Chapter Two
And then I'll be your ain true-love,
I'll turn a naked knight,
Then cover me wi’ your green mantle,
And hide me out o sight.
— Ballad of Tamlin
Armed with only wavering determination and a pot of fragrant unguent, Aithinne pushed open the tower room door. She paused, listening to the eerie stillness, the whole world seeming to hold its breath, as if this instant in time would change the fate of all. A silly notion. One she could not dispel.
A thin shaft of moonlight came through the narrow window, piercing the velvet darkness. It shrouded the chamber in impenetrable shadows, a cloak for the deed she must do. Upon her instructions no fire had been laid, so the hearth remained cold. Clad in just a thin chemise under her light woolen mantle, she shivered—though whether from the chill in the air, or misgivings about her plan, she couldn’t decide.
Of two minds, Aithinne’s eyes went to the fat, woad candle on the table by bedside, the flickering flame doing little to light the room. Oonanne said before the wick reached one-third gone, the moon’s ethereal glow would envelop the huge bed, then the Beltaine spell she set would gain force. As a reminder, she had marked the side of the wax with a gash.
It was nearly to that point, now.
Turning to the door, her hand paused on the bolt before guiding it into the slot. Not that she expected Oona, Einar or the lads to disturb her. They backed her, abetted her plan. Oona was likely off practicing rites to Bel, Lord of Fire, offering ancient May Day invocations. She had done everything to see Aithinne prepared for this choice, strangely, even encouraged her in the scheme. Einar might be inclined to stand guard outside the door and growl at anyone daring to approach, howbeit he was on the curtain wall, too busy ensuring her brothers did not throw themselves off the bastion along with the chamber pots.
The only person she feared who might come to disturb her night’s plans would be Dinsmore. She had hoped the obstinate man would decamp after it grew clear her brothers enjoyed their silly game of siege. From the narrow window, she spotted his tent on the hillside, his boar head on gold pennon flapping in the nighttime breeze.
She sighed. Mayhap she should count blessings Phelan Comyn had not taken it into his cork-brain to come play ardent swain just because Dinsmore had. Once, foolishly, she had thought Phelan might be the man to steal her heart. He was a handsome lad, with dark auburn hair and blue eyes. Only, he could not keep his tarse in his braies. Disgusted with his lies and wandering eyes, she wanted no part of a faithless husband. Why marry if your spouse spent his time swiving anything in a kirtle? Hardly an advantage for a lass to wed, if that were the case.
Aithinne strode to the bed, and set the pot down on the small table next to the candle. Steeling herself, she finally turned to look upon the stranger lying on the bed.
In awe, she inhaled sharply. “Oh, aye, the man be bonnie. For once, my lackwit brothers did well by me.”
Pulsing heat roared through her as she gazed upon his comely face and superior form. Never had she seen a more perfect male, one to haunt her dreams. As if conjured from those dark wishes, this man fulfilled every desire hidden in her secret heart.
He rested quietly on his back, the strong chest bare. His torso was not boyish like Phelan Comyn’s, nor was it hairy as Dinsmore’s. Neither appealed to her. This man had only a faint dusting of hair right in the center of his breastbone, then gradually thickened into a line that disappeared under the plaide. The wool tartan was artfully draped across his groin.
“Einar’s doing, no doubt. The Norseman wouldst have blushed and afforded you the modesty, my bonnie stranger. My mooncalf brothers likely sniggered and would have painted you blue with woad and tied tartan ribbons around your staff. Fortunate for you, my big Norseman was there to keep them in line.”
Oona had not stretched the truth. The man was long of limb, thighs powerful, hard from using them to control his mighty destrier. There could be little doubt she stared at a fierce warrior, a knight. When she had sent the lads forth to find her a stud, she never hoped they would return with one so comely.
“Where did they find you, my braw lad?” she whispered as foreboding slithered over her skin.
Where had her brothers acquired a man of such quality? ’Twas true, he was a stranger to these parts; she would never forget this man had they met. Handsome—nay, beautiful—he had the fey allure of one born with Selkie blood. Though motionless, scorching energy thrummed from this dark warrior.
He was silent, barely breathing. She saw no rise and fall of his chest. Fear lurched within her, worry her simple-witted brothers had dosed him too deeply.
Had all these arrangements for this night been for naught?
Almost greedily, she reached out and stroked his thigh. His flesh was warm. Her fingers caressed the muscles of steel, dragged up to the plaide, then over the lean plane of his taut belly to his chest. Strong and steady, his heartbeat set hers to rocking, then slowed to match the cadence of his as though they shared one pulse. Holding her palm there, she opened her mind to The Kenning, trying to see into his inner heart―the soul.
