My Noble Knight

by Cynthia Breeding

  “Certes not,” Angus said gallantly. “We were only about to start.” He waved at the servants, waiting with full trays. “Bring the food.”

  As they quickly made their way among the tables, conversations resumed. Soon, the high table was groaning beneath heaping platters of boar, venison, and mutton. Steamed salmon and pickled eel came next, accompanied by roast peacock and swan. A jellied broth was ladled into silver bowls and set before them. Puddings and warm bread were passed, and a tray of apples and pears appeared.

  Deidre hardly ate. Elen looked wan and preoccupied and Deidre tried, in vain, to engage her in conversation so she wouldn’t have to listen to the outrageous flirtation that was taking place next to her.

  Formorian was a virtual maestro. Her light chatter and tinkling laugh had both men vying for her attention. She played them like harp strings, resting her hand on her husband’s thigh while she listened attentively to whatever story Angus was telling. Turius couldn’t see her face, turned away from him, but Deidre could. The queen’s eyes smoldered and her gaze slowly went to Angus’s mouth, and then she turned back to her husband. To Deidre’s surprise, Angus seemed amused by it.

  She sighed. The feast and entertainment were more lavish than anything Childebert ever attempted. There were acrobats entertaining the diners, and a lone harpist in the corner, and she couldn’t enjoy any of it. Not with poor Lady Elen having to listen to the sounds of her husband’s laughter over some jest that Formorian made.

  Deidre turned her attention to the harper, a striking young man with golden hair that fell to his shoulders. Slim, yet well-proportioned, he gave the appearance of elegant gracefulness. Long, slender fingers plucked a haunting melody, soft and low, that slowly built to a frenzied pitch. Deidre envisioned heather moors and sky-colored burns weaving through the crags of the Highlands. The music lived with a soul of its own.

  Gilead rejoined the table. She turned to him. “Who is the harpist?”

  For a moment she wasn’t sure he’d answer, for he still looked upset with her. All she’d done was try to help, for Heaven’s sake. How was she to know Turius was married to someone Venus would envy?

  Finally, he said, “That’s Drustan. Turius brought him along on a trip here a few years ago and Mother took a liking to his music.”

  “I can see why. But if he’s Briton, why does he stay here?”

  Gilead shrugged. “At the time, he had no place else to go. Turius was fighting in the far South and found him stowing away on one of the ships. Apparently, his uncle had caught him…uh, in a compromising circumstance. Drus was inclined to want to keep his head attached to the rest of him.”

  Deidre was intrigued. “He looks more angel than devil.”

  That brought a mocking laugh. “Aye. The lassies fall for it ne’r every time.”

  She bristled. Just because Drustan could play the harp like Gabriel’s trumpet, didn’t mean she was some addle-witted wench. “I meant the music…it speaks to me. I can feel the entire rugged outdoors, smell the grass and heather, feel the sun warm on my face, the wind cool in my hair…” She paused, for Gilead was watching her strangely.

  “Aye, lass. Talent he has, but be thankful he’s in a good mood, for the sound can turn blae when he’s not. It be wild and mournful then, as dark and cold as the north wind that howls down the mountains in the winter.”

  “What makes him angry?”

  Gilead grinned. “Women. Or, more like, the lack of one. Since Drus claims he lost his real love, he dinna like a cold bed.”

  Do you? Deidre bit her lip to keep from asking. They were finally having a conversation, and she liked the direction this was heading. Definitely. “And who was his true love?”

  He sobered suddenly. “His uncle’s wife.” He looked past her to his mother, and then on to Angus. A scowl crossed his face and he abruptly stood. “Excuse me, I need to attend to something.”

  Deidre sat bewildered. One moment he had been friendly, and the next, cold as the depths of a loch. And now he marched off. With an effort, she turned her attention to Angus; he had ignored his wife throughout dinner, enthralled with the charms of the flame-haired queen.

  “Would you like to leave?” Deidre whispered to Elen. “Dinner’s over.” Even as she said it, servants were carrying away empty platters while others were pushing trestle tables and benches to the side, clearing a wide space in the center of the Hall.

  “I canna,” Elen said. “My place is by my husband’s side at such events.”

