by Alisa Adams
Tristan chased after her, his longer strides catching her before she could look over the edge. He knew the woman was gone. He had seen some of the villagers already look over, only to turn away with horrified, grief-stricken looks on their faces. He grabbed Cenna around the waist to stop her from what he was sure was a grisly sight.
Cenna spun in his arms, pushing at him.
“What are ye doing Tristan?” she said, pushing at him as a tear escaped and ran down her face. “I must try to save her! She may be clinging to the cliff!”
Tristan held on tightly, pulling her to him. “No,” he said hoarsely to her, his throat tight as he tried to get the word out. “She is gone, Cenna.”
“No! I will help her, I will!” Cenna said as she twisted and turned within his arms.
“Ye cannae sweetling,” he said roughly.
Cenna managed to twist out of his arms but had only taken one step when she realized that she faced a wall of the villagers. They looked at her somberly, their faces full of grief.
“She is dead me lady,” one of the men said woefully.
Cenna stopped.
She stared from face to mournful face.
“No,” she whispered brokenly. “No…” She turned away from them, stricken, her eyes brimming with tears as she looked at Tristan. “Oh Tristan…” she said on a soft sob, “we were too late…”
“Hush sweetling,” he said as he reached her in one stride, pulling her against his chest once again. He wrapped his arms tightly around her and laid his chin on her wild curls.
“Ye saved the rest of us me lady…” the elderly woman said in a low voice, for the little girl had fallen into an exhausted sleep in her arms.
Tristan nodded to the elderly woman and turned with Cenna in his arms to walk her away.
His chest felt tight.
He held Cenna as tightly as she would let him.
He had never seen the likes of these sisters.
Of this woman in particular.
It was no longer about waiting for her to ask him to kiss her.
Plans change.
He was keeping her.
4
Cenna’s hand was burned.
Tristan saw it and frowned angrily, holding her hand to look closely at the burn.
“I am fine Tristan, dinnae make a fuss if ye please!” she said urgently to him, as she saw her two sisters and the aunts coming.
“But sweetling—”
“And dinnae call me that!” She was frantically trying to brush her tears away.
“Ye have a right to cry, Cenna,” he said quietly.
“I am not crying! I never cry. Flori cries. Ina cries at anything… a pretty flower! But I dinnae cry!”
“Yes Cenna. They are quite the crybabies. But your hand does need to be seen, too,” he said as firmly and gently as possible.
“My hand?” She finally took a breath and looked down at her hand. It was bright red, and starting to blister. It was her sword hand. She had been trying to keep the men with torches back from the people, from herself and the little girl.
It hurt horribly all of a sudden.
She swallowed hard.
And promptly fainted.
* * *
Cenna awoke to Tristan, her sisters, and the two aunts leaning over her. Flori was putting a soothing cream on her hand and Ina was ready with a bandage. The aunts were fussing over her burned skirt.
Tristan’s face looked mad as thunder. He was barking orders at everyone.
“Flori!” he said curtly, “ye are hurting her, careful woman! Aunts, are her legs burned through her skirts? Och! I should have let Bluebell crush that mon’s skull!” he groaned. “Ina, gently! Wrap her hand gently! Cannae ye see her eyes wincing in pain?” he said, as if it was his hand that was hurting so badly.
“Tristan,” Cenna said in a hoarse murmur, “I am wincing from your loud voice.” She tried to laugh but it came out as hoarse as her voice. She must have been screaming so loudly at the vile soldiers burning the villagers out that it made her throat hurt.
“Oh dear Cenna,” Flori admonished her softly, “yer voice is gone, the little wee girl about choked ye I think.”
Cenna stared up at her sister in confusion. She reached up to her throat and touched the skin lightly with her good hand. Tristan grabbed her hand and held it.
“Dinnae, mo chridhe.” Tristan’s voice dropped deeper as he whispered to her. “Tis bruised.”
“Dinnae tell me I fainted? I niver faint!” she said with a groan.
“Och then,” Ina said, “ye dinnae faint if ye dinnae want to know it, but no one can blame ye!”
