Night Visitor

by Melanie Jackson

  Taffy was modest and reserved, but there was little question she was attracted to him. He didn’t doubt that he could persuade her to bundling, but to start this courtship ritual without her knowledge of what he sought, would be dishonorable, since he was not the only one who wished this particular consummation from her.

  He watched avidly as her heavy skirt and sark were shed. Beneath them she wore a sleeveless leine of white silk. It was unspeakably perfect in its stitchery, and he was glad that she did not heed the Puritan notion that silk was sinful when worn by women.

  Perhaps in her time, the cloth no longer was forbidden, though her modest reactions to him—even when she obviously felt drawn to him by inclination and magic—suggested that the Puritans were still having their way with the ladies’ upbringings.

  There was little plumpness to her, he saw as she removed most of her undergarments and stepped cautiously into the stream wearing only the sheer leine.

  But she was beautiful for all of being thin. Painted in the faint light of the stars, her skin was lustrous as fresh-drawn milk where it peeped over the nearly invisible dampened silk.

  He closed his eyes on the breathtaking sight and exhaled slowly. Enough! He, too, needed to bathe. He plucked the brooch from his shoulder and set about unwinding his plaid. It and his saffron sark were quickly tossed aside.

  Malcolm grinned suddenly. He had not wanted to enter the still-folk’s realm, but now here he was and he would get one wish granted. He had thought to cast off his plaid to make a bed for them to lie in, and he would have to; they had no blankets. Of course, he had thought to lay her down in a drift of heather—

  He lifted his head at the faint rustling back in the glen and then laughed silently. It wasn’t birds that moved about, for no avians nested in the copsewood, perhaps put off by the ancient magic wrought for thousands of years within this heartwood and sacred spring.

  Well then, and if he was wishing for things, perhaps there might be a slight chill to encourage her to cuddle down with him—

  A finger of cold air traced over his neck, causing him to shiver.

  Later, he thought firmly. After they had washed the stench of the Campbells away. And mayhap he would sing her a wee lullaby. A night visiting song perhaps, to see if her blood could be stirred by such warm verses.

  With luck, he would not need the faerie breezes at all.

  Chapter Five

  Taffy cast her wet shift over a shrub to dry and dressed herself quickly in her dusty jean skirts. She didn’t dare move about the riverbank without Malcolm there to be her guide, even though her eyes were slowly becoming accustomed to the dark.

  Fortunately, he was delayed only a moment before joining her on the sloping bank. This time she found his hand resting at her waist less unnerving, and she was grateful for its guidance along the glen’s narrow trail, though she never actually stumbled upon a single root or vine.

  Though the moon was by that hour well up in the sky, the thick arboreal cover kept most of its light from shining through. And what little light showed into the copse seemed pale, as though a curtain of fog had been thrown over them. It felt oddly protective to Taffy, a baffling shield against any who sought them.

  There was enough light, however, to reveal the fact that Malcolm had stopped at the side of the glen and begun unwinding his barely anchored plaid. He was calmly spreading it on the ground.

  “Malcolm? What are you doing?” she asked, in a whisper scarcely louder than the rustling cloth. His shirt was a pale shadow that fell only to midthigh. Even in the dark, it seemed indecent to watch the muscles ripple up and down the expanse of bared leg.

  “The benefit o’ hieland dress, lass. We always carry our bedding wi’ us.”

  “Oh.” She swallowed and looked away. Then, feeling stupid for her modesty, she allowed her gaze to return to Malcolm’s long outline. His legs were tanned as leather and ropy with the hardened sinews of a man who spent his days climbing steep mountains.

  “I smell heather,” she said, surprised at the soft fragrance that tickled her nose and seizing on that safe topic the way a drowning person would grab at passing flotsam.

  “Aye. We’ve a soft drift of it here. Come, lass.” He reached out his warm hard hand and found her immediately in spite of the dark. He tugged her down beside him before she could voice a protest. Her hands encountered the soft wool laid over a floral cushion as she knelt at his side. More of the delicate highland perfume caressed her face, though it was mixed now with the scent of Malcolm himself.

