“Out,” she demanded, and Caden stood for a long, awkward moment, uncertain what to do. In truth, he was afeared to move, lest he tumble out of the bath and straight onto his face, and then embarrass himself even more. As it was, it had been so long since he’d bathed that he had misjudged the height of the tub while climbing in, and now, the thought of seeming like a bumbling fool—right in front of her—left him cross.
Didn’t she realize he needed help?
And nevertheless, he wasn’t about to ask for it.
Feeling the air in front of him, acutely aware of his nakedness in a manner he wasn’t accustomed to, Caden found the lip of the tub, and the cauld-hearted wench stood by all the while, silent as he stumbled about. He lifted one leg over and out, quite likely exposing his bung, which pleased him not at all. And then, just when he was about to snap, she wrapped a warm towel about him, startling him with the soft, snug length.
By God, had she warmed it by the brazier?
Betimes, he had done so for himself, but never once had he ever commanded anyone else to do it for him. It was a tiny luxury no one had time for. And nevertheless, the girl had been considerate enough to think of it. And by the by, her arms were warm as well… and the feel of them wrapped about him so unexpectedly brought an uncomfortable burn to his eyes. Like a wee boy, he nuzzled his face against the warm cloth, playing it off as though he were merely getting himself dry.
Up close, Sorcha smelled of … sunshine… and something else… something not immediately discernible. And then, too, as she held the towel about his body, he discovered she was not so small. In fact, she was not as tall as Caden was, but nearly. He longed to put his hands out and trace the lines of her face, to see if her skin was as soft as her scent.
She wiggled her breasts against his chest as she dried him—high and firm and round—and his physical reaction was immediate. Self-consciously, he moved out of her embrace, uncertain how to feel about his “wee commander” rising to salute a matronly old woman.
There was simply no way a young lass could put so much thought into the intricate pleasures of a bath. She must be old and experienced. More’s the pity. And yet…
“Careful now,” she said, and tried her best to wrest the towel free.
Caden fought her. “Nay, woman.” He jerked it away. “I can dry myself.”
“Verra well,” she said, relenting. She stepped away, and her scent faded. Caden felt the loss acutely—like the absence of a limb.
He heard her leave the room, her footsteps light and quick, and he took the opportunity to pick his way across the chamber, back to his bed, where he sat, tugging up the damp towel and wrapping it securely about his hefty shoulders. Shoulders that were covered in scars. Did she note them? Was she disgusted by the sight of him? Was this why she didn’t seem to be the least affected by him? How many scars did he have now after that battle on the hill? Many more than Davie would ever have the chance to earn.
Right yourself, he commanded himself. Be a mon! He was a burden to everyone. God’s teeth, he could no longer even manage his own bath—not alone.
And neither did she seem to consider him braw—more like an eegit, without the bloody sense of a cow.
And yet, she did say she thought him braw … that first day. The recollection pleased him.
Feeling entirely ambivalent and confused, Caden was still seated when Sorcha returned with his tunic in hand. He smelled his own scent on the cloth, but couldn’t tell which tunic she had chosen. Green did not flatter him at all. The blue tunic was entirely too threadbare. The red one was faded. But, of course, he hadn’t all that many to choose from, and why should he care? He was no Sassenach, with coffers full of silks. Rònaigh’s weavers were few and wool was scarce. Most of what he had to wear he’d obtained as gifts or from his junkets to the Isle of Skye.
Only once, when Caden was a wee boy, he’d joined his sire in the hinterlands of Scotia, where his da complained the lord was a tailard—a devil-tailed Sassenach. And why? Merely because the laird’s wife was sent in to bathe him—an insult to be sure. Not only because it implied his father stunk, but, rather, bathing a laird was an Englishman’s custom, to which, no self-respecting Scotswoman would ever yield to. The women of their clan had far more important matters to attend—like raising bairns and tending the kitchens—and nevertheless, Caden sat, allowing Sorcha to move him into whatever position she so pleased—like a bluidy infant.
He grunted his displeasure.
“There,” she said, with a smile in her voice. “Ye clean up well, Caden Mac Swein.”
Caden felt another stirring at his groin. By damn, was that going to happen every time she spoke to him? It was discomfiting, to say the least.
