Mopping her brow with the back of her arm, she scanned the interior, imagining what 'twas like for Lachlan, managing with only one leg. She decided that the most difficult thing was probably getting out of bed on his crutch. What would be useful was a bracing mechanism of some sort, some kind of rail he could use to pull himself up, something strong attached to the wall.
Fortunately, tidying his house, she'd found all sorts of odds and ends—tools, scraps, bits of wood and metal and leather, rope, nails—everything she'd need to make modest alterations to his living quarters.
Giddy with excitement over this small alteration and how 'twould improve his quality of life, she located the perfect spot for the bracket, the vertical wooden beam near the head of his bed. She was scouring the room, considering what she might use for the bracket, when her gaze lit on the armor he said he no longer needed.
Chapter Seven
Campbell had been in fine form today, Lachlan thought as he patted the dog's head and slung the third rabbit over his shoulder. 'Twas as if the dog knew they had an extra mouth to feed.
He glanced up at the sky. Heavy gray clouds had gathered now, blotting out the heavens and lying atop the pines like a thick sheepskin. The air was cold and still. The snowstorm would arrive soon.
He winced as he leaned heavily on his crutch. His leg, his missing leg, was burning again. No matter how many times he told himself 'twas impossible—one couldn't feel pain in a missing limb—his missing limb couldn't be convinced of that fact.
He wondered if the lass was right. He wondered if nerves were like the roots of a tree. He wondered if a tree felt pain when one of its roots was lopped off.
Then he chuckled to himself. With all this wondering, he was beginning to sound like the lass herself.
She certainly was a curious woman, asking questions about missing limbs and spider webs and the universe. He'd never met anyone quite like her. 'Twas no wonder the priest thought her a witch.
From across the clearing, he spotted the cottage, and for an awful instant, he feared the worst, for there was no smoke coming from his chimney. Had the townsfolk come after all? Had they taken Alisoune?
Then he heard a loud banging from inside, and he caught his breath. She was apparently still there, though God only knew what she was doing. What she wasn't doing was keeping the fire going.
He stamped his boots on the threshold and rapped on the door.
“Who is it?” he heard her call from inside.
“Lachlan.”
“Do ye have a rabbit?” she called back. “Because if ye haven't got a rabbit, I'm not lettin' ye in.”
Lachlan couldn't help but grin at the saucy lass. “Suit yourself then. Campbell and I will build a fire and feast out here.”
She unlatched the door and swung it open. He thought he remembered how she looked, but memory didn't serve him. After trudging through the dull snow under a wintry sky for the past few hours, looking at her was like having a first glimpse of spring in all its warm and verdant glory. Behind her spectacles, her eyes danced. Her smile was dazzling. And her laughter was as clear and musical as a babbling May brook.
The fire had dwindled to red coals, but he could see she'd been busy while he was gone. In fact, seeing what she'd done to his cottage—the clean-swept flagstones, the tidy shelves, the freshly made bed—made his throat close with gratitude.
And yet it also quietly vexed him. What gave her the right to come into the life he was resigned to and try to change it? Why give him false hope?
Swiftly, before he could blurt out something he'd regret, something that would fill her beautiful green eyes with tears, he limped across the cottage and tossed the rabbits onto the table.
“Three?” she said, cheering. “Campbell, ye've done yourself proud!”
In a rare show of impertinence, the hound reared back on his hind legs and placed his front paws on Alisoune's shoulders, almost bowling her over. He licked her face, knocking her spectacles askew.
Not bothered in the least by the hound's familiarity, she grabbed his whiskered face and scrubbed behind his ears. “Aye, that's a good lad! Ye've earned your keep today, haven't ye?”
“Campbell, down!” Lachlan barked, just in case she wasn't as pleased as she sounded.
The dog instantly obeyed and Lachlan sent him to the hearth with a nod of his head.
Alisoune straightened her spectacles and immediately set to dressing the rabbits.
“I can do that,” he said.
