One Snowy Knight (14 page)

“I will call Jenna. The course of treatment will take a long time. First, bringing the corruption to the surface, then lancing and drawing the remainder of the poison out, before sealing it again. It will go easier on her young legs.” Going to the door she found Galen there sitting in a chair. She frowned at him, and then asked him to fetch her maidservant.

“Very well, we start.” Guillaume took her arm as she returned, and led her to the pallet. “Sit there on the pillow, Lady Skena, facing Noel.” Taking Noel’s right hand, he placed it about her lower arm, and then did the same with his other hand and arm. “Do not fear he will hurt you. Our Noel is an arrogant man and will want you to see how brave he is.”

“Someday, Guillaume, I shall return this favor.” Noel chuckled, but then his expression turned serious as he looked to her. “Please, do not be scared. I would never bring harm to you, Skena.”

Jenna came in as Guillaume placed a hot poultice to Noel’s side. Instant agony racked de Servian, but Skena saw him fighting against the mind-searing pain. Skena knew the longer the padding remained on him, the more intense his suffering would be. She felt the muscles of his whole body tense, yet his grip on her arms did not grow tighter. It was as Guillaume claimed: Noel held perfectly still, ever mindful of his grasp on her arms. Sweat beaded across his forehead from the intense strain.

“Would you disapprove if I made one of those wishes you dismiss so blithely?” Noel nearly forced the words out.

“’Tis your breath, but wishes are worth naught. If wishes were carrots, rabbits would have a full belly this night.” Skena tried to match his bravery, but tears welled in her eyes. “But then, mayhap we would have plenty of meat for hare stew.”

Noel gave her a faint smile. “You still set no store in wishes, Skena? Is there aught I can say to change your mind? I once thought as you do, but life came full circle and I now have hope.”

“Wishing never brought me a single thing in my whole life. Not once did it lighten my burden, bring me a chest full of gold, nor fill an empty larder. People spend too much time wishing for what they cannot have,” she countered.

“What robbed you of the power to believe?” he asked, searching her face for the answer.

I was forced to marry a man I did not love, and wishing changed naught.
But Skena kept those words locked inside her. Unable to meet his soul-stealing eyes, she lowered her lashes.

“Your children believe. They told me they wished for a knight protector to come and care for you and them.”

“The children merely chanced upon you in the snow. You were already coming to claim Craigendan. Just happenstance.” Her shoulders lifted in a faint shrug. She did not want to admit his words reached her.

“So determined to doubt magic in all forms? ’Tis truth, I was headed to Glenrogha first. I wanted to see Julian, pay my respects to his new bride, see how married life suited them. I met her last August, envied the way she looked at Challon. Instead of reaching Glenrogha, Brishen was spooked by a huge flock of ravens and sent by sheer luck—or fate—on the road to Craigendan. I was knocked from my horse by a low-hanging limb, and lay there, finally becoming covered with snow. I wished for someone to find me before it was too late. Your children came. They were out on a stormy night chasing after an old crone—I believe they called her the Cailleach, the lady of winter. Had they not found me I would have died. Either the snow or the wolves…” He left that thought dangling in the air between them. Lifting her right hand to his face, he rubbed it against his cheek. “So you place little faith in wishes? What about Christmas wishes? ’Tis believed that miracles come at this time of year. That when one opens his or her heart anything is possible.”

Guillaume removed one poultice and replaced it with another. Each time the pain would be worse for Noel. Skena felt her throat tighten, her vision blurring with unshed tears. Torn, she fought the passion he provoked within her and a sense of duty to her people and Craigendan.

As another poultice was placed on his back, his whole body vibrated with a torture beyond enduring.

“Open your heart, Skena. Let me in. Walk in my mind…” Noel whispered through his pain, “become one with me.”

Become one with him.