Her mind’s voice whispered this warrior was rare, special, a breed apart. What was it Oona had said about him—Ooooo, he’s a bonnie man that stands out amongst many.
Mayhap such things should matter little. Her brothers had not fetched him so she could walk in his thoughts. What she needed from this man he would hardly miss. Males spread it around to any willing lass with nary a second thought. She should feel no guilt in the deed.
Yet, the magnificent stranger tweaked her nosiness. “Who are you? Why come you to the Highlands, my braw knight? Have you a lady wife? Aye, you would be hard on the heart of a poor lass.”
Jealousy surged within her, blazing with a dominance that shocked her. She tried to dismiss the reaction, chalking it up to effects of Oona’s love philter coursing through her body.
As she stared at the midnight hair, softly curling about his handsome face, images of her cousin Tamlyn formed in her mind. Her spine straightened. Did this man know her kinswoman? She closed her eyes and focused on the thudding of his heart against her palm. The impression remained sharp. Too sharp. He had to ken Tamlyn.
From a distance people often mistook her for Tamlyn. Only five seasons older, her cousin was a hand’s width shorter, her figure fuller. Their hair was nearly the same shade of deep gold, though Tamlyn’s lacked the hint of red that highlighted her own, and one had to be up close to notice the flecks of green in her own eyes, missing in Tamlyn’s pure amber ones. The most telling difference in Aithinne’s mind was the seven freckles across her nose, whilst her cousin bore nary a speck. Oona assured her they had faded with age, but at times she felt they were warts. Though Aithinne loved her cousin like a sister, she always felt less than perfect around beautiful Tamlyn of Glenrogha.
Twigging the image of her cousin in this stranger’s memories oddly twisted a knife in her heart. As if this gorgeous man would look upon her and see someone taller―with seven bloody dots on her nose―and find her lacking compared to the perfect Tamlyn.
Her fingers flexed, almost as though she could reach within him and hold his heart. Own him. Brand him. “Scatty, fanciful thoughts,” she murmured in self-taunt.
Despite the self-chastisement, fiery possessiveness arose in her. Aithinne’s pulse thudded in her ears, as her hand snaked down that shadowy divide of the upper chest and over the hard-corded muscles of his abdomen. His skin burned her fingertips as they traced the path to the brown plaide. She liked touching him. Glancing at his strong hands―hands accustomed to wielding a broadsword―she wanted them to touch her, stroke her.
“Aye, my dark knight, you are the man to awaken the sleeping woman within me,” she confessed, all defenses down.
Aithinne’s eyebrows shot up as the tartan jerked. Oona had explained how men grew stiff and larger as their hunger to mate rose. This avowal had drawn a frown from Aithinne. She had seen stallions before. When she told the crone that, Oona merely chuckled. “Men are no’ quite the same, lass.”
Her eyes skimmed down his long leg to the leather shackle about his ankle, the chain binding him to the base of the heavy bed. Reaching out, she stroked the hard thigh, then up to the tartan. She blinked in surprise as the pulsing under the material came quicker, insistent, almost tenting it. Inquisitive, she gingerly lifted the cover. She sighed relief―thankful Oona had been correct. His male staff little resembled a horse’s. Though she had never made a study of such things, once she had seen a stallion ready to mount a mare. The animal’s had been kenspeckled and looked rather leathery. Aithinne shuddered and uttered a prayer for small blessings to the Auld Ones.
Over the past seven years her guardian, Gilchrest Fraser, Lord Lyonglen, had rebuffed a score of offers for her hand in marriage. Caring little, she had never raised any objections, simply because no man before had drawn her interest strongly enough, saw her willing to bind herself to him. Despite the endless refusals, the suitors came in droves. Being baroness of Coinnleir Wood and ward to Lyonglen saw her too big of a prize for greedy men to resist. Most persistent of the neighboring lads were Phelan and Dinsmore.
“I could be a swart hag and they would still clamor to win me,” Aithinne grumbled.
The major headache, and a true threat, now came from Edward Plantagenet. Since appointing himself Lord Paramount of Scotland, after the death of their King Alexander, the English monarch continually interfered in all manner of Scottish affairs. One of those constant meddlings―Longshanks endeavored to arrange marriages for her, as well as for her cousins, Tamlyn, Raven and Rowanne. The English king was sorely vexed over their persistent refusals.
As heiresses of Clan Ogilvie, no man could force them into marriage. A charter granted by Malcolm Canmore, two centuries before, reaffirmed and protected this ancient right of the Picts.
