Susan King - [Celtic Nights 01]

by The Stone Maiden

  She closed her eyes and rested her cheek against his chest, his voice sliding over her, comforting her. She wrapped her fingers in the plaid draped over his shoulders. "Wait a little to do that," she said. "It is snowing again. Stay here for now, with me. Just for now. Later we will talk of you leaving."

  "For now," he said, and dipped his head to kiss her again. "After that, we will talk about my staying."

  She placed a finger on his lips. "No more. Let us have some time without talk of what must be done. I am weary of it."

  "Well enough." He gathered her close. "We will call it a truce between us. The time-between-times," he said. "For so long as the world is white and sleeping, for so long as winter holds us here, we will not talk about, or worry about, what may come later. Does that please you?"

  "It does. Very much." She reached up to circle her arms around his neck. "No mention of names or legacies, duty or vengeance. We will go nowhere in this weather, and no one will come here. We will have peace at Kinlochan."

  "If that peace could only last until spring." His hands caressed her back. "Until the day you mark the Stone Maiden." He lowered his face toward hers.

  "Spring is closer than you think," she murmured. "By our custom, we mark the stone on the feast day of Saint Brighid. That is not so long from now—"

  "Hush," he said, and covered her mouth with his own. She took in a quick breath, and felt her sorrow begin to dissolve, her body melt as the kiss deepened, lengthened. His hands grazed over the contours of her body, tender and knowing. She sank in his arms, willing, content to lose her awareness of the world, of all that troubled her, wanting only to be with him.

  He pulled her close, his hand at the small of her back, so that her hips pressed into his and she swayed against him. A warm, exciting pulse stirred within her. She tilted her mouth under his and skimmed her hands up his back, beneath the plaid mantle, to his wide shoulders and the firmly muscled arms that held her.

  He bent and slipped his arm beneath her, lifting her in a swirl of wool. He carried her to the sandstone slab in the corner of the room, setting her down in the shadows. Pulling the plaid from his shoulders, he swept it over the stone. She helped him arrange a padding, and she glanced up at him.

  "I will never," she said, "carve this stone for you."

  "Good," he said, bending over her. "We can put it to far better use." His hand was broad and strong on her back as he laid her down upon the stone. "If you would have it so."

  "I would," she said, drawing him down beside her.

  He kissed her deeply then, his lips caressing, his tongue seeking. She opened willingly to him and rolled more fully into his embrace. His hands skimmed, warm and sure, along her body, finding the curve of her hip, the swell of her breast. She sighed out with pleasure and arched her head back to rest it against the stone.

  As his lips traced along her throat, she furrowed her fingers through his hair and leaned forward to kiss the shell of his ear. He flipped the single loop that closed the placket of her gray gown, while she pulled at his own clothing.

  His breath misted between her breasts, a warm and wonderful sensation, and she sighed and shifted to welcome the sweet pressure of his mouth. She moaned softly as his hands cupped her breasts; she shivered as a deep throb stirred in her lower belly that she could not ease. Writhing, pressing against him, she kissed his shoulder and traced his ear with her tongue until he sought her lips again.

  When she pulled insistently at his tunic, he stripped it off and rolled it to pillow her head. As he sank back down into her arms, she stroked her hands over his smooth, firm skin, the taut, muscular range of his back, the wide rib cage.

  Her fingers gentled past the healing area on his side to touch the warm, hard contours of his belly, softened by the wedge of hair that arrowed under the waist of his braies. She pulled at the drawstring, and he groaned softly when she cupped him, when she stroked the hot, silken length she found there, discovering him as he explored her.

  He traced his tongue over her breasts while he slowly slid her tunic up her legs. When she writhed and moaned, pulling at him, pressing against him, he hushed her and slowed her with long, luscious kisses, his hands firm and easy over her skin.

  The night of their handfasting, she knew that they had fallen into each other's arms too fast, too impulsively. Now he loved her with languid heat, not gently, but surely, stripping her of her gown and chemise, wrapping her in the plaid with him.

