Anice touched his arm. “Oh, Gregor. I am so sorry.” She rubbed her hand up and down. “I’m sorry that your father had to die. I’m sorry that horrid woman who pretended all those years was so ... horrid.”
She let him be busy with his thoughts for a while and turned her attention again to the sea. The clouds had darkened yet more, water and sky now similar angry colors. A fat drop of rain landed on her cheek, another on her hand. She watched for a moment as rain drops made sand puddles on the ground. When her skirt was evenly speckled a darker brown with the rain, Anice stood and reached down her hand for Gregor, as he seemed oblivious to it.
The sky opened above them, the wind suddenly ferocious as hard rain pelted them just as Gregor took her hand and jumped to his feet. They raced toward the path, assaulted by the rain, the drops fat and heavy. They left the beach and found the turned-to-mud path. Anice slipped. He yanked her upright and pulled her into the trees along the trail, which offered some relief from the torrent. He had to duck a bit under the canopy of an evergreen, and brought Anise very close to him, holding her hand at his chest. He stared about, gauging the storm, water dripping from his hair and down his cheeks. She tilted her head, lifted her hand to wipe water from his chin, and caught herself mid-motion so that she stopped, her fingers on his chin. She lowered them just as he glanced down at her. Their eyes met and she saw the battle that raged in eyes as dark as the storm clouds, and knew his cheek pulsed with the same war. She wasn’t sure who won—or lost—as he lowered his head and claimed her lips. Anice closed her eyes, allowing just this, his lips touching hers. He waited, for her to react, she knew, back away, push against him. She did not, but rather leaned into him, moving her mouth against his as he’d taught her to do. The hand at his chin circled his neck, drew him near. She opened her mouth, licked his lips, heard a noise come from his throat, and met his tongue.
There was so much noise. The rain pounded all around them, her heart clamored wildly in her chest. He released her hand and wrapped her up in his arms. She sensed a restraint in him, his muscles tensed everywhere they touched her. She pushed against him, pressing him back against the tree, reveled in the kiss he gave her, in the way their tongues danced and mated. Some desperate need gripped her, sending her fingers into his hair, curling around the locks, tugging him near. She felt his hand skimming over her, under her arm and around to the front, covering her breast. Anice gasped into his mouth, felt pins prick her in a million places. He left her mouth. She arched her back, giving him her neck, his tongue and mouth slick upon her rain soaked skin. Both hands covered his head, clenched in his hair as his mouth found her breasts, nipping through the fabric at her nipples.
The moan that escaped her caught her off guard. Her eyes opened just as he lifted his head. He met her gaze, a new fierceness fired in his eyes. She breathed heavily into his face, waiting. Gregor spun her around and untied the laces at the back of her gown, his movements jerky and clumsy. Stillness for the smallest space of a second before she felt one finger draw down on the skin of her back, where he’d parted her gown and chemise. Anice’s head whipped to the side at his touch and he turned her back around. They stood face to face, Anice completely still while he lifted his hands and pulled down the fabric, taking the gown and chemise down to her waist. Rain trickled through the trees, splashing drops upon her head and nose and his hands and face. He kept his eyes on her. She breathed raggedly. She couldn’t seem to blink. She swallowed hard, knew her chest rose and fell more as his gaze lowered.
His lips parted. He lifted a hand, cup the fullness of her breast, his chest moving provocatively now with his own labored breaths.
She let her eyelids fall again, just stood there while her nipples hardened for him. She felt his thumb graze over the nipple and whimpered at such raw delight. Then he was on her again, crushing his lips to her while her naked breasts were likewise crushed against him. His tunic was cold and wet, but she immediately felt the scorching heat of his chest. Their tongues met and circled again, their lips smacked, one hand returned to her breast, thumb and forefinger hardening the nipple yet more. He ground his hips into her and Anice felt something hard pushing against her, just at her belly.
The rain was chilling, yet heat suffused her everywhere, swarmed in her head, swirled in her belly, curled her toes in her soaked shoes.
