My Noble Knight

by Cynthia Breeding

  “What?” Gilead straightened in surprise, dropping her hand. “Why?”

  Now she’d done it. All that closeness was gone. Que le diable emporte, Niall. Damn the man. “Your father will claim me as kin through Caw and bind Niall to his clan by the marriage.”

  Gilead looked miserable. “I mentioned that thinking to protect ye. I had no idea my father would try to do such a brainless thing. Well, he canna do it.”

  Deidre felt a little bit of hope. “He cannot? He says Niall and I are handfasted until Lugnasad; then, we are to be married.”

  “Nae. I wilna let it happen.” He put his hands on her shoulders, turning her to face him. He traced the curve of her cheek with one finger and she shivered. “Are ye cold?” Gilead wrapped his coat around her, pulling her closer. The moment hung suspended in time as his eyes searched her face and then lingered on her mouth.

  He cradled her head in his hands, lifting her face toward his. His lips brushed hers lightly. And again, teasingly, not allowing Deidre time to kiss him back. And she wanted to. Her nipples tightened as her breasts filled. Gilead played with her lips, slanting his mouth across hers, exerting gentle pressure, sucking her lower lip between his lips. He licked an outline around her mouth, nibbling at the corner of it. A little mewling sound escaped her.

  As if the sound had been a Saxon battle cry, he abruptly pulled back. Dazed, Deidre’s eyes fluttered open. Why in the world had he stopped? Just when it felt so good?

  He looked confused. “I shouldna have done that. My apologies.”

  Apologies? For kissing her when she had wanted a whole lot more of him? Her breasts ached to press up against him, to have him hold her tight and feel the hardness of that muscular chest. For a moment, she was tempted to grab his hair and pull him into her embrace. She didn’t fully understand what was happening to her, but she knew she didn’t want it to stop. Too late, she remembered the code of courtly love from The Book. Now wasn’t the time to be worshipped from afar. Certes, that was a downside to chivalry.

  “Will ye forgive me?” He still looked troubled.

  “Of course,” Deidre said and forced a smile. “Perhaps we’d better go in.”

  “Aye,” he answered in relief as he helped her down the steps. “I meant what I said to ye. I will find my father and talk to him. Tonight. He wilna force ye to marry.”

  This time her smile was genuine. “My thanks to you, Gilead. I will be forever grateful. Forever.”

  He nodded, but did not look at her as he opened the door and they stepped inside.

  Angus was nowhere to be found, nor was Formorian.

  Suddenly, that no longer mattered. Elen had just collapsed at the high table.

  Chapter Five

  BETRAYAL

  The noise of the feast abated as Angus closed the door to Formorian’s bedchamber and slipped the strap of her dress off her shoulder. He trailed a series of soft, wet kisses down her throat. Bel’s fìres! Her fingers were hot as they worked feverishly to divest him of shirt and plaid. His hands slid slowly up her ribs to cup her breasts as he pushed his hard erection against her and back-walked her to the bed in his chamber. Deftly, he unfastened the back of the gown and it dropped to the floor before they both tumbled onto the feather down.

  “Ye get more beautiful every time I see ye,” he murmured, his tongue laving lazy circles around her soft mound of breast. His thumb brushed across the other nipple, teasing its tight bud into a rock pebble.

  Formorian moaned and arched her back into him. “Ye saw me just last night. By Dagda, Angus, suck on me. Hard.”

  “So soon, Mori?” Angus raised his dark head and gave her a slow, lopsided grin. “I think to torture ye a bit first.” He pushed his knee between her thighs and lowered himself over her, dipping down to flay a nipple lightly back and forth with his tongue before moving upward to reclaim her mouth.

  Her lips parted for him and he thrust inside, exploring the sweet taste of her tongue, the spongy lining of her mouth. He tugged her lip between his and then pressed his open mouth across hers, their tongues battling for supremacy.

  Her body wanted more. Angus nuzzled her neck, his big hands sliding over her torso, kneading both breasts, loving the feel of her squirming, lush body beneath his. A body made for hours of lovemaking. He nibbled her earlobe and then gently bit the hollow between her throat and shoulder.

