Placing two fingers against his neck where the blood pounded the strongest, she wanted to test how his heart beat. She tried not to look into his eyes, but he seemed to want her to meet them for he playfully wiggled his eyebrows. When she pretended not to see the way his sensual mouth curved into a sly smirk, he leaned forward and kissed the inside of her wrist.
“Amadan. Sit still. I try to see how your heart works,” she fussed, flustered by his action and trying to guise it. “I am checking to see if you are warm enough.”
“Warm and getting warmer all the time.” Instead of obeying her, he reached out and placed two fingers on the pulse point at her throat. “What about you, Skena? Are you warm?”
“Methinks you are too playful for one who was nearly an icicle a short while ago.” She dropped her hand. “Do you feel strong enough to stand, Sir Noel?”
“Noel. Remember? You said Scots set no store in titles, so why do you keep using mine?” Taking the cloth from his neck, he used it to wipe his face. “You also did not answer my question—are you warm?”
“You have not answered mine either.”
He countered, “My question first.”
“But I am worried about your condition. You are just being troublesome.”
“Troublesome?” He grinned, passing her the rag. “You have not begun to see how troublesome I can be.”
One by one, he removed the remaining cloths from his chest and tossed each to the floor, the whole time never taking that hungry predator’s stare from her. Putting his hands on the side of the tub, he hefted himself upward. Water sluiced off his naked body, fascinating to watch as the rivulets snaked down his chest, hips, and thighs. Her lungs cried out for air as she sucked in a ragged breath. Finally, reason returned, and she thought to snatch up the drying linen.
As Muriel had pointed out, taking in Noel de Servian in the ‘all together’ was hard on a lass. He was tall, taller than most of the Scotsmen she was used to, and instead of their stockier build, often with skin heavy with freckles, de Servian was lean and unblemished, save for a small pale line across his upper left arm. She bit back the word bubbling up inside her, because she had scolded him for overusing it, yet as he stepped from the tub she could not help but believe she stared at the most comely of men her eyes had ever beheld.
“Here.” She held out the long sheet of linen cloth between them. De Servian merely lifted his arms and waited for her to wrap it about his waist. She had to lean in to him to drape it around his hips, which brought her too near to that wonderful expanse of his broad chest. Her heart jumped and then painfully bounced against her ribs. She tried to step back, but he brought his arms down and encircled her.
De Servian gave her a half smile. “I am weak. I need something to lean on.”
Skena slowly lifted her gaze. Standing in his embrace, she judged him strong enough. “You do not feel feeble to me, my lord,” she whispered as their stares met and held. But she did. She trembled in his arms, scared of what this man’s coming meant. Scared that he reached her as none other. A stranger, yet something seemed so familiar about him.
“You have no inkling just how weak I am.” His words were slow, leaving her to assume the tansy was hitting him full force.
De Servian leaned forward slightly, so close she could not draw air. If she did she would inhale that scent of pure male. Worse, there was nary a space between them. That single draw of air would press her breast to his chest.
Dizziness swirled through her mind as she remained perfectly still, caught in his embrace.
Chapter Four
Noel bit the inside of his lower lip to keep from smiling like a fox singling out a lambkin from the flock. He was finding he had an instant fondness for this Scots lass. Skena. She had stood over him, ready to protect him from the wolf, yet she trembled like a fawn in his arms. There was intelligence to the soft brown eyes, a caring that touched his heart. A heart he’d almost forgotten he had. He could not ever recall a woman ready to fight for him…. Not even his mother. Primitive mating instincts stirred to life within him, setting loose the driving need to stake his claim. It lent new power to his blood.
Suddenly, he did not feel so old.
He wanted her. Wanted to take her here and now. Elemental, raw, the craving clawed at his skin. His senses already buffeted from the warm bath, this strong longing finally even blotted out the dull pains completely. There was nothing but the pulse of his blood, beating out a tattoo of take her…take her…take her….