He stopped when the rain did, pulled his head back when all the noise quieted. He stared at her, his eyes glinted with hunger, swung his glance once again over her breasts, helped her bring the chemise and kirtle back up over her arms.
“If I kiss your—Jesu, if I continue, there’ll be no stopping.” His voice was cracked and hoarse. When her front was covered again, he turned her around and tied the laces, and when she turned back to him, feeling as if her legs had been liquified so that she clung to his forearms, he said very fiercely, “But you are mine. You are mine, Anice.”
She nodded unevenly. If it seems right and good, then it is so.
He pressed his lips again to hers. Taking her hand, he glanced outside the trees, onto the path, where the rain sluiced downhill toward the beach and only small and infrequent droplets landed now.
They walked back to the keep, her hand once again in his, her lips and breasts still tingling. You are mine, Anice. She wanted this, nothing more. But as they reached the hall and the effects of his kisses began to fade, she wondered how this could be. She’d nodded, had readily agreed with him when he’d made that proclamation, but feared still that it could not be so.
GREGOR WATCHED ANICE disappear up the stairs to change her wet gown, the gentle sway of her hips holding his attention until she was out of sight. It would be a long time, maybe never, before he would lose the image of her standing before him, her glorious breasts bared to him, her gaze shy but filled with a want to match his own.
Reluctantly, he shook himself. He had work to do. Removing Lady Kincaid—he would never think of her as Mother again—from Stonehaven would take a bit of logistical magic, but it was a task he was happy to see about. He gave no thought to the complete lack of negative emotion attached to him or the revelation she’d shared earlier, as there was no point pretending she had actually been a mother to him.
He was just wrapping up his discussion with Alastair when Torren came into the hall. His grave expression immediately drew Gregor’s attention. Whatever the calamity now, it wasn’t Anice, as he knew she’d yet to return from her chambers.
Torren approached the family table, where Alastair remained yet. “The sheriff’ll no be coming,” he said. “He’s dead.”
Gregor’s mind turned around this news, and the ramifications, with lightning speed. “When?” The sheriff, William of Gauston, had years ago convinced any who mattered of his sympathy toward English rule and had thus been allowed to maintain his position when Edward had gone about replacing so many of Scotland’s sheriffs with English barons. But Gregor knew him personally, had fought beside him on many occasions, and counted him among the true patriots.
“Weeks ago, it seems,” Torren said.
“Murdered?”
“It’s not been said. Found dead upon the road, his face blue, was all I’d heard.”
Alastair, his silvery brows cocked, asked, “His replacement?”
“One Sir Henry de Audley.”
“English,” Alastair groused.
Gregor sat down at the chief’s chair. “We’ll no be able to glide beneath their notice for long now.”
Alastair added, “Surely, with a court coming, he would reference Stonehaven’s name against those who’d pledged fealty and will no find your name there.”
“We canna count on our position alone to keep us safe,” Torren added.
‘Twas true, they’d drifted by unnoticed since February when, yet another truce had been enacted with England, with so many of the Scottish chiefs swearing loyalty to Edward, receiving pardons for any real or supposed crimes against the crown before the treaty. Gregor, Conall, Wallace and only a handful of others had
refused to sign, refused to give up on freedom. Drifted by, because the local sheriff had maintained his position, because Stonehaven was so far north, so unlikely to be seized because of its location against the sea.
But now that would all change. “Sir Henry de Audley? Do we know anything about him?”
Torren shook his head.
“Damn,” said Gregor. “Call home the army,” he said to Torren. Hundreds had returned to their homes, some far afield about Kincardineshire, after the months spent with Wallace and then near the English border, before he’d met Anice. They would need to be well fortified, just in case.
“All of them?” Torren asked.
Alastair cautioned, “We’ll no be able to feed the entire army and our own for too long.”
Drumming his fingers on the table, Gregor finally said, “Put the call out to a quarter, and we’ll change it up each month so that no man is gone too long from home. If need be, should there be a siege when I dinna make a pledge, we can send word by the sea to bring them all in.”
