Rising, she hugged the linen towel around her and slid from the bed. She hurried across the floor to the chest, her bare toes curling up at the chill of stone beneath her feet. Her tunic lay in tatters, leaving her only the one she had been given in Glen Dochart. If she had a loom, she could weave more cloth, and during the winter months there would be plenty of time to sew new garments.
She knelt, unfastened the clasp on the chest, and lifted the heavy lid. Still holding it with one hand, she saw an unfamiliar bundle atop the few personal items she possessed. It was a length of green velvet, and she drew it out.
It was bulky and thick. She lowered the lid and set the bundle atop, then unfolded the edges, her hands trembling as she saw a shimmering patterned silk. It seemed to slither free of the bundle, a glorious emerald shade, rich and sumptuous.
“Sweet Mary,” she murmured, her hands sliding over the elegant stuff, and she lifted it to see that it was a gown sewn in the English fashion. It was simple in style, with a narrow waist and full skirt, the sleeves long and tight, and the oval neckline decorated with glittering gold embroidery. The bundle yielded a pair of soft slippers and small boots, as well as two pair of fine-knit stockings. A soft linen undershift and kirtle were folded beneath the stockings.
Where had he gotten them?
Overwhelmed, she knelt there on the stones so long that her knees began to ache, and she was shivering with chill. It was unexpected, startling, another facet of this man she still knew so little.
“I thought ’twould be more fitting than a pretty bauble or two,” a voice said from the doorway, and she turned.
“Yea, so they are,” she said softly.
Rob remained in the open door, obviously uncomfortable, and she rose, still clutching the green gown. He looked away from her, then back.
“Douglas departs in the morning. He goes to meet the king, who has newly returned from Ireland.”
She tensed, and her eyes must have betrayed her, for he added with a faint smile, “I declined to join them but have sent my regards.”
Relief eased through her, and she nodded, the linen about her shoulders sliding a bit. “When I’m properly garbed, I will come down to share the evening meal.”
She sounded so stilted, so detached, when she wanted to say what was in her heart, the words sometimes springing to her lips and almost out before she caught them back. But it was not the time, not yet.
It was easier, so much easier, not to risk the anguish of loss, but the absence of sweet tenderness would be worse. How did she tell him? How did she say the words that she’d never said to any man, when she wasn’t certain how he felt?
Plain enough that he wanted her in his bed, but there were many men who plied heated caresses without thought for anything but their own pleasure. And yet . . . remarkable that he had cared for her so tenderly, his hands gentle but not intrusive on her when he bathed her as any servant might do. She should ask for the words—
“I’ll await you in the hall, lady,” he said, and backed out the door in a single step, closing oak behind him.
Uncertainty changed to anger when he left, at herself that she was so cowardly. At the moment, she would rather face another raider than ask Glenlyon if he loved her. Daft reluctance . . . but perhaps there was another way to ask.
She wore the emerald patterned silk when she joined them in the hall, the kirtle laced over fine linen, and the dainty slippers on her feet. Beneath the garments, she’d found lengths of ribbon and wound two through the weave of her braid, letting the ends trail free and the rope of hair dangle over her shoulder. There was no need for jewelry, for heavy necklaces or flashing earrings; the gilt thread at neck and sleeves gave off sparkles of light enough.
James Douglas saw her first, and he rose to his feet in a gallant greeting that drew Rob’s attention from the large, beefy man at his side.
“Good even to you, my lady.”
“And to you, Sir James.”
She felt Rob’s eyes on her, saw from the corner of her eye that he had abandoned his companion and had come toward her at once. His hand was warm, swallowing hers.
“You are rested now, my lady.”
His tone was low, intimate, and she felt a flush rise to her cheeks though there was nothing said to warrant it.
“Yea, well rested.”
“There is a place at table beside Simon. He frets that you are unwell.”
She smiled. “When he sees that you have spent good coin on frivolous silk and ribbons, he will be unwell.”
“Yea, it may well see him stretched his length upon the hall floor,” Rob said with a laugh.
“Shall I tell him Sir James bought them?”
He put his hand over the fingers she’d laid on his arm and squeezed. “Not if you like Sir James at all.”
It was a pleasant evening, despite the ruin evident in the hall, with wine and the retelling of the exploits in England. She felt Rob’s glance a time or two when one of the men were less than charitable about their English foes, but nothing could disturb her this evening.
Nor did the evening end when all sought pallets in hall and corners, men bundled in their plaides for sleep. She stepped around slumbering forms, some drunk on wine and snoring open-mouthed and oblivious, Rob at her side as they made their way up the stairs to the first floor.
Privacy was such a rare thing, treasured all the more when it was found, and the gloom and silence in their vacant chamber was welcome indeed.
“Solitude,” he said, closing and barring the door, his remark an echo of her thoughts, “is fleeting.”
“Yea,” she agreed, and moved to tidy up discarded cloths still left upon the floor. The tub was gone, taken to be used elsewhere, no doubt, but no one had come to tidy the chamber. Understandable, in light of the chaos.
“Leave that,” Rob said, coming to her side, “for the morrow.”
