One Snowy Knight (30 page)

He laced his fingers with hers, raising her arms above her head, at the same time his legs spread hers wide. In excruciating torment, the tip of his shaft nudged against her slit, moistening his sensitive skin with the scalding hot dew her body wept. The solid weight of his warrior-honed muscles pressed Skena into the bedding, the deep feathered ticking almost cocooning them in a nest. Her rounded softness met and conformed to his. Perfection, as if she had been fashioned for him alone. He was heavy, yet he could see reflected in her luminous eyes that she relished the sensation. Offered up her surrender.

For a breathless moment, he just stared down at her. He wanted to capture the image of Skena’s pagan beauty in his mind’s eye, almost seal this shard of time in amber. Years from now he would summon the precious memory, revisit it, and treasure its special glory and power. He wanted to recall his beautiful wife adored by shadow and firelight.

“I have dreamt of this, of a wife, a family, for many long, cold years. Too many. I had begun to think such wishes were naught but a chimera that existed only to torment me with what I could never have. But you are real, Skena. You are mine. Mine.”

He kissed her, his mouth ravaging hers at the same instant he plunged into her, forged their bodies into one in the crucible of their passion. Her female heat surrounded his swollen flesh, blistered him, branded him. His tongue pressed along the seam of her lips, and she opened for him with a sigh. His warrior lady did not just accept what he wanted of her, but she demanded, their muscles working against each other, yet straining together in a fervent urgency.

Conjuring a raspy inhale from her, he trailed kisses long her jaw, then down the arches column of her neck. Skena’s nails bit into his arms, when he laved his tongue against the spot where her blood sounded a tattoo of passion. In response, her heart jumped, slamming against his ribs. He felt its force next to his and savored the potency of this rare magic between them.

Lifting slightly, he stroked inside her again, going deeper, his body slamming to hers in a dance primeval. Skena moaned. Pleasure not pain. He whispered against her temple, “See, wishes do come true and shall reign forevermore in our lives.”

He set a frantic rhythm of plunges that had Skena clinging to him, her sharp fingernails biting into the flesh covering his shoulder blades. Then clinging was not enough for her. She arched hard to meet his frenzied thrusts.

Noel’s body went rigid, vibrating with the need of his release. He fought it, wanting to prolong the beauty, the splendor, only her internal muscles tightened around his flesh like a fist, followed by the undulations rippling down the length of his erection. There was no holding back. His mind and body exploded into a thousand score, blue-hot cinders, blinding his sight as Skena pulled him into a maelstrom of consuming fire. She clung to him as the scalding heat of his seed poured into her welcoming body.

His mouth latched on the side of her neck, drawing hard. He would mark her. Noel smiled. She had marked his back with her fingernails. The tracks they had cut into his flesh would quickly heal. The marks she left on his soul branded him as hers.

He would have it no other way.

Waking up at first light, Noel slid from the cozy bed and tugged on his sark. Padding silently across the floor barefooted, he went to fetch his bride’s present. When he had been preparing to come north, he heard these Highlands were often wet and bitter cold. Using common sense, he had commissioned two heavy mantles made for him, each a serviceable brown wool lined with wolf fur. He wished Skena to have one. He had seen how threadbare both her mantles were. He wanted her warm through this coming winter. Going to the chest at the foot of the bed, Noel lifted the lid and removed the neatly folded item.

Sitting on the edge of the bed he offered Skena a gentle smile. “My bride’s gift to my lady wife.”

Skena scooted up in the bed, rubbing the sleep sand from her eyes, and then gave him a crooked smile. “But you already gifted me with this lovely ring.” She wiggled the ring on her finger.

“Guillaume gave that to me for you. It was his lady mother’s, intended one day for his lady wife.”

“Then why is he not saving it to give to Rowanne? Surely, we must return it to him? The gesture was lovely, but I cannot accept something that rightfully belongs to my cousin.”

“Nay, I spoke nearly the same words to him. He said while he treasured the ring, that something whispered it was not predestined for Rowanne. I saw his eyes. He meant it. Still, I wanted to offer something from me to you.” He stood and unfurled the heavy garment. The cloak was a deep brown wool, lined with fur of wolf killed in summer when the fur was reddish brown. Perfect for Skena’s coloring. Holding it up he said, “Your mantle is not warm enough. I would have you better protected. Come, try it on.”

