The Winter Stone: One Legend, Three Enchanting Novellas

by Crosby, Tanya Anne

  With a lightened heart and renewed spirits, Alisoune carefully placed the crystal back on the mantel, where it flashed bright green before wobbling to a stop.

  She knew what to do now. She'd send Lachlan such a strong message of acceptance and caring and affection that he'd have to believe it. Indeed, a brilliant idea was already forming in her head.

  “How about if we go for a wee walk, eh, Campbell?” She grinned as the dog's tail began to wag. “Would ye like to show me where the spring is?”

  Lachlan didn't know which was worse as he limped home through the snow—his pain or his anger. Damn it, there was no godly reason he should feel such agony in his toes. They weren't there any longer.

  What had Alisoune called it? Phantom pain. Well, if 'twas phantom pain, he was a desperately haunted man.

  At least he'd taken care of that meddling busybody who'd been spying on them. One glance at the black-cloaked secretary's ruddy cheeks and heaving chest, and Lachlan knew he had his man.

  He hadn't needed to say much. Lachlan's size spoke well enough for him. But he did advise the squirming weasel as he held him by the throat that if he valued his continued good health, he should forget whatever he'd seen and stay away from Lachlan's cottage.

  Satisfied he'd put the fear of God into the man and knowing Alisoune was safe enough with Campbell to guard her, he'd taken time to stop by the grocer to purchase a few onions, eggs, preserved figs, a bottle of sack, and, on an extravagant whim, a small box of sugared almonds.

  The last time he'd made the trip into the village, there had been no snow. On one leg, it had taken him a long while. But this time 'twas a tortuous ordeal as he balanced the satchel of goods over his shoulder and battled through thick snowdrifts. Halfway home, the cursed pain returned with a vengeance.

  'Twas a reasonable price to pay, he supposed, for surviving the battle, for living when his brothers died. Still he had to fight the urge to stop where he stood and lie down in the snow until either it passed or he froze solid.

  But he had to get home. He had to get back to Alisoune. He may have cowed the secretary for now, but Lachlan was no fool. He realized that time had a way of dulling a man's fear.

  By the time the cottage was in sight, he was grimacing at every step. Walking had made the ache worse, and he despaired of ever being without pain again.

  At least he had Alisoune to look forward to—Alisoune with her sweet smile and gentle touch, her compassionate nature and her amusing antics. Indeed, her latest antic—the one where she'd oh-so-innocently stripped to her chemise, leaving herself nearly naked to his view—almost made him forget his pain.

  Several agonizing minutes later, he finally reached the cottage. He brushed the snow from his shoulders and knocked at the door. Once it opened, he was greeted by Campbell's wet nose...and struck by the bitter realization that when Alisoune left, Campbell would be the only friend to ever greet him at the door.

  His attempt to appear cheerful didn't fool her for an instant.

  “What's wrong?” she said in concern, rushing forward to take the satchel from him. “Ye're so pale.” She brushed his forehead with her thumb. “And ye're drippin' wet.”

  Her words made a lump form in his throat. The lass was fawning over him. Nobody fawned over him anymore. “I'm fine,” he croaked.

  “'Tis your leg, isn't it?” she guessed. “Ambroise Paré has a theory that when a nerve is severed, it becomes more sensitive to the cold.” He had no idea who Ambroise Paré was, but he let her take his icy hand in her warm one just the same. “Come. I think I have just the thing for ye.”

  She drew him slowly forward. He glanced past her. There by the fire was his giant wooden tub, generously filled with water.

  He blinked. How had she managed to fill it? That much water would take hours to transport. “How did...?”

  She grinned smugly and nodded to another device she'd assembled while he was gone.

  “'Tis a water transport. It fits over Campbell's yoke,” she explained. “He can carry two evenly balanced buckets o' water now. Between his two buckets and my two, it took only three trips to the spring to fill the bath.”

  Words failed him. 'Twas another ingenious invention. The lass had given him a gift beyond value. He'd have no reason to scrimp on water now. He could take a bath every day if he so chose.

