Chapter Fourteen
When you have a dream, so vivid, so real, that it won’t let you go,
then embrace it, trust it, for in dreams grow the roots of reality.
—Maeve Montgomerie
Become one with him.
Skena could not draw air as she stared into de Servian’s silver eyes. The rare rings of amber fixed in her mind and lured her into their mysterious depths, invited her to let loose the Kenning and become a part of him. To embrace his soul. She knew the risk of allowing herself to touch him on this darker plane; the enormity of this ethereal bond was terrifying. Their souls would weave together in a way that even the joining of the flesh could never attain. She would give away a piece of herself, forevermore leave her heart unshielded to this man who was barely more than a stranger. There would be no severing this tie. Not even death could stop its sway.
With nary a protection against him, she’d hand de Servian the power to destroy her.
As Skena stared at Noel’s face, she felt the link already forming of its own accord, as if she had no free will to resist his entreaty. Her heart hurting and with little thought to the possible dire consequences, she opened her mind and her heart to this special man.
Instantly, her mind flooded with images—his images—of Noel laughing and training with seven men very much like him in build and looks. Of his beautiful mother, humming and brushing her long dark hair. Her screams of madness upon seeing the dead, broken body of her husband, killed in the tournament. Deep sadness seized Skena as she stood in Noel’s place, and watched with his child’s eyes, as they carried his lady mother’s cold, lifeless body into the castle. So many shards of de Servian’s past were there in flashes before her. Banquets in a king’s hall, sly looks of desire from beautiful women, the ugliness of the battlefield, the jumbled patchwork of his memories rolled through her senses, so rapid, she was dizzy from striving to focus upon each, to understand their meaning to him. In the end, she gave up trying and simply allowed the scenarios to explode within her aching head.
So much. Too much.
Everything swirled around her, buffeted her, until she was tossed upon a stormy sea of blackness. She floated, carried along in that velvet stillness, almost soothing within the embrace of the cool green darkness of Annwyn. As she began to relax a wall of fire exploded about her, then a scream tore through her mind. Noel. Summoning dark words, she whispered the charm to take his pain, turn his mind away from it. She sought his presence with the Kenning, reached out and wrapped her arms about his strong warrior’s body and held on with every fiber of her being. The flames hungrily lapped at them, crawling up their bodies.
“Noel...” His name fell from her lips.
He was her anchor. She would be his. In this realm of all and nothing, Skena closed her eyes and leaned her head against the curve of his neck, inhaling the wonderful scent that was de Servian.
The right scent.
Chaos spun them about. With vertiginous force, Skena was yanked away from his protective arms and tossed back into the impenetrable darkness. As she opened her eyes the pungent aroma of a balefire filled her nostrils. For a long moment she panicked, unable to see, then gradually she grew aware her eyes were clouded with tears. She blinked to clear her vision, setting droplets to stream down her cheeks. Slowly, forms assumed shapes and colors.
Drawn by the flickering yellow glow in the distance, Skena forced her way through tall ferns. She started to push free of the lush woods, but hesitated before stepping fully into the clearing. A huge bonfire shot sparks high, spiraling into the night air, whilst men and women joyfully danced in great wheels around the huge blaze, singing and moving to the rhythmic strains of the lute, pipes and bodhrán. Confused, Skena stood watching. It appeared to be a Beltaine celebration. People whirled around her, past her, almost as if they did not see her. With the blue smoke from the fire wafting about her, she began to wonder if she was naught but a wraith, merely summoned here to observe this festival of May’s coming.
A feral war cry filled the clearing. At the same instant, flames of the balefire were split by a man leaping through the fire. He landed before Skena with the grace and power of a catamount, lean, sensual and all sinewy muscle. A mythical beast come to life, the creature, half-man half-stag, stood before her―the man-stag symbol of life reborn from the fire.
His bare chest glistened with sweat. Clad in doeskin breeches, they molded to his legs by the lacing of leather thongs up to his mid-thigh. He wore nothing else, though upon his head sat a mask with antlers of a large buck. Although his face was completely covered by the antlered mask, she recognized him by the thin scar on his upper arm, one she had seen on de Servian that first night when she fought for his life. For several moments he stood perfectly still, causing her to wonder if he, too, could not see her.
