The Handfasting

by Glynnis Campbell

  Their kissing quickly fanned the flames of love from affection to desire, then from desire to desperation. Noёl didn’t want to think about tomorrow. Or his king. Or his real bride. All he wanted was one beautiful night with this irresistible woman who, aye, loved him.

  Ysenda knew she was playing a perilous game. Yet she brazenly continued, like the lads who leaped through the Yule bonfire. She couldn’t stop herself.

  The situation was impossible. She hadn’t been able to make Cathalin fall in love with Noёl, any more than she could make herself fall out of love with him.

  And now that she’d admitted she cared for him, she couldn’t confess that she’d deceived him. It would break his heart.

  Yet even as the deadly knot of lies and deception wrapped around her, all she could think about was making love to him. She didn’t want to think about her sister. Or Noёl’s return to France. Or what would become of Caimbeul. All she wanted was to live for this moment.

  Somehow their clothes fell away. Somehow they wound up on the bed. In a delicious tangle of limbs, they let the rest of the world disappear.

  His lips kissed away her guilt. His fingers caressed away her cares. And with his bare flesh pressed to hers, there was no room for remorse.

  She floated in heavenly oblivion. For now, all that mattered were the two of them and their compelling quest for pleasure.

  This time, it was more than mere coupling. She wanted to show him how much she cared for him. She wanted him to feel her love in the deepest recesses of his soul. And she wanted to feel cherished in return.

  When he pressed gently into her, she sighed in relief. Looking up at him with a languid gaze, she saw the same sweet satisfaction in his midnight eyes.

  When he began to move within her, she met him, thrust for thrust. Just as they had hiked hand-in-hand across the snowy fields, they traversed the landscape of desire together.

  His gaze burned into hers. His breath sent shivers along her skin. His tongue bathed her with intoxicating nectar. His fingertips teased and coaxed her to greater heights.

  Wanting to keep him with her forever, she wrapped her legs around him. She dug her heels into his buttocks, making him groan with bliss.

  He laced his fingers through hers, anchoring her to the mattress. She caught her breath as her lust sharpened to a fine point. Then it exploded into a hundred beautiful fragments. She arched up and clenched her fists in his.

  He answered her, surging into her with a ragged cry of release.

  Then she stiffened.

  He’d called her by name.

  Her real name.

  She sucked in a panicked breath, but he wouldn’t release her. His fingers were still entwined with hers. And when he slowly opened his lust-glazed eyes, she saw the truth.

  He knew who she was.

  He knew everything.

  For a long moment, they only stared at each other.

  “How did ye find out?” she whispered.

  He didn’t answer her. Instead, his gaze hardened. “How could ye lie to me?”

  “I had to,” she confessed. “I had no choice.”

  He was still holding her down. She wasn’t afraid of him, not really. He was a man of honor, a knight who’d never harm a lady. But she could see by the glower in his brow and the strength in his arms that he could be a fearsome foe.

  “When did ye plan to tell me?” he demanded.

  “I’ve wanted to tell ye all along. I tried to stop the handfastin’. I never meant to consummate it. I hoped to convince my sister to wed ye.” She added quietly, “I still do.”

  “Why didn’t ye just tell me that first night?”

  She swallowed hard, lowering her eyes. The truth was humiliating. But she owed it to him. “The laird said if I told ye, he’d hurt Caimbeul. He’s been wantin’ to kill my brother ever since he was born. He can’t abide havin’ a son who’s…who isn’t perfect. When my mother died, she made me vow to look after Caimbeul. I’ve always taken care o’ him.”

  His fingers loosened around hers. The grim line of his mouth relaxed. “Ye could have told me. Your father wouldn’t have known.”

  She gave him a rueful smile. “And what would ye have done then? Insisted on marryin’ my sister? And when my father refused, would ye have taken on the whole clan with your six knights?”

  He compressed his lips.

  “I never wanted to deceive ye,” she told him. “’Tis pure madness to go against the king. I’ve tried to tell my father so. But he won’t listen. He wants a Highlander to hold his lands.”

