One Snowy Knight

by Deborah MacGillivray

  With sure steps he drew her away from the crowd; the haunting notes of the music seemed to follow behind them into the lush, warm darkness. A gust of night breeze rose up from the ground, carrying upon its current the sweet sensual fragrance of apple blooms.

  “Where do we go?” Skena could not help but voice the question as her feet rushed steps to keep up, blindly following where Noel drew her.

  His laughter was musical. “Ah, beautiful Skena, we go to make wishes come true.”

  That stopped her in her tracks. He gave a small tug. When she held fast, he turned back to her.

  Bathed in the pale moonlight, he appeared more dream than flesh and blood. He stared down at her. “Nothing is ever won without risk, my valiant warrior.”

  Her eyes drank in de Servian, the body of a warrior king, hair a riot of waves and curls framing his handsome face. With his pale eyes, he almost seemed at one with the silvery light of the moon, as if he drew power from it. Once again, she questioned what was real and what was spun from her mind, her dreams. Reaching out she placed the palm of her hand over his heart, wanting the reassurance that it beat. It did, thudding strong, erratic.

  His hand covering hers, he caged hers against his chest. “It beats for you.” A sly smile spreading over his lips, he reached out with his other hand and placed it between her breasts. “Feel it? They sound in the same rhythm. As one. Come with me, Skena.”

  She nodded, perceiving that she had no will to resist. Whatever he wanted she would grant. No conditions. Nothing held in reserve.

  Taking her hand in his, he ran. Skena trailed after him, until she had no sense of direction. He could be leading her to hell and she would follow. By the telling scent of apple blossoms, she knew where they were. The ancient orchard at Glen Shane.

  Noel stopped, held his arms out, and spun in a circle. White petals of the blooms rained down on him. “Is this not magic?”

  “’Tis so heavy it looks like snow.” Skena’s heart nearly cramped with the painful realization she was falling in love with this wonderful man. What a foolish, foolish thing to do!

  He slowly walked back to her, so assured, so arrogant. “Snow? What else could you expect to be conjured by someone named Noel?” He reached out and gently took her neck with both hands, allowing the thumb of one to stroke her jaw. “Are you scared of me, Skena?”

  “Yes.” Her whisper was so small she was not sure if he heard her.

  The corner of his mouth twitched mischievously. “Mayhap a little scared is well and good. Open your heart, Skena, and wish.”

  He lowered his head, brushing his lips lightly to hers, so soft, almost reverently. The perfection of the moment made Skena close her eyes to savor it, memorize the scents, the sounds, the feel. On cold wintry nights when she was old and gray, she wanted to be able to conjure this instant out of time and savor its rightness, its perfection.

  Sliding his hands down to her shoulders, he allowed them to rest there. With the lightness of a fluttering butterfly, Noel kissed one eyelid, then the other. “Open your eyes, Skena. See me.”

  She did as he invited, no pleaded, looking into the face of a man who robbed her of the ability to protect herself from the disappointment that could come from loving him. He disarmed her completely. Left her heart vulnerable.

  He moved her loose sark aside, allowing it to slither off her shoulders and down her arms. His breath sucked in on a hiss as the material fell from the crest of her breasts. Wordlessly, he moved toward her, backing her to the apple tree. Placing an arm above her head, he leaned to her and took her mouth, roughly, savagely. It was hard to breathe as his hard warrior’s body rocked against hers, allowing Skena to catch the rhythm of his thrusts. Her hips curled up against his groin, relishing the friction against her sensitive flesh.

  His sword-toughened hands roamed over Skena’s shoulders and then down to slowly gather her skirt to her hips; he rubbed one hand along her outer thigh and back up the inside along the more tender flesh. She almost clamped her thighs on his hand as he continued the upward path. She trembled, but held still as the fingers moved over her, then in her, a small invasion preparing her for a larger one. Two long fingers pushed in, then slowly withdrew, causing her breathing to come in gasps, as she allowed him to touch her as no man ever had.

