Tavish rushed to the top of the tower, relishing in the cold rain that hit him like a restorative. He had almost kissed her. Kissed her! What could he be thinking? He needed to get himself together.
He had always lived in Grigor's shadow, at least by the reckoning of some in the clan. They were of the same age, but Grigor could run faster, shoot farther, lift more weight, and best him with a sword. He was also fluent in Latin, and could play the lyre and recite poetry if he had the mind. But never, never had Tavish envied the man until this moment.
Grigor had been raised by a she-wolf with exacting standards. He had been given the best tutors, the best equipment, and from him, the best was expected. Many young lads would crumble under such pressure, but Grigor had excelled. The constant criticism drove him to push harder.
Tavish, on the other hand, had been raised by loving parents who enjoyed a good laugh more than swordplay. They provided him the basics of an education, and beyond that, let him build forts in the trees and dams on the river, until the crofters complained and he had to let the river flow again. They let him explore different interests, even if, in the eyes of many in his clan, it was beneath the nephew of the laird to be following about the village blacksmith and the brewer.
Elyne was a sweet lass with a kind heart, perhaps too kind for the likes of Grigor Grant. Tavish could not picture her as mistress of the castle. Lady Grant would eat her for breakfast. He reconsidered for a moment, remembering how she had stood up to Grigor on their first meeting. Tavish smiled at the recollection, even as the rain pelted him harder.
Elyne was a Campbell. She was capable and strong. She would stand her ground and she would do well. Or well enough. But would she be happy? He shook his head. Her happiness was not his concern. He had told her how it was. She could decide for herself.
There were some things he could never do, and interfering in Grigor's wedding plans was one of them. Marrying a Campbell was a good alliance for the Grants. Everything else was irrelevant.
Maybe if he told it to himself enough times, he would believe it.
He scanned the surrounding area, looking for any signs of approaching English. If they had any sense, they would be happily sleeping in their tents, not wandering through the forest, getting soaked to the bone. Besides, what could he do if they came to the door besides grab Elyne and run out the cistern gate? The front gate hardly bolted.
Tavish rubbed his wet hands together against the cold. Some things he was powerless to prevent, but some things he could fix.
***
Elyne woke with the sun. Despite romantic notions that she would toss and turn all night, she had slept surprisingly well. Her cloak had kept her warm, the lavender in the ticking had relaxed her, and the bed was surprisingly comfortable. Tavish had done well. She stood, shook out her skirts, and went to find him.
Tavish was not to be found in any of the tower rooms nor in the main hall, so she exited to the courtyard. A large metal brace on the gate was the first thing she noticed. Second was a pinging sound, metal on metal, coming from one of the outbuildings. Rounding the corner, she noted smoke was rising from the chimney.
"Tavish!" She rushed in and stopped short, her jaw dropping. Tavish Grant stood shirtless before a blacksmith anvil, hammering a red-hot piece of iron. His smooth chest was covered in black soot, which only served to accentuate the rippling muscles beneath his skin. Everywhere she looked (she got herself a very good look) was hard and strong, his muscles rolling like hills of granite. He was quite frankly the most beautiful, most dirty man she had ever seen.
She gasped for breath in the hot smithy. He gave the hammer one more swing and glanced up at her with a smile. "Good morn to ye, Lady Elyne."
"Tavish? What are ye doing? What o' the smoke? They can see it for miles."
"Aye, I reckon they can, but I thought up a plan in the night, and somewhere between freezing off my fingers or my balls, pardon me for saying, starting up the forge sounded like a good idea. Come see."
Elyne followed the shirtless man out of the smithy and into the courtyard. Truth be told, she would have followed him off a cliff if he asked it.
"I fashioned brackets for the gate and plated one of the beams I found lying about to form a brace. It should keep them out long enough for us to head out the back if it comes to it."
"But winna the smoke bring them here?"
"Aye, most likely, but the brace is only part of the plan. I also found an old black skirt, mildewed and molded, but still functional for our purposes."
"And what use could that be?"
"We've come down wi' the pox!" Tavish grinned, clearly proud of his plan.
"Is this a jest?"