  He held her on the stone bed and cushioned her with his taut body, warmed her with his breath. He kissed her bared shoulders, her arms, each finger coated in stone dust, smoothed back her hair from her brow, and hushed her again and again when she tried to urge him onward. Her yearning deepened with every caress, every kiss, until she was damp for him, until she shivered and pulled at him and cried out softly.

  Wrapped in his embrace, surrounded by silence and peace, she lay back and let him love her, and felt time dissolve. The wind shushed against the window shutter, and the daylight that leaked through was silvery and cold. Beside the crackling brazier, Finan slept deeply, an oblivious and faithful guard.

  Beneath Sebastien's lips and his fingers, she blossomed like a rose, turned and opened sweetly for him. When he knelt over her in a straddle and lifted her hips to meet his, she pushed upward, hungry for his thrusting strength, gasping when he filled her at last. Her fingers were tight on the edge of the stone, and she let go of her anchor and cried out in joy as a sensation streamed through her like a pure, bright flame. For a moment, for the space of a breath, she felt as if her spirit and his plaited together in an endless, beautiful pattern.

  "I think," he whispered much later, his hand slow and sweet over her belly, "that we should try this in a bed."

  "Tonight," she whispered, turning in his arms to seek his lips again, "after the stories, I would like to do that."

  "If we can wait that long," he answered, and took her mouth with his once again.

  * * *

  She thought of those weeks as the time-between-times, and she did not want them to end. Neither she nor Sebastien talked about the feud, or of battles that might come, although she knew that he spoke of those matters with her kinsmen and with his own men. He spent long hours sitting with them in discussion. But he never mentioned what was said among them, and she did not ask.

  When they were together, neither of them brought up the subject of battle, nor did they speak of plans to leave or to stay. Alone in her workshop, or walking beside the cold gray loch, or at night in each others' arms, they asked about each other, listening and telling stories about their adventures and incidents in childhood or as adults, but neither spoke of the future.

  Here and now was all that existed, Alainna knew. Each moment moved into the next like beads sliding on a string.

  During the days, they quickly found a routine. Each morning Alainna went to her workshop, for she wanted to make as much progress as she could on the stone carvings. Sebastien practiced his swordwork out in the bailey, or inside the hall when the weather was bitterly cold; she knew that he went slowly at that, for his muscles were still stiff and sore, but he soon gained his proficiency again with broadsword and claymore.

  Later, every day, he spent time with her kinsmen, and with his own men and the three squires who were there like constant, quiet shadows. The men talked, practiced weapon skills, repaired equipment, and exercised the horses near the loch or in the bailey, for the weather did not permit them to ride out often to patrol the property.

  Nearly every day, Sebastien joined Alainna in the workshop for a while, where he became a willing and capable apprentice. She taught him how to rough out her chalked designs, using an iron punch or a claw-toothed chisel and a mallet; she showed him how to use the various chisels to define areas of the relief carving, how to sand away roughness, how to polish, how to move the stones easily using wooden rollers for leverage so little lifting was needed.

  His natural talent for drawing and design gave him an interest in
the interlace patterns, and she taught him how to construct them using grids of squares and circles. Often, when she became absorbed in her own work, she would look up to see him drawing castle designs in chalk on cloth or on stone, while Finan snored happily at his feet.

  Alainna cherished such moments of warmth and peace. She discovered that her interests and opinions were often similar to his, and found that they worked well together, sharing preferences for quiet and solitude, both capable of the discipline necessary to accomplish the tedious work of carving the stones. Harmony, respect, and quiet joy existed between them now.

  Having given her word to him, she tried not to think about the spring, and the inevitable end of their time-between-times. She thought only about now, each day like another golden link in a chain, each as beautiful, as precious, as the rest.

  When the days were done, the nights were filled with stories and music and laughter in the hall. Afterward, in the dark haven of her curtained bed, there were sweet, thunderous kisses and coming together like glove to hand, again and again, until she rocked with him in fervent, silent, hungry joy.

