by Cathy MacRae
Arbela cradled Toros’s head in her palms as Caelen lifted the injured dog. Toros whined, his eyes anxious. Arbela carefully wrapped a heavy strip of wool about his broken leg, stabilizing it, and relieving much of the pain. Toros licked her hand.
“Place him before me on Voski,” she directed. Caelen gave her a cautious look.
“When necessary, Voski is calm and gentle,” Arbela reminded him. “He will carry us back to Dunfaileas without a misplaced step.”
Caelen gently laid Toros across her lap and Arbela tucked the edges of her cloak about him, creating a sling of sorts. Garen watched intently from the ground.
“All will be well,” Arbela said, as much to reassure the dogs as herself.
Caelen and two others mounted up. “Rory, take the others and search the area. Report back with anything ye find.”
The trip back to the castle was long but uneventful, balanced between speed and the shepherd’s comfort. The healer, anxiously awaiting them at the gate, took over the shepherd’s care, leaving a basket of bandages, poultices and splinting slats for Toros.
By the time they arrived, the morning meal was long past and Bram paced the bailey, no less fretful than Zora for their return. At Bram’s cry of dismay on seeing Toros’s wounds, Caelen was compelled to carry the dog to his son’s chamber for care. Zora set to cleaning and setting the broken limb with Bram her helper.
“It doesnae look as if we are needed. I will check with the healer in a bit and hope the shepherd can tell us what has happened,” Caelen murmured, settling a hand on Arbela’s waist. She nodded.
“I would like nothing better than a hot bath and dry clothes,” she answered.
“Nothing else?” Caelen asked, a glimmer of hope in his eyes.
“Mayhap some rest,” she added, surprised to find her earlier anger and resentment gone, and willing to go along with his teasing. “I did not get much sleep last night.”
“Nor did I,” he admitted ruefully. “All I have is the memory of ill-advised indulgence and a sweet wife to whom I must apologize.”
With gentle pressure on her waist, Caelen guided Arbela into the passageway and to their room.
“There speaks a man with regret for turning to drink,” Arbela said. “’Tis plain your head still pains ye, for there are few who consider me sweet.”
Caelen closed the door with a click of the latch. He leaned one palm against the wall above Arbela’s head, the other hand still at her waist. But she did not feel trapped, for there was no menace in his stance, only sincerity and intensity for his next words.
“I ask ye to forgive me, Arbela, and I will ask ye again before the same men as I disparaged ye before yesterday. But I wish to tell ye in private that I dinnae know how to respect a lass before ye came into my life. Och, respect her body, aye. I wouldnae impose myself where I wasnae wanted. But ye are different, Arbela. Someone to admire for more than her sweet form and caring ways. And I am truly sorry I dinnae listen to ye yesterday.”
He scanned her face and familiar warmth stole through her, though the henflesh on her arms reflected the cold, damp clothing she wore, not anticipation of his kiss.
“I did not enjoy my night away from ye,” she admitted. “And I will not allow it to happen again, save for illness or legitimate absence. Howbeit, I know we will disagree from time to time, though that can be healthy when done with respect.”
Caelen quirked a brow. “Will ye take me to task if I run roughshod over ye?”
Arbela leveled an uncompromising look. “I will gut ye like a fish,”
Caelen caught her as she fell forward into his arms, laughing or sobbing, he wasn’t certain which. He hugged her tight, thankful she had consented to hear him out and hadn’t drawn her sword against him. Though it appeared she still might if he dinnae change his ways—at least a bit.
Arbela lifted her face from his chest, eyes merry. “I believe ye are warmer than a bath,” she whispered, drawing fingertips across his cheek. Caelen’s interest piqued.
“I have heard removing wet clothes will make ye warmer, faster,” he noted with an air of sincerity. Arbela unlaced his leine, then slid her hands slowly down his chest to the buckle of his belt. She had it undone in a trice and the leather fell away, leaving his shirt tail hanging free. Her hands worked their way beneath the cloth, smoothing their way over his abdomen and chest.
“Is it working?” she asked.
