Until the Knight Comes (35 page)

“A man unworthy of Mariota Macnicol,” Kenneth finished for her, pulling her back into his arms, kissing her full on the lips, a deep, claiming kiss.

And made all the more potent for the rousing acclaim it drew from his men—and Archibald Macnicol’s.

“I’ve known the truth for weeks now,” he murmured against her ear. “It matters naught, lass. How could it? Loving you as I do?”

“You . . . you do know how much I love you, too?”

“Your kiss gave it away, lass. The very first one.” He winked at her, smoothed back her hair. “That and . . . certain other things!”

Mariota blushed and clung to him, her world suddenly filled with light . . . incredible joy. She bit her lip, looked around the Devil’s Glen at the shambles surrounding them.

“Then it is over?” she asked, no longer trying to stem her tears. “Truly over?”

“No, sweetness,” he assured her, uncaring that his own eyes were more damp than was good for a man, “’tis far from over. Our life together is only beginning.”

Mariota drew a great, tremulous breath.

“I can scarce believe it,” she said, her heart bursting. “You still want me to be your lady?”

Kenneth smiled, shook his head. “My lady
wife,
” he corrected.

“You are certain?”

“Ne’er more so,” he assured her.

She sniffed, dashed a tear from her cheek. “For always?”

And the Keeper of Cuidrach nodded. “Oh, aye, minx. For so long as there is a tomorrow and beyond.”

Epilogue

OUTSIDE CUIDRACH CASTLE’S WALLS, SOME MONTHS LATER . . .

I
t was a day touched by magic.

Singularly beautiful, its glory echoed from the hills, the brilliance of its bright spring sky softened by wisps of snowy-white clouds. The waters of Loch Hourn shimmered in the sun and ringing cheer filled the air as joy lit the faces of everyone moving about the gaily-festooned pavilions or claiming a place at lavishly decked trestle tables.

Even Cuidrach’s stalwart sentinel, the grim-faced Bastard Stone, appeared well-pleased.

Beneficent.

And to the clansmen and friends gathered to celebrate Kenneth and Mariota’s nuptials with hail and good wishes, it was a wedding feast the likes of which many had ne’er experienced and certainly wouldn’t have expected to enjoy on the grassy, sun-kissed cliffs behind Cuidrach Castle, once a lonely ruin, now fully restored to its one-time grandeur and strength.

Its ghosts reconciled and at peace.

Indeed, to the happy carousers feasting beneath the slanting Highland sun, the cold wet winds of winter and Cuidrach’s own gloomier past now seemed but a distant memory.

Relics of better-forgotten yesterdays with no place in Cuidrach’s triumphant future.

Truth tell, a more vital, real-seeming attraction proved the splendid sixteen-oared longship riding the swells not far from the gold-burnished sands of Loch Hourn’s curving shore.

Eye-catching and sleek, the galley drew many
ooohs
and
aaahs
from the men amongst the guests. And most impressive of all, the single-masted greyhound of the sea boasted a high prow carved to resemble a magnificent rearing stag—an unmistakable gesture of kinship from Duncan MacKenzie.

A token of the Black Stag of Kintail’s irrefutable regard.

His forever warning to any fool crazed enough to doubt the Keeper of Cuidrach’s authority.

His—and his lady wife’s—place in the clan.

Just as the promise of a second galley, still being built in Scotland’s far north, assured the goodwill of Archibald Macnicol and his sons.

Their boundless love.

A treasure Mariota now knew she’d possessed all along—just as she’d spent the last weeks reassuring a certain stubborn graybeard that he’d ne’er lost hers.

Nor would.

Not in a thousand lifetimes.

Her throat thickening, she blinked, poked at a wrinkle in the fine linen covering the bridal table—until a delighted female laugh drew her gaze to Nessa and Sir Lachlan. Wed only a fortnight ago, they looked a world apart from the other revelers and her own joy welled just watching them.

Feeling more blessed than she would have e’er believed, she gave in to the emotion flooding her and looked at her own beloved, wondered if it were possible to die of such all-consuming happiness.

