The Summer Star: One Legend, Three Enchanting Novellas (Legends of Scotland Book 2)

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  After that first day, she’d taken up residence in his antechamber, and, every night, Caden had to will himself to remain in the confines of his bed, as much for his sake as for hers. Because, if he found her to be a virgin, and he gave her his seed to keep and grow, he would no longer be so willing to see her go. And, nay, not that he cared so much to keep her damned foal, but he had nonsensically begun to commiserate with Diabhal over the possibility of losing his filly and it suited him not at all. Right now, he had a suspicion that everyone—Alec and Moira, and Bessie, and Afric—they were all spying on them. And nay, he couldn’t see them, but he could damned well smell them, and hear them, sniggering like brats behind his back.

  “So, ye wish to touch my face?” Sorcha asked, again, sounding nonplussed.

  “Aye lass… as payment for moving your stupid jugs into the sun.”

  “Well,” she said, and seemed to be considering it. The merest notion that she might allow it firmed his arousal. “I suppose I could move them by myself,” she said, grumbling a bit, and Caden thought perhaps she was reluctant. Though why?

  “Have you something to hide?” he challenged.

  “Of course not! What difference should it make what I look like, Caden Mac Swein?” He loved the way she spoke his name—altogether, as though it were an appellation.

  “Nevertheless, Sorcha…” He realized he didn’t even know the name of her kin. “I will move as much as you please, as long as you please, if only you will allow me a moment to see your face.”

  “Only a moment?”

  “Aye.”

  “Well… I suppose… then… aye.”

  Before she could change her mind, Caden swept in, homing in on the sound of her voice.

  Chapter 11

  He seized her by the hand, startling Sorcha with the accuracy of his aim. And then, vengefully slapping the tip of his staff against the stone, Caden led her without fail to a place in the alcove, between rooms. There, he set her gently up against a wall, gripping her neatly by the arms, and then he stood, casting down his staff. It made a terrible clatter as it settled, and if he noticed, he never flinched. His blue eyes stared intently, never focusing.

  How must it feel to be the recipient of his gaze? How Sorcha longed to know the secrets behind his eyes… “Well?”

  “Well.”

  “Are you going to do it?”

  “By and by.”

  And yet the wait was killing her. Never in Sorcha’s life had she dared to consider what it meant to be judged by her appearance. She was not a bampot. She knew what Caden was doing and precisely why he was doing it. And neither had she missed his frequent… arousals. How could she? He was particularly well endowed. And if she hadn’t been a virgin… or if she hadn’t been so afeared to… what? Leave him? Well, she might have crossed her own chamber, into his quarters, and she might have walked straight to his bed…

  And what?

  Of course, Sorcha had never lain with a man before, though her people were not pietists. They loved where they wished. The simple fact that she had not yet known a man was more a testament to her lack of interest in any of the men who lived in the Vale.

  Right now, although it would sorely confuse matters, she wanted Caden Mac Swein with an intensity she had never realized before. And if he should happen to want her back, well… there it was, her current dilemma.

  Chagrined, because she could hear her own breath rising and falling, she waited impatiently for Caden to exact his “payment.” Part of her feared to linger, and the greater part of her needed to stay right where she was… because she wanted desperately for Caden to see her and find her pleasing.

  At long last, he pressed close, until Sorcha could feel his heart beating against her ribs, and then, too, his breath rose and fell in harmony with her own.

  And suddenly, he raised a hand to touch her, though he held it a hair’s breadth away… so close to her face that she could feel the heat emanating from his palm…

  “Who are you?” he whispered fervently, and, Sorcha realized, despite all her little stories, how little he knew of her. And yet, what good would it do to tell him anymore, when she would be forced to leave him?

  His hand lingered… so far away, and yet so near. “I am Sorcha… Sorcha dún Scoti,” she said. “Born and bred in Dubhtolargg.”

  At hearing this, he gave a strange little furrow of his brow, as though trying to decipher precisely what she’d said. Nevertheless, undeterred, he placed a hand atop her cheek, letting it rest but a moment—only long enough to make Sorcha’s heart skip a beat.

