Chapter Six
An cait cadail cumail sùil air aon shùil.
The sleeping cat keeps one eye open.
—Auld Scots Adage
Skena jumped.
She had believed Lord de Servian to be sleeping peacefully, lulled by the worts of the tansy. She learnt differently. In a move so quick she had no time to blink, let alone react, his left hand shot out and caught her arm. His strength was terrifying. The grip was not hurtful, just merely locked on her to prevent her from shifting in any direction. She gave a small tug. Useless. The man was not letting go of her.
The soft firelight cast across his handsome face, illuminating those unearthly eyes. Their force, their magical ascendancy, wove a spell, leaving her unable to move. All she could do was stare at his virile perfection and swallow back the desires clamoring inside her.
Her cheeks burned bright, though she doubted he could see her embarrassment with her standing in half shadows, the fire to her back. And she burnt with shame! She had given in to her foolish longing to touch him, to caress his strong body as she wanted. Enjoyed stroking his warrior hard muscles. Now, she stood caught like a child filching a tart from the kitchen.
Her tongue swiped her lips to moisten them to speak. To cover for her brazen behavior she offered, “I merely wanted to apply the salve to protect your skin from winter burn. Also, I wanted to put some on your side, my lord. The worts will ease the distress you feel in the inflamed blotch.”
“Is that what you were doing?” Challenge flashed in de Servian’s eyes. He did not believe her, gave no polite pretense otherwise. Lifting her arm, he placed her hand next to the red patch and then released it. “You mayhap forgot where the said spot was?”
She cautiously applied the ointment to the darker, hot patch of skin. Not admitting any misdoing, she offered the feeble excuse, “’Tis hard to see in the long shadows of night.”
A brash smile spread over his lips as his brows lifted. “Really? Au contraire—I found it quite easy to see.”
Skena paused as her heart did a small roll, and then she sucked in a sharp breath. “You were never asleep? I…I…would no’ have bathed…I thought the potion wouldst see you resting deeply.” Her eyes skimmed over his body from head to toes and then back. “’Tis a lot of you. You be taller than most men I ken. Mayhap I should mix the tansy stronger?”
“Could be. Mayhap be something more potent hit my blood, overpowering its effect.”
His direct stare bore into hers, leaving her to feel like a timid hare caught in the hunter’s snare. It felt as if her whole body tightened. Her heart dropped to the pit of her belly, slowing to a hard, pagan throb.
Skena knew it was playing with fire, but she had to ask, “What be more potent?”
The corner of his mouth quirked up smugly. Instead of giving her an answer, he came back with a question of his own. “Why do you not eat, Skena?”
She glanced to the food growing cold on the table. “I…I was no’ hungry.”
“Sometimes, we are too tired to eat. When we have many responsibilities in our lives, weighing down upon our shoulders, we must force ourselves to partake nourishment in spite of our wishes. Oft, when I tired from battle, I did not want food. Same as when I was recovering from my wound. The will to eat was just not present. Even so, I forced myself. ’Twas the only way to regain my strength.” His gaze traveled over her, making her glad she had the plaide about her, a shield against his hungry eyes. “You are not sick, are you, Skena?”
“Nay. There be naught wrong with me.”
“Except that you refuse to eat. Even your child frets over that,” de Servian pressed, not dropping the line of talk.
“Annis thinks she kens the way of things. She be only a wee bairn. The child does no’ understand...” Skena allowed her words to trail off. She could think of no reason to give this man for her reticence to eat. “Do you feel like eating?”
The crooked half smile came again. “Aye, I find I am...hungry.”
Skena started to turn, yet paused as she was once again caught by the power of his stare. The way he had stressed the word hungry caused her to wonder if he used it with another meaning. She was unsure how to deal with this commanding man. Giving a shrug, she went to the table and placed a bowl on the tray.
De Servian scooted up in the bed and pushed a pillow behind his back. He watched her with that disarming predator’s intensity, as she carefully placed the small wooden board across his lap, and then sat upon the bed next to him. Instead of picking up the spoon, he simply looked at her.
Feeling as if she were missing something, she asked, “Is aught wrong, my lord? I be sorry ’tis only small fare, but we are a poor holding.”
“I find I tire. Would you mind feeding me? Please?”
Skena glared at this Norman warrior. He did not appear too weakened to feed himself, and his grip upon her wrist had been amazingly strong. She brooded if he were trying to trick her for some reason, yet failed to see a why for it. Mayhap he was suddenly feeling the toll upon his body from being out in the storm.
Edging nearer, she picked up the bread and broke the chunks into smaller pieces. Using the spoon, she pushed them down into the stew and allowed them to soak up the liquid. “’Tis a bit hard and crusty. I offer apologies.”
He smiled. “None needed. It shan’t be the first time I have eaten stale bread. The stomach does not seem to mind these things, eh?”
