Until the Knight Comes (15 page)

To her surprise, something flickered in his eyes—a look almost like pain.

Or regret.

“Aye, we must indeed speak of him, but never you mind. He can wait.” His eyes darkened, his gaze slipping to her mouth, her breasts, the last traces of his amusement fading.

“You look feverish,” he said, studying her. “Perhaps we should see to your discomforts before we speak of my . . . friend.”

“
My
discomforts?” Mariota’s eyes flew wide, all else forgotten as a lightning streak of sensual thrills shot through her.

But he only lifted his hands, showing her a leather-wrapped flagon and a small silver-edged drinking cup.

“Uisge-beatha,”
he told her, his smile returning. “Fine Highland spirits, and a sure cure for whate’er ills are troubling you. Ague, or . . . otherwise!”

“I know what
uisge-beatha
is,” she said, guilt making her defensive. “And naught troubles me. Not this night.”

That last, at least, wasn’t a falsehood.

Truth was, she’d been troubled—nay, consumed—every night since he’d walked into her life.

“Indeed, I am feeling well,” she emphasized, willing it so.

“Truth tell?” One raven-black brow shot upward, almost as if he’d peered inside her . . . knew her thoughts.

Or perhaps could tell she’d been snooping about the antechamber, peering down secret passages that, by rights, were his.

Shamed at the possibility, she edged away from the crack in the wall. The seam that now seemed to jump out at her. Or, equally damning, the faint haze of stone dust she was sure still hung in the air.

He’d be certain to speed her to Sir Duncan Strongbow if he knew she’d been putting her nose where it didn’t belong, ferreting out the secrets of his keep.

So she held her silence and hoped he wouldn’t notice.

Likewise, her scraped hands and broken fingernails, evidence of her discovery.

She took a deep breath and released it, not even sure why she didn’t want him to know. But even just the notion of telling him made her tongue feel weighted down. Worse, she imagined gnarled but strong fingers pressing against her lips, sealing them.

Warning her.

A chill tore down her spine at that foolhardiness, and she shuddered, taking a few slow, deep breaths until the strange sensations lessened.

If even they would with him closing the space between them again, coming toward her with smooth, fluid grace, his movements almost like a predator’s—with her the prey.

“Feeling well or no,” he said, stopping less than a hand’s breadth in front of her, “I’d urge you to drink a bit of the
uisge-beatha.
Indeed, I insist.”

“I don’t often drink water of life,” she resisted, only too aware of the potent drink’s power, its almost instantaneous ability to loosen inhibitions.

Her
already weakened defenses.

“Nay, I do not think so,” she declined again, shaking her head.

“Ah, but this night you shall make an exception—for me,” he said, undaunted.

And giving her another of those dark smiles that made her stomach flutter. Looking as if he knew it, he plucked the stopper from the flagon and poured an all-too-generous portion into the little silver-gilt cup.

“Och, aye, a few sips will do you good—only one pleasure burns a sweeter heat than such fine Highland spirits!”

“And what might that be?” some devil made her ask.

To her surprise, he laughed. A rich, deeply pleasing laughter that curled round her heart, softening and warming her in ways that a whole tun of Highland spirits couldn’t hope to achieve.

She looked at him, her heart splitting open, eager to welcome his warmth, but the moment had passed and his expression was serious again, his dark eyes guarded.

“If you must ask what pleasure I mean, lass, then your late husband was not overly . . .
good
to you.”

“My late—” Mariota blinked, caught herself just in time.

Guilt pinching her, she eyed the gleaming swirl of innocent-looking liquid, her pulse leaping. Her heart skittered, anticipation of the drink’s seductive warmth spooling through her, urging her to . . . enjoy.

Forget nonexistent husbands, family she missed, and suitors she didn’t wish to hear about, and, for one sweet evening, pretend that all was right in her world.

But, faith, the fumes alone stung her eyes, searing the back of her throat and making her breath catch!

“Here, lass.” Kenneth eased the cup into her hand. “Drink.”

“I should not—”

“The
uisge-beatha
will help your . . . ague,” he said, closing his fingers over hers, guiding the cup to her lips.

She blinked again, and scrunched her nose as the drink slid down her throat, its burning smoothness a welcoming bliss.

A sweet liquid fire that spread through her, slowly warming her cheeks and every other place in and outside her body. And, just as she’d known would happen, tilting the earth beneath her feet just enough to soften the edges of her resistance.

Blurring the reasons she knew he ought not touch her.

Minding her of why she so wanted to touch
him.

Fearing that
want
might be written all over her, she wiped the backs of her fingers across her lips.

And forgot completely to hide her broken nails.

He noticed at once, tossing aside the cup of
uisge-beatha
he’d just poured himself to seize her hand, thrust it into the light of a wall torch.

A muscle jerked in his jaw as he examined her scraped palm, the torn and ragged nails. “Merciful saints, what have you done?” he demanded, his brow furrowing.

Darkening with anger for not having noticed before.

Anger that coursed through him now for letting his own misgivings and doubts send him to her side with a flagon of spirits clutched in his hand rather than the smooth words and confidence that might have served him so much better!

“Sakes, lass—you’ve shredded the palms of both your hands, ripped your nails . . .” He shook his head, wished he knew healing craft, had a salve to soothe her pain.

But there, too, Cuidrach was lacking—he hadn’t yet taken time to sort the healing goods his uncle’s wife had given him, knew scarce little about such things, having always ignored his own aches and pains.

