Chapter Four
Cha sgeul-rùin e ’s fios aig triùir air.
(’Tis no secret if three ken it.)
— Auld Scots Adage
Just after dawnbreak, Aithinne stormed through the courtyard of Lyonglen, so furious that she could barely think. The anger blunted the pain swelling in her chest. Oh, aye, being mad kept the other emotion at bay.
A scream split the bailey, but none stirring about their early morn duties paid it the slightest heed. Aithinne paused, and glanced around looking for a rock—a big one. When the peacock spread its beautiful fan of green and teal feathers, and proclaimed its dominance of the courtyard once more, she let loose of the stone. It fell short of her target, and only caused the feathered menace to come running after her. She took off running, up the steps and inside the tower, slamming the door after her.
“Damn bird, mayhap Cook will make a meal of him come Lughnasadh,” she grumbled.
Opening the door just a crack, she peeked through to see the stupid critter was pecking at the door with angry insistence. “’Tis the wrong day to pick a fight with me, Mr. Peacock.”
She slammed the door again, and then headed straight to the Great Hall. She pulled up, growling under her breath as she espied her brothers lazing around the lord’s table, awaiting food to break their fast. Their spirits quite merry. With the foul mood she was in, their inane chuckles set her teeth to gnashing.
“Ooooo…nodcocks!” Her eyes narrowed on them. “Let me finish with you, then see if you still have a half-mind to laugh.”
Last night had been more than a maid could wish for her first time. Her stranger taught her things she never knew about her body, showed her pleasures beyond imagining. Aithinne’s lip quivered when she recalled how exquisitely he worshipped her with his hands, his mouth, his heat singeing her flesh. How deep he had been within her. How a part of him she had been. All the sensations he made her feel.
There had been no holding back. Defenseless, she had given her heart to him.
Then, the bloody bastard ruined the beauty of their time together by calling her Tamlyn!
A knife in her heart. She faced the pain―and the facts. Obviously, there was no longer any question. Her stranger knew Tamlyn, and felt deep emotions for her.
Loved her.
She choked back the rising tears, her hands trembling as she barely controlled the urge to cry. Oh, how much more muddled could her life get? Sucking in a deep breath, she once more forged the pain into anger.
“From where did you steal him?” Aithinne launched her attack before the idiots wised up enough to see she was in a horrid temper.
The three of them had a tendency to scurry like rats when she wanted a handful of them, so she kept squarely in the path of their retreat. Silly twits failed to notice her bubbling fury.
Hugh leaned sideways in the lord’s chair, his legs dangling over one arm. His hazel eyes looked up at her blankly. Deward and Lewis mirrored his action. All three smiled innocently and inquired in one voice, “Who?”
“Save playing innocent, you lackwits. We have only one stranger you dragged to Lyonglen and dumped into my bed.” Putting her hands on her hips, she glared at them. At the edge of her vision, she spotted Einar in the shadows, trying to slip away. “Dare not leave, Einar! You were supposed to see they carried out my instructions to the letter. Sit!” She pointed to a bench.
“Aye, Princess.” Contrite, he strived to scrunch himself into about half his size as he walked to the bench and sat.
The Norseman was quite comical, but she suppressed the rising chuckle and snapped, “Do not call me Princess, Einar.”
Head hanging in shame, he nodded. “As you wish, Princess Aithinne.”
She exhaled her frustration. “I did not mean address me as Princess Aithinne, I said do not call me Princess a’tall.”
“Aye, Princess,” he rumbled, whilst her three mooncalf brothers giggled and poked each other.
“Och, never mind. I have no time to argue over something that you have failed to learn in ten years. I need to know where they found that man. He is a warrior. I examined his clothes―raiments belonging to a noble. So from where did you cork-brains steal him?”
Her three brothers looked to each other, eyes rolling, trying not to snigger. Deward kicked Lewis under the table, trying to warn him to silence. Naturally, Lewis kicked back. Harder. Then, suddenly they flew at each other, slugging away, while Hugh howled with laughter.
