by Amanda Scott
“I doubt the longboats belong to the Pope. Vatican ships always carry cargo. As to the others, they may be warships. We’ve seen little more than their sails.”
“But why not stop you at sea, then? You say they’ve kept their distance.”
“Fife cannot have full control of those ships,” Giff said. “Moreover, he may not have risked letting de Gredin think we have the Stone. Fife may not quite believe it himself, come to that. But if he needed de Gredin to follow us and de Gredin cares only about the treasure, my guess is that he hopes I can lead them to the whole thing.”
“In any event, you will stay here until we can think what to do about them,” Henry said. “That landing can be reached from land only through the castle, and as few as four men with pikes or lances can defend it against anyone trying to approach it from the sea. But we dare not move your cargo until Fife leaves.”
“I’ll stay a day for my lads to rest and to load more stores, and I’ll need one of your rutters with details of the Caithness north coast,” Giff said. “But I mean to leave before dawn the day after tomorrow.”
“Don’t be daft, lad. It is raining already, and the storm that’s about to erupt will turn the Pentland Firth into a churning cauldron and keep it so for days.”
Giff grinned. “Can you think of a better way to stop Fife?”
“You’ve eighty miles to go betwixt here and Cape Wrath,” Henry reminded him. “You’d be lucky to get five without foundering, and even if the Fates let you make it past Cape Wrath, the storm could follow you right down the west coast.”
“I won’t mind if it does,” Giff said. “Storms energize me, Henry, and Fife fears them. Moreover, no captain from France or Rome is likely to know these waters well enough to risk following us into that cauldron you’ve described.”
“You’ll leave Sidony here, of course.”
“I don’t know yet,” Giff admitted. “I mean to ask her what she wants to do.”
“You cannot take her with you on such a trip!”
“We’ll see. She says she is tired of others always making her decisions.”
“Well, she cannot make this one. Your plan is too reckless. Not only would you endanger everyone aboard, but you’ve forgotten the importance of your cargo.”
“Nay, I have not. But I have faith that St. Columba will protect us on this voyage if on no other, Henry. That cargo I carry is sacred, after all, and the omens have been good. A man either believes in them and in his own course, or he fails.”
After that, Henry reserved argument and changed the subject, demanding news from home, but Giff knew he would hear more before leaving. So, an hour later, when one of Henry’s men reported that five of the pursuing ships had run aground on the long shoals off Noss Head over which the Serpent had skimmed on the rapidly ebbing tide a half hour before them, he took the news as yet another strong omen of approval.
Bidding Henry good night, Giff accepted a jug of brogac, another of claret, and two silver goblets as a wedding present. Then, recalling the image of Sidony in the tub, and eager to discover if other portents he had noted might also favor him, he hurried to find the bedchamber that he was to share with her.
He was halfway up the stairs when the image of his lass in the tub altered to one disapproving of what she had called his impetuosity. Henry had been less polite, calling him reckless, just as Hugo had before him.
Giff disagreed with all of them. To be sure, he had great respect for Henry and Hugo. He cared about the lass, too, and was coming to like her more each day. But she scarcely knew him yet and knew even less about how to ensure victory.
So why, he wondered, did her words linger so clearly in his mind?
Sitting by a cheerful fire on a pile of large, stuffed, embroidered cushions, bathed, well fed, smelling delightfully of lavender from the fine French soap Countess Jean had provided, and wearing the countess’s lace-trimmed cambric shift and soft yellow velvet robe, Sidony heard the latch and drew a quick breath.
When she saw that Giff had two jugs and as many goblets, she decided she would feel less vulnerable on her feet and stood up in Jean’s slippers to face him.
He stopped in the doorway and stared at her, the expression on his face bringing a flush of heat to her cheeks that seemed to spread all through her. Jean’s own maidservant had attended her, had even washed her hair and brushed it dry at the fire. Soft and silky, it spilled over her shoulders and down her back to her waist.
He whistled low and said, “You, my lass, are a sight to steal any man’s heart.”
Though pleased, she nonetheless nearly reminded him she was not his lass, until she recalled that before God’s Holy Kirk, she was. That thought and the sight of him recalled her to her vows and to the fact that she found her marriage less disturbing and more acceptable each time she clapped eyes on him.
His widening smile increased the strange sensations he always stirred in her.
Stepping inside, elbowing the door shut, he said, “You had that robe from Jean, did you not?”
“Aye,” she said. “She has been most kind, but it is a trifle large.”
“You look like a child wrapped in its mother’s clothes.”
“I am not a child,” she said indignantly.
“No, sweetheart, I can see that. Is the water in that tub still warm?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “It has been sitting some time now, but I’m sure you can find someone to bring you more hot water.”
“I don’t want to wait,” he said, his expression openly hungry now.
The look set her nerves atingle with warning and something else that made her hesitate to say more. But she gathered her wits long enough to say with grave dignity, “If you want to bathe, sir, I can walk in the gallery whilst you do.”
“Nay, lass, you’ll help me. ’Tis a wife’s duty, after all, and you vowed—”
“I know what I vowed, and there was naught in it about baths!”
