Chapter Six
Then, maiden fair, you'll let me go...
I'll be the perfect man...
— Ballad of Tamlin
The shrill cry―like a woman screaming―echoed through his fuzzy brain, rousing him from his dreamless sleep. The noise came twice more. Then nothing. Drowsing, Damian wondered if it were merely part of a dream.
He might have drifted back to the black void of slumber, but the coolness of the bed caused him to stir. With a smile, he reached to pull her warm body close, wanting just to hold her, to bury his face in her soft hair. Stretching, he struggled to open his eyes, for once not feeling so drugged. She was not there. As his mind cleared, he ran his hand over the spot where she had lain. The feather mattress still bore the impression of her body, but it lacked any of her remaining heat.
“So, my Lady Midnight is real and not a figment of my dreams.” Damian was not in the habit of talking to himself, but it gave him a sense of reality missing since Beltaine. “At times, I feared mayhap I had been wounded in battle and could not recall, and now fought for my life as I had when the Welshman’s sword found the split in my mail.”
His dreams of her back in that dark time had been strong. She had come and soothed his brow, whispering tender words. Her ghostly presence had kept him hanging onto life when his mind was scorched by fever or chills that had wracked his body.
Sitting up, he once again took tally of the details of his peculiar situation. The chamber was in a tower, judging by what little he could view through the narrow window. He was sore. Very sore. That brought a smile to his lips as he considered how he got in that condition. But there was no wound from a fight.
“Things are looking up. I am not injured, nor have a mind-fever. So someone feeds me a potion to see I stay in this muddled condition? The question is who and why?” He held his fingers to his nose scenting her. “But she is real. Oh, she is real. Tamlyn?”
His mind worried around the edges of that burning question. He tried to concentrate on the woman’s face, but admitted the herbs he ingested saw everything slightly out of focus. Also, he had yet to observe her in more than moonlight and shadow. Whilst his heart cried out for it to be Tamlyn, logic bespoke such actions were not within the Lady of Glenrogha’s character. Pain lanced through him as he acknowledged she might conceivably keep Julian a sex slave in a tower, but upon his look-alike cousin she did naught more than smile in a sisterly fashion. As badly as he wanted it to have been Tamlyn these past nights, his warrior’s sense said it went against the grain of truth. Tamlyn MacShane was a lady of honor. Though Damian wouldst like to deny it, she was falling deeply in love with Julian. She would never do anything to dishonor that love or hurt Challon.
So who was this woman who came to him in the shadows? Was she some Highland Lamia his mother warned him about, seeking to suck his soul dry? Did she pluck images of Tamlyn from his mind and refashion her visage to trick him? Trick him into what? What purpose did she hope to achieve by keeping him prisoner? By lying with him?
At her mere scent his body bucked, saying he craved her yet again. How many times had he taken her during the night? Endlessly, it seemed. The corner of his mouth quirked up at his newfound stamina. “Mayhap, I shall inquire what is in the strange love philter―once I half strangle her for chaining me in her bed. Then my Lady Midnight, I shall turn the tables and shackle you in mine.”
He experienced mixed emotions as his mind grew more firm that it was not Tamlyn. He wanted this woman with a fever that gripped his body. Even as the potion wore off, he still hungered after this mysterious lady of the night. Nonetheless, his heart felt a grieved disappointment it was not Tamlyn.
“Tamlyn was never mine.” The muscles in his throat swallowed back tears as he admitted the cold truth.
Damian pulled the plaide to his face, inhaling her intoxicating scent. Willing her to return to him. To have her again he would gladly give his soul.
And anything else she might ask.
♦◊♦
The next time he opened his eyes, sunlight streamed through the narrow window, showing it must be late in the day. His stomach grumbled, reinforcing that assumption. He was hungry and thirsty―and in a very foul mood. They were drugging the water or the victuals, mayhap both. He had to eat, and most especially required water. Howbeit, with his head near splitting, his temper out-paced reason, leading him to vow not to break his fast.
