Chapter Three

Prudence thought her memory had exaggerated the way she'd felt when she'd first put her hand into his.

Real life simply wasn't so very intense…

Yet now that they were touching again, something rippled up her arm—a sensation which raised gooseflesh. She felt as if her breath had frozen in her chest, and that she was suspended between heartbeats. The intensity of it caught her completely off guard.

His eyes narrowed as she felt him close his fingers around hers. Her breath caught. The touch of his skin, the firmness of his grasp… She knew this night would be forever branded in her mind…and that she'd recall the feeling of his flesh against hers until she drew her very last breath.

Something glittered in his eyes before he gently tugged her forward. Around them, people danced, and the music played. Yet all Prudence saw was him, and the way he seemed to be studying her, as if he was equally fascinated with her.

Still, it was likely just her vanity talking. Disappointment raked it claws through her, for she truly wanted to believe she was capable of captivating him. But that would be folly.

"Are you pleased with your bride?" someone demanded.

The fingers around hers tightened.

"I am…enchanted!" he bellowed.

Cheers rose up around them and for just that moment, Prudence allowed herself to believe his words. Even if it was folly, it was the reason she'd come tonight.

Perhaps that was what they truly shared—the desire to let the conflict between their two countries fall away into nothingness, while they enjoyed a taste of what would be considered forbidden in the morning.

Tonight, Scot and English would dance together.

A huge ring of people swayed around the fire, their hands clasped, the tempo of the music driving their pace. The flames of the fire rose into the dark sky—little ruby sparks floated even higher before they died. The pounding of so many feet raised the scent of moist earth as they trampled down the dried grass beneath their dancing. The fire popped and the flames warmed her cheeks.

It was pagan and yet so very natural, making her feel as if she was answering some instinct that was centered in the very core of her bones. She felt a need to celebrate life, to simply shout with it.

Prudence had never felt so very alive.

Her heart pounded inside her chest, as sweat trickled down the sides of her face. She was grateful to be free of her partlet now, for she was far too warm for the garment. All of her clothing suddenly felt like ropes, binding her true nature. Having her hair flowing in the night breeze was more enjoyable than anything she'd ever felt.

Freedom….it was so wonderful!

"Enough!" the laird called out. "I must feed my bride!"

He pulled them away from the ring of dancers, but didn't release her hand. Instead, he settled it upon his forearm, as if they were strolling through a market fair, their union accepted by one and all.

She'd never been so close to a man before. And she liked it.

She suddenly realized how her cheeks were stinging with a blush.

And how excited she was to feel the burn.

She didn't have to wonder what her mother would think.

‘Modesty protects you from your baser instincts. Forget not that the seeds of Eve are inside you. Inattention to your behavior will see them awakened and then, you will fall prey to wicked intentions.'

Somehow, Prudence had never grasped just how nice it might feel to have…things inside her awakened. Yes, her cheeks stung, yet it felt like her blood was racing through her veins, making her feel lightheaded.

And she liked it.

Was that truly so terrible? To enjoy being alive?

She looked at her companion. He was huge, with solid looking shoulders and forearms cut with defined muscles.

"What is yer name, lass?"

Of course, he'd noticed her looking at him.

Gaping, you mean…

Her mouth wasn't quite hanging open, but it had to be obvious that she was dumbstruck. When she didn't answer, he frowned and moved closer to her.

"Is it yer plan to deny me yer name?" He lifted a mug of cider to his lips and drank from it, continuing to stare at her over the rim of the mug. "I am called Dugan."

Gaelic…

He opened his hand toward her, clearly expecting her to respond in kind.

"Prudence," she replied.

He lowered the mug to the ground and tilted his head slightly to one side. "Are ye saying ye feel it would be prudent not to share yer name with me?"

Her mother would surely think it a wise course of action.

Your mother would be aghast to know you are here and not sleeping with your ears full of wool…

She shook her head. "My name is Prudence."

He frowned and shook his head.

"Now who would name such a fetching lass something like that?" he exclaimed incredulously.

She had to admit, she liked him even more just for his reaction to her name. Yet she squirmed, feeling like she should explain.

"My father had three daughters, but he longed for sons. Hence, he embraced the reform…I have three brothers now," she rambled. "Since the Lord granted my father his desired sons, my sire renamed me and my sisters after virtues he believed we should devote ourselves to."

He made a ‘humph' sound before taking another drink from his cider. He stopped before putting the cup down.

"It sounds as though ye need this a wee bit more than I do," Dugan said, offering the mug to her.

It was a simple earthenware vessel that was cool against her palms. The aroma of the cider filled her senses as she lifted it to her lips. Sweet apples and spices. She inhaled, wanting to savor the forbidden moment completely. The brew hit her tongue, awakening tastebuds which had been lulled into deep slumber by the dull offerings she was used to. She took a second, longer sip, before managing to make herself lower the mug.

Dugan was grinning at her.

