Joanna sobbed. She covered her face with her hands, slight shoulders shaking. Dougal put his hand on the back of her neck. She tensed.
“Don't.”
“Sorry.”
She smiled. “It's not that it's not...pleasant. It's that, when you touch me, I don't ever want you to stop.”
He stared at her, surprise warring with the rising longing that steadily filled him. If she wanted him, if she meant that she welcomed his hands on her body – then...he sighed explosively. His loins throbbed, his heart filled, and he knew that if he just leaned forward, put his mouth to those damp, glistening lips, he would not stop. Not until she was beneath him on his bed, lying in his arms.
“I should,” he coughed. “I should get some sleep.”
“Yes,” she said. Her voice was sad.
He stood, uncomfortable suddenly with his lack of clothes. She stayed where she was.
“Thank you,” he said hesitantly.
“No,” she said. She stood. Her face was sad, and perhaps a little anger lurked there in those gray eyes. “I should go.”
“Wait?”
She paused, hand on the wooden frame. Turned to face him.
He was there before her then. His mouth on hers was hot, hard, and desperate, a kiss of a drowning man, seeking life within her.
She gasped, and kissed him back. She too was hungry, and their lips fed on each other, devouring each other with a desperation that he had thought he alone felt.
When they drew apart, he was panting.
“Joanna, I...” His voice was thick with longing, deepened with his need for her.
“Go to sleep, you daft man,” she said softly. Her eyes had softened again, damp with tears. She smiled. “I am in charge of your care, and I won't speak to you if you don't take your rest.”
He laughed.
They smiled at one another, and she walked slowly from the room.
When she had gone, the door clicking shut softly behind her, he sat down heavily on the bed. He looked up at the ceiling and sighed.
She was all that occupied his thoughts. Nevertheless, as he washed his face, readying for bed, his mind turned to other things. Who was the attempted assassin? Where had he come from? What did he think to do, by killing him?
“There's something very strange going on here,” Dougal told himself. He went to the door and drew the table across it to keep it blocked. Then he climbed into bed.
His last thought as he rolled over, wincing at the pain from his chest, was that he had to find the underlying cause of this, and soon. Before someone was killed.
Whoever this was, their intent was darker than he had ever guessed before. They would not stop at murder. He had no idea when they would strike, or how.
All he knew was he had to find them.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MEETING AT BREAKFAST
MEETING AT BREAKFAST
Joanna woke almost as exhausted as she had been when she went to sleep. The morning was still gray, filtered light shining through the window onto her eyelids.
“I don't know if I can stay awake all day,” she told her reflection, groaning as she walked to the curtains to open them. Her long night shift dragged across the flagstones, and she almost tripped on it as she leaned on the windowsill, looking out.
The sky was covered with a thin layer of cloud, the day promising the possibility of sunshine later. She sighed and splashed her face in the basin on the nightstand, wincing at the coldness of the water.
Dressed in a long, deep blue dress, her red hair brushed and loose about her shoulders, she headed down to the solar.
“Oh,” she hesitated in the door.
Dougal was there. A bandage wrapped around his chest, another round his arm, he was wearing a dark wool tunic and his hair was brushed. He looked crisp, somehow, energized. He had evidently had a good night's sleep.
“Good morning!” he said lightly, eyes shining when he saw her appear in the hallway. “Joanna. Come, join me.”
“Thank you,” she said, swallowing hard. She took a place across from him, eyes lingering on the neck of his tunic. She could not help recalling how he looked beneath it. That broad chest, covered with muscle, those strong shoulders, carved of pale, hard flesh! She swallowed and looked away.
“What?” he asked.
Joanna looked into his eyes. He smiled and she smiled, flushed. She wished she didn't think he knew precisely what she was thinking, but she was fairly sure he'd guessed aright. His grin broadened and she felt hers grow likewise.
“Dougal Blackheath,” she said firmly. “I am here for my repast. Is that not allowed?”
