Afterward, as they caught their breath, Ysenda thought she’d never felt as contented as she did, lying in Noёl’s arms. A brilliant glow seemed to surround them, protecting them from regret and guilt and sorrow. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the peace of utter satisfaction.
But all too soon, it faded away. Then she was left with remorse and worry.
What would he think when he found out she was a pretender? Would he think she was no better than a wanton harlot who had used him for her own gratification? Or just a heartless betrayer?
She bit her lip as an even worse thought occurred to her.
What if he’d gotten her with child?
He leaned on one elbow, gazing down at her with adoration and gratitude, two things she knew she didn’t deserve. But she forced a smile to her lips.
“Let’s get out o’ here,” he said with a lopsided grin.
“Now?” For an awful instant, she thought he meant to leave immediately for France.
“Aye.” He brushed her hair back from her brow. “Why don’t we pack a wee feast, and ye can show me this wishin’ well o’ yours?”
She let out the breath she’d been holding. Brilliant idea. She needed to get away from the temptation of the bedchamber. There was still a chance that Cathalin would decide to do the right thing and agree to wed her intended husband. Ysenda didn’t want to jeopardize that possibility any more than she already had.
Still, it was with great regret that she donned her sister’s warmest clothing and boots. She bid a silent farewell to the downy bed and to the ecstasy she would never have again…yet never forget.
Noёl knew his men were restless, eager to be home. And now that the handfasting had been sealed, there was no reason to remain in Scotland. If they left on the morrow, there might even be some of the holiday left to enjoy.
He smiled at the thought of sharing his new bride with his family. He couldn’t wait to show Cathalin the beautiful Christmas crèches. He wanted her to see the jongleurs performing caroles in the hall. And on his birthday, he wanted to drink warm mulled wine with her beside the fire.
Still, he didn’t wish to appear rude to her clan. One day, all of this would be his, and he hadn’t even given it a decent inspection. So as much as he’d prefer to lie in bed with his delectable wife all day, he decided he should do the proper thing and make a tour of the land.
Now, as they slogged through the snowy field toward the forest, Noёl had to admit he was surprised by just how extensive the holding was. It appeared the king had been quite generous. They’d been hiking for some time.
“How much farther is it?” he asked.
“Not far. Just through those trees, in the clearin’.”
Her cheeks were rosy with the cold. Her breath made fog on the air. And her gray eyes shone with excitement. It almost seemed a pity to tear her away from the land she loved so much.
“There,” she breathed when they finally reached a small clearing in the wood where stray beams of sunlight seemed to cast glittering gems in the snow.
The well wasn’t much of a well anymore. It was a ruin. A winding stream ran into what was left of the stone walls and trickled down the other side. Ferns grew up around the moss-covered rock. Snow-laden pines crowded near, their tops bent inward as if to shield the well from intruders. If Noёl didn’t know better, he’d say it was a magical place.
As they drew near, he saw a curious stone disk sitting askew atop the well. It looked like a dislodged lid.
“There’s an inscription on top,” she told him. “See the Viking runes?”
“What does it say?”
“’Tis a blessin’. For a quiet journey, joyful days, and strong deeds for Odin.”
“Odin?”
“The Viking god.” She ran her fingers across the carved runes. “And here it says, ‘May your love stay true to your noble heart’.”
He nodded. “That sounds like a good blessin’.” He drew his dagger. “Do ye think we should try it? Shall we cut locks of our hair and—”
“Oh, nae!” she blurted out. “I don’t think so.”
Her response set him on his heels. Yesterday he expected her to have some qualms about staying true to a man she’d never met. But they were properly married now.
And they’d made love.
Twice.
“Nae?”
“’Tis just…I guess…” she said, stumbling over the words, “I guess I don’t much…believe in wishes.”
“Hmm.” She wasn’t being completely forthcoming with him. But he supposed it didn’t matter. Wish or no wish, he intended to stay true to his noble heart. And he intended to keep his new bride so satisfied that she wouldn’t even think of straying.
He sheathed his dagger, and then peered over the stone lid and into the abyss of the well. It seemed like a perilous thing to leave open. A small child could fall in and drown. Their small child.
“’Tis deep,” he said with a frown. “If I were laird now, I’d seal it up.”
“Oh, ye mustn’t do that.”
“And why not?”
“Because the spirits will be trapped inside. Besides, at this time o’ year, all the lasses toss their wishes in it.”
“I thought ye didn’t believe in wishes.”
“Well, I don’t, nae,” she said, coloring a little. “But the others…”
“I see,” he said with a grin. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Ye know, ye’re quite bonnie when ye blush like that.”
She gave him a teasing push. “I’m not blushin’. ’Tis only the cold.”
“Well, I’ll have to warm ye then, won’t I?” He didn’t wait for an answer. He opened his cloak and swept it around her, enfolding them both. “Better?”
Ysenda nodded. She had to admit it was better. But not because she was cold. She had the thick blood of a Highlander, after all. And her sister’s fur-lined wool cloak and sturdy leather boots were good protection against the snowdrifts.
It was better because she felt…protected…in Noёl’s arms.
