Susan King - [Celtic Nights 01]

by The Stone Maiden

  "If we continue," he said, "we fix the vows forever."

  "It can be undone if you need it." She kissed him. "It can be undone, by our custom."

  He was not so sure; the custom was hers, not his own.

  Her hand came up to cup his face. "It is the eve of Christmas. Listen to your heart. We will find a way. We want this, you and I. We need this." She drew his head down toward hers to kiss him again. He groaned deep.

  "Alainna—"

  "What you feel, I feel." Her voice was low, soft, but he sensed the fire in it. "What you want—truly want, in your heart—I want. We are alike, we. I know that now."

  He knew it, too, and could not have said why, but he surrendered to the truth the instant that she whispered it. She touched her mouth to his, and pressed her body against his, her hands pulling at his clothing, while he drew fabric away from her. The first full touch of his bare flesh to hers, warm and silken, was like a close flame. He sighed deeply, and went onward.

  Thought left him, reason left him, and blood and breath took him over; he could not have stopped now. Not now, as he delved his tongue into her mouth, as he slipped his fingers over her legs and into the willing space that opened for him. He caressed her honeyed warmth again, and felt her languid moan in his mouth.

  He lowered his head to kiss her breasts, warm and damp with sweat, carrying the fragrance of heather and lavender and woman, a scent that took him deeper. Cradling her hips in his hands, he drew her close. The soft plaids beneath them slid over cold stone as she moved, as she took him in her hand and guided.

  In silent accord, he pressed forward and she opened, and he felt himself tremble at the cleft and sink inward, cautiously, firm and waiting for the catch of her breath, for the pain he did not want to cause her.

  That passed quickly, and weaving his breath with hers, he felt a tremor run through her, felt a force stream through him. The current took him faster, harder, deeper into the whirlpool than he had ever gone, toward an exquisite fire of the spirit. He knew the spark passed through her, and then faded, and he sank into her, and felt her sink with him.

  He lay wrapped in silence with her, aware that more than lust had swept him away. Dear God, he thought, as new clarity came into his mind. He loved her.

  The realization took the breath from him.

  He held her for so long, silent and rocking, thinking, that he was not aware at first that she had drifted into sleep. He smiled ruefully into her hair, knowing how exhausted she had been before the handfasting had even begun.

  He slipped away from her and stepped back into the shadows. Stone crunched quietly beneath his boots as he took up the plaid he had worn for a cloak and went to the door. The wind was high and whipping, and he could still hear the strains of music and laughter from the tower in the bailey. Golden light leaked around the door frame and the small, square window. He turned and began to walk the perimeter of the yard.

  A thick branch lay in his path, lost from one of the pine boughs that had been carried to the hall. He picked it up as he went, using it first as a walking stick. Then he swiped it at the wind. He turned, stopped, and whipped it again.

  He stripped off the thinner branches, releasing the piney tang from the wood. Setting his feet square in the yard, he balanced his weight from one foot to the other. Holding it with two hands, like the claymore that he had recently included in his practices, he cut through the air with the stout branch, sheered into the wind, turned, lunged, whirled.

  And then he flung the stick high and far, watched it sail out over the palisade wall. He stood, heart beating, like a pillar while the wind beat at him.

  He had surrendered to his heart and his blood, had ignored reason and caution and ambition. Love had swept through his life, fast and powerful, from a direction he had never anticipated. And all of his goals would have to change.

  He himself had changed. The knowledge of that spun him, staggered him. He was not sure what to do, how to proceed. He was not the man he had been, and he was not yet sure who he was.

  He looked up at the sky, midnight deep and dusted with diamonds. The eve of Christmas had stirred a miracle, and he was not sure what to do with it.

  He was not a man who welcomed change easily. He breathed out, hard and fast, a pale, frosted cloud, and looked at the workshop. A thin golden light edged the shuttered window. The candle was still burning. He walked forward and eased open the door.

  She lay on the sandstone slab, curled like a child. He looked down at her while she slept, and brushed back her hair. Then he took off his plaid and folded it into a pillow, sliding it under her head.