Skena laughed. “I am unclothed, husband dear.”

Noel felt deep happiness filling his heart, his soul. “You will find, wife, I am very observant of such details.”

She shyly slid off the bed, allowing him to wrap the mantle about her. Pursing her lips she finally smiled. “Tis strange to feel the fur against my skin.”

“I had two mantles made for myself, fearing the wrath of this North Country. I did not know when I applied that foresight that one would cover such a beautiful woman. And she would be mine.” When her mouth opened, Noel knew she was going to protest his use of the word. Taking hold of her shoulders, he jerked Skena to him and kissed her ever so softly. “Yes, beautiful. I shall hear none of your prattle otherwise. The cloak suits you well, enhances your striking hair and eyes.”

She looked up at him, her expression hungry to believe he meant his praise. He wanted desperately to make her understand all that she caused him feel, how important, vital, she was to him now. All that she gave him. Only it was too much. Love filled his heart to overflowing, the emotions overwhelming him. Words were too feeble to express the blinding intensity of this magic.

So instead, he let passion say what he could not speak. Leaning to her, he brushed his lips against hers. When she gave a small gasp, feeling the power of their bond, he deepened it. She moved against him, wanting the pressure, the friction of their bodies. The minx slid her knee against the outside of his thigh, rubbing like a cat.

Something in his mind snapped, and he moved so fast she had no time to react. Pushing her against the stone wall, his mouth claimed hers with a hunger that seared his mind. Bracing his lower arm against the wall, he parted the mantle and leaned into her. The stone was cold, but the heat of her body encased in the warm mantle shielded her from the chill. He used his lips, his teeth, his tongue, working her mouth until she gave him what he wanted. He was not rough, yet he devoured her, kissed her again and again with a ravenous need that was frightening.

Part of him was terrified at just how important Skena was to him. It made him vulnerable, and he was not sure he liked the sense, but there was no changing it. Skena was everything he longed for in the dark, empty nights. She was the sun in his life.

These head-spinning thoughts and sensations eddied through his blood until it was painful.

Skena clung to him as if fearing her legs would not support her. Her fingers bit into his upper arms, as she embraced the wildness in his passion. Encouraged it. His left hand snaked over her hip, then the fingers sifted through the soft curls, the middle one slipping over her mound, along the wet crease, and finally into her blistering heat.

Echoes of the dream.

His throat corded with the intense yearning for her. In near desperation, he broke the kiss and lightly nipped her lip. Moving the finger in and out slowly, he spoke low husky words. “I dreamt of you when you worked to heal me. Of me taking you in an orchard, feeling how your body wept liquid heat for me. So real, ’tis like a memory within me.” He chained kisses along her jaw, then nuzzled the hair over her ear. “I want to taste your fire. You sensed I did last night.”

Her eyes widened as she understood what he meant. “But that is—”

“Forget what anyone has told you about such things. Between us there are no rules, no limits.” Noel’s voice was husky with his yearning. “My mouth moving on you…My tongue thrusting in you.” He pushed his finger slowly in and then out, agonizingly, setting her body to tremble with white hot urgency.

In a surreal blending, these moments with Skena now swirled and combined with the memory of the vision. Her hips flexed against his hand as she wrapped her arms around his neck. He could sense her shock in what he was asking of her, but also sense she was yielding to the dark lure. “We have so many delights to explore, you and I.”

His hand worked magic on her, and instantly his mind conjured the dark image, of him on his knees before her, doing everything he promised. And she wanted that, ached for that. He could almost feel her thoughts, knew the kenning vibrated between them, allowing her to see the tableau within his mind.

Her thighs clamped around his hand, holding him as lightning arced through her. So attuned, his body throbbed, feeling her release coming. Grabbing her hips, he lifted her high, pinning her against the wall as he plunged deeply into her, allowing her climax to ripple down his shaft. Before she came down from the pinnacle of ecstasy, he backed out of her slick channel, then flexed hard, to the hilt, causing her to shudder all over again. Like a whirlwind the feelings of lust and love spun through him, making him dizzy. His spine arched once more. The world seemed to vanish…then slowly put itself together again.

