Page 61 of Highlander's Sinless Nymph
Clearly, my father had not been socializing with the right Scots. Or, more likely, he was socializing with the dregs.
She looked at Edward sitting next to her. The strapping Highlander was sitting, slightly slumped, in his seat. He was very pale, but his eyes were bright and they were fixed on the two men that were stood guarding the door.
The guards had both been staring daggers at Charlotte when she and Edward had first sat down, but it had taken only a single, sharp sentence from Edward to make them avert their eyes. After his reprimand, neither man had been foolish enough to look at Charlotte again.
The heavy door swung noiselessly open on greased hinges and three men walked into the room––the Laird followed by two others. Charlotte gulped and clutched harder at the cushion at her side.
“Out, lads,” Edward’s father said to the two guards, and the men exited without a word, no doubt to take up position on the other side of the door.
The three men arrayed themselves in chairs––the Laird in an ornate carved armchair nearest the fire.
“Miss Bolton, these are two of me chief advisors,” the Laird said, indicating the two dour-faced men with him. “Guthrie and Mulloy.”
Guthrie and Mulloy merely inclined their heads ever so briefly in Charlotte’s direction. Their eyes were about as trustful and warm as those of a couple of adders. It was clear that it did not matter that Charlotte was not her father. The fact that she carried his name was more than enough of a reason for these two men to trust her about as far as they could throw her.
“All right, lad,” the Laird said, turning to Edward, “I’ll nae deny that I cannae fathom how in the world ye ended up wi’ the daughter of the man who is single-handedly responsible for dealin’ our family its greatest blow. I think I speak fer meself and me two councilors here when I say that I’m eager to hear how such a thing occurred.”
Charlotte, feeling very much surplus to requirements just then, sat silently as Edward launched into the tale. Starting from the moment that he stumbled across Charlotte in the beech woods that bordered the English encampment, Edward recited as much of the tale as he was able to up until they had reached MacQuarrie Castle.
“Me good God, Edward,” his father interrupted, when it came to the part of the story when he and Charlotte were fallen upon by the three English trackers. “After all I have taught ye over the years, after all yer own experience in the field, ye still let those beggars catch ye nappin’! How?”
Charlotte looked sideways at the Highlander. She had wondered whether Edward’s aversion of lying to his father would mean that he would tell him everything, even about the two of them laying together. Charlotte actually blushed and had to look out of the window. However, Edward simply carried serenely onwards in his narrative.
“It was after I was ill, Father,” the Highlander said, and Charlotte listened to how careful he was in his selection of words. He never did lie and the bits of truth that he told were always up for interpretation.
He is a born diplomat. A born leader of men.
“I was nae feelin’ quite meself––”
Neither was I…
“––and found meself absolutely spent when I put me head to the ground to sleep that night.”
As was I…
“Aye,” the Laird said, “well, ye were damned lucky that these buggers did nae just cut yer throat and leave ye fer the crows to peck at. Carry on.”
Edward continued, describing the fight in some detail and concentrating heavily on the way that Charlotte had lured Sheppard into a false sense of security and stabbed him, which had distracted the other two men and allowed Edward to break free.
“Truly, Faither, if it was nae fer Miss Bolton actions, neither one of us would be sittin’ here right now,” Edward said.
Charlotte barely heard these final words of praise. At the mention of the incident by the lake, a coldness had swept over her. The memory of stabbing that horrible man––the feel of the sword as it slid into him––settled upon her like snow. She shivered and she felt a lump forming in her throat.
“Is that true, Miss Bolton?” she heard the Laird ask, though his voice sounded as if it was echoing down a long corridor. “Is it true that ye slew one of yer faither’s best men?”
The touch of Edward’s hand on her shoulder brought Charlotte back to the room with a start. She jumped. She could feel the slight prickle of perspiration on her forehead. The air in the large room seemed suddenly lose and still and stuffy.
“Are ye all right there, Miss Bolton?” Edward asked her. His voice was polite and only as warm as the situation demanded.
He does not wish to let his father know the he and I are––are––whatever it is we are.
“Yes––yes, it is true,” she gulped, fanning her face with her hand. “I wonder, would it be a bother if I were to open the shutters and take a breath of air?”
“Aye, o’ course,” Edward said, getting to his feet, going over to the window and opening one of the wooden shutters that screened the room from the wind and rain.
“Me apologies, Miss Bolton,” the Laird said, “I was nae thinkin’. Excuse em fer thinkin’ that, just because ye are the daughter of as vile and despicable a bastard as the Captain, that does nae necessarily mean ye are as used to killin’ as he is.”
Charlotte did not answer. She stood by the window with her back to the room, trying to get her breathing under control. Trying as hard as she might not to let the image of Sheppard, eyes bulging in incredulous shock and breath wheezing, fill her mind.