  “Ye thought o' this yourself?” he marveled, hanging up his cloak and combing a hand back through his hair. “I hardly know what to say.”

  She smiled. “Ye don't need to say a thing.”

  She began ladling boiling water from the pot over the fire into the cold water of the tub to warm it.

  “What ye do need, however,” she added, “is to get out o' those damp clothes.”

  He hesitated. Until he'd met Margaret, who cringed at the sight of a naked man, he'd never been particularly shy about his male anatomy. But that wasn't what gave him pause now. He was wary of letting Alisoune see the mangled stump of his leg.

  She mistook his hesitation for modesty. “Ye needn't fret,” she assured him. “I'll just take off my spectacles.” She plucked them from her nose and tucked them into the front of her stomacher. “There. Now I'm as blind as an owl in daylight.”

  Mollified by her claim, he undressed. For Lachlan, standing stark naked in front of a beautiful lass, whether or not she could see him, had an immediate and dramatic effect. He was glad her sight was impaired, for if she'd looked at him now, she'd have seen that more than just his leg had become a shocking stump.

  Alisoune suppressed a smile. Owls weren't actually blind in daylight, and neither was she. 'Twas only a myth. But Lachlan didn't know that. And she wasn't about to tell him.

  Instead, she surreptitiously savored every delicious inch of him as he eased his magnificent body into the water.

  She hadn't exactly fibbed. Her vision wasn't ideal. Things in the distance blurred into unrecognizable shapes. But when she was close to an object, or in this case a handsome man, her sight was only slightly impaired.

  Indeed, 'twas good enough that the vision of his broad chest and wide shoulders emerging from the steaming water took her breath away. His body was covered in muscle, and he looked as brawny as a bull. He could have crushed her with his powerful arms, though at present, they were draped with leisurely abandon over the edge of the tub.

  He closed his eyes and let out a long, blissful sigh. She was glad to see the warm water was doing its work. It had broken her heart to see him looking so pale and troubled.

  She didn't want to get her gown wet, so she stripped down to her linen chemise. Then she pretended to guide her way with her toes along the flagstones, groping aimlessly as she settled onto her knees beside him.

  Wetting the spicy-scented soap, she casually peered down into the water. But the clever knave adjusted his seat in the tub just then to lean forward, obstructing her view.

  He cleared his throat. “If ye'll give me the soap, I can—”

  “Do it yourself? Oh, nae, 'tis no trouble, no trouble at all. 'Tis the least I can do after ye walked all that way for... What did ye get anyway?”

  She moved behind him, out of his reach, ere he could snatch the soap—and the pleasure of bathing him—from her.

  “Onions. Figs. Eggs. A bottle o' sack. Oh...and sugared almonds.”

  “Ooh, sugared almonds,” she cooed, adding coyly, “and do ye intend to share them?”

  He shrugged. “Oh, I don't know. Campbell doesn't much like sugared almonds.”

  She scoffed and lightly thumped the back of his head. “Naughty rascal.”

  Then she wet the soap and began to scrub patiently at his scalp, humming softly and occasionally peeking over his shoulder to see if she could catch a glimpse of...anything. But the way his knee was bent, his broad thigh blocked her gaze.

  She finished his hair, rinsing it with clean warm water, and then moved down to soap his back. His muscles rippled under her fingers, and their lean, sleek suppleness did something to her insides, making her heart ra
ce. Suddenly she wanted to sample all of his textures.

  When she slid the soap up over his shoulder, her wicked fingers let it go. It slipped down his chest into the water with a plop.

  'Twas only natural her hand should follow.

  He sucked in a quick breath when she reached for it. But what else was she to do? She couldn't very well bathe him without the soap.

  And of course, he should realize that without her spectacles, 'twould take a while to find it. She took her time looking, searching every delicious nook and cranny, apologizing when she happened to graze a sensitive spot.

  “Ah, there 'tis,” she said at last, finding it nestled against his lean buttock.

  He emitted a shuddering sigh, and she resumed bathing him. She ran the soap down his massive arms, marveling at his strength. She weaved her fingers between his to wash them, enjoying the way they fit together.

