Until the Knight Comes (8 page)

“So you’ve found your way in here, too, have you, laddie?” She reached down to tousle the dog’s ears and when she straightened, Nessa was gone.

No doubt into the arms of her knightly lover.

Wishing she could pursue her desires as easily, Mariota stepped into the nearest window embrasure and let the chill air cool her cheeks. She stared into the streaming rain, drew a deep breath. To be sure, she understood her friend’s . . . need.

Her passion.

Hers
was another matter.

A danger to be squelched before it could bloom.

She tightened her jaw, determined to do just that, but then
his
scent surrounded her. Clean and invigorating, its freshness swept away memories, claiming its own place and filling her with hope.

Hope and moon-slanted shadows, the wet gleam of night-darkened stone.

Recognizing her mistake, she shivered and clutched the cold damp of the window ledge.

His scent hadn’t beguiled her at all. It was just the wind gusting past the tower.

Her senses had fooled her.

Disappointed her.

And they continued to mock her when she turned back to the room, for the only scents greeting her were the smoky bite of melted candle wax and the pungent odor of sleeping dog.

Sleeping, old dog.

And looking at him, his stiff legs stretched straight out before him, his fluting snores loud in the silence, her heart dipped and an almost-smile touched her lips.

In a long ago time, she would have smiled even more, found at least some humor in her predicament.

But now, with candlelight flickering on tapestried walls and a certain dashing knight’s newly assembled bed winking at her from the shadows, she only found herself . . . trapped. And yearning for the simplicity enjoyed by those who slept on pallets, sheltered by roofs thatched with bracken.

The freedom of choice allowed to women who called themselves herring wives and not . . . ladies.

A world without heartache, lies, and unwise longings.

A bliss that seemed about as attainable as believing the old fireside tale that Cailleach Mhor, the great Hag of the Ridges, created Scotland by dropping a creel of peat and rock into sea!

Or that the silhouette she suddenly caught a glimpse of in the doorway was not a deeper shadow, but
him.

She blinked, supposing the splatter of rain and the wind must’ve kept her from hearing his approach. Or his stealth had been deliberate. But he was there now, there could be no denying.

The Keeper of Cuidrach in all his solemn magnificence, the power of his presence palpable and unsettling, and stealing around her like a swirled cloak that both warmed and engulfed.

“Oh!” Mariota gasped, her heart thumping slow and hard.

She stared at him, as keenly aware of his dark sensuality as if their bodies touched, full naked, their breath already mingling.

He didn’t move.

He simply stood there, filling the doorway, his plaid slung over one shoulder, his richly tooled knight’s belt low on his hips, his expression unreadable.

And, saints help her, the intensity of him unleashed a trickling anticipation that spilled all through her, making her blood run thick and rich.

Hot.

And in ways she’d never thought to experience again.

“I did not hear you. How long have you been standing there?” She placed a hand on her breast, amazed she could speak past the dryness in her throat. “Surely not . . . overlong?”

“Shall we just say that I did not come to claim the comforts of this chamber, but rather to ask of yours?” He took a step forward, the very shadows seeming to draw back from him. “I am indeed content sleeping below, on a pallet of heather, aye.”

Heat scalded Mariota’s cheeks. “You mistake,” she said, embarrassment tightening her chest. “I did not mean—”

“Come, my lady.” He stepped closer, pausing near a slanting moonbeam. “Do not demean your spirit by unsaying your words. Or what you wished them to reveal.”

“Then . . .” Mariota cleared her throat and met his gaze. “What I said was not meant as a slur to you—only that I wish to be left alone. I made my own fate, see you. And much of it . . . soured, if you would know the truth of it.”

“Say no more, lady. I suspected as much, and”—he took her hand and kissed her fingers—“I would not see you distressed.”

She pulled away, moving to the window. “Nay, my pardon. ’Tis I who ought apologize—for being here, and for intruding on your peace.”

“Peace?” He made a sound that could have passed for a laugh. “Would you know me better, you’d know that true peace has e’er been as remote as the moon for me,” he said, watching her. “But I do not mind waiting a while longer for its arrival. So long as it comes at all, I shall be content.”

She looked at him, her eyes doubtful. “And you have faith that it will?”

“One must always have faith, my lady. And there is much to rejoice in . . . meantime.” He joined her at the window, looked out at the wet darkness. “See you, these very hills bring me solace. And joy. They are my home. The place I yearned to return to through more years than you would wish to know.”

He paused, thinking not of distant sea cliffs, cold and inhospitable, their treacherous heights teeming with screaming seabirds, but of fine, sun-chased days, washed with summer green and scented with broom. And the deep glens, so sweet and quiet, that had e’er been the saving of him.

Savored bliss that even now filled him with a warm gladness.

He drew a breath, glanced at her. “Kintail is peace, my lady. The soft Highland air and the blue mist on the braes. Such can lift my spirits in a trice, and does.”

“And that is enough for you?”

“It is.”

“Then you are a man content with little.”

“Nay, I am a man surrounded by more glories than I can wonder at in a thousand lifetimes,” Kenneth amended, his heart swelling with a longing no Highlander would deny. “Nights of crystal stars. Cloud shadows on the moorland slopes—a whiff of peat on a chill afternoon. The soul of the heather pulsing in one’s blood. . . .”

He stepped behind her, dipping his head to brush a light kiss to her nape. “Such a world is round and full,” he said, resting his hands on her shoulders. “I do not want for more.”

“And you needn’t with the finery in this chamber,” she countered, moving away from him to pace about the room.

“Think you?” Kenneth’s brow lifted.

She nodded.

