Tempted by a Warrior

by Amanda Scott

  His face was in shadow as he leaned toward her, his head haloed in moonlight. He kissed her, deeply, his tongue thrusting into her mouth, the very taste of him stirring her soul. She put a hand to his warm cheek, and then stroked his muscular chest and taut belly, reaching lower.

  He turned his head slightly, as if he had heard a noise. Now she could see his features. His deep gaze met hers, and his smile warmed her heart.

  Then his face melted away in so puzzling a way that she squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them, she was no longer lying with him or looking at him but was standing, looking down at something on the heavily shadowed ground.

  Darkness hid all but the full-sacklike shape of it, six feet long and lumpy.

  A shiver of fear shot through her, and she took a hasty step back before she realized that whatever it was, it just lay there, unmoving. Nevertheless, she stood frozen for such a long time that she began to wonder if she could move.

  She would have to. She was alone in a dark forest.

  Dickon had vanished as if he had never been there at all.

  The woods were silent. The moon had gone behind a cloud or had otherwise vanished, because the area around her was as black as ever a forest night could be. The stillness was eerie. She heard herself breathing… too loudly, too quickly.

  She inhaled and exhaled slowly to steady herself, then looked down again and realized that although she was unable to see even shapes of the nearest trees in the blackness around her, the long shape on the ground was clear, ominously so.

  For some reason its lifelessness disturbed her. She dared to prod it with the toes of one foot, gently. When it did not stir, she nudged harder. No movement.

  She started. Surely, there had been a sound, someone coming!

  What had she done?

  Trying to remember, she put a hand to her side, stirring a sharp pain and a recollection just as sharp that Will had punched her there. Then he had knocked her down, and blackness had enveloped her. Apparently, darkness still ruled, because she had regained consciousness in the unnerving stillness of the eerie forest.

  Listening hard, she thought she heard a night bird’s peeping cry. She wanted to run but could see no path. And she could not leave her burden where it lay.

  It did belong to her. She was sure of that, although she could not say why or how. What would people think if she abandoned it here? Surely, someone would know that she had it, that she was responsible for its being here.

  The enormous, long sack looked unwieldy and unbearably heavy, but she had to get it away. Hiding it was urgent. The reason for keeping it secret was not clear to her, but it could not stay where it was. Too terrifying to think that someone might stumble over it in the heavy darkness and touch it as she had had to touch it.

  The cries grew louder, as if the birds were fussing at each other, wailing. Hearing the sound increased her sense of urgency until it overruled all primal fear.

  Pulling, tugging, rolling, pushing—she did everything she could do to make the sack move up the hill. Slowly, slowly she began to make progress. She knew where it had to go, over the hill and down. The other side would be easier, she hoped, because only one place was suitable. But never had it seemed so far away.

  The moon had reappeared. She saw its beams diving through the woodland canopy when she crested the hill with her burden. But, as she emerged into the open, the moon evaporated. One moment it was there in the dark sky, as clear as could be. The next it was brittle-looking, diaphanous mesh, and then gone.

  Still, she had seen enough. The oblong opening in the ground ahead was perfect for her purpose, just the right size. Her burden seemed lighter, too. Moving it downhill was easier, despite certain upright, deeply shadowed obstacles in her path. Twice she had to move quickly to keep up with the sack as it rolled.

  The moon took form again, casting its pale light on the deep hole, warning her an instant before the great sack tumbled into it, or she’d have fallen in, too.

  She peered down into the hole. The sack had vanished, and all that lay there in the moonlight now was Will Jardine, fiendishly grinning up at her.

  Fiona screamed…

  … and awoke still screaming, her cries distantly echoed by those of the now squalling baby in Flory’s room just across the service-stair landing.

  Chapter 12

  In the inner chamber, Kirkhill heard Fiona’s screams and those of the baby, leaped up from his chair at the large table where he had spread his version of the Jardine accounts, and ran up the service stairs with his heart pounding. As he rounded the stairway curve, he saw Flory ahead, crossing the landing. She shoved Fiona’s bedchamber door back on its hinges, then hesitated at the threshold.

