The Angel Knight, page 27
One man, wearing his sword strapped to his back, turned to look at Christian and raised his hand in a salute. She blinked wide, her mouth open in surprise.
Her cousin Robert grinned at her and turned away.
“My thanks,” Gavin called breathlessly to the bearded man in a ragged cloak and leather armor who had suddenly, inexplicably, appeared to fight at his side. Several men had joined the skirmish from somewhere, but Gavin was not about to stop and question it, or wonder at it. He was only grateful for the help.
He struck out deftly at his English opponent, striking him hard in the shoulder, and the man came down to the earth with a scream. Turning, he assisted the ragged knight and others in beating back several English soldiers who advanced into the midst of the armed woodsmen. With the help of these strangers, Gavin, Fergus, and John soon surrounded the English, outnumbering them.
Glancing at one another, the English knights suddenly turned and ran, dragging with them their wounded. The other survivors had already scrambled up onto their mounts, and were shouting to their companions to hurry.
As the Englishmen retreated through the muck and the rain, Gavin looked around. Fifty, perhaps sixty men stood on the muddy ground where the skirmish had taken place. All of them, clearly, were Scotsmen.
They were as ragged as their leader, the knight who stood beside Gavin. Most of them were bearded and long-haired, with shabby cloaks and tunics; their armor, what there was of it, was tarnished and piecemeal. Plaided Highlanders stood among them, taller and more fierce in appearance than the rest, wearing quilted coats beneath their plaids and strange conical-shaped helmets that made them look even taller.
The men stared at him silently, and Gavin stared back.
He turned slowly. Christian, disheveled and pale, watched him, her eyes large and frightened. Fergus and John stood with her, and his uncle placed his hand on her shoulder.
Beside him, the knight sheathed his sword. Gavin turned again, his movements curiously slow. “Robert Bruce?” he asked.
The man looked at him, gray eyes somber, and nodded. “Gavin Faulkener,” he said. “We met once, long ago, at Edward’s court in London. I know your reputation.”
“As I know yours,” Gavin said, smiling. “You have saved all of us here, I owe you a debt, my lord.”
Bruce shrugged as if the debt were small. “I am glad to help my cousin and her husband. And I would rather have you at my back, man, than facing me with a sword. You fight like the wrath of God.”
Gavin laughed ruefully. “When I saw those men threatening my wife, I surely felt that.” He drew in a long breath. The battle-blood that had flowed through him had left his muscles trembling, his breath heaving, his heart pounding. Everything had an aura of unreality, like a dream played out in slow, vivid detail.
Gavin looked at Robert Bruce, the one man in Scotland he had been ordered to capture. And he held out his hand. “If ever you need help, my lord—”
“Then I will call on you.” Bruce clasped his hand and smiled again, a mischievous glimmer. Then he lifted his hand to Christian in farewell, and turned to motion toward his men.
Between the rain and the darkening shadows, Bruce and the rest stepped into the tangled oakwood and disappeared.
Gavin shoved his wet, straggling hair back with his hand, and looked around. His gut turned with anguish at what he saw. He hated the aftermath of battle, had always hated it. Four Englishmen lay slain, men none of them knew, but men all the same. Of the ones who had retreated, many of those, he knew, were wounded.
Christian came toward him, and he held out his arm. She came under it, wrapping her arms around his waist as he pulled her close. She hid her face in his tunic and clung, while icy rain pelted down over their heads. He eased his hand in circles over her back, and rested his cheek on her head. Looking up, he saw Fergus and John approach, pulling hoods over their heads against the rain.
“We will surely hear from Hastings on this,” Gavin said.
“Did they recognize us?” John asked.
“I have no idea,” Gavin said. “Right now, I hardly care. This is just one more issue between Oliver Hastings and me. No man harms my wife and lives.”
Christian looked up at him. “But we are safe,” she said. “None of us were wounded, and they are gone. Do not talk of revenge or hate. I want to go home.”
