Lachlann looked at her. "You saw Simon recently."
"And will I tell the king's men that?" she retorted. "I do not know where he is from day to day."
"Surely you can get a message to your brother."
Of course she could do just that, but she was not going to reveal that to anyone, including Lachlann. She thought he could be trusted not to betray her kinsmen, but she had to be cautious. "Are you asking me to tell you where he is? Simon knows what the king wants. He will find you when he wants to speak with you."
"I will not be content with that for much longer."
At that moment, the eight king's men rode out of the stable yard, raising dust and noise. Eva stepped back, watching them go, and she was satisfied to see they rode south, for she knew that Simon still hid north of the loch.
Ninian came to the doorway of the stable, a bucket in one hand, a rake in the other, to watch them depart also, then disappeared inside to resume his chores. Eva smiled at him, and turned to Lachlann.
"You want to know where Simon is, but you are on good terms with the king's men, so how can I share whatever I know with you?" she asked. "I heard what you told Robson. You will make weapons for the king's men so they can better hunt and harm my kinsmen, but you refuse to do blade-smithing for the MacArthurs." As she walked toward the house, he strode beside her.
He frowned. "I promised Robson only horseshoes and mended tackle. We made no agreement for weapons, if you listened well. Nor will I make that agreement with you." Stopping with her on the doorstep, he reached past her to open the latch. It yielded smoothly, newly repaired and oiled. "Although there is one matter that you and I must agree upon. May I come in and discuss it with you?"
Puzzled, she entered and stepped back to allow him inside. Closing the door after him, she looked up. "What is that?"
"The rental fee for Balnagovan," he said, to Eva's surprise. "I have been thinking about this since I came back; You know this is neither my house, my smithy, nor my land."
"I hold Balnagovan of the crown, as the hereditary Maiden of Innisfarna," she said. With the crackling fire on the hearth, the room felt warm after the crisp air. She unfastened the brooch—the clasp now opened easily—and removed her arisaid, then smoothed the single braid that fell over her shoulder. "But your family has always held this place. Finlay's kin," she added, remembering what Mairi had revealed about his parentage.
"A fee is owed you to secure any property within the boundaries of Innisfarna—the isle, and the land along the south side of the loch. The smithy"—he gestured beyond the closed door—"the village, the meadow, the close hills, and the lochside are all part of your demesne. I would guess you have little or no income for the tenancy of these lands currently."
"None since the dispossession of the MacArthurs, true. But I have what I need, thanks to Mairi's generosity." Her heart thumped as she had a new thought. "Since you want to arrange a fee, does that mean you will stay?"
"I will stay until Colin Campbell returns, which is not long from now, apparently." He folded his arms, leaning his weight on his left leg as he stood by the door. Tall and wide-shouldered, chiseled and commanding, he dominated the close interior. But she saw a gentler aspect in his blue eyes, in the curve of his upper lip, the fullness of the lower. She loved that contrast and that balance in his features and his character between power and kindness.
"Will you go back to Perth to smith there?" she asked, feeling the misery of losing him before he had even gone.
He shrugged. Eva glanced away, flustered beneath his steady gaze. She did not want to think about Colin's imminent arrival. Turning, she went toward the table. "Would you... can I get you some heather ale?" she asked, reaching for a cup from the shelf, then turning to the clay jug already on the table.
He shook his head, and she set the cup down. "I am not thinking of myself, but my foster mother," he said. "I want to ensure Mairi's tenure here with a rental agreement. I insist," he added, when she began to protest. "The fee, or some sort of barter, is customary. Ask what you want, and I will pay it."
Her heart pounded even harder. She walked toward him, clasping her hands while he stood with his arms folded tight, aware that she and Lachlann locked themselves one against the other. "I will barter your promise to stay," she said.
A frown skimmed his brow. "Eva, I cannot promise that."
"MacKerrons have always smithed for us. That, too, is custom at Balnagovan."
"I made you some hooks," he replied, a twinkle in his eye.
"I mean bladesmithing," she said stubbornly.
