Chapter Five
The pride of a woman wounds deeply,
and is slowest to heal...
—Maeve Montgomerie
Skena trembled as she helped de Servian lie down; so exhausted, his eyes closed the instant his head touched the pillow. His tall frame with those long legs filled the huge bed, almost seeming to dwarf it. She settled him on his left side to keep pressure off his tender spot, and then set about to pull the bed curtains on the far side, blocking the draft in the large chamber. A bearskin covered the wooden shutters, closed upon the narrow window, and a tapestry was on top of that, yet the winds still found a way inside around the edges. Wanting the heat from the fireplace to reach him, she left the curtains at the foot tied back.
Rounding the corner, she paused with her hand on the bedpost. Possibly she did not need the support. Then mayhap she did. Noel de Servian was stretched out the length of the bed, with a plaide pulled loosely across his hips.
“Have mercy!” she hissed lowly.
Never before had she looked upon a nearly naked man and found such perfection in his body. Men always appeared oddly created to her way of thinking. Too hairy legs, ugly feet, some with chests that reminded her of a bear pelt, and strangely, longer through the torso than a woman. Noel de Servian was none of those things. There was a lean, animalistic elegance to his hard muscles; shadows folded around their curves defining their strength and form, shaped by his years of training as a warrior. The broad chest was nearly hairless, smooth, his belly rippled. A wave of flames roared through her blood as she stared at the most ravishing of men.
Curls of the soft hair carelessly spilled across his high forehead. Her fingers itched to reach out and brush them back. His brown hair was not cut in the Norman style but longer, curling, as though he failed to assume their courtly ways, which always reminded Skena of a bowl being placed on their heads. She was glad. This suited him. As she had dried the thick mass, the color had lightened, and the waves increased. There was a razor-sharp intelligence, a force of command that filled those grey eyes. Men would follow this warrior into battle, accept his orders without question. Would die for him. Swallowing the bitter taste of jealousy, she did not want to think what women would do upon his bidding. Noel de Servian was such a handsome man.
A threat. In more ways than one.
She must remember that and never let down her guard. De Servian was English, an invader. This man and his compatriots had crushed the army of two thousand score Scots on the fields of Spottsmuir, possibly killed men of Craigendan in that rout. At all times, she must hold tight to those truths, not for one breath could she ever drop her defenses with this knight who could only spell trouble for her.
Letting go of the bedpost, she went to fetch the small pot of ointment. As she lifted it, she hesitated. Helping him dry off had been unsettling in a way she was not prepared to handle. Her foolish heart pounded, her mouth went dry, and she actually found it hard to hold a single thought in her head. Sensations washed through her, crawled under her skin with a pagan fire, making her breasts feel heavier, fuller. A burning began at the base of her belly and throbbed like a second heartbeat. Not having experienced these disturbances before did not mean she failed to recognize them for what they were: she desired Noel de Servian with a power that was unholy. Most perplexing, she always assumed a woman had to fall in love with a man before these intense feelings came to her, possessed her. Never would she suspect she could suffer such a craving for a warrior who was barely more than a stranger.
Yes, a stranger, yet his words had held the ability to wound her pride. When he gripped her hips and declared she was too skinny, that simple opinion was a knife rending her heart. She saw concern in those all-seeing silver eyes. Yet, it failed to stop pain from lancing through her that he found her woefully thin.
She had lost flesh these past months, truth. Doing her chores and that of a man’s, she worked too hard from dawn to dark, ate less and less as she saw the supplies dwindle. That had taken a toll. Still, to hear him declare her too lean nearly crumpled her spirit. Sucking in a hard breath, she told herself to stop these silly thoughts, to put them out of her mind. She had been wed for years and came with two children. A man such as Noel de Servian could have any woman he wanted at his beck and call.
He could never want her.
“Get on with the chore and be done with it,” she whispered the chide to herself.
Setting the pot down on the small table, she scooped up the salve with her fingers, and then froze as she considered where to start. There was…so much of him! He seemed to be resting so peacefully that she hated to disturb him.
Mayhap she would let him slumber. His body surely needed sleep to heal. Wiping her fingers on the rim of the black pot, she pulled the woolen blanket across his legs and over his shoulder, and then went to clean the wolf’s blood from her body and hair.
