by Joanne Rock
“Cullen.” Her voice almost wavered on that one word. She tilted her chin higher. Prouder.
His face was no less dear for the new lines that crinkled at the corners of his eyes or the hint of gray mingled with the dark hair at his temples. He was leaner than she remembered, the years having honed his strength to steely precision.
Other things had changed about him, too. The heavy helm he carried under one arm was richly decorated and highly polished. The cloak thrown over his shoulder was fur-lined with an exotic pelt she did not recognize. Even his boots boasted a finer leather than the well-worn pair from her recollection. Not that she had ever cared about his lack of coin. He’d been thoughtful. Strong. Encouraging of her clever mind.
Sweet, merciful heaven, she had loved him.
“I asked Malcolm to send your escort home,” he told her without prelude. Without any nod to the fact they had once been far more than acquaintances. “I will bring you to Domhnaill on the morrow.”
She shook her head before she could force words from her mouth.
“You cannot.” The thought of spending such time with him—isolated together on a journey through the untamed land—struck a mixture of dread and unwanted, impossible hope inside her. “That cannot be.”
She would rather return to exile and be a woman disdained by strangers than a woman disdained by this one man. She had learned she could bear a great deal that life had to offer. Her shoulders were strong, as was her will. But her heart—it developed no such armor.
“It is,” he informed her succinctly. “You are not in a position to command me any longer.”
And was that a hint of pleasure she spied in the hard line of his mouth? Her heart stuttered in her chest at the memory of sweeter words those lips had once spoken to her. Of a chaste kiss by which she compared all other kisses and found them wanting.
“I require no reminding of my place in the world.” She refused to ignore the obvious reversal in roles between them. She had fallen far further than he had risen in the world, though it was obvious he had more means and influence now than when they’d last met. Would her father have been so quick to dismiss Cullen of Blackstone’s suit if the knight had arrived at Domhnaill dressed thus? Instead, Cullen asked for her hand after a hunting party where one of her father’s friends spied them kissing. Her father had been furious long before the offer for her hand had come.
“Of course.” He gave her a clipped nod. “I will see you at dawn. We can be in Domhnaill in less than a sennight if we catch a favorable wind once we reach the sea.”
He turned to leave and the impending sense of loss threatened to level her. By the saints, now that she had him so near to her again, she feared even his cold words were better than his absence.
“Wait.” She stepped toward him and instantly regretted it as he swung to face her. She was too close to him. Did he think about her past as a fallen woman? Did he imagine she enjoyed being so close to men because of her rumored position as a courtesan?
She stepped back immediately, ill to the core even thinking about that.
“What is it?” he prodded, his voice losing a little of its sharp edge.
“I appreciate the offer of an escort and I do not mean to contradict you. Selfishly, I cannot help but think it will be difficult to ride beside you and not remember how different my life might have been.”
She had not humbled herself before any man, even those who had been purposely cruel to her. Yet she found herself baring a piece of her heart to this man, sharing the only regret in life that approached the magnitude of giving up her daughter.
“It is important to fight for what we hold dear,” he told her, his pale blue eyes meeting hers in the torchlight.
He chastised her still? She was almost grateful for it, since it would be easier to feel angry with him than to feel guilty for her role in sending him away. She understood now that her silence on the subject had been viewed as compliance by Cullen. Had her father regarded it that way, as well? Perhaps she’d held more sway with him than she knew.
“That’s why I need to return to Domhnaill. I will fight for my daughter.” She would not allow Leah to be raised by a Culcanon. Cristiana had understood all along that Edwina could not allow the Culcanons to touch her babe.
“Do not speak such things.” He pulled her close as he hushed her, one hand wrapping about her wrist while the other covered her lips.
Her heart beat so fast to be near him, she could hardly hear the words he whispered near her ear.
“Leah is safe. I was there at Christmas and she looks well. Happy.”
She ate up those tidbits he offered, the simple details providing long-needed nourishment for her soul. Each morsel made her happy and hurt her at the same time, given that she had not been able to care for her wee one.
“How did you know she was mine?” She kept her voice low, unsure who they lowered their voices for, since the back hall appeared deserted.
His touch penetrated her sleeve, the warmth of his hand a delight she thought she would never feel again.
Even though he did not touch her sweetly, neither did he touch her harshly. For her, it was an unexpected pleasure.
“I guessed when you refused Donegal and your father packed you off to King William’s court nine and a half moons later.”
He was a perceptive man. One of many things she’d loved about him. But did he believe her version of events with Donegal, or had he sided with the Culcanons? He’d heard enough of her side from her plea to Malcolm for justice. And no doubt, he’d heard far more about the matter before today.
“Why should I not fight for her then, now that I am finally free to raise her?”
“Because she is happy and safe. Cristiana is the only mother she has ever known and now Duncan the Brave of Culcanon has claimed the girl as his.”
Righteous indignation simmered in her veins, over riding any pleasure in standing beside Cullen.
“And what will happen when Duncan makes peace with his maggot-faced half brother? He could hand her over to her rightful father, and I will die before I let that happen.” Years’ worth of anger spilled into her words. She trembled at the very thought.
