The Bard

by Greyson, Maeve

  “Aderyn is a foolish old woman.” Sutherland nuzzled in for a slow suggestive kiss, trailing his fingers down her silky neck as he sampled her sweetness. “Our bairns will be hearty and braw, fierce as their mother and stubborn as their father.”

  “Aderyn is never wrong,” she whispered, but he could tell her denials were weakening.

  He eased free the tie at the top of her lèine, loosened the neckline, and slipped his hand inside. “She’s wrong this time,” he promised as he followed with kisses along her jawline.

  Sorcha arched into him with a promising sigh. “Do ye swear it?”

  “I swear it.” Fondling her lovely firm breast, he kissed his way downward and rolled her to her back. As he rose to free her of her clothes, a searing pain cracked like lightning through his skull. “Son of a whore!” He grabbed his head between his hands and dove to hang over the side of the bed. “Basin! Hurry!”

  Sorcha got it to him just in time.

  Coated with sweat, shivering with cold, Sutherland alternately cursed and retched as the renewed pounding trapped inside his skull roared like an awakened beast. “That damned woman didna curse our firstborn! She cursed me!”

  “She warned us.” Sorcha’s resigned but subtle scolding irritated him even more. “And she didna curse ye,” she continued. “The herbals from earlier have merely worn off. I’ll steep the batch she left for when ye awakened. She said this bunch would help ye sleep as well as heal.”

  He lowered the basin to the floor, then rested his cheek on the edge of the bed. It was a sorry day, indeed, when a simple blow to the head kept a man from loving his wife.

  After what seemed like forever, Sorcha knelt in front of him, holding a steaming cup under his nose. “Here. Try to sip it down quick as ye can. She said not to let it steep too long, or it’ll surely come back up, too.”

  Lifting his head as little as possible, he forced the nasty brew down. Without opening his eyes, he handed the cup back to her. “How can ye be so calm? I thought ye wanted me, too?” He didn’t give a damn that he sounded like a sullen child. While he had dealt with injuries plenty of times before, he had never had one hinder him like this.

  “I imagine it’s different for women.” She took the cup away and returned with a cool rag, which she pressed to the back of his neck. “Ye forget, we are the ones charged with denying a man until the time is proper. Our will and our control must be strong as iron.” She gave a soft laugh as she dipped the cloth in cool water, wrung it out, then pressed it to his forehead. “From the rumors I’ve heard about ye, it doesna sound as though ye’ve ever denied yer wants overly much.”

  “That isna true,” he defended as he risked opening his eyes. His head still ached, but at least the light didn’t hurt him like it had before. “Whenever a woman refuses me, I accept her will. I have never gone against a lass’s wishes. Never.”

  She made a huffing noise that sounded as though she thought him a liar. “I refused, and yet ye kept up with yer temptations.”

  “Did ye mean the refusal?” He lifted his head and pinned her with the sternest glare he could manage under the circumstances. “Truth now, mind ye.” The sudden flare of red across her cheeks told him everything he needed to know. “Aye, there ye have it then. I dinna force myself on any woman—not even my wife.”

  “Back to yer pillows with ye.” She straightened the bedclothes and covered him once he had righted himself in the bed. “I’ll be going to the lesser room now. The chambermaids made up the bed for me in there, but I stayed in the chair because I feared ye were worse than what Aderyn chose to tell me. She’s been known to shield me now and then. If ye have a need, call out, aye? There’ll be but a door between us, and I’ll leave it ajar.”

  “I do have need of ye.” He caught her hand before she moved away. “Stay with me, love.”

  “Have ye learned nothing?” Both amazement and humor danced across the curve of her mouth.

  “Aye.” He pulled her closer. “I’ve learned that anywhere without ye is fearsome cold.” With another gentle pull, he gave her a look he hoped she would take to heart. He’d never been more serious in his life. “Please, Sorcha. I swear to behave, but please, stay here in bed with me.”

  She stared down at him, the sweet furrow creasing her brow looking more worried than scowling. “No more trickery?”

  “No more trickery.”

  Rubbing the frown from her forehead, she released his hand. “I’ll trust ye once more, but any move to change my mind, and I’ll be sharing Jenny’s chamber until ye’ve fully healed, ye ken?”