Pausing to glance back she saw, poor man, he had not stirred. With a plaint that could not be denied, she yearned to stroke him, give free rein to the urges pulsing within her blood. Only, it would be the wrong thing to do. Skena feared in touching him her soul would somehow form an unbreakable bond with this handsome warrior. A bond that could prove too costly in the future. Better to not risk the pain. Not risk her soul.
“Coward,” she muttered the self-mocking. Walking to the fireplace she added more peats to the fire. “Aye, ’tis a bloody coward I be.”
♦◊♦
Noel watched her.
With an air of utter exhaustion, Skena dropped down to the long bench and unlaced her boots. Clearly believing him asleep, she did not hesitate to stand and remove the brooch pinned at her shoulder, and then unbuckle the belt about her waist. She unwound the woolen material from her hips and dropped it on the long bench. Next came the long, linen sark, leaving her in nothing but a thin, sleeveless chemise.
He had been right in his opinion of her shape. Her breasts were high and full; the vision of Skena hit him like taking an arrow to his groin. Howbeit, the rest of her body bordered on painfully thin. The two traits usually did not go together, leading him to suspect the weight loss was recent. Again, the specter of fear clawed at his heart, perturbed that she might be ill. The carriage of her body expressed fatigue, despite there was strength to this woman. No deformity or stooping to her bones. Skena was formed to perfection; square, proud shoulders, long graceful neck, and wide hips formed for bearing babes. She would be a prize in any man’s eyes. He failed to discern anything visibly wrong with this Scots lass outside of clearly needing to eat more.
Unhurried, she moved to the fireplace to toss on more blocks of peat, and then stirred the fire to raise the flames. It had struck him odd when he first came to this North Country that dirt could be burnt, but he soon learnt this was one of the primary sources of fuel for the Scots. The chamber filled with its pungent, almost heady aroma. The bluish flames burned lower, not as bright as a wood fire, yet still threw off enough illumination to keep the deep shadows at bay, and rendered her worn chemise nearly transparent.
His body flexed hard in a cramp of lust, so intense that it nearly blotted out thought, leaving him with the blinding, primitive drive to mate. His fingers flexed tightly in the woolen blanket to keep from acting on the overpowering urge. The situation did not ease as Skena turned back to the tub, her hands taking hold of the hem of the short rail, and with a quick skimming up her body, pulled it over her head. He drank in the image of Skena’s naked beauty. She might scold him for using the word, but nothing else came to mind that fit so well.
Noel ached to go to her. He wanted to put his mouth on the crest of her rounded breast, swirl his tongue about the peak, stiff from the cool air of the room. Then, he would draw it into his mouth and suck hard. He hungered to hear her gasp as she rode the razor’s edge of pain-pleasure, teach her just how strongly his desires ran. Claim her as a man claimed his mate. He wanted her, but he pined for more than these ecstasies of the flesh. He yearned to believe there could be a Yule miracle that could see them find a peace between them.
As she stepped into the tub, the door opened and one of the maidservants came in carrying a tray. The aroma told him it was hot stew. Skena glanced up and offered a fleeting smile to the woman.
“I peeked in at your lambs. Nessa has them tucked up, snug in bed. I fear they may no’ sleep this night though, so excited they be. Andrew keeps insisting the Cailleach sent a Kelpie with that one,” she jerked her head toward the bed, “because the lad wished it so. Such a fanciful tale, but the boy believes it, Skena.”
“Oh, aye, I heard all about his Yule wish when we found the knight.” She offered her a sad expression. “Angry I be for their running off on such a fool’s errand in this storm, but I suppose if they had no’ the knight wouldst have died.”
The woman chuckled. “Life wouldst be so easy if we had the power to wish for something and it came true, eh?”
“Wishes are for fools,” Skena said sourly. “If wishes were peafowl we wouldst have a fancy supper this night fit for a king, eh?”
Setting the tray down and putting the bowls on the tabletop, the maid said, “Well, ’tis naught as fancy as peahen, but I brought cheese, bread and some stew. The bread be stale, but you can sop it in the broth. No pieces big enough to be a trencher, but still enough to fill a belly.”
“I thank you for your caring, Jenna, but I meant it. I do no’ hunger.” Skena picked up a rag and scrubbed her face.
“Aye, what you always say of late. I also told you, in spite of your protests you are going to eat—or I wouldst get Galen and Owen to pin you while I pour it down your gullet. You canno’ keep missing meals, Skena. It has to stop. One day, you will push too hard and end up sick. Then, where will we all be? I will no’ accept nay for an answer. I shall stay ’til you eat.” The woman moved to the tub, scooped up a chunk of soap from a bowl on the bench and began lathering Skena’s long auburn hair.