He held on to Skena, knowing she could keep him safe.

Humming to herself, Skena guided the shears through the rich velvet, careful not to ruin the lovely fabric. The shade was pale blue with a grey cast, perfect for Noel. With the hurry to wed, there had been no time for her to sew him a wedding gift. Twirling the ring around her finger, she thought of the past few days and how their bond strengthened with each breath. When Rowanne had presented her with several bolts of velvet as a Yule present, Skena spied the grey-blue fabric as just right for Noel and immediately set it aside.

The winter day was drawing in, the hours of light growing few. Soon, Noel would return with the other men from the hunt. She wanted to have the cutting done before he came back, in order to keep it a surprise until she could present it to him on Hogmanay.

Rowanne’s mouth pursed while she watched Skena trimming the edge to match the pattern of Noel’s tunic that she had borrowed for that purpose. “I thought the material would make
you
a lovely kirtle, dearest cousin,” she chided, a note of jest in her voice.

“I appreciate your generous gift and cannot offer you thanks enough. ’Tis been a while since I had a new kirtle,” Skena replied, raising up from her bent over position. “Enough will be left from this bolt that I can fashion part of a gown. An insert for the bodice and the skirt, mayhap lining for the sleeves. Then Noel and I will match.”

“There is no need for raiments to make Noel and you match. You are perfect together. Such a beautiful pair, and you will make beautiful babes. I thought you both so lovely in deep wine for the wedding,” Rowanne complimented. “But ’tis the colors of Noel’s heart and his love for you that is important, and methinks it holds all the hues of the rainbow. I have never seen you happier or more beautiful.”

“You will put me to pale come Beltane when you wed with Lord Guillaume.” Skena offered Rowanne a loving smile. She pondered her cousin’s skittish ways toward the new baron, before returning to work on the velvet.

At length, Rowanne said, “If I wed…” allowing the words to trail off.

Skena glanced up from the task, permitting her fingers, sore from the shears, to rest. “You are betrothed with Julian Challon’s blessing and by king’s command. ’Tis not our Pictish ways any longer, Rowanne. Times have changed. Choice is taken from your sisters and you. From what I hear, Tamlyn is happy, and Guillaume says Aithinne and the new baron of Lyonglen suit as well. Lord Guillaume is a fine man. I truly admire him.” She could not hold silent her feelings any longer. “He cares for you. It pains me to see you so cool toward him. I saw the hurt in his eyes last night when he went to help you take a seat at the table—and you abruptly shrugged his touch away. ’Tis unlike you to be deliberately cruel. Why do you treat him so?”

Rowanne tilted her chin up. “Edward Longshanks gave Glen Shane, along with me and my sisters, to Julian Challon to do with us as he pleased. He chose Tamlyn, then informed Raven and me that we would marry with one of his brothers. No ‘by your leave.’ To add insult to the high-handed situation—Simon offered to joust for which sister each brother should wed. The servants overheard, and the jibe was all over Glenrogha before Vespers. It was…well…insulting!”

Skena’s laughter bubbled forth. “Sorry, I do not make light of your feelings, but men oft say foolish things not stopping to hear how they sound to others. I doubt Sir Simon truly meant they should joust, with Raven and you as their prizes. You have had Guillaume under roof for the better part of a year. In truth, I little understand how you can keep your distance. I love Noel and think him the handsomest of men. But no woman could look at Guillaume and not envy you. Cousin, he is an honorable man, in his promise to you and in his deeds. The whole time at Craigendan he has kept to himself, even requests Muriel to help him with bathing so no tales are carried back to your ears. Few men are that careful. Noel thinks of him as a brother. Do you not wish to marry with him? His keeping his promise to you shows just how gentle he is of your feelings. He is a man any woman would be proud to have as her lord husband.”

Rowanne crossed her arms as if keeping her emotions held tightly within. “I—”

“Mama!” Andrew half-bounded into the room, Annis trailing behind him. “The day wanes. When is our Noel coming back?”

“Anon, I should imagine. Why do you fash?” she asked, pleased at the ‘our’ attached to Noel’s name.

