by Julianne Lee
“Your hair needs combing.”
He ran his fingers through his hair and realized it had become quite shaggy in recent months. It would have made him happy to cut it short again if for no other reason than to discourage nits, but everyone he met these days assumed he’d had his hair cut off to get rid of a bad infestation of lice. It was hard to tell which was worse: to have lice, or to have people think he had them.
“Come here,” he told Lindsay. She complied, and he slipped a hand behind her neck to kiss her thoroughly.
Her response was to kiss him back, but then she said, “What was that all about?”
“Just checking to make sure you’re still in there.” He looked at her wet, darkening mouth and smiled. “Still female.”
That didn’t seem to amuse her as he thought it should have. She blushed, then turned away toward the door. “Come and eat if you’re going to,” she said as she left.
He watched her go, puzzled, and let her get well away before following her.
Usually the quickest way to the Great Hall in any castle was to follow the smell of food and the sound of conversation. Alex wended his way through corridors, and finally was dumped out from the hallway through a wide, rounded arch. There stood three ladies, apparently in amiable conversation until they spotted him. They then stopped cold, and stared.
“Good evening, ladies,” he greeted with a smile. A quick glance around failed to tell him where Lindsay had gone, so he returned his attention to the women before him.
The two younger murmured replies in kind, but the oldest of them gaped at him with wide eyes, looking as if she’d been slapped.
“Ma’am?” Had he done something?
She pulled herself up, mustering her dignity, and said, “You look not at all like him.”
“Like who, ma’am?”
“Like your father.”
Oh. He drew himself to respectful attention and said, “You’re Hector’s mother?”
She nodded.
Struggling for a soothing comment, he said, “It’s very kind of you to welcome me into your home.”
“‘Tis my son’s domain now. He welcomed you.”
His cheeks warmed at the rebuff, but it faded to unimportance as, to Alex’s appalled surprise, red eyes appeared over her left shoulder. He tensed to see the vague outline of the elfin guy from the knoll, his cloak hood dropped back onto his shoulder. The pointy-eared face was staring thoughtfully at the old woman, and Alex could almost see the gears turning in his head. A narrow glance at Alex, then the image disappeared entirely.
Alex faltered, speechless for an interminable moment. Finally he gathered his wits and replied to the dowager, “I mean no disrespect, ma—”
“Your very presence—”
“Mother!” One of the younger women, a pretty version of Hector, gently interceded. “Mother, he cannot help the circumstance. Please.”
The older woman pressed her lips together, the pain in her eyes making them shine. “I’m told you are a skilled fighter and a man of honor.”
“Aye.”
“I pray you will pledge your energies to the clan, and not the clan to your own ends.”
That puzzled him, but he worked out in his head what she probably meant and was able to formulate a reply he thought might make sense. “I make no claim beyond whatever regard I might earn.”
Her face smoothed some at that, but she said, “What you earn is all you will receive, and if Hector is blinded to your merits—or lack of them—I will not be. Take care.” With that, she turned and made her exit to the corridor from which Alex had just come.
The other women said nothing, but glanced apology at him and left also.
Alex watched them go, then sighed and turned his attention to the next batch of MacNeils he needed to win over. He hoped for better luck with the men.
The Great Hall, where most castle residents ate meals, was alive with folks coming, going, cleaning up after dinner, and lounging about the fire. Hector was holding forth among the men, as usual the loudest man in the room, and when he spotted Alex he raised his hand and shouted, “Ah! Ailig Mac Diolain! Come! Come sit by me and tell us about your adventures in the war against the Sasunnach king!”
Alex glanced back at the archway through which the laird’s mother had disappeared, and for the first time since his arrival in this century was glad to be living in a place where the men and women didn’t mix much.
Hector and Cullan sat among a group of several men gathered at the hearth in the far end of the room, some wrapped in yards of plaid cloth over their tunics and trews, some with only the plaid and shirt with no tunic, and one sorry-looking fellow at the fringe had nothing but a belted shirt, and his feet were shod with the sort of shapeless moccasins Hector had worn during summer in the Lowlands. The rest of the men, even Hector today, had pointy-toed shoes like the ones Alex had been given.