“Don't be silly,” she countered. “Ye brought home the rabbits. 'Tis only fair I should prepare them.” Then she gave him a curious glance. “Ye must be weary. Why don't ye take a wee nap while I'm makin' supper?”
“A wee nap?” He scowled, and his words came out harsher than he intended. “I'm not an invalid. I'm just a man missin' a leg.”
She smiled shyly and went back to work.
Meanwhile, Lachlan silently cursed himself. Why had he snapped at the lass? 'Twas obvious she was trying to help. He hadn't seen his cottage so clean since the day Margaret left him. Alisoune was kind to his dog, and she was civil to him. He had no right to speak to her so rudely.
“I'm sorry,” he mumbled. “I'm not used to...kindness.”
'Twas one of the saddest things Alisoune had ever heard. How could anyone be unkind to a person who was obviously suffering already?
But she'd quickly learned that Lachlan didn't like pity, so she kept her tone light. “Ye'll want to taste my rabbit stew ere ye decide 'tis kindness.”
He chuckled once.
“Ye can help me by fetchin' the big pot,” she said. If he wouldn't lie down on his bed, perhaps he'd notice the device she'd made for him when he drew near the fireplace.
But though he stood right beside the beam where she'd nailed the metal bracket when he bent to fetch the pot, he didn't seem to notice it.
“And the fire could use more fuel,” she suggested.
She cut the rabbits into pieces while he stacked more wood atop the blaze. Still he didn't see the apparatus.
She smeared a lump of butter onto the bottom of the pot. Then she broke a few eggs into one bowl and a bit of flour into another, dredging the pieces and dropping them into the pot. She peeled and chopped an onion and an apple and added them with pepper and a few dried herbs from the cupboard. Then she lifted the heavy pot and handed it to him to hang over the fire.
Still he took no notice of the device.
While the rabbit sizzled away, filling the cottage with a delicious aroma that made Campbell lick his chops, Alisoune tried again to draw Lachlan's attention to her handiwork.
“'The stew isn't burnin', is it?”
He peered into the pot. “Nae.”
“Are ye sure ye won't sit down for a bit?” she tried. “Ye've been on foot for hours.”
“I'm used to it.”
She wondered. Even on two legs, trudging through something with the surface resistance of snow wasn't easy. “Even Campbell's worn out. Look at him.”
Lachlan did look at him...and nothing else. When Campbell lifted his head, it wasn't six inches away from the bracket. But the man saw nothing. 'Twas incredible.
“I hope ye don't mind,” she said, carefully ladling water into the pot and scraping up the cooked bits with a great iron spoon. “I tidied up a few things while ye were gone.”
“Aye, I see.” But nae, he did not see. He gave the room a cursory glance, no more. “Thank ye.”
'Twas almost comical that he didn't notice what she'd done. She decided to let it go. Sooner or later he'd discover it.
While she tended to supper, he kept himself busy, bringing in a few more logs from his dwindling cache outside and scraping the rabbit pelts clean to use later.
They dined on the stew, which had turned out to be edible enough, despite a dearth of the usual seasonings Alisoune liked to use—saffron, cinnamon, and ginger. Perhaps such spices weren't as easy to obtain outside of large towns like Stirling.
She made sure Campb
ell got his fair share, despite Lachlan's grumbling protest that he'd rather have a third serving than waste such good food on a dog.
'Twas while she was cleaning up the dishes that Lachlan finally lowered himself onto to his bed and began to take off his boot. She pressed her lips together, trying not to smile in anticipation.
“What the devil?” he muttered. “What's my targe handle doin' on the wall?”
She spun around, beaming. “Isn't it grand? It should fit ye perfectly, because...well, the shield was designed to fit your arm, o' course.”
He looked puzzled and, if she wasn't mistaken, none too happy. “Why is my targe handle nailed to the wall?” he repeated.
“Oh.” She smiled sheepishly and rolled her eyes. “I should have said. 'Tis a bracket...for balance.”
His brows came together.
Her smile faltered.
“A bracket?” He seemed upset.