Then, with a magician’s turn, he held out his hand for her to come to him. Skena wavered for an instant, still assailed, bewildered how she was at a May Day celebration, how de Servian could be wearing the mask of the willing king-god sacrifice. This was an honor that went to a high-ranking male within the clan. Never to some Sasunnach, an outsider. She stared at his upturned hand beckoning to her, and then to the bizarre mask with tall antlers.
Nothing made sense, thus she feared trusting the vision before her. She grew anxious her mind was merely playing tricks, offering her what she so desperately yearned for, and this was not really de Servian. Trepidation died as she looked up into the eyes of liquid silver. No one had eyes like Noel de Servian. Once their stares locked there was no resisting the summons of his outstretched hand.
Something about this man drew her, made her want to believe that a Yuletide dream could come true.
The music fell away, as he led her into the green darkness; his steps sped up, taking her farther and farther away. When they breathlessly stopped, Noel reached up and lifted off the mask. For an instant, he stared at the thing gripped in his hands, as if not understanding why he held the bizarre headdress. Allowing it to drop to the ground, he offered her a faint smile.
“Skena,” he whispered, half-welcoming, half in puzzlement.
She placed her fingertips to his lips to stop questions. Her intent had been to silence the endless riddles with no answers, yet her eyes narrowed on her fingers touching his sensual mouth. Envy flared in the pit of her belly. An endless, gnawing hunger unfurled within her, and for once in her life, instead of standing by holding unfulfilled hopes in her heart, she acted. Skena raised up on her toes as her hand fell away.
Noel’s eyes widened as he grasped her intent. His hands clasped her upper arms, squeezing, as if he needed to make certain she was real. Urgency seizing him, he yanked her up and against his chest, his mouth meeting hers with the same burning need. He was not gentle. The kiss was as wild and as pagan as the music that flowed through the night air. This was elemental, primitive.
Skena held nothing back, nor was she terrified by the unchecked feral nature the way his mouth devoured hers. De Servian was not wooing. He was claiming. His lips were bruising, but she accepted it. Hungered for it.
She little cared they stood near the revelers. Her hands reached out and clung to his waist, fearing her legs too weak to support her. Not close enough, her arms slid around him, pressing her body against his, and greedily caressing the strong muscular columns of his back.
A man and woman dashed past, their musical laughter spilling into the night.
As if their intrusion reached shattered the spell, Noel broke the kiss. He gasped, “Come…be one with me,” and took her wrist, pulling her along behind him.
Skena’s feet felt rooted to the moist soil. This time, the appeal to be one with him held a different meaning. As this bond of their minds now sealed their fates, weaving their paths together, what he asked would take them to another level—forge them in a union of Annwyn. Despite knowing the enormity of this step, she could no more resist what he wanted of her than she could cease breathing. For better or worse, Noel de Servian now led her on the shadowy path to the future.
With sure steps he drew her away from the crowd, the haunting notes of the music seeming to follow behind them into the lush, warm darkness. A gust of night breeze rose up from the ground, carrying upon its current the sweet sensual fragrance of apple blooms.
“Where do you take me?” Skena could not help but voice the question, as she rushed her steps to keep up with him, blindly following where Noel drew her.
His laughter was musical. “Ah, beautiful Skena, we go to make wishes come true.”
That stopped her in her tracks. Noel gave a small tug on her arm. When she held fast, he turned back to her.
Bathed in the pale moonlight, he appeared more dream than flesh and blood. He stared down at her. “Nothing is ever won without risk, my valiant lady warrior.”
Her eyes drank in de Servian, the body of a warrior king, hair a riot of waves and curls framing his handsome face. With his pale eyes, he almost seemed at one with the silvery light of the moon, as if he drew down power from it. Once again, she questioned what was real and what was spun from her mind, her yearnings. Reaching out, she placed the palm of her hand over his heart, wanting the reassurance that it beat. It did, thudding strong, erratic.
His hand covering hers, he caged it against his chest. “My heart beats for you.” A sly smile spreading over his lips, he reached out with his other hand and placed it between her breasts. “Feel it? They sound in the same rhythm. As one. Come with me, Skena.”