Torren and Alastair nodded, agreeing with this plan.
“Should we carry on with removing Lady Kincaid?” Alastair asked.
“Aye, I want her gone.”
Torren lifted a brow at this, though showed no displeasure.
Gregor briefly sketched their meeting and her confession of earlier and laughed at Torren’s expression. “You look fair relieved, more so than even I was.”
Torren shrugged. “Answers all the questions I ever had about her. And good riddance.”
Alastair asked, “And what of the plans for the village, my lord? Put it off again?”
“We carry on,” Gregor decided. Annually, a day was spent in the village helping to repair or replace cottages, barns, and buildings as needed. Normally, this would be done in late spring, but he’d been gone for so long, including the year before, that no maintenance or upkeep had been committed to in more than two years. “Keep tomorrow’s schedule. They’ve waited long enough. The grain shed needs replacing, and they’ve been working on the lumber for the new barns and stables.”
“Aye,” Torren agreed. “We can knock it out in one day, with our forty lads and the villagers to give us hands.”
HAVING CHANGED HER gown from the wet to a dry one, though it appeared the same brown and scratchy garment, Anice spent some time cleaning her leather slippers of the mud and decided to leave them to dry in her chambers and manage barefoot the remainder of the day. The rain had gone, and the skies showed some clearing, so she asked Kinnon to return to the beach with her.
She’d left all her reeds and woven things tucked under that tree over at Left Beach. These last few days she had become rather obsessive about her reed weaving, refusing to think about how pointless it all was, weaving large and small mats and teaching herself how to weave them into balls. While she’d impressed herself with this engineering, she hadn’t any idea what a person might do with a ball of woven reeds. But the intricacy of the spheres did for certain keep all other thoughts at bay. And just now, she desperately needed to keep thoughts and dreams of Gregor away. She should not give too much thought to his kiss or his hands or his words.
The sand was still wet, though by this time the sky had cleared almost completely so that only far away tufts of white and gray were visible. From her stash under the tree, Anice pulled several rolled up mats and laid them out in the sand. She sat upon one and gathered all her reeds about her, including the last piece she had been working on, a basket. This was proving even more difficult than the balls she’d concocted, and she was now on her third attempt.
Kinnon gave a curious frown to the mat, but sat down as Anice had, his face then showing his wonder that he remained dry.
“Sister, this is genius!” He bumped his bottom up and down on the mat. “Blankets soak up the ground’s water, but these—I should like one next time we go off.”
Anice smiled at him. “But you are not going off any time soon?”
“Nae,” he said, fingering the edge of the mat. “It might unravel after a while, I suppose.”
Anice pointed to her own mat. “See, I’ve added the trim braid here, as I’d thought the same thing.”
He leaned over and inspected her piece. “Outstanding. you could sell them to the soldiers, sister. Ye’d make a king’s fortune.”
“They might be free to Kincaid’s army, though,” she said.
“Are you coming to Stoney tomorrow for the working?”
“What’s that?” She had the bottom of the basket complete and was now trying to bend the balance of loose ends, so they created sides as she continued to weave.
Kinnon shrugged. “It’s for repairs and new builds. Everyone goes down there, They’ll even set up a kitchen right in the middle of the lane in the village. Best eating all year, you ask me. The lads are carpenters all day and the womenfolk keep feeding us, so we keep working.”
“I should like that. What might I do?” Anice had never taken part of anything so dramatic, so communal, and was excited about the prospect.
Kinnon’s eyes widened, as if struck by a thought. “Sister, you can do this! There’s dozens of bairns and those too young to help—they just get in the way, truthfully. But you could show ‘em this, have ‘em make things, keep ‘em out of the way.”
Anice frowned, considering. “Do you think they would want to?”
“My mam always said keeping bairns out of trouble was just about keeping their hands busy.”
“But I would need so many more of the reeds.” She looked at the very depleted reeds upon Left Beach.
