Kilts and Daggers (6 page)

* * *

Grace moaned when she heard the knock on her door. “Kat, you and Elizabeth were placed in a separate chamber for a reason.”

The door opened and Ravenna walked in. “It's only me.” She closed the door behind her and sat on the edge of the bed. “You're already in bed?”

“For being a spy for the king, you're not very observant. Tell me. What gave me away?”

“You're certainly in a foul mood. Is everything all right? Did Fagan return with you, or did you leave him out there somewhere in an unmarked grave?”

Grace tried to suppress a sigh. “Everything was all right. Are the girls in bed too?”

“Kat was falling asleep at the table. She's in her chamber now, and Elizabeth's in the library.”

“I thought you'd be with Ruairi.”

Her sister's eyes lit up at the mention of her husband's name. “He and Torquil are doing something in the great hall. Are you sure you're all right? You look flushed.”

Grace punched the lumps out of her pillow and tried not to picture Fagan's face. “Don't be ridiculous. I'm fine. Do you think we can set up a few targets on the morrow? I'd like you to teach me to throw my blade so that I can actually hit something for a change.”

“Why do you want to practice throwing your dagger?”

“You know how to throw a blade proficiently, and I need to be able to defend myself when I work for the king.”

Ravenna's face clouded with uneasiness. “Yes, but if I recall correctly, you seemed to do very well with your fist when you rammed it into Fagan's eye. Besides, I value my life. I've seen you throw your dagger, remember?”

“You're very amusing, Sister.”

“We'll see. I'll leave you alone to get some sleep.” Ravenna rose.

“I'll see you in the morning.”

The door closed, and Grace nestled deeper into the blankets. She felt empty. She knew she and Fagan had gone too far, but that did not stop her from feeling a dull ache at the thought of him. Her face burned as she remembered his mouth on hers. His face still haunted her, smiling, serious, wanting nothing more than she was able to give.

For heaven's sake, she was betrothed. What kind of woman had she become to give in so easily to wanton desires? Fagan was a Scot, everything she was born to despise. And what about Daniel? If Fagan opened his bloody mouth, Daniel would never wed her and her chances of becoming Lady Grace Casterbrook would be null. She didn't understand how she had come so close to ruining her entire life in one heated moment.

She tried to dismiss the mocking voice inside that wondered why she had done something so terrible. Fagan hated the English, and now she'd given him reason to believe that she could act like a harlot. For a brief moment, she wondered how she compared to his other conquests—then chided herself.

Why was she having such thoughts? She shouldn't be. She. Was. Betrothed. She needed to remember that. Her last thought before she drifted to sleep was that Fagan was nothing more than a rogue, another arrogant Highlander who thought he was so much better than the English.

When Grace rose in the morning, she welcomed a new day. She washed her face, donned her day dress, and combed her hair, determined not to let her momentary lapse in judgment interfere with her sanity. She walked through the halls and studied the portraits, shook her head at the tapestries, and then descended the stairs to the great hall. She needed to keep herself busy.

Everyone was already seated on the dais, and Fagan didn't bother to look up from his trencher. She sat down next to Elizabeth and pasted a bright smile on her face.

“How are you this morning, Elizabeth?”

“I'm well, and you?” Her sister finished what was left of her biscuit.

“Ravenna and I are going to set up targets this morn. Perhaps you'd like to come along. She's going to show me how to perfect my aim with my blade.” Grace leaned forward, gazing down at the other end of the table. “Mister Murray, I'd like to try my luck with some moving targets. Would you like to stand in?”

The conversation at the table fell silent, and Grace heard Ravenna sigh.

Fagan didn't say a word. He had known of the fiery passion that lay within Grace from the first time he'd met her, but now, any desire she'd felt for him was snuffed out like a candle in the rain. And in no time at all, she'd managed to fill that void with her disapproval of him again. Not that he blamed her. He would've expected the type of behavior he'd shown from one of those English curs she so blatantly admired, but not from him. He continued to chide himself for his poor judgment.

