Her Knight in Tarnished Armor: A Medieval Romance Collection

by Kerrigan Byrne

  Sorcha heard the shouting through stone walls.

  Although she couldn’t hear precisely what was being said, she knew to whom the voices belonged—and more, she suspected the subject might be her. Her fears were confirmed.

  A door opened and slammed. After a moment, Alec burst into the alcove. He spied her in the workshop, and spun around, hovering in her doorway, both hands gripping the frame, his expression worried. “If ye’ve a mind to leave before May Day’s eve,” he told her. “I’ll take ye to Skye myself.”

  But Sorcha didn’t want to go, not yet. She shook her head. “I made you a bargain,” she said. “I intend to keep it.”

  For a long moment, Alec merely stared at her, as though he wished to say more. “There will be a reckoning to come,” he warned. “I’d not leave you here to witness it.”

  Sorcha hadn’t any inkling what it was he was speaking about, but she wasn’t afeared. In fact, if these people needed defense, she was as capable as any man. She knew how to use a bow and sword. The day the Earl of Moray attacked her brother near Dunràth, Sorcha had been the first to know it, and she’d fled to his rescue, felling more than a few men and shielding Keane from de Moray’s blade. “I will take my chances,” she maintained.

  “Ach, lass.” He shook his head, desperate, so it seemed. “If you stay, you may face the devil you flee.”

  “So be it,” Sorcha said, and, after a moment, Alec nodded, and he went away, leaving Sorcha to her tinctures and her herbs. But, it was that terrible look of turmoil in his eyes as he left that haunted Sorcha well into the day.

  “You may face the devil you flee,” he’d said. The only devil Sorcha knew of was her sire. And if that be the devil he spoke of, she would relish the opportunity to skewer him through.

  And if it was not her Da, well then, she would still stay, for she had an affinity for these people she couldn’t easily explain. And even if she didn’t care what happened to them, there were more children here on Rònaigh than there were adults. What kind of monster would Sorcha be if she abandoned innocents to save herself?

  In truth, she had so much to say to Una, if, in fact, Una still lived, but Sorcha no longer felt such a fierce drive to seek her against all odds. For the time being, she was needed here, and if by chance there was evil to come, she would stay to help these good folks through it.

  So, then … the ruagaire deamhan had another use.

  Although many would dismiss the fine line separating this world from the next, along with the potions and spells that melded or divided the two, she was a true believer in the old ways. Sorcha gathered all the remaining flowers that hadn’t been used in her tinctures or teas, and placed them into small pouches. And just to be sure, she added a few more herbs to the package, and then she set out with her creel to make her rounds about the village.

  Many folks no longer believed in the power of magik. But Sorcha had been raised to respect the other world, and if naught else, it would make her feel better to share her charm. She went door to door, and every time she said the same thing. “I’ve brought ye a talisman.” And she handed the woman who answered a small pouch. “Place it high, where it might help protect your home.”

  She did this thrice, and then, at the fourth house, a woman answered, who then began to weep. “Thank you, Sorcha—thank you. My Elspeth has been ill.”

  “Oh, no!” Sorcha said, and it was a pertinent reminder that some evils were not the least bit supernatural. Sorcha could help with that as well. “May I see her?”

  The woman opened the door wider, allowing Sorcha entry. Once inside, Sorcha realized how meager these folks lived. There was only a single common room, with a pallet, a table, and a cauldron in the hearth. Little Elspeth—the same girl who’d called Liusaidh a faerie horse—sat on the bed she shared with her mother, sniffling and wiping her nose. Her heart wrenching for the sick child, Sorcha took another small pouch from her basket, one she’d filled with juniper berries, and right there, at the woman’s table, she crushed the berries to make a poultice. She wrapped it in a cloth and handed it to the woman, instructing her, “She is not to eat this, nor should she rub it on her skin. If she has trouble breathing, simply place it beneath her nostrils and tell her to breathe. Like this …” To be sure the woman knew exactly what to do, Sorcha showed her how the first time.

  “Thank you,” the woman said as Sorcha was leaving. “You’re a blessing, dear. God has blessed us by sending you to Rònaigh.”

