Forbidden Kisses

by Laurel O'Donnell

  “Aye, they are.” He finished the bannock quickly, dipping the last bit into his stew. “My sister was fond of bannocks, aye eating more than she should,” he told her, helping himself to another.

  “She was the woman I spoke of, my sister, Eleanor.” He tucked into the stew, his gaze on hers. “She had nothing to do with why I chose to withdraw to Blackrock, shutting myself away from the world. She was simply a wonderful young woman I loved dearly and who left this life too soon. A fever took her, Troll and I were at her side as she went. So now he is mine, and he e’er shall be for I couldn’t bear to be parted from him.”

  “Troll is an unusual name.” It was all Mairi could think to say. Mortification blazed inside her, shame that she’d spoken so bluntly, her guess so wrong.

  “Why did she call him that?” She ate a bit of stew, hoped the awkwardness would soon pass.

  “She didn’t. I named him.”

  “You? Didn’t you say he was her dog?”

  “Aye, he was.” He slid a look at the huge beast, still slumbering beside the fire. “I was the one who found him and Troll seemed a good name for he was living beneath a bridge, snarling and frightening wayfarers, earning the name with his fierceness.”

  Mairi glanced at the dog, not surprised to see him pushing to his feet and trundling toward them. “He’s not fierce now.”

  “Nor was he then.” Gare’s face warmed at the dog’s approach. “He was injured and starving. The gods only know what happened to him. Had anyone bothered to look, they’d have seen he was hurt and no ravening beast.”

  Troll reached the table, leaning his bulk into Gare’s side. His hopeful gaze and thumping tail left no doubt that he wanted a treat.

  Or that he knew he’d receive one.

  “He has you well trained.” Mairi watched as Gare tore a bannock in two, dipping half into his stew and then offering the tidbit to Troll.

  “He is a good friend.” He rubbed the dog’s ears. “I would have kept him from the start, but he took a liking to Eleanor and wouldn’t leave her side. He was her greatest champion. I was away often, so Troll’s size and his fearsome reputation kept her safe. She was quite fetching and turned heads where’er she went. She aye saw the good in folk, believing nothing bad of anyone, so it didn’t hurt for her to have him with her, always. Troll kens if a soul is pure, or fouled.

  “Many were the times he saved Eleanor from grief, his snarls and raised hackles warning if someone meant her harm.” He dunked another bannock into his stew, this time giving Troll the entire treat. “He misses her. We all do. She was mistress of Blackrock.”

  “Ah, so there is another reason you want to marry.” Mairi set down her spoon. “It isn’t just about chipping the stone casing from your heart, or because the King’s Lieutenant has ordered you to take a bride, for the good of the realm. You need someone to run your household.”

  He raised a brow, his dark eyes narrowing. “Can it be you dinnae like me?”

  I am drawn to you in ways that aren’t wise. “I do not even know you.”

  “Be glad that is so.” He patted Troll’s head, not looking at her.

  “I cannot say why, and the fates know I shouldn’t care, but I do want to help you.” The words slipped from her lips before she could stop them.

  Indeed, they’d almost formed themselves.

  As if some strange magic had worked a spell on her tongue, making her say things she ought not.

  “I am glad.” He was still petting his dog, his gaze not on her.

  “Then you must tell me who the woman was that put such guilt on you.” Mairi couldn’t say how she knew, she just did. “If not your sister, then who hurt you so badly that you shun all other women since?”

  “She didn’t hurt me.” He straightened. “I hurt her. She’s the reason I broke my sword. The last time I used it, its steel took her life.”

  ~ * ~

  Drumbell Village, later the same night.

  “So you failed again?” Sorcha Bell stood before her cottage door, her eyes narrowed on the man before her. Once famed for her beauty and charm, and still a great healer, she didn’t suffer fools.

  An inability to see her will done annoyed her even more.

  She waved a hand at the nearby huddle of cottages, where a few cook fires glimmered through door openings and shuttered windows. “I’m thinking you wouldn’t have found the wench if she strolled right through Drumbell!”