  A husband who’d barely glanced at her. Deidre felt a lump rising in her throat. Poor Lady Elen. Did she think the men would stop vying for Formorian’s favor if she stayed? Or worse…that Angus would take the next step if Elen left? She really wasn’t looking at all well, but there was a determined look on her face as she ignored Formorian. Deidre nearly gasped at the insight. Elen might be afraid of her husband, but she still loved him!

  Just then, Angus rapped his golden goblet sharply on the table and gestured to the pipers hovering in a corner. “Music! Let the dancing begin!” He looked at Elen with some reluctance. “Would ye honor me with the first dance, wife?”

  Elen colored faintly. “Ye know it tires me.”

  Angus leaned down. “It would seem everything tires ye these days.”

  Deidre gaped at him, then narrowed her eyes. Anyone could see Elen wasn’t up to dancing. “You’ve ignored her all night; why don’t you leave her alone?”

  He straightened, his eyes turning darker as he studied her. Then he abruptly grasped her hand. “Ye and I have some talking to do. Let’s dance.”

  Deidre started to protest, but his grip was firm and the hand on her back propelled her forward. “I don’t know how to dance like this!”

  “Nae? Then I’ll teach ye.” Angus spun her around, an arm about her waist and nodded to the bagpipers.

  They struck a lively tune and soon the floor was awash in a swirling pattern of bright plaid kilts and colorful gowns. Deidre stumbled once, on a turn, but Angus expertly balanced her. She had to admit that he was a good dancer and didn’t hold her too closely, either. Which was really good, since Formorian swept by with Turius and gave her more than a curious look. Deidre had no inclination to get tangled with her. She was thinking she could survive this dance when he spoke.

  “I’ll not be having ye criticize my relationship with my wife.”

  “You don’t have a relationship,” she started to say, and then bit her lip. His voice was flat and low. Deidre recognized the barely concealed anger. When she looked up at him, his face was impassive, but his eyes bore through her.

  “Understood, lass?”

  She took a deep breath, knowing she had overstepped her bounds. “Understood.”

  “Good.” He swung her toward the sidelines and released her. “I’ll leave ye in good hands then.”

  She turned and nearly bumped into the one man she didn’t want to see.

  “Did the laird warm ye up for me?” Niall asked with a smirk.

  Deidre backed away from him. “I must tend to Lady Elen.”

  He grabbed her wrist and jerked her toward him, his other arm going around her waist and pressing her against him.

  “Let go of me!” Deidre balled her fists and pushed at him.

  “Nae, lassie. We will dance.” He gave her a lecherous smile and moved onto the dance floor, pulling her with him.

  “I told you. I have to see to Gilead’s mother.”

  “His mother be attended. Look.” He nodded his head toward the table where Sheila sat with Elen. He brushed his whiskers against Deidre’s cheek and she drew back in alarm. He laughed. “No need to be shy, lass. We be handfasted.”

  “We are not!” Vainly she tried pushing away from him again, but only stumbled as he made a turn. He caught her, crushing her to him.

  “Aye, we are. Angus agreed to it.”

  “Then he can marry you,” Deidre exploded, “for I will not!”

  Niall’s eyes narrowed and he tightened his grip on her
hand. She gasped. The pressure he was exerting was enough to break a bone. “Let— ”

  “Nae, I wilna.” He grinned, but it looked more menacing than it did friendly. “Ye will wed me.”

  “Never!”

  He twisted her wrist and Deidre bit her lip to keep from crying out in pain. She was sure it would be swollen tomorrow, if not worse. She looked around desperately for help. Angus was dancing with Formorian, oblivious to anything going on around him. Gilead was near his mother, but Janet was hanging on to his arm, looking up at him adoringly. Merde! Not a chivalrous knight in sight. She was beginning to think the magician had played a monstrous trick on her by leaving The Book. She was definitely in need of rescue. Now would be nice.

  She forced a smile, hoping Niall would relax his hold on her hand before she heard something snap. It worked, and she bent her wrist slightly, testing it. “Angus told me you are the son of an Eire king. I’m sure there are a lot of women who would be happy to wed you. Women who would submit to you willingly.”

