by Shana Ab
“No,” she said loudly, breaking away from the group, turning to face them. No one even glanced at her; all eyes were fixed on the riders.
“They are not the devil's own,” Lauren called out, and it was only then that she noticed Fuller and his men on the fringes of the crowd, the look of danger clenched around each of them. They had their swords out too, but they were facing her clansmen, already grouped into fighting formation.
“They are our allies now!” Lauren said urgently.“You will not harm them! Yo u will not threaten them! They are here to aid us!”
“They have the sheep!” exclaimed someone. “They have the stolen sheep!”
“It was them all along!”
“Aye!”
“No!” she cried again.“It wasn't them! I know there's a good reason for this! Everyone, keep your head!”
By now she could hear the horses slowing, coming up behind her, heavy breath and snorting, skittish hooves. But she did not turn around, because she could not afford to lose this test. Everything depended upon it.
“What's this, Lauren MacRae?” inquired a smooth voice at her back, understated menace in every inflection.
Lauren still did not turn, offering a hard gaze to Cor-mic, who stood silent. “We've been discussing the loss of the sheep, du Morgan. I see you've found something from the Vikings.”
Let him understand her, she prayed. Let him follow her lead, and turn the focus of danger away from him, to the Northmen instead.
She heard the creaking of leather, perhaps his saddle. Something soft and heavy landed close behind her, stirring the dirt. With just a slight turn of her head she saw one sad, thin leg of the lamb, awkward against the earth.
“It was about half an hour distant from here,” said du Morgan.“I think you'll find the cuts were clean, made with a very sharp knife.”
“An English knife,” muttered one of the Scots.
“Now, how would a Northman do that?” inquired the earl, with silky danger.“I assure you, we English keep our blades close to us at all times. We have sense enough to guard against thieves.”
Lauren turned around to see him, spoke before anyone else could.“So you found their camp?”
He was still edged in red, high above her on his steed, watching her.
“No,” replied the earl, after a moment. “Not that. Only the loss of this lamb, abandoned near the edge of a woods.”
“Where?” she asked.
“If we might dismount,” Arion suggested, aloof,“and enter your fine village, perhaps we could discuss it, as promised allies would.”
He met her look with cool inquiry, the threat of his men behind him. Lauren turned around again, facing her kin, the angry faces, the tight looks of distrust.
“We welcome you to Dunmar, du Morgan,” she said clearly. She found Cormic again amid the faces and focused on him, waiting for him to add his approval. But still the old man said nothing, only looked from her to the mounted man behind her, his expression shadowed.
“Oh, is this a welcome?” asked the earl now, in the same tone.“How unusual. In my country, such a greeting does not include the threat of swords.”
Damn the man. He was obviously no help to her.
Lauren spoke again, this time straight to the elder in front of her.“You are most welcome here, Earl of Morgan, in the name of my father, Hebron MacRae, and of my cousin Quinn MacRae. Is it not so, Cormic?”
Cormic's lips grew thin and sour, as if he had tasted something unpleasant. For a long moment he did not speak, and Lauren felt moisture bead up on her forehead despite the coolness of the night. She gave up demanding and instead implored him with her eyes. He could not be so shortsighted as to start a war now. He must not….
“Aye,” Cormic finally conceded, almost a snarl.“You're welcome here, Earl of Morgan, you and your men.”
He turned around and walked away before anything more could be said, leaving the Scots around her to slowly loosen their tension, exchanging looks. They began to put away their swords. Lauren saw Fuller's group do the same. Only then did she turn again to Arion.
He did not dismount but stared down at her, now a man of twilight shadows, the red light faded to dusk.
It would not surprise her to find the prince of darkness so handsome, she thought suddenly, remote. Surely he must be so, to be the lord of temptation, yet Lauren imagined that even the devil would find it hard to compete with this earl, with his long black hair and his hard green eyes, such strong features, masculine radiance embodied in every line.
“And how are you, MacRae?” he asked now, a softer voice, just for her.
“Well enough,” she managed to reply.
He came off his mount with fluid ease, and one by one his men did the same. Fuller was beside them now, bowing. Lauren looked at him, startled, having almost forgotten the conflict that had been barely averted.
Arion could do that to her, just so easily. He could make her forget the whole of the world, every other single thing in her life, with just one entrancing glance from his ocean eyes.
Splendid. Just what she needed, she thought acridly.
Lauren drew back slightly, assessing the scene around her to ensure there would be no immediate trouble, allowing the earl and his steward to converse in private.
A few of the Scots had come over and hefted the lamb, carrying it back into the heart of the village, talking in low voices. The rest of her people were moving off in slow gatherings, plenty of looks being thrown behind them at the new arrivals, plenty of words passing back and forth about it all. Lauren was grateful she could not hear them.
Only Rhodric stood still amid the movement, watching her, and she stared back at him coldly until he turned away, joining his colleagues.
Kenna was suddenly there, pale and brave with her husband behind her, offering Lauren her arm again. Lauren took it, then addressed Arion.
