Rosealise knew what she was about to do was yet another cruelty, but she swore to herself it would be her last.
“I wish you to tell me the truth, Seneschal. Do you and the others truly want me to stay?”
Mael smiled. “Aye, my lady.”
Relief poured through her already-ragged emotions, overwhelming her. Rosealise fell against him and burst into tears.
Strong arms lifted her and carried her into the cool shadow of an oak. There Mael sat with her on his lap, and held her, making low, soothing sounds as he stroked her arm and back.
Finally, Rosealise’s sobs subsided, but she couldn’t move an inch.
“Look at me,” she said, sighing the words. “I should make a stuffed bird laugh, or fill a tear bottle to the brim.”
Mael tipped up her chin. “You keep too much bottled, my lady.”
To show her gratitude, Rosealise kissed his cheek. A simple gesture, and yet the moment her lips touched his skin a cacophony of unseemly sensations resonated inside her. By its own volition her hand crept up around his neck to stroke his thick bright hair. More of the touching coaxed her mouth to wander until it touched the corner of his. At the same time her thighs tightened and the most baffling liquid heat pooled between them.
Mael didn’t move, but his eyes closed, and he made a low, rough sound.
Rosealise didn’t want to speak, not when her touch could be made a weapon against his will. So she did what felt entirely proper, and brushed her lips over his mouth, then drew back an inch. If he felt the same urgency she did, surely he would–
Mael kissed her.
Oh, but this had to be the most intimate, glorious, shocking thing Rosealise had ever done. Never mind that she couldn’t recall her past. None of that mattered in the slightest to her anymore. He caught her sigh of delight with his next inhalation and then put his tongue into her mouth. The sheer carnal hunger he kindled made her moan and shift closer, until Mael fell back and she lay atop him.
Her borrowed pantaloons allowed her to straddle him, and her hair fell around them as she cupped his face with her hands. The devastating kiss raged on. Such passion suffused her now that Rosealise doubted she could stop herself. What more could she ever do that would be as pleasurable as this? Feeling his body under hers, and the stroke of his tongue inside her mouth, and the weight of his hands encircling her waist should be all she ever did again.
When he took hold of her buttocks and shifted her, Rosealise thought she might faint. Just a few layers of fabric separated her throbbing, wet sex from the hard, stiff length of his manhood. He must feel the heat of her on himself, surely, and know how wicked she was. All she could think was how it would feel to take all that hard flesh inside herself, and glory to it stroking her from within, and more kisses and touching, both of them naked and feverish with it.
How could you know of this?
The shock of the thought made Rosealise end the dizzying kiss to raise up and look into Mael’s eyes. The bronze there had gone so dark it looked like onyx, and every muscle on his big body was knotted beneath the yielding softness of her own. Yet as inviting and arousing as it was to look upon him, she knew she had never kissed this man before now.
Mael looked all over her face. “Lass?”
How could she tell him when she couldn’t remember the man who had been her lover? It might have been him, or anyone.
“We must not do this now, my dear sir.”
With some effort she climbed off him and walked a short distance away to compose herself. However Mael didn’t wait for her to do so, and joined her.
“If ’twas unwanted, you’d but to say, lass.” Immediately he grimaced. “Forgive me, I ken you wouldnae use your power now–”
“It’s not that.” Odd that he called her “my lady” when being polite, and “lass” when he spoke from his heart. She much preferred the latter. “If you would give me a moment to collect myself, please. It’s evident that I must speak carefully.”
He waited beside her and together they watched the stream rush by. Rosealise hated feeling the fade of the desires aching inside her. But once her body cooled her mind cleared, and she could regard the tracker without too much temptation tugging at her.
“Thank you, Seneschal. Please understand that I wished to kiss you,” she told him. “I’m also convinced that we’ve never kissed before today. Yet the other matters that would naturally follow such a kiss… I confess, these are known to me. I cannot name my lover, or even recall his face, but from what I imagine… I know that I gave myself to him fully.”
“I wish I might say ’twas me,” he told her.
