One Snowy Knight (27 page)

“You have a chemise on again. I want you naked, Skena. Take…it…off,” he demanded in a tone that said he would do it for her if she refused to comply. Only, he wanted her to do it. He wanted her complete submission and would settle for nothing less.

She must have understood him, for she sat, scooting into the deepest shadows and then reluctantly dragged the worn garment up her body. Pulling it over her head, she dropped it, and shook her long hair to form a veil around her. Well, he would have none of that. Noel reached out and grabbed her ankle and yanked her down onto the bed and back into the light from the fire.

Placing a knee on either side of her hips he straddled her. He had a feeling she just planned to accept whatever he wanted of her, allow him to take the burden of choice from her. Take the burden of her wanting him out of her hands. “Sorry, love, passive surrender will not suffice with me.”

When she remained silent, Noel shrugged and leaned forward cupping a breast with each hand. He squeezed their firmness. Pushing them up high, he took the crest of one breast into his mouth and sucked hard as the fingers of his left hand rolled the tip of the other. Skena’s hips bucked slightly, but again she fought her own body’s response. She turned her head to the side and closed her eyes. Little coward. She relished the attention he gave to her body, only tried to hide it. Well, there was no hiding some things, how her nipples were swollen, distended, how her pelvis made little twitches, moving against him restlessly as though she could not suppress the natural urge.

“Skena…touch me.” He meant it as a command, but the hoarse whisper came out as a plea.

The tone seemed to break through the reserve she was desperately clinging to, for she opened her eyes. For the longest spell she just looked at him. Finally, she lifted her left hand and slowly laced her fingers with his. A simple gesture, but the meaning seemed so profound. Not taking her eyes from his, she repeated the action, this time linking her right hand with his left.

His body slid down hers. His legs shoving her thighs apart, he aligned his body to hers and slowly pushed into her silken heat, nearly scalding his flesh. She fisted around him with the fit of a glove.

“Burn me, Skena. Brand me. Take me,” he whispered as he pushed their hands over her head, arching her to him, and sending them to madness.

With misgivings in her heart, Skena looked across the room to Noel, standing before the Great Hall’s fireplace. He feigned attention to the festive start of the celebration of Yule. Merely a pretense. As if he felt her eyes upon him, he glanced up and met her gaze, their eyes locking. His expression was haunted, accusing.

Two days had passed since he had told her how Angus died. Two long days. At an impasse, little had changed between them. During the day he was polite, even supportive in anything she brought up concerning the fortress. He had toured the cellars to take stock of the meager supplies stored below the frost line, and went over the tally books for Craigendan, showing a clear interest in every aspect of its running. Only, he kept himself at an emotional distance from her.

At least during the day.

After the first day, she had started to retire to the small room down the hallway from his. His expression livid, he stormed in, sending the door flying against the wall with a loud crack, swept her into his arms and carried her down the hallway. He dumped her in the middle of the huge bed in the lord’s chamber, then warned in a voice that brooked no opposition, “Do not contrary me, Skena.”

Both nights he undressed quickly and then pretended to go to sleep. Later, in the hushed darkness, he had turned to her and silently taken her. She offered no resistance, even welcomed his loving as a means of bridging the distance between them. What hurt—no words of love passed between them, just the mindless, blazing passion that left her sweaty, wrung out, and clinging to him, helpless against needing him all the more.

Noel taught her pleasures she never imagined, how he could bring her to that pulsing black magic with just his hands or his mouth. They had come together in near violence, yet turned around and loved so slowly, so exquisitely that tears formed in her eyes. When the morning light came, he rose and prepared to face the day as if nothing had happened in the long hours of the night.

The abrupt switch left her confused. Noel seemed to be waiting, wanting some response from her, yet she remained unsure what that was. Fearful of making the situation worse, she breathed in dread of losing his love.

She had never known love before. Oh, she realized there had been a hunger for the elusive feeling, a sense her life had been lacking without it. Noel had showed her the reality, the bonding of their bodies, minds, and souls, so much more than the dreams of her young girl’s heart. Now, she understood just how precious and rare the emotion was. To lose him would be too much to bear. She could not imagine how empty her life would be without his gentle magic.

Noel made her believe in wishes. Yet, with the deft pass of a wizard’s hand, he could destroy the fragile, divine spark of hope. Destroy her.

She inhaled, trying to think of something to say to the stubborn man to end the stalemate, but no words of healing came to mind. This night was Yule, the longest night of the year, with the hours of daylight being scant few. A season of endings and renewals, a time for fresh hopes. Time to leave old regrets behind. She had to reach past the confusion and embrace the new life he was bringing to her. Staring at his silver eyes, all else about her faded to mist. She needed to mend this breach, explain to him that she had overreacted on learning of how Angus died. While he had not given any more details, she recalled the vision of Noel taking the sword to his back, how close he came to dying, and now knew Angus had wielded the blade in a cowardly fashion. Noel was obviously leaving it to her to come to him, to say she trusted him to be an honorable man in all.