“Oh, Sister, it was a glorious night!” Hugh beamed up at her. “We are tired, though likely Dinsmore and his cronies be more bone weary. When all the chamber pots were emptied, we pelted them with stones, not big enough to maim, but enough to vex them royally, since Dinsmore commanded them not to loose arrows in return. The Campbells finally rode back up the hill to Dinsmore’s tent. Whilst they jumped into the burn to scrub off the dung, we set their horses free. It took them ages to round them up. Later, while the knaves slept, we slipped back and cut the ropes on the tent. The whole thing collapsed on Dunny Dinsmore. Och, did he curse a blue streak! While his men tried to drag him out from under it, we unhobbled their horses and chased them off again.”
Eyes narrowing in fury, Aithinne whipped around on Einar. “You let them do this? They could have been wounded, killed if Dinsmore’s lackeys stood and fought.” She threw up her hands when Einar’s head hung lower. “Och, I do not ken why I bother.”
“Sorry, Princess.”
“Sister, stop slapping Einar’s ears with words. The Campbells could not fight. They would do naught to upset you. ’Tis why it is muckle fun to torment them.” Hugh smiled and lifted the goblet of ale to his mouth.
When Deward and Lewis fell to the floor, still struggling with the other, she glared at Einar and then pointed to them. Instantly, he grabbed them by their belts, lifted them and dropped them on the bench. Both young men glared at the Norsemen and then at her.
“Enough!” Aithinne used the voice she reserved for listen or else. “I want to ken where you stole that warrior from…now.” She stomped her foot to focus their attention, but mumbles and shrugs were the only replies she garnered. “You found him―at Glenrogha. After I forbad you to go there, you went to the Beltaine festival and stole the man from there. Did you no’?”
Their eyes widened at her deductions. Hugh frowned. “’Tis not fair, Aithinne. You promised never to use The Kenning to prod our minds. ’Tis knavish to walk in a person’s thoughts without their leave.”
“I have no need of tricks to twig your feebleminded actions. The knight called me Tamlyn. That told me all. He be from Glenrogha.”
“Aithinne, I need to seek my rest.” Lewis rubbed the sleep sand from the corners of his eyes. “Cousin Tamlyn shall not miss him. She already has one just like him.”
“Just like him?” she echoed in confusion.
“We made sure we got the right one.” Deward looked at her earnestly, as if seeking her praise.
Lewis sighed, then straightened his clothing, mussed in the struggle with Deward. “And mind, ’tis not an easy chore. The place is overrun with dragons. Surely, that will not miss one.”
Fearing they were too far into their cups, her foot tapped out her waning impatience. “Explain dragon. Say you dare no’ speak of the Dragon of Challon―the Norman warrior Edward Longshanks sent to claim Glen Shane. Surely, even you three cannot have done something so reckless as to steal him?”
She reeled, faint from the ramifications of their foolish actions. In her plotting, she had merely sought to simplify her life, give her some small measure of security and control. Now this spiraled into a nightmare, one that would see her in White Tower, prisoner to the English king.
“Sister, do not fash so…no’ that Dragon.” He grinned over their accomplishment. “We borrowed another.”
“What dragon?” A dull throb grew behind her eyes from trying to uncurl their lack of sense. Since they turned five and ten and suddenly shot up taller than her, she could no longer take a switch to them. If she tried, they would wrestle her down to the floor and sit on her until she expended her fury in the useless struggle. Thus, she was forced to use her wits to handle them now. Only, using her wits against three ignoramuses left her with a dull throbbing pain behind her eyes.
“No’ a real one, Aithinne.” Lewis propped his elbow on the table to hold up his head. “The Earl Challon―the Black Dragon―was sent by Edward Longshanks to claim Glen Shane. The English king commands he marry one of our cousins. Challon chose our Tamlyn and she seems fair happy with the notion. Stares at him with calf eyes, she does. They speak his two brothers shall wed with Rowanne and Raven.”
She pointed to the ceiling. “Then who is that up there?”
“A cousin. He favors Julian Challon, much the same way Tamlyn and you do each other. We thought it a fine jest. Actually our dragon is prettier and taller than Tamlyn’s dragon,” Hugh said as a yawn popped up.
“You are taller than Tamlyn.” Shooting a glare at Lewis, warning their fight was not over, Deward picked up the explanation in his rambling fashion. “Our cousin warms to Lord Challon, danced before the balefire with him, she did. Can you no’ see Fate, Sister? It seemed the weave of magic to us―she lay with Challon last night, you lay with his kinsman. It has to be the will of the Auld Ones, dare you deny their purpose and provoke their will?”
