But gradually her fondness for him became much more. His touch no longer soothed her, but aroused her. Affection became desire. 'Twas a smoldering coal lodged betwixt her legs that suddenly sparked like a flint, a coal that he coaxed to flame.
Her mind floated away. 'Twas a purely visceral experience, and for once she was without a thought in her busy brain. Her limbs tangled with his. Primitive groans of joy came from deep within her. And her heart beat to a strange new rhythm of desire.
When she peered at him through half-closed lids, the beautiful anguish on his face catapulted her to new heights of passion, and her heart swelled in her breast.
“Oh, Lachlan!” she cried.
“Almost, love...almost.”
She didn't know what he meant until she suddenly felt a tiny pinpoint of light arise inside her at the place where they were joined. It brightened as it grew, spreading out like a pool of warm honey, bathing her flesh.
He nuzzled her ear, sending a shiver of lust through her as he breathed, “Aye, lass, let it come.”
And then, like a molten fount bursting up through the earth, she erupted with a throaty cry, shuddering with sweet relief.
He followed her soon after, roaring his ecstasy against her cheek as he clung tightly to her and trembled with a forceful release.
She didn't mean to burst into tears. It just happened.
Still breathing raggedly, Lachlan caught her face in his hands and frowned in concern. “What's wrong, sweetheart?”
“'Twas beautiful,” she breathed, overcome with emotion.
He smiled. “Oh, aye.”
“And I just,” she squeaked out between sobs, “Oh, I love ye, Lachlan.”
She thought his eyes filled, too, but she'd never know for certain, because he pulled her close, cradling her head against his chest and holding her there for a long while.
Her last thought before she relaxed into the arms of slumber was whether he could learn to love her as well.
In the mellow aftermath of lovemaking, Lachlan drifted off with Alisoune in his arms. Moved by her heart's confession and filled with peace and relief, he slept more soundly than he had since the war.
'Twas morn when he next opened his eyes. What he saw in the dim light made him smile. Alisoune was sitting at the foot of the bed with a sheet draped over one shoulder, looking like a Roman goddess in spectacles. She was feasting on sugared almonds and inspecting a piece of his armor.
“Good morn,” he croaked.
“Oh!” She gave a guilty start and dropped the greave, which clattered on the floor.
He smiled as she picked it up and propped it against the wall. “Did ye sleep well?”
She nodded, handing him the box of almonds, and he popped a few in his mouth. He found her sudden shyness adorable. Also adorable were her sleep-mussed tresses, her delicate naked shoulder, and her bare feet.
“I haven't slept so well in a long while,” he volunteered, reaching out a hand to entwine her fingers in his.
She nodded again, but averted her eyes, running an idle finger over the back of his hand. “Was that the first time...I mean...have you ever...”
He almost choked on an almond. He didn't know whether to be pleased or insulted that Alisoune believed he might be a virgin. “Nae, I've had a wee bit of experience.” Though he'd left his wild days behind, he'd enjoyed the favors of at least a dozen maids in his youth.
“Were ye...married?”
He hesitated. Alisoune was the most curious lass he'd ever met. But he wanted to be honest with her. “Nae, but I was betrothed once.”
She seemed to consider his words. “What was her name?”
“Margaret.” 'Twas the first time he'd said her name out loud since she'd left. 'Twasn't as painful as he'd expected.
“What happened to her?”
Her question was a reminder that, as with Margaret, his time with Alisoune was likely limited. “She left.”
“Why?”
He sniffed. “She needed to wed a real man.” Those had been her words, but they felt like his legacy now.
“What?” Alisoune furrowed her brows in righteous indignation. “But ye are a real man.”
“She needed a man who wasn't a cripple, who could support her, protect her, give her a life.”
“Hmph! It sounds like Margaret was the cripple.”
Her assessment surprised and pleased him. Margaret had always been a rather helpless lass.
Alisoune rubbed the pad of her thumb across his knuckles, and her eyes turned soft. “I think she was a fool to let ye get away.”
