The Frost Maiden's Kiss

by Claire Delacroix

  That she had offered to touch him had been beyond every expectation.

  He could never have imagined that she would learn so quickly how best to enflame his desire, yet keep it burning hot. The feel of her fingertips sliding over his skin, exploring his body, had been an exquisite torment, one he had hoped he could endure. Her caress was both gentle and firm, and when he taught her to change her touch, Catriona learned to read him so well that he almost regretted the advice.

  But Malcolm could never regret such pleasure.

  When she shook out her hair, he had been entranced by the sight. The touch of her hair against his skin was glorious, and he wanted her with all his might. It had been all too easy to imagine them moving together, her heat surrounding him, her breath in his ear and that glorious hair strewn across his face. The very idea had pushed him over the edge, and he had been left shaking after his powerful release.

  And now, it was time for the lady’s reward. She came to him immediately, which made Malcolm’s heart pound. He urged her to lie beside him, then touched his fingertips to her chin before he kissed her. As before, he began gently, heeding her reaction, letting her respond to him. He felt her catch her breath. He saw the flutter of her pulse. But instead of withdrawing, Catriona reached to cradle the back of his head and slid her fingers into his hair. She opened her mouth to him, inviting him to deepen their kiss and Malcolm could only comply.

  There was a sweetness in her passion, an innocence that made him feel a keen sense of responsibility. He wished that he could survive the bargain with the Fae, that he could return somehow to Ravensmuir and have years to make love to his wife.

  As it stood, he might only have a few opportunities to show her pleasure.

  He would make them count. Malcolm placed his hand upon her knee, letting her become accustomed to its weight as their kiss continued. He eased his fingers beneath the hem of her chemise, his heart clenching at the softness of her thigh. Catriona inhaled when he slid his fingers higher, but she did not pull away.

  Indeed, she parted her thighs to grant him access, although he felt her tremble of uncertainty. He broke their kiss and smiled down at her. “I take naught on this day,” he whispered. “You have only to receive.”

  Her wondrous eyes narrowed slightly, then her lips parted as he caressed her with a gentle fingertip. To his delight, she was wet with an answering arousal, and he laid his hand over her. His fingers were caught in the tangle of hair there, making him wonder if it were red or gold or brown. She was concerned about the look of her body, though, so he did not look on this day. His middle finger eased between the folds to find the bead of her desire, then he caressed that pearl with a slow surety that made Catriona’s eyes widen in surprise. Her lips parted and a becoming flush launched over her cheeks as she whispered his name.

  As he had taught her, he caressed her with varying speed, first faster then slower, first firmly then gently, first across the peak and then around it. He took his time, letting her savor what must be a new sensation, and within moments, he could smell her arousal. It made him yearn to possess her fully, but Malcolm tempered his reaction, focusing upon his lady’s pleasure. She writhed beside him, then clutched at his shoulders as he felt the tremor begin deep within her.

  He retreated, as he had taught her, and she cried out in the anguish of being denied a release. Her eyes sparkled, though, and she made to pull him down for a kiss.

  “’Twas your challenge,” he reminded her. “I but try to satisfy.”

  “You torture me!” she whispered, eyes dancing in a way that lightened his heart. “How could I not have known of this?”

  He moved his hand lower, so his thumb could caress that hidden pearl and she moaned aloud.

  “Malcolm!” she whispered, her voice breathless. “Do not compel me to endure more.”

  “It will be well worth it,” he promised her. “And I must have vengeance for the torment you granted me.”

  She shook and shivered, arching her back and gasping aloud beneath his touch. Malcolm smiled at her, his enchanting temptress of a wife, and pleasured her yet more. She seized his head and pulled him down for a kiss that made him wonder who tormented whom. He swallowed her gasps of pleasure and resolved to give her that precious release. He felt her breath quicken and her pulse leap. He felt the tremors grow stronger deep inside her as that bead of desire tightened to a harder nub. He slipped his other arm beneath her shoulders and held her closer, loving how she kissed his mouth, his cheek, his neck. She whispered his name repeatedly as the frenzy grew within her and dug her nails into his shoulders. She grazed him with her teeth then stiffened and cried out in delight, her body shaking as she found her release. She leaned her brow against his chest, her breath quick and her heart thundering, and Malcolm pressed a kiss into her hair.