“Short of sitting on me and pouring it down my throat, I shall touch naught of what they fetch me,” he grumbled to the empty room. Struggling to his feet, he wrapped the plaide around his hips, and started toward a screen that concealed the chamber pot. Forgetting the stupid chain shackling his ankle, he tripped. “That bloody rips it.”
He snatched up the links and yanked. Accomplishing nothing. Frowning, he pulled again, this time with all his warrior’s muscle. With the strength of his rising fury, he put his full weight against it, jerking over and over. It cracked and pinged, but the chain and bed held.
The rattle of a key sounded in the lock, interrupting his display of bad humor.
Her image rose in his mind. A deep throb pulsed through his blood and instantly his shaft flexed and thickened. “Down my fair fellow. My Lady Midnight has never come to me in the light of day before. You likely rear your head when ’tis only that strange crone, come to ply witch’s wares and potions and cackle at you.” His arousal slowed. “Aye, thought you wouldst feel thusly.”
The door finally scraped open and a huge man halted, half through the doorway, as Damian raised the chamber pot. Clearly of Norse blood, the man grinned and then rumbled in a deep voice, “’Tis empty. I changed it out whilst you slumbered.”
Furious, Damian flung it anyway. Damian gave the big man his due, he moved fast. Quick as a wink, the massive frame was behind the door, using it as a shield as the metal pail crashed against it.
Still smiling, he poked his head back in. “My princess will not like you denting a good chamber pot.” The huge man moved past him to set a plate of meat, cheese and bread and a pitcher on the small table by bedside.
“Princess?” Damian questioned, since the man sounded as though he truly meant the title. Surely, he had not been carried off to some north country to a Viking stronghold. Vague images of the three lads with a Scots burr arose within his memory. Consequently, he discounted that likelihood.
The man nodded. “My princess.”
Thirsty, Damian glared at the clay jug. “More mead?”
“Just water. A man needs water.”
Too dizzy to stand, Damian leaned against the bedside. “Where are my clothes?”
“You have no need of them. Eat. Food you do need.”
“Where am I?”
“In the tower of my princess.”
“Why?”
The man blushed and grinned, but said naught.
“What is your name?” Damian grew quickly aggravated with the half-truths he dragged out of the affable giant.
“Englishman, eat.”
Damian crossed his arms over his chest. “So you can foul my body with more of the witch’s potion?”
The long white-blond hair shook as the man looked him up and down. “I adjudge you none the worse for the wear, eh? Most men would kill to be in her bed.”
“Her?” Damian arched a brow. That simple gesture sent pages scurrying in terror to please him. Evidently it failed to hold the same power over behemoths.
“My princess.”
Damian rolled his eyes, back to the princess nonsense again. “Why am I being held by your princess?”
“You ask too many questions, my lord.”
“And you answer too few. You do not like questions? How about a command instead? Tell me the name of your princess.”
“Eat. Rest. You need your strength.” He offered another of his smiles.
The man was too trusting. As he turned to go, Damian jerked up the chain, causing the giant to trip. Damian flew at him, landing on his back and wrapping an arm around his neck. Most men would have a hard time rising from that position. Exerting little effort, he pushed up with Damian nearly riding his back like a horse. With his trough of a hand, the Viking reached behind him and grabbed a fistful of Damian’s thick hair, then with a small heft, flung him forward over him. Suddenly, Damian found himself flying through the air, heels over head, then crashing hard to the stone floor.
♦◊♦
Aithinne leaned her head back and closed her eyes, relaxing in the hot water. With all the pressing duties of running Coinnleir Wood and now Lyonglen, she rarely had time enough to loll as this. At the end of a long day, she was too exhausted to wait for water to be boiled, then hauled to her room for her to have a full bath. Oona insisted a soak in the herbs would ease the woman’s pain of being with Lord RavenHawke. She had to admit it was helping.
Damian. She had never spoken his given name, fearful of the dangerous power it would have over her heart. The final thread to forevermore bind her to him.
