by Amy Tolnitch
“Nay.”
“Why not? You come from a good family and, God knows, you are a beautiful woman.”
Only Cain could make flattery sound like an accusation. Amice tossed down half her cup of wine. “Why are you asking me this? What difference does it make to you? And of all people, I would guess you could think of your own reasons why I have not married, false though they might be.”
He turned and sent her a wry smile. “Mayhap not all men are as insistent on constancy as I.”
Slowly, Amice rose and walked over to Cain, her face set into tense lines. She poured the rest of her wine over his head. “You ignorant bastard,” she hissed.
Cain jumped up, swiping red droplets from his cheek. “Oh? Do you forget I saw you! Tightly tucked in the arms of the Earl of Stanham. I am sure he was one of many.”
Gathering her breath, Amice slapped him across the face.
He caught her hand, his gaze glittering fire.
“I never betrayed you with another. You made your own conclusions without trusting me.”
“Trusting you? When most of the men at Chasteney lusted after you and made no secret of it? You jest.”
“You should have had faith in me.”
Cain started laughing. “You truly must deem me a fool.”
Hot tears stung Amice’s eyes, but she blinked them back and yanked her hand from Cain’s. “This is pointless. You persist in casting yourself as the victim, when indeed the opposite is true.”
Cain dropped her hand.
Amice stepped closer and raised a brow. “Does that make it easier for you, Cain? Easier to justify using me then abandoning me? Easier to treat me in one moment like a precious jewel then in the next like mud on the bottom of your boot? Do you assuage whatever conscience you have by deeming me unsuitable?”
“Damn you.”
This time, it was Amice who laughed.
Cain swallowed her laughter into his mouth.
Amice instinctively stiffened, but the touch, the taste of him was like healing balm to her bruised soul. She could no more pull away than a flower could resist rainfall.
Fiercely, she tore at Cain’s clothes, vaguely aware he did the same to hers. The sounds of fabric tearing blended with harsh breaths, gasps of desire.
When they finally came together skin to skin, Amice felt as if she would die from the intense sense of rightness she felt, the sheer wonder of his warmth enveloping her body. He pulled her down to the blanket and onto his muscled thighs.
Amice’s body stilled in anticipation. Cain broke their kiss and stared at her. His eyes were gleaming bits of sapphire, drawing her into a whirlpool of raw hunger. Amice smoothed her fingertips up the side of his face, the moment hushed, suspended.
Their gazes locked as Cain slowly, achingly, sank his thick, hot length into her body. The feeling was so incredible Amice could only gasp for breath, unable to look away from his gaze. She heard herself making soft panting sounds as her body quivered and stretched to take all of him in.
“Dear God, Amice,” Cain growled, then Amice found herself on her back on the blanket.
She wrapped her legs around Cain’s waist and hung on as he stroked into her, at first smooth and slow, then faster, deeper, both of them rocking, bucking as they joined. More and more yet, until Amice felt as if she drifted among the stars.
Floating free, Amice surrendered to feeling, savoring the brush of his tongue around hers, the taste of wine and dark desire, the scent of cedar and sage taking her back five years in a heartbeat.
Helplessly, Amice gazed into Cain’s ocean eyes, sucked into a sea of wanting as if there were no longer any boundaries between them, only one perfectly combined being.
Deep inside, an elemental part of her broke apart and reformed, responding to a shift in the very fabric of her existence. Of their existence. She could see Cain felt it too, by the stark intensity in his gaze.
Then he stroked the swollen nub of her sex, and Amice spun into a glittering abyss. She cried out with the joy of it, clenching around Cain with an uncontrollable rhythm as he drove into her, desperately, frantically, in a moment adding his own cry of release to hers.
The world had surely stopped.
Cain gathered her close and smoothed the tangle of hair from her face.
Amice snuggled into his embrace as his fingers gently stroked her hand. “I always loved your hands. So graceful yet strong.” She felt him draw in a sharp breath.