“As do I.” She glanced at him. “Until I’m certain that I’m free to do so, I cannot offer you more than my friendship. I regret this deeply.”
“Dinnae. ’Tis plain you’ve an honorable heart.” Mael held out his hand. “Walk back with me.”
The sting of tears made her blink quickly. He understood, and still did not fear her touch. It made her feel safe and cherished as nothing else would.
As they made their way back to the castle, Rosealise found herself brooding on the brief memory of the chained man in the darkness of the pit. She wanted to believe it had been Mael who had helped her, but the prisoner’s voice had been different—harsher, almost grating.
Just as Broden’s is.
Chapter Ten
EDANE ENTERED THE great hall the next morning to find Jenna and Rosealise seated at the trestle table and engaged in an odd conversation.
“What do you wish me to do?” the chieftain’s wife asked as she sat with a platter of oatcakes and two mugs between them. She also held one of the Englishwoman’s hands in hers.
“Please do pass the brew,” Rosealise said, and then grimaced as Jenna reached for one of the mugs. “No, please ignore that. If you would care to, my dear, do please pass the brew.” She coughed a little and cleared her throat. “I beg your pardon. I think yesterday I breathed in more soot than was good for me.”
“No problem, and you’re doing great,” the other woman said, and then caught Edane’s gaze. “Fair morning, Archer. We’re practicing having contact and conversation without Rosealise using her persuasion mojo. Would you like some breakfast?”
“Please, do join us,” Rosealise said, touching his arm, and then added quickly, “if you would wish to, sir.”
Edane held up the spade he’d fashioned. “My wish in truth, my lady, ’tis to go digging in the forest.” He helped himself to some oatcakes. “But I’ll aid you with the practice when I return.”
“Thank you, sir.” The Englishwoman cleared her throat and regarded Jenna. “Blazes, but I cannot abide this tickle in my throat. Might I beg a spoonful of that honey Kiaran found, if it can be spared?”
The trek to the mound he’d discovered took some time, but Edane enjoyed the walk. The spring had brought out a bounty of greenery and flowers in the forest, making it into an endless bower of beauty. Being indoors reminded him of his boyhood, and too many days and nights spent training in the shaman’s broch or by his ritual fire. He felt free only out in the fresh air, where he could be in the world as he wished. His desire to hunt had gone, but pursuing the mystery in the forest was proving just as gratifying.
It gave him a new sense of purpose, too. Since coming to Dun Chaill all of the other men had found work suited to their talents and natures. Domnall, Mael, and Jenna had taken charge of turning the ruins into a home for them, and Broden and Kiaran daily provided meat and fish for their meals. Edane had done little more than gather veg and firewood, and that made him feel as he had among their tribe: useless.
At last he reached the trail of his own footsteps leading into the cluster of silver birches that surrounded the high dome of rock and earth. Moss covered it over, but weather had exposed some of the rugged stacked stones chinked with black soil. Although fashioned to appear natural, he’d found the seams between the rocks to be chiseled, indicating the mound had been deliberately built over something.
Some of the old Pritani tribes had buried their dead in mounds made of stone, but marked such places so that others would not disturb the remains. This appeared more like an undercroft for storage, built to withstand time and weather. But if it had been made to provide storage, what had been secreted inside? Food would have surely rotted by now.
’Twill be a trash heap or a privy pit, and I shall seem the fool for digging it out.
Broden would make much of that, and again prod Edane’s temper. They’d almost come to blows over the pearls.
Over the centuries Edane had become fascinated with the tiny gems of the sea. One by one, as chance led a trader to cross his path, he’d begun to collect them, especially those rare finds that were perfectly round. Other gems, such as the ones found by Jenna, held no interest for him. Nor did he crave the wealth that they stored. But there was something calming about the subtle beauty of pearls, a lustre born of the moon itself. Ofttimes before taking to his bed, Edane would pour them from their soft leather pouch simply to gaze upon them—until Broden had seen him.
“What do you with your womanly baubles?” he’d taunted. “String them in your pretty hair?”
