Harlequin Historical November 2013 - Bundle 2 of 2

by Carol Arens

  * * *

  They heard the sounds before they reached the curve in the road. As the mill came in sight, Isobel saw a group of men struggling to move a new millstone into place. The side wall of the millhouse was gone, taken down to allow them access. She looked for Athdar, but she did not recognise the man directing the work.

  Walking closer, she watched as the men hauling the stone worked together. Isobel recognised the man guiding it to its place on the frame—Athdar, in the thick of things, doing the hardest part of the labour. Not wishing to disturb or distract them, she touched Laria’s arm and held her back.

  It took only a few more minutes before the stone dropped into place. A cheer went up from those watching at the successful—and critical, she knew—placement of it. Soon, others began reattaching ropes and the connections that would allow the stone to be turned by the waters coursing beneath the mill. That was when Athdar glanced up and met her gaze. Waving to her, he left the millhouse and strode towards her. Laria walked towards the man who had been directing the work—he must be the miller or stonemason—while Isobel waited for Athdar.

  She tried not to notice that he wore no tunic. She tried not to stare at his sculpted chest and stomach. More, she tried not to imagine what the rest of his body looked like as he grew closer. Suddenly the day was not cold at all. Now, she wanted to peel off the heavy cloak and dab her face.

  Athdar did not seem to notice the cold, either, his body giving off steam as he reached her. Isobel fought the urge to follow a trickle of moisture down his chest as it made its way beneath the trews he wore. Thankfully, he seemed not to notice her own discomfort.

  ‘Your mother said you were indisposed this morn. ’Tis good to see you up and about.’

  She held up the sack she’d carried from the cottage. ‘Laria needed my help,’ she said. It was the weakest excuse she’d ever given, but Athdar didn’t seem to recognise it.

  ‘Broc! Take this to Lyall,’ he called out to his steward as he took the sack from her. ‘Ask Laria about it.’

  Broc, the sinfully handsome man, stopped before her and bowed. ‘Isobel. How do you fare?’ His green eyes sparkled and his gaze focused on her mouth. ‘I feared you were taking ill when Lady Jocelyn said you would remain abed this morn.’

  Athdar elbowed Broc before she could say anything about her condition, or lack of one, to either of them. He stumbled away, with a nod to her. The man was an unrepentant flirt and she’d watched as other women fell under his spell. For some reason, though she would admit she liked him and had blushed at their first meeting, his antics did not affect her the same way now. Not after spending more time with Athdar.

  ‘In all seriousness, Isobel...’ Athdar began. He took his shirt and a cloth from the young boy who brought them to him. ‘How do you fare this day? In speaking to your mother, I realised that you have been doing much during your visit.’

  ‘I am well, Athdar. Truly,’ she said. ‘I was simply feeling lazy this morn and my mother and your sister indulged me in it.’

  ‘You are a guest here, Isobel. I would not see you abused and overwrought because you fear saying no to someone’s request. Even my sister can be a bit of a tyrant at times.’

  He used the cloth to dry his chest and back and then pulled the shirt over his head. She did not turn her gaze away as a demure maiden should—she could not help but notice the way his muscles rippled and flexed as he tugged on the shirt. Her cheeks heated then and she touched them as he finished putting his belt in place, accepting the length of plaid from the boy who tended him. He sent the boy back to the others and then held out his hand to her. She gave him hers and he wrapped his fingers around her hand, tugging her along with him.

  ‘Come meet Lyall and his sons.’ He held her hand tightly until they reached the others who continued to finish work on the mill’s walls. ‘He and his father before him have worked the mill for my clan. Lyall, meet Isobel Ruriksdottir.’

  ‘Lady,’ Lyall said, bowing to her. A gaggle of boys surrounded the man and he touched some of their heads with clear affection. ‘These are my sons.’ He laughed as one or two of them pushed forwards to be introduced. ‘No matter their names, they belong to me.’

  But one stood out. Not a boy, but a girl dressed as one.

  ‘Ah, my wee lass who tries to keep up with her brothers. Ye noticed her, did ye? That is Elizabeth, named after her maither, God rest her soul.’ Lyall leaned in and whispered to Isobel, ‘She has the look of her maither, too.’

  Isobel’s eyes began to burn with tears at the thought of these children without a mother, but Lyall’s love for them shone brightly in his gaze when he looked at them and in the way he watched them.

  ‘You are a lucky man to have such a family, Lyall,’ she said.

  She’d grown up with a younger brother and sister and her parents, but she’d been surrounded with love and hoped to have such a family of her own, God willing, one day. Isobel glanced up at Athdar just then and he would not meet her gaze, staring at something a distance away among the trees. She recognised the pain in his eyes and her heart hurt for him.

  In that moment, she promised herself to do something to help him, even if she was not the woman for him. Even if this ended as nothing more than a simple visit and she returned home with her mother with no betrothal in the plans, she would find a way to release him from the pain that marked and marred him now.

  ‘Well, I’d best be getting myself back to the mill. ’Tis a pleasure to meet ye, my lady.’ Lyall bowed and took the children with him back towards the building being repaired. Isobel laughed at their antics, which continued all the way back.

