Until the Knight Comes (7 page)

A vigil Nessa understood but chose not to let darken her spirits.

She meant Cuidrach and its ghosts no harm.

She’d only wished to seize what remained of the night’s magic, the warmth she’d caught in a certain knight’s appraising eye.

A twinkling interest she’d surely imagined.

Just as she now would almost swear she heard a certain old woman’s strange words hushing past her ear, echoing in the room’s moon-filled emptiness.

In the fullness of time, there e’er comes a reckoning and all things right themselves.

“Lady.”

Nessa started as her reckoning stepped through the door. The calm she’d almost managed to reclaim slid away as swiftly as the remembered words of a diminutive black-garbed crone she’d seen but once in her life.

The knight, Sir Kenneth’s garrison captain, Sir Lachlan Macrae, she’d seen but once, too. Seen, and
bathed
him, the memories of that particular intimacy now making all of her senses snap to attention.

“You were missed in the hall,” he said, his deep voice melting her, every tall, mail-glinting inch of him shattering her composure.

Making her . . . want.

She met his gaze, knowing herself lost even before his mouth curved in a slow, provocative smile that did deliciously rousing things to the pit of her belly.

Her already tingling female places.

Reactions she knew the handsome, bold-eyed knight surely inspired in any female he chose to make the recipient of his charm.

He came closer and the barest hint of a dimple deepened in his left cheek. “Did you weary of our fireside storytelling, my lady? Our music and song?”

“Sir?” Nessa took a step backward, away from the heady intoxication of him.

As smoothly, he closed the space between them. “I saw you leaning forward to watch and listen. Did I misjudge your interest? Or has your path been so fraught that you’ve lost the ability to see the magic and romance of these high hills we call home?”

Nessa shifted, her mind returning to the scene in the hall. Sir Kenneth’s men strumming lutes and extolling the blue of sea and hill and sky, singing praise of the noblest valor and battles won, but also of black treachery and heartache, their every honeyed word going to her head like wine.

Each sweet turn of verse a dream and a . . . nightmare.

“Ach, I ken the magic, the legend and wonder. I see it every day—even in this wild and forlorn place,” she admitted, choosing her words carefully. “’Twas the
romance
that sent me up here, naught else.”

“The romance?” He touched her hair, the barely there contact sending shivers all over her. “How so?”

Holding his gaze, Nessa drew on the strength of harsh years and even harder victories, small though they might have been. “I am a herring widow,” she said, more proud than shamed by her humble heritage. “I am not accustomed to the fineries of courtly song and airs. But I understand the heart—and the body. Having been well-loved once, I ache to know such bliss again. Your men’s songs brought back painful memories.”

The knight lifted a brow. “And the magic? How do you see that?”

“As potent and real as when the world was new,” she said, meaning every word. “To be sure, and I believe in magic.
Highland magic.
In especial since rescuing my lady from the dungeon at Drumodyn Castle—a tale you heard this very e’en.”

She looked down. “Most of it, anyway.”

“And what did I not hear?”

Nessa swallowed. “You are a knight,” she said, not quite sure how to put her hesitation into words. “You live, breathe, and think in a different world than mine. You might not understand.”

“Mayhap you ought tell me and see?” A glimmer of admiration lit his eyes. “I already know that you went to great trouble and risk to spirit your lady out of a dungeon cell. No ordinary woman could master such a feat. I would hear how you did it?”

“O-o-oh, I did have help,” she said, telling him true. “The help of greed, Sir Knight. The lust of men for all that sparkles and glitters.”

Sir Lachlan crossed his arms. “I see,” he said, clearly not seeing at all.

“The whole of it is a long tale.” Nessa moistened her lips, uncomfortably aware of his doubt. “But there can be no question that greed allowed me to hasten my lady from Drumodyn Castle. As proof, I say you that when we fled the dungeon, every man abovestairs was clustered around the high table examining a golden lute I’d left there, their every other thought surrendered to the shine of gold, the dazzle of gemstones. . . .”

Surprise widened the knight’s eyes. “And where did you—a professed herring wife—obtain such a treasure?”

“A black-garbed old woman left it in my possession. A
cailleach
she was, nigh ancient, but with sharp, almost twinkling eyes.”

“And this crone simply left the lute in your keeping?”

Nessa nodded. “So I have said—and so it was. I am Highlander enough not to question such things.”

He touched her face then, his caress encouraging her, loosening her tongue.

“The
cailleach
claimed to be a traveling wise woman,” she explained, her breath catching as his fingers strayed to her neck. “She ne’er told me her name, just came to my door asking if I had any pains in need of healing—in exchange for fresh milk or a sack of dried herring.”

“And for that she gave you the lute?”

Nessa shrugged. “I promised her the provender, inviting her to warm herself at my hearth while I gathered the milk and herring, but when I returned, she was gone, the lute resting upon my table.”

“Ah, well . . .” He lifted her braid, appeared to study its dark gloss in the slant of the moonlight. “Did she say how she happened across such a fine instrument?”

“To be sure,” Nessa said, the intimacy of watching him watch his thumb slide over the thickness of her braid, making her heart pound.

“Well?” he pressed, looming before her like some mythic Fingalian giant.

“She said a wandering bard had given it to her in appreciation for healing him of the ague.”

“Such a gift for curing the ague seems . . . overgenerous.”

“Who is to question the doings of wise women? And that she was, I am sure. Thanks to her, my lady lives and breathes, will greet all her morrows.” Nessa scarce heard the words, so strong was the sensual drag pulling between them, hazing her wits, melting her. “So, aye, sir, I believe in magic.”

“In all kinds of magic, my lady?”

“What other kind do you mean, Sir Knight?” she voiced the expected response.

The one she knew would land her on the cold stone of the little guardroom floor.