"Eva—" He shook his head and huffed out a frustrated laugh. "Let us not go into that again. Just set a fee."
"Finlay smithed for us in return for the use of the land and the buildings, and we also provided him with foods, candles, and other necessities, I think. He did a great deal of work for my parents, and later my father. To be truthful, I would not know what amount to ask."
"Then we shall agree on a yearly amount, in coin or work completed. If our agreement is not met before I leave, I will send the rest—coin or iron work—from Perth." His frown deepened; she wanted to reach up and smooth the creases away.
"Mairi has been generous to me. I cannot accept anything for her tenure here. I would rather grant the right freely."
He shook his head. "Some fee must be exchanged between us. When Colin Campbell returns, he will inquire about Innisfarna's tenants. If I am no longer at Balnagovan, I do not want Mairi evicted. I know you would not do that," he added, lifting a hand briefly in response to her quick and vehement protest, "but I do not trust Campbell."
Eva sighed, knowing he had reason to be wary of Colin. "I will accept only a token, then. Robson can record in the accounts that Balnagovan's fee was paid directly to me. Colin has no right to question affairs at Innisfarna, but if he does, that will suffice."
"What token would you take from a blacksmith for a year's rental? A pot chain, or a bundle of hooks?" He smiled. "A clasp of the hand in good faith, until something more can be bartered?" He unlocked his arms and offered her his hand.
She reached out, and his fingers closed over hers, firm and warm. He took her hand and bowed over it as if he were greeting her in some royal court. He tugged, and she stepped closer, their movements dancelike and slow.
"Perhaps more than a hand clasp is needed," he said. "A token of honor, something more binding and sacred."
"What is more binding?" Her breath quickened, for suddenly she knew. The anticipation made her light-headed yet bold, as if she hovered on the brink of the unknown, about to step over a cliff, to fall or to soar.
"A kiss of peace," he murmured, "might do." He inclined toward her, his face close to hers, and she tilted her head back.
"Might do," she echoed, and her eyes closed as his mouth touched hers, warm and gentle, his unshaven beard rasping over her chin. She sighed as their lips drew apart.
"Is that enough for a year's rent?" he asked, low and soft.
"Oh," she breathed, heart thundering, "I doubt it."
He sighed out, and his lips covered hers once more. Her knees turned fluid, and he caught her with a hand under her elbow. She clutched at his bare, powerful arm, and as his mouth slanted over hers, she felt soft lightning stream through her.
Lachlann drew back. "Is it paid now?" he murmured.
She shrugged in silence, not wanting this to end. Every curve and cleft in her body pulsed. She could not think clearly, could only feel, as she leaned into his strength.
"Perhaps," he said, "you could raise the rental fee."
"I could," she breathed.
He bent closer, and his hand slid down to rest at the curve of her lower back, pulling her hard against him. She went helplessly into the next kiss like a leaf in a whirlpool, spinning, sinking. She looped her arms around his neck and pressed against him, and felt the hardening, heated contours of his body meet her curves. Gasping softly, she welcomed another kiss, felt the intoxication begin, felt herself slip over the
edge of the brink she had earlier risked.
Thundery inside, weakening, she surrendered when she knew she should pull back. Opening her lips, feeling the touch of his tongue, gentle but fiery, she moaned. The brace of his arms hardened around her, and she arched closer.
He murmured into her mouth—her name, she thought, repeated, or was it a prayer he whispered—and his lips traced over her cheek, his breath soft in her hair, like ecstasy at her ear. Her knees simply gave way for an instant, and she tightened an arm around his neck, flattened a palm on his chest, where the contour was hard and firm, and his heart pounded like a drum.
He buttressed her waist with one large hand and slipped the other along her arm, his fingers finding, soothing over her breast. She gasped soft and sudden as his touch skimmed the ready nipple, pearled and tingling. The burn ran all through her, like a small thread of fire, newly begun.