  “Ants,” she suggested breathlessly. “They might be attracted to the flow—”

  “Never say so, Taffy lass” he warned, sounding half-serious. “Come now. ‘Tis growing chill. We must wrap up tight.”

  Now that he mentioned it, Taffy felt a nearly autumnal breath of wind passing over her nape and shoulders. Feeling painfully awkward, she nevertheless allowed him to draw her into his arms and roll them both into a cocoon of plaid.

  “Your hands. I should bandage them,” she suggested quiveringly, unable to manage anything but the shallowest of respirations.

  “They are not so dainty as tae be humbuggit by a day of playing, lass. You are chittering like a baby bird. Come closer.”

  At first, Taffy’s body held itself rigid, but as Malcolm’s own limbs relaxed and his heat began to seep into her bones, and his scent began to fill her sleepy head, she allowed some of her wariness and embarrassment to slip away. Waiting nearby was a night’s and day’s and then another night’s cumulative exhaustion. It blotted out such things as modesty and even fear of the dark or bears or Campbells.

  Malcolm inhaled, taking in the scent of Taffy’s hair and soft, white skin. Female, yes, but different from the others as well. She was, he knew, perfect.

  She was also tense as a cat in a burlap bag at target practice. Clearly, she had not lain with a man before. This was a marvelous situation that he both cursed and was in genuine awe of. Virgins were not a species with which he was at all acquainted.

  Uncertain if it was an aid or no, he began stroking her silky hair. The feelings of sensation had already returned to his hands. The healing waters had done their work. Her presence would finish the cure.

  Then, recalling his earlier notion of a night visiting song, he began working a lyric inside his head. Once arranged, he tucked her securely into the curve of his body and began to sing a soft lullaby. His voice was barely stronger than the fall of feathered spring rain upon still water.

  He didn’t bother to order his hidden audience away. Nothing intimate would pass between him and his bonnie lass this night, and his order would be for naught; the still-folk dearly loved music in any form.

  I’ve come back at long last, my love, Through tempest, death, and war;

  O’er mountains tall and lochs most deep, Tae visit ye once more.

  And here she rests on blanket warm, Wi’ her golden hair unbound, While I wait, beyond her gate, Kneeling on the stony ground.

  To my lass, I softly call:

  “Arise, love, and let me in,

  For I must away wi’ the dawning light

  And have but an hour tae spend.”

  And o’er she turned in her blanket warm, Shewing not the least alarm, And op’d the blanket tae her love, And tak’d him tae her bonnie arms.

  Taffy sighed. As a troubadour, he was unequalled. His voice was meant for song. Her heart—and likely that of every other female who had ever heard him!—was wheat before the sickle of his poem, she thought sleepily.

  Gloriously male and talented…but those things weren’t everything. What she truly wanted in a lover was…was…she screwed her eyes shut in an effort to concentrate beyond the spell of that dream-weaver voice, for some reason not in the least degree alarmed at the line of thought she was pursuing.

  That’s right! She wanted a future. And a future they would likely not have, for she would be returning home soon. She had to bear that fact in mind when her spirits were in such a turmoiled state tha
t she might be inclined to do something extremely foolish.

  As the song ended, she turned her head up far enough to see the pale triangle of his face.

  “And will you be gone in the morning?” she asked, her voice slightly slurred by overcoming sleep.

  “Nay, I’d not leave without saying farewell. It isnae in my heart tae be so cruel. Tae either of us.

  “Ha! I bet you say that to all the women.”

  A soft, silent laugh shook him.

  “Well, ‘tis truth, after all. And there has not been sae many of them that it was an imposition.”

  She snorted, but it was a half-hearted effort.

  “Such clishmaclaver, lass! I’d not say one thing and do another. You needn’t worry that my morals are so malleable as those purse-proud, acquisitive Sassans ye’ve been living amidst.”

