by Joanne Rock
“If I asked you to come out into the light, would you do so?” She could not begin to imagine who had invited her here. Who sought her company and promised to remain at her command.
The scroll he’d given her suggested he wanted to speak to her before her marriage, hinting at an interest of the most intimate kind. Another shiver lit up her spine as she waited for a stirring.
“That I will not do.” The brew house remained silent save for his voice. “At least not yet.”
Another chilly gust blew through the door, sealing her gown to her legs. Unwilling to suffer the cold any longer, she allowed the door to close, blanketing them in the dark. Alone.
“Why?” she asked, lifting her skirts slightly and slipping out of her shoes so she might steal silently across the floor toward where the tray of food awaited her.
“Haven’t you ever wished to be known for the person you are within and not the person the world assumes you to be?”
His question gave her pause.
She thought of Leod and the assumptions the world made about him. But since he did nothing to stop the gossip about his relentless grip on his lands and his power, he surely had no desire for the world to believe anything different about his character. So who could the mystery man be?
Was he a castle steward or man-at-arms? She had not thought a man of lowly rank might approach her. Hurrying toward the blue flames glowing under the cauldron, she could make out the platter of food balanced on a low table that held a huge spoon and a few tools for the fire. As she retrieved the pewter tray, she looked around the room again to where she’d pinpointed the voice in the back, but if anything, being closer to the building’s only light source made it more difficult to see.
“Everyone wishes for that sometimes.” She steadied a flagon of wine and retreated with the tray. Carefully, she moved toward the door and then spied the shape of a work bench against one wall. She took a seat at the high stool and helped herself to a hearty bite of bread, wishing she could see him.
How could she tell if he was the right sort of man to risk compromising herself with?
“Does Mac Ruadhán know anything about the woman you are within?” The soft question echoed all around her, a trick of his melodic voice and the round walls, perhaps.
He’d made it clear he knew of her impending betrothal even in the missive he’d sent earlier. But hearing him say Léod's name now made her think he was indeed a Scots lord, for there was not a shred of deference in his tone when he spoke of a man who incited envy and awe in even his peers.
“I do not think he is overly concerned with knowing people. He seems content to amass wealth and inspire fear.” Confiding her thoughts to this stranger in the dark should be awkward and yet she felt oddly safe as she savored the food he’d brought her and shared worries that her own parents had refused to let her voice.
She poured a cup of wine from the flagon and brought it to her lips before realizing the libation was not wine at all but the famed Domhnaill mead. The rich brew of honey and clover pleased her tongue and warmed her blood, infusing her whole body with a tingling contentment.
“What would you choose to share with your betrothed, if he could know one thing about you?”
That voice! It resonated along her ears like a caress. She almost recognized it. Or maybe the sound of it simply felt more familiar now that she’d grown accustomed to him sitting in the dark, just beyond her vision.
“I would not share even a shred of myself with a man who frightens females for sport.” She speared at her meal with her eating knife, remembering how she’d run from him earlier. “He might be handsome, but his aspect is fierce. He is too impatient to listen to a woman speak.”
Her companion said nothing for a long moment as she mopped the remnants of her meal with her leftover bread.
“You’ve avoided the question,” he observed finally.
A laugh slipped free and she poured more mead, wondering about the man in the shadows. Was he handsome as well? Already, she found his disposition pleasing. His voice compelling. And his desire to seek her out, all the while respecting her honor by remaining on the other side of the chamber, had stirred a warmth inside her that had naught to do with the mead.
“I suppose I’ve been so consumed with the injustice of marrying a brute that I have not given much thought to what a union could be like.” Should be like. “I would think a husband and wife should be able to speak freely.”
“The way we are now?” His voice deepened and she could almost imagine he’d come closer.
Had he? Her heartbeat thrummed insistently.
“I suppose.” She listened hard for any hint of sound, but she could hear naught but her pulse pounding in her ears and the occasional crackle of the hot ashes keeping the mead cauldron simmering. She thought she might understand what a slow simmer felt like. “Yes, actually. Just like this.”
“What else would you wish for in your marriage, Helene?”
The way he said her name… Recognition teased at the corners of her mind.
“Do I know you?” she asked suddenly, rising from the stool to turn toward him.
She could guess where he sat now. Could even tell herself she spied an outline that could be a man.
“By reputation, perhaps. The same way any of us know each other when we come out of our far-flung homes but once every few years for entertainments such as this.”
Venturing forward, she took a few steps toward him, giving the cauldron at the center of the room a wide berth since being too close to that lone source of light skewed her vision.
“What would you seek in marriage, sir?” She could not say why she felt so certain he would not leap out at her and deflower her on the floor of the mead house, but she knew he would do no such thing.
He wanted something from her and she began to think she wanted something—very much—from him as well. This man, this night, represented all she needed to dissuade Léod from marrying her.
“A woman willing to speak her mind.” His voice wrapped around her like velvet, cloaking her in softness. “A woman who will come to me of her own will.”
