The Bard

by Greyson, Maeve

  Jenny clapped her hands and danced about in a circle. “I know it’ll do just fine. I’ve had the maids give it a good freshening on every full moon to keep it cleansed of any ill luck.” She shooed Sorcha faster toward her bedchamber door. “Hurry and strip ye down now. The red calls for yer best shift and finest petticoats too, ye ken?”

  “Cleansing by the light of the full moon?” Sorcha hurried after Jenny, unlacing her short jacket and tossing the stomacher on a table. “And where exactly did ye hang it to perform such a pagan act?” If Da got wind of such, he’d set the priest on Jenny. Old Aderyn, the clan’s white witch, was one thing. Anyone else acting the heathen was quite another.

  With a wicked grin, Jenny pointed at a small arched door at the other end of the room. “Yer turret fair glows with power during the full moon. Have ye forgotten all the times we snuck up there when the rest of the keep thought we were fast asleep in our beds?” She hurried over to a large trunk tucked away in a corner and dropped to her knees. With a soft groan, she lifted the heavy lid and propped it back against the wall. “And why have ye gone still when there’s so much to be done? I’ll have little enough time to dress myself. Get a move on, wee sluggard,” she said with a glance back over her shoulder. Jenny could be a mite bossy when she wished.

  Sorcha stepped clear of her skirts, shook them out, and draped them across the end of the bed. Shivering, she hurried over to the hearth and tossed more wood on the fire. The later the hour, the chillier her room became, especially once she’d stripped down to nothing but skin. She filled a bowl with water, clenching her teeth against the cold as she splashed her face, then wet a rag and scrubbed away the day’s grime. Unlike many of her kinsmen, she practiced daily washing and even went to the trouble of a full bath at least twice a week. A habit instilled in her by Mama.

  Jenny scooped up a linen folded over the back of a chair and scrubbed Sorcha dry as quickly as she washed. “Ye’re turning yerself blue with cold, ye ken? I believe ye’ve washed enough. No amount of pitty-pattin’ about is going to delay this dinner at yer man’s side forever. Have ye decided if ye’ll give in to him before yer wedding night or tease him and make him wait?”

  Sorcha flashed hot all over.

  Jenny laughed. “That chased away the blue from yer skin. Ye’re pink and toasty now, I’ll wager!”

  “Ye’re wicked as they come,” Sorcha scolded. One of the many reasons she loved Jenny so. She donned her shift and stays, then gave Jenny her back for the dreaded tightening of the laces. “Sutherland MacCoinnich shall not be meeting my maidenhead until our wedding night, thank ye verra much.”

  “Ahh…assurances.” Jenny yanked the cords tighter, then patted Sorcha before stepping away. “Wise move. Just in case, knowing the man’s history and all.” She rounded to the front, yanked downward on the stays, and shook them until Sorcha’s breasts nearly bubbled free. With an approving nod, Jenny smiled. “Much better. That’ll suit the neckline of yer gown better and keep Master MacCoinnich’s gaze from straying over to Lady Culane’s whorish offerings.”

  While she agreed with Jenny’s assessment of Lady Culane, Sorcha refrained from commenting. Not tonight. She’d not give that woman a second thought. She gathered up the velvety yardage of her gown. Even after two years, the color had remained rich and sumptuous. She fingered the soft material. The feel of it was both calming and sad. Mama had loved this color and adored velvet. Da had sent for it all the way from France. Blinking at the misting of tears, she stepped into the dress and once more, turned her back to Jenny. “Hurry with the laces, aye? The hour grows late, and ye’ve not had a moment for yerself. I can tend to my hair.”

  Without hesitating, Jenny laced the gown good and snug, then adjusted the drape of the skirts with pinches and jerks. She beamed with a proud smile as she circled Sorcha. “I dinna have to worry about my appearance, dear sister. All eyes will be upon yerself.” Jenny’s smile turned wicked. “And I’ll be trying not to laugh when the old Culane cow turns green with envy.”

