Shana Abe (36 page)

He pushed her up against the trunk of a tree, bare branched above her, ice glistening on its limbs. The bark was uneven against her back, her legs, but that didn’t stop him from putting his weight against her, pinning her in place, his hands now at her waist, moving down, his mouth a heated trail across her face, her cheekbones, onto her ear, where she could hear his panting, as fast as her own. His body was hot and so much bigger than hers; she knew it was easy for him to keep her there against the tree, pressing his arousal against her, grinding against her in the beginnings of that rhythm her body craved.

Her head tilted back against the trunk, her eyes closed. She was defenseless against this onslaught, she was melting for him, for the way his teeth grazed her neck, the way his hands pulled apart her cloak, yanked
up her skirts, letting the night air brush the bare skin of her legs as he pushed one of his own between them, then the other.

Between Marcus and the tree she had no quarter; she could not move to help him, she could not move to stop him. As he reached for her and found her soft wetness, her lips parted on a silent cry. He felt her shiver and gave a savage smile, full of moon shadows and wild night, using his hand on her until the wetness was covering them both, hot despite the cold night, baring herself for him despite the openness around them.

He freed himself for her, he only had to move a little to touch her with the hard length of his shaft, not entering but tormenting, holding her still as he touched her with his smooth head, rubbing back and forth until the whimper in her became a cry, a pleading.

“Truelove,” he said, harsh and broken, the only word between them.

She opened her eyes and caught that smile, that ferocious desire in him plain, and then he thrust upward, filling her in one swift move, lifting her feet off the snow with the force of it.

He controlled her with both hands, clutching, guiding her with each powerful push, using the tree to keep her where he wanted her, allowing her to hold on to his shoulders for balance but no more.

Avalon felt him grow lost in his movements, each one strong and heavy, his mouth by her ear again, his hair against her cheeks, every bit of him touching her, his chest against hers, their hips joined, showing her where to go, how to get there, how to follow his will, his passion.

This magic was real, not imagined, and he was beginning to moan, too, low and deep in his throat, a masculine sound that enflamed her further, her legs spread far apart for him, the rough bark an aid to him and his mastery of her.

She held on and followed his want, down to where the flame burned brightest between them, and he took her to that aching place where she fell apart in his arms, crying out and then burying her head against his shoulder as the shudders took her, slick and wet and overwhelming. And then he joined her there, one last hard push deep into her, their bodies meshed, his flooding release a part of her that left her with nothing but him. Nothing but Marcus and the untamed night.

I
t was the next morning that brought the missive from Trayleigh.

They had not slept late despite their lovemaking in the fell glen the night before, but instead went below-stairs—walking close enough to each other to brush arms, hands clasped—in unspoken mutual consent along with the regular breakfast crowd.

Avalon did not feel the lack of sleep very heavily. In fact, she felt rather wonderful. As she sat beside Marcus at the main table she enjoyed her porridge and oatcakes, and when she glanced at her husband she could see the moonlight gracing him still. When she leaned close to him she could catch the scent of the wild, cold night, unbanished by this bright new day.

She wondered if such changes were visible on her, as
well, and this made her dip her head down to her bowl in sudden blazing shyness, a ridiculous reaction that she could not help.

Marcus noticed; he followed her movement and kissed her temple, smiling against her.

At this Avalon turned her head to him, intending to chide him for so obviously laughing at her silliness, but of course he didn’t allow it, and kissed her on the lips instead. She found her half-serious scold slipping away under the luster of his touch. Only the sudden, gratified silence in the room kept her from falling all the way under his spell again.

He pulled back, smiling, and Avalon heard the conversation resume, filled with the happy tones that matched the beating of her heart right now.

The meal was nearly finished when the mood shifted like a shaft of icy air on a warm breeze. It all came from one man, haggard and looking worried as he entered the great hall and walked toward Marcus, bowing and offering a dirty strip of paper from his hand.

“From Clan Murry,” said the man, and then didn’t bother to say more. Or perhaps he didn’t have to, because by then Marcus had taken the paper and scanned it swiftly, divining for himself its origin.

The chimera, for once, was utterly silent, asleep and undisturbed, no matter that everyone else around her had gone as still as death to catch the news.

The creeping chill coming upon her was unmistakable. Marcus was done with the note; he looked up and around, as if searching for someone, and then the wizard came close with some of the others, all warriors she knew. Marcus began talking to them, but Avalon had
unhurriedly taken the note from his fingers and was reading.

It was from Claudia. It didn’t look like she had hired a scribe this time, for the writing was rough and scratched, the letters trembly, dotted and splattered with ink. The words were almost lost to her; but Avalon understood the tone of it immediately, and this blurred out the rest. It resonated with pleas:
I pray you come, peril surrounds me. Warner d’Farouche ill, dying, I am all alone. Defenseless. Cousin Avalon, come. I pray God you come.

“A trap,” pronounced Hew to the listening room.

“Of course,” Marcus agreed grimly.

“To what purpose?” asked someone else. “To capture the wife of the laird?”

“Mayhap they don’t yet know she is the wife,” said Hew doggedly.

