Mistress of the Storm

by TERRI BRISBIN

  Opening the bedchamber door with care, he saw her asleep on the bed . . . his bed. Though he had come inside her twice already that night, he could have done it again. He closed the door, dropped the latch and walked closer to the bed. The robe that had flowed over her skin like shimmering liquid lay on the floor waiting for her to don it once more. His hands itched to rub it while she wore it and feel the way her body roused to the sensations of the delicate silk.

  Strange that. He’d had the robe in his trunk for years and never had the impulse to give it to someone. But everything about the woman and his reactions to her had been strange and different.

  She moved then, stretching under the bedcovers and moaning softly as though in pain. Whispered words he could not understand floated on the air. They were garbled, but the pain behind them made him hurt. He closed his eyes and opened himself up to the waves of anguish coming from her. Duncan saw it in his thoughts—bands of gray and black that rippled across the distance between where she lay and he stood.

  As in the ritual, he pulled the pain from her, silently, wordlessly, until he hit a barrier he could not break. He pressed against it and could feel it swirling beneath his power, but he could not lift it or get inside. He pulled back and opened his eyes. The strength of her will to maintain that wall was not something he could overcome without the full release of his healing powers, and that only happened during the ritual. This small sampling was, again, something he’d never experienced before. Could he blame or credit it on her though? Or was it simply his powers spilling over?

  He noticed the dark smudges under her eyes were gone and she murmured less and slept deeply as he pulled off the shirt he’d put on. He blew out the lamp so the room was lit by only the low-burning peat in the hearth. Lightning continued outside, occasionally sending flashes through the seams in the shuttered openings high in the wall of the chamber. Thunder crashed, continuing to ebb and flow around them. Duncan lifted the bedcovers and slid in beside her, barely disturbing the bed.

  She turned on her side away from him as he adjusted the thick, warm layers of blankets and he lay on his back considering all the changes in him since he’d found her. Whether seeking the heat his body gave off or offering hers to him, he knew not, but Isabel rolled back against him, rubbing her arse against his thigh. He’d thought her asleep, but when her hand reached back and touched his erect cock, he knew otherwise. Still, he did not want her to service him, so he brushed her hand away, whispering for her to sleep instead.

  Duncan knew she did not understand his actions. Truth be told, he did not completely understand them either, but knowing she was there, that she was his and would remain for several weeks, lessened the rampant need that usually assailed him as full moon approached. He placed his arm over her and leaned closer, sharing his warmth and enjoying the moment of intimacy. The smell of the rains scented her hair and he inhaled it.

  Though his body ached for sleep, he got little through that night. Too many questions and too many things to ponder kept him awake until the light of dawn crept through the crevices around the shutters.

  Chapter Ten

  The morning that dawned was rare in the tumultuous autumns those living on Skye experienced. There was a sunny, pleasant breeze, few clouds in the sky, and no mist rolling over the hills. Isabel woke alone in the bed, not remembering how or when she fell asleep. She stretched, her muscles reminding her of the hours spent on a horse’s back during the journey there. Pushing herself up on her elbows, she noticed a few changes in the chamber.

  The shutters high on the wall were opened a bit, letting light and air in. The other side of the bed was still warm, telling her that Duncan had risen not too long ago. And a pile of clothing lay at the foot of the bed. For her. She shoved back the covers, slipped off the bed, and examined the clothing. Nothing like the provocative garments Sigurd provided for her, they were well made yet attractive gowns and tunics constructed in the Norse fashion. Warm stockings and shifts lay at the bottom of the pile.

  Duncan had noticed her lack of appropriate clothing and provided them.

  She glanced over to find the gift he’d given her folded on a stool near the bed. Isabel could not help skimming her hand over it, enjoying the smooth feel of the fabric. How would she ever keep it a secret from Sigurd when she returned? Her body shuddered at the thought, so she pushed that fear and worry aside and returned to the clothing on the bed.

  Dressing, she understood why Duncan had given them to her. They were the sort of things any woman, any good woman or wife, would wear while going about her daily tasks. As she pulled the warm shift and then the gown and tunic over her head and adjusted them around her, Isabel wondered how it would feel to wear clothing like that every day. To never have to worry over exposing too much or the results of men seeing the curves of her body because of the cut of her garments. What would it be like to be respectable and live and walk freely among other respectable people? To have friends and share . . .

  She shook her head and rid herself of such thoughts and dreams. Such a life was not for her. Pining for it would do no good and could lead her to harm. She pulled the stockings on and tied them up, then laced her shoes. She was ready, and presentable enough, to leave the chamber and discover what Duncan had planned for the day.

  Lifting the latch and pulling the door open a crack, she was greeted by the enticing aromas of a well-cooked meal. Gunna moved around the main room, serving several men from a pot of steaming . . . porridge. Crocks of butter and loaves of bread lay on the table waiting to be eaten. Three of the men she did not recognize and one she did—Harald, who seemed to be the overseer for Duncan. A moment of silence when all heads turned in her direction ended quickly when Gunna noticed and approached her.

