Page 20 of Highlander's Sinless Nymph
She made it to the end of the ravine without incident. There was one slightly breathless moment, when she had heard a sentry passing by close above by her, but she waited patiently for the flicker of the man’s torch to fade and then hurried on again.
The thought of a potential clandestine rendezvous with a mysterious and handsome Scottish huntsman buoyed up her spirits no end. Never had she done such a thing. Never had shecontemplateddoing such a thing.
I must ensure that Father is away. Please, let him be engrossed in his usual early inspections of the camp and his tedious meetings tomorrow.
As she crabbed her way towards the concealed exit of the low tunnel, her mind was already starting to work on possible ways of distracting her father so that she could sneak off.
She emerged carefully from the entrance of the ravine at the camp end.
“Now, off to bed, like the good dutiful daughter that I am,” she whispered to herself.
Captain Bolton had set his own tent––and that of his daughter––hard up against the little copse. This was to be as much out of the raking wind as possible.
“There must be some benefits and privileges to command, Charlotte,” her father had said to her on numerous occasions, “otherwise what would be the point for a man to strive and sacrifice?”
Charlotte cast an eye at her father’s substantial lodgings. She could tell, by the soft light that was just visible through the thick canvas of his tent, that there were only one or two solitary tapers lit.
Certainly not enough to indicate that my father is back from his nightly rounds, nor holding a meeting of some kind within. Excellent!
As the daughter of the Captain, Charlotte really had no need to sneak about inside the encampment. However, she knew that if she was seen, word would reach her father, and he would not be best pleased.
Charlotte did not want to tempt fate so she gave her father’s tent a wide berth, just in case he had decided to retire early. This was unlikely, as Captain Bolton was one of those leaders of men who is last to go to his bed and the first to wake.
Charlotte hurried to the entrance of her own plush tent and pushed her way inside the heavy flap. The tent was really a sort of small, round pavilion. It was large enough to house a proper bed, as well as a simple dressing table, two chests of clothes, and a screen behind which she could change.
It is best that I make ready for bed, before my luck runs out.
A single candle, that she had lit before sneaking out, lighted her quarters. It had been a fresh one––one of the good beeswax tapers rather than those made from rendered animal fat that the soldiers used––but still, it had almost reached the edge of the ornate silver candle holder in which it sat.
Charlotte opened the drawer in her dresser and reached for another.
“I must be spoiling you, daughter, for you to be so frivolous about burning beeswax candles when you are not even in your lodging.”
The bottom seemed to drop out of Charlotte’s stomach. Her blood congealed and turned to ice in her veins. Her breath caught in her throat and a slight perspiration sprung out all the way down her spine.
Such was the effect that her own father’s voice had on her in this situation. Slowly, as if the joints in her body had been encased in stone, she turned around.
Captain Adair Bolton sat comfortably in a chair, in the shadow cast by the screen that she usually changed behind, with one ankle resting on his knee. There was something about the man that brought to mind a coiled spring. As seemingly at his ease as he currently was, there was something about him that hinted at the possibility of a sudden explosion, a sudden unwinding.
“Your mouth is open, Charlotte,” he said, in his crisp, officious voice. “Most unladylike. Close it.”
Charlotte’s teeth clacked together in her haste to obey.
“Father…” she said.
Her father’s boots were polished mirror bright, his uniform as fresh and well-presented as if he had just come in from the parade ground. His large, strong hands were clasped in his lap. He was a tall man and looked it, even when he was folded up in the low chair.
Not as tall nor as broad as Edward, but plenty tall and strong enough to make any other man pause for thought.
His hair was brown, graying at the temples and thinning slightly on top. He had the same blue eyes as Charlotte––something that people her father introduced her to never failed to comment on––but whereas Charlotte’s were the blue of forget-me-nots and irises, her father’s resembled nothing so much as a couple of chips of ice. Everything about the man exuded precision and competence.
“You were saying?” her father prompted.
“I––” she began, out of sheer nervousness, as she had no idea what she was going to say. Her mind seemed to have gone into a state of paralysis. For a brain that had been humming like a blacksmith’s wheel only a few minutes before, as she tried to concoct ways in which to distract her father on the morrow, she suddenly found that it had no suggestions at all when it came to dealing with this unlooked for situation.
“Perhaps,” Captain Bolton said, with a bite of impatience in his voice, “you were about to explain to me why it is that my daughter has been out wandering the camp at this ungodly hour?”
Charlotte stammered a few syllables, but trailed off.
