A knock at the door caused them to pull apart. Galen pushed his head inside and arched an eyebrow at them straightening their clothing. “Beg pardon, my lord, my lady, but the bloody Comyn demands his audience immediately, else he threatens to storm up here to assure himself Skena is not being held hostage and…hmm…tortured.”
Noel held out his arm to the blushing Skena. “My lady, shall we go show the Comyn knave the one being tortured in this fortress is me?”
She shyly placed her hand on his arm. “I beg to differ—you are not the only one tortured—but aye, let us deal with this aggravation so we can have done with him.”
Noel felt like a king entering the Great Hall with Skena at his side. While he would rather stay abovestairs and give Skena kissing lessons, the male in him relished having this vibrant woman as his betrothed. He watched her with equal measures of pride and hunger.
Her hand squeezed his arm, slowing his steps. “Be careful of this man, Noel. The Comyns are a changeable lot, cutting their raiments to suit how the political clime blows. They are powerful, controlling vast lands and own the fealty of many, better than half of Scotland. Despite the humiliating defeat at Dunbar coming under their command, you can bet they will land on their feet in the way of a cat. Though Duncan is a lesser chief, he still holds strong connections to the powerful Earl Buchan. Craigendan is a small holding, hardly worth a second look from a Comyn, howbeit its position is such that it would be a sword to Julian Challon’s side if the wrong man holds it. Duncan fully expected to see that happen. He will not be happy that you are lord here. Trust not a single word from his mouth. His brother Phelan was a knave and a liar. When he lied he could stare you in the eyes and never bat a lash. Duncan is cut from the same weave, but seems to lack the spine. When he lies he cannot meet your eyes. He shields this by some action—reaching for wine, watching a serving wench pass, cutting a piece of food—all done carefully to cover that he is spewing untruths through his teeth. Remember this well for it serves you in dealing with him.”
“I heed your words, Skena, but please do not fear. I am apt at reading men. Having spent years dealing with Edward’s mercurial mood shifts and his Angevin tempers, I have learned to do more than hear mere words, but also what is left unspoken.” He lifted her hand and kissed the back of it to reassure her.
As he did so, his eyes spotted the man at the trestle table, rising in preparation to greet them. Noel’s movement stilled. Comyn was dark-haired, neatly bearded, not too tall, and rather stocky of build. Women would likely call him a handsome man.
“Is there aught wrong?” Skena asked lowly.
He gave her a slow grin. Already she was sensing his moods. “Nay. All is fine, my love. Duncan Comyn, I presume?”
She nodded. “Have you met him before?”
“Nay, I have not held the pleasure.” The way he spoke the word let her know he failed to mean it. “I was merely taking note how men in beards appear much the same.”
Noel had a deep suspicion he stared at Angus Fadden’s ghost. “Ah, the answer to one riddle.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Noel knew some men provoked an instant trust within him. Others slowly earned his faith. A few did the exact opposite. Without their saying the first word, some primeval instinct would set him to despising them. Noel experienced no hesitation in counting Duncan Comyn in the latter group. Oh, he recognized that he was already hardened against ever finding favor toward the man. Two reasons. First was that his brother, Phelan, had led men to ambush Damian and Julian back in August, and had died for the fool’s effort. More damning, at least in Noel’s eyes, was the second—the Scotsman desired Skena. Jealousy flared as Comyn’s dark eyes went to Skena, coveting her in a hungry fashion that caused Noel to recall the wolves they had fought. When the man’s stare shifted to tally his opinion of the new lord of Craigendan, Noel watched this man of Clan Comyn with veiled hatred.
“So be it,” Noel muttered under his breath.
In the manner of a dear friend, Duncan came forward, holding out his hand for Skena to take. She did not accept it, instead leaned closer against Noel’s side, and merely offered Comyn a faint incline of her head. The muscles in the man’s jaw flexed at her response. Comyn’s hand dropped, but steeled determination covered any other reaction.
“My lady, I came as soon as it was safe to travel—”
“’Tis kind of you to be concerned about Craigendan’s wellbeing.” Noel deliberately cut him off, taking control of their meeting. “So comforting to learn our neighbors are of such a caring nature. I am Noel de Servian, new baron of Craigendan. I do not believe I have ever seen you at the English court. Not even in Berwick August past, hum?”