“Aye.” She took a few tentative steps forward, intending to show him how it worked. “When ye need to get out o' bed,” she said, cautiously sidling past when he didn't move his knee out of the way and sitting beside him, “ye just grab hold like this...” She demonstrated. “And ye pull yourself up.”
Some dark, fierce emotion raged in his silver eyes. She felt uneasy, the way she had when the priest and his followers had suddenly turned on her.
“My targe handle?” Lachlan's voice broke. That targe had served him in half a dozen battles and saved him in the last. He couldn't believe the lass had...had dismantled it.
“Ye said...” Alisoune's voice was a tenuous whisper. “That is...ye told me...ye didn't need your armor...didn't ye?”
Lachlan closed his mouth into a grim line. Aye, that was what he'd said. And 'twas true. What use did a one-legged soldier have for a suit of armor or a shield or a blade? 'Twas ridiculous.
And yet a small part of him had clung to the absurd belief that somehow he'd awaken from all that had happened as if from a dream, that he would fight another day, that he would go back to the man he once was.
“I'll put it back to rights if ye like,” Alisoune said softly.
“Nae,” he decided. She was right. He'd told her he was no longer a soldier. He just needed to accept that fact himself. A broken-down, war-wounded hermit had no need for weapons.
“'Tis no bother,” she murmured. “I can change it back as fast as—”
“Nae,” he said, forcing a fleeting smile. “'Tis fine. Thank ye.”
He could see she was disappointed. She'd gone to a lot of effort, working the rivets loose from the targe and securing the handle to the beam at just the right height for him to pull himself out of bed. He had to admit, 'twas rather ingenious.
But it also drew attention to the fact that he was different, that he couldn't function like a normal man. Hell, there was a time when he could have hopped up out of a lass's bed before her father even started up the stairs. Those days were gone.
Perhaps he was well rid of them. 'Twas time he accepted who he was, what he was.
“'Tis more than fine,” he assured her, willing the warm sunshine to return to her eyes. “'Tis brilliant.”
She blushed, but managed a tiny smile as she gazed down at him.
“Let's see how it works,” he said, reaching for the handle to try it.
“O' course,” she gushed, stepping out of the way.
A strange shiver passed through him as he took the familiar handle in his grip. He realized he hadn't done so since he'd come home from battle. A flood of unpleasant memories abruptly assailed him, and his palm began to sweat around the iron handle.
But Alisoune waited expectantly, her hands clasped beneath her chin, a hopeful smile on her face. And Lachlan wouldn't disappoint her further. He refused to be debilitated by dead memories that couldn't be changed.
Slipping the crutch beneath his other arm, he pulled himself up by the handle.
Where before he'd strained the muscles of his good leg to stand up, only to hastily and painfully catch himself under the arm with the crutch, now he rose with ease, assisted by the strength of his arm. Where he usually dipped and swayed, trying not to fall, now he simply held onto the bracket until he was balanced.
He looked down at Alisoune in wonder. 'Twas such a simple device, such a humble gesture. But it made all the difference in the world. Gratitude made a thick lump in his throat as she smiled sweetly up at him.
Damn, he wasn't going to weep, was he?
Willing his tears away, he let the crutch fall back onto the bed, reached out his free hand to lift Alisoune's chin, and placed a chaste kiss of thanks upon her smooth brow.
At least it started out chaste.
But Alisoune apparently had her own ideas about what a kiss should be, now that she was an expert on the subject. She slipped her fingers into his hair, stood on tiptoe, closed her eyes, and pressed her mouth against his with all the passion of a long-lost lover.
Chapter Eight
Alisoune had feared Lachlan would never kiss her again. She'd been wanting him to for hours now. Of course she'd told him they could start over and pretend it had never happened. But that wasn't what she truly wanted. She'd only said that to be polite.
This breathtaking intimacy and the delicate yet powerful surge of desire that rose in her when their lips touched was too delicious a forbidden fruit to be denied.
There was no turning back now, no pretending it hadn't happened. As her mouth moved softly over his, she sighed. If she'd known how enjoyable kissing a man was, she'd have started long ago. Now she intended to make up for lost time.
