After a mortifying afternoon, the day had been quite pleasant for Charlie as well. Once she’d assured her gracious hostess that she was completely recovered, Mary had agreed to let her help prepare supper. They’d shared wine and laughter while they worked. Charlie had even blushed a time or two when Mary teased her about the way Patrick’s eyes followed her. Elsie had told her almost the same thing.
She decided to find out for herself and chose a stool opposite his when he sat down to eat.
He looked at her and smiled, then just as quickly turned his smile on the deep bowl of hot rabbit stew Mary set before him.
She realized quickly that if she meant to catch him, it would mean she had to watch him. She didn’t think she’d be able to stop herself if she wanted to. Cloaked in firelight and shadows, his green eyes danced with a passion for life. His irresistible grin hinted of decadent pleasures and effortless confidence. Like a flame he drew her into the temptation of wanting to share her life with him.
Robbie said a prayer over the table and then reached for the loaf of baked black bread his wife delivered next. He tore off the first piece and then handed the loaf to Patrick, who did the same.
“Taste the stew, Mr. Campbell,” Mary offered, finally taking her seat and swiping Jamie’s thumb from his mouth. “Charlie helped me prepare it.”
“I must warn ye,” he said, his dimple flickering between shadows and light as he lifted his spoon to his lips. “M’ mother is known as the best cook from Dumfries to the farthest reaches of the north.”
“Oh?” Charlie raised an eyebrow. “Your mother is from Dumfries?” Was his mother a Kennedy, Gordon, Dunbar? Why hadn’t he told her his mother had lived in this region?
“Glasgow,” he answered, lowering his gaze to his stew.
Was he keeping something from her? She decided to ask more questions. He was practically still a stranger—except that he’d kissed her. “How did you come to live in the Highlands?”
He set down his spoon and picked up his cup. After a drink, he returned his eyes to her. “M’ grandmother, a Campbell, married the man who built Camlochlin within the mountains. M’ kin have lived there fer many years.”
“Well, we are glad you’re here now,” Mary said then turned to her. “Aren’t we, Charlie?”
Charlie blushed to her roots, not because of Mary’s obvious matchmaking, but because she was glad. So glad. He’d brought a gust of fresh air into her life.
“So far,” Charlie admitted and caught his soft smile and lingering gaze.
Conversation and bread were shared amidst rounds of laughter and two pitchers of ale.
“Nonie tells me that you are here to help her in her dreams,” Robbie said, turning to his guest.
Charlie looked at Nonie sitting between her brothers and couldn’t help but smile. The child was quite beautiful with sunlit locks tumbling around her pink, dimpled cheeks. She quibbled with her siblings and laughed easily, as a little girl ought to do.
Last night Patrick had promised Nonie that he’d remain close by. How long would he stay?
“Even though m’ true identity as a dream protector is to remain secret,” Patrick replied, putting a finger to his lips and winking at Nonie. Her eyes opened wider and she nodded, silently promising to keep his secret. “I will tell ye this, Robbie,” he said, turning to Nonie’s father. “I dinna think she’ll be needin’ too much help from me. Yer daughter is courageous.”
“Aye, I am, Papa!” Nonie called out, scratched behind her ear, and then returned to her bowl.
Patrick’s smile widened and he cut his gaze back to Charlie. She blinked away guiltily from her appraisal, but not before feeling a tingle in her kneecaps.
The others were correct, his gaze fell back to her often during supper. She caught him looking over and over again from beneath the veil of her lashes, the slant of her glance. She didn’t need to see though. She could feel his attention on her, merry, mischievous eyes, and something more, something deeper and more primal aimed only at her.
What they may or may not have noticed was that Charlie looked back at him often. She couldn’t help it. His good humor was infectious, his rich, robust laughter inviting. Even his hearty appetite and the way his mouth moved when he chewed drove her to distraction. Soft light from the hearth spilled over the cut of his auburn-bristled jaw. A jaw strong enough to withstand Duff’s mighty fists—and Hamish’s. The curled dip of his plump lower lip taunted her with memories of how it felt against her mouth, her teeth. She wanted more. Her desire made her feel flush—or was it the ale?
