Susan King - [Celtic Nights 03]

by The Sword Maiden

  "Some kind of a disaster, I think."

  "Devastation in the Highlands," she said bluntly. "And destruction of the Highland ways. Only the woman who holds Innisfarna can avert it."

  He lifted a brow, looked at her. "Do you believe that?"

  She shrugged. "It is a powerful legend, and I am not certain what I believe. But I know I must keep Innisfarna safe however I can, and give it to my daughter one day. If I have only sons, it will go to my granddaughter."

  "Someday you will have a daughter as lovely as you... as the princess Aeife is said to have been," he said, catching himself.

  He shifted the bucket to his other hand.

  "I hope I have a daughter someday. Lachlann, why do you gather sand in such darkness, instead of during the day?"

  "White sand is excellent for hardening steel, and it is best collected under a new moon. It is a perfect time for beginnings." Yet all he had known in his life was ending in one way or another.

  "Will you make another sword with that sand?"

  "Just one. I must finish my own blade before I leave for France in two days."

  Her face as she looked at him was a gentle shadow. "When will you be back?"

  "I do not know," he answered flatly. He glanced at the loch. "The mist is thickening. Alpin MacDewar will never see you here."

  "And his hearing is not so good now."

  "Or so he pretends, when it suits him."

  She laughed. "You know Alpin well."

  "He is not a biddable man, but we share an interest in good weapons. He was once a gifted swordsman, and knows much. He taught your brothers and me how to handle swords."

  "Be careful. You might lose your privileges when you leave. You will have to woo his favor when you return." She chuckled.

  He walked beside her in silence, carrying the bucket.

  Solas scampered toward Eva, bumping into her, and the silver brooch flew out of her shawl. Eva caught it up again.

  "Oh!" she cried. "The clasp is broken."

  "Let me see." He wiggled it carefully, then turned to pin it into the wool, his hand brushing her upper chest. Even through the layers of wool and linen, she felt warm, firm, and delectable. His body tightened, surged. He drew his hand away.

  "Bring it to the smithy and I can repair it more fully."

  "Ah, is the blacksmith a silversmith too?"

  "The metal needs reheating and twisting. I can do that."

  "It is a shame to take such skill to France." Her gaze searched his, her eyes as silvery as the brooch. "We need a good smith here at Balnagovan."

  "Do you?" he murmured. He meant her, alone. She nodded, her head tilted back as he leaned closer. His heart slammed, his mouth went dry. He wanted desperately to touch her, to kiss her again. Silence wreathed them like the fog rolling on the loch.

  "I... I should be going," she finally murmured. "But this is my last Beltane. Next year, I will be... a wife."

  Next year, he might still be in France—if he lived. Then he would return home to make Eva a widow. He sucked in a breath at that ugly thought, so out of place here, with her.

  "We should bid good night," he said. "It is late."

  She smiled. "No token of farewell?" she asked softly, coy and yet innocent all at once.

  He huffed, part relieved laugh, part sigh. "I gave you one the other day, and I should have apologized for it. Do you want another?" His heart pounded, though he tried to speak lightly.

  Her eyes were wide as she nodded. "Oh... very much."

  In that instant, a power engulfed him, and he gave in to it, pulling Eva toward him swiftly. Her lips softened beneath his, and his hands fit the supple curves of her waist. She circled her arms around his neck, all warm grace and willingness.

  Caressing the arch of her back, he scarcely believed that he held her again. Her mouth fit beautifully to his, her body curved in complement. Desire built a storm within him, despite the inner voice that cautioned him to think, to slow down—

  Stop. He forced himself to pull back. "Eva—"

  But her lips were hungry beneath his, her hands heated where she touched his chest through his linen shirt and belted plaid. Drunk with an irresistible blood fire, he kissed her urgently, then once again forced himself to pull away. Leaning brow to brow, he held her waist and tried to catch his breath. "Eva—"

  "Hush, you," she whispered. "Do not speak. Do not end the dream." She touched her nose to his, inviting another kiss.

  He resisted it like a salmon going against the river. "What dream?"