She could protect herself, of course. Her mother had passed on enough of her fighting skills to ensure that her daughter wouldn’t be left vulnerable.
But there had never been anyone to champion Ysenda. She’d fought against the prejudice of her father. She’d battled the arrogance of her sister. She’d defended her brother when he was too weak to defend himself. But she’d always fought alone. No one had ever stepped in and taken her side.
Now, for the first time, snuggled in the arms of this Norman warrior, she felt absolutely safe.
“How long have ye been a knight?” she asked.
“I’m a de Ware. I was born with a sword in my hand.”
She chuckled and gave him a poke in the ribs. “That must have been painful for your mother.”
“Oh, aye, the poor woman had eight of us wee knights.”
“Eight? ’Tisn’t a family. ’Tis an army.”
“France’s best,” he said proudly. He wrapped his arms tighter around her. “I can’t wait to show ye off to my brothers.”
He began to rattle off their names, too many to remember, giving a humorous description of each. And with each name, Ysenda grew more and more despondent. They sounded so wonderful. But she was never going to meet them. And she had to face that fact.
Indeed, the reason she wouldn’t wish at the Viking well was that she didn’t want to indulge in the false hope that she could somehow keep him for herself.
As she watched the stream in silence, her eyes mirrored the well, filling with water. A secret tear trickled down her cheek as she longed with all her heart for that which she couldn’t have. Then, ashamed of her selfishness, she quickly wiped it away.
His voice was full of affection as he continued speaking about his family. Meanwhile, the water gurgled over the rocks. The ice at the edges of the rill made soft cracks as it yielded to the sun. Snowmelt dripped from the trees.
Ysenda closed her eyes, wishing she could stay here forever, enf
olded in his arms.
She wished a lot of things.
But what she’d said was true. She didn’t believe in wishes.
Chapter 6
Noёl spent most of the morn with his new bride, hiking across braes and moors, through the pine forest and past a great loch. They stopped along the way to share the small feast of oatcakes and soft cheese they’d packed, washing it down with cider.
Afterward, she pointed out the best fishing place and the spot where the lasses liked to bathe in summer. She showed him the rotting remnants of a Viking longhouse where she used to play and the holly grove where her mother had once frightened away two wolves. He saw how much she loved the land. It made him love it as well.
But there was also a touch of sorrow in her gray eyes. He wondered… Was it the idea of leaving her home that saddened her? Or something more?
He thought again about the young man who’d sat next to her at the table. They’d seemed very close. Did her heart belong to him? Jealousy pricked at Noёl again.
He supposed it didn’t matter. They’d journey to France in a day or two, leaving everyone she knew far behind.
Still, that didn’t change the way she felt. And Noёl wanted his bride to be in love with him.
The idea was laughable. He’d come to Scotland for one purpose—to make a political alliance. Falling in love had never been part of his plans.
But that didn’t change the fact that he wanted to win her heart now. He wanted to make her smile. He wanted to bring the joy back into her eyes.
“So, lassie, when was the last time ye made a snowwoman?” he asked.
She quirked her brow at him. “I’ve made a snowman.”
“Oh, aye, everyone’s made a snowman. But have ye made a snowwoman?”
She gave him a skeptical grin. “I don’t see how there could be much difference.”
“What? O’ course there’s a difference. Come on, I’ll show ye.”
Together they piled and packed the snow until they had a vertical mound that was about her size. He rounded the top into a ball for a head. She formed two stubs to serve as chubby arms. Then she sought out two small pine cones to make eyes. He made a small snowy nose, and he stuck a curved twig under it, turning it into a frown.
“Why is she so unhappy?” she asked.
“Because she looks like a snowman.”
“I told ye there was no difference.”
He scowled and stroked his chin, studying the sculpture. “Perhaps if ye found some beautiful flowin’ hair for her.”
She perused the glen and found golden drifts of fallen pine needles near the trunks of the trees. While she was busy gathering them, he set to work. He patted together two small globes of snow and plucked a holly berry to perch in the middle of each one. These he affixed strategically to the front of the body. Then he waited for her return.
First she gasped. Then she giggled. It was a delightful sound.
“Shame on ye, Sir Noёl,” she scolded, unable to keep the laughter from her voice.
“Shame?” he asked, all innocence. “Why?”
Her silvery eyes danced as she came up beside him. “Ye aren’t goin’ to leave her like that.”
“Like what?”
She gave him a chiding elbow. “Undressed.”
“She’ll be fine,” he assured her. “She won’t get cold. She’s a snowwoman.”
“’Tisn’t the cold I’m talkin’ about, and ye know it.”
He reached out and turned the frowning twig into a smile. “But look how happy she is now.”
She shook her head. “Ye’re a naughty lad.”
He winked at her. “Ah. Wait till ye see my snowman.”
For a moment, she only stared at him. Finally her eyes went wide, and her mouth formed a shocked “O.” She started pelting him with the pine needles.
He laughed and shook off the deluge. Then he caught her about the waist and hauled her to him.