  “Duncan said not to disturb your rest,” she began, taking Isabel’s hand and leading her to an empty stool at the table. “Sit now. Break your fast with us.”

  Isabel accepted the bowl and inhaled the wonderful scent of cooked oats and some spice she could not name. One of the men moved a bowl of butter and a small jug of cream closer to her, so she could add it to the steaming porridge. Another handed her the loaf of bread. Only Harald sat without taking his gaze from her. Well, she understood her position there, even if Gunna did not, so she nodded her thanks and ate head down in silence.

  One by one the men finished and left, until it was only she and Gunna in the house. Isabel stood and began clearing the table, gathering all the bowls and cups and taking them to the wash bucket to be cleaned. Gunna accepted her help and smiled, once more causing an emptiness in the pit of Isabel’s stomach. So long had it been since she was part of a household where such menial tasks were appreciated and accepted it made her want to cry. Shaking off the growing need within her, Isabel cleared her throat and focused on the reason she was there.

  “Where is Duncan?” she asked. “I must thank him for these garments.”

  “Oh, he and Ornolf had some things to see to,” the young woman answered. “I thought they would fit you.”

  So, his manservant had arrived sooner rather than later. “I should have realized you had a part in this,” Isabel said. “My thanks to you as well.” She smoothed her hands over the tunic and smiled at Gunna to show her appreciation.

  “Duncan thought you might want to accompany me to the village today.”

  Whether Isabel cared to or not was not the issue. If Duncan had suggested it, especially after the new consideration he’d shown her, she knew it was what she must do. Her task, one that extremely large amounts of coin were being paid for, was to do as he bid her to do. The suggestion was more than that—it was an order which she must carry out.

  “When do you wish to leave?” she asked. She kept her gaze on the table as she wiped it clean, so Gunna’s hand on hers surprised her.

  “Worry not, Isabel. You are here as Duncan’s guest and no one will utter a word against you.”

  Clearly, Gunna had no idea how much talk her presence could ignite, even under the pro
tection of Duncan.

  “It matters not to me what they say,” Isabel admitted. “I have heard it all. But you have not.” She slid her hand free of Gunna’s comforting gesture.

  “If you do not wish to go . . .” the young woman began.

  “Nay.” Isabel shook her head. “Pray do not think I am refusing your request, Gunna.”

  “Duncan said the choice is to be yours. If you wish to remain here, all is well.” The tone of her voice gave the impression she knew too much and understood even more.

  Isabel paused. Though she wanted to speak to Gunna and learn more about Duncan, exposing the young woman to embarrassment would not help her and might anger him. “I—”

  “Stay then, Isabel. I will be back before noon and you can help me prepare the meal.” Gunna did not dawdle or hesitate, but grabbed a large basket and left.

  Isabel took only a few moments to decide she should go, after all. The walk would feel good and she could speak to Gunna alone. If things happened in the village, she would leave Gunna and wait for her along the path back to the farm. Spying another basket, Isabel picked it up and ran after Gunna. As though expecting her to follow, the woman waited just along the path. When Isabel reached her, Gunna turned and led the way, in the opposite direction from the stream and the farm.

  They walked in silence for a bit before Gunna began talking about their path, the village of Uig, and the errands she ran. Isabel did not for a moment think Gunna would ignore other topics, feeling as though Gunna was easing her way onto topics she wished to discuss.

  Good, for Isabel had much she wanted to ask as well.

  “How long have you known Duncan?” Gunna asked.

  While considering how to answer, Isabel decided to tell the truth. There was less chance of tripping over lies when answering other questions.

  “Nearly two weeks, I think,” she said.

  “And he is so taken with you that he brought you home with him.”

  “I do not think that is the situation, Gunna.”

  The young woman must be of a romantic inclination, one who expected to marry for love rather than under the guidance of her family.

  “I know his habits, Isabel. I know his ways. He has never brought a woman here before. Ever.” Gunna stopped and turned to face Isabel, looking at her with the eyes of a woman much older and wiser that her years. “He probably does not even know why he brought you here.”

  “He knows,” Isabel began, but then paused, unsure of what Duncan wanted Gunna to know and what he would be angered by her knowing. “And I think you know.” She tested to see what Gunna might understand. At her nod, Isabel smiled. Better to both be on the same ground and not speak of such things.

  “So, how long has he owned this farm?” Isabel asked.

  They reached a split in the path and Gunna led them down the one to the right, to the south. Uig sat on the coast, named after the sheltered bay that allowed boats large and small to dock safely there. Isabel knew her mother’s family had lived south and east of the village, in the hills, but did not know the exact place. When her mother had died, Sigurd took Isabel and Thora to a new place to live and everything changed. She’d not returned to the area again until that day. With grief and humiliation and the past threatening to overwhelm her, she forgot about the question posed until Gunna spoke again.

  “He has owned the farms and lands to the north for about five years now,” she said. “A gift to him and one that he has shared with many.”

  “Are you kin then?” Isabel watched the path, which had begun to climb higher and become more rugged.