  She had changed back into her own gown. The wool was soft, she knew. She closed her eyes as he moved his left hand up her arm, ruffling the material of her gown, until it too rested upon her face. And, then, finally, he moved his hands over her face, very gently, tracing the contours, as though his fingers had eyes to see. Despite her beating heart, Sorcha stood patiently while he traced every inch of her face… across her nose, forming contours with both hands. And then he moved to her ears, and Sorcha felt a tingling at her nape, a weakening of her knees. He moved his hands into her hair, running his fingers all the way through, testing its length. And then, finally, he returned to Sorcha’s face, tracing her brows with a finger, before sliding his left hand behind her neck. Sorcha’s nipples tightened against her dress, until she could feel them pebbling. Could he feel it too? As though he meant to kiss her, he leaned a bit closer, so close she could feel the heat of his breath, and said, “Thank you, Sorcha dún Scoti.”

  And that was that.

  Bess and Alec were watching from behind a corner, and Sorcha’s face grew hot. Their looks were looks of wonder and suspense. And then, Caden released Sorcha and dove after his staff, finding it all-too-easily, leaving her standing alone, and wondering what it was he was thinking.

  She saw Alec and Beth peer curiously at one another as Caden turned and walked away, and then both hid their faces.

  “Let’s go get your jars into the sun,” Caden said, once again thwacking his staff vindictively against the floors and nearby walls.

  Anger bubbled up inside her because Sorcha felt as though she’d been tried and found wanting. Cailleach help her, she longed to go out and break every single one of those bloody damned jars.

  Days passed since Caden had demanded to “look at” Sorcha’s face, and for all she knew, he was displeased with what he’d discovered. Now, unless she was applying her tinctures, or serving him tea, he no longer tolerated her near him. She had half a mind to feed him the smallest nip of juniper to make him feel as miserable as she was feeling. She thought perhaps it was all in her head, but every time she tested him, he gave some silly excuse and fled the room—as though he were disgusted by her now.

  Sorcha loathed to confess it, but the thought of him despising her aggrieved her far more than it should. Why did she need him to want her? Simply because he’d appeared to all along? Sorcha was hardly an ogre. Hadn’t Graeme often complimented her?

  At any rate, she looked like Lìli and Aidan and nearly every man that had ever laid eyes upon her sister claimed Lìli was the loveliest woman in all of creation. Simply by power of reason, that must mean Sorcha must have a modicum of her appeal. Shouldn’t that be true?

  Despite everything, and despite Caden’s visual handicap, he did, indeed, appear to be returning to his normal self, taking charge of the caisteal and joining the planning for the upcoming festival on the fifteenth day of May—less than a fortnight away.

  Too bad she was beginning to like the old Caden better—and nevertheless, he was still blind, even despite her growing suspicions. For all Alec’s faith in her, with less than a fortnight left before she would be forced to leave, Sorcha had yet to restore Caden’s sight. She didn’t know what more to try.

  “There are five more sacks of barley,” Afric announced, catching Caden before he left the hall. “Would ye ha’e me give them all to Bess or should I offer some to the alesman?”

  “Four to the alesman, one to
Bess,” Caden said without hesitation. And although he couldn’t see Bess’s face, the woman’s eyes lit up. She clapped her hands together like a happy child and rushed away, quite pleased with the laird’s edict. She wasn’t proud of it, but Sorcha spied on them through the door of her workshop—the workshop she would be forced to abandon, as well.

  It was a bitter pill to swallow.

  Not only must she leave the only man she’d ever felt a kinship with, but she must also leave the workshop she’d always longed for. She couldn’t decide which of the two upset her most. Certainly, she could find a workshop someplace else… but she felt certain there would never be another man like Caden. She was long past the age to be wed—four and twenty now. If she gave up this chance, if she left, she might never get another opportunity to wed a man she liked—not that he’d said he would wed her. In fact, he’d barely spoken to her. But regardless that she couldn’t claim to love him at this point, she liked him so much it ached to think of leaving.

