“Sweetness. Honesty. Purity of heart.” He touched a hand to her cheek. Just a touch, but he felt the rush of heat and wondered that he wasn’t burned by it. “You fascinate me, Gwenellen Drummond.” He framed her face with his hands and stared down into her eyes, feeling a tug of such desire, he could no longer deny it. “You’re unlike any woman I’ve ever known.” He drew her close and marveled at the way her softness melted against him. “And though I know I haven’t the right, I must kiss you.” He lowered his face and covered her mouth with his.
Though he struggled to keep it light, the kiss was hot, hungry, hinting of a passion smoldering just beneath the surface, waiting to erupt.
Gwenellen could feel him in every part of her body. Her thighs were pressed to his; her breasts crushed against the wall of his chest.
Heat poured between them as he took the kiss deeper and she experienced another emotion. A strange sense of fear. Fear that this man had a power over her that no man ever had before. With but a single touch he had the power to set her on fire. To wipe her mind clear of every thought save one. She wanted more of this. More of him. More of everything he could give her.
He gripped her shoulders almost painfully as he dragged her closer and savaged her mouth. She could feel his heartbeat in her own chest. Could feel his breath mingle with hers.
She opened to him, inviting him to take. And he did. The hands that moved over her were almost bruising in their strength. The mouth moving on hers seemed to feed from her even while it drained her, until she was struggling for breath.
At her little gasp he seemed to realize his strength. His touch, his kiss gentled. That was her undoing. She leaned into him, loving the feel of his arms as they held her as tenderly as though she were a fragile doll. Her fingers clutched the front of his tunic, as she gave herself up to the pleasure. Such incredible pleasure. How had she lived so long without this potent male taste filling her lungs, her mind? Without this hard body fitting itself so easily against her softness?
Andrew was drowning in the taste of her. So sweet, so exotic, he could imagine himself in another world, floating on a cloud while making love to her. It was all he wanted. This woman. In his arms. In his bed. Now. Here.
Catching her by the shoulders he lifted his head and held her a little away. His breathing was as ragged as hers.
“I’d best get you back inside, before I do something we’ll both regret.”
She couldn’t speak over the tightening in her throat. She held herself very straight, very still, struggling to gather the thoughts that had scattered the moment he’d first touched her.
Wordlessly he took her arm, guiding her along the now darkened path.
Where had the moon and stars gone? Without his lips on hers, it felt as if the whole world had gone dark.
Inside the abbey they nodded at passing servants, and continued up the stairs until they reached the door of her chambers.
Andrew bowed over her hand, but was careful not to touch his lips to her flesh. The need would be back, making their parting impossible.
“Good night, my lady. Sleep well.”
“And you, my lord.”
Once inside she composed her features as she greeted her little maid. She barely listened as Olnore chatted about the household gossip while helping her into her nightdress.
When the servant was gone Gwenellen stepped onto the balcony and stared at the darkened sky, wondering if Andrew was looking at the same sky, and remembering their kiss.
Or had he already taken to his bed without giving her another thought?
“Oh, Father.” Odd, that in times of trouble it was always her father to whom she turned. Perhaps because he was the only one who loved her without reservation. Her family had such high expectations, and she hated the fact that she’d never lived up to them. But her father loved her just the way she was, with all her faults. And they were too numerous to recall. Clumsy. Sometimes thoughtless. Always too eager.
“I’m so confused. I have these…strange feelings for the laird.”
She felt a whisper of breeze beside her, and her father’s voice. “Love is a strange and mystical emotion, my daughter.”
“But how will I know if what I’m feeling is love?”
“Your heart will tell you. Trust your heart.”
“I do trust my heart. It’s Andrew I’m not sure of. What if I let myself love him, and he doesn’t return my feelings? Will my heart be broken?”
“Hearts do break. And they also mend. Just remember, everything worth having, in your world and his, requires some risk. If you should return to the Mystical Kingdom without letting yourself explore these feelings, you may never know what love is. The choice is yours, my daughter. I know you will choose wisely.”
