Chapter Four
The Lady of Winter wraps herself in a mantle of palest blue,
And sings her hushed song low and in whispers...
—Adrian Macgillivray
Noel bit the inside of his lower lip to keep from smiling like a fox that was singling out a lambkin from the flock. He was finding an immediate fondness for this Scots lass. Skena. She had stood over him, ready to protect him from the wolf, yet she trembled like a fawn in his arms. There was intelligence to the soft brown eyes, a caring that touched his heart. A heart he had almost forgotten he had. He could not ever recall a woman ready to fight for him...not even his mother. Primitive mating instincts stirred to life within him, setting loose the driving need to stake his claim. Such thoughts lent a new power to his blood.
Suddenly, he did not feel so old.
He wanted her. Wanted to take her here and now. Elemental, raw, the craving clawed at his skin. His senses already buffeted from the warm bath, this strong longing even blotted out the dull pains. Mayhap it was the tansy. She said it would dull the hurting. Even so, he knew it was more. It was Skena. There was nothing but the pulse of his blood, beating out a tattoo of take her…take her…take her…
That she provoked such a violent response within him was startling. He had not desired a woman this strongly since…well, he could not recall when. Mayhap never. He considered if that dreadful potion she had fed him could be responsible for this fierce reaction to her, some pagan love philter to stir his loins? After a moment’s hesitation, he dismissed it out of hand. This was too pure, too focused, and as wild and savage as a stallion scenting a mare in season.
He leaned toward her slightly, not enough to spook her, but in a testing of how she would react to his male threat. She stiffened and almost seemed to stop breathing; she held still, yet oddly sought no retreat. He could not suppress the slow smile from spreading over his lips. His tender warrior. Some people found courage naturally. They willfully charged into any situation and worried later about the backlash. True courage came when someone was scared, yet did not back down. She was frightened of him on several levels. He was male and bigger. He was English, the enemy in a troubled time, a man who could be a threat to all she held dear. And most alarming to her, she was petrified of what he provoked her to feel. There was no hiding the response for it was written plainly on her lovely face.
She was so close her scent filled his mind. He tilted, so his nose brushed the side of her hair, wanting to breathe in Skena. His muscles flexed to prevent him from nuzzling her cheek. That would be one step too far, he feared. The sharp coppery tang of the wolf’s blood hit his senses first, but underneath was scent that was Skena. Intoxicating. Heady.
Oh, aye, Skena MacIain saved his life this night. Only, he suddenly had the fey sense she could rescue him from the greyness of this world.
If only she would dare.
For his whole life, he had simply taken each day one at a time. He was humbled being favored as an honorary Challon brother, felt privileged and safe in that acceptance. He was devoted to Julian and his brothers and cousins, though likely, he was a bit closer to Guillaume, mayhap because they were only months apart in age. Growing up with them held much sought-after advantages. He had been envied by countless, feared by the rest. The mere whisper of the name Challon caused many a man’s blood to turn to ice. He never resented that he was not a true son of Earl Michael, and was simply content to serve the man’s sons, and later their king, under the Challon pennon.
Still, the future was by no means his. He had never forgotten that everything had been taken from him merely because he was too young to hold the fief that had been his family’s for centuries. He barely recalled details of that dark time. Just the pain. The pain of hearing his father had been killed in the lists, waging mock battles with the hope of increasing the near empty coffers of Worencliff. His mother’s howls of anguish, echoing against the stone walls of the castle. Vague whispers of the servants. Their fearful glances. At age five, he scarcely understood why.
He soon learnt.
He recalled awaking in the middle of the night, breaking the dream of his father’s death. So vivid, he almost felt as if he had traveled back in time and visited the horrible scene. He watched his father as the lance hit his chest, splintered into jagged shards, one flying up into his helm’s visor, driving through the ocularium and into his brain through his eye. So detailed, he had awoken screaming. Terrified, barely able to breathe, he crawled from the high bed and went to seek out his lady mother, hungry for her comfort, her soft words telling him that everything would be all right.
She had not been there. No soft words of reassurance. And nothing was all right.
The servants carried her into the castle shortly after dawnbreak, her night-rail and long black hair sodden, her skin alabaster white. For a long-held breath, he merely stared at the woman they carried. Surely, this was some poor lost soul, a stranger to Worencliff? Only his eyes spotted the scar on the back of her left hand. Five months past, Mother had been using a dull knife and put too much pressure on it to make a cut. The blade had slipped and sliced across the back of the opposite hand. Clutching at straws, his mind even thought for a brief instant how odd this unfortunate woman had a mark exactly like his mother. He heard a deep keening and wondered who was making that horrible noise.
Then he understood. It was coming from him.
A sennight later, the Earl Michael arrived, telling him to pack his belongings, that he was to come to Castle Challon to live. He knew the handsome, commanding man. His father and Lord Challon had been close friends. It was not easy for Noel to accept; everything seemed to be taken from him. First Father, then Mother, and finally his heritage—Worencliff. The black-haired man with the brilliant green eyes had smiled and said not to be scared, that at Castle Challon he would have brothers, a home…someplace safe.
Yes, he had been protected, permitted to grow alongside the men of Challon. Still, he had no future of his own. He had always fought for others, never for himself.
In all those years since, he remembered many women, women who wanted his body, wanted the power the Challon pennon afforded him. They paraded through his life, his bed, in their fine silks, velvets and brocades, heavily bedecked with gold, pearls or other precious jewels.
