Susan King - [Celtic Nights 01] (43 page)

* * *

He slept, and woke, and slept again, wrapped in mist, floating in a river of shadows. The warmth of her touch soothed him, her voice caressed him. He felt strength in her hands, and gentleness, and surrendered to both.

While he lay in Alainna's warm, dim chamber, in Alainna's own bed, drifting in and out of a soporific state, he heard voices other than hers, quiet, concerned, and kind: Lome, Una, Esa, Niall, Giric, others. Una was there often, quick and nervous as a bird. He was vaguely aware that she had stitched his wound closed, the deep sword cut in his side that he had held closed all the way home from the ambush to keep his life from flowing out.

Home.
He caught himself in his thoughts.
Home.
Kinlochan seemed like that to him now, and those who hovered at his bedside seemed like family. But that could not be. He could not think why, for his mind was muddled. For some reason, he could not stay here. But he wanted to, very much.

He heard them say that he had lost much blood, that he had nearly died. No wonder he felt so weak, he thought. Then the shadows descended again, and he let their conversation pass over his awareness like clouds. Only Alainna's voice remained, sustaining him, a light in the shadows.

He dreamed of a place where Alainna waited for him inside an open gate set in a wall of gleaming bronze. Behind her rose a tower with walls of silver, brilliant in the sun, the roof thatched with doves' feathers.

This was her Land of Promise, he knew. He was glad that she had found it at last. She called to him, holding out her hands to invite him inside. He wanted desperately to go to her, but when he tried to move forward he was rooted to the ground. He looked down to see his feet deep in a hole, entwined by vines.

He woke again, turning his head with effort. Alainna was there, bending over him, her hand cool on his brow.

"Sleep, Sebastien
Ban,"
she whispered. "Sleep, and do not die. Too many men have died in my life, and I am weary of it. I cannot lose you too. Not you." He felt her lips on his cheek, and soft on his mouth, and he thought he tasted her tears.

He reached for her hand, though it took effort, and he held it, slim and cool and strong, while he slid into another dream of contentment, another dream where he was with her.

* * *

He willed himself to open his eyes and keep them open. What day it was, he did not know; the third day in this bed, the fourth, or more. Alainna sat beside him, her hair glorious, her eyes like a deep sea. He reached out to her.

"Am I awake or dreaming?" he asked in a gruff voice. His fingers grazed her arm. He realized, with a sense of surprise, that he had spoken in Gaelic without thinking.

She smiled and took his hand, squeezing it. "Awake," she said. "I was about to bathe you again. You have been fevered." She touched his brow with her cool palm. "Ah, it is nearly gone. Good. Una will be pleased."

He smiled a little. "And are you pleased?"

"I am." She drew down the linen sheet that covered his nude torso, settling it a little below his waist. His side was bandaged, and his muscles felt stiff and painful when he shifted. She dipped a cloth in water and wrung it, then slid it over his chest, her hands infinitely gentle.

"Mm." He cocked a brow and looked at her. "That is not the touch of a stonemason, but the touch of an angel. Ah, now I remember. You are both." He gave her a teasing smile.

She laughed. "I think you are dreaming after all."

He could not seem to stop smiling. "I might be. You have been in all of my dreams." She smiled as she turned away to dip the cloth fresh and wring it again. "How long since..."

"Four days," she answered. "We have worried about you, Sebastien
Ban.
You missed the new year. We welcomed it without you." She smiled, but he saw traces of fatigue in the purple shadows under her eyes and the pallor on her face.

"My men? Robert, the rest? Giric? How are they?"

She stroked the cloth over his chest and up over one shoulder, frowning. "Better. Giric scared us, too, with a bad head wound, but he is stronger now, and up and about. Robert had a spear wound on his leg that needed closing, but he is already walking. Etienne's arm was cut, and is mending too. The rest are well enough."

"And the... others?" he asked. "Have you sent for the priest, and buried them?"

