Fiction Excerpt Archives

The Serialists

2011-10-26T00:01:00.000-07:00

You can follow my backstory tale about Scorpius by clicking on the links:

Scene 1 - Scorpius at age 7 story arc
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Scene 13 - Scorpius at age 10 story arc
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Scene 25 - Scorpius at age 13 story arc
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Scene 37 - Scorpius at age 16 story arc
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Scene 72 - Scorpius at age 19 story arc
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Poetry Train Monday - 76 - A Third Scorpius Excerpt

2008-11-23T08:05:00.000-08:00

For today's Poetry Train, I thought I'd share another excerpt from the novel I've been hammering out during NaNoWriMo. Another confession - I didn't start a brand new storyline, but continued on with what I began in the summer after my writers' retreat.

The excerpt is the third one following the character of Scorpius, a chamberlain for Lady Elysande in a fantasy world which combines a medieval-style slave-owning society with technology. You can catch up on the earlier excerpts here:

Excerpt 1
Excerpt 2

I model Scorpius after British actor Richard Armitage.

Excerpt

He knew Lady Elysande better than any man alive. He knew what she longed for, what her spoken words meant and what words were always left unspoken. He knew because he’d watched her hold court these last years, all through the rhythm of the seasons.

What he hadn’t realized until that great-horn flew up over the north ridge this morning was how far he was willing to go to serve his lady. If he had to risk travelling down a darker path than he’d ever dared to before, then so be it.

If Scorpius knew anything, it was just how Lady Elysande could wield a crop – with agonizing finesse. She slipped it now under his chin, pressing there until he raised his face high. But he would not meet her gaze.

He wasn’t quite ready for her to see that deeply into his soul just yet.

***

Elysande’s stomach squeezed with excitement as her chamberlain responded correctly to her command. She had to admit, she’d fully expected to see those blue eyes of his looking up at her. She’d been ready to give him the first sting, but he cleared that hurdle easily.

My word, he was a stunning beauty of a man. Why had she never noticed it before? Even on his knees, he came up to her chin. His dark tunic showed off his well-sculpted physique, his trousers straining slightly across the thighs. This was the man he showed to the world every day. But another man had revealed himself to her, someone who wanted desperately to be let out of the bonds he’d created for himself.

Lucky for him he worked for her. She was an expert at coaxing truth from men unwilling to spill their secrets.

“On your feet,” she said, stepping away from him.

He stilled for a moment. Was he thinking better of his offer? Did he long to go back to the way it had been between them, before they went too far? Or was he simply giving her some spirited resistance? Just as she gripped her crop for his first stroke, Scorpius stood in a smooth motion. She couldn’t mistake the hard bulge beneath his trousers, which fueled her own excitement like a laser strike.

“You won’t need these,” she said, pointing at his leather boots. “Take them off.”

Again he paused, his eyebrows drawing together as though he argued with himself whether to proceed or not. Normally she wouldn’t give him the luxury of such a long hesitation. But she knew his true surrender would ultimately be to his own nature, and sometimes it was best to let realization take hold rather than enforce his obedience.

Scorpius bent and slipped one boot off, then the other. She let him stand uncertainly for a moment before tapping one foot with the end of the crop. “These, too,” she said, and he pulled off his socks.

She turned and strode to the end of her bed. Looking back over her shoulder, she said, “Come here.” Now it was her turn to feel a shiver of anticipation as she heard the whisper of his bare feet walking across the marble floor. He stopped just behind her, and Elysande turned in time to see the remnants of a gaze that sized her up the way a lover would before bending into a kiss.

Oh, he was starving for this. Elysande prided herself on seeing through the artifices of others. The fact that until today he’d hidden his desires from her so completely put her off-balance. Obviously Scorpius had many talents, and his ability to deceive her gave Elysande hope for the secret alliance she’d formed among the nobles. He could be of great use to her, both in bed and behind the scenes.

But for now, she had a new slave to break in.

“Undo these clasps,” she said, brushing the top one on his tunic with her fingers. Scorpius waited until she withdrew her hand, then set about unlatching the clasps that held his tunic together at the front. When he reached the last one, he let his hands fall to his sides and waited for instruction. He was a fast learner.

“Take off your tunic,” she said, and enjoyed the sight as he shrugged out of it, revealing an upper body that should never have been concealed. Gesturing with the crop, she said, “Toss it over there,” and he did so.

“Push the curtains aside,” she said, stepping back to give him room. Scorpius took a step and reached out for the orange gauze draped over one of the posts of her bed. Leaning forward, he shoved the curtain so that it revealed the curved wood of the post. At eye level, a few links of chain attached a wrist cuff to the post.

Scorpius inhaled sharply. She remembered what he’d said earlier, that he’d come to her as a released prisoner of the ongoing wars between the noble houses. Elysande took a moment to really look at her chamberlain. What had he suffered during those years?

Why did he want to relive the indignities of his capture? Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea, after all. Maybe she could simply take him as her lover, and leave it at that. Without his tunic, the scars at his wrists were plainly visible. Scars from the shackles he’d worn day and night.

Elysande nearly asked him to explain, to tell her why he wanted to give himself to her so completely. She looked him in the face, at his gaze that remained cast down as she’d so recently taught him. His earlier flush of excitement was missing. Now he’d gone quite pale.

Instead, she ordered him to push aside the other curtains, revealing the other post with its wrist cuff waiting for him. Scorpius stood at attention, looking down at the bed, his chest rising and falling as his breathing gave his distress away.

No, he’d come to her this evening of his own free will. He’d offered himself as compensation for a cancelled ball. Besides, there was the matter of his behavior in front of the Master-at-Arms. Must not forget that.

Laying the crop on the end of the bed so he could get a good look at it, Elysande reached for his left hand and stretched it high towards the cuff. Flicking the mechanism open, she placed the cuff around his wrist and locked it. Moving to the other post, she did the same until Scorpius stood bound to her bed, both arms stretched taut and wrists chained securely. Reaching down, Elysande took up the crop and walked slowly behind her chamberlain, whose skin erupted in goosebumps. Now that he was bare, now that she was behind him, she saw plainly the gnarled stripes that gave witness across his back.

“Do you recall what you did this morning in the Great Hall?” she asked, wondering who had put those lash marks there.

“I spoke for you to the Master-at-Arms.”

Elysande reached around her chamberlain at the waist, taking the clasp of his pants in her fingers and twisting it open. He went very still.

“Has it been your job to speak for me to any member of this household?” she asked, opening the next clasp.

“No, my lady.”

“Why did you do so today, then?” She undid the last clasp and opened his waistband, exposing his hips and lower belly.

“Pahlmot needed to see to the great-horn, my lady.”

“I was aware of that.” Elysande jerked down swiftly, pulling his trousers down to his knees. Mmm. His ass was magnificent, and quite clear of any prior marks. His thighs were strong and made lots of promises for future endurance. She didn’t know who looked forward to that future more – herself or this man she’d discovered hiding beneath her chamberlain, of all people.

“Step out of them,” she said, tapping him on the leg. With three elegant motions, considering he was cuffed to the posts, Scorpius freed both legs and kicked his trousers to the side. Then he shook his head as if to clear it, took a deep breath and braced himself.

Elysande felt weak with desire for him. She couldn’t recall ever feeling this way before. No lover, no slave, certainly not her betrothed, no one had made her crave him the way she wanted Scorpius right now.

She wasn’t used to feeling out of control like this. Another feeling, a more familiar one, burst through her desire and ran up through her chest. Anger.

Now that was more like it.

***

His wrists.

The pressure on his manacle scars drove Scorpius mad for escape. He dragged hard on the cuffs as his breathing became shallow, knowing more than the lady herself that they would hold a strong man indefinitely.

He was the chamberlain, after all. It was his duty to keep Lady Elysande’s equipment in perfect order.

A flood of memories, of moments exactly like this one shoved for dominance in his mind as he steeled himself. His very first taste of the lash at the hands of his captors was only the blistering overture to a symphony of screams he’d performed over the years.

Each time he’d bent or stood in bonds or hung from irons, he’d fought to collect the bits of courage scrambling off into the deepest recesses of his thudding heart. He’d silently repeated the words over and over like a demented prayer, just as he did now. I will not cry out. I will not cry out. I will not –

He thrust forward involuntarily as a dragon-fire slash erupted over his skin. Sweet Heavenly Mother. The pain only built as the first welt rose. By the gods, but his mistress could dish it out.

Scorpius inhaled deeply, trying to stay on top of the pain, but it was like trying to outrun an avalanche.

As the orchestrator of his lady’s entertainments over the last few years, he’d witnessed many hopeful lovers reduced to begging and sobbing, if that was her desire. Each time, Scorpius had marveled at it.

With some men, it was easy to tell. They would break, no question. But with others, he’d been certain Lady Elysande would not be able to push them over that threshold.

His mistress always proved him and those unfortunates wrong.

“Will you ever put words in my mouth again?” Lady Elysande asked.

“I hope I never have to, my lady,” he said truthfully. He’d done so today to save Pahlmot, who didn’t deserve her reaction.

You can do this. The crop bit nastily, his thighs bucking hard against the bed. Shit! He knew these were warning shots only, and that knowledge broke him out in a sweat.

With the echoes of his own screams forever rebounding in all the hidden spaces inside him, Scorpius knew his breaking point with soul-shriveling accuracy. His captors had uncovered it for themselves with appalling speed, something for which Scorpius would never forgive himself.

When Lady Elysande’s negotiations freed her kinsmen from bondage, their insistence that he be freed alongside them had brought Scorpius to this keep, to serve his mistress. Just as he’d done at the estate where he’d served before his capture, he’d gazed at every noble guest and wondered whether his unknown mother or father was one of these. The possibility that they might be one of Lady Elysande’s guests traveling to her ball and in danger of being roasted alive by the dragon made it easy to hand himself over to this moment, at his mistress’ mercy.

But he was not willing to part with anymore cries. Not even –

Gods be damned! Gods…

Not even when she wielded her crop to rival the flesh-splitting lash of the dungeon. She'd nearly torn a cry free, but he clenched his teeth and forced it back down. Before he could brace himself, she brought the next round of strokes in fast.

He wrenched his body away from the pain, struggling for air as though he’d run up every set of stairs in the keep.

Lady Elysande climbed onto her bed, sitting languidly before him against her pillows. She still had the crop in her hand, but her grip was loose.

His ass and thighs burned hot, wrenching his attention away from his complete exposure in front. But his lady’s unyielding gaze upon his naked body left him very aware that he hardened.

“You take the crop well. Very well,” she said, a note of admiration in her voice. Scorpius pulled himself up as tall as he could, straining against the cuffs which irritated his scars. He almost spoke.

Almost.

Blast, but she knew how to trip him up. Appeal to his vanity, even as he stood here splayed out - sore, mortified and turned on all at once. A glow of satisfaction spread through him as he savored his resistance to her show of force.

She hadn’t torn him down, hadn’t been able to force the cries that he did not want to make. How he regretted those screams the jailers had ripped out of him. Lady Elysande had given him the greatest of gifts just now, though she would not welcome that news.

Best keep that to himself.

***

Elysande couldn’t stand it any longer. Scorpius was a quick learner, too quick to be duped into meeting her gaze at this point. But she had to see into those blue eyes of his. She had to look into their depths, to see if he felt the same things she felt.

“You are permitted to look at me,” she said. Her heart skittered with anticipation, watching his dark lashes shield him. Scorpius raised his chin slightly. Then his lids raised and she looked up into eyes that almost singed her with their lightening-bolt blue.

No one had ever looked at Elysande with such ferocity. Her stomach fluttered with excitement. She’d had many men chained to the foot of her bed over the years. Would-be suitors who knew of her preference for this kind of bedroom play, who showed their own colors within the first few strokes.

Most men thought it would be sexy until the pain flared up. If they weren’t drawn to it by nature, their ambition failed to shield them from the crop’s bite. Then each poor unfortunate settled into an endurance match, one which intrigued Elysande on its own level.

The men who truly craved release through submission never fought the blows. They opened to them like blooms opened to the sun.

This man, now – this beautiful man – he was somewhere in between those two types. Just as he wasn’t a slave, but professed to have the heart of one. Scorpius, who worked for her, yet moved with the regal grace of one born to the blood.

She could see his desire to submit in the way he knelt, in the way he learned quickly to obey. Another man would have tested her to see if she really meant business.

Those men were a challenge. Elysande enjoyed challenges. She felt one emanating from Scorpius, but it was of an entirely different nature.

He was no stranger to the lash. His back gave up his secrets like the whispers that clung to his wrists and ankles. He resisted the pain of the crop. Scorpius didn’t use the pain as though it were the rungs of a ladder, taking him higher like a true submissive would.