And this time she didn't have to worry about taking liberties. After all, he'd started it.
His hand cupped the back of her head, tilting it slightly, and his fingers stroked beneath her loose braid as he deepened the kiss. She felt his hot, rapid breath upon her cheek, tasted the intoxicating ambrosia of warm apples and sweet desire in her mouth.
She melted against him, relishing the way his long hair brushed her face and his supple leather doublet pressed upon her breasts. This time, instead of forcing him off-balance, he relied on the bracket to keep him upright.
'Twas fascinating, the current that sizzled through her veins from the simple act of kissing him. She was well-versed in most of the sciences, but when it came to the science of courtship, her knowledge was a vacuum. Would the current intensify if she grew more bold? Would she overheat? How much more could she endure?
Eager to find out, she drew closer, running her hands down his throat and across his chest, and then sliding them around his waist to the small of his back.
He groaned low in his throat, and the sound sent a frisson of primal longing through her that lodged with a jolt betwixt her thighs. Answering with a soft moan of her own, she slipped her hands slowly down until they cupped his buttocks. She squeezed gently, and through his trews, she felt his muscles flex.
Then she felt something extraordinary. Where her belly contacted his, he began to swell, hardening, pressing against her with tangible need.
The primitive nature of such a response triggered her own desires, launching them to new heights, and she found herself aching to...to...
Lachlan tore his mouth free, even as his body cursed him for it. He withdrew his hand from her and hung his head, gripping the bracket with white knuckles and panting heavily from the rush of lust that had almost made him lose his mind.
Not since he'd lost his leg had his loins stirred like that. In truth, he hadn't been sure 'twas still possible. But there he was, straight as a lance and hard as a rock.
Yet to what end? Alisoune was not the sort of lass to be trifled with. She was a young thing, an innocent. He wouldn't take advantage of her inexperience for his own selfish ends.
When he hazarded a glance at her, 'twas almost too much to bear. The combination of desire and confusion in her eyes was alluring and heartbreaking all at once.
“Did I...do somethin' wrong?” she asked breathlessly.
A rueful chuc
kle escaped him. “Nae, lass.”
“Then why...?”
How could he explain?
“Come,” he said, lowering himself to the bed and patting the space beside him. “Sit.”
She did, but when her gaze wandered with wicked interest to his groin, he tossed the sheepskin coverlet over his lap.
“Ye said ye'd never kissed a man before, aye?”
“Aye.” Then she turned to him in concern. “Did I not do it properly?”
He smiled in spite of himself. “Oh, aye, ye did it properly.” He scratched his beard, wondering how to proceed. “Ye just did it with the wrong man.”
“What do ye mean?”
“Ye need to save your affections for the man ye mean to marry.”
She furrowed her brows. “What if I don't mean to marry?”
“Not marry?” he scoffed. “A bonnie lass like ye? Half o' Scotland's bachelors must be knockin' at your door.”
“Pah!” She blushed and swatted his arm. “And what about ye? Would ye be knockin' at my door?”
The corner of his mouth quirked up. Ordinarily he wouldn't have thought he could be attracted to such an odd, clever, scrawny mouse of a woman. But there was something about her—her charm, her wit, her sincerity—that did indeed draw him to her.
Still, she couldn't possibly be drawn to him.
Instead of answering her, he said, “'Tis easy to mistake lust for love.” He felt as if he spoke for his own benefit as well. “'Tis only the heat o' the moment that's turned your head.”
She gave him a dubious stare, then considered his words. “So ye think 'tis pure science? Basic alchemy?”
Nae, he didn't think that at all. But perhaps 'twas best to agree with her. “Aye, most likely.”
“Hmm.”
She didn't look pleased with that idea, but at least the heavy-lidded desire was fading from her face. Now if only 'twould fade from him as well...
Alisoune felt dissatisfied and disappointed. It seemed she'd been on the cusp of some important discovery, so close to the truth. Then, abruptly, all her theories were dashed.
The Winter Stone: One Legend, Three Enchanting Novellas Page 23