“Not a moment too soon,” Cicely parried, a slight edge to her teasing tone.
Nora watched her, fascinated. Petite and slender, Cicely was blessed with an expressive, heart-shaped face. Her dark eyes sparkled with wit, and no matter who was speaking, she remained the center of attention. Now, gesturing for her husband to follow, Cicely turned toward the staircase in a swirl of parrot-green skirts.
When the English visitors had disappeared from view, Lennox gave an ironic laugh. “That was interesting.”
“The countess likes you, I think,” murmured Nora.
Just then, Hector Mór, who had turned away to speak to Tilly, rejoined the conversation. “Ye must encourage a friendship with the Fairhavens. Her ladyship in particular may be helpful in your search for the man in the miniature. As a favorite of King Hal, she is invited to most functions of the royal court, and as ye might imagine, she listens to gossip. Furthermore, Cicely’s brother is Andrew Weston, the new Duke of Aylesbury, one of the most sought-after men in England.”
“Why is he so powerful?” asked Lennox.
The MacLean shrugged. “I have heard that he is not only splendid to behold but also a great artist in his own right. Henry VIII desires his friendship, but the duke comes round the court only when it suits him. He’s more interested in his wife, a beautiful Frenchwoman, and their children.” He paused, sharpening his gaze. “If His Grace deigns to help you, young MacLeod, ye may well find that person ye seek.”
* * *
As soon as they were alone, Lennox took Nora’s hand and led her out of the hall. She looked so beautiful, her burnished curls in contrast to the blue of her gown. Was it his imagination, or had the curves of her breasts and hips become even more alluring in recent days?
“I want to show ye something,” he said conspiratorially.
“What is it?” Nora asked. For a moment she softened and he had to resist the urge to press her against the wall of the passageway and cover her mouth with his.
“A surprise,” he managed to reply. “Come with me.”
“You are very mysterious!”
As they walked together out of the newer tower house and into a much older, timber-framed structure, Lennox was keenly aware of the charged atmosphere between them. What was the reason she was so determined to hold him at arm’s length? A primitive male part of him was challenged to overcome her reservations, to hear her admit that she wanted—needed—him.
Yet, what then? He had no answer, for there were too many questions in his own life.
They had come to a low, splintered door in the wall, and Lennox stopped before it, savoring the moment. Nora looked up at him, brows raised in a question.
“How pleased you look with yourself!” she said with a soft laugh. “How could anything wonderful be on the other side of this broken door, at the end of a dark, damp passageway?”
“Close your eyes.” Before she could react, he reached up to cover her eyes with one of his big hands. The contact between them brought with it a sudden shock of arousal, and he knew she felt it as much as he did. For an instant, Lennox imagined this as part of their love play, and he grew hard, aching for her.
“Lennox MacLeod,” she warned, breathing against his palm.
He bit his lip, forcing himself to think of the surprise, and reached out with his free hand to lift the door latch.
“Look at this, lass.”
* * *
Nora opened her eyes and gasped aloud. Tears filled her eyes. How could it be?
“A loom!” she heard herself exclaim. “How did you do it?”
The cramped room had only one high window, spanning the width of the far wall. A narrow beam of light streamed in, just enough to illuminate the old loom. It was nothing compared to those she’d stood before in the past, weaving with her father, but a visual appraisal confirmed it was a working low-warp loom.
At that moment, nothing could have thrilled her more.
“How—” Her throat was thick as she turned to Lennox, wanting to embrace him. “How in the world did you do this?”
His gentle, understanding smile went straight to her heart. “I only discovered it for ye. I couldn’t sleep last night, and when I rose, I saw that Hector was also roaming about. As we talked, I mentioned ye were a weaver at the royal court, and he showed me this loom that belonged to his wife. It was her pride and joy, he said.” Lennox paused, as if trying to decide whether to say more. “When I asked, he said ye might use it while we are here, but I confess I did not tell him this is your true passion. I feared he might try to convince ye to stay here with him and spend your days weaving tapestries for Duart Castle.”
