I wound my hair into a loose braid, coiled at the back of my neck, then fastened the war helmet onto to my head and set off on my way.
The stone wall of the keep was farther away than I’d estimated. It may have been as much as an hour before I reached it, and by then, my lack of sleep and lack of food was beginning to take its toll. Attempting to ignore both, I positioned my ladder, waiting atop the wall, listening for sounds of stirring in the near vicinity. My eyes had adjusted by then to the spare light offered by a sliver moon and some cloud-veiled stars. I could see no one. I adjusted my weight on the thick surface of the wall and pulled the ladder over, placing it against the inside wall so I could make my escape. I climbed down to the ground and found myself on the far side of a small loch from the looming castle and within sight of the silver-edged silhouettes of garden hedges and gnarled, fruit-heavy trees. I sneaked around the water’s edge toward my goal. I fingered the first pear of my harvest, taking several bites before I could continue. Its sweetness was indescribable. I picked as many fruits as I could carry.
As I walked past the edge of the smooth expanse of the loch toward the wall, I was surprised to notice that the yellow hue of morning had just begun to creep above the horizon. I’d taken too much time. Soon, people would begin their day’s chores. And I was still inside the wall. Taking quick steps now, I secured my helmet and approached my ladder. Just as I started to climb, a sound drew my attention.
A splash.
I turned to see a man walking out of the loch.
A very big, muscular, naked man. Very naked.
And he was looking right at me.
We were both stunned into frozen silence. But then he tensed and moved in my direction, jolting me into action. I clambered up the ladder as fast as I could, pulling it up behind me and jumping heavily down to the ground on the far side, my bag of fruits and vegetables secured to my back. I left the ladder where it lay and ran for my very life. I didn’t look back, but I knew he was coming.
I ran and ran until my legs threatened to buckle under me. My back had gone numb with the weight of my load as I struggled farther and farther up the hill.
I could hear him gaining on me.
“Halt!” he yelled, and his voice reached into my body and grabbed my heart, such was the fear I felt. It wasn’t just the strength of the command but the closeness of it.
And I did halt.
On the other side of the sharp jutting rock was my shelter. I dropped my bag and turned to face him. I pulled my sword from its belt.
And he was there, not ten feet from where I stood, fully clothed now and holding his own—much bigger—sword.
As far as I could see, he was alone. Would he have told others about his chase?
The first thing that struck me about him—aside from his size, which I already knew about, in every regard—was his captivating looks. His black hair, still barely wet, hung to his shoulders, and he wore a small braid stitched back from each temple, as was customary for clansmen. Despite the small distance between us, I could see that his eyes were a vivid shade of blue. His face was fierce not only in expression but also in countenance: fierce in beauty. I was dizzied by my fear and by my reaction to his dazzling presence.
“Who are you?” he asked, his broad chest heaving as he breathed heavily from the chase. It was a command, that I supply him this information.
I did not speak. I had no intention of giving up my identity. He might return me to Laird Ogilvie.
He held up his sword and asked the question again, this time more quietly but no less commanding. “I said, to whom am I speaking?”
I held up my own small weapon. It was far less impressive than his own, but I knew how to use it. I’d been training with men for months and had learned how a quick jab could be just as effective as a long swing.
“You want to fight me, aye?” he asked. There was a note of jeering confidence in his question. I allowed him this. My call to arms was clearly foolhardy. I did not want to die here on this hilltop, at the hands of this beautiful warrior, but I had no other option than to fight.
“Show your face,” he said.
I did not.
“Please leave me,” I said, attempting to deepen my voice.
A slight crease appeared between his eyebrows, as if he was having trouble making sense of the situation and my request. He almost smiled. “I’ll not go until you reveal yourself,” he said, and his tone sounded patient, if I was placing it correctly.
“I cannot.”
“Then we shall have to fight. You’ve been caught stealing from our lands. ’Tis punishable by death, thievery. If there’s a reason for your actions, give it.”
“I was hungry,” came my falsely stern, muffled reply.
To this he smiled, clear confusion written across his heartbreaking face. “That’s a fair reason, then. Reveal yourself and you can keep your bounty. If you agree never to return to thieve from us again. Show your face.”
“I cannot.”
His mild amusement irked me. “You cannot,” he repeated. “Why is this?”
My fear, and something else, was causing my control to weaken, to slide. I willed myself to hold it together. “Leave me! Here, take your food! I’ll go, and not bother you again.”
His smile faded, and I realized that I’d forgotten to disguise my voice. He said slowly, as though to make sure I understood, “I’m afraid I’ll not be leaving. Not until I know who I’m dealing with.”
We stood, swords raised, at an impasse of sorts.
Would he show me mercy? Would he force me to return to Ogilvie? Or would he kill me?
As if in partial answer, he stepped closer, clearly not intimidated by me. He lifted the tip of his sword to my chin, as though to use it to tip my helmet backward.
I struck his sword with my own.
He was surprised by my hit, and he lashed back with his weapon, so quickly I barely had time to react. And we were close now, so close that his returning strike sliced across my arm, ricocheting pain throughout my body. My sword, as I fell to the ground, slid across the muscle of his side. He growled and struck my weapon with such power that it sent a jolt of fire through my already bloodied arm. My sword went flying, so I could hear the wo wo wo of its spinning flight before it landed with a clang far out of my reach.
Stunned, pained, grasping to maintain consciousness, I lay still on the ground as he stood over me. Blood was flowing freely from the wound on his torso. He kneeled and removed my helmet. My hair had loosened and spilled onto the ground as he freed it.
When he saw my face, his jaw dropped. He stared for many moments, surveying me with his eyes. He fingered a lock of my hair, rubbing it gently between two fingers for several seconds, as though fascinated by the feel of it, or the color.
“You’re a lass,” he finally said.
“Aye.”
His
