One Snowy Knight (22 page)

“He put forth an air of familiarity—”

She nearly growled. “His presumption, naught more. Trying to tweak your nose, mayhap see you jealous.”

Noel reached out, cupped her neck, and pulled her to him. “Well, it worked. I am territorial, Skena, likely more so where you and Craigendan are concerned. I have wanted a home, a wife, family for too long.”

He kissed her gently, slowly, worshipping her with the devotion she deserved. The effect of Skena hit his blood with the power of mead and sent his heart racing wildly. All the blood lodged in his groin, cramped with needing her. He wanted to touch her, stroke her, taste her, endlessly, but now was not the time. He reluctantly pulled back. To save his sanity.

“Oh, lass, let us pray Sir Priest grants dispensation in the calling of the banns.” He lightly touched his forehead against hers, relishing their closeness. “If our presence was not required for the evening meal, I would pull you across my lap and let you share my bath.”

“There is not room enough for two in that tub.” She laughed, picking up a bucket to rinse suds from him.

He grabbed a handful of her kirtle and played at pulling her into the bathtub. “Want to put that to the proof? It shall be my pleasure to teach you how well we will fit in this bloody thing.”

“Methinks this will cool you off, Lord de Servian.” She dumped the bucket of cold water over him.

A deep shiver racked his body and instantly his manhood shriveled. “You have no idea, you wicked woman. Hold up the sheet and help me out. Then we can talk whilst you dress my wound.”

“Of what do you wish to speak?” She held the linen length for him until he was out, her eyes hungrily taking in his naked form.

He chuckled. “You keep looking at me that way and we shan’t be talking at all.”

“Very well. Sit on this stool whilst I dress your wound with the salve,” she said, then added impishly, “I will look and you may talk.”

He sat, straddling the wooden bench. Skena touched the silky ointment to his wound and he jumped, but soon it had a calming effect on the pain. “Tis soothing.”

“Aye, the worts will ease the tenderness and promote the healing. ’Tis angry, but so far shows no signs of a bad healing.”

“To be expected, the wound pains me. Howbeit, I failed to experience any of the numbness in my hand this day.” He flexed his fingers testing it, glad not to feel the deadness. “Before, it grew worse. I lost feeling in it and then could not use it. It caused me deep concern.”

“Poison invades one’s body and will slowly kill even the strongest warrior. There. ’Tis covered well. Stand by the fire and warm yourself. Then I will wrap it so it will be comfortable for you.”

He stood and allowed the sheeting to drop lower on his hips, though he kept it gathered about him, lest Skena see how aroused he was, despite the dumping of the cold water. Even her prodding on the wound had not slowed his flesh’s growing insistence. She carefully rolled the bandage about his waist, snug, yet not too tight. It brought her close. He could not resist. As she tucked the end in, and then raised up, he brought his arms down to encircle her.

Male power rose within him, as he enjoyed how Skena’s full breasts pressed against his chest. By damn, he wanted her here and now, cared little about the Church’s blessing. No words of man or God could give blessing to what he already knew—this woman belonged to him. This was right, so special, he simply knew to his deepest soul that Skena had been created for him. The emptiness inside him, that corner of his heart was no longer cold, dark—Skena brought him warmth and light.

“Your heart hammers against mine, lass.” His words were whispered in awe. “You sense how rare this is? We have been blessed in our meeting one snowy night.”

Her trembling hands reached out and clutched his upper arms. “No, I was blessed when I found one snowy knight. My knight. A very special man named Noel who came to me at Christmastide.”

The fire had burned down, allowing winter’s chill to creep into the lord’s chamber. Notwithstanding, more than the night’s cold prevented him from sleeping. Restiveness crawled under his skin, a burning hunger summoned by Skena’s absence. His wanting her was raw, primitive. Noel flung back the covers in mounting irritation and stalked to the fireplace, absently tossed a couple peats into the flames, then used the poker to prod the fire into life. Like a caged beast, he sensed his mate was near and yet could not get to her. An edginess within him refused to quiet.

