Susan King - [Celtic Nights 01] (19 page)

Sebastien sighed. "She is right, of course. We will help provide food so long as we are here."

" And how long will that be?" Alainna asked.

"Until my tasks are met."

"Too long," she murmured. Her fingers fumbled, and she dropped the spindle. It rolled across the floor, spinning out a trail of red yarn. Sebastien stopped it with his booted foot. She went near him to fetch it back, bending down.

He leaned over to pick it up as she did. Her head knocked into his with an audible
thunk.
Wincing, she reached out to touch his head, sure she had hurt him worse than he had hurt her.

At the same instant, he rested his palm on her brow. "Are you hurt?" he asked, still leaning over her. The warmth of his hand was amazingly effective, and dispelled the pain almost immediately. She caressed his high, smooth brow, his hair thick and surprisingly silken to the touch.

"I am not. I thought you were," she said.

"Not I." He withdrew his hand, and she lowered her own a moment later. "Your head is hard," he admitted, rubbing his temple.

"As is yours," she said, and reached for the spindle.

"That must be the sign of a stubborn girl," he murmured.

"Did you need a sign to tell you that?"

He chuckled. "Not at all." He began to wind the spilled yarn into place while she held the distaff upright. "One way or another," he murmured as he worked, so low that only she could hear him, "you will have to ease some of that stubbornness, and accept that your life is going to change, Lady Alainna."

She was silent, for she had no answer for truth. She watched his long, agile fingers handle the wool gently and deftly. A chill went through her, for she suddenly felt as if he held the thread of her very soul in his strong, capable hands.

She snatched the tail of the yarn from him and went back to the hearth.

* * *

"All the hounds and warriors of the Fianna saw that fearsome boar," Lome said as the Highlanders and knights gathered later that evening to hear a tale. The timber hall was warm and slightly smoky, and the blazing hearth cast a golden glow over the faces of the listeners. Outside, sleet pelted the outer walls, and a cold draft leaked through the door.

Sebastien felt the chill, for he sat nearer the door than the hearth. He leaned his back against the wall and listened to the tale that Lome told in a deep, rich voice. He had come to prefer this solitary bench in a shadowed side aisle for its privacy in the midst of the crowded hall.

"The sight of him could frighten a man to his death," Lome said. "Blue-black as a thunderstorm, bristles sharp as iron, eyes red as the flames of hell. His teeth were long and yellow in his ugly black lips, and his bellow could shake a man's bones.

"They came toward him, hounds and men, and the beast lunged, ready to slaughter and tear any who came near. As they drew closer, some of the men shrank back, and the dogs began to yelp, and more of the men hesitated, and warned the others to beware.

"But of them all, Diarmuid, the beloved friend and nephew of Fionn MacCumhaill, Diarmuid, who betrayed his friend for love, he alone was not afraid. And he alone went forward."

Alainna sat on a bench flanked by Robert and Hugo, with other knights seated at her feet. She translated Lome's story into English in a quiet voice, her words interweaving with his like a velvet shadow. Sebastien watched her idly, tipping his head back against the wall, turning his wooden cup in his hands.

"...When his friend Diarmuid lay wounded and dying," Lome went on, as Alainna echoed him softly, "Fionn had a choice to make. He could save his soul-friend, or he could seek the vengeance he deserved for the wrong done to him by Diarmuid and Fionn's own wife, who had betrayed him with their love, so strong that it overstepped the honor of marriage and friendship...."

Sebastien listened to the artful blending of the male and female voices in two languages. He studied Alainna's swan-throated profile as she spoke, noticing how the hearth's glow deepened the blue in her eyes and brought out the red-gold luster of her braids. His gaze glided over her body, traveling its lush curves and long, firm lines. Without effort, he imagined the warm, luscious skin beneath the draped woolen clothing, and he was aware that his own body stirred in response.

He sipped the
uisge beatha
in his cup. The drink flowed into him like fire and cream, and he swallowed again. Gazing at Alainna, lost in the mellifluent sound of her voice and the allure of her finely shaped body, he felt a spark ignite deep within him, subtle and powerful.

Later, when those around him smiled and applauded and asked for more from Lome, Sebastien realized that he had been so entranced by what he saw, so caught in his own thoughts, that he had missed the end of the story.

Chapter 12

Alainna walked out of the morning mist like a wraith, startling Sebastien so much that he jerked backward to avoid hitting her with his extended sword as he spun around. His left elbow knocked into the pillar behind him with an audible crack.

Breath heaving, he glared at her as he tossed the sword to the ground and rubbed his aching elbow. "Why the devil would you walk up on a man like that?"

"Pray your pardon," Alainna said. "I thought you would see me. I came out to talk to you. Why are you out here with the Maiden? I have seen you out here before, around dawn."

He cradled his elbow. "I prefer to practice my swording early, and alone. I might have killed you, for love of God—you came up on my left side." He paused. "My vision is not as clear on the left."

She set a bundle on the ground and came close to him. Her hand settled easily on his arm and she kneaded his elbow with strong, capable fingers. The pain dissolved quickly.

"Your vision is not clear because of the scar?" she asked. "How did it happen?"