“Christian,” Gavin said. “Whatever were you doing out here in this poor weather, when Dominy and the others had already reached Kilglassie?”
“We were delayed,” Fergus said quickly.
“What delayed you?”
“I have reinstated your wife into the Scottish Church,” Fergus said. Christian nodded.
“You performed a sacred ritual, and then came out here and slayed men like a warrior?” Gavin asked. “Quite versatile. I am amazed.”
“We Scots, we are an amazement,” Fergus said, and grinned.
“Gavin,” John said. His low tone brought Gavin’s attention sharply to him. “Listen. There are wolves nearby.” They stood still, and soon heard a plaintive howl that mingled with the whine of the wind. Gavin thought he saw the glimmer of slitted eyes through the tangled bare forest scrub.
“Grab the horses. We’ll go back,” Gavin ordered. He helped Christian mount a charger left by one of the slain English knights, and mounted another himself. He spoke quietly with Fergus for a moment, who promised to send some villagers out the next morning to tend to the bodies of the slain and bring them back to Loch Doon Castle.
“Gavin,” Christian said, “those men who helped us—”
“I know who they were, Christian,” he said softly. “I know well who they were. Let’s go home, now.” He lifted his reins and urged his horse forward, riding through the sleeting rain. Home. The simple word he had uttered to her chanted in his head like a benediction as they rode toward Kilglassie. Truly his home, now. And he would do whatever was necessary to protect it, and to protect those who were dear to him.
He glanced at Christian, riding alongside of him, her hood shielding her head. For a brief moment, he reached out through the dark and the rain, and laid his hand over hers in a firm, reassuring grip.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“I do not need it,” Christian said stubbornly.
“You need it,” Gavin said. “Undress, and do it.”
She looked over at the tub, with its tented, dark interior. Fear, harsh and unexpected, swamped her. She thought of the tight space she had stood in today, surrounded by the English horses. And she thought of the cage. Memories of that vile place had not tormented her for weeks, but now came rushing back.
“I will not,” she said. “I am tired.”
He sighed. “We are all tired, lady. Exceeding tired. But you have been coughing since we got back, and need the steam.”
She shook her head, feeling foolish, but feeling compelled to resist. “I will not. It is too small a space.”
He tilted his head in puzzlement. “What?”
“Like the cage,” she whispered.
“No one will cage you again, Christian,” he said softly.
“Hastings sent his men out—”
“They’ll not take you again. Do you think I would allow that?” He stepped toward her. “Come, lady.” His voice was gentle and deep. “I will get in with you, if you like.” There was a gentle tease in his tone.
She laughed ruefully, embarrassed at her foolishness. “Then it would truly be cramped in there,” she said. She blushed, feeling like a child frightened of the darkness inside a curtained bed. “You think me foolish. You have no fears—else you could not have fought as you did today.”
“Everyone has fears, lady,” he said softly.
“What are yours?” she asked.
He watched her. “Losing you,” he said finally. “Now get in the bath.”
Christian heaved a long breath. “Ach, very well, then,” she grumbled, and slid her gown up over her head, tossing it down on the floor. “I would not want you to think me cowardly.”
He laughed softly. “I would never think that.”
“I do not need this steam bath,” she said, mumbling as she lifted her white undertunic over her head. She could feel his gaze on her.
“Mayhap I shall take this bath with you after all,” he said, the timbre of his voice suddenly lower. He stepped forward and swept her up into his arms.
She gasped in surprise and looped her arms around his neck, her bare breasts crushed to his chest. Then she pulled slightly away. “Ech, you are wet and muddy, still, in that tunic.”
“Then I shall take it off,” he said, and lowered her, bottom first, into the water, raising a fair amount of warm splash. She sank to her shoulders as the hot, silky water enveloped her. Glancing at the tent overhead, she breathed out her relief.
Only warmth and quiet here, and no threat. The memory of the cage had frightened her, and exhaustion had enhanced that fear.