  “When the kings find out—”

  “They’ll send an army to quell the clan. I know. My father refuses to believe that. And my sister thinks her Highland husband will bring men to defend the keep.”

  “So he’d rather start a war than see a Norman inherit his lands.”

  She nodded.

  He unlaced his fingers and rolled off of her then, lying on his back to stare at the ceiling. She pulled the linen sheet up over her breasts.

  It pained her to say the words, but she did. “I wish my sister loved ye.”

  He didn’t hesitate. “I could never love her. Not the way I love ye.”

  Her heart flipped over. And then it sank. “What are we to do?”

  “Mon dieu, I don’t know.”

  A good night’s sleep solved nothing.

  Noёl wished he’d never learned the truth. He could have lived happily in France with his counterfeit bride for years before her father died. By then, it would be too late to undo what had been done. Not that he even wanted to. He’d begun to dream less about inheriting the Highlander’s land and more about stealing off with the man’s daughter.

  But, short of kidnapping her, he still didn’t know how to solve the problem of his marriage.

  One problem he did know how to solve. A young lass like Ysenda shouldn’t be burdened with watching over her brother for the rest of his life. This morn, Noёl intended to prove to her that Caimbeul was not some helpless creature who needed to be hand-fed and fussed over. If Noёl could do nothing else, he could at least give Ysenda the gift of freedom.

  He crept out of the bedchamber without waking her. Most of the clan were in the great hall, breaking their fast with buttered oatcakes. He approached Laird Gille.

  “My laird, I haven’t seen your man, Caimbeul, about lately.”

  The laird grunted. “Why should ye be interested in him?”

  Noёl shrugged. “I was wonderin’ if ye think he’d be up for a wee bit o’ sport this morn.”

  The laird’s eyes lit up. “Sport?”

  “Aye. My men have issued me a challenge. They say I can’t make a fighter out of a cripple. I say I can.”

  “Indeed?” The laird stroked his beard in speculation. “And have ye put coin on it?”

  He waved away the idea. “Nae, ’tis only a matter o’ pride.”

  The laird’s eyes were glittering now. “Pride? Ach! There’s coin to be made on a wager like that.”

  “Perhaps.”

  Laird Gille chortled. “Not to mention it could be an amusin’ sight—Caimbeul with a sword.”

  Noёl bit back his distaste. “So do ye think he’ll agree?”

  “Oh, aye, I can get him to agree.”

  “After breakfast then? In the courtyard?”

  “Aye.” The laird gleefully rubbed his hands together and left to fetch Caimbeul.

  Noёl didn’t tell Ysenda what he was up to. She’d only try to interfere, to protect her brother. She’d find out soon enough anyway.

  The knights were exercising in the courtyard, and the sun was dancing along the tops of the distant pines when Caimbeul, no longer in chains, came limping and lurching briskly across the yard, leaning on a gnarled staff.

  Noёl studied him. But instead of noting the flaws in his gait, he looked for the man’s strengths.

  Of course, Noёl’s men hadn’t really issued that challenge. They knew Noёl well enough to realize he could turn any man into a f
ighter. Instead, they welcomed Caimbeul onto the field with open arms and ready blades.

  Laird Gille had servants bring him a chair so he could sit on the sidelines. He probably imagined he was about to see a horrific and entertaining spectacle. A small crowd of men gathered around. Noёl could see them exchanging coins, betting on the outcome.

  By the time Caimbeul reached Noёl, his face was an angry shade of red, and his eyes were full of rage.

  “Is this how ye repay me for tellin’ the truth?” he bit out. “By makin’ sport o’ me?”

  “Not at all, brother,” Noёl said in quiet reassurance. “I’m goin’ to teach ye to fight properly…so ye won’t have to be afraid o’ your father anymore.”

  Caimbeul blinked in surprise. For an instant, hope flared in his eyes. Then they darkened with cynicism. “I’m a cripple. I can’t fight.”

  “Ye threw a fair clout at me last night. If it hadn’t been for the shackle, ye would have flattened me.”

  Caimbeul almost looked pleased at that.

  “Come on,” Noёl urged, clapping him carefully on the shoulder. “Let’s show your father what ye’ve got.”

