by Cathy MacRae
“I believe I liked that as well,” she whispered.
“Both times?” he asked.
“Aye.”
Caelen couldn’t have stopped his grin had he tried, but he hid it from her view as he rolled lazily to his side and tucked her against him.
“When I wake, ye can see if there are any touches I dinnae like,” he offered.
Arbela’s soft laugh sputtered as Caelen drifted off to sleep.
* * *
Sunlight slipped a long, thin edge across the wooden floor. Arbela’s mind bolted to wakefulness at the sound of footsteps on the floor, though her eyes were slow to follow. She blinked her heavy lids, bringing Caelen’s face into focus as he loomed above her.
He kissed the tip of her nose. “My bonnie wife is awake,” he declared. “I will have a tray brought up so ye can break yer fast.”
Arbela scrambled to a seated position against the scattered pillows. “Nae. I will eat in the hall.”
Caelen grinned. “Ye have missed the morning meal, my love, though Cook has set a tray aside for ye—provided ye are hungry before she serves the noon meal.”
Arbela jerked her gaze to the angle of the sunlight. “I have overslept,” she said, her thoughts flying over the things she had not done that morning, her skin heating as her wayward mind recalled the things she had done in the pearly light of dawn.
“Why the sudden frown, Arbela?” Caelen asked, seating himself on the edge of the bed, one finger tugging lightly at the edge of the sheet she clasped to her breast.
“’Tis naught ye have done,” she said, patting his hand—though whether to distract him or reassure him, she was not certain. “I have missed much by lying abed.”
Caelen’s grin returned. “No one in the castle begrudges ye the sleep.” His voice teased, but Arbela flinched.
“They all know what we’ve been doing?” she asked before she could stop herself.
“Och, aye. And with a long, rainy afternoon, I would suspect many of the others were doing it as well.” He brushed his lips across her cheek. “Though surely none as thoroughly nor as pleasurably,” he whispered.
He rose to his feet and held out a hand. “Come. If ye insist on rising, we can go down together. I am certain yer aunt has come close to the end of her tether with our son. He has proclaimed his need to practice his archery skills with ye this day.”
Arbela’s head spun. Our son. Her body tingled at his words—and his casual, loving touch. She scrambled from the bed to stand before the reflecting glass Caelen had ordered hung on the wall a sennight earlier. Her long hair lay tousled about her shoulders, and a blush stained her cheeks. The same overly rounded form, short legs and dark-rimmed eyes she knew and recognized reflected back to her in the glossy surface.
She was still Arbela. And yet, the inside, the part no reflecting glass could reveal, felt different. More alive. Loved and cherished in a way she’d never experienced before. Certainly more sensitive, she admitted as Caelen’s arms folded about her. He leaned his chin on her shoulder, staring at her in the mirrored surface.
“I like seeing ye thus,” he murmured. “Howbeit, if ye wish a bite of food before taking on Bram’s antics, I would suggest ye dress yerself. Otherwise, I cannae be held responsible for what might happen.”
Her skin prickled, warmth spreading through her limbs. Arbela turned within his embrace. “Mayhap I wish to feed a different hunger,” she said, and answered the fierceness of his kiss with one of her own.
Chapter 32
Bram nestled contentedly between Caelen and Arbela, his eyelids fluttering downward only to snap open as his head sagged. Arbela shot Caelen a smile over the boy’s head. He responded with an upward wiggle of one eyebrow, sending sparks swarming through Arbela’s veins to cluster low in her belly. She ducked her head to hide the blush heating her cheeks. The low noise of late evening in the hall, as people concluded their day and prepared for their beds, surrounded her in a cocoon of comfort.
“I believe ’tis your bedtime,” she murmured, brushing a curling lock of dark brown hair from Bram’s brow. Bram struggled to a sitting position, a scowl on his face.
“I havenae had a story,” he reminded her, rubbing his eyes with his fists.
“A short one, then,” Arbela agreed. A few heads swiveled in her direction, for her tales were well liked, and in the absence of a bard for an evening’s entertainment, few chose to miss Arbela’s stories.