“How can you be so sure of that, Father?”
Gwenellen felt the breeze lift her hair as it rushed past her. And then the night was calm and still.
But not so her heart. It was pounding as she went inside and lay on her pallet, mulling her father’s words.
Her heart could be broken.
Dare she risk it on this aloof, complicated man?
Chapter Twelve
“That’s it, lads.” Andrew nodded his approval as the village men and boys divided into two teams, going through a mock attack and defense. The late afternoon was filled with the clang of blade to blade as they danced across the meadow.
At first their clumsy attempts at swordplay had been crude and awkward. But slowly they’d come to accept that this was not play, but survival. Now they boldly faced each other down, thrusting and parrying as though their very lives depended upon each movement.
Women and children had taken over many of the farming and herding chores, freeing their men to spend their time under the watchful eye of the laird, who’d proven himself a strong, resourceful leader.
While their days were spent in learning the skill of warriors, their nights had been spent polishing their weapons, until knives and swords had been honed to razor sharpness. Each morning they lined up with their weapons for an inspection by their laird. One reprimand from him would send a hopeful warrior to the wheel, to sharpen his blade yet again. One kind word had a villager beaming with unmistakable pride.
It was the same for the women. With Gwenellen leading the way, they had begun to harvest their crops, taking only what their families needed for the coming weeks, and storing the rest in the abbey larder.
Flocks of sheep now grazed just outside the abbey gates. The nearby hills were dotted with cattle, with women and children posted at the highest peaks to watch for strangers.
Seeing movement across the meadow, Andrew lifted his head to watch as Gwenellen and a group of village lasses made their way toward him. In their arms were baskets brimming with crops from the fields.
He lowered his sword and stood watching the sway of her hips as she drew near.
For days he’d busied himself from dawn to dusk, hoping to fill his mind with something besides the way she’d tasted when they’d kissed. Now, just seeing her had it all rushing back.
“Good day, my lord.” Gwenellen smiled and balanced the basket at her hip.
“My lady.” He couldn’t seem to tear his gaze from her face, sun-burnished and slick with sheen.
Neither of them seemed to notice the men and women milling about, exchanging pleasantries. They had eyes only for one another.
She struggled not to let any emotion creep into her voice. “I’ve not seen you these past days.”
He caught sight of the way her damp gown clung to her breasts, and felt his throat go dry. “I’ve had much that needed to be done.”
“Mistress MacLean says you rarely take time to eat, and then only in your chambers, or with your men.”
“Aye.” It had been an effort to stay away from her, but he’d made a decision he believed was best for both of them. Now, seeing her flushed and happy in her work, he could feel his resolve wavering. “Perhaps I could take the time tonight.” He saw the smile th
at lit her eyes and knew he couldn’t resist any longer. “It would be good for the men to go home to their women. After all this hard work, they need a rest from it.”
“Shall I tell Mistress MacLean that you’ll be taking a meal below stairs?”
“Aye. Perhaps in the withdrawing room again.” He paused just a beat. “Will you join me?”
Her smile was dazzling. “I’d be honored.”
When she turned away he stayed where he was, watching the way her gown hugged her backside with each step.
He turned back to his warriors, eager for the day to be done. “All right, lads. Show me what you can do with those weapons.”
“I saw the laird coming in from the meadow.” Olnore knelt beside the tub and poured water over Gwenellen’s hair until all the soap had been removed. “He said to tell you he would stop by your chambers on his way below stairs.”
Her mistress struggled to get up, sending water sloshing over the rim of the tub. “How long ago was that, Olnore?”
The girl laid a hand on her arm to still her movements. “Not long, my lady. You have plenty of time to dress.” She held up a blanket, wrapping her in it as she stepped from the tub.
Forcing herself to relax, Gwenellen settled herself at a dressing table while her maid dressed her hair.
