by Susan King
“If I am like them at all, it is in my need for my freedom. And in my need for an established home as well … Ach,” she said. “You canna know—you have never lost a home.”
“I understand,” he said firmly, “far more than you think.” Like her, he craved liberty and sought his true home. But he stifled one need and pursued the other secretly. Her own passions were clear and candid. He admired that. He loved it.
Reaching out, he traced his fingers along her jaw. She lifted her chin, lengthening her throat. Heart drumming, he leaned toward her.
She shifted her head closer, and he felt her breath upon his lips. He touched her arm slowly. Wanting to pull her close, he knew it must come from her first. He would stand in shadows and moonlight forever if he must, and wait.
A tilt of her head, and the tip of her nose nudged his, seeking. Then her lips touched his in a faerylike caress.
He leaned forward to kiss her full upon the mouth. The taste and feel of her was blissfully familiar to him now. She opened her mouth easily, with a breathy little moan. The sound made him throb, fill, harden. He kissed her again, heart and blood surging.
Passion laced with tenderness streamed through him, followed by a sense of love so pure that it rocked him. His private sadness over his futile search for his home began to lessen. He realized that she was a haven for his spirit and heart.
The evening wind blew through his hair and hers, weaving the dark and light strands together. She pulled back from his kiss.
“Come away,” she said breathlessly. “We will be seen.”
“We are wed,” he murmured, and sought her lips again.
“Come away,” she whispered. She turned toward the door of the tower.
He opened the door, then drew her inside and up the spiral steps, where moonlight poured over the stone.
Preceding him as they climbed the stairs, she was aware of her thundering heart, and she was aware, too, of a tumult of anticipation. Beneath it, she felt utter calm and certainty. Their kisses had sparked the hunger that had begun at Avenel.
She wanted to be with him inside the sanctuary of their curtained bed, where passion could burn clean between them. The knots and tangles that surrounded them in the outer world would blissfuly dissolve for a while there.
Gawain reached the upper landing and opened the door, waiting for her. His stillness told her that he offered her the chance to stop now, to turn away or change her mind.
She walked past him and drew upon his arm as she went by. He came behind her, closing the door. She turned into his embrace and sought his mouth again, more boldly than before.
Cradling her face, he kissed her again, this time so slowly and thoroughly that she felt herself melt like honey in sunlight. She wanted to sink into his arms, into his skill and surety, into the allure of what was to come.
Her knees felt uncertain, and the floor seemed to drop away beneath her feet. She stepped back toward the bed. Unfastening the silver brooch that closed her plaid, she let the woolen cloth slip to the floor.
The room was dim, with pools of bright and dark created by flickering candlelight. She walked to the bed and sat. The divided curtain parted around her, iron rings chinking.
He stood watching her, utterly still and silent. She realized that he waited because he wanted this decision to be hers: she could end this, or continue it.
The gap between them felt too wide, a tug of the heart. She yearned for his strength, his warmth, his vibrancy. Shifting inside the shelter of the bed, her invitation was clear.
He turned away to remove his belt, kick off his boots, strip off his tunic, slow and deliberate. She knew he still meant to give her time, but she did not need it.
His body gleamed golden in the candle’s glow. She had never seen him fully nude, and she drew in a breath, stunned by the elegance and strength of his body. He bent to blow out the flame, and turned in the shadows to face her.
Desire took sure form in a man, she knew, and she studied him, curious, intrigued, wondering. He stepped forward through the divided curtains, placing a knee upon the thick, fragrant heather-stuffed mattress, so that it sank a little.
She rose, kneeling, and drew off her chemise slowly, letting him see her in shadows as she saw him, though her heart pounded at the boldness of it. He drew the curtain shut and moved toward her. Scant light seeped through the fine weave of the cloth.
Inside the private sanctum of the bed’s interior, he wrapped his fingers around her arms and pulled her toward him. His body pressed against hers, his skin firm and fiery, touching her all at once. Kneeling with him, she looped her arms around his shoulders and leaned into him, breath quickening.
