Once Upon a Plaid (7 page)

She tucked her skirts around herself and settled beside him, letting the shawl-like portion of her arisaid slip from her shoulders.

He stopped wondering about words completely.
Odds bodkins, a girl in my tower.

It had seemed so unlikely a happenstance that he’d never considered it. He’d never considered how good one might smell either. Dorcas had a whiff of something sweet wafting about her, clinging to the folds of her arisaid.

The real surprise was that Nab didn’t mind that she sat so close to him. He cut a glance at her and then pretended complete absorption with his hands in his lap.

“The worst that will happen is that we’ll be found out here and the stairs will be resealed,” she said.

That would definitely be worse. Where could he read if the tower was closed to him?

“I brought ye something. I’m thinkin’ ye didna have much supper,” she said, pulling a small bundle wrapped in cloth from her pocket. “’Tis a bit of Clootie Dumpling. Are ye fond of sweeties?”

He was. And Clootie Dumpling was his favorite—a rich, dense pudding flavored with currants and raisins. He took it from her with thanks and made short work of it.

“I like to see a man enjoy his food,” Dorcas said. “But yer hand’s all sticky now. Here. Let me.”

She took him by the wrist, and amazingly enough, he didn’t mind too much that she was touching him. But he was shocked to his curled toes when she licked off his fingers, one by one. It made him feel a whole different kind of hot and jittery inside.

He pulled his hand away.

Dorcas tucked her knees up and leaned her arms across them. “So what do ye do when ye’re here by yerself, Nab?”

Did he dare tell her? She might laugh and he didn’t think he could bear more laughter this night. Still, she had brought him a Clootie Dumpling, so he decided to risk it. After all, when someone has licked a body’s fingers, a body ought to be able to trust them.

“I read.”

Dorcas snorted. “Ye never do.”

At least she didn’t laugh.

“’Tis true. I’ll show ye.” Nab pulled the book out from under his plaid and handed it to her. The maid’s eyes grew round as she opened the pages and looked at the ornate script.

“What does it say?”

“ ’Tis the story of Arthur and his knights.” But
Le Morte d’Arthur
by Sir Thomas Mallory was far more than that to Nab. It was a whole world where the good fought to protect the weak and might didn’t always equal right.

It was a world he dearly wanted to visit, and if he ever reached it, he’d never willingly return.

There was enough action and adventure in the tome to please him and enough courtly love nonsense to have Dorcas sighing in short order. Girls liked that sort of thing, he’d heard. Maybe he could read it to her if she ever—

“Read it to me.” Somehow, even the middle of his thoughts managed to interrupt the beginning of her words. She handed the book back to him.

He turned to the story about the Lady of the Lake. Sometimes when he gazed out on the loch, he wished the Lady would rise up for him, sword in hand, her eyes blazing with destiny. He glanced down at Dorcas. She was peering intently at the ornate script, but from this angle her eyes were downcast, their pale blue irises obscured by the fringe of blond lashes. She looked as demur and fragile as any lady needing rescue he’d ever imagined.

Nab began to read.

“What’s this?” she interrupted yet again, sounding anything but demur or fragile. “It may as well be a mass.”

“I suppose it does seem like that to ye. ’Tis in Latin.”

Dorcas crossed her arms. “Makes no more sense to me than a mass either. I think ye’re making all this up.”

“Nay, I’m reading. Truly.” Nab removed his fool’s cap and scratched his head. “Suppose I read a bit to myself and then tell ye what it says in words ye will understand.”

Nab thought he’d never seen anything finer than the way sunlight danced on the water of the loch as the sun came up. It never failed to make his chest swell with the joy of simply being alive. Nothing could be better.

But that was before he saw Dorcas really smile.

She lifted a corner of his blanket, draped it over herself, and laid her head on his shoulder. “Tell me the story, Nab.”

Something new stirred in his chest. He felt bigger. Stronger. As if he were all the Knights of the Round Table rolled into one.

