He was almost home, less than a dozen yards from the door of the cottage, when an object suddenly flew past his shoulder. He ducked aside, and then turned to look for it. Had it been a bird? A rock? Behind him was only snow.
He turned back in the direction from which it had flown, and at that instant, a second object hit him full in the face.
'Twas cold and hard, and it stung where it hit him. He wiped wet snow from his face with the back of his hand and tried to see who was assailing him.
So stunned was he to see a grinning Alisoune launching another projectile at him that he had no time to duck out of the way of the third snowball, which struck him with deadly accuracy. His cap flew off from the impact, and he almost lost his crutch.
“What the devil!” he shouted, brushing bits of ice from his eyebrows.
She laughed and lobbed another hard-packed snowball at his belly.
He turned sideways, but not swiftly enough to avoid taking a hard impact to his arm. He swore, but his grin belied his anger.
“Is it war then?” he called out.
She answered with another snowball that glanced off his hip.
“Ach!” His appetite for revenge was whetted now, and he muttered under his breath, grinning all the while, “We'll see about that, lassie.”
She'd stacked up an enormous store of munitions. The lass was likely to pummel him soundly before he managed to pack a single snowball. But surely his aim was better than hers.
While he rapidly compressed snow between his palms, she threw two more frosty missiles. One hit his neck, sending shivers of ice down his shirt. The other impacted harmlessly on his crutch.
“A-ha!” he gloated, rearing back his arm and hurling his snowball forward.
But the little minx was ready for him. She'd appropriated his targe. She fended off the blow with a glance of his shield, then fired her next missile over the top of it.
Clearly he was going to lose this battle. And Campbell was of absolutely no use. The hound, his mind still on his serious wood-hauling duties, took no interest in their foolish play.
Alisoune was laughing triumphantly now, firing snowballs as if she were storming a castle, while he only managed to land one feeble clump of snow that struck the top of her head, dislodging her spectacles and showering flakes down over her face and shoulders.
She squealed with the cold shock, and he grinned in victory.
But her recovery was quick. With a shake of her head that scattered snowflakes everywhere, she reseated her spectacles, and then picked up a hefty missile in each hand and threw them in rapid succession.
Somehow he managed to duck into both of them and ended up with white splotches on the side of his doublet and the front of his trews, which sent her into gales of laughter.
He'd never win this lopsided battle, he decided, if he played fair.
Chapter Ten
Alisoune hadn't had so much fun in years. Not only was she enjoying the thrill of competition, but the challenge of calculating the most effective angle of trajectory kept her brain entertained as well. So far, she'd landed her strikes with impressive accuracy.
She hurled another snowball at him, which hit him smack in the middle of the chest. But this time the blow made him stagger backwards, and his crutch slipped out from under him. As she watched in growing dismay, his arms cartwheeled, and he lost his balance. To her horror, he fell back, hard, into the snowbank, where he lay...silent.
Her jaw fell open. “Lachlan?”
He failed to respond. She dropped the second snowball from limp fingers.
“Lachlan?”
There was no answer. She stared at him in dread, gathering her skirts in clenched fists.
“Lachlan!”
She stumbled toward him, whimpering in fear under her breath. What had she done? Was he hurt? Was he dead? What ever had made her think 'twas a good idea to pummel a crippled man with snowballs?
He still hadn't stirred when she reached him. He lay sprawled and motionless on the snow, like a beautiful dark angel fallen to earth.
“Oh, Lachlan,” she breathed in fright, clapping her hand over her mouth.
But she couldn't let panic distract her from reason. Steeling her nerves, she rushed forward and knelt by his side, using her fingers to feel for the pulse in his neck.
To her great relief, his heart was still beating. But he wasn't awake. She furrowed her brow in worry. She'd heard that after a blow to the head, sometimes people could dwell in a state of deep sleep for days. They eventually wasted away, never regaining consciousness.
“Oh, Lachlan,” she said in despair, shaking him gently. “I only meant to cheer ye. I didn't mean to hurt ye.”