  “My regrets, great lady.” The man glanced aside, his gaze on the thin drizzle falling between the great Scots pines that protected the village’s far side. When he turned back to Sorcha, he touched his sword hilt and made the sign against evil. “If she was hiding in the cave as we thought, there was no sign of her. No’ even cold ash from a cook fire. Naught but some animal dwells there, I swear it.”

  “Can it be you didn’t catch her because she is so pretty?” Anger twisted in Sorcha’s gut and she clenched her hands, doubly annoyed because they were gnarled and held age spots. “Men become fools around that one.”

  “Not I, lady.” Her minion shook his head.

  “Humph!” Sorcha gave him a fierce look, scarce believing he’d once again been unable to winkle out her arch-rival, the much younger, lust-crazed, and entirely unskilled Mairi MacKenzie. The she-witch who’d been a thorn in her side ever since Mairi’s late aunt and uncle brought her to Drumbell as the orphaned get of a whore.

  Righteous disdain swelled Sorcha’s breast, for she had sprung from much greater stock.

  Her father had been a leader of men, captain of the guards to one of the King’s most favored nobles, while her mother was renowned for her graciousness and unstinting generosity, her soft-spoken voice said to have been so sweet even the songbirds envied her.

  Sorcha hadn’t inherited any of her long-dead parents’ better qualities.

  She did assume them.

  Quietly pretending that she was just as illustrious, equally admired. In younger days, men appreciated her brown eyes and hair, her small stature, and the soft, pleasing voice she’d learned to pitch like her mother’s.

  But years had passed and they hadn’t been kind.

  Even her herb-tending hands had betrayed her for her fingers were now oddly bent, appearing as claws.

  It wasn’t fair.

  Glory such as hers shouldn’t fade.

  What remained were her healing skills. A gift bestowed on her by the gods, and one that she didn’t share gladly. Mairi MacKenzie had grown to be a pebble in Sorcha’s shoe. Each time her arch-rival sneezed, a wonder unfolded, bringing her fame and glory. If she blinked or turned her great blue eyes on a man, he fair fell over himself to please her. Even children and dogs had followed her through the village, their gazes adoring. And the elders – Sorcha resisted the urge to spit – they’d looked on her in awe, praising her skills.

  It was more than Sorcha could bear.

  So she’d taken measures.

  To her glee and satisfaction, they’d worked. The MacKenzie wench had been run from the village, barely escaping a fiery end on the stake. A nice stoning beforehand, just to ripen her for the flames, if Sorcha’d had her way.

  But someone had warned the chit, allowing her to flee.

  No matter, Sorcha wasn’t through with her. She had more resources than most knew.

  One of them cowered before her now, the big man’s hands clutched clumsily, worry stamped hard into his broad, rough-hewn face.

  He had reason to fear her.

  Sorcha smoothed her skirts and smiled at him, then cast a sly glance at the half-opened door behind her. “This drizzle chills to the bone, eh? You’ve had a long journey and will be weary. Come in and have a bit of oatcakes and cheese, a horn of warmed mead.”

  She pushed the door open, letting him see her welcoming fire, the small table with victuals, the great drinking horn on its stand.

  “I am hungry,” the man admitted, shuffling his feet.

  Sorcha’s smile deepened, wreathing her aged face. “I’ve a plat
ter of fine roasted meats as well. You’ll sleep with a full stomach.”

  It was enough.

  The man edged past her, ducking to enter the cottage’s low-cut door. It was the last thing he did in this life for two of Sorcha’s better-trained henchmen fell upon him at once, leaping on him from the shadows on either side of the door. They cut him down so swiftly he’d surely joined the gods before he knew he was dead.

  Sorcha nodded appreciation as her men carried him away. Then she made for the wet trees behind her cottage, preferring a walk in the wood to looking on when her minions returned to clean the blood.

  She’d come back later, and enjoy her evening meal.

  The fine mead she relished.

  Then she’d sleep for she needed her rest. On the morrow, she’d take the matter of Mairi MacKenzie in her own hands. She’d had enough of sending fools after the bitch.

  This time she’d go herself, and she’d take along men who would not fail her.

