Knight Triumphant

by Heather Graham

  “Of course, you have the fighting spirit of a fire-breathing dragon,” he continued.

  “You think that you are made of steel,” she countered.

  He shrugged. “Perhaps. And perhaps it is an illusion that keeps me alive.”

  His shoulders were nicked with scars. She touched one without thought, following the jagged line with her finger. “But you are flesh and blood. You’ve been wounded.”

  “But I have always survived. My opponents have not.”

  She started to draw her hand away from his flesh. He caught it, drawing the palm against the heat of his chest once again, fingers locking around her hand, keeping it there. “What do you want from me, Igrainia? Your freedom? I cannot give it to you. An assessment? You are, indeed, stunning. Young, perfect, intelligent, compassionate. I deeply grieve for Margot, and will, I imagine, for a long time to come, just as you grieve for someone who was articulate, noble, and fine, and adored you beyond life itself. And you cannot imagine what it is to lose a child. But they are gone, and I cannot change that. And we are alive, and I am sorry for the bitterness I have felt, and sometimes held against you. I am glad that you like Jamie, and glad that you have found a certain affection for many of my men. Just don’t try to use it against me. I swear to you that I don’t intend any harm to you; we are caught in a war, and that is the way it is, and there is little I can do to ease that tempest for you. By the laws of Scotland, and our church, you are my wife. I would rather have a wife than a prisoner. A black-haired witch, or violet-eyed enchantress, I’m not at all certain which, but I must admit to being stunned at the pleasure I have discovered in the fact that prisoner, wife, witch, seductress, you have become mine.”

  She held very still, breathing deeply, painfully aware of him, and his nakedness.

  “I am sorry that I brought up Margot’s name,” she whispered.

  He was silent for a moment and nodded. Then a slow smile curled his lips. “I believe it’s time for a few small regrets,” he murmured.

  “You’re sorry because . . . ?”

  “I’m about to ruin your dress,” he said.

  “My dress?” she breathed.

  But she understood completely. She closed her eyes when his body pressed her more tightly against the door. She felt the ripple of muscle and sinew, and the conspicuous state of his arousal. Amazingly, instantly, intoxicating. Sensual, sexual, but no more evocative than the sudden touch of his hand against her cheek, and the way that his lips formed over hers, with a touch so light at fist . . . then molding with force, and the swiftly rising burn of passion . . .

  His lips broke from hers. He murmured against her forehead. “I do believe that I’ve acknowledged there are absolute perfections about you.”

  “Scarred, but decently formed,” she returned, her fingers playing over his shoulders. She leaned her head against his chest. The dampness still there beckoned. She pressed her lips to his flesh, teased each little drop of water with the tip of her tongue, and relished the spasms that seemed to wrack each detailed flex of hardness and sinew upon him. She drifted downward against his body, finding that the water had not all left him, that he was damp from head to toe . . . everywhere, between. Physically, he fascinated her. A wall of muscle and sinew, perfectly honed, with a raw sensuality that she could not deny. There was a dangerous magnificence to the very power of his height and the breadth of his shoulders and . . .

  And the sexuality he exuded. She was compelled.

  He spoke, words of desire, passion, encouragement, yet she had no idea of what he said to her. The sound of his voice alone drove her on. The breath seemed to wrack from him, the length of him knotted in tautness. His fingers moved into her hair. He gave a low groan, awaking and arousing her as just being near him could do, as this . . .

  She did wield tremendous power, and she relished it.

  Savored it. And succumbed to it. In nurturing such wild desire, she discovered herself falling beneath the spell of urgency as well.

  He raised her up against him, found her lips once more, his kisses hot, wet, fervent, invasive, reckless, pillaging. She was able to stand only because of the door at her back, bracing her. It didn’t matter. He swept her into his arms, and onto the bed. She had been clothed. She felt his lips and fingertips against bare flesh. He touched where she hungered, created sensations that swept away the world. And yet in the mindless fury of fire that engulfed her, she was aware of one thing.

