Page 5 of The Laird’s Guardian Angel (Highland Lairds #3)

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W hen Calliope was young, the idea of sleeping outside had been an adventure. Even on their race from Scotland to England, all she remembered was the various inns they'd slept in the beds, the excitement of sleeping in a new place. When they'd arrived at Edgar's, the first thing she'd done was jump on her new bed, only to fall off, of course, but that didn't make her stop.

The excitement she'd expected to feel upon laying her head down on this new pillow had yet to come. Rather than excited, Calliope had felt a sense of normalcy—as if this bed were familiar, tugging at loose memories and refusing to lay still.

Where the familiarness of the bed might have allowed one person to close their eyes and fall asleep easily, it only had Calliope tossing and turning and wanting to know how much of her own life she'd missed out on.

The bedchamber was dark, save for a sliver of light shining through the window and the tiny orange of the fire in the hearth. Calliope stared at the differences in light—orange and silver. Did the blood inside her veins, both English and Scottish, clash as much?

They were both light sources, and she was born of two humans. And yet, they were unmatched. And yet, even as she thought it, she realized she didn't know enough about her father to have formed that opinion. Why had her mother left if her father wasn't the evil man she'd portrayed?

Calliope flopped onto her back, an arm over her eyes to hide the light, realizing how utterly ridiculous she was being. Despite her exhaustion, sleep eluded her. The bed was perfectly comfortable, the coverlet warm enough to ward off the chill, and even the sleeping gown laid out for her was adequate.

Nerves must have been the culprit. Sleeping in a new place with new people—although she supposed they weren't new at all, just gone from her memory—and fearing that no one even liked her was not exactly conducive to sleep. The maid, Bessie, who'd shown her to her bedchamber, turned down the bedding and helped her prepare to sleep was cordial but cold. Silent. Rather than ask if Calliope liked the nightgown, she'd held it aloft, nodded, and started stripping her of her dress. Without asking, she'd brushed her hair. Washed her face and then led her to bed, tucking her in without so much as a goodnight.

To be quite honest, it had seemed more like she was the six-year-old she'd been the last time she was here than a grown woman who'd been on the brink of marrying. Calliope searched her mind, trying to remember Bessie. Maybe she'd been the one to tuck her in all those years ago. But her memory came up empty.

The only thing she remembered of sleeping as a young girl was staring at the stars before she succumbed to the night.

Calliope wanted to go back home—to England—to be surrounded by her things and the people who loved her.

She wanted her mother.

She wanted her horse, which she'd been forced to give back to her stepsire upon his leaving. Sweet Serena had turned her head back as she'd been led away, tugged at the reins as if she might come running back to Calliope only to be snapped at by stupid Edgar. The man was so greedy he wasn't even willing to let her have the mare she'd raised and trained herself. Likely, he would sell her off to the highest bidder, and poor, sweet Serena would…

Tears started to leak from her eyes. She was perfectly miserable.

Calliope rolled over in bed, prepared to cry herself to sleep when a strange sound paused her misery. What was that? She sat up a little, cocking her ear toward the door. A subtle scraaaatch . Why would a scraping sound give her chills? She chalked it up to servants moving furniture about in the great hall as they swept the floors clean before bed and her overactive imagination that wanted every noise to be an answer to the sense of doom she'd been trying to shove off for the better part of an hour.

The fact that it was so late didn't seem too unusual. Calliope had no idea what kind of time the Ramsey clan kept, and the stories from her mother had made them out to be entirely out of the ordinary, which was putting it mildly. If her mother's retellings were anything to pay attention to, they were a drunken lot who never slept.

Calliope rubbed at her eyes, glad that at least the distraction of the servants cleaning—or imbibing in ale, hard to say—had stopped her tears. The amount of crying she'd done in the last fortnight was sure to leave lasting damage to her eyes, and the puffiness was a new permanent feature. They always stung, and even her vision seemed to be suffering.

