Warrior's Lady

by Gerri Russell

  "Welcome back." He applied a damp cloth to her temples. She drew a deep breath, savoring the deliciousness of his scent, holding it in her memory for what remained of her days.

  Or hours…

  "Plague!" She bolted upright.

  With a gentle hand he caught her shoulder, stroked her arm. "It's gone."

  She stared at him, startled. "How long have I been in here with you?"

  "Only a few short hours." His hands drifted down her arms to settle at her waist. "And you were quite talkative."

  Rhiannon stared down at her chest, her arms. The red rash and the large purple and black spots were gone. "What did I tell you?" she asked, grateful she had been healed, but unsettled by her loose tongue. She could remember nothing.

  "You told me about your mother. And you mentioned a few things about your father. But most important, you told me that you loved me."

  Silence descended between them and she heard the crackle of flames in the grate and smelled the musky sweetness of burning peat. She was safe, and well. "Did I really say that?"

  He nodded, and for the first time she saw a fragile vulnerability in the warmth of his eyes. "Was it a feverish imagining, or the truth?"

  Rhiannon did not want to hide her thoughts or her emotions any longer. The plague outbreak had taught her one thing: life was short. And she was no longer afraid to reach for what she wanted.

  "I have always told you the truth. I fell in love with you in the cottage that day."

  His fingers stroked the curve of her cheek. "I love you. With my body if you will have it, my heart if you will trust it, my soul if you will take it into your safekeeping."

  Rhiannon choked back tears at the touching words of the Celtic prayer. The scent of him, the feel of him, the taste of him combined to send her senses spinning, reeling out of control. His words echoed in her mind. He loved her.

  Camden shifted to sit beside her. "I had feared I'd lost you." He put a hand behind her head and lowered her to the pillow, his mouth following her down, kissing her with tenderness and passion.

  He pulled back to study her face a long moment later. "Why did you not leave when you saw the plague?"

  "I loved you, Violet, and even your people too much to leave you without help."

  His expression clouded. "My people were not always kind to you."

  The love swelled in her heart and she could not resist stealing a tender kiss from his lips. "Nay, they were not. But you were, once you chose to accept me." She traced the cleft in his chin with her finger. Her hands rippled down his neck, to his chest, to his waist to release the yards of pleated tartan from around his waist before she grasped the ends of his shirt and tugged it over his head.

  She sighed appreciatively as her hands slipped over the hardened planes of his chest. She scooted up and leaned forward, allowing her hair to brush across his skin, teasing his nipples to erectness.

  Her mouth gently closed around the hard bud of his nipple and she sampled it with slow, swirling probes of her tongue. At his groan of pleasure she slid further down his body, allowing her lips to explore the flat surface of his belly, and to nip playfully at the rigid steel of his muscles.

  "What a seductress you are." He pulled her back up along the ridges of his chest and twined his hands in the long strands of her hair, forcing her head to arch gently back. "Shall I seduce you as you have me?" His mouth came down to plunder the creamy flesh of her throat, the top of her breasts. She relished the feel of his hands upon her flesh, exploring her mysteries, revealing her need. She wanted his heat. She wanted his strength. She wanted to feel healthy and whole again.

  Her lips boldly caressed his, her tongue greedily wanting to know the taste and feel of him.

  He dragged her into his arms, pulling her tight against the hollow of his hips and she felt the hardness of his arousal against her. With urgent hands, he pushed her chemise off her shoulders and lowered his head to her exposed breasts. He taunted first one, then the other.

  A hot shiver went through her. She arched her back again, thrusting her breasts forward. On a moan of pure pleasure, she coiled her hands in his hair, freeing it from the leather queue at his nape, curling her fingers around his neck, urging him on.

  With a deep-throated groan, he pulled back and pushed her linen chemise down past the rounded softness of her hips. He followed the garment down, his hands on her thighs, his thumbs stroking the golden thatch of downy curls, parting her flesh, probing her intimately with his tongue.