Skena could not draw air as she stared into de Servian’s silver eyes. The rare inner ring of amber fixed in her mind and lured her into their mysterious depths, invited her to let loose the kenning and become a part of him. To embrace his soul. She knew the risk of allowing herself to freely touch him on this darker plane; the enormity of this sort of bond was terrifying. Their souls would weave together in a way that even the joining of the flesh could never attain. She would give away a piece of herself, forevermore leave her heart unshielded to this man who was barely more than a stranger. There would be no severing this tie. Not even death could stop its sway. With nary a protection against him, she would hand de Servian the power to destroy her.

As Skena stared into Noel’s face, she felt the link already forming of its own accord, as if she had no free will to resist his entreating. With little thought to the possible dire consequences, she opened her mind and her heart to this special man.

Instantly, her mind flooded with images—
his images
—of Noel laughing and training with four men very much alike, of his beautiful mother. Deep sadness seized Skena as she stood in his place, watched with his child’s eyes as they carried his lady mother’s cold, lifeless body into the castle. So many shards of de Servian’s past were there in flashes before her. Banquets in a king’s hall, sly looks of desire from various women, the ugliness of the battlefield; the jumbled patchwork of memories rolled through her senses so rapidly that she was dizzy from striving to focus upon each, to understand their meaning to him. In the end she gave up trying and simply allowed the scenarios to explode within her aching head.

So much. Too much.

Everything swirled around her, buffeted her, until she was tossed upon a stormy sea of blackness. She floated, carried along in that velvet, almost soothing quiet within the embrace of the cool green darkness of Annwyn. As she began to relax a wall of fire exploded about her, then a scream tore through her mind. Noel. Summoning the dark words, she whispered a charm to take his pain, turn it. She sought his presence, reached out and wrapped her arms about his strong warrior’s body and held on with every fiber of her being. The flames hungrily lapped at them, crawling up their bodies.

“Noel.” His name fell from her lips

He was her anchor. She would be his. Skena closed her eyes and leaned her head against the curve of his neck, inhaling the wonderful scent that was de Servian. The
right
scent.

Chaos spun them about. With vertiginous force, Skena was yanked away from his protective arms and tossed back into the impenetrable darkness. As she opened her eyes the aroma of a balefire filled her nostrils. For a long moment she panicked, unable to see, then gradually she grew aware her eyes were clouded with tears. She blinked to clear her vision, setting droplets to stream down her cheeks. Slowly, forms assumed shapes and colors.

Drawn onward by the flickering yellow glow, Skena forced her way through tall ferns. She started to push free of the lush woods, but hesitated before stepping fully into the clearing. A huge bonfire shot sparks high, spiraling into the night air, while men and women joyfully danced in wheels around the huge blaze, singing and moving to the rhythmic strains of the lute, pipes, and bodhrán. Confused, Skena stood watching. It seemed to be a Beltane celebration. People whirled around her, past her, almost as if they did not see her. With the smoke from the fire wafting about her, she began to wonder if she was naught but a wraith, merely summoned here to observe this festival of May.

A feral war cry filled the clearing; at the same instant flames of the balefire were split by a man leaping through the fire. He landed before Skena with the grace and power of a catamount, lean, sensual, and all sinewy muscle. A mythical beast come to life, the creature, half-man half-stag, stood before her—the man-stag symbol of life reborn from the fire.

His bare chest glistened with sweat. He was clad in doeskin breeches; they molded to his legs by the lacing of leather thongs up to his mid-thigh. He wore nothing else, though upon his head sat a mask with the antlers of a large buck. Although his face was completely covered by the antlered mask, she recognized him by the thin scar on his upper arm, one she had seen on de Servian that first night when she fought for his life. For several moments he stood perfectly still, causing her to wonder if he, too, failed to see her.

Then with a magician’s turn, he held out his hand for her to come to him. Skena vacillated for an instant, still assailed, bewildered by how she was at a May Day celebration, how de Servian could be wearing the mask of the king-god sacrifice. This was an honor that went to a high ranking male within the clan. Never to an Englishman, an outsider. She stared at his upturned hand beckoning to her and then at the bizarre mask with tall antlers.

Nothing made sense, thus she feared trusting the vision before her. She grew anxious that her mind was merely playing tricks, offering her what she so desperately wanted; she feared this man was not really de Servian. Trepidation died as she looked up into the eyes of liquid silver. No one had eyes like his. Once their stares locked there was no resisting the summons of his outstretched hand.