“One day,” Nab began, “King Arthur decided to seek an adventure, so he . . .”

—From “Make We Merry”

 

 

—An observation from Nab,
fool to the Earl of Glengarry

Chapter Seven

“We’ll need another leech under that eye if we dinna want it to swell shut for days,” a calm feminine voice said from somewhere above.

“If we must. I can barely abide the nasty things,” said another with a sigh. “Have ye any fresh ones?”

“Aye, I think so. Let me check in the . . .”

The voices faded and William sank back into the black pool of forgetfulness, hovering in the deep. It was peaceful and dark and undemanding. There was no pain. Well, not much. The eye the voices had mentioned did ache a wee bit and his back throbbed.

Cool feminine hands fussed with his clothing. It dragged him closer to the surface of consciousness and, therefore, closer to more pain. The skin around his eye was drawn so tight, it felt as if it might crack open. Fire licked at his ribs. He sank back and skimmed beneath full awareness, struggling to stay in that warm, shadowy oblivion.

“I’d almost forgotten about that scar.” One of the voices dipped down to him. A fingertip, as light as a feather, traced the hard ridge that snaked over his ribs on the right side.

“That fair surprises me since your father gave it to him.”

A memory bubbled up in Will’s brain, but he still made no effort to rejoin the world of light and increasing pain. Even though he and Kat had been pledged to each other for most of their lives, when William came of age, Lord Glengarry had demanded that he demonstrate his worthiness of Katherine’s hand. Kat’s father had challenged him to single combat, and though it was not a serious sword fight, both of them were bloodied before Lord Glengarry called a halt and declared himself satisfied.

“We canna lift him into the bath ourselves.”

“We’ll call for a couple of pages to help us once we get him undressed. And ye ought not to be lifting anything heavier than wee Tam in any case.”

There was another rustle of fabric, followed by a low hum of approval.

“Oh, Katherine. He’s so well made in all his parts. Tell me ye dinna mean to leave a man as fine as this.”

Will’s eyes shot open at that. Or rather one of them did. He was unable to pry his eyelid open more than a thin gap on the right side. Still, it was enough for him to tell that he was lying naked on a clean sheet with his wife and his sister-in-law peering down at him.

He tried to sit up. “Where am—”

Margaret stopped him with a palm to his chest. It was so covered with fresh bruising, the barest touch made him wince, and he eased back down.

“Ye’re in the earl’s chamber, his being the only one with a bath, ye ken,” she said in the no-nonsense tone he’d heard her use with her troop of boys when it was time for them to wash. She draped a square of cloth over his genitals. “There. If it’ll ease your modesty to be covered while we doctor your hurts, so be it.” Her grey eyes sparked impishly. “But truth to tell, good-brother, ye have nothing to be ashamed of.”

Katherine cleared her throat loudly. “I think I can manage now, Margie. If William can get into the bath on his own power, that is.”

“That I can.” He started to rise again, but Margaret stopped him with another hand to the chest.

“I’ll be taking my leeches back first, if ye please.” She gently poked at the slugs attached above and beneath his swollen eye. The bloated things obediently released their hold on William’s flesh. Margaret leaned down to examine his face more closely. “Ye’ll still bruise, but ye’ll have use of the eye tomorrow. Ye may not be pretty for a while, William Douglas, but ye’ll mend. Ranulf MacNaught, on the other hand, will be straining his stew through that new gap in his teeth forever.”

Then she turned to Katherine. “Make him drink some willow bark tea after the bath and apply this to any open wound before he dresses again.” Margaret handed Kat a jar of pungent, oily cream, gathered up her leeches, and left with the waddle common to women in the late stages of breeding.

“Ye’ve made an enemy of Ranulf, ye ken,” Katherine said softly.

“He was never my friend, for all that he’s your kinsman.”

“Dinna remind me. I’ve other cousins I wish were here in Glengarry instead, but with Donald gone so much, my father has come to depend on Ranulf.”

