Magnus nodded. “There were times he would simply throw her into the room and leave her there. I would sit outside the door for hours and wait for him to free her. Other times during her confinement he would torment me.”
“Her family knew nothing of her plight? Was there no one to help her?”
“Her husband owned her, and she gave him a son after several miscarriages. Her own father died, leaving my mother with no one to turn to, so there was no escape. She was wed to a beast until death.”
She hugged his hand tighter. “I fear to ask what happened to her.”
His wide smile suggested a happy ending, and she listened closely.
“My mother was strong and could endure much, but she could not bear seeing me suffer, the son of the man she loved with all her heart. She was patient and managed to hide coins from him and a few pieces of jewelry.
“One night when I was ten and the keep was asleep and the winter wind blew cold and hard, she came to my room, woke me, made me dress in most of my clothes so that I had several layers of garments to protect me from the frigid night, and then together we snuck out of the keep and away into the darkness.
“We came upon a band of people with less than we had, and we remained with them, traveling together until we found a place in the woods far from Dunhurnal land. There my mother raised me, and it is there she met a man who she came to love.”
“She is well, then?” Reena asked, feeling near tears for a woman much more brave than she could ever be.
“Aye, my mother is well, and her husband, James, is good to her. It was he who taught me my warrior skills. They live on my land now and are well protected.”
“Did your stepfather search for your mother and you?”
“His search proved useless. My mother was more intelligent than him and knew his ways too well. We heard talk of his furious search for her and his fury when she could not be found. But her wise ways and her strength kept us safe.”
Reena could not hold her tongue. “And your stepfather’s fate?”
Magnus hesitated, his eyes narrowed, and his jaw tensed. “He tasted his own dungeons and met his demise as he lived—a coward.”
There was no hesitation in Reena’s actions; it was a natural response for her to step up to him, keeping his hand close to her chest. She stood on her tiptoes so that her lips reached his—and she kissed him.
Chapter 21
Magnus grew as rigid as a stone statue, his heart turning cold, his soul locked stubbornly away. Reena kissed him out of pity. He wanted none of her pity; he wanted her love.
But her tender fumbling began to warm his heart. She barely knew how to kiss, yet here she was, attempting to kiss his troubles away with soft, sweet lips that reminded him of warm honey. And she tried hard to keep herself steady on her tiptoes, so determined was she to kiss him.
Nay, not merely kiss, but comfort and ease his painful memories. He admonished himself for his foolish thoughts. Reena would not pity herself, therefore she would not pity another. She was different, special, and damned if he was not falling in love with the pint-size lass.
So why, then, did he feel angry instead of happy?
Her mouth whispered across his again, only this time the tip of her tongue faintly touched his lips and sent him into a spin. His heart crumbled and his soul rejoiced and his body responded in quick succession.
Angry.
The answer was simple, he thought, as his arms wrapped around her and pulled her up against him.
He wanted her love and he wanted it now. It mattered not why he found the slim wisp of a lass appealing; he simply did. They had worked side by side these winter months and had grown to learn more and more about each other and they had touched and kissed—and now?
He wanted her more than he ever thought possible.
“Damn, Reena, you tempt my soul,” he whispered and kissed her with a passion that stole her breath and warmed her soul.
He took charge of the kiss, and soon they tasted each other like two starving souls needing nourishment. While they feasted, Magnus grabbed hold of her small waist, lifted her so that her feet no longer touched the floor, and walked toward the table.
He let her stand on her feet a mere few seconds while he shoved things aside, then he grabbed hold of her, dropped her back on the table, slipped over her, and braced his hands flat on the table at the sides of her head.
He then proceeded to nibble at her soft, delicious neck. “Damn, but I want you, Reena,” he claimed over and over in between succulent nibbles.
She moaned, enjoying his sensuous nibbles and the feel of his body so strong and hard against her. And he was not the only one who wanted. She could think of nothing else but him, the feel, the taste and the passion; it overwhelmed her.
His hand found her small breasts, and he gave each a loving squeeze before running a gentle hand along her waist, over her stomach. When he rested his hand firmly between her legs she lost all sense and reason.
Her eager response fired his loins, and he captured her hungry moans with his own hungry lips.
“Magnus, Magnus.” His name was a litany on her lips, and it grew in intensity as her hands reached out and touched him.
What brought him to his senses he did not know—perhaps it was the urgent passion of his name on her lips, or the way her small hands eagerly ran over his body, or how her own body responded so willingly to his touch. Whatever it was, it mattered not. What mattered was this: The first time they made love would not be on a table in his solar.
He eased himself off her with great reluctance, especially when her small hands grabbed for him. He held them tight in his, and their heated eyes settled on each other.
She saw the passion in his eyes, and yet he stopped without saying a word, and she wondered. When he touched her did he find her unappealing: were her breasts too small, her body too slim? Why, when it seemed they were on the brink of joining, did he stop? She wished she had the courage to ask him, but she could not, for she worried over his answer. She suddenly felt the need for solitude, or was it escape from her concern and doubt?