See her unravel in sweet, needy release.

“My name is Lachlan, not ‘Sir Knight.’” He came closer, reached for the edges of her cloak.

“And the magic I mean,” he said, as the cloak slipped from her shoulders, “is the kind that burns between a man and a woman—then, when they both desire such flames to sear and consume them.”

“I . . .” Nessa bit her lip, the words dry in her throat.

He clutched her to him, held fast. “The kind of magic that flared between us when you bathed me—and still does. Even now. This moment.”

Nessa drew a trembling breath, any pretense of resistance spinning away in a dark wind of want, need, and incredible urgency as the little room and its chilly moonlight blurred into nothingness, leaving only him and the awareness beating between them.

He set her from him and looked deep into her eyes. “You do not deny it?”

Nessa lifted her chin. “I will deny nothing—so long as you assure me there is no reason we shouldn’t assuage certain . . . hungers.”

“No reason exists,” he vowed, the rough edge to his voice underscoring the truth of his words. “Not since my lady wife passed on some years ago.”

“Then let us find solace,” Nessa agreed, all the world stopping for her as she lifted her hands to the stays of her gown, swiftly loosing them.

Freeing herself to the first stirrings of pleasure she’d known in countless empty nights.

And, were she honest, to this degree, mayhap ever.

Chapter Five

“W
hat do you mean you will no longer be sleeping here?”

Mariota stared at Nessa, watching her move about the bedchamber, calmly gathering her belongings. A silver-backed hairbrush Mariota had given her two summers ago, her best gown, and even her needlework. Everything went into the wicker basket strategically placed on a settle by the door.

As if she were serious, had indeed lost her heart to the dark-visaged knight, Sir Lachlan Macrae. Truly thought to become his . . . paramour.

Mariota’s eyes widened, amazement stealing her breath when her friend paused to pour a cup of ale and flashed her a smug-looking smile.

A dreamy, wholly besotted smile.

“Well?” Mariota prodded, still disbelieving.

Nessa shrugged. “Och, then—I meant just what I said. As of this night, I will take my bed . . . elsewhere.”

“On the spread pallet of a man you scarce—”

“I ken him well enough.” A soft gleam entered Nessa’s dark eyes.

Seeing it, Mariota threw a glance at the tall white candles burning on a chest of fine carved wood. Knightly appointments the plenishings were, newly installed in the chamber. “This is madness,” she said, sliding one of the heavy silver candlesticks across the chest top. “And there is no need for you to take such measures. Sir Kenneth has made this room a haven. For the two of us—”

“Tush! Do you not understand? I
want
to be with Sir Lachlan.” Nessa smiled again, waved a dismissive hand. “As for this chamber, did you not hear your Keeper tell his men he wished the room swiftly dressed for your comfort?”

“He is not my anything, and he said
our
comfort—yours and mine.”

Nessa sniffed. “I would think you might welcome . . . this chance? Truth tell, I vow it best that you sleep here alone,” she owned, her eyes alight with merriment. “In time you might even thank me.”

Mariota flushed. “If you think to foist me into the Keeper of Cuidrach’s arms just because you have found ready succor, you are sorely mistaken.”

Even so, she couldn’t help imagining herself in the handsome knight’s embrace.

Breathless and naked, his mouth devouring hers as his hands explored her, their passion hot and tempestuous.

Nor could she forget his gentle and caring touch. How, in the bailey on that first fateful night, he’d reached to adjust her cloak, then moved so that his back shielded her from the wind.

Hugh Alesone had never shown such thoughtfulness—she’d always been the one to see to
his
comfort.

Mariota looked at her friend, saw the other woman’s misty-eyed happiness and bit her lip, trying not to put too much weight on one thoughtful gesture.

Or think too deeply about why her breath caught each time Kenneth MacKenzie turned that deep, dark gaze on her.

Instead, she swallowed and nudged at the floor rushes. “Leaving me alone here will avail nothing—if you believe your absence will hasten matters I have no interest in pursuing,” she said, the tingling weightiness in her belly making a mockery of her words.

The sudden spill of warmth in her heart scaring her.

She ignored the sensations, lifted her chin. “Sir Kenneth is as desirous of keeping to himself as I am. He told me so.”

Nessa shot her an amused glance. “Did he now?”

“You know he did.” Mariota fussed at her skirts, avoiding her friend’s eye. “He made quite clear he was not pleased to find us here. In especial, me . . . posing as lady of this keep!”

“That was a surprise, to be sure,” Nessa allowed. “But I’ve seen how he watches you, the ravenous look in his eyes.” She tilted her head. “He is a lusty man, I’ll wager. And, I am thinking, too long without a woman’s attentions.”

Mariota looked away. “There are worse things.”

“He’d make a fine bedmate, I say you,” Nessa decided. “Perhaps it would benefit you both to slake a mutual thirst? Pure need sated. No other . . .
concerns
between you?”

Mariota opened her mouth and shut it as quickly.

A fine bedmate.

Sated need.

“You’ve lost your wits.” She stared at the other woman. “Is your memory so short? Have you forgotten all that happened at Drumodyn? Why we are even here?”

“It is Drumodyn that moves me. And should move you!” Nessa shot back. “O-o-oh, my lady, I do not think you know what is good for you.”

“I know what is good for landed knights, newly come to their holdings.” Mariota blew a wisp of hair off her brow. “Heed my words—Sir Kenneth will soon claim the comforts of his bedchamber. Think you he will be content sleeping below, on a pallet, when his bed and all its trappings stand waiting in this room?”

Nessa shrugged, the mischief in her eye answer enough.

Disregarding her, Mariota huffed and turned away . . . and almost tripped over Cuillin, the ancient hound claimed by the strapping young knight, Jamie the Small.