Susan King - [Celtic Nights 03] (19 page)

He slid his gaze slowly upward with delight: long legs and lean hips, flat abdomen, firmly curved breasts and square shoulders, a graceful throat, and the pale curve of her face, bright in firelight. She was soothing to the eyes, he thought, even when sparks shifted unpredictably in his vision.

Eva leaned forward to stir the kettle. "It is done, and will warm us nicely," she said, and stood to fetch some cups.

I am not cold,
he wanted to say,
not while I am looking at you.
And not while he sat here with her like a couple long married, content and at peace in each other's company, as his foster parents had been, as Angus and Margaret so clearly were.

Ladling a thin, steaming mix of oats and water into four cups, Eva poured in fresh cream, added honey and
uisge beatha,
and stirred the blend before handing the cups around. Thanking her, Lachlann inhaled the good scent, vivid with
uisge beatha.

"Slainte,"
Eva said,
health,
and smiled at Lachlann and the others, lifting her cup.

Lachlann returned the toast to all and sipped. The warmth radiated through him, pervading and comforting. The rain sheared on the thatch, the wind howled, and he glanced up at the raftered ceiling. "There was plenty of rain in France, but no brose to warm a man," he remarked, and sipped again.

"What was there to warm a man?" Eva asked, laughing.

He tipped his head, and wished her damp hair did not curl so sweetly around her face, wished her cheeks did not blush so easily, because he could not look away from her.

"Not much," he finally answered. "Sunshine in the days and pinewood fires at night. We slept outside more often than not, or we crowded into rooms or tents that held too many men on too few pallets and blankets."

"Sleeping in clusters would warm a man," Margaret said.

"Or give him fleas," Angus drawled.

Laughing with the others, Lachlann sipped again.

"Now that you are back, I am glad I will not have to ride all the way to Glen Brae for nails for my carpentry work, or to have my horse and ox shod," Angus said. He grinned at Lachlann.

"And thank God you came back safe and sound," Margaret said. "You will have more work than you can handle now. That other smith cannot make anything properly. He goes at the smithing like a troll."

Lachlann chuckled. The little girl, called Maeve, clambered down from the bench and toddled toward Eva, who caught her up in her lap. The child, as blond and lovely as her mother, watched in fascination as Eva took a long string from a basket and wove it into a cradle game.

"Lachlann, I will need some ladles and a new poker, and kitchen knives when you have the time," Margaret said. He nodded in agreement. "Oh, we missed you more than you could know!"

He glanced at Eva, unable to stop himself. She watched him soberly over the child's head.

"I hope my wife did not miss you too much, for she liked you well, years back," Angus said. Lachlann smiled and shook his head, while Margaret elbowed her husband. "Which reminds me, I owe you thanks for what you did, years ago." Angus lifted his cup in salute.

"What was that?" Lachlann asked.

"Do you remember that Beltane night before you went to France? Margaret hoped you would walk out with her, but you left her in my care and went walking with Eva. Margaret was not pleased with you for that...
oof,
" he said on exhale, as Margaret elbowed him sharply. "But by the end of the night, she was pleased with me, I think." Angus winked at his wife.

"Oh, I was—and you were even happier," Margaret murmured, and patted his bearded cheek. Angus laughed outright, in an exuberant, appealing way that made everyone smile.

"You are welcome for the favor," Lachlann said. "You seem well suited to one another."

"A pity you did not find yourself a wife that night, to warm you well," Angus said, though Margaret gasped aloud. "If he had, he might have stayed here, saving us from throwing good coin away with the drunkard," he told his wife defensively.

Again Lachlann glanced at Eva; memories of Beltane were imprinted on his heart. Eva's pink blush told him that she, too, had some fervent recollections.

"That Glen Brae smith is not a MacKerron, that is his trouble," Angus went on. "MacKerrons have smithing in their very blood, from ages past."

Margaret nodded. "MacKerrons are supposed to have dark faery blood, which gives them their skill—and their dark hair and light eyes, or so they say. Eva has dark faery blood in her, too, from Aeife the Radiant One. You know the story, Lachlann."

"It has been a long time since I heard it," he answered.

Margaret shifted her infant, who mewled and stretched in his sleep, to her shoulder and rubbed his back. "Perhaps Eva will tell the story to our little Maeve, who has not yet heard it."

"Maeve is young for a story, but I would like to hear one myself," Angus said. "A tale told by the fireside on a poor night is the best tale of all. Perhaps Eva will oblige us while we finish our brose, before we leave."

"I will, but you are welcome to stay the night, for the rain will not end soon," Eva said. As she spoke, Maeve left her lap to toddle toward Solas and show the dog her string game. Lachlann reached out a hand to prevent the child from stumbling too close to the hearth, and she offered the string to him. He smiled, and she plunked down on his lap, surprising him.

"We would be glad to stay," Angus said. "Maeve, come here."

"She is fine," Lachlann said, patting the child's soft curls. She relaxed against his chest. "Perhaps Eva will tell us all a story now."

Eva nodded, and paused for a moment. "Be still and silent, and I will tell you a tale worth the telling," she began.

Lachlann leaned back against the warm stones of the hearth wall, with the little girl cozy in his lap. Spoken in Eva's hushed, mellow voice, the familiar tale held new fascination for him.

"...And when Aeife took up the sword," Eva said, drawing near the close of the story, "it was feather-light and supple in her hand, with a blade like the sun and a hilt of gold, and a pommel like a clear jewel with a thousand colors in it."