She saw that he was only half in jest. “I do not believe Hector Mór has designs on me, but even if he did, it’s not possible for him to beguile me.”
“It’s only that…” He looked away, and she saw a muscle move in his jaw. “I know ye are meant for better things.”
“I am,” she agreed.
Their eyes met for a long, charged moment before Lennox swallowed. “Tell me, then: What do ye think of the loom? Will it do?”
Nora walked around it, lightly running her hands over the wooden frame, the rollers, the ratchet wheel, the half-filled bobbins, every part that she knew as well as her own body. It was much smaller than the magnificent looms she’d grown used to, but it would certainly do. She ached to create something new, right away.
“I could weave here,” she said, “but I do not have a cartoon to use as a pattern.”
“Do ye remember me saying I have been awake since the middle of the night?”
“I do.” Their eyes met, and Nora remembered the interlude when he’d curved his hand over her hip and she had longed for him to lift her smock and continue touching her. Perhaps he had wanted it too—so much that he’d had to leave the bed.
Lennox went to a small chest that stood against one wall, opened it, and withdrew a large, loosely-rolled paper, probably twice the width of her childhood rabbit tapestry. “After Hector showed me the loom, I spent the next hours making this. I am not certain I did it right, but I remembered the few things your da taught me when I questioned him at Stirling.”
Nora hurried to his side, bursting with excitement. Was it really possible he had made a cartoon for her? “Oh, please, show me!”
“I had only my charcoals,” Lennox cautioned.
She put her hands on his, urging him to open the scroll. There was a sort of heat in the air between them and she thought she could hear the beating of his heart. “Please,” she whispered. “I promise you I will love it.”
Slowly, he unfurled the paper on the lid of the chest. “I didn’t have the proper time to ponder a subject.”
Nora gazed at his careful sketch, delighted. The bottom half of Lennox’s cartoon was a multi-layered choppy sea. In the center was a Highland galley, like the one she and Lennox had sailed from Oban to the Isle of Mull. Both bow and stern curved up to slice through the wind, in the manner of a Viking ship, and a small sail rose up in the sky. There were two figures in the galley, and in the distance a great stone castle waited on a cliff.
Nora’s heart swelled. “Oh, Lennox! It’s wonderful. This is us, isn’t it? And that castle is Duart!”
“Us?” Surprise crossed his handsome face for a moment, and his blond brows lifted. Lennox looked down at the galley he’d drawn, drew a thoughtful breath, and then gave her a smile that made her heart turn over. “Aye, lass. Of course it’s us.”
Nora felt consumed by emotions she couldn’t name. How splendid he was! How thoughtful and caring and gifted, to have risen in the middle of the night and set to work on such an amazing gift. A gift to answer one of the deepest needs of her soul.
Was it also his way of communicating to her the deeper, wordless connection between them?
Before she could think or stop herself, Nora rose up on her toes and fairly threw her arms around his wide shoulders, pressing herself against him, urging his head down for her kiss. Lennox groaned as he took her mouth
, and she felt as if she couldn’t get close enough. He held her against him with one arm, while his other hand rose to cup the side of her jaw, angling her mouth so that he might taste even more of her. She pressed closer, kissing him back, aching with hunger.
“Christ, Nora,” he rasped, lifting his head for an instant. “I—”
She waited, watching him, panting softly, dizzy.
Lennox squeezed his eyes closed and held her against his chest. She could hear his heart racing, feel him slowly shake his head. “Sometimes, when we are together, I feel a bit mad.”
“I know,” she whispered. “I feel it, too.”
Chapter 16
With an effort, Lennox forced down his ardor and put her from him. “Let me help you with the loom.”
She swallowed, nodding. They spent the next hour testing the working parts of the loom as Nora chose the colors and threads she would use to weave the tapestry of the galley on the sea.
“I’m so pleased that Mary MacLean kept more than one blue bobbin. I will make each layer of the waves a different shade of blue,” Nora enthused. “It will be beautiful.”
“Do I remember correctly that ye will trace the pattern from the cartoon onto the threads? I have a charcoal pencil ye may use.”
