One Snowy Knight

by Deborah MacGillivray

  His words were ugly, brutal. He wanted to shock her. Curling her fingers slowly from the ornate dagger, he then forced them around it again, until she held the knife for striking at a downward angle.

  Clearly Skena was unsure what to make of his present mood. Likely he did not fully understand what was driving him either. He was not giving up Skena’s love without a fight, and by damn, he was not going to have her look at him in loathing for the rest of their lives. If she could not let go of the past, let go of a misguided fidelity to a man who did naught to deserve her trust, her devotion, then mayhap it was better she plant the knife in his chest and have done with it. He was leaving it up to Skena which road their lives would travel. She could embrace vengeance or put aside imagined duty and open her heart to him. He hoped for both their sakes she would put her faith in him and their growing love.

  “You come at your enemy with a downward arc, like this—” He pulled her arm toward him until the blade touched his chest above his heart. “Your choice, Skena. I am making it quite easy for you. I shan’t fight you.”

  She grew a shade taller as her spine stiffened. “I was going to cut away the bloody bandage instead of unwrapping it, naught more. The linen might be stuck to the wound. If I pull it away it might bleed more.”

  “You are valiant and willing to fight for what you feel is right.” He reached out and lifted the knife between their faces. “This is not the way. This is not right. You saved my life. Twice. Would you prick my heart with this long blade because I was forced to take a life in war?”

  Her lower lip trembled faintly. “You speak a fool’s blethering.”

  “Do I? Then tell me you did not consider planting this pig-sticker in my chest? Or was it your intent to strike a blow when I turn my back? ’Tis much easier to do than face a man and look him in the eye. If Fadden were alive he could tell you all about cowardice. Tell me that thought does not linger in your mind even now.”

  Her head dropped forward, eyes unable to meet his stare.

  “Your lack of denial tells the story, Skena. Is that what you really want? Or is it what you believe you should do? Why? Out of misguided loyalty to a husband, a man who took your own sister as his leman and little cared your pride was dragged through the muck in doing it? A man who lies dead and in the ground, food for worms.” His words were harsh. He meant them to be.

  Her head snapped up. “You are ugly, de Servian.”

  “My words are ugly. I am beautiful, according to you.” He lifted his brows in challenge, daring her to deny she had said those words to him.

  “Bastard,” she hissed between her teeth.

  He gave his head a small shake. “Nay, my parents were the Baron and Lady Darkmoor. I told you a little about them. Both were beautiful people, and they were very much in love. Rare for the nobility. A true love match. Can you say the same of your marriage? Were you and Fadden a love match? Or did he allow you to sleep in your cold bed each night, while he lay with another?”

  Again, no response came. Her mouth pursed, then trembled, as if holding back thoughts that could cause more damage than a knife. He knew Skena well enough already to comprehend that Fadden’s taking her half sister as his mistress had deeply wounded her pride. It was why he had used that detail against her. Reminded her how the man little honored her and their vows.

  Noel released her hand, leaving her the knife, still testing. Part of him hoped she would drop the blade and seek pax between them. The warrior side of his nature anticipated—feared—she might foolishly push the impasse into a confrontation. He knew Skena had not faced an easy time here at Craigendan since Fadden’s death. She worried too much, these past months taking their toll upon her. Even so, war had never touched this glen. Out of the way, Skena and her people had been spared the revolting brutality of war, never forced to bend their will to that of another.

  He was sorry such a lesson would come at his hand, should she choose the more treacherous path. But then, mayhap it was better to taste this hard reality so they could move past it.

  “I assume your silence means your marriage was not a match born of love.” He sounded just a bit smug. Could not suppress it. Secretly, though he felt for the bruised pride she had endured, he was pleased Fadden had not been such a paragon in her eyes. It would be one less obstacle to overcome. He prodded to see her reaction. “He was much older than you. You were—what—ten and six when he took you to wife? Nearly a child bride?”

  Skena vibrated with emotion. “I suppose being close enough to kill a man allowed you to judge his age.”