Covered in snowflakes, Squire Emory Maynet came rushing in. “Riders and wagons come, my lord—under the pennon of the baroness of Lochshane.”

Guillaume’s hazel green eyes reflected a mix of emotions. He put down the tankard of mulled cider in a show of indifference. “I suppose ’tis Rowanne’s way of reminding me that she still rules Lochshane and the wagons come under her largess.” He said lowly to Noel, “I am naught but the bastard knight forced upon her by Julian and an English king.”

Noel patted Guillaume’s back. “Methinks these long nights are grating on your soul. Come, let us go offer well-come to your lady.” They started out of the Great Hall, but then Noel swung back to Skena and offered his hand. “My lady?”

Once again, the pale eyes bore into hers. Demanding. Begging. Angry. Hurt. Swallowing the tears clogging her throat, Skena came forward and placed her trembling hand in his.

Flakes fluttered down as Skena stepped out into the winter gloaming. The short day was quickening toward night, rendering the snow-covered landscape a magical blue. She breathed in the air, not too cold, but moist, carrying with it the promise of heavy snow. The renewal of Yuletide slowly filled her. Mayhap on this magical of nights, all things were possible.

By Guillaume’s guarded expression, and Noel’s grin and nudge of the elbow directed at him, Skena assumed the rider at the lead of the convoy had not been expected. The falling snowflakes covered the pale blue mantle the lady wore. She rode sidesaddle, the massive cape half-covering her legs, hidden by a robin’s egg blue kirtle. Her long, pale hair flowed out from one side of the hood lined with white fur. Like a princess of the Snow Fae, Rowanne of Lochshane reined the dapple grey palfrey to a stop and merely sat, staring with an aloof air. Her beautiful countenance reflected serenity, though the brown eyes flashed with a banked fire as she stared at Guillaume.

She waited until he came to help her down. His hand gently touched her booted foot, lingered on her leg as he gave her ankle a squeeze. Then he unwrapped her legs from the horns of the sidesaddle. Seizing her about the waist, he lifted her to the ground. The regard in which Guillaume held her cousin was clear to Skena. Harder to judge was Rowanne’s reaction to the handsome Englishman, who would soon become her lord husband.

A knot of envy formed in Skena’s throat. Rowanne MacShane was a woman men called beautiful, and they truly meant it. Always attired in rich fabrics and jewels, she could present herself at English Court and hold her head high. By comparison, Skena suddenly ranked herself shabby in her best blue kirtle. Well, there was naught to change it. Steeling herself to the sting of comparison, she went forward to greet her cousin.

“Tides of Yule and well-come, Rowanne.” Skena embraced the taller woman.

“I have missed you, Skena. Our
duns
keep us too busy to visit as we oft did when we were children.” Not sparing a word for her betrothed, Rowanne linked arms with Skena and started up the stairs to the entrance. “Could you show me the room where I will stay? The ride in the cold was not an easy one. I should like to rest before supper and the festivities.”

Guillaume spoke from behind them. “She stays in my room.”

Red shown on Rowanne’s cheeks as she whipped around. “I will do no such thing.”

“You shall,” Guillaume countered with clear determination. “I shall sleep on a pallet on the floor if you do not trust me to—what is it you Scots call it—bundle? But you
will
stay in my room. There has been trouble here, and whilst methinks it shan’t extend to you, I want to know where you are at all times.”

Rowanne’s amber brown eyes went to Noel, judging his reaction to the claim, then back to Skena. Skena nodded faintly. “Very well, Baron Lochshane, you may sleep on the floor.” With that, she lifted the hems of her mantle and kirtle and swept regally into the fortress.

Guillaume arched an eyebrow at Noel in silent male communication, then said, “This should prove an interesting Yule.”

The Great Hall rang with laughter and good cheer, mayhap for the first time in nearly a year. With the meat the men had added over the past several days and the wagons of much needed supplies, everyone had plenty to eat. To the delight of all, Galen spun a tale of olden days, a favorite, of the great warrior king, Fhitich, and his lady love, Anne, one of the
Cait Sidhe,
and how they fought the Norsemen together to save their people.

Seated at the great table, Rowanne leaned forward to look past Skena and smile at Noel. “Have you not heard the lore, Sir Noel, of how the women of our line came from witches who had the ability to turn into catamounts?”

“Damian spoke of it in passing when he was in Berwick last August,” Noel answered, making room for Annis to sit upon his knee. He handed her a slice of bread sweetened with honey and cinnamon. “More recently, Guillaume warned me of such after he came to stay. Methinks you ladies of Clan Ogilvie like to rattle men’s resolve with such stories.”