“The way I am now?” She did not know where she found such boldness. But she wanted, nay needed, to know that her mystery stranger found her desirable.
By the saints, she wanted to be with a man and not a monster.
“Aye.” His voice went rough in a way that thrilled her.
Her skin heated beneath her gown and she realized she still wore her cloak. Reaching for the fastening at the throat, she unclasped the brooch and prepared to let it fall.
“Wait,” he commanded, halting her in her place when she could not be more than some ten paces from him.
Although she must have mistaken his form for the outline of something else against the wall for the shape was too big to be a man.
“What is it?” She gripped the cloak and hood in her hand, peering behind her as if a ghost had followed in her tracks.
“I have enjoyed this and I am not prepared to let it end by revealing myself too soon.”
Still he withheld himself? Helene tried not to feel affronted. She backed up a step.
“Perhaps I should leave—”
“I would like to kiss you, Lady Helene.”
The pronouncement flashed through her like a lightning bolt, sparking heat all the way to her toes.
“It would be difficult to not reveal yourself if that is the case,” she observed breathlessly. Hungrily.
Her eyes probed the shadows, desperate for a glimpse of him, for some hint of his identity.
“Nay,” his voice whispered, soothing her and exciting her at once. “Not if I blindfold you.”
Léod kept as still as his body would allow in the confined space with a provocatively curious maid venturing ever nearer.
She wanted to be kissed.
He’d heard it in the catch of her voice when he’d proposed as much. But the blindfold? That had been a risky proposition. Would she run from him once m
ore? He cursed his lack of patience. But her ease with him here in the darkness had intrigued him. If he was honest, he’d been equally surprised by his own ease with her. He could not recall the last time a woman had that sort of effect on him. His encounters with worldly widows or other eager bedmates had been focused solely on physical pleasure. These stolen moments with Helene had been more than that. While he’d thought physical pleasure and a bit of revenge was his objective tonight, he found himself drawn to the hints of boldness in her that he’d never expected.
He found himself unwilling to let their time together end. Yet how could he resume his pursuit of a woman who would betray him—or at least betray his intentions toward her—by meeting privately with another man? He should not want her. Still, he understood her fear of him all too well
“Blindfold?” She had not run.
Neither had she come closer.
He could see her white fist clenched tight at her throat, clinging to the cloak and hood she’d been about to drop. Of course, he had a better view of her since he’d positioned himself beneath a high window, ensuring any moonlight filtered down and away from him.
The chamber was vast, built for housing fires, cauldrons and stacks of barrels, not lovers’ games. But there was a cushioned bench nearby where he could seduce a kiss from her.
“Like Hoodman’s Blind.” He cited the children’s game to make the notion sound less— sensual. But perhaps as a virgin untouched, the other uses for hoods and blindfolds would never occur to her innocent mind. “I would remain anonymous to you a bit longer yet we could sit closer together.”
He strove to keep his voice relaxed, careful to hide his response to her as she stood poised like a woodland creature, unaware of the huntsman’s danger. At this moment, more than anything, he wanted her to close the distance between them of her own volition.
“I will share my mead with you,” he continued, tempting her shamelessly with the prized commodity. “I discovered a barrel back here that tastes less of honey and more of cinnamon.”
And a fine brew it was, but the only taste he wanted upon his lips now was Helene.
“Will you swear on your honor as a Highland lord to allow me to leave whenever I wish?”
His lips curved in a rare grin.
“A clever bargain and one which I make with ease. I swear by my God that I will not touch you unless you wish it, and that you may leave at any time. If I break this vow, I pray my sword arm turns as errant as my tongue.” He wondered what Helene would think if she knew it was the only oath he’d ever pledged to another living soul.
Ever since his father died in Léod’s youth, he had forged his own path in the world, winning respect by the sword and not by words. But he was learning fast that his old ways would not work with Helene.
Would she believe any vow he repeated if she knew his true identity? A part of him mourned the fact that she would never know the truth. If anything, her discovery of his identity now would make her despise Léod mac Ruadhán more than she already did.
“Very well.” With a curt nod, she relinquished her grip on the cloak but kept her hood in her hand. “I may require assistance.”
Lifting the heavy swath of velvet, she was about to settle it over her head.
“Nay.” He tugged a length of silk off his waist and thrust it in her direction. “Take this instead.”
He had almost leaned into a moonbeam that arced down to pierce the brew house floor between them. But in the end, only the cream-colored silk caught the light. Helene reached for the strip of cloth with gently trembling hands.
“It is warm with your scent. Thank you.” She stepped nearer to accept it, directly in the path of that pale moon glow.
She stared at him, unseeing, blue eyes wide with open curiosity that he burned to satisfy. Her skin turned alabaster in the blue-tinged moonbeam, as snowy white as the ground outside. Rivers of long dark curls streamed over her shoulders now that she’d removed her hood, with stray waves catching on the elaborate embroidery and tiny gemstones sewn into the bodice. The slashed sleeves revealed a light-colored muslin tunic beneath the heavy velvet kirtle. She smelled like roses and cinnamon, a fragrance he’d noted about her person even before tonight so he knew it wasn’t just the mead that accounted for the hint of spice in an otherwise floral scent.