Hector proceeded to introduce him around, and Alex learned why his name when Hector said it always had some sort of qualifier attached. Of the seven men sitting before the fire, he was the fourth with the name “Alasdair.” Hector’s full brother was “Alasdair Og,” for, as Hector explained, their father had also been an Alasdair and that made the brother “Young Alexander.” In addition were cousin Ailig Dubh MacNeil, named for his dark hair, and the son of Ailig Dubh, Ailig Neil MacNeil, who went by both first and middle names.
Alex asked, “Then what does ‘Mac Diolain’ mean?”
“Illegitimate son.”
A groan rose, but he stifled it.
Hector rattled off something in Gaelic to a passing woman, who hurried away, then returned his attention to the gathering. “I want the lot of you to know I value my new brother and I’m pleased he’s found his way home. I’ve never seen in battle a man such as this one, who stands up to a beating and thinks naught of it, who fights with his head as well as his arm.”
The woman who had hurried off now hurried back with a plate of meat and a wide, shallow cup of mead. Alex was famished, and ate eagerly while listening to Hector tell the story of how he’d rescued Alex from the Kirkpatricks who had been about to beat him to death with a chain. The memory was not a pleasant one for Alex, but Hector told the tale with such fervor and drama, it was hard not to be entertained by it. Hector made him come off like a hero for his stoicism, and as Alex listened the pain and scars of the beating began to seem no big deal.
Throughout the evening the men talked, in English for the sake of their foreign visitor, mostly shooting the breeze, but Alex pulled nuggets from the conversation he figured would help him get along with these MacNeils. He noted the brother of Hector—Ailig Og—accepted without question the presence of a younger half-brother. His scrutiny was thorough, and Alex felt his eyes on him the entire time he was in the room, but his tone suggested he’d accepted Hector’s assessment of their father’s mac diolain. He also seemed to accept Alex wasn’t there to claim a birthright. Hector’s surviving children included two sons, one of them in his early teens and in fosterage in Ireland. Alasdair Og had four young sons and a pregnant wife, so more than likely they both felt the MacNeil succession was secure from any illegitimate interlopers. Alex certainly didn’t want anything from these guys, and perhaps Hector had sensed that over the past several months. Perhaps that had gone a long way toward making them secure in bringing him here in the first place.
Or perhaps bringing him here was an effort to keep him under observation and control. In any case, Alex knew to tread lightly and make clear his lack of agenda.
By the time the fire in the enormous hearth began to wane, Alex was feeling sleepy again and the voices around him were blending into a dull murmur. He’d only been awake for a few hours but already wanted to return to bed. He looked for Lindsay, but she wasn’t anywhere around. A yawn took him by surprise.
“You look worn, Mac Diolain. You should go to bed,” said Hector. It was nearly an order.
“Where’s my squire?”
A bright flash of amusement
lit Hector’s eyes and he looked as if struggling to not crack a joke, but instead he said, “Certainly he’s where any squire would be at this time of the evening: in his master’s quarters waiting to serve. Go. We’ll see you in the morning.”
Murmured partings were given, and Alex had little choice but to rise and return to his chamber.
When he arrived, Lindsay wasn’t there. He turned to head back out to find her, but hesitated. It wouldn’t do to go wandering about the castle, asking after his missing squire. He’d have to wait for her return. So he poked the fire and put another log on it, then began to undress. He laid his shoes, tunic, belt, trews, and drawers on the trunk by the wall, and as he gathered the voluminous linen of his shirt and hauled it over his head, a pair of hands slipped over his hips to his privates and startled him. He jumped.
But he knew whose hands they were, even as his body jerked. “Hey!” He turned and untangled his arms from his shirt to remove it, and found Lindsay behind him, wearing only her shirt. “Where were you?” He glanced at the door, but she couldn’t have come from there. Not dressed like that.