Marcus considered this. “It may be that Malcolm has not yet bothered to inform Henry of the marriage, or that Henry has not yet told d’Farouche. We cannot know.”

“I’m going,” said Avalon.

Marcus and the wizard looked at her silently, while the rest of the people began to drown each other out with their protests, dismissing her words.

Avalon waited until the room had quieted, until they were all looking back at her intractable stare, and then she turned to Marcus.

“I’m going, no matter if you wish me to or not.”

The words of the letter, shaky and ill formed, shouted sincerity to Avalon. It might be a trap. But Claudia did not deserve to be dismissed so easily. Even more than that, Avalon sensed in this note the completion of a
circle; the coming end of a cycle of events she had never deliberately thought to link together. She had to go.

“I would prefer not to go alone,” she added out loud to Marcus, not dropping her stare. “But either way, I must answer this request. If Warner is truly dying, then there is nothing to fear from him. If he is not, then it is still too late for him to wed me.”

Marcus, frozen and fierce, said nothing.

“An honorable person could not refuse a cry for help,” said Balthazar softly, prompting Marcus to swing his gaze to the Moor. “Do you not remember this, Kincardine?”

No one spoke. Avalon felt the force of her resolution in her spine, stiff and straight, and the remorse in her belly, low and miserable. She did not want to go alone. She did not want to hurt Marcus. But there was something at Trayleigh calling her name, and she knew she had to return to her old home, the scene of such upheaval in her life, or else forever wander in regret that she had not.

Marcus had turned his stare, basilisk-like, to one of the hearths. To Avalon it seemed the flames of the fire held the only color and life in the room.

Marcus took a breath.

“It’s going to be a damned cold ride,” her husband said.

Chapter Fifteen
 

T
rayleigh hung on the edges of the horizon, dull gray under the leaden sky, strangely silent, only one ghostly glow in a window on the lower story. All else was empty and eerie.

The group from Sauveur paused as one at the crest of a slope, before riding down into the valley that held the village—clustered huts and buildings closed up as tight, it seemed, as the castle.

Without a doubt, Marcus thought, there
was
something wrong. It was not natural for a demesne the size of Trayleigh to be bereft of activity on such a day, which was cloudy and unpleasant but not unmanageable.

Avalon, beside him on a mare the color of dappled storm, lifted her face and scanned the area as intently as he did. But if she saw something alarming that he did not, she didn’t say anything.

He didn’t like any of it, not one damned bit. Not the barren village, not the phantom castle, not the miserable weather, and most especially not being here with his wife at his side, brave and bold and unyielding in her resolve to answer the obviously duplicitious summons of her murdering relatives. The whole idea of it was almost
unbelievably, laughably foolhardy, and he was not accustomed to turning his life over to foolhardy ideas. Not any longer.

But Avalon had seen enough, apparently, and softly clucked to her mare, starting her down the gentle slope of the hill to the village below. Marcus had no choice but to catch up with her.

The gate to Trayleigh was open. There was no sentry guarding it. Marcus felt the hair prickle on the back of his neck as they rode through, everyone tense, all with hands on their swords, all eyes alert.

If it was a trap, if there were archers hidden behind the plain lines of this castle, then they were all as good as dead, and Marcus knew it. His group would have paltry defense against a rain of arrows, but he was betting that they would not risk killing Avalon so openly. He hoped—no, he
prayed
—that was so.

But there was no deadly shower. And there was still no sentry at the gate as one by one they began to dismount. No one came to take charge of their steeds.

The courtyard was empty, only the scratching of the wind providing any relief at all from the silence.

Marcus focused on wiping the dread from his mind, concentrating instead on remaining vigilant, ready to move with lethal force when it came time to defend his beloved.

Almost one hundred of his best men surrounded them. A hundred men was no small army, not these Highlanders of his, all of them seasoned warriors and spoiling for a fight. It was a clear declaration on his part to Warner: I know of your trap. Close it if you dare.

He had left one hundred more rimming the village
and the castle grounds. They carried their own bows and broadswords, ready for his signal whenever he would give it, and if he did not—or could not—then Bal would. Then Hew. Then Sean. And so on down the line, to whichever of them would manage to leave this place alive.

Nay, he didn’t like it here, but upon reflection, Marcus decided, drawing his Spanish blade, it might not be such a bad thing to inflict a little retribution. If not for his own troubles caused by these d’Farouches, then for Avalon, for the loss of her family and her childhood.

Aye, there was a just and noble cause indeed.

One-half of the double main doors to the keep crept open; Marcus saw Avalon turn toward it and followed her look, sword ready.

A lone figure eased out of the crease of space, dressed in heavy folds of black, a black veil shielding the face. Then pale hands lifted the veil, and Marcus saw that it was a woman under the shrouds, a woman who pinned her gaze on Avalon and let out a small cry.

“Cousin!” came the call, and the woman shuffled forward, a curious gait muffled by the trailing lines of black material around her. Marcus saw Avalon move toward this woman, her steps strong and unhesitant.

“Claudia,” she said calmly, and allowed the woman to fall into her arms.

Lady Claudia was murmuring something in a voice Marcus almost couldn’t hear, even though he made certain he was only a pace behind his wife, close enough to strike down danger.