One token, she thought hazily, one chaste and honorable kiss had ignited this. She did not think she could stop now; she did not want to pull back, carried onward by intense feelings, by demands that were new to her, yet that she understood somehow. Deep within, she knew what her body desired, and what she most wanted—to fly into the sun, not to sink back again into shadow.
Warm and fine, his hands moved over her, solace and comfort, pleasure and gift, rounding over her breast, slipping over her abdomen and skimming lower. She fluttered within, she ached, she rocked toward him and moaned. His mouth sought hers again, discovered her deeply.
Framing her face, he kissed her again, and then drew back. She moaned in denial, her hands fervent on his chest, at his waist, sliding over his muscled arms as he shifted away from her.
He looked down at her, his gaze as bright as the blue flame in the hearth. "Listen to me, Eva girl," he said, sounding as breathless as she, his voice a raw husk.
She nodded mutely, catching her breath, gazing into his eyes, scarcely able to think for the blood pounding in her.
"This has been brewing between us for a while," he said. "But you are promised, and according to that arrangement, I am not the one for you. I would never dishonor you," he went on. "But by God, it is not easy to be so near you each day. Now tell me this, and tell me honestly."
She nodded again. All she wanted was to feel his kiss, feel his strength wrap around her and fill her. She strove to listen, her hands on his arms. His body felt like sun-warmed, sculpted stone, and his fingertips were gentle upon her face.
"Will you break your betrothal to Colin?" he asked quietly.
Her heart leaped, and she felt the dual tug of sadness and joy. "If I said I would not, what would you do?"
He let go of her and stepped backward swiftly, hands up, palms out. She watched him, hungry, desperate, aching.
"And if I said I would, what would you do then?"
He reached out to trace his fingers along her cheek, brushed his thumb over her lips, so much cherishing in the gesture that she knew what he told her. He withdrew his hand slowly.
She closed her eyes in anguish, wanting to melt into his arms and tell him that she wanted him more than anything she had ever wanted, ever would want in her life. "Lachlann," she said breathlessly, "what is this between us? Is it lust that pulls so upon me when you are near? Just... a hunger of the body, a need, like fire needs fuel?"
"What do you think?" he murmured.
She thought she teetered on that cliff edge again. And she felt certain that she saw, in the sincere clarity of his blue eyes, what she so yearned for from him—and could not claim.
"I think I feel much more than lust," she said carefully.
"But you are not sure?" His voice was deep and soft.
"I might be sure," she said crisply, "if you did not spin me so, and stoke me so each time you touch me, and if I could think clearly when you are near."
He pursed his mouth, and she thought he was going to laugh. But that cleared, and he frowned. "I will not take another man's promised bride—even if that man is my enemy. But if the woman herself makes the decision, well, that would change it."
Her heart, her soul, whirled inside of her. She lifted a hand to her brow. She remembered Mairi's story of Aileen Stewart, who had run off with her beloved blacksmith, Tomas MacKerron, and she fully understood how that had happened, if the father had been anything like the son.
But she was securely manacled by Colin, by Innisfarna and her kinsmen's needs, even by Ninian. She clenched her hands, hung her head, and suppressed a sob.
He watched her candidly, patiently, a little frown between his brows. As if a strong thread stretched between him and her, she felt the tug. She rocked on the brink of the choice. Moving toward Lachlann would fulfill her heart, satisfy her dreams. But a move toward Colin would save her kinsmen and her clan.
She shook her head. "I... made a solemn promise to Colin."
"Then that is what you must do," he murmured. "And what I must do is leave here. I thought I was made of rock... but not where you are concerned." She realized that what he mentioned went far beyond friendship, something deep, tender, and straight out of her dreams. Her heart pounded as she stared at him.
She wanted to reach out to him, but she felt ensnared in obligations. "If I... if I were to refuse Colin? What would you do then?" She was trapped by Colin, but she had to know the answer.
He gave her a quick, crooked smile and lifted her chin with his knuckle. "Come find me if you decide that, and then you will know," he said. He turned, opened the door, and slipped outside.
Eva leaned her palms against the closed door, rested her forehead on its grainy coolness, and moaned as she exhaled.