“I was in the garderobe. These stone walls are great soundproofing, you know. It’s like a tiny little cave in there, and it’s so quiet you can hear...well, things fall quite a distance.” There was laughter in her eyes, and it made him smile. He kissed her, and sleepiness fled. It was time for bed, but there would be no sleep for a couple of hours at least.
He made love to her, and even more important she made love to him, very slowly, gently, mouths exploring, hands tracing contours, hips pressing, he trying to put his entire self inside her, and she doing her best to enfold him. Then they slept, entwined in each other.
As consciousness returned slowly, the darkness of the windowless room gave no indication of the time of day or night. Alex felt rested, and hoped he hadn’t slept through another entire day. Only dim outlines could be discerned by the embers in the hearth.
Lindsay was at his side, her hand on his chest, fiddling with the hairs there. It had awakened him; she was fluffing them and arranging them all neatly in a sort of coif all the way to his navel and a bit beyond. He lay as still as possible, for he knew the instant he moved she would stop. It was hell to not laugh while she tried to make swirls of hair around his nipples. She patted and pressed and stroked, but the hairs wouldn’t stay down. So she fluffed them again. He focused on controlling his breathing so it wouldn’t betray him.
But then his heart ran away with him when she touched her lips to his skin and spoke in the barest of whispers, thinking he was unconscious, “I love you, Alex MacNeil.” Her voice was nearly inaudible, but the words pierced his soul and filled him with warm joy. “God help me, I do love you and don’t know what to do about it.”
The need to see her face was overwhelming. He couldn’t help turning his head to look, but when she realized he was awake she stopped fiddling and sat up to leave the bed. His heart sank, and he reached out for her hand to keep her there. “Don’t go.” The light was too dim to read her face, though he sat up to try.
“I thought you were asleep.”
“I know. You woke me up with all that ‘I love you’ stuff.” He held both her hands in his, and his pulse skipped around in his ears. “So how come you can’t say it when I’m awake? And what is it you think you need to do about it?”
Her eyes had that haunted, slightly angry look she’d had off and on for weeks. “No. You shouldn’t have heard that, and you shouldn’t take it seriously. I’m sorry I said it.”
“Why?” His heart made an uncomfortable pace, and he wasn’t sure he really wanted to know, hut no way was he going to let this one just go unanswered. It took a long time for her to reply, and he waited.
Finally she said, “You don’t know anything about me, Alex.”
“I know everything important.”
“No, you don’t.”
“What, are you a serial killer, or something?”
She sighed, and her voice took on a bitter edge as her eyes narrowed at him. “You’ve killed more people than I have, so don’t you dare go there.”
Quickly he blinked and backpedaled. “I mean, Lindsay, I don’t care what it is: I want to know what’s wrong.”
“No, you don’t. Trust me, you don’t want to know.” She stared hard at his hand holding hers.
“Is it true what you said?”
She sighed. “You think I’m normally in the habit of telling unnecessary lies to unconscious lovers?”
“Lindsay—”
“I mean it. You don’t want to know.” She yanked her hand from his grasp, and slipped from her side of the bed.
“What? What is it you think I don’t want to know?” He got out on his side, grabbed his linen shirt, and drew it on as he said, “I do. Tell me. What’s going on with you?” He met her at the foot of the bed and held her arm. “Tell me. ‘Cause I love you right back, and if there’s something wrong between us I want to know. And I want to make it go away.”
“You can’t make it go away.’
“I don’t believe you. Tell me what it is.”
She gave it another long think, then said through a clenched jaw. “Very well. Revive the fire, and we can talk.”
Fair enough. He went to put wood on the embers while she pulled on her shirt, drawers, and trews. Then she came to stand beside him by the fireplace and stare into the struggling flame as its tendrils licked the new logs and slowly grew. He waited patiently, only gazing with her.
Finally she said in a low, flat voice, “I never told you that when we met I was engaged to someone. Derek and I were to be married a month after my voyage on your carrier.”