Totally flummoxed, she sat down with a thud on a bench. For her idiot brothers that was very deep thinking. “What be his name?”
“St. Giles, Lord RavenHawke, kinsman to the Dragon,” Lewis supplied. “They say Lord Challon sets muckle store in him, treats him as a brother.”
“Ohhhhh…” Aithinne stomped her feet several times in rage, feeling as if she were sinking in a bog and could not find purchase on solid land. “You blethering lackwits!”
Hugh pursed his face, then sighed. “Now, Aithinne, rein in your freckles. You sent us forth to acquire a man. A stallion…a breeder…” He sniggered and winked at his two look-alike brothers. “We love you, Sister, thus we wanted to give you someone pretty. You must agree we far exceeded that. You would not want to lay with some pitted-face artisan and have him father a dullard bairn upon you, would you?”
Swallowing to keep back raw emotions, she shook her head. “Nay, since I have done this foolhardy thing I ken the warrior shall give me a beautiful babe.”
Suddenly, images of her holding a black-haired bairn in her lap flooded her mind. The child―a boy―seemed to be about a year old, and was so precious her heart squeezed. In the vision, she hummed a cradlesong to the wee babe and ran her fingers through the thick, wavy hair so like his father’s. Despite all the worries and fears rising from the after effects of this mess, she wanted that child. Ached to hold his small body, to suckle it.
Never before had she envisioned the child she had plotted to conceive. It was just one of those vague pieces to the riddle in her mind, a means to an end to keep Edward Longshanks and the greedy wolves from the gates of the two fiefs.
The only children she’d cared for were her brothers, younger than she by seven years. She was barely nine years old when their parents were lost through a wasting fever. In some ways, she had taken over being mother to the lads when she was but a child herself. She loved the triplets, but they had been tedious to raise, thus she assumed she had used up all desire to have a child of her own. She had seen castle workers’ babes when they brought them to show her, but the children never provoked that yearning within her to be a mother.
Now, everything was different. She could see the child she would make with this nobleman, and she wanted it. Would fight for it. The instinct to be a mother reared itself within her and proved nearly overpowering.
“Stop and consider,” Lewis pressed. “Can you see yourself lying with someone like Phelan or Dinsmore? Or worse? I think no’, Sister.”
She exhaled resignation. “Aye, you speak truth. I was able to go through with this because I found him so pleasing. Only, if Challon is to marry with Tamlyn, that summons the danger of RavenHawke being at Glenrogha sometime when I am there. The idea was to fetch a man I would never meet again. There will be no avoiding him with him serving Challon.”
Hugh crossed his legs at the ankles and appeared smug. “Give us tribute, Sister. Nay, he spake that he only pays visit to the Earl Challon, and shall move Northward to claim some fief that belongs to his grandfather.”
“See there be no need to furrow your brow,” Lewis concurred.
Not realizing she had been frowning, she relaxed her eyebrows and sighed, confused and worried over this foolish mistake that could prove costly.
“You should keep him,” Einar pronounced.
All heads snapped to him in shock. Einar never voiced opinions, merely went along with whatever she ordered. Aithinne’s mouth hung half-open. Becoming aware she gaped, she snapped it shut.
Keep St. Giles? She spoke the name in her mind and he was no longer her stranger, but St. Giles, Lord RavenHawke. A man who did not belong to her. Even so, her imagination immediately took the bit between its teeth and ran wild with flashes of visions, showing her images of a possible future with this man. Them laughing, working to protect the people of Lyonglen and Coinnleir Wood. Him making love to her in the dark of night.
Oh, temptation to keep him was great.
Nevertheless, she could never forget this man was in love with Tamlyn. Her cousin may be betrothed to his kinsman, but St. Giles’s heart burned with devotion for her. He coveted her in a way a man did not forget. Oh, men could lie with others, but their hearts were branded. A woman might become St. Giles’s lady wife, share his life, but each time she lay with him she would ache inside knowing he loved another.
