Under the Kissing Tree

by L. L. Muir

  What an arse he’d been! What a brute!

  What woman would be foolish enough to come back for more?

  Tam dropped his head to his chest in defeat. Of course she would not come. This compulsion to know her face had to cease. It was a foolhardy quest that would drive him mad simply because he misremembered the encounter in a romantic light—a man and woman meeting, laughing, and kissing in the darkness.

  But it hadn’t been romantic for her. She’d not been smitten with him, no matter how her hands might have roamed across his broad chest while she’d allowed that last kiss. A bit of curiosity on her part meant nothing more. And above all else, she was promised elsewhere.

  As was he.

  Tam took a deep breath, then released it slowly. The quest was over. It was time to go home, to his new home.

  He walked back up the hill, past the torch he left burning, and around to the back side of the pine where he might look his fill at that new home. The outer curtain wall was an impressive height all around. No hills rose higher. No enemy could see into his baileys, count his men, or anticipate his tactics. It was a fine fortress. If it was its impregnability that made Lord Helling such a calm and patient man, perhaps, when Tam was old, he might be the same.

  But if God was good, it would be a long time coming.

  His thoughts turned to the dark-haired beauty he would take to wife, and he wondered which window might be hers. And while concentrating on the dark shape he thought to be that window, his eyes were drawn to movement on the battlements above.

  A woman, surely, for the white she wore fairly glowed in the dark. Her hair and face were but shadow. From that distance, her form was too small for details, but thanks to the hairs rising on the back of his neck, he was certain she was watching him. With the torch on the opposite side of the large tree, he could be little more than shadow to her, but still she watched.

  It could be some woman recalling memorable times spent in the hollow. And possibly his woman of mystery!

  He felt suddenly light-headed; he realized he’d been holding his breath. But a few lungfuls of cool night air revived him.

  Still, she stared. Surely it was her. Who else would watch him so intently, aye?

  He moved suddenly to the side, to judge her reaction.

  She moved, clasped a hand to her heart, perhaps, then she stepped back from the edge and was gone.

  Tam’s heart lurched. Dinna go!

  His sudden urge to chase her was the same urge he’d felt the night they’d met. But there was little to do from the hillside. And if he could chase her down, what then? Trip her again? Frighten her again? She’d be no more impressed with him than she was already.

  Without noticing how he’d arrived, he found himself already marching off the path and onto the road with his torch in hand. His decision had been made before he’d ever reached the tree. He was finished thinking on her.

  She never returned to him, so he had no face to put to the memory. So be it.

  He’d given her one last chance, but she hadn’t come. What of it?

  And if it happened to be her watching from the battlements, she might simply have been curious as to why a silly man might have taken a torch with him to the kissing tree. She could not know it was him. Odin’s teeth, how could she when she did not know what he looked like?

  Ridiculous. All of it. And what was the most ridiculous turn of events, it appeared as though his mystery woman lived in his new home! The prospect of it sizzled in his veins, but he smothered it. Even if she lived in the keep, she would never know he was the man she’d kissed. And he would never need to know which maiden she was.

  Ever.

  When he reached the gates, he held his light before him so the guards could see him well. He only hoped they would recognize him.

  “Welcome back, Sir Tamhas,” said a well-made young man who opened the small door to admit him. He was likely eighteen years of age, a good decade younger than Tam himself.

  “Thank you,” he said. “And you are?”

  “Lars, my lord.”

  Chapter Eight

  “So? Will I be able to sleep in my own chambers tonight, Sister?” Bronwyn whispered the next morning as she and Astrid descended the stairs.

  “We shall see,” she said with a smile.

  Her sister frowned. “You have not become enthralled with that handsome face, have you?”

  Astrid rolled her eyes. “Of course not. How could I? I only saw it for a moment, same as you.”

  “So, you weren’t meeting with him last night? To test his kissing skills perhaps?”

  “Hardly.”