This night she would send him away, back to Glenrogha. Back to Tamlyn. A burning knot formed in her heart. With every fiber of her being, she wanted to follow Einar’s advice― keep him. Despite, she could not risk his powerful cousin coming to Lyonglen, hunting for him. She needed to live quietly, and not draw King Edward’s attention until she was heavy with child. By then she would be in a better position to face what needed doing. Having the Black Dragon battering down the curtain walls in quest of St. Giles was a terrifying prospect, a risk she could not dare.
Thinking of the child she sought to conceive through this harebrained plan, she slicked her wet hand over her belly. His child would grow there. She would carry the bairn for the passing of nine moons, breed with his seed inside her. An ache rose in her to hold the wee babe, so strong it was painful. The sensation awed her, humbled her. Never had she anticipated feeling these things, to want the child so badly that tears filled her eyes.
“A heartbreak in the making. The wee bairn will be a constant reminder to me of the father.” Aithinne shut her eyes tightly, unable to bear the thought she would see Damian taken to Glenrogha as soon as it grew dark. Despair pressed in on her mind, knowing she would never see him again.
“Aithinne!”
The scream jolted her. She snatched up the sheet of woolen baize, pulling it across the tub for modesty as the door flung open and Deward rushed in. She quickly dashed the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand.
“Sister, you needs must come…Einar has your warrior down and is sitting on him, and he bit our Einar, then Hugh tried to help and I think he bit Hugh as well―or maybe that was Einar trying to bite RavenHawke and missed and gnawed on Hugh, then Lewis tried to hit your RavenHawke with the chamber pot―fortunately, it was empty―”
“Chamber pot? Einar biting St. Giles! By our Lady Annis!” Aithinne jumped out of the tub, clinging to the material, her mind awhirl with Deward’s nonstop explanation.
“Nay, Sister. Did you not listen? RavenHawke bit him and then maybe Hugh―but that might have been Einar biting Hugh, but he meant to bite St. Giles back and―”
“Och, hush!’ Her brain felt about to burst from listening to him. “They hit RavenHawke with the chamber pot? Have maggots gotten into their skulls? If anything happens to St. Giles, the Earl Challon will bring this fortress down around our ears.”
Snatching her kirtle off the high bed, she made a face at her brother. He stood rocking foot-to-foot in impatience, waiting for her. It took several breaths before he understood what the glare meant.
Eyes flying wide, he said, “Oh!” then spun around so she could slip the gown over her head. As she dressed, he asked in a worried voice, “Sister, you do no’ think they killed your RavenHawke, do you?”
She paused. “Killed? You failed to mention anyone getting killed. Surely no’! Deward, do not beg trouble. Einar would never permit anyone to get killed…I hope.”
Hurrying down the hall and up the winding stairs to the tower room, she tied the sides of her kirtle as she trailed after Deward. This was her fault. She had failed to dose him with Oona’s potion before she left him this morn. Now, he might be injured in the scuffle with her childish brothers and Einar.
Her hand pushing open the door, she pulled up as she eyed the scene before her. She sucked in a shocked breath. St. Giles was on the floor, a plaide about his hips. Hugh sat upon the man’s right arm, while Lewis, whose hair stood strangely on end, roosted on the other. Glowering stubbornly, Einar used his knee on St. Giles’s thighs, pinning the warrior to the stone floor. The knight was awake, though he remained still, likely viewing resistance a wasted effort at this point. She gasped when she spotted the idiots had stuffed a rag in his mouth.
“Of all the mutton-headed, dimwitted…chicken-brained…sheep-dip—” Aithinne was at a loss for words to express how incensed she was by their rash actions.
Lewis and Hugh scrunched up their faces and looked to each other, echoing the question, “Sheep-dip?” Hugh rolled his eyes. “Sister be in a bother again.”
“Get off him, you…you…worms!” Putting her fists on her hips, she used the do-or-die voice.