That she provoked such a violent response within him was staggering. He had not desired a woman this strongly since…Well, he could not recall when. Mayhap never. He considered if that dreadful potion she had fed him could be responsible for this violent reaction, some pagan love philter to stir his loins. After a moment’s hesitation, he dismissed it out of hand. This was too pure, too focused, and as wild and savage as a stallion scenting a mare in season.
He leaned toward her slightly, not enough to spook her, but in a testing of how she would react to his male threat. She stiffened and almost seemed to stop breathing; though she held still, she sought no retreat. He could not stop the slow smile from spreading over his lips. His tender warrior. Some people found courage naturally. They willfully charged into any situation and worried later about the backlash. True courage came when someone was scared, yet did not back down. She was frightened of him on several levels. He was male and bigger. He was English, the enemy in troubled times, a man who could be a threat to all she held dear. And most alarming to her, she was petrified of what he provoked her to feel. There was no hiding the response for it was written plainly on her lovely face.
She was so close her scent filled his mind. He tilted so his nose brushed the side of her hair, wanting to breathe in Skena. His muscles flexed to prevent him from nuzzling her cheek. That would be one step too far. The sharp coppery tang of the wolf’s blood hit his senses first, but underneath was ‘perfume’ that was Skena. Intoxicating. Heady.
Oh aye, Skena MacIain saved his life this night. Only, he suddenly had the fey sense she could rescue him from the grayness of this world.
If only she would dare.
For his whole life, he had simply taken each day one at a time. He was humbled being favored as an honorary Challon brother, felt privileged, safe in that acceptance. He was devoted to Julian, Simon, and Damian, though likely he was a bit closer to Guillaume, mayhap because they were only months apart in age. Growing up with them held much sought after advantages. He had been envied by countless, feared by the rest. The mere whisper of the name Challon caused many a man’s blood to turn to ice. He never resented that he was not a true son of Earl Michael, and was content to serve the man’s sons, and later their king under the Challon pennon.
Still, the future was by no means his. He had never forgotten that everything had been taken from him merely because he was too young to hold the fief that had been his family’s for centuries. He barely recalled details of that dark time. Just the pain. The pain of hearing his father had been killed in the lists, while waging mock battles with the hope of increasing the near empty coffers of Darkmoor. His mother’s howls of anguish, echoing against the stone walls of the castle. Vague whispers of the servants. Their fearful glances. At age five he scarcely understood why. He soon learnt.
He recalled awaking in the middle of the night, breaking the dream of his father’s death. So vivid, he almost felt as if he had traveled back in time and visited the horrible scene. He watched his father as the lance hit his chest, splintered into jagged shards, one flying up into his helm’s visor, driving through the ocularium and into his brain through his eye. So detailed, he woke screaming. Terrified, barely able to breathe, he crawled from the high bed and went to seek out his lady mother, wanting her comfort, her soft words telling him that everything would be all right.
She had not been there. No soft words of reassurance. And nothing was all right.
The servants carried her into the castle shortly after da
wnbreak, her night rail and black hair sodden, her skin alabaster white. For a long held breath he merely stared at the woman they carried. Surely, this was some poor lost soul, a stranger to Darkmoor? Only his eyes spotted the scar on the back of her hand. Five months past, Mother had been using a dull knife and put too much pressure on it to make it cut. The blade had slipped and sliced across the back of the opposite hand. Clutching at straws, his mind even thought for a brief instant how odd this unfortunate woman had a mark exactly like his mother. He heard a deep keening and wondered who was making that horrible noise.
Then he understood. It was coming from him.
Sennights later, the Earl Michael arrived, telling him to pack his belongings, that he was to come to Castle Challon to live. He knew the handsome, commanding man. His father and Lord Challon had been close friends. It was not easy for Noel to accept; everything seemed to be taken from him. First Father, then Mother, and finally his heritage, Darkmoor. The black-haired man with the brilliant green eyes had smiled and said not to be scared, that at Castle Challon he would have brothers, a home…someplace safe.