  Fumbling with the lacing on the front of his leather chausses, he stepped into the V of her body. Skena slid her arm around his neck, anchoring herself against the coming plunge. Instead, he joined their bodies in a maddening, leisurely fashion, the fullness causing her to give an exhale of unease. He caught it, kissing her over and over until she forgot her faint resistance. As her body re-conformed to accept him inside, he started rocking. Her leverage on his neck allowed her to meet his thrusts, taking him deeper within her narrow channel. He cradled one arm around her hips, arching her higher, while his mouth closed over the side of her neck, drawing until he would mark her.

  He had no idea he would mark her soul as well.

  “Skena,” he gasped. “Make a Beltane wish….”

  “Lady Skena, ’tis done.”

  Skena blinked confusion as her mind gradually returned. Guillaume had hold of her arm and was removing Noel’s hand from about it. Gone was the orchard, the warm spring breeze. Gone was the heady scent of the balefire mixed with the tangy sweet flowers of apple trees. All naught more than a dream brought on by the potion she had ingested to prove to Lord Challon the brew was safe.

  And a woman too foolish to resist wishes.

  Her gaze jerked about as she tried to come to grips with the shift. She almost wanted to run to the window, toss back the coverings, and look out to assure herself it was a landscape of deepest winter. She stared up into the hazel green eyes of Guillaume and saw his deep questions. Alarm filled her. What happened while he tended Noel? Had she said aught aloud to permit him to know what she experienced in her mind?

  “Are you all right, my lady?” he asked softly.

  Instead of concern for herself, she looked to Noel. Touching a hand to his forehead she saw he showed no response. “De Servian?” she managed to say.

  “He passed out. Do not fret. ’Tis only a combination of the pain and the poppy. He merely rests from the ordeal.” He held up a tiny piece of bent metal. “This was left in his back, a partial link of mail carried into his body by the sword. ’Tis strange about flesh. Sometimes it will accept bits of metal, tolerate them for years. I saw one man have a link of mail buried in his thigh from a tournament accident. Stayed there most of his life. Then one day suddenly it festered and had to come out. Well, this is out of him. Noel’s wound is made pure and sealed. He will have an ugly scar. But I do not think it will matter much, eh?”

  “Hardly a concern.” She felt she should be doing something to care for Noel, but could only brush the curls off his forehead with trembling fingers.

  “Julian has spoken of Tamlyn’s abilities,” he said from behind her.

  Skena turned. “Then you have heard of the kenning?”

  “Let’s say many things have altered in my way of thinking since I came to Glen Shane.”

  “Have you not seen such in Rowanne?” she asked, finally pulling her hand back from Noel. “She is not as powerful as Aithinne or Tamlyn, but her Ogilvie blood is true. Stronger than mine.”

  “Stronger than yours? Mayhap.” The word contained doubt. Sir Guillaume helped her rise to her feet. “What I witnessed this day shows you are very keen. At least…at least where Noel is concerned.”

  Ducking his pointed remark, she turned the words back to him. “You failed to answer me about Rowanne.”

  “You are perceptive, lady. Nay, I have not seen this in Rowanne, but then…” He shrugged. “Methinks our match will be a good one. I have hopes of this. I am forward looking to wedding in the spring. Julian permitted me to gift her time to adjust to a new marriage, to come to know me. Mayhap I erred in permitting her this time and space. Rowanne is a lady given to shadows. She hides so much from me, closes herself away. My la
dy guards her secrets closely. Never once have I touched the closeness that you shared with Noel today. I can only hope someday to share the same magic with my lady.”

  “You are a good man, Guillaume Challon.”

  “For one bastard born?” There was challenge to his handsome face.

  She shrugged. “Scots set little store in such things. I have a bastard half sister, and wish she were half as good as you.”

  “You took his pain, did you not? I do not understand how, but saw. He never felt the knife or the hot iron because of you,” he spoke his amazement.

  Skena’s head ached, so intensely, she just wanted to crawl off somewhere and rest. “Should we not shift him to the bed?”

  “Aye, I was waiting until he rouses.”

  “Let us see if we can move him whilst he still feels the pull of the potion. I can get him to drink another tansy, and then he should rest through the night.” She softly touched his bare shoulder. “Noel, can you awaken? Noel?”