  The lad fell a few times. His father laughed. But each time, Noёl and his knights bolstered the young man’s courage and heart, assuring him he was making good progress.

  And he was. He might not have the stature to wield a broadsword with great precision, power, or speed. But he had surprise on his side.

  Anyone looking at Caimbeul would imagine he couldn’t defend himself. But even with his twisted frame, he could thrust forward with a dagger, cuff a man squarely on the nose, and kick an attacker’s legs out from under him.

  Indeed, Laird Gille started to frown as Caimbeul managed to not only stay on his feet, but to knock a few of the knights off theirs.

  It was then that Ysenda arrived.

  But to Noёl’s chagrin, the wide grin of triumphant pride and cheery salutation he gave her was withered by her scowl of pure fury.

  Chapter 8

  Ysenda’s heart had fluttered in panic when she’d awakened to find Noёl gone. Had he decided it was too painful to say goodbye? Had he simply left without a word?

  Even though that would probably be best—even better if he’d absconded with Cathalin—she hoped with all her heart he had not.

  She scrambled to the window and peered out through the shutters. Noёl’s men were still here, sparring in the courtyard below.

  With a sigh of relief, she turned back toward the bed. Her gaze caught on the foolish prize she’d collected last night while Noёl lay sleeping—the black curl she’d snipped from his head and tied into the red handfasting ribbon.

  She tucked her lip under her teeth. She’d forgotten about that. It had been a childish gesture. But she’d wanted a memento of him.

  Someone scratched at the door. With a little gasp, Ysenda snatched up the incriminating lock and stuffed it down the bodice of her leine. She opened the door to Cathalin and her maid, come to choose Cathalin’s attire for the day.

  After they’d gone, Ysenda threw on her own gown and went downstairs. She meant to make one more attempt to convince her father to make things right. She grabbed a buttered oatcake in the great hall, and made her way outside to speak to the laird, who was watching the Norman knights practice.

  Now she’d reached the edge of the field where her father was seated. She halted in her tracks.

  What she saw made her jaw drop. She let the oatcake fall to the ground.

  In the midst of the fighting stood Caimbeul. He was dragging a sword behind him as he hobbled toward two of Noёl’s men.

  He suddenly swung the weapon around. The first knight dodged it. The second shoved Caimbeul aside with his shield, pushing him off balance.

  Caimbeul tumbled backward onto his arse. Beside her, her father snorted in laughter.

  Her blood boiled.

  Clenching her jaw, she strode forward. She shoved her clansmen out of her way, stealing a sword from one of them before he even realized it, and kept charging.

  Caimbeul had recovered now and was back on his feet, hacking away at his attackers. But it would only be a matter of time before he fell again.

  She elbowed aside one of Noёl’s knights. He instinctively drew his blade. Then, seeing she was a woman, he sheathed the sword and backed away with his palms raised.

  “To me!” she yelled at the knights attacking her brother.

  Like most strangers to the Highlands, the French knights were unaccustomed to facing a woman with a weapon. Startled, they turned to her. One of them lowered his shield. The other was forced to raise his when she came at him with a blow forceful enough to lop off his head—had it landed.

  Jarred by the impact of his shield on her steel, Ysenda staggered back a step. But she recovered quickly enough to intervene between the knight and her brother and took another swing.

  From across the field, she heard Sir Noёl shout, “Nae!”

  Too late. She gave his man a punishing clip on the shoulder. He stumbled backward, clutching his bruised arm, while his companion quickly retrieved his shield.

  But then she was caught around the waist from behind. Before she could squirm away, her sword was wrenched from her grip. An instant later, her captor swept her off her feet with a swift kick to the back of her heels. Instead of letting her fall, he caught her on his arm and lowered her with exaggerated care onto the wet grass.

  She immediately rose on her elbows, scowling up in sputtering rage. But her anger vanished when she saw who had disarmed her.

  “Caimbeul?” She blinked in astonishment.

  He grinned down at her. “Good morn, sister.”

  “What did you…? How did you…?”

  It seemed impossible.

  He gave her a wink. “’Twould appear ye’re not the only one whose veins run with the blood o’ warriors.”