  She had adored Afton . . .

  But he had never, ever made her feel like this. As if the earth itself was engulfed. As if she would almost die, as if the sky, day and night, were filled with flames. He had never made her so very weak, or so very strong.

  Later, she reflected somewhat ruefully that her clothing was indeed ruined.

  Shredded, nearly.

  She could not be sorry for the loss.

  CHAPTER 17

  Every day, the scouts rode out.

  They waited. Knowing that forces were coming. Not certain when, or how.

  Despite the tension, it was a strange time for Igrainia. She found that the guards did not follow her everywhere.

  There was always someone in the great hall, always someone in the hallway up the stairs. If she needed something, there was always someone about.

  She took greater care in the great hall, enjoying Jamie’s conversation, his gentle, sympathetic way with her, and his music. But she spoke to others as well . . . and learned that she could talk with Eric without their words falling into an instant argument.

  Two weeks had passed since Eric and the men had returned.

  The enemy forces did not come, though the fortress remained on extreme guard, and in readiness.

  On a morning when Igrainia had slept late, she woke to find Jennie staring down at her on the bed. She clutched her covers and sat up, staring at the maid.

  “They will come, you know!” she told Igrainia, then looked over her shoulder to see that the door to the room was closed. Then she sat excitedly at the foot of the bed. “I get word out, Igrainia. There is a girl who comes in to sell small wares to the soldiers . . . she carries my letters out. I have informed your brother, Lord Aidan, that you have no choice here, that they have completely seized all and everyone. But you needn’t fear, I’ve never told them the truth. They will be here soon, and I’ve warned them how the men have worked in the courtyard, and that they are setting various traps. I wish I knew more about what they were doing . . . I received this yesterday.”

  From her bodice, she triumphantly produced a letter tied in silver blue ribbon.

  “For me? From Aidan?” Igrainia’s fingers trembled as she reached for it.

  Jennie handed her the letter. She knew that it was from Aidan instantly; she recognized his bold scrawl across the page.

  Dearest Sister,

  I have not forgotten or deserted you. I have read your letters, and between the lines, and I know that you are under great duress. I know your fears, and I know how you suffer. Please don’t fear. You will be free. Wait for me. For the love of our late father and mother, I will not let you down.

  Aidan

  Igrainia stared at Jennie, shaking her head. “Jennie, you don’t know how strong the defenses here are! I didn’t want Aidan coming for me, I’m so afraid that he’ll be killed!”

  “They know—they know all about the Scots, I have seen to it that they do. They will not be killed, they will ride in triumph. Igrainia, I don’t know what these people have done to you, but I love you, and I will see that Aidan does come, and that you are rescued.”

  “Jennie, Jennie! I love you, too, but you mustn’t take such grave chances, and you are so sorely mistaken. The king will hand me over to Robert Neville, and I am more afraid of him than of any of these men.”

  “They have poisoned you,” Jennie said sadly, reaching for the letter and hugging it to her chest like a lover’s gift. “But your brother loves you, as you see. I cannot thank God enough! I have gotten through, and Aidan has writt
en back!”

  “Jennie, now I’m afraid for you as well. Promise me that you’ll practice no more treachery, carry no more notes!”

  Jennie stood, glancing at the door again. “I will look after you,” she promised Igrainia. “I will swear to your safety, though you may have lost your mind.”

  “Jennie, leave the letter. I’ll burn it!” Igrainia told her. But Jennie was heading toward the door, the letter clutched to her bosom. Igrainia leaped up to follow her, paused to grab a cover from the bed, and threw open the door to the hall.

  Jennie was gone. Jarrett was there.

  “Good morning, my lady. How may I serve you?”

  “Um . . . breakfast, Jarrett, thank you so much.”

  She slipped back into the room, and dressed quickly, determined to find Jennie.

  She couldn’t find her in the castle, not in the rooms above, the great hall, or even in the crypts. She walked to the chapel, wanting to tell Father MacKinley what had happened, swear him to secrecy, and enlist his aid in talking to Jennie.