  Gently urging her on into the room, Kirkhill saw Fiona sitting bolt upright in her bed, looking blindly toward the open, moonlit window, still screaming.

  “Look after the bairn,” he told Flory as he moved swiftly to the bed. “I’ll call for you if I need you. She has only suffered a bad dream, but the bairn will calm more easily if you shut your door and do your best to soothe him back to sleep.”

  “I should stay near so I’ll hear if you call for me, but I could send for Eliza, m’lord. Likely, the wee laddie be hungry.”

  “I’d liefer have no one else up here yet. Just do what you can.”

  “Aye, sir, I’ll give him a sugar tit to suck on until her ladyship be calm again. He’ll be that hungry then, and when she settles, nae doots she’ll want to cuddle him.”

  “Likely, you’re right,” he said, having no notion whether she was or not.

  Fiona had stopped her shrieking, but she still faced the window, eyes shut, sobbing in a mixture of short cries and gasps. He barely waited for Flory to shut the door before he gripped Fiona firmly by both shoulders and gave her a shake.

  “Wake up, lass,” he said calmly. “’Twas nobbut a bad dream.”

  Her eyes snapped open, and she looked right at him, her mouth still agape, her breath drawn in as if to scream again. Her gaze met his, but her eyes focused only briefly before she looked around as if she felt disoriented.

  “Faith, I’m in my own bed,” she said. “Again!”

  “You had a bad dream.”

  “Horrid,” she agreed, nodding fervently. “So real!”

  “Sometimes, it helps to talk about such dreams,” he said.

  Her darting gaze found him again but slid away before he finished speaking.

  “It was dreadful,” she muttered, looking down at the coverlet. “I… I don’t want to talk about it at all, let alone try to describe it. Faith, but I cannot even bear to think about it. I’m sorry if I woke everyone up.”

  “You didn’t,” he said, searching for some clue to what was troubling her. “I was poring over the accounts I’ve assembled below, so Flory got here before I did. She is looking after the bairn, but she says he is likely hungry.”

  “Poor wee chappie,” she said. “I must have frightened him witless.”

  “I doubt that his wits are formed enough yet to suffer from being startled by loud noises. Do you feel up to feeding him, or shall I send Flory to fetch Eliza?”

  “I’ll feed him. I just had a nightmare. There is naught else amiss with me.”

  He did not believe her. She had not met his gaze again, making him wonder what sort of dream could have frightened her so. She was trembling, too. On the thought, it occurred to him that she might be shivering instead.

  “Art cold, lass?”

  “Nay, and I wish you would go,” she said. “Old Jardine may have made you responsible for me, but as you yourself have pointed out, because of that charge and… and because of what happened before, you should not be alone here in my bedchamber with me.”

  “Flory is just across the landing.”

  “Even so…”

  “Aye, sure, you are right. I’ll go.” But he did not move. She looked so vulnerable, so alone with her fears, whatever they were, and he wished she would confide in him. But he could not mak
e her do so. Nor could he blame her for not yet trusting him. Trust was neither instinctive nor something one person could demand of another. One had to earn trust, and he wanted more than ever to earn hers.

  He saw a blanket folded at the end of the bed and picked it up. Shaking it out, he draped it around her shoulders, rubbing them gently as he did until she put a hand up to touch one of his.

  Quietly, he said, “I do not always heed my good sense, lass, but I would do nowt to harm you, alone or in company. Still, you might feel more comfortable with your mother here. If so, I’ll ride to the Hall in the morning and fetch her for you.”

  “Pray, do not, sir! She would be most uncomfortable. It is but a testament to how badly she wanted to see her grandson born and to provide a proper hostess for your sister and Sir James that she stayed as long as she did. I am grateful that you brought her here, though, so that she could see my David born.”