He
almost snorted.

She’d not heard a word he’d said, hadn’t comprehended that his idea of comfort encompassed something much deeper and far more lasting than fine bedding and a welter of furs and frothy pillows.

She picked up just such a pillow from the window seat. “I have seldom seen such splendor, even in my father’s house,” she said, smoothing her fingers over the pillow’s embroidered surface. “You have made so many changes. I cannot help but think of your forebear, Ranald the Redoubtable. The tales your men recounted of him in the hall the other night. He would be proud if he knew what you’ve done here—what you are doing.”

And I would rather know poor Cormac at peace.

Kenneth tensed thinking of the sad fate of the long-dead cowherd.

A romantic young fool who, like himself, had once trusted with his all and lost everything.

Frowning, he took the cushion from the pretend Lady of Cuidrach and tossed it back onto the bench. “If old Ranald is pleased, he must say his thanks to my uncle, Duncan MacKenzie. He supplied most of the goods in this chamber, not I.”

“Duncan MacKenzie?” Her eyes widened. “I have heard of him. My father knew him . . . fleetingly.”

“Then you know he is the Black Stag of Kintail, a powerful man in these parts?”

She nodded. “My father says he is a man of great valor.”

“That he is—and generous,” Kenneth agreed, speaking from the heart. “He wished to know me well settled, hence his gifts of provender and household plenishings.”

She lifted a brow at that and moved to the hearth table, her fingers going to a silver chalice sitting there. Truly magnificent and encrusted with pearls, it gleamed in the candlelight. “Such riches are beyond mere household goods.”

Kenneth glanced at the chalice, bit back a smile. “A gift from Sir Marmaduke, my uncle’s friend, and the finest Sassunach champion to e’er make these hills his home—if his taste runs a bit to the extravagant.”

“And your taste?”

Warm curves and feminine softness.

The unspoken words rang in Kenneth’s ears, each one dredging up his deepest wants and desires, flinging them at her feet.

A full woman, generous in spirit, good of heart, and at ease with her sensuality.

And unafraid of his.

Sharply aware of that sensuality now, this moment, he shifted against the heat surging into his groin, half certain his need stood emblazoned across his forehead.

Or that if she looked too closely, she’d see the power she wielded. The uncomfortable
stirring
roused from the simple pleasure of looking at her, inhaling her heady, female scent.

The mistake he’d made by sampling the smooth warmth of her skin—and finding it much to his liking!

He frowned.

She came closer.

As if she knew how fiercely his body reacted to her, how much he desired her.

He bit back a groan, his gaze slipping to her full, well-rounded breasts. The notable thrust of hard nipples against the linen bodice of her gown.

A gown with a top piece that dipped far too low and clung much too provocatively.

She moistened her lips, something in her eyes telling him that she recognized his . . . discomfiture. “Well? What
are
your tastes?” she asked again. “What do you find pleasing?”

“Things that ought not be distracting me,” he blurted, curling his hands around his sword belt to keep from reaching for her.

To keep from questioning what he was about to propose and shield him from how easily a few sweet words could make him forget his reasons for wishing her safely elsewhere!

She touched a hand to his chest, the innocent contact making him hard. “And what do you find so distracting?”

“
You
are distracting,” he vowed, a muscle working in his jaw. “But never you mind. Of greater import is that I have a . . . proposal for you.”

“A proposal?”

He nodded. “See you, just as my uncle’s name is not strange to you, so do several of my men believe they know of your father—a puissant warrior laird of the north. Archibald Macnicol?”

She gasped, but caught herself as quickly. “Your men know him but you do not?”

“Och, lass, but I have told you—I am anything but a court-bred knight.” Kenneth tightened his grip on his belt, struggling anew to ignore how provocatively her bodice strained across her breasts.

Breasts he just knew would be soft, warm, and plump in his hands. Deliciously sweet beneath his lips.

He swallowed, struggled even harder against a certain
discomfort.

“See you,” he began again, speaking in a rush, “ask me of the people of this glen and I can tell you who their great-grandfathers’ grandfathers were, and who they married. But”—he shook his head—“I am no man to ken the names of the titled and privileged.”

He frowned, wished she weren’t standing so close. “Is this great man of the north, this Archibald Macnicol, your father? Do my men tell me true?”

“Why do you speak of him?” she flashed, the hot lights in her eyes answer enough. “He would sooner cut out his tongue than utter my name.”

“That, my lady, I can scarce believe, but I’ve not forgotten that you said your family is wroth with you.” He reached out, captured her chin when she tried to look away. “Surely it is not that grim?”

She pressed her lips into a hard, tight line and shook her head, her eyes glittering.

Frustrated, Kenneth blew out a breath. “Ach, see you, I’d thought to please you by offering you safe escort to your father’s holding, Dunach Castle. Thought Dunach’s stout walls and your father’s own formidable reputation might prove a more secure refuge for you.”

“My father . . .
was
formidable,” she said, her voice sounding distant, someone else’s. “He no longer is. Now, he is ailing. A broken man—a shadow of his former self.”

“Then mayhap you ought return indeed? To comfort and care for him?” He let go of her chin, smoothed a strand of hair behind her ear. “If he is ill, he will surely welcome you.”

She drew a deep breath. “You do not understand. I am the reason he fares so poorly. To take me there would only worsen his condition, and that is a burden I do not wish to add to the ones I already carry.”

“But—”

“No, you must believe me,” she said, her voice edged with finality. “You thought and are thinking wrong. I cannot return to Dunach.”

He touched her cheek, letting his fingers glide close to the corner of her mouth. “And if I would help you make things right?”