Forcing her eyelids open, she blinked several times because of sleep sand. When she could focus, she stared at the massive shoulders and hard back of a man. De Servian. She almost jumped back. Almost. That delicious warmth held her there. Surely, it was not a bad thing to borrow his heat on this cold, snowy morn? His breathing was shallow, his body barely moving as he slowly inhaled and then exhaled, showing he was sleeping deeply.
As her eyes traveled over the braw spine and the defined muscles of his back, she bit back the word beautiful. Men were not supposed to be beautiful or comely or gorgeous. Those were terms applied to women. When folks spoke of men they said striking, handsome, or mayhap virile, and those things did apply to Noel de Servian. Even so, he seemed more than any of the men she had met, thus those simple words failed to pay him due homage.
She swallowed hard as the scent of his body filled her mind, provoking a strange reaction in her blood. Leaning forward, she nearly pressed her nose to his shoulder to breathe in the fragrance of his skin. A smile crossed her lips as she savored the delicious, heady tang of his flesh. Never before could she recall liking the way a man smelled; she was tempted to bury her face against his back and revel in the elemental essence that was Noel de Servian. He smelled good. He smelled right.
Decency should propel her back to the far side of the bed, instead of cuddling next to him. It was a big bed, after all, with plenty of room for four people. There was little need for her to be almost pressed up against his body. Evermore plagued with cold feet and hands, she supposed they had instinctively sought the radiant warmth de Servian offered. Now that she was awake, she should scoot over to her side, if not climb out of bed entirely.
Skena bit the corner of her lip, fighting a battle within herself. And losing. Gradually, she brought her hand up to his shoulder blade, brushing and yet not fully touching. She held still. Hesitating. She owned no right to stroke this man in any way other than as a healer. Shameful though it may be, she wanted to. So easily, she could story to herself that she merely sought to try out the kenning again, see if the connection was still there and as strong as she remembered. And in truth, that curiosity was a wee part of what was driving her. To experience the kenning so potent within her, when never before had she been able to draw on that fey gift, had been startling. Though of late she had told endless untruths, she had never deceived herself. To offer that as an excuse for why she fondled his back would be naught but bald-faced mendacity.
She pressed her hand to his hot flesh. He still fought the fever, but the wracking cough had quieted, allowing him to slumber peacefully. When he showed no reaction to the gentle caress, she drew her palm downward to the small of his back. The old wound site burned, scorching. She lifted her hand and placed it on his hip.
Her palm tingled. The kenning.
Until Noel de Servian had come into her life she had never perceived its sense so clearly, so intensely. As she touched this warrior’s flesh, she was overwhelmed by so many things. Emotions, yes. Desire—without doubt! Never had she craved to handle a man so intimately, yearned to feel those sword-roughened hands on her. Oh, she wanted him with a power that seized her whole being. Visions flooded her mind, of his hands sliding over her naked body, squeezing her breasts, pressing her down into the soft, feathered mattress. That was the hunger. There was more. So much more. Something about this man reached beyond the flesh, past the need to mate. It touched that spot within her no one had before, awoke dreams she had put away a long time ago when she had been forced to marry Angus.
Timidly, she snaked her fingers over the curve of his hard, round buttock. Straying too close to the festering spot, suddenly it felt as if she took a blow to her body, as though steel had pierced her side. Sucking in a deep breath, her mind swirled with pain. His pain. Pain she now shared. Through strength of will, she held her hand there and opened her heart, allowing the force to flow from him into her. It was almost too much to experience after the years of near silence from the kenning, but she closed her eyes and tried to shed the mortal shackles of this world, reach for Annwyn, into the Realm of Shadows where the Auld Ones resided. Immediately, darkness surrounded her, swallowed her. She might have panicked had she not known she was touching Noel. Her anchor.
