Knight Triumphant (30 page)

She agreed, then asked him, “But aren't you weary of being here? Haven't you a home, a wife, children?”

She was surprised to realize that she had touched upon a sore spot within him. For a moment he did not reply, studying his chalice. Then he told her, “A home, yes, just beyond Stirling, and far too close to English power to enjoy. A wife, once. She is gone.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Langley is fine enough,” he told her. “It's true, that we are all little but outlaws now. There were the very dark days after the defeat at Falkirk . . . and many of us took to the highlands. There, you know, there is little law but what the chieftains say, and they cast the weight of their clans with the man they most admire. Most often, though, they are fiercely independent, and therefore, ready for the call of freedom. Our own clan is such, one that has spread far and wide. Since Robert Bruce has been crowned king . . . for many of us, the fight is reawakened, and we will readily die to follow him, and become one nation where the English are not free to ravage our homes, steal our property, and slay our people. I am a vagabond, madam. There is property which is rightfully mine, but it is laid waste. One day, it will be home.”

She hadn't realized how closely she had lowered her head to hear him, or how softly he had spoken, until he raised his head, and looked past her. “Eric, we've a great debate going on here tonight, so you will have to decide on which plate of meat you find to be more tender. I contend that I am able to bring down the young and tender bucks, while Allan chases after those old creatures who can barely hobble through the forest!”

“And I am to judge in this contest?” Eric said. “Cousin, I haven't the courage!”

Laughter rang around the table. The meal went on. Igrainia didn't look Eric's way, but sat, giving her attention to her plate and the food for which she had little appetite. She was alarmed to find that she was so keenly aware of his physical presence at her side.

And disheartened to realize that now she was remembering his touch.

And anxious for it once again.

Eventually, he spoke to her. “Your letter is an excellent example of diplomacy, Igrainia. You could be writing missives for kings, and perhaps avoiding much of the bloodshed spilled in our times.”

“I see. You have read it already.”

“You knew that I would.”

“I still don't believe that it will stop anything.”

“Perhaps not.”

He was watching her, she knew. She still refused to look his way, giving her attention to the hounds by the fire.

“It's strange that you've suddenly grown so quiet,” he said.

“Perhaps I've nothing to say.”

“I don't believe that, madam, you've always a great deal to say. When I entered, you were deep in conversation, fascinated with whatever information you and Jamie shared.”

“He is an intelligent man.”

“I agree.”

Garth came behind Igrainia, clearing plates. Then Rowenna was behind them, pouring more ale. Igrainia murmured a thank you, and felt a strange chill, aware of the gentleness in Eric's tone when he thanked the woman as well.

Someone, at the end of the table, was strumming a lute. A soft, quiet song. Igrainia suddenly longed to escape.

When she would have risen, she felt his hand on hers.

“You're departing so quickly?” he inquired.

“Yes. If I may.”

“What if I were to say that you may not?”

“Then, I would be forced to sit here.”

“I would give a great deal to know your thoughts.”

She turned to him at last, wondering why she was feeling such a sudden urgency to depart. “You can force many things, Eric. But I told you before, my thoughts and my emotions are my own, and something that you can't touch. And though . . .” she began, and faltered. “And though I am resigned to many things, including you, it does not mean that I have to like them. And I am well aware of what your feelings are towards me.”

“Interesting, that you detest me so,” he said, and his tone indicated that it didn't matter in the least.

“Why? I find it rather amazing that you have discovered that you can touch me without appearing to have the need to push me as far away as possible.”

He shrugged. “You're mistaken. I do not dislike you.”

She didn't know why the comment seemed worse than an avowal of hatred. Perhaps because that would have meant some kind of a real emotion.

“Then would you be so merciful as to please allow me to leave this hall?”

He released her hand. “Go.”

She rose, and departed. She bid Jamie a goodnight, and smiled to the others as she left, shoulders squared, head high.

She didn't think that any of her guards followed her up the stairs. She knew, however, that Eric watched her as she went.

 

 

It was late when he came to the room. The fire had burned down to embers. She heard him disrobe, and join her in the bed. The covers shifted. For a moment, he was still, and she knew that he had paused, perhaps surprised that she had gone to bed as bare as he.

Then she felt the brush of his fingers. A touch so light, and yet like lightning. His caress, almost like a whisper, moved with an excruciating slowness, up and down her spine. She felt the hot moist pressure of his lips against her nape, and following the path his fingers had taken. His arm moved around her waist, and his hand cupped her breast, and his thumb moved with the same, almost tortuous lightness of caress around her nipple and aureole before sliding down her midriff, abdomen, and between her thighs. And there they stroked with an enticing practice of rhythm, knowledge, and purpose that brought a spasm racing through her, and when he turned her to him, she was glad of the darkness that would at the least cloak the mindless thirst that had seized her for more of his touch. She met the deep passion of his kiss with a rage of need, and allowed her hands to fall upon him. Her fingers delved through the thick mat of hair on his chest, curled to his shoulders, dared to stroke along the length of his back, and feel the hard muscle structure of his buttocks. She moved her hand low against his abdomen, and, still consumed by the overwhelming force and seduction of his lips against her own, did what came naturally, curling her fingers around the shaft of his sex. The pulse and power of his erection only stirred the coil of desire within her, and by the time he had entered her, she was desperate, aware of nothing but the need to be filled, and the essence of the man who would see that she was sated. She was near frenzy when climax seized her, and then it seemed that there was fire in a hearth where the embers had burned low, that stars filled the darkness where there was nothing but ceiling, and . . .

She had never felt like this before . . . never.

