Sue-Ellen Welfonder - [MacLean 01]

by Knight in My Bed

  For the space of a heartbeat, Donall considered tossing both the drying cloth and the blanket into the sea, but his sheer will to persevere, and escape, vanquished any such foolhardy behavior.

  Standing as straight as his numbed and aching body would allow, he ground the drying linen into his eyes until most of the stinging subsided. Then he opened them and recognized his unlikely savior.

  He was none other than the stone-faced blackguard who’d so arrogantly placed himself in front of the air slit on Donall’s first day of captivity. The youngest of the gray-beards, the one Isolde called Lorne.

  The man stood straight and proud, every bit as arrogant as before, but something else lurked in the backs of his eyes.

  Something indefinable.

  “You,” Donall said, naught else.

  The graybeard gave him a curt nod. “I am Lorne,” he said, then glanced at Rory and Niels. “Fetch him water.

  “Fresh water,” he added as Rory stalked away.

  While the pock-faced oaf dipped a cup into a wooden bucket set on the ground near the entrance to the mural passage, Lorne glanced at Donall’s hands.

  They shook.

  Donall pressed his lips together and tried to still the shaking, but his hands were too numb from the chill, too weak from supporting his body weight for countless hours as he’d dangled from the ceiling.

  “Help him.” Lorne gave Rory a sharp look when he returned with the water cup.

  Rory’s face suffused with indignation, but he did as the elder bade him, and brought the cup to Donall’s lips so he could drink.

  The water, cool and sweet, flowed down Donall’s throat, the most welcome libation he’d e’er imbibed. But the moment Rory took away the cup, he returned his attention to the graybeard. “To what honor do I owe your clemency?” he asked, cringing inwardly at the rasp in his voice.

  Lorne’s hard-set features didn’t soften a whit. Nor did his stance. His broad shoulders thrown back, he held his hands clasped behind him and peered unblinking at Donall. The inscrutable glimmer still flickering in his eyes gave the only indication something had sparked his unusual show of consideration.

  “Make no mistake, MacLean,” he said, his deep voice imposing enough to be heard above the storm and the sea. “I yet hold you responsible for our lady Lileas’s death, and you shall surely forfeit your life for the loss of hers, but I am a man of honor.”

  Donall lifted a brow. He wouldn’t embarrass himself again by speaking with a voice that sounded more like a croaking frog than a man.

  “And as such,” Lorne continued, “I respect your valor. As a warrior, the warrior I once was.” He drew a breath. “As a man, I revile you for your part in an innocent’s murder, but my honor as an old knight myself will not allow me to see your strength of will and your astonishing endurance go unheeded.”

  Donall stared at him, too flummoxed to have commented even if his throat wasn’t parched and hoarse.

  After inclining his head in a nod one could almost deem respectful, Lorne turned to the two poltroons. “Take him to his friend’s cell.”

  Rory’s jaw dropped.

  Niels pressed his lips into a tight seam and stared up at the dripping ceiling.

  “But, sir,” Rory protested. “The counc—”

  “I will speak with the council,” Lorne said. “See he receives a warm bath, his own garb, and decent victuals. Enough for himself and the MacFie.”

  “Holy alleluia,” the giant swore, and raked a big hand through the wet tangle of his red hair.

  Rory’s face turned deep purple. “I would rather scratch the devil’s backside.”

  Having already dismissed them, the graybeard had been heading toward the entrance to the intra-mural passage, but he broke stride, turning slowly to face Rory and Niels.

  The torchlight shining on his stern-set face revealed a trace of the commanding presence he must’ve been on the field of battle. “Do as you’ve been told,” he said, and Donall knew instinctively that neither Rory nor the giant would defy him.

  As if he knew it, too, Lorne glanced once more at Donall. “Do not give me cause to regret my lenience,” he said.

  And then he was gone.

  Swallowed up by the orange-glowing mouth of the ruined broch’s intra-mural passage.

  Leaving Donall alone with the fair maid’s volatile guardsmen.

  Alone with them and his utter astonishment.

  Chapter Eleven

  BY THE ROOD, Donall!” Gavin MacFie scrambled to his feet and came as far forward as his ankle chain would allow. “Saints be praised!” he cried, pulling Donall into a rough, comradely embrace.