He swallowed hard. 'Twould be easy to fall under Alisoune's enchantment, because a part of him so desperately wanted to believe it. He wanted to believe, as she'd sworn last night, that she loved him. But he suspected the lass was confusing lust for love.
She'd tire of him once the novelty of lovemaking wore off. And when that happened, she'd realize he was only a helpless cripple who could do nothing for her.
Once the storm passed, she'd leave him, just as Margaret had and just as fate decreed.
But until then, he yearned to wring every drop of joy he could out of the time they had together. He might not have a future with her, but at least he'd have a sweet memory of her to warm his lonely nights.
“Lachlan?” She was drawing lazy figure eights on his thigh.
“Mm?”
“Would you want to...that is...if 'tisn't too much trouble...”
“Aye?”
She lifted her eyes to him, and he read her lusty request in their smoky green depths.
They needed no words. He grew instantly hard, she tossed aside her spectacles and her sheet, and they enjoyed a spirited breakfast in bed.
An hour later, the storm was in full-force outside. Wind whistled through the cracks between the window panes and rattled the door against its jamb.
The sound was music to Lachlan's ears. As long as the storm continued, Alisoune would remain with him. They could live in a blissful utopia and never face harsh reality.
Indeed, after their fourth bout of lovemaking, he decided he didn't care if the snow lasted till June.
Chapter Thirteen
For two days, between snuggling with Lachlan under the covers, letting him bathe her in his great tub, and inventing novel positions for her new favorite pastime, Alisoune worked on a secret project.
With the snowstorm raging outside, they were stuck indoors. As Alisoune had explained to Lachlan, she'd go mad if she didn't give her active brain something to do.
And so, inspired by the sketches she'd seen by Ambroise Paré, she tinkered away on a new invention. But since she wanted to surprise Lachlan, she worked on it out of his sight behind the bed, giving him stern instructions that he wasn't allowed to peek.
Meanwhile, Lachlan kept busy, doing repairs he claimed he'd let go too long. He mixed clay to seal up the cracks around the window. He stitched up the clothing he'd let turn to rags. He washed his bed linens and hung them near the fire to dry.
A few last rivets, a bit of finessed carving, and some strategic padding, and Alisoune finished the project. By afternoon, she was ready to let Lachlan try it out.
At least that was what she intended.
But once she saw what he'd been doing for the past half-hour—shaving off his unruly beard, revealing his chiseled jaw and square face—she thought he looked more handsome than ever, handsome and irresistible. And she didn't feel much like resisting.
Lachlan awoke in the morn with Alisoune's tangled hair draped across his face. He smiled and inhaled deeply, loving the scent of woman, the scent of her.
Numerous times last night she'd made him glad he'd trimmed his beard. She'd brushed her knuckles along his cheek, marveling at its smoothness, and lavished kisses all over his chin. And then, with a lascivious growl, she'd pulled his head to her bosom, inviting him to nuzzle her breasts with his freshly shaved face. That wasn't all he nuzzled, and she'd been thrilled with the erotic adventure he'd taken her on.
/> That they'd missed supper was little surprise. And with Campbell's uncanny ability to come and go out of the cottage on his own, the hound hadn't awakened them in the night to be let outdoors. So the fact that neither of them had stirred until now wasn't unexpected.
What was unexpected was what Lachlan saw when he gently brushed Alisoune's hair from his face. A bright, cheery beam of sunlight streamed in through the window and pooled on the flagstones.
His heart sank.
The storm was over.
He'd known this hour would come. Indeed, he counted himself fortunate to have had this much time with her. He didn't deserve her, after all. Women like Alisoune and Margaret were too fine for a man with one leg and no future.
Still, knowing all that didn't make it any less painful. He'd lived in denial for days now. He'd allowed himself to forget he was a cripple. He'd convinced himself her love for him would never fade. He'd let himself believe they could go on living like this in his cottage forever.
'Twas a hard delusion to give up.
