“That makes no sense at all, and I have already witnessed that you are a sensible man...”
“What else have you witnessed?” Angus demanded.
Jacqueline looked up at his tone, met his steady glance, then noted anew his scar.
And what had wrought that scar.
“Oh!” She recoiled, horrified by her sudden understanding of why he could not bear the smell of burning flesh. “Oh. Oh.” She stammered to silence, wishing that the tunnel truly did offer a gate to hell and would swallow her up that she might be saved from such mortification.
“Oh,” he echoed, his tone mocking.
And there was naught she could say to that. The silence between them was oppressive, though Angus seemed untroubled by it. He tended the meat, turning it at intervals, evidently having perfected the art of cooking without fat.
At length, Jacqueline decided she had naught to lose. Truly, he could not be any more irked with her than he was now. “Will you tell of it?”
His quick glance could have left a wound, ’twas so cutting. “Of what?” he asked with feigned idleness, looking again at the meat.
“Of your wound. Of how you were so scarred.”
“Nay.”
His tone did not invite further discussion, but Jacqueline was not prepared to surrender her inquiry as yet. “Rodney said you had been in a Saracen prison,” she said, matching his diffident manner. “Will you tell me of that?”
His lips tightened. “Nay.”
“Whyever not?”
He braced his elbow upon his knees and gave her a smoldering glance. “Because ’tis not a tale suitable for the ears of an innocent.”
“I am not so innocent as that!”
“Aye, you are.” He turned the meat, frowning slightly as he did so. His voice softened. “Count yourself fortunate in that, Jacqueline. There are things no one should be compelled to learn.”
The meat sizzled in the quietude between them and Jacqueline watched him work. She might not have been there, for all the attention he granted her. She sighed, sparing another glance to the yawning cave.
“Will you tell me of Jerusalem, then? Is it true that the streets are paved with gold and the walls of the city wrought of gemstones?”
He laughed under his breath. “Where did you hear such a tale?”
“’Tis the City of God, it should be wrought of every finery. And ’tis writ that the new Jerusalem will be made of every treasure known to man—”
“The old Jerusalem is wrought of mud and dirt and quarreling neighbors, just as any other city of men.”
“Truly?”
Angus smiled at her across the fire. ‘Truly.”
Jacqueline was unaccountably disappointed by this. She frowned and stared into the fire. “I had thought ’twould be different somehow, that ’twould show the mark of God’s favor in some way. I suppose that is no more than the whimsy of one never destined to see it.”
“’Tis a whimsy held by many,” he admitted. “And to be sure, there is something different about Jerusalem. ’Tis a city like any other, as I said, but ’tis also unlike any other, for every rock within it, every corner, every river, every ford is marked by an event from the Bible. There is the rock where Abraham made to sacrifice his son, there is the stone upon which the angel Gabriel set his foot.”
He shook his head and smiled. “People say, for example, that they shall meet you at the ford where Jacob baptised his child. Every stone seems fraught with import and history, and there are many of them. In a curious way, it gives credence to all the tales we were taught as children, tales that seemed of another world. Yet at the same time, the Holy Land itself seems not a part of our own world because so many legendary deeds occurred there.”
Jacqueline hugged her knees. “I should like to see it.”
“I would not advise it. You would be disappointed, and you might very well not return.”
“I would go as a pilgrim, not a crusader.”
“Pilgrims are robbed and left for dead all the time. ’Tis a cruel land, for all the sanctity of its history. Indeed, I have heard it said that very sanctity makes a madness in the blood of men.”
“Why?”
“All the faiths claim Jerusalem as sacred ground—the Saracens, the Christians, and the Jews—and all desire to possess it. More than one man, regardless of his creed, has been willing to do much wickedness to see the aim of his faith fulfilled.”
“Perhaps ’tis a grand test of faith.”
“If so, most fail the test.”
“Was your faith strengthened or weakened by your journey?”
He shrugged, noncommittally. “’Twas changed.”
“Then it must have been weakened, for a man rides to crusade for the ardor of faith alone.”
He smiled then, amused by her once again. “Does he?”
“Why else?”
“There are as many reasons as there are men.”
“Like what?”
“A desire for the adventure to be found in war. A pursuit of opportunity, for conquered lands are divided among the victors. A lust to see more of the world, to shape one’s own destiny.” He paused, and she knew the last reason would be his own. “A sense of duty to one’s family.”
Aye, she recalled Edana’s tale. Angus had gone to redress his father’s error and save his family from their misfortune.
Though his departure had not achieved that end.
“Which was your reason?”
“I shall let you guess.”
“Why did you leave there after so much time?”
“Why would any man stay?”
She smiled. “But you were gone for years, were you not?”
“Fifteen years, nigh to the day.”
“Then you did stay for a time. What changed? Did you have news of your family? Or did you simply yearn to see them?”
He offered the pot to her along with his dagger and spoon. “Eat your meat afore it grows cold.” The moment she took it, he turned and walked to the opening of the cave, standing with his back to her as he stared out at the falling rain.