That could be a problem. When the earl had his apoplexy last year, it had seemed the keep teemed with more MacNaught supporters than usual. If Lord Glengarry had died, would Ranulf have challenged Katherine’s brother for the clan chieftainship?

“Well, ye said ye could get yourself into the bath so . . .” She waved a hand toward the waiting tub.

His father had always warned him against promising that which he could not perform, so he forced himself to sit upright. Every muscle in his body screamed as he strained to get himself out of the bed. Katherine came alongside him and put his arm around her shoulders so she could help bear him up. Will refused to lean any of his weight on her, but he did let her wrap her arm around his waist while he moved in short steps toward the copper hip bath in the alcove off the earl’s uncluttered chamber.

“How’s Nab?” he asked as he climbed into the warm water. His knees had to bend in order to fit, but the warmth was a balm to his sore muscles.

“He’ll do. Dorcas told me ye called out at the last for Nab to be cut down and it shamed the men into mercy. They were easy on him,” she said. “Only his feelings were hurt.”

“For someone like Nab, that sort of wound takes longer to heal than one that bleeds.”

“That’s as may be, but ye’re still bleeding a bit in places and ye’ll be black and blue in others well past Twelfth Night.” She eyed him critically. “We’ll have to bind your ribs once ye get out of your bath.”

He didn’t argue. Judging from the pain each time he drew breath, a couple of them were likely cracked. William closed his eyes, leaned on the copper backrest, and tried to let the aches drain from his body. At least one good thing had come from his fight with Ranulf. In a moment, Katherine would begin touching him, soaping up a cloth and cleaning every bit of him. Despite his hurts, his skin prickled with awareness, with anticipation.

Nothing happened.

When he opened his eyes again, Katherine was just looking down at him, a taut, drawn expression on her lovely face.

“Well, wife, are ye or are ye not going to bathe an injured man?”

‘
“Ye wish for a scrubbing, do ye? Then that’s what ye’ll get, husband.”

Katherine had removed her arisaid so she was wearing only her thin leine. The hip bath was so full now that William’s body was in it, the water was likely to surge over the sides. No point in getting all her clothing wet. She swished a washcloth in the water beside William’s knee and rubbed a dollop of the lavender-scented soap Margaret had made of beef tallow and ash in the wet cloth. She slathered it vigorously over William’s bruised shoulders.

“Ow! Easy, lass.”

“My apologies, milord. I didna ken ye were so tender. Lord knows ye havena shown your hurts to me. And in case ye’re wondering, I’m not talking about these scrapes and bruises.”

Will’s lips drew into a hard, thin line. “I dinna know what ye want from me. I’ve told ye how I feel about ye, Katherine.”

“I know ye want me in your bed. I know ye wish things were different, that I could . . . but I dinna know how ye feel about . . . about Stephan and the others.”

He closed his eyes. “There’s no profit in going down that path. How I feel willna bring them back.”

But it might ease her burden of grief if he lifted half of it. Clearly he either didn’t feel the loss as keenly as she or else didn’t care enough about her to share it.

“Sit forward and I’ll wash your back,” she ordered.

He obeyed. When she caught her first glimpse of his ribs, her breath hissed over her teeth. “Oh, Will.”

“As bad as that, is it?”

A dark purplish stain spread from his waist to his third rib on the right side.

“Bad enough.” She ran the cloth over his back as gently as she could, but the muscles under his skin still twitched. “Ye ought to think before ye challenge a man, William. And count his allies instead of charging ahead.” She shuddered. “If my father hadna come into the hall when Ranulf MacNaught and his friends were beating you to a bloody pulp—”

“I dinna need another whipping. Perhaps ye’ll let my bruises speak for themselves instead of laying on with your sharp tongue,” he interrupted. “How did ye say Nab is? He took no lasting hurt, did he?”

“He’ll be all right. At least he’s in better shape than ye. Ye’ve asked me about him once already. I suppose it’s to be expected since ye took a verra hard clout to the head.” She took a dipper and slowly poured water over his crown, smoothing his wet hair with her other hand, feeling for lumps. One was swelling behind his right ear. “It was a fine thing ye did for Nab. Foolish, but fine.”