She gave a nod, perceiving that she had no will to resist. Whatever he wanted she would grant. No conditions. Nothing held in reserve. Asking nothing.
Taking her hand in his, he ran. Skena trailed after him, until all sense of which direction completely disappeared. He could be leading her to Hell and she would follow. Finally, the scent of apple blossoms grew stronger on the low night breeze. And she knew where they were.
The ancient orchard at Glen Shane.
Noel stopped, held his arms out and spun in a circle. White petals of the blooms rained down on him. “How can you doubt this is not magic?
“’Tis so heavy it looks like snow.” Skena’s heart nearly cramped with the painful realization she was falling in love with this wonderful man. What a foolish, foolish thing to do!
He slowly walked back to her, so assured, so arrogant. “Snow? What else could you expect to be conjured by someone named Noel?” He reached out and gently took her neck with both hands, allowing the thumb of one to stroke her jaw. “You found me in the snow. Are you scared of me, Skena?”
“Yes.” Her whisper was so small she was not sure if he heard her.
The corner of his mouth twitched mischievously. “Mayhap a little scared is well and good. Open your heart, Skena, and wish.”
He lowered his head, brushing his lips lightly to hers, so soft, almost reverently. The perfection of the moment made Skena closed her eyes to savor it, memorize the scents, the sounds, the feel. On cold wintry nights when she was old and grey, she wanted to be able to conjure this instant out of time and savor its rightness, its perfection.
Sliding his hands down to her shoulders, he allowed them to rest there. With the lightness of a fluttering butterfly, Noel kissed one eyelid, then the other. “Open your eyes, Skena. See me.”
She did as he invited, no pleaded, looking into the face of a man who robbed her of the ability to protect herself from the disappointment that could come from loving him. He disarmed her completely. Left her heart vulnerable. Her world vulnerable.
He moved her loose sark aside, allowing it to slither off her shoulders and down her arms. His breath sucked in on a hiss as the material fell from the crest of her breasts. Wordlessly, he moved toward her, backing her to the apple tree. Placing an arm above her head, he leaned to her and took her mouth, roughly, savagely. It was difficult to breathe as his hard warrior’s body rocked against hers, allowing Skena to catch the rhythm of his thrusts. Her hips curled up against his groin, relishing the friction against her sensitive flesh.
His sword-toughened hands roamed over Skena’s shoulders and then down to slowly gather her kirtle to her hips, then rubbing one hand along her outer thigh and back up the inside along the more tender flesh. She almost clamped her thighs on his hand as he continued the upward path. She trembled, but held still as the fingers moved over her, then in her, a small invasion preparing her for a larger one. Two long fingers pushed in, then slowly withdrew, causing her breaths to come in gasps, as she allowed him to touch her as no man ever had.
Fumbling with the lacing on the front of his leather chausses, he stepped into the V of her body. Skena slid her arm around his neck, anchoring herself against the coming plunge. Instead, he joined their bodies in a maddening, leisurely fashion, the fullness causing her to give an exhale of unease. He caught it, kissing her over and over until she forgot her faint resistance. As her body re-conformed to accept him within, he started rocking. Her leverage on his neck allowed her to meet his thrusts, taking him deeper into her narrow channel. He cradled one arm around her hips, arching her higher, while his mouth closed over the side of her neck, drawing until he would mark her.
He had no idea he would brand her soul as well.
“Skena,” he gasped. “Make a Beltaine wish…”
♦◊♦
“Lady Skena, ’tis done.”
Skena blinked confusion as her mind gradually returned. Sir Guillaume had a hold of her arm and was removing Noel’s hand from about it. Gone was the orchard, the warm spring breeze. Gone was the heady scent of the balefire mixed with the tangy, sweet flowers of apple trees. All naught more than a dream brought on by the potion she had ingested to prove to Lord Challon the brew was safe.
And a woman too foolish to wish.
Her gaze jerked about trying to come to grips with the stark shift. She resisted the impulse to run to the window, toss back the coverings, and look out to assure herself it was a landscape of deepest winter. She stared up into the hazel green eyes of Sir Guillaume and saw his deep questions. Alarm filled her. What happened while he tended Noel? Had she said aught aloud to permit him to know what she had experienced in her mind?
