Page 1 of The Laird’s Guardian Angel (Highland Lairds #3)

PROLOGUE

Scottish border…

Year of Our Lord, 1287

T here was magic in sleeping out of doors. Peeking at the stars before nightfall. Merriment at being at a massive celebratory festival. Especially on the first of May. Music tinkled throughout the day, cascading into the night. The feasts were endless, the fountains of cider ever flowing. But there was also discomfort because sleeping in a tent with her family and servants meant no privacy. Not that a young lady was ever really alone.

At all of six-years-old, Lady Calliope Ramsey stepped from her tent at the Beltane festival which had brought dozens of neighboring clans for a week of celebrating and games. Shivers coursed over her skin at the chill in the morning air. Her bare toes stepped onto the crispy morning grass, the dew frozen from the night before. As her tiny toes crunched against the grass, she contemplated turning back around to grab her slippers, but she was in such need of relief that if she were to do so, she very likely wouldn't make it to the cover of the woods to empty her bladder. Papa wouldn't abide an accident. And really, she was too old for such.

The first rays of the sun took the bite off the coolness of the morning. She'd been waiting hours to go, not wanting to trip over those sleeping on the floor to reach the shared chamber pot. Mama had told her not to have that last cup of cider, but the sweetness of the apples had been entirely too tempting. They never had cider at home.

Calliope tucked her dressing gown closer, the fabric not as thick as her cloak, and peeked around the other tents, glad she'd woken before anyone else appeared to be. Her father, Chieftain of the Ramsey Clan, would kill her if he knew she was walking out like this, barely clothed. No shoes on her bare feet. But yesterday, when the young lassies were dancing around the Maypole, they'd all been barefoot, and their linen white gowns looked very much like night clothes.

And perhaps it was silly of her, maybe even reckless, but Calliope was a bit of a daredevil. Well, at least when no one else was looking, and she preferred to act out her tiny rebellions without getting caught.

A lady had to be quiet about such things. As her mother, Mary, Lady Ramsey, had taught her, a lady was refined in all ways. Subdued. Even when showing her talents, she had to do so quietly. Playing the viola, for example, she could only do soft, soothing music. Nothing that might bring about excitement. Dancing, too, had to be slow, barely lifting her limbs. Just the barest hint of a sway. A lady in the Ramsey household did not skip, and leap and twirl like common Highland ladies.

Except yesterday, when no one was looking, Calliope watched mesmerized as the young ladies danced. Behind the cover of her tent, she mimicked their moves until she felt certain she'd bested them.

According to her mother, the worst offense of all would be if a Ramsey lady were to train to defend herself or climb trees.

One could not have calloused and scraped hands. One could not have bulging muscles. One could not perspire.

Calliope glanced down at her hands, to her right middle finger, where she had a permanent callous in the center. Somehow, she'd kept it hidden from her mother, who had long since given up inspecting her hands for their softness. Lady Ramsey would not dare to dream that her daughter would ever disobey her. Besides, more often than not, Calliope wore gloves when she was climbing trees. No scrapes to be seen.

She rubbed a thumb over the callous, the skin hardened over the last year by the string of her bow. Gregor, her father's groom, had been kind enough to teach her how to notch and aim an arrow, going so far as to set up a target inside the barn for her to use when her mother was otherwise occupied. She'd gotten into the habit of waking up earlier than everyone else just to go to the barn and practice.

Someone stirred in the tent behind her, and she rushed behind a tree to finish her business in peace. When she emerged, her mother stood outside the tent looking frantic. This look she wore so often might have been her permanent expression. The only difference now was the twisting and turning of her head and the running back and forth to look about the tent.

Not wanting to worry her mother much, she hurried until she was spotted, at which point she halted.

"What on earth are you doing, young lady?" Lady Ramsey's English accent grew stronger when she was angry. She tried to hide it often in Scotland as the English weren't trusted here, not that any of the servants thought her mother to be as evil as the Sassenachs who raided and pillaged. Lady Ramsey might have been strict, but she certainly wasn't evil.

"I didna want to wake ye, mama."

Lady Ramsey sniffed, obviously pleased with her daughter's consideration even if she was peeved.

"A lady does not make use of the bushes unless there is no alternative. Nor does she say didna or ye . It is did not and you ."