  'Twas when she moved to his legs that he tensed.

  She paused. “Is the warm water not helpin' your pain?”

  “Aye.”

  She resumed bathing him, soaping his good thigh and knee and calf. But when she moved to the other leg, he seized her wrist to stop her.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  His mouth worked as if he struggled to find the right words. “'Tisn't a fit sight for a softhearted lass.”

  “But I told ye I'm as blind as—”

  “I don't believe owls are all that blind,” he chided. “And I think ye know it.”

  She caught her lip beneath her teeth, aware she was blushing and unable to do anything about it.

  He continued. “Just give me the soap and I'll—”

  “Nae,” she countered, pulling free of his grip. “I'm not some fainthearted, lily-livered maid to swoon over a man's limb.”

  “Ye've never seen a limb like this.”

  “A limb is a limb.”

  “'Tisn't a limb. 'Tis a stump.”

  “A stump then.”

  “An ugly, misshapen knob o' flesh that—”

  “Oh, for the love o' Pythagoras!” she said in amused exasperation, rolling her eyes. “Give me your damned leg ere the water gets cold.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Lachlan would rather bare his arse than his ugly stump. 'Twas something he kept hidden, something he didn't want anyone to see, especially not a woman he...

  What? Cared for? He dismissed the thought at once. 'Twas foolish to go down a road that went nowhere.

  He supposed he was being overly defensive. But he didn't want to see the affection in her eyes dimmed by horror.

  Then again, why not? She was leaving anyway. What difference did it make whether she left in tearful apology as Margaret had or ran screaming from the cottage?

  “Fine.” With a resigned sigh, he leaned his head back against the edge of the tub and closed his eyes to slits.

  Alisoune wasted no time, delving both hands into the water and lifting his thigh with all the reverence of a bear hauling a trout from the stream. He braced for her grimace of revulsion.

  But it never came. Instead, she began studying him intently, turning her head this way and that, even donning her spectacles to inspect every horrifying scar and twisted sinew, all without so much as a wince of disgust.

  “Remarkable,” she murmured. “Does it still hurt?”

  “A bit.”

  “Not as badly?”

  “Nae.”

  “'Tis the heat o' the water,” she said triumphantly. “Paré was right.”

  He wondered if he should send Paré a gift of some sort. 'Twas strange, but the more Alisoune studied his mangled leg, the less awkward he felt.

  “Do me a favor,” she requested, her eyes sparkling, “in the name o' science. Close your eyes, and tell me where ye feel my touch.”

  He looked at her skeptically, but saw no harm in humoring her. He closed his eyes.

  She ran her palm down his thigh, rounding the spot above his knee where his leg had been severed. A sudden twinge coursed down his shin and into his toes. His eye twitched.

  “Where do ye feel that?”

  He didn't want to tell her.

  “Lachlan?” she urged.

  He sighed. “I feel it in my damned toes.”

  “What about this?”

  He felt a soft pressure under his missing heel. He shook his head. “My heel.”

  “And this?”

  He felt the whole bottom of his missing foot, but it didn't hurt or tingle or burn. It actually felt improved. He opened his eyes.

  She was rubbing and pressing at the end of his thigh. “Better?”

  He nodded.

  “Aha!” She grinned. “Ye see? If your nerves can fool your brain into thinkin' your leg hurts, then you can fool your brain into thinkin' ye're relievin' the pain as well.”

  'Twas amazing. Not only did her touch ease his pain, but it eased his fears. She didn't find the sight of him abhorrent at all. She found him fascinating...almost as fascinating as he found her.

  As Alisoune resumed bathing him, her delight at having made an important scientific discovery began to pale in the light of a newer, more interesting revelation.

  Lachlan was watching her. His eyes had softened, and his silvery gaze roamed over her. She felt it on her hair, on her lips, along the neckline of her chemise. He must have appreciated what he saw, for when she chanced to lower her eyes, she could clearly see his ready response beneath the water.

  The sight of him had a curious effect on her. Her nether regions began to ache, and her breasts tingled, remembering the sweet caress of his tongue. The more she touched him, the more aroused she became, until she craved something more than just bathing him.