“There was something about obedience, though. You seem resistant, so doubtless you want practice.” He handed her the goblets. “Hold those,” he said.
Watching him warily, she obeyed. He poured from one jug into each goblet. It was not wine. Sniffing it suspiciously, she said, “Is this brogac?”
“Aye,” he said. “Have you never tasted it?”
She shook her head.
“Well, I’m going to have my bath, and you can sit and watch me and sip your brogac. I’ll even tell you a bard’s tale or two to pass the time, if you like.”
“Very well,” she said, seeing naught to lose by obeying such a request.
Giff set the jugs on the low stool by the hearth where she had put his brogac and watched as she curled up on her cushions like a kitten, goblet in hand. She was too far from the stool to set the goblet on it, and setting it on the floor from her deep nest of cushions would be difficult. Satisfied, he tested the water. It was tepid, but it smelled deliciously of her soap, and the fire had kept it from turning icy, so it would serve well enough. He would prove to her that he was not reckless, but he would also prove that she ought to remember warnings when he issued them.
The bruise on her chin had faded, and her cheeks were rosy from her bath.
He burned to touch her, but as he pulled off his clothing, he turned away when an unfamiliar voice of forethought whispered that he might otherwise frighten her. Then he sank into the tub, picked up the ewer beside it, poured water over himself, and soaped himself all over. Dripping water and soap, he smiled at her.
“Have you ever helped bathe a man, sweetheart?”
She shook her head. “My father says it is not a fit task for a maiden.”
“Even a maiden can bathe her husband. You may help me, if you like.”
Shifting in a way that told him his words had stirred sensations through her body that she was trying to ignore, she said, “You said you’d tell me a bard’s tale.”
“We could do both.” He dipped the ewer to refill it.
“I�
��d rather just hear the story,” she said, sipping her brogac and making a face. “This is very strong, I think.”
“One grows used to it, and ’tis the drink of the Isles, but if you do not think you can tolerate it . . .” He paused, saw her sip again, and thinking things were going well, he said, “I know many Highland tales. Is there one you’d like to hear?”
“Aye, there is,” she said, taking another sip.
“Which one?” he asked as he bent forward to pour water over his head and rinse the soap from his hair.
“I want to hear how you came to believe that if a person loses the right moment to do something, he will never find another.”
He stopped moving with one hand still on his head as the past surged up and chilled him to the bone.
Ruthlessly suppressing the flood of memory, he said carefully, “’Twas nobbut an old French proverb I once heard: ‘All the treasures of the earth cannot buy back one lost moment.’ My father said it, and I took it to heart.”
“What moment had you lost to make him say that to you?”
The memory swept through his mind again, stronger than ever. Setting down the ewer, he drew a deep breath and let it out. Then, measuring his words, he said, “I do not want to talk about this tonight, lass. ’Tis nowt.”
She leaned forward, hands cradling the bowl of her goblet, unaware that her robe gaped enough to show the soft mounds of her breasts and her deep cleavage. Her hair spilled forward, too, a glowing, palely gilded sheet of silk in the firelight.
“It cannot be nowt,” she said softly. “I’ve seen a sad look sometimes cross your face without cause, and you speak of lost moments too often for it to be nowt to you. Whatever happened must have been dreadful.”
He had never felt so vulnerable, so unmanned. But when he looked at her and saw the gentle intensity in her eyes, he wanted to tell her, to explain. The thought that he could tell her felt strange, and he could think of no easy way. He feared that her gentle, understanding demeanor could too easily turn to repugnance.
Her gaze held steady, her manner remained serene, and her trust in him flowed from her in waves, assuring him that he could say anything to her. Even so, he knew what he risked, and he knew, too, of only one way to say it.
“I killed my brother,” he said and, to his shock, felt tears spring to his eyes.
Dashing them away, aware that he sat in rapidly cooling water with wet strands of hair hanging over his face, he reached for his goblet, meaning to drink it dry, but she was there before he could lift it, and she held on to it firmly.
“Wait,” she said. “I would hear the rest first. How old were you?”
“Eleven,” he said curtly. “Lass, I cannot sit like this and talk of such things.”
As if he had not spoken, she said, “How old was your brother?”
“Thirteen.” He realized she meant to have the tale, and having begun, decided to tell it quickly. “He taunted me. I don’t recall what he said, but he made me angry, then ran, saying I couldn’t catch him. Duncraig sits on basalt cliffs above the sea. I’d played there the day before and fallen into a crevice, a small one but enough to trip a careless lad and make him look foolish. I knew he was heading for it but not how near the cliff it lay. I had that moment to stop him, but I hesitated. And he was lost.”
“He fell?”
“He . . . he tried to jump it, stumbled, and plunged to the rocks below.”
A tear spilled down his cheek and he shivered, eleven years old again, seeing the spirited, beloved boy who had never aged beyond thirteen vanish before his eyes again as he had on that terrible day.
Chapter 18
Sidony wanted to weep with Giff, but she knew that no man would thank her for encouraging or even noticing his tears. She had also seen him shudder, and although she felt sure that a memory had caused it rather than a chill, she pushed his goblet into his hand and said, “Here, drink this. It will warm you.”