She turned into him, the damp cloths forgotten. He smelled faintly of soap, and her head tilted back to look up at his face, so dear above her, shadowed on one side, lit by the fire glowing in the hearth on the other.
“You smell of soap,” she said, and he laughed.
“Not heather, I trust. There would be those who think it strange for a sworn knight to reek of flowers.”
She pressed her face against the front of his tunic. “I have known many men to wear scent.”
“Aye, but I am not among them.” His hand moved to cup the back of her head, gentle and firm. “’Twould be said the Red Devil’s Cub seeks to mask the taint of brimstone.”
She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. “Heather or brimstone, you smell like heaven to me.”
His laughter stirred her hair, warm and reassuring. “Ah lady mine, you ever flatter me.”
“Nay.” Her head tilted back to gaze up at him, at the shadowed angle of his jaw, the tiny white scar etched into his skin, and the smoky eyes that regarded her through the brush of his lashes. Her heart clenched with the sweetness of her love for him, and she whispered, “It is the truth.”
His smile faded slightly, and a gleam she knew well lit his eyes. “Sweet lady, you undo me.”
“As you do me, Robert Campbell of Glenlyon, as you do me.”
Her breath came a little raggedly now as his hand drifted downward from her hair, pressing lightly into the small of her back.
“Loose your hair,” he murmured, tugging at a ribbon. “I would see it free around your face.”
Reaching up, her fingers sought and found the trailing end of ribbon, pulled it free to release the bound plaits in her hair, then combed her fingers through the length until it lay upon her shoulders. He watched her, eyes reflecting silver light.
“You seem as an angel, lovely and unsullied by trials or strife.”
“I am,” she said, “no angel but a woman. A wom
an who longs for your touch, for your love.”
Her heart beat a rapid thunder in her ears. She yearned for words that would vow his love, for the assurance that he had yet to give voice.
“Lady mine,” he said softly, and reached out to draw her close, “I could give you nothing less.”
His head bent, and he kissed her, not with tenderness as she expected, but with a hot, wild urgency that surprised her in its intensity. His fingers curled in her hair as his mouth devoured hers, a plundering kiss that swept away the words still trembling on her lips.
Lightning flashed, seared a path through her body as he drew her hard against him. Moaning against his mouth, her hands splayed on his chest, soft wool and linen beneath her curling fingers when she gripped tightly. His heart beat a heavy rhythm beneath her palm. Hotter and higher, his kiss burned away everything but the need to be with him, to lie beside him in the bed and shut out the world.
Heat shimmered as they found the bed, blindly locked in shared desire, hands swift and certain on laces and linen. His touch on her summoned shivers and fire, and she sighed as his hands slid over the curve of her ribs and down, skimming bare flesh, spreading on her back. They sank into the soft, scented mattress, surrounded by heather and shadow, as if they lay in a field beneath the Scottish sky.
Fitting his body to hers, she felt the length and need in him, the arrant sensuality of his bold intent pressing into the cleft between her thighs. Heat spiraled through her, sharp and insistent, and she slid her hands up to curve behind his neck.
“Rob . . .” His name was a soft sigh on her lips, a wish and a prayer combined. He answered her with a slow, luxurious push that gained him entry, and she gasped at the sweetness of it, the wild, hot need that ignited with each thrust and drag of him inside her.
“Rob . . . please . . .”
Perhaps he answered her; she wasn’t certain. The sound was lost in the haze that enveloped her as his mouth traced a flaming trail from her ear to her cheek, then her lips. He lingered there, tongue teasing them apart to explore in light thrusts that mimicked the movements of his body. Then he was moving lower, his mouth finding and surrounding the tight, aching peak of her breast as she cried out softly and arched into him. Sweet ecstasy, a fusion of fire and need as he drew her into his mouth, his teeth a gentle nip that sent shudders spiraling into her belly.
She wrapped her arms around him, fingers sliding over the slick muscles of his arms, up and down, a fretful caress that signaled her release. It hovered, waiting, while he stroked inside her, inhaled the bud of her breast and teased her other nipple with clever fingers, until finally it exploded like wildfires in the night, all-encompassing and endless, wave after wave a shuddering bliss that took her beyond even her most precious dreams.
Drowning with it, sinking into the heated sea of joy and release, she knew that if all the rest of her nights were as wonderful, she would be content whether or not she ever heard the words he had yet to say.
It was, she thought, enough that he gave proof of how he felt, even without the words.
SUMMER DAYS HAD dwindled into cooler nights with the promise of winter on the wind’s breath. Days were filled with preparations, with the rebuilding of the square keep and the crofter’s huts that had been destroyed. A surge of urgency filled him, and Rob relentlessly goaded workers into a faster pace. Argyll would send more men. He had not gained what he sought and would not relent until it was in hand.
There was a sense of purpose at hand now, and the king had marshaled fresh troops and marched into Northumberland at their head. Victory hovered, a threat to men like Argyll, who waited to sway loyalty to the winning side. To choose in error would be fatal, to delay too long just as deadly. King Robert Bruce dealt harshly with traitors.
It was nearly time.