Edane quickly gathered them back into their bag and jumped to his feet. “Dinnae you ken the meaning of a closed door?” Heat flushed into his face, as he put the bag behind his back.
“I ken how fetching you must look in them,” Broden said, grinning. He stepped forward and held out his hand. “Let us have a look.”
As Edane stared at the outstretched hand, cold rage flooded into his chest and his jaw set so hard he thought his teeth would break. Every sinew in his body stretched taut, and he leaned forward on his toes.
“If you ever,” he said through barely moving lips, “touch them, I shall gut you.” For a moment Broden did nothing, but then he blinked and his smirk slipped. “From your puny bawbag to your hairy chin, my blade ’twill open you like a fattened hog.” Broden’s eyes narrowed but he lowered his hand. “Now get out,” Edane yelled.
In two strides he was across the room and shoving the trapper so hard that the bigger man had to stumble back. Edane slammed the door and bolted it.
Even now, as he thought back on it, blood rose to his cheeks. He needed to stay away from the trapper until the animosity between them returned to a lower simmer.
For now, he would know what lay within the mound before telling anyone of its particulars, so he went to work with the spade at the base of it. Gradually he moved around it as he uncovered the foundation, looking for signs of the entry to the interior. On the back side he exposed a large space between the stones that had been filled in with only soil and pebbles.
He kicked it with his boot and watched the fill crumble. “Aye, you cannae hide from me.”
Digging out the entry took a few minutes, and then his spade hit more stone. Dropping down to peer inside the hole he’d made, he saw blocking stones fitted together in an unfamiliar pattern. No stink of rot or waste came from within, so it couldn’t be a burial site of late.
“What did you here?” he muttered as he reached in and wedged his fingertips in between two of the flat stones.
With a hard tug he pulled the top stone out, which proved to be a thin piece of slate. Setting it to one side, Edane carefully went about removing the rest. Behind them lay what appeared to be a sunken room. No dead stench came from the interior, but as he peered into the darkness, he made out the vague outlines of several towering stacks. Since no one had lived at Dun Chaill for centuries it couldn’t be food stored away for the cold season.
’Tis a hoard.
Edane crawled back out of the hole, and sat back on his haunches as he considered what next to do. If he went inside and the mound collapsed, it might become his tomb. Yet the thought of dying, something he hadn’t pondered in centuries, didn’t frighten him now anymore than it had in his mortal life. Some things, he knew, were worse.
At last he repeated Broden’s favorite reproof of him. “Dinnae be such a facking wench.”
With dried lichen and a short pine branch Edane fashioned a torch, then used his fire steel and dagger to light it. He held it in front of him as he crawled back into the mound.
Metal gleamed as the torch illuminated the contents of the sunken room. From the opening Edane could see a bewildering variety of objects, from folded tartans to stands of long blades. To one side was a pile of saddles, some with cracked, peeling leather. Swells of bulging satchels and packs sat beside rows of torques, gauntlets and boots. Waxen-topped glazed pottery, and dusty glass bottles sealed with cork, waited to be opened. More unglazed pots, some of them cracked or in pieces, formed piles behind them. Dozens of heavy grain sacks, layered like over-large bricks, covered the back wall of the cache.
Edane eased himself through the opening and dropped down, looking up as some soil sifted down on his head. The top of the mound held firm, however, and as he turned and inspected the hoard, he expected to see bones or a burial cask. For so much wealth to be buried surely the remains of a king had been hidden here, and yet he saw no body.
A dull silver gleam on the ground caught his eye, and he knelt down to pick up a Roman coin. A dark streak on it flaked off the moment he swept his thumb over its face. The coin had an ancient design, and yet appeared as new as it if had been struck only yesterday.
Edane let it drop and went over to the pile of folded tartans, shaking out the top one and holding it up to the torch’s light. A huge dark stain and four long slashes marred the weave. Some of the tartans he examined appeared intact, but others had been stained and rent in similar fashion.
He lifted one torn, stained plaid to his nose, and then he knew.
