Unbound (14 page)

Back
at home, Eaden made us both tea and I watched with fascination as he moved
around my kitchen effortlessly, knowing instinctively where mugs and sugar
lived in our cupboards. Even when he was engaged in mundane tasks, I struggled
to tear my eyes away from him. He radiated belongingness in a way that I had
never quite experienced. Every time he moved I yearned to feel as comfortable
in my own skin as he seemed to feel in his. Was it only time that lent him that
sense of confidence? Or was it something else?

We
sat on the couch talking softly as the light faded from the late afternoon sky.

“It’s
not just about the instrument,” he explained when I asked about his guitars.
“It’s the act of creation. The need to be so fully present and focused, so
conscious and yet unconscious.” His eyes shone with an almost radical light and
I sank back into the couch, letting his words wash over me, content as a cat in
the sun. “You become so absorbed in the progression of tasks, each one minor,
but the outcome is something that has never existed before. From nothing comes
something. The most important part of the –“

He
broke off with a wry grin. “I’m sorry,
mo
cridhe
.”

Mortified,
I sat up quickly, realizing that my eyes must have been half-closed. I was just
so damn comfortable around him. “Don’t be. I’m interested, really. And it
sounds important to you.”

“It
is, but that’s no excuse to bore you to death with the details.”

He
lifted me effortlessly over to lie beside him and we nestled quietly together
for a time, my head resting lightly on his chest, his thumb gently tracing the
bones of my hand.

“Will
your mother be home soon?”

“Not
for a while.” I had no interest in managing a meeting between them and he
seemed to understand that.

It
made me wonder about his family. His mother.
 
“What was your life...like?” Awkward, I
stumbled to clarify, “Your first life, I mean.”
 
It was a sure bet that those words had
never come out of my mouth in that order before.

He
tilted his head down to look at me. “What would you like to know?”

What
more
did
I want to know?
Everything, I decided. I wanted to know everything about this astonishing man
who was finally a part of my life. “Where you lived... what your family was
like.”

He
stroked my hair with one hand, absent-mindedly. “I’m a Scot – though I
think you’ve gathered that by now.” He looked to me for confirmation and I
nodded.

“My
family were
Cenél nGabráin
, descendants of Irish immigrants who settled
in the West of Scotland in the century before I was born. It was known as
Dál Riata
then.” My ears laboured over
the unfamiliar rhythmic sounds that rolled off his tongue so easily.
 
“My grandfather was one of the first of
his clan to make the journey. He died before I was born, but my father told us
many stories of him.” A sudden grin lit his face. “Apparently, he was a bit of
a rogue.”

Eaden’s
accent, usually so faint, seemed to become more pronounced as he spoke of his
birthplace. My Dad had been like that; you could always tell when he had just
gotten off the phone with his brothers, as if he were pulled home by his
bloodlines, back to the place where speech had begun.

“Despite
his unsavoury reputation, he managed to teach his son the ways of the world
well enough. My father established himself as a successful
Bóaire
– a cattle Lord – who owned a fair amount of land.”

“What
was he like?”

“My
father? He was a good man. He held our family together, taught us what it was
to be fair, to be compassionate, to earn respect, rather than demand it. Much
of who I am, I owe to him.”

His
hand stopped on top of my head and I looked up at him. His eyes were distant.

“And
your mother?”

He
was silent. Waiting patiently, I knew he would continue if I wanted it.

He
sighed and looked down to meet my eyes. “She died when I was young.” Oddly, he
seemed more concerned about my reaction than upset by the words themselves.

“I’m
sorry,” I said, embarrassed now that I had pushed him to respond.

“No
need to be,
mo cridhe
, it was so very
long ago.” But his eyes held a sadness that I had seen before. The accumulated
grief of multiple lifetimes.

Pausing,
Eaden seemed uncertain how to continue, but then his hand resumed stroking my
hair. “Life was very different then – often hard, often cruel. There were
many things that would seem unfamiliar and unfair if I were to explain them to
you now.” He looked down at me with a slight smile.
 
“And yet, I think you would have
understood my family.” He shook his head and grinned. “We were as thorny and as
affectionate as any group of siblings you might encounter today. My two older
sisters, Rebecca and Fiona, were fierce, feminine creatures. Not women you
sought to get on the wrong side of.” He chuckled.
 
“Consequently, my job as the eldest male
was to torment them and my younger brother Fraser, as often as possible.” He
paused. “Fraser was very much like me, or at least tried to be, more often than
was good for him.”

He
turned to gaze at me.
 
“I believe
they would have liked you very much, Rachel.”

Unexpectedly,
a lump formed in my throat. Knowing that Eaden believed his family would have
approved of me felt
important
.
More important than I would have guessed. Not trusting myself to speak, I was
silent, but my smile was grateful.

Lost
in his memories, Eaden’s hand continued to brush through my hair, sending
whisper- light shivers down my neck as my mind created pictures of his family,
their faces, the laughter I envisioned filled a home with four children. But I struggled
with the details. Even with all of my interest in history, I couldn’t form a
clear image of the world Eaden would have known as a young man.

“It’s
hard to imagine what your life might have been like,” I said eventually. “Did
you work?” I tried to see Eaden as a farmer or a shepherd and failed miserably.
“Or have you always been a stalker?”

“As
a matter of fact, I did have a job.” He seemed pleased about something.
Chuffed, my father would have said.

“Well?”
I prodded.

His
smile was disarming. “I was a knight.”