“I-I was trying to open one of the wine casks,” she was saying, her voice tremulous as she spoke the lie. “The scrapes are not so bad. I can see to them later—I have balm and a basket of sphagnum moss abovestairs.”

Kenneth said nothing.

He knew she was lying.

The pile of wine casks looked as undisturbed as the day he and his men had carted them into the anteroom. And did he have any doubts, a fine layer of dust, wholly unmarred by female finger marks, bespoke his assessment of her falsehood.

But however she’d injured her hands, the truth could wait.

This night he needed all his skill to address a matter of much more urgency.

And not his incredible need to touch and taste her, to sweep her into his arms and carry her to his bed and just sink his hard, aching self deep inside her. Lose his cares in the sweet, womanly wonder of her.

Make her his own.

But such folly would not be wise . . . yet.

Though a wee bit of . . .
sampling
would no doubt be satisfying for them both!

If the saints had any mercy, she’d agree.

Willing it so, he held fast to her hand—but gently—his entire body so taut with need, he could scarce think much less remember the words he’d been rehearsing for days, ever since riding away from Gunna of the Glen’s cottage.

The night destiny clamped its iron-hard grip on him, ruining him for all but one woman, leaving him no choice but to make her his own.

Even if he had to break his honor to do so.

Put his faith in a
pretend
marital candidate to hold her here until he could convince her—and her father—that
he
was the only man for her.

A worthy husband.

So samplings would have to do . . . for now.

He’d savor them to the fullest, tucking each golden moment deep into his heart, to warm and comfort him if he failed.

Shoving that thought from his mind, he brought her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her abraded palm. “Lady,” he began, his voice huskier, more raw-sounding than he would have wished. “I shall assure a fresh ewer of wine is brought to your bedside every night so soon as darkness falls. Even more if you so desire. But ne’er again do such damage to your hands.”

He kissed the soft skin of her inner wrist, looked deep into her eyes. “That, you must promise me.”

She met his gaze, flushed a little. “I vow, sir, that I have needs greater than wine can quench,” she said, the words so soft they could have been the rustling of the wind.

“But the wine would be welcome, aye,” she added, her eyes luminous, shimmering green pools in the torchlight. “I thank you,” she said, the three words balm to his soul, her low-pitched, smoky voice sending waves of heat pulsing through his loins.

“For the wine,” she added, “and for thinking of my comfort.”

Kenneth near choked.

Her comfort.

She’d think otherwise if she knew how many sleepless hours he’d spent trying to think of ways to please a certain northern chieftain she purportedly no longer wanted to see.

Ways to make the man smile on his daughter again—if indeed a void loomed between them.

And, too, ways to breach the pain of losing her if she discovered his plan before time and fled Cuidrach—or, worse, if she stayed and eventually shunned him.

Not as a pass-the-nights-hotly lover, but as a forever mate.

A husband.

“You needn’t thank me,” he said at last, his voice gruff, the words nowise soft and dreamy as hers had been.

His
words fell between them like pebbles dropped into a still pool.

He pulled in a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and still ill ease snatched at him, his gut clenching with the unpleasantness of his task.

“See you,” he began, picking his words carefully, “you declined my offer to see you safely returned to your father, and now I—”

“Och, I see,” she said, the softness out of her voice. “You still want to be rid of me. Wish to see me sent elsewhere?”

“Nay . . . I mean, aye,” Kenneth blurted, making a grand muddle of it, the back of his neck burning so fiercely he wondered he didn’t burst into flame. “What I want is to know you safe. And, aye, for life!”

As my wife—if you’d have me,
his heart roared at her.

“Cuidrach is not yet a safe place,” he tried again, amazed he could speak so casually. “Its curtain walls are riddled with gaps, the gatehouse almost beyond repair. But there are—”

“But there are what? Safer places?” Her eyes flew wide. “Dinna think to send me to a nunnery,” she said, backing away from him. “I would sooner walk naked to Glasgow and take up Nessa’s trade as herring wife!”

“Sweet lass, you mistake,” Kenneth said, that, at least, being the truth of it.

Plunging himself into the only way he saw to possibly hold on to her was what he was about to do, not doom her to a life of bread-and-water penances and piety.

“Sweet, you call me?” She stared at him as if he were about to steal the breath from her. “If you find me so . . . delectable, you’d ken I’d wither and perish in such confinement.”

Kenneth bit back a curse, rammed a hand through his hair.

To be sure, he found her delectable.

So tempting, in fact, his whole body thrummed with wanting her!

She raised her hands as if to ward him away. “For truth, I cannot think of a worse fate. A woman was meant for . . . other things. I—”

“You are surely no lass to be buried under a veil, locked behind cloister walls.” Kenneth took her by the shoulders, looked into her eyes. “And such a thought ne’er entered my mind, was not what I was about to say.”

She shook free of his grasp, puffed a wisp of hair off her face. “Then what
did
you mean to say?”

He winced—but deep inside, where she couldn’t see, wouldn’t know he was about to lie . . . or at least bend the truth to suit his purposes.

But
he
knew and the knowledge pained him.

Even with well-meaning intentions.

He inhaled deeply, rushing the words, “I meant to say that although Cuidrach is not yet restored to its fullest strength—some might even call it half-ruined—there are greater dangers outside these walls and,” he paused, drew another breath, “with winter coming, I’d urge you to simply stay here and enjoy the protection I can offer you until spring.”

She jammed her hands on her hips, tilting her head. “And in the spring?”

“By then I will have made arrangements for a worthy husband for you,” he said.
And hopefully found a way to assure you and your father that I am he,
his heart added.