“Thank ye,” he said, a bit resentfully, and he was grateful once his tunic was finally on, so he could pull it down to his knees. “I should say, ye’re no’ bound to serve me, lass. There have been no thralls on this isle since days of yore.”
“Never mind,” she said, too sweetly. “I made a bargain and I will keep my word. One way or another, Caden Mac Swein, I will do my best to aid you, and, come May Day three weeks hence, I will be gone.”
Gone? Gone?
Where the hell does she intend to go?
They were in the middle of the North Sea.
It had been too long since he’d been this close to a lass who smelled so nice. “I know my name, woman. Ye dinna have to say it every time. Where are my boots?” he snapped.
Without a word, Sorcha pushed him back on his bed, and then she knelt, maneuvering his feet into his shoes and Caden had the untoward thought of her lips somewhere they ought not be. His cock stirred again, though he steadfastly ignored it. “What bargain?”
“I’m a healer,” she replied. “Give me your other foot, and we shall start with a walk.”
“For the love of God, lass. I am not a dog!”
The woman laughed—not precisely the response Caden had expected. Forsooth, she must have a dozen brothers, all with fine tempers, not to be offended by his mood. All save Alec seemed to tremble whenever he spoke. But, at last, she moved away. And to Caden’s relief—and to his dismay—she left him, again, seated upon his bed, to wait…
The last thing Caden Mac Swein needed was to sit about feeling sorry for himself.
Sorcha heard enough self-pity in his tone for an entire village of lepers. She only wanted him to realize his blindness was only as much of an impediment as he cared to make it. Constance, after all, had learned to do nearly every chore assigned to her, and more.
It was quite strange, this blindness. Neither Caden nor Constance had any injuries near their eyes. Of course, Caden had dozens of scars elsewhere else, but his face was perfect. She thought about this for a time...
It was almost as though both had seen something they either didn’t wish to see, or ought not to see.
In Constance’s case, she had glimpsed the sacred stone Sorcha’s people had hidden in the vale—a relic no man or woman save for a Guardian had set eyes upon in nearly three hundred years. Sorcha betimes imagined that the gods above—Taranis for one, with his bolts of thunder and lightning, had blinded Constance in his vengeance. But, it wasn’t so much that Caden saw something forbidden; rather, he saw something no man would ever wish to see, and what if his blindness was a penance, not from the Gods, but one he’d proscribed himself?
If so, perhaps returning his sight was merely a matter of returning his will to live? The ruagaire deamhan would settle his ire, and give him back a sense of peace.
She was still waiting for Caden to realize she wasn’t coming back. She wanted him to come of his own accord, mainly because, if he should refuse her, she couldn’t possibly carry him down those steps. She whistled softly, just so he might hear her… waiting.
Before coming up the stairs, Sorcha had implored Alec and Bess to see to the great hall, readying the trestle tables and preparing a hearty meal. It was the least they could do, after scuttling her from her chosen path. She longed to
sink her teeth into something sizable—something besides that cantankerous man. It would be the first good meal she’d had in more than a sennight. But that wasn’t the only reason. She understood they were scrimping now, hoping to make do until the festival, but it was important Caden realize that life would go on. A bit of normalcy would compel him to reconsider his misery. Knowing all too well he was still seated upon his bed, Sorcha waited at the top of the stairs, not so cold-hearted that she would leave him to the mercy of the stairs. One wrong move, and even someone so thick-headed as Caden Mac Swein could bust his head.
Caden Mac Swein.
Swein of the North.
She wondered if there could be a connection. The Viking was a heralded figure from their past—a mighty conqueror who’d wed a daughter of the king of Éire. She knew her histories well, for Una had considered them important. “Those who do not learn from the past,” she’d said, “are destined to repeat it.” Now, considering her mentor’s words, Sorcha thought about her sire. There were some folks who knew the past and who made every attempt to repeat it. In fact, her father had meant to commit MacAilpín’s treason. He’d come to Dubhtolargg to slay the laird, and— Dinna think about it anymore. You have a task to attend.
She whistled louder, and just when she feared he’d gone back to sleep—stubborn as she could already tell he could be—she was rewarded with Caden’s presence at the antechamber door.