  “I thought you were dead. They wouldn’t give me word of you.” He released Donall, a broad smile lighting his beard-stubbled face.

  Donall returned his friend’s smile with a grin of his own. “There are varlets a-plenty here who’d savor naught more than to see me swing from a gibbet,” he said, casting a glance at the two scowling churls affixing his chain to a heavy iron ring on the wall of Gavin’s cell.

  “But,” he vowed with as much purposeful joviality as his hoarse voice would allow, “I refuse to oblige them.”

  “Pompous bastard,” Rory snarled under his breath and jerked on the chain, testing the iron ring’s hold. Apparently satisfied, he strode to the door. “Were it not for our misguided ladyship, I’d smash my fist into your jeering mouth until you spit out every last one o’ your teeth.”

  “Cool your temper,” the giant admonished him, stepping aside to admit a stream of wide-eyed kitchen lads, each carrying a bundle of some sort in their scrawny arms. “Summer Solstice is fast upon us. Soon the crows will be picking his bones clean.”

  “Oh, aye?” Gavin balled his hands to fists. “Give me my blade and we’ll see whose carcass ends as carrion fodder.”

  Donall leaned against the rough-masoned wall and feigned a look of detachment. Lifting his hand, he pretended to examine his knuckles. “You ken what they say, Gavin. A dog who barks overmuch does so because he cannot bite.”

  Gavin tossed back his shaggy reddish-brown hair and laughed. To Donall’s amazement, even the giant’s lips twitched a bit before he caught himself. Rory sputtered, his eyes blazing with such fury it wouldn’t have surprised Donall to see steam shoot from his ears.

  “Say your prayers, you whoreson knave,” Rory seethed, whipping out his dirk. He took one menacing step forward before the aged knight, Donall’s unlikely champion, entered the cell, his thick brows drawn together in a near solid line.

  “Becalm yourself, lest I am tempted to have you muck out the cesspit,” he said to Rory. Grim-faced, he took up a position by the door, hands propped against his hips, his still-muscular legs planted apart.

  He slanted a pointed glance at the double-edged dirk in Rory’s hand. “Sheathe it.”

  “Ram it down his gullet is what I’d like to do,” Rory groused. With a last, outraged glower at Donall and Gavin, he jammed his blade into the leather holder at his belt, and stomped out the door.

  “See he cools his blood,” Lorne said to the giant, then inclined his leonine head toward the door in a clear gesture for Niels, too, to exit the cell.

  Niels obliged him, ducking beneath the doorway’s low lintel to disappear into the dimness of the passage beyond. The kitchen lads scurried after him, clearly relieved to make a hasty retreat.

  The moment their collective footfalls faded, Donall let himself sag a bit more heavily against the cold stone wall. If the stony-faced graybeard didn’t soon hie himself away as well, he might not be able to maintain the pretense of invincibility much longer.

  He glanced at the pallet the kitchen lads had hurriedly assembled for him. Though fashioned of naught finer than a coarse linen sack stuffed with straw and dried bracken, topped with a worn-looking blanket, its dubious comforts beckoned as his own noble four-poster at Baldoon had ne’er done.

  Saints, but he was weary.

  Scowling as darkly as he could—to hide his pain—he exp
elled a deep, hopefully not so glaringly ragged breath. By God’s good grace, his hands no longer trembled, but as if some vicious demon of rascality sought to test his limits, the instant his hands had ceased shaking, his fool knees had gone weak on him.

  Wobbly.

  They knocked and shook with a fervor he feared would soon make more clatter than the storm raging outside the cell’s wee excuse for a window.

  Sure enough, Lorne’s gaze flicked briefly to Donall’s knees. His heavy-browed eyes widened imperceptibly, but naught else signaled he’d noticed aught amiss.

  He simply gave Donall a curt nod. “Victuals should arrive anon, and later a bath.” Gesturing to the cloth bundles lined against the far wall, he added, “Your clothes. Everything is there. Untouched, save your weapons. I can do naught else for you.”

  “You can let us—” Gavin halted in midsentence at Donall’s warning glance.