“Amice.”
“Aye?”
“I am sorry.”
Amice stiffened and lifted her head. Somewhere, she found a scrap of dignity and clung to it. “For what?”
He gestured to their bodies, slick with sweat, intertwined still. “You always were my strongest weakness.” His expression was both apologetic and self-mocking. In one look, he demeaned all they had just shared.
Shakily, Amice edged her body from his and got to her feet. She wanted to shout at him, to rip out his heart with her own hands, but pride kept her moving. How could he act as if this meant naught but a weakness of the flesh? Was she the only one who felt the deep perfection of their joining?
It seemed to take forever, but finally Amice managed to put herself into some degree of order. She walked toward the door without once glancing at Cain.
But at the end, she hesitated and looked back. Cain sat on the blanket cradling a cup of wine, watching her.
“Do not be sorry, Cain. I am not.”
He just stared at her.
Amice left without another word.
Chapter 6
Cain cracked open one eye at the loud explosion. As his chamber gradually righted itself, he realized the sound was a banging on the door. His head felt like someone had taken the flat side of a sword to it, and when he tried to sit up his stomach did not want to come with the rest of his body. He groaned and raked his hair back, just before Gifford opened the door and peered in.
“’Bout time you woke up.” Gifford wrinkled his nose and glanced around the chamber, his gaze sharpening with interest. “What went on in here?”
“I took your advice and got drunk.” Cain swung out of bed and staggered to a bowl of water, dumping the cool contents over his head.
“You picked a hell of a time to do that.”
Cain turned to stare at his uncle as he dried off. “Why?”
“We appear to have a bit of a problem developing.”
“What have you done now? Did anyone get hurt?”
Gifford sniffed and drew himself up straight. “Nothing to do with me at all.”
“What is it?” It took a couple of tries, but Cain finally managed to pull on braies, chausses, and a tunic.
“A band of Highlanders led by the largest savage I have ever seen is outside the walls. The savage demands you release Amice to him.”
Piers bounded into the room. “He says he is the Chief of the MacKeirs and Amice is his betrothed.”
Cain sat down on the bed. “Good God.” Why was he surprised Amice had failed to mention her betrothal?
“The MacKeir appears to be under the belief you are holding Amice against her will.”
“Where is she?”
Piers chuckled. “Hiding inside her chamber with her companion.”
“You best see to the matter,” Gifford said. “This MacKeir brought enough men and equipment to mount a siege.”
“’Tis easy enough. I am not restraining Amice. She is free to leave whenever she likes.” And doubtless eager to do so after last night, he thought.
Gifford shuffled back and forth on his feet, peering into the corners of Cain’s chamber. “What of Muriel?” he whispered.
Damn. He had to keep Amice here until Muriel was expelled. “Has Amice spoken to her betrothed?”
“Not yet. Got the feeling she’s not sure what to say.”
Cain frowned. “What a mess.” He rose and started to leave his chamber.
Piers coughed.
“What?”
“Do you not thin
k you should put on shoes? My lord.”
Cain glowered at him and pulled on his boots. He tromped down the stairs, his irritation mounting with each step. What had Amice done to this MacKeir? And why did she not tell him she was free to go?
He strode across the bailey, dodging through a swarm of people rushing back and forth, already preparing for the possibility of attack. Stable grooms hurriedly led horses to the smith’s forge for new shoes while members of the garrison ran for the armory. Cain nearly stumbled over a flock of chickens.
By the time he reached the rose chamber, Cain felt so angry that his head did not even hurt anymore. He banged open the door and anger turned to rage. “What the hell is going on here?”
Amice did not look up. She and Laila knelt on the floor within a circle of flickering candles. He caught the whispered words, “Beloved Eostre, hear my plea.”
Damn it. His castle was under attack, and she was holding some kind of pagan ritual. “Amice!” he roared.
She looked up, her expression a mix of fear and defiance.
Cain took a deep breath. “What is going on?”