But look at him now, positively glowing with pride over something. It ate at her that she couldn’t place it.

“Do you still want to offer yourself in place of my Dionysian Ball?” she asked. “Or was it better to be the observer, and not the participant?”

Her chamberlain took a deep breath. “It’s too dangerous to hold the ball, Lady Elysande,” he said, switching back into his normal role though he stood naked and stretched between her bedposts.

“You would offer yourself for the sake of my guests? No other reason? I thought you said you knew what I desired?” Why did it hurt, suddenly, the idea that he’d come to her for anything less than a need to please her? Before today, she’d never thought of Scorpius as a potential lover. Now the sight of him stirred her deeply.

“Perhaps, if you’d seen what a dragon can do to people – as I have,” Scorpius said, then cut himself off. He dipped his head sideways as if he hoped to avoid something. But she knew the things he needed to avoid were inescapable.

It was hard to slip into her own accustomed role. She was far from the unfeeling brat she was made out to be. Her heart went out to this new Scorpius, but didn’t want him to know that. Not yet.

She must veer his attention away from the demons that haunted him, even if it meant putting on the spoiled persona she wore like battle armor. “Are you going to go on about that cursed dragon again?”

Her stomach thrilled at the way he looked at her. His eyes blazed with barely-contained outrage. Even chained up, he looked as if she should take care with what she said next.

“Do you want me to say I’ve come here for you? The Lady Elysande?” he asked. “Words you need to hear – from me?”

To cover the shock that must have passed over her face, Elysande rose from the pillows to her knees quickly, bringing her face to face with her chamberlain. There was no longer any pretense toward hiding his non-slave status. If he’d not been chained up, she’s not sure that he wouldn’t grab her. Shake her.

“You did say your heart is the heart of one who would serve me,” she said.

He gazed deeply into her eyes, searching for something. “When was the last time someone made an offer for your hand?”

Elysande’s heart squeezed painfully. “Three seasons past.”

Scorpius sized her up with a discerning glance. How could he make her feel so vulnerable when she was the one with the crop still in her hand?

“You refuse them all? Or the offers have stopped coming?” he asked. His questions felt like kicks to her stomach.

“Have you lost your senses along with your clothes? Why would I need a husband, when I have an endless supply of lovers?”

“If that’s what you tell yourself in this bed at night,” he said, gazing past her at the pillow. “Who am I to argue?” Then his blue eyes looked straight into her soul.

Tears started, but she blinked them away. “You forget yourself,” she said, her voice trembling.

Scorpius looked nothing like the self-possessed chamberlain she’d always known. And he certainly looked nothing like a slave who knew his place. Right now he looked like he could devour her whole if he could get his hands on her. Elysande’s skin tingled with dread, with longing as he strained against the cuffs and stretched forward, as close to her as he could get.

“Do I have to remind you of the great-horn?” he asked. “Some of your guests are already en route. The others can be spared – if you will only say the word and call off your ball. In return, you will have me.”

Elysande’s heart swelled with the way he looked at her. So much passion hidden all this time behind the cool professionalism of the man who ran her household. She fought to keep her own expression from betraying her. For there was no going back from this. She needed Scorpius more than she’d ever needed anyone.

Copyright - 2008 - Julia Smith

Poetry Train Monday - 61 - Another Scorpius Excerpt

2008-08-10T10:29:00.000-07:00

Here's a second excerpt of my newest WIP. This story takes place in a world that combines the social structure of medieval society with futuristic elements. Scorpius is the chamberlain of Lady Elysande's Keep. You can read a backstory poem about Scorpius here, and the first excerpt here. I've modelled Scorpius after British actor Richard Armitage. So far Lady Elysande is most like the woman in the Edmund Blair Leighton painting The Accolade.

Excerpt

She sat on the edge of her canopied bed, the posts draped in gauzy pinks and orange. He walked forward, a strange excitement twisting through him. Lady Elysande perched there as though it were a throne. In many ways, it was.

But this kingdom was a realm of sighs, born from delight or pain. Sometimes both. Scorpius should not crave this summons. But he did.

“That’s far enough,” she said, her voice brimming with warning. He stopped, his heart beat quickening. “Do you remember what you told me this morning?”

“I think I may recall.” He knew exactly what he’d said. And he’d meant it from the deepest, most secret part of himself.

“Refresh my memory,” she said.

Scorpius swallowed. Now that he was set to leap into this dark chasm, fear licked at his spine. “I told you that, whatever you command me to do, I will obey you.” A rush of emotion swept through him with that admission. He trembled.

“Of course you will. You’re the Chamberlain of my Keep.” A delicious smile curled one side of her mouth. “What is all this about, Scorpius? You’ve served me for some time now. Today, suddenly you’re dropping bombs and playing True Confessions.”

Lady Elysande stood, and Scorpius inhaled her scent deeply. “Explain to me what you said earlier,” she said.

Scorpius looked down at the slave, kneeling quietly on the mat near her feet. “I told you I may as well be your slave. Like he is.”

“Why would you say such a thing?” Lady Elysande walked up to him, looking him up and down. Then she gazed deeply into his eyes. “Do you have slave blood running through those veins?”

“My heart is the heart of one who would serve you like a slave.”

She looked almost frightened for a moment. Then she laughed. “Good thing you don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I’m simply answering your question,” he said, meeting her gaze with his own.

Quite suddenly her hand whipped around to slap him hard across the face. “A slave would never look at me like that,” she said.

He lowered his gaze, his cheek burning hot.

“Much better. Now, my grateful chamberlain, what do you mean with these offers of slavery and replacements for my Dionysian Ball?”

Taking care not to look up at her, he nevertheless kept his eyes trained on the hem of her gown and her beautiful feet peeking from beneath. “I have spent the last few years arranging your entertainments for these balls, my lady. Supervising them down to the last detail. Keeping a watchful eye as they took place. I am satisfied that I’m quite familiar with what pleases you.”

“Are you?”

“If we’re unable to stage a grand spectacle, I offer myself as a sort of consolation prize.”

“Why would you do such a thing?” she asked again.

“I told you.”

“Look at me, Scorpius.”

He did as she bid him. Disappointment washed over her face. His heart sank in his chest. This was turning out all wrong.

“I don’t think you have it in you to be a slave,” she said, crossing her arms in front of her. “To begin with, I just corrected you for looking directly at me. And here you are doing exactly the same thing. Slaves never look at me.”

Scorpius looked down. “Forgive me, my lady.”

“If I were to tell my real slave here to look at me, he would not. He would say, ‘Forgive me, mistress, but I cannot.’”

Scorpius stole a glance at the slave, who knelt on his mat, head bowed but now tensed for whatever might happen next.

“If I said, ‘I order you to look at me,’ he would then do so,” she said. “But only then.”

He took note of the slave’s face, which paled slightly. The man’s head did not move in the slightest as he listened carefully to Lady Elysande’s words.

“You wouldn’t know the first thing about what it takes to be a slave,” she said.

Scorpius nearly challenged her on that. He realized just in time that he was already being tested. He must wait to be given permission. Her chamberlain would insist he could do the job, but her slave would remain silent. So he stood there, resolved to look down, to refrain from speaking. He’d done it all before when he’d been held prisoner for three soul-crushing years.

But none of his jailers had ever looked like Lady Elysande. None of them could have made those torments worthwhile.

* * *

A thrill crept through Elysande as she realized Scorpius meant what he said. Look at him, trying so hard to hold himself back from following his own impulses. She couldn’t prevent a delighted smile from spreading across her face. No matter. Both men’s heads were bowed.

“I know you’re used to giving orders,” she said, stepping smoothly beside her chamberlain. She could smell his sweat, see it glistening on his neck. She’d never noticed how good he smelled before. There were a lot of things about Scorpius she had never noticed before today.

“You manage my household and you do it well. I’ve never had too much to complain about.” She circled him, her gaze lingering on how tall he was, his strong stature, his shiny dark hair, the determined set of his mouth.

Elysande turned to her slave. He had always pleased her. If she needed an example of a well-trained slave, this one was a perfect example. “But can you take orders, Scorpius?”

She left her chamberlain and approached her slave. He knelt at attention with head bowed. She moved to stand behind him. Looking up at Scorpius, she watched him follow her every move, lowering his gaze before they could make eye contact.

With one finger, she pressed only slightly on the back of her slave’s head. Without a moment’s hesitation, he leaned forward until his forehead touched the ground. Elysande looked over at Scorpius. She had his attention, alright.

A surge of power flooded her body. She always enjoyed putting her slave through his paces, but having an audience made it feel delicious and fresh. With one foot, she tapped her slave again. He shifted forward so his bottom raised into the air, keeping his forehead on the floor. Slowly, she circled the slave, enjoying the sight of him and wondering what Scorpius thought of it.

“Do you think you’re capable of this?” she asked him. Again with her foot, she grazed the inner thigh of the slave. He spread his legs wide at her signal. Elysande leaned one hand on the canopy post of her bed just behind her. She moved her foot along her slave’s calf, then retraced his inner thigh and all the way up. Her slave inhaled sharply as she pressed with her foot with just the slightest show of force.

Elysande looked over at Scorpius once again. His face flushed but his gaze remained on her and her treatment of the slave.

“I asked you a question, Scorpius,” she said.

“I beg your pardon, my lady,” he said quickly.

She moved away from her slave to rejoin her chamberlain. “I don’t like waiting for an answer when I’ve asked a question.”

Scorpius bowed his head. “I will do whatever you ask of me.”

Elysande’s heart swelled with excitement. She hadn’t felt anything this strongly in such a long time. Looking at her darkly handsome chamberlain, offering himself up to her, she wondered if she’d ever really felt this way before.

“Kneel, then,” she said as though she doubted he could do it. But her heart beat quickened as she hoped to be proven wrong. Her stomach fluttered as she watched him sink to his knees. Though he was an employee in her household, his movements were sure and bold. Even an act like kneeling was filled with his masculine energy.

She took a moment to still her own breathing. Then she walked over to him, circling him as she’d done with her slave. Scorpius couldn’t prevent his gaze from following her every move, though he took care to keep his eyes lowered. When she positioned herself behind him, she took a long moment to let her own gaze roam over his wide shoulders, straight back and rock-solid behind.

Leaning forward, she touched Scorpius on the back of his head with a single finger, pressing slightly forward in a signal her slave would know in an instant. She loved how thick his hair felt against her hand. How she wanted to grab a handful of it right now.

But he was already leaning forward, dipping his head down until he touched the floor with his forehead, just as the slave had done. Elysande felt herself throb with desire. He resisted the urge to copy the slave all at once, as she watched him begin to do and then check himself.

Elysande reached out with her foot and tapped him once. Slowly he raised his bottom high, keeping his forehead down. She swallowed. A part of her didn’t know if she was ready for this new partnership with the chamberlain. If she took the next step, nothing would ever be the same between them. And she really did rely on him to run the keep for her.

She thought hard about her life, about the secret alliance she’d hammered out, about which Scorpius knew nothing. She thought of her very handsome betrothed, he of the great absence, the obvious low regard he had for Elysande or her noble house. Now here was her chamberlain, so handsome himself, not a noble, not a slave, but something else entirely.

Images from past Dionysian Balls burst through her mind in a jumbled procession. There were times she’d felt truly abandoned to her desires. There were times she’d had to force herself to continue, far from aroused and worried about the clandestine meeting to follow.

There had never been a time when she’d shivered with anticipation, as she did now. How long had Scorpius wanted her? How had he managed to hide it from her? She looked upon him, at his powerful form bowed down before her of his own free will.

No man had ever come to her of his own free will before. Joy burst through her, threatening to leave Elysande in tears. She must not go there. Blinking rapidly, she strode across the chamber to her cabinet. She focused on the sound her steps made, filling the air with her intention.

Scorpius had known what was as stake when he’d walked through the door. Elysande would not back down from such a challenge. Not when there was more to this man than she could have suspected.

She would show Scorpius that the woman he’d served for the past few years was a stranger. A heady glimmer of hope ignited inside her. Perhaps she’d finally found the man who could tear down the veneer of Lady Elysande. A part of her wanted to be found, but another part knew she would make Scorpius face an uphill battle. Opening the cabinet, she stared at her impressive array of weapons.

Oh yes. That one would do nicely.

Copyright - Julia Smith - 2008

Poetry Train Monday - 58 - Scorpius Excerpt

2008-07-20T10:36:00.000-07:00

Just back from the writers' retreat. Ah!

I went there knowing I wanted to start working on a new idea. I plunged right in with it whenever we did writing exercises. Here is what I came up with. It's the result of four different exercises, which I purposely linked so I could follow my new character for a bit. Thanks to Renee Field and Lilly Cain for the workshops which lead to these scenes.