Annis held up her beloved puppet. “Mama, can you make my Muriel ’nother dress?”

“Oh, I might be able to do that. Mayhap a mantle as well?” Skena watched her daughter’s eyes shine with the prospect. “With the scraps from the bolts I should be able to fashion several changes for Lady Muriel de Servian. She will be all the envy when she goes to court.”

“Mama,” Andrew tugged on the skirt of Skena’s kirtle, wanting her undivided attention. “I wish to go wait for our Noel. He promised I could ride Brishen when he came back. Please?”

“Me…I want to ride,” Annis complained.

Skena patted them both on the shoulders. “You may go wait for Noel inside the gates. Be sure to keep the hoods up on your mantles. And if you get cold come back inside. I will not have you getting sick. Understood?”

“Yes, mama,” they said together, heads bobbing. They started to run out of the sewing room, but turned and hurried back. Each hugged her about the hips, and then clamored out of the room in a flurry of giggles.

“Did we ever have that much strength? They wear me out watching them.” Rowanne chuckled.

Skena laughed at the children’s antics. “Och, I better go make sure they get bundled up properly. ‘Yes mama’ does not always mean yes mama.”

As Skena hurried out of the room to catch the children, she slammed hard into a body. Her heart jumped as she, once again, feared coming face-to-face with the man who had stalked her through Craigendan. Startled, she pulled up short, but only saw Ella. She tamped down on her customary reaction of dislike for her, suspicious as to why she was lurking in the shadows. Once again, there was no reason for the woman to be in this area of the fortress.

“Ella, what are you doing here?” She wanted the question to sound offhand. Instead it had an edge to it.

“Beg pardon, Skena. Came—” she suddenly gripped her stomach and doubled over, “for a tansy. Aye, need some worts to help me. Got the gripe sumtin’ awful, me has.”

Recalling how Ella was in this part of the fortress just before one of the attacks, Skena hesitated, leery to be alone with the strange female. “Rowanne, come aid me in mixing a tansy for Ella.”

Rowanne’s eyes flashed a silent question, but she gave her a brief nod. She then followed them to the stillroom.

As Skena stepped from the fortress, she paused to pull the hood of her mantle about her face. Rubbing her cheek against the fur lining, she smiled, enjoying the warmth and protection that her bride’s gift afforded. She had never owned a cloak of this fine quality. The cozy raiment reminded her of Noel’s love.

The snow had returned, not heavy yet, though dark clouds hanging low over Ben Shane promised more bad weather would reach them before nightfall. From the steps of the high porch entrance, she scanned the bailey, looking for the children near the gates. They had been outside too long, waiting for Noel. She wanted them to come inside before they took a chill. They could ride Brishen another day.

Failing to spot them, Skena exhaled in frustration. No one stirred within the ward, as if they feared the snow was settling in for the night. Her people had rushed to complete their chores for the day and were already inside by the fire in the Great Hall, some likely also sharing the warmth of the kitchen.

“Annis! Andrew!” she called. No reply. She strained to hear their voices. No sound anywhere, only the low whirl of the wind pushing the snowflakes through the ballium.

The gatekeeper would still be at his sentry post since the riders had not returned from the hunt. Skena glanced up at the sinking sun, its light casting shades of pinks and purples across the snowy landscape. A faint unease brushed her mind. They should be home soon. She wished that Noel was back, and they were all gathered in the Great Hall, snug against the gathering stour.

The wind shifted, colder now, the flakes suddenly swirling thicker. The children needed to come in now. They were too small and could take chill easily. A blast of icy air buffeted her. Going down the steps, she hugged the heavy mantle about her, glad of the cloak’s shield against the worsening weather.

The guard had his hands over a small brazier, trying to warm himself. When he looked up and saw her coming, he hastily put them behind his back. “Eventide, my lady.”

She offered him a smile. “Go back to warming yourself. I would be doing the same if I were stuck out here waiting for the men. When they finally come back, go straight to Cook and tell him to give you some hot broth.”

“You are kind, Skena MacIain,” he spoke with a nod.

She clutched the side of her mantle as the wind whistled around them. “Skena de Servian now,” she corrected.

“You take his name? But what about clan law saying you must keep the MacIain name to hold these lands and title?”