  She lay inside a carved framework of endless knots, the braiding that determined the path of the soul through life. The thread of his soul had been drawn into the weave of hers now. Only cutting, only the destruction of the chain, would free them from the design, if either wanted to be free of the other.

  He circled to the other side of the slab and stretched out beside her on the cold, hard bed. He drew her plaid-bundled, softly breathing form into his arms, set his cheek upon her head, and let himself drift to sleep.

  Chapter 24

  Smoke and flames rose from the bonfire at the head of the loch, swirling into a gray column that obscured the pale sky. Sebastien stepped back, feeling the intense heat of the blaze despite the icy wind. He looked at those who stood in a ring around the fire, their bright faces smiling at one another, smiling at him.

  Christmas Day had dawned silvery and cold. Father Padruig had left the fortress that morning, accompanied by several of the Highlanders and the knights, including Alainna and Sebastien, who had then attended Padruig's early Christmas Mass at the church of Saint Brighid. Those who had not walked the distance had ridden tough, surefooted garrons out over the hills, for the thin coating of snow had frozen overnight.

  Upon their return, the clan members had set the bonfire, the branches and logs having been piled high the day before. Now they gathered around the huge, hot fire to sing traditional Gaelic songs and charms, and to burn the Yule log. Highland Yuletide customs were few and simple, Sebastien had learned; the holy day was celebrated on a more subdued note than he had seen in England and France, while the new year, he had been told, was welcomed with rousing good cheer.

  Heat wavered over the joyful, familiar faces. Of them all, Sebastien thought, Alainna shone like a star, clear and beautiful in his eyes. Her head remained bare, for she had refused to wear the white kerchief common to married women, insisting to her kinswomen that she was not, as yet, officially married.

  But she was, and they both knew it. Her kinfolk had guessed, judging by their pleased glances, that the handfasting had been consummated. He had the impression that the elders also assumed that he would stay with them at Kinlochan—he could see the hope of it in each smiling face, in every light step and heartfelt laugh.

  He frowned, standing apart from the rest, conscious of the burden of their joy. He knew Alainna felt it too. He saw traces of the strain in her pale face, in her shadowed blue eyes, in the lush, somber curve of her mouth. She forced a smile, he saw—he had forced many himself that day—and came around the bonfire's perimeter with Lorne.

  He sighed, for he had woken from the most wondrous night of his life confused. He did not think he could leave her now.

  In the center of the fire lay the enormous Yule log. One section had been carved with a wizened face, an image Alainna had cut into it a few days earlier. Crackling flames shot up, and the curious countenance stood out clearly as the log burned.

  "That face in the Yule log is the Cailleach Nollaich," Esa said. Sebastien turned to see her standing beside him, her plaid wrapped snugly around her head and draped over her body. Her face was serene and perfect inside that frame. "She is the old woman of Yule. The Cailleach is also said to be the old woman of winter, soon to be gone. We burn her image to bring good luck to all for the coming year."

  Sebastien nodded, watching Esa, captivated by her stunning beauty. A light seemed t
o shine deep in her lovely dark eyes, and the finely etched lines and shadows around them had somehow lessened in the last few days.

  "You look well," he said. "Are you content here at Kinlochan?"

  Her smile seemed almost secretive, and held a certain quiet joy. "I am very content here," she said.

  Esa took his right hand then, and Alainna moved toward him to take his left. Wreathing the bonfire, Highlanders and Normans linked hands, and the Highlanders began to sing.

  Unfamiliar with the words, Sebastien listened to the charming cadence. The rhythm seemed to vibrate in his chest, unexpectedly stirring his heart.

  The song rang clear and sweet, rising with the bright flames into the pearly sky. Sebastien tightened his fingers on Alainna's hand, and felt the slender strength there, felt her fingers caress his, although she kept her gaze ahead as she sang.

  They sang another verse and began again. This time Sebastien lifted his voice with the rest, forming a low, mellow foundation for the harmony around him.