Edane tossed the tartan over his shoulder and climbed up out of the room. When he emerged from the mound into the sunlight, he backed away from it. He held up the tartan he’d taken and could clearly see the stains on it. The spattering and streaks had been made by blood.
The mound did protect a hoard, one collected from the victims of a savage killer.
* * *
Mael went along with Domnall to inspect Edane’s reported discovery, and as the archer showed them the evidence of violence on some of the hoarded goods the chieftain sighed.
“’Twould seem the spoils of an attack. After burying it, the victors likely died elsewhere before they could return to collect it.” He shook out one of the tartans, and turned it around. “We’ll burn what’s marked, but take the rest and stow them in the old pantry. We’ve dire need of cloth.”
“Aye, much may be used,” the archer said, “but some looks far older. Those deepest in the hoard have fallen to rot, and ’tis another strangeness.” He took out a handful of silver, giving some to both men. “Ken you the stamp?”
“A denarius,” Mael said as he held up the bright coin. “’Tis marked with the name of Hadrian Augustus.”
Frowning, Domnall examined those he held. “Too new to be from his reign. He died in the first century, when the Romans invaded.” He weighed the coins with a shake of his hand. “Seems as heavy as true silver. Forgeries, mayhap.”
“’Twas my reckoning, until I found this.” Edane’s expression turned grim as he bent again to the pile of goods he’d created. He produced a stylized eagle on a perch mounting, fashioned to be affixed to the top of a pole. The polished gold glittered as brightly as the coins. “You ken what ’tis, Chieftain?”
Domnall swore under his breath before he went over to crouch down and peer into the mound.
Mael took the bird, which weighed so much it he nearly dropped it.
“I dinnae ken it, but ’tis solid gold.” He’d never seen so much used to make what seemed to him a useless object. “Dru-wid made, mayhap?”
“No,” the archer said. “’Tis an aquila, the standard of the Romans. They marched behind it into battle. ’Twas said they’d die to a man before they let anyone take that from their bearer.”
Domnall lit a torch and went into the mound, emerging a short time later.
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“’Tis packed to the walls with armor and weapons.” He nodded at the eagle. “All appear of Roman design, enough to outfit a hundred soldiers or better.”
“They’ve no’ marched through these lands since the time of our tribes,” Edane muttered. “’Tis been more than a thousand years since they retreated.”
Mael recalled what the villagers in Wachvale had told them of the kithan, the monster they believed inhabited Dun Chaill. The local mortals believed the “naught-man” killed anyone who came near the castle. Mael had never been one to be ruled by such superstitious tales, but now he wondered if it had some root in truth. An army of Romans surely could not be defeated by one ordinary mortal, but a powerful druid gone mad might have prevailed with killing magic.
“I’ll no’ have goods belonging to Romans in the keepe,” Domnall said. “Collect what else is fit to be used. I’ll send Kiaran to aid you. Mael, with me.”
He knew the chieftain wished to say more, but not in front of the archer. Once they had put some distance between them and the mound, Mael said, “I’ve no liking for how ’twas taken, but ’tis much there that may serve to make life here easier.”
“Aye, very useful to us, and kept safe for a thousand years or better. Most opportune.” Domnall stopped and glanced back in the direction of the mound. “It stinks of more treachery.”
“Edane sensed no magic, and found no traps,” Mael reminded him, although now that he thought on it the chieftain’s notion made sense. “Mayhap ’tis a cache created and kept for some dire aim, but as the rest of Dun Chaill, forgotten and left to rot. A druid on the dark path, like Galan, could do such.”
“Pritani died here.” The chieftain rubbed the edge of his jaw before he regarded him. “I saw much in the mound that might have been taken from our tribe, or us. Bone tools, querns, hammer stones and the like. Mayhap Edane has unearthed the old saddles we used when we first came here. My spear tips. That giant square head axe you had forged for hunting grice.”
I wasnae hunting pigs.
Mael: Immortal Highlander, Clan Mag Raith Book 2 Page 6