  “Jenny!” Sorcha did her best to sound properly scolding but failed. How could she chide Jenny for having the courage to say aloud what everyone else thought? She turned her friend toward the door and swatted her behind. “Get ye dressed while I brush out my hair and plait it again. Da will have both our arses if we make him wait overlong.”

  Laughter echoing in her wake, Jenny scampered from the room, leaving the bedchamber door open behind her.

  Fingers flying, Sorcha freed her tresses from her daily braid, then brushed them until they shone. Well, her hair never actually shone. Not like Mama’s had. Her brown locks were straight as muddy water poured from a boot, whereas Mama’s pretty curls had been wavy ribbons of shimmering gold. She smiled, remembering how Mama had never worn a kertch over her hair as was expected of a married woman.

  Mama defended her defiance of the custom by saying Da loved her hair uncovered, and it was more important to please her husband than a bunch of gossipy old hens. In honor of Mama, she’d wear her hair loose and down her back tonight. Mama and Da both had always liked it that way. She’d fasten some of it back with combs but leave the rest free.

  “My, my, a virginal hairstyle paired with a gown colored for a whore. Quite fitting for the intended bride of Sutherland MacCoinnich.”

  Sorcha spun around, sending the hair combs flying. “How dare ye enter my rooms without my permission.”

  Lady Culane sauntered forward, the layers of her lush skirts and petticoats hissing like a snake. Her thin lips curled with a malicious smile. “The doors were open. I thought ye might need help dressing, especially after I heard all that had transpired once I left poor Master MacCoinnich alone and unprotected.” She swept closer, making an annoying clucking sound. “Ye do realize once he’s bedded ye, any power ye’re silly enough to believe ye have over him will be lost?” With a dismissive up and down look, she circled Sorcha. “A man with Sutherland MacCoinnich’s appetites will quickly lose interest in a wife trained to lay flat of her back with her legs spread until her husband spills his seed. Have ye not wondered why he so readily agreed to give up his freedom? Or at least appeared to do so? ’Tis nothing more than a business transaction, silly girl.” The vile woman stopped circling, then licked her lips as though about to bite. “When he comes searching for the excitement his cock needs, I’ll be waiting. It willna take me long to claim what’s rightfully mine.” She bent and retrieved the lost hair combs, her heavy breasts nearly spilling out in the process. With a sinister look, she held them out, while shaking her cleavage back in place. “He’ll be worth even more to me once he’s connected the MacCoinnich and Greyloch stables. I’m certain he’ll cast ye aside once he tastes all I have to offer.”

  “Tread with care, whore,” Sorcha warned. How dare this glorified harlot speak to her in such a way. She might be a virgin, but she’d never cower from the likes of this one.

  Lady Culane laughed as she tossed the hair combs to the dressing table, dusted off her hands, and sashayed out the door.

  Chapter Five

  The low hum of conversation filling the hall suddenly went quiet. When Sutherland turned and saw her, he understood why. It was all he could do to keep from going to the woman and dropping to his knees. Damnation, what power and beauty she possessed.

  Her velvet gown, a dark sensual red, hugged every wondrous curve, filling him with the aching need to hold her and fill his hands with her softness. His hunger fanned hotter at the sublime creaminess of her nearly bared shoulders. The daring neckline, sewn with shining black beadwork of knots and whorls, framed the delightful mounds of her pert breasts, luring him closer with every breath she took. The long silkiness of her hair shimmered down her back.

  As she drew closer, her hazel eyes flashed a deeper green, then shifted to a tawny gold, reminding him of the prowling cats of the Highlands. Aye, a cat indeed. This delightful woman moved with feline grace and confidence, aware of all who stared and not giving a damn that they did.

  By all the
furies, he needed to possess her. The wanting burned fierce and unquenchable. This wasn’t a simple case of lusting after a lass. This was a desire for sole possession. She united a holy trinity of beauty, wit, and fire. This rare lady would be his. Forever.

  He strode forward, pushing anything and everyone in his path aside. Sweeping her hand into his, he fought the urge to embrace her as though they were already wed. “I swear by all that’s holy, I have never seen such beauty, mo ghràdh.”