Despite still finding burning dirt an oddity, he enjoyed the rich aroma. Staring into the flames, Noel sighed. The whole bloody night had been vexing. He had intended to speak further to Skena about Comyn, question if the man could be mumming as Angus’s ghost, what aims he might hope to achieve in tormenting her in this way. Mating instincts had caused him to become sidetracked in the cleansing room, so utterly lost in the magic of love and Skena. He was a breath away from skipping the promised kissing lessons, putting her on that rickety table, and taking her with all the force thundering in his blood. Much to his frustration, he had been thwarted by Cook’s sending in Kenneth and Owen to empty the bathwater from the tubs.

They had to hurry to dress for supper. Later, there was no way he could question Skena about Comyn with the man sitting at his elbow. The roasted meat was delicious, and he made sure that Skena ate well. She finally cried off, saying if she partook one morsel more of the wonderful roe he would have to carry her upstairs. Despite his back’s aching from being up all day, he would have gladly endured the pain to have that privilege.

They lingered belowstairs, out-waiting Comyn until he finally had given up and sought his bed. After the scare of finding Skena at the bottom of the cellar stairs, Noel had not wanted her to retire to a chamber alone, aching instead to hold her all night, to know she was safe. Only then could he rest. Skena stubbornly refused, saying she would not want to have Duncan going back and speaking of her sleeping with Noel before they were wed.

Noel jabbed at the peat, venting his irritation through the iron rod. “Enough of this.” He tossed the poker aside.

Picking up his heavy mantle, he swung it around his shoulders, and stomped off down the hall. His steps slowed as he passed the room where Guillaume was quartered; he did not want to awaken his friend. The door was cracked open—Guillaume being his cautious self. Without doubt, he was sleeping with only one eye closed due to a Comyn’s being under the roof. Skena might think the man less a knave than his dead brother, but bad blood tended to run in families. There was no question Phelan Comyn had wanted to murder Damian and Aithinne, would have also killed Julian and Tamlyn in the ambush, just four months past. Neither Guillaume nor he would rest peacefully until the younger brother was far away from Craigendan.

The door creaked as it was slowly pulled back. Guillaume, still dressed in shirt and hose, held his sword in hand. The corner of his mouth quirked up when he saw it was only Noel. “I am not the only one failing to find my rest this night. Where might you be heading, my friend?”

“If you wish to take that pretty smile back to your Lady Rowanne, you might wisely keep your taunts behind your teeth,” Noel warned.

“Not that I fear you besting me in a fight,” Guillaume rested the flat of the sword’s blade against his shoulder, “but ’tis nary a taunt. I am happy for you, pleased to see you finding something you have long wanted. Happy the Challon men are finding treasure beyond measure in this pagan land. I only hope someday Redam and Dare may be so fortunate.”

Noel nodded. “The men of Challon have long served Edward with a devotion sometimes unearned. His acts have seen his dragons tested and hardened in the crucible of war for too many years. The king is not young. Three score comes soon for him. He should hunger for fireside and comfort instead of living from the seat of a war saddle.”

“Edward will die on the back of his charger whether he be five score. Go find your lady fair. I keep watch on your unwanted guest this night. Late on the morrow, men from Lochshane will come with your men and wagons, and then stay to man Craigendan. The day after, Julian will send more from Glenrogha. We will take steps to see Craigendan secure through winter. Come spring you can instigate further measures to make safe your
honour.”
Guillaume’s voice softened in admiration. “Your Skena held this place together for nearly eight months in dire circumstances. Think what the two of you can accomplish together. Keep her close until Comyn is gone. I mislike her being attacked this morn, and then his appearing soon after. Damian heals still from the arrows loosed into him by the hand of Duncan’s brother. That alone would see me mistrust aught from this Scot.”

“Aye, his looking much like Fadden troubles me as well.”

“My men are posted. We can sleep when reinforcements come.” Guillaume’s green eyes flashed over him. “You must be losing your touch. I would expect you to have Skena close by your side.”

“She wants Comyn to carry no tales back to his people about her. I was trying to be honorable.” Noel shrugged.