She bit her lip. If he didn't waken straightaway, she'd have to get him inside so he wouldn't freeze. But how? He must outweigh her by half.
She glanced back over her shoulder at Campbell. Perhaps she could unload the wood and use the sled to transport him.
While she was considering the best course of action, and before she could move a muscle, Lachlan rose up, grabbed her, and rolled her onto her back in the snowbank.
She gasped in surprise and relief. “Ye're awake!” But a closer look into his twinkling eyes told her the truth. “Ptolemy's ballocks! Ye played me false.”
Pinning her by the shoulders, he grinned down at her like a wildcat with a mouse between its paws.
“Ach!” she spat. “Let me up!” The snow was cold on her backside.
“Only if ye'll cede the battle.”
She was vexed with him. After all, he'd scared the hell out of her, and she'd been worried. But when she beheld the merry sparkle in his silver eyes and the flash of his snow-white smile, she couldn't stay angry.
She shivered. “'Tis cold, Lachlan! Let me up!”
“Oh, I know 'tis cold. I was lyin' there for quite a while myself.”
“Ye brute!” she cried, grinning in spite of herself. “Let me go!”
“Do ye yield?”
“Ye cheated!”
“Ye gave me no choice.” He shook his head and clucked his tongue. “What sort o' villain attacks a helpless cripple anyway?”
“Ye're not helpless, ye big oaf!”
“Now ye're callin' me names.” He sighed in mock disgust. “'Tis appallin'.”
She laughed and pounded on his chest, but he didn't budge.
“And beatin' me.”
She tossed her head, throwing off her spectacles. “Campbell!”
He laughed. “The dog's not goin' to help ye, lass. Come on now, ye've lost the fight. Surrender.”
“Never,” she mumbled under her breath.
He cocked his head. “What was that ye said? I didn't quite—”
“Never!” she said, laughing.
“As ye wish.” He shrugged. “I've no place to go. 'Tisn't my arse freezin' in a snowbank.”
She gasped, then giggled.
The wet snow was indeed seeping into her skirts. But as she continued to gaze up into Lachlan's dancing eyes, 'twasn't long before she no longer felt the cold.
Lachlan watched Alisoune melt before his eyes like snow in sunlight. He knew that look. The lass was all hot and hungry again.
And this time—curse his male instincts—so was he.
When her eyes drifted languidly down to his parted mouth, he was so drunk on his joy and her laughter that he didn't hesitate or even think before kissing her.
She tasted as fresh and clean as the fallen snow. As she gasped against his lips, the light fog of her breath moistened his face. Her fingertips were icy as she touched his cheek, but her kiss warmed his blood so thoroughly that he hardly felt the cold.
Her body was soft and welcoming beneath him, and to his astonishment, he fell into her embrace as easily as laying his head on his own familiar pillow.
Her shoulders were bared by the wide square neckline of her stomacher, and he stroked her tenderly there with his thumbs. She moaned softly and arched up, inviting his caress with her pale bosom.
He obliged
her, running one knuckle along the upper edge of her gown and delving beneath with his finger. Her skin was supple and impossibly smooth, like fine silk, and he sighed into her mouth with pleasure.
But she wanted more. She threaded chill fingers through the curls at the back of his head and drew him down toward her, then slipped her mouth aside and offered him her throat.
With a low knowing chuckle, he kissed her delicate jaw and then lower, making a burning trail beneath her ear and down the side of her neck till she shivered at the sensation.
His own body, meanwhile, had gone instantly rigid with desire. It wanted only one thing. And the more he kissed her lips, her throat, the upper curve of her breast, the more intense his longing grew.
She arched even more, as if commanding him to touch her where she willed.
He knew what she was asking for, even if she didn't. With a broad stroke of his tongue, he grazed her bosom, nuzzling aside the fabric of her white linen chemise to taste her sweet flesh.
Her hands made fists in his hair, and she squeezed her eyes closed in bittersweet yearning, turning her head aside to grant him access.