  But Father MacKinley was out riding with Eric, she learned. She could get no help from him, not then.

  She walked to the stables, thinking that for some reason she might find Jennie among the horses. But she did not. Gregory was there, smiling broadly as he saw her, and she walked over to him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.

  “How are you? Well, I pray?”

  He nodded strenuously.

  As he looked at her, his lips formed words that didn’t leave his mouth. She studied the movements of his mouth, since she was getting better at understanding him every time she saw him.

  He said something about a baby, and looked at her abdomen.

  She shook her head. “No, Gregory. I am well, but I am not having a child.”

  “He says that you will, and that it will be a boy.”

  Igrainia spun around and saw that Rowenna had come into the stables. She carried a basket of carrots, Gregory’s treats for the animals he tended so well.

  In all this time, she had not come to love Rowenna again as she once had, and in her heart, she knew that she was jealous. She was certain that Rowenna had been sleeping with Eric, and in the past days, she had not dared to wonder if it might still be true.

  Because he was pleased with what he had did not mean that he offered her any real affection or loyalty. And liking what he had did not mean that he didn’t want more.

  She had suffered many humiliations. She was not sure that she could reasonably deal with more.

  She shook her head again at Rowenna. “I am not having a child.”

  Rowenna smiled, walking up to her. “Well, it’s not at all strange that you wouldn’t know it yet . . . but Gregory has known for several days. He says that you will have a very handsome boy, born with pitch black hair and brilliantly blue eyes. A handsome lad, robust, and healthy.”

  Looking at Rowenna, Igrainia found herself illogically angry, and determined that although there were many things Gregory might be able to “see,” this wasn’t one of them.

  “I am not having a child,” she said firmly. Then she remembered her purpose in the stables. “Have you seen my maid, Jennie?”

  Rowenna frowned, shaking her head. She looked around Igrainia at Gregory, and after a moment nodded. “He’s very worried about her. She pretends to work, but hovers where the men are talking. She listens too much.”

  “Does he know anything more?” Igrainia asked carefully.

  “He’s sorry, no,” Rowenna said.

  “Well, thank you,” Igrainia said, and started to leave.

  “Gregory, it doesn’t matter,” she heard Rowenna say behind her.

  She turned. “What doesn’t matter?”

  Gregory was grinning ear to ear again.

  “What?” Igrainia persisted.

  Rowenna sighed and told her, “He is very excited for you. He says that Sir Eric and King Robert the Bruce will both be very pleased.”

  “King Robert?” she persisted.

  “The Scottish king was naturally concerned that you should have a child as an absolute proof of your marriage,” Rowenna said. She shrugged. “I’m afraid that I heard Jamie and Peter speaking on the parapets the other day. King Robert was infuriated that Edward of England would dismiss his power, and that of the Catholic Church, to sanction such a marriage. And naturally, well I know your husband, and I know he will be pleased. He will have a son, a legitimate heir. Any man would be pleased.”

  Igrainia felt her temper simmering as if coals had been lit beneath her feet. For a moment, she was so angry she couldn’t get her breath to reply. Then she said, “I’m afraid, Gregory, that there is no child. This time, you are wrong.”

  She turned, fighting to stay in control as she left the stables.

  Peter called to her as she walked through the hall to the stairs. She heard him, but did not reply.

  Jarrett was in the hallway.

  She ignored him as well. In her room, she paced before the fire, her cheeks burning. She wasn’t even sure why she was so upset. Yes, she was.

  She had been married to a man because his king had ordered her. Just to slip her away from others, to anger another king. That was bad enough.

  That she had slept with Eric might have occurred eventually no matter how unwilling she might have been. Men had been known to force unwilling wives, and for that matter, invaders on both sides of the deadly issue had been known to rape any lone female, from the tender ages to the ancient, when they had torn apart an enemy’s village.