A surge of alarm sickened Alex. He said nothing, but felt the need to sit, and slowly let himself down into one of the chairs behind him. The past several months paraded past in his mind. Every time she’d cried, every flicker of her face. The perspective this information brought changed the picture entirely, but he wasn’t certain exactly how. Derek. The guy she’d said would have laughed at him. Would have laughed himself sick. Alex slouched in the seat, the long tail of his shirt draped between his thighs and his arms leaning on the chair arms. He looked up at her, and she continued to stare into the fire. unmoving.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Her voice was soft, almost dreamy. “At first it wasn’t any of your business. After a while, when I realized your attraction to me, I thought if you knew you wouldn’t try to find a way home. And now...now, I didn’t want to tell you because I don’t want it to matter.”
A laugh tried to come, but it stuck in his throat. “Yeah, it matters. You were engaged? You were in love with someone else.” A long, dark pause fell, then he said, “Possibly you’re still in love with someone else.”
“Possibly.”
His stomach knotted. Anger rose, and he stared hard into the fire. When he could trust his voice, he said, “You being here is the only thing that has made my existence in this place anything better than miserable.”
“I don’t believe that.”
Now he peered at her, frowning. “Why would I lie?”
“I think you’re deluding yourself. I think you like it here far better than you’re willing to admit.”
He snorted. “Yeah. I love being in the saddle all day and sleeping in a tent for months at a time. I get all gooshy inside at the thought of carting around on my body thirty pounds of chain mail, or wiping my ass with dead leaves.” He pointed to the garderobe door. “Which, you know that wad of hay in the head? That’s as good as it’s going to get in our lifetime.”
A sigh hissed from her, and she returned her attention to the fire. The silence drew out for a very long time, and as Alex’s anger subsided he wished to return to the moment before she’d told him her secret. She’d been right: he really didn’t want to know.
He broke the silence. “You said you loved me.” She nodded.
“But you’d rather be with him.”
“I’d rather be home.”<
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“With him.”
“Not necessarily.”
Hope rose, but he tempered it. “You would stay with me? Or are you saying that so I’ll try to find a way back?”
Finally she turned, with a frown on her face. “It’s not as if we’re in any danger of finding it, is it? That strange fellow didn’t seem terribly inclined to help us, did he? So how do I know what I would or would not do?”
At least she was being honest. And this explained quite a bit of her behavior during the past few months. “So...now what?”
Another sigh, and the crease in her brow relaxed. “I do love you, Alex.”
“But you’d rather be with him.’
“Nevertheless, I’m with you.”
“You have no choice.” He looked away for a moment as a terrible thought came. “Are you certain this isn’t just some sort of Stockholm Syndrome thing? You’ve convinced yourself you love me because you think I’m all you’ve got?” The thing she’d said two days ago rose to mind and the joy of it soured. “I make you feel safe.”
“You do. I thought you wanted that.” A smile lifted a corner of her mouth, and she ducked her head to peer at him. “I’m not your prisoner. And you are all I have. Unless you would like me to start banging Sir Cullan.”
That landed in his gut, hard. It was absolutely the wrong thing for her to say. He stood. “Maybe you should.” Suddenly he had to get out of there. No more talk. This was doing nothing more than pissing him off. So he rose and went to get dressed, then he left the room. She said nothing to stop him.
He spent the day avoiding her. It wasn’t difficult, since squires never socialized with knights. Winter weather raged outside the castle, while Alex hung out with Hector, Ailig Og, Cullan, and the others by the fire in the drafty Great Hall.
Images of Lindsay with Sir Cullan swarmed in his brain. The rangy, raw-boned Scot sat among the men in the Great Hall, and Alex couldn’t help throwing glances at him. Why had Lindsay mentioned him in particular? What did she see there that made her think Cullan would be her alternative? Did she think the guy was handsome? Alex couldn’t see it. Cullan was better at hand-to-hand combat—could that be it? Did that turn her on? He sure didn’t know. He figured he didn’t know much of anything for certain anymore. And Lindsay didn’t seem very forthcoming with information. Had what she said been truth? Alex was wary of accepting she loved him, for he knew how easy it would be to believe what he wanted to be true.