When everyone had left the table except for Ruairi, his friend cleared his throat. “What the hell is the matter with ye? Ye look like a whipped dog.”

Fagan lifted a brow and ran his finger along the rim of his tankard. “Aye, well, I did something I'm nae verra proud of and I'm trying to think of a way to mend it.”

Ruairi sat back in the chair and studied Fagan intently. “What did ye say to Grace now? Ye do realize that everything ye do or say to the lass will be told to my wife. Ravenna will continue to hound me if she doesnae approve, and I will ne'er hear the end of it. Now is the time that I'm supposed to be enjoying my wife in my bed. How can I do that if all the lass wants to do is speak of ye and what ye did or said to her sister?”

There was no way Fagan was daft enough to open his mouth to his friend, and he couldn't overlook the fact that Ruairi was his liege. Fagan was aware he'd have to pray long and hard that Grace wouldn't mention their little indiscretion to Ravenna because God only knew what the English spy would do to him once she found out. More to the point, he didn't think Ruairi would be in a very forgiving mood either.

“I might've said something about Grace placing her English arse in the saddle.”

Ruairi chuckled and then hastily tried to mask his expression with a frown. “Fagan…”

“What can I say to that? The lass seems to know exactly how to fire my…ire.” He was about to say “blood” and caught himself at the last possible moment.

“Be that as it may, she will only be here for a few more weeks. Can ye nae keep the peace until then?”

Fagan rolled his head from side to side. “If I must.”

“Come. Let us practice swordplay with the men.”

Ruairi and Fagan walked into the bailey. The sun's rays managed to make an occasional appearance between the gray clouds, but at least it was not raining. About a score of men had already started to gather against the northern wall. Perhaps this was just what Fagan needed to banish Princess Grace from his mind. And if that didn't work, he'd let Ruairi beat the foolishness out of him.

Fagan unsheathed his sword and stood at the edge of the circle of men. He watched Ruairi best two of his guards with minimal effort. When the last man stepped out of the circle defeated, Fagan entered. He twisted his sword arm, cutting through the air in front of him.

“Think ye can best me, my liege?”

Ruairi shrugged with indifference and walked up to Fagan with a grin of amusement. “It wouldnae be the first time, nor will it be the last.”

When the men chuckled in response, Fagan lifted his sword casually and studied the edge of the blade. “Mmm… I thought mayhap ye'd grown soft since ye said your vows. I know ye've been practicing your swordplay, my liege, but I donna think that particular sword will do ye any good here.”

“Arse.”

“Aye.”

Fagan easily deflected Ruairi's blow as the sound of clashing metal rang throughout the bailey. When his heart raced, his blood pumped, and his senses came into full awareness, Fagan smiled easily. He took a deep breath and let the air fill his lungs. There were no women in sight, only men who beat each other senseless in the bailey. This was going to be a good day after all.

* * *

When her sister conveniently disappeared after the meal, Grace was perfectly aware of what Ravenna was doing. And she didn't need to be a spy of the Crown to figure that one out on her own. After several unsuccessful attempts to thwart Grace from mastering spy craft, Ravenna had turned to avoiding her. But if Ravenna believed for one moment that she'd be able to deter Grace from wanting to follow in her father and her sister's footsteps, she was a fool. All Grace really wanted to do right now was keep busy. And if that meant throwing a sharp blade at the targets as she pictured Fagan's face, so be it.

Grace found the unwilling Ravenna in the library and led her toward the courtyard.

“I told you before. I don't think any amount of practice will improve your aim. You've been trying this for years to no avail.”

“In all fairness, you and Father never gave me a chance once you saw my aim was poor. And you know very well that I've never had as much instruction as you.”

“All right, all right. You win.” Ravenna stopped and pointed her finger at Grace. “But I'm giving you fair warning. The moment you cause me grief, I will no longer instruct you. Do you understand?”