They did not move. Not even Einar. Her spine straightened in shock. They never failed to scurry to obey her when she used that tone―or at least get out of her arms’ length.
“Sister, if we get off the man,” Lewis sighed with an exasperated frown, saying he thought surely she should see his logic without being told, “he will bite me again.”
Aithinne glared at him. He hunched his shoulders, trying to make himself smaller, less of a target for her ire. Eliciting the response from Lewis restored her sense of control. “Get off him or I shall bite you!” When they sat unmoving, she frowned, and then knelt down to tug the rag from RavenHawke’s mouth.
The eyes were clear, sharp―and focused on her in blazing fury. Oh, what had her carelessness wrought? She knew this was the first time he had seen her in daylight, first time his mind was unmuddled by Oona’s spells and concoctions. A blush rose to her cheeks and she realized her hair was a mess and she looked a fright. Thankfully, the only light came from the narrow window and threw deep shadows into the room. Keeping the sun at her back and allowing her long hair to fall about her shoulders as a veil, she pulled the rag from his mouth.
“You!” he growled.
She jerked back at the force of the hurled word. “Me? Uh…huh…”
“Aye, you…you redheaded Lamia…I am going to snatch you bald.” The way the muscles around his mouth tightened assured her he meant his threat. “I am going to truss you up like a pheasant, then I am going to turn you over my knee and bea―”
Aithinne shoved the strip of cloth back in his mouth. “Sorry…even tempers be needed just now―and since there is a dearth of those around this fortress―you please hold those…ah… mmm…suggestions for the present, my lord.”
St. Giles’s eyes narrowed on her, silently promising what the cloth stopped him from speaking. She sucked her lower lip into her mouth and then glanced around. Four shining faces waited for her to tell them what to do. She sighed relief as Oona scurried in, carrying her herb box and a pitcher.
“Oona, they hit him on the head―” Aithinne fussed.
“Aye, I heard. Whole bloody castle heard.” The old woman leaned over, putting the palm of her hand to his heart. “Strong and steady, my pretty. A fine stallion of a man you be. Did you cold-cock him, lads?”
Lewis shook his head. “Only stunned him. He be a scary fighter. It took all of us to get him down.”
Hugh’s shoulders vibrated with a suppressed chuckle. “The man must have a skull of iron. I think it did more harm to the chamber pot than his head, Sister.”
Oona ran her hand over his scalp and nodded. “Nary a lump. Eyes are clear, focused. Madder than an old wet hen are you, my fine braw warrior?”
Oona’s smirk caused the muscles in the knight’s square jaw to flex. His gray-green eyes bore into Aithinne’s, making her swallow hard. She hated he was being handled in a fashion that would insult and infuriate his warrior’s spirit, all because of her negligence. And what she had to do now would not make him any happier. Only, she had no choice. Too much was riding on this turn of events.
She looked to Oona. “You have a forgetting potion ready?”
The elder woman’s head snapped up. “Forgetting? I thought you wanted―”
“You thought wrong. The forgetting potion―please. The madness ends this night.” She tossed her hands up in despair as she looked down at him, fighting the tears that threatened to flood her eyes. “’Twas never my wish…I sorrow…I never intended…och, by the Auld Ones.” She took hold of the cloth to tug it out, hoping he would not fight them on drinking the tansy.
“You redheaded witch…I shall make you pay if it’s the last thing―”
Aithinne shoved the rag back into his mouth again. “Very well, we must try this another way. Um…we could….hum―”
“I can hit him on the head again, Sister,” Lewis offered, a little too eager.
She glared at her brother. “Cosh him once more and I will take the chamber pot to you and it won’t be empty. They will call you Dunny Lewis. Let us apply logic. You have him pinned, if Deward holds his head still―”
Deward backed up a step, refusal clear upon his face. “Deward is not holding bloody anything on him, he bites, he bit Einar and Lewis―though mayhap that was Einar trying to bite him and getting Lewis instead―”
Aithinne rolled her eyes in exasperation, not wanting to waste time with another of Deward’s rambling explanations. “Shut your gob and do as I tell you. Hold his head still while Oona and I pour the potion down his throat.”