Before Alisoune even opened her eyes, she stretched and yawned with cat-like grace. Smiling, she made a sound of lazy bliss, then purred, “Good morn, handsome.”
His heart felt as if it might break. But he wouldn't disappoint her. If this was to be their last morn together, he'd make it one to remember.
“Good morn, beautiful,” he choked out.
She cupped his chin and grinned. “I have to say I like this new face o' yours.”
“Do ye now?”
“Aye. I quite like it.” She gave him a lusty perusal. “I particularly like it betwixt my—”
Campbell chose that opportunity to shove his shaggy head between them and lick at Lachlan's newly bare face.
“Ach, dog!” he said in annoyance, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “Away!”
Alisoune laughed. Then she popped up, her attention already distracted. “Oh! I never got to show ye what I've been workin' on.”
Lachlan furrowed his brows. He didn't want to see it. Whatever she'd made for him, 'twould be a parting gift, something she'd leave behind that would remind him of their last hours together.
“Ach, lass, let's eat first,” he said instead. “I'm starvin' to death. Ye never fed me supper last night.”
She swatted playfully at his shoulder. “Am I your cook now?” Then she wiggled her eyes suggestively. “And by the way, I think ye're wrong. I recall ye had quite a nice feast last night.” Then, shocked by her own lewd remark, she covered her mouth and erupted into giggles.
He smiled back, but his heart was aching. How he'd miss the sound of her laughter. “I never realized ye were such a naughty lass.”
“It must be the company I keep,” she teased.
He'd achieved his aim, at least for the moment. They'd have one last meal together ere he let her walk out of his life forever.
Alisoune bustled about the kitchen, cracking eggs and stirring porridge, preparing breakfast as if nothing were wrong. But if he'd looked closer, Lachlan would have noticed that her smile was shaky and her hands trembled.
She'd seen the sunlight flooding through the window.
The storm had passed.
Lachlan would expect her to leave.
And she didn't want to go. Not yet.
She loved him. She knew she'd said so in the heat of passion. But even now, with her brain fully engaged and her lust held at arm's length, 'twas true. She loved Lachlan.
She loved the way his silver eyes turned molten with desire. She loved the way he frowned in concentration when he was banking the fire. She loved how he romped with his dog, how his teeth gleamed when he smiled, how he raked the hair back from his brow.
Most of all, she loved the way he made her feel. Around Lachlan, she felt desirable and clever and beautiful. He took an interest in her interests and never appeared bored or irritated or dismissive when she spoke at length on some fine point of science that anyone else would find dull.
He appreciated her intellect, and he didn't mind her spectacles. He shared her sense of humor, and he thought her breasts were just the right size. He was amused by her sense of curiosity, and he seemed pleased by her willingness to learn when it came to lovemaking.
But she'd barely begun wooing him. If she wanted him to fall in love with her, she needed more time. She cursed the arrival of the sun, wishing 'twould disappear and not return for months.
She knew she shouldn't overstay her welcome. Lachlan had already been more than generous with his lodging, his food, his protection.
But if he could only realize how much more she had to give, how much love she could lavish upon him, how much better his life would be with her in it...
Maybe her gift would help. Maybe once he saw what she'd made for him—this unique gift of restoration given from her heart—he'd fall in love with her.
She tried to keep up a merry attitude all through breakfast, but she could see that he too seemed ill-at-ease. He was probably trying to think of how to politely ask her to leave.
She couldn't give him that opportunity. She had to keep him preoccupied—with conversation, with her gift, with her body, if necessary—to keep him from saying the words that would banish her from his cottage, and his heart, for good.
But in one of her rare quiet moments as they ate, Lachlan nodded to his hound, who was curled up in a patch of sunlight on the floor. “Campbell's missed the sun.”
The porridge stuck in her throat. She had half-hoped he wouldn't notice the change in weather. Now his words, spoken aloud, seemed to hang like an ax over her head.