  “It is but the beginning, lady mine,” he said softly.

  “Then I fear it is a journey I will not survive,” she replied, her eyes shining as she looked up at him. “Although I cannot imagine any soul would regret such a demise.”

  “Nor I.” Malcolm agreed, then bent and captured her lips beneath his, savoring the way she rose to his embrace. He heard stirring in the antechamber and Avery’s cry, and knew this interval must end.

  “Vera undoubtedly waits to hear the success of her advice,” Catriona whispered as Avery cried yet louder. The milk began to leak from her breasts at the sound, and she flushed at the wet stain on her chemise.

  “I will bring you some hot water to wash,” Malcolm said, rising with reluctance from the pallet. He offered Catriona his hand and she accepted his aid without hesitation. “And then, lady mine, your lessons in ensuring a man’s demise will begin.”

  Sunday, June 20, 1428

  Feast Day of Saint Alban and Saint Edward.

  * * *

  Chapter Ten

  Alexander stirred in his sleep when he heard the morning bells ring out from Kinfairlie’s chapel. He listened, realized they were but the first bells of Matins, and slid deeper beneath the linens. Eleanor slept beside him, little Melissande tucked against her mother’s side. He knew he could rely upon only a few more moments of peaceful slumber, for the sky already lightened and the other children would leap upon the bed before the sun broke free of the horizon.

  But on this morn, Alexander was not to sleep any longer.

  “My lord?” Anthony whispered from beyond the bed curtains.

  Alexander’s eyes flew open at the undercurrent of concern in his castellan’s tone. Anthony resolved every crisis without betraying any emotion at all. What could have gone so far awry so early in the day to trouble him?

  “Good morning,” Alexander replied, rising from the bed swiftly. He drew the curtains closed behind himself, hoping to let Eleanor sleep longer. He sensed the change in her breathing and did not doubt that she listened.

  “I fear it might not be so, sir.” Anthony appeared to have dressed in haste and with less than his usual care.

  Alexander took one look and donned his chausses and boots. “What has happened?”

  “Naught as yet, sir, but there is a small army approaching Kinfairlie.”

  Alexander spun to face his castellan. “Whose?”

  “I do not know their insignia, sir. The sentries had hoped you might. They appear to be most experienced in warfare, and it is by no means certain that they arrive in peace.”

  “But it is Sunday!”

  “I am given to understand, sir, that some warriors, particularly those whose services can be bought, do not respect the tradition of keeping the Lord’s day holy.”

  Mercenaries!

  There could only be one person behind their arrival. Alexander flung on his tabard and climbed to the highest room in Kinfairlie’s tower, taking the stairs three at a time. He took his glass, a gift from Rosamunde on her last visit to his hall, and never before had he been so glad of the gift.

  A company had just emerged from Kinfairlie forest, upon the road that led to Alexander’s gates. His h
eart sank at their number, for were they all to take arms against his forces, the match would be more even than he preferred.

  There were more than twenty men in the party, fully armed and riding toward his gates. They each must have had two or even three horses, for the company appeared larger even than it was, and there were squires with them as well. Although they wore their chain mail, they did not appear to wear their helms or have their swords at the ready. Even at a distance, he could hear them singing, and he took solace from that.

  It was possible they did not ride to battle.

  Just yet.

  They certainly did not make haste. Had it not been for their number and their armor, he might have thought them a peaceful and passing company. They carried one banner, its hue of deepest black, but otherwise it appeared that they each wore their own colors. They also carried a quantity of dead game, and Alexander’s lips thinned that it had likely been poached from his forest.