  Alainna glanced at him, her cheeks pink with cold, her eyes dazzling, her heart shining within them. For a moment, Sebastien forgot his dilemma. He pressed her fingers with his and sang on, his gaze still touching hers, his own heart brimming.

  * * *

  "Warriors we have about us now, warriors to fight at our backs, and it is good," Lorne said that night, after they had finished supper, another modest feast of the same foods offered at the handfasting. "And long and long ago, beside another fireside on another winter's night, the three warrior sons of Uisneach sat with the beautiful Deirdre, who came to be called Deirdre of the Sorrows. And the finest of the handsome sons of Uisneach was Naoise, with raven black hair and skin pale as snow, with cheeks red as blood. Deirdre loved him more than her life.

  "Naoise sat that night and played a game of chess with Deirdre, she of the golden curls and gray eyes, her beauty enough to make men wild, her spirit sweet as a dove. She would forsake the love of a king and forsake her own land to be with the son of Uisneach. And listen, and I will tell you how Deirdre and the sons of Uisneach came to be in exile in Scotland together, and I will tell you of the end they came to...."

  Sebastien listened, leaning his shoulders against the wall. He had taken his seat on the shadowed bench again, where he could sit in solitude after the revelry and camaraderie of the day before, with the handfasting, and this day, Christmas.

  He watched the others and sipped from his cup of spiced wine, resting his back against the timber wall. The tale Lorne told was poignant and beautiful, full of love and loyalty, longing and sorrow. When Lorne recited Deirdre's stirring and poetic remembrance of Scotland, a description of the glens and hills that she had come to love during her stay there with the sons of Uisneach, he felt a tightness gather in his throat.

  He, too, loved this land, with its white-swept mountains, deep glens, and silver lochs; its proud crags and stately trees; and its women like pearls. Alainna shone among them all, and he could not keep his gaze from her while Lorne spoke and she echoed a sultry-voiced translation.

  "And when the sons of Uisneach were dead," Lorne said, low and sonorous, "and when they were laid in a grave, Deirdre looked down upon their still and beautiful faces, and saw Naoise lying between his brothers, and her heart turned within her for sorrow, and for love.

  "'Do not break this day, O my heart,' said Deirdre, and she threw herself down, and lay dead among Naoise and his brothers, the thread of her soul braided to the thread of his, and theirs, for eternity...."

  Sebastien swallowed hard, and sipped at his wine. Alainna finished her translation and rose. She glided through the crowded room toward Sebastien's bench beneath the rafters.

  Finan stood, where he had been curled at her feet by the fire, and followed her. Sebastien roughed his fingers over the dog's head and patted his shoulders. Finan circled and then lay at Sebastien's feet, his tail thumping on the toe of his boot.

  Alainna sat beside Sebastien. The reddish light in her hair was muted by the shadows in the raftered aisle, and he could not see her face as clearly as he had when she had sat near the fire.

  She took his hand in silence, and he was glad. The sadness of Lome's tale rested upon him like a mantle. He wrapped his fingers about hers, hands cradled between them.

  Lorne picked up his harp and began a song with a quiet, steady rhythm and melody that was exquisite and heartbreaking. Alainna leaned toward Sebastien to be heard above the music.

  "They say that there are three kinds of music from a clarsach, a Celtic harp," she said. "There is the strain for weeping, the strain for sleeping, and the strain for joy. All harp music, they say, is one or another of those, and all harp music has the power to stir the soul."

  "This one must be the strain for weeping." He felt it pull as he had never felt music stir him before. Just the blend of Lome's story and the wine, he thought, and the sadness he bore in his own heart at the thought of leaving Alainna, this place, these people.

  "Lorne ends his tale of Deirdre of the Sorrows this way, but he will lift our hearts again with a strain for joy, and then give us a more relaxing tune for sleeping."

  He nodded, listening to the harp strings, her hand warm in his own. After a while, Lome began another song, light and quick. Alainna glanced at Sebastien.

  "I want you to stay," she whispered.

  He sighed and looked away. Then he lifted her hand, clasped in his, to his lips. He kissed the smooth mound of her knuckles. Even that small contact between them swirled like luscious fire through his body. He said nothing, but his silence was an eloquent refusal.