He grinned. “I disallow nothing at breakfast.”
She caught an insinuation in his tone and looked at him sharply. He smiled.
“What?”
“I shall assume that was an invitation to partake of some small ale,” she said and knew she was grinning broadly. He laughed.
“Ale, yes. Here.”
He poured it for her and she noticed how carefully he held his arm as he did so.
“How are you feeling?”
He flexed the shoulder, jaw clenched firmly as he did so. “Not terrible,” he confessed. “Though this wound aches like the devil's in it.”
Joanna felt herself frown. “What does it look like?”
He frowned. “How do you mean?”
“Is it bloody? Grayish? Fluid or drying?”
He turned a funny color and Joanna flushed, though she couldn't help chuckling. “I am sorry,” she said. “I'm used to talking about such things with Alina. I forget they're...not usually talked of.”
“I just don't want to think about it, eating my breakfast,” he admitted.
Joanna laughed. “I'd tease you about that, but I do know how you feel. I'm sorry.”
“Not at all,” he said. “I can tell you a little.” He had lifted a slice of bread, and was crumbling off a piece. He continued. “I had a look this morning while Len bandaged it. It was somewhat pink, and the edges were closing up. It felt a bit hot. Apparently.”
“Hot.” Joanna frowned. “That could just be as it is healing. But if it stays hot, tell me. It might be sickening in there. And if the flesh starts to weep, we need a physician.”
He still looked slightly green, and she laughed again.
“I am sorry,” she continued. “I am used to this. You have taken many wounds, probably seen more fresh wounds, newly taken, than have I. But discussing them...it takes a different state of mind.”
“Yes,” he nodded. He chewed some bread then, swallowing, looked a query at her. “You mentioned a woman's name, earlier? Is she at Dunkeld with you?”
“Alina is my aunt,” Joanna explained. “She's a healer. She mends all our wounds, from the carters to the thane. She's practiced in these things. She teaches me to follow her.”
“Oh?” Dougal seemed intrigued. “Well, you know a lot. For which I thank you. I should learn from you. A man should know these things. On the field of battle, it could save many lives.”
His eyes were warm on her and Joanna felt warmth creep up into her cheeks, knowing she blushed. The thought of teaching him as Alina taught her was...not unpleasant. To have him ask her for instruction was a towering compliment. “Well,” she said, swallowing hard. “I would be happy to instruct you. If we have any more wounds to tend, call me. I'm not as good as Alina, mind. But I'll tell you as I work...what?”
“Nothing,” he said, shaking his head to clear it. “I was just...your mention of wounds. It made me think about this man. Why was he here? Who paid him?”
“Have you asked?”
“Not really,” Dougal winced as he turned, indicating the courtyard through the arched windows. “My guards did the best job of thumping it out of him this morning, but he didn't reveal anything. He used to work here – the guardsmen knew him. They guessed he had a grudge.”
“Oh.” Joanna frowned. “Is he still here?”
“No,” Dougal admitted. “They took
him into town. I think the priest is keeping him. He will try to get more sense out of him. Probably sentence him to banishment from Lochlann. I have a tricky problem here.”
“Oh?”
“You see, if I punish him too cruelly, the villagers will see me as a tyrant. And rebel worse than they're doing now. They already hate me – I know that,” he chuckled, waving away her look of surprise. “I'm getting used to it. However, if I just let this pass, then they will think there's easy victory here. They'll probably be celebrating my demise in the taverns all over by now.”
Joanna felt a sudden cold sadness fill her. She reached across. Before she thought about it, she rested her hand on his.
“Don't say that,” she said softly. “If there is hate, someone's behind it. You have given no cause for it. All you did was inherit. Rightfully, I might add. Someone is fueling this. We need to find out who.”
He looked up at her. Lifted her hand and held it. She sighed. His hands were warm as he stroked hers, the fingers long and gentle and his eyes tender as he looked at it.
