The Winter Stone: One Legend, Three Enchanting Novellas

by Crosby, Tanya Anne

  She still felt an ache deep within her body, still felt the residue of current sparking in her veins. Was he right? Could the way she felt have nothing to do with rational thought or deep emotions, but rather be caused by a simple mixture of elements, an alchemy for passion?

  She didn't think so. She might not be as experienced as he was when it came to kissing. But she'd been around men before. She'd never particularly wanted to kiss any of them, not like she did Lachlan. There was something different about the way he made her feel, something she didn't think could be explained away by science.

  But she supposed 'twas pointless to think about it now. His mind was clearly elsewhere.

  Lachlan had let Campbell out one last time for the evening and banked the fire. As ridiculous as 'twas, he refused to let her sleep by the hearth, insisting she take his bed. He'd listen to no amount of arguing, claiming that his chivalry would keep him warm. So she reluctantly acquiesced, leaving him to stretch out on the floor.

  Still feeling unsettled, Alisoune took a long while to fall asleep, finally drifting off to the sounds of Campbell's snoring.

  It seemed she'd only just closed her eyes when she heard a rasping sound in the dark. She frowned and lifted her head a few inches to hear better.

  'Twas Lachlan. He was talking in his sleep. The sound was faint and incoherent. He must be dreaming.

  She pushed up onto her elbows, getting her bearings in the dim firelight. Campbell was still snoring. The dog was probably accustomed to his master's nocturnal conversations.

  But Lachlan's voice began to grow more and more urgent, and soon his breathing quickened. He suddenly flailed out an arm, startling her.

  She bolted upright. She could see he'd dislodged the cloak he'd draped over himself. Now he lay gasping and twitching on the flagstones.

  With a soft cry of worry, she scrambled out of the bed and rushed to him.

  “Lachlan,” she called gently.

  His eyes were still closed tightly as his head rocked back and forth.

  “Lachlan!” She touched his brow.

  Campbell was awake now. He shot to his feet and trotted over, sniffing his master in concern.

  Lachlan jerked and emitted a sleep-muffled scream.

  Her eyes wide, Alisoune shook him by the shoulder. “Lachlan!”

  But still he would not awaken, and he was shuddering as if with sickness. On instinct, she knelt down, wrapped her arms around him, and held him close.

  Almost at once, he calmed. The furrow left his brow, his breathing slowed, and he relaxed back into the oblivion of slumber.

  As she cradled him, giving him comfort, she wondered what horrible dream he'd had to affect him so. She suspected he dreamed of battle. Most soldiers did. She'd heard that some were never the same after they'd gone to war, that nightmares haunted them the rest of their lives. Was that true of Lachlan?

  Campbell seemed to answer her as he sadly lowered his head and returned to curl up in his spot by the fireplace.

  She meant to return to the bed after Lachlan fell asleep. Somehow she didn't make it.

  Drifting slowly awake, Lachlan felt a warm, womanly body curled up against him, and he smiled. There was nothing like having his bonnie Margaret welcome him home from war.

  His eyes still closed and a wicked grin on his face, he snuggled closer, teasing her soft, round bottom with his swelling dirk.

  Then his smile faded. His brow creased. That was a memory from another time. That was before...

  His eyes flew open, and he pulled back at once, waking her. Not Margaret. Alisoune.

  “Aristotle's beard,” she exclaimed sleepily. “How did I get here?” She stretched out both arms, yawned, and then turned to him with a smile.

  Of course she would smile first thing in the morning. What else did he expect? The lass was sunshine personified.

  “Oh, I remember now,” she said, rising up on her elbows, which made her square neckline dip low on one shoulder. “Ye were havin' a nightmare.”

  He frowned. He didn't remember. He never remembered his dreams.

  What he did remember in all-too-vivid detail was the way she'd felt nestled against him a moment ago. He might have imagined she was Margaret, but to the lusty beast in his trews, a woman was a woman. That part of him was still as hard as steel and expecting to be pleased.