He gently tugged her stomacher down to reveal the pale perfection of her small breasts.
She drew in a shuddering breath and held it in anticipation. With a seductive smile, he teased one of them with the tip of his tongue and then, when she gave a little cry of need, enclosed her fully in his mouth.
He was sure there could be no greater heaven than this. She tasted like smooth honey mead on his tongue, mellow and spicy and intoxicating. And when he drank his fill and moved to her other breast, she dug her fingers into his back with ill-concealed lust.
He'd thought his body had forgotten how to respond to a woman. But he was wrong. He ached with yearning and thickened with purpose.
She squirmed beneath him, and he remembered she was lying on the frozen ground, probably soaking her skirts with snow. Kissing his way back up to her other ear, he reached a hand beneath the curve of her hips and lifted her, rolling onto his back with her so that he would bear the brunt of the ice.
Her cheeks as she gazed down at him were flushed with cold, but a raging fire burned in her eyes. That look alone made his blood surge, and he groaned with desire.
The impetuous lass attacked him then, raining kisses over his face and throat and the vee of his chest as if to sample every inch of his flesh. With breathless enthusiasm, she wrenched open the buttons of his doublet, and her hands slipped beneath his linen shirt, gliding over his shoulders, across his chest, and along his ribs.
It felt divine. For so long he'd been bereft of touch, bereft of affection. That Alisoune would give herself so freely and lovingly to him was akin to setting a banquet before a starving man.
He felt like laughing with delight as she boldly explored him. And then she pressed a brazen palm against the front of his trews, and the laughter stuck in his throat.
He sucked a breath through his teeth and closed his eyes in delicious agony. But just as the curious lass began to loosen the laces of his trews, he heard Campbell growl.
Biting back a curse at the interruption and careful not to alert Alisoune, Lachlan peered through narrowed lids to see what troubled the hound. Then his eyes widened.
In the distance, a dark figure stood, watching them. At Campbell's second warning growl, the man turned in a huff and lurched off in the direction of the village, his black cloak stark against the white snow.
The man was too far away for Lachlan to identify. But whoever 'twas had probably recognized Lachlan and would babble to all of Keirfield what he'd seen.
Lachlan didn't care a whit what the townspeople thought of him. But he had to protect Alisoune. Already, the lass had pricked the pride of Father Ninian. If that infernal priest heard that she'd been seen sporting with Lachlan in the snow...
As difficult as 'twas to end such a pleasurable endeavor, Lachlan forced himself to gently seize Alisoune's wrist, stopping her passionate pursuit. He retrieved his cap and her spectacles and whispered, “Let's go inside, lass.”
Father Ninian's secretary, fleeing purposefully toward Keirfield, was so overwrought with religious zeal and righteous fervor that he could hardly scramble fast enough through the snow. He pursed his thin lips in disgust. The father would hear about this.
He'd seen Lachlan Mar fornicating with the witch. He was sure of it. They'd been copulating shamelessly, right there in the snow, in plain sight of God...and everyone else, for that matter.
He licked his lips. 'Twould be a long while before he could scrub from his memory the sight of the crippled soldier fondling the spectacle-seller's teats.
Mar probably wasn't to blame, he decided. 'Twas probably the fault of that scheming witch. She'd probably ensorcelled the poor wretch.
After all, the soldier had kept mostly to himself after he lost his leg and his Margaret. He didn't go to church. He didn't strike up conversations. He only came to town for supplies. He wasn't the sort of man to carry on with a strange woman.
Besides, he was a cripple. God had punished him. He clearly wasn't meant to enjoy such worldly diversions. 'Twas sinful that a man with one leg should be encouraged to partake of pleasures he didn't deserve, of what rightfully belonged to pious men whom God had seen fit to bless with whole bodies.
Father Ninian was right. The lass was the handmaiden of the devil, and Mar was wrong to try to protect her from the fires of purification.
He didn't wish to be seen as too overeager. But he couldn't wait to tell Father Ninian what he'd witnessed.