“You are so strong,” he said softly. “I look at this hand, and your strength awes me. So slender, so slight. But so determined. You amaze me.”
His eyes met hers across the table. Joanna felt her heart thudding in her chest. She sighed.
“Dougal. I...”
He kissed her hand. She closed her eyes as his mouth gently warmed her fingers, his breath hot in the cool air of the room. The kiss spiraled through her blood, making her breath tight.
He sighed. Put her hand down.
“I am stupid,” he said, looking up at the ceiling.
Joanna sighed. “No, you aren't. Why say that?”
“I am, though.” His gaze on hers was warm. “I could try to do what I know my father wishes. Walk away. Put in a steward here. Suppress this problem mercilessly. Retire to Edinburgh and marry a royal bride. But my heart would die.”
Joanna sobbed. “Dougal,” she said. “I...don't.” she said. “Stop this talk of death. And futures we know we cannot have. We are brave. We will face this.”
Dougal sighed. “I'm not as brave as you. I cannot shut myself to the...my dreams of you.”
Joanna shut her eyes. “You think me heartless, then?” she said, her voice tight in her throat. When she looked up at him, her eyes were damp, she realized, moisture just held back within them. “I wrestle with my dreams, each night. I long for you.”
Dougal bent forward. He took her hand and raised it to his lips once more. He held it, stroking it like precious satin from the orient.
“Joanna,” he said after a moment. “Whatever happens, my heart is yours. Now and always.”
She felt her own grip tighten on his hand.
“And my heart is yours. Once and evermore.”
He kissed her hand and then, as he loosened it, she knew she had to go. Her heart was pounding, tears threatening to fall. She would not wait a moment longer, here opposite him, with longing in her body and love held back inside.
She stood and walked, very briskly, back to her chamber. Inside, she shut the door and sat down heavily. The bed was soft beneath her and she covered her face.
“I want him so much,” she whispered. “I cannot leave him. Cannot turn away.”
But she had to. She must.
She was strong. She would walk away. She would also solve this mystery.
She must work harder.
She leaned back, looking up at the ceiling. All she had to go on was her dream. Blood and masks. Someone hiding. Someone linked to Dougal. She knew it.
She had to find out more about him.
CHAPTER TWELVE
ANOTHER STRIKE
ANOTHER STRIKE
The wind moved fretfully across the practice ground. Even its keening did nothing to blur out the harsh voice of the armorer, crying out in surprise.
“Stop! Lord Dougal!”
Dougal did not listen. Blind fury took over inside him. All the tension, the pain, and the longing that consumed him had suddenly been transformed into a blinding, seething rage. Heedless of the agony of his shoulder, he swung his sword at the man opposite in a blow that could have cleaved his head, had he not been practiced enough to avoid it.
He saw the look of terror in the man's eyes and it cut through the rage enough to make him pause. This was his own man. He was on the practice ground, putting them through their paces. This was not a fight and he was not here to kill.
He stepped back.
“Well done, Fintan,” he said firmly. “That strike's hard to block. Did you all watch?”
The men around them stepped nervously forward. Their faces were gray with shock. Dougal felt a sudden guilt descend. He wasn't here to make his men hate him worse than before. He wanted to be seen as one of them, training them himself. Now they feared him, and from fear was a short step to mistrust and hate.
“Sir,” one of the men said nervously. “Is there another way to parry such a strike? What he did was...skilled.”
Dougal smiled, seeing his adversary beam. “It was,” he agreed.
The men all smiled nervously, and the tension quickly lifted. One of them laughed.
“Now,” Dougal said, keen to press his advantage. “There is another way – to answer your question. If you lift your arm like this, then...”
As he continued the explanation, he looked across the courtyard. Some of his men were walking from the gate, seemingly engaged in conversation with a dark clad man. A traveler, probably. Or a merchant. He would ask them later about it.
“Now, split into pairs and practice it. Just like we did. Both ways of parry, though.”
They fell to the task, relieved, and Dougal smiled at his sparring partner.