  "Mine," she whispered. "Lachlann—" His name was a breath upon her lips. "I wonder... what love is like. I think I may never know, unless you show me tonight."

  Had she knocked him over with the flat of a blade, he could not have felt more stunned. Brushing her hair back, he cupped her face. "One day soon you will know," he said, although the implication—her husband—wrenched at him.

  "Listen to me, oh, listen." That breathless phrase was familiar, but his fogged mind could not grasp it. "This may be foolish of me, but... tonight is Beltane, when we celebrate our life, our youth. Loving is all that matters on Beltane."

  "Eva," he cautioned. She had always had a hot spark of boldness, and a curious nature. He sensed no wantonness in her, only sincerity, and a need that matched his own. "Soon you will be wed," he said. He felt her trembling in his arms.

  "I am not yet pledged, and I still make my own decisions." Her fingers flexed, buried in his shirt. "And if I were free to choose a man to pledge with me, I would take you."

  Oh, God. His heart nearly burst from him. He pulled her to him, slid his fingers over her head. Her dark plait loosened and her hair spilled free, thick and cool and rich. Kissing her, deepening it, he let his tongue find hers, seeking, giving. Her delight and eagerness inflamed him further.

  Cradling her face in his hands, he could scarcely think past the thick throb of his body, the luxuriousness of her. Yet he forced himself to draw back a little. "Unless we stop now, I will be needing your forgiveness."

  "I would forgive you anything." Her lips caressed his. "Do you think me foolish for this?"

  "Not at all." Was he foolish to think of her as part of him, blood, bone, and soul? She lifted on her toes, melding to him as if she were made for him alone, her breasts soft against his chest, her willingness delicious, unexpected, intoxicating. The thundery demand within his body urged him to let go his caution and pursue this alluring secret with her.

  He kissed her again, feeling his lonely yearning for her ease a little; yet his craving increased, driving him onward.

  Then his thoughts cleared like sunlight melting fog. He set her firmly away from him. "This is beyond a mere token. You will know loving soon enough, but not here, not like this."

  Her breath came as fast as his, and her hands circled his wrists where he held her shoulders. "Better you than—"

  "My friend, not like this." His voice was ragged.

  "Lachlann," she said, "do you not want to pledge with me?"

  "Eva," he said, a sudden suspicion growing. "Would you use this to avoid the marriage your father wants for you?"

  She shook her head. "I had not thought of that."

  He believed her, but his body sobered, and his guard fell into place. He lifted his hands from her. "And what would your father do?" he asked bitterly. "A smith's lad touching his daughter—he would be after me for murder and seal you up for safekeeping. Go home, Eva."

  "I did not mean to anger you. I only wanted—I hoped—"

  "You hoped I was so good a friend? I will be an even better friend, and tell you to go home. Your brothers, your father, and your friend'—he thumped his breastbone savagely—"do not want you disgraced."

  She nodded miserably. "I know."

  "This is only Beltane foolishness, Eva. It is in the air. Girls rolling bannocks to determine their lovers, and wishing to be courted—I would not want you hurt by it."

  She began to gulp as if she might sob. "But—"

  "Hus
h." He touched a finger to her luscious mouth, still warm from kissing, and brushed a silky curl from her cheek. "Listen to me. Of course I want you. I am a man, and you are lovely. But we will not do this, hey?" he said gently.

  "Tell me... do you want to pledge with me?"

  "Of course. Who could resist you?" he asked, heart slamming. "Now be off with you. I swear if I touch you again, I could not stop so quickly. And you deserve better than a blacksmith's fostered lad, fine as you are," he murmured.

  He had never wanted anything so fiercely as he wanted her now. Yet he fought to resist what she offered him with such seductive innocence. He did not want her out of some headstrong passion. He wanted her wholly, utterly, two equal loves shining like twin stars. If he thought there was some chance of that, he could go away with hope in his heart, and wait forever.

  He would not hurt her, in heart or in flesh, with hasty, hungry, ill-timed loving. What filled him was too powerful to let out all at once. He must tame it—smother it, if need be.

  Her gaze was vulnerable, needy somehow. "Can a kiss be a pledge?" she asked. "Is a token like that not binding?"