  That wasn’t precisely the case. Sorcha hadn’t been sent, she was brought. But, nevertheless, she hugged the woman, and was on her way again, thinking that, in truth, these people were a blessing for her. For the first time since learning the truth about her birth, Sorcha was content in the moment, and Una and Padruig Caimbeul were merely distant thoughts. So, nay, she wouldn’t leave them.

  Whatever these people might be preparing to face, Sorcha would weather it beside them. And if she must raise a sword in defense of them, she would do that as well.

  Fearing Caden meant to send her away, the instant Sorcha returned from her rounds about the village, she ascended the stairwell to make good and certain he couldn’t so easily dispense with her.

  She knew what she knew, and she realized that, despite all Caden’s fury and all his efforts to avoid her, he was no more immune to Sorcha than she was to him.

  Right now, this instant, she intended to prove it …

  13

  More than a sennight had passed since Sorcha’s arrival, and Caden was equally as blind as he was on the day she had come. None of her poultices or her potions or salves did any good. If she’d affected anything at all, it was only his will to live. He’d be damned if his people would suffer for his apathy. And Sorcha … she was but an innocent in this. Now that he understood her plight, he felt as protective over her as he did his own kin.

  That auld woman had told Alec everything. Sorcha was a blood daughter to Padruig Caimbeul, and even this far north, near the ends of the earth, they knew of Padruig’s villainy—the ill-begotten alliance he’d shared with the laird of Teviotdale, whose daughter was found mutilated by King David’s Butcher. Too late, Teviotdale had raised his banners against Padruig, rallying men who would oppose the man. Unfortunately, without proof of Padruig’s culpability, no one had joined him. Certainly not Caden, who’d had too much to lose by opposing a minion of David’s. After all, look what happened to Óengus and his sons. They’d lost the Mormaerdom, as well as their lives, and the title of Earl was now bestowed upon a man so greedy he would collude with his own father’s murderers. And nevertheless, perhaps the most compelling of all the tales they’d heard was the one about Padruig’s treachery at Dubhtolargg. There was little wonder he’d furrowed his brow when Sorcha mentioned the place of her birth, although he’d not realized it until Alec reminded him of Padruig’s treason. Caden would be damned if he would simply hand Sorcha over to such a man. Come what may, he would see that she escaped, unharmed.

  As for his own folks … he did not know what to do. He could trust all that Alec had revealed … or he could gather his people and whisk them away. Right now. Take them down to the boats. Sail away to the Isle of Skye. He would, indeed, swallow his pride, and make peace with Auld MacLeod—give him the isle and all its rewards.

  Climbing the stairwell, alone, for the first time since his blinding, Caden remained near the wall, using his staff to feel out the steps. He knew precisely how many to take before exiting to his own chambers, and he felt Sorcha’s presence the instant he entered. The scent of her poultices aside, the room was toasty and he thought perhaps she’d drawn a bath … He sensed the humidity in the air and smelled lavender-infused water.

  “My laird,” she said sweetly, coming to greet him, and everything he’d meant to say fell short of his tongue the instant she began to tug at his tunic.

  “Sorcha?”

  “I have drawn a warm bath for you,” she said, taking him gently by the hand, and then snatching it back when Caden tried to pull a
way.

  Ever since hearing her tale from Alec, Caden had tried his best to avoid her, hoping against hope that she would choose to leave of her own accord. He knew Alec had offered her safe passage to the Isle of Skye. But, for some reason, she remained …

  Sorcha made short work of his clothing, taking advantage of his distraction, and before Caden realized he stood naked as the day he was begot. She had a brazier burning in his room.

  Did she move it in here all by herself?

  If he didn’t know better, because he’d felt her long, lean arms, he would think her as strapping as a man. But she wasn’t. Her skin was soft and supple, and merely the thought left him hungry for more carnal knowledge. Without a word, she led him to the tub, placing his hands upon the rim, and then leaving him to climb in by himself.

  How could he say nay?