“I tried to be so with Rowanne, though ’tis been damn hard on me. I have since come to the conclusion that being honorable is for priests and saints, and the wrong tack to take with an Ogilvie woman. Learn from my misstep.”

Noel nodded. “Methinks I shall take your sage advice.”

Guillaume smiled and turned to go back into the room. He called over his shoulder, “I thought you might.”

As Noel continued down the dimly lit corridor, he muttered at his stupidity for not insisting Skena stay the night with him. “We could be tucked up, warm, instead of me traipsing about this drafty place.”

He pushed open the door to the smaller room and frowned. Noel stared at the empty bed. The covers were rumpled and half tossed back. Even in the deep shadows, it was clear to see Skena was gone.

In measured steps Skena walked the length of the boulevard, counting each step in her path to the turn—the middle point of the walkway around the curtain wall and then back. Many times, these past months of summer and autumn, she had taken her turn at guard duty. She oft selected the late watch because it was one of the few times in her busy life that she found complete solitude. She enjoyed the lure of the night, the mysteries the moon created across the landscape as it played games with shadows and shapes.

She lifted the hood of the fur lined mantle closer about her face. It was cold, but not as bitter as it had been. She worried. Sometimes it grew warmer for a short spell before another heavy snowstorm descended. Still, for the first time this year, she breathed in some measure of hope, her burdens lighter because Noel had come.

A loud crash sounded behind her. She jumped. She was not a coward, yet she froze, through some primeval animalistic instinct that said to stay perfectly still until you knew where the threat came from. She remained motionless, barely breathing, waiting to hear if more noises followed. Only silence. After the first fright, her heart slowly began to beat again, and she felt safe to stir. Pulling her small sword from the sheath, she hurried in the direction of the disturbance.

As she turned at the far right corner, hurried steps came from the opposite track. She pulled up, getting a good grip on the sword’s hilt. A man moved through the shadows, coming toward her. She tensed, almost expecting the worst—to come face-to-face with Angus. Instead, warm relief flooded through her as the man passed under a shaft of moonlight, breaking from behind the clouds, and she saw it was only one of the knights from the Challon cadre.

“My lady.” He gave a respectful nod. “’Tis naught to fear. No evil invader uses a ram against the walls in a sneak attack. Look for yourself. ’Tis only one of the massive icicles formed by the overhang. It grew too heavy and crashed to the ground below.”

Skena leaned through the crenellation in the wall to see a man-sized sheet of ice half shattered directly below. “I suppose there will be more of those crashes.”

“Most likely. The wind shifts, coming from the southwest. Air is warmer off the big seas.” He eyed her. “Should you not be inside? Whilst the wind is more pleasant, ’tis still too cold to be on the wall. I am certain Lord de Servian would not wish you out this time of night.”

“I am used to being up here the wee hours of morn. ’Tis peaceful. ’Tis rare you find true quiet in a fortress.” Skena could see the young man was not going to leave her be, so she added, “I will go back inside shortly. The smoke from the fireplace gave me an ache in my head. I came out for fresh air.”

“Then I leave you to your thoughts, my lady. If you need aught, just call out. I will hear you. I am Stephan…Stephan Mallory,” he said.

Skena studied the tall, fair-haired knight in the blue rays of the moonlight. “You are not of Norman blood, but English?”

“Aye, I come from the Cornwall area, my lady. I swore oath to Guillaume Challon because I wanted to fight for none other than the Dragons of Challon. I am honored he accepted me as his man.”

“Keep well, Stephan Mallory.” Skena turned away.

“God keep you safe, my lady,” he called after her.

Skena slowly retraced her steps. If she went inside, she would go straight to Noel, pulled to him as if he were a lodestone. He had wanted to take her in the cleansing room. He would have if Kenneth and Owen had not come in to empty the tubs. She would have let him. Her body ached, thinking on how hot his flesh burned, how the muscles of his arms tensed under her hands. His scent. His taste. She paused to look out through a crenel across the dead zone, allowing the breeze to buffet her.