  And each day, she looked out a window or over the palisade, glad to see the snow float down, glad to see a jewel coating of ice, or to hear the wind moan. Eventually she noticed that the snow had melted a little more, disappearing into the ground; the sun shone brighter and longer, and the first green shoots stirred through the bracken.

  Even though the snow was still on the ground in cold pools, she felt her heart twist within her, and she turned away.

  * * *

  "There is an island far away that rises through the mist and shines in the sun," Lome said. "And there are trees dropping heavy with fruit and blossoms, and there the berry-branches bow down. Rivers flow with honey and wine, and plains are wide and green. Mountains are high-crested with snow, fair and round as a woman's breasts."

  Alainna slid a glance at Sebastien, who eased his hand over her back as she sat beside him on the bench. She stretched her back languidly beneath his soothing hand, and went on with her translation.

  "And the ridges of the moors are purple and lovely, and the streams that flow through them sweet and mild. Weeping and treachery are unknown, and aging and illness are never seen. Music is ever light as it falls upon the ear, and the songs of birds and the golden strike of the harp string fill the silence in this many-colored land. This is the Land of Endless Youth, the Land of Promise...."

  Alainna paused when Lome did, and closed her eyes with pleasure as she felt Sebastien slip his hand over hers, felt his thumb caress her hand, his touch warm and promising.

  Too soon, she knew, they would leave the little island of time that they had created for themselves. Too soon, the snows would be gone, and spring would come.

  * * *

  "Tell me about the island out on the loch," Sebastien asked Ruari one day, as they walked together through the bailey.

  "Out there?" Ruari looked at him in surprise. "It is a fine place, that isle. An old ruin is there, not much but a piling of ancient stones, though a few small rooms within its walls can still be made safe and warm." He smiled, his blue eyes crinkling.

  "Safe enough to hide out, I know," Sebastien said, with a rueful chuckle. "Tell me about the isle itself. Is it large enough, solid enough, to support a stone castle?"

  Sebastien walked beside Ruari to the earthen walk that ringed the inner palisade. They climbed up and stood looking over the speared timbers. The narrow loch seemed gray and dull as lead beneath the overcast sky, and the wind was high and damp. On the opposite shore, the Stone Maiden rose strong and solid against the sky.

  The island in the middle of the loch was dark with bare trees, bracken, and rocks; at its center the strong, coarse outline of the old tower thrust up through a tangle of trees.

  "It is a good isle, Sebastien Ban," Ruari said. "Quite large enough for a stone castle, I think."

  "When the weather improves, I will row out and take a look at it. If it is a solid enough place, with no boggy ground and enough rock for a strong foundation, I may well build a castle there."

  "Then you mean to stay here at Kinlochan," Ruari said.

  Sebastien shrugged noncommittally. "I have orders from the king to plan a castle and organize its construction. I do not wish to tear this wooden fortress down, or to move a garrison in here while this place is remade into a stone castle. Another site must be chosen. The king awaits my report on that, and other matters."

  "When you prepare your message to the king, will you take it to him yourself?"

  "I do not intend to leave here just yet," he said. "I have a dispute to settle with Cormac first. I will ask Robert to take some knights with him and ride to Dunfermline to deliver my letter to the king. That report cannot wait longer."

  "When you write to the king," Ruari asked slowly, "what will you tell him about the renegade and outlaw Ruari MacWilliam?"

  Sebastien gazed out over the palisade, the wind whistling past his brow. "That man is dead, have you not heard? Dead, or in Ireland," he added.

  "I did hear that rumor."

  Sebastien glanced at him. "Why did you come back, knowing the danger? Knowing you would be hunted?"

  Ruari stared out over the loch. "For Esa."

  Sebastien fully understood the passion and need and love expressed in those two words. "What of the MacWilliam cause?"