  “Aye, I killed him, Skena. Do you now want to hear how and why, or have you decided to stick that dirk in me without a proper trial by ordeal?”

  She shivered. She was not cold, but scared. Too bad. He was not giving her an out. She had forced his hand. Now she would deal with the repercussions.

  “What can I expect from any man but lies?” she finally managed to get out.

  “Do not paint me with the same hues as Fadden. He was unworthy of you, Skena. I speak words you already heed within yourself.”

  When she stood resolute in her fury, anger spurred his temper. He took a step closer, letting her feel the heat off his flesh. Most women would have backed up in fear. He was an intimidating man, tall, powerfully built. Smart women learned at an early age not to provoke any man, especially a knight. And his dear little Skena was smart, so bloody smart. Only she did not flinch. Whether she comprehended, it spoke so much about her. About her fearless nature, about how she trusted him not to hurt her.

  The corner of his mouth twitched up. Mayhap he should give her space, and let her see the difference between Fadden and himself, allow her to understand the choices made in war could still be done in an honorable fashion. Fadden had not been respectful of Skena in taking Dorcas as his leman. He had shown only viciousness in killing a lad, not even ten and six summers old, just to get his sword. When the man attacked Noel while he dismounted, Fadden had not been a soldier fighting in war. He tried to do murder. There had been no scrap of honor within Angus Fadden on the moor of Dunbar that ugly April morn. Skena was too smart not to come to this understanding.

  Nevertheless, Noel perversely wanted Skena’s unconditional acceptance. Wanted her to trust him because her heart did. “You speak of the kenning, these powers in women of Ogilvie blood. Can you not touch me, walk in my mind, and know who I am? What I am?”

  Her lower lip trembled. “The kenning was never strong in me. I oft feared because I forsook the Ogilvie name that mayhap I paid price by the power’s failing to rise within me. Yet Tamlyn took her father’s name, and she is one of the strongest in the clan, so I finally assumed it was just me, that I was lacking. Until…”

  Her eyes lowered as she turned the knife to carefully slice away the blood soaked bandage. She swallowed hard as she stared at the wound with a dawning realization. The deep gash had been inflicted by Fadden. How close it came to the man’s robbing Noel of his life.

  “Until?” he pressed.

  Her shaking fingers cleansed the wound and then dabbed the soothing salve across it. He heard her breathing hitch. She was too close to him. His scent, his heat was affecting her physically. Their making love would only see this reaction heighten. Poor Skena, she now faced a clash between the logic of her mind and the desires of her body.

  He understood the problem only too well. Each brush of those fingers caused his body to buck. So many emotions pumped through him—anger, resentment, hurt—yet he could not sort them out and act according to what would heal this breach between them, simply because his body ruled. He needed her. As he needed his blood or air to survive. Skena was a craving that clawed at his skin, destroyed all reason, thus he struggled against the mating drive pushing him to act. But then, he recalled Guillaume’s saying how he committed a mistake in giving Rowanne the room to adjust to their coming marriage, that he should have pushed for matters to be settled between them.

  Mayhap it was simply the excuse he offered himsel
f to take what he wanted. He little cared. There was no other choice.

  As she tied off the bandaging, he lowered his arms and trapped her against his body. She gave a squeak of surprise. He took advantage to kiss her, thoroughly, and with no mercy. His mouth moved roughly on hers, opening her to his tongue delving deeply, provoking the responses she fought hard not to give. His valiant warrior. Her lips tasted of the wine they had for supper, but it was no more intoxicating than the taste that was all Skena.

  She whimpered, pushed against his chest, but with only the faintest of efforts. She tried to lean back, but his hand fisted in her long hair holding her firmly against him, allowing him to kiss her with all the passion driving him. Just as her resistance relaxed, he lifted her and threw her down on the huge bed. She did not resist, did not try to scamper away, just watched with her huge brown eyes while he skimmed off the hose and then climbed onto the bed.

