One Snowy Knight (5 page)

Skena trembled as she helped de Servian lie down; he was so exhausted, his eyes closed the instant his head touched the pillow. His tall frame with those long legs filled the huge bed, almost seeming to dwarf it. She settled him on his left side to keep pressure off his tender spot, and then set about to pull the bed curtains on the far side, blocking the draft in the large chamber. A bearskin covered the wooden shutters closed upon the narrow window, and a tapestry was on top of that, yet the winds still found a way inside around the edges. Wanting the heat from the fireplace to reach him, she left the curtains at the foot tied back.

Rounding the corner, she paused with her hand on the bedpost. Possibly she did not need the support.
Possibly she did
. Noel de Servian was stretched out the length of the bed, with a
plaide
pulled loosely across his hips.

“Have mercy!” she hissed lowly.

Never before had she looked upon a nearly naked man and found such perfection in his body. Men always appeared oddly created, to her way of thinking. Too hairy legs, ugly feet, some with chests that reminded her of a bear pelt, and strangely, longer through the torso than a woman. Noel de Servian was none of those things. There was a lean, animalistic elegance to his hard muscles; shadows folded around their curves defining their strength and form, shaped by his years of training as a warrior. The broad chest was nearly hairless, smooth, his belly rippled. A wave of flames roared through her blood as she stared at the most ravishing of men.

Three curls of the soft hair carelessly spilled across his high forehead. Her fingers itched to reach out and brush them back. His brown hair was not cut in the Norman style but longer, curling, as though he failed to assume their courtly ways, which reminded Skena of a bowl being placed on their heads. She was glad. This suited him. As she had dried the thick mass, the color had lightened and the waves increased. There was a razor sharp intelligence, a force of command that filled those grey eyes. Men would follow this warrior into battle, accept his orders without question. Die for him. Swallowing the bitter taste of jealousy, she did not want to think what women would do upon his bidding. Noel de Servian was such a handsome man.

Such a threat. In more ways than one.

She must remember that and never let down her guard. He was English, the invader. This man and his countrymen had crushed the army of forty thousand Scots on the fields of Spottsmuir, possibly even killed men of Craigendan in that rout. At all times she must hold tight to those truths; not for one breath could she ever drop her defenses with this knight who could only spell trouble for her.

Letting go of the bedpost, she went to fetch the small pot of ointment. As she lifted it, she hesitated. Helping him dry off had been upsetting in a way she was not prepared to handle. Her foolish heart pounded, her mouth went dry, and she actually found it hard to hold a single thought in her head. Sensations washed through her, crawled under her skin with a pagan fire, making her breasts feel heavier, fuller. A burning began at the base of her belly and throbbed like a second heartbeat. Not having experienced these disturbances before did not mean she failed to recognize them for what they were: she desired Noel de Servian with a power that was unholy. Most perplexing, she had always assumed a woman had to fall in love with a man before these intense feelings came to her, possessed her. Never would she have suspected she could suffer such a craving for a warrior who was barely more than a stranger.

A stranger, yet his words had held the ability to wound her pride. When he held her hips and declared she was too skinny, that simple opinion was a knife rending her heart. She saw concern in those all-seeing eyes. Yet, it failed to stop the pain in that he found her woefully thin.

She had lost flesh these past months. Doing her chores and that of a man, she worked too hard from dawn to dark, ate less and less as she saw the supplies dwindle. That had taken a toll. Still, to hear him declare her too lean nearly crumpled her spirit. Sucking in a hard breath, she told herself to stop these silly thoughts, to put them out of her mind. She had been wed for years and came with two children. A man such as Noel de Servian could have any woman he wanted at his beck and call. He could never want her.

“Get on with the chore and be done with it,” she whispered the chide to herself.

Setting the pot down on the small table, she scooped up the salve with her fingers, and then froze as she considered where to start. There was…so much of him! He seemed to be resting so peacefully that she hated to disturb him.

Mayhap she would let him slumber. His body surely needed sleep to heal. Wiping her fingers on the rim of the black pot, she pulled the woolen blanket across his legs and over his shoulder, and then went to clean the wolf’s blood from her body and hair.