Although she hadn’t been able to raise Leah, she would protect her wherever she could. Always. Edwina was intensely grateful to Cristiana for raising her daughter—a burden that had surely been as heavy and isolating in its own way as Edwina’s exile had been. But how could Cristiana expose the child to such danger now?
Cullen studied her intently, his gaze curious even though his hand fell away from her arm. His powerful chest expanded with a sigh.
“Time has not dulled your spirit,” he pronounced finally. “Welcome home, Edwina.”
Her heartbeat faltered. No man should have such power over a woman.
“Time has taught me patience.” And bitterness. And regret. But she would not reveal all to this knight. What if he’d taken a wife? What if he did not recall the feelings he’d once had for her? “I am willing to fight for what I want and what I am due.”
At last, the mask of dispassion cracked and Cullen of Blackstone grinned. In that moment, he was ageless, the same man she remembered from her youth.
“Fighting has long been a strength of yours.” He bowed—bowed!—to her, the quick duck of his head not exactly respectful, but definitely a kindness her now station no longer warranted. “I will look forward to accompanying you on the journey home.”
Hope stirred again, that foolish, foolish emotion she had no business feeling. It was sure to do her in.
“Thank you. I know Malcolm has given Domhnaill and any of my inheritance to Duncan, but I still have hope of finding a place with my sister.” She did not mention she planned to be sure wedding vows never took place between her sister and Culcanon. And if they already had, Edwina would surmount that obstacle when she came to it.
Cullen frowned a moment before voices from the hall grew louder. Men approached their corridor. Seizing her again, Cullen placed a h
and about her waist and guided her into a nook she thought was another hall but as her knee hit a wooden rim of some sort, she realized they had ducked into the well shaft positioned at the outer corner of a tower. A stairwell loomed above and below them while buckets lined the floor of the shaft for easy access to water.
But then her confusion dispersed when Cullen’s hand lingered on her hip, his body pressed close so he could speak quietly in her ear.
“Shh,” he warned, his warm breath a caress through her hair that would have sent her into a swoon if she thought she could do so quietly.
Vaguely, she wondered why he sought to hide his presence. Did he not wish to be spotted with her? The thought hurt enough to dull her pleasure in his nearness. Then her disappointment was chased away by Henry’s voice on the other side of the thick timber wall.
“She loves another anyhow,” Henry confided dully to whomever he walked with. “She only used me to return to Scotland, but she says her heart is for another.”
Her eyes widened. There could be no mistaking the voice. Even Cullen would recognize that Norman accent since the keep was full of Scots. Their foot steps receded, leaving their world quiet except for the distant murmur of water deep within the well below.
Her eyes went to Cullen’s in the shadowed darkness lit only by a shaft of moonlight through an exterior window and a bit of reflected torchlight from the corridor outside the open door.
Would he guess who she cared for? His pale eyes remained inscrutable while his heart hammered her chest.
She opened her mouth to speak—whether to confess or deny the truth, she did not know, for Cullen spoke first.
“Malcolm did not give Domhnaill to Duncan.”
It took her a moment to recall their conversation. She’d been so rattled by Henry’s revelation of her feelings for Cullen.
When she retraced their talk, everything inside her stilled. All thoughts of indulging her own feelings died.
“He did not?” She thought back to Cristiana’s letter. There could be no mistaking her sister’s belief that the keep had gone to Duncan by royal decree. “Then he told a falsehood of mammoth proportions to my family.”
And he’d given her a way to ensure a marriage was not valid if arranged under false pretense. Cristiana had more reason than ever to break a betrothal to him.
“I do not know what happened, but I have been at Malcolm’s side long enough to know he endorsed Duncan’s rule at Domhnaill, but he would have considered other strong knights if they had the might and means to safeguard those lands.”
Betrayal echoed through her as dark and bottomless as the well. A Culcanon had played them false once again.
She looked up entreatingly at him as she gripped the front of his tunic.
“We must hurry to Domhnaill with all haste.” Her objective clear, she was spurred to action. “We have a wedding to stop.”
Chapter Thirteen
“M other, I am a real warrior now,” Leah called from her perch on Duncan’s lap, waving a sword fashioned of two flat pieces of wood strapped together with the leather tie from Duncan’s saddlebag.
They lingered beside a shallow creek just beyond the Culcanon town walls, where Duncan had treated them to a ride through freshly fallen snow to give them an outing and some fresh air. They’d paused beside the frozen creek bank so Leah could slide and play on the ice. Now Duncan amused her while he sat on an old, dead log, making toy weapons of war.
“You are fearsome indeed,” Cristiana called back, surprised to recognize the warm feeling in her chest.
Happiness. Contentment.
Some few, precious days had passed since the night Cristiana confessed her attraction to Duncan. By night, he came to her and touched her, inspiring seemingly limitless passion. She caught herself daydreaming about their nights during the day, her wayward thoughts bringing hot color to her cheeks at the most inappropriate times.