  His eyebrows arched at that and he gave an evil chuckle. “Aye. More than enough are willing. It’s ye I want.”

  Deidre ground her teeth. This was becoming tedious. “Why?”

  He leaned closer and she could smell the whisky on his breath. She forced herself not to grimace. If he would just loosen his hold a little more…

  “Because I like breaking wild mares. Ye were feisty last night and this morn’s bit of shooting roused me fierce. Ye’ll do fine warming my bed.”

  “I’ve no intentions of warming your bed!” Deidre choked back a whimper as he seized her arm, nearly wrenching it.

  “Is that so? I let Angus talk me into not bedding ye until Lugnasad, but he said naught about a wee kiss for my bride.” He rubbed his whiskers against her cheek again, seeking her mouth.

  Deidre whipped her head to the side and pushed at him with all her might. “Stop it! Let me go!”

  “Ye heard the lady.”

  Gilead. Deidre nearly collapsed with relief. Her knight had come, after all.

  Niall slowly released her and stared at Gilead through slitted eyes. “Be wary, lad. This be twice now that ye’ve come between me and what I wanted.”

  Gilead stood firm, his eyes locked with Niall’s. “I don’t think it’s what the lady wanted.” He turned to Deidre. “Do ye want to dance with this man?”

  She shook her head numbly and then found her voice. “I…I’d like some fresh air, I think.”

  He nodded. “Let me escort ye, then.” Gilead took her hand and tucked it inside his arm, his fingers strong and warm and reassuring.

  “Thank you,” Deidre said as they stepped outside into the cool evening air.

  He gave her a half smile. “Ye dinna seem to be having a good time.”

  She involuntarily shuddered. That was a slight understatement.

  “Are ye cold?” Without waiting for a reply, he slipped off his jacket and pressed it about her shoulders.

  The coat enveloped her, the clean, spicy scent of him filling her nostrils, burying her in a cocoon of safety. A warm glow spread over her.

  “Would ye like to walk the battlements?” he asked. “The view is good on a clear night like this.”

  Deidre nodded and they climbed the stairs and rested their arms on the embrasure between two merlons. The full moon had risen, sending its silver light over a wide stretch of countryside. Her eyes followed the pale winding road as it led down toward the small path that twisted its way to the forest and last night’s bonfire. She breathed in the night scent of pine and watched as an owl floated silently past them from a tower.

  “It’s so peaceful up here,” she said.

  “Aye,” Gilead answered, gazing off into the distance. “I fear it won’t be for long, if Fergus has his way.”

  “Your father mentioned him,” Deidre said. “Is he so powerful, then?”

  He looked down at her, his eyes like midnight sapphire. “My da has received reports from our scouts that Fergus is amassing men. That means he plans to move soon. This summer, most like. ’Tis why Turius is here. He was most successful in clearing the Caledonian Woods of Saxons several years ago. The people there will rally to him, if not my father, for he let them keep their lands. And, he knows the best places to lie in ambush and the safest places to store weapons and hide campsites.” Gilead smiled ironically. “Because of a greedy Scotti we have a Briton king abiding with us.”

  “And his queen,” Deidre said softly.

  “His queen,” Gilead said with a trace of bitterness, “could very well launch another war.”

  “How so? Because she flirts? Turius seems to take that in stride.” Indeed, Deidre had watched him rather closely, since Angus and Formorian made no effort to mask their interest in each other. Turius had seemed oblivious.

  “For now,” Gilead answered. “Turius values her skills as a warrior and the alliance with her father more than her…ah, other assets.”

  Deidre’s eyes widened. “She really fights?” She had a hard time imagining that feminine physique pulling a bow or lifting a sword.

  “Don’t let her looks fool ye. She’s a hellion in the saddle and nimble of foot and quick as a cat in swordplay. Those slender arms are like bands of steel.” Gilead frowned. “Or so my father says.”

  Deidre hesitated for a moment and then asked, “Is your father’s interest in her more than solicitous?”

  “Aye.” Gilead put his hands in fists and pummeled the wall. “They draw to each other like lightning to metal. I tried to talk to Da about it once and he told me it was ne’r my business and cuffed my ear to make sure I understood. Now, I just try to keep them apart when I can.”