  “I ken.” He was too weary, anyway. The dratted crone’s tisane had taken effect and made him weaker than a babe. Even his manparts finally slept. If they didn’t awaken properly when the time came, he’d have that old woman’s head.

  Sorcha clambered back into the bed and snuggled against him. “Good night, husband,” she said quietly after a chaste kiss to his cheek.

  “Good night, wife.” He hugged her close as the weight of his eyelids became too much bear. Tomorrow would be better. He’d be stronger, more healed, and better able to convince Sorcha that a hearty afternoon of loving was the best tonic for any ailment.

  *

  “If ye’re feeling so much better, then why are ye rubbing at yer eyes and working yer jaw?” Sorcha sidestepped Sutherland as he tried to pull her into an embrace and planted herself in a chair with her mending. Saints have mercy and give her strength, she’d need all the craftiness she possessed to keep her husband at bay yet another night.

  Granted, this was the eve of the sixth day since his injury. And he had seemed so healed, she’d almost decided it was safe to give in to what they both desired. But then at supper, Aderyn had advised her to wait at least another day. Just one more day of abstinence might sound easy. God forgive her, she had never hated virginity so much in her life. The first few days of putting him off had been easy enough, what with his headaches, dizziness, and retching. But now that he’d nearly overcome the attack—heaven help them both. The man was relentless.

  She pointed at him with her darning needle. “There, ye see? Ye rubbed at them again. Ye only do that when ye’ve overtired yerself and stirred up an aching in yer head.”

  “My eyes merely itch from smoke escaping the hearth!” Sutherland rumbled out a low-throated growl as he strode across the sitting room and glared out the window. “The crone pulled out the stitching today. If I’m well enough for that, I’m damn sure well enough to bed my wife. I’ve nay retched a time nor lost my balance in two days.” He turned from the window, pinning a fierce scowl on her. “I heard what that witch whispered to ye at the meal, and I canna believe ye put so much stock in that old woman’s imaginings. D’ye enjoy living with a man crazed because he canna pleasure his wife?”

  He was certainly a cross one tonight. Sorcha couldn’t fault him for it, though. With each passing day, their celibate state had become more worrisome than a festering wound. Even with her sleeping in the lesser room, the nights had become pure torture. During the day, she did her best to exhaust herself with chores and somehow work away the frustration and aching she knew only Sutherland could relieve. But at night, even when she was bone tired, she lay wide awake, staring at the shadows, reliving his kisses, his touch, the feel of him beside her. And he had taken to singing to her every night, his gentle crooning floating through the door she always left ajar in case he should need her. Soft and low, his rich voice mesmerized her as he sang ballads written for lovers. Now, she understood why he had been aptly dubbed the bard.

  “I need ye, mo ghràdh. I need to make ye truly my wife—to hold ye, to love ye, to make us one.”

  Blinking away her own tortured musings, she set aside her mending and went to him. For whatever reason, old Aderyn had been adamant they wait at least one more day. Maybe, if she gave him the hope of when this suffering would end for them both, that might lighten his dark mood. She took his hand between hers and pressed it to her cheek. “One more day, aye? Just one
more night of separate beds and separate rooms. I promise.”

  Sutherland’s demeanor shifted immediately. “One more day?” he repeated. “Ye swear it?”

  “I swear it.” She kissed his knuckles, then tucked herself against his chest and hugged him. “Tomorrow eve will be our proper wedding night. I promise.”

  His arms tightened around her. “Ye’re killing me, woman,” he rasped into her hair, then nudged a kiss to her temple.

  “Old Aderyn is never wrong,” she weakly defended. How many times had she uttered that mantra over the past few days? “But tomorrow night her edict ends. No matter what comes about, aye?”

  A knock on the sitting room door halted the conversation.

  “Who could that be at this late hour?” Sorcha moved to answer the door, but Sutherland caught her and held her back.

  “Nay, love, I shall answer it.” He gave her a look that dared her to argue. They’d had several conversations about the fire, his injury, and several strange but thankfully harmless incidents that had befallen him over the course of the past few days.