  But who would challenge such a company over pheasants?

  He handed the glass to Anthony, who had followed him and waited patiently behind him.

  “Mercenaries!” that man concluded with disgust.

  “But in whose employ?” Alexander frowned, fighting against the obvious answer. Surely his own brother would not hire men to claim Kinfairlie as his own? Surely Malcolm had not changed so much as that? “The influence of the Black Douglases is much diminished since the death of Archibald the Tyneman in the Scottish defeat at Verneuil.”

  “And his son, James, and his son-in-law, Buchan. It was a mighty blow to their family.”

  “Which explains the heir’s determination to be the lapdog of our returned king.” Alexander took the glass again and surveyed his own towers. Though the walls surrounding Kinfairlie were not complete or formidable, for it had been at peace for many years, the towers were armed with sentinels and soldiers. He saw them bristling now, their attention fixed on the army, their armor catching the morning sun.

  Kinfairlie was prepared, then. He watched the army, unable to shake his sense that they did not move with the purpose one would expect from a warfaring party. “It would be unlike King James to use such forces as these.”

  “Nay, he is more like to have a man arrested, then ensure he never sees the light again.”

  It was true enough and Alexander could not chide his castellan for speaking the truth. James had learned much during his captivity in the English court about maintaining and asserting royal authority, and now back in Scotland on his throne, he was not afraid to put those lessons to work.

  “Nay, I do not think Archibald, the Fifth Earl of Douglas, to be behind this. He might be many things, but he would not attack on a Sunday, and he would not so reveal his intent by arriving at leisure on Sunday to strike the following morn.”

  Even as Alexander spoke, the approaching company reached the last fork in the road. Midway between Kinfairlie forest and Kinfairlie’s gate was a track that led to Ravensmuir. There was another broader road on the far side of the forest, but to Alexander’s surprise, this company took the footpath. His heart sank as they rode along it in single file, still singing, their laughter loud, their company stretching a long finger across the land.

  “Sir?”

  “I will remain here until they are out of sight, Anthony. I would ask you to invite Ruari to join me. I would send a man to Ravensmuir, to discover the truth of this, Ruari could make the best excuse.”

  “Sir?”

  Alexander glanced at his castellan. “He despises the south, Anthony, but he came that he might see Vera.”

  Understanding lit in Anthony’s eyes. “But Vera remained at Ravensmuir with the new child.”

  “Indeed.” Alexander tapped his glass upon his hand. “I would imagine he is concerned for her welfare, or at least desirous of her company.” Alexander recalled a detail and turned to his castellan again. “And please ask Elizabeth to come to me when she is ready to go to mass. I will not take her to Ravensmuir this day, not with an army of mercenaries afoot.”

  “Very good, my lord.” Anthony left the chamber to do Alexander’s bidding, but Alexander lingered to watch the progress of that small army. To his relief, they continued on their way to Ravensmuir, with nary a backward glance.

  Indeed, he watched their progress so intently that he did not see the second smaller party riding toward Kinfairlie until it was already at his gates.

  * * *

  Catriona awakened with her husband’s heat behind her back. His hand was beneath her chemise, warm against her skin as he traced a circle with his thumb.

  Malcolm was awake, then. There was no sound from Vera or Avery, although the sky was tinged pink over the ocean.

  “Where is a man weakest?” he asked softly, evidently aware that she was also awake.

  Catriona rolled over to find Malcolm watching her, his expression inscrutable yet again. “There.” She flicked a glance downward to his erection, flushing a little at how she had pleased him in the early hours of the morning.

  “Where else?” He cast off the linens and leaned back, inviting her with a gesture to survey his nudity. “If you mean to kill, you must choose the right target.”

  Catriona felt a thrill that he intended to keep his word to her.

  “There.” She touched the middle of his chest, her fingertip pressing against the bone.

  “Why?”

  “Because the heart is there.”