Caelen shook his head to clear it of the fog created from blazing desire. Once again, his brain lagged behind, his body registering little more than the magic of her touch.
“Let me show ye,” he murmured. He unfastened her long leather vest, its surface spotted unevenly from the rain. Pushing it from her shoulders, he addressed himself to the many tiny buttons gracing the front of her knee-length silk tunic. Arbela’s shoulders shook.
“Only a few are necessary,” she said, demonstrating as she drew her head through the opening of only a half-dozen buttons. The rest of her garments fell away with little difficulty and Caelen’s hands slid freely over her chilled skin, noting the rising warmth.
Grabbing a couple of blankets from the bed, he tossed them to the floor before the hearth. He drew Arbela to their comfort and wrapped a third about her, leaving her only long enough to stir the fire. It leapt to life with a crackle and he fed it another block of peat.
Satisfied with the heat rolling from the hearth, he turned back to his wife.
* * *
Sometime during the afternoon, they retreated to the bed, allowing the fire to die down. Tangled in each other’s arms, they did not heed the room’s chill.
Arbela turned lazily to face Caelen, hooking a leg over his thigh.
“What will your clan think of its laird laying abed most of the day with his new wife—again?” She drew a fingertip over the lines of his lips, remembering the play of them on her skin.
“They are aware their laird has lost his head to his pretty new wife. And they likely are pleased ye seem dedicated to bringing more children to the clan,” he murmured, moving his lips only enough to speak. With a swift move, he captured her finger between his teeth. Arbela squeaked in surprise but did not draw away.
Meeting his steady gaze, she arched her body against his, desiring him once again. His cock thickened beneath her hand, and a knowing smile flickered across her lips. Caelen rolled to his back and pulled her over him enough to transfer his attentions to her breasts, drawing them into his mouth with a smooth suckling motion.
After long moments of such pleasurable torment, Arbela pulled away, sliding down his flanks, trapping his solid heat between them.
“I have mentioned this before, but it bears repeating, I think,” Caelen said as he pushed with his hips, urging her to settle atop him. “I am verra glad I married ye.”
Braced over him, Arbela grinned as she moved enough to take him an inch inside but no more. “Ye never said verra glad,” she corrected him, mimicking his burr.
Caelen countered her move with a thrust, winning another inch. “Verra, verra glad,” he amended. Arbela clenched about him as a tremor wracked her body. She steadied with a shaky breath.
“I am verra glad as well.”
* * *
“Did ye fight the Saracens?” Bram asked, shoving his wooden spoon into the air as though the carved surface had magically become a well-struck sword. “Did they fling themselves at yer castle?”
Arbela observed him with languid amusement from her nest in Caelen’s lap, her shoulder buried against his shoulder, idly thankful the laird’s chair was such an impressive piece of furniture to seat them both. “It does not appear two days cooped inside the castle agree with him,” she remarked with an indulgent laugh.
“The confinement certainly wore me to a frazzle,” Caelen teased, placing a kiss atop her head.
Arbela laughed again and snuggled closer, noticing the relaxed mood of the people lingering in the hall. Many had made an effort to speak a word or two to Caelen during the meal, often pressing a
hand to her shoulder in unspoken approval before they moved on.
“Tell me about Batroun,” Bram demanded as he settled into his chair, his trencher cleared of the vegetables he’d fussed with earlier. Arbela stole a look beneath the table where Garen crouched at Bram’s feet. Toros was unable to navigate the tower stairs, but had claimed a thick blanket before the hearth in Bram’s chamber with plenty of treats from Cook and the instant attentions from a young maid when the dog’s inability to go outside presented a problem.
“In Batroun, all young boys ate at least five bites of vegetables before weapons practice each day,” she stated. “The weapons master said he’d never seen such strong young men—so agile were they from their excellent food.”
Bram cast her a look of scorn mixed with uncertainty, flicking a glance to his empty trencher. Arbela smothered a laugh.
“Not long before I left Batroun to sail for Scotland, a devious Saracen attacked the castle not once, but thrice.”