“Are you all right, my lady?” he asked softly.
Instead of concern for herself, she looked to Noel. Touching a hand to his forehead she saw he showed no response. “De Servian?” she managed to say.
“He passed out. Do not fret. ’Tis only the combination of the pain and the poppy. He merely rests from the ordeal.” He held up a tiny piece of bent metal. “This was left in his back, a partial link of mail that was carried into his body by the sword. It could have killed him. ’Tis strange about bodies. Sometimes they accept bits of metal, even tolerate them for years. I saw one man have a link of mail buried in his thigh from a tournament accident. Stayed there most of his life. Then, one day, suddenly it festered and had to come out. Well, it’s out of Noel now. His wound is made pure and sealed. He will have an ugly scar. But I do not think it will matter much, eh?”
“Hardly a concern.” She felt she should be doing something to care for him, but could only brush the curls off his forehead with trembling fingers.
“Julian has spoken of Tamlyn’s abilities,” he said from behind her.
Skena turned. “Then, you have heard of the Kenning?”
“Let us say many things have altered in my way of thinking since I came to Glen Shane.”
“Have you no’ seen such in Rowanne?” she asked, finally pulling her hand back from Noel. “No’ as powerful as Aithinne or Tamlyn, but her Ogilvie blood be true. Stronger than mine.”
“Stronger than you? Mayhap.” The word contained doubt. Sir Guillaume helped her rise to her feet. “What I witnessed this day shows you are very keen. At least…at least where Noel de Servian is concerned.”
Ducking his pointed remark, she turned the words back to him. “You failed to answer me about Rowanne.”
“You are perceptive, my lady. Nay—I have not seen this in Rowanne, but then…” He shrugged. “Methinks our match will be a good one. I have hopes of this. I am forward looking to wed with her come spring. Julian permitted me to gift her with time to adjust to the new marriage, to come to know me. Mayhap I erred in allowing her this time and space. Rowanne is a lady given to shadows. She hides so much from me, closes herself away. My lady guards her secrets closely. Never once have I touched the closeness that you shared with Noel today. I can only hope someday to share a similar magic with my lady.”
“You be a good man, Guillaume Challon.”
“For one bastard born?” There was challenge to his handsome face.
She shrugged. “Scots set little store in such things. I have a bastard half-sister, and wish she were half as good as you.”
“You took his pain—did you not? I do not understand how, but I saw. He truly did not feel the knife or the hot iron because of you,” he spoke his amazement.
Skena’s head ached, so intense, she just wanted to crawl off somewhere and rest.
“Should we no’ shift him to the bed?”
“Aye, I was waiting until he rouses. He is so peaceful now.”
“Let us see if we can move him, whilst he still feels the pull of the potion. I can get him to drink another tansy, then he should rest through the night.” She softly touched his shoulder. “Noel, can you awaken? Noel?”
His eyelids lifted, the poppy’s effect clear in the unfocused gaze. Still, he managed a weak. “Skena...I dreamt―”
Fearful of what he might say, she cut him off. “Can you get to the bed?”
Sir Guillaume aided him to his feet and in walking, while Skena scurried to the table to mix another potion to ease his sleep through the night. Her hands shook as she carefully measured out the concoction, and then carried it to him.
Sliding his legs under the cover, Noel leaned on one elbow. Accepting the cup, he sighed in resignation. “This one last time. Tomorrow sees the end of mud and stump water. I need to be up and about.”
And assuming control of Craigendan. Skena heard the words as clearly as if he had spoken them. Reining in, she forced herself to show no reaction to the statement, as he took the cup and drained it in two gulps. He was the new lord here; it was only natural he would want to quickly set about to stake his possession. There would be no opposing it. This was something she would have to accept. The uncertainty, nonetheless, left her scared witless where that would leave her and the children.
“Rest. Your body has been through a lot the past few days. Allow it to heal,” she managed to say, as he handed the empty cup to her.
As if sensing her reticence, he caught her wrist as she went to turn away. “Everything will work out, Skena. Trust me.”
Skena did not want to, but her eyes lifted, compelled to meet his. As she stared into the spellbinding depths, she wondered if he had shared her vision. If so, did he recall? She gave a short, meaningless nod, too confused and fearful to say more.