“At the time of Edward’s Parliament I was no landholder, thus never called to sign the Roll or take oaths before Longshanks.” Comyn met Noel’s direct stare, even offered a faint smile, skirting around who his brother was and why he only recently became a landholder. “So the mighty leopard sends yet another of his pet dragons north to lay claim to a piece of Scotland? Though not a Challon by blood, just as true, eh?”
“A fair adjudging. I count myself most fortunate to have been raised with the Challon men,” Noel answered, not rankled. “The closeness is not unlike your clans here.”
Duncan’s eyes swung to Skena, lingered, and then finally went back to Noel. “Ah, then we already are finding a commonality, Sir Noel.”
Noel wanted to ram the word commonality down the Scotsman’s throat. Ignoring the urge, he led Skena to the lady’s chair and seated her, then took his place to her right. He smiled when Muriel deftly slid into the place to Skena’s left, preventing Comyn from sitting there. The Highlander recognized the maneuver for what it was, glared at Muriel, and then grudgingly accepted a seat on Noel’s right.
“I am pleased to know the tracks are passable. That means I can safely send for the priest at Glen Shane, permitting Skena and I to wed without delay.” Noel wasted no time in declaring his claim clearly.
“Wed?” Duncan Comyn jumped to his feet, nearly knocking his chair backward, his stare fixed over Noel’s head to Skena. The flash of calculation, which had filled his eyes, turned bitter cold. “Word of this event had not reached my ears, Skena.”
Noel lifted Skena’s hand and placed a kiss on the back of it. “We only announced the tides to Craigendan’s people this morn. Gossip tends to travel fast, but not in winter, I suppose.”
“Has Skena suddenly been struck dumb that she cannot speak for herself?” Irritation apparent, Comyn rounded on Noel.
“Nay, Skena has not been struck dumb.” She laughed. “There, thus far, has been little calling for me to say aught. But for your peace of mind, aye, I agreed to wed with Lord de Servian as soon as possible.”
“You simply accept the will of Longshanks without a fight?” Comyn’s derisive tone and words branded her a coward. Snatching up the cup of ale set before him, he nearly drained it up without stopping, as if washing the distaste from his mouth.
Skena threw the ire back into Comyn’s face. “I am unsure why you assume I, a lowly maid, should fight the mighty leopard when so many of my countrymen fail to act in the same vein. In this matter there was no command from Edward Plantagenet. ’Tis my will. I wish this marriage with my whole heart.”
At her forthright statement Noel’s pride swelled. There could be little doubt this lovely woman spoke her words with the pure force of truth. He turned to see Comyn frowning. Even he heard Skena’s resolution.
Noel gave her a smile. “I count myself a lucky man indeed, given Craigendan and Lady Skena’s consent to plight her troth.”
“Any man would consider himself rich in both,” Comyn replied tightly.
Not quite the felicitations one might expect upon announcement of a betrothal, but then Noel hardly expected well wishes from this man. He had just stolen two things Duncan Comyn wanted very badly and that would see them bitter enemies. From this point forward, the Highland chief would be set against him in all. Wel
l, he anticipated little more from the Scotsman whose brother tried to murder men close to Noel, hence the reality held little surprise to him. Beyond this, his mind harkened back to the fact that Comyn could so easily be mistaken for Angus Fadden in shadows and at a distance.
“Tell me, Sir Knight, was the former baron here your kinsman?” Noel noticed Skena’s head snap back at the question, but he kept his eyes fixed on Duncan, wanting to witness his smallest reactions. Mayhap, make use of that bit of proofing Skena had imparted, which would say if there was truth in his reply.
Duncan looked straight at him in mild curiosity, naught more, not even batting an eyelash. “Nay, Angus came from a Lowlander clan, down near the Marches. Unawares I am of any blood connection betwixt us, none through marriage either.”