  “And I made it worse by changing the seating arrangements. I’m so sorry.” A sob caught in her throat and she asked softly, “How long has this been going on?” Poor Elen. Did she know?

  “Eons it seems. They were keen to marry long before I was born, but it dinna happen.”

  Deidre blinked. Gilead was near her age. Twenty-five years or more was a long time to love another man’s wife. “What happened?”

  He sighed. “King Gabran’s lands—her father’s lands—lay directly to the south of Fergus Mor and north of the Wall. Turius’s father, Ambrose, ruled most of northern Britain from Luguvalium. To hold off Fergus, Gabran needed the Briton’s help, but he didn’t want to put himself into a position to have his lands confiscated by Ambrose, so he offered a pact. Marriage of his daughter to the Briton king’s son. Neither of them was happy with it, for Turius had designs on a pagan priestess, but it was done.”

  Deidre thought about it. Perhaps that was why Angus didn’t listen to her when she said she would not handfast with Niall. He had lost his own love. She wondered how he’d met Elen or why he’d married her. They seemed to have little in common.

  She placed her hand on Gilead’s. “Your poor mother. Does she know?” She heard his quick intake of breath and then his hand covered hers, sending another heat wave coursing through her.

  “She didn’t, for years. I always wondered why my father paid so many visits to Turius. If my father was seeing Formorian, he had the sense not to bring her here. I think my mother knows now, although I try to shield her from it.” Gilead looked back out into the night. “These visits go hard with her, especially since she has not been well.”

  “Has she always been so…fragile?”

  “Nae. She’s always had a gentle nature, but when I was a child, she was full of laughter; she loved playing Catch My Shadow.”

  It was hard to imagine Elen full of energy, lifting her skirts to run after her child in the sunlight, stepping on his shadow. “What happened?” Deidre asked softly.

  “About two years ago, we started having trouble with the Saxons. Octa first, until Turius’s army cleaned out the woods. Now other barbarians threaten our eastern shores. My father thought it wise to enlist Turius’s help to hold them back. Conveniently, his warrior queen accompanied him. My mother fell ill shortly after that.”r />
  Deidre frowned. She could understand Elen’s spirits falling if she suspected what might be going on, but her illness seemed more physical than in her head. “Did Formorian actually do something to her? Hurt her in some way?”

  “Nae. Not that I know of. In fact, her healer gave my mother a brew that seemed to revive her quickly and took away the pain she sometimes feels in her joints.”

  Deidre remembered the concoction from that morning. “Brena? If she worked for Turius, why is she here?”

  “She dinna like Britain. Said she was a Scotti at heart and asked to stay with us.” Gilead shrugged. “Our own physician had died but the day before they were to return, so Da agreed to keep her. She has proved her worth.” He laced his fingers with hers. “I think ye will be good for my mother. She likes ye.”

  Heat seared through her veins at that companionable touch. It felt so very comfortable—so right. His mother. They were talking about his mother. She needed to focus. “I like your mother, too, and I’ll try to protect her from having to put up with Formorian as well. Do you think they’ll stay long?”

  He sighed, his thumb absently tracing a pattern along the side of her hand, sending further tingles straight to the faint pulsation that was beginning at the vee of her thighs. “I hope not. They have the clan council meeting on the morrow. I tire of Niall’s company, too. I don’t like the way he presses himself on ye.”

  Niall. She’d forgotten about him while talking to Gilead. Somehow, she had to make Angus understand she would not marry the man.

  Gilead tilted her chin toward him with his free hand. “What’s wrong? Ye look grim of a sudden.”

  She didn’t want to spoil the moment. Not when he was looking at her like this. Not when that sensual thumb was sending erotic messages to her brain…and elsewhere. “It’s nothing,” she said.

  He bent closer, looking intently into her eyes. Lord, she felt like her knees might just dissolve into a mass of quivering jelly.

  “Tell me,” he said softly.

  A girl really could drown trying to swim in the deep blue depths of his eyes. They mesmerized her. She was going down…sinking…She took a deep breath. “Your father wants me to marry Niall.”