Much of her years Aithinne always felt less pretty than Tamlyn. She heard people comment on the unfortunate red tint to her hair and the freckles on her nose. So sad, poor Aithinne is no’ the beauty her cousin is, they whispered when they thought she did not hear. No matter how she could wish for this man to be a part of her existence, she would never place herself in this soul-destroying, lifetime of comparisons. That path held nothing but crushing heartaches.
“Einar, keeping him is not a choice. He is no’ a cat.” She tried to make light of it as if he meant it as a joke. Only she couldn’t ignore the twist in her heart. Oh, aye, she’d like to keep him, but not when he loved Tamlyn.
“Norsemen took people.” Einar puffed up his chest, proud of his heritage.
The lads groaned and repeated like echoes, “Not another sermon on the ways of Norsemen.”
“Einar, your people took slaves.” Aithinne restlessly tapped her fingernails on the wooden table, trying to cipher what was best to do. “That man would never be anyone’s slave.”
Einar grunted. “Aye, I cannot see that warrior a slave to another. But you are a princess…”
Aithinne groaned, not about to address the same old a princess can do anything nonsense. “It shall no’ matter to this knight.”
Einar summoned his stubborn Viking scowl. It worked on her brothers, but he wasted it on her. “You are a witch. Bind him to you. Turn his mind to you, Princess. Take the bond of blood with him.”
How tempting. It was true. She could bespell him, turn the man’s mind in circles, thus convince him to remain with her. Her heart ached even more. To control his devotion through magic would be as hollow as St. Giles lingering with her because she was an echo of the woman who had stolen his heart, a woman he could never have.
“He needs must go back to his kinsmen. This night,” she said firmly, to convince herself as much as them. Aithinne tried to harden her heart, but she was close to breaking down and bawling like a babe. “Dose him with the potion of blackness, and then dump him outside of Glenrogha just before dawnbreak.”
“No.” Einar crossed his arms over his massive chest to emphasize his outright refusal.
Aithinne frowned, shocked. Never had the Viking balked at any of her orders. “You deny my command?”
“Oonanne says he stays the seven nights of the waxing moon. He remains. To do otherwise shall anger the Auld Ones. Óðinn has commanded the weaving of the skeins of this warrior’s life. What the Allfather wills must be.”
“He speaks truth.” Oona stepped into the light, as if she materialized from the shadows.
“Methinks Loki has more to do with the quagmire I have stepped into,” Aithinne grumbled.
“Lass, you set the wheel in motion. To alter its path now would call down catastrophe upon all our heads. You made wishes and bargains with Annis, our goddess of the water. If you now refute what she grants you risk summoning her wrath,” the crone warned. “You made your bed, my lass―with a pretty man in it. Now you must lie in it with this braw warrior…see the deed done.”
“I wish―” Aithinne started.
All five people blurted out, “No more wishes!”
♦◊♦
Damian St. Giles ached from every fiber of his being. He wanted to move, tried to move, but found for some reason he could not. His mouth tasted fuzzy, musty, the cursed mead leaving a peculiar aftertaste as if he’d been gnawing on a half-rotten stump. He needed water. Opening his eyes, he struggled to focus.
At first he feared he’d been struck blind. After the shock, he realized his arm was oddly bent so the inside crook of his elbow covered his eyes. He attempted to shift it, but the flesh was numb from being in that position too long.
“Damnation!” With effort he lifted it away, grimacing at the pain. He batted his eyelids several times to rid the haze clouding them, and then pushed up to a sitting position, stretched and yawned. “Where the bloody hell am I? I presume I still live since I taste such agony.”
His words bounced off the stone walls, garnering no reply.
Running his hand through his hair, he struggled to gather his thoughts. Beltaine…the festival on the tòrr. He recalled that much, bringing to mind the beautiful night and the sight of the dancers, the smell of the fire. And remembered he had been miserable, and stupidly, drank too much in an effort to drown his sorrow.
Tamlyn. He summoned her visage to mind, so stunning as she danced around the balefire. She had shimmered, like some faery queen his Scottish mother used to tell him about at night when she put him to bed.
Only Tamlyn had danced for Julian. Her eyes saw naught but Julian.
Despair twisted within him. He was gifted―cursed, he sometimes thought―with his mother’s Highland sight. The Kenning she had called it. For years he had seen a woman’s face in his dreams, and knew with complete certainty she was destined to be his wife. So when he came to Glenrogha and saw that face, he was devastated to learn it belonged to the face of Lady Tamlyn, Countess Glenrogha.