  “Harald is my brother.” That much was clear from the expression in Harald’s eyes when he deemed Isabel a threat to the young woman. Their resemblance spoke of a blood connection.

  But not to Duncan.

  “Have you lived here long?” Isabel paused to take in a deeper breath. The incline of the path made it difficult to climb and talk at the same time. Though Gunna did not slow or seem affected, Isabel found it a hard climb.

  She realized it had been years since she’d had to walk such terrain. Her only walking involved going to the keep or another cottage and finding her way back to her own. The few journeys out of Duntulm were by cart when Sigurd had her delivered to this man or that one.

  They reached the crest of the hill and the view of the bay spread out before them. The day was clear and she could see for miles in all directions. The outer islands lay to the north and west while the other peninsulas of Skye lay south and east. The ancient mountains stood between her and the mainland of the Scots. Shielding her eyes from the sun, she stared at the expanse of earth and sea and sky.

  So many places she had never seen or visited, nor would she ever in her life, for she suspected her life would be a short one and its end coming soon.

  “I have lived here for nearly five years,” Gunna answered, standing at her side, looking out over the scenery before them. “My brother pledged to him when Duncan healed me.”

  In the process of taking a careful step down the steep incline, Isabel stumbled a few paces before regaining her balance. “He healed you?”

  Duncan was rumored to be a miraculous healer though none ever said more. She’d seen no evidence of herbs growing near his house nor a room of concoctions and elixirs such as most healers had. Nothing that would make the claim seem warranted.

  “Aye,” was Gunna’s only reply.

  The path became harder and a wrong step could result in a fall, so Isabel paid attention as she walked, all other questions put aside for the moment. Even after reaching level ground, they walked on in silence until they came to the outskirts of the village. Isabel felt as though she should warn Gunna about the possibilities of an encounter since many men traveled to Duntulm and traded with Lord Davin. All it would take would be one to recognize her before the story would spread and the offers made.

  Like her sister Thora, Gunna should never be exposed to such things and Isabel would prevent it if she could.

  “Gunna, wait for a moment, I pray,” she began. The younger woman stopped and turned to face her and Isabel could not find a polite way to explain what could happen.

  “You are Duncan’s guest, Isabel,” Gunna said plainly. “Too many here owe too much to him to ever make his guest feel unwelcome.” As though that would put her at ease, Gunna turned and began walking again, following the path into the main street of the village. Isabel grabbed her arm and pulled her to a stop once more before they reached any people.

  “It is never that simple, Gunna. You know what I am, but mayhap you do not know how others will react to me. I think this was a bad idea. I should wait for you here.”

  “You are under his protection here, Isabel, just as I am. Fear not.” Gunna peeled Isabel’s fingers from where they clutched her arm and smiled. “You are safe here.”

  Isabel wanted to cry. She could not believe herself to be safe—not while Sigurd wielded such power over her. Not while Thora was at his mercy. Facing hatred and humiliation and vile threats and insults was easier than trying to accept the kindness Gunna and her words offered. All Isabel could do was nod acceptance, or rather compliance, and follow Gunna down the street.

  Not lifting her head when the first person, a woman with a child, approached Gunna, Isabel stood off a pace or two to allow them to converse. When Gunna invited her into their discussion, she hesitated. Gunna drew her over with a question about the condition of the path they’d walked and then the woman continued to include her. Isabel averted her gaze and could not talk to the woman. Her heart pounded and her stomach rolled with fear, making it almost impossible to draw a breath.

  Never speak to a respectable woman. Never soil her reputation, her honor. Never approach a child. Look away. Step away. Avoid.

  She could hear Sigurd’s ranting threats if she did any of those things he forbid. She felt the sting of the lash when he thought she’d disobeyed. It took months and so much pain to learn those lessons, but she had. Now, Gunna tried to make he
r forget and overstep her place.

  Isabel could not. She simply could not break the first rules that Sigurd had beaten into her just because the woman offered her a taste of kindness. A change while there would result in a slip when she returned to Duntulm. Someone would be insulted by her words or her glance or her presence and the punishment would be harsh.

  Isabel withdrew from the conversation and waited for Gunna or the woman to move on. Unfortunately, the child, a girl of about five years, reached out and touched the skirt of Isabel’s tunic, tracing non-existent patterns in the fabric to amuse herself. Wisps of pale hair encircled the girl’s face, giving her an angelic appearance. Something else Isabel would never have in her life—a child.

  She’d given little thought to the reasons behind her apparent barrenness, for in her life it was a good thing. She’d never gotten pregnant in spite of the dozens, nay hundreds, of times men had spilled their seed within her. As the child drew nearer, ignorant of everything about her, Isabel felt a longing within unlike any she’d felt before.

  A child. A home. A place of her own and a person who depended on her alone.

  Grief for all the things that could not be broke free, forcing her feet to run away from such thoughts and the people who caused them. Gunna’s voice calling out to her went unheeded as she ran, tears blinding her path, her chest tight, unable to expand and breathe. She followed the same route back into the hills and did not stop until she could go no further.