  “You have a chemise on again. I want you naked, Skena. Take…it…off,” he demanded in a tone that said he would do it for her if she refused to comply. Only, he wanted her to do it. He wanted her complete submission and would settle for nothing less.

  She must have understood him, for she sat, scooting into the deepest shadows and then reluctantly dragged the worn garment up her body. Pulling it over her head, she dropped it, and shook her long hair to form a veil around her. Well, he would have none of that. Noel reached out and grabbed her ankle and yanked her down onto the bed and back into the light from the fire.

  Placing a knee on either side of her hips he straddled her. He had a feeling she just planned to accept whatever he wanted of her, allow him to take the burden of choice from her. Take the burden of her wanting him out of her hands. “Sorry, love, passive surrender will not suffice with me.”

  When she remained silent, Noel shrugged and leaned forward cupping a breast with each hand. He squeezed their firmness. Pushing them up high, he took the crest of one breast into his mouth and sucked hard as the fingers of his left hand rolled the tip of the other. Skena’s hips bucked slightly, but again she fought her own body’s response. She turned her head to the side and closed her eyes. Little coward. She relished the attention he gave to her body, only tried to hide it. Well, there was no hiding some things, how her nipples were swollen, distended, how her pelvis made little twitches, moving against him restlessly as though she could not suppress the natural urge.

  “Skena…touch me.” He meant it as a command, but the hoarse whisper came out as a plea.

  The tone seemed to break through the reserve she was desperately clinging to, for she opened her eyes. For the longest spell she just looked at him. Finally, she lifted her left hand and slowly laced her fingers with his. A simple gesture, but the meaning seemed so profound. Not taking her eyes from his, she repeated the action, this time linking her right hand with his left.

  His body slid down hers. His legs shoving her thighs apart, he aligned his body to hers and slowly pushed into her silken heat, nearly scalding his flesh. She fisted around him with the fit of a glove.

  “Burn me, Skena. Brand me. Take me,” he whispered as he pushed their hands over her head, arching her to him, and sending them to madness.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  With misgivings in her heart, Skena looked across the room to Noel, standing before the Great Hall’s fireplace. He feigned attention to the festive start of the celebration of Yule. Merely a pretense. As if he felt her eyes upon him, he glanced up and met her gaze, their eyes locking. His expression was haunted, accusing.

  Two days had passed since he had told her how Angus died. Two long days. At an impasse, little had changed between them. During the day he was polite, even supportive in anything she brought up concerning the fortress. He had toured the cellars to take stock of the meager supplies stored below the frost line, and went over the tally books for Craigendan, showing a clear interest in every aspect of its running. Only, he kept himself at an emotional distance from her.

  At least during the day.

  After the first day, she had started to retire to the small room down the hallway from his. His expression livid, he stormed in, sending the door flying against the wall with a loud crack, swept her into his arms and carried her down the hallway. He dumped her in the middle of the huge bed in the lord’s chamber, then warned in a voice that brooked no opposition, “Do not contrary me, Skena.”

  Both nights he undressed quickly and then pretended to go to sleep. Later, in the hushed darkness, he had turned to her and silently taken her. She offered no resistance, even welcomed his loving as a means of bridging the distance between them. What hurt—no words of love passed between them, just the mindless, blazing passion that left her sweaty, wrung out, and clinging to him, helpless against needing him all the more.

  Noel taught her pleasures she never imagined, how he could bring her to that pulsing black magic with just his hands or his mouth. They had come together in near violence, yet turned around and loved so slowly, so exquisitely that tears formed in her eyes. When the morning light came, he rose and prepared to face the day as if nothing had happened in the long hours of the night.

  The abrupt switch left her confused. Noel seemed to be waiting, wanting some response from her, yet she remained unsure what that was. Fearful of making the situation worse, she breathed in dread of losing his love.

  She had never known love before. Oh, she realized there had been a hunger for the elusive feeling, a sense her life had been lacking without it. Noel had showed her the reality, the bonding of their bodies, minds, and souls, so much more than the dreams of her young girl’s heart. Now, she understood just how precious and rare the emotion was. To lose him would be too much to bear. She could not imagine how empty her life would be without his gentle magic.

