The Memory of Her Kiss

by Rebecca Ruger

  “I’d rather you didn’t,” she said. “For healing purposes, the longer he remains immobile, the better.” She watched as the seven men gathered ‘round exchanged glances with each other, as if waiting for or wondering if any might contradict this. “Is it only the cold that concerns you?”

  Again, their eyes darted around at each other. Finally, Torren nodded.

  “Then I’d suggest more furs to cover him. I can stay with him, should he wake. I’d prefer to stay with him, to make sure he ingests the broth and herbs regularly.” She set her eyes upon the Kincaid, who breathed normally but hadn’t woken for many hours. She remembered Cairstine once saying sleep was the best healer, so this didn’t concern her greatly. “Will it get very cold tonight?” She recalled how her teeth had rattled only two nights ago, and she’d been subjected to it for only a few hours.

  “Aye, sister,” answered a man whose name she did not yet know, “the further north we go, the colder still.”

  She hoped to clarify once and for all, “My name is Anice. I am not a nun. I hadn’t taken the vows yet. So just Anice.”

  “But you wear the cloth,” said one.

  “And your hair is gone,” said another.

  “Yes, but I was only preparing to become a nun and truth be told, I wasn’t very good at it, so it’s unlikely I will ever be a nun.” When their faces remained uniformly skeptical of this, she pronounced, “Your chief actually found me in the stocks, yes, ‘tis true. I was being punished for, well, for my misdeeds, because—again—I am not a suitable candidate for sisterhood. Your chief stumbled upon me in the dead of night and he released me, and that is how I was able to help him, and that is how we both came to be here, now.”

  They digested this, a bunch of gruff and war-weary soldiers, looking her over, from head to toe, frowning in disbelief, she guessed, until rather all at once they burst out laughing.

  “But how did he find you, being like this?” Asked one, waving his beefy hand to indicate his chief’s present circumstance.

  “He wasn’t like this then,” Anice explained. “He was walking and talking, just as he was this morning. But he did weaken and collapse just before I stole the horse and—’

  They laughed again, slapping each other, apparently not believing her capable of either thievery or honesty. “Yes, I did. I stole a horse and cart from the abbey’s stables and drove your chief to the healer’s cottage.” She was smiling now herself, though she still felt awkward, conspicuous even. She had never spent time in the company of all men, nor so many at one time, having only known an occasional day laborer and the few priests they saw at the abbey.

  “In any event, kind sirs, I am not a sister of the cloth, and I beg you to call me by my name. Anice.”

  “Anice!” Several of them called, in good cheer, and Anice rolled her eyes at that and made to climb back again into the bed of the wagon. She placed her leather-slippered foot into the spoke of the wheel as she’d done earlier today but was stopped abruptly by several of these men calling out a sharp, “Nae!” Anice jumped back guiltily, biting her lip, wondering what she had done to cause such bother.

  “Never put your foot into the wheel,” said Torren, his face expressing concern but not irritation. Anice had realized earlier that the angry look about him was actually his normal expression, as the thick, dark brows over his black eyes slanted naturally downward at the top of his nose. “The cart could shift, the horse might bolt, anything can happen, and you’d lose your foot before you had time to react.”

  “Oh. Thank you, Sir Torren. But I’ll need a stool, perhaps or maybe a—”

  Anice gasped as she was lifted off her feet. Two hands grabbed her under her arms, and she was swung up and into the bed of the cart and dropped down just next to the Kincaid. She turned her head to smile her thanks to the man who had just tossed her around as if she were no more than a sack of grain. He was Arik, she thought, and perhaps the brawniest of the lot, with a long coarse beard that drooped down onto his chest and merry blue eyes that just now brightened under his lifted brows while he stared at her. She nodded and ducked her head under his close and admiring scrutiny.

