Knight's Blood (42 page)
Authors: Julianne Lee
Tags: #Kidnapping, #Science Fiction, #Fantasy fiction, #Married people, #Scotland, #General, #Fantasy, #Children - Crimes against, #Fighter pilots, #Fiction, #Time travel
Still Trefor only glared.
Alex brandished his dagger. “
Am I making myself clear?
”
Am I making myself clear?
”
Finally Trefor said, “Aye, my lord.”
Alex stood straight, lowered his weapon, and sighed. “Good. Now get up out of the dirt and pay obeisance to the countess.”
Trefor looked up at Lindsay, and the pain in his eyes broke her heart. But she said nothing as he rose to his feet then dropped to one knee. His voice quavered a bit. “My lady, I am your loyal servant.”
He was her son. Tears rose to her eyes, but she swallowed them. “Rise, Trefor.” He obeyed, then lifted his gaze to her eyes. They were the same age. She couldn’t give him anything he needed, and he no longer needed any of the things she wanted to give him. Though she was his mother, to her he could only be one of her husband’s household knights. She would give Alex an heir, other babies, and they would be her children. But not Trefor.
She handed back his dagger, and he sheathed it. Then he turned to retrieve his horse. As she watched him go, a single tear escaped her eye and she hurried to wipe it away. Then she went to Alex and made him remove his surcoat, hauberk, and sark to take a look at his wounded arm. She could let herself be absorbed in him, and the rest of the world might fade away.
Alex leaned down and kissed her cheek. His face pressed against hers, he said softly, “It’ll be all right.”
She replied, “No, it won’t.”
EPILOGUE
Trefor figured he was screwed. It had probably been a mistake to come here, to this medieval armpit of the universe, and now he wondered whether he should stay or leave or what. He stared down the length of the Great Hall at his parents, who sat at the head table, presiding over breakfast like royalty. It was party day; they were entertaining the Earl of Ross, James Douglas’s friend and Edward Bruce’s father-in-law. All the stops had been pulled out, and there was food everywhere. Fresh reeds on the floor, everyone dressed in their best dingy finery. Ol’ Alasdair an Dubhar was doing his level best to become one of the gang, hobnobbing at Mach 3. Trefor nibbled on his meat, not particularly hungry, but wanting to look as if he were joining in.
The parental units seemed happy, all smiling and holding hands. Cruachan often leaned close to tell his countess things that made her laugh. The two seemed to have made a magic circle up there at the head table with their guests, one Trefor knew would never include him. That Gregor kid was there, standing attendance. The foster son.
Foster
son. Irony upon insult upon injury. In all his childhood wishes and dreams of his real parents, he’d never thought he could have been displaced like that. Not by a
foster
kid. His stomach was in a knot, and he gnashed at the meat he held between his fingers.
Foster
son. Irony upon insult upon injury. In all his childhood wishes and dreams of his real parents, he’d never thought he could have been displaced like that. Not by a
foster
kid. His stomach was in a knot, and he gnashed at the meat he held between his fingers.
Morag must be somewhere around, and he wondered where. She liked to disappear at odd moments and then reappear at even odder ones. He wondered where she’d got off to this time; she hadn’t been here in the castle when they’d returned from Cruachan. The trip had taken a while, though. Maybe she’d gotten bored and gone off to find amusement. She’d be back. He could tell when a girl was in love with him, and that one had it bad, though she’d never admit it out loud. It made him smile to think how tightly he had her wrapped around his little finger.
It had taken several weeks to organize the village on Cruachan enough for Alasdair an Dubhar to return to his castle. The resident MacDonalds were defeated, the families who’d participated in the rising tried and evicted, and now the rebels were the responsibility of The MacDonald. Their tenancies had been reassessed and some distributed to those who had not participated in the rising, and that was what had taken so long. Come spring new tenants would begin clearing forest to build new farms. Much thought had gone into the distribution of land. Other MacNeils would be given tenancies there, most from Eilean Aonarach and a few of the poorer folk from among Hector’s MacNeils on Barra. With the MacNeils and allied families now the majority on Cruachan, clan loyalties would consolidate Alex’s claim and also his alliance with Hector. It was left now to decide who would be tacksman on Cruachan, and that was what kept Trefor hanging around after that fight with his father. That and the rumor King Robert might visit to confirm the new earldom with appropriate pomp and ceremony. That sounded like a fun party. Trefor thought it might be pretty cool to meet Robert the Bruce, but even more it might be good if ol’ Alex made him tacksman and let him run Cruachan. Even if Trefor couldn’t call himself MacNeil, which he never had until Morag found him and told him his real name, making him tacksman would be the least the earl could do. Yeah, sticking around was probably the best thing. Pawlowski was as good a name as any. It at least was his mother’s maiden name and hadn’t been given to him by those who’d dumped him off.