Noel brought so many things to her—hopes, that dreams could be more than just wishes. He could help her make them come true. Love. Oh, how she wanted his love! She wanted to belong to this very special man. Yearned to have him need her in the same fashion. Only, she never anticipated that love could affect her body to the point of agony.

As she had lain in her small chamber, her blood had run hot. She craved to go to Noel, slide into his bed, and awaken him as her hands stroked his firm flesh. Never had she wanted to be touched in such wantonness, but she wanted Noel to touch her, to teach her the mysteries of his love. She closed her eyes and summoned the dream of him, from when she walked in his mind, how he touched her under the apple tree. So strong were the images that the scent of apple blossom seemed carried on the night breeze. Drawing hard on the vision, she allowed her body to pulse and burn, experiencing all the feelings of Noel’s hands upon her flesh, squeezing her breasts, of his sword-roughened palm gliding up her thigh.

“Skena…”

For a heartbeat the discordant whispering almost became a part of her fantasy, but then she felt its icy, alien intrusion. She kept her eyes closed, squeezing the lids tight to give pretense that she did not hear the call. The first time she had seen Angus, she feared her guilt was summoning his shade back from the dead. After this morning when she followed him to the cleansing room, and the dusty sack was dropped over her head, she quickly dismissed this notion. Human hands had pulled that sack over her head and then slammed her against the wall. Hands—strong hands—had carried her to the bottom of the cellar steps. If it were Angus, he was—as Dorcas insisted—very much alive. Only, Noel was adamant Angus was dead, that there was no room for doubt. She knew Noel would never lie about this. The more she tried to unriddle who the man was and his purpose for showing himself only to her, the less she could untangle the questions.

She reached out with the kenning and sensed only blackness, a swirling, seething darkness that terrified her.

“Skena…”

Her hand tightened about the small sword hidden under her heavy mantle. This time she would not face the threat defenseless. Her heart rocked heavy in her chest, but she tried to control her alarm’s quickening with slow steady breaths.

“Skena…”

She gave a small jump, as the summons was closer. Opening her eyes, she saw the shadowy form of a man slowly walking toward her. Since she refused to heed his call, he was stalking her.

“You are not Angus,” she muttered under her breath, and took a hesitant step backward. Then another. Her right foot came down on a pebble, causing her ankle to twist painfully.

If she kept going to her right she would run back to young Mallory on patrol, or she could go back to the entrance, run to Noel, and awaken him. She would not be so foolish as to confront this man as she had done before. The last occasion she ended up at the bottom of a staircase. This time she might end up at the bottom of the curtain wall along with the sheets of icicles.

She kept retreating with shaky steps, her ankle hurting each time she put weight on it. The corner was near, and then it would only be a few paces to the tower entrance. Not far. Yet, it seemed a furlong away.

His footsteps quickened. She matched them, finally turned to run. Skena glanced over her shoulder to see him gaining. She ran. She screamed, but the rising breeze coming strong from the southwest nearly threw the sound back in her face. Surely, Mallory on patrol would still hear and come to her aid.

Looking down the long boulevard, she saw no one. Where had the English soldier gone? The entranceway was just ahead, but she heard the footfalls closing behind her. Panicked, she reached the door and pushed against it. It refused to give. The door was never locked and could only be bolted from the inside. She had left it cracked open when she came out just a short time ago. Pounding on it with her fist, she kicked at it, but then gave up as the dark figure rounded the turn.

Again, she ran, hoping to reach the stairs where they descended into the bailey. Instead of coming on fast, he slowed, moving in deliberate steps, as if confident she had rushed into his trap and he now had her cornered. The moon broke free, sending rays to shower him with the pale light.

Dizziness sprung through her mind. Aye, she trusted Noel to tell her the truth; even so, she stared at Angus. She knew this! He seemed leaner, but then months of hardship could do that to a body. Had she not lost weight? She did not stop to consider why she should fear Angus. The kenning buzzed within her, driving her onward, to flee in fear of losing her life. Whatever had been between them before his going away had changed. She accepted what the inner voice told her—and ran.