  “And it is well barricaded.” He took her hand beneath his, flattening it across his flesh. He moved her hand, his gaze locked with hers, compelling her to feel his sternum and ribs. “It takes ferocious strength to drive a blade into a man’s chest.” He guided her hand lower, to his belly, and Catriona swallowed. “Here there is less bone. You feel the difference?”

  She nodded.

  “But a man dies slowly when injured here, even if his guts spill forth.” He shook his head minutely. “It is not the solution you desire.”

  “Nay, it is not. I would have the matter done and resolved.”

  He kept her hand trapped beneath his own, his grip gentle but firm. “Have you ever killed a living being, lady mine?” he asked in that low rumble that made her blood thrum.

  “Chickens,” she admitted. “A rooster once. Mice left maimed by the cat.”

  “And how did you kill them?”

  “The mice I always crushed with a stone. The rooster required two of us, for he was fleet of foot and strong. My mother held him and I wielded the neighbor’s axe.”

  “To strike where?”

  “I chopped his head off.”

  “And the chickens?”

  She pulled her hand away from the disconcerting weight of his, relieved that he let her do so, and mimicked the gesture. “We wrung their necks.”

  “Exactly!” He braced himself on his elbow then, towering over her, lifting his other finger to draw a line across the front of his throat. “For this, too, is a weak point. Feel it.”

  Catriona reached out and ran her fingertips over his throat. “It is not all soft, though.”

  “Nay, but if you cut here”—he leaned his head back, granting her a view of his chin, and drew a line from ear to ear—“a man will not survive long.” He lifted a brow when she could not keep herself from shuddering in recollection of the night her son had been conceived. Malcolm continued, perhaps thinking her delicate, and Catriona did not confide the reason for her reaction. “Perhaps more importantly, your victim will be able to do little in the time required for him to die.”

  “Is that not always so, after a man has been gravely wounded?”

  “I have seen a man sliced side to side, his guts spilled like sausages, gather them up and continue to fight. I have seen a man lose a hand and merely switch his blade to the other. The loss of an eye scarce slows a man trained for battle.” Catriona regarded her husband, both impressed and horrified that Malcolm could speak of such matters with such calm. He shook his head. “Nay, you want the throat, so a single stroke will see
the matter resolved. It can be broken, too, but I doubt you have the strength in your hands.” He held up a hand. “Wring my wrist as hard as you can.”

  Catriona did as he instructed, squeezing and twisting with all her might.

  He shook his head. “Nay, you will only bruise a man or irk him.”

  “That cannot be a good strategy,” she agreed and he winked at her.

  “Nay. One good blow, quick and lethal, is your best plan. Slitting the throat it will be.”

  Catriona frowned in her turn. “But surely, if that is the best way, all warriors are prepared for such an attack?”

  “Surely they are. Which is why you must learn to fight before you make that attack.” He rolled to his feet with athletic grace, bracing his feet against the floor as he confronted her. “Assault me,” he invited, beckoning to her with his hands. He was splendidly nude, his body all muscle, his hair tousled and his gaze filled with conviction.

  Catriona sat up, uncertain at his manner. “I think it would be a poor start to our match for me to do you injury.”

  Malcolm’s smile flashed, cocky in his confidence. “I dare you to do as much, lady mine.” His eyes glinted. “Or do you fear to lose?”

  Catriona needed to hear no more of such a dare. She was on her feet in a moment. She braided her hair quickly and tossed the plait over her shoulder. She faced him then, her feet bare and her chemise sufficiently short and full that she could move. She doubted it would take long to show him his folly, for she knew where to strike.

  “Whenever you choose, Catriona,” he murmured, as if to provoke her into movement.

  He did. Catriona launched herself at him, reaching a hand for his throat even as she kicked at his genitals. He moved so quickly that she was caught by surprise, ducking beneath her hand and seizing her around the waist. She found herself on her back on the pallet, her husband smiling down at her as he held that one wrist in a firm grip.

  “Not good enough,” he said. “You must distract me from your intent to succeed.”