Skena scooped up a spoonful and carried it to his mouth. He opened and then closed around it. His eyebrows lifted in surprise as he chewed.
“Delicious. Your cook knows the secret to seasoning well.”
Skena smiled. “I will tell him. He be a prideful man and will enjoy the praise.” As she carried another spoonful to his mouth he shook his head no.
“You first,” he insisted.
Vexed, she refused. “I have no hunger.”
A stubborn look crossed de Servian’s face. “Then, I shan’t eat, either.”
“Your body requires nourishment to fight the chill, which still might try to claim you,” she insisted.
His frowned deepened. “Why do you starve yourself, Skena?”
She inhaled slowly to control her spiraling temper. “No’ that ’tis any of your concern—I do no’ starve myself. I eat when hunger prods me.”
“Do you?”
The arrogant man saw too much. There was no shield for her against Noel de Servian. She hated that he could so easily scry her thoughts in her eyes. Surely, with all the lying that she had been reduced to of late, she should have acquired the skills necessary to protect herself from a mere stranger. Clearly, he had fixed on the detail that she was too thin, and like a dog with a bone was going to worry it to the marrow. After a short exhale, she captured a spoonful of the stew and shoved it in her mouth.
The knight grinned over his victory, but wisely refrained from saying anything. He was aware he had pushed her as far as he could without angering her. When he opened his mouth to her offer of more stew she nearly shoved it at him. Impishly, the bloody man refused another with a shake of his head, ’til she had eaten one, too.
“Some bread, please,” he requested.
The broth had softened it. She picked up a chunk and held it up for him, hesitating at the last instant as their eyes locked. When she remained unmoving, he leaned forward and closed his lips around the bread and her fingers holding it. She had not anticipated him to do that. Shocked by his boldness, Skena pulled them back. Only, his tongue swiped her first finger, and then he sucked on it as though he intended to capture every morsel.
An odd sensation hit the back of her neck and then slammed downward with a blazing fire, causing a strange cramping at the base of her belly. It twisted like a knife, burned to where it was agonizing. The reaction doubled as he picked up another chunk of bread with the purpose of feeding it to her.
Eyes wide, she shook her head no. Her refusal set an obstinate look upon his face. She pleaded, “Please, my lord, I be too full. If I eat more I will feel ill.”
“Eat. You feel pressure in your belly because you fail to eat enough. This bite, then I shall let you be,” he insisted.
Skena was not lying. She did feel too full. And he was right―her going without food had caused her belly to shrivel up.
“Shall I pin you down and feed it to you? I shan’t need an old man and lad, barely two-and-ten, to help me.” He wiggled it before her mouth.
“I am no’ sure I like you, Noel de Servian.”
He shrugged as if he failed to believe her. “Suit yourself. Methinks I shall enjoy pinning you to the bed, Skena MacIain,” he said as he started to tilt toward her.
Giving a small yelp, she ate the bread piece from his fingers. The silver eyes watched her intently. Finally, he swiped a drop from her lower lip with his thumb pad. Skena had to fight herself from opening and sucking that wicked thumb into her mouth. The wild reactions within her said these gestures had a meaning beyond merely feeding each other, which he understood only too well. She knew these things were wrong, yet she could not stop herself.
She must not lose herself to these dark lures. Too much was at stake here. This man was naught but a foreigner. Worse―an Englishman. Until his purpose for coming to Glen Shane was unriddled, she had to keep hold of her reason.
Full of himself, de Servian leaned back. When she only sat there, he prompted, “More, please.”
She nearly threw the spoon at him. “If you can feed me, Lord de Servian, then you can bloody well feed yourself.”
“True, but then we would miss the dance.” He chuckled.
Skena blinked in confusion. “Dance? Does the fever rise?” She leaned forward and put the back of her hand to his forehead. “You burn to the touch. I fear you may still take lung sickness before the night wanes.”
“I burn, but my mind does not wander. The dance I speak of is the dance of seduction. Surely, you know about seduction, Skena?” His voice was low, husky.
“Methinks, my lord, the fever addles your wits.”
“Noel,” he corrected.
“My lord will do just fine.” She refused to do as he bid, holding on to that last small defense against him.
“If you will not feed me, you may take the rest away.” He crossed his arms and closed his eyes in dismissal. Skena picked up the board, but nearly dropped it as he spoke again. “Then, you may finish applying the ointment. Afterwards, I shall rest.”
The bowl rattled, but she managed to keep it from falling to the stone floor. “I ought to dump the stew on his bloody head,” she grumbled under her breath.
Placing the board on the table, she set about to mix him another tansy. Despite his playful disposition, she feared he was not as well as he thought. A person who experienced a deep chill oft failed to show any signs of a raw throat or lung congestion until hours after exposure. Rising fever was the first hint of coming sickness. His forehead was flushed to the touch; a clear signal all was not well. Measuring out pinches of the worts, she paused, glanced back to him, still sitting up in the bed, and added a bit more. She ground and then dissolved them in the cider Jenna had fetched with the supper.