Excerpt

Agony ricocheted from the cells ahead as Scorpius strode along the stone corridor. The weight of the chains he once wore settled upon his wrists and ankles, slowing his pace.

He stopped. The chill of this place erupted over his skin like a cold sweat. He was Chamberlain of the Keep, now. Nothing prevented future tides from returning him to bondage, mind. But at present, his service to Lady Elysande kept him safe enough.

Resuming his pace, Scorpius kept his gaze straight ahead as he passed the cells with their huddled heaps of rags. He must tell the Master-at-Arms about the sighting on the north ridge. Bad enough a recent skirmish between the royal houses left its wounded bleeding all over the stone floor of the Great Hall.

They didn’t need a great-horned dragon swooping in like carrion looking to dine on mens’ bones. But that was what they had, with travelers expected in a few days for the lady’s Dionysian Ball. Gods preserve me, he thought. He dreaded telling her the news more than anything else. Lady Elysande didn’t hold back her displeasure. It stung like acid ants.

Scorpius rounded the corner and came to a curved doorway. He swiped his hand over the sentinel eye and waited to be recognized. In a moment the faint beep sounded and the heavy door slid effortlessly open. Gathering himself, he went in.

Pahlmot looked up from his work, distracted and frowning. “What is it?”

“There’s been a sighting.”

The Master-at-Arms laid down his stylus and leaned forward across the desk. “What sort of sighting? Not more wounded?”

“No. Not that.”

Pahlmot’s hard gaze grew harder. “Speak.”

Scorpius sighed. “A great-horn. They took a capture of it. Cleared the north ridge a few times. Nothing more since this morning.”

The Master-at-Arms’ expression clouded. He turned to the view screen and tapped in a few commands. A grainy image showed the dragon’s outline unmistakably against the pink sunrise. The chill Scorpius felt earlier settled over him once more.

Pahlmot wiped his hand over his eyes in an uncharacteristic gesture of dismay. “It’s too late to call off the lady’s ball. Isn’t it?”

Scorpius nodded.

Rising from his chair, Pahlmot headed for the door, which opened at a wave of his hand. “Inform her ladyship. I shall head the first patrol.”

Scorpius followed before the door could close. “Of course. What exactly am I telling her?”

“I shall take one patrol to the Bermu quadrant, and send another along the Triangle. To return at 00:1.”

***

Scorpius stepped forward into the lady’s marble chamber. Sunlight filled the room with warmth, the muted oranges and pinks of her draperies and cushions promising a welcome he knew was not for him. She was not here, but her charged presence filled every corner of the chamber.

How different it would be if this room held echoes of smiles instead of what really lurked in the folds and swags around her canopied bed. The open windows with their dazzling views might as well be grated doors thick with locks.

He took a deep breath, which did nothing to calm the swirling in his gut. The tumbling flowers in the vase before him mocked the morning like a slap. Lady Elysande would certainly kill this messenger. Or at least draw blood.

Copyright - Julia Smith - 2008

Poetry Train Monday - 56 - A Third Excerpt From My Culloden Story

2008-07-06T10:56:00.000-07:00

Here's my final installment of my Culloden story. It takes place after these two excerpts posted previously on the Poetry Train:

Culloden excerpt 1
Culloden excerpt 2

I've modelled Jock MacKeigan on Scottish actor Robert Carlyle, and Emma MacBean on English actress Emma Samms.

Near Drumossie Moor, in the hills outside Inverness, April 1746

He could tell by the way they snuck glances at him. Lady MacBean felt it was time to leave the cavern. But what to do about him?

His leg was useless. Not that it wouldn’t heal with time. But several more patrols had come looking for them. They must steal away now or never.

Perhaps she could spare a few days’ provisions. By that time he would have some strength returned to him. Stumbling upon the MacBeans had bought him some valuable time. That was more than he could have hoped for a few days ago.

He would need a crutch to lean on. Fashioning one would give him something to do while he waited. He must trust that whatever the Almighty’s reason to see him through thus far would continue to help him. It gave Jock a strange confidence, considering what he was facing.

The young boy Davey joined him on the edge of the pallet. “Mistress wants to know if ye have need of anything,” he asked. The boy’s face was unusually guarded. If Jock had doubted Lady MacBean’s intentions, Davey’s expression removed any misconceptions.

“I would at that. Fetch me a stick so I can make something to help me hobble about.”

Davey was off like a volley of muskets and out of the cave. A bit like talking to a ghost, it seemed.

Jock moved his leg gingerly, growing stiff from sitting in the same position for hours. The pain ignited from his ankle to his hip, up his spine, hammering Jock’s head so that he shut his eyes against it.

How could he let them go, five women with just an old man, a youth and a boy to protect them? Jock felt a shudder erupt as images flared through his mind. The soldiers - if they fell upon them - he shook his head to chase the horrors away, but they lurked uneasily.

Jock’s fingers played with the fringed edge of the wrap that covered his leg, keeping it warm against the damp of the cave. He thought of Lieutenant-Colonel Montford, of Miss MacBean and her engagement to the officer of his regiment. He could hear Montford barking orders even now, his voice deep and resonant, booming through the clamour of musket fire and the cries of other officers.

Her intended was a good man as officers went. Decisive and practical. Not one to tolerate any loafing, sloppiness or unreadiness. That is why Jock and the others pressed on through the night march to Nairn. Montford’s regiment was a fit one, not like some that were plagued with desertions, the men unfed, bitter and without a shred of confidence in the prince’s generals.

Such incredible folly that had been. Tiring them to the breaking point before such a battle. The original orders for a surprise attack on the English encampment would have made all the difference. Jock still didn’t understand why the march had gone so badly, why they’d been halted so often that the grey light of daybreak came before they’d reached Nairn.

But he vividly remembered the moment it was called off. The English drums rolled the general call to arms in the distance. A weary messenger appeared from the head of the column and Montford bent low in the saddle, his ear close to the panting youth. It seemed a very long while after he’d finished speaking before Montford straightened to send him on his way.

The Scots Royal turned in the road and headed back to camp, every man silent with his own thoughts or simply pure fatigue. Even then, they’d all sensed it. The late change in orders boded ill for victory.

Not a man on that march could have forseen what awaited them. Not even the lieutenant-colonel, not even in that suspended moment when he must have been sorely tempted to disregard orders. To fall upon the English as they were turned out of their bedrolls. To pursue the only reasonable course of action.

As Jock was doing now.

The lady must take her daughter and the servants and flee for their lives. He must warn her son just how dangerous it would be for them.

He could see Miss MacBean watching him even as she made to appear engrossed in collecting up the meagre belongings scattered throughout the cave.

Miss MacBean would become Montford’s wife, if Montford survived as Jock had done.

And if Jock was made to stay in hiding much longer with her, his greatest threat would no longer be the English soldiers.

It would be the way she stood in her thin frock, trying not to shiver in the cold. The stocking she wore beneath her skirts, stained with his blood although she’d washed it in the icy stream with her gentle fingers. The blue eyes blazing with her father’s courage, reaching into him so he could bear the pain.

Jock had survived the worst of what the English could dish out. But he had nothing left to resist Miss MacBean.

***

(This scene comes a bit later, but I'm telescoping the storyline for the Poetry Train.)

Jock lay very still on his side, pressing himself as closely into the wall of the cave as he could. He heard someone moving not too far from the entrance.

Three days had passed since the MacBeans and their servants left the cave, three days of more patrols and Jock barely escaping detection. Yesterday a soldier actually pushed his way partially past the brush which Thomas had wedged securely behind them to better conceal Jock.

“Oh, mercy,” the soldier had grunted.

“What is it, Marks?”

“I’m bloody stuck! Come get me out!”

Jock had heard laughter from several men. If he’d had to take on that many he’d have been done for.

“How’d ye manage this, then?”

“Shut yer gob and give the old heave-ho, eh? And be quick about it, I can’t catch my breath.”

Were they back to check the cave again? The screen rustled ominously.

Whoever it was knew exactly what he was about. Several blows to the edge of the screen frame and it came free from the rock wall.

Jock opened and closed his fingers around the handle of his dirk. Felt the weight of it, knew just what he would do to the first one that came upon him. If they didn’t miss him completely in the gloom.

He would wait, still and silent. He’d gone over this many times in those three days. First, watch and wait. If detection was certain, the first man would be down with a slit throat before he could call to his fellows. Several good-sized stones were at hand to take down a man or two. From there, well it would depend on who was left, wouldn’t it?

Someone was definitely entering the cave. Jock’s ears strained to hear how many there were. He couldn’t turn his head to look without giving himself away.

Cautious steps, quiet as a cat. Not the usual blundering infantryman. Jock waited to hear any others approaching but there seemed to be only one.

He took a deep, calming breath. There was a chance, then. Only one. He could dispatch one easily enough. He resheathed his dirk, needing both hands free.

The soldier neared. Jock could see a slight form in the dimness, heard his quickened breathing. The fellow didn’t call to anyone. Strange.

Steps scratched in the dirt as the man turned. Jock lunged like a coiled snake.

His arms wrapped tightly about the lad’s calves, tugging hard to bring him down with a grunt. Before the soldier could regain his senses, Jock rolled forward, crawling up by handfuls of clothing till he had the man by the collar. Twisting sharply, Jock rammed him against the cavern wall.

A sure motion down to retrieve his dirk, a swift arc upwards and the blade pressed in warning against the man’s throat.

In the second it took to size up his foe, Jock heard his name whispered frantically. A chill went up his neck.

His fingers clutched thinner cloth than a redcoat.

“It’s me. It’s me. Emma! It’s Emma.”

Jock relaxed his grip, pulling the dirk away from her neck, hoping he’d not already drawn blood.

She panted with fear. Jock pulled her to face him, shaking with relief he’d not discovered her too late. “What are you doing here?” he fairly shouted.

“I couldn’t leave you behind.”

“I nearly killed you!”

“I had a horrid row with my mother. I snuck away.”

“What - have you lost your mind, girl? Had a row with your mother? What are you talking about?”

“I didn’t think it was right to leave you here on your own,” she choked out, her voice tight with tears she fought to keep back. “Mother was furious with me. She said things. She...struck me. She’s never struck me since I was a wee bairn.”

Jock felt as though the cave was closing in on him, pressing the breath from his lungs. “Where are the rest of them?” he asked, trying to sort his swirling thoughts.

“I don’t know.”

Jock squeezed her shoulders as though he could press some answers from them. “Where were you heading, then?”

He felt her stiffen against his roughness. “We were heading north. I think it was north.”

“Where, north?”

“Away from the patrols!”

Jock pushed her away from him in frustration. “She’ll probably send someone after you.”

“She won’t.”

“Your brother, likely. And he’ll be lucky to make it this far. I’ll bet you weren’t giving any thought to that when you were stealing away. Were you?”

“She won’t have anything more to do with me, I don’t think. Nor will Murray.”

“What are you talking about? Will ye no make any sense at all?”

“We shouldn’t have left you here," she said. "My Douglas wouldn’t approve.”

No wonder Lady MacBean had lost patience with her. “Look. I’m sorry to have to be the one to say it. But...” Jock took a very deep breath. “There’s not many of us made it off that field.”

She lay very still beside him.

“I was separated from most of my regiment," he said. "I don't know the lieutenant-colonel's position at the end. Once the fighting stopped. What I can tell ye is this. No wounded were taken from the moor. The English swept over us with bayonets and...there’s not many of us still livin' who fought that day.”

Emma said nothing, only lay there beside him in silence.

“I don’t know what ye were thinkin’ when ye left yer mother like that. Ye’ve no idea how lucky ye are to have got here at all. I’ve had four patrols come since ye left. I thought ye were another one.”

“Then I must help you get to someplace safe.” Her voice was full of hurt feelings and stubbornness. Jock reached for her in the dim light, pulling her to rest her head on his shoulder.

“We must wait till the soldiers stop paying us so many visits.” Jock sighed. She curled against him. How warm she felt after the hard dampness of the past few lonely days.

He should be as outraged as Lady MacBean at Emma’s thoughtless risk taking. And he did rather feel like throttling her.

How could he admit to himself how it terrified him, that she’d nearly died under his own blade? How it made his heart swell almost painfully with joy that she'd done something so foolish as to come back for him.