Such endless, soaring bliss.

“Heigh-ho, my lady, you do glow this day. And you make the fairest bride I’ve e’er set eyes upon.” Cuidrach’s new seneschal gave her a jaunty smile. “The Keeper can be proud to have you,” he owned, setting down a platter of cheese and sweetmeats. “He could not have done better.”

“Nay, Finlay, I could not have done better.” Mariota returned the little man’s smile, her heart warming upon seeing how well
he
was doing.

How remarkably fast he’d recovered from a sword swipe that should have felled him.

She opened her mouth to say so, but before she could, her father gave a great hoot and slapped his hand on the table. “Ha—yon fox!” he cried, his gaze latching onto Cuillin and the old dog’s new friend, Devorgilla of Doon’s pet fox. “I have seen that wily creature before!”

He looked around the table, his expression incredulous. “On the journey here it was, I say you!”

“And so you may.” Beside him, Devorgilla helped herself to a handful of honeyed almonds, tossed a few to her little friend and the dog. “Somerled ne’er tires of roaming the land.”

Looking skeptical, the puissant old warrior harrumphed, reached for his wine cup. “And I suppose the wee beastie ne’er fails to return to your hearth?”

Devorgilla’s eyes twinkled. “Ach, to be sure, and that is the way of it.”

Archibald frowned. “Just dinna tell me he was guiding us here?” He fixed a suspicious stare on the black-garbed old woman.

“You do not believe that he did?” the crone evaded. “There are many wonders in this world,” she said, looking at Mariota and Kenneth. “Ne’er doubt them—marvels though they may seem.”

Reaching out a gnarled hand, she tapped a finger to the bridal table’s centerpiece, a fine golden lute.

Her gift to the happy twain.

“’Tis a special heirloom, this,” she explained, a touch of satisfaction in her voice. “If my choice was wise, it will e’er mind those needing comfort that life’s brightest joys can only be savored after the darkest of nights.”

As if to prove it, the lute glowed at her touch—its gold turning bright and luminous.

“See you,” she finished, crooking another smile, “wonders abound—leastways for those with the faith to believe. But of all the world’s magic, the most wondrous of all is a heart that loves true.”

And Mariota couldn’t have agreed more.

Her eyes misting, she felt sweetest, golden warmth fill
her
heart, knew the wonder, the power, of truest, purest love. It surrounded her now, was there on the faces smiling back at her, not few amongst them as damp-eyed as her own.

Even if some like Duncan MacKenzie and her father, now deep in conversation with Devorgilla and a tall, scar-faced Sassunach named Sir Marmaduke, tried to disguise it behind grunts and gruff stares.

Others didn’t.

Across the grass, on a large space cleared for dancing, young Jamie and her favorite brother, Donald, paid hefty court to Gunna of the Glen, their good-natured attempts to outdo the other in winning the fair widow’s favor not quite the kind of love now filling Mariota’s heart, but a joyous sort, indeed.

And the very kind she intended to enjoy later, after the feasting.

At the thought, her blood quickened and she almost wished the celebrations over.

Instead she sighed and smiled.

Too many friends and kinsmen had journeyed great distances to share the day, so for the now, she contented herself with reaching for her Keeper’s hand, lacing her fingers with his.

“You are content?” he asked, squeezing her hand.

“I have ne’er been happier . . . ever.” She swallowed, felt her eyes begin to burn again. “My joy could not be more perfect. Though . . .”

“Though . . .
what
?”

Kenneth watched her, suddenly wary when her gaze slid to his uncle and that one’s quiet, wine-sipping friend. Her brow furrowed and there was something not quite right about the way she narrowed her eyes on the two men.

“I must say,” she mused, her tone unsettling him even more, “the day might have been more complete if you’d invited that great paladin friend of yours—
Sir Duncan Strongbow.
”

At the name, Sir Marmaduke Strongbow and Duncan MacKenzie swiveled their heads her way, their brows raised in mutual question.