But, forsooth! She was wholly unprepared for the sight of him.
Until now, she’d not actually taken time to see him. And there he was, tall as you please, with golden hair so shiny and clean. His face was like a Viking god’s. His arms and legs were fit and strong, a testament to his life before his accident, for clearly, he was a man accustomed to his labors. She swallowed, feeling suddenly shy, realizing that it wasn’t only blind men who sometimes couldn’t see…
“There you are,” she said shyly. “I was hoping for an escort to share repast.”
“Repast?” he asked, sounding surprised, and with that simple question and the expression on his face, Sorcha surmised that, not only had he forgone the normal household activities, but clearly, so had the rest of his kin. Didn’t these people understand it was important to sup together to beget a sense of community? Her brother would never have foregone such a ceremony, not for any reason. She could remember many a time when they’d all been ready at each other’s throats, but once the mealtime arrived, they’d put their grievances aside. Aidan commanded it.
The instant Sorcha had a moment alone with Alec, she would give him a piece of her mind. How could Caden will himself to live, if even his kinfolk had written him off?
“Yes, sir, I believe there’s cod,” Sorcha tempted, and then she watched the play of emotions across his face—a look of childlike pleasure unlike any she’d ever seen. “Alec said he sent fishermen out this morn. And perhaps cabbage and bread,” she added.
The smile faded from Caden’s face. “Not Bessie’s?” he asked, and Sorcha couldn’t help it; she exploded with laughter. Only once she recovered herself, she said, “Dinna fash yourself, Caden Mac Swein. Whenever she’s not about, I’ll take your piece and give it to the hounds.”
He looked so serious. “We dinna keep hounds inside,” he said.
Sorcha giggled. “Well, then, I shall slip it to Alec. I have a notion it’s not the only thing of Bessie’s he’d be willing to nibble.”
Much to Sorcha’s surprise, he gave a bark of laughter, and then, shaking his head, he started across the chamber, straight toward Sorcha and Sorcha held her breath as he crossed.
It felt good to laugh.
Twice today.
Picking his way slowly, Caden worked his way across the room, surprised to discover that everything had been moved out of his way. He furrowed his brow. Whenever Moira cleaned, she moved everything about, and although he realized the woman meant well, it often resulted in more bumps and bruises.
His heart pounded against his ribs as he crossed the antechamber, finding it difficult to breathe, simply over the fear that he might fall, and then, his heart kicked as he scented Sorcha near.
“Ach, lass,” he said, as he bumped into her. Sorcha grabbed him by the arms to steady him, and quickly released him. God help him, but he felt like a wee lad with his first love—although how much sense did that make, since he knew the girl not at all? He only knew he loved the sound of her voice and the smell of her hair. He leaned forward, seeking her lovely scent. It was like nothing he had ever encountered before… like pollen and flowers, a scent that undid him nearly every time she neared.
“Careful, now, the stairs are steep.”
“I know this better than you.”
“Nevertheless, I shall go first,” Sorcha said in her normal bossy tone. “And when we reach the bottom, you will take my arm.”
Officious she might be, but Caden was beginning to warm to it. He answered with a smile. “An’ if I trip, we’ll both find ourselves with broken necks.”
She laughed softly, the sound musical, and Caden’s loins tightened yet again. “Have nay fear,” she said, “I am nay whimper of a woman.”
As ucht Dé! Caden had a sudden image of tangled limbs, fierce and famished. Not since he was an untried youth had his body responded so willfully to a girl.
Careful to descend before him, Sorcha waited for Caden to take the first step, and then she moved down to the next. That’s how they traversed the entire stairwell, one careful step at a time, with Sorcha moving down one before him. She held him firmly by the arms. They were doing so well, and she was so pleased with their progress, when suddenly her left shoe clipped a loose stone, and she stumbled backward. To her utter surprise, Caden caught her by the arm, preventing her fall.
Sorcha blinked, uncertain what startled her most—that she had lost her footing, even having been so careful, or that he had known to reach out and catch her.
Suddenly, she understood something about his illness: The man could see. He simply didn’t wish to. Or rather, some part of him would not allow him to acknowledge what his eyes could see. Clearly, he had known to catch her, because he saw her fall, not because she’d cried out for help, for she’d never had the chance to.