  “That’s beautifully said…for a parsimonious, bloodthirsty highlander, but I still wager you spend your nights festooned with weak-willed wenches,” she grumbled, nearly silently. A thick drowse was stealing over her words and notions that gave her a new freedom of thought at the same time they robbed her of the power of measured speech.

  This time he laughed aloud. His soft chuckle was but another caress to her head where his fingers still stroked her tangled hair.

  “Festooned? Not lately. Now, go on tae sleep, lass,” he urged, his ancient accent growing more pronounced as he also slid toward dreams. “We’ll speak more o’ this on the morrow.”

  Unable to resist the pull of slumber, she rested heavily against his sark-clad chest and did as he requested. That night, she was untroubled by dreams.

  She awoke gradually the next dawn, aware of the man who laid beside her, but undisturbed to find herself still wrapped in Malcolm’s arms.

  “Good morrow, lass,” Malcolm’s delicious voice said softly, and then something soft caressed her brow.

  “It’s so quiet,” she murmured, unalarmed by the gentle kiss or the long breath that fanned her forehead. “I’ve never heard a morning so still. No roosters, no sheep, not people even.”

  “No deer come here tae graze unless invited. No birds feast on summer fruit. This is an old place, Taffy lass, and the still-ones bear the sway in these ancient, magicked lands.”

  Taffy lifted her chin and looked into Malcolm’s eyes. For an instant, they were as they appeared in her dreams, pupils dilated and shadows moving in their depths. But he blinked once and the illusion was gone.

  “And that’s why the Campbells haven’t found us either? Because this place belongs to the still-folk?”

  “It is. Though ‘tis less a case of this place belonging tae the still-folk than the still-folk belonging tae the glen,” he answered. Looking up intently into the bower overheard, he narrowed his eyes.

  Taffy sensed that Malcolm had more to say but was debating internally about whether it was best to speak to her of those thoughts in his mind.

  “Are they still searching for us? The Campbells, I mean,” she asked at last, not nearly as alarmed at the thought as she had been the night before.

  “Most assiduously, I expect. And suffer we shall an they find us.”

  “But they won’t find us, will they?” she asked, confident of his answer. No one would find them until they were ready to be found.

  “Not so long as we remain here in the still-folk’s sacred place.”

  Taffy sat up and looked about the glen. She had been unable to see much the night before because of the darkness and her distraction, but it seemed to her that it had changed in the night. It was softer now and wore the colors of late spring rather than summer.

  “We can’t stay here forever, I suppose,” she said regretfully and began hunting about for her hairpins. Finding them gone, she began braiding her unruly mop into a long chain.

  “Na, ‘twould no’ be wise tae tarry over long within the glen.”

  “Why?” Taffy paused, a bit startled and dismayed. “Are we still in danger? Here? But I thought the Campbells couldn’t find us.”

  “No from Campbells—let it be, Taffy lass.” Malcolm reached out and threaded his fingers through hers and pulled her hand away. The braid unraveled along with her breath. “Why all this passion for pins and bindings in your hair? The breezes like it loose and so do I. Leave off the fussing.”

  “You won’t like having to guide me about like a blind person,” she warned, diverted from her earlier question, which somehow seemed unimportant, something she didn’t need to worry about just then. “It gets everywhere when I leave it loose.”

  “Tuck it behind your ears. It’ll stay.”

  “No, thank you. I prefer the untidy hair.”

  “Ye don’t care for yer ears.”

  She shrugged carelessly.

  “Others don’t.” She turned her head to look down at Malcolm sprawled comfortably in his heather bed. No man anywhere had ever looked so at ease. She could only marvel at his calm acceptance of their circumstance and try to emulate him. Worry served no useful purpose. And they were quite safe, she was certain.

  “They fear them?” he asked with a small frown forming between his slanted brows.

  Taffy reached out a finger to smooth away the frown marring his beautiful face.

