Maybe This Time, page 17
THE AMULET at Kevan’s neck vibrated against his throat. He motioned to the other mounted warriors, then broke away and crossed the heathered moor. At a distance, he assured himself he was alone, then responded to the summons from the Elder of the Council.
“It is good to see you, Prophet.”
“You, too, your grace.”
“Is your woman with you?”
“She’s my wife.” His satisfaction in finally having the right to say those words had his throat husky. His wife. Finally—dear God, finally—Alyssa was his wife.
The Elder nodded. “What progress has she made?”
Again Prophet noticed the weak gleam in the Elder’s left eye. Odd, that the right remained flat and colorless. “May I ask a question?”
Elder nodded.
“Your eyes—the left has changed. Why?”
“At this time, that is of no consequence. About your woman—”
Prophet accepted the topic change with a pang of disappointment. The Elder often refused to answer his questions, or answered with a cryptic message that required a lot of thought to decipher.
“She’s made remarkable progress in humility, your grace. Just last night, she prepared a meal that has half the warriors suffering stomachaches.” Kevan smiled. “She prayed for their protection against her cooking. And tears are common to her now.”
“This is good news. Positive progress, Prophet. I am most pleased.” The Elder paused and gave Prophet a shrewd look. “But what you are telling me is that she still hasn’t learned that all deeds, all things, have value.”
Prophet rubbed at the back of his neck. “Unfortunately, that’s true. She still considers women’s work trivial. But she has learned that it’s not easy to master.” He recalled how she’d wept at her failure, and how he comforted her. “That is progress, isn’t it?”
“Of a fashion.” The Elder stroked his beard. “You know, Prophet, a wise man never tries to change the color of the leaves. He accepts them as they are. Yet in their own time, according to season, the leaves do change.”
Prophet frowned. “I shouldn’t attempt to change Alyssa?”
“Your woman must change, or you’ll lose her.”
“Then what wisdom is in the message? I don’t understand.”
“Perhaps the season will guide you. Perhaps.” The Elder turned and cupped his crystal. “Seek your message in your destiny, Prophet. Your answer waits there.” The Elder faded.
“Kevan?”
Confused, disoriented, Kevan spun around and looked up at David on his horse. Where was his own horse? How had he gotten to the ground? And where were his men?
“Kevan, be you ill? You’re pale as a ghost.”
“Nay, I think not.”
“Young James found evidence someone’s scaled the back wall. No one was seen, but ‘tis clear someone has passed into the lower bailey. Your wife is already there.”
ALYSSA CAREFULLY studied the stones. Faint marks streaked the wall from top to bottom on both sides. She moved on to the nearest tree. Just above her head, the bark was gouged, the new wood not yet weathered. And close by, a slash scarred a little fork. She touched her fingertips to the cut. They grew sticky. Oozing sap, the cut was fresh. A flash of yellow caught her eye. Snagged on a limb was a piece of torn fabric. She retrieved it.
Blue and yellow. Her scalp tingled and she squeezed the fabric into the palm of her hand. “Innes.”
Looking for Kevan, Alyssa saw many warriors searching the spiky grass, the length of the wall—the entire area of the breach. She felt a burst of pride for young James. He had a sharp eye to notice the scrapes on the stone wall. Duncan had trained him well.
When she found Kevan, he was in a barren clearing, talking with David. Alyssa stepped to his side and listened.
“I’m sure of it, Laird,” David said. “Only raiders would slide the wall.”
“It wasn’t just raiders, David,” Alyssa contradicted him, hoping Kevan wouldn’t lose his patience before he listened to what she had to say. The man did take exception to being told even the tiniest things. “It pains me to say it, but it the intruders were Scots.”
Silence fell around them, and the men nearby moved closer.
“Alyssa, watch your tongue.” Kevan sent her a dark look to match his tone. “What Scot would attack my hold?”
This answer would put him in a rage that’d last a week. “Innes.”
Surprisingly, the man’s expression softened. “I know you’ve reason to hate the man, wife. But remember that when you name him, you name my allied-vassal.”