  “Then where were you? I woke and—”

  “I could not sleep, so I stole up to the battlements.” It was something she knew her sister did often enough. Now she wondered if Bronwyn was sometimes meeting young men, to perhaps test their kissing skills.

  “Ah. Well. Neither was your betrothed in his bed.”

  There was no time to ask for more detail, since they had reached the bottom step where their father greeted them with a frown.

  “I like this one, Astrid,” he said. “You will give yourself time to get to know him before passing any judgment. As a favor to me.”

  Perhaps the fellow hadn’t been in his bed because he’d been busy bending her father’s ear. For even if she’d decided to send the Scottish knight home, along with his company of possible Nimmos, it seemed she no longer had a choice in the matter.

  “I am sorry, Sister,” she whispered as they made their way to the high table. “It seems you’ll be sleeping with me for a time.”

  Sir Tamhas stood and bowed as they neared the table. Astrid was surprised he’d paid her enough notice to do so, but then she remembered Bronwyn was at her side. He was more than likely bowing to her.

  “Lady Bronwyn. Lady Astrid. Good morrow to ye.”

  “Good morrow,” they answered in unison.

  Their father’s frown had been replaced by a painfully sincere grin, while their mother sat blushing in her seat. Each time her husband looked her way, the woman blushed an even deeper shade of red. Astrid refused to speculate on the reason, but she worried that whatever plagued her father had affected her mother as well.

  Beneath shiny black leather straps and empty sheaths, her suitor wore a green tunic and dark hose that morning, and she wondered if he might have been made uneasy by the stares received when he’d first arrived. Once she was seated, he leaned close to her, and she heard the creak of new leather.

  “Dinna worry, my lady,” he said in a low voice, though not so low the others could not hear every word. “The hose are temporary. My blanket is newly washed, do ye see? And I canna wear it until it is well and goodly dry.”

  The mention of his blanket brought a burst of laughter from her before she could think to contain it.

  Her father paled. Her mother crossed herself. Bronwyn frowned but looked at Sir Tam while she did so.

  Sir Tam…laughed.

  “I’m pleased ye appreciated the jest,” he finally said. “I had heard it mentioned that you thought Scots wore blankets in lieu of clothes.”

  While food was served, Sir Tam went on to explain the difference between mere blankets and plaids, the latter of which was the draped cloth he’d worn the day before. His voice was pleasant, enjoyable even, and she couldn’t have been more surprised. The cheerful, charming man beside her, who had little attention for Bronwyn yet plenty for her, was in no way similar to the ill-mannered stranger from the day before. And she wondered what had changed.

  “Hellingsby is magnificent, my lord,” the man said to her father. And as the compliments on their home began to flow, Astrid realized it was their home that had inspired the improvement in the knight’s manners. He was interested in her today only because he was interested in her dowry, which was Hellingsby.

  She turned to her sister, who seemed to suspect the same. Then Bronwyn shrugged, reminding Astrid of the favor her father had asked of her. Sir Tam was smitten wi
th the place, as all the others had been, and they would be forced to listen to his fawning until their father tired of it as well. Which, if Lord Helling’s smile was any indication, might not be for quite some time.

  A few minutes later, Astrid could stand no more.

  “Sir Tamhas,” she said sweetly. “What think you of love?”

  Those seated around her had the same reaction to her question as they had earlier when she’d laughed at Sir Tam’s mention of his blanket. Again, her father paled, her mother crossed herself, and Bronwyn gave Sir Tam an evil eye. The only difference was, Sir Tam did not laugh, much to his credit.

  “Love?” he repeated.

  “Yes. Love. What do you think of marrying for love?”

  “Ah,” he nodded. “I’ve heard of yer queen’s lenience in allowing ye to choose yer own husband. But for the sake of the people of Hellingsby, I hope ye are wise enough not to wait for love, Lady Astrid.”

  For the sake of the people? How dare he?

