The Knight and the Seer (15 page)

For a moment, when she found herself once more on her feet, all she could do was close her eyes and cling to his strength. Oh, how good it felt to be held by him. She felt a sob well up in her throat and burst free.

“Here now, Imp.” His words were muffled against her hair. “Don’t cry.”

“I’m…not…crying.” She managed the words between sobs.

“Of course you’re not.” Because he needed to, he gathered her even closer, until he could assure himself that she was truly here. Truly safe. He rocked her like a child, until his heartbeat returned to near normal.

Then, because anger was easier to deal with than fear, he held her a little away and scowled. “What in heaven were you thinking? Was this another of your silly spells?”

Her eyes widened. Her head came up in that infuriating way she had, while her chin jutted and her lips quivered. “Silly spells?”

“Aye. That’s what I said. Silly. Useless. Not only useless, but dangerous. You know better. What was it this time? Did you want to fly again? Or were you trying to balance along the balcony like one of those fool tightrope walkers in Edinburgh?”

She pushed free of his arms, eyes blazing. Now her fear was forgotten. In its place was anger as out-of-control as his. “I wasn’t trying to fly, or to balance. I did it for you.”

“For me? You’re saying you tried to kill yourself for me?”

“For your dirk.” She reached into the waist of her gown and slapped it into his hand before turning away to hide the tears that stung her lids. “Olnore told me you’d lost it in the meadow. I wanted to surprise you.”

She flounced away and called over her shoulder. “Tell Mistress MacLean that I beg her pardon, but I’ve lost my appetite.”

Before he could say a word she snatched up the ruby cloak and ran out of her chambers. Minutes later he stood on her balcony and watched the small figure running across the garden.

Even from this distance he was certain he could see the glitter of tears on her cheeks.

The sight of her tore at his heart, before he turned away, muttering every rich, ripe curse he could think of.

Chapter Thirteen

“H
ere you are, my laird.” As Andrew stepped into the withdrawing room, the housekeeper caught sight of his angry countenance and blamed it on the missing dirk. The household was abuzz with the news. Everyone knew what it meant to him.

She glanced beyond him. “Where is the lady?”

“She is…taking the air in the garden.”

“Ah. Well then, perhaps you’d care for some ale while you wait?”

“I’ll have the ale, then you may serve the meal, Mistress. The lady seems to have lost her appetite.”

“Very well, my laird.” She handed him a goblet, then signaled for the servants to approach the table.

Andrew glanced around at the cozy fire, the small, perfect setting, and wished he were anywhere but here.

He took a seat and studied the salmon, poached to perfection. And the mutton stew, one of his favorites. The biscuits were nicely browned, and soft, the way he liked them.

He knew he wouldn’t be able to eat a bite. Guilt, self-disgust, loathing, lay like a boulder in his stomach. What had provoked him to heap ridicule on the one person who meant so much to him?

He moved the food around his plate, while the servants hovered, lifting the domed lid of one steaming tray after another for his inspection.

He drained his goblet, only to have it filled at once. The thought of taking the decanter of ale and finding a quiet place to sit and get properly drunk was most tempting.

Instead he cut a piece of salmon and chewed. It tasted like ashes in his mouth.

The housekeeper hovered. “How is your meal, my laird?”

He looked up. “Fine, Mistress. My compliments to the cook.”

She beamed.

He took another bite and wondered how much longer he would be able to remain the object of so much attention. The table was practically ringed with servants, and all of them watching him. He felt like a beetle swimming in a pond, with frogs all around. Watching. Waiting.

Was this what it would be like for the rest of his life? Servants circling him, eager to do his bidding, while he had nothing more to do than grow old and fat and lazy?

He thought of his father and felt a twinge of guilt. Being laird of the clan hadn’t changed Morgan Ross in any of those ways. He’d remained alert and active and thoroughly involved in the lives of his people. He’d visited their cottages, celebrated their marriages and the births of their bairns. Had helped his people bury their dead, and had seen to the safety of widows and orphans. And though the thought of going off to battle with his comrades still tantalized him, Morgan Ross had known that his place was here, with the people who depended upon him for their safety.