She watched him as she ate, being careful to eat only a third of what he had prepared. He was accustomed to making do with what he had, and she for one wished she could offer him more.
And truly, in his rare talkative mood, Angus had told her more than she had expected him to. Perhaps she too should be satisfied with what she had.
She might have been an angel, so brightly did she shimmer.
Angus found his eye drawn to Jacqueline time and again, not only because her charms were so visible through his chemise but because she shone like a ray of sunshine in this place.
Aye, he was more troubled by the yawning cavern at the rear of the cave than he would have her know. His own night terrors were lurking there, sheltered by the cold darkness of the stone, waiting to remind him of the past. They tormented him every night, though he had learned to sleep reasonably well in the open air.
This cave though, so cold, so dank, so dark, gave those horrors new strength. He could hear the clink of chains, the screams of the tormented, the wails of the dying. He could smell rot and disease and burning flesh as surely as if ’twas right before him.
Those memories would erupt with a vengeance once the fire died. He knew not what he would do when he was assaulted by the demons again.
And he feared for Jacqueline in his presence.
He should have frightened her when she met him at the cave opening. He should have kept her at a distance. But Angus had not the heart to do so. There was enough fear in this place, enough terror gnawing at the periphery of his thoughts to suffice for two.
He was glad of her company, perhaps that was the extent of it. She had left her hair unbound, and a marvel of gold ’twas. It hung to her hips as straight as could be, more thick and luxuriant than he had ever imagined a woman’s hair might be. He was sorely tempted to plunge his hands into it, to feel its softness, to let its glimmering light caress his flesh.
Jacqueline laughed as she tried to coax Lucifer to eat what she had gathered, and Angus decided she might have been wrought of sunlight and happiness. Indeed, she even made him smile, something he had been certain he had forgotten how to do.
For Lucifer, the world was simple. The destrier acknowledged two types of people—those who cared for him and those not worthy of his attention. Jacqueline, having brushed the beast, had won the former status. She offered him morsels of herbs by her own hand, but the beast was more interested in nibbling at her hair, his own sign of affection.
Angus brushed the stallion’s back and neck, coaxing the tangles from his mane, in an effort to redeem himself. Lucifer ignored him, smitten as he was with the damsel.
Jacqueline suddenly fixed Angus with a bright look and evidently misinterpreted his expression as encouragement. “And where in Christendom did you find hell?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You said Lucifer had come from hell, that you found him there. By what other name was that place known?”
“Hell has many names in the realm of men.”
“’Tis only where you acquired a horse,” she chided in disgust. “I am not asking for the deepest secrets of your heart. I merely try to make conversation.” Lucifer nuzzled her neck playfully, discontent with the loss of her attention.
“If I bade you not to ask me such questions, would you do it?”
She laughed. “You have made it most clear that you do not welcome any questions,” she said, merriment in her eyes. “But that has not halted me.”
“Indeed it has not.”
“Then you have your response.”
“But do you know the three pledges a novitiate must make?”
“Of course. Poverty, chastity, and obedience.”
“And even knowing that, you are determined to join the convent.”
“Aye.” Wariness dawned in her eyes. “What of it?”
“Have you considered the burden of those pledges?”
“In what way?”
He met her gaze steadily. “Can you keep them?”
“Do you doubt my word?”
“Nay, but I do doubt that you will ever be obedient to anyone. I suspect that you will have considerable difficulties with that pledge, above all.” He gave her a quelling look. “Curiosity and obedience do not make good bedfellows.” She smiled impishly. “Then I had best exhaust my curiosity before I join the convent. And I had best make haste, for you are determined to be rid of me.”
“On the morrow you shall see Airdfinnan.”
“And then?”
“’Tis a long day’s ride to Inveresbeinn. If Fortune smiles upon us, you will be there late tomorrow evening.”
Her smile faded. “You are anxious to be rid of me.”
“I am anxious to pursue my own objectives. I erred in capturing you, and for that, you have my apology. There can be no delay in setting that matter to rights before resuming my own quest.”
“But Rodney has gone to Ceinn-beithe. My parents will be troubled by his demands.”
“So I shall ride from Inveresbeinn to Ceinn-beithe, collect him, and take word from the abbess regarding your safety. Your parents will rest easily then.”
She came to stand beside him. “And then what shall you do?”
“Whatever must be done.” He had no intent of sharing his plans with her. In truth, he had no good plan as yet, though he believed ’twould come.
“You are not going to tell me.”
Angus shook his head, smiling. “Despite your curiosity.”
“You could send word to the convent once ’tis done,” she suggested hopefully.
He shook a finger at her. “Nay, I cannot. For you will have left the realm of the living and have surrendered any interest in secular affairs.”
She rolled her eyes and stepped away. “So I have heard.” She folded her arms about herself and stood before the dwindling fire, the light silhouetting her curves in a most interesting way. Angus ceased his brushing and stared, unable to look away.
She caught him, glancing up suddenly as if she felt the weight of his gaze. They stared at each other for a moment stretched taut. She pinkened and covered her breasts, evidently mistaking what he had noted.