Lachlann frowned. Long ago, he had imagined crafting such a sword, exquisite and unique, replete with magic. But dreams were only dreams, he reminded himself. They rarely came true.

As Eva finished the story, he blinked, coming out of his own thoughts. Margaret wiped a tear away and Angus sniffled. Lachlann looked down at the child, now sleeping against his chest. Gently, he lifted her up and handed her to Angus.

Lachlann smiled at the storyteller, and her eyes sparkled as she looked at him. "And so the tradition continues along Aeife's line," he said, "to our own Eva, the radiant one. Thank you for a fine tale," he murmured. "Well worth the telling."

* * *

Embers burned like rubies in the forge, mirrored crimson in the broken sword. Lachlann turned the hilt slowly in his hands. Unable to sleep despite the comfort of his heather bed and the soothing sound of the rain, he had risen before dawn to take Jehanne's sword from its hiding place. Now he studied it, the steel cool in his hands, the heat of the fire warming his skin.

The memory of Jehanne's small, gaunt face, vivid with suffering, was still hurtful, but he would always be thankful for the great privilege of riding with her. He blew out a breath, and sadness seemed to dissolve a little, as if the burden had lessened. Coming home—and, above all, being with Eva—had begun to heal him. He felt it as clearly as a shower of clean rain.

He closed his eyes, and the accursed stars that so often floated across his field of sight flared. Certainly healing might never occur, no matter how winsome or welcome the remedy. He swore low and fierce, like a dragon's out-breath, and laid the sword on the forge. Firelight poured over the steel like blood.

Jehanne had told him that he would know what to do with her sword one day. Yet still he did not. He had never been plagued by indecision or inaction, yet he had not fulfilled his promise to repair her sword. He did not know if he could.

After Eva had told the story of Aeife and the Sword of Light, Lachlann had gone back to the smithy to lie awake, thinking about Aeife, about Jehanne, about Eva, and about the swords for those maidens, one blade actual and hidden, the other a legend.

He imagined Eva, sword in hand like Aeife and Jehanne, strong and beautiful, determined to defend her island and fulfill tradition. He sighed, considering the broken blade in his hand.

Three sword maidens in his life, three different and dazzling threads: one existed in an ancient tale, and one now had the brightness of legend upon her. And the third he loved to the depth of his being. Of the three, Eva was the one who was inextricably part of him. Living without her would tear at him forever.

He whirled the pommel in his palm, and slid the sparkling blade back into its swath of cloth. With a sudden sense of conviction, he knew he must take action. He needed resolution, not legends. He needed Eva, and somehow he must win her.

Chapter 14

Eva sat straighter in the boat, gazing past Alpin to look at her island, green and steadfast upon the surface of the water, the stone castle rising from a ring of trees and rock. Alpin skimmed the boat past the island through the cool, whipping wind.

"Innisfarna is still a beautiful place," Lachlann said, gazing at the island from his seat on a cross bench behind Alpin. Eva glanced toward him. "It has not changed," he added.

"Innisfarna will never change," she said fiercely. "It must remain protected, and as it is, forever."

"How long since you were there?" he asked.

"Too long," she said, glancing at Alpin. She visited the island often, but kept that to herself.

"She will return in triumph one day," Alpin said, looking over his shoulder at Lachlann. "When she fights for her isle."

"Alpin," Eva warned.

"When she fights for it?" Lachlann repeated.

"Green Colin wants it, but we will not let him have it," he said, and grunted in agreement with himself as he pulled on the oars. "When the time comes to defend, Eva will be ready."

Eva sent him a little glare, but Alpin ignored her.

Lachlann drew his brows together, but said nothing more. The boat glided past Innisfarna quickly on a wind-driven current. A rocky finger of land soon obscured all but the treetops and the battlement of the castle. Lachlann turned to gaze at the shoreline as they skimmed northward on the loch.

She watched him curiously. He seemed relaxed, but she saw a subtle tightening around his eyes and mouth. She wondered if he was eager or worried about seeing Mairi.

Alpin had come early that morning to tell them that Mairi MacKerron had returned to Glen Brae and waited to see her foster son. Lachlann had wanted to travel immediately on horseback, but Alpin insisted on taking him with Eva in the boat.

"There is Glen Brae." Alpin pointed across the water toward the rounded hills that rose along the north side of the loch. "The castle is there, on that hill." He indicated a tower of yellow stone, resting upon the cleared slope of a forested hill.

"I have not been to this end of the loch for several years," Lachlann said. "Finlay and I sometimes made the journey on garron ponies to purchase iron and charcoal, but the distance is over thirty miles and took so long to manage that we generally bought our charcoal closer to home. Glen Brae Castle is held by Stewarts, as I recall," he added.

"Sir Patrick Stewart has it now," Eva said. "He is a distant cousin to the king. Mairi's niece married him."

"The girl with all the little ones?" he asked, smiling, and she nodded. The smoky odor that had tinted the wind was gone now, replaced by the clean scent of the water. She lifted her face to the wind, and Alpin pulled the oars, sending the long, low craft into the spray.

Lachlann sat half-turned, breezes fingering his thick, dark hair, his profile strong in the sunlight, his blue eyes bright and narrowed. Her heart flipped crazily each time she looked at him, and the steaming passion of his kisses whirled inside of her again. She looked away, pulling her
arisaid
close around her, but she felt a wave of desire so fresh that her cheeks grew hot.