Gavin tore off his tunics, boots, and breeches, flinging them away. As he parted the tent entrance to climb into the tub, she saw the hard contour of his body, straight and tall. His muscles gleamed in the low light before he hunkered down beside her. His presence was reassuring, and rendered the small space completely harmless—and pleasantly crowded.
The round wooden tub was large enough to accommodate two people if legs were obligingly bent. A thick linen sheet was draped inside, and the hot water, its depth nearly overspilling the tub, softened the cloth until it billowed sensuously against her skin.
She turned to face Gavin, her knee pressed to his leg, her foot against his hip. He leaned back, resting his arms along the tub rim, and sighed deeply. The sound sent delightful shivers through her body.
Overhead, the linen tent trapped the warmth and blocked the light. Swirling steam clouds filled the darkness, and the subtle scent of herbs tossed into the water, dried lavender and rose petals, made her senses spin. She breathed in, leaned back, and began to relax.
Rain pounded on the wooden roof overhead, and the wind shuddered heavily against the tower as the gale released its force outside. But within the steamed enclosure Christian felt a gradually increasing calm. Her fears began to disappear, lost in the lapping water and the slow count of Gavin’s contented breathing.
Feeling the simple pleasure of the heated water on her tired muscles, she realized that Gavin must have a profound need for physical ease after the events just past. She leaned against the side of the tub silently, not speaking, wanting to allow him perfect quiet.
He had fought with the strength of demons against the English soldiers who had threatened her. She had seen murderous resolve in his eyes and resounding courage in his actions. He had risked his life to protect her. She felt humbled.
She had not yet had a chance to tell him of her meeting with Robert Bruce. Touching the lean, powerful muscles along his arm, she sensed both his keen strength and his deep fatigue. Perhaps this was not the time, but she wanted to be honest with him.
Fergus and Robert Bruce together had placed a burden of silence and loyalty on her shoulders that she had not asked for. She felt a deepening loyalty to her husband, but his Englishness still frightened her. She simply could not judge how he would react. But she had to try.
“Gavin,” she said softly.
He leaned back his head, eyes closed. “Mmm?”
“You saved my life this day,” she said. “Thank you.”
“Robert Bruce saved all of our lives,” he murmured.
“We owe him a true debt,” she began. “And I—”
He leaned forward through the water and the sultry darkness to place a finger against her lips. “Hush,” he said. “We made a promise, here in this chamber, to have no king or realm here between us.”
“But Gavin, I want to tell you—”
“Later.” He slid his fingers down her arm to rest his hand on her thigh, his thumb slowly circling. “I agree that we owe your cousin a debt. I hope there will be some way that we can repay him. But for this night, I do not wish to talk or think about what happened out there.”
She hesitated, then nodded, stroking his arm. “Later, then,” she said.
“Later,” he said, his eyes closed. “Breathe in the steam. It will help your cough.”
“I do not have a cough,” she said, smiling, glad for his concern, and glad to abandon her troubling thoughts. She gave in to the pleasure of his hand slowly circling on her leg. Arching back her head, she sighed.
His fingers rubbed along her thigh and traced toward the crease of her hip. She let her fingers dance along the hard length of his thigh, slipping through the warm water, sliding along the soft hairs on his leg.
“I have grown accustomed to harp music while I enjoy my bath,” he said, his voice light and teasing.
“I will not play for you just now,” she said, feeling the water water slip around her body, heated and silky.
“Will you not?” he asked, his voice low. He slid his fingertips up her hip, grazing over her ribs, his thumb touching the underside of one breast. She drew in a long breath as he defined the buoyant shape with his fingers, and scooped its soft weight into his hand. She felt a delicious tingle rush throughout her body; against his palm, her nipple grew firm.
“I will not play for you,” she said breathily. “I want to stay in here.” She moved her hand. Beneath her exploring fingers, the silky, hard length of him swelled suddenly for her.