  The soldiers dispersed as Anice placed her palm once more upon the chief’s brow. Warm still, but not burning up. There was some ale in the leather flask she been provided. Anice searched around the bed of the wagon, finding the cup she’d used earlier tucked just near his hip and the little drawstring pouch of Cairstine’s stolen herbs. She set these items up above his head and tried to make some sense of the crowded cart. Before they’d lifted their chief into the cart, they’d moved all the contents to one side, but some of these had been shifted and bounced around that it appeared only a jumbled mess around the sleeping man. Anice scrambled around on her knees, righting buckets and empty flasks and spare shields and shoes for horses, until she was satisfied that all was tidy and unlikely to be dislodged again, and more importantly, that now another space was carved out for her to find some rest.

  Kinnon returned to the cart, which now seemed to sit almost exactly in the middle of the numerous pallets laid out upon the ground and presented to Anice two separate but large fur throws, which truly seemed like heaven to her.

  “My thanks to you, Kinnon,” and she crawled toward the end where stood the boy, taking the heavy furs out of his hands.

  Kinnon pulled two large chunks of bread out from within his plaid and showed them to Anice, his eyes merry.

  Anice was likewise happy to receive this, as she’d had nothing to sustain herself all day save for some of the ale from the flask. “Thank you, again.” She accepted these, and placed them up near the Kincaid’s head, with the flask and cup, then set about unfolding one of the furs as Kinnon watched.

  “You need any other thing, you just call, sister.”

  “You are very kind, Kinnon. Thank you.” She gave up, for today, trying to get anyone to use her given name.

  The boy left and Anice settled one of the furs atop the Kincaid, from his booted feet up to his shoulders. It was well past sunset now, daytime having taken with it the warmer air as it left, and Anice was glad for the borrowed veil that covered her head, and the extra fur she would nestle in shortly. First though, she decided to rouse the Kincaid once again.

  She sat on her knees in the cleared space in which she would lie down and touched his shoulder, giving him a firm shake. “Kincaid?” She whispered close to his head, as the camp seemed to have quieted all at once, soldiers having found their beds for the night. She could barely see his face in the darkness now.

  “Aye, lass.” His voice was strong, as if he’d not just woken.

  “I thought you were still asleep.”

  “I was, lass, until you started with all that clambering about the wagon, so I had to keep watch for your feet coming at me.”

  “Oh! Did I kick you? I did not mean—” She was mortified and sincerely sorry.

  “Nae, lass, but close enough.”

  “You sound...quite well.” She sat with her hands on her thighs, peering sharply at him, unable to discern much, whether he be flushed or pale or grimacing with pain.

  “Aye, but I’ve a need to relieve myself before we settle down.”

  “Oh. Um, I can—”

  He sat up. Not without some pain, she knew, his low groan telling. “I’ll no be asking you to see to that.”

  She made not one sound to give any indication of her relief but watched as he turned from sitting up, and pulled himself up onto one knee, and then stood to his full height in the bed of the cart. He took a few steps to reach the end of the bed, then sat again at the open back end and put both feet on the ground. He moved carefully and soon disappeared into the darkness. She heard him say something low to one of his men, not too far from the cart, and heard Torren’s voice give some answer, before there was quiet again. Anice rubbed her hands over her arms, the cold seeping in already. After only a few minutes, he returned and stood at the end of the cart, the flat bed of it at the same height as his hip.


  “Lass, spread that fur out on the wood,” he said, grabbing at the end closest to him. “If we don’t have it beneath us, we’ll freeze from the bottom up.”

  Anice did as instructed, but informed him, in a nighttime whisper, “We’ll need another fur.” If they were using one underneath, there would only be a fur for one of them.

  “We’ll share, lass.” Maybe he sensed her eyes widening at this, for he added, “It’s just how it’s done out here,” in a weary tone that did not invite opposition.

  Her own cheeks flushed now, knowing the furs were really only of a size to cover one person, but she did as she was asked, and stretched one upon the boards of the wagon while he climbed back inside. When she had the fur properly set, he sat down next to her.