"What was yer other name?" he asked.

"Other name?" Prudence asked, because she couldn't seem to think.

"Aye," he said, placing the mug down, then reaching for some cheese. "Before yer father became a…how is it said in England? Puritan?"

She nodded. "Yes, we're Puritans now. As such, we are not welcome by our new queen Mary."

He cocked his head to one side.

"I am the Laird of Misrule, lass… 'Tis only fair to warn ye that I will be merciless in my quest to learn yer name." He raised his hands up, his fingers curled. "Shall I tickle ye until ye submit to me?"

"You will do no such thing!" She meant to sound outraged, but the unmistakable breathlessness in her voice surprised her.

Was that really her?

One of his dark eyebrows rose above the edge of his mask. "Ye have exposed yer weakness lass…."

He wiggled his fingers again, making a good show of coming at her. Evading him was rather simple. Of course, she realized he might have captured her if it had been his true intention, but instead, he lunged playfully at her, and she jumped away easily.

Dugan ended up poised on all fours as he contemplated her.

There was suddenly a hoot. Those watching began to add their suggestions to the chase.

"After her Laird!"

"Claim yer prize!"

"Take what you like!"

The jests were becoming more suggestive, eroding her enjoyment. She frowned, looking around for her sister.

Dugan lost his playful expression and suddenly rose to his feet.

"I command ye all…to be chickens! Ye men, crow loudly to impress the hens!"

Most of the people dancing were well on their way to the bottom of their third cup of cider, and immediately started grinning like besotted fools, hooting at the command their Laird of Misrule had given them. The musicians changed to a comic song and then the lot of them returned to dancing, flapping their arms while the men crowed.

Modesty was suddenly by her side. She put Prudence's cap back on top of her head as though it might protect her like a helmet and gathered up Prudence's flowing hair and tucked it back up. Then she slipped Prudence's partlet back on.

Dugan returned to his seat. "Come back here now. That lot out there is too deep into their mugs for ye to be joining them anymore. Best to remain by my side."

Prudence realized that while Dugan was very good at appearing intoxicated, his stare was solid.

"Yer sister should sit here as yer attendant," Dugan continued. "As any proper queen consort would have."

The rising level of lewdness in the crowd's even more boisterous songs was like sand in an hourglass, counting down the time until she would have to leave.

Prudence realized she truly did not want this night to end. Not just yet. She sat back down, and Dugan resumed eating. There was a feast in front of them—meat, cheese, fruit. Prudence looked at it, clasping her hands together as she realized she could indulge freely, without any Puritan guilt.

"Ye may have all ye like lass," Dugan told her.

"Yes, and yet, no. For my belly will burst if I am too much of a glutton," she replied.

"Ummm," he muttered. "I suppose ye have a valid point there."

He reached for the fruit, picking it up and raising it in the air so it caught the firelight. Prudence shivered as memory and the night around her seemed to combine into a type of intoxication which stemmed directly from being near him. Normal things, such as eating became magical when she did them with him.

He pulled a knife from the top of his boot and sliced the apple in half and then into quarters.

"Here lass," he said, handing two of the sections to her. "Let us enjoy the harvest bounty together. The cheese will last through the winter."

"Kiss yer bride!" someone yelled.

Prudence felt her heart stop. Dugan's expression tightened. He looked at the group around the fire.

"I am a laird, no a lack-wit!" Dugan informed them all. "A lady of such caliber must be wooed gently. Dare I even say…nobly."

The merrymakers accepted Dugan's explanation without protest, raising their tankards high before resuming their celebration.

"Eat up lass," Dugan muttered. "For it is almost time for ye and yer sister to depart. Too much drink robs good souls of their senses. It's best to not be here where mistakes can be made."

Prudence suddenly realized Dugan was not alone. There were several other Scots about. They were quiet and very serious, with each man taking a position where he might keep watch in a different direction. Though they were enjoying the food, not a single one had a mug in their hand. She caught the one nearest to them share a warning look with her Laird of Misrule.

Dugan rose in a fluid, powerful motion. "Come lasses," he said, offering a hand to Prudence. Another of his men was there to help Modesty to her feet. "It is time to depart."

There was lament in his voice. Yet it was nothing compared to the regret Prudence felt as Modesty reached out to clasp her upper arm.

But of course she should go…

Around the fire, the amount of drink consumed was leading to more displays of lewdness. One man grabbed at a woman, and she squealed in delight, whirling around to smile encouragingly at him. Prudence wasn't the only one being quietly led away into the darkness.

Yet she was with a Scot.

Still, Dugan was her protector—the exact opposite of what she'd always been told to expect from a Scotsman.

He still held her hand, pulling her gently behind him. The night closed around them, like a cloak. The feeling of his fingers clasping hers made her feel warm, hot even, and though she shivered, it wasn't from the cold.