  With something that sounded like a feral growl, Formorian raked her fingers through his silky hair and brought his head down to her breast. He laughed and then mouthed her breast, rolling the nipple with his tongue. She moaned and slid her hands to his shoulders, feeling the hard biceps bulge as he kept most of his weight off her. Most. Just enough to have full body contact and feel his hardened shaft pressing hard against her belly.

  Angus began to suckle, and a bolt of fire seared directly to her already throbbing center. Abdominal muscles contracted as his mouth demanded more, the sucking hard and deep now. Just as she liked it. She shuddered.

  “Nae, not yet,” Angus whispered and slipped lower, the scorching touch of his tongue blazing its way downward. He spread her legs, slipping a knee over each of his shoulders and licking at her core in broad, flat strokes. Ripples of intense sensation rocked her. His mouth closed on Formorian’s nub and she spasmed, wave upon pulsating wave surging through her.

  He waited for her panting to subside and then in one long, sensual motion he eased himself over her and plunged his cock deep inside her, filling her completely.

  Formorian wrapped her legs around his thighs, meeting his thrusts, bucking and flexing under him as he ground into her. Fast and hard, he took her past her limit, her breath coming in short gasps as her body throbbed, gathering itself for one enormous convulsion. She felt his tension a split second before she felt his seed explode, and then, her body shattered.

  They lay, sweaty and exhausted, arms and legs entwined.

  “Is the door locked?” Formorian asked musingly.

  “Damn.” Angus raised his head to look. “Yes.” He looked back down at her, flushed and sated beneath him. “That’s what ye do to me. I take leave of my senses.”

  Formorian gave him a smile that almost caused another erection. By Lugh, what effect that woman had on him! He was nigh fifty and in less than five minutes…

  She trailed lazy fingertips down his arm. “Stop looking at me like that. Ye know we have to get back before we’re missed.”

  He sighed and rolled off her. “Fate should never have separated us, Mori. We belong together.”

  She draped his arm around her and settled onto his shoulder. “Aye. And I love ye. But the marriage to Turius made sense. Even my old nurse—half-crazed though she was—thought Ambrose would have confiscated Da’s lands if I were not his son’s wife.”

  Angus sighed. “I always liked old Cailyn, even though folks claimed she was part fey.”

  Formorian’s fingertips grazed his chest. “And Cailyn was near mad about ye. She always told me that one day the Great Mother would bring us together. But I think her sister be more fey than Cailyn.”

  “Our Brena?” he asked, teasing a nipple to hardness again. “She be a good healer, nothing more.” He bent his dark head and mouthed her breast. “Let’s not talk about either of them.”

  Formorian closed her eyes with pleasure and then popped them open again when he stopped suddenly. “Why are ye frowning?” she asked.

  “It blinds me white to think of ye with Turius, doing what we just did.”

  “Hush.” Formorian propped herself up on her elbow and brushed damp strands of hair off his forehead. “Don’t think on it.” She traced his lips with a finger. “It doesna happen that often; Turius would rather wage war than love.”

  Angus caught her hand and kissed the palm. “Still, if ye were free…”

  She arched an eyebrow at him. “Even if Turius were killed in battle, ye would still be wed. Have ye forgotten that?”

  He frowned. “How can I? I was duped into the marriage, as ye well know. I had n
o more choice than ye.”

  A small sigh rose from Formorian. “I couldna have abided my father losing title to Ambrose. Ye know how we Scotti love our land.”

  Angus knew. He felt the same. But he wasn’t interested in logic just now. Not when he already wanted her again and they weren’t even out of bed yet. He stroked a path across her hip and over her buttock.

  Formorian laughed. “Ye know we’ve not the time…”

  His dark eyes smoldered as he took her shoulder, drawing him to her until he could take her full swollen breast into his mouth again. He sucked forcefully.

  She gave a soft cry and he pulled her over on top of him. “Yer turn, my lady. Ride me hard.”

  With half-lidded eyes and a slow, knowing smile, Formorian impaled herself on him, leaning forward to brush her breasts across his chest. Angus groaned and swept his hands down her back, rocking beneath her.

  Something crashed outside in the hall, followed by voices and footsteps. Lots of them. For one moment, Angus and Formorian remained frozen and then they both moved. Fast.