  Chapter Four

  “So, my lady, you have heard the worst of me.”

  Gare stood beside Mairi’s rough-hewn table and beheld a sight he’d hoped never again to see: The blood drain from a woman’s face, her eyes filled with horror, the shock of his deed rendering her speechless. His sister Eleanor had reacted the same way, as had the other ladies in his household. Had his mother yet lived, he suspected she would’ve fainted upon learning what he’d done.

  Mairi appeared equally stunned. She’d pressed a hand to her breast, her great blue eyes fixed on his face. “Surely it was an accident,” she said, voicing Eleanor’s same opinion. “You did not kill her in cold blood.”

  “How can you know?”

  “I just do.”

  On her words, a gust of wind wailed past the door opening, shaking the leather hanging. From somewhere came the sound of creaking wood and rattling leaves, the glen’s birches bending in the wind. The shrieks grew louder, racing round and round the circular broch before they rushed on, having made their presence known.

  Mairi glanced at the door curtain, seemingly untroubled by the night’s howling gusts. “I feel it here,” she said, placing a fisted hand on her heart. “Call it a woman’s kenning, whatever you will. It has naught to do with miracle casting or spells. My heart would tell me if you were a murderer.”

  “The lady is dead, however I am called.” Guilt and regret twisted in his gut, terrible memories rising from the blackest corner of his soul. They ripped his heart, reminding him of the grief he’d caused, pain and sorrows that could never be undone. “Her life was spent, cut short by my blade. She bled out in my arms.”

  “Was it a deed of passion?” Mairi crossed the room to latch back the entry’s heavy leather curtain so that cold night air could cleanse the smoky room. “A wife or lover, caught in the arms of another? There are times when one can be so distraught that reason flees.”

  “I had no such excuse.” He didn’t lie. “Though I did know her. We’d even been lovers, but only once, many years before.”

  “I will listen if you wish to speak.” Mairi glanced at him from the door, her raven hair gleaming in the torchlight, her beautiful eyes holding no accusations. “It might be good to unburden yourself, whatever happened.”

  “It is no’ pretty tale.”

  “I have some ugly ones myself.” She stepped aside to make room for Troll as he pushed past her into the cold-misted night. “As the banshee of the Glen of Winds, I have seen the worst of men, and some women, including myself, though I have never taken a life.”

  “I have claimed many, but in war. The exception was Lady Gwendolyn Berry.”

  She blinked. “A lady?”

  “So she was, aye.” He joined her at the door, welcoming the chill for the back of his neck felt on fire. Something hard and tight had also lodged in his chest; remorse, guilt, and a wholly unexpected hunger that stirred in him, powerful and dangerous. A fierce urge to yank her into his arms and kiss her long and deep, not stopping until he’d banished the raging ache and emptiness inside him.

  “She was English,” he said, sure the recounting of the tale would shake him to soul, ridding him of the foolish wish to kiss Mairi MacKenzie. “We met at a champion tournament in France. She was there with her father and brothers. They’d hoped to arrange a good marriage for her, either to a man of rank at the French court, or to one of the attending foreign or English noblemen. I should ne’er have touched her, but she’d caught my eye and so when opportunity arose…”

  He let the words trail away, knowing she knew what transpired. “I never saw her again after that night. Indeed, I even forgot her.” Guilt stabbed him on that admission, but it was the truth. “I was journeying round the tourney circuit, bold, brash, and full of swagger, enjoying all the attendant pleasures available to such young just-earned-their spurs knights.”

  “Here, sir.” Mairi pressed a cup of warm, spiced ale into his hand, closing his fingers around the offering, urging him to drink.

  He hadn’t realized she’d left his side.

  That she had, and to fetch him such a soothing brew, sent a crack tearing through whatever hard, tightness had settled so uncomfortably in his chest. He could feel it breaking apart, threatening to split wide.

  “What happened then?” She watched as he raised the cup to his lips, took a grateful swallow. “When did you see her again? Was it at court? Here in Scotland, or south in-”

  “It was in England, aye.” Gare tipped back his head, downing the ale. “But we didn’t meet at court, and neither at any fine high table in an English stronghold. We clashed at Neville’s Cross five years ago, coming face to face during that ill-starred battle.”

