adore that story,” she told him. “I revel in a comeuppance, and it is wondrous when the treacherous wife receives hers, for taking poor Bisclavret’s clothes so he could not return to his human form. It is a touch bloody, but well deserved.”
The boy nodded eagerly. “I like that part an’ all. I daenae much like the rest of ‘em—bein’ love stories—though some of ‘em are nae so bad.”
“Does this mean you speak French?” she prompted, gaining an idea of what she would teach him.
He shrugged. “A bit, but I have a translation.”
“You must allow me to borrow it,” Autumn urged. “I am Autumn, by the way. You might prefer to call me that, instead of Miss Montgomery.”
He put out his hand, only to draw it back as though he had done the wrong thing. “I’m Leighton. Daenae bother with that Master business—I daenae care for it.” He paused. “Do I shake yer hand or… I amnae used to havin’ company.”
“It is peculiar, but I think that would be best.” She put out her hand as a gesture of goodwill and smiled as he took it. “Do you know where the shaking of hands hails from?”
He shook his head.
“It is to show that your sword hand is empty,” Autumn explained. “Now that we have shown we do not intend to duel one another, we cannot be enemies.”
Leighton stared in wonder at his hand, as he took it back. His fingers clenched, like he was holding a broadsword, and he cut an imaginary swipe through the air once, twice, thrice, before pretending to stow his blade away in an invisible sheath.