Grace nodded. “I understand.”

A look of discomfort crossed Ravenna's face as they turned and made their way silently through the halls. The quiet moment ended as soon as they walked into the courtyard and Grace heard a loud commotion against the far wall.

Men stood huddled around something neither she nor Ravenna could make out. The sound of clashing swords echoed through the air. From what Grace could decipher from the heavy Scottish accents, taunts were being thrown like stones. It sounded like there was a bloody battle in the bailey. Without hesitation, the sisters moved closer to the chaos.

The Sutherland guard encircled Ruairi and Fagan, who had swords drawn at the ready. Sweat glistened on their muscled forms and their bare chests heaved. Again to her surprise, Grace found herself drawn to only one man.

She knew she should've thought of Daniel, but she didn't. She couldn't. How could she when Fagan's kilt rode low on his lean hips and her mind suddenly burned with the memory of his hard body pressed against hers? She even had a hard time trying to keep her gaze riveted on the man's face. She tried. She truly did, but then she found her eyes moving slowly down his frame and dreamed once again of being crushed within his embrace. She made no attempt to hide that she was watching him, and then his gaze met hers.

The man looked like a warrior god sent from the heavens above. She was entranced and did not want to tear her attention away from him. He was so compelling, his magnetism so potent. Entranced by his strong chiseled jaw, emerald eyes, broad shoulders, and long flowing hair, she swore that her heart skipped a beat. Sweat beaded on his brow and his chest glistened. Her fingers just ached to touch him again.

When he looked at her enigmatically, she felt a shudder run through her. She turned her head away when Ravenna's gentle nudge brought her back from her woolgathering.

“Are you all right? They are only practicing their swordplay. You know they're not really fighting.”

Grace heard herself swallow. “Pardon? Oh yes, let's go then.” When she stole another glance at Fagan, he had resumed his sparring with Ruairi.

The mossy field was a lush, rich green, and the sound of ocean waves called to her in the distance. Grace took a deep breath as the smell of salt air and pine wafted through the air. When they approached the tree line, Ravenna bent down, pulling back the brush and uncovering a large piece of wood. She propped the target against a tree and brushed her hands together.

“That should do it. I used this to practice when Ruairi wanted to test my skill with my blade—before he found me out.”

Grace dismissed her sister's snappish remark. “I assume you didn't hesitate to put him in his place, but then again, I don't know many men who can best you with a blade.”

Ravenna shrugged. “I didn't want to do all that well, because then he would've been suspicious of me.”

The sound of breaking branches came closer, and when Angus emerged from the woods, Ravenna froze. She spoke through gritted teeth. “Why can these animals always sense when you're not fond of them? He stalks me and no one else.”

Grace waved her sister off. “He does this because you continue to act the way you do. Think of Angus as you should most men. Pay him no heed. When you dismiss him, he'll go away and leave you alone.”

“That's what Ruairi said.”

“Mmm… Then you should listen to me and your husband.”

The wolf took a step toward them, and Ravenna placed her arms out in front of her. “Shoo, Angus! Off with you!” Angus hesitated, and then the animal turned and walked toward the castle.

“Or you can just bellow at them.”

Not paying any attention to Grace's comment, Ravenna walked back a few feet from the target. “Come stand right here.”

“That's not very far away. You're not instructing Kat, you know.”

“No, but you need to learn how to throw your blade first.” Ravenna lifted her skirts and pulled out the dagger strapped to her leg while Grace did the same. “If you want to know all there is to know, I'll teach you.” Ravenna held out her blade flat-handed as she gave pointed instruction with her other hand. “There are three types of blades: blade-heavy, hilt-heavy, and one that is equally balanced. Since you really haven't practiced, blade-heavy or hilt-heavy would work best. Fortunately, the blade you carry is hilt-heavy. My blade is equally balanced.”

“All right, but how do I throw it?”