  The fact that Alisoune was only inches away, her hair sleep-mussed, her eyes softly sparkling, her gown threatening to fall off of her any moment now, didn't help matters.

  “I should split more wood for the fire,” he announced under his breath. Maybe hard labor and the bracing cold would extinguish the fire in his loins.

  Was that disappointment he glimpsed in her eyes?

  It didn't matter. She'd be leaving soon anyway. The storm would clear, and there'd be no reason for her to stay. Besides, he thought with black humor, if she left, he wouldn't need to trouble himself with taking a bath.

  Aye, 'twas for the best, he decided as he began the difficult task of levering himself up from the floor.

  “Here, let me help ye.” She jumped up.

  “Nae!” he growled, half in ire, half in shame. “I can do it myself.” At her crestfallen expression, he added more gently, “I've managed alone so far. I'll have to manage alone when ye're gone.”

  If the words caught unexpectedly in his throat, and his eyes grew moist, 'twas probably just ash from the fireplace. That happened when you slept next to a fire.

  As soon as he was up, he threw on his cloak, whistled to Campbell, and headed outside with his hand ax to split what little wood he had left. He'd have to fetch more before the day was done.

  Lachlan's words haunted Alisoune. I'll have to manage alone when ye're gone. Of course he would. But it saddened her to think of leaving. And 'twas disappointing to think that her brief time with him would change nothing, that he'd forget her as readily as one forgot a squirrel scampering through the yard.

  She wanted to help him somehow, to make his life better. She didn't want him to slowly let the cottage return to its former squalor. She couldn't bear to think of him moping in lonely exile.

  She'd made that bedside bracket for him, which had pleased him enough to earn her a kiss. Was there anything else she could do for him?

  Outside, she could hear him splitting logs as she poured oats and water into the porridge pot. His supply of wood was almost gone. He'd need more soon. She would have offered to collect wood for him, but she knew he'd refuse. He seemed determined to prove he could manage by himself.

  Chopping wood must be extraordinarily difficult for him. Not only would it be hard to manage an ax while standing on one leg, but he'd have to make a number of trips into the forest to get enough wood to last even one day, since he could only bring back what he could carry over one shoulder.

  She pushed the spectacles higher on her nose and tapped on her lip. She wondered...

  Campbell was big and strong. And he had four legs. If she could construct a sled of some sort with a harness for the big deerhound, he could probably haul a good deal of wood.

  Setting aside the pot, she scanned the room for something that could serve as a sled. Her gaze stopped on Lachlan's battle-scarred steel breastplate. That would slide easily across the snow and, later, across the grass. She could fashion a yoke and harness out of wood and leather and attach it to the breastplate with rope.

  Giddy at the prospect, she whirled just as Lachlan came in the door. “Lachlan, I need to borrow Campbell.”

  “Borrow him? What for?”

  “I...” She glanced at the half-empty bucket. “I need to fetch more water.”

  “Give me a moment,” he said, placing chunks of wood on the coals. “I'll fetch it for ye.”

  “Ach, nae...ye..nae,” she said, stumbling over her words. “I...I could actually do with...with a breath o' fresh air.” She may have overdone it by fanning herself. “'Tis terribly hot in here.”

  He frowned at her as if he thought she were mad. She couldn't blam
e him. 'Twas a bumbling excuse. “I can open the door and—”

  “Nae! Nae, nae, nae, ye don't have to...” She sighed. “To be perfectly honest...I...” She could think of no plausible reason to leave the cottage.

  He asked quietly, “Do ye need to attend to...women's matters?”

  “Aye, that's it,” she said, beaming. “I need to attend to women's matters, aye. And...Campbell...”

  “Will keep ye safe.”

  “Exactly.” She grinned, grateful he'd supplied the perfect, if vague, excuse for her.

  While he kindled the fire, she secretly stuffed some rope, wood, and leather scraps into her satchel. Then she swirled on her cloak, and, when his back was turned, concealed his great armored breastplate underneath it, staggering out the door under its weight with Campbell at her heels.