  Ignoring Gavin’s puzzlement, Donall returned the gray-beard’s nod. “ ’Tis enough, and appreciated,” he said, astounded by his own words. Amazed his lips had held back the snide rebuff dancing on the tip of his own tongue, and replaced them with pure frippery.

  Grudgingly spoken, but were he wholly honest, not without respect. And in keeping with the odd rules of chivalry that existed among those who’d once knelt to take the coveted blow of honor. Enemies or nay.

  “Then, sirs, I bid you a good night.” He acknowledged their knightly bond with a stiff bow, then took his leave.

  Gavin blew out his breath on a gusty sigh. “Who the devil was that?”

  “A friend.” The answer came from someplace so deep inside Donall even he couldn’t fathom its reasoning. “Do not ask me why, but I believe he is a friend.”

  “But not one well disposed enough to free us?” Gavin sank back onto his pallet.

  “I rather think not,” Donall said honestly, and sought out his own resting place.

  “And who is the ‘misguided ladyship’ the pock-faced cur referred to?” Gavin wanted to know. “The fetching MacInnes chieftain perchance?”

  Donall slanted a sideways glance at his friend. As he’d suspected, an odd glimmer of amusement shone in Gavin’s hazel eyes.

  A look Donall knew well. And dreaded.

  Or would if the MacFie’s glib tongue and sunny charm of manner had not oft taken the sting out of many an awkward situation.

  The man was a veritable font of good cheer.

  A loyal friend and skilled warrior, oddly blessed with more uncanny insight than the most far-seeing henwife.

  At times.

  And Donall sorely hoped this was not one of them.

  In case it was, he busied himself . . . a method sometimes successful in staving off Gavin’s launches into uninvited philosophical discourses. Pretending great care, Donall flicked out the woolen blanket Lorne had provided, and smoothed its scratchy warmth over his outstretched legs.

  Gavin cleared his throat.

  Loudly.

  Grimacing, Donall steeled himself for the good-natured jab he knew was about to come his way.

  “The incessant plucking of your fingers on that moth-eaten rag gives you away, my friend.” Gavin began tapping his chin with steepled fingers. “So she is the lady Isolde.”

  “What do you know of her?” Donall shot back before he could cloak his words with a cool layer of aloofness.

  Warming to his topic, Gavin stretched his arms and deftly cracked his knuckles. “Some claim a fairer maid ne’er graced these isles.”

  Donall leaned his head against the wall. “She is passable.”

  “You’ve seen her?” Gavin sat forward, keen interest sparking in his eyes. “Faith, but you are e’er a fortunate buffoon,” he said, but cheerily, wholly without malice. “I’ve had naught to leer at but these miserable walls.”

  “I haven’t been leering,” Donall snapped, inexplicably annoyed by Gavin’s word choice.

  “Ahhhh . . .” The corners of Gavin’s mouth tilted in a crooked smile. “So that is the way of it.”

  “The ‘way’ of it is far outwith the bounds of anything even one possessed of your rife imagination could dream up.” Donall pinched the bridge of his nose. “You would not believe me if I told you.”

  “Compel me to try.” Gavin rested his arms on his up-drawn knees.

  “Pray desist, Gavin. ’Tis woefully exhausted I am, and would but sleep.” Donall closed his eyes. “You’ll soon learn the nature of my involvement with the lady.”

  “Sleep?” Gavin leaned sideways and poked his fingers into Donall’s ribs. “Don’t dare even think to do so after making such a statement. What manner of involvement are you enjoying with her?”

  Donall’s eyes snapped open. “By the devil’s arse, Mac-Fie, do I look as if I’ve been enjoying myself?”

  Gavin rubbed his bristly chin. “Wet and disgruntled-looking as you are, I’d say you were enjoying yourself. Mayhap trysting with her in the sea?” His voice hummed with merriment. “And now you are vexed because the storm broke, thus wresting you apart?”

  “Would that I hadn’t asked you to tender an opinion.” Shutting his eyes again, Donall sought the sweet oblivion of sleep.

  The saints knew he needed the rest.

  But Gavin’s lopsided grin and good cheer, despite the graveness of their plight, crept insidiously beneath his closed lashes, stealing Donall’s sleep, and his ire.

  Reminding him why he loved the MacFie as if they truly were brothers, and not merely fostered ones.