Calliope nodded, not wanting to argue with her mother's flawed logic. Swallowing, she worked her throat and tongue the way she'd been trained and said, "I did not want to wake you, mama."

Lady Ramsey nodded. "Come, we must get ready for the tourney."

Calliope again nodded, following her mother into their tent to prepare for the day. Her hair was brushed to a glossy sheen and swiftly plaited down her back. At least she didn't have to be cinched into a gown like her mother did. Every time the maid tugged, her mother gasped for air as if her clothes made it hard to breathe. Calliope secretly vowed never to be cinched. They had a special place to sit in the makeshift arena. While she didn't always enjoy watching the men hack away at each other, she did love the romanticism of offering her favor to a Scottish warrior.

She slipped a linen square into her sleeve. She'd embroidered a thistle in the corner of it, so if one were to look closely enough, the stem was a bow. Well, perhaps that was giving herself a bit too much credit. After all, she was too young and distracted to have truly made anything that looked like more than a blob. Still, her mother hadn't noticed, and Calliope thought herself rather clever.

In the stands, they took their place beside the other nobles present. Calliope gazed out over the crowd. Men, women, and children from all around were already cheering for the coming fight. Their gazes were toward the open gate, where a parade of men in their plaids, with targes strapped to their arms to shield themselves from oncoming blows and claymores on their backs, prepared for the first tourney activity, which was swordplay.

She'd been too shy yesterday to offer her favor, but not today. Today, she was going to make a warrior smile.

Later this afternoon, there would be an archery contest, which she would have given anything to be able to participate in. But her mother never took her eyes off of Calliope for long, and if she attempted to sneak away, within a breath she was certain to find the countess or her lady's maid on her heels. Besides, they'd never let a lass into the competition, and since she'd been unable to pack her own trunk, she'd not been able to go through with her plan to pack her cousin Hugh's clothes as a disguise.

A trio of trumpets blew, sending a shockwave of excitement through the crowd. They stood, arms waving in the air. Calliope mimicked their movements, only to feel her mother's sharp pinch on her arm.

"Ladies do not flap."

Calliope sat back down, leaning forward, to peer over the rail at the line of warriors about to show their prowess. The prize was a fortune.

"Sit back, my dear, ladies don't lean."

Calliope bit the inside of her cheek to keep herself from the ready retort, which would only get her banished. She sat back just enough to appease her mother but not all the way as to block her view. She was shorter than the countess, so the rail blocked her somewhat.

Thankfully, Robert the Bruce entered the arena at that moment, and they all stood in deference, but Calliope used the opportunity to peruse the warriors to see just whom she'd give her favor.

They were all fearsome and strong looking. Arrogant even as they jostled each other, grinning and making what Calliope assumed were lewd jokes, because the countess said that was the only type of joke they knew how to utter. Calliope wasn't sure what lewd meant, but it seemed fun enough.

She tried to keep her face schooled so no one would notice she was eavesdropping, but someone did catch her gaze with eyes the color of a stormy sea. A lad who was holding the reins of a horse near one of the warriors. If she were to follow her mother's rules, Calliope would look away. The ladies did not make eye contact. But her mother had no idea what she was doing, so why not take a peek?

He raised a curious brow at her, and she offered a subtle smile. The lad was tall, she could tell, even from here. His dark hair was cut just above his ears.

He grinned at her, and she couldn't help but smile back. Perhaps it was not a warrior she would bestow her favor on. There was something about the lad that intrigued her. A hint of a daredevil like her. If not for her mother, she might have approached him to see if he wanted to be her friend.

Perhaps that was a bit much, but she felt he would make a good friend and champion, especially as he knew she was listening. That she wanted to be more than the wee lady sitting on the dais, but instead, be the lady riding the horse he was leading. Or perhaps, again, her imagination was running away with her. Calliope definitely did have an overactive imagination. But what lass didn't daydream?

She glanced at her mother. Lady Ramsey probably did not daydream.

As the warriors and the young lad drew closer, her mother greeted the men. The lad glanced up at Calliope, a smile playing on his lips that she easily returned.

"My lady." He bowed low in front of her, and the countess gasped, clucking her tongue, while the warrior in front of the lad gave a sharp rap.

But before he could be dragged off, and her mother could pinch her again, Calliope slipped the lad her handkerchief. "Until we meet again."