“But, Sister, he bites―”
His complaint was cut off as Lewis leaned toward him and delivered a punch, admonishment for being a coward. Only, as her brother’s weight shifted to reach their sibling, St. Giles’s powerful arm pushed Lewis off. The lad tumbled forward to crash into the stone wall. Hugh sniggered while Deward scurried behind the door, using it as a screen.
Deward called, “Quick! Clot him one with the chamber pot, Sister.”
Lewis tried to stand, only his knees failed to hold his weight and buckled. Being knavish, Hugh laughed at his brother’s misfortune, neither paying heed as St. Giles jerked the cloth out of his mouth and flung it against Aithinne’s chest. Faster than she could blink, he reached up and grabbed a handful of her hair at the base of her neck and yanked her forward.
Nose-to-nose with the angry man, Aithinne fought against getting lost in the pure male scent coming off his skin, so intoxicating it clouded her mind to where she could not gather her thoughts. “Get them off me, Princess, or rue the day. Then, you and I shall have a nice long talk―in the light where I can see you.”
“Let go of my princess,” Einar rumbled offense, grabbing hold of St. Giles.
Not thinking, he yanked back on the man’s arm, which caused the hand holding her hair to tug back on her head. “Oowwww.” Tender headed, she tried to pry his fingers from her locks. With Einar’s weight off his thighs, Damian brought a knee up, slamming it against Hugh. Then Lewis jumped into the mess and it was hard for Aithinne to extricate herself from the four struggling men.
Deward had hold of the empty pot, hovering over them for the opening to thump St. Giles. He finally swung and hit Einar instead. “Och, sorry, Einar, I did not mean to cosh you, but St. Giles moved and―” He swung again, catching Lewis, knocking the poor lad tappy.
In pain, Lewis tried to grab his head, but one arm was tangled with Hugh and the other with RavenHawke. She barely ducked all the flailing fists, flying from every direction.
“I am going to be bald!” Aithinne wailed, crushed by the mass of bodies. Sucking in air, she used the voice. “Enough!” This time they paid attention, though St. Giles’s fingers still had the locks of her hair in his fist.
“Get his arms, you bloody idiots.” Oona took control of untangling everyone. “Einar, pin his legs.”
“Care, he has my hair―owww―” Aithinne cried out.
Oona laughed. “Why be naught ever easy around you, Ai―”
“Oona! Hold your tongue, old woman!” Aithinne worried should the crone speak her name before RavenHawke. Names had such magic, the power to conjure one, that she feared him hearing it. Why she never used his. If she spoke it aloud before letting him go, it would set a spell to conjure him back to her when she whispered it on the wind of a night with a full moon.
Either ignoring her, or too late, Oona finished, “―thinne Ogilvie. Matters not. Once we get the potion down his gullet, between that and my spells, his mind shall hold no memory of you or this place.”
Aithinne flinched from the invisible blow those words brought to her heart.
“Touch me witch and I shall stake you through your heart,” RavenHawke threatened.
“Ah, if only I were two score younger, my pretty warrior, I would love for you to try.” She ran her hand over his muscular abdomen, then winked as he glared daggers at her. “Let go of her hair, lad. The poor wee lassie gets sore headed.”
“If I release her, I lose my leverage. I have been fed foul potions, stripped naked, chained, tossed in her bed, and―” His gaze returned to Aithinne, setting her heart to pound as she read his thoughts, saw the images of them together.
How could he recall these things?
Distracted by his warrior’s perfection, Aithinne’s breath stopped. His locks of black, kissed with the dark fire of the Celts, were not in the Norman style. Long and curling softly about his ears, they brushed the back of his neck. The knight was handsome—nay, beautiful― everything for which a woman could wish. Eyes, the shade of the green hillocks on a foggy morn, were ringed with lashes so thick and long a woman would cry envy.