“I—”
“Just tell the man you are not a prisoner.”
“I tried, but he does not believe me.”
Cain gritted his teeth. “Come with me.”
He half dragged her back across the bailey to the walkway on top of the stone gatehouse, Piers and Gifford following them. A line of archers had already spread out along the allure. His garrison captain stood to one side, looking apprehensive.
“Why was the drawbridge down?” Cain demanded.
His captain’s gaze flitted back and forth. “We was receiving supplies, my lord.”
“And failed to notice a troop of armed men approaching?”
“Aye.” For a moment, it appeared the man would say more, but in the end he just bit his lip.
As Cain looked down at the Highlanders armed for battle, he resolved to replace his captain immediately. Some of the Scots were working on assembling a trebuchet while others were in the process of dragging an immense log toward the castle walls. “Which one is The MacKeir?” he hissed.
“The biggest one, right there.” Amice pointed.
Amice’s betrothed looked like a massive wolf. He had black hair with a braid on one side, wild green eyes, and sported a truly astonishing array of swords and daggers.
Just then, The MacKeir looked up. “Amice!” he bellowed. “Be strong. I shall rescue you from this knave. Hawksdown, you whoreson, release my woman.”
Well, that was it. Cain turned to Amice. “Go to your betrothed.”
Amice’s face whitened. “Nay.”
Cain shook his head to clear it. “Why not? You belong to him.” He ignored the slice of pain the words produced.
“I do not.”
“Explain.” As Cain glanced down, The MacKeir drew one of his swords.
“I shall gladly fight you for my woman,” he roared. “Come down here, coward, and settle this like a man.”
“I am not holding her prisoner, you idiot,” Cain called down in reply. He turned back to Amice and lifted a brow.
“He is not my betrothed. He… would like it to be so, but there is no understanding between us.”
“Mayhap your brother made the agreement after you left Wareham.”
Amice’s face turned a shade paler. “Nay, he would not do that without my approval. And he knows my position on Lugh.”
“Lugh? It sounds as if you and the man are on intimate terms.”
“Aye, of course he has bedded me, but that does not mean marriage. You know that.”
“Sarcasm is not helpful at the moment.”
Amice glared at him. “Nor are more baseless insults.”
Cain sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Perhaps if you went out there to talk to him, you could persuade him to leave.”
“If I leave the castle, he will take me to Tunvegen, I am sure of it.”
“Hell.” Cain paced back and forth on the allure, nearly bumping into Piers and Gifford, who were naturally peering down at the Highlanders with excitement. If The MacKeir truly was not betrothed to Amice, how could he put her out, knowing the man would force her to make it so? He crossed his arms and studied Amice. “You swear to me that you are not betrothed to The MacKeir?”
“I told you I am not.”
“Very well. I shall send a messenger to Wareham to make sure. Until I receive a response, The MacKeir will be barred entry.”
Amice visibly swallowed. “Thank you, my lord.”
Cain walked to the edge of the battlement. “Lady Amice does not wish to leave. She is under my protection, not my restraint.”
A great bellow of anger rose up over the castle walls. “Liar! Cowardly whoreson!”
“And the lady informs me you are not her betrothed.”
For a moment, there was silence, then The MacKeir spoke again. “You give me no choice, Hawksdown. I shall besiege your castle until I gain what is mine.”
“You are making a great mistake,” Cain responded.
“Nay, ‘tis you who is making the mistake of going against The MacKeir. Amice, my precious, be brave. Soon, we shall be together.”
Cain heard Amice give a heavy sigh, just before the walls shook as a battering ram crashed into the portcullis. The archers shot off a rain of arrows as Cain thrust Amice behind him. “Get down,” he shouted at Piers and Gifford.
But just as they made for the steps, a strange cracking noise sounded. Cain half-turned, seeking his garrison captain. The man was standing with an expression of utter shock on his face. “Thomas, what was that?”
