Chapter Eight
Love comes, creeping into the heart on little cat feet...
—Adrian Macgillivray
“Noel.” His name came on a soft sigh.
Luxuriating in the toasty bedding, Skena wiggled her toes and stretched. She was so warm. Since she always slept alone, the big bed was always chilly on winter morns. Before dawn demanded that she arise and attend her duties, she would burrow under the covers and move as little as possible to hold her body’s warmth in the goose feather pad. Sometimes the children came in and cuddled. Those lazy morns were nice, the three of them sharing their heat. Never anything as snug as this. Fearful it was naught more than a pretty dream, she did not want to open her eyes and awaken to frigid bed-ticking and covers.
Unexpectedly, as she shifted she bumped another body. A very warm body!
Forcing her eyelids open, she blinked several times because of sleep sand. When she could focus, she stared at the massive shoulders and hard back of a man. De Servian. She almost jumped. Almost. That delicious warmth held her there. Surely, it was not a bad thing to borrow some of his heat on this cold, snowy morn? His breathing was shallow; his body barely stirred as he slowly inhaled and then exhaled. He was sleeping deeply.
As her eyes traveled over the braw spine and the defined muscles of his back, she bit back the word beautiful. Men were not thought to be beautiful or comely or elegant, terms generally applied to women. When folks spoke of men they said striking, handsome or mayhap virile, and those things did apply to Noel de Servian. Even so, he seemed more than any of the men she had met, thus those simple words failed to pay him homage.
She swallowed hard as the scent of his body filled her mind, provoking a strange reaction in her blood. Leaning forward, she nearly pressed her nose to his shoulder to breathe in the fragrance off his skin. A smile crossed her lips as she savored the delicious, heady tang of his flesh. Tempted to bury her face against his back and revel in the elemental essence that was Noel de Servian, never before could she recall liking the way a man smelled. He smelled good. He smelled right.
Decency should propel her back to the far side of the bed, instead of cuddling next to him. It was a big bed, after all. Plenty of room for four people, there was little need for her to be almost pressed up against his body. Evermore plagued with cold feet and hands, she supposed they had instinctively sought the radiant warmth de Servian offered. Now that she was awake, she should scoot over to her side, if not climb out of bed entirely.
Skena bit the corner of her lip, fighting a battle within herself. And losing. Gradually, she brought her hand up to his shoulder blade, brushing and yet not fully touching. She held still. Hesitating. She owned no right to stroke this man in any way other than as a healer. Shameful though it may be, she yearned to. So easily, she could story to herself that she merely sought to try out the Kenning again, see if the connection was still there and as strong as she remembered. And in truth, that curiosity was a wee part of what was driving her. To experience the Kenning so potent within her, when never before had she been able to draw on that fey gift, had been startling. Though of late she had told endless untruths, she had never deceived herself. To offer that as an excuse for why she caressed his back would be naught but bald-faced mendacity.
She pressed her hand to his hot flesh. He still fought the fever, but the wracking cough had quieted, allowing him to slumber peacefully. When he showed no reaction to the gentle caress, she drew her palm downward to the small of his back. The old wound site burned, scorching. She lifted her hand and placed it on his hip.
Her palm tingled. The Kenning.
Until Noel de Servian had come into her life she had never perceived its sense so clearly, so intensely. As she touched this warrior’s flesh, she was overwhelmed by so many things. Emotions? Aye. Desire? Without doubt. Never had she craved to handle a man so intimately, yearned to feel those sword-roughened hands upon her. Oh, she desired him with a power that seized her whole being. Visions flooded her mind, of his hands sliding over her naked body, squeezing her breasts, pressing her down into the soft, feathered mattress. That was the hunger. There was more. So much more. Something about this man reached beyond the flesh, past the need to mate. It touched that spot within her no one had before, awoke the dreams she had put away a long time ago when she had been forced to marry Angus.