  The oddly jammed door to the whisky cellar trapping him inside until Magnus searched him out and heard his call. Tools falling from the hayloft and landing dangerously close, but no one around who could have dropped them. Neither she nor Sutherland considered these happenings coincidences, but neither had either of them been able to discover the person responsible. Rumors of wicked ghosts or curses ran rife through the keep, but she and Sutherland suspected Garthin Napier. Yet, they had no proof. Whoever was at fault was sly as a wicked fox.

  Sutherland opened the door to Magnus. “What’s wrong?”

  With a smile and a shake of his head, Magnus stepped inside. “Nothing. Forgive my intrusion at such an hour, but the chief shared that Mistress MacKelhenny has proclaimed spring has truly arrived, and the passes are cleared enough to set a date for a proper wedding feast. He proposes the celebration be held in less than a fortnight.”

  “Who the hell is Mistress MacKelhenny?” A bewildered look furrowed Sutherland’s brow.

  “Aderyn MacKelhenny,” Sorcha supplied. “Magnus is the only one in the keep who calls Aderyn, Mistress MacKelhenny.”

  “I feel the woman deserves my respect,” Magnus said quietly. “She says she knew my mother. Has told me several pleasant tales about times they spent together. I would treat Mistress MacKelhenny with the dignity and respect my mother never received.”

  Immediate regret for the levity of her words filled Sorcha. Sutherland had explained that Magnus’s mother had been tried and executed for witchcraft, and Magnus had arrived too late to save her. “Forgive me, Magnus. I assure ye, we hold Aderyn in the highest esteem and depend on her skills greatly for the benefit of the clan.”

  Magnus accepted her apology with a somber nod, then turned back to Sutherland. “I propose to leave for Tor Ruadh tomorrow to carry Chief Greyloch’s invitation to our clan. That is—if ye feel safe enough here without me.” With a tilt of his head and a glance at Sorcha, he shifted with a slight shrug. “Or the three of us could leave for Tor Ruadh and return with the MacCoinnich party in time for the festivities. That would be safest for all concerned.”

  While Sorcha understood a wife’s place was at her husband’s side, wherever that side might be, she preferred to delay leaving Castle Greyloch until the matter of ousting Lady Culane and her son had been handled. She had no problem with Da finding love again and taking another wife, but that despicable woman was not the one. She also felt sure that once those two were gone, the strange near misses around Sutherland would cease.

  While she wanted her husband safe, she doubted either she or Magnus could convince him to leave before the evildoer was found and brought to justice. Over the past few days, she had come to realize her husband carried a grudge and cherished vengeance even more than she did. “Would it nay be more proper for us to remain here until after the celebration?”

  “Aye, it would,” Sutherland agreed. He frowned at Magnus. “Ye know as well as I that I dinna run from any fight.”

  “Ye would nay be running,” Magnus argued. “Ye would merely be making their wicked game more of a challenge.” Folding his arms, he returned Sutherland’s frown. “I dinna like leaving ye unguarded. Too much is still unanswered here.”

  “I am fully healed now and able to be more wary.” Sutherland poured three glasses of whisky. As he handed one to Magnus and one to Sorcha, he nodded. “Until the bastard is caught, I shall behave as though this is enemy ground and watch my own back.” With a pointed look at Sorcha, he smiled. “Besides, I willna be going anywhere until after tomorrow night.”

  “What happens tomorrow night?” Magnus asked, his glass halfway to his mouth.

  “Everything,” Sutherland said with more meaning than Sorcha had ever dreamed a single word could carry.

  Chapter Eight

  “Why in the world is he fanning his manparts with his plaid?” Jenny asked. She peeked around the corner again, then turned back to Sorcha. “And where in heaven’s name are his trews? Even with the snow melting, there’s still a bite in the air.” She pointed at the melting sludge of snow the servants had scraped into piles in various parts of the courtyard. “He’ll dip his bollocks and freeze them clean off if he walks through some of those.”

  Sorcha pulled Jenny out of the way and snuck a look around the wall separating the thawing kitchen garden from the alleyway next to the largest stable. Sutherland’s fine taut arse shone as white as the laundress’s boiled linen as he rucked up his kilt and turned into the breeze. She held her breath to keep from laughing as he scooped up a handful of the icy slush and cupped it to his manparts, knowing good and well why he did it. She had seriously considered sitting in one of those frigid piles herself to cool the fiery aching beneath her skirts.