Andrew knew that he would have no trouble following the example of his father and becoming thoroughly involved in the lives of these good people. But for now, for this night, all the joy had gone out of it. And all because he’d hurt the one who had brought the sunlight into his life.

Aye, that’s what she’d done. Brought warmth and joy and…excitement back into this sad place.

There was a blur of movement in the doorway and heads turned.

Gwenellen looked completely disheveled, her hair a riot of wind-tossed tangles, her cheeks red as apples. Her eyes still glittered, though from tears or defiance, Andrew couldn’t tell.

He could have devoured her whole.

The housekeeper smiled. “You’re back. Have you worked up an appetite now, my lady?”

“Nay.” Gwenellen’s gaze darted from the older woman to the stern-faced man seated at the table. After much agonizing she’d decided she wouldn’t give him the pleasure of driving her away. She would show him he didn’t matter in the least. “Aye. I believe the sight of all that food has just restored my appetite, Mistress MacLean. I think I could eat something after all.”

“That’s fine, my lady.” The housekeeper turned to the servants, who picked up the silver trays and stood at attention.

Andrew shoved away from the table and held a chair for his guest. She refused to look at him as she sat, but she felt the brush of his fingers at her back. She ignored the little curls of pleasure that danced along her spine and busied herself accepting fish and meat and biscuits from the servants’ trays.

The housekeeper was happily prattling. “So, you took a nice walk in the garden, my lady?”

“Aye.” Gwenellen moved the food around her plate, wondering how she could manage to eat a single bite. She shouldn’t have come here. She should have taken refuge in her chambers. But she’d had this terrible need to see Andrew, even though she knew he would be still angry and frowning.

“A good thing you returned before it grew too dark.”

“Aye, Mistress, a good thing.” She broke apart a biscuit and took a bite, then was forced to sip ale in order to swallow it over the lump in her throat. She chanced a quick look at Andrew’s face. It was as she’d feared, darkened with a scowl. All because of her.

“More salmon, my laird?”

“Nay. I believe I’ve had sufficient.”

“Cook will be distressed if you don’t try her lamb, my laird.”

He gritted his teeth as he helped himself to a generous portion. Now there was even more food to stare at. Food that would surely choke him if he tried to swallow a bite of it.

He darted a glance at Gwenellen’s face at the same moment that she happened to look over at him.

Both looked down, staring hard at their plates.

He cleared his throat. “How…was the night air?”

“Cool.” Was that her voice? She sounded like Jeremy. Aye. Like the croaking of a frog. The ridiculous thought had her biting the inside of her mouth to keep from grinning.

“At least you had your cloak.”

“Aye.” Another croak, and she quickly lifted a goblet to her mouth to cover the little laugh that bubbled up.

He was staring at her with an odd expression. “Your cloak amuses you?”

“Nay. Aye.” She looked around at the circle of servants watching in stony silence, and feared she would soon explode. “It’s just…” A hiccup of laughter had her placing her palm over her mouth. “It’s just that the garden was so busy tonight…”

“Busy?” He arched a brow.

“Voices, you see. Such a chorus of voices, I didn’t have a moment to myself.”

It occurred to her that, though the housekeeper and servants hadn’t moved, their expressions had altered somewhat. A few mouths had opened in silent protest. Ah, well. What did she care? Half the village knew she could talk to spirits. What was the harm if the rest of them knew? Let them all know that she was an outsider who would never be like them. Let them cross themselves whenever she passed and whisper behind her back. She was weary of trying to pretend to be one of them. She was a witch. Not a very good one, but a witch nevertheless.

“Everyone shouting at me with a request, a favor, an apology as I passed their graves…”

“Speaking of apologies…” Andrew placed a hand over hers.

The current that shot between them was so shocking, they both drew back as though burned.

Except for the hiss and snap of the logs on the fire, there wasn’t a sound in the room.

Andrew caught sight of the housekeeper and servants watching and listening with rapt attention.

Instead of her hand he closed his fingers around the stem of his goblet and lifted it to his lips. “I’m truly sorry, my lady.”

Her head came up. Her eyes widened. Was he actually lowering himself to apologize?