The scraping sound continued, and there was perhaps a shout or two. My goodness, they really were as raucous as her mother said. She imagined the servants battling over brooms—or maybe with brooms. Smacking the wooden handles together. Shouting, "En guard," as they whacked at each other over who got to sweep up chicken bones and other discarded remnants.

That part of what her mother had told her appeared to be true. Calliope smiled because she actually wouldn't have minded joining in. She recalled a few broom fights she'd had in the stables before they'd escaped Scotland with sweet Gregor. She'd not seen him upon arriving and wondered if it was possible her father's groom was still in his employ. Although, he'd seemed fairly ancient back then. Though, to be honest, all adults seemed ancient to children. However, the alternative of Gregor not being with them any longer was too much for her to handle, so she determined to bring him breakfast in the morning. Perhaps even to challenge him to a broom fight.

In England, people ate with much more dignified manners. They ate from trenchers, which were portioned out with their meal. They used forks, spoons, and knives. They drank from crystal goblets most nights. And most evenings, her mother would loudly proclaim how happy she was not to be in the land of heathens any longer.

True to her mother's proclamations, when Calliope arrived in her father's hall, they had been eating with their hands and tossing the bones over their shoulders to the waiting and hungry dogs. One warrior spit something onto the ground, and Calliope had been glad they hadn't openly invited her to eat, for she was sure she would have lost everything she'd ingested at that moment. Some of the things her mother said were clearly not an exaggeration.

But now, her stomach growled, and she wished she might have at least swiped a piece of bread to bring back to her new chamber. If she snuck out of her room to the kitchen, there was a chance she might just find a loaf to eat. Then again, she had yet to learn where the kitchen was, if it was even in the castle. Sometimes, they were in an outbuilding. And there was no way she was going outside in the dark. Aye, she was adventurous and mostly brave, but she'd heard plenty about what happened in the dark in Scotland.

And if her mother was right about their eating habits, she was probably right about those habits, too.

The scuffling sounds below grew louder, and she groaned, putting a pillow over her head so she wouldn't have to listen to the noise. Ridiculous, really. Why couldn't they all just go to bed?

She had half a mind to stand up, march to the door, and shout for the love of all things holy that they wrap it up and go to sleep. A loud bang startled her, and she sat up in bed again, the pillow falling to the floor. That was no broom handle clash. For sure, instead of fighting with brooms, they were throwing furniture. My God, why would they be so ridiculous?

Enough was enough.

She didn't care that she was new here. She was still the Chief's daughter, and despite her English heritage and the practical strangeness of arriving here, she still deserved respect. And they needed to stop throwing furniture.

Calliope flung back the covers, pulled on a cloak to cover herself, and marched barefoot to the door. Her mother, God rest her soul, would be apoplectic if she saw her now. Ladies simply did not leave their rooms undressed and without shoes. How many times had her mother told her that? At least a thousand.

But ladies were not also typically without sleep for days traveling across the border in mourning either. And indeed, they were not subjected to this kind of racket.

She reached for the door handle, the sounds of the bluster below the stairs getting louder and louder, which only fueled her need to let them know their rudeness would not be tolerated. Tourneys were meant to be held outside, not in great halls.

Just as she opened the door, it was pushed in on her, and she stumbled backward but did not fall.

Bessie stood there, frantic in appearance. Eyes wide, hair a mess. Calliope blinked, sure her eyes were deceiving her.

"My lady. The castle is under attack." Bessie looked harried and scared in the moonlight—and she also appeared to be telling the truth. "Ye must bar your door. Orders from your father."

Calliope straightened, the rebellious side of her suddenly rearing its head. "What? Attacked by whom?"

"I dinna know, my lady. Please, bar your door. And here." Bessie thrust a blade at her. "For your protection, should they..."

"Should they what?" But the question was moot. She knew precisely what Bessie meant. Should the enemy break down the barrier of her door. Should the enemy decide, she was ripe for the taking.

She'd stab the ever-loving hell out of them.