“I hate the man, and that’s the truth. But he would breach your holding—dishonorably through your back wall, and not through your gates, I might add—and that, too, is truth.”
That telling muscle near his eye was twitching something awful, warning her to tread with care. “You’re speaking in anger.”
She ignored it. “Aye, I am angry, husband. If a dishonorable vassal to my husband isn’t worthy of anger, I sure as certain don’t know what is. But I’m not being unfair to the man. I have proof.”
Skepticism riddled his face. “What proof?”
“This.” She held up the torn fabric she’d been clenching. “It’s part of a plaid, and the colors are known to me.”
“Who wears those colors?” David asked.
Another bloody test. This holding was brimming with them. Alyssa looked up, but not at David. She settled a frigid gaze on Kevan. “Innes.”
“Are you sure, wife?”
“Aye, I am sure.” So was Kevan. What mighty laird wouldn’t know his vassal’s colors? He was still testing her, and she was growing tired of it.
“Innes’ colors they are, Laird. I’ve seen them often,” Young James joined them, then glanced at Alyssa. “But no Scot would slide the wall, my lady. These men wore boots that left marks for all to see. Only raiders would make such a blunder.”
Feeling violated, Alyssa stepped closer to Kevan. “That’s true.”
“You agree, my lady?” James asked, sounding confused. “But—”
“I agree that raiders scaled the wall. But—though it sickens my stomach to say it—it was Scots what dropped from the trees.” She looked up at her husband. “I found the fabric caught on a limb, Kevan. There were fresh gouges in the bark still oozing sap.”
David tugged at his lower lip. “So which is it—Scots or raiders?”
Alyssa pressed a hand to Kevan’s forearm, surprised at how tense and hard his muscle was when he appeared so relaxed. “They work together,” she said. “Their breachings are too near one another. One must know the other’s moves.”
“Exactly.” Grimacing, Kevan turned to David. “Send two warriors to King Edgar. Have them ride swift and on separate paths. Tell Edgar I have declared war on Innes.”
“Do you request his aid?”
“Nay, I want to kill the bastard myself.”
The black look on Kevan’s face had the hairs standing up on Alyssa’s neck. “Kevan, you’re going to kill your vassal?”
“He breached my holding and my trust. Aye, I’ll kill him.”
She wondered which transgression Kevan found most offensive.
“But first, I must find him.”
“I’ll help you.”
He gave her hand on his arm a gentle pat. “Nay, you’ll stay home.”
“But I’m a good warrior. Who’ll guard your back?”
“You’ll stay home, I said. You’re my wife, woman, not one of my men.”
“But, Kevan—”
“Damn it, Alyssa, you must stop challenging me. I grow weary of it.” He stepped away from her, clearly grappling to control his temper. “Go back to the hall. Return to your women’s work and leave us to ours.”
Without a word, she turned and mounted Streak. Her plaid draped her shoulder, askew—the knot had loosened—and hot tears burned eyes. Knowing she risked feeling the brunt of his temper, she glared down at him.
An odd feeling slammed into Kevan’s chest. A powerful certainty that he’d seen her strike this same pose before—somewhere, at some time, a long time ago. But he couldn’t have; he hadn’t known her a long time ago.
Mute, she turned her horse toward the keep, dug in her heels, and rode like the wind.
Censure laced David’s voice. “She was worried for your safety, Kevan.”
“She’s my wife. It’s her duty to worry about me.” Kevan looked from Alyssa back to his men. Their disapproval was evident in their grim expressions. “You want her dead?” he asked them. “It’s for her that Innes dares my wrath.”
Tam raised his club. “He’ll have my lady over my dead body!” The gap from his missing teeth had his words whistling.
“And mine,” the burly smith added, flexing his wrist.
Soon all the men were shouting their vows. Their affection for his wife touched Kevan deeply. He well knew she wasn’t an easy woman to love.
Though she was usually right, she was the most worrisome little warrior he’d ever seen. She kept him half-crazed, challenging his authority at every turn. Since she’d been here, he’d spent more time pulling her off of the training field than he did training his men. Hell, between that and soothing her pain, what the woman had him was completely crazed.