“How did ye know ’twas the same?” Bram asked. “Did ye get a good look at him? Was he scarred and ugly?”
“I did not see the leader of the force that attacked Batroun, for we never captured him, nor spoke terms with him.” She quirked an eyebrow at him. “I knew it was the same man because he never set his forces at us in the same manner twice.”
“Why?” Bram wondered. “What do ye mean?”
Caelen ruffled Bram’s shaggy curls. “Listen to yer ma, lad. Strategy is what she’s known for.”
Bram turned his eager attention to Arbela.
“Batroun is known as a very secure castle,” she began. “It has guarded the pass to the sea for many years, and travelers have often taken shelter within its walls.
“The castle has been attacked, for it is also known that the baron is a wealthy man, and not only his wealth, but his power would pass to any who became its ruler. This man,” Arbela noted with a raised finger for emphasis, “used strategy rather than brute force—which would not have worked in any case—to ascertain Batroun’s weakness.”
“What weakness?” Bram wanted to know.
Arbela smiled. “There is none—at least none as yet discovered. Rather than waste his soldiers in a full attack, the Saracen cleverly set a series of attacks. As soon as one was deemed a failure, he withdrew for a day, mayhap two, before creating a different attack or diversion.”
Caelen stiffened beneath her, and Arbela came instantly alert. A diversion.
She cast a look at Caelen, noting his inward gaze, his quickening breath.
Could MacGillonay’s elder son be attempting a distraction? Drawing the dogs, who served as protection for her and Bram, and men they could not spare into the forests looking for a wolf that did not exist? And setting a fire upon the cliff at night, again drawing men away from the castle to seek the cause of the blaze?
She opened her mouth to ask Caelen if he thought the same.
The clatter of booted feet snatched her attention as Rory rushed across the hall, brow furrowed in concern.
“Another fire has been lit on the cliffs.”
Chapter 35
Arbela launched from her chair and was halfway across the hall before the scrape of bench legs on the floor died down, cursing her decision to wear a gown to supper in an effort to please her husband. Until the alarm had been raised, she’d found the flowing lines of the draped cloth echoed the sinuous line of pleasure she’d experienced in Caelen’s arms, liking the way the luxurious fabric caressed her skin—a sensation lacking in the leather trews and well-fitted vest she commonly wore. But suddenly the gold embroidered brocade and diaphanous silk were nothing more than an impediment to her movements—and betrayed her lack of sword and bow accoutrement.
A stride or more ahead of the men, Garen at her side, she snatched her skirts in both hands and thundered up the stairs to the parapet, darting around a guard and pulling up against the stone wall at the rear of the castle. On the cliff’s edge a fire glowed, the red flames dancing in the brisk night air. A sudden gust of wind brought the scent of approaching rain, and the tension streaking through her eased.
“’Twill rain soon and put it out,” Caelen said from behind her as though reading her mind. He rested a hand reassuringly at her waist, his warmth seeping through the layers of clothing, but Arbela could not escape the thread of cold alertness tugging at her senses.
“There has to be something else,” she stated, pushing aside the frustration, seeking a place of calm where she could fit the pieces of the puzzle together. “Ye have made certain ’tis not simply a traveler’s fire.”
“Aye,” Caelen answered. “Though I havenae set a watch over it.” His voice dropped. “We havenae the men to spare.”
“Has the shepherd roused?”
“Nae. He battles a fever from the wound in his abdomen. I dinnae know when I will be able to question him—if ever.”
“What does Rory say?” Arbela questioned.
Caelen shrugged. “He viewed the two sheep whose carcasses the shepherd had discovered, and determined ’twas best to leave Toros and Garen as requested as protection against further loss. He is of the opinion there is a lone wolf at work.”
Arbela gave a curt nod, still lacking some important bit of information. The actions did not fit together—yet. “I would counsel against sending men out to check on the fire.”
“I disagree,” Rory said as he joined them. “We must discover who is behind this, and the only time is at dark when he lights the fires.”
“A single fire does naught but cause aggravation,” Arbela countered, the idea of a diversion nagging her. “’Tis not enough reason to split our forces.”