  She was still speechless with wonder when Noёl hunkered down beside her. His brow was heavy.

  “Mon ange, are ye hurt?”

  She glanced back and forth between the two men. Noёl’s eyes were filled with concern, Caimbeul’s with gleeful pride. “What the devil is goin’ on?” she snapped.

  “She’s fine,” Caimbeul assured Noёl.

  Noёl looked doubtful. “’Twas quite a spill she took.”

  Caimbeul shrugged. “I’ve seen her take worse.”

  Noёl shook his head. “How can ye bear to watch your own sister fight?”

  “She’s tougher than she looks.”

  Noёl’s brows raised. “Is that so?”

  “Oh, aye. And ’tisn’t the first time she’s fallen on her arse.”

  Ysenda frowned. “That’ll be quite enough, ye two. I’m right here, ye know. I can hear ye.”

  She struggled to her feet, batting away their helpful hands.

  Noёl murmured, “Are ye sure ye’re all right?”

  “I’m fine,” she bit out, though her pride was bruised. “Now one o’ ye had better tell me what’s goin’ on.”

  “Sir Noёl’s teachin’ me to fight,” Caimbeul said.

  “Oh, he is, is he?”

  Her eyes burned as she turned slowly to face Noёl. Then she seized him by the front of his tabard and dragged him out of Caimbeul’s hearing. “Teachin’ him to fight?” she hissed. “Against battle-tested knights? A…a cripple?” She hated to use that word, but there was no other term for it. “Why? Did ye think ’twould be entertainin’ for my father?”

  Noёl’s eyes grew dark. He lowered his cool gaze to rest on her fists, still clenched in his tabard. His unspoken message was clear. He wouldn’t allow her to belittle him in front of his men and her clan. And he wasn’t going to reply until she unhanded him.

  So she did.

  But she still needed an answer.

  “How could ye be so cruel?” she whispered. “Can ye not see how the laird mocks him?”

  “He’s not mockin’ him now.”

  She glanced at her father. Noёl was right. The
laird wasn’t gloating. He was glowering.

  “Your brother is more capable than ye think. He’s more capable than even he believes.”

  “Ye don’t understand. He’s…he’s crippled.”

  “He’s a wee bit twisted up,” Noёl admitted. “But he can still fight. He knocked ye on your arse.” One side of his mouth lifted in a smile.

  “Maybe he can trip up his sister. But he can’t fight against seasoned warriors.” A wave of dread washed over her as she considered the consequences. “If ye make him believe he can, ye’ll get him killed.”

  “And if ye make him believe he cannot, ye’ll keep him weak.”

  Her shoulders drooped. “I can’t let harm come to him. I made a vow.”

  His eyes softened. “Ye were children when ye made that vow. He’s a grown man now. He can take care o’ himself.”

  Ysenda bit her lip. Part of her wanted to believe that. But Noёl didn’t know Caimbeul like she did. He didn’t see how Caimbeul had been mocked and belittled all his life, how he longed to be normal. He couldn’t understand her brother’s pain.

  “Watch him for a wee bit,” Noёl suggested. “And if ye don’t agree that he can fend for himself, ye can go back to wipin’ his arse.”

  She gave him a shove for that remark, but it only made him grin. Then she peered past his shoulder at Caimbeul, who was already back to sparring with one of Noёl’s knights. She couldn’t remember a time when her brother had looked so bright-eyed, eager, and alive.

  It was a difficult decision. But she finally nodded her assent. Noёl returned to the field.

  Her knuckles were white as she clenched her fists in her skirts, resisting the urge to rush forward in Caimbeul’s defense while he dodged slashes from men with arms as thick as oaks. She gasped several times when a blade narrowly missed his head. And her heart dropped to the pit of her stomach when one of the knights sent him sprawling in the grass.

  But then, in the midst of the fighting, Noёl called out a few instructions. Caimbeul suddenly executed an unexpected spin to duck backward under one man’s sword arm, pushing him forward into the second attacker.

  As the two knights fell in a tangle of chain mail, Caimbeul crowed in victory. Noёl rushed forward to clap him on the back.