  “She was at the battle, a spectator?” Mairi took the ale cup from his hand, went to pour him another. “I have heard some women travel round with their knightly husbands. Had she wed and was riding with her-”

  “She was fighting, in the affray.” The horror of the memory rushed Gare, chilling his blood anew. “She wore full armor, sat a caparisoned destrier, and couched a lance as good as any tournament knight. When I first glimpsed her, she was barreling down on me, her spear aimed at my heart, her face and hair hidden beneath her helm.”

  Mairi gasped, once again looking shocked. “Why would she have been in the battle?”

  “I’ll ne’er know, no’ truly.” It was one of his greatest regrets. “She was an excellent rider when I first met her. She’d claimed to have mastered swordery and jousting, skills taught to her by her brothers.

  “But I ne’er dreamt to face her in war.” Gare shuddered, hoped Mairi hadn’t seen. “I did learn that she’d lost a brother and it’d been his gear she’d donned, even his horse and spear.”

  Mairi stepped closer to the door opening to peer out into the thick, cold mist. Her gaze was on Troll who sat near her peat stack. He’d cocked his head, seemingly entranced by the mist blowing past the broch, the birches at the glen’s edge. They tossed in the wind, their silvery branches like raised, waving arms.

  “Can it be she wished to avenge someone, her dead brother, a lover or husband?” She turned back to Gare, her brow furrowed as if her next words were difficult. “Or…” She bit her lip, threw another quick look at Troll. “Some women have a wildness in their hearts. Perhaps she did and sought to quench hers by riding into an affray?”

  Gare closed his eyes, drew a tight breath.

  “There was talk.” He wished it wasn’t so for he felt, in part, responsible. “Men in taverns and inns spoke of her, a sad tale.” He paused, braced a hand against the thick stone edge of the door opening. “I wasnae the only young knight she dallied with at French jousting competitions. Regrettably, she was caught, her name ruined, her family scandalized. They left her there when their party sailed back to England and that was the last I’d heard of her until after Neville’s Cross when I made discreet enquiries.”

  “You cannot blame yourself.” Mairi slid an arm around him, leaning into him so that her warmth was a balm to his soul. “Many wo
men have met such fates, lost everything because they were too spirited, giving full rein to their passion.”

  “That doesnae clear the guilt of the men who helped them into ruin.” Gare bowed his head, a muscle jerking in jaw. “A moment’s pleasure for a life ruined. It is no good bargain, my lady, and my regrets are deep.

  “At the battle, I’d lost my mount and was fighting afoot. That we’d lost was clear, the Scots nobles and most of their captains and best knights had fled the field, but some skirmishes kept on, mostly at the field’s edge for too many fallen Scots warriors littered the main battleground. I’d just cut my way out of one of the last smaller routs when a horsed knight charged me, coming at speed and lance couched, ready to run me through. A knight grounded is no match for a mounted opponent – unless, as happened to me, the horse can be brought down and the knight toppled, evening the fight.

  “So I grabbed a spear from a slain foot soldier and dropped to one knee, aiming the lance at the charging warhorse.” He paused, stepping out into the night’s chill damp and tipping back his head to stare up at the dark, racing clouds. “I only needed to wait, see you? The horse couldn’t halt his forward rush.”

  He turned to look at Mairi when she appeared beside him, resting a hand lightly on his arm. “The destrier leapt over a pile of fallen men, then lost his footing, slipping on the blood-slicked ground.

  “The beast went down, his rider sailing over his head, straight onto my waiting spearhead.” Gare placed a hand over hers, squeezing her fingers before breaking free to pace deeper into the mist, away from the broch. “The cheek pieces of the knight’s helm flew open at impact and Lady Gwendolyn’s shocked eyes stared into mine as she fell, slumping to the red ground, my lance piercing her through.

  “She recognized me, I know.” He stopped, reaching to rub the back of his neck, wishing it’d been him that had met such an end, not a young woman whose only sin had been her enthusiasm for life.