Only a fool could not see Julian wanted her more than life. Worse, it pained Damian to admit Tamlyn returned Challon’s feelings. His cousin needed Tamlyn. She was good for him, soothed his troubled soul. She could save him from the darkness threatening to claim him. Still, no matter how many times Damian told himself they were a match blessed by the gods, he could not stop his heart from crying out that Tamlyn should have been fated to be his.
Tamlyn was in love with Julian, and Damian knew, without doubt, Julian would kill to keep her. It hurt, but he accepted their feelings, would stand silently by when they wed in a few sennights and offer his heartfelt blessing upon their union.
He acknowledged this finality of Fate. Yet, his dreams had not ended, only strengthened. His heart refused to listen. Why?
How could The Kenning be so wrong―so insistent―in this?
Foolishly, he had tried to drown his feelings in drink.
“Drink…”
The word conjured a vision of three men who looked alike to flash before his eyes. They had offered him a special heather ale…promising it would cure what bedeviled him, and make all his dreams come true.
He searched his mind trying to find a recollection beyond that point. Strangely, there was naught, outside an image of a very tall warrior―a Norseman. With an exhale of frustration, he looked around to get his bearings.
The room was unfamiliar. The chamber was darkened, the only light source came from the narrow window. He did not need to call upon his fey sense to ken he was not in Glen Shane.
“So where the bloody hell am I?”
He glanced at his body, half-covered by the tartan. Naked. Nothing odd in that. He slept in the raw. Yet, as he sought his clothing, he saw none of his belongings. In fact, the whole room was rather devoid of personal items. There was a trunk at the foot of the huge curtained bed, a table at the side and a chamber pot in the far corner.
“Thank goodness for small considerations.” Deciding to make use of the latter, he scooted to the bed’s edge. The rattle alerted him, along with the pressure around his ankle. Lifting the woolen sheet, he stared at his leg, his mind having a hard time accepting what he saw. “That shall teach you to drown your sorrows in Highland mead, you nodcock.”
He was chained to the bloody bed!
♦◊♦
Restless, fighting within herself, Aithinne paced petulantly in her room. Hearing the door open, she dashed the stray tear from her cheek with the back of her hand and forced pretense that nothing bothered her. All emotions were off kilter by this whole matter. She wanted it over with and St. Giles far away from here this night. Mayhap then her heart would be safe. Contrarily, her body had other ideas. Just the thought of him caused the fire to flare within her, the need to be with him arising to twist her insides until she thought she would go mad.
The door pushed wide and Oona came in carrying a tray. The amber eyes quickly appraised Aithinne’s mood. “Time draws near, Lass. Here be the tansy for you and the warming pot of the salve.”
“I do no’ want the potion or the unguent.”
Oona clucked. “Did I ask if you wanted them? Cease this quarrelling within yourself, Aithinne Ogilvie. Worrying over things you canno’ change is time wasted. Change what you can in life. Accept aught else.”
“I tell myself this. Saying such and believing it are two different beasties.”
“You begged wishes and our Lady Annis grants them. Now you find they are no’ precisely as you hoped. The Auld Ones only give so much, Aithinne. They expect you to work to shape the rest of your destiny. You wanted a child―keep your bargain and you shall have one.” Oona eyed her slyly. “Only, now you want the man, too. That is the trouble, is it no’, lass? You have lain with him, bonded with him―a bond of the flesh, the blood, the soul―and now ken there shall be none other for you. Do no’ hide from these truths, lass. You merely delude yourself when you do. You want him? Claim him. The solution be there. Reach out and seize it. Any woman with RavenHawke in her bed would no’ have to be told what to do.”
Aithinne snatched up the goblet and downed the thick liquid. “Sometimes, I really mislike your peering into my thoughts.”
Oona shrugged as she set to unbraiding Aithinne’s long hair. “The Auld Ones saw you created in Tamlyn’s mold. But you are no’ Tamlyn. They touched your hair with faery fire, gave you the green flecks in your eyes. Where you two are most different is within. You want him? Use these nights of the waxing moon you have left. Summon the faery fire to burn her from his memory. You can, you ken. I looked into his mind when I went in earlier to leave him food.”