  She cried out as pleasure gripped her and pushed shamelessly, eagerly, as sensation after sensation burned through her. Her body felt weak, drugged as she looked down at his dark head.

  "Please." It was all she could say as an all-consuming heat moved through her.

  He settled between her thighs. "Are you well enough for this?" he asked, his voice raw, his eyes as dark as midnight.

  "Oh, yes." Her voice broke with emotion.

  He plunged deep, reaching the quick of her.

  Instead of stroking her need, he remained still, as he lavished her neck, her ears, her collarbone with a volley of tender erotic kisses.

  She clutched his shoulders, feeling the sweet frustration and tension mounting within her as he manipulated her body to a fever pitch. She felt as though she had to move or she would shatter into pieces. She began to shake as tremor after tremor pulsed through her with unfulfilled need. "Camden." His name was a cry of desperation that set him into motion.

  His rhythm was hard, wild, swift and tumultuous as he filled her again and again with a desperate hunger that was as out of control as her own.

  Her head thrashed back and forth on the pillow as she tried to keep from crying out at the intensity of the passion shuddering through every muscle, every nerve of her body. He was shaking too, she realized dimly, as she brought her hands down to his hips and met each thrust with an eagerness she did not know she possessed.

  His breathing was harsh, he shivered and quaked uncontrollably as an urgency born of blood and fire overtook them both. He moved hard, faster, deeper until he cried out and threw his head back, his neck arching, his body going rigid.

  In that moment their pleasure peaked, exploded in a fiery release that robbed her of both reason and sanity. He plunged once more, as deep as life and breath itself as they soared together into a place of sheer ecstasy.

  They lay there limp, unable to move even the tiniest muscle, entwined in each other's arms for several silent moments, until their breathing steadied and the cool moisture of the room caressed their heated flesh.

  "I love you," he whispered as he placed a kiss upon her temple.

  "Why?" she asked with a touch of wonderment. "After everything my family put you through, how could you—"

  He put a finger to her lips. "The past is just that. Let's leave it behind and start anew."

  She nodded. A warm glow rippled through her at the thought of a new beginning.

  He met her gaze, his eyes warm and sincere. "Marry me? Stay with Violet and me forever."

  "Violet?" She startled. "Is she well? She didn't—"

  "Violet is fine. She is eager to see you when you feel up to it."

  Relieved, Rhiannon reached out and took his hands. She laced her fingers through his. "Will Violet agree to our marriage?"

  He nodded. "She is very much in favor of your remaining here."

  "Then, yes. I will marry you."

  "On the morrow. I would claim you today, but this day must be for the dead."

  She searched his taut gaze. "Why such haste?"

  "I love you, isn't that reason enough?"

  The past day and many hours of pain had shown her over and over again to embrace the moment. Life was too precious to waste when one never knew when it would end. "Aye, love is reason enough. But where will we find a priest? I sent a summons to Glasgow, but no one has come. And I would not trust the bishop to help us."

  A smile returned to his face. "Hush, my love. We will work it all out, you'll see."


  "But—"

  He silenced her with a kiss. "Is that the only way I can keep you quiet?"

  She ceased her anxious questioning and smiled. "I can think of less pleasurable ways to spend our time."

  "Agreed." He stood and gazed down at her ragged clothes. "We should burn all the clothing, bedding, and blankets that anyone who was sickened by the plague used. That includes your dress. Just to be safe."

  She nodded. "I will miss it because you gave it to me, but I understand."

  Rhiannon moved to the wardrobe to retrieve the green gown Mistress Faulkner had made for her. She quickly dressed, watching in fascination as he laid his tartan on the floor, folding it with quick precise movements before he lay upon it, belting the fabric around his waist, then stood.

  Her gaze lingered on his well-muscled body appreciatively. "Suddenly I find the idea of marrying you on the morrow very appealing. Shall we?" She motioned for the door.