  She graced him with a smile that flashed all the way to her eyes, shifting their color from golden back to the deeper green. “Thank ye,” she murmured. Her graceful demeanor tensed, and she squeezed his forearm. “I would speak with ye in private before the revelry of the feasting begins. Will ye grant me the courtesy?”

  “Of course.” A subtle warning prickled through the hairs at his nape, standing each of them on end. He glanced around the great hall, spotting a quiet alcove set to the side of the narrow entry room in front of the main door of the keep. Candlelight flickered from within the grotto. An elaborately carved wooden cross hung above the arch of the curtained doorway, as though inviting troubled souls to step inside for prayer and reflection.

  “Come.” He maneuvered them to the less crowded area beneath the second-floor gallery, avoiding eye contact with any and all who might delay them. When they reached the alcove, he quickly ushered her inside but remained outside beside the door. “Pull the curtain and wait. I shall join ye as soon as I’m certain we’ve not been noticed.”

  After a furtive glance at the crowd gathering for the feast, she nodded, then yanked the heavy tapestry across the opening.

  Sutherland meandered away as though leaving Sorcha to her prayers, all the while noting the whereabouts of certain individuals already present for the elaborate celebration Greyloch had ordered.

  Magnus caught his eye and gave him a quizzical frown. Sutherland tapped the side of his nose, the signal from their old mercenary days that a diversion was needed. His friend responded with the slightest dip of his chin, then hurried to head off the chief and engage the man in conversation. Sutherland smiled as poor Magnus even sacrificed himself to Jenny when she entered the room by waving her over to join them.

  The only others Sutherland was concerned about were Heckie, Garthin, and Lady Culane. Those three had yet to show themselves. Several more folk, who Sutherland assumed were either visitors or clansmen, seemed too busy with their own conversations and drinking to take much notice of him. Servants were everywhere, but that couldn’t be helped. Servants never missed anything, but at least from what Sutherland had seen, Greyloch’s people were loyal and could be trusted.

  Satisfied he was no longer being closely watched, Sutherland ducked behind the curtain and immediately stilled the swaying of its folds. When he faced Sorcha, he almost groaned aloud. She sat on the cozy bench at the back wall, even more tempting by the golden glow of the candles. In his womanizing days, a secluded place like this held all sorts of possibilities. But this was different. Sorcha made everything different. The intense look creasing her brow chased the ambitions of his sinful past away. His sweet lass was upset. He seated himself and took her hand. “What is it, mo chridhe?”

  She stared at him long and hard, so long, he swore he counted off too damn many of his own heartbeats pounding in his ears. “What troubles ye, dear one?” he coaxed when he couldn’t stand her troubled silence any longer.

  “I had a visitor while I dressed.” The furrow smoothed from her brow, but frustration remained in the set of her jaw. “Lady Culane, herself.”

  Any hint of what might be worrying Sorcha escaped him, but whatever it was, it wasn’t good—especially if it had anything to do with that unpleasant woman.

  “While I dinna give her threats an ounce of veracity,” she continued, the cold rage of a plotting warrior ringing in her words, “she did remind me of a matter I need to address with ye one last time—for my own peace of mind, ye ken?”

  “And what matter is that, m’love?” He had a fair idea of what was troubling her and braced himself. Lady Culane had to have baited her with his sordid past. What else could it be?

  “How is it that ye so readily cast aside yer wandering ways and the freedom to bed any lass ye wish?” The barest tremor in her voice betrayed her vulnerability, even though she held herself with strength and courage. Defiance hardened her features into the beautiful visage of a warrior queen. “How am I to believe that all of a sudden ye’ve become a faithful man, devoted to one woman alone until death frees ye from the contract?” She slid her hand out of his. “I would know the truth, Sutherland. Is this merely an alliance of clans at the request of Chieftain MacCoinnich? Is that all this is, and ye plan to resume yer dalliances as soon as the deed is done? Because if that is so, I shall have no part in it. I seek a marriage like my parents shared. Loving. Passionate. Faithful.” Her piercing scowl dared him to attempt to lie. “I told ye once, but I wish to be fully certain that ye understand, I willna be played for a fool. Not by ye. Not by anyone.”