"A few years ago, when I rode escort for the duchess of Brittany," he answered. "As we traveled through a forest, we were attacked by a host of brigands. I defended the van that the ladies were in, and several rogues took me at once. I fought them off, but—" He shrugged, unwilling to describe the bloody fray that had followed. "I was fortunate to take away only this wound. Many others died that day."

"Ach Dhia,"
she murmured. She reached up toward his face. Sebastien leaned away out of instinct, but her gentle fingertips found the scar and traced its length, sending shivers along his spine. "How fortunate you were not blinded."

"For a while I could see naught with this eye," he admitted. Her fingers were cool and pleasant, and she stood as close as a lover. He could smell the subtle floral fragrance in her hair. She always seemed clean and freshly scented with lavender or heather, and he found it distracting and enchanting.

"The duke's physician was certain that I would remain half blind," he went on, bringing himself back to his tale. "It healed, but my vision is not as wide out of the left. And so," he added in a lighter tone, "you were able to surprise me, slipping like a sylph out of the mist."

"I am glad you are not blind," she said, lowering her hand.

"As am I." He smiled in rueful agreement. "The duke and duchess rewarded me with property in Brittany. When I recovered, Duke Conan gave me a coveted post in Scotland as an honor guard for King William, who is brother to the duchess of Brittany. And that is my tale, lady." He inclined his head politely before turning to retrieve his sword.

"Not all of your tale, is it," she remarked.

"Not quite all." He sheathed the sword and picked up his fur-lined cloak.

She tilted her head. "You have not found much to challenge you in Scotland, I would think."

"Only hot tempered, fiery-haired clan chiefs," he drawled. Alainna's cheeks turned rosy, and he smiled. "True, there is little excitement. We did chase after a host of rebels last year, and routed them soundly."

"They fled to Ireland," she said. "I know. But a warrior of your caliber must be dissatisfied to stand behind a king most of the time, with little else to occupy his time and his talents." She tilted her head. "Is that why you want to return to Brittany?"

"There are many reasons for that." He lifted a brow. "Did you seek me out for some other purpose this morning other than to startle me out of my wits?"

"I came to tell you that Giric and the knights are readying the horses to ride out with you again. I will ride with you this time, if you do not mind."

"I do not mind at all," he said. "It is a privilege to tour the holding with the chief of the clan."

She slid him a wry glance. "I also came out here to bring an offering to the Stone Maiden." She indicated the bundle that she had placed on the ground.

"Where is your great blue hound? He is usually with you."

"He took a thorn in his paw yesterday. Morag tended to it, but he is limping, and prefers the comfort of the hearth-side."

"On such a bitter day, any sensible creature would prefer the fireside."

"You can go back to the hearth if you like," she said blithely. He chuckled. She picked up her bundle and walked to the pillar stone to lay it at the foot. Sebastien saw her set out a little sack of oats, a round cheese, and a bowl of cream on the grass.

"Offerings for good fortune?" he asked.

"And a show of gratitude to the Maiden for her protection," she answered. She walked around the stone three times, and then paused to trace her fingers along the carvings. She began to murmur in lilting, musical Gaelic.

Woman of the faery realm, guardian of our hearths,

Shield us and keep us safe

This day and this night and forever.

"A lovely charm," he said. "Why do you circle the stone?"

"It brings good fortune to go around
deiseil,
in the direction of the sun."

He nodded, intrigued. "Do you often come out here to speak chants to your Stone Maiden?"

"It is wise to do that before undertaking journeys, and on special days, and at times of need or change."

"Which is this?"

"Need," she said. "Change."

"Ah." He understood. "I wonder if she will protect you from the Norman invaders who have come to Kinlochan."

"She will do her best," she answered.

He stepped closer to the stone and glanced up the towering height. Reaching out, he touched one of the carvings. "This pillar has been here a very long time."

"Seven hundred years, so they say," she replied. "I remember visiting the stone when I was a small girl. I would hold my father's hand tightly as we walked here, for I was frightened of the great stone. My father never knew that," she said, smiling a little. "He used to boast that his little daughter had inherited his courage as well as his red hair and his stubbornness." She gave a sad shrug. "I miss him."

"He would be proud of you," he murmured. She stood very still. "And I suspect," he added, "that you put your courage and stubbornness into the wielding of mallet and chisel."

She laughed ruefully. "I suppose I do." She approached the stone and touched it like a friend.

"You promised to tell me the story of the Stone Maiden," he reminded her.

"I did." She glanced up the height of the pillar. "She was the great-granddaughter of the first Labhrainn. One day she went out to gather nuts and berries for her father's supper. As she returned to the fortress and walked past the loch, she thought of the faeries that live in the hills who were her friends, for she was a kind girl. She left some food for them and went on.

"A man called Nechtan, from a neighboring clan, approached her and greeted her. He offered to carry her basket and she waited for him. But he accosted her instead. She fought desperately, but he had a sharp knife, and wounded her."

Alainna turned toward the loch, and Sebastien turned with her. Brown grasses and reeds edged the stony beach, and waves lapped slowly into shore. Mist drifted on the water like wisps of silk.

"As she lay dying on the bank of the loch," Alainna went on, "with her life's blood pouring out of her, the faeries came out of the hill at the sound of her cries. They chased Nechtan and caused him to fall upon his own knife. Then they surrounded the maiden and tried to help her. Faeries are very good at magic, but they are not much good at healing," she said.