Something about this man drew her, made her want to believe that Christmas wishes could come true.

Noel lifted off the mask, and for an instant stared at the thing gripped in his hand, as if not understanding why he held the bizarre headdress. Allowing it to drop to the ground, he offered her a faint smile. “Skena,” he whispered, half welcoming, half in puzzlement.

She placed her fingertips to his lips, stopping the questions. Her intent had been to silence the endless riddles with no answers, yet as her eyes narrowed on her fingers touching his sensual mouth, envy flared in the pit of her belly. An endless, gnawing hunger unfurled within her, and for once in her life, instead of standing by holding unfulfilled hopes in her heart, she acted, raising up on her toes as her hand fell away.

Noel’s eyes widened as he grasped her intent. His hands clasped her upper arms, squeezing as if he needed to make certain she was real. Urgency seizing him, he yanked her up and against his chest, his mouth meeting hers with the same burning need. He was not gentle. The kiss was as wild and as pagan as the music that flowed through the night air. This was elemental, primitive.

Skena held nothing back, nor was she terrified by the unchecked feral nature in the way his mouth devoured hers. De Servian was not wooing. He was claiming. His lips were bruising, but she accepted it. Wanted it.

She little cared they stood in the midst of the revelers. Her hands reached out and clung to his waist, fearing her legs too weak to support her. Not close enough, she let her arms slide around him, pressing her body against his, greedily caressing the strong muscular columns of his back.

Finally breaking the kiss, he gasped, “Come with me…. Be one with me,” and took her hand in his.

Skena’s feet felt rooted to the moist soil. This time the appeal to be one with him held a different meaning. As this bond of their minds now sealed their fates, weaving their paths together, what he asked would take them to another level, forge them in a union of Annwyn, the Other word. Yet, knowing the enormity of this step, she could no more resist what he wanted of her than she could cease breathing. For better or worse, Noel de Servian now led her on the shadowy path to the future.

With sure steps he drew her away from the crowd; the haunting notes of the music seemed to follow behind them into the lush, warm darkness. A gust of night breeze rose up from the ground, carrying upon its current the sweet sensual fragrance of apple blooms.

“Where do we go?” Skena could not help but voice the question as her feet rushed steps to keep up, blindly following where Noel drew her.

His laughter was musical. “Ah, beautiful Skena, we go to make wishes come true.”

That stopped her in her tracks. He gave a small tug. When she held fast, he turned back to her.

Bathed in the pale moonlight, he appeared more dream than flesh and blood. He stared down at her. “Nothing is ever won without risk, my valiant warrior.”

Her eyes drank in de Servian, the body of a warrior king, hair a riot of waves and curls framing his handsome face. With his pale eyes, he almost seemed at one with the silvery light of the moon, as if he drew power from it. Once again, she questioned what was real and what was spun from her mind, her dreams. Reaching out she placed the palm of her hand over his heart, wanting the reassurance that it beat. It did, thudding strong, erratic.

His hand covering hers, he caged hers against his chest. “It beats for you.” A sly smile spreading over his lips, he reached out with his other hand and placed it between her breasts. “Feel it? They sound in the same rhythm. As one. Come with me, Skena.”

She nodded, perceiving that she had no will to resist. Whatever he wanted she would grant. No conditions. Nothing held in reserve.

Taking her hand in his, he ran. Skena trailed after him, until she had no sense of direction. He could be leading her to hell and she would follow. By the telling scent of apple blossoms, she knew where they were. The ancient orchard at Glen Shane.

Noel stopped, held his arms out, and spun in a circle. White petals of the blooms rained down on him. “Is this not magic?”

“’Tis so heavy it looks like snow.” Skena’s heart nearly cramped with the painful realization she was falling in love with this wonderful man. What a foolish, foolish thing to do!

He slowly walked back to her, so assured, so arrogant. “Snow? What else could you expect to be conjured by someone named Noel?” He reached out and gently took her neck with both hands, allowing the thumb of one to stroke her jaw. “Are you scared of me, Skena?”

