A.N.: I was going to write this all from Lillian's point of view, but WillowStar23 wrote a comment that made me think about writing this chapter from another perspective.
I just watched A Royal Affair (2012) with Mads Mikkelsen (I so would! Ever since he was Tristram in King Arthur!) and Alicia Vikander. She seems to be popping up everywhere now, and I'm glad. But the costumes in this film, set in the 1770s, are simply divine – and not that different from English/French court costume in the 1740s. The cut of dresses stayed pretty much the same, except for minor details, for a century. There are two particular gowns Queen Caroline wears that would be stunning on Lillian.
A Mhaighdean Bhan Uasal
03
He'd nary seen a man move that way. A female? Never. He'd never seen a person fight the way she had, sharp, powerful jabs, slaps ringing with strength, forceful punches, using her entire body in a kick that sent a grown man sprawling. Tall, she was, and he'd seen her body writhe with lean muscle beneath the beguiling softness of her curves, but muscle alone never determined the winner in a fight. He'd watched her, squaring off against Randall, a man few would look in the eye let alone taunt in such a bored manner as she had. Disdainful, almost idle, unconcerned and lulling in her charm, he did not think she even knew to use her beauty, her face had shown no feminine guile, no fluttering eyelashes, leading half-smiles, blushes. No, her looks seemed carved of stone – an immaculate stone, the curves softened and lush – but stone nonetheless, immovable, stern. He'd found himself wondering if she'd ever truly been a girl. It was a woman stood toe-to-toe with Randall, by appearances completely unaffected by even a glimmer of fear he thought she should have the good sense to feel, if she knew Randall's reputation at all.
She had moved with the precision and power of a well-wielded claymore. Lethal and targeted to deliver maximum injury with as little effort and risk as possible. She'd started with a dirty trick, distracting and blinding the Captain, but the way she had struck and anticipated his reactions spoke to the trained warrior in him, and Murtagh had made the decision, not believing her story of travelling the Highlands to record fairy-stories any more than he believed her to be a whore despite the jewels dangling from her ears.
Better to wield a claymore than have one pointed at him in the dark.
Whoever the lass was, she was no Scotswoman, and yet there was tartan rolled beneath her leather pack. She spoke like a lady, and could handle herself alone in the wild, against men bigger and more powerful than her.
Aye, better to have her with him.
Silent and nimble as a squirrel, he took hold of the handle of his dirk, freeing the blade clamped between his teeth to leave his hands to grip the rain-slickened rocks, and crept up behind the young woman, who was pocketing the captain's gold.
He caught her before she hit the ground, immediately regretting knocking her unconscious. Lass was heavier than she looked, and tall for all that. Uncomfortable, carrying her over his shoulder, but he managed. Got her arranged in the saddle and lashed her pack to his pony before hopping up, manoeuvring through the woodland as the noise of the strumush died down.
Dougal had never been wise like his older-brother; aye, it did them all good to have a bit of sport, plucking the livestock from Mackenzie neighbours – especially with the longstanding feud only he felt he was entitled to carry against Ellen… But, even better, to fire a few shots at the Redcoats. Got their blood up, and it had been a long, cold winter. The few specks of colour they had seen were the flickers of red-breasted robins, bright daffodils; nothing compared to the brilliant shimmer of the lass's copper hair. Brighter even than young Jamie's curling locks.
It was her colouring, and the lass's height that had struck him. His mind had seized on one face, long gone from his life but forever locked in his memory. Ellen. Bright grey eyes fringed with dark lashes, pretty and full of fire, gentled by her natural sweetness, shy to show itself but awing when it did. She'd given that gift to Jamie, if not headstrong little Janet.
Sorry excuse for a witness he was; he'd lost the lad. Angered by Rupert firing that shot, he'd seen Jamie make a break for it, called home to his father's land. The first time he'd been so close in years, poor lad. Still, would do him no good to saunter round Fraser lands with his tartan and his flaming hair, not with the Watch making themselves regular guests at Jenny's board. He could have split Dougal's skull for filling the boy's head with that nonsense about Jenny. Everything he had to deal with, Jamie didn't need that weighing on him. He already carried far too much guilt for a lad so young.