“Ow! Me hand!” Cenna let out an indignant howl as Ina was wrapping her hand.
“Ina!” Tristan said instantly. “I told ye not to hurt her, I cannae bare it to see her cry again.”
Cenna said in a very unladylike voice, “I dinnae faint, I...I fell, and I dinnae cry!”
“Ye did—” Tristan started to say.
At the same time her sisters exclaimed, “Cenna niver cries!”
The two aunts tsked at them as the sisters began arguing over who cries (Flori) and who does not cry (Cenna) and who cries the most (Ina)—with Cenna looking at Tristan with an I told you so look on her face.
“Her ankle is a wee bit burned too,” Aunt Hexy said. “Give me some of that salve, Flori dear.”
“What?” Cenna exclaimed. “Och me beautiful skirt is ruined! Those skivers!” she cried.
“Her ankle!” Tristan was outraged as he reached for her skirt to look at her ankle.
“Tristan!” Flori said curtly as she smacked his hand away.
“Dinnae touch her ankle!” Ina said resolutely as she tsked at him and slapped his hand.
The sisters scolded him some more as Aunt Hexy and Aunt Burnie both smacked his hand as well, for good measure, even though he had withdrawn it.
“Fer shame! You dinnae touch a woman’s ankle, nephew!” Aunt Burnie said with a frown on her wrinkled thin lips. The short crinkled hairs on her head quivered as she spoke.
Cenna looked at him with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “Aye, ye arnae allowed to have even a wee little peep of me ankle. I wouldnae want ye overcome with passion noo would I?” she said in a grimacing attempt at a giggle. “Not in me poor injured state. Does yer hand hurt after all that smacking?” she asked with a wink and a grin.
Tristan looked at her with his eyebrow raised and a crooked grin on his face. “I dinnae need to see yer ankle to be overcome by ye, Cenna,” he said in a deep soft whisper. He looked at her a moment, saw her pupils flare in her beautiful green, almost exotic eyes, her heart rate quicken there in the soft, creamy skin of her neck that he so wanted to kiss. He looked at her lush lips. For a heartbeat. And another. Then he looked at her eyes with a small smile, as he got up and walked away.
* * *
Tristan, Cenna, her two sisters, the aunts, and the Black Watch stayed with the villagers that night. Cenna was quick to wash her face, shushing Tristan about her crying. She did not want her sisters to know that she really had been crying.
Having the help of the men from the Black Watch Army to put the fires out was a big help to the people of the village and they made short work of the damage cleanup. But so many of the crofters’ homes were burned. Their fields were badly damaged, too.
Still, the villagers managed to gather food and game and a large meal was prepared in the center of the village. No one would let Cenna do any work. She was made to sit beside Tristan and was brought food and more salve for her burned hand and ankle. She was handed a wooden cup of the most delightful drink and she was encouraged to drink it up. She didn’t notice that they kept refilling her cup.
Tristan noticed, though. Macallan whiskey was some of the best in the Highlands. And his fierce warrior was enjoying it a bit too much.
“How is yer hand mo chridhe?” he asked her, as he put his hand out to take her cup from the villager that had just refilled it.
Cenna p
outed as Tristan took her cup. She had been reaching for it when Tristan had intercepted the cup. “I wanted that, Tristan,” she said with a frown.
“Ye have had more than enough.” He pulled her to her feet. ”I am putting ye to bed. Ye need to sleep the drink off. I am thinking ye cannae feel yer hand now can ye? Any pain?” he asked with a teasing grin, as he led her to the edge of the village where they had made camp for the night.
Cenna smiled a huge smile back at him, and shook her head wildly, her hair flying in all directions as she let him lead her through camp.
“None a’tall,” she giggled. She studied him, still grinning. “Has anyone ever told ye that ye are far too pretty?” she said.
Tristan frowned hard. “No one has dared say that to me face.”
Cenna looked down at her hand, then raised her skirt to look at her ankle, which had an angry red burn. “At least I will have scars. All warriors have scars, dinnae ye know?”