Thomas looked at Cain and shook his head. “The ram broke.”
“What?”
“Aye, cracked apart with the first blow.”
“The tree must have been diseased.”
Thomas looked doubtful, then cast a wary glance around him. “I do not think so, my lord.”
Cain could not help it, he glanced around also, half-expecting Muriel to be floating on the walkway. “Amice, you and Gifford get to the hall and stay there. Piers?”
“Aye, I shall fetch Peter to aid us with our mail.”
When Amice heard the knock on the door of her chamber, her stomach gave a lurch. Before she opened the door, Amice knew who it was. She was surprised he had not sought her out earlier when she failed to appear at supper.
Desperately trying to collect her pride and courage, Amice straightened her shoulders and opened the door.
Cain’s gaze glowed like burning embers. He strode into the chamber without asking for entrance.
Amice steeled herself for his anger and made herself calmly pour a cup of wine. She did not offer any to Cain.
“What have you done?” he asked softly.
“Naught but try to aid you.”
His face drew into taut lines, the planes of his cheekbones plainly visible in the dying light. “I asked you to get rid of that damned ghost. Not only have you failed to do that, now I have some Scottish madman battering at my doors to get at you. Why is that, Amice?”
“We are making progress with Muriel. ‘Tis too much for you to expect me to accomplish the task in the span of five days.”
Cain took a step closer and crossed his arms. “Why is The MacKeir here? What did you do to him to create such fervor?”
Amice gave him a bitter smile. “I know ‘tis difficult for you to conceive, but some men actually find me appealing, valuable.”
“I know well just how appealing you can be.”
Something inside Amice crumbled, and she clenched her hands into fists. “I have never been with any man but you.”
Cain glanced at her askance.
“Never.”
“Amice, there is no need to lie.”
“How nice it must be for you to be so certain in your judgment. Why, I cannot say, but to my shame, ‘tis the truth. I have never wanted to be with another man.”
“What are you saying? That you did not dall
y with the Earl of Stanham?”
“I did not bed the Earl of Stanham!” Amice yelled. God, it felt good to finally say it. “He made it appear that way to hurt you. Aye, he wanted me but I refused him. He was jealous of you.”
Cain’s eyes grew wide and his gaze turned incredulous. “Come now, Amice, are you claiming you were committed to me? In love with me?”
“You know I was.”
“I was just another suitor to you,” he said, shaking his head. Dismissing her feelings. Dismissing the power of what lay between them.
Amice gulped in a breath and fought back tears. “I loved you more in an instant than anyone else could in a lifetime. How dare you discount that!”
Cain’s jaw clenched and he took a step toward her. For one breathless moment, Amice thought he would take her in his arms, but he fisted his hands and turned away.
Chapter 7
As the siege wore into the second day, Amice sat in the hall and shared a suspicious look with Laila. From reports brought to them by a young page, Lugh and his men had unsuccessfully tried to ram through the portcullis, suffering four more inexplicably broken logs. When they tried to climb a ladder to the north tower, the ladder, seemingly on its own, fell away from the wall, dumping the men into the moat.
“It has to be Muriel.” Amice almost felt sorry for Lugh.
“Meddlesome wraith,” Gifford muttered as he paced back and forth. Suddenly, he whirled and clapped his hands together. “I do remember you.”
Amice looked up. “What do you mean?”
Gifford plopped onto the bench next to her and crossed his legs. “I visited Wareham years ago. You were a child.”
“I am sorry, Gifford. I do not recall you.”
“Your father hosted a great hunt. People came from all over the countryside. I myself saw your father take down a boar.” He peered at her closely.
And Amice remembered. She had been six years of age. Hot shame flooded her at the memory. She had been so excited at the prospect of so many fine guests.
Gifford gave her a sympathetic look, and Amice stiffened. “I lost my way and came upon you in the garden.”
“Aye.” She had been hiding, barred from the festivities because of yet another “wrong” she supposedly committed to earn a beating by her father.