Calliope blinked at the small knife in the housekeeper's hand. "What about you, Bessie? Have you a knife?"

"Aye. I'll be fine. Take it." Bessie pressed the handle of the knife against Calliope's palm, which she hadn't realized she'd even held out. And then Bessie was gone, shutting the door firmly with the expectation that Calliope would listen and bar it against the intruders. Which she should do, of course.

Her mother had been right. The savage Scots were attacked all the time. She'd not even been here a day, and already there was a battle. No wonder her mother had gone back to the safety of England, where Calliope belonged.

She put the bar on the door, wiggling it and trying to open it just to make sure it was secure. Her heart pounded behind her ribs, as wood pounded beneath her feet. She'd never been under attack before. The most fighting she'd ever witnessed had been at a festival. And even those battles could be so brutal she had to turn away.

The blade shook in her hand, and she put it on the mattress, not feeling comfortable enough to carry it the way her fingers trembled. A bow and arrow she was comfortable with. A dagger? Not as much. But that didn't mean she wouldn't use it if necessary. Taking a life to save her own was not something she'd ever had to do, but it was something she'd known she had permission to do if necessary.

From the recesses of her mind, a voice spoke, a memory evoked of her father telling her, “Calliope, never let a bastard try to steal the beat of your heart. Stab them where it hurts.” If her mother had overheard that, it probably was part of the reason she'd fled. Lady Mary wouldn't abide a daughter knowing how to kill.

Except, Calliope did know.

So many questions rambled through her mind. Such as, did attacks last long? Would they simply leave when they were finished? And what in blazes could they want?

Was she going to have to kill a man tonight?

She rushed to the window, peeling back the fur blocking the night chill, and stared into the oddly quiet courtyard. Aye, calm, but seeing no one there didn't appease her mind, in fact, it only made her more fearful. When she'd arrived with Edgar, the courtyard had been full of people and warriors.

Of course, the people would be asleep, but didn't the warriors stand on duty?

Her gaze roved over the battlement walls. No one, or wait… a few someones, but they no longer stood. Otherwise, they were discarded sacks of grain covered in warrior garb. But she wasn't so na?ve and stupid as to believe that. Someone had felled the men on the Ramsey battlements.

Beyond the wall, she squinted into the night, trying to make out if an army stood just out of sight, but she could only see the trees in the distance. Whoever had come to attack the castle had left no trace of themselves outside the wall. Either that, or they were as sneaky as wraiths, and she couldn't make them out.

Below stairs, what she'd thought was the scuffle of broomsticks and tossing furniture shifted into shouts and the clang of metal. If she'd only listened hard enough, she would have known the difference.

Swords clashing. Weapons cracking into bone. Bodies behind tossed.

A shiver raced over her spine, and Calliope, for the first time, realized the actual danger she was in. Aye, her hands had started to tremble when a blade was thrust into them, but she'd been so overcome with questions she hadn't taken a moment to truly realize she was in danger. Aye, she'd barred the door, but that had just been following the instructions of the maid.

Oh, dear, heavens, Bessie!

Calliope couldn't just let her go off toward danger. Didn't she want to be behind a barred door as well?

Boots. She needed her boots. Perhaps there was a reason her mother had instilled in her the necessary habit of always wearing shoes.

The better to keep your toes from stepping on a rock. Her mother's words echoed in her mind from when she'd been young and balked. But now she understood why it was necessary. How many times had her own mother, under Ramsey's protection, had to run from her bedchamber when they were under attack?

Without hose, Calliope thrust her feet into her boots and made quick work of lacing them up. She tossed on her gown, hastily lacing and buttoning that as well, not at all caring for the lopsided indication that she'd missed an eyelet. There was no time to fix it, and really, her gown was the last thing on her mind.

She might be new here, but Calliope was still a Ramsey, and Ramseys didn't back down from danger.

Or at least that was what her mother had told her—though she certainly hadn't meant the women.