Rowanne’s laughter rang out. “You will find out the truth one day, Lord de Servian.”

Skena watched her daughter blooming under Noel’s gentle attention. In the crook of her elbow was a puppet, fashioned to look like a noble lady. Noel had given it to Annis just a short time ago for her Yule present. Behind them, Andrew dashed hither and yond, fighting a mock battle with the knight puppet that was now his.

“They dearly love those hand puppets. Where did you ever find such wondrous gifts?” Skena touched his arm, needing to feel his warmth.

He shrugged as if it were a minor matter. “I bought them off a puppeteer in Berwick right before I left. I had a feeling they might please.”

Neither child had ever had such a beautiful present. It was merely another measure of the kindness and caring within this special man. Annis wiggled up to kiss Noel’s cheek, leaving bread crumbs sticking to it. Andrew and his knight finally stopped slaying dragons and came to get a piece of the bread. Noel shifted Annis to his other leg, so Andrew had space to sit on a leg as well. Annis let her puppet kiss Noel, and then she fed him a part of her second piece of bread.

Rowanne watched the goings on of both children, clamoring for attention from Noel, and each receiving their share. “He is winning the hearts of the twins, especially Annis.”

“Aye, already she has stepped out of the shadows with his patience.” Skena could barely take her eyes away from Noel.

Rowanne reached out and squeezed Skena’s hand. “Judging from that look in your eyes, I would say the Lord de Servian has captured your heart as well.”

A blush flooding her cheeks, Skena dropped her hand from where she was touching Noel’s upper arm. Finding no words, she merely looked down at her trencher and nodded.

“Guillaume said you plan to wed with Sir Noel in three days’ time, without waiting for banns to be cried. Malcolm is down with the ague, or he would have made the journey from Lochshane with me. I did not ken what he meant when he passed me a message for you. Now it makes sense. He said to tell you that he was sorry to miss this special time with you, to speak your words before all, but he expects you and your English dragon at the church to be given Holy Communion when the snow melts.” Rowanne offered a reassuring smile. “Methinks our dear uncle’s Ogilvie blood has been whispering to him.”

Skena tired as the celebrating went on and on. Since Yule was the longest night of the year, the custom was to keep the fire burning bright in the Great Hall through the hours of darkness, to hold at bay the night and light the way for the renewing sun’s return. Galen shared more legends of the Highlands, spoke of the meaning of Yule and the great battle between light and dark.

As she watched the children holding their precious puppets, she regretted she had no gift for Noel. Her mind brightening with a notion, she hit upon a small one—a gift of peace and rebuilding between them. Gathering her sewing basket, she took a small piece of sun-bleached baize and began sewing. In each corner she stitched a runic symbol and in the center fashioned an empty knot circle.

Noel finally took his eyes off Rowanne, who was now telling a story of the Selkies. Noticing Skena sewing, he reached over and touched his fingertip to the designs on the cloth. “Making a handkerchief?”

“Nay, something different. ’Tis your Yule present. I am sorry, ’tis all I have to offer.” Skena gave him a shy shrug. “I sew with a finer stitch, but such attention to detail is not required for this. ’Tis a Yule Cloth.”

“I have never heard of such. What do you do with a Yule Cloth?” His hand took her right wrist and gave it a small squeeze.

“Each corner has a symbol—a rune. This one is
Wyrd
—Fate. This corner has
Algiz
—the defender. The third one I selected is
Wunjo
for bringer of joy, and lastly,
Inguz
—beginnings,” she explained. “Now you must tell me one word that shall give you what you wish for the most.”

Noel stared at her for the longest time, as all around them receded to shadows. Then he spoke, “Skena.”

She offered him a mysterious smile and then began sewing. But not her name. The needle quickly worked through the cloth to form the letters
l-o-v-e.
Before he could see what she had done, she took his hand.

“Come. I will show you what to do with the Yule Cloth.” At one of the Great Hall posts, she paused. “Pick three leaves from the holly branch—careful, as they are prickly—and three berries.”

Noel did as she instructed. Carrying the items, he followed her to the fireplace where she opened the cloth, showing the word in the middle of the circle.

“I said Skena was my wish.” The pale eyes moved over her, touching her with a power much like the kenning.

She gave a brief nod. “Oh, aye. But this is a spell for us both. You are
Algiz
the protector. Fate—
Wyrd
—sent you to me. Together we have a joyful beginning that brings love. That is my gift to you, Noel—this Yuletide spell.”

Forming her hand to make a cup with the word
love
against her palm, she took the leaves and berries from him and placed them on the cloth, then folded the corners over each other. Stepping to the fire, she started to toss it onto the blaze, but Noel caught her hand. The silver eyes locked with hers, stripping away any protection and touching her soul. Together, they tossed the cloth into the flames.

“By the fire burning bright, three upon three, let it be,” she whispered.