Alistair leapt towards the soldier in practiced steps.
In a swift move, the soldier bent and planted a knife in Alistair’s thigh.
Alistair howled. The soldier galloped away. Alistair followed suit, but he was losing blood. It poured out of his wound, staining his kilt. The soldier had disappeared into the forest, and Alistair knew that there could be even more soldiers lurking behind the trees. With a groan of frustration, he turned back. Keith had vanquished his soldier. He lay in the dirt, his head a bleeding pulp. Keith let out a cry of victory, but then his eyes lighted on Alistair’s and he rushed to his friend’s side.
* * *
Jane woke slowly. She first noticed that the bed was unfamiliar. And why was the light coming in a different direction from what she was used to…?
Reality dawned on her. Thoughts of last night flooded her mind. She blushed. No wonder Eleonor had fallen for a Scottish man! Did Englishmen have the ardor and passion that Alistair had shown last night? She doubted it. He had overtaken her senses and turned her into a creature she did not recognize, a creature of passion. She had always feared the concept of a wedding night, for the little she had heard about it was horrific indeed. But with these preliminaries that Alistair had shown her, she was certain that the actual act could not be so bad.
Another thought crossed her mind. Alistair had been the perfect gentleman. Oh, if he had made a move to take her, she was not sure she would have protested much, so great was her desire! And yet he had restrained himself, giving her pleasure and taking none. He’d treated her body like it was an exquisite thing to be worshipped, and then he had promised that-
Jane turned to Alistair’s side of the bed.
He was not there.
Jane frowned.
He had promised that he would be here when she woke. She remembered that distinctly, as she had floated off to sleep with the assurance in her ears. Didn’t Scots prided themselves on being honorable? Hadn’t forthrightness been one of the things he’d promised.
She caught herself.
Perhaps something urgent had needed his attention this morning. Surely he could not have shirked it for her - he was a lord, with duties and responsibilities. A sad thought formed in her mind. Very soon, she would have to leave him. She would never see him, or the kind Catrina, or the bubbly Tasgall, again. They were on opposite sides of a divide. He might die in battle and she would never know. She would be holed up in Edward’s castle, acting out a role that had been chosen for her, from sunup to sundown, for the rest of her life.
Utterly unhappy.
Another thought crossed her mind. The witch in the cottage in the forest. It was silly to pay a woman like that any mind, but she had known too much about Jane for it not to be worrisome. Jane thought about the mark that the witch had said her soulmate would have, too. She had not seen a mark on Alistair. Jane had not actively been looking, but surely, she would have noticed.
And then Jane stopped herself. It was plain madness to be looking for a soulmate in a man she might never again see in a few days! She did not even believe in soulmates. Such things were part of Scottish lore, surely. It could not apply to an Englishwoman.
The knock at the door startled her. She jumped. There was another knock. Jane jumped off the bed, wrapped the cloak she had been given and went to the door. As a last-minute precaution, she asked who it was.
“’Tis Catrina,” she heard.
Jane swiftly opened the door. She smiled at Catrina. “Good morning.”
Alarm was written all over the older woman’s face. “You must come quick, Jane,” she said, and began to walk briskly down the hall. Jane’s eyes widened and she quickly followed, pulling the robe about her as she rushed after Catrina. What could have happened? Was Edward here? Had he come to reclaim her? Had he hurt anyone? These thoughts swam in her head and filled her with dread.
The two women ran to the gates as fast as they could, just in time to see Keith and Alistair come through them. Keith was supporting Alistair, who looked badly beaten. His movements were slow and unsteady, a jarring contrast to his confident, dauntless gait. He was sweating profusely. His lips were bloodless.
In alarm, Jane ran to his side. “What has happened?” she queried Keith, for Alistair looked too weak to answer any question.
Keith said nothing.
“What has happened, sir?” Jane repeated, her voice louder and firmer.
“We were attacked by three English soldiers,” Keith said. “One stabbed Alistair in the thigh.”
“’Tis only a small wound,” Alistair said through gritted teeth. Jane stepped back and looked at Alistair’s thigh. There was a lot of blood. His kilt was stained with it. Jane gasped.
Just then, Alistair cried out in pain and crumpled to the ground. Jane shrieked. Catrina began to let out a stream of prayers.
“I am here, me laird,” they all suddenly heard. A short middle-aged man had made his way to them. He had the whitest hair Jane had ever seen, and yet he was not that old. Two pouches were slung in a crisscross over his shoulders. Urgently, he motioned Jane and Keith away.
“Me laird, with your permission,” the man said.
Alistair nodded. Even that singular act caused him much strain. The man, whom Jane assumed was a healer, raised Alistair’s kilt. At the sight of the wound, she blanched. She had seen wounds before in her life, but seeing Alistair’s, with whom she had been only hours ago, shocked her.