Mariota smiled, lifted her wine cup in silent salute.

Kenneth flushed. “You guessed.”

“Only just now,” Mariota admitted, the knowledge making her heart thump even more. “But I would like to know why?”

Looking uncomfortable, her Keeper shifted on the trestle bench. “You truly do not know?”

Mariota let go of his hand, traced the wrinkle in the tablecloth. “Mayhap I would hear the words?”

Kenneth blew out a breath. Frowning now, he hooked his fingers beneath her chin and lifted her face, brushed his lips quickly over hers. “I have told you already, lass—I love you.”

He looked round at the others, not at all surprised to find them staring.

Gawking.

And, to a man, looking like dim-witted, fool-grinning loons.

The smiles, sniffles, and snorts, he could take, but the gawking pushed him past his limits.

“By the Rood—aye, you heard a’right! I love the woman!” he snapped, reaching for her again, dragging her against him for another kiss.

A rough-edged, claiming one this time.

Deep and ravenous—much to his guests’ approval.

“And,” he declared, raking kith and kin with a hot-eyed stare, “lest any present suffer doubts, I made up the name Sir Duncan Strongbow because I could not bear to lose my lady to another—was willing to do anything to keep her. Everyone here will know that a man named thusly could ne’er prove a threat!”

He turned back to her then, his dark eyes blazing, but with passion. “You are not wroth, are you?”

“O-o-oh, nay, I am anything but angry,” she breathed, wondering he couldn’t see her elation, the
love
crashing through her.

She flicked a glance at Cuidrach’s towers, namely their bedchamber window. “But since you asked, I might have to think of a few ways for you to make it up to me.”

Kenneth arched a brow. “Say you?”

“Indeed. So long as you would not mind?”

“Mind?”

The Keeper of Cuidrach smiled.

“Sweet lass, it shall be my pleasure,” he said, kissing her again. “My entire pleasure.”

MORE HOT AND STEAMY KNIGHTS AHEAD!

Sue-Ellen Welfonder “never lets her readers down,”*

so turn the page for a preview of her next Scottish romance,

Bride for a Knight

Available in mass market April 2007.

*ReadertoReader.com

Chapter One

CUIDRACH CASTLE AUTUMN 1347

A
cross miles of darkling hills and empty moorland, thick with bracken and winter-browned heather, Clan MacKenzie’s Cuidrach Castle loomed above the silent waters of Loch Hourn, the stronghold’s proud towers and its great sentinel, the Bastard Stone, silhouetted against a cold, frosty sky.

A chill night, icy stars glittered in the heavens and knifing winds whistled past the windows, rattling shutters and making those within glad for the leaping flames of the great hall’s well-burning log fire and the eager-to-please squires circulating with trays of hot, spiced wine and steaming mounds of fresh-baked meat pasties. Men crowded benches drawn close to the hearth, jesting and jostling amongst themselves, their rich masculine laughter rising to the ceiling rafters, bawdy good cheer ringing in every ear.

Only one of Cuidrach’s residents shunned the comforts and warmth of the hall this night, seeking instead the privacy of a tiny storeroom filled with wine casks, blessed torchlight, and James Macpherson’s mounting frustration.

Holding back an oath that would surely curl the Devil’s own toes, Young James of the Heather, sometimes teasingly called Jamie the Small, glared at the tiny red bead of blood on his thumb.

It was the fifth such jab wound he’d inflicted on himself in under an hour. And, he suspected, most likely not the last. Not if he meant to complete his task.

Sighing, he licked the blood off his finger and then shoved his stool closer to the best-burning wall torch. Mayhap with brighter light, he’d have a better chance of restitching the let-out seams of his new linen tunic.

It was a birthday gift from his liege-laird’s lady and the finest tunic he’d e’er possessed. Softer than rose petals and with a bold Nordic design embroidered around the neck opening, just looking at it brought a flush of pleasure to his cheeks, and his heart thumped if he thought about the long hours Lady Mariota had spent crafting such a gift for him.