Timidly, she snaked her fingers over the curve of his waist, straying too close to the festering spot. Suddenly, she flinched, felt as if she took a blow to her body, as though steel had pierced her side. Sucking in a deep breath, her mind swirled with pain. His pain. Pain she now shared. Through strength of will, she held her hand there, and opened her heart, allowing the force to flow from him and into her. Almost too much to experience after the years of near silence from the Kenning, she closed her eyes and tried to shed the mortal shackles of this world, reach for Annwyn, into the Realm of Shadows where the Auld Ones reside. Immediately, darkness surrounded her, swallowed her. She might have panicked had she not known she was touching Noel. Her anchor.
Skena stood in a vast, dark cavern on a narrow stone bridge with no sides. Fearful, she moved ahead with slow careful steps, lest she slip off the edge. Slowly, a blinding light flooded her mind. Then, almost with the crack of a whip she was carried past that place. In a location unfamiliar to her, she stood in the middle of an open field. She took a step, but recoiled. She had trod on a man’s arm. A dead man. As she backed up, her foot came down on another’s leg. Her head snapped around and around, seeing bodies everywhere—men dead or dying—in some spots two and three deep. There was hardly a patch of green where to walk. She swallowed back the scream of horror, bubbling up in her throat.
A man on a snow white destrier galloped up the knoll toward her, other knights on horses and soldiery afoot followed behind. He was covered in dark mail; the helm with the flattened nose-piece made it hard to recognize his face. Only as he rode near, he abruptly reined the stallion to a halt, the beautiful horse rearing. The unearthly eyes looked at her—a pale, liquid silver, with odd circles of amber. They widened and then focused upon Skena as if he could really see her in the midst of all the bodies.
A dread slammed into her, paralyzing her. She was driven to warn him. Danger was near. Everything began to swirl and shift about her. Somehow, she had to fight to reach him, stop what evil that was going to happen.
“Skena...” he said.
The voice pulled her to him, but everything kept bending, twisting, to where she could see only Noel as he dismounted his horse. There were others about; they were nothing but blurs, their voices garbled. She had to reach him before it was too late! Pushing and shoving against the faceless bodies, not caring where her feet landed, she never saw the hand that wielded the sword—just witnessed as it plunged into Noel’s back—felt it enter her as if she had taken the blade in his stead.
“No!” The scream finally escaped as she saw blood gushing down his leg, the huge red stain soaking and spreading through the surcoat.
“Skena!” The urgent plea sucked her back into darkness. “Awaken. Please awaken.”
Her shoulders being shaken finally yanked her away from the realm of dead and dying. She could only lie there and fight against the lingering images and emotions still crowding her mind, fear over how close de Servian came to dying, not so long ago. Finally, as her heart slowed, she lifted her hand and allowed her fingers to softly stroke his handsome face.
“Death brushed your soul. It was so close. You almost died,” she whispered, sorrow filling her that she might never have known this special man. “I saw...”
“Saw what? You were dreaming, Skena. Naught more than images our mind tries to sort through.” Carefully, his hand pushed her hair away from the side of her face. “I do not pretend to understand why our minds torment us in such a fashion. Sometimes, ’tis only stories created in our head that have little rhyme or meaning. Others, pieces of our lives are in there. These images soon fade if you allow it, or replace them with other thoughts.”
She dropped her hand to the strong column of his neck and allowed her thumb to brush over the point where she could feel the pulse of his blood. “I was no’ dreaming. I was there, saw you take the sword to your side.” She choked on the sob welling in her throat.
“Dreams oft seem real to us. They be naught but night specters. Let them trouble you not,” he assured her. His hand reached up to close over hers, where it still touched his neck, and then squeezed.
“Nay, truly I did no’ slumber. I was awake,” she insisted.
He shook his head no. “You slept. I had a hard time calling you back from Morpheus’s realm. You scared me.”
Oddly, she wanted him to understand, to accept her as she was. “Nay, I be born of blood that has taibhsearachd––second-sight. Ogilvie blood. People oft speak of it as walking in another’s thoughts. ’Tis what I was doing. I walked through your memories. But it was more—I was there to see it happen.”