- Copyright - Julia Smith - 2008

Photo of Robert Carlyle by Brian Pendreigh

Poetry Train Monday - 55 - Excerpt From My Culloden Story

2008-06-29T11:01:00.000-07:00

Here's a second excerpt from my Culloden story. This takes place shortly after this excerpt:

Culloden excerpt 1

Jock MacKeigan is lucky to be alive. He's somehow managed to survive the Battle of Culloden and made his way into the hills, where he's found by Emma MacBean and her family. He's gravely injured, however, and needs his broken leg set and multiple stab wounds stitched up. We join the story as Emma's mother finishes the first gruesome task in the safety of their cavern hideout.

I've modelled Jock MacKeigan after Scottish actor Robert Carlyle, and Emma MacBean after English actress Emma Samms.

Excerpt

Near Drumossie Moor, in the hills outside Inverness, April 1746

Mother pulled, groaning herself with the effort of righting bones in a swollen cage of damaged muscle. Jock screamed again, a sound so laden with suffering that Emma shook to hear it. She held tight to him, focusing intently on his good eye which stayed squeezed shut. God help him. God help him.

Then suddenly it was over. Mother straightened. Jock sagged against Emma.

“Get the plank, Thomas,” Mother said, her voice breathless. “We’ll lash it to the leg. Enid, fetch me the linen.”

Murray knelt beside Emma. “How is he?”

She slipped the leather from Jock’s mouth. He let his head fall forward onto her breast and she cradled him protectively.

Jock tried to speak.

“Hush, now,” Emma said, a bit of her mother’s no-arguments tone entering her voice.

Jock pulled away from her and fell back onto the pallet. Emma saw a bright new stain at his shoulder. Then noticed a red smear on her own frock.

Murray stood. “I’ll tell her,” he said, moving quickly across the cave.

Emma sat on her hip, reached quickly under her skirts and took hold of her right stocking. Pulling it off, she folded it down and pressed it against Jock’s shoulder. He gazed at her, smiling a distant smile that made her slightly uneasy.

“You’ll be fine, Jock. Just keep on! You’ve come so far already,” she said, unhappy with how quickly the stocking was reddening.

Mother returned, lifting Emma’s hands away. “Just keep holding it like that, Emma. We’ll get his leg trussed up and then we’ll stop that shoulder from giving him any more troubles.”

Emma glanced back at Jock, who’d closed his eye and seemed so awfully pale. She felt a stab of dread. His lid fluttered open, his unfocused gaze roaming before his good eye found her.

Her heart surged with relief even as her fingers slickened with his blood. The stocking soaked through, but she held it there anyway as Mother had bid her.

“Talk to me,” the clansman said again, smiling a faint smile.

“I’m so glad you found us, Jock. So very glad. I want to hear all about you. How you came to be in the Scots Royal. Murray recognized your colours. My future husband is in the Scots Royal.”

Pain registered on his face as the linen strips were tightened about his leg, securing the plank.

“Future husband...” he whispered.

“Douglas Montford.”

Jock’s expression changed. He sized her up now and she could feel him retreat from her. “Lieutenant-Colonel Montford,” he said, verifying.

“Yes.”

Mother and Enid joined her. Emma removed the stocking and Mother peered closer at his wounds. Reaching out carefully, she touched a spot here or there until Jock twitched.

“Wash him down, Enid,” Mother said. “We’ll get started once we can see what’s what. Tell me, young sir,” she addressed her patient. “Do you remember how you came by these?”

Jock nodded weakly. “English bayonet, Madam.”

Emma felt queasy.

“You’re an extremely lucky man, Mr. MacKeigan,” Mother explained. “That steel missed your lungs and heart both.”

“Just stubborn, I imagine,” he smiled, swallowing dryly.

“Shall I fetch the ladle, Mother?” Emma asked.

“Well, he’s kept the rest of it down, even after all that. But see if you can get Thomas to part with more whisky. There’s more to be done and though you’re a brave man, Mr. MacKeigan, you’ll do as I ask and take another dram.”

His smile got wider. “A man knows when he’s beat, Madam.”

“From the looks of you, I’d like to see the man could do that,” Mother said.

“I’m at your mercy, ladies,” he said softly. “That should be answer enough.”

“Come now, Emma,” Mother said. “Fetch the flask and let’s patch him up.”

Emma rose and saw how Jock’s gaze followed her every move. As she turned to find Thomas she knew tonight would be just as sleepless as last night had been.

Best get the whisky. There was more agony to inflict before the clansman got his rest.

***

The MacBean’s daughter wiped the stale sweat from his face.

“All over now,” she said.

The mother rose and stepped away with the servant, murmuring in the background.

“You must rest,” the young lady said. Her fingertips brushed away the sticky strands of hair from his forehead.

“Don’t leave me,” he said suddenly.

“Hush, now. We’ve no more to do, Mr. MacKeigan. All over now.”

His vision was blurry and he shook his head to clear it.

“Lay down! You musn’t try to get up.” Her voice was conspiritorial, as though she tried to guard him from detection.

But Jock had taken too much whisky, had gone through too much to let sense get between himself and what he desired. He craned his head, blinking hard until her face took shape before him.

Such a sweet thing. Look at the way she gazed down at him. Had God truly chosen him above other men, sending an angel to watch over him?

“Why to me?” he whispered.

The angel hovered closer. Jock shook his head back and forth, unwilling to accept it. “What do you want of me?”

“Mr. MacKeigan,” she said, laying her hand on his good arm.

Jock felt a cool calmness settle over him. The MacBean’s daughter. Yes. All stitched up now. He could rest then, couldn’t he?

“You musn’t try to speak,” she cautioned. “Close your eyes. Hush. Time to rest.”

Those lovely fingertips stroked his forehead. Jock let his eyelid droop, his chin dropping onto his chest.

Twisted limbs blown off by cannon fire.

Unearthly shrieks.

Howls of frustration as men begged for the order to charge.

Jock started awake.

Two blue eyes gazed into his, steadied him, stopped him from leaping off the pallet away from the guns. Two firm hands pressed him down though his heart beat like a drummer calling the advance.

“You’re safe, Mr. MacKeigan. You’re here with all of us. The soldiers can’t get to us.”

Jock panted for breath, listening carefully just to be sure.

MacBean’s daughter again took his face in her hands. He was forced to look into those eyes.

“I’ll stay with you. Now lay back. You must get some rest.”

Jock nodded and sagged back on the pallet.

Had he...had he really seen an angel just then? No...the whisky. Hadn’t slept...marched all night...Lieutenant-Colonel Montford called the men back to the field. No time to rest. God, he was tired.

“You’ll take first watch over him, Emma. He seems to settle with you.”

“Yes, Mother.”

A plaid pulled up over him and he sighed. He remembered now. The MacBean’s daughter tended him. That’s where he was. Safe to sleep. All over now.

Cpoyright - Julia Smith - 2008

Poetry Train Monday - 53 - An Excerpt From My Gamekeeper Story

2008-06-15T11:34:00.000-07:00

Here's another excerpt, this one from my Scottish gamekeeper story. This excerpt precedes the one I posted previously:

Scottish gamekeeper excerpt 2

This story is set in Scotland in the early 1820's. Lady Jocelyne Moncrieffe hides from her dangerous nephew in the highlands. Guthrie Carmichael, her gamekeeper, takes her to stay with his family, only to discover his sister - who raised her brothers from the age of twelve - is gravely ill. I've modelled Jocelyne after Neve Campbell, while Guthrie is modelled after Sean Bean.

Excerpt

In this murky gloom, Jean’s pale wasting body sent his thoughts back to the cell on the far side of town, to that day twenty-seven years past, when he’d run from his father’s bony grasp.

Guthrie’s stomach lurched and his chest suddenly hollowed, filled by a sickening weight that pressed on him.

His father had asked for them, for his children, for he’d known he hadn’t much time left. And as it turned out, he’d lasted only another four days.

Jean had taken them to the prison, had carried three-year-old Guthrie past the gargoyle faces hovering over the entrance and had pulled him, unwilling, through the dark passages, following the warden with his great jangling keys that had opened their father’s cell door.

The other boys were quiet and compliant, somehow sensing the serious nature of this visit. They followed Jean to the prison without any trouble, had filed past the monstrous stone faces without a shiver or complaint. It was only Guthrie who’d pulled back on Jean’s hand, afraid to go in, afraid of the stone walls and the timbered doors four inches thick. It had been Jean’s father as well, hadn’t it, dying there, and perhaps she too had been afraid to go in. Had wished for a hand to hold that wasn’t Guthrie’s tiny resisting one.

Jean tried to go to Father, struggling to rise on his filthy cot. But Guthrie clung to her, his arms and legs clamping around her body in a desperate grip. He wailed piteously, the pitch of it rising as she attempted to go near Father again.

Motioning Alastair to approach in her stead, Jean stood impatiently with the others, hiking Guthrie’s weight up when he began to sag down her undeveloped hips. And Guthrie, afraid of being set down, clamped on all the tighter, choking her neck in his desperation.

In the dim light through the rusted grating over the window, Guthrie saw Craig’s little face staring over at Father. Eyes round as boiled eggs and little fingers pulling absently at his lips.

Behind him, Guthrie heard low whispering as Alastair spoke with Father. Guthrie didn’t like Father's wheezy breath, the coughing. He didn't want to speak to this father. He wanted his old father, the laughing father. He longed to be scooped up and tossed into the air by strong hands, embraced by arms alive and filled with love. But all Guthrie felt in that dark cell was clutching, fearful desperation.

Father’s tone deepened, thickened. Not only babies cried, but men could, as well. Guthrie went very still from the shock of it, laying his cheek against Jean’s shoulder, relaxing his grip on her. She’d rocked him back and forth, turning to urge Lewis to go to Father next, and then Taggart.

Sniffles permeated the cell. Father spoke to each boy, his voice trembling. Craig grabbed onto Jean’s skirts, and Guthrie tensed once more as Jean reached down to take Craig by the shoulder, to nudge him gently forward. Guthrie whimpered as she took a step towards the cot.

“Hush now!” she hissed in his ear. Guthrie stilled abruptly. He pressed his face into Jean’s neck. Craig cried quietly at Father’s soft words.

Jean began to kneel, bringing Guthrie down to where Father could touch him. Guthrie didn’t remember much of what happened then.

Now in Jean’s room, he felt that same horror building in his chest, overflowing his gut. It never failed him with these memories. Perhaps his distress showed on his face, for wasn’t Lady Moncrieffe awake now, peering at him through the dark, her eyes glinting with concern?

Jerking her head to look at Jean, his mistress rose from her chair and attended to his sister. A few cursory checks and it was clear that Jean was sleeping undisturbed by any bad turn.

Rising, she asked, “Have you come to sit with her awhile?”

He couldn’t answer. Couldn’t speak. Only locked his gaze on hers.

“What is it, Mr. Carmichael?”

For some reason he couldn’t understand, that question, her voice, the expression in her eyes - a furious yearning rolled like a wave through his body, and Guthrie blinked at the tears burning his eyes and choking his throat.

Footsteps crept into the room behind him and Lady Moncrieffe glanced over his shoulder.

“D’ye need some sleep, then, or is Guthrie taking the watch?” Craig asked softly.

“I believe he was intending to give me some rest, but he looks much more tired than I am,” Lady Moncrieffe spoke up.

“I’ll take the next watch with her,” Craig said, heading past the others for the chair.

Before he really knew how it happened, Guthrie stood outside the door of the worn-out house, Lady Moncrieffe closing it behind them. He stared at her, watching her pull one of Jean’s threadbare shawls tighter about her shoulders.

“You looked as though you could use some air,” she said. A slender but determined arm slipped through his. She led him forward, their path easy to find in the grey dawn.

Where was she taking them? he wondered. She didn’t know the area at all.

Not far, it seemed. She stopped at a shelf of black basalt rock creeping up beside the path. When he continued to stand, as if bewildered, she all but pushed him down so that he sat on the ledge.

Her giggling roused him from his stupor.

“Was I this lively when I was the sleepwalker?” she asked, smiling.

He smiled back, though his stomach churned like rapids foaming over rocks. He remembered another doorway, a grander door than his sister’s. A door much like the one that kept the Inverness prison locked tight against the daylight.

His lady had turned in that doorway. Had kissed him and said, “I’ll be waiting.”

“What is it, Mr. Carmichael?” she asked again, her voice tinged with longing.

He looked at her, his heart beating at the sight of her. The faint grey light cast a bluish tint to her skin.

“Ye really don’t recall it, then? What ye did when I found ye wandering around in the night?”

He watched her recoil, as if his very words were noxious.

“No.” Her eyelids fluttered and her lips pressed together, as if she feared words that had already been spoken and too late to change them.

“I ought to tell ye, then. Should have done, before...” But he lost his way, in her brown eyes so filled with dread.

Her fingers closed around his arm. “Don’t feel that...you...oh...” Her voice trailed off and she turned her head, staring at the rock ledge and waiting for the blow to land. Guthrie felt her nearness, as if those inches didn't separate them. And suddenly they didn’t.