He held the reins loosely in one hand, eyes alert and senses sharpened as he led the pony away. The lads had driven the cattle on when the Redcoats had ambushed them; they'd have the beasts back at Leoch in good time. If Jamie was hurt, they were in for it. His lips twitched, the lass's head lolling forward, a wave of perfume tickling his nose as her hair blew into his face. Randall wasn't likely to be in any position to give Jamie trouble the next few months. He felt a surge of affection for the lass, reliving the memory of the sickening crunch of Black Jack's jaw breaking, sprawling in the mud at her feet.
Anyone who would knock Black Jack Randall on his arse as soundly as this lass was alright in his eyes.
The bumping, rolling gait rocked her into consciousness, more even than the stinging rain biting her bare face. The back of her head pounded, and she let out a sighed, "Shit", raising a hand to her head – blinking, disoriented, and bemused when she managed to club herself in the lip, hands bound with rope. She stared at them, confused. It was an out-of-body experience, staring at the knotted rope, completely disoriented as to how her hands had come to be bound at the wrist, why her head pounded with each roll of the enormous animal between her legs – a horse. Confusion. Her limbs felt heavy, she was dazed, and memory took a moment to filter back to her bruised mind. Gunshots, an ambush of kilted men, a Redcoat captain sprawled in the mud. Bludgeoned from behind, being caught by something strong before she could hit the ground.
Her body snapped to attention, rigid, bristling, realisation settling in, senses sharpening despite a possible concussion. Someone had knocked her out, jumping her from behind. That someone sat behind her, the smell of unwashed male an aroma so pungent a freight-train hitting her wouldn't have been as powerful. Briefly, she took account of her situation: she could hear only one set of hooves clip-clopping gently on a muddy track through snow-covered meadows trimmed with picturesque flint walls and snow-speckled trees whipping and snapping in a gale, glowing in the light of a dying sun trying vainly to peek through the billows of black clouds tumbling overhead. It was a strange mixture of ominous gloom and brilliance, enchanting and surreal; the dying light of sunset showed there was nothing for miles around except a small, low cottage up ahead, several sleek horses huddled together against the elements.
So. Hands bound. Astride a horse. Something very solid and very masculine pressed to her back, a thin arm corded with muscle beneath the grubby, stinking linen of his shirt wrapped around her waist to hold the reins with an easy, familiar grip. A solitary cottage; signs of more men within it, if the bridled horses were an indication. A dozen, she counted. No, eight. Nine including the man behind her. She'd take the odds of one man alone in the rain against nearly a dozen in an enclosed space. Whip-quick, she twisted in the saddle, plunging her elbow sharply into a thickly-bearded face. The momentum tilted her sideways, though, and she yelped and started to plunge backwards over the side of the horse – with a grunt, the small man whipped back his head, clamped a hand on her arm and hefted her bodily back into the saddle.
"We'll have no more o' that, lass," he said quietly, in a low, strangely pleasant voice thrumming with gentle authority. Blood trickled from his nose, and he narrowed beetle-dark eyes under a heavy brow as she glared at him.
"You'll have more of that if you don't untie me and let me go," Lillian promised in a low growl, eyes lancing to the cottage with a prickle of unease. The sheer lack of basic sanitation displayed by his grimy face and filthy linen shirt confirmed what she had started to accept, simply for her own survival, as soon as the musket-ball had landed a foot from her head. She was not in the twenty-first century.
"Safer tae keep ye tied," he said, again using that pleasant, understated voice. He was a Scotsman, a blind-woman would have known it. She didn't need to see the grubby kilt, the heather-grey bonnet, feel the handle of a dirk digging into her hip to know.
"Safer for you."
"As she glanced over her shoulder, the small man's lips, partially concealed by a thick swathe of rich chestnut beard, twitched. "Aye." Her head throbbed with each step of the horse's rolling gait, the ropes around her wrists didn't burn physically as much as branding into her mind that she wanted them off. Luckily she still wore her leather gloves; they would provide better grip on the ropes, and had kept her hands warm. Her blouse was soaked through, though, and she was glad of her leather trousers – they were always a bit hit-and-miss, wearing them; in a warm venue she sweated unbearably, but in the cold they were wonderful insulation.
"Who jumps an unarmed woman from behind?" Lillian grumbled, resting her head in her upturned hands as much as the ropes would allow, as much to cradle her head as to see up-close in the gathering dark what kind of knot he had used.