Chapter 18
Lachlann beat out a fast rhythm, his hammer striking molten iron. Sparks sprayed over his leather gauntlets and apron, and a few stung his forearms, but he shook them off, hardly feeling the burn. Welding shut a link in the chain, he began another, bending the amber-bright metal with a fierce turn of the tongs, threading the new loop into the last link, closing the open ends with a slam of the hammer, spitting sparks.
While he worked, he remembered the sight of Eva with Jehanne's sword in her hands. And he felt again the warmth and deliciousness of Eva in his arms. She had uncommon grace and certain magic, and each day he felt more compelled to be with her. He knew now that he could not stay at Balnagovan if he could not have her.
Turning to heat another piece of iron, watching it transform to solid light, he was aware of the burn within him, body and soul, for Eva. Her nature was like his own, fiery and strong. What existed between them was full of sparks, blaze, and enduring warmth—or could be, if given freedom and nurtured.
Pounding out another link in the chain, he realized that he was glad she had discovered Jehanne's sword, for only she could understand what the sword meant to him. He had loved Jehanne chastely, with the respect of a brother and comrade, or as a man might love an angel walking upon the earth.
His feelings for Eva were deep and fervent, ever increasing, part of the intricate layers of his soul. He sensed her compassion, part of what he loved most about her. But she did not know the darkest part of the tale: that he had failed the angel who had been entrusted into his care.
Slamming the hammer with force and fury, he built the chain, cleaving hot iron, molding it to his will. His memory conjured another heavy black chain, manacled to a slight, stubborn, remarkable girl. He could do nothing for Jehanne now but honor her request and remake her sword.
To finally heal himself, he knew that he must somehow claim his long-cherished dreams. Swordsmithing might prove impossible for him; and his yearning for Eva was a precious dream that seemed so close suddenly, yet still so far beyond his reach.
Soon the chain was complete, its length dunked in water to cool it, the links oiled to a black sheen. Dripping with sweat, Lachlann wiped his smudged arm over his brow and took up the twig brush to scatter the embers and let them burn down.
Opening the smithy door, he savored the cold nip of the wind on his slick skin. Thirsting,
he dipped a ladle into a tub of water beside the doorstep, and swallowed. The sky had already darkened to twilight, the day passing faster than he had been aware while he worked at forge and anvil.
He looked across the meadow at the house. The windows were shuttered against the wind, and pale smoke drifted from the chimney. He glanced down when his toe struck a cloth bundle on the stone step. Inside the packet were oatcakes, a thick slab of cheese, and a cooked apple, still warm and savory with spices. A covered jug sat on the step, too, its belly frosted.
Nodding silent thanks toward the house, he took the food and went back inside.
The following morning, after a brave dip in the cold water of the loch to refresh himself and cleanse away the grime of his work, he smithed iron throughout the day, then deep into the night. He repaired the harnesses from the stables, forged a fire grate for the house's hearth, and created sturdy ladles and small, sharp iron knives for both Eva and Margaret.
Eva did not come to the smithy that day, although he hoped she would. When he went to the house later to set the new fire grate into place, she was not there. He ate alone, murmuring to the adoring dogs, and fed Grainne two oatcakes, for she was greedy. He wished Eva had been there to scold him for it.
Returning to the smithy, he shut himself up with his work, with heat, sweat, and the incessant ringing of the hammer. The steady sound and the constant demands on his attention helped to block his troubling thoughts and emotions, and the intense heat and hard work helped drive out his frustrations.
Exhaustion dragged at him as he worked deep into the night. Hammering, he felt strangely as if he beat upon some inner level, transforming his own will, remaking his own future.
If only it were so simple, he told himself, and he worked like a demon at the forge, hot and fast and half wild with the urge to do as much as he could, no matter the late hour. His vision blurred, and the odd lights spun when he blinked—but it was glowing red iron that he forged, simple and straightforward in its color changes, not fine steel, and so he continued.
Susan King - [Celtic Nights 03] Page 17