  “It isn’t that. They are just unusual, and women are not supposed to be unusual. We are all supposed to be pretty—pretty ears, pretty noses, pretty feet. And be obedient and spiritless and want to be wives and mothers.”

  Taffy was a little surprised to hear the almost bitter words that spilled from her lips. She couldn’t imagine what had possessed her to share such thoughts, even though they were true.

  “And ye have no wish for these things?” The frown didn’t deepen, but Taffy sensed that he was disturbed by her answer. She caressed him again.

  It wasn’t surprising that he would dislike her answer, of course, for women possessed even fewer freedoms in his time. Such opinions as hers were nothing short of heresy. She tried to reassure him.

  “I do. It is just that I would like to be a wife and mother in my own way. I would like to ride where I want and wear what I please…I think I want to be an American,” she said daringly. “Though I wasn’t willing to marry one to get there.”

  Malcolm blinked, and something moved about in his eyes.

  “Ye wish tae go to the Colonies? But why should ye marry tae go there?”

  “They are their own nation now—I mean, in my time,” Taffy told him. “It’s a wonderful place—brash and crude. But exciting. And there are many women there who have their own businesses and professions. As for the marriage, it wasn’t my idea but rather my father’s. And it was obvious from the first that the two of us would not suit one another.”

  “Ye kenned that he was not the one fer ye,” Malcolm asked, a trace of satisfaction in his voice.

  “Immediately,” Taffy agreed.

  “My own family is in Mary’s land now. They live among the Quakers. They say that the light o’ reason burns in the land o’er the sea.”

  “They live with the Quakers?” Taffy asked, fascinated. “Do they like it?”

  “They do. My mother is allowed tae be a healer there.” Malcolm sat up suddenly, bringing his face much closer to her own. His eyes were vivid. “I, too, wish tae be American.”

  “You do?” For some reason her heart had begun thrumming. Perhaps it was from being presented with a clear view of Malcolm’s chest beneath his unlaced shirt when she dropped her eyes from his too intense gaze.

  Uncomfortable with her response to his bare flesh, she made an effort at compromise, lifting her eyes as far as his mouth.

  “I always longed tae go,” the lissome lips said, and he lifted a hand.

  Taffy turned her head and watched, mesmerized, as Malcolm’s free hand reached out and tucked her locks back, exposing her pointed ears.

  “I dinnae fear that others will see yer ears, or yer spirit. Spirits are of small worth if they are so retired as tae never be seen. Let yer thoughts and will come forth and
never blush for them.” The tone, if not the words, was seductive to her ears.

  “You’ll feel differently when I start hounding you for breakfast,” she warned, her heart’s wild beating now nearly painful in her chest. She had to put some space between them or she would faint. She knew that, but still she did not move. “Then you’ll wish I was quiet and obedient. I’m sure of it.”

  “Hungry, are ye?” Those entrancing lips smiled. Taffy’s poor heart protested the effect on its laboring and she raised her eyes a bit more to stare instead at his large scintillant eyes. They were gray and green and really a bit of every color. A low roaring began in her ears. “Then up ye get, lass.”

  Nay!

  “Up?” she repeated, still staring dazedly at his amazing eyes.

  “Yer bundled in my plaid.” Malcolm took her chin in hand and tilted her head down.

  For a moment, she was still uncomprehending, but the sight of their nearly entwined legs finally penetrated the fog in her brain.

  “Oh! Certainly. Excuse me.” Taffy scrambled to her feet, both relieved and yet terribly disappointed to be away from Malcolm’s warmth. Almost immediately, the ringing in her ears and the thrumming of her heart subsided.

  The piper chuckled. He wrapped his length of tartan with skill of a lifetime, donning his apparel in only a moment and fastening it with a curious silver brooch. He kept his body and face three-quarters turned from her, for which she was grateful. Another moment of all but sitting in his lap and there was no knowing what might have happened! Something ruinous, most likely.

  On the heels of that thought, Malcolm swiftly turned her way. Wisely, Taffy dropped her eyes and began counting pebbles on the ground.