  “You’ll be wanting to poison me more with that brew, aye?”

  She’d nearly forgotten. “Yes. Well, no, ‘tis not poison.” She felt around behind him for the flask and cup and drawstring bag and prepared quickly his draught, pressing the cup into his waiting hand. She held the flask near and when he’d emptied the cup, she handed him the ale to wash it down. She twisted around and returned those things to the front of the cart again, above their heads.

  “Lie down, Anice.”

  She liked hearing her name in his voice. But this did not help her to feel any more comfortable with the prospect of lying down with him, so close to him. But she was cold and so she did, stretching out, turning onto her side away from him, tucking her head onto her arms, thankful for the warm and soft fur beneath her. She felt him lie back, pressing his side into her back and her bum.

  “Aye, but where’s the other fur, lass?”

  Anice sat up quickly, lest he be forced to rise again or have to stretch to find it. She had to reach again above their heads, where she’d stashed it earlier. And now, she sat straight and forward, flapping the large piece out over their legs, making sure it covered them equally, and drew it up to his chest and her shoulders.

  “Turn this way, lass,” he said when she was about to resume the position she’d opted for just a moment ago, with her back to him. “Aye, now, dinna fuss. Better pillow here at my shoulder.”

  While the very idea scandalized her, she was thankful he could not see this.

  “I’ve never had a pillow, sir, and...this is how I sleep,” she lied, turning away once again, trying to steady her breathing as she lay herself down next to him. She felt him flip the fur so that it settled over her shoulders.

  He seemed to find this amusing. Anice was quite sure she could feel a slight rumble of laughter against her.

  “Seems you left your vow of obedience behind, lass,” he commented.

  Anice gave herself up to a long yawn before responding. “’It wasn’t being used anyway.”

  Another short rumble rippled along her spine.

  She was very tired, but she was not so fatigued just yet to be completely unaware of their bodies touching, of the heat circulating under the furs with him.

  Keeping her voice low, she asked, “How much longer until we reach Stonehaven?”

  “Another day and another night, then half a day more.” He sounded not at all sleepy.

  “What will I do there?”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “What are my options? I’ve never had cause to consider that I might do something other than become a nun.”

  “I’m no sure, lass. I’ll have to give it some thought.”

  “Is Stonehaven very big? Might you have need of another scullion or servant?” Her backside, which faced him, was sufficiently warm. Meanwhile, the front of her seemed chilled to the bone, even though she was fully blanketed by the fur.

  “Nae, lass. You are no a servant.”

  “I’m not anything, but I should be something, I think.”

  “But you do no need to decide it straight away.”

  It felt peculiar to have no occupation, no purpose.

  “Do you have a large family? Your da must be gone, since you’re the chief.”

  “Two sisters, though they be wed and moved on now. My mother is at Stonehaven yet.”

  She felt herself shiver a bit, the cold seeping in, felt the vibration of it in her words. “Will your mother like me, do you think?”

  “Nae, my mother dinna like anyone.”

  That was unfortunate. “She’s like Lady Eugenia then? Just miserable?”

  “Aye, she is that.”

  “My mam was very strict, but not unkind, I think.”

  “Do you miss your family, lass?”

  “I did, for a long time. I would keep myself awake at night, wondering what they might be about, wondering if they missed me.” She was shaking now with the cold. “I seemed to miss them less and less over the years, I guess.”

  “Aye, now, that’s enough of the quaking,” he said thickly. “How’s a man to sleep with the constant rattling against him?”

  Anice felt him shifting, moving behind her. Her eyes widened when she felt him press himself fully against her, apparently having turned onto his side. She went completely rigid before him when his hand slid over her hip and wrapped around her midsection, pulling her back against him.

  “Easy, lass. I only mean to warm you.”

  She tried, she really did, to relax. The warmth was indeed a beautiful thing and her shivering faded almost immediately. She had never in her life been held in such a fashion. She could scarce remember the last time she’d been held at all.