"One as saw you best Black Jack."
"So it was Captain Randall, then," Lillian sighed disinterestedly. She could never have believed her mind had such a rich imagination. If she was going to have a psychotic break and imagine herself in another time and place, she should have envisioned Ned Stark. She sighed, eyeing the cottage as the man clicked his tongue, the horse responding to the sound more than a gentle tug of the reins, and Lillian winced as her head throbbed at the motion. With a soft grunt, the man slipped down from the saddle with the dexterity of a squirrel.
Compactly-built, she doubted there was an ounce of fat on his body, lean and wired with muscle that came, not from a gym, but from hard-living. He had a heavy brow, dark chestnut hair falling lank into his face, and a thick beard, face smeared with mud and something with a suspicious crimson tint, but looking down into his eyes, there was none of that malice she remembered in a flash of her meeting with Black Jack. He offered thin-fingered hands cobwebbed with fine white scars, and she rather inelegantly plonked down from the saddle with a strangled yelp, and he steadied her, strong as tempered steel, as her feet slid on the slick mud, her head immediately starting to spin. Dizzy, she inhaled, dispelling a wave of nausea as she exhaled slowly. She squinted down at the man with a glare.
"Was it necessary to hit me quite that hard?" she asked on a small moan, the back of her head throbbing.
"No' in the habit of striking lasses," the man said offhandedly, tying the reins to a post where the other horses were tethered.
"I should hope not," Lillian said thickly, head in her bound hands. "Well, don't think to get into the habit of hitting me."
"Woulda. You dinna fight as any lass I've ever seen," the man said, and Lillian raised her chin, a gentle smirk twitching her lips. A hit of confidence thrummed through her, delicious, and enough to make her think better of trying to take on this innocuous-looking man. She'd only be running on foot with absolutely no cover – she couldn't get back on that horse and make it move any more than she could fly a plane. With a steely grip that brought Black Jack Randall to mind, he took hold of her elbow, guiding her to the door of the cottage. "In."
"You're all charm – argh!" He had taken the threshold in his stride; a head taller, Lillian let out a strangled grunt as her forehead glanced off the lintel with a decisive thunk. She let out a sigh, stars bursting in her eyes, shaking her head balefully and grimacing. "You're really enjoying this, aren't you?" Raising her bound hands again, she ducked into the cottage, palm rubbing her forehead. She'd have bruises the size of ostrich-eggs come morning.
The immediate sensation of being blinded unsettled her – fragrant (and not altogether pleasant) smoke hit her like a wall; she had been a kid when smoking in public places was banned, still vaguely remembered her eyes tearing up whenever Granddad took them to the pub for Sunday-lunch, having to leave the hall at a wedding because of her coughing. The smells that hit her…it was almost like being back in Iraq or Afghanistan, that musky, earthy, rich scent of blood, of muck, of unwashed bodies and male. All but the damp; that was different. So was the dark. Even out in the middle of nowhere, tank or truck lights kept everything glowing with HD-clarity. She had noticed the windows – well, holes in the walls – were tightly shuttered. So passing Redcoats couldn't make out the cottage in the distance. All heat came from the large hearth at one end of the cottage, spreading its tendrils of warmth over the entire structure, hitting her like a wave. She hadn't noticed how cold she was, until she stood now dripping in the dark with her hands bound, frowning bemusedly at the half-dozen heavy-set man armed to the teeth, all staring at her.
"Where on earth did you get her?" Rupert asked carefully, eyes on the tall lass as Murtagh drew the door shut tight behind her. Half their original number stood about, filthy but relaxed from the fight, in good spirits. He frowned at young Jamie, bare-armed on a stool by the hearth. Crimson stained his linen shirt, and even as his eyes adjusted to the dark he saw his shoulder was out of joint. He was a damned fool sometimes, young and reckless – desperate to get home for the first time in years.
"Found her in the woods," Murtagh answered casually, reaching up to pinch his nose. She hadn't drawn blood but his eyes had filled with tears when she'd struck him; lass had sharp elbows, and packed a wallop. She had good instincts, he'd give her that.