  Noel made her believe in wishes. Yet, with the deft pass of a wizard’s hand, he could destroy the fragile, divine spark of hope. Destroy her.

  She inhaled, trying to think of something to say to the stubborn man to end the stalemate, but no words of healing came to mind. This night was Yule, the longest night of the year, with the hours of daylight being scant few. A season of endings and renewals, a time for fresh hopes. Time to leave old regrets behind. She had to reach past the confusion and embrace the new life he was bringing to her. Staring at his silver eyes, all else about her faded to mist. She needed to mend this breach, explain to him that she had overreacted on learning of how Angus died. While he had not given any more details, she recalled the vision of Noel taking the sword to his back, how close he came to dying, and now knew Angus had wielded the blade in a cowardly fashion. Noel was obviously leaving it to her to come to him, to say she trusted him to be an honorable man in all.

  Covered in snowflakes, Squire Emory Maynet came rushing in. “Riders and wagons come, my lord—under the pennon of the baroness of Lochshane.”

  Guillaume’s hazel green eyes reflected a mix of emotions. He put down the tankard of mulled cider in a show of indifference. “I suppose ’tis Rowanne’s way of reminding me that she still rules Lochshane and the wagons come under her largess.” He said lowly to Noel, “I am naught but the bastard knight forced upon her by Julian and an English king.”

  Noel patted Guillaume’s back. “Methinks these long nights are grating on your soul. Come, let us go offer well-come to your lady.” They started out of the Great Hall, but then Noel swung back to Skena and offered his hand. “My lady?”

  Once again, the pale eyes bore into hers. Demanding. Begging. Angry. Hurt. Swallowing the tears clogging her throat, Skena came forward and placed her trembling hand in his.

  Flakes fluttered down as Skena stepped out into the winter gloaming. The short day was quickening toward night, rendering the snow-covered landscape a magical blue. She breathed in the air, not too cold, but moist, carrying with it the promise of heavy snow. The renewal of Yuletide slowly filled her. Mayhap on this magical of nights, all things were possible.

  By Guillaume’s guarded expression, and Noel’s g
rin and nudge of the elbow directed at him, Skena assumed the rider at the lead of the convoy had not been expected. The falling snowflakes covered the pale blue mantle the lady wore. She rode sidesaddle, the massive cape half-covering her legs, hidden by a robin’s egg blue kirtle. Her long, pale hair flowed out from one side of the hood lined with white fur. Like a princess of the Snow Fae, Rowanne of Lochshane reined the dapple grey palfrey to a stop and merely sat, staring with an aloof air. Her beautiful countenance reflected serenity, though the brown eyes flashed with a banked fire as she stared at Guillaume.

  She waited until he came to help her down. His hand gently touched her booted foot, lingered on her leg as he gave her ankle a squeeze. Then he unwrapped her legs from the horns of the sidesaddle. Seizing her about the waist, he lifted her to the ground. The regard in which Guillaume held her cousin was clear to Skena. Harder to judge was Rowanne’s reaction to the handsome Englishman, who would soon become her lord husband.

  A knot of envy formed in Skena’s throat. Rowanne MacShane was a woman men called beautiful, and they truly meant it. Always attired in rich fabrics and jewels, she could present herself at English Court and hold her head high. By comparison, Skena suddenly ranked herself shabby in her best blue kirtle. Well, there was naught to change it. Steeling herself to the sting of comparison, she went forward to greet her cousin.

  “Tides of Yule and well-come, Rowanne.” Skena embraced the taller woman.

  “I have missed you, Skena. Our duns keep us too busy to visit as we oft did when we were children.” Not sparing a word for her betrothed, Rowanne linked arms with Skena and started up the stairs to the entrance. “Could you show me the room where I will stay? The ride in the cold was not an easy one. I should like to rest before supper and the festivities.”