  He had always found dancing with words easy when it came to the ladies, but this time was different. The wrong response could cost him a price he wasn’t prepared to pay. He did set aside several choice words for Lady Culane at a later time. How dare that calculating whore trouble his Sorcha with such lies. Then the truth of the sordid mess hit him and hit him hard. If not for his womanizing reputation, Lady Culane’s lies would not have been so easy for Sorcha to believe. The fault here was his and his alone.

  Head bowed, he looked inward and pulled the words from his heart. “I canna explain why a love—real love, not just the wants of the flesh—happens with one person and not another.” He slowly shook his head without looking up, not yet ready to look her in the eyes. “I dinna ken if it’s fate, sorcery, blessings, or curses.” Stubbornness set and ready to face his accuser, he took her hand once more and held it tight as he lifted his head and met the intensity of her stare. “All I know is when we met last summer, and ye refused me, when ye seemed immune to all my foolery, ye bewitched me with the inescapable need to claim ye for my own—for all time.”

  Sorcha opened her mouth to speak, but he pressed a finger across those soft lips before she uttered a word. “Nay. Before ye even say it, the answer is nay. It was nay just the need to claim yer innocence—it was the need to never be without ye. Ever.” He shook his head again. “I canna explain it, my fine one. I think I have loved ye fierce ever since ye threatened to shoot me.” Brushing a kiss across her fingers, he held her hands tighter, searching the emotions flashing in her eyes, praying forgiveness and trust danced among them. “Do ye love me, my fair sweetling? And if ye do, can ye explain this fickle thing called love and tell me why I feel it so deeply for ye alone?”

  With what he hoped was a sigh of relief, the intriguing woman bowed her head and pressed her cheek to his hand. He eased out a relieved sigh of his own.

  “I canna explain it,” she whispered. “I just know that it seems to be inescapable.” She stared at him, trapping him in her storm of emotions. “I dinna forgive easily, Sutherland. It is not within me to do so. If ye ever hurt me…”

  “Never,” he swore, pulling her into his arms. He cradled her close, searching for the wisdom to convince her that he was a changed man and wash all hesitancy from her mind. The words finally came. “All I can do is prove my love to ye one day at a time by living the truth of it at yer side. Will ye grant me the opportunity to overcome my past?”

  She looked up at him then, easing his worries with a genuine smile. “Aye, and I promise ye willna regret choosing me as yer wife.” A flush of red stained her cheeks, and she looked askance with a shy turning of her head. “Well…ye may regret it a wee bit now and then when I happen to cross ye with what I might say or do, but other than that, ye willna regret choosing me.”

  He laughed, deciding then and there that he’d have another taste of those wondrous lips of hers before they left the coziness of their confessional. “Ye intend t
o cross me at times, do ye?”

  “I cross everyone at some point or other,” she admitted.

  “As long as ye promise to always mend yer ways with a kiss,” he said softly, leaning back and taking her with him until every glorious bit of her stretched across the length of him. “All can be forgiven with a kiss.” Lacing his fingers through her hair, he held fast and opened her mouth with his, pouring every ounce of his wanting, every bit of his need into this tasting of her sweetness. Merciful saints, he burned to touch every bit of her, tempt her, make her shriek out his name, but now was not the time. Nay, not yet. Not until she trusted him enough to unleash the passion he felt simmering within her.

  Reluctantly, he broke the kiss before he lost all ability to reason and claimed her right there on the bench with nothing but a bit of tapestry between them and those gathering for the promised feast. Satisfaction filled him at the high coloring across her cheeks and her breath coming in little gasps. Aye, she wanted him, too, but he’d not have their first time be a hurried affair in an alcove off of the great hall.

  “We should go…I suppose,” she said in a breathless whisper.

  “Aye, that we should.” Regret surged long and hard as he steadied her to her feet, then adjusted his suffering cock to a less pinched position in his trews. He shook out the folds of his kilt to help hide the bulging rise of his starving manparts. “We should exit separately, ye ken? Magnus was maneuvering. But I’ll go out first just to be certain no one notices us.”