While she worked Olnore chatted on about all the fine things the men had been saying about the laird. “Though he’s impatient to face his enemy, I’m told he’s a most patient teacher. He never scolds the lads, though ‘tis said they forget from one day to the next more than half of everything they’ve been taught. But instead of beating them, as is his right as laird, he simply goes through the lesson again.”
Gwenellen gave a gasp. “He could beat them?”
The lass nodded. “Some lairds are cruel masters. I’ve heard that Fergus Logan once beat a young lad to death for forgetting to stoke the fire in his chambers.”
Gwenellen couldn’t hide the shudder that rippled through her. “What sort of mortal is he, that he could actually beat another to death?”
Olnore studied her reflection in the looking glass. What had started out as rumors and whispers about this sweet, tenderhearted stranger, had now been confirmed. She actually carried tales from the dead. Tales that could no longer be disputed, since they’d been confirmed by many in the village. But this was the first time she’d heard the lady speak about mortals as though she herself weren’t one of them.
A witch then. But surely the kindest, sweetest of witches.
“Fergus Logan is a cruel man, my lady. The Highlands would be well rid of such as him. It’s said he once attacked Lord Andrew when the two were young because the little laird’s steed tossed him, causing him to tumble from a mountain peak and come to rest on Logan soil. To Fergus Logan that was reason enough to thrash the laird and leave him for dead.”
Gwenellen clapped a hand over her mouth to silence her little cry. “How did Andrew survive, Olnore?”
“‘Tis said he crawled for two nights, hiding by day beneath the branches of low-hanging bushes, until he reached Ross land and was found by a crofter who took him in and sent for the old laird.”
Seeing her dismay, the little maid decided to say no more about the cruelties of men. “What of the men in your land, my lady? Are they kind or cruel?”
Gwenellen gave a clear, tinkling laugh. “There are no men in my land, Olnore.”
“No men, my lady?”
She shook her head. “Only women and one very old troll.”
In the mirror she could see the maid’s shocked look and quickly turned around to lay a hand over hers. “My home is the Mystical Kingdom, Olnore. And though I’m not as gifted as the others in my family, what you’ve heard about me is true. I can speak to those who have passed from this world.”
Olnore sank to her knees, all the while staring into Gwenellen’s eyes. “Could you…” She swallowed and tried again. “Could you speak to my mum, my lady?”
“Is she buried in the village?”
The lass nodded.
“I’ll go there with you one day soon and we’ll have a visit.” Seeing the little maid’s eyes fill, she stood and embraced her. “It will be a grand visit, for the two of you will have much to catch up on.” She stepped back. “Now I think it’s time I got dressed.”
Olnore brushed away her tears and helped Gwenellen into a gown of ruby velvet, then stepped back to admire her handiwork. “The color suits you, my lady. But then,” she added with a smile, “everything you wear seems to suit you.” She held out a matching cloak of ruby velvet. “Let’s see how this looks.”
Gwenellen waved her away, eager for the evening to begin. “I need nothing more, Olnore.”
“But, my lady…”
“Go now. Wear it to the stables to visit Paine.” She gave the lass a hard, steady look. “You are meeting him, aren’t you?”
“Aye. Thank you, my lady. But I could never wear something so fine.” Cheeks flushed, the servant dropped the cloak on a chaise before dancing across the room. At the door she turned. “I almost forgot. Somehow in today’s training in the meadow the laird’s dirk was lost.”
“The one given him by his mother?”
“Aye. The lads have agreed to begin hunting for it at first light, for they all know what it means to the laird.” She hurried away, pulling the door shut behind her.
Deep in thought, Gwenellen walked to the balcony and stared at the distant meadow. She, too, knew what that dirk meant to Andrew.
She could fetch it for him right now.
She could already imagine the pleasure in his eyes when she handed it to him.