  Cracking his eyes a slit, he slanted a sidelong glance at the grinning lout. “Saints, ’tis glad I am to see you,” he said, and dragged a hand through his hair.

  Gavin’s smile flashed even brighter. Leaning across the space between their pallets, he gave Donall a friendly whack on the shoulder. “And I you.”

  “Owww . . .” Donall winced.

  “God’s teeth!” Gavin’s face paled. “What have they done to you?”

  “All manner of villainies,” Donall sighed, struggling to keep his eyelids from drifting shut.

  Villainies, and a bounty of such exquisite tortures I can think of scarce else.

  Gavin fell back against the wall. He dragged a hand down his face and blew out a long breath. “My God, but I am sorry,” he said. “Jesting about wenches and such frivolity. I but meant to cheer you.”

  “And you did . . . do.” Donall gently rubbed his shoulder as he spoke. “Already, my heart is lighter.”

  “Do you wish to speak of it?”

  “Mayhap later.” Pushing those lush charms from his mind as best he could, Donall filled his lungs with the invigorating scent of rain and salt spray.

  But even the brisk storm-washed air streaming through the cell’s small, squarish window couldn’t fully cleanse her from his thoughts.

  “When later?”

  “Perhaps after they’ve brought the supper and bath they’ve promised,” Donall said, readjusting the woolen plaid over his legs. “But be warned, you will think I’ve taken up the bardic arts and am spouting the most outrageous tale when you hear what I’ve been about.”

  “Where have they been keeping you?” Gavin prodded, his all-seeing gaze, sharp and keen, flitted from Donall’s plaid-covered legs to his still-dripping hair. “Do not tell me they’ve taken their twisted pursuit for revenge so far they’ve kept you bound on a rock in the sea?”

  Donall cocked a brow at his friend. “ ’Twas nigh as debauched,” he confirmed. Seeing no purpose in evasion, he expelled a long sigh, then described the old broch’s sea dungeon and how he’d spent his days suspended by a chain from its dripping ceiling.

  “By all the saints and prophets!” Gavin’s light green eyes widened.

  Donall gave a bark of mirthless humor. “I vow such venerable worthies deserted this end of Doon centuries ago, my friend.”

  Glancing around the tiny, stone-walled cell, he added, “ ’Tis glad I am they’ve rendered you a less odious form of hospitality. No slime-coated walls, nor slithering creatures breeding i
n fouled floor rushes.”

  “Upon my word, they’ve gone too far—”

  “Aye, too far indeed,” Donall agreed, his sufferings in the wretched confines of his first cell, and even in the sea dungeon, farther from his mind than the splendor of the late Bruce’s court and all the fine and willing wenches he’d bedded there.

  Setting his mouth into a grim line, he fell silent and fixed his gaze on the dancing flames of the resin torch Lorne had thrust into an iron bracket near the door.

  The torchlight gave off a soft, buttery glow. A pool of comfort amidst the deep shadows. A warm contrast to the cold silver light bursting into the cell with each new crack of thunder.

  A bright golden flame in a sea of darkness.

  The same burnished gold as the wench’s braids.

  The same leaping fire he knew coursed through her veins.

  Unbridled passion she didn’t even know she possessed.

  Until he showed her.

  Donall started, then shot a quick glance at Gavin. Saints, he must’ve drifted to sleep . . . he didn’t know whether he’d muttered those words, or if they only circled through his consciousness, taunting and teasing him . . . just like the fair maid who’d inspired them.

  “What did you say?” came Gavin’s too-innocent-sounding voice. “I cannot hear you above the thunder if you persist in mumbling beneath your breath.”

  Donall grimaced. He needn’t see the MacFie’s all-knowing gloat to ken he’d indeed spoken aloud. And, regrettably, loud enough to be heard.

  “I said, ‘Wait until you hear where I’ve spent my nights,’ ” he said, trying to make the best of his slip.

  “You spent them elsewhere?”

  Now he truly had Gavin’s full attention.

  “Aye.” Keeping his gaze lowered, deliberately away from his friend’s prying eyes, Donall tucked the warm blanket more firmly around his legs. They still trembled. Or at least his knees did.

  And ne’er had he been more cold.