Skena stood in a vast cavern on a narrow stone bridge with no sides. She moved ahead with hesitant, careful steps. Slowly light began to fill her mind. Then almost with the snap of a whip she was carried from there. She stood on a field, in a place unfamiliar to her. Taking a step, she recoiled. She had trod on a man’s arm. A dead man. As she backed up, she stepped on another. Her head snapped around and around, seeing bodies everywhere. Men dead or dying, some places two and three deep. There was hardly a place to walk. She swallowed back the scream of horror, bubbling up in her throat.
A man on a snow white destrier galloped up the knoll toward her. Other knights on horses and soldiery afoot followed behind. He was covered in mail. The helm with the nose piece made it hard to recognize his face. Only as he rode near, he abruptly reined the stallion to a halt, the beautiful horse rearing. Then the unearthly eyes looked at her. A pale, liquid silver, with odd circles of amber, they widened and then focused upon Skena as if he could really see her in the midst of all the bodies.
A dread slammed into her, paralyzing her. She needed to warn him. Danger was near. Everything began to swirl and shift about her. Somehow, she had to fight to reach him, stop what evil that was going to happen.
“Skena…” he said.
The voice pulled her to him, but everything kept bending, twisting, to where she could see only Noel as he dismounted his horse. There were others about; they were nothing but blurs, their voices garbled. She had to reach him before it was too late. Pushing and shoving against the faceless bodies, not caring where her feet landed, she never saw the hand that wielded the sword, just witnessed as it plunged into Noel’s back. Felt it enter her as if she had taken the blade in his stead.
“No!” The scream escaped as she saw blood gushing down his leg, the huge red stain soaking and spreading on the surcoat.
“Skena!” The urgent plea pulled her back into the darkness. “Awaken. Please awaken.”
Her shoulders being shaken finally yanked her away from the place of dead and dying. She could only lie there and fight against the lingering images and emotions still crowding her mind. Fear over how close de Servian came to dying, not long ago. Finally, as movement returned, she lifted her hand and allowed her fingers to softly stroke his handsome face.
“Death brushed your soul. It was so close, you dying,” she whispered, sorrow filling her that she might never have known this man. “I saw….”
“Saw what? You were dreaming, Skena. Naught more than images our mind tries to sort through.” Carefully, his hand pushed her hair away from the side of her face. “I do not pretend to understand why our minds torment us in such fashion. Sometimes, ’tis like stories created in our head. Other times, pieces of our lives are in there. These images soon fade if you allow it, or replace them with other thoughts.”
She dropped her hand to the strong column of his neck and allowed her thumb to brush over the point where she felt the pulse of his blood. “I was not dreaming. I was there, saw you take the sword to your side.” She choked on the sob welling in her throat.
“Dreams oft seem real to us, but are merely night visitations. Let them trouble you not,” he assured her. His hand reached up to close over hers, where it still touched his neck, and then squeezed.
“Nay, truly I did not sleep. I was awake,” she insisted.
He shook his head no. “You slept. I had a hard time calling you back from Morpheus’s realm. You scared me.”
Oddly, she wanted him to understand, to accept her as she was. “Nay, I am born of blood that has ‘the sight.’ Ogilvie blood. People oft speak of it as ‘walking in another’s thoughts.’ That is what I was doing. I walked in your thoughts.”
Leaning over her, Noel stilled. “What mean you? You ‘walked’ in m
y thoughts? No one can do that.” His mouth gave a faint smile, slightly condescending as if she were a half-wit.
“Aye, there are a few who can…. Gifted ones. Highlanders are aware of some who possess powers, abilities. “Tis called the kenning.” Skena looked up into the silvery eyes, afraid, unsure how he would hear her confession. “Females of Ogilvie blood are fey. They sometimes see things in dreams, others in visions. If they are powerful enough, they can do this through touch, to know what you think, even see images from your past or what may come.”
He snorted a derisive laugh. “’Tis daft. Do you lend belief to such childish folly, Skena?”
She tried not to let his immediate rebuff of the notion bother her. People had strong reactions when faced with the truth that women of Clan Ogilvie were different. They were witches. Some spoke of such with reverence; others in mistrust, fear, or even abhorrence. People outside of the clans preferred to believe witches did not truly exist. Others accepted their existence and either wanted to use their power for their own gain, or shunned them, and thus were scared of them.