  But she hadn’t been forced. She had come to him willingly. . . eagerly. She had wanted him. And—God forgive her pride, or her sense of self-importance, as Eric might have termed it—she had, at the least, assumed that he had wanted her as well.

  But he had been ordered to sleep with her. She was being bred like prize livestock.

  She paced herself to exhaustion, growing ever more furious. The hours passed. She was aware of sounds in the courtyard, of the never-ending work with swords and weapons. She knew as the sun lowered and pink light filled the sky.

  She didn’t go down to the hall for dinner that evening. She summoned Garth from the kitchen, and had food and her customary bath brought.

  That day, she waited purposely for the water to cool, hoping it would calm her spirit. It did nothing, except chill her flesh.

  When Eric returned, late at night, she sat in the chair before the fire, clad neck to toe in her plainest, heaviest linen gown. She didn’t turn when she heard him come into the room. She knew that his eyes were hard upon her, though, that he had noted her absence at dinner, and it was more than possible that someone had told him she was behaving strangely.

  He walked around behind her, and leaned against the mantel.

  “What is your dark mood this evening, Igrainia? You sent for a meal, shunning the great hall and the company of your enemy. And now I find you . . . so.”

  She stood, because he was too close, because her illogical rage had been building to a point she could scarcely control. She walked a short distance and turned to stare at him. Her fingers knotted into her palms. She had never been more aware of the arresting strength in his face, or the perfection of his tightly muscled form, and it added fuel to her fury. She hated herself because she could not remember the time now when he had seemed like nothing but a barbaric heathen destroying her world. And she hated the cool way that his eyes assessed her in return. He didn’t dislike her. No matter what words he had said since, that casual, indifferent comment seemed to burn in her mind.

  “You slept with me,” she said, her voice low yet filled with venom and rising, “because the king commanded it?”

  He arched a brow slowly, surveying her, regarding her anger, and not in the least concerned with it. “What difference does it make to you as to why?” He demanded.

  She didn’t directly answer the question. “I will never, never have your child!” She swore to him. “I will not let you and your king use me as a small but
annoying point of power in your wretched war.”

  “You’re being ridiculous,” he said.

  “Ridiculous!”

  “First of all, Igrainia, the king could not have ordered me to do anything that I was not more than willing to do.”

  “For the honor and glory of Scotland!”

  “And,” he continued, as if she had not mocked him so vehemently, “you did not seem at all averse to the arrangement.”

  “I did not seem averse!” she whispered, then lied with tears of fury stinging her eyes. “I did not seem averse! Surely, you knew that every single night here I survived by closing my eyes and seeing another man, by pretending with all my heart that you had never come here, that I slept with Afton, lay with Afton . . . and I . . . I tell you again, I will never have your child.”

  “I believe that you already carry a son.”

  So, Rowenna had spoken to him. Naturally.

  Yes, Rowenna had come to know him well.

  She shook her head furiously. “Because a poor, deaf-mute boy has said so? I tell you, it’s not the truth, not the truth at all, and it will never be!”

  “Gregory has yet to say anything which I have not discovered to be true,” he informed her with a shrug.

  “Even if it is true now, it will never happen!” she assured him.

  For a moment she thought that he would move from the mantel and offer her some violence. Then he spoke coolly and smoothly once again. “I don’t believe that you would intentionally destroy a child you carried, any more than I believe you would be such a coward as to throw yourself out a window,” he said flatly.

  “He is wrong!” she insisted passionately. “And you may tell Rowenna that I am certain he is wrong, very wrong. Insist to her that he is wrong.”

  “I should insist to Rowenna that he is wrong?

  “It seems that you talk with her constantly, she is your very dear friend and confidant, and she is his mouthpiece, so yes.”

  “You’re disturbed that Rowenna is . . . my friend?”

  “No. Never mind,” she told him. “Say what you want to whom you want. Perhaps Gregory is right, of course he is right, he ‘sees’. So, your duty here is done. You’ve obeyed your king’s orders!”