  He smiled ruefully. "Sometimes. And sometimes it is Beltane fever. And sometimes it is a convenience to prevent another betrothal." He cocked a brow at her.

  "That is not what I intended," she said haughtily.

  "Eva, we can pledge if you still want it when I return from France, and if your father agrees," he answered with a calm he did not feel. "If you are not wed by then."

  "Oh," she said. "Oh." She looked down again, and he knew she felt rejected. He sighed and let her think it, for that was safest for both of them. But in his heart he had made a pledge to her long ago. He reached out, began to speak.

  The blare of a ram's horn split the silence between them. "Someone is on the other beach, summoning Alpin," he said, looking that way. Eva's name echoed out.

  "Simon and Donal. I must go." She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. "My fine friend," she whispered.

  Friend, he thought. She did not suspect. He would keep his heart guarded, as he must for now, and he would see where her own heart lay when he returned. If she still waited for him, and truly desired him, it would be heaven's own grace in his life.

  "Go on, then," he told her. She hastened ahead, beckoning to him. Loath to see her leave so soon, he followed.

  * * *

  As the horn sounded again, Eva turned to Lachlann. "If they see us together, will they think—"

  "Not those two," he assured her wryly.

  She hesitated, her heart still tumbling within her. "Lachlann, I... I am sorry to bother you with my silliness."

  "Do not fret over it." He said no more than that, though she waited. Her heart sank like a stone.

  She whirled and hurried ahead, feeling her cheeks heat with embarrassment—and with a yearning that would not lessen. She had hoped for more than friendship from him, but that was all he would offer her. She would not plague him for more. Crossing the stand of trees that divided the two beaches, she did not look back, though she knew Lachlann followed her.

  Simon turned to see her, while Donal replaced the ram's horn on a tree limb. Her brothers loped toward her with lean animal grace, their long legs, dark heads, and wrapped plaids much alike in the darkness.

  "There you are!" Simon spoke impatiently, but she heard his concern. "You were not where we left you, and we saw Alpin's boat coming over the water."

  "I went for a walk," Eva said.

  "I am glad you are with her, Lachlann," Donal said. "She is safe with you. On Beltane, unmarried girls should take care, or find themselves having to wed quickly." He grinned.

  "The man who wants to wed me is not here, is he," Eva said irritably. She would not look at Lachlann, though she felt his gaze steady and sober on her.

  Hearing splashes, she looked toward the loch. A yellow spark floated over the dark water, and a boat emerged, with a lantern hanging from a pole. The golden haze expanded as Alpin rowed to the shore. "Is it you, young MacArthurs?" he called.

  "It is," Donal replied. "Eva and Lachlann are with us."

  They walked close to the water's frothy hem. Alpin beached the prow, his broad shoulders and the wild white halo of his hair silhouetted in the light. "Into the boat with you," he said, waving. "Hurry, for it is late and I am an old man." He helped Eva over the side, and she sat on one of the cross benches. While her brothers boarded the low craft, Alpin peered at Lachlann.

  "Blacksmith's lad, I will not ferry you this time of night!"

  "I only came to say farewell to the MacArthurs, and to you, Alpin MacDewar."

  "Ah. Luck to you in France, lad. We will pray for your safety. Now go home—foolish to be out on so dark a night." Shaking his head, Alpin sat, and the boat rocked.

  "Farewell to all," Lachlann said. "Eva," he added quietly.

  "God speed you well," she murmured, glancing at him. She could not look away. The lantern light poured like bronze over his black hair and wide shoulders. The need to be in his arms again was so strong it tugged at her like a wild thing.

  Alpin picked up the oars. "Did you stay with your brothers and cousins, as you were told to do this night?" he asked her. "Or did you wander and get into mischief, as is your wont?"

  She frowned under his stern, affectionate gaze.

  "Eva was with Lachlann," Simon answered. "She was safe."

  "Ach, and is that safe on Beltane?" the old man muttered.

  "Alpin," Eva scolded.

  "Lachlann loves Eva like a sister," Simon said.

  "Is it so?" Alpin growled.

  "How else would it be?" Lachlann asked.