Tristan stopped at her blankets that had been placed at the edge of the village in a copse of trees for shelter.
“Who says I dinnae have scars?” he said as his voice dropped another octave in the quietness of the trees. They had left the firelight of the village and now had only the stars and moon to see by.
“I see no scars on ye. Not a one.” She poked her finger in his chest. “In fact, ye are far too perfect,” she said, poking her finger in his chest again.
Tristan grabbed her finger and held it. He held it as she ran her finger down the front slit of his loose linen shirt, moving the opening over to the right, where the side of his chest could be seen. Then she moved it to the left.
Cenna was caught by the skin she could see in the opening of his loose shirt. The soft starlight and moon made it glow. It was enough light to see the hint of uneven lines on his chest. She pulled her finger out of his grasp and yanked on the ties holding the front slit of the shirt loosely together. Without thinking, she roughly pulled his shirt out of his kilt and quickly lifted it over his head. Then she froze.
Cenna could not stifle a gasp as she looked at the myriad of light lines she saw transecting his chest, his abdomen, his sides. Her fingers lightly grazed each one. She looked up at him with a question in her eyes.
“I had to protect me pretty face,” Tristan said hoarsely as he swallowed. Her fingers touching him so lightly, so gently, so innocently, undid him. The look in her eyes now was not concern for him and these scars, though at first he had seen that. No, now her eyes were full of wonder as she let both hands roam freely and greedily over his chest. Her lips had fallen open ever so slightly as her eyes followed her hands, her fingertips. He watched as her breasts heaved softly under her blouse with each breath she took.
“Cenna,” he said huskily, “ye have had too much of the Macallan’s whiskey, mo chridhe,” he said in barely a whisper.
“Nay,” she said in a hushed voice back to him. She slowly looked up to his beautiful face. “I am sorry. I owe ye an apology. Though ye are too beautiful by far, I had no idea. No idea of this. What ye must have gone through…” she said reverently. Her finger followed one scar in particular that went below the waistline of his kilt.
Tristan quickly grabbed her fingers before she was tempted to follow the scar further below his waist.
“Tis only battle scars,” he said tightly, trying not to swallow. The girl was an innocent but she was sending him over the edge with just her touch.
“Nay, there is no tis only aboot these.” She took a breath. “So many,” she whispered with a throaty edge to her voice, “so many, Tristan.” She looked up at him and cupped his cheek with her bandaged hand. Her other hand rested on his chest, her fingers flexing on the warm skin under her fingers.
“Cenna…” Tristan whispered, his voice like dark velvet. He leaned down, his mouth just a breath from hers as he held her lovely face in both his hands. “I will die if I dinnae kiss ye now. Please tell me ye willnae stick a dirk into me heart if I do?” Without waiting for an answer, he softly brushed his lips back and forth across hers, his breath mingling with hers. His lips slightly open, just slightly, the better to taste her, to breathe her in, to let the tip of his tongue gently run along the seam between her luscious lips. “Ask me to kiss you,” he breathed out.
Cenna took a trembling breath, tipping her face up in his big, rough hands. “Didnae ye just kiss me?” she managed to say. Her voice was filled with longing and a craving for more.
“Nay, I havenae kissed ye, really kissed ye, yet,” he murmured.
“Please Tristan,” she pleaded. She pulled at him impatiently.
“Say it,” he mouthed the words against her lips, teasing her, tantalizing her with the velvet sound of his voice and the darker, sensuous feel of his lips as they barely touched hers.
“Kiss me.” Her voice was a low command filled with need. For him.
“Open for me,” he said hoarsely. His body was racked with tension and desire for this innocent, fierce woman.
Cenna opened her lips...just a bit.
She opened her eyes...just a bit as well; ever so slightly, looking at this big, beautiful man from beneath her eyelashes.
Her heartbeat sped up as she watched his starlit eyes flutter closed as he leaned down to her mouth. She gasped when she felt his lips fully close over hers, felt his rough but somehow velvety tongue stroke her own. Gasped again when he withdrew and took her top lip between his lips, then gave the same attention to her bottom lip. He nuzzled her lips open again, whispering her name.