Duncan had asked her to take a step toward building trust between them and she had done so. In truth, he had not asked her for anything she did not gladly provide. Lying beside him when darkness fell was a pleasure matched only by moments like this when she watched him charm Leah, patiently demonstrating how to wield her sturdy blade of tree bark.
“She need not fear bad men now.” Duncan picked up Leah and spun her around before returning to the horses for their return to the keep. “What knave would dare to approach a maid so fierce?”
Duncan sat Leah on his saddle before throwing his own leg over the beast’s back. Cristiana had already mounted, her fingers numb from lingering in winter’s chill.
She appreciated Duncan’s reassuring words and hoped they were true. Leah had not slept well in the days that followed their trip to Culcanon, frequently dreaming of bad men coming for them. Perhaps the sight of her wooden sword beside her pallet each night would help her feel safe.
“Thank you.” Cristiana mouthed the words to him over Leah’s head as they turned their horses around.
“She will be fine,” he returned softly, mindful of the child’s ears as she stroked his horse’s mane with the side of her new toy. “It is not in her nature to be fearful. She will rest well if she believes in her own strength.”
“You have been so good to her.” Cristiana wondered if he understood how much the girl already admired and cared for him. Affection could swell so quickly when unchecked by the wisdom of age.
Or was it the cynicism of advancing age?
Cristiana envied the carefree joy of child-like love even as she recalled how much it hurt to have those feelings betrayed.
“Not nearly as sweet as she has been to me,” Duncan argued, his voice quiet as he rode close enough to her that their legs brushed against each other now and then. “’Tis humbling to know a child’s love.”
His thoughts were so aligned with hers she wondered how they ever disagreed to the point where they needed to dissolve their relationship completely. She studied him in the pale sunlight, his handsome features the sort that would stand the test of time.
“How much longer will we be here?” She had not bothered to ask him about the future since their initial arguments about the marriage. They still had not spoken their vows in front of a priest. “Donegal has not bothered any travelers these last few nights, so there is no one to fight. Besides, if we return to Domhnaill, I can help you find your treasure.”
The clomp of the horses’ hooves echoed in the frosty air.
“Moving you now could be risky.” Duncan’s gaze tracked the horizon in a habit she recognized from their journey here. “Donegal does not have many men, so he must resort to scattered attacks to reduce my numbers. He is out there, and he will strike again. I fear for your sister if she truly attempts the trek home now.”
Everything within her went still.
“I did not warn her.” She’d written to Edwina of all the happenings with Duncan, excited for her sister to return home, but she had not referenced Donegal’s recent attacks and thievery. “At the time I didn’t even know—”
“She will be escorted.” Duncan steered his mount toward the drawbridge leading into Culcanon’s second story. Cristiana’s followed. “And not many men would risk travel up the east coast in winter. Edwina may have no choice but to wait until spring.”
Cristiana tried to picture her sister biding her time patiently until the thaw, and could not. In the few letters they had exchanged over the years, Edwina had seemed as bold as ever—the same untamed spirit as Leah, honed with a woman’s strength.
No doubt, Edwina made her way toward Domhnaill even as Donegal ran roughshod over unsuspecting travelers. What would he do if he happened upon her on a deserted forest road?
The horses’ hooves echoed hollowly on the draw bridge, the sound vibrating dully through her.
“Edwina will not wait.” She looked to Duncan, realizing how much she had come to rely on him already. Away from her home and her people, she had little choice, of course. But Duncan had more than earned her faith in his
sword arm and his ability to protect her. “I pray you are almost ready to seek out your brother and bring an end to his crimes.”
As they reached the courtyard, Leah’s nurse approached, a young maid who had followed them to Culcanon with their trunks a few days after their arrival. She reached up to take the child, though she frowned in worry at the sight of Leah’s new toy.
Duncan did not answer her until the little girl had been whisked away for a morsel in the kitchen. Only then did he swing down off his horse and move to help Cristiana to the ground.
“I had hoped to gather more men. Building protective forces for two keeps requires many blades and assembling a riding party strong enough to hunt an outlaw means we need still more.” His hands fit securely around her waist, the warmth of his touch far more decadent than her layers of rich fabrics, heating her skin in contrast to the words that chilled her insides with fear. “But if you truly think Edwina rides this way—”
“I do.” She leaned into his strength, trusting him in this regard. “I would stake my life upon it.”
He lowered her slowly, allowing her soft curves to graze the hard surface of his chain-mail-covered chest. Her breath caught in spite of herself, in spite of the seriousness of their discussion. The horses and men, hay carts and wood bearers, all faded away in the courtyard.
“I would not have you stake your life on a simple wager, wife.”
Her heart sped at the heated look in his eyes. He brushed over her lips. A light, passing graze of his mouth, but it was more than he’d ever claimed from her in public.
“Very well.” He released her as she realized her feet now touched the hard-packed earth. “I will assemble men to take on the task. We will leave at dawn to rid the roads of this scourge.”
Like a balm to her soul, the vow wound around her as securely as his arms had moments ago. With effort on both sides, they were rebuilding trust between them, just as he’d said they would.
Trust would not come overnight, but perhaps with time, it would yet return.