Despite Oona’s frequent reminders ’twas past time when Aithinne should have been taken to wife, she was unsure she wanted to wed. Naturally, she wished for a helpmate, someone to share the burden of Coinnleir Wood, and now Lyonglen. Despite those daydreams, she enjoyed the clout of not having anyone telling her what she must do―or what she may not.
That did not mean she lacked all curiosity about the forces of nature, or what happened betwixt men and women. Until this moment, she had viewed these matters with a detached questioning. At times, when she caught one of her maids giggling and blushing around a soldier, Aithinne wondered if there was not something missing within her. She had never yearned to be with a man, not once pined to give herself in that elemental way.
Mayhap ’twas why she had devised this course of action so easily. She never stopped to reflect what it would entail to have a man inside her body, how she would feel. Such considerations had rarely seemed important before.
“Now, my pretty stranger, you cause me to wonder about so many things.”
Dropping the tartan, she stepped to the pot on the table. Dipping her fingers into the velvety ointment, she brought it to her nose and inhaled. The fragrant mix swamped her mind, intoxicating, lulling her, yet in the same breath it caused her heart to thud stronger, amplifying the effects of Oona’s potion.
Sitting on the bed, her hand hovered just above this beautiful warrior. If she touched him again, there would be no turning back. Consequences of this night, this act, would have long-reaching effects, forevermore changing the course of her destiny.
“My whole life distills to this instant in time when so much hangs in the balance.”
Swallowing hard, she put her fingers to his heart and gently rubbed the silken salve to his skin. A jolt shot to her elbow, then her shoulder. By the time it hit her neck, it split like lightning. Part struck her brain; the second arc slammed into her heart, then ricocheted, reverberating through her being until she shimmered with a scorching force.
The moon shifted from behind the clouds, pouring the ghostly radiance onto the bed. Soon it would bathe the whole surface with its unearthly glow. Anoint the virile warrior with Beltaine magic. Oona warned the spell would begin when the moonlight filled the chamber.
“Time to change my mind runs out,” she whispered fearfully.
She once more placed her palm over his heart, the rhythm stronger, speeding up. He burned, as if a fever consumed his flesh. Looking at the flat male nipple, she recalled Oona telling her what he would do to her breasts, that she would crave such treatment, even encourage him. Leaning forward, she laid her head against his chest, hearing the coursing of his blood, as her first finger gently traced a circle around his small, brown areola. The skin tightened, flesh pebbling. She smiled astonishment at the reaction.
Strangely, though nervous at what lay before her, it felt so…right…being against him. Shifting to bring her legs up on the bed’s plane, she eased them alongside his. His male body was so different from hers. Hard where she was soft, flat whilst she was curved. She had never touched a male as she now stroked him.
“Never wanted to before,” she admitted to the sleeping man.
But as her hand palmed over his warrior-honed body, across the taut muscles to the indentation of his navel, she wanted―nay, needed―to have her hands on this man. The beat of his heart jolted as she rimmed the small dip in his belly. Oddly, she grew aware the thudding of his heart was in time to the pulsing under the cover.
A slow grin spread over her mouth. “So many mysteries to discover.” Inquisitive, she lifted the tartan and pushed it aside.
She had seen men jump into the loch to wash up, caught them dashing out, running for their plaides. Still, she never had a chance for a close inspection. Always ducking her head and scurrying away, she had not wished for one either.
Each pulse lengthened the flesh. It was dark, swollen. She wondered if this condition proved painful for him.
Aithinne reached out to touch the twitching shaft, surprised how scorching it burned, so soft, yet hard. Now riding high against his belly, she felt amazement such a change could take place. With impish curiosity, her fingers curled about his throbbing erection, her thumb stroking the distended vein running its length. Astonishing. She felt it altering, thickening within her fist.
The moon’s luminosity spread across the bed, revealing his beautiful body in all its warrior’s splendor. His angelic face drew her eyes. The black hair lay in waves, not cut in the Norman style. Nagging questions once more arising, she whispered her worry, “Are you no’ English?”
Despite reasons, or how the Fates had put this warrior in the path of her brothers, she little cared about the riddles his presence conjured. This man would father beautiful bairns. One would be hers. After their time together ended, she would see he returned to his life and never glimpse this warrior again. However, the image of his naked beauty would forevermore be burned in her mind.
A knight to remember.
In the cold lonely nighttimes ahead, she would think back upon this man and know she had been blessed with his coming. Knew she would never permit another to lie with her.
Aithinne arched up and brushed a light kiss against the full, sensual mouth. Her body lurched, hungry for more, suddenly desperate for more. She leaned into him and fitted her lips to his, intent on taking these secrets from him, kissing him as a woman would a man she desired.
The world spun and she went flying.
Literally.