  “But, sir. Surely the man I love might also be the wisest choice for Hellingsby.”

  Already he shook his head. “Doubtful.” He took another bite of food, frowning all the while as if giving her question more thought. “In fact, I know it to be impossible.”

  Except for the knight’s chewing, all noise in the hall ceased. Astrid felt dozens of people turn their attention to her, waiting to hear her reaction to such an outrageous suggestion. But the man was so terribly inept at the courting game, she felt more pity than insult. In truth, she was intrigued, completely unable to resist asking for an explanation.

  “Impossible?” she repeated. “Pray, how so?”

  The knight nodded, then took a drink. Once he had cleared his throat and wiped his mouth, he turned in his seat and faced her squarely.

  “Do ye love me?” he asked simply.

  She laughed. “Alas, sir. Though my father would wish it otherwise, I do not.”

  He grinned. “There, ye see?” He turned back to his meal.

  “What is it I should see, sir? That because I do not love you, it is impossible for the man I love to be the best choice for Hellingsby?”

  He nodded. “Because I am the best choice for Hellingsby, my lady. And I am clearly not the man ye love.”

  The hall erupted in laughter along with those at the head table. Even Bronwyn could not stop herself from enjoying Sir Tamhas’s wit. In fact, her laughter was only eclipsed by his own.

  But in the back of Astrid’s mind, she hid an image—the shadowy image that had presented itself when she’d strung those words together—the man I love.

  Why was it, Tam wondered, that as soon as he’d decided to be content to never know the face of his mysterious woman, the Fates sought to push her back into his path? When he’d first realized his foolishness in looking for her again, he’d suddenly seen her standing on the battlements. When again he’d strengthened his resolve to set her from his mind, he’d been greeted at the very gates with none other than Lars himself. And damn the boy for being overly handsome.

  But this morn, he’d awakened with a new purpose—to woo his bride to be, and her father as well. Hellingsby was too fine a property to lose for not spending enough time with her. And he was certain any lass would come round to appreciating his form, his wit, and his ability to manage a glen full of people, starting with his wife.

  Unfortunately, he could not seem to manage his own thoughts, thanks to the third incident of meddling on the part of the Fates—that being his mystery woman’s laughter. It had blended with his own, just as it had in the hollow. And worse yet, that laughter had come from the high table. Would to God it had been from his own bride, but alas, it belonged to the strange sister.

  His hand fairly burned with the memory of the curls at the back of the woman’s head. A glance at Bronwyn’s hair proved the curls were there. He’d just never imagined them to be red.

  He fought the urge to stand and bolt, to find some quiet place in the open air where he might slow his thoughts and consider. But at the same time, he wished to command everyone to remain in their seats while he took a moment to peer closely at the sister of his bride-to-be.

  Odin’s teeth! It could not be. She could not be. There was just something so terribly wrong about his mystery woman being Bronwyn. But then again, she’d be entering an abbey in a year…

  He shook his head and stood. “If ye will excuse me, there is a matter that needs my attention this morn.”

  Astrid’s hand took a gentle hold on his arm. She looked a bit pale, and he had the impression she might need a lie-down. He worried she might have somehow been privy to his thoughts. But that was impossible.

  He placed his free hand over hers. “What is it, my lady?”

  “I thought, before you go far…I thought to ask you…Nimmo.”

  He stopped breathing.

  “The name Nimmo,” she began again. “I overheard it and wondered if it is a Scottish name.”

  He cleared his throat and gave up on clearing his thoughts any time soon.

  “Yes. I believe it is a Scottish name,” he croaked and took a step, but her hand pulled him back. Even when pale, she was much stronger than she seemed. He suspected Astrid Helling was not a woman who was easily frightened, even though she seemed agitated at the moment.

  “My lady?”

  “I wondered…Perhaps I heard the name because it belongs to one of your men?” And damn it if she wasn’t eyeing the men seated at the long table as if a tasty treat might be found among them!