“Do you?” he whispered, a near growl. His fingertips swirled over her breasts, coaxing her nipples to react. Sucking in her breath, she tossed her head back. “Then come here,” he murmured.
Reaching out, he took her around the waist and pulled her closer. Water sloshed and waved around them, calming as she settled over his lap, facing him, her knees raised, her breasts cresting the water.
He circled his hands around her back and hips and leaned his head down to take one firm nipple with his mouth. She cried out softly and put her hands around his head, drawing him into the succor of her breasts, opening her legs wider over his lap.
His rigid, muscled length nudged at her, and she lifted her hips, fitting herself gently over him. He moaned low in his throat and kissed her, thrusting with his tongue as he gave a playful push with his hips. She gasped; he was hard and engorged, exquisitely silky and hot, pulsing between her legs.
He trailed his lips along her throat to one breast, circling the turgid nipple with his moist, warm tongue. She moaned and arched back, and a flush of joy, like the first tint of dawn, washed through her body. She wanted to meld fully with him; she wanted him inside of her desperately, and would not wait.
Easing over him, she pushed, and the hot, wet surge brought a husky groan from him. The wash of pleasure that cascaded through her body was sudden and intense. Heat surrounded her, filled her, soothed and caressed her. Sultry steam, hot water, his hands at her hips, his lips lingering over her breasts, blended and melted into a blissful harmony of sensation.
He pushed deeper, each thrust stoking the exhilirating heat inside of her. Rocking with him, feeling a wondrous, vital flame grow from the heat between them, she sought its brightest center with every breath, every motion of her body.
As he slipped his tongue into her willing mouth, plunging there, as he pressed her hips to his, she wanted, suddenly and desperately, to give herself to him utterly. She wanted to use this silent, beautiful way to express her love and her devotion.
Surging toward him, she offered him the pure joy that swelled through her; pulling back, she drew elemental strength from him, as the vigor of his body poured into hers. And for one soaring instant, her spirit flamed beside his and then merged, until the giver and the gift were one.
“Grandfather, father, son,” Christian told Michaelmas, plucking groups of harpstrings as she spoke. “Those are the lower strings, the male sounds. Daughter, mother, grandmother”—she plucked the corresponding notes—“are the higher, the female sounds. Try it.” She shifted the harp toward her daughter.
Michaelmas rested her small hands on the strings and plucked the groups, making tight little faces as she did so. The wires resonated faintly, some louder than others. One or two sour tones rose above the rest. Michaelmas winced and sucked on one finger, glancing up at her mother.
“It was fine,” Christian said. “Now remember to use your fingernails to play,” she continued, as she adjusted the girl’s hand position. “The sound will be much louder and richer.”
“Grandfather, father, son,” Michaelmas repeated carefully as she ran through the groups of strings again, lower to upper. When she was done, she plucked at the two center wires. “What are these, then? They sound alike.”
“Tradition says that those two harpstrings should be tuned to the drone of a beehive, and to each other,” Christian answered. “I like to think of them as the heart of the harp. Lovers, for they ring together.” She drew a deep breath as she remembered the harmony of pleasures that she and Gavin had shared last night. “Try the pairs again, now.”
While Michaelmas practiced, Christian yawned behind her hand and stretched her shoulders and neck a little. After an exhilirating, exhausting night, she had awoken late this morning to find that Gavin had already left their bed. Even now, well into the afternoon, she had not seen him yet, though she knew he had spent most of the morning in the great hall, discussing repairs with the stone masons and the blacksmith.
Early in the day, Fergus had arrived with his two younger sons, and had sought her out to remind her to keep her silence about Robert Bruce. She had snapped, a little irritably, that she had had no chance to speak of it. Neither she nor Fergus knew if Bruce and his men had actually gone through the lochside tunnel to seek shelter in the underground room.
But against the window shutters, she could hear heavy rain. She began to hope that her cousin and his men had gone into the snug hideout. In this weather, there would be no English patrols searching for them, and none coming to Kilglassie.