Lifting her arms wide she began to chant the ancient words. As the chanting ended she closed her eyes. “Search along the meadow ground. What is lost must now be found. While upon this balcony, bring the jeweled dirk to—”
Before she could complete her command a flash of silver danced across the sky and seemed to be heading directly toward her. End over end the knife flew, its jeweled hilt catching the last rays of fading sunlight.
Gwenellen gave a laugh of pure delight at the knowledge that she had finally cast a spell that worked.
“Oh, come to me.” She clapped her hands then reached out, but the knife danced high above her and looked as though it might sail clear over the abbey towers.
“Nay.” Determined not to fail again she climbed up on the rail of the balcony and made a grab for the tantalizing knife.
In the next instant her feet slipped out from under her and she found herself falling. She reached out and made a desperate grab for the railing. Though her fingers were slippery, she managed to catch hold of the very edge.
Once again she found herself dangling high in the air, the result of a spell gone awry. But this time she knew if she fell, she wouldn’t just break a few bones. There was a very good chance she wouldn’t survive.
Andrew closed his door and started down the hall toward Gwenellen’s chambers. Nothing could dim his high spirits. Not the loss of his dirk, nor the fact that he’d heard not a word from his warriors in Edinburgh. Not the ragtag army he was training, nor the fact that he would have to spend the rest of his life as a proper laird instead of living the carefree existence of a warrior. Right now the only thing that mattered was that he was going to spend the evening in the company of the most delightful woman he’d ever known. He had no doubt that all the cares of the day would soon pale next to her.
He was smiling as he knocked on the door to her chambers, then opened it.
“My lady.” He stepped into the sitting chambers, noting the cozy fire burning on the hearth. Perhaps later they would return here, and sip a bit of ale.
The door to her sleeping chambers stood open. He could see that she wasn’t inside. He stood in the middle of the room and tried to ignore the little wave of annoyance. He’d wanted, after all, to escort her down the stairs. In fact, he’d been as eager as a randy youth just to see her. Now he felt deflated, and more than a little out of sorts.
Why hadn’t she waited for him? Had her maid forgotten to tell her that he would stop by her chambers? Or had she simply not cared enough to do as he bid?
He turned away and stormed across the room. With his hand on the door he paused and looked over his shoulder. Had he heard her voice? Or had that been merely the call of a bird?
“My lady?” He turned, hoping to see her appear in the doorway of her sleeping chamber. Again he felt a wave of disappointment and was just turning back when he heard it again.
Not a bird. Gwenellen’s voice, but sounding faint and very strange.
He crossed the room and entered her sleeping chamber, letting his gaze sweep the empty room.
“Imp? Where are you?”
“Here. Oh, help.” The voice sounded from the balcony, but he could see no one there.
He stepped out onto the balcony and saw her fingers clinging to the very edge of the railing. When he rushed over and saw that tiny figure dangling above the hard, punishing paving stones of the courtyard hundreds of feet below, he felt his heart plummet.
“God in heaven.”
At his muttered oath, Gwenellen felt her fingers slip just enough to lose her grasp. At the same moment his strong hands grasped her wrists, keeping her from falling to her death.
For the space of a heartbeat he merely held her. Then, slowly, gently, so as not to scrape her tender flesh, he was pulling her up, up, over the railing and into his arms.
For a moment, when she found herself once more on her feet, all she could do was close her eyes and cling to his strength. Oh, how good it felt to be held by him. She felt a sob well up in her throat and burst free.
“Here now, Imp.” His words were muffled against her hair. “Don’t cry.”
“I’m…not…crying.” She managed the words between sobs.
“Of course you’re not.” Because he needed to, he gathered her even closer, until he could assure himself that she was truly here. Truly safe. He rocked her like a child, until his heartbeat returned to near normal.
Then, because anger was easier to deal with than fear, he held her a little away and scowled. “What in heaven were you thinking? Was this another of your silly spells?”
The Knight and the Seer Page 11