“That was good,” he admitted. “You're the best of them.”
“Th...Thank you, sir.” the man swallowed hard. “My grandfather taught me. When I was a bairn.”
“Good for your grandfather,” Dougal nodded. “Now. Do you know the parry for the down stroke?”
The man demonstrated quickly. Dougal noted his elbow stuck out and mentioned it, the two of them working together to make minor changes in his stance.
“Me arm was broke once, sir,” the man explained. “Lost some grip. 'Tis easier for me this way.”
“Oh,” Dougal commented. “Well, maybe if we...”
A shout, raw and frightened, broke his thought. He looked up.
“My lord!” one of the men shouted. “Brien's ghost!”
Dougal twisted round to crane his neck up at the battlements, where they had all turned to face and looked up, pale and tense.
“Where? I don't see...”
It happened quickly. Dougal felt a sting, then a sudden cold. He grunted, not understanding. Then he felt the blood.
He put his hand to his side. It came up red. Frowning at the blood, he lifted his hand. His men were shouting, running, exclaiming. However, his world had turned suddenly quiet. Information came at him slowly. His side started to burn with pain, as if gripped in blacksmith's irons.
He grunted and fell to his knees. His other wound's sting had abated, and all he could feel was this pulsing, throbbing, burning.
“I...”
He pitched forward onto his knees, suddenly short of breath. He panted. His men had come forward. They had a man in their grasp. A man who was fighting, shouting, scorning him. His eyes were bright with a kind of zealous madness.
Dougal tried to sit up straight. Looked at the man. At his own men. He felt like nothing touched him. He was cocooned in wads of cloud, people appearing through the veils of mist that clouded his vision. He drew a breath.
“Take him downstairs,” he said. “Hold him. I'll question him...tomorrow.”
He pitched forward then, his world suddenly dark. He could hear feet moving, someone shouting. His men, voices hushed.
“Call the priest!” someone shouted. Running feet.
Then silence. And blackness. And quiet.
Dougal woke. It was
dark. He could hear the crackle of a fire. He felt warm, and strangely motionless, as if he wore armor. He opened his eyes.
Firelight. Candles, burning on the mantel. He was in his bedchamber, he realized, recognizing the heavy marble round the fire. He sighed. Heard a sound and looked sideways.
Joanna was there, sitting by the fire. She had her gaze focused on something she held up to her eyes – embroidery, he realized. White cloth, with fine white stitches on it. He watched her. The fire licked gold down her hair, shimmering in the soft, diffused light. Her cheek was opalescent, curved and soft. Her breasts were full, and he could just see the shine of her skin there, imagining it soft and scented.
He coughed. His voice broke the silence. He wished he hadn't – he could have watched her there forever.
“You are awake!” she flew to his side, dropping the cloth into a basket beside her chair. She sat on the bed, looking down at him. “Do you feel ill?”
“I feel horrible,” he said. Why was he so weak? Even talking drew on his strength, wearying him so. He frowned, squinting up at her. He could make out her eyes, the darkness of her lips. Her face was a little blurred, this close, the image wavering.
“Here,” she said. “Drink this.”
Dougal slipped back up the bed towards the pillows, trying to shuffle up to sitting. The wound in his side, on his chest, both ached. He gritted his teeth. He tried to move and found he couldn't. He let out a long, shuddering breath.
“I'm a mess.”
Joanna looked sad. “You're not. You have three wounds. One of them superficial, healing well. Two...more serious.”
He smiled at her, glad to have her with him. He lifted his hand, the one on his good arm. Touched her hair.
“Thank you, Joanna. I'm glad you're here.”
“I'm not certain I am,” she mused. “It's bad enough seeing you wounded without...without all this worry.” Dougal sighed and she bit her lip. “I'm sorry,” she added. “It's not something to speak of here. Now, all you should do is concentrate on being well. Don't think of anything besides that.”
The Cursed Highlander Page 9