Thinking he could use a little soothing himself, he frowned and rubbed at the knotted muscles lining his neck. The woman set fire to his blood in every way, and that was the sorry truth. He thought he’d get over this gripping need for her—God knows, he’d tried—but no matter how often he took her, or welcomed her, he wanted her still more. Aye, it was a gripping need—an affliction. But why hadn’t the damn thing eased?
He couldn’t answer that question now any more than he’d been able to answer it the thousand other times he’d asked it. When the sun set over the mountain and done was done, the affliction burned stronger than ever.
He was getting soft, he decided. Soft and crazed. Nay, she wasn’t an easy woman to love. Challenging, opinionated, always telling everyone what to do . . . But, by God, she was his woman. And he . . . he—loved her?
Shocked, Kevan stood stock still. The truth hit him with the force of a sledge. He did love the worrisome woman. How had she made that happen?
What did it matter? Though it proved he was crazed, he loved her. And if Innes wanted to try to take her, let him. The braggart would die.
Kevan saw his horse. “Beautiful,” he groaned. Only that worrisome damn woman would name such a beast Beautiful. He guffawed. What laird ever rode a horse named Beautiful?
His answer had him shaking his head. The same crazed laird who loved that worrisome damn woman. And was wanting to know if she loved him back. Frowning at that thought, Kevan rode to the keep.
THE HALL was empty.
Kevan dragged a bench out from under the table, sat down, then propped his head in his hands. What if she didn’t love him? The woman was wild in his bed, but that was lust and making love was new to her. Bah, of course she loved him. It was her duty. And, God help him, he knew Alyssa took her duties to heart. He didn’t care for the feeling that she loved him out of duty, though. The woman ought to be loving him of her own free will.
Footsteps sounded off to his left. Hoping they weren’t his wife’s, Kevan looked up and saw Margar coming through the corridor from the kitchen. He let out a relieved sigh.
The old woman looked surprised to see him. “Kevan, why be you here this time of day?”
“I’m thinking.” He straightened up and propped his elbow on the table. “Have you seen Alyssa?”
Margar filled a goblet with ale and set it on the table in front of him. “Oh, I seen her all right. She’s madder than—”
“I know she’s upset,” Kevan interrupted. The last thing he needed right now was more trouble.
“Upset?” Margar guffawed. “She lifted the rafters two feet with her curses on your head. If you be thinkin’ you can calm her down in a piddling week this time, boy, you’d best be thinkin’ again.” She pulled out a bench and sat down across from him. “What did you do to her?”
“She didn’t tell you?”
“The things she was yellin’ ain’t fit to repeat. Didn’t make a spit of sense, either.”
“I declared war on Innes. She wants to fight—”
“And you ain’t lettin’ her,” Margar finished for him. “Why? She ain’t worth spit here, but she’s a fine warrior.”
“Have you gone daft? She’s my wife.”
“Mmm, and mayhap you love her?”
Kevan stared at her, stunned. “You knew? I only realized it myself.”
“If you’d look with your hearts and not your eyes, you’d both be seein’ a lot more.” Margar stretched out a gnarled hand and tapped his forearm. “If it’s consolin’ to you, know the lass loves you, too.”
“Nay, she doesn’t.” That truth had him frowning. “She thinks I’m impatient and stubborn.”
“You are. But she loves you, anyway. She just don’t know it yet.”
Seeing Margar was serious, and knowing she was much wiser than he in these matters, Kevan pursed his lips to hold off a smile. “Mayhap I should tell her.” Of course the woman loved him. She came to him for comforting, didn’t she? Aye, she loved him, all right. She’d damn well better.
“Mayhap you shouldn’t.” Margar slid him a warning look. “She’s too riled, Kevan. If I was you, I’d keep my distance for a spell.”
“Mmm, mayhap you’re right.” He scooted back on the bench, straightening. The rushes under his feet crackled. “Where is she?”
“Out.” Margar looked away.
Worry flitted through his stomach. “Out where?”
Margar’s look soured. “Training the women with their daggers—and with the bow.”
