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‘Oh to my shame I was one of the boys who delivered the merciless beatings. Then one day while out hunting I was thrown from my horse and as I lay bleeding on the ground I heard a growl nearby. It was a wolf - the largest one I had ever seen and it chilled my blood to see it. Black, it was, black as pitch. As it rushed at me Duncan appeared from nowhere and opened its skull with one sweep of his claymore. A perfectly timed blow and one of the most impressive things I have ever seen. We were both only fourteen years old but he was already a sturdy lad and strong.
‘When I asked him why he saved me, one of his tormentors, he replied, ‘because you needed saving,’ and that was it. I owed him my life and I resolved to repay that debt. From then on he was never alone in a fight against the others, I fought alongside him. Over the course of time, we became friends and I flatter myself that I am one of the few people he really trusts and he still wears that wolf to this day.’
‘Ah, the black pelt,’ said Ailsa. ‘In truth it always makes him seem a bit frightening.’
‘Aye I suppose it does, I think that’s why he wears it,’ said Rory with a smile.
‘Rory, why are you telling me all this? Are you asking me to pity Duncan for his past?’
‘No, I am asking you to try and understand him. Ailsa he sees something in you, something of himself maybe. You defy him when most would not dare and I think he has finally met his match in life and I for one will be very interested to see how that turns out.’ With that, he bowed low, kissed her hand, smiled his winning smile and walked off.
Ailsa was left confused and unsettled. Rory of course, as his friend, would be bound to paint a pretty picture of Duncan. Hamish on the other hand, her family’s ally, had made him out to be power-hungry and callous. Maybe neither of them was right and neither of them really knew him. She doubted she ever would as Duncan was too complex and intimidating for that. Despite Rory’s admiration for his friend, there could be no softening towards him; she could trust nothing about him in these circumstances. She must stick to her plan and think only of her clan and her birthright and be resolute in her resistance.
She watched Rory as he strolled away along the battlements, the sun warming his dark blonde hair. He was a man of formidable intelligence and like Duncan, he had a measure of kindness and integrity in his dealings with others, a good deal of charm too, though Ailsa pitied the poor village trollops who fell for it.
Later that same day she heard that Duncan had returned. She could not explain the impulse which made her seek him out. He was down at the forge and Ailsa watched from the shadow of the castle walls as he hammered molten steel into submission. The expression on his face was one of grim determination as he relentlessly brought the hammer down, again and again, clanging against the metal, sparks flying off.
His shirt was wet with sweat and grimy with soot from the fire and that dark tangle of hair hung over his face. Even dirty and dishevelled Duncan was magnificent, potent, commanding and it was this power which overwhelmed her and fed her mistrust. He controlled his world and everyone and everything in it with a steely resolve. In the light of Rory’s sad tale, she searched for a hint of vulnerability behind the façade of absolute strength, a shadow cast by that painful upbringing, but she found none.
She approached cautiously, determined to keep her distance, the sound of hammering ringing in her ears. When he spotted her he stopped and smiled broadly, wiping away sweat and pushing the hair off his face.
‘What can I do for you Ailsa?’
‘Nothing…I,’ she looked around the yard and took a deep breath, ‘I just wanted to know if all is well and we are safe from the Sinclairs.’
‘Aye, all is well, no need to fash yourself. The latest patrol found nothing of concern so do not fret, Cailleach is safe.’ He flung down the hammer and wiped his hands down his breeches.
‘I am glad to hear it,’ she replied lightly as his penetrating gaze scoured her face. ‘Why do you do that yourself, surely the smithy could do it?
‘Aye he’s likely more skilled than I but I like to forge my own swords, it is a whim of mine. My life might one day depend on this sword and so I like to put my own sweat into it; that way it belongs to me and answers my command. It is balanced to my grip and it has the edge I want, it is personal.’
‘It seems you have put a deal of sweat into this one,’ she said looking from his rugged face to his dirty shirt.
‘Aye,’ he smiled, ‘I have at that.’
‘Where did you learn such a skill?’
‘As a child at my uncle’s castle, Dunslair, I spent many hours alone and, as I despise idleness, I asked the smithy to teach me to shoe horses and from there I learned the art of turning the steel. I enjoy the feel of it.’ He beamed at her, a wicked gleam in his eye. ‘I like being able to bend things to my will.’
Was he teasing her again? He plunged the sword into the brazier and turned to dunk his head in the water trough, gasping at the cold and shaking the water off, like a wet dog. He pulled a filthy hand through his hair.
‘Am I more presentable now my lady?’
‘No, not at all.’ Ailsa couldn’t quite keep the smile from her face.
‘Well then,’ he said and tore his shirt off over his head, wiping his chest and face with it. Flinging it down, he came to stand at the entrance to the forge and put his arms up to rest them, grabbing hold of the beam across the doorway and leaning towards her.
Perhaps he did it just to see the lust creep into her gaze when she was confronted with his broad, naked chest. Or he had such confidence in his rough beauty that he had wanted to display it, but whatever the reason, Ailsa could only stare at him, grasping for something to say so that he would not see the spark of admiration in her eyes.
How gloriously his muscles, swollen from his exertions, twisted around his long arms, bunching over his shoulders, rippling along his belly like sand sculpted by waves on a beach. A droplet of water from his wet hair began to trickle down his chest and Ailsa became transfixed on its slow progress down, down, to the top of his breeches. For a delicious moment, she imagined herself pressing her lips to it, tracing its path back up with her tongue, tasting his skin.
She had spent her life covering herself, not revealing anything to anyone, body or soul. With Duncan, there was no artifice and no hiding what he was. He was not shy of his body but displayed it proudly and he didn’t give a fig for the opinion of others. Ailsa admired his certainty and such belief in himself for where she twisted and turned in her dilemma, his path was clear. He had told her exactly what he wanted, the problem was that she was not sure if she could give it to him.
In the sudden silence between them, Ailsa was acutely aware of the cackle and spit of the fire behind him and its warmth on her face. It was almost as if Duncan were the devil taunting her, tempting her into hell. He seemed to be saying ‘All this is yours, I am yours if you are prepared to pay the price in loyalty, trust and pride.’
She met his eyes and read an invitation there. ‘I should go,’ she said frowning and she turned and crossed the yard on trembling legs.
Chapter Twelve