  “Keep talking, lass,” he said against her ear, his breath as warm as the rest of him. “I like the sound of your voice.” He sounded groggy now.

  This calmed her. But she couldn’t think just now of anything to say.

  “Tell me about all the evil punishments the miserable Lady Eugenia plagued you with,” he suggested.

  “All of them?”

  “Aye.”

  “Another day and a half still until we reach Stonehaven?”

  “Mm.”

  “That should be enough time.”

  She felt his chuckle breathed against her ear and vibrated against her back and decided right then and there that, given the choice, she would never want to sleep alone again.

  Chapter 5

  He’d slept entirely too much during the day, he supposed, to be granted any more sleep that night. And having the lass pressed against him—pulled to him, as it were—obviously wasn’t going to allow for his mind to be unencumbered, to be able to court sleep properly.

  She slept now, her voice having trailed off, having given him only small glimpses of her years and trials as a novice at the abbey. ‘Twas likely the longest tenure as a novice that had ever been brought to his attention, he assumed with some drollness. He had, however, a fairly clear picture of the last many years of her life, perhaps less of the first. She’d come from a respectable, if underprivileged family, likely of good parents, if not particularly loving ones. She’d been given to the abbey for their own ease—lasses weren’t necessarily a nuisance, but they hadn’t the options available to them as lads did, and it was actually quite common that they were foisted, not fostered, onto a convent or house of God. The nunneries were happy to receive these unfortunates, always in need of the lower classes to be assured that all the menial chores of the house were well arranged, alleviating any pressure upon the higher born sisters to have to reduce themselves to perform the jobs.

  She wasn’t so much incorrigible, he guessed, as she was curious, and to a lesser degree, not as impassioned of her position and goal as a proper novice should be. Despite the fervent and, he suspected, regularly overzealous attempts to instill in her some suitable enthusiasm for the calling forced upon her, she’d managed somehow to remain—or become, he did not know which—a rather serene and steady person, with an admirable ability to conform and adapt to changing circumstances.

  Gregor closed his eyes again, wondering if he would sleep at all this night. She was a tiny little thing but that hadn’t stopped his body from reacting to the feel of her pr
essed so intimately against him. He tried to pass it off as unavoidable, as he’d been so long without a woman’s company, but realized that as he continued to picture her uncommonly bright blue eyes and hear again that soft and husky voice, his reaction wasn’t purely about needs and release or physical hunger.

  The arm around her midsection flexed just a bit to bring her even nearer. His chin rested atop her veiled head, the improvised kerchief offering the benefit of preventing her choppy hair from tickling his face. Her slight back was pressed against his chest and stomach; when he’d first turned and pulled her near, he’d decided it was worth the discomfort and any damage he might cause to his wound. Her soft rump was pushed against his groin, surely not intentionally, but reflexively, he guessed. The exact reason mattered little while the result did present both the greatest temptation, and the area where he must focus the heart of his resistance. Her breasts, surely unencumbered by such nonsense as stays or lace or any other restrictive item, rested in plump invitation against his forearm.

  Gregor sighed, considering the folly that had induced him to offer his own body as warmth, having known his current circumstance had well been a possibility.

  “Do you require more of the medicine?”

  He hadn’t realized she was awake, though her sleepy little voice wasn’t quite so.

  “Nae.” He did not at all feel indisposed. “Are you warm enough, lass?”

  “Mm.”

  There was that, at least.

  “What are you thinking on that’s been keeping you wakeful?” She asked.

  Unable to formulate a satisfactory reply that did not involve mentioning her body parts, he turned it around. “You awake now out of routine, lass?”

  He felt her nod against him, the linen cloth over her head moving against his chin.

  “I feel guilty... for not feeling guilty,” she confided after a small space of silence.

  A brief laugh escaped. “Aye, isn’t that the way of it now? Do you mean, because you’re happy to be gone from Jardine?”