She had to take hold of herself. She refused to faint again. She had to stay focused, see to her plans. She didn’t want—
“Is there a woman waiting for you to return home?” Mary asked. Charlie listened.
He soaked up the last bit of stew on a piece of black bread and put it in his mouth. “I’d like to believe m’ mother and sisters, well.” He paused his words and his chewing for a moment as if a thought had just popped into his head. “Violet at least,” he continued, swallowing, “would be pleased by m’ return. M’ aunts and cousins, as well, but there is no lass who awaits m’ return.”
“You have two sisters, then?” Charlie asked, feeling overwhelmingly relieved and trying to conceal it from him by asking about his kin. Why did sitting with him around the Wallace supper table, sharing food and drink and laughter, feel like everything had finally come into place? Like she fit. Did she want this? What about her plans with Elsie?
“Why won’t Mailie be pleased by your return?” she asked, her pulse racing at her thoughts.
He laughed, and she watched the muscles in his throat flex. “I was hopin’ ye wouldna remember m’ mention of her and ask me that.”
“Now you must answer,” Mary told him, getting up to pour her husband more ale.
Patrick conceded, sitting back to think more about his answer. “Mailie,” he began, “grew up with her head hidden in books, where men behave in a certain manner and honor rules the day. I dinna behave like those men and it vexes her greatly. I confess I’ve gone oot of m’ way to frustrate her. She hasna lost hope though. She is sure she can change me.”
“Can she?” Charlie asked him with a smile teasing her lips.
He looked at her with a spark in his eyes that proved what he said next was true, “I’m no’ the romantic type.”
Charlie already knew it. She didn’t need him to make any confessions. He oozed sex and sensuality in everything he did, whether he was winning hearts, or trying to win hers. Was he succeeding? He dazzled her eyes with his laughter, the arch of his playful brow, the quirk of his sinister mouth—sometimes at the same time—all seemingly unimportant, but meant solely to entrance, just as his pretty words did. He was rough and unrepentant, captivating in his charms.
And he refused to be tamed. Just as she did.
When supper was over and the table cleared, Patrick thanked Mary for a meal his mother would have enjoyed and promised Robbie to return tomorrow.
“Will you carry me to bed, Patrick?” Nonie asked, rubbing her eyes with her knuckles.
He couldn’t refuse her, even though he couldn’t wait to be alone with Charlie. A moment or two would make no difference. The wee lass was too tired to walk herself to bed. What choice did he have? Bending, he scooped her up into his arms.
“Me too!” Jamie insisted and lifted his short arms to him.
While he bent to take up the boy, his brother Andrew climbed atop Patrick’s back and wrapped his arms around his host’s neck. Patrick made a show of his struggle to regain his stature and laughter rang out all around his ears. He smiled.
“And tell us a story!” Robert insisted, tugging on the rim of Patrick’s sleeve when he straightened.
A story? he thought while he carried Robbie Wallace’s bairns to bed, with Charlie and Mary trailing close behind.
What stories did he know, save for the ones involving antics not fit for children’s ears? He glanced over his shoulder at Charlie. He certainly didn’t want her to hear any of those stories.
“Don’t you know any stories?” Robert asked as they reached the room and their bed.
“Of course I know stories,” Patrick replied and dumped the children, laughing into bed. “I’m simply thinkin’ of the right one. Let’s see now—” He tapped his finger to his chin while he backed into the seat nearest them. He held up his finger, remembering one his father used to tell him.
“All right then. This story involves an old crone and a legendary knight called Sir Gawain. He was nephew to a verra great king. He was well-known throughout the land as a formidable defender of the poor and of maidens, and the most trustworthy friend.”