  He did not want to talk about Phaeline or the baby. He knew he had no business in Fiona’s bedchamber. It was dangerous even when his conscience reminded him of his duty to her. Even so, he was loath to leave her in her current state.

  “Shall I send for Flory now to bring the bairn in to you?”

  “Aye, sure,” she said, her tone softening. “He must be starving to have set up such a fuss. I think I heard him in my dream before I started shrieking.”

  “Lass, are you sure that you would not like to talk about that dream? I’d wager it would not seem so dreadful if you could bring yourself to do that.”

  “I can’t!”

  “Aye, well, mayhap Flory should sleep in here for a time. Since Eliza is taking some of the bairn’s feedings, you could just let him stay with her at night. Surely, that would be more convenient for all—”

  “You mean well, sir, but no. I want him near so that I can feed him whenever I can do so without exhausting myself. Sithee, I want to make him as much mine as I can. He is Will Jardine’s son, and Old Jardine’s grandson. And Spedlins will belong to him one day. I cannot change any of that, nor do I want to deny him his birthright. But I do want to fill him full enough of his mam that he has no inclination to heed such traits as he may have inherited from his father or grandfather.”

  He wanted to take her in his arms and reassure her that no son of hers could be like Will Jardine. But without knowing what had become of Will—in fact, without proof that Will was dead—he could not promise her any such thing. He would do all he could to see that her son grew up strong and honest, but family traits did have a way of asserting themselves, no matter what one did to prevent it.

  “I’ll get Flory and the bairn now,” he said, stepping back from the bed.

  She was silent, but she did relax against her pillows, and her normal color seemed to be returning, so he went to the door and called Flory.

  Waiting until she appeared with the baby, he held the door for her and then shut it again. He wanted to linger, to ask her when she came out if her ladyship had confided any details of her nightmare to her.

  Fiona Dunwythie Jardine did not strike him as a woman likely to let a bad dream terrify her. It had to be something more. But he knew, too, that he could not apply to Flory. He’d be far wiser to let Fiona tell him herself, and in her own time.

  She was safe with Flory and the bairn, and he had no good reason to wait outside her door. He would make it his business, however, to be patient and try to win her confidence. If he could persuade her to tell him what it was that had frightened her so, he was sure he could ease her fears.

  Fiona was certain that Kirkhill still stood outside the door, because she had not heard his footsteps departing down the service stairs. But she let Flory settle the baby into place and smiled down at him as he rooted feverishly for her nipple.

  “He’s famished, poor laddie,” Flory said. “He were content wi’ yon sugar tit whilst we waited, but I be glad ye be yourself again, m’lady. It must ha’ been a frightful bad dream. I canna recall ye ever waking with such a screeching afore.”

  “I do not want to talk about it, Flory, and I hope you will not be talking about it either,” Fiona said evenly. “To anyone.”

  “Nay, then, I wouldna talk o’ such a thing,” Flory said virtuously, as if she had never gossiped in her life. “Still, it were gey scary to hear ye, and nae mistake.”

  Fiona was satisfied that Flory would pursue the subject no further, but she was just as sure that she would not silence Kirkhill so easily. He had said he was a curious man, and as one who would do almost anything to satisfy her own curiosity, she recognized in him a kindred spirit in that regard. He might bide his time, but in the end he would do all he could to make her tell him about her nightmare.

  He contained himself in relative patience for two days, although Fiona caught him gazing speculatively at her more than once.

  Each time he did, she held her breath, waiting for him to speak. But each time, he managed to hold his tongue or to introduce a harmless topic.

  That Friday morning dawned clear and warm, and when Fiona descended to the hall to break her fast, she found Kirkhill putting two manchet loaves in a cloth sack from the basket on the high table.

  “I thought we might like to break our fast on that hilltop overlooking the river just north of here,” he said. “’Tis a splendid view that I came upon only yesterday whilst I was exercising Cerberus. I saw at once that it would make a fine place to eat, and I am hoping you will agree to join me there this morning.”