She rushed to fill in the deadly silence. “An interestin' thing about that... Leonardo would say the sun is a form o' direct light. But what we're actually seein' in the cottage isn't the sun. 'Tis diffused light, because it's passin' through the atmosphere.” She glanced feverishly around the room, looking for something to make her point. Then she tossed her napkin onto the table and scraped back her chair, standing to pick up the stone from the mantel and holding it in the sunlight. “The light passin' through an object like this milky stone is a different kind altogether, and the fourth,” she said, turning the stone until it cast a red wedge on her palm, “is reflective light, the kind that bounces off the prism in the midst o' the stone.”
She knew she was chattering, but she couldn't seem to stop herself. There was a sad cast to Lachlan's eyes that told her he well understood the significance of the sun, and it had nothing to do with Leonardo da Vinci.
The porridge sat like a heavy lump in her stomach now. She didn't want him to tell her to leave. She didn't want him to say anything.
In a cheerful panic, she rushed over to snatch the cloth cover from the project she'd been working on for the past two days. She hefted up the heavy thing, brought it over, and placed it in his arms, giving him a watery smile.
He frowned at it. “What's this?”
“A gift.”
“But what is it?” He turned it over.
“'Tis called a prosthesis.”
“That's my armor.”
“Aye, but 'tis more than that.” She took it back carefully from him and demonstrated. “Above the greave and inside the poleyn is a knee hinge with a dowel that runs down to the foot, the saboton, and at the ankle, there's a spring.” She took the padding out and tipped it so he could look down the top. “See the wooden top there? I took the liberty o' makin' a mold o' your leg while ye were sleepin', and I carved the wood so it should fit. But o' course, ye'll want to keep the paddin' in for comfort's sake. And then these buckles here are made to attach to your swordbelt to hold it on.”
“'Tis a leg.”
“Well...” She blushed. “'Tisn't quite a leg. But it should serve ye well enough. I copied the design from Paré, who—”
“Ye made me a leg.”
She bit her lip, feeling strangely unsure of herself. Honestly, she couldn't tell from his expression whether he was pleased or appalled.
Chapter Fourteen
; Lachlan had never felt so conflicted.
Moved by Alisoune's kindness and generosity, he felt his throat close with emotion. He was overwhelmed by her gesture and impressed by her invention, which, upon closer examination, appeared to be a spectacular creation of rivets and springs and hinges that faithfully replicated the movements of a real leg.
Yet how could he accept such a gift? His limb had been the price he'd paid for outliving his brothers. He'd willingly suffered that loss, knowing they had lost so much more. 'Twasn't right that he be restored, that his debt to them be so easily forgiven.
He didn't expect her to understand. How could she? She'd never been a soldier. She didn't have brothers to look after. She didn't know the guilt he carried for surviving the battle.
“Thank ye,” he murmured, setting the piece aside.
“Aren't ye goin' to try it?” she ventured.
“Later,” he lied. “I'm a bit...weary now.”
Her smile faltered. “Weary?” Her voice cracked on the word, and for a moment she looked uncertain. But then she tucked her lip under her teeth and stepped closer to walk her fingertips lightly up his arm. “Well, if ye're weary,” she whispered in invitation, taking off her spectacles, “maybe we should go back to bed.”
'Twas what he wanted more than anything—one last chance to hold her in his arms, to join with her in that most intimate of embraces, before he had to set her free.
Their mating was bittersweet—gentle yet fierce, languorous yet desperate. He tried to memorize every detail, tried to fix her image in his mind. And then he tried, unsuccessfully, to let her go.
They were still entangled a few hours later when she finally nudged him and murmured, “Come on, lazybones. I want to see how your prosthesis works.”
“I'm sure it works fine.”
She poked him. “Ah, Lachlan, don't be a tease. Ye know I want to see it.”
“Maybe later.”
“Later? What do ye mean, later?”
“Later, after ye're...”
“After I'm...?”
“Just...later.” He lowered his eyes. He couldn't bear to see her hurt.
The Winter Stone: One Legend, Three Enchanting Novellas Page 27