He gazed long on the countess, and his heart beat faster. His mother was beautiful, just as he’d always imagined she’d be. The woman was strong and smart and interesting, and he longed for her attention in ways that he didn’t even want from Morag. The little redhead was delightfully fun, and helpful in many ways. He loved her, but not in the bone-deep sort of way he looked to Lindsay MacNeil. The countess scared him. He couldn’t look away from her. He would do anything for her if she would only let him. She was his mother, after all. He was supposed to care for her.
And, he realized, if Alex loved her half as much, then he would be vulnerable because of her. Trefor tucked that knowledge into the back of his head for later use.
Finally he looked away. Maybe he’d take a ride around the island today. He’d not had a chance to check it out when they’d arrived; it might be good to explore a little and get to know the lay of the land. He stuffed the chunk of meat into his mouth, picked another, and began eating and chatting with the knight next to him.
The day was crisp and fall-like. Late August, but it was plain winter would arrive early here compared to Tennessee. A pleasant breeze drifted among the trees of the forest through which he rode at a walk. There were only the sounds of leaves swishing and dull, thudding hoofbeats on the narrow track.
Morag’s voice came from somewhere. “There ye are. About time you came to find me!”
A grin splashed across his face and he looked around to find her perched cross-legged in the crotch of a moss-covered oak, wearing nothing but her golden rope belt and a smile. Her bright, coppery hair hung in wild curls that spilled over her shoulders, and her eyes glinted with high humor.
“There you are! Where have you been?”
“Right here, silly boy. Waiting for you to be done with those dreary mortals.”
“I had business. I needed to attend—”
“Bah. Come play. The day is fine and ye must be stifling with all your clothes. A body should be freed of them on a day such as this.”
Trefor grinned and reached for the ties of his tunic. In a few seconds he had it off, and his sark. Then he leapt from his horse. The breeze was a mite chillier than Morag made it out to be, but the goose bumps on him could also have been from the sight of her. She grinned, stood on the oak limb, and swung down from the tree. With a giggle she skipped away into the forest. Trefor hurried to relieve himself of his boots, trews, and drawers, then gave chase.
They ran through the woods, laughing, and Morag managed to stay just out of reach. A couple of times he nearly caught her, but she dodged from his grasp at the last second. It only made him laugh harder and chase in better earnest.
Then he caught her and held her to him. Unable to stop laughing, he tried to kiss her but managed little more than mashing her lips with his. Her laughter was out of control, and she was helpless in his arms. He landed a good, solid kiss, and her body warmed against his.
But then she slipped away from him and took off running again. He ran after but lost her in a thicket. Without slowing down he burst through it and figured he’d see her on the other side. Gorse scratched at his skin, but he barely noticed.
It was a small clearing, all grassy and surrounded in bracken. A fallen oak lay at one side, covered thickly with dark green moss that made it look as if it were melting into the grass. He looked around, but there was no Morag. Nor sign of her. His pulse raced, and he went to the log to see behind it. No Morag. He turned a circle, but still didn’t see her.
There was a bit of rock sticking from the earth across from the log, and he went to it. No Morag hiding there, but he found a hole in the ground. It didn’t look big, but that girl was small. She could fit just about anywhere. He knelt to peer into it and see what he might see. It was dark in there, which sort of figured since it was underground, but he thought he saw movement. His smile returned, and he leaned closer.
A force caught him from before and from behind and shoved, as if the very air were trying to stuff him into the hole. Too quick to resist, it blew him through the hole and he found himself tumbling into darkness. He landed with an
oof
on something soft. Above him, as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he was able to discern roots. Big tree roots. Of course, he was underground. But there were voices. High, tittery ones, whispering all around. He sat up to see.
oof
on something soft. Above him, as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he was able to discern roots. Big tree roots. Of course, he was underground. But there were voices. High, tittery ones, whispering all around. He sat up to see.
They were wee people. Bhrochan, he guessed, for they looked a lot like the several he’d seen in the States a year ago. Tiny folk with pointed ears like his, dressed in ragged tunics and trews. He held up a hand in greeting. “Hi.”
One of them laughed, high and giggly and sounding like madness incarnate. She then leapt to her feet and did a little dance like a jig. “Oh, look! We’re graced by a visit from our new prince!”
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