“’Tis cold.” She shivered elaborately. “I am surprised that you kept your own tunic, for you have been most chivalrous to date.”
“Perhaps ’tis also chivalrous to hide what it conceals,” he suggested quietly.
She swallowed. “Your eye is not all of it?”
He shook his head, embarrassed that he should have to deny her the courtesy of warmth to protect her from the horror of him. He turned back to brush the stallion, though the deed was well and truly done.
Her hand on his arm surprised him. She smiled tremulously when he looked down at her. “Would you be gallant enough to keep me warm another way?”
He laughed beneath his breath. “Perhaps I wrongly named the vow that would vex you.”
She blushed as he had known she would, and her lips worked in indignation as she sought the words. “Not that! I meant only that we might sleep beside each other, that we would be warmer that way, that...”
He touched her chin with affection. “Of course. I would not leave you be cold, though I will not sleep this night.”
She tilted her head, ever inquisitive. “Whyever not?”
“Because I will not, and that is all you need to know.”
Her lips pinched and she glared at him, as irked as he had ever seen her. “You are a most vexing man, Angus MacGillivray.”
He bowed low, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand. “Then I am in most auspicious company, Jacqueline of Ceinn-beithe.” Angus permitted himself a smile of satisfaction when the peal of her laughter echoed in the cavern.
Much later Jacqueline curled beside him, all gold and white, an angel of mercy who might keep his demons at bay. Angus wrapped one arm around her waist and cradled her against his chest, smiling when she snuggled against him like a contented cat Her hair spilled over his arm, her lips softened as her breathing deepened. He stared down at her, as transfixed by her beauty as by her determination to see the good of all around her.
She even found good in him, which was no small feat in his estimation.
The night darkened outside the cave, and the rain still pattered in the trees. He had added the last of the wood to the fire and, though he willed it to burn long, eventually the shadows beat back the fire’s glow. Angus watched the blaze, knowing he could not escape the dread that rose within him.
When finally the embers died and the darkness engulfed him, cold sweat trickled down his spine. Angus held fast to Jacqueline and slid fingers through the sunlight of her hair. He breathed deeply of her sweet scent and tried to draw some of her optimism into himself. He fought to endure the night in this place, and fixed his gaze on the comparatively lesser darkness of the night sky.
To be sure, he had survived worse. That was what tormented him. His every muscle was tight with tension, his innards were tied in knots. Memories flashed through his thoughts, unwelcome and unwanted but persistent all the same.
Oh, Angus remembered. He remembered men reduced to little more than skin and bones, he remembered suffering and fetters and oozing wounds. He remembered the sounds of men being tortured to surrender whatever they knew. He remembered the terror of knowing naught and being powerless to persuade anyone of it. He swallowed, remembering the heat of a poker searing his own flesh, the sight of his own eye removed, the sound of his own voice as he screamed in agony.
He remembered the sound of a guard’s footsteps in the corridor, the scrape of a key in a lock and how it could make one’s heart stop beating in f
ear. He recalled the terror of wondering whether they came for him this time, the dreadful certainty that the man dragged away would not return. He knew the sound of limbs being removed, of execution, of jailor’s keys and scurrying rats. He knew all these things and he would never forget them.
Especially when he was surrounded by darkness and stone. His heart raced in the darkness, his guts might have been tied in knots, a thread of sweat trickled down his back. He recalled the men he had known, the valiant knights and squires with whom he had been captured. He knew the order in which they had died, some in his presence, some distant but audible. It had been a year and a half since his release, and the torment did not ease.
He expected it never would.
And she thought he would tell her of it.
What innocent faith she had that his tale could not be so terrible! Angus cupped Jacqueline’s face in his palm and laid his cheek against the softness of her own, taking comfort in her presence. When he was weakened like this, he would take solace where it could be found.
He felt her breathing change, though not in time to draw back. He began to apologize, but she touched his lips with her fingertips, mimicking his earlier gesture. He saw her smile, then she stretched up and touched her lips to his own.
Angus froze, knowing he had no right to partake of what feast she offered. But Jacqueline had learned too quickly, and she slipped her tongue across his lips, coaxing him to join her.
He shuddered with desire but shook his head. “You go to the convent,” he whispered. “In but one more day you will be there, your maidenhead intact.”
“I care naught for my maidenhead, and none will know ’tis lacking unless I tell them,” she replied, as ardent in her determination as he fought to be in his own. “Show me, Angus, show me what ’tis I surrender in this.”
“I cannot,” he insisted, though his will was not so vehement as his words.
She laid a hand upon his hardness with a surety that was far from innocent. “Aye, you can. Was it not you who told me that a chivalrous man must grant a woman her desire?” He heard the laughter in her voice and yearned anew for a taste of her sunshine. “I have but one opportunity to know the truth of what happens betwixt men and women. I would know of it now, Angus, and I would learn of it with you.”
Stolen Brides: Four Beauty-and-the-Beast Medieval Romances Page 113