Kevan let out a weary sigh and rolled his eyes back in his head. “She’s added the bow. I gave no permission, of course—she didn’t ask for it. Why in blazes must that woman always challenge me?”
Looking sympathetic indeed, Margar stood up. “Like I said, she’s riled. I’d be lettin’ her mull the matter for a while. Your carcass wouldn’t look good on a spit.”
Kevan bristled. “She wouldn’t kill me, Margar. I’m her husband.”
“Nay, she’d not kill you. The woman loves you. But she might take pleasure in woundin’ you a wee bit. Angry women have their ways of gettin’ even, Laird. And that’s worth rememberin’.”
Nine
FROM UNDER her lashes, Alyssa watched Kevan strip off his plaid and toss it onto a chest. His expression wary, he eased into bed beside her and settled down. He thought she was sleeping, but the man should know better. She was angry. And it was past time he knew it.
“Well, husband. I take it you’re through avoiding me.”
“I wasn’t avoiding you, wife.” On his back, he folded his arms behind his head. “I was protecting you.”
“Protecting me?” She turned over and looked at him, rustling the quilts. Moonlight streaked his strong features. He wore a lazy expression now, the one that crooked up the left side of his mouth just enough to set her heart to thumping. “You supped with Celwyn and Angus hoping your absence would sweeten my temper—and you know it. I wish she’d turned her bees loose on you.”
Kevan looked like he’d been kicked and hadn’t seen it coming. But his eyes glinted mischief. “Angus’s wife wouldn’t harm me. Neither would you. You’re much too gentle, unless . . . Alyssa, are you saying you have a temper?”
She glared at him. “Nay, I’m just as gentle as your crusty Margar.”
Kevan slid her a wicked grin. “Crusty? She’s a fine woman.”
“She’s a crusty, contrary witch.” Alyssa narrowed her eyes at him. “And don’t change the subject. I’m angry with you, Kevan.”
“Come.” He stroked her side, ribs to hip. “Forget your anger. Let’s be loving, instead.”
She jerked away from him, taking the covers with her. Let the lout freeze. “You ordered me to the hall. I’m more of a mind to take a club to you than to be loving.”
“First bees and now the club.” He squeezed her thigh. “You know I don’t approve of threats, Alyssa. Especially ones made by my wife.”
Her skin prickled, and she swatted at his hand. “It’s no threat. You’ll not touch me, Kevan, and I mean it.” A shudder shook her stomach, and she vented the worry uppermost in her mind. “You leave to kill Innes. Without me guarding your back, some raider—mayhap Innes himself—will run a sword through you.” Her voice trembled and hot tears blurred her eyes. “So what does your approval matter? You’ll be dead, and I’ll—I’ll be without you.”
Kevan brushed at her cheek with his fingertip. “You’ll miss me, then?”
Vexed at herself for showing him her weakness, Alyssa snatched the rest of the covers. “Nay, you’re a fool to refuse my offer of help. I’ll be glad to see your back.”
“Mayhap I am a fool,” he said softly. “I’ll miss you.”
She looked to see if he was mocking her, but saw only tenderness. Her heart sank. How could he do this to her? Make her care for him, and then put himself in danger senselessly. “You won’t miss me. You’ll be dead.”
“Even dead, I’ll miss you.” He held his arms open to her. “Come, be loving. I’ve a need to hold you.”
“I don’t want to be held,” she lied. She wanted it more than she’d wanted anything in her life. “I want to—”
“Alyssa.”
“Nay!”
“You fear my death and yet you refuse to let me hold you?”
Sensing a change in him, she searched his face. His eyes were hot, but they’d gone hard as metal. What right did he have to be angry? “If you die, ‘tis your own fault for being stubborn.”
“Stubborn?” His shout echoed off the walls.
“Aye, stubborn,” she yelled back, matching his fury.
“You’re trying my patience again, wife.” His voice shook. “I grow weary of your insults.”
He grew weary? The man was crazed. Arrogant, annoying, demanding—crazed. She leaned toward him and, nose to nose, asked, “How could I try your patience, husband? You have none.”