By the time Lachlan unhitched Campbell, unloaded the sled, stacked the wood, and hung up his cloak, Alisoune realized his lusty mood had faded. He'd doubtless had enough time to reconsider their impulsive actions and he felt guilty now. He was stoking the fire on the hearth, but the fire in his heart no longer burned brightly. He seemed...distracted.
What he didn't realize was that she had no intention of giving up so easily. She'd never been intimate with a man before. The way Lachlan made her feel, she was positive she was on the verge of some soul-shattering discovery. And she meant to pursue it. Alisoune was nothing if not persistent. She could be as pesky as a flea.
Determined to seize the day, she loosened the laces of her stomacher and, leaving only her linen chemise, casually drew her gown over her head, ostensibly to dry it by the fire.
Though he said nothing, his eyes coursed over her with an obvious flicker of appreciation, and she saw his breath catch.
She draped the gown over the back of the chair near the fire. Then she turned to warm her own damp backside, strategically placing herself between Lachlan and the fire, where the light of the flames would silhouette her body.
He tried to ignore her...and failed. Guilt might be a powerful force, she decided, but 'twas no match for lust. His fist clenched on his crutch, and his jaw tightened as he stared intently past her and into the flames.
“I'm goin' to town,” he finally muttered.
She raised her brows in surprise. “Ye are? Now? Why?”
“I have to...get some...supplies.”
He wasn't a very good liar. Perhaps she'd been too seductive and was scaring him off. She crossed an arm over her bosom, self-conscious now. “When will ye...be back?”
“I won't be long.”
His face was grim. He didn't meet her eyes as he shouldered his satchel and tied a pouch of coins onto his belt. The familiar jingle alerted Campbell, who jumped up to his feet, ready to accompany his master.
“Campbell,” he commanded, “stay.”
The dog reluctantly sank back down onto the floor.
“Latch the door,” he reminded her, nodding briefly in farewell.
She gave him a timid smile. But inside, her heart was sinking.
Chapter Eleven
Alisoune stared in silence at the closed door for a full minute before latching it and then turning dejectedly towards the fire. Atop the mantel, the curious white stone caught her eye as it reflected the
leaping flames, and she idly picked it up.
What had she done wrong? Why had he fled? In the snow, everything had seemed perfect. What had happened?
She cupped the stone in her palm, gazing down at it as if the answer lay there while a dozen possibilities raced through her brain.
She'd been too forward.
She hadn't been forward enough.
She was too tall, too awkward, too thin. Too smart.
He didn't like lasses with spectacles.
He didn't like lasses who made a spectacle of themselves.
As she looked down at the stone in her hand, it seemed dull now, just an ugly lump of worthless rock. Alisoune felt like that, ugly and worthless.
Sighing, she reached up to replace the crystal, but it slipped from her fingers and dropped with a hard smack onto the floor, and then rolled across the flagstones.
She gasped. What if she'd cracked it?
Campbell got to it before she could, bringing the stone back to her. She took it gently from between his teeth and examined it. Fortunately, 'twas unbroken. The only flaw in the stone were the cracks inside, which of course were what made it so unique and interesting.
As she gazed down at the crystal, she couldn't help but smile at the parallel. Wasn't that true of people as well? Wasn't it a person's flaws that made them unique and interesting?
The way the stone lay cradled in her hand now, it appeared to glow in a beautiful rosy color. Her thoughts likewise began to take on a more rosy cast.
'Twas true that most men seemed to feel threatened by Alisoune's flaws. They were uneasy around her. But Lachlan was different. He didn't mock her or shun her or think she was Lucifer's progeny.
He must have fled for some other reason. She furrowed her brows and rolled the stone between her hands.
Then, all at once, it came to her.
Lachlan might feel the same insecurities she did. He was also flawed—physically and mentally scarred. He might figure he was cursed by God, undeserving of kindness, not entitled to compassion or pleasure or love. Maybe that was why he had panicked and left.
The Winter Stone: One Legend, Three Enchanting Novellas Page 25