He pressed her against his body, covering her lips with his mouth.

All the moments of his life led to this one. Guthrie's senses screamed back to life with the taste of her. Opening his eyes, he found Lady Moncrieffe returning his gaze with naked fear. He released her.

“That’s something ye wouldna remember.” His words tumbled into the morning only to hang there, idiotic and humiliating to them both. Guthrie sat, staring at his feet. Wishing he’d never got up from his bed, had not lit the candle, not entered Jean’s room to find Lady Moncrieffe watching over his sister.

But angels could be swift with righteous anger. This one swung her slender arm with all the force of her injured pride. Her hand struck his face with a loud crack. Guthrie’s cheek flared with pain.

“You forget yourself, sir!”

“No. But I wish I could.”

“What was the meaning of that? Tell me plainly!”

“Ye said ye didna remember what ye did or said when I found ye sleepwalking. So I just showed ye.”

His mistress trembled with outrage. Her cheeks flushed and her eyes darkened with anger.

“When I brought ye back to Kinnoull,” he went on, “the second time - ye never woke. And we walked back, the whole way. Ye spoke with me and I answered ye. Ye took me by the arm and walked with me, up to the castle door. As if we were sweet on each other. And then ye turned, and ye did to me what I just did to ye.”

His mistress looked at him in raw dismay. Guthrie dropped his gaze, unwilling to see her at such a loss.

“What more is there?” Her voice thickened with shame.

Without raising his head, he replied, “Ye said to me, ‘I’ll be waiting.’ And then ye went into the castle. And I stood there, wondering if ye meant fer me to follow.”

He peered at her, but she could not meet that look. She shut her eyes against the sight of him.

“And I wished that ye did mean fer me to follow," he said. "But I knew ye were dreaming. That ye thought I were someone else - yer husband, I figured. In yer dream, ye were trying to meet up with someone. That’s who I figured it were. Who else would ye be kissin’?”

“Not my lover, surely!”

Guthrie’s heart squeezed painfully. “I told ye - I knew ye didna mean me. But it didna stop me from standing there in an empty doorway, wondering what it would be like if ye had meant me.”

Copyright - Julia Smith - 2008

Poetry Train Monday - 46 - The Penitent

2008-04-21T12:11:00.000-07:00

Before I went to Ryerson for film, I'd already been writing screenplays. During first year, when I heard that we'd eventually be doing a special project with the theatre department in third year, I knew what story I would use.

I developed a scene from the full-length screenplay treatment to use as a short film. I wanted it to feel as if it had been plucked from a full-length screenplay, however. And I was very pleased with how it turned out.

It was a joy to work with trained actors from Ryerson's theatre school. I was lucky because my husband went to The New School of Drama in Toronto, and my sister was a veteran of high school and community theatre. So I had a pair of actors I could count on, while using non-actors for everything else. Meaning my friends and co-workers from the theatre where I worked. Luckily, most of my friends there were creative types and willing to expand their skill level through acting in a couple of my films.

But for The Pentitent I got a taste of the talent search. The film students got to meet the acting students in a huge group meeting, then we submitted requests for whom we'd like for our roles. We had to pick 1st, 2nd and 3rd - and lucky me, I got all my first choices!

For the scary step father, Luther, I got Ted Ludzik. For Kate I got Linda Ballantyne. And for Arlen I got Andrew Croft, whom I can't find on the net other than through an academic theatre group from Toronto called Handmade Performance.

Here is the script for my third year film, with the addition of stills which I photographed off my TV. Keep in mind that Blogger won't allow center spacing - everything here is aligned left, but all dialogue should appear in the center.

EXT. – SNOWED-IN ANIMAL SHED – 1830’s NEW BRUNSWICK –DAY

Luther drags Arlen along the tunneled path to the door, opening it. Arlen struggles, trying desperately to stay outside. But Luther yanks him along with no trouble.

INT. – ANIMAL SHED – DAY

Luther dumps Arlen onto the hay-covered floor. He pulls his coat off, heading across the small space to grab a strap from a peg on a post.

LUTHER

Take your coat off.

Arlen gets as far as hands and knees, wiping the blood from his nose. Luther strides over to him, yanks the coat from Arlen and kicks him down again. Arlen covers his head with his hands as the blows begin.

INT. – CABIN – DAY

Kate cracks an egg into a bowl and stirs the mixture. She hears Arlen’s cries from outside and stops mixing.

INT. – ANIMAL SHED – DAY

Luther holds nothing back as he rains the blows on Arlen. Though seventeen, Arlen cries like a terrified child.

INT. – CABIN – DAY

Kate tries to carry on with the cooking, but puts her bowl down as her son’s cries fill her ears. She pulls her rosary out from beneath her shawl and prays.

INT. – ANIMAL SHED – DAY

Arlen puts a hand back to shield himself. Luther stops just long enough to kneel beside Arlen, forcing the boy’s hand away. He swings the strap again and Arlen’s cries are filled with hopelessness.

INT. – CABIN – DAY

Kate flees the cabin.

INT. – ANIMAL SHED – DAY

Kate arrives at the shed door, taking in the scene between her husband and son. She runs forward.

KATE

Luther, no!

Kate flings herself at Luther, but he easily tosses her aside. He continues the beating, so Kate hurls herself between Arlen and the strap. When it strikes her, Luther pulls back, as if suddenly realizing she’s there.

LUTHER

Kate.

KATE

What has he done?

Luther tosses the strap aside, lunging for Arlen. He picks Arlen up by the front of his shirt, shaking him back and forth.

LUTHER

Tell her. Tell her!

ARLEN

Wolves got into the food.

Luther throws Arlen down into the hay and backs away from them, gaining his feet.

LUTHER

He didn’t secure the food store! The wolves got everything. Meat. Grain. Everything.

Kate looks at her son. Arlen hangs his head, shivering and crying. Luther stoops and retrieves his coat, putting it on.

LUTHER

I’m going to head out. See if I can get anything. Deer. Rabbit, maybe.

He exits the shed. Kate looks at Arlen, then reaches for him, but he pulls away from her.

KATE

Why would you..? Why didn’t he do it?

ARLEN

When we got back from the traplines, the storm… It was already blowing, and he… He went for the animals. The snow was blowing. I couldn’t see. My hands were freezing.

Kate takes one of his hands in hers. She sees an ugly red welt on it. Arlen moves closer to her, but Kate bursts into tears.

KATE

Luther!

She dashes after her husband. Arlen huddles on the floor of the shed. After a few moments, he rises painfully to his feet. He picks up the strap and carries it back to the peg, where he hangs it.

He makes his way to his coat and puts it on, then leaves the shed.

Copyright - Julia Smith - 1994

Poetry Train Monday - 36 - Excerpt From My Scottish Gamekeeper Story

2008-02-11T11:47:00.000-08:00

In honor of Valentine's Day this week, my offering for the Poetry Train is an excerpt from the very first manuscript I wrote. I figured some romantic tension might be just the thing.

To introduce you to the characters, this is the story of Guthrie Carmichael, a gamekeeper on a Scottish castle estate in 1822. Because I cast all my characters, which makes it easier for me to write them, Guthrie looks like English actor Sean Bean, whom you may know from the Richard Sharpe series or as Boromir from The Lord of the Rings films.

Guthrie is employed by Jocelyne, Lady Moncrieffe who recently lost her husband the earl and is trying to sort out who legally inherits the earldom. Jocelyne looks like actress Neve Campbell from Party of Five and Scream.

Jocelyne's nephew has arrived and seems rather eager to take over the reins, but a new development suddenly puts her life in danger. She flees to Guthrie's modest highland home until another innocent's life hangs in the balance. As we pick up the story, the two of them stay at the home of the Duke and Duchess of Knoxworth as they travel south to stop her nephew.

Jocelyne lived with the family of her servant in the highlands, and now Guthrie must pretend to be her cousin and act the gentleman to stay with the Knoxworths. Accompanying them is Guthrie's best friend Ronald Lundy, the coachman back at the castle, the one who sent word that they must return. Lundy poses as Guthrie's servant, which makes for awkwardness between the two friends.

Excerpt from my Scottish Gamekeeper Story

Lundy woke him in time to dress for dinner. Guthrie shaved at the mirrored wash stand in his room, then freshened up before climbing into his fancy new rigging.

He reddened in discomfort that his friend should shine his shoes even as he plunged his limbs into this foreign territory. There were fawn-colored trousers, a white linen shirt with tiny pearl buttons that took an age to do up. Then a striped satin waistcoat, gold and tan, and a chocolate brown cravat. Lundy struggled to tie it at his friend’s throat amidst more snickering. Overtop of all this, a burgundy evening jacket ending smartly at the waist in front, and sporting medium-length tails behind.

Then Lundy fussed over his hair like a maid. Splashing hair tonic onto his palms, Lundy ran his hands through Guthrie’s wayward hair, smoothing it down, parting it to the side with a comb, and arranged it till he was bang up.

“How do they get it to go all in curls?” Lundy muttered.

Launched off to the dining hall, Lundy gave him instructions on how to address the servants in the event that he should get lost.

Dinner was nearly enjoyable. He knew by now to encourage the duchess to begin a story as a means of buying time, so he’d not be at risk of exposing his own inadequacies of manner. He remembered to lag behind everyone else, never to be the first to reach for a utensil or a glass, so he could copy their movements without showing too much of a delay about it.

He took pains to ignore the meal itself - no matter how mysterious the dish was, whether or not he could identify the substance as meat, fish or fowl. All of it hid beneath equally curious sauces and jellies. He transformed any shock that came over his face into an unexpected delight at the talents of their cook. And though he’d rather have washed everything down with a great jar of ale, the wine was an acceptable alternative.

It seemed no time at all before Lady Moncrieffe had slipped her arm through his, and they were bidding their goodnights to the Duke and Duchess of Knoxworth. Turning from the dining hall, they strolled down the corridor and headed up the staircase, under the playful gaze of the cherubim tumbling from the gallery ceiling.

“Indeed, Mr. Carmichael,” his mistress said. “I’ve never seen the duchess so taken with anyone, aside from the duke himself, that is.”

Guthrie chuckled, embarrassed.

“You’re doing a remarkable turn,” she continued. “Even I’m beginning to think we’re related.”

“Lundy must have known best, after all,” said Guthrie.

“I’ve learned my lesson,” she said. “Never underestimate a man from Moray.”

Guthrie looked at her. She walked beside him, sparkling in colored gemstones at her throat, her wrist, within the loops of her dark hair. She’d flashed him such a smile, those lips sliding back down to hide her teeth. Those lips -

He took a deep breath.

“Ye slept well last night, then?” he stammered.

They were nearing her door. “Yes, thank you. I knew that I would.”

She stopped, and they lingered, their arms still entwined.

“Ye looked so peaceful,” he whispered. “I couldna think what might drive ye from that peace.”

Her gaze took him in. Those brown eyes seemed to grow larger and larger, till there was nothing but her eyes, nothing but himself looking into them.

“Ye’ve got a maid to see to ye?” His voice was throaty with the need of her.

“I’m to ring for her - ”

“Don’t.” He lurched forward, jerked the doorhandle and pushed wide the door. With a sure hand, he grasped her forearm, tugging her into the room with him.

“Secure that,” he said, nodding his head toward the door even as he strode across the room for the one that led into his own.

His mistress, startled into silence, walked to the door and locked it. Guthrie swiftly made his way through the connecting doors and burst in on Lundy, who sat lounging by the fire. Before Lundy could open his mouth, Guthrie said, “I’m with her ladyship. Got everything ye need?”

Lundy raised a dish of clean-picked bones with one hand, hidden till now by his chair. His other hand nursed a steaming cup of tea.

Guthrie grinned and nodded. His friend raised the tea cup in salute, settling back in the chair. Turning, Guthrie looked at the door that led to his mistress.

What was he doing? He should tell Lundy.

Lundy would talk him out of it. ‘Ye daft ignoramus,’ he’d say. ‘Those sparkish clothes aren’t yers and don’t be gettin’ used to them. Ye’re lucky for a position at Kinnoull. Even if the new laird’s a murderin’ bastard...’

Guthrie stood at the threshold of his lady’s chamber. He spied her, sitting on the edge of the bed, head bent, her hands in her lap.

No.

But his hand pushed open the door. She turned to look at him, her face a confusion of relief and uncertainty. Guthrie crossed the floor to stand before his mistress – until the scent of her, the warmth of her pushed him to his knees. He sank willingly to the floor before he lost himself to the force of her.

“Mr. Carmichael,” she said, alarmed.