As he drank, she stood up, taking more care than when she had flown off the cushions and dropped her own goblet to the hearthrug at the sight of the tears in his eyes. At the time, she had meant only to offer comfort, but the same instinct that warned her now against letting him know she had seen his tears had warned her then that she must make him tell her the rest.
It was a wonder, though, that in her haste, the countess’s robe had not tripped her and sent her flying into the tub with him. The image nearly made her smile.
“Art trying not to laugh at me, sweetheart?”
“I was thinking about how near I came to treading on this robe and pitching myself headfirst into that tub with you,” she said, turning toward the bed. “The countess sent a robe of Henry’s for you, too. Her woman put it here on the bed.”
She heard water splashing and, turning back, saw that he had got out of the tub. He faced the hearth, dripping, and rubbed his head hard with a towel. His body gleamed golden in the fire’s glow and that from the cressets.
Walking up behind him, having all she could do not to stare the whole way at his taut, well-shaped buttocks, she held up the robe, saying, “Put your arms in.”
He obeyed and turned to face her with the robe still open, but when she began to step back, he dropped the towel, caught her shoulders, and pulled her close. Her head fit just below his chin.
She hugged him back, hard, muttering, “You will catch your death if—”
“I have never told anyone else.”
“Is that why you’ve stayed away from Duncraig for so long?”
“My father sent me soon afterward to foster with my uncle at Loch Hourn.”
“Because of the accident?”
“I’m sure he blamed me. Sakes, I blame myself. Had I shouted . . .”
“Why did you not?” she asked when he remained silent.
“It happened so quickly, but I had time, because I remember thinking he’d look a fool when he fell into that crevice.”
“Is that why your father blamed you?”
“I never told him that part,” he said. “He asked what happened, and I said Bryan was running and tripped. I said it happened all in a moment, and that’s when he said the bit about nothing bringing back lost ones. So I knew.”
“But you must have gone home to visit during your fostering.”
“Aye, sure, but he was gruff and distant, so in time I stopped. My uncle taught me about boats and gave me one of my own. Then I went to Dunclathy.”
She would have asked him more, but he straightened and said, “Enough talk of the past, lass. I want to get into bed and hold you. Will you let me do that?”
She looked into his eyes. “Aye, if you like, but you wanted to seduce me before. That’s why you plied me with brogac.”
He smiled ruefully. “Aye, I did, but in my favor, you should know I was fool enough to tell Henry I’d let you choose for yourself if you’d go with me or stay here.”
“Certainly I’ll go with you,” she said. “I’m your wife. Even if I were not,” she added, “you said before that if I did come with you, you’d take me to Glenelg.”
She knew by the way he looked at her that, whatever he had said to Henry, he meant now to persuade her not to go, even to forbid it, so she said quickly, “We can talk about that later. Now, however, I agree that we should go to bed.”
Giff watched her walk away from him. Despite the voluminous robe, she moved with a fascinating grace that he could happily watch forever. But why had it been so easy to tell her about Bryan’s death? He had expected rejection, but although his confession had saddened her, it had neither shocked nor repulsed her.
Snuffing the cressets, and setting her fallen goblet on the wee stool beside his, he followed her to the huge curtained bed, taking the robe from her when she slipped it off, and laying it across the end of the bed. The lacy shift she wore was also too large for her. She seemed unaware that it revealed most of her charms as she climbed into the bed and scooted to the far side.
He took off Henry’s robe and cast it atop
hers, then climbed in and lay on his back beside her. Raising his right arm, he eased it to the pillow behind her.
“Come here and let me hold you,” he said.
Without protest, she snuggled into the curve of his body with her head on his shoulder. Her hair felt like silk, and her body was even warmer than he had expected, or else his own was colder from his bath than he had thought.
They lay silently for some time before he realized his body had no intention of cooperating with his decision to suppress his lust for her and just hold her.
She snuggled closer, turning enough so he could feel the soft curve of her breast, clad in cambric, against his naked chest.
“You’re still cold,” she murmured.
“Nay, then, I’m not,” he said. “You’re as good as a hot brick to warm a man.” When she chuckled, he added somberly, “I feared you would think less of me.”
“Why should I? Why should anyone? You were only a bairn with no ability to persuade a lad two years older than you of anything, any more than I could sway my sisters. There are many things I do not know, but I do know children,” she said firmly. “How could you have known he’d go over the cliff? You had not done so.”
“Nay, but I was not running. I’d never have been so—”
“So daft?” she suggested helpfully. “Is your father also a Scottish Templar?”
The non sequitur startled him, but he said, “Aye, sure, ’tis why he sent me to Dunclathy. With all you’ve heard, doubtless you know many of us trained there.”
“I did think so, since nearly everyone I know seems to be a Templar and all of them know Sir Hugo and his father. I presume they are all men of good sense, too.”
“Aye, sure, but if you mean they are never reckless, as I am—”
“I did not say that,” she said, laying her soft palm on his chest and shifting slightly as if to get more comfortable.
“Sweetheart, if you keep doing that, I won’t answer for my actions.”
“Why?”