“Since your blade is hilt-heavy, you'll throw it by the blade.” When Grace raised her arm with dagger in hand, Ravenna grabbed her forearm. “But before you're ready for that, we'll need to talk about your grip.”

“I won't drop it.”

Ravenna shook her head. “It's not that simple. You want a firm grip but also need to be able to maintain a delicate hold on your blade. Too much grip will hamper your release, while not enough might cause your dagger to fly out of your hand when you don't want it to.”

“So how do I hold it?”

“Give me your blade.” Grace handed Ravenna her dagger, and with a sudden flick of her wrist, her sister whipped the blade into the ground. “Now hold out the palm of your hand.” Ravenna molded Grace's hand into place and then picked up the dagger from the ground and slid it into Grace's hand.

“You want the handle pointing away from you like this. Place the blunt edge of the blade into the crease you have created because you want the tip to line up with the bottom of your thumb. Now pinch the blade without pressing against the point or the sharpened edge.”

“Like this?”

“Yes, exactly like that. Now turn around. You are fairly close to the target.”

“Do you want me to move back?”

“No.” Ravenna grabbed Grace's arm. “Bend your wrist back toward your forearm. The dagger will be able to turn over in the air more quickly. Now I want you to place your weight on your right leg and keep your left leg slightly forward. Be sure to keep the blade a safe distance away from your face so you don't cut yourself when you throw.”

Grace rolled her eyes. “Can I just throw it already?”

“Grace… Now you're going to shift your weight from your right to the left leg at the same time you swing your forearm forward from the elbow so that your arm is straight out in front of you. At that point, you release your dagger.” Ravenna stepped back. “Go ahead and aim.”

Grace released her blade into the air and it landed in the tree, several feet above the target.

“It's important to remember to keep your entire movement fluid.” Ravenna lifted her dagger and threw it dead center into the target. “Like that.”

“So I see.”

Grace walked over and pulled the daggers from the tree and the target. She returned Ravenna's blade and moved back to where she'd initially thrown hers. Grace gave her sister a brief nod. She turned and studied the target intently, trying to remember everything Ravenna had told her. She paid close attention to the way she held her blade, moved her body into the appropriate position, and lifted her dagger. When she felt ready, she tossed the blade at the target and let out a heavy sigh. At least the first time she'd managed to hit the darned tree. When she realized her dagger had missed the target and the tree entirely, she looked at her sister.

“Just try again, Grace.”

Grace walked over to the target and looked next to the tree. Lifting her skirts, she turned her head over her shoulder. “It landed somewhere in the brush.” With a carefully placed step, she walked into the heavy thicket, careful not to tear her day dress. She slid her boot along the ground in the hope she could feel her dagger. Behind her, she could hear the sound of her sister's blade as it hit the target with a thump, without a doubt dead center as it always was.

Not being able to see her dagger, Grace took a few more steps into the brush and spotted the hilt. She picked up the blade, and when she stood, she jumped. She couldn't help but place her hand over her heart to make sure the darned thing stayed put.

“What are you doing there? You startled me.”

* * *

Fagan's arm ached, his back pained him, and his muscles screamed from the strain of heavy swordplay. He and Ruairi had both refused to yield, his liege being just as—if not more—stubborn than he was. Only when it was time for the noon meal did both men agree there was no winner or loser. That was the only way either one of them would have stopped. As Fagan walked through the bailey with Ruairi, his friend lowered his voice.

“I didnae say anything in front of the men, but God's teeth, were ye trying to kill me?” Ruairi lifted his arm, pressing his shoulder and moving it around, at the same time Fagan rubbed his aching back.

“I could say the same to ye. My body feels as though 'twas through a bloody battle.”

When they reached the great hall, about a score of clan members had already taken their seats for the meal. To Fagan's surprise, no one was seated yet on the dais. The sight pleased him because this day kept getting better and better. He couldn't help but wonder when his luck would run out.