As she met and held his stare, the world narrowed. The others in the room may as well have not been present. There was only this beautiful knight that she wanted more than her next breath. The knight who would never be hers. A man that loved her cousin, not her.
She ran her thumb along his jaw. So strong. So stubborn. The small mouth, etched with sensual curves, was seductive, though touched with a trace of what might be arrogance. A black curl carelessly fell over the high forehead, prompting her to reach out and brush it back.
Aithinne nearly blanched at the willful, razor-sharp intelligence flashing within his angry eyes. Damian St. Giles was the last man she would want to face as an adversary, but it was too late for that. Much too late. They were lovers for only this short span; it would hopefully give her the child she wanted more than her own life. Only, they could never be friends. Never would they share a life. Never was such a cold word.
Images of this knight possessed her, singed her with an ancient fire…of her hands on the bare flesh of his chest, how it felt to be kissed by this dark warrior, of his flesh being buried so deep inside her body that he touched her heart, bonding her to him, making her his. Visions that would haunt her the rest of her days. She stared into the soul-stealing eyes and trembled with fear of what her foolish plans had wrought upon this proud man. Shame filled her, yet she could not take her gaze from him.
“Fetch Oona’s pot,” she nodded toward it, speaking to Deward, yet unable to look away from St. Giles’s piercing stare.
Doing as instructed, Deward edged forward and gingerly passed the pot to Oona. “Watch him, he bites, he bit Einar, and then bit―
“Brother, do hush before I lose my temper.” Aithinne glared.
Oona held out the pot. “Give him a taste, lass.”
“More witchery, Princess?” His expression said he dared her to try to use the balm on him.
Cautiously, Aithinne dipped her finger into the pot, knowing it wouldst distract his thoughts, hopefully long enough to get the forgetting tansy in him. She swirled it over his lips. Stubborn man set his jaw, clear by the flattened mouth that he wasn’t going to taste the unguent. It was imperative they get the potion into him, or his powerful cousin would likely gag, truss her up and deliver her to Edward Longshanks as a Midsummer’s Eve sacrifice. Her hand quivered as she stared into Damian’s beautiful countenance, the features made harsh by his fury and the deep shadows in the room.
Offering him a sad smile, she stroked the curve of his cheek with her trembling thumb, feeling love―regret that love could never be―rising within her. “Forgive me, Damian.”
She spoke his given name aloud for the first time. Instead of straining against the hold he had on her hair, she leaned forward and brushed her lips against his. The set of his mouth was not welcoming. Even so, she did not let that deter her. Dragging her tongue against his lower lip, she tasted Oona’s Beltaine unguent, sweet with a hint of apple. Its power sped through her and warmed her blood, the magic hitting her heart, opening it to where she had no shield against this warrior.
A wall of emotions slammed into her. The ache of yearning to belong to this man burned through her heart, needing, aching for him to love her and not her more beautiful cousin. Craving that his seed would take root in her body so she could keep that small part of him, a child she could hold and cherish. His child.
She trembled, nearly overpowered by her want for him, ashamed that her schemes had used him in this manner. Most painful of all, regret that they had not met at another place and time, maybe a period before he had fallen in love with Tamlyn. If she thought there was a chance to burn Tamlyn from his mind, she might risk bringing down the wrath of his terrifying cousin, even defy an English King for him. This man was special. There would never be another to compare.
The magic hit him, and instead of resisting, he kissed her back, kissing her with all the fervor the potion sped through him. A small part of her clung desperately to the thought there was something of her in the spell, too, that he did not believe he kissed her look-alike cousin, but her. Only her. For this tiny shard in time, she wanted to taste him, savor the passion burning between them. Believe for that heartbeat he was hers.
Lewis to her left chuckled, then Hugh on her right leaned over her back to deliver a tap to his brother. Fearing another scuffle might break out, she motioned with her right hand for Oona to be ready, then snapped her fingers at Deward and pointed at St. Giles’s head.