  The snow was falling lightly now, and she found to her delight that the breastplate made quite an excellent sled. With Campbell frolicking beside her, she dragged it all the way to the edge of the woods and a spot shielded from snow by thick pines where she could work.

  Campbell was patient while she fitted him with the yoke, as if he understood he was taking on an important responsibility. Once she had his harness in place, she attached it to the breastplate with two lengths of rope so 'twould drag behind him.

  Then, because she couldn't resist the temptation, she had Campbell take her for a wee sled ride across the snow. There was only one mishap when he started too quickly and she took a tumble off the back of the conveyance.

  By the time she returned to the cottage, smoke was curling up from the chimney, she was dusted with snow and flushed with pleasure, and Campbell's entire body was wagging with joy.

  “Now don't say a word, Campbell,” she whispered to the dog. “'Twill be a surprise.”

  She unfastened the yoke and sled and propped them against the wall where the stack of wood had been. Then, looking as casual as possible, the two conspirators entered the cabin to enjoy a steaming breakfast of porridge.

  Chapter Nine

  “Somethin' is up with ye two.”

  Lachlan was sure of it. He might not know the lass well enough to read her expressions, but Campbell's guilt was written all over his face.

  “Why do ye say that?” Alisoune asked with wide-eyed innocence, spooning more porridge into her mouth.

  “Because Campbell looks like he's been eatin' kittens.”

  She giggled, almost losing her porridge.

  He clucked his tongue. He supposed he'd find out eventually what the two of them were up to. In the meantime, he tried to enjoy his porridge. 'Twas nigh impossible when his attention kept drifting to the rosy-cheeked lass, who this morning looked as rare and beautiful as a rose in winter.

  He still couldn't believe she'd slept beside him last night on the cold flagstone floor. The softhearted lass had sacrificed her own comfort to comfort him.

  No one had done that for him before. His nightmares had always frightened Margaret. 'Twas one of the reasons she'd left him.

  He never recalled the dreams. But when he woke in a cold sweat, breathing heavily, crushed by a vague sense of despair, 'twasn't hard to guess what he'd been dreaming about.

  To realize that this lass he hardly knew, who'd crossed his path by chance, might wish to understand his pain...

  He swallowed his last bite of porridge and looked up at her through suddenly watery eyes.

  How could he bear to have her leave?

  Yet how could he be so cruel as to wish she'd stay?

  She smiled back fondly, warming him instantly and making him feel like she'd known and loved him all his life.

  He cleared his throat and pushed himself up on his crutch, turning away. “I've got to go...fetch more wood.”

  “Now?” she asked, springing to her feet.

  Keeping his eyes averted, he shrugged on his cloak, pulled on his cap, and muttered, “Better now, before the snow's heavy.”

  “Well then,” she said cheerfully, “Campbell has somethin' he'd like to show ye.”

  Here 'twas—whatever they'd been up to. He supposed he wasn't going to be able to make his escape just yet. He wiped his nose with the back of his sleeve and said with false cheer, “Does he?”

  “Come on, Campbell,” she sang out. “Show your master what a handy beast ye are.”

  The hound came to attention and began yipping excitedly, something he rarely did. When Alisoune opened the door, Campbell charged out, bounding crazily in the snow and snapping at snowflakes.

  Befuddled, Lachlan shook his head. “What did ye feed my dog to make him so wild?”

  She winked at him. “Kittens.”

  He smirked.

  She called Campbell back to her and began attaching some sort of leather harness over the dog's shoulders. When Lachlan saw her drag his breastplate—his fine polished steel breastplate with the Lion of Scotland engraved on it—across the ground to secure it behind the hound, his jaw clenched. But he managed to hold his tongue.

  And then all at once he understood.

  “'Tis a sled.” He laughed in delighted wonder. “To transport firewood.”

  She nodded vigorously, joining in his laughter.

  He was amazed, truly amazed. “But how did...where did...what...?”

  He grinned down at her. She smiled up at him. Then she closed her eyes and lifted her face, clearly expecting a kiss of thanks.