Leaning over her, Noel stilled. “You walked in my thoughts? What mean you? No one can do that. Methinks you are still trapped in the tendrils of your dream.” His mouth tugged at one corner into a half-smile, as if he judged her as naïve.
“Aye, some can…gifted ones. Highlanders have long kenned of those who possess powers, abilities. ’Tis called the Kenning.” Skena looked up into the silvery eyes, afraid, unsure how he would hear her confession. “Females of the Ogilvie line are fey, and sometimes see things in dreams, others in visions. If they are powerful enough, they can do this through touch, to know what you think, even see images from your past or what may come.”
He snorted a derisive laugh. “’Tis daft. You lend belief to such childish folly, Skena?”
She tried not to let his rebuff of the notion bother her. People had strong reactions when faced with the truth that the women of Clan Ogilvie were different. Witches. Some spoke of them with reverence; others in mistrust, fear or even abhorrence. Lowlanders and the English preferred to believe witches did not exist. The ones that accepted their existence wanted either to use their power for their own gain, or shunned them, scared of their powers.
As she looked up into his bespelling eyes, she wondered which path Noel de Servian would choose. Mayhap silence was her best protection, not reveal these dark secrets to him, better than try to explain and have him look at her in shock or loathing. A few could never come to terms that their thoughts were not their own, alarmed there was no way to shield themselves from this violation. Her heart would break if he turned away from her in loathing. Only here for such a short time and already he was coming to mean so much to her. Mayhap too much.
Skena wondered how Tamlyn and Aithinne were handling this same situation with their new English husbands. Had they kept their secrets, or were these Dragons of Challon men made of sterner stuff, dominant enough not to fear powers unseen in a woman? Her cousins were strong seers. Auld Bessa said likely they were the strongest in the clan since Evelynour, and that was so many years ago people had stopped counting the number of summers she had walked this earth.
For her cousins to conceal their nature, their special abilities, would be much harder than it would for Skena. Likely one of the weakest of the Ogilvie line, hiding the craft in her would take little effort. Never had she been seized by the visions or dreams that came so easily to her cousins.
Until this man.
So many wondrous things stir to life within Skena, summoned by Noel de Servian. In spite of her mind’s warning that she knew nothing about this stranger, hope took seed in her heart. With the Kenning this strong when she touched him, it had to be a sign. Mayhap the dreams of a young girl’s heart, which refused to die, had been answered with the coming of this one special man. She wanted to tell him of this wondrous magic, share it with him. Still, she was scared of his reaction.
“I believe in many things,” she confessed in a whisper.
Noel’s smile spread. “’Tis a magical season, when wishes are answered, they say.”
Skena lowered her lashes. “Wishes are a waste of breath. Disappointment be the only thing they summon.”
“Really? May I voice a differing opinion?” There was challenge to de Servian’s voice as he leaned forward and brushed his lips to hers.
Just a gentle, fleeting touch between them, but her body nearly leapt, wanting to capture his kiss, deepen it. The woman in her rose to the primeval power of being under this virile warrior. Surrender clamored within her blood.
Chattering voices of children, growing louder, caused them to jerk apart. Skena scooted hurriedly off the bed, snatched up a cover and swung it around her like a ruana. She did not need Andrew and Annis seeing her in the bed with de Servian. Already they cosseted hopes he was the knight of their Yule wish who had come to save them. That they still fiercely believed in wishes was troublesome enough. She was not going to lose herself to this false magic. It always faded in the bright rays of sunshine.
The door pushed open and both children clattered in, not waiting for a well-come. Noel moved quickly to shove himself back under the covers. That set off a round of him coughing.
Skena watched her son and daughter climb up on the bed and begin plaguing de Servian with questions. Her heart squeezed as she observed Annis putting her hand to his forehead to see how hot he was. For once, her daughter did not hide in the shadows before a man, but was there happily crawling into his lap.
Nay, wishes were not for her.
“Bloody pathetic liar,” she whispered under her breath.