  His eyelids lifted, the poppy’s effect clear in the unfocused eyes. He gave her a weak smile. “Skena…I dreamed—”

  Fearful of what he might say, she cut him off. “Can you go to the bed?”

  Guillaume aided him to his feet and in walking, while Skena scurried to the table to mix another potion to ease his sleep through the night. Her hands shook as she carefully measured out the concoction and then carried it to him.

  Sliding under the cover, Noel leaned on one elbow. Accepting the cup, he sighed in resignation. “One last time. Tomorrow sees the end of mud and stump water. I need to be up and about.”

  And assuming control of Craigendan. Skena heard the words as clearly as if he had spoken them. Reining in, she forced herself to show no reaction to the statement as he drained the cup. He was the new lord here; it was only natural he would want to quickly set about to stake his possession. There would be no opposing it. This was something she would have to accept. The uncertainty, nonetheless, left her scared where that would leave her and the children.

  “Rest. Your body has been through a lot the past few days. Allow it to heal,” she managed to say as he handed the empty cup to her.

  As if sensing her reticence, he caught her wrist as she went to turn away. “Everything will work out, Skena. Trust me.”

  Skena did not want to, but her eyes lifted, compelled to meet his. As she stared into the spellbinding depths, she wondered had he shared her visions? If so, did he recall them? She gave a short meaningless nod, too confused and fearful to say more.

  Going to the fireplace, she added a peat to the fire. She paused, the scent of the flame evoking the images of the balefire, making the dream suddenly stronger in her mind. Odd, she knew fantasy was naught more than mists shaped from her desires, and yet, images remained as vivid in her memories as if they had really happened. Her body thrummed as she recalled how he had touched her under the apple tree.

  Tired, shaken, Skena went to unroll her pallet in the corner near the fire. She only wanted to lie down and try to gather the pieces of herself, repair the devastation that the kenning and Noel de Servian had brought to her heart.

  Guillaume, at the bedside checking on Noel, glanced up and frowned. “What are you doing, Lady Skena?”

  Skena paused, putting her hands on her hips. “Lord Challon, I am not feeble witted, a serf, or a child. I have lived a score and six years without having Englishmen question my every move.”

  Instead of taking umbrage at her challenge, he flashed a grin. “Ah, if you Ogilvie women think we men of Challon are vexing, can you not imagine how troublesome we find you ladies? I assume you plan to seek your rest on that pallet like a servant? Noel would not like that you humble yourself so in order to care for him. Surely, there is a small bed that could be brought in for you?”

  Skena gave him a tired smile. “You will find Craigendan is a very poor fief, my lord. Your king did no boon in granting it to de Servian.”

  “Edward never meant it as a boon. Our lord monarch punishes the men of Challon for daring to raise rebuke against permitting the madness that took place at Berwick,” he informed her.

  Skena’s heart nearly stopped. So Noel was being punished along with the other Challon men. A bubble of hysteria rose within her. She tasted oily bile in the pit of her stomach. “Punishment? Does de Servian ken this?”

  “He has not spoken such, but I am sure he is aware. He saw Julian and Damian in August at Berwick.” Guillaume read her disheartened expression. “Please, do not perceive disappointment that this was the reason for Noel’s coming. Julian has never viewed his being sent here as anything but a blessing. We are not young men, my lady. We have long wearied of war and its aftermath. The beauty and remoteness of Glen Shane and Glen Eallach provide a haven for tired dragons to lick their wounds and heal, find something of value worth living for. As to this fortress being poor, Noel was granted funds by Edward to refit it with all it needs. Whatever else might be required, well, Julian is a very wealthy man. Having the Earl Challon for an overlord can see many things to Craigendan’s betterment. As soon as Noel is up and about, he will quickly see to the refitting of supplies and men.”

  The arched eyebrow told Skena that Craigendan’s defenses were not fooling this man. Skena was unable to meet his direct, challenging stare, so she turned back to fixing her blankets. Despite his arrogant highhandedness, she was coming to like Guillaume, respect him. Howbeit, for now she would appreciate it if he just went away and left her to her tattered emotions. Holding it all in, pretending there was naught upsetting her was getting a bit beyond her control.