Then she began to lather his hair with the soft, sweet-smelling soap, taking care to be gentle.

His shoulders relaxed a bit and he sighed.

There was a time when she’d lived for that sigh. When she and William made love, her goal was always to spend him so thoroughly, pleasure him so deeply, a sigh was all he had left.

And he did the same for her.

Then after the death of Stephan, each time they came together, she was driven to wring the last drop from Will because she reasoned she’d be more likely to conceive. Their joinings became frantic. Desperate. She wanted to give him a son more than her next breath.

She forgot about giving him joy.

And she didn’t let William give any to her either.

When they were first married, he lavished her with alternating tenderness and abandon until her world spiraled down to just him, just his mouth, just his hands, just his glorious maleness pounding inside her. He sent her spirit to another place entirely, a place where nothing mattered but their eternal “oneness,” their raging need, their shared delight.

It was a lovely forgetfulness. A way to make the world disappear for a time.

When she was trying to conceive, she was too worked up about whether or not they’d made a child to allow him to make her forgetful.

“Keep your eyes closed,” she said after she’d finished massaging his scalp.

“Don’t think I can open the one.”

“Tomorrow, Margie said.” She used the dipper again to rinse out the soap. Then she began sudsing up his chest.

Since he still had his eyes closed, she could study him without his being aware of it as she ran her cloth over his hard muscles. When she soaped them, his brown nipples puckered.

She almost leaned down and flicked one with her tongue. She used to whorl her tongue around the tight nub and then give him a little nip. He liked that. She remembered how his breath had hitched the first time she did it and how his eyes had gone dark and splendidly wicked. Just thinking about it made a heaviness, almost a rhythmic ache, gather between her legs. It had been a while since she’d allowed herself to feel that feral drumbeat.

She gave herself an inward shake. No good could come from it.

Then she washed his arms, first the nearest one and then leaning across him to reach the far side. She was close enough that he nuzzled her breasts, taking one tip into his mouth and suckling her through the thin fabric of her leine.

“Will!” Katherine straightened immediately. She covered the wet spot with her hand, pressing a flat palm against her breast to try to still her throbbing nipple.

He grinned at her. With one eye swollen shut, he looked like a right ruffian, but a wickedly appealing one at that. “Ye canna blame me, lass. Ye practically waved them in my face. No mortal man could resist such a ripe pair.”

Then he took her hand with the wet cloth and guided it down his body, past his chest and over his flat abdomen. As he gently pulled, she leaned down. The scooped neckline of her gown drooped, baring her breasts to his gaze from this angle. His smile faded and something far more potent than naughty teasing simmered between them.

“I miss having ye touch me, Kat.”

The earnest longing in his voice made a lump form in her throat. She couldn’t speak.

“And I’ve missed touching ye, love.” His voice was husky with wanting. He reached inside her scooped neckline to cup one of her breasts. Her nipple went suddenly pebble hard and so sensitive her knees nearly buckled.

“Kiss me, wife.”

She loved it when he told her what he wanted.

“
Lie still
,” he’d whisper, “
and let me fill ye with my love
.”

“
Climb on and ride me, my Kat
,” he’d dare her. “
And we’ll see who tires first, but I promise ye, lass, I can go all night
.”

“
Bend over, love, and splay your fingers on the floor. I’ll take ye hard and fast
,” he’d warn. “
That’s it. Your sweet pink slit is all ready for me. God, what beautiful hips ye have
.”

The memories made her ache. The early days of their loving were ones of endless discovery and carnal adventures so heart pounding they had to be a sin. But William and she were husband and wife. And even when they were naked, they were not ashamed.

Now, however, she was soul naked before William and that was much more exposed than just baring her body. Since losing her precious bairns—yes, she counted all the little lost ones as her babies—she wasn’t sure it was in her to ever be that open again.