Putting her left hand to his jaw she broke the kiss, pausing to stroke the days’ growth of beard. Unlike most men, he had kept his face scraped of hair, in the Norman way. She liked that he did. Enjoyed looking at the strong line of his face that was too beautiful to be called handsome.
Her mind whispered, remember me, though she knew Oona’s spell and the tansy would rob his mind of the memories of this sennight, of her. She smiled sadly. “Sometimes, my lord, life unfolds in a manner just too unfair.”
Damian opened his mouth to reply, but she would never hear the words. She nodded to Deward. Obeying, he snatched handfuls of the black hair on either side of St. Giles’s head. The same instant, the others bore down on his limbs with all their weight to keep him pinned.
“Grab hold of his nose, lass,” Oona ordered, “then he has no choice but to swallow.”
Before he could protest, Aithinne pinched his nostrils together to force him to breathe through his mouth. As he finally gasped for air, Oona quickly poured the liquid through his lips, then Aithinne clamped her hand over his mouth to prevent him from spitting it out.
The fey eyes flashed daggers of hatred, silently speaking the command to let him up, promising retribution when Aithinne refused to obey. Her breath held as she waited until the muscles of the strong throat worked, carrying the potion that would burn her from his mind. Tears welled as she watched those haunting green eyes, saw the fight go out of him as the herbs hit his stomach and instantly started to do their work.
Her hand shook as she released her pinch on his nose. She expected the fury to surface with a stream of threats to follow. Instead, he just watched her, the reason finally registering. In the struggle, she had failed to keep her back to the light coming in through the narrow window. He now saw her full-faced and in the beam of filtered light.
He tried to raise his arm, but Lewis was still restraining him. She nodded to her brother to release RavenHawke, even though she feared he might try to snatch her bald again. His hand, callused by years of wielding a sword, lifted to the side of her face. Unable to stop herself, she leaned into the palm relishing this final touch.
His thumb reached out and brushed the tear that trickled down her cheek. “You cry, Faery Queen? Do tears of the Fae taste different? If I sample one, will the price be my mortal soul?”
Aithinne’s eyes batted rapidly. Shocked, her mind screamed he had uttered those same words before. He should not recall them! The potion and Oona’s spell should rob him of all memories. Once again, she questioned if he were of Selkie blood, if that could make him more resistant to the elixir. It was imperative that he completely forget this time here with her. A shiver of dread rippled up her spine. Howbeit, his whispered words blotted out the apprehension.
“I shall pay it―gladly. I love you. Always have. Always will,” he whispered.
Her sharp teeth nibbled on her lower lip to keep the sob from escaping.
Deward let go of Damian’s locks. “Sister…did you not hear? A man speaks only the deepest truths after partaking the Mandrake.”
Aithinne watched as Damian’s thick lashes fluttered, the potion starting to course through him, felt the muscles of the arm relax. As his hand started to fall away from her face, she caught it and pressed it, once more, against her cheek while she sat silently weeping.
Barely aware of the others rising, she watched him slowly slip into sleep, slowly slip away from her, out of her life.
Einar crossed his arms and puffed up his chest in stubbornness. “Keep the man, Princess. He is yours, bonded to you through the grand rite of Beltaine. If Óðinn wills it, you shall carry his babe. A babe needs its sire. This man loves you. You heard his words.”
The tears only came faster, as she shook her head. “Nay, he believes me to be Tamlyn. He loves her. He only thought me to be my cousin.”
Unable to stand the pain, she jumped to her feet, looking to Oona. She stood crying, too.
With a soul-wracking moan, she fled the room.
♦◊♦
At the edge of the woods before Glenrogha, Aithinne halted her palfrey and waited for Hugh to help her down. Barely noticing his actions, her eyes remained fixed on Einar. The big man lifted Lord RavenHawke from the back of his heavy horse, as though Damian weighed naught more than a wee child. Since time was of the essence, they had needed to move swiftly through the night to reach Glenrogha before dawnbreak. Carrying RavenHawke in a cart was out of the question. Fortunately, Einar was strong enough to hold Damian before him. The gentle giant handled the other man with ease, holding Damian half across his shoulder.