And she showed no sign of fear, surrounded by large men exhilarated from the fight, lusty at the sight of her appearance, white shirt soaked through, legs encased in supple, incredibly fine black leather. She lifted her chin in a casual, almost catlike movement, sweeping her sheet of soaked red hair over one shoulder, settling her eyes on Rupert, Ian and Angus all staring at her leather-clad legs with a slightly-arched eyebrow that seemed to say, Avert your eyes, sirs, or I shall gouge them out for ye.
He was surprised, and interested, that she showed so little concern for the nine fully-grown adult males strapped to the teeth with weapons – claymores, dirks, the odd Lochaber, each of them carrying a pistol or two – and all outweighing her by a hundred pounds. All except Ian, perhaps, the lanky lad now staring at her with owl-eyes. They were eyeing her up like a delightful little gift they hadn't expected to receive, all but old Alister, sharing the hearth with Jamie, silver hair falling in a shimmering curtain around his long, weathered face. No, she didna look frightened; in the warmth of the cottage her body seemed to relax, even; she didn't seem to notice her hands were bound, light eyes sweeping idly around the cottage, looking bored, almost haughty.
Dougal rose from a knee in a ripple of neatly-pleated tartan and well-groomed, thick beard, his shorn head gleaming in the firelight, and approached with the slow, cautious gait of a seasoned stalker used to tracking young doe that bolted at the slightest movement. He stood level with the lass, tall as she was, and as she looked his way, her expression that of serene indifference, Murtagh was caught up in memories – the Mackenzie brothers toe-to-toe with a headstrong sister who had always been able to work them like fools. Dougal was aged now, though, not the eighteen-year-old lad intent on tearing through the highlands with his bare hands and a black vengeance. Callum had done his best to temper the volatile nature of his War Chief, but there was only so much a proud man like Dougal would tolerate.
The shimmering red hair, glowing like copper in the firelight, Dougal's broad good looks, the lass's height, all threw him back to younger days. And that hurt worse than the knocks he'd taken in the strumush with the Redcoats. Squashing the feeling of unease bubbling up painfully in his stomach, Murtagh shifted on his feet and glanced from Dougal to the lass. He'd seen her up against Randall; wondered now how she would handle Dougal Mackenzie. Hoped she wouldn't lay him out flat on his backside as she had the Captain, not surrounded by his men who'd surely stick her through with the dirks if she did. At the very least.
Politely, using a gentle tone Murtagh rarely heard Dougal use with his daughters, Dougal asked the lass, "What's your name?" The lass maintained eye-contact, unafraid.
Just as gently, but with a subtle lift of her chin, the lass said, "Lillian Egan."
"Ye say ye found her?" Dougal shot at him.
"Aye… She was havin' words with a certain Captain of Dragoons with whom we are acquaint," Murtagh said pointedly, his gaze sliding off Dougal to young Jamie. Too close for comfort.
"'Words'?" Lillian Egan said, glancing over her shoulder at him with an expression of mild interest. "I wonder what your definition of an argument is." His lips twitched. And he liked listening to her voice; he'd met men with higher pitch but there was a rich resonance to her voice, and a strange way of delivering her words, her voice didn't dip and peak with each different word. Her voice brought to mind the subtle ripplings of a river, level and almost musical. He'd heard highborn Frenchwomen speak such, always took it as haughtiness. Maybe that was just the way they were taught to speak. And it certainly served her well now, the lulling sense that she was completely at her ease even as an outsider dragged in with hands bound.
"An English lass, eh," Dougal said slowly, taking the measure of her. "Dressed as a man. Why?"
"Safer to travel," Lillian Egan said, with a subtle shift of one shoulder. More than a few pairs of eyes homed in on the way the fabric of her shirt strained against her breasts.
"The good Captain made inference the lady was a whore," Murtagh explained lightly, eyeing her curiously.
"And what was the lady's position in this discussion?" Dougal asked fairly, looking her in the face. Her lips rose in a gentle smile, beguiling and dangerous, and she glanced back at Murtagh, her eyes twinkling in the firelight.
"Should I demonstrate?" she asked in a low voice dripping with amusement. He jerked his head slightly, once, fighting the urge to smile. There were no lines around the lass's mouth; he would hazard a guess she didna smile much. She glanced back at Dougal, shoulders back, her back ramrod straight in a stance he would have pinned on a soldier, but she softened it with a tilt to her hip as she gave him a lingering smile. "I am most certainly not a whore."