  Isobel watched as Laria finished giving Lyall instructions on how finely she needed her flour—well, her dried plants and beans—ground. Athdar stood a few paces away from her, still not giving her his attention, drowning in his sorrow so strongly she could feel it.

  ‘Athdar?’ she said quietly. ‘We will take our leave now.’

  He shook himself free of the melancholy feelings that always struck when he thought about his dreams of having bairns of his own and faced Isobel. The expression in her lovely blue eyes told him she knew what he was thinking about. She saw the pain that never left his heart and soul.

  ‘Let me take you back to the keep,’ he said, motioning for his horse. ‘The winds are picking up and it is getting colder.’

  ‘Laria...’ She had not said no.

  ‘One of the boys will take her in Lyall’s cart.’

  She looked to Laria for consent for only a moment and then nodded to him. The older woman’s brow gathered before she nodded. He did not think she would naysay him—she had never while he’d been laird—but he suspected she was thinking about doing just that. Not waiting for permission to be given by someone not entitled to do so, he took the reins and climbed on to his horse. Then he turned and held out his hand to Isobel.

  If he thought she might hesitate, she proved him wrong for she took his hand, placed her foot on his and let him help her up to sit behind him astride the horse. He gave her a few moments to right her skirts and cloak before calling out to Broc and urging the horse to move. Athdar felt her hands slide around his waist to hold on and he placed one of his on top of hers.

  Damn, but it felt so right to have and hold her close!

  Once they followed the road around the curve away from the mill, he slowed the horse’s pace and found a comfortable gait. Her arms remained around him. It must be the chill in the air, he thought, or she would loosen her hold.

  After a few minutes’ travel, she leaned her body away from his and he waited for her to move her hands. When she did not, he decided it felt good to him.

  The strange thing was, he did not lack for feminine company. Not at all. There was a widow in the village who enjoyed his attentions. Another in Lairig Dubh as well. So, why this particular woman, why Isobel felt
so right to him was a mystery and one he was not certain he wanted to solve.

  A young woman of her standing and wealth was not suitable as a bed partner. She and her family, and Connor as her laird and his overlord, would have every expectation that any interest in her would be followed by an offer of marriage.

  And that was the reason he would and could never pursue her. He could not and would not offer marriage to any woman and risk losing them to the strange twist of fate that dogged his life. Though others might laugh at the thought of a curse, that was exactly what it felt like to him—a curse placed by an angry god or spirit. A curse that killed anyone he loved or cared about. A curse that tore apart any bit of happiness he found.

  Isobel did not deserve to have such a thing touch and possibly take her life.

  Chapter Seven

  The ride back to the keep had been a quiet one. Riding behind someone was not truly conducive to conversing, so she’d remained silent. He decided he liked the way she held on to him and he did nothing to change it. Isobel sat sheltered behind his body and when she leaned against him, he realised she must need the heat of his body to stay warm in the now much colder winds that blew along the road as the sun readied itself to set. Riding along in the many shadows caused by the forest that blocked the sun’s light, he did not mind providing her some shielding.

  From the way she began to shift as they got nearer to the keep, he knew she thought he’d stop and let her down there. He did not. Instead he rode right through the gates, waving to the guards, until they reached the steps. Taking her hand, he helped her to slide down and stand, not waiting for anyone else to come forwards to help her.

  ‘My thanks for that,’ she said.

  The winds had loosened her hair, so she brushed it back over her shoulder as she adjusted her cloak. For a brief moment, he imagined running his hands through its length of white-golden curls, spreading them over his pillow as he pleasured her.

  ‘I did not want you so exhausted that you cannot accept my challenge this night,’ he answered as his body took all the meanings possible from his words and accepted all of the sexual innuendos in them. Before he could embarrass himself and her, he climbed down to walk the horse to the stables.

  ‘I think I can stay awake for a game after dinner,’ she said. Then she traced her bottom lip with the tip of her tongue and drove him mad. He coughed several times and bade her farewell. He needed to regain his control before going near her.

  Athdar walked off, tugging his horse behind him and cursing himself for ever allowing her to affect him like this. She could make him feel what he longed to feel once more. She could make him dream for things he’d always wanted. She could make him...

  It was only as he passed the cemetery on the way to the stables that sanity once more settled over him. Those gravestones, large and small, reminded him of his failures and brought back his control. He could recite each name even though some of the stones had grown smooth over the years. He’d never forgotten until a certain pale-haired woman entered his keep.

  At least there would be peace for him once she left. If he was a little sadder to see her go, it was the price he had to pay for his failures.

  He handed the horse off to one of the boys working in the stables and walked back to the keep. Supper would be ready soon and then the last game he would play with the fair Isobel. Broc had already mentioned Jocelyn’s plans to leave on the morrow to get ahead of what felt like an early winter change in the weather. The mountain pass would be deadly if a storm hit while they traversed it, so it seemed sensible and cautious for them to travel now before it grew dangerous. Mayhap he should ride with them to the edge of his lands and see them safe to the pass?

  Jocelyn would have an opinion on that, so he would wait to speak to her first. His sister was as stubborn as her husband, though she never recognised that she’d picked up and refined the trait from him. Once her mind was on something, she would not be turned from it.