  He needed her to release his arm before she realized how frightfully it shook beneath his sleeve, but he couldn’t think how to remove her fingers without reverting to poor manners.

  “Nay, my lady. Ye’re mistaken. None of my men are called by that name. I assure ye.”

  Her hand fell away, along with her smile. After a final wistful glance at his men, she turned back to her food.

  And he fled like an Englishman at the first blast of Highland bagpipes.

  Chapter Nine

  Tam stared into the hot coals and felt the breath of Hell pass over his skin, assuring him he’d come to the right place to sort his thoughts. The blacksmith had long ceased paying him any mind and went about his business plunging hot iron into cool water, burying new swords into the depths of angry coals. Beating stubborn steel to his will.

  Tam was but grateful his red face could be blamed upon the heat each time the thought repeated in his mind—

  What devilry was at work in Hellingsby?

  He admitted to being a suspicious man. None could spend much time at court in Edinburgh and not be caught in one intrigue or another, and many a time that intrigue had been the handiwork of a woman. He suspected Hellingsby was not so different.

  Had the sisters conspired against him to drive him mad? Had they done the same to countless other suitors? Was Lord Hellingsby as oblivious as he seemed? When Tam considered the tavern wench might also have been in on the plan, his jaw clenched so tight he thought he might die of hunger one day soon.

  What he could not imagine was the why of it. Was it only a game to the twins? Dupe a man into an obsession with one sister, only to convince him it had been the other? With such chaos, it would be a simple thing to claim the man was unsuitable as the head of Hellingsby and send him on his way.

  Was it their intention to play such games with suitors for another year? And if they did, could Tam stand aside and watch, all the while wooing the father…

  Odin’s teeth! Madness indeed.

  He turned away from the fire, made his way to cooler air, and took a deep breath. Then another. Then he considered the possibility that he was in error. If so, he wanted to know where he had gone astray.

  One beautiful. One kind.

  If the English had different tastes in beauty, perhaps they thought Bronwyn to be the pretty one. Perhaps it was Astrid herself the people considered kind. And if she were so kind, a mean-spirited trick on a suitor would be beneath her, surely.

 
And if the encounter at the tree had not been planned? Then which woman had he kissed?

  The woman standing on the battlements could have been either of them. Bronwyn’s hair was not much lighter than her sister’s, only a different color. When he’d questioned Lars about the tree, he admitted only to having met the younger sister there. He’d said nothing at all about missing an appointment with the elder one.

  Her laughter had been impossible to forget, especially when blended with his own. It was like music. But now that he considered it, the only thing the sisters shared in common was their voices. It was a fact the mother’s voice was not much different, so it was probable that the sisters’ laughter would also match. Since he’d joined the household, however, Astrid had never laughed quite as freely as had the woman at the tree; thus, he could not rule her out.

  The only proof left was the name of his dog…on the lips of his bride-to-be. And the disappointment on her face when she thought she’d known where to find a man called Nimmo, then discovered she was wrong. Not frightened. Not curious. But disappointed. It was a fact her bottom lip had protruded a bit.

  And suddenly, that bottom lip became the thing he wished most to see.

  He turned toward the castle proper but took only two steps before he stopped again. The nooning meal would be soon enough to see her. After all, he needed to consider a bit longer. He’d only been supposing there was no intrigue on the part of the sisters. Just because his supposition had led him to a conclusion that made him most happy, it meant nothing.

  He determined to think on it a wee bit longer, while he surveyed the tanner and other tradesmen in the bailey…While he thought of a clever way in which to toy with his future wife.

  Chapter Ten

  Astrid felt herself growing smaller and smaller, collapsing into herself as the realization struck—she might never know who Nimmo was.

  But why should it upset her so? Did she not dread him discovering who she was? And if she never knew him, she’d be less likely to make some mistake that would give her away.