“Aye, there’s more, ‘round the next beach.” Kinnon pointed toward the next cliff, which Anice had never gone past. “Would need the boat to get around the cliff—sticks out too far in the water. It’s too far gone today, but you and I could go tomorrow morning before we go down to Stoney.”
They remained at the beach for some time, Anice very appreciative that Kinnon never showed any desire to be elsewhere when she asked for his company.
“How come you dinna have your knife no more, sister?” He was stabbing his own dagger into the sand, and one time withdrew the blade to find the carcass of along buried fish attached to it.
Anice made a face and Kinnon wrinkled his nose, heaving the blade and sending the offensive skeleton far away, near to the water. The tide would take it out tonight.
“I left it at Inesfree,” she said. “I hadn’t worn it for the wedding. And then, well, the Duncans came for me....”
When they returned to the keep some time later, Kinnon mentioned this first to Gregor, but the chief did not comment upon it, staring as he was at Anice, while Kinnon regarded him. Kinnon looked at Anice, and she knew he must see the pink rising in her cheeks as heat rose within from Gregor’s overlong perusal.
“She needs a knife, chief,” Kinnon tried again. “Shall I take her over to the smithy?”
“Aye,” said Gregor absently.
Kinnon delivered Anice to the smithy, Robert, and explained what she needed.
“Aye, I remember the piece I’d made ye. Lost it, did ye?’ He seemed put out.
Kinnon spoke up, his tone defensive. “Sister dinna lose it. She was snatched by the Duncans and it was left behind.”
Robert, with his wide brow and deep set eyes, sized her up. Briefly, his gaze landed on the strip at her waist. “Aye, sit down, lass. It’ll take me a bit.”
She smiled her thanks at him and took a stool inside his shed. Kinnon was called away by some other lads, objecting at first until Anice assured him she was fine with the smithy. “I think I’ll be all right crossing the yard back to the hall, Kinnon.”
He smiled a toothy grin. “See you tomorrow, sister!”
Robert pulled on his thick leather gloves and found his tongs and a thin piece of metal. “What’s this I hear about Lady Kincaid departing?” He asked as he dunked the metal into the fire of his stove.
While Anice was surprised news had traveled so quickly, she didn’t think it
was her place to give so many details of what she’d heard. That was Gregor’s tale to tell, if he chose. She only said, “I think she is going to an abbey near the border.”
“And good riddance,” said Robert, turning the metal around to heat it evenly. “Never ken a more disagreeable person,” he grumbled.
“Was she always miserable?” Anice wondered.
“Less so when her daughters were here, but even then, she thought herself too good for Stonehaven, and was happy to let the old chief ken it.”
“What are her daughters like?”
He paused, shrugged his shoulders and removed the piece from the fire. Closer to Anice, he set the piece on the anvil, adjusted the tongs about it, and took up his hammer to shape it. Between thwacks of the hammer, he said, “The older one, that’d be Margaret, she was like her mother, or tried to be, but you could make her laugh here and there. The younger girl might be more your age, lass, she was sweet, was Joan. Her father and our chief now, they doted on her. Could have anything she want, and she wanted nothing but some farmer’s lad. But the old chief dinna care, seen her married, set her up in her own keep, down near Ainsley. Three sons she give him, and happy as larks, they be.”
“Does she come to Stonehaven often?”
“Might be, she will now, with Lady Kincaid gone.” He lifted the blade he’d forged, inspecting it from various angles. And hammered a few more times. “I’ll wrap the handle in leather just now, lass. No brass or carpenter available to fashion a suitable handle, but you bring it back some time and I’ll outfit it proper.”
Later that evening, Anice stared out from the slim opening in her chambers, which overlooked the bailey, bustling still even as the sun had set some time ago, as wagons and carts were loaded with tools and wares. She’d avoided the hall again this evening, having no sense that Gregor’s kiss had somehow altered her position here at Stonehaven. He’d told her once that he needed to marry Nathara—now more than ever, he’d said—to ensure that Hugh be properly punished, without reprisal from the Duncan chief, she’d assumed he meant.
The Memory of Her Kiss Page 25