“Milady!”

The Countess of Brecken’s lady-in-waiting, Mai, threw the door open to Anice’s guest chambers at Arundel Castle, then quickly slammed it shut.  Two gray curls fell loose from the older woman’s plaited hair; her ivory cheeks were flushed.  She breathed in rapid, shortened breaths, and her gray eyes rounded.

“His Grace is headed this way.  Lady Anice, ye must hide.”

           ‘Twas folly for Anice to think she could avoid the king’s unwanted solicitations for long.  And she, his wife’s cousin.

“I am not hiding, Mai,” Anice scolded, “like I said before.  I am making myself unavailable to his...charms.” 

She tied the rope to the bed leg, then ran to the nearest window and tossed the other end out.  If the English ladies of her cousin’s court had not treated her with contempt because of her Scottish heritage, she would be visiting with the queen right now and could save herself the trouble of fleeing from the king’s attempted seduction, again.

“Och, milady, you cannot mean to—”

“Aye, Mai, I mean to.  Just delay His Grace if he should come knocking at the door before I have vanished.  Moreover, for heaven’s sakes be sure to hide the rope.  Tell him I am with Her Grace sewing in her solar.” 

Anice lifted the full skirt of her bliaut and chemise underneath, and scrambled atop the embroidered cushion resting on the stone window seat.

With heart pounding, she peered below.  ‘Twas a shame it opened on the inner bailey of Arundel Castle where women washed garments in large wooden barrels, the blacksmith pounded on an anvil, sending sparks flying, and beyond, noblemen’s sons thrust and parried wooden swords on the warm summer day.  Still, with everyone a goodly distance across the bailey from where she attempted escape and very much preoccupied, mayhap no one would notice a lady slipping down a rope from the second story window.

Mai wrung her hands.  “Milady, what if ye should fall?”

“You are not helping me, Mai.  Hush.  I have done this many times before as a wee lass.  You know that.” 

But this time was entirely different from her many escapades of the past.  ‘Twas difficult enough to find a husband who would live long enough to give her wedded bliss, but she was not about to be tupped by a lusty king who already had a wife. 

Anice tugged on the rope and when it held, she climbed onto the stone sill.  Grasping the rope, she swung over the edge and held on tight.  Her arms strained while she wrapped her legs around the rope and began to shimmy down. 

A pounding on her chamber door produced a rash of chill bumps to trail along her arms. 

Across the courtyard a man shouted, “Milady!”    

A streak of panic shot into her bones as she clambered down the rope.

Couldn’t a lady take a walk in the kitchen gardens—even if she got there by extraordinary means—without causing an uproar in the king’s staff?      

The thud of hooves galloped on the grassy earth in her direction.  She cursed under her breath.  She needed no horseman’s help to descend a rope.  Her hands slipped on the coarse hemp and her heartbeat quickened.  She was a wee bit out of practice. 

“Drop to me!  I’ll catch you!” the man’s deep, sexy voice shouted with a distinctive Scottish burr, as he guided his horse beneath her.

She snorted.  If she dropped to whoever stood below her, no doubt her skirts would fly up around her ears.  “‘Tis nay concern of yours.  Move away.”  She meant to speak her words harshly, commanding the man to do her bidding at once, but her voice sounded way too soft and overmuch like pleading to her ears.

She glanced down at him, sitting astride his roan destrier.  Belted at the waist, a pleated saffron wool tunic rose to mid-thigh, exposing his brawny muscular legs.  The narrow tunic sleeves stretched down his arms, widening at the wrist, revealing large hands that clutched his horse’s reins with a fierce grip. 

Her gaze drew up his massive chest to his dark brown hair, highlighted with reddish strands hanging loose about his broad shoulders, framing and at the same time softening the harsh angles of his face.  He had the kind of manly nose that befit Scottish royalty, a sturdy square chin that tilted up toward the heavens, and the kind of lips women begged to kiss.  Not a Norman or a Saxon, but a handsome devil of a Highlander.  ‘Twas not his broad shoulders and chest that gave her pause, but his furrowed brow and darkened brown eyes that compelled a longer look. 

Her fingers slid again and her heart leapt into her throat.  To her surprise the man quickly stood in his stirrups, his hands outstretched ready to catch her.

“Jump, lass, and I shall catch ye.”

A sprinkle of perspiration trickled between her breasts.  ‘Twas not too far to fall, only one more story now.  If she landed on the gentleman, he’d no doubt break her tumble nicely.  She continued to slide down the rope, her arms quickly wearying.  At twenty, she was getting much too old for this.

The rough rope tore at her tender flesh.  Her fingers burned.  Trying to ignore the pain, she clenched her teeth, and lowered herself further.

“Milady!”  The man grabbed at her. 

When he caught her foot, she nearly fell, and gasped in surprise.  She kicked his hand away.  “I do no’ need your help.”  Not unless the hand belonged to a Highland laird who wished to take her away from here and back to her home without delay. 

His hands slid up her hose-covered leg and rose to her naked thigh.  She screamed out in shock.  What in heaven’s name were his hands doing up her chemise?

~~~~~~~

Copyrighted 2005 Terry Spear