“Tonight I shall describe for ye animals in the land where I was born,” Arbela said. “Ye have many beautiful creatures in your land of Caledonia, but I have seen many fantastic animals in my travels.
“The lion, whose story I told ye once before, is a beautiful beast, with a mane gracing his neck. He is known as sher in Persian or asad in Arabic, and sometimes singha—meaning courageous lion—is added to a name to show the person has much courage.” Arbela chucked Bram beneath his chin. “Bram MacKernsingha,” she demonstrated. Bram laughed softly, fighting sleep to hear Arbela’s tale.
“There is a large, catlike animal called a cheetah, which can run faster than the wind. His speckled fur allows him to blend into the rocks and grasses as he hunts his dinner. The hyena appears after the lion or cheetah finishes their meal, scavenging for leftovers. Their doglike bodies are misshapen, legs longer in the front than in the rear, and their fur is striped and coarse. But their bite is amongst the strongest of all animals, allowing them to break large bones and seek the marrow within.
“Oryxes are larger than your cattle, and have horns that stick nearly straight up from their head. Their horns are sharper than the finest blade, and the oryx has been known to kill lions with them. They are beautiful and tasty, but very dangerous.”
Bram’s body slumped against Arbela’s side, and she pulled him close, caressing the soft skin of his cheek. “For ye, my son, there is the caracal. Twice the size of the tabby that roams the upper hall, it is a wild creature that some have been able to tame. Its preferred prey is birds and the caracal can leap from its hiding place and snatch them from the air. They are graceful and intelligent and make admirable hunting companions.”
“Can I have a crackle?” Bram muttered, eyes closed.
“Someday when ye are older, if it is your wish, we will travel to the Levant and ye may choose a caracal,” Arbela agreed. “Though ye have many wonderful things to see and do here as well.”
Bram nodded, satisfied, his body at last limp as he lost his battle with sleep.
Caelen carefully gathered the boy into his arms and carried him to his chamber as Arbela made certain the fire was damped on the hearth.
“Shall I remain with him until Aunt Zora retires?” Arbela whispered. Caelen laced his fingers through hers and tugged her close.
Dropping a kiss to her lips, he replied, “Nae. We are but across the hall should he have a need. A lad of his years shouldnae require a nurse much longer. We will see to a private room for yer aunt should she wish to remain here.”
Arbela hugged Caelen’s arm. “Mayhap we could create two adjoining rooms so each could have privacy, yet Bram could still feel comforted by her presence.”
“Ye dote on the lad,” Caelen protested with a smile. He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “He loves ye, ye know. And he wishes we would gift him with a wee sister or brother soon.”
The swirl of heat returned, and Arbela, still new to her husband’s teasing, amorous ways—and her body’s response—was glad for the semi-darkness that hid her blush.
“I did not know this,” she replied.
“Och, the lad will be heartbroken to hear it,” Caelen said, his Scot’s burr deepening. “He sat at yer side whilst ye healed from yer wounds, telling ye stories no doubt he heard from ye in earlier weeks, and the day before ye woke, he explained ye should get to know me better. From what he gathered, ye and I need to be in accord in order to discuss an addition to our family.”
The door to Bram’s chamber closed softly and Zora stepped to the boy’s side. She twitched the b
lanket more closely beneath his chin.
“Your husband speaks the truth,” she said over her shoulder. “Our Bram wishes for a brother or sister. Mayhap the two of ye should do as he recommended and discuss the issue.” With fluttery motions, Zora shooed Arbela and Caelen from the room.
Tossing a bold grin to Caelen, Arbela tugged his arm and they left quietly lest they wake Bram. The moment the door closed behind them, Caelen drew Arbela into his arms, slanting his mouth across hers hungrily. Only a few feet from their room, the hall lit by torches scattered along the wall, Arbela softened, leaning her body into his. Caelen’s hands slid up her sides to cup her breasts and she moaned.
“A thundering herd of horses wouldnae interrupt ye,” a deep voice noted. “And did I have a less urgent matter to discuss, I’d toss ye into yer room and latch the door.”