  She slipped her hand from his.

  After a while he leaned toward her. "Alainna, I must seek out Cormac MacNechtan soon. I must speak with him about the king's orders, and make some determination of his loyalty. The king awaits word from me."

  "Must you ride out to Turroch so soon? Christmas is scarcely past."

  "The weather is unpredictable, and this cannot wait much longer. We have accomplished what we wanted, my lady," he said. "We are handfasted without Cormac hearing of it, and the marriage contract has been written out and signed. Father Padruig has promised me a copy so that I can send it to the king by messenger. I must also send a report explaining what I have found at Kinlochan, and what I know of Cormac MacNechtan's loyalties."

  "Who will go with you?" she asked.

  "My men," he said. "Giric has agreed, and Lulach as well. The rest of your kinsmen will stay here. In two or three days I will seek him out."

  "He will want only battle."

  "We will be prepared to fight."

  She opened her mouth to speak, then subsided. He saw the glint of tears in her eyes. She stood, murmured a quick good night, and walked away.

  Finan lifted his head, looking curious, and stood to follow her. Instead of going to her workshop, as she so often did late in the evening, she climbed the slatted wooden steps to her bedchamber above the hall. The dog went with her, padding silently upward where they both disappeared.

  Sebastien watched the empty steps for a long while. The temptation to take her now, tonight, rushed so strong over him that he tensed with the urge. As desperately as he wanted to be with her, he knew he must distance himself for now.

  He tightened his hand on his thigh and swallowed the rest of his wine in one long gulp. He sat unmoving.

  Lome played a soothing harp melody, and began another. Sebastien felt his tension gradually mellow. The elders began to seek their beds, one by one, and some of the knights had gone to the other end of the long chamber to set out their pallets; the three young squires had long since retired, their tousled heads peeking above their blankets.

  He sat alone on the bench while Lome played. Finally he stood and nodded to those who watched him, and climbed the stairs to the upper floor.

  He eased open the door to her bedchamber. Her steady breathing emanated from the shelter of the bed that was hung with curtains of dark plaid. The small room was over the main part of the ha
ll, so it was warm and close, and the harp was muted but clear. In one corner, the iron brazier gave off enough reddish light to reveal the pallet of plaids that she had left for him.

  Her own comment, he saw; her thoughts agreed with his. A distancing was better.

  Finan slept curled close to the brazier on a straw pallet. He lifted his head with scant interest when Sebastien walked past, and settled back to sleep with a lazy thump of his tail.

  Sebastien went to the bed and parted the curtain silently. She was a cluster of shadows in the darkness, her breathing a susurration. He could smell the lavender-sweet, womanly warmth of her. His body surged like a fire. He reached out to touch the cloud of her loosened hair, drifted his fingers down to her shoulder beneath the fur coverlet.

  She turned and the fur slid, and his fingertips grazed the bare skin of her upper chest. She writhed in sleep and made a kittenish sound. He felt his groin contract, fill, ache.

  He drew his hand back, flared his nostrils, and cursed his pride and every goal he had ever had. He shut the curtain abruptly and turned away.

  Removing only his boots and his woolen hose, he lay down on the wooden floor, scarcely cushioned by plaids. When he gave out a resounding sigh, he heard its gentle echo from the bed. Turning on his side, he went to sleep listening to the harp.

  * * *

  She waited by the Maiden while snowflakes whirled, light and fast, around her. Finan stood beside her, every so often circling her impatiently, his long face and wide brown eyes questioning and begging. He clearly did not want to be outside on such a day.

  The gates of Kinlochan had been opened early, and when she had run out, with the dog in tow, few had taken notice of her. The men in the yard were busy with necessary tasks as the knights prepared to ride out, while the women were in the hall and the kitchen, no doubt sure that Alainna was busy in her workshop.

  She saw them gather inside the gate, Sebastien on his creamy stallion, the others mounted on their own steeds, Giric and Lulach on dark garrons. Chain mail and weaponry gleamed gray in the pale light.