“There will be a supper at the common house at the top of this hill.” She looked to her cousin for confirmation, and got a quick nod. “The stable is over there, to the right. Come up for the meal when you are ready. We can discuss your discovery after we eat.”
Arion gave a half-bow of acknowledgment, almost too grand for the moment, which Lauren ignored. She began the walk back up the path with Kenna.
“I was going to cook for you tonight in my own home,” Kenna murmured.
“I think it might be better if I joined everyone in the common,” Lauren murmured back.
Kenna gave a slight smile to the ground.“Well, I think the view will be nicer there, anyway.”
HE MEAL WAS NOT AS uneasy as it might have been. Many of the Scots had already taken their evening supper, but more than a few lingered, just to keep an eye on the newcomers, drinking and talking in pockets of conversation. In any other situation it might have been difficult to tell that there was anything amiss, other than the fact that the room was divided neatly down the middle, Scots on one side, English on the other. Rhodric, Lauren took pains to notice, was pointedly absent.
She helped to serve the food herself, guessing correctly that none of the women would be keen on approaching the strangers without some encouragement. So she took the first bowl of mutton stew and walked it over to the earl, who sat at a packed table, watching her. Lauren placed it in front of him, then turned away to find Kenna at her side, two more bowls in hand. After that, others began to join them, offering the meal mostly in silence, getting silence in return.
It was the children who kept the situation in hand, Lauren thought privately, and not without some amusement. Kenna's boys, old enough to be mischievous, young enough to be openly curious about the strangers among them. They led the other children in the room with their happy outbursts, excitement and interest bubbling up around them.
Lauren ended up sitting with a group of them, getting lost in their questions, laughing with them, answering as best she could without becoming too involved in her explanations: What was it like to live at Keir? Wa s the castle really as high as
the clouds? Could she talk to the angels? Could she count the seals on the beaches there as they did here? And who were these English? Why did they look so strange? Why did they glare so?
“They're just hungry,” Lauren said. “Like you and me. Now, who took my bread, I'd like to know?”
And the meal passed slowly with moments like these, until the time when Lauren looked up and around and was satisfied that the strain cloaking everyone was finally beginning to dissolve, even though the partition of the groups was still quite precise. Someone tugged on her sleeve and she began to glance down at her young inquisitor, another question to be addressed, but as she did so her gaze skimmed across the earl's, sitting stoic across the room. In one timeless moment their eyes connected.
He was not eating. He did not drink, or talk, or look away from her. He seemed caught up in a brooding reverie—nothing very pleasant from the expression on his face—unblinking, staring at her. The smoky, golden light in the room did not reveal him very well to her, but Lauren did not need more illumination. Just the connection they made in that heartbeat of a moment was enough to suspend her, to make her lose the time and place around her. All the other people faded away to a blur of noise and light, nothing significant. He alone stayed sharp in her vision, not releasing her from his look, still and strong and unwavering.
She felt her breath grow longer, slower. She felt her stomach tighten, her skin seemed to tingle.
She felt the hot desire pass from him to her as if there were no space between them, as if they were standing alone, close together, pressed flesh to flesh. The longing for his physical touch was unrelieved, became a sharp ache throughout her whole body. The blood began to pound through her, making Lauren go warm and then cold, then warm again—too warm.
He smiled. Subtle, slight, so barely there that she might not have seen it at all. But she felt its power, what it did to her, so knowing and sure. It was not just his recognition of what she was feeling, Lauren knew that. His smile suggested something more, something much more perilous to her: mutual acknowledgment of their link. That she could do the same to him, make him feel these things. That he burned for her, as well.
A boy pulled hard on her arm and the moment broke apart into pieces, falling and then gone. Lauren looked down, flushed and dazed, trying to remember where she was and what she had been doing.
Childish voices were scolding her for being so absent-minded, more questions peppered the air around her. Lauren swallowed and smiled and made some comment, she didn't even know what, but it seemed to content them for the moment. The children turned away long enough for her to dare to look up again, searching.
But Arion was no longer watching her. He was gazing down at his food, brooding once more.
Chapter Eight
AUREN WAS TO SPEND THE night in a pallet on the floor of Kenna's cottage, surrounded by sleeping children who breathed with heavy innocence into the night; soft, baby snores coming from at least two of them.
After the meal, she had met with the earl and a mix of their men, a large group of them discussing the finding of the lamb. She had stayed on one side of the circle and Arion on the other. There were no more long looks between them. Indeed, there were no looks at all. She kept her focus grimly on the men around him. It was an exchange of clipped words, sparse information:
The lamb had been found to the west of Dunmar, far from any flock. There had been a faint path leading back into the woods there—most likely the earl and his men had startled the Northmen, causing them to flee without their kill. The final agreement among them all was that it would be best to send at least one group out to scout the area and pursue that wooded path.
She had divided up her men for the series of patrols that would take place later that night, sentries and riders out to watch for any signs of Northmen closer to the village. It was decided that she would join the third patrol herself, the one that wouldn't leave until after dawn. Secretly, Lauren was glad about the timing. A good night's rest sounded welcome.