 

 

Sleep, Eric decided, was the greatest healing balm God had ever granted to man. Sleep provided dreams, swept away the inhibitions of day, defied thought and emotions. He awoke in the morning to find that she was against him, head curled into his shoulder, delicate fingers splayed across his chest, a long, slender limb cast over his hip.

The temptation to stay was almost overwhelming. But time was closing in on the forces at Langley. Every daylight hour mattered.

He disentangled himself gently from the woman at his side, and rose.

 

 

The days continued much as they had been, though with an urgency in the air. Every afternoon, Igrainia heard the clang of metal in the courtyard as hours and hours went into training. She could look out the window at almost any time and see that the parapets were being filled with arms, small war machines, and more.

Igrainia's day fell into a pattern.

She never woke before Eric, and was glad of it. She didn't want to talk by morning's light. She was sometimes vaguely aware when he left. And how she slept, against him. In the night there were times when she knew that she was cherishing different moments of the darkness. There was something in the heat of his body, the expanse of his chest, that offered a bizarre contentment and security as well. That she could be passionately, wildly aroused by him was one thing. That she could take such pleasure and comfort in simply sleeping beside him was another.

She bathed early, and spent at least an hour every day on her knees before the tombs. Sometimes, she would ride, though these days, it was never Eric who came as her escort. He was consumed during every hour of daylight with the training of the men, and the defense of the castle.

She took her place at the table every night. And partly because she knew it irritated Eric, she was animated when she spoke with Jamie, laughed at times, listened intently to others. She came to realize after a while that it was her form of a subtle revenge.

One night, she and Jamie tried to teach Angus to play the lute. He was terrible, his large hands fumbling as they moved over the strings. She knew that Eric, deep in conversation with Peter then, watched them. She made a point of enthusiastically discussing music with Jamie, and joining him when he asked her if she knew different songs.

The next morning dawned badly. Which was strange. She had slept exceptionally well. Though she pushed her friendliness to Eric's men as far as she dared in the hall, she always came upstairs long before Eric. And she always waited for him. Even if she drifted off to sleep, she waited. And wakened at his lightest touch.

When she woke that day, however, it was to a tapping at her door. It was Jennie who had come, to collect laundry, to straighten the room. She bid Igrainia a cool good morning as she entered, and started moving about the room.

“Jennie, are you all right?” Igrainia asked her.

Jennie dropped the pile of clothing she held and stared at Igrainia, her eyes full of fury. “Am I all right? What does that matter, my lady, to you? You've embraced the enemy. You've welcomed the men who killed Afton. You have become like an eager bawd night after night for the man who usurped everything and you flout the memory of a good and decent man with wanton shame, in his own bed, where you slept with him, where he died!”

Igrainia was taken aback. She was tempted to slap Jennie, and she might have been in the right, but she held her temper. “What is your suggestion, Jennie?” she asked coldly. “They are here, they do rule the castle. Against my will, I was married to him. And if you've not noticed, he is far more powerful than I.”

Tears suddenly stung Jennie's eyes. “You could hate him!” she whispered. “At the very least, you could hate him.”

“I—I do,” she said, but her words faltered. She was lying.

Jennie turned away from her in disgust. She suddenly felt ill.

Then her maid spun on her. “You are so convinced that they have all the power! Well, my lady, they do not. For the fields and farms to function, men and women come and go from these gates every day. And there is secret word to be had—for those who are willing to hear it. If you ever remember who you are, what you are—if you ever need or care for your own kind again . . . tell me!”

With that, Jennie fled.

Igrainia spent hours pacing the room, wondering just what Jennie meant, determined to corner her and find out just what she knew, and with whom she had been in contact. She wondered if Jennie had somehow managed to get letters out now without them being seized, and if so, if she had corresponded with Aidan.

Jennie's accusations rang true, and the guilt she had willed to the back of her heart for a long time seemed to come painfully to the fore.

Somehow, she had to find the time to talk with Jennie. They had become strangers, but it was imperative that they talk soon.

Feeling a deep sense of tempest and guilt, she bathed, ate, and headed for the tombs. She didn't so much pray to God as she tried to put everything that had happened in order for Afton, as if she could speak to him with her thoughts.

But he couldn't give her any answers.

Still, that day, she spent more than an hour on her knees, but neither time nor sore knees seemed to do anything to still the inner tumult that had swept over her with Jennie's words. At last, she returned to her room.

As always these days, she could hear the clang of steel from below as men trained and practiced in the art of war with a great urgency daily. Compelled by the sounds from the courtyard, she walked to the window and looked out, expecting to see the men, divided into pairs, learning sword techniques.

What she saw filled her with horror.

The men had been practicing with swords, a large group of them. They were still there, still bearing their weapons, and their defenses, but practice seemed to have taken a twist.

Only two men were actually brandishing their weapons.

They were not among the newly gathered men, raw recruits who had worked in the fields or practiced a trade and been won over to the cause of Robert Bruce.

The two combatants who fought in a cleared circle, surrounded by the others, were seasoned warriors.

She recognized them for the colors they wore. The distinct shapes of their conical helmets. The design of their visors.

For the family crest that was the same on both tunics.

Eric and Jamie.

They were both well clad in mail and plate. Both worked with swords, and carried shields, likewise designed with crest and colors.

And they both maneuvered their lethal weapons with skill and vengeance, their fight fast and furious, as vicious and determined a battle as she had ever seen.

For a moment, her heart caught in her throat, and beat like thunder in her mind. They would kill one another.

And her heart sank again, and she was filled with remorse.