  Considering all this, and more, she had been working all afternoon on yet another batch of tea, and none of it seemed to be doing any good. Caden’s mood was deplorable. And now even Sorcha’s mood was deplorable.

  Perhaps she was doing something wrong? Or mayhap, the boy who’d given her that flower was sorely mistaken? Perhaps Biera wasn’t Una? And worst of all, wasn’t it possible there was simply nothing Sorcha could do to restore Caden’s sight?

  Or win his heart?

  In the meantime, she was blinding herself with feeling. She was growing to care for these people—not simply Caden. She was getting to know the children, and she talked more oft with Bessie than she ever had with any of her sisters. These people took more interest in Sorcha than any of her kinsmen ever did. Back in Dubhtolargg, everyone had their own purpose, and only now that Sorcha considered it, she realized she’d never truly had a role to play at all. She was merely Sorcha, the wee one. Sorcha, the tag-along. Sorcha, the apprentice.

  Oh, yeah, everyone adored her, but they were far too busy to bother with her, and the sad truth was that without Una in the Vale, Sorcha was lonely. But, for the briefest time, while she and Caden had been friendly, Sorcha hadn’t been lonely at all. If she returned to the Vale, she would live her life precisely as she always had—serving her kinsmen, for little reward, because they didn’t need her. However, these people did need her.

  Ach, was she destined to visit her brother and Lianae in Ailginshire to see Graeme, only to feel that quickening beat of her heart? A sensation that, by the by, was not at all the same as what she felt around Caden.

  Confused and overwhelmed, Sorcha slipped outside for a breath of fresh air. But, then, she kept walking, toward the place she knew Liusaidh liked to graze. Only after she was halfway up the hill, she spied both horses standing close, nuzzling one another. Diabhal laid his black head on her snow-white rump, and within another instant, they had their backs to one another, dancing in a circle. Sorcha knew that mating dance, and she froze, watching with a growing sense of horror, as Diabhal moved behind her sweet mare, burying his muzzle between her haunches. And then, before her eyes, the stallion reared up and her sweet, beautiful filly did naught to dissuade him. She’d allowed him to sniff her, and then she put her arse in his face! Horrified, Sorcha spun about, and walked away—not the least for which, she realized… horses were exactly like people.

  Chapter 12

  “What the devil were ye thinking, Alec? That girl is no servant! She’s a nobleman’s daughter!”

  Not to mention that, from what Caden could tell, she was young and lovely, as well. Alec had brought them a world of trouble. And most significantly, Caden was growing fond of the lass, and he would have no choice in the way it would end. She would be wrenched away, as swiftly and violently as Wee Davie’s head. “Ha’e ye no sense?”

  At the instant, they were ensconced in the storehouse, positioning sacks according to their use, with Alec directing him like a simpleton. “This. Here. Four Steps. Against the wall.”

  Caden felt like a minion, good for little more than hauling things about. But that was not what had him most riled. He’d managed to save all his questions—and all his fury—for the moment when he could get Alec alone.

  “That auld woman—”

  Caden interrupted him. “Since when do ye listen to auld biddies?”

  Alec scratched his head. Caden heard the sound, and knew precisely what the gesture meant. Alec was feeling tense. It was a telling gesture, to be sure, and he had no need to see it with his eyes to know it with his ears. “Well, laird, since we ain’t never had one before,” Alec argued. “I did the best I could. And ye dinna ken. That auld woman arrived here without a ship. Explain that i’ ye will?”

  “Surely, the lot o’ ye were half in your cups. Ye only missed it.”

  “Nay, Caden. That was you.”

  It was not spoken as an insult. And it was true. Caden had been sotted for most of the past six months, leaving Alec to fill his shoes. So, then, in truth, if there was blame to be cast, it lay squarely at his own feet.

  “I swear on Cailleach’s good eye, I ha’ena touched a dram since ye awoke from your fever after the yule and I knew ye would live.”

  Caden felt duly chastised, whether that was Alec’s intention or not.

  “And what about that star?” Alec persisted.

  “What about it?”

  “Ach, Caden, ye canna see it, but I’m here to say ’tis unnatural. That auld woman claimed it would appear by day, bright enough to sail by, and there it be.”