“Thank you.”
Her smile made him want to take her in his arms again, but instead he reached out with one of his charcoals and their fingers brushed, striking sparks. “I am at your service, lass.” He was smiling too yet as their gazes caught and held, another deep shiver of arousal ran down his spine and spread through his loins.
Soon, Nora was ready to begin working on her own. Lennox made an excuse about needing to speak to Hector, but in the doorway he couldn’t resist turning back to watch her.
Her head of shining curls was bent over the loom as she gracefully arranged the vertical threads she called the warp. Every ounce of her was focused on the task at hand, and he felt a vibrant sense of creativity in the air. And something more… It was happiness, Lennox realized with a pang, and he had helped to cause it.
“This is us, isn’t it?”
His mind returned again to the moment when she had spoken those words while pointing to his drawing. Each time he thought of it, a new, powerful emotion flowed through him like a river that had broken its banks.
The truth was, when Lennox had made the pattern that morning, he’d been thinking of his mural in Ciaran and Violette’s Spirit Tower on Skye: a depiction of a galley sailing away from the MacLeod family home of Duntulm Castle, after it had been horribly conquered and stolen by warriors from a rival clan. Lennox, too, had sailed around the Western Isles since he was a wee bairn. The islands themselves were so rocky and wild, the best way to travel was always by sea.
But Nora, who had spent her life in more civilized lands, had no way of knowing or understanding that.
The strange new sensation swelled again in Lennox’s chest as he watched her hold a bobbin of blue thread up to the light. If it pleased her to think the tapestry she was weaving depicted the two of them, sailing from Oban to Duart, he would gladly agree.
* * *
When Lennox emerged into the great hall, he found it empty except for Hector’s elderly wolfhound, Fergus, who could barely rise from his place by the fire. Hector still gave the old dog an occasional bone, but otherwise he seemed to be largely ignored by the busy inhabitants of the castle.
“Hello, old fellow.” Lennox went over to the great hearth and crouched down beside the wolfhound. “Do ye miss the hunt?”
Fergus slowly lifted his head and gazed at him with foggy eyes.
“It can’t be easy to feel that ye no longer have value to your clan.” Lennox stroked the dog’s ears. Unbidden, the memory of Magnus’s wolfhound, Dougal, came to him. Many times, it had been Lennox who remembered to feed the great beast, when Da was occupied with other matters.
Since leaving Skye, Lennox had done his best to put them all out of his mind, to remember the betrayals and secrets, but now the memories began to simmer inside him, bittersweet. Years spent waking up to a new day in Duntulm Castle, perched on a cliff high above the sea. How many sparkling mornings had he stood with Magnus and Ciaran in the courtyard, practicing with his claymore or learning to hawk? It was a stunningly beautiful and thrilling place to grow up, and in spite of Lennox’s growing sense that he didn’t belong, he’d loved his family and his clan.
His chest tightened at the cascade of memories and emotions. If only it were possible to pack the past away in a chest, lock it securely, and throw the key into the sea.
Fergus dropped his head onto Lennox’s hard thigh and heaved a sigh. His breath smelled like dead rats, but the poor old hound needed to know someone still cared. Lennox gently stroked the pad of his thumb back and forth over the dog’s brow, eliciting another sigh.
“You’re a good lad,” he murmured, and was rewarded with another deep sigh.
“Ah, I love a man who is kind to animals,” a female voice proclaimed from the doorway.
Lennox looked up to see Cicely, Lady Fairhaven, standing there with her husband and their greyhound. Fergus seemed to understand the situation, for the hound shifted his head back to rest on his own two paws, allowing Lennox to rise.
The earl looked around the cavernous hall, sniffing hopefully. “We are ravenous. Is that venison I smell?”
“Aye. I think so.” Lennox looked at the countess. “My lady—”
“Please, do call me Cicely.” She gave him a charming smile.
“Cicely, can ye spare a few minutes of your time before the MacLean and his clansmen return? I would speak to ye about a matter of importance.” When young Fairhaven shot him a glance, Lennox added, “Both of ye, of course.”