Noel’s hand tightened around the goblet as he raised it to his lips. Well, bloody hell, the man was telling the truth on that much. Still, it did not rule out he played evil games, trying to scare Skena for some dark purpose. Being practical minded, he refused to believe Angus Fadden’s ghost was haunting Craigendan. The dead did not rise and walk.
Comyn might have come from his stronghold to the northwest. But if so, that left the burning question of who had been taking shelter in the woods of Craigendan and why?
Just before dark, Noel entered the cleansing room and pulled off his sark. Picking up a bucket of warm water, he poured the contents over his head. He allowed it to rain down upon him to dilute the roe’s blood, which had splattered him and soaked through his clothing to his skin. Shaking his head in the manner of a wet dog, he relished shedding the coppery scent and sticky feel.
His head lifted as he spied Skena coming in with the stack of cloths for drying and the Yule raiments for him to change back into. He had not intended that she would attend him, which was why he chose to bathe down here instead of having the tub in the lord’s chamber filled. Some ugly things could not be avoided in life, but the stench of butchery he would have spared his lady.
Guillaume sat down on the bench to undo the lacings around his boots, and then untie his chausses. He was a fine figure of a man in only his braies, a man to draw the eye of any female, but Skena barely noticed. Her eyes were only for Noel. His Skena. A half smile formed on his mouth and in his heart. Skena placed the stack of linens on the table and then started toward him.
Noel shook his head. “Keep back, Skena. I am covered in blood. I would not have it getting on you.”
Skena gave him a shrug. “I donned a worn kirtle so I can attend you.”
“Still, I would rather rid myself of the stench of guts and blood before I touch you.” He closed his eyes and fought the waves of emotions flooding through him. “Reminds me too much of battle.”
“You did this to see Craigendan’s people have meat. If I get blood on me due to caring for you, then I am honored,” she said simply.
Guillaume picked up a bucket and poured the water over his black head. Snorting, he wiped his face with his hand. “Lady Skena, can you send for the old woman to help me with washing my back?”
Skena crinkled her brow. “Muriel?”
“Aye, ’tis the one,” Guillaume laughed. “Three score if she is a day, has a tongue like an adder, and no respect for Englishmen.”
Skena was puzzled by Baron Lochshane’s odd request. “Whilst I am sure Muriel would enjoy the task, her fingers are not as nimble as they once were, her joints going bad. One of my maidservants would be willing to aid you, Sir Guillaume.”
“Nay, ’tis the old woman or none.” Using the long tongs, he pulled the bucket back from the fireplace and then folded a rag around the handle to lift the pail. He poured half of the steaming water into the tub, dropped his braies, and stepped into the water.
Skena looked back to Noel in question, but he lifted his shoulders in a shrug to say he had no idea why Guillaume made the odd request.
“Nay, I have not lost my wits, Lady Skena. My squire is busy paying court to your doe-eyed kinswoman, one Elspeth by name, thus I have no hands to aid me. I am betrothed to Rowanne of Glenshane, and I would have no tales carried to her ears that I was making free with your maids,” he explained.
“Then as befitting your rank, I shall tend you. ’Tis your right as baron—”
“Nay!” Noel barked. The word came out before he knew he had spoken. While Guillaume was as a brother to him, he did not want Skena stroking the man’s bare flesh. He was unsure his teeth could stand the pressure from his grinding them!
Guillaume’s eyes flashed knowingly as he watched his friend. “As I said, send in the old woman.”
Skena nodded with a grin. “You are an honorable man, Baron. Not many men keep to their betrothed and respect them in such a fashion.” She started to head to the door, but then recalled the tales whispered about the death of Rowanne’s first husband, and turned back. Mayhap he was concerned over that. “My lord, you should not give ear to ugly rumors about my kinswoman. Black slurs which come from his family.”
“Oh, I do not listen to such bilious tales. These past months, I have slowly come to learn my lady’s mind. She is not an easy woman to know, not one to let you near and share her secrets. Whilst I put no store in such gossip, I fully believe my betrothed capable of taking a knife to me should I dally with some maidservant and it reaches her ears. The females of Ogilvie blood are warrior women, unlike any I have faced before. Hence, please call Muriel.” His laughter filled the chamber.