Pausing to glance back she saw, poor man, he had not stirred. With a plaint that could not be denied, she had wanted to stroke him, give free rein to the urges pulsing within her blood. Only, it would be the wrong thing to do. Skena feared in touching him her soul would somehow form an unbreakable bond with this handsome warrior. A bond that could prove too costly in the future. Better not risk the pain. Not risk her soul.

“Coward,” she muttered. Walking to the fireplace she added more peats to the fire. “Aye, a bloody coward I am.”

Noel watched her.

With an air of utter exhaustion, Skena dropped down to the long bench and unlaced her boots. Clearly believing him asleep, she did not hesitate to stand and remove the brooch pinned at her shoulder, and then unbuckle the belt about her waist. She unwound the woolen material from her hips and dropped it on the long bench. Next came the long, linen sark, leaving her in nothing but a thin, sleeveless chemise.

He had been right in his opinion of her shape. Her breasts were high and full; the vision of Skena hit him like taking an arrow to his groin. Howbeit, the rest of her body bordered on painfully thin. The two traits usually did not go together, leading him to suspect the weight loss was recent. Again, the specter of fear clawed at his heart; he was alarmed that she was ill. The carriage of her body expressed fatigue, yet there was strength to this woman. There was no deformity or stooping to her bones. Skena was formed to perfection; square, proud shoulders, long graceful neck, and wide hips, formed for bearing babes, would make her a prize in any man’s eyes. He failed to discern anything visibly wrong with this Scots lass outside of needing to eat more.

Unhurriedly, she moved to the fireplace to toss on more bricks of peat, and then stirred the fire to raise the flames. It had struck him odd, when he first came to this North Country, that dirt could be burnt, but he soon learnt this was one of the primary sources of fuel for the Scots. The chamber filled with its pungent, almost heady aroma. The bluish flames burned lower, not as bright as a wood fire, yet still threw off enough light to keep the deep shadows at bay and render her worn chemise nearly transparent.

His body flexed hard in a cramp of lust, so intense that it nearly blotted out thought, leaving him with the blinding, primitive drive to mate. His fingers flexed tightly in the woolen blanket to keep from acting on the overpowering urge. The situation did not ease as Skena turned back to the tub, her hands taking hold of the hem of the short rail, and with a quick skimming up her body, pulled it over her head. He drank in the image of Skena’s naked beauty. She might scold him for using the word, but nothing else came to mind that fit so well.

Noel ached to go to her. He wanted to put his mouth on the crest of her rounded breast, swirl his tongue about the peak, stiff from the cool air of the room. Then he would draw it into his mouth and suck hard. He hungered to hear her gasp as she rode the razor’s edge of pain-pleasure, to teach her just how strongly his desires ran. Claim her as a man claimed his mate. He wanted her, but he pined for more than ecstasies of the flesh. He yearned to believe there could be a Christmas miracle that could see them find a peace between them.

As she stepped into the tub, the door opened, and one of the maidservants came in carrying a tray. The aroma told him it was hot stew. Skena glanced up and offered a fleeting smile to the woman.

“I peeked in at your lambs. Nessa has them tucked up, snug in bed. I fear they may not sleep this night though, so excited are they. Andrew keeps insisting the Cailleach sent a Kelpie with that one,” she jerked her head toward the bed, “because the lad wished it so. Such a fanciful tale, but the boy believes it, Skena.”

“Oh, aye. I heard all about his Yule wish when we found the knight.” She offered her a sad expression.

The woman chuckled. “Life would be so easy if we had the power to wish for something and it came true, eh?”

“Wishes are for fools,” Skena said sourly. “If wishes were peafowl we would have a fancy supper this night fit for a king.”

Setting the tray down and putting the bowls on the tabletop, the maid said, “Well, ’tis naught as fancy as a peahen, but I brought cheese, bread, and some stew. The bread is stale, but you can sop it in the broth. No pieces big enough to be a trencher, but still enough to fill a belly.”

“I thank you for your caring, Jenna, but I meant it when I said I was not hungry.” Skena picked up a rag and scrubbed her face.

“Aye, what you always say of late. But I also told you that despite your protests you are going to eat, or I would get Galen and Owen to pin you while I pour it down your gullet. You cannot keep missing meals, Skena. It has to stop. One day you are going to push too hard and end up sick. Then where will we all be? I will not accept nay for an answer. I will stay ’til you eat.” The woman moved to the tub, scooped up a chunk of soap from a bowl on the bench and began lathering Skena’s long auburn hair.