Cenna was stunned. Stunned at the heady, sensual taste of him. She had no idea that the taste of Tristan would make her crave more. She was stunned at the delicious feel of his lips and tongue against her own. She was spinning with all her senses, as if a bright, hot sun was shining on her. She could smell the wondrous male scent of him, taste his breath, feel his chest heaving under her hands, against her own breasts. She reached up and clung to his hair, crushing her breasts against his chest, feeling the warmth of his chest straight through her blouse to her own breasts. She moaned softly at the feel, just as he groaned and pulled her closer, bending her back over his arm that he had wrapped tightly around her waist, as he thrust his hand into her hair and cupped the back of her head. He tipped his head to get a deeper entry into her mouth with his tongue as he thrust and withdrew. Their breaths began to heave as they surged against one another, tasting and clinging with their mouths and lips. Their tongues twining and dancing together. Their mouths slanting first one way to taste, then another. Frantically, never getting enough. More…they wanted more as they pulled themselves tighter to the other as Tristan moaned and Cenna answered with soft pants. Neither could get enough of the other.
At the sound of a snapping twig and the sound of low voices, they froze. Tristan quickly pulled Cenna behind a tree. He had his hands wrapped around her waist, with her back to his front. Her lovely buttocks nestled at the jointure of his thighs, pressing him back into the rough bark of the tree behind him. He leaned his head carefully to the side to see who was coming.
It was Loughlin and Flori. Flori was giggling softly and Loughlin’s deep voice was a soft murmur in the darkness. Loughlin gently put Flori down, holding her in front of him. He leaned down as Flori stood up on her tiptoes and the two exchanged a slow, lingering kiss.
Cenna gasped and moved in Tristan’s arms, but Tristan held her firmly, putting a finger to her mouth to keep her quiet. They watched as the couple’s embrace ended and Flori and Loughlin moved away, their quiet voices fading into the darkness.
Cenna pushed out of Tristan’s arms. “I cannae believe it! Flori!” she whispered loudly.
“I believe it,” Tristan said with a shrug. “Loughlin has been in love with yer sister from the moment he saw her.”
“Och, tis not possible. He doesnae even know her!” she said with disgust and some amount of worry in her voice, as she watched the two disappearing out of sight.
Tristan studied her. Not saying a word.
“She has been through too much. She is not ready to love, Tristan.”
“Are ye talking about yer sister or yerself?” he said softly.
Cenna spun around and looked at him.
“Good night Cenna, sleep sweet mo chridhe,” he said as he turned and walked away.
5
Morning seemed to come too quickly. The sisters all had terrible headaches. None had an aching head as bad as the two aunts, though. They had drank their fair share of the Macallan whiskey and were paying for it that morning.
Cenna’s head was spinning with her memories of yesterday as she readied for the day. Of Tristan on Bluebell holding off those soldiers. Of his tender care of her burned hand. Of his scarred chest.
Of his wonderful kisses.
His kisses!
Cenna looked around the camp for Tristan and saw him saddling their horses, Bluebell and Whins.
She let fly one of her dirks. It landed with a hard thwack, impaled in the dirt at his feet.
Tristan stopped what he was doing at that sound and looked up to the sky with a smile. He did not need to look down to see what it was. Cenna was awake.
And angry.
He sighed, knowing she was not done. She had more dirks. Many more.
Cenna strode purposefully in his direction. How dare he? She pulled back her arm to slap him across the face but he caught her wrist, holding it lightly but firmly. She yanked her wrist out of his grasp, glaring at him. Her breasts heaving as she stared at him and he, the gallus mon, stared right back, waiting. That crooked grin on his delectable lips as his beautiful eyes seemed to lick her face hungrily with his glance. She narrowed her eyes at him. She wouldn’t be lulled by his pretty face.
“What do ye think ye are doing?” she said loudly to him, putting her hands on both hips.
“Well and good morning to ye too,” he said with a grin. “What does it look like? I am saddling the horses. I thought it may hurt yer hand to do it.”