“Yes.” Her whisper was so small she was not sure if he heard her.

The corner of his mouth twitched mischievously. “Mayhap a little scared is well and good. Open your heart, Skena, and wish.”

He lowered his head, brushing his lips lightly to hers, so soft, almost reverently. The perfection of the moment made Skena close her eyes to savor it, memorize the scents, the sounds, the feel. On cold wintry nights when she was old and gray, she wanted to be able to conjure this instant out of time and savor its rightness, its perfection.

Sliding his hands down to her shoulders, he allowed them to rest there. With the lightness of a fluttering butterfly, Noel kissed one eyelid, then the other. “Open your eyes, Skena. See me.”

She did as he invited, no pleaded, looking into the face of a man who robbed her of the ability to protect herself from the disappointment that could come from loving him. He disarmed her completely. Left her heart vulnerable.

He moved her loose sark aside, allowing it to slither off her shoulders and down her arms. His breath sucked in on a hiss as the material fell from the crest of her breasts. Wordlessly, he moved toward her, backing her to the apple tree. Placing an arm above her head, he leaned to her and took her mouth, roughly, savagely. It was hard to breathe as his hard warrior’s body rocked against hers, allowing Skena to catch the rhythm of his thrusts. Her hips curled up against his groin, relishing the friction against her sensitive flesh.

His sword-toughened hands roamed over Skena’s shoulders and then down to slowly gather her skirt to her hips; he rubbed one hand along her outer thigh and back up the inside along the more tender flesh. She almost clamped her thighs on his hand as he continued the upward path. She trembled, but held still as the fingers moved over her, then in her, a small invasion preparing her for a larger one. Two long fingers pushed in, then slowly withdrew, causing her breathing to come in gasps, as she allowed him to touch her as no man ever had.

Fumbling with the lacing on the front of his leather chausses, he stepped into the V of her body. Skena slid her arm around his neck, anchoring herself against the coming plunge. Instead, he joined their bodies in a maddening, leisurely fashion, the fullness causing her to give an exhale of unease. He caught it, kissing her over and over until she forgot her faint resistance. As her body re-conformed to accept him inside, he started rocking. Her leverage on his neck allowed her to meet his thrusts, taking him deeper within her narrow channel. He cradled one arm around her hips, arching her higher, while his mouth closed over the side of her neck, drawing until he would mark her.

He had no idea he would mark her soul as well.

“Skena,” he gasped. “Make a Beltane wish….”

“Lady Skena, ’tis done.”

Skena blinked confusion as her mind gradually returned. Guillaume had hold of her arm and was removing Noel’s hand from about it. Gone was the orchard, the warm spring breeze. Gone was the heady scent of the balefire mixed with the tangy sweet flowers of apple trees. All naught more than a dream brought on by the potion she had ingested to prove to Lord Challon the brew was safe.

And a woman too foolish to resist wishes.

Her gaze jerked about as she tried to come to grips with the shift. She almost wanted to run to the window, toss back the coverings, and look out to assure herself it was a landscape of deepest winter. She stared up into the hazel green eyes of Guillaume and saw his deep questions. Alarm filled her. What happened while he tended Noel? Had she said aught aloud to permit him to know what she experienced in her mind?

“Are you all right, my lady?” he asked softly.

Instead of concern for herself, she looked to Noel. Touching a hand to his forehead she saw he showed no response. “De Servian?” she managed to say.

“He passed out. Do not fret. ’Tis only a combination of the pain and the poppy. He merely rests from the ordeal.” He held up a tiny piece of bent metal. “This was left in his back, a partial link of mail carried into his body by the sword. ’Tis strange about flesh. Sometimes it will accept bits of metal, tolerate them for years. I saw one man have a link of mail buried in his thigh from a tournament accident. Stayed there most of his life. Then one day suddenly it festered and had to come out. Well, this is out of him. Noel’s wound is made pure and sealed. He will have an ugly scar. But I do not think it will matter much, eh?”