  “Gobshite. We’ve seen bright stars before.”

  “Not like this one, Caden. She said the last time a destiny star came near, a bairn from some clan called Bethal Ham was visited by outlanders bringing him gold, frankincense and myrrh.”

  “That’s the Christ’s tale, knucklebone! D’ye ne’er listen to the priests?”

  Once a year, on the anniversary of St. Ronan’s death, they celebrated the Christian foundations of their isle, and although the great majority of his people were not true believers, not a one of them e’er dared spurn a sermon, just in case. As for the ship, it was a quandary, to be sure. It was simply not possible for anyone to approach the isle without being seen. Rònaigh was at the farthest point in the North Sea, far, far from the mainland of Scotia, and nearly as far from the Isle of Skye.

  “Aye, well, what about this? She told us where to find Sorcha and then she was precisely where Biera said she would be, dressed as she said, and traveling with that same mare. Everything was precisely as she said.”

  “And where, precisely, di’ Biera send ye to find her?”

  “Lochinver.”

  Caden inhaled sharply. “So ye took a girl from Lochinver? Devil take ye, mon! There are MacLeods there, as well, and if not MacLeods, someone else will come to claim her. For love’s sake Alec, I hope ye considered that, as well? For the time being, King David has left us be, but for all your idiocy, ye might have bargained us a war.”

  “Well, y’ see, that’s the point,” Alec argued. “That auld woman said—

  “Never mind what the auld woman said, Alec.”

  “But, Caden, ye dinna ken. Biera says her Da will come to claim her, and once he does—”

  Infuriated, Caden hurled the sack he was holding. He heard it split over the force of impact, spewing grain all over the floor. He turned and slammed his palm against the wall, somehow sensing it was near, cursing roundly. “Ye mean to say ye knew who would come for her, and ye took her anyhow?” At the heart of Caden’s outrage was a terrible sense of helplessness. He had no way to help anyone now—not even Sorcha. Alec had put the matter into good light. For all that he made his way about the keep with so much greater ease, he was still a man ill equipped to fight, and were he not, he would pound a modicum of sense into Alec’s fat head.

  “Caden… please… calm yourself…”

  “For Cailleach’s sake, Alec! I dinna need eyes in my head to see you’re a fool!”

  �
��Caden, but listen—her da, you see, he’s a devil. And now that ye know the puir lass, would ye ha’e me leave her to the man’s mercy? He raped her minny! Ain’t no telling what he would do to her. Biera said—”

  “Shut your gob, Alec! And dinna speak to me another word about Biera!”

  In truth, Caden would strangle any man who meant to harm Sorcha. But, clearly, he was naught but a blind man, leading blind men. He leaned against the wall, resting his forehead against the cold stone, pulling himself together. Hell itself would descend upon the isle, and they had no men or means to defend her. Rònaigh was well and truly lost. And, so would be Sorcha if what Alec said came true. For all this, Caden was hapless to protect her. And now that he had a care for her, the worst part of it all was that, despite his blindness, he’d had a wee glimpse of a life he might enjoy… with a good woman by his side.

  Mired in his dark and brooding thoughts, he gave Alec a chance to speak, so Alec defied him, rushing on to say, “Biera swore she could help, Caden. An’ now ye canna fault me taking a chance. Rònaigh will be lost without you. And, in the meantime, we could help the lass as well…”

  Caden inhaled a breath. He lifted his head from the wall, turning about wearily. “Help? And how is that?”

  “Well, you know the girl’s a healer—”

  “Yeah, Alec, I bloody well ken she’s a healer. She’s been slathering me for days with that stinking tincture. What I want to know is how we can help her, when half our men are already dead and I am blind to boot—and by the by, still blind, after all this time, despite that I stink to heaven and above.”

  “Yeah, laird,” Alec agreed, a bit more formally, and his voice was distant when he spoke. “But, here now, I tell ye, everything Biera said came true, and ye dinna meet her, Caden. I did. She had a way aboot her that put me in mind to the Gods. She was not ordinary, I tell ye. And…”