Then she, too, glanced at the servants before clenching her hands in her lap and saying softly, “Thank you for that.”

He set down the goblet, wanting desperately to touch her. “It is I who thank you.”

He picked up his fork. Managed a bite of mutton. Then dropped the fork with a clatter before turning to his housekeeper. “Mistress MacLean, you and the servants are dismissed. The lady and I wish to be alone.”

“Aye, my laird.” With a wave of her hand the housekeeper sent the servants to the sideboard, where they deposited their silver trays before taking their leave.

Until the door closed behind them, neither Andrew nor Gwenellen said a word.

When they were alone Andrew picked up his goblet and strode to the fireplace where he stared for long moments at the fire. At last he turned. Gwenellen was still sitting at the table, her food forgotten.

“What you did, my lady, retrieving my lost dirk, touched me deeply.”

She kept her face averted. “I am happy I could be of some assistance, my lord.”

“Don’t do that.” He drained his ale and tossed the goblet down with such force, it shattered on the hearth.

Stunned, Gwenellen shoved away from the table and got to her feet, staring at him in alarm. “Now what have I done to anger you, my lord?”

“You’re behaving like a fine proper lady.”

She gripped the back of her chair. “That offends you, my lord?”

He swore and was across the room in quick strides, his hands closing around her upper arms until he nearly lifted her off her feet. “I am not your lord. And I much prefer my imp, to some fine proper lady.”

Her mouth opened, but no words came out.

His tone lowered, though it was still rough with passion. “I see you laughing inwardly at some foolishness and I want to share it. I see you dashing around the abbey like a little whirlwind and I want to be there, racing right alongside you.”

Again he felt the heat of her touch, but this time he was prepared for it. It poured between them until the very air seemed charged with it.

For the longest time they merely stared at each other. Suddenly he dragged her into his arms and pressed his mouth to her temple. “Gwenellen, my wonderful little imp. I can’t bear that I made you weep.”

“I didn’t weep.” Her eyes filled and hot tears spilled down her cheeks, dampening the front of his tunic. She wanted him to go on holding her like this forever. Was nearly overwhelmed by the fact that he’d opened his heart, his soul to her, with such vehemence. “I never weep.”

“Of course you don’t.” He was kissing her. Her temple. The curve of her cheek. The corner of her mouth, where he tasted the salt of her tears. “You’re too fine and sweet and wonderful to ever have a need for tears. But I hurt you. I was the cause of them, and for that I’ll never be able to forgive myself.”

“Nay, Andrew.” She drew back to lift a hand to his mouth. “I’ve already forgiven. And forgotten. You mustn’t punish yourself. I know I’m a burden…”

“Don’t ever say that.” His eyes were hot and fierce as he stopped her words with a quick kiss. He drew back just enough to look into her eyes. “You are the most remarkable woman I’ve ever known. And now, right this moment, I must kiss you again. Or go mad.”

He drew her close and covered her mouth with a kiss that spoke of all the need, the hunger that he’d so long denied.

She answered with a hunger of her own that caught them both by surprise. With her arms around his neck she clung to him, thrilling to the passion, the heat, the need, that flowed between them.

“Oh, Andrew. I want…” She struggled to find the words. Did she have the right? She didn’t know. Had no lessons in the ways of mortals. But she had to try. “I want you to love me.” She nuzzled his mouth with hers. “As a mortal man loves a woman.”

At her words he froze.

Needing to clear his head he pushed her a little away and took in deep draughts of air. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“But I do. I want you, Andrew. And I think…at least I hope you want me.”

“Of course I do. What you’re offering is everything I’ve wanted. Dreamed of, from the time we first met. But think what you’re doing, Imp.”

She wound her arms around his neck and gave him a smile that would melt glaciers. “I love it when you call me imp. It’s ever so much sweeter than my lady.”

He groaned, wondering how he could find the strength to resist her. But one of them had to be strong. “Once we do this thing, there’ll be no going back. You won’t be the innocent on the morrow that you are this night. Think about that, Gwenellen.”

“I don’t want to think. I want you, Andrew.” She pressed her mouth to his throat and heard his quick intake of breath. “I want this…this fluttery feeling that comes over me whenever you and I come together.”