“Ye have no maid to help ye. So I shall do it.” His fingers wrapped around the heel of one slipper, easing it from her foot. Her breath drew sharply. The other slipper, gone. He held those silky feet in his hands, that gossamer feel of the stockings as he slid his palms along her calves, along the pale whiteness of her thighs beneath those rustling skirts. She trembled.

The tips of his fingers found the garters holding them in place. With a mere tug, they gave in to him. He slid the silk loose, her skin even softer. She made sounds that stirred him with furious intention.

He looked up past the tumble of her petticoats, her evening frock cascading every which way. Her eyes closed, her mouth open in a suspended oh. When he stopped, her lashes fluttered open. Her gaze travelled drunkenly downwards, till she found him looking at her. A surge of power coursed through him.

She was his. Whatever he desired, she would give it to him.

“Milady,” he said, “when we get ourselves back to the castle, whatever happens with it, wherever ye may end up, I shall serve ye. Not because ye’re my mistress. Because I love ye.”

She looked at him as though he’d struck her. Every nerve in his body prickled with that admission. He loved her. It was simple.

The great, divine comedy of it made him want to roar - with laughter, with sobbing, with rage that it should be so. He would risk everything, every ridiculous dream of a life where he would be his own man. He would be nothing if he was asked to trade his lady for that.

“God help me,” he said. “But I must have ye.” And he bent his head, touching his lips to the inside of her knee, his forehead brushing the tousled creamy satin of her gown.

Her fingers found their way into his hair, squeezing rough handfulls of it. Suddenly she tugged at him, so he was forced to look at her.

“You shall not have me.” Her brown eyes were blazing, daring him to contest her.

“I must.” He brought his hands up to cover hers, pulling them free, turning the palms so that he buried his face in her grasp.

“You don’t want me,” she persisted, her breathing growing heavier.

“I do want ye,” he said, pressing her palms to his lips, grasping her wrists and pulling her face closer to his.

Lady Moncrieffe’s expression darkened, her anger swift, so that she yanked her arms free of him. “You can’t even see me, for this!” She held the glittering bracelet poised between them like an accusation.

Guthrie grabbed at her arm and held her fast. He could see that it was a little too tight, that she bit back a comment. He unfastened the clasp and freed the bracelet from her wrist.

He let her go, meeting her gaze as she gasped at his rude treatment. Dropping the bracelet on one of the stockings beside him on the carpet, he rose to his feet. He circled around the bed, climbing upon it to kneel behind her and unclasp the necklace in silence. Grasping her shoulders, he leaned forward, tossing the string of jewels past her legs, to land next to the bracelet on the silky nest.

His lips nuzzled her ear as he whispered, “I am yer servant, and there’s nothing to be done about it. I shall help ye to undress. I’m yer servant, because I love ye. I shall undress ye, to love ye. Ye’re my lady.”

Burying his face into the curve of her neck, Guthrie’s heartbeat quickened as he heard her sigh. He set to work on the colored strands of jewels entwined in her hair. As the tresses loosened, a dizzying aroma of spices wafted from the coils and braids that his fingers set free. Bending his head to plunge his face into the soft thickness of her dark hair, he groaned his pleasure as she whispered, “Guthrie.”

He slid off the bed to kneel once more before his love. For a breathless moment he stayed immobile at her feet, looking up at an image so beautiful it threatened to choke him. He swallowed against it as his hands moved of their own accord. He took hold of her foot and kissed it, rubbing his face along the curve of her instep.
His hands skimmed the elegance of her legs, his lips brushing the contours of her knee. Her hands lunged for his hair once more, holding him in place.

Guthrie slipped his hands around to her bottom, and the shock released him from her grip. He rose, swept her legs up with one arm and eased her onto the bed. Her gaze locked with his, full of the anchoring steadiness which saved him so many months ago in the Tower Room.

Her features were gravely serious.

“You are truly mine, then?” she said, her voice thick with desire.

Guthrie swallowed. “Aye,” he said.

She seemed to take in his features like a map reader, the ridge of his eyebrows telling her one thing, the slope of his cheeks another. When she was done surveying him, she looked deeply into his eyes.

“I have never had anything of my own before,” she said. Her voice was awed and delighted at once.

Guthrie didn’t know what to say to that.

He pulled her close to him, burying his face in those dark tangles. And when she sought out his lips, her kisses were the reprieve he sought. For he had never given himself to anyone before, and he didn’t know whether he would regret it when he put his feet back on the duke’s floor and made his way back to his room in the morning.

Copyright - Julia Smith - 2008

Poetry Train Monday - 22 - Third Gardener Story Installment

2007-10-08T11:59:00.000-07:00

Happy Thanksgiving, Canadian bloggers! Hope you had a delicious turkey dinner yesterday, or will be having one today. My husband and I had a wonderful time at my cousin's last night.

For this week's Poetry Train, I'm picking up the story of Robbie and Helen, not long after we left them out on the snowy grounds of an English country house.

Cheltenham, England - Winter of 1844

Trailing behind the younger laundry maids on her way back to the servants’ entrance, Helen didn’t notice the man on horseback following behind her until the horse gave a shrill whinny.

She turned and saw Mr. Zackary Chase pulling the horse back into a walk, though it obviously strained to bound ahead. Helen looked toward the two girls, heads together chatting as they neared the great house. Behind her, the little stone laundry seemed just as far.

Her heart thumped with alarm.

Another part of her saw the fine way he sat his mount, the way his blue eyes twinkled as he looked down at her. He didn’t seem anything like the man she’d been warned against so often.

“Good afternoon,” he said, touching the brim of his hat in greeting.

Helen blushed. Mr. Chase dismounted as she bobbed quickly in a curtsey.
He held the horse steady by the reins, though for a moment the animal side-stepped and swished its tail as though frustrated.

“She gets jealous when I stop to talk,” Mr. Chase said, his voice filled with the promise of laughter.

Helen smiled, unable to stop herself.

“Do you ride?” he asked, his eyes inviting her to move closer.

She shook her head, looking at the shining golden mare with pale blonde mane and tail, at the way it pulled playfully against the reins in Chase’s hands.

“I’ve nearly grown up on a horse,” he said. “I ride every day. Weather permitting.”

Helen was certain she was not to speak to her betters unless answering a question, yet he just stood there, waiting for her to say something.

“I suppose we ought to introduce ourselves,” he said, suppressing a grin. “I'm Zackary Chase. You've heard of my father, of course - Brigadier-General Josiah Chase, retired. Late of the 13th, Madras. India.”

The young gentleman was coming closer, the now docile mare following behind. “Until I went to school, of course,” he continued, his gloved hand reaching for hers. Helen had to fight the urge to snatch it away from him. What could he be thinking?

“Then I returned to England,” he said, bringing her hand to his lips. He held it tenderly in both of his, the soft grey doeskin caressing her like velvet. His blue eyes filled with confusion. “But where are your gloves?”

Helen couldn’t bear it any longer. She pulled against his grip until he allowed her to slip free. “I don’t have any, sir,” she replied, her tone flustered.

“Sir...” he echoed, and he cocked his head slightly.

“You’ve mistaken me, surely. My name is Helen Slaunwhite. I’m the new laundry maid.” Her words seemed to hang there between them. A raven’s irritated caw punctuated the silence.

Then he laughed. A marvelous, infectious laugh that smoothed the furrow from Helen’s brow. “I’m afraid I did take you for someone else,” he said, eyes alight with amusement. “I was certain you were a visitor from the neighboring estate. I feared you’d become seperated from your party somehow and got lost.”

“Oh, no, sir,” she said, feeling her cheeks grow hot. “Just dawdlin’ behind, is all.” The way his eyes took her in - the flush on her cheeks spread into her chest, making her stomach flutter.

Mr. Chase stroked the mare’s face with affection. “Would you like to meet Miss Slaunwhite?” he asked the horse, whose ears pricked forward.

The master's son looked at Helen and flicked his head toward the mare. “Come and meet Madhu.” Helen took a step forward, hardly believing a beautiful, regal animal such as this really existed.

“This is Miss Slaunwhite,” he said to the mare, nodding encouragement as Helen stretched out her hand. “Let her find your scent, first,” he advised Helen. “That’s it.”

Helen began to softly stroke the darker brown muzzle when Madhu shook her head and blew sharply through her nose. Helen swallowed the squeal that lodged in her throat.
A chuckle erupted beside her. Helen smiled at her own foolishness and resumed stroking the mare’s golden face.

“That’s it,” Mr. Chase assured. “She’s lovely, isn’t she?”

“Oh, yes,” Helen whispered.

Suddenly she felt him standing very near, his face brushing her ear. “I was talking about you.”

Helen’s breath caught in her throat. She twisted away, but he was already swinging up into the saddle and Madhu was tossing her head, impatient to be off.

Mr. Chase again touched the brim of his hat. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you,” he said, his face serious. Then he turned Madhu, cantering off in a spray of snow and a sweep of that glorious blonde tail.

Helen stood and watched him disappear into the trees. She was humming inside with a secret joy. It radiated outward, leaving her trembling with the force of it.

Slowly she walked back toward the house and the servants’ entrance. When she’d left the flat back in town, she’d simply had no idea how much would be left behind. At home, Helen Slaunwhite was little more than a problem to be solved - a mouth to feed, a back to clothe. But here, at Ashbury Downs, Helen Slaunwhite was fussed over, worried about, talked to, smiled upon.

It made her feel like someone who mattered.

***

(the next scene does not follow directly afterward, but for the Poetry Train I'm telescoping them to stay with the storyline)

Robbie pushed through the bracken, snapping twigs in his wake. He was looking for picturesque branches laden with bright red berries.

Sollows needed them for several large floral arrangements requested by Mrs. Chase for her dinner party tomorrow.
He spied a number of them. Rosehips they looked to be, but they'd do. Pulling out his pocketknife, he cut the branch with practised ease, taking care with the thorns. When he had several, he closed up the knife and dropped it in his pocket.

A laugh floated through the trees. Rob looked up from tying the branches into a bundle.

The wind stirred the tree tops, and for a moment Rob thought he surely imagined it.
But there it came again. Crystalline laughter that floated on the breeze.

He peered between the trees, looking for its source. To the west he could make out two people and a golden horse. Only one man owned an animal with such unmistakable coloring. Young Mr. Chase at his favorite sport again.

Rob bent to his work, fighting the urge to see which poor maid was at the young gentleman’s mercy. It was one thing to know it was a common occurrence. But after those excruciating moments spent witnessing poor Lucy’s torment - well, it was hard to look her in the face, was all.

He turned back to the rosehips. Again that laughter rippled past him and he left his work to weave through the trees for a closer look.

The horse tossed its head and whinnied. Chase helped the maid into the saddle, murmuring some encouragement or other.

Robbie’s breath felt knocked from his chest. It was Helen.

It couldn't be - he’d sent word. Through Lucy. Stay away from Zachary Chase he’d said. Lucy had assured him she’d told Helen the other night.

He stared down at the rosehips. Sollows waited for him. Must he court trouble for himself again on account of the new laundry maid? Rob looked to see Chase leaning close against the horse, Helen’s head bent low as she listened to the young master weave his lies.

How quickly Chase had walked out on Lucy once he was done with her. Rob remembered how it felt to look into Helen’s hazel eyes, gazing on him through the conservatory glass that same afternoon. He couldn’t bear to think of the pain that would fill those eyes if Chase got his hands on her.

Dashing back for the bundled branches, Robbie made for the clearing and for Helen.

The horse raised its head. Chase turned. All Robbie saw was Helen and the glow on her face.

“Ah. Flynn, is it?” Chase said.

Robbie took his hat off and nodded, glancing quickly to Helen. Uncertainty clouded her features. Then her expression changed and Rob suddenly felt his swollen lip as if it had grown to cover his head.

“Gardening out here in the wood?” Chase asked, his tone conversational.

Rob raised the rosehip bundle. “Your mother’s dinner party, sir.”

“Ah,” Chase smiled, turning to Helen. “I knew there was some sort of gloom hanging over tomorrow.”

“Has she hurt herself?” Robbie said, nodding up at Helen.

Chase turned back to Robbie, his smile gone.

“A laundry maid should ride the master’s horse, sir?” Rob wondered pointedly.

“Oh, I’m not hurt,” Helen protested, blushing.

“And I am not master here. That would be my father,” Chase said. “And then my brother, in his turn. I am but a guest in this house.”

“You shouldn’t trouble Mr. Chase, miss,” Rob tried again, looking up at Helen and hoping she’d sense his urgency. To her credit, she did seem uncomfortable sitting up there where she had no business being.

“She’s no trouble,” said Chase.