Never had one been willing to give her own life to defend his. Skena had.
She could have left him, ridden back to the fortress with the children to fetch help. Instead, she stayed behind to shield him from the threat of wolves. That choice could have cost her life—and she had known that. If she had it all to do over again, he would be willing to bet Craigendan that Skena MacIain would make the same choice.
Something about that valiant, selfless act touched him in a way words failed to explain. It humbled him.
He wanted to flex his muscles and pull her against his body, teach her how quickly she could heat his blood. His groin lurched hard, reminding him other parts of his body were also undamaged by the cold. He had to bite his tongue to keep from asking if she needed to tweak that as she had his toes.
Skena had let him kiss her. That surprised him. From the expression on her lovely face, it had stunned her as well. He wanted to kiss her again, only he had a feeling she would put distance between them if he pushed her. And the one thing he did not want from this woman was distance.
Finally, her female fear of him shattered the strange spell. She feigned being unruffled, but the blush on her cheeks put lie to that. “Come, let me help you to the bench so I may dry your hair. I needs must get you to bed before you become too sleepy from the tansy, or take chill again.”
“You want me to go to bed, Skena?” He did not guise his stressing of the word bed, and that seemed to break her lethargy.
Skena took a step away, but stopped as her back hit the resistance of his arms. He did not want to release her, but realized he had to. He saw her exhale relief when he lowered his hold. He gave her credit―she did not run, but turned and slid her arm about his waist for him to lean against her. He could have reached the bench on his own, but this allowed him to pull her closer, embracing her in a less threatening manner.
Step-by-step would see the deed accomplished, he thought.
Just as a grin started to spread, he flinched as her hand touched his inflamed side. He cursed through gritted teeth. Disgusted with the increasing pain, he knew the side bothered him long past when it should not. In the beginning, he had hoped, since he was aging, that the wound was just slowed to heal. Obviously, there was some shred of fabric or metal still embedded deep in his flesh. It was festering, the pain a thousand red-hot needles.
“Sorry, I did no’ mean to contrary your sore spot. Here, sit on the bench before the fire. I do no’ want you to take chill.”
Noel lowered himself onto the middle of the bench to keep his weight from toppling it to one side, instantly feeling the fire’s caress wash over his skin. The intense dry heat felt soothing. Skena picked up a woolen blanket and wrapped it around his shoulders. Only, with her standing in front of him, that put her breasts dead center of his eye level. He groaned.
“How do you feel, Sir Noel? There be pain? I can mix another tansy to ease your distress.”
Almost without thought, she reached up and pushed several stray curls back from his forehead. Clamping his teeth together, he struggled to rein in his rampant desire. The maddening woman simply did not understand what a temptation she presented. When a man had been so close to death, he was left with a driving need to prove he was still alive. Lying with this woman would reaffirm he had held onto life by only a few threads. Though the temptation had him grinding teeth, he ignored the craving, so strong it nearly blotted out all reason.
“You grit your jaw again. Please, do no’ try to be strong. Worts can take the hurt away―”
Clamping his hands around her waist he intended to set her back to save his sanity. Instead, he stilled. He was shocked by how thin her hips were. He could feel her bones clearly defined under the woolen kirtle. That brought a frown to him. Skena was a tall woman, full-breasted, thus he would have thought she carried more weight. He grew concerned she was not eating enough for some reason. Was she sick?
“You are too skinny, Skena.” His big hands spanned her waist easily, too easily, as if he held a young girl. He flattened the material to outline her body. “Why?”
Skena held rigid for several heartbeats, then she struggled to jerk away, clearly upset. “I thank you to keep your bloody opinions—and your hands—to yourself, Sir Noel.”
“Noel,” he reminded her.
“I think you be too forward by half, Sir Noel. I did no’ ask you for your thoughts. Let go, so I can dry your hair and then get you to bed.” She tried to shove his hands away.
Stubbornly, Noel held her hips fast. “Why are you so thin, Skena? Are you sick? Some sort of wasting sickness? Tell me.”
Burning anguish pulsed through his blood, so blinding he could hardly think. The specter of something being wrong with Skena terrified him. He had just found this special woman, discovered with her there might be a possibility for something beyond the greyness of his existence. That it could be snatched away from him, before he ever had a chance to find out the mystery of Skena MacIain, scared him in a way that facing the hell of battles had failed to do.
Dread of this prospect opened that door on those long-ago emotions, from when he was a child and had learnt that the people he loved could suddenly be taken from him. He was a warrior, who had stood against a charge of twenty score heavy horse, monstrous animals with mighty hooves pounding the earth, drawing closer and closer, lances lowered. That terror paled beside the alarm that something was wrong with Skena.
How could this woman come to matter so much to him within this short span? Noel could not fathom the why, simply knew it as truth. He recalled kneeling in the snow and wiping the blood from Skena’s cheek, thinking what magical creature had come to save him. His Lady of Winter. Now, after watching her tenderly care for him, he grew convinced fate had finally seen fit to give him a future of his own, that he had been sent to Craigendan for a purpose.
They say Yuletide is a season of miracles. Mayhap this was his chance for one. Living for so long wrapped in apathy, he now prayed ’twas so.
When his parents had died, he had been robbed of all. His coming to this fortress in this Northland seemed as if Lady Fate was balancing accounts, giving him the home and a family that had been taken from him. He could save Skena and her children from the same tragedy that he had tasted, losing her home and all that was hers.
In the end, possibly he might find redemption for killing Angus Fadden.