“He was awake?”
“He slept still. My spell sees he cannot stay awake for long periods. He becomes exhausted, confused and needs must rest. The herbs make him no’ remember.”
“What did you see?”
“Ah, not even going to feign disinterest?” she taunted. “I saw images of a woman. He does no’ understand them. Just thinks he does. ’Tis up to you to help him find his way.”
Aithinne huffed. “You speak riddles, Oona.”
“You think to see your path made so easy? This be the journey you wished for, but are you willin’ to fight for what you want, pay the cost? Too muckle in your life thus far has been easy.”
“Easy? Have you mislaid what sense you were born with? I lost my parents to a fever when I was but nine. I raised the lads when I was a child myself. Thankfully, I became ward to Gilchrest. He was a dear man―”
“A silly man, he indulged your headstrong ways, just as The Shane did Tamlyn, Raven and Rowanne, and neither man prepared the lot of you to deal with the world outside these glens. The four of you did as you pleased, spake and every wish was carried out. Times change. Scotland moves into dark days ahead. The strong-willed females of Clan Ogilvie must learn to deal with males and their world. These hungry men no longer ignore our glens. Greedy eyes espy Glen Shane and Glen Eallach. Long has Edward Plantagenet coveted these holdings. He has sent the Dragon of Challon to claim Tamlyn. Think hard lass, you shall be next. Mark my words.”
Aithinne swallowed hard. “The Kenning has shown thus?”
“Several seasons past the Laird Shane sought out Evelynour of the Orchard, our seer. He wanted an augury. He had met a man they called the Dragon and wanted to ken more about him. The Shane felt he would one day come for Tamlyn, that he would make a good match for his youngest daughter.”
Aithinne’s eyes widened in astonishment. “The Lord Challon? Longshanks sent him, yet The Shane believed he was destined for Tamlyn?”
“Evelynour saw him in visions. Dressed in the color of ravens, even mail and armor plate, he came in fog and riding a black stallion of war. At first, she was confused by the foretellings. There was a reflection―two that were near as one. Slowly, she discerned one warrior wrapped in the shade of the ravens. The other wore gray of the fog. One carried the device of a dragon on his shield. On the other a double faced bird―a raven and a hawk. Two men, Aithinne, not one. Lord Challon be the first, the one who dressed in black. The man who came for our Tamlyn. Mayhap her visions were muddled in the beginning because she saw two women who were much alike, as well.”
“By the Lady Annis.” Aithinne smacked the palm of her hand against her forehead. “What have the lads brought down on our heads by stealing St. Giles from Glenrogha?”
“Mayhap ’twas the Our Annis granting you a chance to alter your destiny. Longshanks sent Challon to claim Glen Shane. Who shall the English send to claim Glen Eallach? In the past, the Comyns held muckle sway with the king. Edward might give Glen Eallach and you to Phelan, with no by your leave, then there would be naught you could do to shift his mind. Now King John Balliol has raised the Scottish standard, summoning all Scots to fight against the English invasion. The Comyns foolishly answered the call. They have lost favor with Longshanks. So where does Edward now cast his eyes to find a lord for Glen Eallach? He twigs Gilchrest was too old to protect Lyonglen and your holding of Coinnleir. He will want a young warrior, a strong one, able to stand against both the Comyns and Campbells.”
Absently, Aithinne drank down the potion from the silver challis. She sat as the old woman began to comb her long hair. “’Tis why all these lies and deceit. If I can produce a child for Edward Longshanks, a heir―Gilchrest’s heir, then―”
“Aye, he might,” the crone agreed. “He might also think a wee babe too small, that you and the bairn would need a champion. A smart lass would find her own man before the English decides the matter for you. Mayhap a man who already holds the king’s favor, eh?”
The potion was hitting her blood, making it hard to focus on Oonanne’s words. She tried to contemplate what needed to be done, looking for an avenue out of this quandary. Only, her mind echoed with Einar’s words. Keep him. It now seemed as if Oona pushed her to do the same.
Aye, it would be so easy to do. Could she dare?
But at what cost to her heart?
As a woman she wanted a husband to love her, to share the joy in the life they could build together. As lady of Coinnleir Wood―and now Lyonglen―she had too many others to consider. This was not about her happiness. This was about both fiefs surviving the coming war. About the future of her brothers.