Arbela gasped and Caelen shoved her to his side, a hand sliding toward the dagger at his belt. Her gaze fixed on Rory, his wild hair and stained clothing proclaiming his hurried travel.
“I have just arrived,” he commented, “and met with Gordon at the gate. It seems he was reluctant to interrupt his laird this late at night, but it willnae wait.”
Ice water could not have doused Arbela’s ardor more affectively. Gordon, one of her father’s knights, trained and tempered on the Crusades, did not have fanciful notions. She straightened, cold reason replacing the heat within. “What is it?” she asked.
Caelen sent her a narrow look which she returned. “I am not to be coddled,” she reminded him. His scowl disappeared almost as quickly as it rose, and he turned to Rory.
“Tell us,” he said.
“There is a light on the cliff behind the castle,” Rory said. “Gordon thought he noted it yester eve, but found naught when he searched save a bit of charred wood as from a campfire. Though off the main trail, he figured ’twas a traveler—until it repeated this night.”
“A single fire?” Caelen asked, already striding down the passageway. Arbela clung to his heels, the broad shoulders of the two men leaving no room for her betwixt them.
“Aye—as best he can tell, and I looked as well before I came for ye.” Rory cast a glance over his shoulder. “I wouldnae interrupt without good cause.”
Arbela had never been on the receiving end of even veiled ribald jokes before, and her skin twitched uncomfortably. Surely what passed between her and Caelen was private. On the other hand, the production of children was in the best interest of the clan, and therefore, their efforts—or lack thereof—was likely noted. And apparently speculated upon, perhaps even wagered upon, the thought of which caused embarrassed heat to burn her skin.
She grimaced. What she had given Caelen she would share with no other. Somehow, she must learn to counter the bawdy comments with grace—and possibly humor—to separate inquisitiveness from the sanctuary she and Caelen attempted to create behind closed doors.
But she had insisted on being counted one of the men and apparently this was the price. She shoved the indignity deep and focused on the possibility of a threat to all she held dear.
She arrived on the parapet with Caelen and Rory and closed her eyes for a moment to dispel the effects of the torchlight. After a moment, she peered into the inky blackness and spotted a glow that flickered in the dark, yet remained in place.
A campfire.
In a low voice, Caelen sent four men into the night. Their shadows faded into the darkness as torches on the wall were shielded for the moments it took the men to blend into the forest’s gloom. Time passed as those on the parapet awaited some sign from the scouts.
Arbela strained her senses, unable to trust her eyes to tell her what she needed to know. Was it a simple traveler? More than one? Was the campfire a feint designed to attract their attention whilst mayhem was enacted elsewhere? A signal of unknown importance?
She sniffed the air, detecting only the faintest trace of smoke. The wind blew from the north, and likely carried sound away as well. Noting Caelen and Rory paid no attention to her, she strode the parapet, passing soldiers along the way. Each gave a brief nod, but did not turn their gazes from their duty. When she reached the section of the wall overlooking the loch, she stopped, staring at the dock stretching across the water, its wooden arms sheltering the clan’s small boats.
The waning moon cast little light, but pinpricks bobbed on the inky surface of the water. Black shadows and cold illumination dominated the nightscape. Nothing else intruded. Even the glow of cooking fires through cottage windows was not bright enough to cast their light upon the scene. Peace reigned. Whether real or illusory, it was impossible to determine.
After several long minutes, Arbela nodded to the soldier to her right and made her way back to Caelen and Rory. They seemed to be carved from onyx for all the movement they showed. Anticipation fairly crackled in the air. The firelight on the cliff winked out.
Nearly an hour later, the four men gathered in the hall to tell their tale. A single fire, prepared as though for cooking, had waited alone in a small glen above the castle. Gordon had inspected the ground as best he could whilst the other men had remained watchful. Other than scuffed footprints leading back to the main path, they had discovered nothing.
“I dinnae like travelers having a view over the castle,” Caelen admitted with a glance to Arbela. She recalled her earlier note that an archer—an excellent archer—could fire upon Dunfaileas from the vantage point.
“We will create a path in the opposite direction, and a glen if we must, to encourage a different campsite. Though I dinnae care for travelers across our lands, until we have enough men for a continuous patrol of our borders, this will have to do.”