Kissing her felt as natural and instinctive as breathing. Her lips opened to his as readily as a lock to a key. Her laughter spilled into his mouth, and he lapped up her joy. Their tongues touched, and the current bolted through him, making him instantly hard and eager.
If it were summer, he would have spread his tabard on the soft grass and made sweet love to her, right there and then.
But the world was wet and frozen.
So, between kisses, he gasped out, “Let’s go back…to the keep…before I turn ye…into a snowwoman.”
Shaking off his lust, he took her hand and began the short hike home, happy he’d made her smile. But by the time they emerged from the wood, in view of the keep, he was already thinking about her warm bedchamber.
“I’ll race ye,” he said.
“What?” She giggled.
“Come on. Whoever is first to the gate gets to undress the last.”
She was still puzzling out whether it would be better to win or lose when he bolted off across the snow.
“Wait!” she cried. “Ye cheated!”
“Hurry up!”
“But ye never said go!”
“Go!” he yelled.
He gained several good yards. But then he made the mistake of turning around to gloat. While he was running backward, his heel caught on a tree root, and he fell smack on his arse.
She burst into laughter, charging past him as he scrambled to get up.
“Come back here, wife!” he bellowed after her.
“I don’t think so!” she crowed.
“But a wife’s supposed to obey her husband!”
She only laughed.
Chuckling, he dusted the snow off of his surcoat and let her get a short distance ahead. He was enjoying the view, after all, watching her bustling backside and catching a glimpse of her lovely calves as she picked up her skirts to scurry through the snow.
He couldn’t get over the fact that she was his. That breathtaking, vibrant, fresh-faced Highland lass belonged to him. How he’d gotten so lucky, he didn’t know. But he didn’t intend to let her get away from him. Now or ever.
In the end, he let her win, but only by an instant. He nipped at her heels the whole way, making her squeal in panic one moment and giggle at his antics the next. By the time they collapsed against the gate, they were breathless from running and giddy with laughter.
He grinned into her shining gray eyes and bent to give her a bold kiss, deciding he didn’t care whether it was proper or not. What should it matter if a few curious clansmen saw how much he loved his bride?
Her lips were cool. Her tongue was warm. Her breath mingled with his as they kissed, then caught their breath, then kissed again.
“You win,” he whispered, cradling her face with his palm. Then he stepped back with his arms outstretched. “Go ahead. Undress me.”
She gasped in delighted shock, shoving at his chest. “Ye’re a wicked, wicked man.”
She’d add a few more “wickeds” if she could read the lusty thoughts coursing through his head right now. Of course, he wasn’t about to act on any of them. By now there were several sets of eyes on them.
Instead, he escorted her politely through the gate, walking hand-in-hand with her.
The courtyard was bristling with Yuletide preparations. Cooks roasted haunches of mutton on a great spit. Maidservants tied together clumps of evergreen with red ribbon. Kitchen lads carted baskets of bread into the keep. And in one corner of the yard where the snow had been shoveled away, his men were sparring, providing lively entertainment for the laird and for the wee lads gathered round.
When Noёl lifted his gaze, he saw someone else was watching. At the highest window of the tower, intently studying the knights, was Caimbeul.
“They’re very good,” his bride exclaimed as she saw his men crossing blades.
He smiled. “Aye.” The Knights of de Ware were the best swordsmen in France.
He peered up again at the window. Caimbeul had spotted him. The young man was staring back at him with a venomous glare.
Noёl frowned. Was that jealousy? He had to find out. He might not be able to mend the lad’s broken heart. But he could at least try to make peace with him and make the truth—that Cathalin was his wife now—easier to bear.
“Would ye like to watch them for a bit?” he asked her.
“Aye, if ye don’t mind.”
“Not at all.” Kissing her knuckles and releasing her hand, he glanced up again at the scowling Caimbeul. “I’ll be back. I’ve somethin’ to attend to.”
Ysenda admired good swordsmen. It was a trait she’d doubtless inherited from her mother. And the Knights of de Ware were far superior to any fighters she’d seen in Scotland.
But that wasn’t the real reason she wanted to watch them.
She mostly wanted to avoid going to Cathalin’s bedchamber.
Ysenda’s will was weaker than ever now. Not only did she desire this Norman knight with the handsome face, unruly black hair, and dazzling blue eyes. But now she also adored him.
He made her laugh. He made her feel beautiful. He made her feel loved.
She glanced down at the Wolf of de Ware ring on her finger. Giving him up was going to be painful. And the more intimate they became, the harder it would be.
Cathalin was watching the knights battle as well. Maybe if Ysenda could get her sister alone, talk to her, she could make her see reason.
After Noёl left, she approached.
“Cathalin,” she whispered, tugging on her sleeve.
Cathalin whipped her head around. “Don’t call me that,” she hissed. “They might hear ye.”
“We need to talk.”
“There’s nothin’ to talk about.”
“’Twill take but a moment. We likely won’t see each other again for years. Can we not at least say farewell?”
Cathalin rolled her eyes. “Ach, very well. I’ve grown weary o’ watchin’ these French bairns playin’ with their wee blades anyway.”
The Handfasting Page 6