A rider had come with word of the Scots defeat at Dunbar, just days past. Nearly all of Scotland’s nobles were made prisoner to the English king or lay dead. Edward would waste no breath before he moved to refashion the nobility of the land. If the nobility were not humbled before him, swearing fealty, he would see Englishmen set in their places, on that she would wager her life.
Her destiny could not be ruled by her feelings. It must be guided by the good for all of Glen Eallach.
If only St. Giles had not called her Tamlyn.
♦◊♦
Aithinne sucked in a deep breath and entered the tower chamber before she could change her mind. The scent of peat hit her nose, telling her Einar had been there to see to St. Giles’s needs. There was a wolf throw on the bed, a fire had been laid to dispel the room’s chill. Last night she dared not risk the firelight. This night―pain lanced through her― he would likely think her Tamlyn again.
She swallowed, nearly choking on the hard knot in her throat wanting to escape.
The subtle scent of herbs mixed in the smoke. Oona’s fine hand. The rich aroma of apple petals saturated the air, May Day blossoms providing a strong bespelling of love rites. She little needed Oona’s philter to stimulate her body, pushing her toward mating with St. Giles. All through the day, she only had to pause and think back on images of the night before. Everything came roaring back. Heat flooded through her blood to the point it was sheer agony to stay away from him. Her body throbbed to his invisible brand.
“When I said I did not require the potion, it was not playing coy. I have no need of it. He is the magic.” She whispered the forlorn admission. “He may be chained to my bed, but I am the true prisoner of his powers.”
Shame pulsed in her. She would join him this night knowing full well he loved Tamlyn. Oh, she resisted coming to him, not following through on her threat to have Einar take him back to Glenrogha. Her body held sway. Age-old mating instincts had awoken within her and there was no silencing their drive.
It was as though he wove a dark enchantment, and with their joining he became a part of her. St. Giles was in her blood, in her heart. He ensnared her soul. There was naught she could do to shield herself from his charms.
Never had she grasped how desires of the mind could wield such influence over one’s physical being. Oh, she had seen her cat when it came into heat. The feline had been quite humorous, howling and crawling around on her belly with her tail crooked to the side. Putting a hand to her stomach, Aithinne had a new sympathy for Puss, and was glad it did not affect a woman in the same fashion.
Her eyes moved to the bed, hungrily seeking St. Giles. He rested half in the shadows, the tartan carelessly flung across his hips. With his body heat, he obviously did not feel the chill of the room. She would have been shivering and huddled under the wool. His left arm was carelessly bent across his brow so it covered his eyes.
For several heartbeats, she stared at his beautiful form. He was so lean, so hard. A sleeping warrior prince awaiting the faery queen’s kiss to awaken him. Unable to resist, her hand reached out and touched him, stroking the strong thigh muscle. He was everything she could want in a man, as if Annis conjured St. Giles from her loneliest wishes.
Use these nights of the waxing moon, summon the faery fire to burn her from his memory. Oona’s words echoed in her mind, along with Einar’s advice to cling to him.
“If only it were as simple as saying, aye, I would keep you.” Regret threaded her voice.
The logical side of her mind arose trying to sway her heart by reminding her of the anguish of him whispering Tamlyn’s name. How absurd to even consider he might wish to stay, to open herself to the sorrow that would come. Foolish indeed.
Aithinne hung her head, closing her eyelids against the tears forming. Too late, for one dropped to his leg. Why she was suddenly so sad, overcome with a grief that was nearly devastating, she could not say. She should send him away now―this night―before she bound her heart, her soul more deeply to this beautiful warrior.
She stepped back from the bed, her breath caught in her throat. His arm had been removed from his face, and those pale green-gray eyes watched her with an intensity that was frightening.
For a heartbeat, she was not sure he was fully awake. Then, he stirred, faster than she could blink. Never could she have dreamt anyone could move that quickly. Before she could take another step backward, or even inhale in shock, his hands took her upper arms and sent her flying through the air.
She slammed hard to the plane of the bed, knocking all air from her body. He straddled her thighs, pinning her. As she tried to rise, he used the chain across her neck. Stretched between both hands, he pressed the heavy metal to her throat, causing her to strangle.