Yes, he had been protected, permitted to grow alongside the men of Challon. Still, he had never had a future of his own. He had always fought for others, never for himself.
In all those years since, he remembered many women, women who wanted his body, wanted the power the Challon pennon afforded him. They paraded through his life, his bed, in their fine silks, velvets, and brocades, heavily bedecked with gold, pearls, or other precious jewels. Never had one been willing to give her own life to defend his.
Skena had. He’d heard her send the children off. She could have left him, ridden back to the fortress with the children to fetch help. Instead, she stayed behind to shield him from the threat of wolves. That choice could have cost her life, and she had known that. If she had it all to do over again, he’d be willing to bet Craigendan that Skena MacIain would make the same choice.
Something about that valiant, selfless act touched him in a way words failed to explain. It humbled him.
He wanted to flex his arms and pull her against his body, teach her how quickly she could heat his blood. His groin lurched hard, reminding him other parts of his body were also undamaged by the cold. He had to bite his tongue to keep from asking if she needed to tweak that as she had his toes.
Skena had let him kiss her before. That surprised him. From the expression on her lovely face, it had stunned her as well. He wanted to kiss her again, only he had a feeling she would put distance between them if he pushed her.
Finally, her fear of him shattered the strange spell. She feigned being unruffled. “Come, let me help you to the bench so I may dry your hair. I needs must get you to bed before you become too sleepy from the tansy or take a chill again.”
“You want me to go to bed, Skena?” He did not guise his stressing of the word bed, and that seemed to break her lethargy.
Skena took a step away, but stopped as her back hit the resistance of his arms. He did not want to release her, but realized he had to. He saw her exhale relief when he lowered his arms. He gave her credit—she did not run, but turned and slid her arm about his waist for him to lean against her. He could have reached the bench on his own, but this allowed him to pull her closer, holding her in a less threatening way. Step-by-step saw the deed accomplished, he thought.
Just as he was breaking out in a grin, he jumped when her hand touched his inflamed side. He cursed through gritted teeth. Disgusted with the increasing pain, he knew the side bothered him long past when it should not. In the beginning, he had hoped since he was aging it was just slow to heal. Obviously, there was some shred of fabric or metal still embedded deep in his flesh, and it was festering, the pain a thousand red-hot needles.
“Sorry, I did not mean to contrary your sore spot. Here, sit on the bench before the fire. I do not want you to take chill.”
Noel lowered himself onto the middle of the bench to keep it from toppling with him, instantly feeling the fire wash over his skin. The intense dry heat felt soothing. Skena picked up a woolen blanket and wrapped it around his shoulders. Only, with her standing in front of him, that put her breasts dead center of his eye level. He groaned.
“How do you feel, Sir Noel? If there is pain I can mix another tansy to ease your distress.”
Almost without thought, she reached up and pushed several stray curls back from his forehead. Clamping his teeth together, he struggled to rein in his rampant desire. The maddening woman simply did not understand what a temptation she presented.
“You are gritting your teeth again. Please, do not try to be strong. The worts can take the pain away—”
Clamping his hands around her waist he intended to set her back to save his sanity. Instead, he stilled. He was shocked by how thin her hips were. He could feel her bones clearly defined under the woolen kirtle. That brought a frown to him. Skena was a big woman, full-breasted, thus he would have thought she carried more weight. He grew concerned she was not eating enough for some reason. Was she sick?
“You are too skinny, Skena.” His big hands spanned her waist easily, too easily, as if he held a young girl. He flattened the material to outline her body.
Skena held rigid, then she strugggled to jerk away, clearly upset. “I thank you to keep your bloody opinions to yourself, Sir Noel.”
“Noel,” he reminded her.
“I am thinking you are too forward by half, Sir Noel. I did not ask you for your thoughts. Now let go, so I can dry your hair and then get you to bed.” She tried to shove his hands away.