  “Turius?” she whispered as she hurriedly slipped into her gown and turned for Angus to fasten it. “Surely he wouldn’t be so stupid as to clamber up to my guest chamber with all yer guards about.”

  “Shhh. Nae, I don’t think so.” Angus flung on his kilt and threw over his plaid. “I hear no armor or weapons.” He paused, listening. “It sounds like servants. Ye stay here; I’ll see what it’s about.”

  He took a deep breath and opened the door.

  ◊♦◊

  Deidre quickly opened the door to Elen’s chambers and Gilead carried his mother through and placed her gently on the bed. Behind them, a whole retinue of servants followed, hovering anxiously in the doorway. One of them righted a potted plant that had been overturned on the procession up the stairs. Sheila and Janet were subdued, for once. Una armed her way through, barking orders at the gawking servants for cold water, fresh towels, and hot tea. They scattered like dandelion silk on the wind.

  “It hurts.” Elen moaned and clutched her stomach, wincing.

  Deidre undid the laces to Elen’s bodice and loosened her lacy collar. “There, there. You need some air.” She glanced at Gilead. “Find a fan.”

  He returned as Brena bustled in with her basket of herbs. Quickly, she sat down on the edge of the bed and placed a hand to Elen’s forehead. “No fever. Did ye faint?”

  “My stomach. It burns dreadful, like a snake is twisting inside.”

  The door burst open and Angus strode in. He looked disheveled and his fly plaid was crooked. “What goes on here?” he demanded and then saw his wife on the bed with Brena standing nearby. “What’s happened?”

  Gilead’s eyebrow arched as he took in his father’s appearance, but he said nothing about it. “Mother collapsed.”

  Elen groaned again, her body beginning to shake. “I feel so cold,” she murmured weakly. “There’s a dirk in my stomach. I swear it.” Cold sweat appeared on her face and she curled herself into a ball as another cramp struck her.

  Deidre remembered a time when she’d eaten fish that hadn’t been properly cooked and she’d had painful cramping. They’d had salmon tonight. She moved forward past Angus.

  “Lady, perhaps it was something you ate. If fish is undercooked—”

  “I hadna fish.” Elen grasped a handful of bed sheet and gasped in pain. “A bit of venison and a pear.”

  Deidre had the venison herself and felt fine. But a pear... She remembered a story from The Book about one of King Arthur’s knights being poisoned by an apple. There had been a very fine pear at the top of the fruit plate and Elen had been offered first choice. She looked around. “Did anyone else have a pear?”

  No one answered. Gilead wore a puzzled expression, but Angus looked thoughtful. “What are ye getting at, lass?”

  Deidre took a deep breath, hoping she wasn’t letting her fertile imagination get away from her. Mayhap she was obsessed with the legends and mayhap the magician had bewitched her somehow. “Is there a possibility that pear could have been poisoned?”

  Angus went pale beneath his deep tan and Brena looked at her sharply. “Nonsense,” she said. “Who would want to kill our gentle Lady Elen?”

  Who, indeed? Deidre couldn’t imagine that Elen could have any enemies, except perhaps, Formorian. But the queen could hardly have wandered through the kitchens—not with that hellcat of a head cook—and drawn no attention. Deidre shuddered. She’d have to brave the woman tomorrow and find out. Still, if it were poison… Deidre lifted her chin determinedly.

  “I don’t know. But if I’m right, she should be made to vomit and then fed lots of fluids to dilute whatever it is.” She could thank Clotilde for that information; more than one attempt had been made on Childebert’s life.

  Brena visibly bristled. “A healer now, are ye?”

  “Do it.” Angus said in a voice that left no room for argument. “It can’t hurt her, can it?”

  With a sniff, Brena shuffled through her herbs and lifted out a mandrake root. She took a small, sharp sickle from a concealed fold of her skirt and carefully scraped some of the root into a glass half-filled with water, warmed it over the brazier, and added a pinch of salt. She handed it to Elen.

  Deidre moved forward with the empty water basin from the dresser, but Gilead took it from her.

  “I’ll hold it,” he said.