It was strange the way darkness made every sound more intense. Without her sight, Prudence heard their footsteps more keenly, the crunching sounds of dry plants being crushed beneath their shoes. The wind was gusting too. It blew the tree limbs against one another, and the half dry leaves rattled.

In the light of day, the sounds were innocent enough.

Encased in darkness, her mind wanted to assign specters and demons to the sounds.

But the warm grip on her hand seemed to be all the protection she needed. The strength in his grip banished her fear, keeping it away as they walked.

She heard the sound of a horse.

A few more paces, and suddenly, the horses were in sight, held steady by a couple of younger Scots.

Dugan mounted easily, his kilt flipping up to grant her a glimpse of his powerful thigh before he settled quite confidently on the back of a huge beast.

"Come lass." He offered her his hand. "I'll see ye safely to yer home."

"We walked," Modesty stated beside her.

"The fields ye crossed are now inhabited by a fair number of couples who would no take kindly to an interruption," Dugan informed them. "Take my hand lass. It is best."

Though his tone was gentle, there was a solid core which warned her he wasn't going to settle for anything less than her submission.

It felt natural to put her hand in his once more.

Clearly, she had fallen under the spell of the moon, for it was madness to trust someone she barely knew.

But none of that seemed to matter as she was lifted and sat in front of him. His arms were around her as he held onto the reins of the horse. She heard her sister gasp and turned her head to see the burly Scot who had stood near Dugan depositing Modesty on the back of another horse before he mounted behind her.

"Brody is trustworthy," Dugan assured her. "Yer sister will come to no harm with him."

If he wasn't, she and her sister would be in quite a bit of trouble because they were surrounded by Scots.

The sound of the horses seemed loud as they set off, with Modesty pointing in the direction of their home. The distance was covered quickly, the horses eager to be in motion.

A few minutes later, Dugan pulled his steed to a stop while still in the trees. He slid off his horse, then reached up to lift her off the back of the animal.

Once she was firmly on the ground again, Dugan caught her hand and raised it up to his lips, pressing a kiss against the back of it. Another little ripple skated along her arm. Moonlight filtered through the tree limbs and for a moment, she caught a glimpse of the grin on his face.

"Farewell to ye lass. I confess, I lament our parting, but I am on the wrong side of the border." Dugan explained.

He'd taken a great risk to meet her…twice.

She wanted to ask him why, or anything to put off his departure for just a bit longer, but Modesty came up beside her.

The sand in the hourglass had run dry.

Dugan mounted his horse with a powerful movement. He was so very suited to the midnight ride, appearing to be one with the darkness and strong enough to face anything which might befall him.

"Back to yer maiden's bed lass." Dugan made a motion with his hand. "Ye have tempted me quite enough."

Tempted him?

Did she have the power to do such a thing? For her dress was plain and she wore no adornments in her hair. Didn't one need to be flashy to tempt a man?

Prudence pondered that idea as her cheeks heated. Modesty tugged her back toward the small manor house where they lived. It was quiet and dark, and so very dull now that she had something to compare it to.

But adventures had to come to an end. And it was best that it happen before they became misadventures.

Even though a part of her was dying inside.

*

"Leave her lad. Ye ken 'tis best."

Brody was the voice of reason.

At least, he was attempting to be.

His steed was impatient to be off as well, side-stepping when Dugan hesitated to turn the horse to the north.

Braylin and her sister were just shadows in the dark now. Dugan watched as they crept toward the house and then entered one of the doorways in the back of the kitchen.

Brody gave a snort. "Little wonder we've never seen them before. Only a newly arrived family would put their daughters in a room on the backside of the hearth."

Dugan knew the house.

He and his men had sheltered inside it more than once when it had been closed up.

"I do nae suppose her parents would take too kindly to me advising them of the mistake they are making in letting their daughters sleep where they do," Dugan remarked dryly.

"That would be a wager ye'd win for certain," Brody answered with a snort.

Which meant he had to leave things as they were. To be sure, it was by far not the first time Dugan had faced riding away from a matter which he knew needed intervention. Daughters should be above stairs, where the men of the house could shield them from raiders.

They'd come from the city, where a cry for help might be heard. But not out here.

He still smelled her hair…

There was something about her that bewitched him. Part of him wanted to dismiss it as nothing more than the effects of cider and dancing. Yet there was another part of him that was bemused to discover himself so enthralled with her after such a short encounter.

No one had ever accused him of being a romantic.

And that was because he wasn't.

Aye, yet he was tempted to ask her to leave with him…

But there was a border between them and the matter of faith. Her father would never agree to the match, any more than Braylin would find a warm welcome back on Hay land.

Scot and English, there were too many conflicts between their countries for them to find harmony. It was a cruel twist of fate to discover himself so stirred by her. The kindest thing he could do would be to never see her again.

Dugan turned his horse around and pressed his knees into the animal's sides to start it moving. His horse was happy to be heading north, and picked up speed, while Dugan felt the parting keenly.

It was for the best.

Yet it felt worse than anything ever had.