Stubbornly, Noel held her hips fast. “Why are you so thin, Skena? Are you sick? Some sort of wasting sickness? Tell me.”
She remained silent.
Burning anguish pulsed through his blood, so blinding he could hardly think. The specter of something being wrong with Skena terrified him. He had just found this special woman, discovered there might be a possibility for something beyond the grayness of his existence. That it could be snatched away from him before he ever had a chance to find out the mystery of Skena MacIain scared him in a way that facing the hell of battles had failed to do.
Dread of this prospect opened that door on those long ago emotions from when he was a child and had learnt that the people he loved could suddenly be taken from him. He was a warrior, who had stood against a charge of twenty score heavy horse, monstrous animals with mighty hooves pounding the earth, drawing closer and closer, bearing riders with lances lowered. That terror paled beside the alarm that something was wrong with Skena.
How could this woman come to matter so much to him within this short span? Noel could not fathom the why, simply knew it as truth. He recalled kneeling in the snow and wiping the blood from Skena’s cheek, wondering what magical creature had come to save him. Now, after watching her tenderly care for him, he grew convinced that fate had finally seen fit to give him a future of his own, that he had been sent to Craigendan for a purpose.
They say Christmastide is a season of miracles. Mayhap this was his chance for one. Living for so long apathetic, he now prayed ’twas so.
When his parents had died, he had been robbed of all. His coming to this fortress in this Northland seemed as if Lady Fate was balancing accounts, giving him the home and a family that had been taken from him. He could save Skena and her children from the same tragedy he had tasted, losing your home and all that was yours.
In the end, possibly he might find redemption for killing Angus Fadden.
Chapter Five
Skena trembled as she helped de Servian lie down; he was so exhausted, his eyes closed the instant his head touched the pillow. His tall frame with those long legs filled the huge bed, almost seeming to dwarf it. She settled him on his left side to keep pressure off his tender spot, and then set about to pull the bed curtains on the far side, blocking the draft in the large chamber. A bearskin covered the wooden shutters closed upon the narrow window, and a tapestry was on top of that, yet the winds still found a way
inside around the edges. Wanting the heat from the fireplace to reach him, she left the curtains at the foot tied back.
Rounding the corner, she paused with her hand on the bedpost. Possibly she did not need the support. Possibly she did. Noel de Servian was stretched out the length of the bed, with a plaide pulled loosely across his hips.
“Have mercy!” she hissed lowly.
Never before had she looked upon a nearly naked man and found such perfection in his body. Men always appeared oddly created, to her way of thinking. Too hairy legs, ugly feet, some with chests that reminded her of a bear pelt, and strangely, longer through the torso than a woman. Noel de Servian was none of those things. There was a lean, animalistic elegance to his hard muscles; shadows folded around their curves defining their strength and form, shaped by his years of training as a warrior. The broad chest was nearly hairless, smooth, his belly rippled. A wave of flames roared through her blood as she stared at the most ravishing of men.
Three curls of the soft hair carelessly spilled across his high forehead. Her fingers itched to reach out and brush them back. His brown hair was not cut in the Norman style but longer, curling, as though he failed to assume their courtly ways, which reminded Skena of a bowl being placed on their heads. She was glad. This suited him. As she had dried the thick mass, the color had lightened and the waves increased. There was a razor sharp intelligence, a force of command that filled those grey eyes. Men would follow this warrior into battle, accept his orders without question. Die for him. Swallowing the bitter taste of jealousy, she did not want to think what women would do upon his bidding. Noel de Servian was such a handsome man.
Such a threat. In more ways than one.
She must remember that and never let down her guard. He was English, the invader. This man and his countrymen had crushed the army of forty thousand Scots on the fields of Spottsmuir, possibly even killed men of Craigendan in that rout. At all times she must hold tight to those truths; not for one breath could she ever drop her defenses with this knight who could only spell trouble for her.
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