As she looked up into his bespelling eyes, she wondered which path he would choose. Mayhap it was better for her to keep silent and not reveal these dark secrets to him, better than to explain and have him look at her in shock or loathing. A few could never accept that their thoughts were not their own; there was no way to shield themselves from this violation. Her heart would break if he turned away from her. Only here for such a short time and already he was coming to mean so much to her. Mayhap too much.
Skena wondered how Tamlyn and Aithinne were handling this same situation with their new English husbands. Had they kept their secrets, or were these Dragons of Challon men made of sterner stuff, powerful enough not to fear powers unseen in a woman? Her cousins were strong seers. Auld Bessa said likely they were the strongest in the clan since Evelynour, and her birth was so many years ago people had stopped counting the number of summers she had walked this earth.
For her cousins to conceal their nature, their special abilities, would be much harder than it would be for Skena, likely one of the weakest of the Ogilvie line. Hiding the craft in her would take little effort. Never had she been seized by the visions or dreams that came so easily to her cousins.
Until this man.
So many wondrous things stirred to life within Skena, summoned by Noel de Servian. Hope took seed in her heart. With the kenning this strong when she touched him, it had to be a sign. Mayhap the dreams of a young girl’s heart, which had refused to die, had been answered with the coming of this one special man. She wanted to tell him of this wondrous magic, share it with him.
“I believe in many things since your coming,” she confessed in a whisper.
Noel gave her a faint smile. “’Tis a magical season when wishes are answered, they say.”
Skena lowered her lashes. “Wishes are a waste of time. They lead only to disappointment.”
“Do they?” There was challenge in de Servian’s voice as he leaned forward and brushed his lips to hers.
Just a gentle, fleeting touch between them, but her body nearly leapt, wanting to capture his kiss, deepen it. She rose to the primeval power of being under this virile warrior. Surrender clamored within her blood.
The chattering voices of children, growing louder, caused them to jerk apart. Skena scooted hurriedly off the bed, snatched up a cover, and swung it around her like a ruanna. She did not need Andrew and Annis seeing her in bed with de Servian. Already they cosseted hopes he was the knight of their Yule wish who had come to save them. That they believed in wishes was troublesome enough. She was not going to lose herself to the false magic, which would fade in bright sunshine.
The door pushed open and both children clattered in, not waiting for a well-come. Noel moved quickly to shove himself back under the covers. That set off a round of coughing from him.
Skena watched her son and daughter climb up on the bed and begin plaguing de Servian with questions. Her heart squeezed as she observed Annis putting her hand to his forehead to see how hot he was.
Nay, wishes were not for her.
“Bloody pathetic liar,” she whispered under her breath.
Chapter Nine
“Skena, oh, come quick!” Elspeth called as she rattled into the hall, her frail frame scarcely able to bear the heavy mail and armaments she wore. The baldric about the girl’s hips swung loosely, nearly causing her to trip in her rush forward. Shoving the sheath to her side, she removed the too-large helm and pushed her sandy-colored hair back from her worried face. “Riders come through the draw. Mayhap a score. What shall we do?”
“Och, not bloody Duncan Comyn again? You’d think the lackwit would stay by fireside with the snow up to his arse and leave us in peace.” Skena exhaled irritation at the prospect of facing him again. “Just what I did not need this day.”
She was tired, hungry, and short-tempered. Three days of tending de Servian saw her worn down and in little mood to deal with any man, especially one by the name of Comyn. She had come belowstairs to eat, and then hoped to curl up on her pallet and rest before she collapsed.
“Nor any other,” Muriel said, setting aside the basket of wool she was preparing to spin. “The bloody amadan seizes upon the storm as a reason to come sniffing around Craigendan again. I mislike Comyn’s so-called caring over your welfare, Skena. He watches you in a way that rubs against my grain.”