  On his deep-throated chuckle, they headed out of her chamber and to the great hall. Once there, Rhiannon's mood immediately sobered as her gaze fell upon the rows of shrouded bodies lining the wall. A raw and primitive grief overwhelmed her. She released an anguished sob.

  Camden came to stand behind her, pulling her back against his chest. "So many lost." He shook his head.

  "For a moment upstairs, I had almost forgotten."

  He kissed the top of her head before moving away to join Orrin who crouched beside the bodies.

  "Twenty-two are dead." Orrin stood, his gaze anguished. "In a matter of hours…"

  "How many were spared because of the Charm Stone? We have to focus on that."

  Orrin nodded. "The men rounded up several people in the surrounding hillsides and brought them back here to be treated. I am fairly certain we have contained the illness."

  Camden clapped Orrin on the back as he shifted his gaze to Rhiannon. "That's good news."

  "'Tis about time something uplifting came to this castle," Orrin stated, his tone relieved.

  "Then you should also know that Rhiannon has agreed to marry me." The smile in his eyes when he looked back to Rhiannon contained a sensuous flame that brought heat to her cheeks.

  A slow smile lit Orrin's weary face. "It's about time the two of you stopped fighting and realized you were meant for each other. When?"

  Camden's expression sobered. "We have much to do here to set things to right. I will need everyone who is able to help build a funeral pyre for the twenty-two who have died. We must show them our respect before continuing on with our lives."

  Orrin nodded his agreement. "Rhys has already built a pyre on the hillside to the west of the castle."

  Camden nodded. "Very well, then." He turned back to Rhiannon. "Will you see to Lady Violet? The last I saw her, she was in the kitchen with Mistress Faulkner."

  "Mistress Faulkner lives?" Relieved tears came to her eyes. She quickly turned away and headed out the door of the keep and to the kitchen building beyond.

  As Camden watched her go, his emotions shifted from elation to dread. "Do I tell her, Orrin?"

  Orrin's gaze snapped back to Camden's. "Tell her what?"

  "That I set out to have her murdered? That I was responsible for her nearly burning at the stake? That I am the one who may have killed her brothers?"

  A deep frown cut across Orrin's face. "For centuries marriages have been founded on lies."

  "I made a vow that I would never lie to her," Camden replied in a low, tormented voice.

  "Only you and I and the assassin know the truth. The assassin is dead by your own hand. And I vow never to tell anyone." Orrin shook his head. "Your secret is safe."

  Camden knew he could trust Orrin. What his friend had done with the Stone had been out of a desire to help, not maliciousness.

  There was no way for her to find out about what he had done. And even so, a deep feeling of unease rippled through him. Could he live the rest of his life, knowing that he had deliberately withheld that information? Should he tell her and risk losing her?

  He had one day to decide. Before they married, he would have to reconcile his deeds in his own heart.

  The bishop opened his eyes to see the faces of seven men hovering over him. Had he died? Was this his last reckoning before his fate was decided? He stared up into each face, praying as he did that they could see only the goodness in his heart, and not the villainy that had taken root inside him since he'd been passed over for recognition by Robert the Bruce.

  "He's awake," a voice from above said softly.

  "Why doesn't he speak? Is he damaged in some way?" another voice asked.

  "Get away from the bed, all of you." He recognized that voice. His mother. He suddenly noted the golden light of the setting sun. So he wasn't in heaven after all.

  He struggled to sit up as consciousness burned through the haze in his mind. The Stone. He fumbled in the deep folds, but came up empty.

  One of the gray-haired men frowned at him. "Is he still feverish?"

  His mother hobbled up to his bedside and shooed the men back. The bishop stared in awe at her neck, her face. The rash had vanished. The boils were gone, and a curious spark missing for years had returned to her gray eyes. "He's fine." Her gaze pierced his with a warning. "You had a fever, nothing more. Now get up, and greet the Church council properly."

  "The Church council?" His plan. His revenge. They had arrived. He leaned against the wooden headboard of the bed, felt the bite of the elaborately carved wood against his back.