Blinking at him in the silent space that separated them, she withdrew the silk slowly from his fingers, dragging the fabric in a long, slow slide along the back of his hand.
“Perhaps you will help me.” She guided the material to her eyes and then turned to present him with her back. “Would you care to tie it?”
She could turn on him at the last and catch him in the act. Léod wondered if that was her plan. But no. She’d made him swear an oath. He did not think she would play with him thus.
So, sliding off the sack of grain, he stepped lightly toward her. She was delicately made and half his size. No wonder he had frightened her off between his reputation and his height that towered over her. If he bent to kiss her head, she would fit neatly below his chin. For now, he settled for taking the strips of cloth that lay against her hair and tying the silk into a firm knot.
“How is that?” he asked, speaking softly into her ear from behind. If he leaned any closer, her hair would catch on the rough beginnings of a beard along his cheek.
“Fine. Good. I mean—” she babbled awkwardly, her heart racing so fast he could see the swift pulse at her neck as he took the liberty of peering down her bodice as far as the fabric would allow.
He could not see much more than her collarbone, but the slope and sway of her frame fascinated him, making it difficult for him to keep his hands to himself.
“Are you sure?” He lingered there, hating the thought of leaning away. He’d wanted to get close to her ever since arriving at Domhnaill a sennight ago, but she’d been running from him every time he neared.
“Nay.” Her fingers moved restlessly up to the blindfold, smoothing along its length.
“Rather, the blind is comfortable enough. But I find myself curious about something else.”
His breath burned a path down his lungs. His body tightened immeasurably, every inch of him in readiness for whatever Helene might want.
“Tell me,” he insisted, past the point of any elegance in his words.
“You promised not to touch me unless I willed it.”
It was the last thing he cared to think about.
“Aye,” he managed to answer, yanking his head up before his nose sank into the fragrant dark waves of her hair.
“Well, I will it.”
He could not say how many heartbeats passed before his brain deciphered her words. Could she be offering him what he wanted most? Or was that merely a trick of a hungry body that wanted to lay her back on the grain sack and rent her rich gown from neck to hem so that he might view every lovely curve and nuance?
“You—” his voice growled out a hoarse note that he hastened to clear “-wish for me to touch you?”
He prayed with sudden fervency that he had not misunderstood.
“Please, my lord. I would like that more than anything.”
Chapter 3
Was it bravery or utter foolishness to invite the caress of a stranger?
As Helene trembled behind her blindfold, tense and longing, she could not care one way or the other. For the mystery lord offered her a chance to compromise herself in a way that would deter Léod mac Ruadhán for good. And he tempted her on an intimate level she never would have suspected.
Brave or foolish, she trusted that this stranger would not break his word to her. She only hoped she could trust herself to walk away from this encounter without giving far more to him than she intended.
“Nothing could give me more pleasure.” He spoke into her ear, his breath warm and honey-scented against her skin through the veil of her hair.
She waited for him to turn her, kiss her, take her fully into his arms. He did none of those things. Keeping her back to
him, he reached around her shoulder to caress her cheek, his fingers trailing a slow path down from her temple to cradle her chin. He hovered close to her back, his scent a spice she did not recognize and the musk of vital strength. She had the vague impression of size, but he could not possibly be as large and looming as Léod. Her mystery stranger was a man of gentleness, she could tell by his restraint and his promise to her.
That belief made her tip her head toward his touch, seeking more of his warmth against her cheek. Her mouth.
As if reading her thoughts, his thumb found her lips. He outlined the full softness with a calculated touch until she sighed with startled pleasure that he could come in contact with so little of her and still incite a cascade of sweetness throughout her whole body. Even her toes curled at the small circles he traced upon her mouth. She swayed back toward him until her shoulders found steadiness upon his chest. She tipped her head backward and found he was built like a warrior, all muscle and sinew. Yet every inch of him radiated warmth, as if his body welcomed hers as much as she yearned for his.
“Do you remember what I want from you, Helene?” he asked, his voice more a rumble from his chest into her back than a sound she heard.
“I can think of little else,” she admitted, rolling her head from side to side, blinded by darkness but more aware than ever of her other senses. Her cheek brushed the laces of his tunic beneath a linen hauberk. She recognized the fine silk as the same kind she wore about her eyes.
“You claimed to want a kiss, but you have not yet taken it.”
He was quiet for a moment and she wondered if he thought her too bold by half. Perhaps no respectable lord would claim a maid who behaved with such wantonness. She stilled, thinking it was not too late to seek her chamber. Pretend this night never happened.
“I would prefer a kiss freely given,” he admitted finally. “That way, neither of us will look back and think I took advantage of a blindfolded maid.”