“Like a half-starved wolf he prowls the border of late, conjuring excuses so he can turn up at the drop of a pebble. Always with a perfectly logical explanation for his visit, always so solicitous,” Skena agreed with Muriel’s opinion.
“Mark words, lass, a Comyn ne’er did aught to help another soul. Those wolf eyes view Craigendan and you as his next meal.” Muriel clucked her tongue and shook her head. “He ain’t the knave his brother Phelan was, true, but I still hold no shred of trust in the man. And neither should you.”
Skena huffed a dry chuckle. “I would sooner cuddle an adder to my breast.”
Muriel nodded. “Nary a tear was shed when Phelan Comyn drew his last breath nearly four months past, even if it were by an English hand, as some say. Not sure if many would spill ones for Duncan either. Still, best beware in handling that one, lass.”
Duncan Comyn’s continued interest in Craigendan unsettled Skena. She feared he had already twigged out how few men were within the curtain and merely waited for their female weakness to see them at their most vulnerable before he made his move. A shiver crawled up her spine at the image of that ever coming to pass.
“Nay, ’tis not The Comyn.” Elspeth shook her head. “’Tis English—men bearing the standard of the Black Dragon. The snowdrifts see them moving slowly up the grade, but they will reach here anon.”
“The Black Dragon?” Rattled by the news, Skena nearly dropped the earthen pitcher she held. With an unsteady hand she carefully placed it on the trestle table, next to the boughs of evergreens they were preparing as decorations for the Yuletide celebration. She could not let others see how the news troubled her. Biting back the flare of bile rising in her stomach, she asked with a calm she failed to feel, “The Earl Challon comes?”
“I cannot say if ’tis the earl, but his pennon—the green dragon on a field of black—stands out clearly against the snow. Either he comes or sends a messenger in his stead.” Elspeth set the helm down on the end of the table. “Oh, Skena, why now? Why does the dark lord come? Surely only something of great import would drag him out in these drifts. Earl Challon has paid little heed to Craigendan since he became the new lord of Glenrogha. Outside of the Dragon taking Angus’s homage back in the spring—”
“And then my lord husband imprudently broke his troth nary a week later by going to fight the English at Dunbar.” That fact had caused Skena deep misgivings, leaving her with many a sleepless night since May when word came of the Scottish defeat. Whispers of awe and fear told that even hard-bitten men dared not cross the Earl Challon. Few e’er tried an
d live to boast about it.
Well, Angus was dead; there would be no punishment to rain down upon his stubborn head. Craigendan, her children, and ultimately she would bear the backlash of his foolish choices. She had begged Angus to stay out of the coming fight, allow the nobles to carry on their heedless politics and war. Craigendan was best served by their men staying home and protecting what little they had. But nay, hardheaded Angus had to ride to the Comyn standard. Not listening to her, he argued the time had come for Scots to stop their petty clan squabbles and stand together to drive the English back over the border. He feared Longshanks intended to bleed the country dry with taxes, or worse, parcel out Scottish fiefs to his English lackeys.
Later, she learned that neither Phelan nor Duncan had ridden to the call of their mighty cousin until the last hour; both since had claimed they arrived too late to take part in the battle. It little surprised her. Skena knew Duncan never looked you square in the eye when he spoke of it. That had been the difference between the two brothers. Both were liars. Only, Phelan could stare you stone cold in the face, showing the countenance of an angel, while untruths spilled over his teeth. Duncan lied as easily as his older sibling had, but he was unable to meet your eyes. Skena figured knowing that quirk might someday work to her advantage.
Scant days after the Scottish defeat, Duncan had returned to deliver the tides that Angus had died in combat. Boasting that his brother and he were some of the few Scottish nobles left free in the aftermath, he said the biggest measure of the Scots’ aristocracy were in irons and sent south to England or were dead. ’Tis spake upwards of five-hundred score Scots were killed on the field of Spottsmuir—a resounding rout, yes, yet it still drew the ire of the English king. Word came many prisoners had been sentenced to death by horse trampling.
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