When she held the cup out to him, he took it, but then tilted it to look inside. “More mud and stump water? Take this foul witch’s potion away.”
“Drink it. You may yet show illness in the coming hours of dawning. I have taken chills before. Only later did my throat begin to ache, and I had a hard time swallowing.”
Arching a brow, he eyed the cup again, and then her. “What do you give me in return for choking down this vile stuff?”
Skena chuckled at his question. “You sound like Andrew, pandering for a treat for doing something I asked of him.”
“And do you give Andrew a treat?”
“Lord de Servian, please drink the tansy so I may seek my bed. ’Tis been a hard day for me, and I, too, was out in the storm for a long spell. The cold robs the body of its strength.”
“Seek your bed―” He patted the mattress beside his hip. “―which happens to be my bed at present, I am guessing.”
Skena folded her arms across her middle, to protect herself from the emotions he caused her to feel. “My lord, methinks you are used to charming women with your smiles and a wiggle of your eyebrows. I assure you such contrivances be wasted upon me.”
“’Tis good to know.” His lips pursed as if he were keeping a laugh within.
“So, if you will drink the potion…”
“Only if you give me something to rid my mouth of the taste afterward. I mean it, Skena—if you want me to down this...this...sludge and twigs, I require compensation.” He lifted his brows and awaited her response. When she stood tongue-tied, he added, “Think hard—you waste time bartering with an unwell man. Delay in giving me care and mayhap I shall sicken. You wish that sin upon your soul?”
“I delay in naught. You hold the bloody brew in your hand.” Skena stomped her foot.
“I met with Challon this summer past. You favor his lady. She stomps her foot, as well, when fussing at Challon. I assume you are kin?” When she made no reply, he shrugged, and leaned to set the cup on the stand by the bed. “Upon your head...”
“Tamlyn and I share Ogilvie blood.” She slowly approached the bedside when he did not move. “Very well, what do you crave for blackmail, my lord?”
“First—call me Noel.”
Skena stood locked in a staring contest, her inner voice telling her to keep her distance from this man, that he posed a threat to her, to Craigendan. Only, she was pulled toward him as a summer moth was to a balefire. “Foolish little moth,” she whispered.
“Call me Noel,” he insisted with a sterner tone.
Skena nearly growled. “You give orders too easily, Lord de Servian.”
“Noel.”
Skena threw up her hands in defeat. “Noel.”
“’Twas not too hard, eh? Now I shall drink this―if you give me a reward.” A shudder suddenly wracked his body, draining the color from his face.
Skena nearly jumped to his side. “Please, you needs must drink the tansy, then lie down and rest.”
“A kiss,” he whispered.
She wondered if she heard him wrong. “A kiss?”
“Aye. I shall drink this dreadful stuff if you give me a kiss. Otherwise...” His shoulders lifted in a weak shrug.
The man was beyond vexing. Trying the voice she used on the children, she ordered, “Drink.”
He lifted the cup to his mouth, and then paused to wink at her. The bloody man winked! “I am drinking—but I expect a kiss.” With that, he tipped the cup up.
Skena watched the long column of his throat work, never having thought a man’s neck was so…well…beautiful. She frowned at the word. Since de Servian had come into her life she found herself applying it too often to the annoying man. As she watched, she could envision crawling upon the bed, kissing the strong muscles of his throat, running her tongue over him. She shook her head faintly, trying to rid her mind of the image that seemed only too real.
The cup empty, he stretched out his arm to hand it back to her. As she took it, he proved again just how fast he could move, grabbing her lower arm and pulling her across his lap. She opened her mouth to protest, but his closed upon hers. His lips quickly showed her how to follow his lead. She tasted the bitter worts from his mouth. Cared little. Slanting his head for a better angle, his mouth devoured hers, deepening the contact as he issued the primitive male demand for her submission. And she would have given it, gladly, had not another strong shiver wracked his body.
He slowly released her, his pale eyes roaming over her face with an expression of awe, similar to the emotions bubbling inside her. That look upon his countenance left Skena feeling as though someone had slammed a fist to her chest.
She slid off the bed, and with shaking hands, pulled the blankets up around him. “You should try to sleep.”
He weakly nodded, the silver eyes still watching her in a guarded fashion.
Skena went to the large, square basket in the corner and removed the blankets and pallet she planned to use. Carrying them to the bench, she set them on it and then unrolled the pallet on the floor before the fireplace.
“What are you doing, Skena?” de Servian called from the shadows.
She rose from her stooped over position. “It occurs to me, my lord―”
“Noel,” he corrected.