  Una dismissed the few servants who remained and shut the door behind them. Angus raked a hand through his hair and began pacing. Deidre was about to tell him he was driving her mad when Elen began retching. The boots stopped their incessant pounding and Angus went to the window to gaze out.

  Deidre poured some cool water onto a cloth and bathed Elen’s face between heaves. “You’ll feel better soon. Just get it all out.”

  Elen grasped her hand weakly and squeezed before she was sick again. Eventually, she lay back on the pillow exhausted.

  “I’ll fetch ye some wine,” Brena said as she covered the fouled bowl with a cloth.

  “No!” Elen made an effort to sit up, but Gilead placed a restraining hand on her shoulder and she slumped back again. “No wine,” she said again. “I’ve not felt well since I drank the cup before dinner.”

  Angus turned away from the window to stare at his wife. Deidre jumped up and ran to the goblet still standing on the table. She started to sniff it and then set it down, disappointed. The cup had been washed; no residue remained. She looked up to find Angus watching her.

  “I poured that wine myself,” he said sardonically.

  Deidre felt herself flush all the way to the roots of her hair. She was practically accusing the laird of poisoning his own wife! A statement like that could really get her thrown in the dungeon…or worse.

  “I’m sorry, my lord. I didn’t mean to imply—”

  He simply raised an eyebrow and went to the door. “If my wife is going to be all right, I’ll return to the festivities and see to my guests. As ye reminded me earlier, I am the host.”

  “She’ll be fine now, my lord.” Brena seemed anxious to please. “I’ll steep a little snakeroot in some goldenseal tea and make sure she drinks it.” She turned to Deidre. “If ye have any more suspicions, miss, ye and I will drink the tea also.”

  “Aye. Do that,” Angus said, and slammed the door as he left.

  Deidre bit her lip and looked at the closed door. Either Angus was righteously indignant because he was innocent or he was diabolical enough to have covered his own tracks with a big red herring.

  ◊♦◊

  Gilead rubbed his eyes. By the saints, he was tired this morning. He’d stayed at his mother’s bedside until the wee hours, making sure her sleep was normal and undisturbed. The idea that poison might have been involved shook him. Deidre had come in once, offering to relieve him, but she had dark circles under her eyes and he’d told her to go to bed. Once she’d left, he felt even more torn.

  She confused him. He had a feeling she wasn’t telling the trut
h about herself, or at least, not all of it. How had she known what to do last night? She’d seemed perfectly competent and at ease helping his mother. Was she a healer? Most of the women who healed in Britain and Pictland were pagan and often studied on the Druid’s Isle. But her accent was strange. Mayhap his father was right; she was a Saxon spy sent to get the lay of the place before they invaded. Mayhap he needed to keep more of an eye on her.

  He smiled in spite of being exhausted. As beautiful as she was, keeping an eye on her was no hardship. The hardship was in his trews; he wanted to do much more. Why he allowed himself to fall into temptation last eve on the battlements he didn’t know. He hadn’t intended to kiss her. Not at all. But when she placed her hand on his, his blood pulsed furiously through his veins. Her hand had felt so small and soft that he’d allowed himself a brief kiss. It wasn’t supposed to be more than that. He was always in control of his emotions when it came to women. Always. Then the taste of her sweet full lips pressing against his—answering him, for God’s sake—ignited a fire that surged directly to his groin. He moaned a little, that even now in broad daylight he felt an active urge inside his pants. He’d wanted to slide his fingers beneath her coat and run his hands along her back, snugging her tightly to him so that her breasts would be mashed against his chest. Bloody hell. He’d wanted to tear their clothes off so it would be bare skin he would feel against his own. He shook his head and drew a shaky breath. This wouldn’t do. He was as bad as his father.

  He paused at the door to the solarium in the east wing, hoping his father was inside having his morning cup of watered wine. The gods only knew where he and Formorian had gone off to last night before his mother’s collapse, but they were running him ragged. It was only a stroke of fortune that Niall had been in his cups and Turius had decided to stay close to him, lest a brawl break out.

  Gilead pushed the door open, relieved to find his father sitting in an easy chair, absorbing the morning sun.

  “Don’t ye knock?” he asked.