Seconds
passed as I tried to process this. An unexpected laugh burst from my chest.
“Really?” My smile had a life of its own as it spread across my face. “Like
with armour and a horse and a sword? A knight?” It came out sounding more incredulous
than I had intended. The idea of Eaden as a knight was not only conceivable; it
was also rather appealing. Some very satisfying images were beginning to take
shape; Eaden galloping across an open field on horseback, cloak billowing
behind him, sword thrust upright in the air.

“Well,
it wasn’t exactly like that,” he said interrupting my reverie, “but yes, I
assure you, I was a knight.” He frowned slightly.
 
“Does that surprise you?”

 
“No, it fits perfectly.” I laughed. “The
whole saving-damsels-in-distress-thing makes a lot more sense now.”

Although
his expression didn’t change, I thought his eyes became a bit more guarded and
I suddenly felt bad for teasing him. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m a big fan of
knights. I’ve just never met one before and…I’ve never kissed one before,
either,” I said, trying to be coy and hating that my cheeks felt hot.
Apparently, the art of seduction was not going to come easily to me.

“Then
I’m pleased I was the first.” He leaned over to brush his lips against the top
of my head. Lifting myself from his chest, I turned towards him and for the
second time that day, my world turned inside out and upside down. His hands ran
lightly down my back and I shivered at the gentleness of his touch, his moods
as mercurial as his presence in my life.

“It’s
my hope that I will be the last knight you kiss as well,” he murmured into my
hair after we drew apart. We lay quietly for a time, just like that, together
without words.
 

Still
conjuring pleasant images of Eaden in his first life – Sir Eaden! –
I sat up again so I could look at him. Something had just occurred to me and I
couldn’t resist asking. “Did you know King Arthur?” I was half joking.

Something
flickered in his eyes. Surprise, amusement, but also caution.

He
rubbed a slow hand along the late-day stubble on his chin and eyed me
carefully. “As a young man I was fostered at Tintagel Castle for a time. I was
fortunate enough to have served there for a number of years.”

“Seriously?”
My voice was louder than I’d intended. “You were one of the Knights of the
Round Table?” I knew I sounded giddy, even to my own ears. Eaden reached out to
gently push my hair back from my forehead and I found myself calmed.

He
smiled. “The fairy tale that surrounds King Arthur today has been shaped mostly
from legend and conjecture. But all lies begin with a seed of truth.
A
rtuir mac Áedáin
had
many knights in his employ. Far more than the handful of men that some of the
legends have described.”

“
Artuir mac Áedáin,” I repeated, cringing as I tried to copy
his pronunciation.

“
The
eldest son of
Áedán mac Gabráin
, King of the
Dál Riata
, the
man I was named for. Artuir…Arthur,” he conceded, “was a warrior, a fierce
fighter and a loyal clansman. It was a great honour to serve him.”

“Were…”
I hesitated, feeling foolish and childish, but unable to stop myself, “Were
Lancelot and Guinevere real?” I steeled myself for disappointment. So much of
my childhood had been spent conjuring these people; it would be crushing to
know that they hadn’t existed.

“That
part of the myth holds, although they had other names at the time. Lancelot was
a Pictish Warrior and Lady Guinevere came from what is now called Perth. I knew
them both.” He was thoughtful. “Perhaps I could even say that they were
friends.”
 

A
wistful sigh escaped, despite my best intentions. “Where they…was it much like
the stories? I mean, were they in love?” Just saying that word out loud in his
presence was electrifying.

“Not
exactly like the stories.” He pressed his lips together to hold back a sardonic
smile. “Oh, to be sure, there was a love triangle,” he paused, "but the
real story is a bit different than you might expect. Because Arthur was pagan,
all of his exploits were homogenized by the Christian church quite early in
their retelling – chiefly to ensure he was seen as a devout conqueror.”

He
seemed to be enjoying drawing this out slowly and I nudged him impatiently. “And…?”

 
“Although it’s true that Guinevere only
had eyes for Arthur, the same could be said of Lancelot.” He smile was sad.

It
took a second. “You mean...”

“I
mean it was Arthur who had to choose between his greatest loves.” His tone
became more serious. “Ultimately, he suffered enormously for his inability to
do so. The stories of his madness originated from the agony he endured when he
sent Lancelot away.”

I
wondered what Eaden had witnessed of Arthur’s suffering or if the sorrow in his
voice was an echo of his own pain.

He
looked down at me. “Arthur was simply unable to reconcile his love for
Guinevere and the passion he felt for Lancelot. It was what drove him mad.” His
eyes filled with the ancient sadness that seemed a permanent, if reclusive,
occupant. “Love is a very powerful and dangerous thing, Rachel,” he said
softly. “Remember that.”

His
voice held a warning that I studiously ignored; yet his words, so reminiscent
of Jacob’s edict in my dreams, sent a shudder racing down my spine.
 

*
         
*
         
*
         
*
         
*

Heaving
a sigh, I kicked the covers down to my feet only to drag them back up to my
chin moments later. Schooling my breath, I closed my eyes and folded my hands
on top of the comforter…and groaned as vivid images of Eaden continued to
parade through my brain on a continuous loop. Unbidden. Not entirely unwelcome.
Pleasure and pain.

Burying
my head under my pillow did nothing to dim the visions. Standing on the threshold
of my doorway, our slow kiss goodnight had been tender and full of sweet
promise, his hands resting lightly on waist, my cheeks slightly raw from the
scratch of his stubble, the smell of his neck….

Removing
my head, I thumped the pillow aggressively before falling on top of it. How slow
was slow? Was he thinking weeks or months? Glaring at the ceiling, I resolved
to bring this up again, sooner rather than later. If I had anything to say
about it, and I intended to say a lot, we would not be waiting much longer. It
was unfair that my reward for waiting for the “right guy” was being forced to
wait even longer.