Not again would he leave Judith unprotected, for when he left Glenlyon to execute Argyll’s destruction, he could not be distracted by worries for her safety. He hadn’t told her yet of his plans, and when he did, he would not tell her all. It would only generate fresh fears that he could not ease.
Christ, but there were no words to tell her how he felt, and it would be unkind to make promises he may not be able to keep. If Argyll succeeded in his goal, she would be in danger unless he made provisions. A betrayal in its way that she may not understand. How did he tell her? How did he warn her that his life would be forfeit if he failed, but to take no action would be certain death? Argyll would not halt until he was dead or triumphant.
And now he had only to wait for the right moment, and it was soon at hand. Bruce had divided his forces, with one surrounding Norham Castle and the other installed at Alnwick, passing the time until it could be starved into submission by conducting formal tournaments outside its walls—a clear indication of confidence in success.
Word traveled like wildfire through the shires and over lochs and burns that the triumph of the Scots was nearly complete. Robert Bruce left his troops to make a leisurely progress through the countryside, hawking and hunting as he went. The wily king let it be known that he intended to parcel out the northern counties of England to his loyal followers upon their fall into his hands.
It sent a shock wave of terror and anger through the English and wild elation through Scots hearts.
Yea, the time was almost upon him for retribution, and Rob readied his tower keep to withstand his absence. He spoke to Simon of his intentions.
Silence followed, then Simon asked, “And of the lady? If you do not return—” He halted, unwilling to finish the sentence, but Rob completed it for him.
“Should I not return, we are handfasted, a legality that should see her protected from law but not Argyll. You are charged with her return to Wakefield. Send word to Sir Payton of Langdon below the River Wear. He can meet you at the border and take her into his custody.”
“The lady is strong-willed. She may not go.”
It was said with a sighing conviction, and Rob grinned. “Aye, she is that, but I have faith in your ability to endure much abuse.”
“Aye, I have endured yours for many a year.”
“So you have, faithful comrade, so you have.” He put a hand on the broad shoulder. “Call to arms all of your kin who will answer and know that Dugald MacNeish is sworn to my standard should he be needed.”
Simon’s snort signaled his low opinion of the De’il’s Dugald MacNeish. “There would be so much fighting between the MacNeishes and MacGregors that any raiders would be lost in the fray.”
“Probably,” Rob agreed, “but the lady would be safe.”
“When do you leave?”
“A sennight, no more.”
Seven days or less to be with Judith, to absorb all of her he could before he left to an uncertain fate. He intended to fill them with as much of her as he could.
He found her in the kitchens, wearing the saffron léine that had been a gift from the MacNeish, the hem tucked into her belt to lend freedom for her tasks. A silver ring of keys dangled from the same belt, a mark of her authority and stewardship of household duties. Despite the depredations of the raiders, the larders bore evidence of her husbandry, and the Martinmas rents were not yet due. With Simon and Judith as such able stewards, he would never need for food or coin, save complete disaster.
A savory dish simmered in a huge cauldron slung over the fire, and he caught the pleasant scent of bread baking in the ovens.
“Bannocks,” she said when he asked, and turned to him with a scolding smile. “And the stew you’re tasting. Put down the ladle, or you’ll not get your share later.”
He grinned, the taste of simmering stew hot and tasty on his mouth. “Come, my goodwife, and while away a few hours with me.”
“Idle hands, good sir?” Her brow rose. “There is much yet to do, I fear. Butter and cheeses to be stored, and pots of honey to be properly laid by—”
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br /> “They will wait.” He took her hand, ignored her protest that she could not leave Morag all alone to instruct the village lasses in selection of spices, and pulled her with him to the stables.
Her reservations faded away when they rode out of the gates at last, and she’d pulled up the hood of her léine to cover her hair against the brisk wind. The autumn season lay just ahead, evidenced in the cooler days and chill nights. Soon would be the harvest of the fields, time for farmers to lay their bonnets on the ground and the reapers to toast the harvest. If possible, he would be back for the kirn. It would be a most welcome feast this year, in light of all that had been lost to the raiders.
It was a fine day, the sky a bright blue bowl overhead and the sun warm upon their backs. Here and there, scorch marks lent evidence of the raiders, but new turf walls and cottages replaced the burned ruins. A flat plain stretched eastward, marked with huge standing stones.
“’Tis said the ancients put them there,” he told her when they paused in the shadows of towering boulders like granite trees, “but it’s not known for what purpose. There are hollows carved in some.”
Dismounting, Judith let her horse graze on high grass and moved to drag her fingers over the ancient stones. “Old tales say the stones can speak,” she murmured. “What do you think they would say to us?”
He smiled at her whimsy. His horse shifted beneath him, tossed a restive head, and he loosened his grip on the reins to allow the beast to graze.
“What do you think they would say?” he replied when it seemed she expected an answer, and she looked up at him, a hand curved over her eyes to shade them from the sun.
“Perhaps they would warn us that life can change too quickly, and we should cherish each hour we have.”
His smile faded. The wind blew tall grass in a rustling dance around them, as if fairies whispered between the stalks. Beyond the tree-choked humps of hill and crag lay the glittering waters of Loch Tay. She knew. Perhaps she did not know when or why, but she knew he was leaving soon.
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