  "The rumors are only partly right," Ruari said. "I did not come back to the Highlands to gather support for my clan's cause. I have my own purpose." He glanced at Sebastien. "My son Iain, who is about Alainna's age, has been missing since the battle last year. That sadness sits heavy on my heart, and upon Esa. I have been making inquiries. I must learn if he is in fact dead, as they said, or if he is unable to send us word as I was."

  Sebastien nodded, his throat constricting. "I understand."

  "As for the rest, my cousin Guthred is young and high-tempered, skilled at fighting and at stirring others to fight, and many wish to support him for his heroics. But not I."

  "You do not support him?"

  "I do not encourage him. He would not be the best of kings, were he even able to gain the throne. I doubt that he can. The Celtic earls are against him, and always have been. He has little real influence, no personal wealth or education, no skills at negotiating with Normans and English and the clergy, as King William has. All he really has is a direct blood claim through Pictish descent. That is not enough."

  "Many would disagree with you, thinking blood is all."

  "Far more than old, proud blood is needed to make a good king or a good man."

  Sebastien frowned, thinking how keenly that reflected upon his own background, his own heart. "Then you are loyal to the king."

  "I am, and I always have been. But I am also loyal to my kinsmen and my clan, and so I have joined in this fight when necessary. What I want to do is bring my cousin Guthred around to a sensible position. But I think he will pursue this madness until he dies."

  "Why then did you come back here, if not to gather support for your clan? If only for Esa, why did you talk to Cormac?" Sebastien looked at him sharply. "I know you saw him."

  "I met with him, true," Ruari said. "He is loyal to the king, you know. He will not fight with Guthred when my kinsmen return here from Ireland. I do not know their plans for that, if you mean to ask me," he said quickly.

  "Then what was your business with Cormac?" Sebastien asked.

  "Inquiries about my son, first of all. And Cormac's father and I were comrades once," Ruari said. "I am not of Clan Laren, although my wife is. In the past, I was often the only link between these two feuding clans. I knew the desperate condition of Clan Laren, and the depth of the feud. I thought to forge a friendship with Cormac again, and to try to turn some good will toward my wife's kin."

  Sebastien nodded. "Cormac seems grateful to you for saving his son's life."

  Ruari shrugged. "Cormac can be grateful, and he can be loyal, but he is never to be trusted. Cormac serves his own
needs first, before those of his clan. Keep that thought and you will do well with him."

  "I will not forget it," Sebastien assured him. "I have already put in my report that while the man appears to be loyal to the crown, he will continue to disrupt this area if he is left unchecked."

  Ruari nodded and looked up. "This weather will turn soon. Even now the snow is melting in the passes. Your riders can reach Dunfermline in a few days' time."

  "I know," Sebastien answered. "Before they go, I must add one further note in my letter to the king."

  "About Ruari MacWilliam?"

  "It is possible the man is gone, as the rumors say. But I intend to emphasize to the king that Ruari Mor was never a threat to the crown. Even if he is found, I will say, there is no need to pursue him or to arrest him."

  Ruari stared out over the loch, and after a moment, nodded.

  Chapter 29

  Sebastien stood in the bailey, the wind gentle upon his face. The feast day of Saint Brighid had dawned rosy and mild, brightening further as the morning progressed. He stood with the others in a circle, all of them wearing their finest garments. He wore chain mail beneath his green surcoat, with the dark green plaid wrapped over his shoulders for a mantle, and the wolfskin boots Alainna had given him wrapped tight with leather thongs. Standing quietly, he watched as Alainna entered the circle.

  She looked like the blessing of spring itself, and he knew in that moment that he had never loved her more. As she strolled the inside of the ring, she stopped to murmur to each person in turn. Dressed simply in her gray tunic over a pale linen chemise, she wore a crown of white snowdrops and delicate violets on her unbound hair, which fell in a mass of rippled, coppery silk; her eyes were like bluebells, and her cheeks were flushed pink.

  Sebastien knew that the day before the women had gone out to search for flowers newly budded in sunny, rocky crevices. Even though snow still coated much of the ground, the long grasses had begun to green again, and the women had returned with the snowdrops and violets.