“I still say we make the attempt. Mayhap only two men instead of a larger force.” Rory turned his words to Caelen. “Can we not spare two men?”
“Two?” Arbela asked, drawing the word out in disbelief. She faced Caelen and Rory, ignoring the crowd beginning to form about them. She dismissed Rory’s request. “Too easily ambushed.”
Rory sent her a deprecating look. “Our men know the area well. They were born here and have hunted the forests. They know every tree and rock.”
Arbela lifted a brow, the unease growing inside her. “And how long since the fires began? Whoever it is has been lurking in our woods for at least a fortnight. I would wager he is quite familiar with the land by now as well.”
Caelen raised a hand between them. “We will not allow ourselves to be drawn out tonight,” he said firmly. “Tomorrow we will make a plan of action to settle this once and for all. Though ’tis only a single fire, ’tis clear it divides us.”
Rory sighed. “I admit it fashes me something fierce to know someone taunts us so.”
“And from a position only a superior archer could claim as significant,” Arbela added. “Though we know this, and Dunfaileas has ever been safe from this threat, it vexes us all.”
Caelen’s eyes glittered in the torchlight. His nod of agreement settled Arbela’s tension further.
A rumbling sound like the sudden rush of wind reached their ears. A guard shouted from the darkness.
“Laird! Look!”
Caelen shoved through the crowd, Arbela and Rory following. They rounded the corner of the wall and skidded to a shocked halt. A fire raged on the beach, engulfing one arm of the dock.
“Tell me,” Caelen rapped out, eyes glued to the scene below.
“There was naught,” the guard stammered. “And suddenly a whoosh—and flames.”
“Burning oil,” Arbela said, the thrum of battle beginning in her veins. She touched Caelen’s arm. “It would catch quickly and burn fiercely. If the oil soaks the boards, the fire cannot be put out. The oil will burn until the wood is gone.”
“But we can save the rest of the dock,” Caelen replied. “And the vessels tethered there.”
Casting a cool look to Arbela, Rory nodded. “I agree.”
Caelen turned to the men at arms. “To the beach!” he called. “Save what ye may. Be wary.”
Arbela shook her head, knowing their efforts would have little effect, but choosing to follow Caelen’s lead. “I will change out of my gown,” she said, knowing its billowing cloth would be a danger to her near the fire. But none heard her as they gathered arms and buckets, shouting to each other as they spilled from the open gates of Dunfaileas.
With a sigh of aggravation, Arbela fled the parapet and hurried through the hall, Garen on her heels, brushing aside the shrill queries from servants seeking news. A quick glance told her Zora had removed Bram from the room—a thoughtful move as the boy would undoubtedly wish to help, and she did not have time to spare keeping him out of the way.
She pounded up the stairs, heedless of the noise, bleeding off a bit of frustration with her actions. Slinging the room’s heavy door open, she tugged ineffectually at the dozens of tiny jeweled buttons of her gown. She gave the fabric an impatient tug, disregarding the need to replace buttons and torn cloth later, and a half-dozen buttons exploded from their silken moorings with a scatter of refracted light.
Tugging the heavy brocade tunic over her head, Arbela managed to make short work of the rest of her clothing, emerging from the chamber only a few minutes later dressed as usual in trews and tunic, sword strapped about her waist, buckling an arm sheath, its slender dagger clenched in her teeth. Garen crossed the hall with a whine at Bram’s door.
Arbela slipped the dagger into the sheath, giving Garen the command to follow in an impatient gesture.
“Do not bother the boy,” she chided the dog. “He cannot come with us and I do not have time to spare arguing with him.”
She took the stairs two at a time, haste lending length to her stride. Weaving her way through the hall, she crossed the bailey, softly cursing the people crowding the way, voices excited, heads craned to see the docks where flames leapt ever higher in the night sky.
Garen paused, sniffing the skirts of an old crone who pulled her tattered cloak close, her face completely invisible in the blackness of her cowl. Aware of Garen’s interest from the corner of her eye, Arbela grabbed the dog’s collar.