Going to the fireplace, she added a peat to the fire. She paused, the scent of the flame evoking the images of the balefire, making the dream suddenly strong in her mind. Odd, she knew fantasy to be naught more than mists shaped from her desires, and yet, images remained as vivid in her memories—as if they had really happened. Her body thrummed as she recalled how he had touched her under the apple tree.
Tired, shaken, Skena went to unroll her pallet in the corner near the fire. She only wanted to lie down and try to gather the pieces of herself, repair the devastation that the Kenning and Noel de Servian had brought to her heart.
Sir Guillaume, at the bed checking on Noel, glanced up and frowned. “What are you doing, Lady Skena?”
Skena paused, putting her hands on her hips. “Lord Challon, despite what you must think of me, I be no’ feeble-witted, a serf or a child. I have lived a score and six years without having a Sasunnach question my every move.”
Instead of taking umbrage to her rebuke, he flashed a grin. “Ah, if you Ogilvie women think we men of Challon are vexing, can you not imagine how troublesome we find you ladies? I assume you plan to seek your rest on that pallet like a servant? Noel would not like that you humble yourself so in order to care for him. Surely, there is a small bed that could be brought in for you?”
Skena gave him a tired smile. “You will find Craigendan be a poor fief, my lord. Your king did no boon in granting it to de Servian.”
“Edward never meant it as a boon. Our king punishes the men of Challon for daring to raise censure against the madness that took place at Berwick,” he informed her.
Skena’s heart nearly stopped. So Noel was being punished along with the other Challon men? A bubble of hysteria rose within her as she tasted oily bile in the pit of her stomach. “Punishment? Does de Servian ken this?”
“We have not yet spoken about his coming, but I am sure he is aware. Noel saw Julian and Damian in August at Berwick.” Guillaume read her disheartened expression. “Please do not perceive disappointment as this was the reason for Noel’s coming. In spite of the king’s intentions, Julian has never viewed his being sent here as anything but a blessing for us all. We are not young men, my lady. We have long wearied of war and its aftermath. The beauty and remoteness of Glen Shane and Glen Eallach provides a haven for tired dragons to lick their wounds and heal, to find something of value worth living for. As to this fortress being poor—Noel was granted funds by Edward to refit the keep with all it needs. Whatever else might be required, well, Julian is a very wealthy man. Having the Earl Challon for an overlord can see many things to Craigendan’s betterment. As soon as Noel is up and about, he will quickly see to the refitting of supplies...and men.”
The arched eyebrow told Skena that Craigendan’s defenses were not fooling this man. Skena was unable to meet his direct, challenging stare, so she turned back to fixing her blankets. Despite his arrogant highhandedness, she was coming to like Guillaume Challon, respect him. Howbeit, for now she would appreciate if he just went away and left her to her tattered emotions. Holding it all in, pretending there was naught upsetting her was getting a bit beyond her control.
“About the pallet―” Being a hard-headed male, he started in again.
Skena closed her eyes, fighting the scream of frustration begging to escape. “Lord Challon, please, let me have space to myself. This has all been very grinding for me, caring for de Servian for days, fighting for his life, treating his old wound—and then learning he be the new lord here. Worse, ’tis a punishment. Grant me the ability to ken my own head. I regret if I sound short, but I be bone-weary and need rest. Let me seek it without being told how.”
He nodded. “Very well. I did not mean to make things more distressing for you. Thank you for the care you have given Noel. By your leave, I shall go seek my bed, as well. You are right. This day has been grinding. Call me if you need anything.” With that, he left the chamber.
She regretted her shortness with Sir Guillaume. He was merely concerned about her comfort, and she acted like a shrew. Skena picked up the covers and tried to straighten them out, but could not. Too upset, she was barely aware of her actions. Shaking them vigorously, she finally gave up. Overwhelmed by the hopelessness of the situation, she tossed the blankets down to the pallet in defeat and dropped to her hip. Scooting until her back was in the corner, she halfheartedly dragged the plaide to her chest.
Great sobs of anguish welled up inside her, but she could not let them out for fear of attracting de Servian’s attention. Instead, she allowed the silent tears to stream down her face.
She whispered aloud, “Och, what have I done?”