  As tired as Caden was, he daren’t complain. He laid down his staff beside the tub and climbed inside the tub, sighing contentedly as he sank down into the lavender-infused water, and then, he froze, as he heard another garment slide to the floor … the sound of it soft and alluring, cascading over bare flesh.

  Gooseflesh erupted over his arms, and, like an untried youth, his heart began to pound. “Sorcha,” he protested weakly.

  He felt a foot slide inside his tub, small curling toes … “Shhhh,” she said. “Shhhh.” And then she eased down atop him.

  Caden could speak no more, for the temptress leaned forward to place a sweet kiss on the bridge of his nose. “Sorcha,” he tried again, despite that he could feel her long shapely limbs molding themselves to his body. Her bottom slid down to cup his immediate and turgid arousal.

  Sorcha reveled in his lusty response.

  Ignorant although she might be of carnal pleasure, she’d heard enough banter from her sisters to know what it took to please a man—and to please herself in the meantime.

  His head fell back against the tub, and all lines eased from his face. But, just to be sure, she said, “If ye dinna wish it, Caden Mac Swein … an’ ye dinna find me appealing, I will go …”

  Her voice was pouty as her finger teased his nipple. He inhaled a breath, opening his mouth to speak, but no words emerged. Nothing materialized but a husky sigh.

  Encouraged, Sorcha took the soap into her hands, and then began to lather his shoulders, letting the slippery slab slide over his warm, bare flesh, pausing only to trace the tips of her fingers over each of his scars. How many battles must he have seen? There was a long scar above his chest, below the shoulder, and she instinctively leaned forward to kiss it.

  “Sorcha,” he protested. Only this time, his voice trembled. Sorcha slid her hand down, to nestle between them, and for an instant, pretended to wash herself … only she let go of the soap and wrapped her fingers about his shaft, squeezing gently. His hands whisked out to seize her by the wrist, restraining her. “If you do this, Sorcha dún Scoti, you must know I will never let you go.”

  “Aye,” she whispered as seductively as she knew how to be.

  “Never,” he stressed again. “And I do mean never.”

  Sorcha smiled, her heart beating wildly. Her body yearned for more, and despite that she’d never known a man inside her, she understood precisely what it was she needed. She longed to be filled by this man, and she listened to her body, shifting ever-so-slightly, rising, so his manhood teased her most private places. Beneath her, Caden’s body shuddered again, and she reveled in the power it gave her. “Do you wish me to stop?” she asked in a whisper.

  “Nay,” he said gruffly, and he swallowed. His throat bobbed and Sorcha leaned in to kiss it. Giving truth to his words, his grip eased upon her wrist, and his hand fell away from her hips.

  That was all Sorcha needed to know. She settled herself atop him, her body flowering to accommodate him, and she shuddered with pleasure, until the instant they encountered the barrier of her maidenhead …

  She saw that he felt it, too, for his eyes grew wide and both his hands shot out once more, unerringly seizing her by the waist, so as to prevent her from fully enveloping him.

  But Sorcha did not intend to be thwarted. She wanted this as much as Liusaidh must have wanted Diabhal. She wanted Caden Mac Swein and she wanted to bear his children. She wanted a wee bairn to hold at her breast, like Lìli, and Lael, and Lianae. Even Kellen, Lìli’s eldest son, would soon be a Da, and Sorcha had never even lain with a man. Emboldened, she pushed Caden’s hands away, allowing the weight of her body to guide her down. The rending of her maidenhead was painless, obscured by too much pleasure. And then, once he filled her completely, Sorcha rocked slowly atop him, accustoming herself to his size, while she coaxed his seed into her womb. “Buin mo chridhe dhuit,” she whispered, as she nibbled his ear. My heart belongs to you. “From this moment forward.”

  His voice was hoarse with desire. “Tá mo chroí istigh ionat,” he said. My heart is inside you.

  And it was true. Sorcha felt it beating through his veins, all the way to her womb…

  Her body spoke in answer, hungry with desire, and then, no more need be said…

  14

  Sorcha’s heart was no longer in the Vale.