  “I’d like that,” she said impulsively. “I know the hill you mean, but I have never been to the top of it. Will didn’t—” She broke off, feeling herself flush.

  “Then you must see the view,” he said as if she had not spoken those last two words. “Can you ride in that dress, or must you change it? Come to think of it,” he added before she could reply, “you have not been out riding since you went with Nan. Did you try the exercise too soon? Should you be riding yet?”

  “Aye, I should,” she said, grateful that he had not demanded to know what she had so nearly said. “Lying about has never been my notion of pleasure. As for my dress…” Looking down at it, she grimaced. “This skirt is full enough, and I have few clothes that I consider too fine to wear for aught that I do. As I told you some time ago, I’ve had to make do with what I could manage.”

  “I did say you might send for a seamstress,” he reminded her.

  Color tinged her cheeks. “I have been waiting for Parland Dow to return. I know not how otherwise to summon one.”

  “Aye, well, that is something that I can see to,” he said. “I have learned enough about the state of things here that I can do so in good conscience. If you will tell me what you need to outfit yourself as a lady should, I will see that you have it.”

  Feeling suddenly like crying again, and knowing that the tears were already welling in her eyes, she turned hastily away, murmuring, “Thank you. Did you put apples in that sack? Applegarth folks rarely go anywhere without a few, you know. It would be practically sacrilegious.”

  “I did put some in,” he said. “There will be a stiff breeze on that hill, though, so you will want your cloak. How long since your wee lad last took nourishment?”

  “Just a few minutes ago. I am free for at least two or three hours… not that we’ll want to linger as long as that,” she added hastily.

  “But we need not hurry,” he said.

  She looked at him then, and for a moment, she thought he looked pleased. Then he smiled at her. It was a particularly charming, almost mischievous smile.

  “Nay,” she said. “We need not hurry.”

  She fetched her cloak and followed him out to the stable. She expected to find Joshua waiting for them, but he was nowhere to be seen.

  When Kirkhill asked which horse was hers, she indicated her gelding, and since she rode astride as most Border women did, he put her on it before saddling his big black destrier.

  “He’s gey beautiful,” she said of the great steed.

  “He is, a
ye, but don’t you trust him until I say that you may,” he warned. “Cerberus is a warhorse, and although he can be quite civil when he chooses to be, he is unpredictable with people he does not know.”

  She nodded and watched how deftly he worked, as if he did it often. She also thought the destrier behaved better than any Jardine horse she’d seen ever had.

  Joshua still had not appeared when they rode out of the yard, and although several stable lads were going about their duties, Kirkhill invited none of them to go with them, and Fiona was glad. He chose a course that took them along the river.

  Will had often followed the river route with her, but riding with Kirkhill was entirely different. Unlike Will, he liked to chat about the things he saw, pointing out odd rock formations, swirling eddies in the river that he said must harbor salmon just yearning to be caught, and birds in the trees, sometimes recognizing the birds by their cries or songs before he spotted them.

  Fiona felt herself relaxing to a degree that had become unfamiliar during her two years at Spedlins Tower. Only as the tension melted away did she recognize the sensation for what it was and realize how tense she had been.

  “Yonder is the trail I followed up the hill,” he said sometime later, his voice just slightly louder than the soothing sounds of the Annan tumbling by and the chirping and chattering of birds and squirrels from nearby trees and shrubs.

  Fiona nodded, urging her gelding ahead of Cerberus, eager to see the view from the top. They did not speak again until they reached a large clearing just south of the westernmost brow of the hill. Kirkhill dismounted there, dropping his reins to the ground while he moved to lift her down.

  When she stood beside him, he guided her with a touch to her shoulder along a path until they stood near the steep drop to the river Annan, beyond which lay the western half of Annandale.

  “Look there to the southwest,” he said, pointing. “You can see all the way to Lochmaben. Those are the castle’s towers amidst what looks like one vast loch.”

  “Is it not a loch?”