  He reached out and touched the wrinkled skin that lined his mother's face. "You are better."

  Her gaze narrowed on his face. She sniffed as though insulted. "Only by some miracle did I escape the abuse of that mad man."

  He knitted his brows, confused. "You what?"

  She turned away from the bed, addressing the men who hovered nearby. "My Harold suffered under his assault as I did myself. Can you not see that?"

  The oldest of the men stepped forward. A heavy frown creased his deeply lined face. "We have heard your story. Now we need to understand your son's. Bishop Berwick, tell us what has happened here. And why would you place the burden of witchcraft on a supposedly young and innocent child?"

  Unease crept up the bishop's spine as he took in the severe faces of the seven men who surrounded his bed. What had his mother told them? "I—"

  "Just tell them, Harold, that Lord Lockhart burst into our home, killed our warriors, and threatened to murder us unless you revoked your charge of witchcraft against the Lockhart child."

  That was not what had happened. He paused as his brain scrambled to find a way to make this situation work in his favor. And then, he found it. He straightened, pushed the covers away from his legs and sat up, swinging his legs over his bedside. "Why don't we all go ask Lockhart for his version of the truth?" Or at least whatever version of the truth would place the Charm Stone back in his own possession and dangle Lockhart from the hangman's noose.

  He would have that Stone. He would have everything that was his due.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The glow of the flames changed the night sky into a vignette of red and orange. The huge funeral pyre had been made to hold all twenty-two bodies. The wood beneath was also piled with the bedding and clothing and anything that could be fouled by the disease that had wracked their home.

  Camden gave a final blessing in the tongue of the ancients. Sorrow burned in his chest as he stared at the macabre, obscene beauty of his people returning to their Maker. Acrid wisps of smoke drifted around the living who had gathered upon the hillside to send their kin on their way. They had all worked the rest of the day through to make their home secure once more.

  On one side of him, Rhiannon gently took his arm in a protective clasp. Violet stood on the other side, holding his hand. The two women he had never known he wanted in his life, yet they made him feel things he had always dreamed of, but never dared to hope for all those years ago while he had been a prisoner in a faraway land. He
wanted to know all the things that love was meant to be. He wanted children, to be a father, to give Violet everything she might miss by not ever truly knowing her own parents.

  He wanted to fully live whatever time he had left upon this earth, with a clear conscience and a clean heart.

  He had to tell Rhiannon the truth. And then he had to convince her to stay with him. The task would not be easy, but it was necessary; he knew that now. "Rhiannon, I must speak with you when we return to the castle."

  Her brow knitted. "Is everything all right?"

  "It will be very soon." His tone held all the resolution he longed for in his soul. By this evening, he prayed all would be as it should be.

  "You're trembling." Camden tightened his arm around Rhiannon's shoulders as they walked back into the great hall.

  She gave him a small smile. "I suppose I am."

  "Why? Do you fear returning to the castle after all you have endured here?"

  She shook her head. "Nay. If anything, the plague has proved to me that I have strength I did not know I possessed."

  He frowned. "Then what frightens you so?"

  "It's not my fear, but yours that worries me." She looked up into his eyes and he saw the vulnerability he had seen there upon their first meeting. "I heard the fear in your voice outside. You wished to speak with me?"

  He offered her a solemn nod. "You are very observant."

  She came to a stop in the middle of the hall as the others filed in around them. "Tell me now."

  "Rhiannon—"

  "Visitors at the gate." One of the guards raced into the room, his breathing hard, his face flushed. "They are asking for Lord Lockhart." His eyes widened. "There are eight men and one woman."

  Camden released a soft imprecation at the untimely interruption.

  "'Tis the Church council, the Bishop Berwick, and his mother."

  Camden set his lips grimly. His gaze lingered on Rhiannon's face for a moment before he moved past her. "We'll talk later. Go upstairs with Lady Violet. That man means to make trouble. As if he hasn't done enough already."