Her heart tripped as he pulled her against his chest, just a bit shaken, and Sorcha pressed her cheek against his tunic, shocked by the pleasant sensations that assaulted her as he folded her into his arms. “Careful, now,” he said, sounding entirely too pleased with himself. “The stairs are steep.”
Was he teasing her?
Sorcha smiled. “So, we have discovered.”
“Ach, I tol’ ye, lass,” he said holding her still. “’Tis why I rarely descend. Dunrònaigh Keep was built more than five hundred years ago, and there are more than one hundred steps to the ground.”
So, they would go through all that trouble to kidnap Sorcha and bring her all the way to their island to tend him, but they didn’t think for a moment to help their laird down the stairs? Dumb folk.
Sorcha moved out of his embrace. “Is that all?” she teased, and once again resumed the descent, taking Caden by the hand. “Never fear, for the brave are rewarded for their efforts.”
She heard a smile in his tone. “And what reward would ye give me?” he asked, his voice husky and thick. It sent a shiver down Sorcha’s spine.
“We shall see, my laird,” she said coyly. “We shall see.”
Lured by the scent of a warm, cooked meal, Sorcha’s belly urged her to hurry, but she took her time, leading Caden down easily, one step at a time.
Chapter 10
Sorcha was nowhere to be found.
Having searched every inch of the Highlands and beyond, Aidan, Keane and Jaime Steorling now met at a small inn near the village of Lochinver to discuss what each of them had discovered. More than a few folks had reported a lass meeting Sorcha’s description down by the harbor. She was attempting to buy passage to the Isle of Skye. According to the harbor master, one captain in particular had accepted a trade
for the girl’s horse, and nevertheless, once they set sail, they headed due north, not west. The girl was not seen, nor heard from again. Jaime shook his head. “I cannot fathom what could lure her to the Isle of Skye? There is naught there but bitter cold.”
“Whose seat is that?” Aidan asked, knowing Jaime would be the one to know, for he also held a seat on King David’s council.
“MacLeods,” Jaime provided. “David is nearly at his wits end with the diplomacies therein. ’Tis near to impossible governing the Western isles. If’n ye ask me, they’re still more Éire than Scots.”
The sound of a whore’s laughter rang across the pub, drawing Aidan’s attention. “I can only think her mad.”
Ignoring the public display of foreplay across the room, Keane meant to set his brother at ease. “Sorcha is in command of her senses, if not her temper; so, there must be a reason.”
“Aye, but what could it be?”
Keane shrugged, although he wished to say more. He wanted to tell his laird brother what he suspected about Una, but he knew it would be met with skepticism. It seemed impossible, after all, that Una could have survived the collapse of their mountain. More to the point, Jaime Steorling had no knowledge of the secrets they’d kept there. Nevertheless… Keane had a feeling… one he couldn’t shake. He’d come to know Sorcha well during her recent visits to Ailginshire, and he was aggrieved to confess it had taken all those recent calls to Dunràth for him to know his sister better. She had always been so pleasant, supportive and kind. She had never had a cross word for anyone, but before then, Keane could count the times he’d sat with her conversing on one hand. It was a travesty, for certain. And it made him reconsider the relationships he had with all his sisters—not only Sorcha. Now that they were all gone from the vale, with lives of their own, nothing would ever be the same. And to think they had taken so much for granted, and all those long-lost days would soon be forgotten as they raised younglings of their own. He and Cailin had once been closest of all, but it had been years now since he’d seen her. As for Sorcha, Keane had had such high hopes that she would take an interest in Graeme, and that the two might settle at Dunràth. But, much to his surprise, she did not come to Dunràth when she left the Vale, and Keane did not particularly understand. Or rather, he did, but it was not something he was able to explain—not in front of Jaime. Keane had encountered no less than twenty pilgrims en route to Rònaigh and he had a strong suspicion that’s where they should begin. “Well,” he said, leaving Una out of his explanation for the moment. “I have a notion she’s following that star.”
The Summer Star: One Legend, Three Enchanting Novellas (Legends of Scotland Book 2) Page 9