"We could put it to the test," a gleeful voice suggested, and as Murtagh flicked Rupert a dark look, Mistress Egan turned a dangerous, challenging glare at the man, filthy and hungry, eyes on her breasts through the drying fabric of her shirt. Several of his friends giggled.
"Try," she challenged in a low, threatening tone, fair eyes narrowed, chin lowered, body coiling with tension. Rupert blinked, taken-aback at being spoken to in such a way.
"I don't hold with rape," Dougal said, in a biting tone that settled the matter. Angus fell silent abruptly, like a small child caught doing something he oughtn't be. "Ah, we've no' the time for it anyway." Mistress Egan's lips parted, staring at him with eyes widened with stunned disbelief.
"Dougal, I've no idea what she might be, or who, but I'll stake my best shirt she's no' a whore," Murtagh said, crossing his arms over his chest and giving Dougal a serious frown. Given what he'd seen her to do Randall by the river – well, what whore dealt out incapacitating beatings to her clients? Especially when she was an English lass and they were officers of His Majesty's Army.
"If you're quite finished discussing my personal details," she said calmly, gesturing idly at the other end of the cottage, "What's going on there?" Leaving Murtagh bemused – where had the ropes gone? No-one had moved to untie the bindings around her wrists – and ignoring Dougal completely, the lass moved in slow, elegant, leonine saunter to the other end of the cottage. Lulling, Murtagh recognised, even over his discomfort at that short length of rope now dangling loosely from her fingertips, with a grace and purpose that brought predators to mind. Instinct honed beneath the guile. He glanced around; each of the men had stopped to stare at her simply walking.
Sidling over to the fire, he watched her glance to the side at Jamie, propped on a stool, as she dropped the length of the rope into the fire. Then she sank into a squat in front of him, forearms draped on her knees, head tilted to the side, eyes fixed on his shoulder. Murtagh glanced at the others, coiled with tension as soon as she had approached the lad. They were Dougal's men, but Jamie had Mackenzie blood. And they had orders.
She clucked her tongue softly, eyes flickering up to Jamie's face, and moving stealthily up behind the lad, Murtagh watched the lass's face as the firelight caressed the softened curves of her high cheekbones, the bow of her lips, illuminating the tips of her short, thick eyelashes, the graceful length of her throat, and he admitted, gave him a good eyeful down the unbuttoned neck of her shirt. She had no eyes for anyone but Jamie, though, or rather, his shoulder. She said softly, "What a pretty mess."
She didn't even flinch when Angus unsheathed his dirk. Her pale eyebrows drew together with a tiny line between them, and pinned Angus with a look, saying sternly, "Put that away." She turned back to Jamie, features smoothing away any trace of annoyance, seeming to open up as she half-smiled at him. "Did you get these fending them off? They look hungry. And you're prettier than my sister."
She must have surprised the lad; she got a pained laugh for her taunting comment. Jamie was a fine-looking lad, he'd be getting himself into trouble over it before too long. The lasses at Leoch were sure to scratch each other's eyes out over him. Every hot-blooded male for miles around had been the same way over his mother. Mistress Egan gave his shoulder a look like she was trying to see through it. Her features were a smooth mask, he had no knowing what was going on behind them, but Murtagh felt sure in placing good money she was sharp as his dirk.
"I can set that for you, if you like. Stitch up the wound," she offered. The rest of them might not even have been there, she paid them no more mind than a horse did a fly. Jamie, frowning at her as if wondering what to make of her, gave a wary nod. She glanced up, so quickly and direct, Murtagh felt pinned.
"Did you happen to retrieve my pack?" she asked, and he gave her a short nod. All she said was, "I'll need it," before she had focused again on Jamie's shoulder, dismissing him. Standing up straight in a ripple, she tilted her head back, shaking her hair free, and gathered it up into a fist, twisting and coiling it neatly at the back of her head, jamming in pins from her pocket. She looked almost severe with her hair drawn back, intent on nothing more than Jamie's injured shoulder. Not a swoon in sight.
Frowning at her before slipping out of the cottage, he doubted the lass had ever swooned in her life.
A.N.: It's a short one, but I'm going to update the second half of this chapter later tonight.