“I like Sir Gawain,” Nonie said looking up at him.
“Then ye’ll like this story.” Patrick grinned, looking up at Charlie in the doorway, watching, listening.
“The tale goes that one Christmas the great king was accosted by a verra dangerous warrior. To avoid a fight, he agreed to a challenge. He was to return to the warrior in a year with the answer to this question: What thing is it that lasses most desire? If the king didna return, or if he couldna answer the question, he would lose his land and liberty.”
“What’s liberty?” Robert asked, finally lying back in the bed.
“Liberty is freedom,” Patrick told him, then continued. “The year passed and the king still had no answer. But he kept his vow and rode off to find the warrior. On his way, he met an old crone. Och, but she was ugly. Hunched over, her long nose near hit the ground!”
The children laughed and Patrick took his time elaborating on the witch’s unfortunate features.
“The king, bein’ great as he was, suspected the witch knew the answer to the question, so he offered her his knight and nephew Sir Gawain as a husband in return fer the answer. She agreed and a bargain was struck.”
“Sir Gawain had to marry the ugly crone?” Robert asked, looking horrified. Jamie and Andrew responded with loud squeals of disgust.
Patrick’s smile deepened. He usually didn’t have much use for children, but he liked the ones he was with now. The sight of them and the sound of them worked their way around him like one of Charlie’s veils.
“Did I mention,” Patrick answered, “she had a wart or two, dark ones with hairs shootin’ oot every which way.”
More laughter. He felt another pair of eyes on him and tilted his head to catch Charlie looking serenely enchanting in the soft candlelight.
“What did he do then?” Andrew asked.
“Well,” Patrick tore his gaze from hers and returned his attention to the children. “With his land and liberty secured, the king found the warrior and gave his answer. The warrior was verra angry because the witch was his sister and she’d helped the king.”
Patrick was surprised by how much of his father’s tale he remembered. He was pleased to see the lads rubbing their sleepy eyes.
He smiled at Nonie when she yawned and then softly asked. “So, did Sir Gawain marry the crone?”
“I will finish the story another night, lass. Tonight, ye will dream of knights.”
He waited another moment until she fell asleep and then followed Mary and Charlie out, where they bid their hostess goodnight.
The sun had set, casting a light indigo hue on the fields and muirs in the distance. The horses were where they’d left them and he headed toward them with Charlie at his side. He wanted to kiss her. He could think of nothing else all night. Every time she moved her lips, whether she ate, or sipped from her cup, or laughed, or spoke, he thought about kissing them.
Denying the temptation was becoming extraordinarily difficult.
“Did Sir Gawain honor his king and marry the crone?” she asked, tilting her face to him.
“He did,” he told her as they reached their horses. He stopped and gazed down into her eyes, lit in a glint of the fading light. “And on the night of their wedding she transformed into a beautiful woman.”
She quirked her lips and her dark brow at him. “So he was blessed for having honored his king?”
“Nay, lass. Fer she wouldna remain beautiful in the morn. She’d been cursed to spend half her life as a crone. And only the man who knew the answer to the great question could break it. The king didna tell the knight the answer.”
Her brow dipped with disappointment.
“But there was another way,” he continued, pleased at her interest in the tale, and even more at how he enjoyed remembering it. “His wife loved him fer marryin’ her despite her ugliness. She thought him a good man and hoped he would answer the riddle on his own. So she asked him if he would rather she remain in that likeness by day or at night. He replied that he would rather she be beautiful at night. But his wife would prefer her beauty by day. Sir Gawain then allowed her to choose. In doin’ so, he broke the curse cast on her by another witch. He had answered the warrior’s question. The thing lasses most desire is the freedom to make their own choices. From that day…and night on, Sir Gawain’s wife was beautiful.”
Neither one spoke for a moment while he basked in her soft sigh. “I think,” she said, stepping closer to him and rising up on the tips of her bare toes to kiss him, “tonight I shall dream of knights, as well.”