Page 13 of The Scot is Hers
The relief Giselle felt was palpable and clearly noticeable as her mother looked at her concerned. “What is it, dear? Are ye unwell? Another megrim?”
Giselle rarely had an actual headache, but her mother believed her prone to them as they seemed to be the only thing that got her out of events. “I thought ye were Sir Joshua.”
Lady Bothwell frowned. “Oh, why would he be here?” She glanced about the room as if he’d come melting from the silver silk wallpaper.
“He came by a few moments ago.” Giselle paused, wondering how much she should tell her mother and decided that if her parents were going to force her to wed, they should at least know the manner of man they tied her to. “He kissed me, Mama.”
Her mother’s hand fluttered to her chest, and there was for a moment a look of horror before she whisked it away like every other problem. “Oh my. We’d best hurry things along then. It would seem your bridegroom is quite eager for the wedding to take place.”
Giselle’s heart stopped then, and her mouth fell open. She stood still, stunned at her mother’s reaction, and for a moment speechless. Perhaps her mother did not understand the situation fully. “Nay, Mama, I did no’wantthe kiss. I asked him to stop for propriety’s sake, and he refused.”
Her mother shook her head. “Perhaps ye should have been better about denying him. There’s nothing for it now. He is to be your husband, and ye might as well get used to having to agree to his demands. Your fate is sealed. Ye let him take liberties, and I will no’ stand for a daughter who does such. Ye recall Shanna Andrewson, do ye no’?”
Giselle bit her tongue for the retort she prepared regarding Jaime’s wayward sister would not at all be appropriate.
“Prepare to be wed, young lady, and I’ll no’ hear another word on the matter.” Her mother snapped her fingers as if that were some magical gesture that denoted the sealing of a vow.
The one person she’d hoped to appeal to had once again abandoned Giselle. How was it her fault that Joshua had kissed her? She’d tried to explain that she’d not wanted him to, but that didn’t matter at all to her mother. She’d only sped up the timeline to her doom. Why did the Countess of Bothwell refuse to see reason?
Again, Giselle found herself looking out the window, gaze roving toward the barn. If she procured a horse, it would be less time than walking.
But how was she going to get a horse?
The more she thought about it, the more imperative it became to run away. Maybe if her parents realized how serious she was about not wanting to marry Sir Joshua, they would stop all this nonsense.
She knew how to saddle a horse. All she had to do was sneak into the stable and then out again without anyone the wiser. The gate had been wide open when they’d approached, and she prayed it wouldn’t be closed now. She’d be able to ride through and be on her way.
Tugging on her cloak and changing into dry riding shoes, Giselle silently traversed the hallway toward the staircase. However, the biggest problem was that anyone could see her go down the stairs and stop her. She was obviously dressed for going out. She stopped before rounding the corner, hearing voices approach. Sounded like her father and Sir Joseph, coming up the steps.
Och, but she couldn’t get caught; she just couldn’t.
Giselle whirled, and as quiet as she could, made her way in the opposite direction, hoping that one of the doors would lead to a servants’ staircase and that she’d reach it before the men saw her. Her sweaty palms slipped over several knobs and she was lucky to find the right one, but only because one of the maids came out of the chamber and disappeared down the stairs.
As soon as she yanked the door to the concealed stairwell closed, she caught sight of her father with Joshua in the tiny crack before it shut. She pressed her ear to the door for only a moment to listen, hoping they’d not seen her and were not running to snatch her back. There was nothing but their casual and slow chatter. Thank the heavens.
As quietly as she could, Giselle descended inch by inch to the bottom and then through a long corridor in hopes of finding an exit. Everything down here was so stark and plain that it was hard to figure out what went where, but she eventually found a doorway that led outside.
A gust of wind nearly pushed her back through the opening, threatening indeed to take the door off its hinges. Giselle managed to fight the wind and shut the door behind her. The hood of her cloak flipped off, and her hair went wild in the gust. Battling the hood seemed futile.
She stood in a small courtyard covered in puddles and free of any animals that might normally mill about. Rain splattered down on her head. She kept to the wall of the castle in case anyone happened to look out a window as she crept toward what she thought might be the stable. They’d still see her if they looked hard enough, but at least she wouldn’t be a sitting duck in the middle of the courtyard. The stables were easy to find, and so was the tack she needed to prep the horse.
The sound of whistling had her ducking into a stall as a groom passed by, mumbling things to the horses he passed. The horse whose stall she’d taken refuge in nickered at her, nibbling at her hair, and she shooshed it, rubbing a hand over its muzzle to keep it from giving up her secret.
“I’ll have a nice treat for ye if ye keep quiet,” she whispered, patting the pocket of her cloak that held an apple she’d swiped from a bin.
She was quick to saddle the mount, then gave him the apple as she rode him right out of the stable without any of the grooms seeming to notice, thank heavens. Giselle urged the horse into a gallop down the road, praying all the while that no one happened to look at the window and see her riding hell-bent for leather.
The gate was indeed open, and she sailed through it. The first of her triumphs complete. Escape was at hand. Giselle’s heart thundered through her chest hard enough that she thought her ribs might crack.
Across the moors she went, in the general direction they’d come. The road was a river of muddy earth, splattering up into her face and body, but didn’t seem to bother the horse at all. With every stride that they were away from Boddam Castle, the easier she could breathe.
Despite the recklessness of her decision to leave, especially in this weather, she did not regret it. Not even when the rain soaked her cloak and fell in rivulets down her face. Or when her gloves were so soaked through, her fingers felt as if they might freeze and crack off. She kept telling herself that after a storm, the sun always came out.
Not long into her ride, perhaps twenty or thirty minutes, lightning stabbed from the sky earthward and struck a tree in front of them. The crack of the hit was deafening, and sparks flew from the smoldering spot, sizzling in the rain. The tree split where it was struck, the right side falling to the earth below. Giselle’s mount whinnied loud enough to pierce the rumble of thunder and reared up on its hind legs, jerking her backward.
“Oh, no! Whoa, lad!” Giselle screamed, trying to hold onto the saddle as the horse’s body tipped skyward, and she started to slip.
The horse settled back on the ground with her still thankfully on his back, but another crack of thunder and a zigzag of white streaked the sky, causing the animal to rear again. This time, the leather was too slippery to hold.