Magnus helped her off the table.
She was relieved when a knock sounded at the door and a servant advised he was needed in the tower room.
He was annoyed, wanting time to discuss his intentions with her, but then his lingering passion would probably interfere with sound reason, and nothing would be accomplished. At least that was what he attempted to tell himself, but the ache in his groin was adamantly disagreeing. “We will speak later,” he said and left the room.
She was glad for his departure. She needed time alone. Her feelings for Magnus were growing in leaps and bounds. She missed him when he was not near, and she felt his hurt when she saw it in his eyes. She was becoming a part of him, or was he becoming a part of her? Or was there a difference?
And yet there was a part of her that doubted all of it and attempted to convince her that she was a foolish young woman who believed that her lord wanted more than just a lover’s tryst.
With her mind in turmoil she decided the best thing for her would be to get away from the keep, if only for an hour or so. With a brief stop at her bedchamber to grab her cloak, as well as a quick message to Brigid informing her of her whereabouts should Magnus ask, she was off to see her parents.
She pulled up her hood and hugged her cloak around her. Dusk bathed the village with its gray skies, a chill wind blew, and smoke curled from cottage chimneys. From the cottages came the echoes of laughter, children’s voices raised in song, and scents so delicious they made one lick one’s lips in anticipation.
Reena smiled. This was how she remembered her village; she was home at last.
She heard her father’s voice, crisp and clear in storytelling, when she approached her parents’ cottage. She opened the door slowly so as not to disturb, and entered. Her father sat not far from the hearth, a small group of children circling him. His dramatic voice would grow in pitch and their eyes would widen, then n
arrow as his voice softened.
He acknowledged her with a brief nod and continued telling his tale. Her mother rose from the chair next to the hearth and walked over to her and took her hand.
“I am glad you have come to visit.” Whispering was not necessary; her tone was already gentle. “Come. We will sit where we will not disturb anyone.”
Reena moved her mother’s chair from the hearth to the corner of the room beside another chair. A small table with a lone candle sat between the chairs and provided a faint light. Reena removed her cloak, as the room was comfortably warm.
“I am sorry I have neglected you and father,” Reena said, feeling guilty that she had not spent enough time with her parents of late.
“Nonsense,” her mother said. “You have important work to do for Lord Dunhurnal. Everyone in the village talks of your importance and your skills. Your service to him is greatly respected.”
She needed no praise nor wanted it. “I am who I have always been.”
Her mother patted Reena’s hand, which rested in her lap. “The villagers need their gossip, and what better gossip than their own hero. They are proud of you and rightfully so. Let them talk”—her mother stopped abruptly and smiled—“and make you a legend.”
Reena laughed quietly. “There is only one legend.”
“Aye, and he earned the title.” Her mother shivered.
“What tales have you heard?”
“Not tales, the truth.”
“How do you know it is the truth?” Reena asked. “If tongues wag in gossip about me, then most certainly they wag about the Legend.”
Her mother easily switched to French so that if anyone overheard them, they would not understand their conversation. “This is not gossip, it is hushed words whispered in awe and respect, and I think fear.”
Reena was quick to defend the Legend. “Magnus is a good man.”
“Aye, all agree he is a good man—to us. His enemies, or those to whom he poses a threat, are a different matter.”
“As is the way with most warriors.”
“He is not like most warriors,” her mother said. “He is the Legend—”
“And legends are often created by wagging tongues.”
Her mother did not agree. “Legends are made by deeds done, and not always good deeds. Kate, the cook, and her helper Maura tell Justin many tales about the Legend, but it is different tales he hears from the men who come and seek his tanner skills. He shares the tales with your father in whispered voices, though they think me asleep.”
“And your hearing is good,” Reena said with a laugh.
“When you listen, you learn,” her mother reminded her.
“What did you learn?”
Her mother leaned closer. “Villagers desert their homes when they hear the Legend is near, men beg at his feet to spare their lives, he tortures without provocation and lives hold no meaning to him, whether man, woman or child.”
“That is pure nonsense,” Reena said, her voice harsh. “Look at what he has done for our village.”
“His village,” her mother corrected. “And glad I am to be part of it, for his reputation alone protects us and keeps us safe, and besides—” Her mother sighed. “I feel sorry for him. He must make decisions that affect many lives, and in the end someone will suffer. That is the way of battle and war. And I see that he cares for what is his and does what he must to protect; it cannot be easy for him.”
“Yet you sound as though you also fear him.”
“I would be a fool not to. The villagers speak of your return to the village with him. He was a fearful sight sitting astride that huge black beast of a horse, his face concealed by his helmet and his garments all black.” Her mother shivered at the memory. “I do not care to see him in that helmet; he intimidates.”
“He is the Legend.”
“Aye,” her mother readily agreed. “Without it he is Magnus, lord of Dunhurnal, a fair and protective lord.”
“But yet he is truly one man.”