His kiss was rich and potent, and she opened her mouth to his exploration of her. He slid his hands down the sinuous curve of her spine, his palms hot as they rested upon the lowest slope. Her body curved against his warmth and hardness, and she shifted her hips to deepen the cradle. He groaned low.
When his hand swept her breasts, she felt herself pearl and grow firm beneath his fingers, then between his lips. She arched back, shivering, and he supported her with a hand at the small of her back, kissing, suckling, until she cried out. His touch felt new and alive and astonishing, but her body had an urge, a questing insistence. She wanted—needed—far more from him.
He lowered her to the bed and she stretched out, wrapped in his embrace, closing her eyes at the simple ecstasy of the moment. As he kissed her again, she slid her hands over his shoulders, his back and torso, skin layered smooth over muscle.
The beat of his heart was fast and strong under her palm, and she sank her fingers into the thick silk of his hair. Glossy as midnight, it was the only softness she found in him. The rest was hard strength tempered with tenderness, the quiet hallmark of his character.
He explored her, lips and fingers cajoling and stroking. In turn, she sighed and sought his body with her own hands and lips. She savored its planes, its fluid, shifting grace and power. The sensations of touching and being touched had a potency like dark wine, warming her. Longing for more, she ached inside.
When his fingertips traced lower, she opened to him. Wild yet gentle, rapture stirred and flashed in her, and took her like a storm. Cresting, crying out, she subsided in his arms.
She pulled at his waist, urging him toward her, and he bent to kiss her again. He slid closer and she moaned, impatient with need: the throbbing inside of her could only be soothed by him.
Carefully, he covered her, sought her, parted her, and slipped inside. A breath, a moment’s pause—she felt him there, steady and rigid. The small pain passed, and he eased deep, surging. Another storm, sweet and wild, arose, and she entered its current with him. Love filled her, overflowed in her.
When he kissed her soft on mouth and separated, he reached out for the curtain. Murmuring a protest, she drew him toward her. She did not want their sanctum breached, even by a thread of moonlight. Not yet.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Late the next day, Gawain stood in the bailey yard of Elladoune. The portcullis had been raised high by two monks, who stood in the yard watching with him as a group of people walked up the hill toward the entrance arch.
Juliana strode in the lead, her hand in the elbow crook of an elderly woman. On her other side was a young man, large and soft-bellied, carrying a basket filled with ducks.
Behind them, Laurie led his horse, on which a woman perched, pretty, dark-haired, and in late pregnancy. Four children walked behind them leading an elderly man by the hand. Behind them came another group of women and children, along with Brother Eonan.
Most of them carried bundles, while the children and the women herded several animals up the hill. He saw two shaggy ponies with netted panniers containing a host of clucking chickens, and behind them, a few goats, several sheep, a small, shaggy, black-haired cow, and two long-legged dogs.
As they straggled through the gate, Juliana walked toward Gawain with the old woman. “Husband,” she said, “this is
Beithag. She says she would like to be our cook, if you will have her.” She murmured to Beithag in Gaelic, so low and rapid he caught only some of it. Dàimheach, he heard: friend.
“Welcome,” he said in Gaelic, smiling.
Beithag peered up at him warily, her eyes dark and keen, her face wizened over strong bones. A plaid arisaid covered her from the silvery crown of her head to her feet, a rich weaving of red and brown and dark purple. He frowned slightly, looking at the pattern. A thought flitted in and out of his mind too quickly to grasp. Juliana beckoned to a tall old man who came forward, surrounded by children and panting dogs.
“Here is Beithag’s husband, Uilleam MacDuff,” Juliana said. “And these are their great-grandchildren …”
Dumbstruck by the old man’s name, he hardly took in those of the children. Gawain noticed that Uilleam wore a wrapped and belted plaid, similar in pattern to the cloth worn by Beithag.
MacDuff. Likely one of his own kinsmen, Gawain realized.