Noel frowned. That bit of conversation merely reinforced his inkling that Skena being thin was out of step. Such misgivings led him to ponder if instead of being sick that mayhap she grieved for her dead husband. It would not be the first time a widow fell into decline after such a loss. Had not the sorrow driven his mother to madness, resulting in her taking her own life? He gnawed at the corner of his lip as concern, resentment and jealousy flared white-hot in the pit of his belly.
Noel had never known the Baron Craigendan, had not seen him at Court, nor even heard his name until that fateful day that nearly cost Noel his life. Their first and only meeting came in the bloody aftermath of Dunbar, when Noel’s troops had taken the baron and his men prisoner. Bloody stupid fool. The man had surrendered his sword, even ordered his men to lay down their pikes. A ragged-looking lot they were, half-covered in blood of their countrymen, some of the last men left at the end of the battle, flanking Sir Patrick Graham, who had stood and valiantly fought to the death. There had been little choice for Fadden. Surrender and live, or fight on, and be slaughtered to a man. The baron had showed common sense and ordered his men to yield. Noel commanded them to stack their weapons in a pile, and then line up to be marched back to the main host of the English force.
No, brave Skena should not waste sorrow on the knave who had slammed into Noel’s squire, wrenched the sword from the young man’s hands and run the boy through. The crazed man had then attacked Noel, though he was still dismounting Brishen. That man had no shred of honor. That man had been unworthy of this Scottish lass. It was a shame if she were grieving so for Angus Fadden. That she possibly starved herself because of her bereavement angered Noel.
Picking up the pail, the maidservant slowly rinsed the soap from Skena’s long hair, the white foam sliding down her neck and then crawling over her breasts. Noel swallowed hard as desire thickened his blood. Part of the bedpost blocked his vision of Skena as she rose from the tub, water sluicing off her hard, sleek body in small streams. He fought the impulse to shift for a better view, feeling Skena would not have openly bathed with him in the room had she suspected he was awake. The wolf’s blood had pushed her to be shed of the smell. The other woman hurriedly held up a drying sheet, shielding Skena from his hungry gaze.
“Everyone asks who be the warrior, my lady. What was he doing in our glen? Why has he come?” Jenna, still holding up the linen sheet, moved with Skena to the fire.
“Sir Noel de Servian—he said his name was. He was on his way to Glenrogha to pay visit to the Earl Challon, his foster brother,” Skena answered.
The other woman sucked in a sharp breath. “This knight be foster brother to the Black Dragon? Och, Skena―”
“Hush. No sense borrowing troubles, Jenna. We have plenty enough already. Fetch me a chemise, please,” she asked as she dried her arms.
The servant did as bid, going to the tall wardrobe to take out the shift for Skena. “He was a long ways from Glenrogha. Out there alone in the storm. Where were his men? Surely, he did no’ travel through Scotland with nary a vassal for support? ’Tis most odd, indeed. Makes no sense.”
“Do no’ go spinning silly tales of a Kelpie fetching him to Craigendan because of a child’s wish,” Skena reproached, and then began vigorously drying her hair with a large cloth.
Jenna came toward the bed, so Noel shut his eyes. He felt the corner blanket being partially lifted. Cool air touched his skin. “He be a fine braw and bonnie man, this one. Unharmed by the storm, I judge.” She clucked her tongue. “Did you coat him with Auld Bessa’s salve?”
“I will.” A defensive tone filled Skena’s answer.
“Methinks you be a coward, Skena MacIain.” With a chuckle, the maidservent dropped the cover. “Of course, if you would rather…I could force myself to do the chore in your stead.”
“I said I will,” Skena snapped.
“Someday, Skena, you may learn the way of things. Stop hiding from yourself, lass,” the woman said in gentleness.
“I hide from naught. Every bloody day I wouldst like to lie in bed and ignore the situation facing us. And every damn bloody day I climb from the bed and stare harsh realities in the face. Let no one say I spurn aught,” Skena rebuked, though her voice was not harsh.
“’Tis no’ the part of life of which I speak—and you ken it.”
The door opened again. Noel risked a peek through slitted eyes to see the girl child come in. Rubbing one eye with her fist, she made a sleepy face, and looked about for her mother. Spotting Skena, she rushed toward her.