  Using her fingers, she combed the clean, wet hair back from his face. Then, on impulse, she caught his face between her hands and leaned forward to give him a quick kiss.

  But 'twasn't quick at all. He replied with a kiss of his own, lifting his wet fingers to tangle in her hair and tilting her head to a more desirable angle.

  She closed her eyes, dissolving into his embrace. So compelling was his kiss that she forgot about everything else. The outside world disappeared. All that existed were their lips, entwined in glorious counterpoint.

  Her braid dipped into the bath, but she didn't notice. The sleeves of her chemise dragged through the water, but she didn't care. She was barely aware, when he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer, that she half-fell, half-climbed into the tub atop him.

  With only her thin, drenched chemise between them, she could feel every inch of his muscular, bath-warmed body against hers. His hands slipped down her neck, along her shoulders, and then lower, to caress her breasts through the wet linen.

  She gasped into his mouth, and he answered her with a bold stroke of his tongue. He moved one hand lower still, over her chemise, past her belly, as their tongues engaged in a lustful feast.

  And then he found the spot where her need was centered. The instant he pressed his fingers between her thighs, intense pleasure zagged through her like a lightning bolt.

  She groaned and moved against him instinctively. Heat flashed through her body, and her heart raced. Her breathing grew shallow and rapid. She clutched his shoulders and squeezed her eyes tightly, reveling in yearning, yet yearning for more.

  All at once he broke from the kiss and, with his other hand, clasped the back of her neck. He held her head close to him and whispered roughly in her ear. “I want ye, Alisoune. Damn, how I want ye.”

  “Then take me,” she sobbed.

  He hesitated a long moment, then at last seemed to surrender. “All right, lass. I will. But not in the bath. 'Twill be better in the bed.”

  She nodded, giving him one last kiss of promise. Then she struggled up and stepped out of the tub, dripping as she stood before him. But she wasn't cold, not with the way Lachlan was staring at her.

  In wet linen, she might as well have been naked. Hunger burned in Lachlan's smoky eyes as he perused her. He made a sound that was half-gro
an, half-sigh, a sound that felt as if it generated a sympathetic vibration in all her bones.

  He pulled himself out of the water, using the bracket she'd made for him. As she gazed at him standing before her—tall and massive and muscled—she was struck by a sudden shiver of fear.

  He'd seemed smaller somehow in the tub, smaller and less threatening. Now he looked like a great Roman statue...except none of the statues she'd seen were quite so...endowed.

  He must have sensed her trepidation. Dropping his gaze, he lowered himself to sit on the bed and draped the sheepskin coverlet over his lap. “If ye don't want to—”

  “Oh, nae!” she hurried to say. “'Tisn't that. I do. 'Tis only...”

  He sighed. “My leg.”

  “Nae!”

  “'Tis all right,” he said, shaking his head. “I don't expect—”

  “'Tisn't your leg,” she assured him. “'Tis your...your...” She made a gesture like a caber-tosser casting a 20-foot caber, and she saw him stifle a smile.

  “Oh, lass, if that's all 'tis,” he said, his eyes brightening, “come here and let me soothe your fears.”

  He did more than soothe her. He was tender and patient, riling up her senses until she was practically begging for his touch. Then he held her close against him as they reclined together on their sides, face-to-face, flesh to flesh. Slowly and gently, with one guiding hand upon her buttocks, he pressed into her.

  She sucked in a quick breath as a sharp, brief pain knifed through her.

  His whisper in her ear was taut with passion. “I'm sorry, lass. It couldn't be helped. But 'twill get better, I promise.”

  The pain receded in a moment as he smoothed the wrinkles from her brow with his thumb. And then she only felt deliciously full.

  He began to move within her, grazing her with long, easy strokes that tamed her the way that petting tamed a wild cat. For a while, 'twas pleasurable, a lovely friction that warmed her and wrapped her head in a comforting haze. An indescribable love for him washed over her, a love for this broken man who had bared his body and his soul to her.