Rob looked towards the house, wondering how he could get Helen away from Chase without losing his livelihood into the bargain. “I could accompany Miss Slaunwhite, sir, if ye’re done with her,” Robbie offered.

“Oh, I’m not done with her,” Chase answered, smiling and leaning into the horse with a hand absently stroking its neck.

“If ye please, sir," Helen said, her voice flustered. "Might be best if I go with Mr. Flynn.”

“Best for whom?” Chase asked, his tone warm and inviting.

Rob saw the glow return to Helen’s face. He flared just as quickly with outrage, marvelling how she was so easily charmed. Why should he stick his neck out for her? If Chase was who she wanted, she’d soon have him.

“I’ll be off, then,” Rob said, unable to look at Helen. He slapped his hat back on and turned.

Chase’s hand grabbed Rob’s shoulder and yanked him to a stop.

“One moment,” Chase admonished.

Rob bristled at such treatment before Helen. It took everything he had not to shrug Chase off.

“As it happens, I feel like a brisk ride just now,” Chase said.

Rob turned to see the young gentleman wrap his hands around her waist, helping her down from the horse. Helen kept her eyes averted, yet Rob could almost feel how much she’d thrilled to Chase’s touch.

“I confess I would like you to walk the little miss across the grounds,” Chase ordered.

“No trouble at all, sir,” Rob said, fighting to keep the edge out of his voice.

Chase stepped up into the stirrup and swung his leg effortlessly over the horse’s back. Catching up the reins in one hand, he turned the suddenly spirited animal in a circle, holding the horse back while he gazed down at Helen.

He smiled a dazzling smile and bounded away in a blur of gold.

Robbie stood with Helen in silence for several moments. He didn’t know if he wanted to shake her or shield her with his embrace. When Helen looked up to meet his gaze, a shiver crawled over his skin.

It felt the same as someone passing over his grave. The urge to shake her grew stronger. Anything to stop this hollowing out of his heart.

Copyright 2007 Julia Smith

You can find out what happens a bit later in the story here.

Poetry Train Monday - 21 - Another Gardener Story Excerpt

2007-10-01T12:03:00.000-07:00

I'm immersed in my works in progress at the moment. I should be doing more revisions on my vampire story, but I've had a little flash of brilliance where my gardener story is concerned. So I'm doing a bit of work on Robbie and letting my vampire character, Peredur, take a bit of a break.

For the Poetry Train this week, here's another excerpt from Robbie's story - though the scene is from Helen's point of view. Strangely, although all of my stories give equal time to the male and female characters, in my own mind I always refer to them as the male character's story. Probably because I'm partially in love with my heroes.

This takes place earlier in the story than last week's scene. Helen Slaunwhite is the newest member of the staff of an English country house. She's been warned about the predatory habits of the younger son of the family that employs her, but has not encountered him yet. In this scene, she's at work in the laundry.

Cheltenham, England, the winter of 1844

Helen slapped the wet napkins onto the press, pulling down on the lever in an unseeing cadence. She’d worked past such pain before.

Hours spent hunched over piecework for the seamstress, eyes smarting, her head as though ground by a gristmill - so many times she’d longed to put down her sewing and sleep sitting up.

Every time she’d felt like giving in, Helen had merely looked over at her sisters. If they could go on, she could go on.

Now in the laundry of a country house - imagine - feeling so weak and sore, she determined to go on until the other laundry maids stopped. At least it was light and airy here. How different from her family's dingy flat. As cold as it was outside, the steam from the laundry kettles kept it warm inside, even with all the windows and their drafts. At home, the one window on the far wall had been avoided at all costs, though they'd stuffed old rags and paper into the gaps.

Before too long Helen was done with her basket. She turned to the windows nearest her as Marjorie and Sue lugged it over to the clotheslines. Helen peered out at the frigid landscape between the white window sashes and the frosted panes.

The sky glowed a soothing rosiness. Laceworked barren trees shimmered lavender on the horizon. Snow draped the land as far as she could see. Such open space - then a figure moving across the snow caught her attention.

It was a workman emerging from the trees. Had she ever seen one man alone against such a backdrop? The way he trudged quietly through unmarked snow fascinated her. He carried his tools in mittened hands, his clothing bulky against the cold. The workman slowed, coming to a full stop, turning to regard the stone building housing the laundry. Helen’s breath caught in her chest.

It seemed that he could see her through the frosty window, as though he were looking for her across the grounds. Her heart thudded strangely. Could it be the gardener she’d met yesterday? How she wished he'd spoken to her after dinner.

The figure continued on his unhurried way. And she could hear the girls returning for her final load of linens. Helen turned from the window, her face flushed. Her fatigue had vanished. Blood coursed through her veins, making her feel like she could do an entire day’s work all over again.

“Well, Missy,” Mrs. Greeley said, pushing wayward hair out of her face. “That's a good day’s work. You may go for now. Miss Tattersoll and I will finish this last bit. It’s a very old table linen, very fine and we’ll look after it ourselves. You girls, as well.”

Sue and Marjorie curtsied quickly. “Thank you, Mrs. Greeley,” they said together. Making their way to the hooks by the door, they took up their wraps. Helen followed, swept by urgency. She hoped the gardener was not too far along his way. Sue and Marjorie whispered and giggled, as girls will. They seemed not to notice Helen’s dash out the door.

Helen walked as quickly as she could without running in the direction he’d taken.
The moment she caught sight of him, she knew it was the gardener. He had the same deliberate gait she’d noticed when he left the kitchen yesterday. She closed in on him and he slowed, turned, surprise washing over his face.

Helen stopped, panting so her breath hung in wisps between them.

He looked back at the laundry, then turned his gaze to Helen. “So. Working today, were you?”

Why was she so tongue-tied, and she racing to catch him? “I have a letter for ye,” she blurted out.

“A letter? For me?”

“From home,” she explained.

His green eyes clouded with confusion.

“Yer mum,” she went on. “She sent it through my brother Ned. He used to work fer yer dad at the flower shop.”

Robbie’s eyes widened in recognition. It seemed he saw her now for the first time. His bearing lost some of its stiffness. “Ned Slaunwhite, ye mean?” Rob asked.

“My brother.”

A smile lit the gardener’s face. Helen's stomach lurched, as though she’d jumped from the shed roof into a snowbank.

“Well," he said. "Such a surprise,” and he gave a delighted laugh. “Where is Ned, these days?”

“At home, lookin' after me mum and sisters. And brothers.”

“Yer father’s gone, is he?”

She could only shake her head in answer.

“What’s Ned working at?” Robbie asked, bridging the awkward silence.

“Sellin’ news sheets,” Helen answered, hearing again her dad’s insult that Ned did a boy’s job. “He can read,” she added.

Robbie looked away. Somehow this was all turning out wrong. “I’ll bring yer letter at dinner,” she said, turning suddenly. She didn’t want to see whether the gardener tried to hide his pity.

Robbie Flynn, who delivered flowers with young Ned Slaunwhite when they were both boys. Only, Robbie’s father owned the flower shop - a respected merchant in the spa town of Cheltenham. What was Helen’s father, other than a trial to her mother and a scourge to his children?

If service wasn’t beneath a shopkeeper’s son, was it disgraceful for Helen Slaunwhite to work on an estate as grand as this one? She turned back to find herself staring into the gardener's green eyes again. They were alive with questions.
All he said was, “You must be wanting to wash up for dinner.”

“Oh. Sorry - I'm keepin’ ye. Am I keepin' ye from yer work?”

“Not at all, not at all,” Robbie laughed as Helen hurried to head back for the service door. She hadn't gone far when she risked a look back. The gardener hadn’t moved an inch. Just stood there watching her.

Helen’s heart begin to thump a little stronger than usual. And not just because of the look in the gardener's eyes.

Three men on horseback emerged from the barren grey wood behind Robbie, smooth as rolling fog.

Robbie turned, removing his hat as the riders passed by. He sent Helen a warning look. Thankfully she had enough sense to drop a curtsy before it was too late.
Somehow daring to look up, Helen watched the three gentlemen sway comfortably in their saddles as they rode away from her toward the stables. An older gentleman and two younger ones, all dressed in dark greatcoats draped over the backs of their mounts to be flicked by glossy tails. All three wore tall hats and carried crops in their gloved hands. Shiny boots to the knee poked out from the corners of their coats with the movement of the horses.

Such fine gentlemen. Helen had never seen their like in all her life.

Just as she was about to chide herself for staring, one of the younger men turned in his saddle and looked back at her. He rode a golden horse whose blonde mane and tail nearly glowed in the thin winter light.

The gentleman stared directly at her, his blue eyes icy against the grey sky. His blonde hair lay groomed neatly beneath the brim of his hat. His lips curled slightly in one corner.

The hairs on the back of Helen's neck stood on end.

With a movement as fluid as wine, the gentleman turned away, facing the stables as the other men did.

Helen gasped as Robbie took her by the arm and forced her to look at him. His eyes crackled with alarm. “What on earth were you doing?” he whispered hotly.

“What do ye mean?”

“Has no one told you about that one?”

Helen remembered Bernadette’s words as she led her through the servants’ wing last night. “I didn’t know it were him,” she said.

“Well, who else would look at you like that?” Robbie snapped.

Helen looked down. Robbie was standing very close to her. Her skirts nearly brushed the gardener’s trousers.

A bird called in the moist stillness. Cold crept up her legs and along her spine. Robbie let her go, backing away from her.

“I’ve got to finish my rounds or Sollows will have my head on a platter," he said. "I’m already in it up to my neck from yesterday.” Helen looked at him, afraid it was her arrival yesterday that got him into trouble. The dark impatience she saw in his eyes told her that it was.

“I’ll bring ye the letter. At dinner,” she offered.

He nodded and turned to leave. Helen shut her eyes and sighed. She’d got off to a bad start and was only making it worse.

“Miss Slaunwhite.”

Her eyes opened to see Robbie moving away from her, though he’d twisted around to address her.
“You must take care, now. Promise me.”

She nodded and he turned again, making his way through the wet snow. Helen faced the stables where she could see the gentlemen dismounting in the distance. She fought tears that pulled at her eyes and crushed her throat. When had she ever heard someone asking her to take care?

And how had she managed to live this long without it?

Copyright 2007 Julia Smith

Poetry Train Monday - 20 - Gardener Story Excerpt

2007-09-24T12:07:00.000-07:00

Now that I've got all of my WIP's transferred over from my creaky little turtle of an old computer, I'd like to share an excerpt from one of my historicals.

This story takes place in several locations. It starts off in 1840's England, then follows my two main characters across the sea to Van Dieman's Land (now Tasmania.) This scene takes place about a third of the way into the story.

Robbie Flynn is an under gardener on a country house estate in Cheltenham, England. He plans to serve his apprenticeship under well-respected gardeners until he can be the head gardener or even a landscape designer. His attempts to warn new laundrymaid Helen Slaunwhite about the son of their employer have fallen on deaf ears. I've modelled Robbie on Ewan McGregor.

Helen has recently escaped a harsh life of poverty in the slums. Her time as a laundrymaid feels more like a life of ease in comparison. The master's handsome son makes her feel special, and Robbie's warnings about him just make her dislike the gardener. I've modelled Helen on Kerri Russell.

We pick up the story as it takes a violent turn. Zachary, the master's son has seduced Helen in the conservatory. Robbie attempts to diffuse the situation, but it all goes horribly wrong. The two men fight.

Excerpt:

Chase bucked to free himself. Robbie saw a flash of steel and knew he couldn’t move to deflect it. Then he heard a smash and felt Chase go limp beneath him.

Hands too strong to be Helen’s wrenched Robbie off of Chase. A stout boot clipped him in the ribs.

“Mr. Chase, sir! Good God.”

Robbie fought to catch his breath. He was wet. Why was he wet? The hallboy took hold of Helen as Morrison saw to Chase.

“Don’t you touch her!” Robbie cried.

He struggled to his knees, only to get the butler’s Indian army walking stick across the face. He crumpled on the wet marble, head spinning, chin burning.

“Mind the glass,” Morrison cautioned as it crunched underfoot. “Let’s get him upright.” The crisp instructions of the former sergeant of the 13th Regiment inspired swift obedience even from the young master. He sat with help. More moans from the wanker.

“Don’t try to speak, sir. Your face is a bloody mess.”

Robbie got back to his knees and sat on his heels. No one moved to clobber him just yet. Now he could see what made such a wreck of Chase’s once-fine features. The glass fishbowl that once sat on the table lay in shards on the floor. The goldfish lay still amid a stretch of tiny pebbles and sodden water plants.

Helen stood as still as the little fish. The hallboy held her but she gave him no trouble. She had sealed her fate and Robbie's.