  “I guess ye could say he’s strengthening his resolve.” She blew out a heavy sigh as she turned back to Jenny. “Aderyn told me I must not lie with him until he’s fully healed—and even told me yesterday it needed to be at least seven days from his injury or else our firstborn would be cursed. I’ve managed to hold him off ’til now. Ye know Aderyn is never wrong.”

  “Ye’ve been married nearly a sennight and still haven’t rid yerself of yer maidenhead? Are ye daft?” Jenny darted a look around the wall again. “The poor man must be miserable. Heaven’s own angels, Sorcie, holding his seed that long could make him fearsome ill! Might even kill him!”

  “Just what do ye know about a man holding his seed?” Sorcha frowned at Jenny. While the girl had always been mischievous and fun-loving, she had never been anything less than virtuous—or at least, so Sorcha had always thought.

  With a superior shake of her head, Jenny held up a hand. “Never ye mind what I know. By the by, have ye noticed Garthin and Lady Culane have been unusually quiet since the fire? What do ye reckon those two are plotting now? Think ye they be the ones who caused it?”

  “I dinna trust either of them as far as I could throw them.” Sorcha had watched them both closely since the fire, but neither of the suspicious pair had done anything to reveal a connection to the terrible event nor any of Sutherland’s other strange misfortunes. “I pray their quietness means they’ve given up and will both be leaving now that the passes are supposed to be clear. Aderyn promised spring has truly arrived this time, and Magnus left today for Tor Ruadh to invite the MacCoinnichs to the wedding feast.”

  A muffled crash followed by loud cursing yanked her attention back around the garden wall. She’d recognize that cursing anywhere. Sutherland. She flew around the structure, Jenny following close behind.

  Sutherland crouched low, soaked to the skin, flinging ice, sludge, and debris off his head and shoulders. He glared up at the roofline of the dovecote. “Come down here now, ye cowardly bastard!”

  “What happened?” Sorcha circled him, snatching hold of his clothes and shaking them free of the frozen deluge. “Ye’re bleeding! Bend down here so I can see how badly ye’re hurt.” Good heavens,
they’d never get him healed enough for the marriage bed if such happenings kept befalling him. Shards of ice and splinters of wood from the roof tiles had sliced down across his face. She pulled a square of linen from her sleeve and dabbed at the blood to better examine the wounds. “Hold still.”

  “Nay! I will not hold still.” He gently but firmly set her aside, circling the conical stone building as he watched the narrow walkway surrounding the roof’s edge. “Come down here, I said! Where are ye?”

  “They always call out before they clean off the rooftops,” Jenny said in a hushed tone. “I didna hear a call. Did ye?”

  “Nay,” Sorcha answered just as quietly. And that’s what worried her.

  Cleaning off the rooftops to keep them from collapsing under the heavy melting snows was a commonplace task that had never caused anyone injury. Until now. And from the looks of the pile that had just hit Sutherland, the roof cleaner had taken deadly aim. Luckily, none of the ice nor debris had done any more damage than a few angry scratches. She also wondered why it hadn’t been cleaned days ago when the other rooftops had. Stepping into Sutherland’s path on his second rounding of the dovecote, she pointed up at the walkway where it joined another building. “Did ye see who it was? We’ll order them brought before ye.”

  Still searching the area, Sutherland shook his head. “Nay. A tall figure. Or looked to be tall from this angle. They were hooded in dark clothing.” He swiped at a trickle of blood streaming from a cut at the corner of his eye. “They took care to conceal who they were and also made sure to get my attention before they struck. Something hit the top of my head to make me look up. Then the shite came down on top of me.”

  “Another intentional accident.” The thought of what could’ve resulted from the act stirred her worries about what the unknown enemy might try next. She latched hold of Sutherland’s arm, then turned to Jenny. “Would ye tell Da what took place? And tell Mrs. Breckenridge to order a bath hauled up to my rooms and filled fast as the lads can hurry. I fear he might catch his death with a fever if we dinna get him warmed and all the scrapes cleaned proper. He’s just now recovering from his other injury.”