She shrugged. “Times change. Lord de Servian owns the charter to the lands and title to Craigendan now.”

The old man grimaced. “’Tain’t right, Skena. This is Scotland. He is Norman.”

“True. But he is my lord husband now. ’Tis my will, not that of an English King.” Her tone was soft, but spoke she would hold no reproof for her choosing an English husband. She looked around. “Have you seen my bairns frolicking about? They were coming to the gate to await Lord de Servian’s return.”

“Aye, they were here for a bit. Then they went to the stables to see the horses.”

She looked to the barns. “How long ago was that?”

The man frowned. “Sometime back, my lady. They need to be inside. The fury of the storm will hit soon methinks.”

“I agree.” Skena glanced up at the darkening sky, the storm clouds nearly blotting out the remaining rays of the sun. “Errant children, errant husband, not sure who is more troublesome.”

The snow crunched under her booted feet as she skirted along the curtain wall to keep out of the frigid blast of air that went through the ward. At the stable she paused to listen for their voices. Again, only small sounds broke the silence, the horses in the barn murmuring or moving about, a dog off on the far side barking.

“Annis! Andrew! Answer me!” From the corner of her eye, she noticed the postern gate. It was not locked, but moved faintly, pushed by the storm’s force. As she headed toward it, she looked down, trying to spot their footprints in the snow. There had been considerable traffic, thus it was well packed down, too compressed to take an impression.

As she reached the entranceway, she paused, recalling the fight with the wolves. There had been no further incident of the beasts trying to get in. While they had taken down a large portion of the pack, there had been others. She hoped the twins had not been so foolish as to sneak out the postern gate, hoping to walk out to meet Noel. Jerking the door back, she looked out into the gloaming. There were several sets of tracks, but she spotted one small booted one off to the side.

Skena followed. “I will take a switch to them,” she cursed under her breath. She was angry, but more so at herself. Had she not stopped to dose Ella, she would have gone after the children, stressing to them that they must come back inside shortly. It had taken time to prepare the tansy, and then Ella ruined her efforts by tossing up the contents of her stomach, so she had to do it all over again. Had she not been engaged in dealing with the irritating woman, she would never have allowed the time to slip away.

She reached the point where she could clearly see the small print belonged to either Annis or Andrew. The size was right. Only she could not understand why there were not more footprints. Another frigid blast of air buffeted her, knocking back the hood of the mantle. A chill went up her spine that had naught to do with the coming storm.

The reason there were so few prints was that someone had passed this way behind the children. The larger ones—possibly two sets of women’s prints and one clearly a man’s—had come behind and mostly obliterated the child-size ones. She tried not to panic, but she was running before she realized it. She spotted more partial imprints of the twins, leading away from Craigendan. Surely, the children would not be so foolish as to come out here hoping to meet Noel on the return?

Her lungs burned from running and breathing in the icy air. Gathering her wits against the all-out panic, she stopped to consider what was best to do. She looked around to get her bearing and realized she now stood in the spot where she found the children the night they had come upon Noel.

Their lives had changed so since that stormy night. Now she stood in another gathering storm.

She grimaced at the conclusion she drew—the children were either being led away from the fortress, or someone was stalking them. Neither possibility sat well in her stomach. She frowned as her eyes spotted something, just a few paces ahead. Lifting her skirts, she rushed onward, the snowflakes stinging her eyes.

She reached the spot in the path where it forked into different directions. One branch would lead to the road to Glen Shane. Another led to Gailleann Castle and then to Comyn land beyond. The smaller track would circle around and come back to Craigendan. As she stood at the crossroads, she could not discern which way the children had gone. She carefully searched about, but there were no more small footprints. It was if they had vanished. Several paces from where the tracks stopped, there was a deep impression, as though an adult had fallen to his or her knees in the snow.

She started to call out to them, as she had on the night they had found Noel. Only, something warned this was not a wise thing to do. Far up ahead on the path leading to the Comyn land, she saw something dark alongside the road. She hurried her steps to it. Bending over, she picked up the length of woolen material.

Her blood turned to ice as she saw the weave was one worn by Duncan Comyn. Had Noel been right about Duncan after all? Was he responsible for the strange happenings at Craigendan?