“I would be pleased to help you,” Cicely replied. “Do you seek advice? I’m exceptionally good at that.”
She was already taking a chair near the hearth, where something savory bubbled in a hanging pot. Fergus barely stirred as the two men joined her.
“Where is your lovely wife?” Cicely inquired of Lennox, turning her face to bask in the fire’s warmth.
After a moment, Lennox realized she was referring to Nora. “My bride is a weaver, and Hector Mór has kindly offered his wife’s loom for Nora to use during our stay. She is very gifted.” He heard the pride in his own voice. “I left her with the loom, choosing the best shades of blue to use for her tapestry.”
Tilly and a few of the servants had begun to appear in the hall, laying the boards for the midday meal, and Lord Fairhaven watched them anxiously.
“Will there be venison?” he queried.
One of the girls gave him a cheerful nod. “Aye, sir!”
Realizing that his time was short, Lennox reached for the leather pouch at his belt and brought out the miniature. He hadn’t told Hector the real reason he sought the man in the doublet, and he didn’t plan to divulge anything so personal to these English nobles, either.
“I have a question.” Lennox showed the miniature first to Lord Fairhaven then handed it to Cicely to study. “Do either of ye recognize this man?”
She scrutinized the painting, brows lifting, and his heart jumped with hope. “How long ago was this miniature made?”
“Nearly three decades ago.”
“Robin and I had not been born then,” came Cicely’s reply. She shook her head. “How could I possibly recognize this man? Quite honestly, he resembles my own brother, Andrew, who was but a lad then.” She studied the miniature again for a long moment, then gazed at Lennox over the top of the gold, oval frame. “Why exactly do you seek this gentleman?”
He managed an offhand shrug of one shoulder. “It is a family matter.” Seeing that she would not be satisfied by this, he added, “The man may be a relative.”
“Ah.” Cicely cocked her head. “Are you truly serious about finding him?”
“Aye. It is the reason we have traveled to Duart Castle,” Lennox replied, realizing that if these English aristocrats could help him, he
should be more forthcoming. “I suppose it would be true to say I am on a quest.”
She threw up her hands. “There is nothing for it, then. I feel certain my brother, the Duke of Aylesbury, can help you. You must come to London with us, and I shall arrange a meeting between you.”
Even as Lennox considered this, his heartbeat accelerated. Was it possible that this new turn in the road might take him to his real father? “It would mean a long journey…”
“It would. Did you have other plans?” Cicely inquired sweetly.
The lass was shrewd. “Nay, although my horse waits for me in Oban.” He paused, feeling a twinge at the memory of the expression on Chaucer’s face when he’d left him behind with Tom, the stableboy. “I will find someone here who will return him to Stirling Castle, with a message for my family.”
“It sounds as if you’ve made up your mind,” Cicely said approvingly. “I feel certain your quest will bear fruit in London.”
“London?” echoed a familiar voice. Lennox turned to see Nora walking toward them.
He rose to greet her, surprisingly cheered by her presence. “Come and sit down. Are ye hungry?”
“I am!” Her cheeks flushed becomingly. “Weaving is harder work than you know.”
“We were just discussing the miniature your husband has shown us,” Cicely said, watching her. “You know it, of course.”
She won more of his regard by not giving anything away. “Of course.”
“The two of you must come to London. We’ve decided,” Cicely continued. “Haven’t we, Robin?”
Their salivating greyhound was inching his way across the flags, clearly hoping to steal the dozing wolfhound’s half-gnawed bone. Lennox couldn’t suppress a grin when Fergus suddenly emitted a low warning growl.
“God’s eyes, is that beast dangerous?” Fairhaven exclaimed.
“Robin, do pay attention to our conversation.” Cicely gave him an impatient look. “Don’t you agree that Lennox and Nora must come to London with us? I am hopeful that Andrew, who is so much older than we are, will recognize this fellow in the miniature. Since he is a painter himself, he may even know the artist.”
Quest of the Highlander (Crowns & Kilts Book 5) Page 14