The gash oozed deeply across Chase’s forehead, leading down through his right brow. Robbie and Helen would be up before the Quarter Sessions in short order. The sessions over which retired Brigadier-General Chase, their master, presided. The young master's face was such a gruesome mess it actually made Robbie shudder to see it.

Morrison and the footman settled Chase on the very sofa where that bastard had wrought Helen’s ruination only an hour ago. As foul as that face was now and would be for the remainder of Chase’s days, Robbie knew it would never pay for the tears shed by all the maids whom that pratt had used in here. At least Robbie had given Helen justice of some sort.

Now they would both have to face the wrath of the brigadier-general, whose steps could be heard closing in on the conservatory. Robbie shut his eyes, bowed his head and took a deep breath.

He could do no more for Helen now. He could only face this ordeal with all the character he could muster. Perhaps that would give Helen the courage to do the same.

*

Helen kept her gaze on Robbie as she heard the master approaching. Her chest flushed with cold, fear stopping the breath in her lungs. Robbie still knelt in the wet from the fish bowl. She hoped there were no shards near him that he didn’t see.

Robbie raised his head as the master entered the room. The older Mr. Chase strode over to his son, tipped the younger man’s face forward and had a look at it. Mr. Morrison stepped close and the two men spoke quietly. Then both looked over at Robbie.

The butler motioned to the hallboy holding Helen. “Ask Mrs. Kamala to send for the doctor,” he ordered. The boy let Helen go and dashed off. Helen longed to join Robbie but knew she mustn’t move.

Young Mr. Chase moaned. He seemed in shock. His cut face must feel unbearable.

Just then Mr. Morrison and the master moved towards Robbie with practised ease. They’d served together in India. Their familiarity made them seem to move as one. Before Helen could blink, the butler yanked Robbie to his feet. Old Mr. Chase stood over Robbie by several inches, staring almost calmly into the gardener’s eyes.
Robbie met that gaze defiantly.

“Your handiwork, is it, Flynn?” the master asked in a strangely off-hand manner.

“Your son has wronged many, sir,” Robbie said.

The master looked back at his son. If only Mrs. Kamala would come, Helen thought. It couldn’t be good for the young master to bleed like that.

Old Mr. Chase turned back to Robbie. “Who is the judge of whom?” the master asked. He struck Robbie over and over, coldly and efficiently as Morrison held the gardener in place. Helen surged forward, then checked herself. Tears welled and words tripped over the sobs in her throat.

Finally Robbie hung in Morrison’s grasp. Yet he had barely cried out. The master turned then to look at Helen. That’s when Mrs. Kamala and Bernadette quietly entered the conservatory to see to young Mr. Chase.

How Helen would miss Bernadette. She’d been so kind. The maid stole a glance at Helen just then. Her eyes were shaded with the horror of it all.

Then the master was before Helen. She too looked up into his face as Robbie had done. What she saw was as unexpected as it was unnerving. There was shame in the master’s eyes.

“I trust you’d been warned about him,” he said plainly. Helen saw a string of faces in her mind’s eye – Bernadette, Lucy, Mrs. Tattersoll, Robbie. All had tried to warn her. She’d listened to none of them. Helen nodded, then hung her head.

“You will be out of here in the morning,” Mr. Chase said. Helen felt dizzy. But she nodded.

The master turned and Helen suddenly found her voice. “Please,sir,” she dared.

He stopped.

“What will happen to Robbie, sir?”

“He shall go to gaol to begin with. When the Quarter Sessions begin, we shall see.” Helen darted forward, grabbing at his jacket sleeve.

“Please, sir, you don’t understand!” The master shrugged her off. “It weren’t him, sir! Please, you mustn’t!”

“No Helen!” Robbie called out. Helen shook. But they must know.

“They were fightin’," she said in a rush. "And the young master pulled his pocketknife. He were goin’ to cut Robbie or - or stab him.”

“Sir, she’s just – she’s just trying to…” Robbie blurted out.

“Silence!” the master barked.

Young Mr. Chase protested Mrs. Kamala’s ministrations from the sofa. Helen couldn’t stop her tears. Old Mr. Chase strode back towards Robbie who tried to take a step back but could only press against the butler.

“Who cut my son?” the master demanded. Robbie opened his mouth but shut it again. “When my son recovers himself, he will tell me in his own words. Which of you cut him?”

Helen’s heart crushed inside her chest. Robbie meant to take the brunt of her wrongdoing on his own shoulders. Why? She’d only meant to stop the young master from hurting Robbie with that knife. Now look what she herself had wrought.

Blood mixed with water and coloured pebbles on the white marble floor. Mrs. Kamala and the maid worked swiftly to stop the bleeding, still waiting for the doctor to arrive. All because Helen wouldn’t listen. Her trembling grew worse, but she must get the words out somehow.

“It weren’t Robbie, sir,” she managed. Tears thickened her voice. The master turned. Helen’s gaze locked with Robbie’s.

He shook his head in disbelief. She thought she saw tears starting in those green eyes.

“The fishbowl – I …” she stammered, feeling the weight of it in her hands again. Feeling the water slop over the rim. She looked down and saw the wet splattered over her skirt.

The master took hold of her, dragging her across the floor to the sofa. Mrs. Kamala and Bernadette leaned out of the way, giving her a clear view of the slick red mess of Zachary Chase. Dazed blue eyes looked up at her. How she'd waited through the busy work hours for those eyes to look into hers. Now he seemed a hellish fiend.

“You have made him a monstrosity,” the master growled in her ear. Then he flung Helen to the hard floor. She slid in the wet.

The doctor entered the conservatory, followed moments later by the town constable who arrived with several other men. Helen twisted round and sought Robbie’s gaze once again. The master strode forward. As the way cleared she saw Robbie already looking at her.

His green eyes were charged with anguish. His gaze asked her ‘Why? Why?’ from across the room.

The constable closed in on Robbie. The other men reached for Helen, pulling her roughly to her feet and yanking her arms before her. Helen didn’t look away as Robbie received the same treatment as she. The constable put iron shackles on the gardener’s hands as Helen felt the weight upon her own.

Every last moment her gaze sought Robbie as if she were swept away in a torrent and his image was the last handhold between herself and oblivion.

The pull of his green-eyed gaze pierced through the tumult of their arrest. His gaze never left hers.

Too late, she knew he loved her.

Copyright 2007 Julia Smith

Excerpt from Culloden novel

2007-05-07T11:53:00.000-07:00

During the brainstorming session, I pulled this story out of hibernation. I started it in 1999! It's a quarter of the way into the story, but there was a lot still to work out.

I put it aside when my husband and I moved from Toronto to Yarmouth, a small fishing town in Nova Scotia. We moved in with my gram because she needed someone living in the same house. My mom couldn't stay in the house for more than an hour at a time because of her environmental illness.

I had quite a bit of culture shock to get past, as I discovered that a Big City urban gal like me doesn't write well in the quiet of a small town. Once we moved to Halifax, my writing got back into gear. But my Culloden story stayed parked until this past Sunday.

Now I can't stop thinking about it. So here's an excerpt.

This story takes place in the immediate aftermath of the battle of Culloden, where the English wiped out the highlanders and embarked on a campaign to crush the Scottish culture. (As we can see from our 21st century vantage point, they weren't terribly successful. Amen to that!)

Excerpt -

Scottish highlands near Drumossie Moor, April 1746

Emma walked to the cave entrance. She couldn't bear the sounds of the servants’ crying any longer.

Dawn beckoned with cool grey fingers. The sound of birdsong dashed any hopes of sleep.

The danger of patrols shimmered in the air like lightening storms. One group on horseback already charged up the hill past them. The entrance to their cave was only a narrow crevasse to squeeze through and not obvious to an Englishman. The mounted soldiers ran down every living creature they’d come across.

Thomas urged them to stay put, for a few days at least. He rotated a watch between himself, Davey and Murray. What if Emma were to wake, only to find a soldier with his knife poised to slit her throat? No wonder Maisie and Poppy huddled together in tears.

Emma's tired, burning gaze swept the forest but nothing moved. Perhaps she could join Murray for awhile. He might welcome the company. Squeezing through the opening and wondering how Thomas had managed it, Emma stayed close to the cave entrance and checked again for signs of danger.

Birdsong made all of yesterday’s upset seem so unreal. Would she be out here shivering in the cold April frost if it had not happened? Emma curled her hands up into her sleeves, the thin wool of her day frock so terribly ineffective. If only Thomas had allowed a fire to be built.

Emma moved quickly past the clearing in front of the cave entrance. She saw Murray’s body spring to life, facing her though staying to the trees.

“It’s me. Emma,” she whispered, the morning so still she felt as if she were shouting.

Murray’s body relaxed. “You’re not relieving me on the watch, surely?” Murray teased her as he always did. How she longed for everything to be normal again.

“I can’t sleep,” she said.

“Come stand with me, then.”

She joined him next to the pine. Murray put his arm around her shoulders. He was her younger brother but taller than she was by a head.

“When do you think we can go back?” she asked, knowing she sounded like a child.

“I doubt there’s much to return to.”

“Thank God Thomas got word to us in time,” she said.

“Yes. Thank God.” There was something to Murray’s tone. Emma turned to see the bitter look on his face.

“It was our victory." Murray shook his head as though still unwilling to believe the loss. "Everyone said we would take the day."

“The fighting couldn’t have been far, then?”

“Drummossie Moor.”

“Drummossie Moor! That’s only - ”

“Emma, what do you think I’m telling you? The fighting should have been across the river on higher ground, but the English... Thomas was in town to keep an eye on things and when it went wrong he was nearly killed trying to get back to us.”

There was silence between them, a tense silence. Emma was suddenly very tired of fathers and brothers deciding what was best for her to know.

“Have you seen anyone?” she asked, knowing Murray would never speak first. “Since you’ve come out here?”

“Not a soul.”

She sighed. “I don’t want to go back in there just now.”

“Stay with me, then,” Murray said.

How she longed for everything to be the way it was. Even before this latest battle. When her father, the chieftain of the MacBeans was at home and the clan solid among the hills. She stole a glance back at Murray, who smiled through a yawn.

This did feel better. Though her head reeled with weariness, she liked the living scent of the trees. The musty air of the cave was like a crypt.

Her answering yawn set the wood awash in bleariness. The carpet of pine needles suddenly slid underfoot and she went down heavily, surprised to slide down a slight incline.

There was a groan as she landed squarely on a grimy heap of plaid. A plaid that covered the body of a man.

She squealed, scrambling to regain her feet.

An eye stared back in alarm, revealing a battered face. The man lunged forward like a snake, grabbing her wrists and rolling her onto her stomach.

She grunted as one strong hand forced her face into the ground and the other crushed her wrist against the root of the tree. A sharp knee jammed into her back, forcing the air from her lungs.

He cried out in pain and abruptly released her. Falling heavily beside Emma, he writhed awkwardly as Murray gave one final kick for good measure.

“Emma! Are you hurt?” Murray asked.

She pushed herself to a sitting position. “No, Murray,” she said, rising. “Just took my breath from me.”

She wouldn’t admit to the way her heart continued to pound, nor the way her hands shook as she brushed pine needles out of her hair. She stole a glance over at the stranger lying next to her.

Murray bent to see to him, then knelt, listening at the man’s chest. Her brother’s gaze sought hers. “He’s alive. Thank God.” Murray sat back on his heels.

“What do you mean?” Emma asked, her reasoning slow from fatigue and fright.

“He wears the colors of the Scots Royal. That’s your Douglas’s regiment. From the looks of him, the Royals fared badly.”

Emma knelt at the stranger’s side. To look at him now, it was a wonder he’d had the strength to pounce on her like a great mountain cat. But she could still feel the force of him pinning her to the ground.

He lay curled on his side, his dark hair falling over his face, eyes closed. Mud and bruises hid much of the rest of him. His arms and legs wore nasty looking slashes. Blood soaked his plaid and jacket at the shoulder and under his left arm.

Murray’s words sank slowly into her consciousness. Her Douglas. An officer of the Scots Royal. Her Douglas had fought alongside this man. Had led him onto the battlefield.

Where was Douglas now? Was he laying somewhere with no one to help him?

Tears rose to her eyes. Emma reached forward and pushed the hair from the stranger’s brow with tender fingers. The man’s right eye fluttered open. The left one was swollen horribly.

Emma stared back. Such a dark eye it was, brimming with spirit though his body was all but useless to him now. Emma had never seen anyone burn with such ferocity. She began trembling.

It wasn’t the shock of it - not the soldiers, not her family’s flight, not her sleepless hours in the cave, nor the fright from this wounded clansman’s desperate retaliation - none of it had started this quivering.

She trembled because of the way he looked at her.