“Methinks you are accustomed to snapping out orders and expect all souls to jump to your bidding. As to what I am doing—I fix my maid’s pallet before the fire. You are too quick to use that tone of command with me, my lord. You may be a lord where you come from, but I be the lady here.” She picked up a blanket and spread it over the pallet.
“Aye, men are quick to follow my behest,” he agreed.
Taking another blanket, she carried it to the bed. “And women? They, too, fall all over their feet just to please the Lord de Servian?” As soon as the words were out, she wished she had bitten her tongue and kept them inside.
He smiled with complete arrogance. “You sound jealous, Skena.”
“Me? I work hard to keep my people alive and see we make it through this winter. I have nay time to waste on such thoughts.”
“Needs must I remind you ’twas you who brought up the question.”
Skena shrugged, realizing she had revealed too much to this arrogant man. “I have nary a jealous bone in my body.”
He laughed lowly. “And you are so honest, as well.”
“I used to be,” Skena admitted in candor. “A lie never crossed my teeth.”
“And now?”
She shrugged. “Now? Hard times forced upon me by the ruthless, selfish, pigheaded ways of men see that I do what I needs must to protect my people.” Skena shook out the cover and spread it over him.
“So, you are truthful about lying?”
“We take what we can get, my lord. May as well, because wishing gives us naught else.”
“If one does not believe in wishes, how will they ever come true? Mayhap the wishes go unfulfilled because you place no faith in them. Open your heart, Skena—make a wish with the trust of a child,” he entreated.
“Lord de Servian, I be too tired to argue the point, or waste breath upon silly, useless wishes.” She flipped the end of the blanket back from his feet, and then set to rapidly covering them tops and bottoms with the salve—but only up to the knee. When finished, she tucked the covers in about them, and turned to face him. There was no getting around the chore. She could not ignore the care he needed. “You look tired. Why do you not lie flat as I continue dressing your skin?”
Without a protest, he nodded and scooted down under the covers. With curious eyes he watched her pick up his left hand and start to apply the ointment, then work her way up his arm. “This is soothing, Skena. I cannot recall anyone ever caring for me like this.”
His voice sounded wistful. Gone was the playful tone of flirtation. His words made her believe that no one had ever taken care of him before. She sat on the edge of the bed to reach his right arm.
“Your lady mother likely did so on many occasions. We tend to forget those memories of when we were smaller. Life crowds them out,” she said, moving to cover the other arm with the salve.
Sadness flickered in his eyes and he gave a small shake of his head no. “I recall my mother very well. The few images I hold remain clear.”
Her quick movements slowed, sorry she had spoken without thinking. Pain squeezed her heart as she recalled he had been younger than Andrew and Annis when he lost his lady mother, seeing him alone in the world at that tender age. She swallowed back the pain she felt for that child so alone in the world.
His chest expanded as he drew in air to fight deep emotions. De Servian gnawed on his lower lip, clearly considering if he should say words that obviously still caused him pain. Some things did not go away, but lingered in the heart, unhealed—visibly the case for this man. “I recall her gentleness, the scent of verbena and lavender that seemed to cling to her skin when she hugged me at night. My father was competing in a tournament, hoping for the riches it would bring. Instead, he lost his life. My mother loved him very much, rare in the nobility, I suppose. A true love-match, they spake. Sadly, she found life unbearable without him, so one moonless night she walked her grief into the lake.”
Skena’s hand stilled on de Servian’s neck as she saw the images in his mind. Not just what his words provoked within her, but the Kenning singing, pure and true. With the force of lightning striking, she actually witnessed his memories—walked in his mind, as some of her clan spoke of the ability. Never had she experienced the gift with this clarity at any point in her life. Her cousin Aithinne always had. Her three brothers constantly complained that she could unfairly steal their thoughts. Skena had long ago accepted her Ogilvie blood was not strong enough in her. Only, now she saw it all. The small boy waking in the night, scared because his whole world had changed, seeking his mother’s reassurance. Skena experienced everything through his child’s eyes—as they carried his mother into the castle, felt his loss, the desolation, the terrible dread of being left alone.
“I understand her sorrow, but she should never have left you, Noel.” Her voice was nearly a whisper.
“You called me Noel.” He offered her a sad smile.
Skena nearly choked on the tears clogging her throat. “You scare me, Noel de Servian.”
Backing off the bed, she wanted to run away and hide from him. How could this man so turn her life upside down in such a short time? “Get some rest.” Not waiting for his reply, she rushed to the pallet.
Usually, she banked the fire before turning in to bed, awakening to a cold room come morn. This night, she wanted the chamber to stay as warm as possible; to see that it did, she added a couple more peats to the fire. Allowing her hair to fall over the side of her face, she swiped away a stray tear with the back of her hand. Sadness for the small child who had lost his parents and had been alone in the world, sadder he felt no one had cared for him with tenderness since.
Sad for herself, because this man reached her in a way none ever had before.