  She had been led to Rònaigh for a reason, and now she meant to stay. Come what may, she was meant to be with Caden. Since their union in the high tower, she had spent nearly every waking moment tending to him, applying her tinctures, and then, when the caresses grew to be overmuch, she made love to him.

  So long, Sorcha had despaired ever to know a man, to realize the joy of bearing children, but then, again, she had never allowed herself the option to grieve over what might never be. She was too pragmatic to allow herself to waste such energy. Only now, there was no need to deny herself anything at all. Caden was a man given to pleasure, and he was hardly shy about showing her.

  No matter where they found themselves—in his chamber, beneath a rowan tree, on the beach, near the cliffs—he seemed wholly unconcerned with audiences, completely unashamed to claim her for his own.

  But, of course, he could not see when they had an audience, and betimes, Sorcha could not appease him—or herself, for that matter—not when the wee ones were watching from afar. Today, she found herself slapping his hands and telling him nay. “Let us keep to the task at hand,” she scolded, as he attempted to touch her breast, like a boy with a precious toy.

  “Ach, lass. ’Tis been three weeks now and it isna working, fíorghrá.” My true love. “Let us make wee bairns together, instead. They shall be my eyes.”

  Sorcha laughed. “Nay. Not when there are so many wee ones watching.”

  “An toir thu dhomh pòg?” Will you give me a kiss?

  “Nay,” she said again, laughing.

  Thwarted again and again, Caden sighed and lay back upon the dewy grass, content to have Sorcha so near. He couldn’t see her with his eyes, but he could see her with his heart, and it was strange to say, but he could sense her silhouette seated beside him, like a chimera behind his lids.

  During moments like these, it was easy to believe all was as it should be. Spring had come. The air was warm. And soon enough, if Caden had his way, he would have his own wee bairns running about the field. So much had changed in the space of a heartbeat.

  For now, he was content enough to see the world through Sorcha’s eyes. Clearly, she had never seen creatures of the sort that dwelled upon their isle, for he recognized the awe in her voice as they sat near the North Beach, watching sea calves frolic in the surf.

  “How many are there now?” Caden asked.

  “Too many to count,” Sorcha replied, and she tapped him on the left hand.

  Caden offered her his left arm. “Soon, the rocks will be filled with them.”

  For two days straight, she had been rubbing him with tinctures and oils, forcing him to drink her bittersweet tea. And, of course, he continued to humor her, despite that it didn’t seem to be doing any good.

  Nevertheless, his mood was far more relaxed and he no longer felt the aches and pains h
e’d suffered after the blinding. But much of that had little to do with her tea, no matter what she claimed, for he was a man well sated. “Di’ ye e’er hear about the selkies?”

  “Selkies?” Her voice was sweet and smooth like honeyed butter, and he leaned forward to catch her scent above the ruagaire deamhan, which, by the by, only seemed to make his piss smell worse than garlic.

  She continued to rub his arms, and then moved to his legs, every so often, distracting herself with the hairs on his legs. He wanted to warn her that all that rubbing wasn’t going to restore his sight, but it damned sure would restore something else. “’Tis said selkies live as seals in the sea, but on land, they shed their skins and become human. ’Tis why none of my people will ever consume them. One of these days, I will take you down to the Giant’s Cave, where they shelter.”

  “Giant’s Cave?”

  “An auld cave down by the beach.”

  “But why do you call it that?”

  “Forsooth, lass, I dunno. I only know ’tis what my grandminny used to call it. My folk have been calling it that since long before I was born.”

  Caden supposed it had something to do with his Viking ancestors, who had been perceived as giants by the Éiren. He, himself, derived his color and his height from the Viking in his blood.

  What color is Sorcha’s hair? What color are her eyes?

  He would kill to know these things and more. He knew the lay of her face, the delicate planes of her nose and her mouth. He had memorized them as he had the lay of this land, every tiny curve and freckle. But he had no inkling what all these things looked like together.

  She made short work of his legs, massaging her way over tired muscles, and then she returned to his fingers—those same fingers that once had clutched cold, hard steel. He sighed with pleasure as she kneaded them, making him forget their deadly works. He had no idea how her ministrations were supposed to help his eyes, but he wasn’t about to complain.