Her mother shook her head. “Two men in one, and only the good Lord”—her mother crossed herself—“above knows how one can live with the other. We are all lucky we deal with Magnus. We all watched in shock as the Legend struck at Kilkern’s men without an ounce of fear and without hesitation when he saw that one of the men had injured you.”
Reena remembered how he had struck fast and hard, surprising everyone. His swift blows had sent three men to the ground in quick succession before anyone had thought to respond.
Her mother continued in French, a gentle smile surfacing. “I see how good Magnus is to you, and I am grateful you serve a protective lord. He will let nothing happen to you.”
“He treats all who serve him well.”
Her mother nodded slowly. “True, but I think Lord Dunhurnal treats you extra special.”
Reena sighed. “You have heard gossip.”
“Nay, you are my daughter, and I have watched and listened to you talk of him.”
Reena stared at her mother, speechless.
Her mother laughed softly. “This surprises you? Do you not realize your own feelings?”
“I am not sure what I feel.”
“That is a sure sign of love,” her mother said. “I was uncertain of my feelings toward your father after we met.”
“How then did you know you loved him?”
“I did not.” Her mother laughed. “I only knew that I did not want to live without him. He made me smile and laugh often. He always had kind words for me, and he never failed to let me know how beautiful he thought I was, even to this day.”
“What you are saying is that I will never be sure.”
“No one can be sure of love,” her mother said. “It is best that we follow our hearts, especially when it is obvious that a good, strong man cares for you. Let yourself feel, Reena, the rest will follow. Do not dwell on it, for it will serve no purpose. Now tell me, does your mapping go well? And what of your drawings?”
Conversation turned light, though Reena’s thoughts remained heavy. She could not help but dwell on her mother’s words and her feelings toward Magnus. While he was a fair and caring man, there remained that fear of the Legend. Or was it the fact that she knew so little of the Legend? She had learned much about Magnus but knew almost nothing of the Legend—but then perhaps Magnus preferred it that way.
The children around her father’s chair insisted on another tale when he claimed he was finished. He looked to Reena, torn between visiting with her and entertaining the children.
Reena understood and made his choice easy. “Have my father tell you the tale of the fairy king.”
The children’s eyes widened, and one little boy tugged at her father’s legging. “You truly met the fairy king?”
Her father grinned, sent her a wink, and was soon lost in a tale that had all the children mesmerized.
After promising her mother she would visit soon, she returned to the keep. Her first thought was to speak with Brigid, but she realized she would rather be alone with her thoughts. She needed some solitude to think over her concerns.
And her first was, if what existed between Magnus and her gave her concern, then how could she think of it as love? She shook her head at her own doubts and climbed the staircase slowly.
Once in her room, the door closed behind her and she went to her table, lit the many candles, and reached at a small wooden bowl for a well-used piece of charcoal. She began to draw. She did not want to think at the moment, she had thought enough and had solved nothing, nor had she reached any conclusions or made any decisions. Her mind needed clearing so that her thoughts would make more sense, and the only way to achieve a clear mind was to draw.
Time stood still when she took charcoal in hand; nothing mattered but what she was creating on paper. Sometimes she did not even consider what she would draw—she allowed her mind and hand free rein. She always appreciated the results and was even surprised at times.
The knock on her door went unheard a
nd unanswered, and she did not hear when the door opened and Magnus entered. He closed the door quietly and watched her work from where he stood.
The flickers of light from the candles caused shadows and light to dance as equal partners across her lovely features. Her hands flowed like a perfect melody across her paper. She was lost in her drawing. He had seen her time and time again just like this. He had entered her room without her knowing, so engrossed had she been in her drawings. He would watch her draw, watch the way she chewed at her bottom lip in thought, how she rubbed her chin when deciding where to go next, how her chin or nose forever wore a smudge of charcoal.
The familiar scene warmed his heart. He could sit content by the hearth for hours watching her just as she was, and with a nod to his own thoughts he sat in the chair next to the fireplace.
Reena stared at the drawing, the piece of charcoal a mere stub. She had worked diligently for hours and had produced a stunning piece of work that completely surprised her and produced heartfelt emotions.
She studied every line and stroke, amazed by her own skills, yet grateful. What she recorded would live on long after she was gone, and it would be there for many to see and enjoy and learn.
A strange sound interrupted her thoughts, and she quickly looked about the room. She was stunned to see Magnus asleep in the chair near the hearth.
Asleep and snoring.
With drawing in hand she walked over to him and quietly kneeled in front of him. His head rested to the side, his one arm was draped over the arm of the chair, his other arm rested on his leg. He wore all dark garments as usual, though he wore no leather tunic and his long hair looked alive with bursts of sunlight, the fire’s glow highlighting the sun-colored strands.
He was a handsome man even when he slept and far from a legend, since he snored like the common man. It was not a heavy snore, but deep and steady, almost rhythmic in nature.
She listened to the delightful melody, giggling when it reached a crescendo then slowed before it began again. She should wake him, but he appeared so very content. The thought that he had not disturbed her when he had entered her bedchamber and seen her drawing but had sat beside her hearth to wait warmed her heart and endeared him to her all the more.
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