Skena hurriedly snatched up a plaide and wrapped it about her body like a mantle. “Sweetling, you should be tucked up in bed, dreaming of Yuletide treats.” Skena took hold of the child’s frail shoulders and turned her toward the door, only to have the child willfully spin about.
“I want to see the warrior, Màthair. I slept for a bit, but awoke...afraid he was ill and dying. He be ours, now. You must no’ let him sicken,” she choked on a sob.
“He but sleeps, Annis,” Skena assured her daughter.
The child insisted with stubbornness, “I want to see.”
“Very well.” Skena exhaled in resignation. “Do no’ wake him. He needs his rest.”
Noel closed his eyes tight, as mother and child came toward the bed. The mattress gave a small shift as the child began to climb onto the bedside.
“Annis!” Skena fussed at the child. “I spake you may see him. I did no’ mean for you to crawl onto the bed to do it.”
Ignoring her mother, a small hand patted his shoulder, and then she pushed against him to lean forward. The warm scent of a child filled his nostrils, as she placed her small mouth upon his cheek to plant a kiss. “Thank you, kind warrior, for comin’ to care for us. We need you. So very much. My màthair will no’ eat―”
“Annis! Enough!” Skena grabbed her daughter about the waist and swung her off the bed. “Jenna, see this littlelin gets back to Nessa—and this time she stays where she be put.”
“Màthair, what be our warrior’s name?”
Noel again risked looking through half-closed eyes. The little girl was clearly dragging her feet. He had to fight against the smile threatening to spread across his lips. The child was a smaller version of Skena, little more than five summers old. And like her mother, the girl seemed a bit thin.
Kneeling before her daughter, Skena kissed the child’s forehead. “Sir Noel de Servian. He be foster brother to the mighty Dragon of Challon.”
“Noel?” The child’s face lit with a grin. “Does that no’ mean Christmas in the Norman, Màthair? Father Malcolm spake that was so in our lessons.”
Skena nodded. “I believe that be the meaning of the word. I have never met anyone with it for a name, so I canno’ say for sure.”
“Do you no’ see―he be our Yuletide knight. See, Andrew says right. We wished for him, and he came to save us,” she insisted.
“I do no’ ken about a Yule knight, but he was a snowy one.” Rising, Skena gave the child a slight nudge, pushing Annis into the maid’s arms. “Off with you.” She stood watching until the door had closed on them.
“Och, why does everyone persist in placing faith in wishes? Wishes be naught but a bloody waste of breath. If wishes summoned warriors we would have a whole army at our beck and call,” Skena grumbled to the fire. “Of course, then we would have to feed them, but surely we could just wish for a banquet fit for a bloody king. And mayhap if I wish for my tears to turn to gold then I could buy more cows and sheep. Wishes be for fools and children. No’ for Skena MacIain.” Dropping the blanket, she picked up the chemise from the bench and slid it over her head, then wrapped the plaide about her again.
After a long sigh, she walked back to the bed. Closing his eyes, Noel quickly feigned sleep again. The handle on the metal pot clanked, telling him she pulled it closer to the bedside. There was a moment of silence, as if she hesitated. Then, she finally spoke. “I am no bloody coward.”
Noel held still as she smeared the cream across his upper chest. Her hand worked slowly, moving in languid circles, first one side, and then the other. His body shifted, betrayal, responding to her caress on his skin. There was no stopping his blood. His erection pounded with a growing intensity against the woolen blanket. Willing the insistent movement to cease proved futile.
Her touch was soothing. Gentle strokes across his shoulders and arms soon had him relaxing. But then, the minx grew bolder. Her thumb pad swiped the salve over his flat male nipple, paused, and then applied a stronger pressure as she became aware of his body’s small changes.
Skena’s words came as a ghostly whisper, “Duine brèagha.”
Beautiful man. Whilst he was recovering he had made a point of learning some of the Scots tongue, figuring it might come in useful. The corner of his mouth tugged up. She called him beautiful after she had scolded him for using the word too much, that by doing so diminished its worth. Noel had a feeling Skena was careful with her words, which only made the spoken sentiment all the more intoxicating.
Then, the vexing woman dragged her hand down the middle of his chest, over his belly, and showed no sign of slowing. Oh, he did not want her to stop! He craved for her to keep on snaking that strong hand down his body...lower and lower. If she knew he was awake she would never risk being so bold.
With the quickness of an adder, he opened his eyes, as his hand shot out and locked hard about her wrist. “Stop.”