Noel frowned. That bit of conversation merely reinforced his inkling that Skena’s being thin was out of step. Such misgivings led him to ponder if mayhap, instead of being sick, she grieved for her dead husband. It would not be the first time a widow fell into decline after such a loss. Had not the sorrow driven his mother to madness, resulting in her taking her own life? He gnawed at the corner of his lip as concern, resentment, and jealousy flared bright in the pit of his belly.

Noel had never known the Baron Craigendan, had not seen him at court, nor even heard his name until that fateful day that nearly cost Noel his life. Their first and only meeting had come in the bloody aftermath of Dunbar when Noel’s troops had taken the baron and his men prisoner. Bloody stupid fool. The man had surrendered his sword, even ordered his men to lay down their pikes. A ragged-looking lot they were, half-covered in blood of their countrymen, some of the last men left, flanking Sir Patrick Graham, who had stood and valiantly fought to the death. There had been little choice for Fadden. Surrender and live, or fight on and be slaughtered to a man. The baron had showed common sense and ordered his men to yield. Noel commanded them to stack their weapons in a pile and then line up to be marched back to the main host of the English forces.

No, brave Skena should not waste sorrow on the knave who had slammed into Noel’s squire, wrenched the sword from the young man’s hands, and run the boy through. The crazed man had then attacked Noel, though he was still dismounting Brishen. That man had no shred of honor. That man had been unworthy of this Scottish lass. It was a shame if she were grieving so for Angus Fadden. That she possibly starved herself because of bereavement angered Noel.

Picking up the pail, the maidservant slowly rinsed the soap from Skena’s long hair, the white foam sliding down her neck and then crawling over her breasts. Noel swallowed hard as desire thickened his blood. Part of the bedpost blocked his vision of Skena as she rose from the tub, water sluicing off her hard body in small streams. He fought the impulse to shift for a better view, having the feeling Skena would not have openly bathed with him in the room had she suspected he was awake. The wolf’s blood had pushed her to the desire to be shed of it. The other woman hurriedly held up a drying sheet, shielding Skena from his hungry gaze.

“Who is the warrior, my lady? What was he doing in our glen? Why has he come?” Jenna, still holding up the linen sheet, moved with Skena to the fire.

“Sir Noel de Servian, he said his name was. He was on his way to Glenrogha to pay visit to the Earl Challon, his foster brother,” Skena answered.

The other woman sucked in a breath. “This lord is foster brother to the Black Dragon? Oh, Skena—”

“Hush. No sense borrowing troubles, Jenna. We have plenty enough already. Fetch me a chemise, please,” she asked as she dried her arms.

The woman did as bid, going to the tall wardrobe to take out the shift for Skena. “He was a long ways from Glenrogha. Out there alone in the storm. Where were his men? Surely he did not travel through Scotland with nary a vassal for support? Most odd, indeed.”

“Do not go spinning silly tales of a Kelpie fetching him to Craigendan because of a child’s wish,” Skena reproached, and then began vigorously toweling her hair.

Jenna came toward the bed, so Noel shut his eyes. He felt the corner of the blanket being partially lifted. Cool air touched his skin. “He is a braw and bonnie man, this one. Unharmed by the storm, I judge.” She clucked her tongue. “Did you coat him with Auld Bessa’s salve?”

“I will.” A defensive tone filled Skena’s answer.

“Methinks you are a coward, Skena MacIain.” With a chuckle, she dropped the cover. “Of course, if you would rather…I could force myself to do the chore in your stead.”

“I said I will,” Skena snapped.

“Someday, Skena, you will learn the way of things. Stop hiding from yourself, lass,” the woman said in gentleness.

“I hide from naught. Every bloody day I would like to lie in bed and ignore the situation facing us. And every damn bloody day I climb from the bed and stare harsh realities in the face. Let no one say I spurn aught,” Skena rebuked.

“’Tis not what I speak of and you ken it.”

The door opened again. Noel risked a peek through slitted eyes to see the girl child come in. Rubbing one eye with her fist, she made a sleepy face, and looked about for her mother. Spotting Skena, she rushed toward her.