Smiling, although his heart pounded, he bid the old man welcome. Uilleam grunted and peered at him intently, then hesitated as if he would speak. Gawain waited, wondering if the old man recognized his face; he knew that he resembled his father greatly. If Uilleam saw anything familiar in the Sassenach, he said nothing. Gawain let out a breath.
Uilleam turned away to join his wife. Gawain watched the old man shuffle away, scarcely able to think clearly. The dogs circled him, sniffed him. He petted them, one by one, distracted but outwardly calm.
“And there is the children’s mother, Mairead, on Laurie’s horse,” Juliana went on. “She is the wife of Adhamnain MacDuff, Uilleam and Beithag’s son.”
Adhamnain. His own grandfather and father had been called that; it was a common baptismal name among MacDuffs, he knew.
“Her husband is away,” Juliana was saying. “And the young man is called Teig.” She pointed to the stocky, smiling youth who carried the basket of ducks. He waved to Gawain and grinned at the children, who ran back toward him.
“Is he a MacDuff, too?” Gawain asked.
“He is a nephew to Uilleam. Beithag is a cousin of mine and my mother’s. Teig MacDuff is a simple lad, but he is kind, and the children love him. He is strong too, and will work hard in the stables and pens with Uilleam, who knows all there is to know about horses and livestock. The children will help them. Mairead and Beithag and some other women will work in the kitchens with the cooking and brewing. Do you approve?”
“Whatever you think best,” he said vaguely. He still felt stunned. More people came through the gate, a few women, some children, another old woman. The chatter in the yard rose to a crescendo around him. Laurie grinned and gestured as he attempted, through Brother Eonan, to communicate to Beithag his request for a hearty supper.
“The women just arriving wish to help with the keeping of the chambers, the linens, the laundry, the sweeping and scrubbing,” Juliana said. “Most of them are widows who have been living in the forests on the charity of others. They are glad that we need help at Elladoune. None of these people would accept charity—especially from a Sassenach.”
Gawain nodded, scanning the little crowd in the bailey. “Tell them they are welcome here, and we are grateful for their help. The other women who came in—are they, ah, MacDuffs?”
“One or two are MacDuff widows. Their husbands were killed by Sassenachs, and their homes burned.”
He had to know. “And Uilleam? Was he … a laird near here?”
She shook her head. “He and Beithag had a stone house in the hills, where they raised sheep and cattle and garron ponies. The commander of Elladoune burned their house and took most of the animals. Years ago, Uilleam had an older brother, Adhamnain, who was laird of a castle near that tallest mountain.”
“Aye?” Gawain asked casually, though his breath caught.
“I have heard him mention those kinsmen. They were killed, I think, in a battle with the English, after King Alexander died falling from a cliff—the start of our troubles in Scotland. The laird’s wee grandson was taken away by his son’s wife, who was Lowland or English. ’Twas long ago. The property was ruined by the Sassenachs, shorn to the ground. Made useless.”
His heart pounded, his fists clenched as he held them behind his back. Silent, yet in turmoil within, he stared over the wall toward the mountaintop beyond the loch.
Juliana walked away when one of the women called to her. Soon she gathered the newcomers and led them toward the tower keep to settle their belongings and begin their chosen tasks. The monks led the animals into the pens and stables, and Laurie walked the horse toward the stable with them.
Gawain remained alone in the bailey, rooted to where he stood. Unknowingly, Juliana had filled Elladoune to the brim with his own kin, who needed his help. The world seemed to turn on irony at times, but this coincidence utterly astounded him.
And he had to keep silent. He could not tell them that he was not just a Sassenach commander whom they would never trust or respect. He was, in fact, Gabhan MacDuff, born among them, the grandson of the laird who had once held Glenshie.
He watched Beithag and Uilleam, his great-aunt and great-uncle, climb the steps to the tower. He knew, then, where he had seen that red, brown, and purple pattern before.