“My father—” Arbela began.
“We can care for our own,” Caelen interrupted with a nod to Gordon. “Yer efforts are appreciated, but I dinnae wish to call upon the MacLean further.”
“My father’s knights—” Arbela’s protest rose, stirring a few resentful looks from sleepy servants who huddled together on the floor of the hall. She tempered her voice. “They are not an affront to your ability to govern your clan. If necessary, we can house the extra help until this danger passes.”
“I will determine if more help is needed,” Caelen replied stonily. “For now, I dinnae believe this requires such recourse.”
Arbela frowned, quelling the urge to shout at him for disparaging her suggestions. “I do not like these small troubles.”
The men glanced at her. “What small troubles?” Caelen asked.
“A wolf which we have neither sighted nor killed, and now an abandoned campfire.”
“Och, wolves arenae uncommon,” Rory replied. “And with Garen and Toros assisting the shepherd, we’ve nae lost more sheep.”
“The campfire wasnae abandoned,” Gordon added. “Excepting whoever it was dinnae care to answer for their presence when we arrived.”
Arbela sent Gordon a stern look. “Were ye so noisy?” she asked. “I would have thought to approach with caution, not announce your arrival.”
“I dinnae believe the incidents are related,” Caelen interjected, sending Arbela a look to warn her from further speech with Gordon. Stifling the urge to storm from the room, Arbela leaned back in her chair and regarded him evenly.
With a nod, Caelen sent the men back to their posts with thanks for their diligence. Arbela sat silently until they left the room. Firelight flickered low and a chunky candle burned atop their table. Mutiny glittered in her dark eyes.
“’Tis clear ye dinnae agree with my assessment,” Caelen said, tempering his tone against his dislike of interference.
“I do not,” she agreed, voice as brittle as his.
Caelen ran his palm over his pate. “The men have good instincts, Arbela,” he pressed.
“As do I,” Arbela interjected. “I have endured my share of sieges and should be allowed to state my concerns.”
“Ye are—” a woman. Caelen choked back his instinctive reply. “Ye are entitled to yer opinions, but I wo
uld ask ye share them with me first.”
“Oft times a man will remember better when the matter is fresh on his mind,” Arbela countered. Her hands gripped the armrests of her chair. “Wasting time is never a good idea.”
“The incidents to which ye refer are days apart, as well as at some distance from each other,” Caelen argued. “’Tis not worth keeping men from their rest to investigate further.”
Arbela shook her head, clearly of a differing opinion. “Someone is behind both these acts,” she declared. “But as MacGillonay and his son died some weeks ago, ye will have to enlighten me as to who your other enemies may be.”
Caelen’s blood ran cold. “MacGillonay and his younger son are dead,” he whispered. “The elder son yet lives.”
Arbela rose. “I will see to the outer defenses,” she said. “Mayhap ye could reassess the matter of the missing sheep. Wolves are not the only creatures capable of indiscriminate slaughter.”
Caelen flinched at her biting tone. “Nae. The castle is secured. We will retire and reconsider this upon the morn.”
He stood, gesturing for Arbela to precede him. He halted at her scathing look.
“I believe the clime to be softer in the stable than in our room this night,” she stated. Without a backward glance, she strode from the room, boot heels clipping her anger on the stone floor.
Chapter 33
Arbela blew past a sleepy stable boy with an abrupt wave of her hand. Possessing a surprising bent toward self-preservation, the boy disappeared quickly and without comment. Voski snorted and stamped a delicate hoof as Arbela stormed into his stall and slammed the door tight.
She slumped into a pile of fresh, fragrant grass in the corner of the stall, feeling the absence of her dogs acutely with no warm, sympathetic bodies to nestle close. Voski dropped his head and nudged her side. Anger slowly fizzled and Arbela rubbed the long, bony nose with rough affection.
“Men,” she muttered on a long-suffering sigh. “He knows naught of castle warfare, yet will not consider my experience on the matter. I heard the words he did not speak, and he should consider himself fortunate I did not call him out for it. In fact, I wonder why I did not.”