Kenna and her husband had offered her their own pallet, sequestered off with a blanket in a nook of the room, but Lauren had refused, not wanting to put her cousin out of her own bed. It was enough that they shared their home, Lauren had said, pointing out that everyone else had to sleep in the common, so surely she was already princess enough here in their fine cottage.
They had laughed, as she had meant them to, and retired with quiet good-nights, bidding their sons to try not to kick their guest while they slept. The boys promised to do their best.
Lauren had thought herself spent from the tiring day but found herself awake long after her small companions had drifted off. The darkness was not quite complete. A faint aura of moonlight crept past the shuttered window above her, and although it was dim at best, Lauren found it yet another reason why sleep eluded her. The room was too bright. The pallet too hard. Her body too sore.
One of the boys kicked her.
She sat up carefully, pushing back the blanket, getting up without disturbing the rhythm of the children's slumber. Since she was still fully dressed, Lauren had no worries about groping in the strange surroundings for proper clothing. All she needed was her cloak to fight the night air, and she found that on a peg by the door. She slung it over her shoulders, then slipped quietly out of the cottage.
Out here the moonlight was much more pronounced, making it relatively easy for her to see the details of the landscape—the other buildings, dark and quiet; the pens filled with drowsy sheep, heads lowered, bundles of white pressed together on the ground; the line of the new wooden fence, broken only by the tower for the sentry near the gate, and another at the opposite end of the village. Lauren began to walk over to the one by the gate.
“Fine night,” said a deep voice behind her.
She turned with a hand over her heart, wide-eyed. Arion had come up without a sound. Lauren saw his eyes drift down to note her nervous gesture, but instead of remarking on it, he merely lifted his own hand, offering her a mug of something.
“Fine whiskey,” he added, when she did nothing. “Your people have a gift for it.”
“Why aren't you sleeping?” she heard herself ask.
“Why aren't you?” he countered, still offering the drink.
Since she didn't want to answer that, she took the mug, lifting it to her lips, inhaling the scent of the strong liquor, its bite curling over her tongue. She wasn't used to it and so had only a sip before handing it back to him.
Arion took it from her solemnly, not looking away. It was the whiskey that made her head feel suddenly strange, Lauren told herself. Nothing more.
But the moonlight fell with silver flattery across his features, almost teasing her with his good looks. His eyes were black and deep out here under the night sky. He lifted a hand again, the one without the mug, and moved it toward her face.
Lauren took a rapid step away, out of his reach, and saw his lips twist up into something that was not a smile.
“How is your head?” he asked, masked and pleasant.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You hit it rather hard, as I recall. You were bleeding quite a bit.”
“Oh.” She felt stupid and flushed again. She should not have had the whiskey.“It's fine.”
“May I look?”
Lauren tucked her hands behind her back, clenching her fingers together where he could not see.“Why?”
The twist in his lips tightened, then relaxed away to nothing.“Still don't trust me, MacRae?”
“All right then,” she said crossly. “Go ahead, if you insist on it.”
He closed the space between them, coming very near, and she fought the urge to shut her eyes, to hide from him, as if that could help her now. His hand came up once more and grazed her skin lightly—sparks, pain, burning heat—pushing back the hair from her forehead, every inch of him now attentive and calmly serious.
She stared at the hollow at the base of his throat, trying not to move at all, trying not even to br
eathe. She found his pulse and couldn't look away, following the strong steadiness of his heartbeat until she felt it reverberating through her, her soul echoing it, a tandem vibration that sank in down to her bones.
“You're right,” Arion said, very quiet, his voice sounding strained.“It looks much … better.”
She couldn't help it; she gazed up at him as he was looking down, her head tilted, his hand still touching her. He was so near that she did close her eyes now, surrendering to it, feeling the passion and not even caring.
They were at Dunmar. They were standing out in the open. Anyone could see them. The sentries, Cormic, Rhodric … she thought vaguely, and then even that drifted away.
None of it mattered. Only he did. Only Arion.
His fingers were threading through her hair. His breath was warm and close, tinged with the spice of her family's whiskey. It brushed her lips, tantalizing—and then was gone.
Lauren opened her eyes. He had moved away from her, harshness on his face now, then he turned to the side and stared out fiercely into the shadows.
She felt herself grow cold with the night, aware all at once of her vulnerability in this moment, the wind carrying the coming winter, the unforgiving light and dark of the moonlight.
Sweet Mary, what had she been thinking? She had nearly let him do the thing that could destroy them both. If anyone had passed by, if anyone had seen …
The night appeared empty, however, when she glanced around, fighting the hard pounding of her heart and a rising sickness in her throat. When she looked back at him he had not changed, still so handsome, and so completely forbidden.
Shame came and added to the cold and fear, shame at her own weakness for this man, shame at her unbidden yearning for him.
She was Lauren MacRae. She had a destiny to fulfill, a future to secure for her whole clan. And it was absolutely not with the Earl of Morgan.
So then with the shame came despair, that she had ended up in this unenviable position, her whole being wanting something that would harm so many others dear to her. It was a grievous burden, settling over her with weighted sorrow, making her tired and chilled and angry. It wasn't fair. But she had always known that fairness was not a frequent part of life.