"Aye, on the English. I draped the gate wi' black cloth. When the English arrive, we'll tell them we have quarantined the castle because of the pox. Or maybe we'll say the Great Plague."
"Ah, I see." Elyne returned his smile. "They shall run for the hills away from us."
"Aye, that's the plan."
"'Tis a goodly plan."
"Truly? I am pleased it meets yer approval." His eyes shone bright and his smile softened. A moment later he turned away. "Must get back to work. Much to do. Left some bread on the table if ye feel so inclined."
Tavish turned and disappeared back into the blacksmith shop where soon a flurry of banging could be heard across the courtyard. Elyne walked slowly back to the tower room. On the bench she noted the bread, ripped off a small piece, and washed it down with ale. They must conserve their food since they did not know how long they would be staying at the castle.
Tavish had a good plan for keeping the English out, but it did not put food on the table. That would be her job.
Back outside, Elyne could hear banging and grunting. She was not sure if Tavish was working or fighting with the piece of iron. Having seven brothers, she wisely decided to give him space.
She decided instead to explore the castle grounds and walked in the opposite direction, around the back side of the castle. There she found her object, the remnants of a castle garden. It was overgrown and wild, but she hacked through some of the more virulent bushes with her knife to search for food. It took some time, pulling up weeds and cutting branches, but in the end her efforts were rewarded with blackberries, elderberries, hazelnuts, and wild kale. She put these aside and climbed a large cherry tree in full bloom, trying to find any fruit that had ripened early.
When she was done, she gathered all the food in her skirts and went to find Tavish to show him the fruit of her labors. The banging had stopped, and when she passed the blacksmith shop, he was not there.
She spied a piece of red cloth at the end of the line of outbuildings, but when she turned the corner, all she found was the large plaid laid out across a hitching post. It was Tavish's plaid. His clothes… on the post. She heard another splash and stepped cautiously to the end of the building. The sound was coming from around the corner, behind the building.
Glancing back, Tavish's plaid was still on the post. Last time she saw him, it had been the only clothing he was wearing. Given the amount of soot that covered him, she guessed he must be giving himself a good wash. Good thing to do, washing. She approved. She edged closer.
Wait, what was she doing? He had found an out-of-the-way place to wash and should be left alone to do it in peace. She could not possibly invade his privacy. She edged closer. No, she was going to turn around. Her foot took another step closer. Now—now she was going to turn around. Her other foot, completely of its own accord, took one more step, and she peeked around the corner.
She was treated to the wondrous sight of Tavish Grant, in all his naked glory, scrubbing off the dirt with water from a bucket. Fortunately for her, his back was toward her, allowing her the ability to gawk openly. Water flowed in rivulets down his muscular back to his trim waist and below. Oh yes, below. She marveled at his beautiful, tight… "Oh my stars," she whispered. And she saw them, stars.
He took the bucket and dumped it over his head—water rushing, caressing down his naked body. He shook his head, water flinging in every direction, one drop actually hitting her in the face.
"Oh!" she exclaimed.
He turned, but she ducked back behind the building before he could see her and took off running, her shaking hands barely able to hold up her skirts, which held the fruit. She ran back around the buildings, past the plaid, past the smithy, into the great hall, and she didn't stop until she arrived breathless in the tower room, with much less fruit to show for her excursion than when she started.
Several agonizing minutes later, she heard footsteps coming up the stairs. She grabbed a hazelnut and focused on cracking it with the flat of the knife. Her back was to the door and nothing could persuade her to turn around.
"Good day to ye," said Tavish.
"Good day to ye," answered Elyne without looking up.
He stepped closer, but still she would not look at him. She had looked enough, more the shame to her.
"I see ye've been busy," commented Tavish.
"Aye. I've found food for us. It is simple fare but we winna starve." She appreciated keeping the conversation on foraging for food. Nothing inappropriate ever arose from a conversation of kale.
"I hope ye enjoyed yerself today." His voice was silky.
Heat rushed down her neck. Had he seen her? "Aye, I have been in the garden. I have found quite a bit of food for us." Focus on the kale.
"I see that." He laid an armful of berries, nuts, and kale on the bench beside her. "I followed the trail ye so kindly left me."