“Where do you want him, Princess?”
Aithinne pulled out the plaide she held under her mantle and unfolded the woolen fabric. She pointed to a spot at the edge of Glenrogha’s dead angle, where everything had been cleared so the enemy had nothing to hide behind. “There will do.”
She wanted Damian found quickly, yet she had to ensure no one within Glenrogha spotted them. Her golden hair with the flame cast was distinctive; even from a distance she would be recognized. That was a chance she could not take. Her trembling hands pulled up the deep hood of her mantle hiding her locks.
Aithinne’s stomach churned with cold trepidation. Her brothers were supposed to ride hard, far away from Glen Eallach and Glen Shane, to seek out a man who was a stranger. Instead, they fetched the cousin of one of the most powerful men in the land, Julian Challon. She could only hope he was merely paying a visit and would move on to claim his grandfather’s holding, as Hugh assured her were the man’s intentions.
She spread the plaide beside a small shrub and waited as Einar placed St. Giles down upon it. Kneeling, she carefully pulled half of the tartan over the sleeping man, as a droplet fell on his forehead. At first, she assumed it was her tear, but then another hit her hand, and she saw the morning sky had started to mist.
Lovingly, she ran her thumb over one raven wing brow, then the other, burning the image of his sleeping face into her mind. The image she would carry away. Leaning over him, she brushed her lips over his cool ones. “A cushla mo cridhe―pulse of my heart.”
There were so many things she wanted to say to him, how sorry she was he had been caught in her frantic struggle to save Lyonglen and Coinnleir Wood. Explain women had so few options to control their life, they had to be bold and seize whatever means they could to protect the people depending upon her. That she honored her guardian in his dying wish by struggling to keep Lyonglen out of the hands of the Comyns or the Campbells, and now away from the dread Edward Longshanks. Most of all, how she wished they had met at another point in their life, before he loved Tamlyn, a time when he would have had room in his heart for her.
Words she did not speak.
Pressing her forehead against his, she closed her eyes against tears flooding her vision. “Be happy, be safe, Damian St. Giles.”
Einar came to help her to her feet. “You err in this, Princess.”
She walked away not looking back. “Too late. ’Tis done.”
Hugh stood holding the reins to her mare, watching her with soulful eyes. He seemed as if he started to speak, then changed his mind, instead offering his hand to help her mount the black horse.
She shook her head. “Move the animals over to the wood’s edge out of site. I stay here and watch. I shan’t leave until someone comes and finds…him.”
She could not say his name. Must never say his name again. Her warrior from this day forward would be nameless. It would be too much of a temptation to whisper it on the wind some moonlit night, and summon him to her.
“Riders approach from the south, Sister.” Lewis touched the blue woolen mantle covering her arm. “Come, we must be away from this place before they see you. They ride under the standard of the Black Dragon. Hurry, Sister, that is Julian Challon.”
Aithinne watched the man on the fearful black steed. He rode with the mantle of power upon his shoulders, like a warrior king of old. A man all of Scotland feared. The man who would marry Tamlyn.
“Sister, come,” Deward pressed.
Pulling the mantle about her face, she watched as they rode on past without spotting the sleeping man. Mayhap she had been mistaken in putting him at the edge of the bushes. Her body jerked as she saw him sit up, then throw back the tartan. He looked around, as if getting his bearings. Rain fell heavier now, so he pulled up the plaide, arranging it about his head and shoulders.
Then, he turned and looked at her.
Silly, but she took a step back. He could not see her hidden in the shadows, though somehow it was as though he could sense her.
Fanciful thoughts, her mind chided. Pulling the hood forward more, she put the knuckle of her hand to her mouth as he remained fixed, staring in her direction. Then, he finally rose to his feet and started off down the road to Glenrogha.
Aithinne watched until he was out of sight, then turned and mounted her palfrey.