  He thought about that and wondered what else Jocelyn had her mind fixed to. If she was set on some plan that involved him and Isobel, he would have to make certain she knew it was not possible. Athdar climbed the steps into the keep and up to his chambers to wash the day’s grime from him before presenting himself at table. Not too much later, he made his way down to table and to the challenge he’d made to Isobel.

  * * *

  Jocelyn peered out the window of their chamber. The winds seemed to pick up with each passing hour and it was not a good sign. Her bones, in spite of her attempts to ignore how old they were getting, ached much as they did before any bad storm. Winter would come early this year. From the various signs and symptoms, winter was coming fast.

  ‘Aye. I think we need to be on our way at first light.’ Jocelyn turned to see the reactions of the other two women in the chamber. One looked accepting and understanding, the other disappointed and almost mutinous. ‘We cannot take the chance of being trapped here or, worse, trapped in the mountains once we leave.’

  ‘I will pack after supper,’ Margriet said, standing and coming closer. ‘Connor and Rurik would not be pleased to have to come to our rescue in those mountains.’

  Jocelyn smiled. Both of their husbands would walk through the fires of hell if their wives needed them, and both she and Margriet knew it, as did most anyone who knew either of the men. They might be ruthless, brutal even, warriors, but Jocelyn and Margriet were their husbands’ weaknesses and nothing—not weather, war or God—would keep them apart if they needed them.

  Isobel remained silent through this. She missed nothing but did not speak. A good trait, for she listened well before saying anything. Another reason why Jocelyn believed she would be a good match for her brother. She had a calm head and a good heart. But now they would leave and any chance of the two of them spending meaningful time together to learn if they did truly suit was gone.

  ‘Well, let’s get down to the hall and have our supper. We can pack and the men can make preparations after that and be ready to leave at first light.’

  Margriet held out her hand to her daughter and Jocelyn walked behind them out of the chamber. Once they were near the centre of the hall she stopped and gazed around the place where she’d grown up. Most of the family she’d known were gone—her mother passed first just after Jocelyn’s marriage to Connor and then her father about a decade ago. Her older cousins had married and moved away. Joy and sorrow had lived in this hall, but now only sorrow remained. Isobel noticed she’d stopped and came back to her.

  ‘Is ought wrong, lady?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘Nay, just some memories of long-ago days here,’ she answered. ‘My cousins and I had the perfect hiding place when I wanted to avoid Athdar’s teasing. Up there,’ she said, pointing to the small, almost invisible alcove that sat up on the walkway of the top storey. Isobel nodded as she saw it. ‘Some days, some lazy days, I would hide up that so I wouldn’t have to do my chores.’

  ‘Surely not, lady!’ Isobel laughed.

  ‘Oh, I could be a tyrant in my childhood. Athdar was my target as frequently as he vexed me.’

  Margriet turned to them. ‘Come, they are waiting for us.’

  Jocelyn smiled at Isobel and wondered if she would need to beg forgiveness over this attempt of hers to match these two. The girl had been bold in coming directly to her about her interest in Athdar and, watching Isobel, Jocelyn knew she had tender feelings for him. If the girl was bold enough to take that chance and if she was wise enough to get the message Jocelyn was giving her, she could be the one to draw the poison from Athdar’s festering wound. Forgiveness would be the least of her troubles.

  Athdar and the other men at the table stood when they approached and waited for the three women to be seated. She hoped that she was not wrong about Isobel. So much depended on Jocelyn not being wrong.

  Chapter Eight

 
Jocelyn was up to something, of that he had no doubt. He recognised all the signs of it from a long history of doing battle with her. Athdar could feel it. A shiver ran down his spine as a warning to remember that his sister could be devious and stubborn when it was to her purpose. And watching her walk to the table along with Isobel, he knew she was up to something. The good thing was that she was leaving on the morrow. And that was the bad thing, as well, for Isobel would leave, too.

  He let out a breath and watched as the servants began to serve bowls of thick, aromatic meat stew. Platters of roasted fowl and steaming loaves of bread followed. Soon the table was filled and everyone began passing the food and eating. Athdar tried to, but the tight feeling in his gut put off his appetite for food. The meal did pass by easily, talk of travelling and preparations filled any gaps in conversation and when it was over, everyone had tasks to complete before seeking their rest. He recognised the feeling as they finished eating.

  Disappointment. He did not want Isobel to leave.

  ‘Will there still be time for a game, Isobel?’ he asked, not wanting to let the chance pass because he did not speak. Isobel glanced at her mother for an instant before answering him.

  ‘Aye. I will make time, Athdar,’ she said quietly. It felt as though she spoke only to him, but from the startled expressions, he knew others had heard not only the words, but also the tone. ‘If you are so willing and eager to face defeat again,’ she added.

  He laughed. ‘Not willing or eager, Isobel. But I cannot allow that kind of challenge to stand without my honour being questioned. So, you shall have your game.’ He stood as the women did and watched them walk to their chambers.

  She would return.

  ‘What the bloody hell was that about, Dar?’ Padruig asked, as he sat down next to him and put a full goblet of ale before him.