  "Give us a shove, blacksmith," Alpin said. "Do not stand there looking like a sheep."

  Lachlann pushed at the prow, and the boat floated backward. Alpin pulled on the oars and moved the craft into the darkness and the mist. Within moments Eva could hardly see the shore, though she saw the pale blur of Lachlann's shirt where he stood in the shallows a long while.

  Her body still thrummed, her breath was still quick. A few moments of passion had become a little thread of fire in the weaving of her heart.

  The oars dipped, and the boat pulled onward. The world shrank, in that inky darkness, to the pool of light cast by the lantern. Alpin rowed, and her brothers were silent as the water rocked them toward home.

  Once again Eva looked over her shoulder. This time she saw only blackness. Lachlann was gone.

  Chapter 3

  "Wine." Colin beckoned, seated in Iain MacArthur's customary chair beside the hearth in Innisfarna's solar. Holding a bowl of hot stew, he spooned it steadily into his mouth.

  Eva refilled a goblet and handed it to him. Waiting while Colin drank with gusto, she wondered again what brought him here. Upon his arrival, she had informed him that Iain MacArthur had left weeks earlier with Donal for Inverness, where King James had called a meeting of the Highland chiefs.

  Colin seemed to know that, and as yet had said nothing of his errand at Innisfarna. Eva had offered food and drink first out of courtesy, and waited with as much patience as she could muster.

  She studied him as he ate. He was a fair and ruddy man, large-boned and thick-bellied, blond even in his fifth decade. He dressed like a Lowlander, in a knee-length tunic, hose, and leather boots, and his cloak was cut from a Highland plaid in red and green. On his shoulder, a wide pewter circlet set with a green stone gleamed like a cat's eye.

  Green Colin, most called him, and Eva wondered if it was because of the brooch he always wore. Had she felt more comfortable in his gruff presence, she might have asked.

  For months, she had stayed insulated but embattled at Innisfarna while stubbornly resisting her father's wish that she marry Colin. Though she had managed to keep her freedom so far, she knew her father was not ready to give up—nor, she thought, was she.

  Although she had never told anyone of her hope that Lachlann MacKerron would return to pledge with her, as he had hinted might happen, she kept that bright dr
eam close in her heart. Colin's arrival did not bode well for her secret cause, and she knew it.

  Beside her, the little terrier Colin had given her barked and pulled at the hem of her dress. Eva lifted the dog to pet her. "Hush, Grainne!"

  "Perhaps she smells a rat," Colin said. "Her breed is good at catching rodents, and they go after foxes too, right into their dens. She will be useful if you do not spoil her into a lap dog," he added, scowling.

  "She is young yet," Eva said. Grainne licked Eva's chin as she spoke, and she giggled, turning her head. "I thank you again for the gift of her. She is delightful."

  "The pup was my son's idea for you," he mumbled as he ate.

  "How kind of him," she said, smiling, and looking at him with new interest. "You have never mentioned a son before. Is he young yet?"

  "If you long to be a mother, I can oblige you with better sons than that one," he growled. Eva blinked at such coldness. He waggled his fingers. "He is too old for mothering, and he is an odd boy. I will send him out to be a page, but he lacks the wherewithal to become a knight."

  She felt immediate sympathy for a son so harshly criticized by his father. "I am sure he is a worthy young man, and I look forward to meeting him. What is his name?"

  "Ninian. His mother died bearing him, and a good thing she never saw him. He is an oaf and an idiot."

  Unsure how to respond to that, Eva cuddled the dog closer. Grainne yelped then, as the solar door opened. Eva looked up to see her brother enter.

  "Simon!" She set Grainne on the rush-covered floor, and her brother crouched to greet the pup with a friendly pat. He stood, remaining by the door while Grainne scurried away.

  Sunlight sheened his dark, braided hair, and brightened the reds in his belted plaid. With lanky grace, he leaned against the doorjamb and crossed his arms. A frown settled on his dark brow and marred the pleasant balance of his features. His blue-green eyes narrowed.

  "Colin Campbell," he said, lifting his chin as if inviting a fist on it. "My father and brother are in Inverness with the king. No doubt my sister told you so."