He had worn it himself, on the day he had left Glenshie. His mother had traded his plaid to a Lowland farmwife for a dull brown tunic for him. That day, she had crossed with him into England, and had changed his name from Gabhan to Gawain, altering his life and future forever.
Inside an ivory box at Avenel Castle, tucked away in a storage chest, he still owned a piece of that plaid, a small, tattered scrap. He had clutched it in his sleep every night for years as a child, and later had kept it to remind him of the home and the father and the life he had lost, so long ago.
He stood awhile longer, then walked toward the tower. Strangely, he had never felt so alone as he did in that moment.
On the following day, Gawain waited with Laurie in the bailey, while Juliana and Eonan led another group inside.
“The eldest one, there,” Laurie said, “was once a blacksmith and will shoe horses and repair our tools.” Like the day before, Laurie and Eonan had accompanied Juliana into the forest to fetch her friends. “With Juliana is a farmer who was blinded when his house was burned and his family killed. The man with the withered leg and crutch is a harper, I understand, and will play his tunes to entertain us in the evenings. The two women are wives to the blacksmith and the harper.”
Gawain nodded as he observed the newest arrivals. He greeted them with Gaelic phrases, receiving shy or gruff replies.
“What does Brother Eonan have in that basket?” he asked, as the young lay monk came into the bailey behind Juliana, who held the hand of the blind man.
“Three baby squirrels,” Laurie said. “They had fallen from a tree. I told your lady wife that they were tender for the pot, but she insists that she and the children can raise them for a bit, and put them back in the forest when they are old enough.”
Gawain nodded and sighed, beginning to realize his wife’s penchant for strays of all sorts. “And how many of these folk,” he said, “are named MacDuff?”
“The blind farmer and the blacksmith,” Laurie said. “Why?”
By the end of the week, Juliana had ushered six more people through the gate, including two orphaned boys named MacDuff, an old man whose name Gawain did not learn, but suspected was MacDuff, and a straggling line of young greylag geese.
“They have lost their mother,” she told Gawain. “The blacksmith’s wife will tend to them with the chickens and ducks.”
“Beithag could take one of those for the cooking pot,” Laurie said, walking toward them.
“Ach, she willna,” Juliana said, and herded the birds past them hastily. “Nor will you eat the baby squirrels or a swan. This isna a barbaric royal court, you know.”
“ ’Tis more like a Lammastide market, this place,” Laurie answered. “I was teasing abou
t the roast swan, but she didna think it amusing,” he muttered to Gawain.
“No doubt.” Gawain suppressed a smile. He enjoyed the fact that his wife and Laurie had become friends.
“Tell me this, lassie,” Laurie called after her, “when will you learn that oath o’ yours, so you can go to the royal court yourself? And we may live in peace here?”
“When hell turns icy, and the English king eats sweetmeats served by wee Scots faeries,” she answered over her shoulder.
“What the devil does that mean?” Laurie mused.
Gawain groaned in wordless exasperation and turned to look around the bailey. “It means that I cannot get her attention long enough for her to learn even the simplest oath for the king,” he said. “She is too busy, she claims, and will attend to it later. If she does not find time soon, I will face some unpleasant explanations when we are summoned to court.”
“I know, man. I have tried myself to bring the subject up with her as we walk through the forests each day. She would rather whistle the homeless out of their trees, and doesna want to hear about the king. A stubborn lass, your wife.”
“She has no intention of becoming a loyal English subject,” Gawain said grimly. “That has been clear to me from the first.”
Laurie nodded, turning, hands on his hips, to survey the yard and the castle walls. “And what is her intention with this castle? The place has changed in the space of a few days. Stables swept out, outbuildings repaired, the animals penned in … the gardens trimmed back and harvested … the smells of savory cooking and sweet baking from the kitchen … and brewing, thank heaven, brewing begun as well. We will have good Scots ale before long.”
“The very reason you returned to Scotland,” Gawain said, and chuckled. He pointed toward a corner of the curtain wall, where two men worked with brushes and buckets. “Look there—her newest project. She has them whitewashing the traces of the old fire.”