She shook her head. "The snow is too deep. We have not been able to send someone for Father Padruig. Lome said prayers over their bodies, and we held a wake and watched over them the first night. Una and Morag tended them and shrouded them. We will do what must be done as soon as we can."

He nodded, then turned his face away. "We were betrayed and trapped, Alainna. We were attacked without honor."

"I know," she said. "Giric and Robert told me what happened. I am sorry, Sebastien. I am sorry, too, about Hugo. I know he was your friend."

He closed his eyes briefly against an intangible pain that cut far deeper than the wound in his side. "He was like a brother," he murmured. "If I were a Highland man, that death alone would make this feud my own," he added in a fierce voice.

"It would." She slipped the cloth back into the basin and twisted it to dampness. "But you are not a Highland man. I do not want you to make this feud your own."

He sighed in frustration. "Alainna—"

"Hush. Do not speak of this now. You must rest and relax, and think only of pleasant things. That is the way to recover."

He sighed again, his mind still muddled. Thoughts took effort; the sadness and anger he felt took effort too. But whenever he looked at her, quiet joy flowed through him like water.

"The rest are well?" he asked.

She tipped her head quizzically. "They are. I told you."

"Ruari?" he asked softly, deliberately. "Is he here?"

The cloth, gliding along his shoulder, stopped. Alainna kept her profile to him, her hair like plaited fire in the reddish light. "He is here," she said quietly and apprehensively.

"He came to our aid and fought the MacNechtans."

"Giric told us. Ruari is here now, where he belongs, with his wife and her kin." He heard the defiance in her voice.

"I will need to talk to him. I want to talk to you too," he added somberly. "You knew he was back, Alainna."

"There is time for that later," she said calmly, avoiding his steady gaze. "What is most important is that we are all safe. That you are safe," she murmured.

He sighed, watching her, and kept silent. She slicked the cloth down his midsection, and he flinched, highly aware of her touch. Her gentle strokes took the wet cloth over his abdomen, though she avoided the bandaging, wadded on the left, tied at the right.

"You spoke a charm of protection over me before I left," he began. "But I did get cut, after all." He smiled teasingly.

"Sometimes the protection works in different ways than we would like," she answered lightly. "But you did come back to me as you went away from me—alive."

He nodded, watching her. "True. I might have died there."

"Too easily, Sebastien
Ban,"
she murmured. "You lost a lot of blood. But the cut was in the muscle, and no deeper. Una is skilled at closing sword wounds. You will heal quickly now that the fever is gone."

While they spoke, she stroked the warm, wet cloth over his skin, up and down his torso. The water glistened in firelit beads on the golden brown hair that covered his chest and midline. She slipped the cloth over his arms, over his hands. He felt like a babe under her careful ministrations, and he lay back in and let her soothe him, body and spirit.

Wounded and weak, stripped clean of everything, even his pride, he gave himself wholly into her care. He savored the compassion, and the sensual pleasure inherent in her touch, in her presence.

He watched her as she worked, and felt the warm slick of the cloth over his body, and thought how much he would like to try that warm cloth on her in turn. He imagined delights that he lacked the strength to pursue then, although his body responded.

Responded well enough that when she rubbed the wet cloth down his abdomen again, he took her wrist. "Alainna," he murmured, his gaze steady on hers and his grip strong, "unless you wish to join me in this bed and risk taking the rest of my strength, let the washing be."

She blushed and set the cloth aside, then picked up a piece of thick linen to rub his chest and arms dry. "Well enough," she agreed. "Your fever has broken, and there is not the need that there was earlier."

"Ah," he said. "You have bathed me before, and me unable to enjoy it?" He rested his head back on pillows that were soft and fragrant with heather and lavender, the two scents that he most associated with her. He raised his arms to fold them behind his head. The room was warm, with an extra brazier on the floor, he noticed. He felt no chill, even with dampened skin.

