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‘Then why did you crush us?’
‘Because I had to in order to protect those I care about.’
Ailsa was surprised at the sadness, even regret, in his voice. Surely he was used to crushing the vanquished without a second’s hesitation.
‘You think me heartless,’ he said bleakly.
‘No, not heartless, just…indifferent.’
They both fell silent for a moment, their eyes locked on each other. Duncan recovered himself first. ‘Well, whatever you think of me I was about to tell you that I have sent a request to my uncle to send such provisions as he can spare from Dunslair’s stores to alleviate the suffering here. I have sent out hunting parties to take deer and boar from the forests and you disturbed me today, well, a pleasant distraction to be sure, making an inventory of the holdings that come with my new position. I intend to visit the outlying farmsteads and villages and assess their needs too. There will still be shortages but hopefully, we will scrape through and build our strength up for next winter.’
Ailsa was taken aback and did not know what to say. She stood up to leave. He pushed himself off the table edge and was towering over her now, looking down into her eyes. When he gently took her hand in his her legs threatened to give way. Why did he make her so nervous and why must she always appear the little fool in front of him? And must he insist on touching her?
‘Your damned ledgers are incomprehensible,’ he said in a matter of fact way but in a voice like silk, smooth and seductive. ‘I’ve no head for numbers, they bore me. Perhaps you can stay and help me unravel them.’
‘No I cannot.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’ve no wish to,’ said Ailsa pulling her hand free and turning to go, hoping he would not read the confusion on her face.
‘Ailsa’ he called after her and she stopped in her tracks with her back to him. ‘We are thrown together here by circumstance. I would not have wished you in this situation. This is your home after all and I know it must be hard to be amongst people you see as your enemies but rest assured this will always be a place of safety for you. We are here together and we must learn to get along.’
Ailsa ignored him and continued her exit.
‘Oh, and Ailsa, one more thing,’ his voice was all authority now, ‘next time you give my guards the slip and go roving around the village unprotected, there will be trouble.’
Ailsa walked from the room on shaking legs.
Duncan watched her go. Young, frightened and alone, with her pride in tatters, she had asked him a favour not for herself but for her people. And in checking on the welfare of the villages she had risked his wrath and that of his guards. There was bravery and also compassion in Ailsa MacLeod and he respected her for it, even as he in turns either pitied her or was infuriated by her coldness to him. He felt something else too, something far more base than lofty ideals of protecting and reassuring a young woman in his care.
He wished she had stayed for there was something about her that fascinated him. What a luxury it would be to spend hours taking in the delicate slant of her wide green eyes or to marvel at the luxurious fall of her chestnut hair. He longed to run his fingers through its silky lushness, to coil it round and round so that it bound her to him and she could not twist and turn away from him, snapping like a cornered fox. The softness and fragility of her hand in his made him want to bring it to his lips and kiss the elegant fingers one by one. And she smelled so good – like lavender and honey warmed in the sun.
There was joy to be had in staring at her and remembering their kiss in the moonlight, a deal more joy than dusty old ledgers or accounts. He sighed and got back to work realising that the more he tried to look at Ailsa the more she would try to hide.
In the days that followed, as spring softened into a warm summer, Ailsa kept herself busy. Despite her best efforts to avoid him, Duncan frequently sought her out on some pretext or other; advice on the wine stocks, a lame horse that needed her opinion, quarrelsome servants which only she could calm. This, she believed, was to keep her under his scrutiny and no doubt under his thumb, though he was always courteous in his brief dealings with her. She was considerably less courteous in return.
She had to begrudgingly admit that Duncan was a born leader and had achieved a great deal since taking possession of Cailleach. He was tireless in his efforts to shore up their defences and moved about with a kind of manic energy and urgency. It was exhausting to watch. Up at dawn barking orders, by nightfall, he could still be found amongst his men sharing an ale or striding along the battlements to check in with the watchmen. He seemed to know something personal about each one and made a point of being seen and of listening to their concerns. Even the villagers had started to warm to him, offering hesitant greetings as he rode about or offering food and ale when he stopped to talk to them. Though many were intimidated by him, they remarked that he was a fair master.
Rumours abounded about what kind of man he was. Apparently, he had only recently returned to the Highlands from the continent, where he had earned the name Black Wolf due to his ferocity and cunning in battle. Some said he had a demon inside him which made him invincible. It was said he had honed his skills as a mercenary on the battlefields of Europe and that he was a vicious and implacable opponent, a man born to fight. Some whispered that he might be a bastard, conceived on the wrong side of the blanket and that he was a prodigious drinker and had bedded more women than could be counted.
It seemed the people needed strong leadership and in Duncan Campbell, they had found it. With King Charles I struggling to retain control of his parliament in England and the tide turning in favour of civil war there was unease in the Highlands as to the Scots’ role in the coming conflict. The people of Cailleach needed a leader with certainty and purpose. So despite the fearsome and somewhat infamous reputation of its new laird, a kind of uneasy calm had descended over the castle and a sense of relief that the main danger of violence from the Sinclair’s had passed and maybe things were going to improve. But that calm was not to last.
It was a rare, fine evening and Ailsa had ventured up to the battlements to find some peace while watching the sunset turn the distant horizon to gold. A horseman came galloping in, full pelt, and skidded to a halt at the gatehouse, shouting agitatedly. She rushed down to see what the commotion was about. By the time she got there the man had gathered himself enough to blurt out his message and Rory and some of his men had arrived.
‘An ambush,’ he gasped. ‘Sinclairs, lots of them, came upon us unawares, out of the trees. There was a fight.’
‘And casualties? What of Duncan?’ asked Rory.
‘I don’t know. He sent me off to get help. When I last saw him he was in the thick of it and by then we had lost several men and some more had been wounded. We were sorely outnumbered. We weren’t prepared.’
Ailsa’s heart leapt into her throat. Was he wounded or dead? She hardly dared think on it. Duncan was her enemy and his death could be to her advantage so why did something cold and dreadful claw at her belly at the thought of it.
Rory busied himself despatching a force of men to Duncan’s aid and then turned to her. ‘Can you rally the castle Ailsa, fetch bandages and such, we are going to need them.’
Several tense hours passed before Ailsa heard the clatter of hooves outside. She couldn’t bear it, the suspense, waiting for news. Then there was great tumult in the hall as men poured in, some limping, some having to be carried, some already past all help and then she saw him and the relief of it shocked her like a slap to the face.
Duncan was covered in blood, down the side of his face, on his shirt, a sticky mess in his hair. It seemed a miracle he was still standing there was so much of it. Rory took hold of him and lead him to a quiet corner, beckoning Ailsa over.