  He gulped. He didn't dare kiss her. 'Twouldn't be fair to her. 'Twouldn't be fair to either of them. There was no future in a kiss between them. 'Twould only be a taste of something they couldn't have.

  So as much as he longed to press his lips to hers, and as much as he knew it hurt her when he didn't, he turned away and feigned a sudden keen interest in Campbell's new conveyance.

  Alisoune opened her eyes, and then frowned in discouragement. If she didn't know better, she'd think Lachlan didn't care for kissing. But his body certainly responded to it. So why did he deny himself what was so pleasurable?

  'Twas only a wee kiss, after all.

  Aye, she understood what he'd said about saving herself for her husband. She wasn't a fool. She knew that men preferred their brides to be unbedded. But at the moment they were nowhere near a bed.

  She sighed in resignation and wrapped her cloak tighter about her, trying to take joy in the way Lachlan was experimenting with his new toy.

  “Come on, lad,” he called to Campbell after he'd dropped his ax into the sled. “Let's try out this new device.”

  He waved his hand and gave her a lopsided grin of gratitude before he set off with Campbell toward the woods, disappearing in the quiet fall of snowflakes.

  At least she'd managed to coax a smile from him, she thought, if not a kiss.

  He was gone for a long while. Alisoune cleaned up breakfast and straightened the bed linens. She washed her face and hands and rinsed her teeth. She even took out her disheveled braid, combed her hair, and replaited it. But still he didn't return.

  Bored, she began investigating the cottage more thoroughly.

  He had a small store of spices, and she uncorked each of the tiny vials and sniffed at them, identifying them by name.

  The trunk at the foot of his bed was unlocked, and she dug through his clothing, which was mostly linen shirts, woolen trews, and one rich black velvet doublet, for special occasions, she supposed.

  She more closely examined each piece of armor, forgetting that he must have been wearing it when he lost his leg, shocked by the dark bloodstains that peppered the dull steel and by the notable absence of one of his greaves.

  Then, because for Alisoune, curiosity always outweighed horror, she began to wonder, since the greave was missing, what had become of the leg inside it. Had he left it on the battlefield? Had he buried it? Had he brought it home for Campbell to gnaw on?

  Silently scolding herself for such irreverent and grotesque thoughts, she put the armor back where she found it and picked up the round crystal on the mantel.

  'Twas a beau
tiful thing. She'd never actually seen a rainbow crystal before, and she discovered that as she rolled it back and forth between her fingers in the firelight, it did seem to shine and change color. At the moment it had a pearly glow, but when she turned it in just the right way, it flashed green.

  What had Lachlan said—that the stone was meant for her? Why would he think that? After all, she'd only appeared in his cottage yesterday.

  Still, it felt soothing in her palm, the perfect size, almost as if 'twas made to fill her hand. It shimmered as she replaced it.

  Then, impatient, she decided to keep a vigil at the door. Lachlan had told her to latch it, but she was sure nobody would bother coming for her in this weather. After all, 'twas nigh impossible to burn a person at the stake while snow fell to extinguish the flame.

  Besides, she thought as she swung open the door, ushering in a cloud of snowflakes, she'd just come up with another way to make the dour Lachlan laugh.

  Lachlan's spirits hadn't felt so light in a long time. The sled worked perfectly. 'Twas just as well she'd made it from his breastplate, since he had no other use for it. And even Campbell seemed proud to be of service. With the hound's help, he was able to chop and stack enough wood to last several days.

  He wondered why he hadn't thought of such a brilliant solution. He supposed, wallowing in his misfortune and distracted by grief, it had been difficult to think of anything else.

  Alisoune, on the other hand, had proved herself a genius. She'd immediately ferreted out his need, designed an effective remedy, and produced it. This one wee change in his life would make a great difference.

  He'd never met a woman like Alisoune. Hell, he'd never met a man like her.

  As he limped home, with Campbell dragging the sled by his side, he thought maybe the crone had been right. This lass, this Keeper of the Stone, was indeed a special individual. And it seemed, whether the stone had anything to do with it, Lachlan's life had been changed, just as the old woman predicted.