  “About the pallet—” Being a hardheaded male, he started in again.

  Skena closed her eyes, fighting the scream of frustration begging to escape. “Lord Challon, please, let me have my distance. This has all been very grinding for me, caring for de Servian for days, fighting for his life, treating his old wounds, and then learning he is the new lord here. Worse, ’tis a punishment. Grant me the ability to ken my own head. I regret if I sound short, but I am bone weary and need rest. Let me seek it without being told how.”

  He nodded. “Very well. It was not my intent to make things more distressing for you. Thank you for the care you have given Noel. By your leave, I shall go seek my bed as well. You are right. This day has been grinding.” With that he left the chamber.

  Skena picked up the tangled covers and tried to straighten them out, but could not. Too upset, she was barely aware of her actions. Shaking them vigorously, she finally gave up. Overwhelmed by the hopelessness of the situation, she tossed the blankets down to the pallet in defeat and then fell down on her knees. Scooting until her back was in the corner, she half-heartedly dragged the plaide to her chest.

  Great sobs of anguish welled up inside her, but she could not let them out for fear of attracting de Servian’s attention. Instead, she allowed the silent tears to stream down her face.

  She whispered aloud, “Oh, what have I done?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Skena,” the soft whisper came, reaching through the dark oblivion.

  She jerked awake, instantly fearing it was Noel and he was in pain. But as she opened her eyes, she saw Owen leaning over her. Stiff from sleeping curled up in the corner, she stretched out her numb legs and yawned. “What hour is it?”

  “A ways to dawning yet. Sorry to break your sleep. The wolves scratch at the gate again. The run is finished as you wanted. Everything is in ready. Do you wish to start the killing of the wolves this night or wait?”

  “Never again say the word wish to me.” Skena stood up, trying to shake the sleep from her body. “If we wait the chances increase they will find a way in when we are unawares. Go waken Galen.”

  “Aye, I will do as you bid,” the lad said and then scurried off.

  Skena went to the bed to check on de Servian. He rested partially on his belly and seemed so peaceful. Placing her hand to his back, she smiled when his flesh felt cool to the touch. He was a strong man. He would heal now
the poison had been purged from his body.

  She was not sure how love could grow so strong so rapidly, when she scarcely knew him, but as she caressed his hair, she ached with the emotions rising in her. “Oh, what a stupid fool I am,” she whispered, before turning away.

  Skena untied the lacings at the side of her kirtle and pulled it over her head just as Dorcas entered the small room off the side of the kitchen. She rarely welcomed dealing with Dorcas, but she particularly lacked enthusiasm for a confrontation when Muriel’s daughter wore that expression. It boded ill. Since Angus’s death, Dorcas was dissatisfied with her lot in life and spoiling for a fuss; she reveled in vexing Skena at every turn. Skena paused to exhale resignation. Offering the woman a cool look of dismissal, she laid her gown neatly on the bench.

  “Off to play little soldier?” Dorcas asked in a snide tone. She strolled closer, her eyes judging Skena’s appearance, finding fault as always. “You have lost weight, Skena.”

  Skena did not stand on manners. Dorcas never did. Why should she? “And you have gained it. Plump is the word that comes to mind.”

  “You—” Dorcas’s brown eyes widened, but then she reined in her temper. “You grow more haggard with each passing day. ’Tis hard to believe, Skena, you are only three summers younger than I.”

  “Only three? I always assumed you were much older. I figured that is why you are getting a second chin, eh?” She chucked her under the jaw to add to the insult.

  Dorcas slapped Skena’s arm away from her. The wild look in her eyes said she was considering slapping Skena’s face, too.

  “Go ahead, Dorcas. Hitting the lady of the keep is a flogging offense. Of course, I will not wait for that. Do it, and I will knock you on your plump arse. I am thinner, aye, but it has gone to muscle, while your weight has gone to fat. So just try it.”

  Dorcas’s eyes narrowed. “You think you are so wise to curry favor with this English lord.”

  Skena shrugged, refusing to defend herself. “Lord de Servian is the new baron of Craigendan. You best soften your tone when you speak of him.”