"I bathed every part of you. Una and the others left the room and left the task to me, as your handfasted wife."

"Every part? I am sorry I missed that," he said wryly.

She rubbed his arm and hand dry. "It needed to be done to bring down the fever, though perhaps a proper lady would not have done such a thing for a knight."

Her cheeks burned hot as a fire, he thought. He longed to touch her, wanted to know if the heat in her was as strong as the heat that swelled and burned, healthfully now, in his own body.

He reached out and drew his forefinger down the sweet curve of her cheek and lifted her chin. "A lady might not do that for a knight," he said, "but a wife would for a husband."

She tipped her head in the cup of his hand and watched him solemnly. "She would," she answered.

She stood so quickly that his uplifted fingers closed on air. She picked up the bowl and the cloths and went to the door, opening it and shutting it behind her without a word.

He made a soft fist and covered his eyes with his forearm, sighing heavily.

* * *

Sebastien scratched his side where the healing wound itched, and he scratched his head, longing for a bath. Una had denied him one steadily for days; in the morning, he decided, he would set aside his dignity and beg. Alainna would have relented by now, he thought, but in the last few days he had seen her for no more than moments at a time. Una said she stayed a great deal in her workshop now that Sebastien was healing so well.

He missed her. He knew she had not slept in her own bed since he had been wounded, and he suspected she slept on a hard, flat bed of sandstone while he recovered in a cozy nest of heather-stuffed pillows and warm furs and blankets.

He tried once more to rest, turned over a few times, scratched again, and swore. The hour was late, but he was not especially tired after spending over a week doing little else than sleeping. The sounds of music and laughter, and Lome's voice raised in rhythmic poetry, reverberated through the floor of the bedchamber. He sat up in the bed.

He looked at the companion who had spent more time with him in the last few days than anyone else. Finan sat on the floor by the brazier and lifted a hind leg to scratch himself. He set his head on his front paws and looked at Sebastien, tail thumping.

"Ah," Sebastien said. "So it was you gave me this itching, was it?" He shoved the furs and blankets aside and stood cautiously, straightening to his full height with care, for the muscles of his side and abdomen were still tender. Flexing his back and shoulders, he unwrapped the bulky bandage from around his middle and laid it aside. The neatly stitched wound was less bruised, he saw, and healing well. He felt far more comfortable with the bandage off, although he was sure Una would not approve.

He walked nude across the room, his feet compressing the rushes, toward the corner, where a bench held a pile of his folded clothing, cleaned and mended. He dressed carefully in shirt,
braies,
and brown tunic, pulling on hose and boots. The green surcoat had been washed and mended, but he laid it aside.

Opening the door, he stood back while Finan slipped out ahead of him. Then he slowly descended the steps into the hall, standing in a raftered bay and watching for a few moments.

One by one, they noticed him. Faces turned toward him, smiling, and friendly voices called out welcome and blessings. Lome halted his song on the harp, though Sebastien gestured for him to continue. The old man smiled and changed the song he was playing to a joyful strain.

Una rushed forward, clucking like a little hen. "Back to the bed you are going!" she said, pulling at his arm.

"I am fine," he assured her. "Far better than I was, thanks to you—and to your clan chief." His gaze scanned the room behind her, looking for Alainna. "Though I would like a bath. I think Finan shared his fleas with me," he added.

She looked at Beitris, who stood behind her. "We must put more bog myrtle in the mattress and pillows," she said.

He walked past them, pausing to greet clan members and knights as he went, his gaze scanning the room until he saw her.

She sat on a bench at one of the tables, surrounded by Giric, Robert, Etienne, and Lulach. She glowed in his eyes more than the hearth fire itself. He went to her.

Near her sat another he wanted to see, a tall man, wide-shouldered and handsome, his face craggy, his dark hair streaked with silver. Esa leaned against him. Quiet descended upon the room as Sebastien came forward, silence with a note of tension. He knew they waited to see what he would do.