Skena noticed the baron did not sound as if he were truly frightened of the lady of Lochshane. The man’s tone held a faint hint of amusement, even admiration. She was coming to believe the new lord of Lochshane was a good match for Rowanne.
Noel smiled when Muriel tottered in, and then Skena came back to help him out of his clothing. She hissed in a breath as she spied his wound when he climbed into the water. Two red spots on her cheeks were visible even by firelight, as she lifted the bucket to dump in hot water.
“I do not ken why we bothered to try and heal you, de Servian. You work to see it fester again, mark my words,” she fussed.
Noel leaned to confide to Guillaume, “Notice I am de Servian, not Noel. I might be forced to give her kissing lessons to earn my way back into her grace.” He jumped as she poured the water into the tub. “Whoa, lass. Watch where you dump that bloody stuff. It might be injurious to parts of me you might find useful in the near future.”
“Likely it will not matter, de Servian. You seem determined to rot before next spring.”
Noel reached up and stroked her cheek. “’Tis nice, lass, to have someone caring about me. I promise to do better on the morrow. You may give all the orders you wish and I shall obey.”
Muriel laughed when Skena snorted her disbelief. “Aye, you are smart not to let a pretty man turn your thoughts, especially with promises of obeying. Methinks our Rowanne will have a handful with this braw one.” She worked the rag up and down Lord Challon’s spine.
Skena sat down on the stool and looked at Noel with sad eyes. “Noel, you must have care of the wound. Allow it to heal in the proper fashion.” She reached up and wiped the splatters of blood from his face.
He felt bad that she fretted over him. “For far too long I only had myself to consider.”
Muriel clucked her tongue at Giullaume. “Why the hurry, my lord? ’Tis been a few days passing since I was able to enjoy scrubbing such a bonnie back as yours.”
“The honor is mine, but I just wanted shed of the blood. A warrior comes to hate that copper smell. Hand me the sheeting. I thought I would allow Lady Skena to tend Noel at her leisure since she will need to dress and bandage his wound.” Accepting the length of linen, he wrapped it around him as he climbed from the tub.
Noel waited until Guillaume had dressed and left with Muriel, saying he would see them at supper, before he brought up his suspicions about Duncan Comyn. “Skena, I know you told me how to watch Comyn for lies, only what are your feelings toward the man?”
She paused from soaping his back.
“Feelings? I have none outside I have never trusted him. His brother I trusted less, I suppose. I am not sure I can explain the difference between them. Phelan Comyn paid court to my cousin Aithinne, and for a short time she feared her guardian might favor his suit. ’Tis why I respected Guillaume’s asking for Muriel. Phelan never paid such respect toward Aithinne, thus she was relieved when Baron Lyonglen refused Phelan’s suit. There was something evil about him, in a lazy fashion, as if the world was there to serve him. Duncan is unworthy of trust, but I never saw the same evil. He hungers for land, power, and titles, as many second sons do throughout the realm. He keeps his eyes on what he wants. I believe him capable of much to achieve those aims. I always felt one day Phelan would meet with an accident. His attacking the Challon party and getting himself killed likely saved Duncan the effort, methinks.”
Noel breathed a little easier with her assessment. “So no feelings? Did you expect one day to be his lady wife?”
Her eyes widened in surprise, and she shook her head. “Nay, the mummery of the women pretending to be soldiery upon the wall was to fool him into not acting against Craigendan. Had he understood how few men we have he would have laid siege. We could never have held against his men. Why do you ask this?”
“He put forth an air of familiarity—”
She nearly growled. “His presumption, naught more. Trying to tweak your nose, mayhap see you jealous.”
Noel reached out, cupped her neck, and pulled her to him. “Well, it worked. I am territorial, Skena, likely more so where you and Craigendan are concerned. I have wanted a home, a wife, family for too long.”
He kissed her gently, slowly, worshipping her with the devotion she deserved. The effect of Skena hit his blood with the power of mead and sent his heart racing wildly. All the blood lodged in his groin, cramped with needing her. He wanted to touch her, stroke her, taste her, endlessly, but now was not the time. He reluctantly pulled back. To save his sanity.
One Snowy Knight Page 22
