Susan King - [Celtic Nights 01] (39 page)

Heat wavered over the joyful, familiar faces. Of them all, Sebastien thought, Alainna shone like a star, clear and beautiful in his eyes. Her head remained bare, for she had refused to wear the white kerchief common to married women, insisting to her kinswomen that she was not, as yet, officially married.

But she was, and they both knew it. Her kinfolk had guessed, judging by their pleased glances, that the handfasting had been consummated. He had the impression that the elders also assumed that he would stay with them at Kinlochan—he could see the hope of it in each smiling face, in every light step and heartfelt laugh.

He frowned, standing apart from the rest, conscious of the burden of their joy. He knew Alainna felt it too. He saw traces of the strain in her pale face, in her shadowed blue eyes, in the lush, somber curve of her mouth. She forced a smile, he saw—he had forced many himself that day—and came around the bonfire's perimeter with Lorne.

He sighed, for he had woken from the most wondrous night of his life confused. He did not think he could leave her now.

In the center of the fire lay the enormous Yule log. One section had been carved with a wizened face, an image Alainna had cut into it a few days earlier. Crackling flames shot up, and the curious countenance stood out clearly as the log burned.

"That face in the Yule log is the
Cailleach Nollaich,"
Esa said. Sebastien turned to see her standing beside him, her plaid wrapped snugly around her head and draped over her body. Her face was serene and perfect inside that frame. "She is the old woman of Yule. The
Cailleach
is also said to be the old woman of winter, soon to be gone. We burn her image to bring good luck to all for the coming year."

Sebastien nodded, watching Esa, captivated by her stunning beauty. A light seemed to shine deep in her lovely dark eyes, and the finely etched lines and shadows around them had somehow lessened in the last few days.

"You look well," he said. "Are you content here at Kinlochan?"

Her smile seemed almost secretive, and held a certain quiet joy. "I am very content here," she said.

Esa took his right hand then, and Alainna moved toward him to take his left. Wreathing the bonfire, Highlanders and Normans linked hands, and the Highlanders began to sing.

Unfamiliar with the words, Sebastien listened to the charming cadence. The rhythm seemed to vibrate in his chest, unexpectedly stirring his heart.

The song rang clear and sweet, rising with the bright flames into the pearly sky. Sebastien tightened his fingers on Alainna's hand, and felt the slender strength there, felt her fingers caress his, although she kept her gaze ahead as she sang.

They sang another verse and began again. This time Sebastien lifted his voice with the rest, forming a low, mellow foundation for the harmony around him.

Alainna glanced at him, her cheeks pink with cold, her eyes dazzling, her heart shining within them. For a moment, Sebastien forgot his dilemma. He pressed her fingers with his and sang on, his gaze still touching hers, his own heart brimming.

* * *

"Warriors we have about us now, warriors to fight at our backs, and it is good," Lorne said that night, after they had finished supper, another modest feast of the same foods offered at the handfasting. "And long and long ago, beside another fireside on another winter's night, the three warrior sons of Uisneach sat with the beautiful Deirdre, who came to be called Deirdre of the Sorrows. And the finest of the handsome sons of Uisneach was Naoise, with raven black hair and skin pale as snow, with cheeks red as blood. Deirdre loved him more than her life.

"Naoise sat that night and played a game of chess with Deirdre, she of the golden curls and gray eyes, her beauty enough to make men wild, her spirit sweet as a dove. She would forsake the love of a king and forsake her own land to be with the son of Uisneach. And listen, and I will tell you how Deirdre and the sons of Uisneach came to be in exile in Scotland together, and I will tell you of the end they came to...."

Sebastien listened, leaning his shoulders against the wall. He had taken his seat on the shadowed bench again, where he could sit in solitude after the revelry and camaraderie of the day before, with the handfasting, and this day, Christmas.

He watched the others and sipped from his cup of spiced wine, resting his back against the timber wall. The tale Lorne told was poignant and beautiful, full of love and loyalty, longing and sorrow. When Lorne recited Deirdre's stirring and poetic remembrance of Scotland, a description of the glens and hills that she had come to love during her stay there with the sons of Uisneach, he felt a tightness gather in his throat.

He, too, loved this land, with its white-swept mountains, deep glens, and silver lochs; its proud crags and stately trees; and its women like pearls. Alainna shone among them all, and he could not keep his gaze from her while Lorne spoke and she echoed a sultry-voiced translation.

"And when the sons of Uisneach were dead," Lorne said, low and sonorous, "and when they were laid in a grave, Deirdre looked down upon their still and beautiful faces, and saw Naoise lying between his brothers, and her heart turned within her for sorrow, and for love.

"'Do not break this day, O my heart,' said Deirdre, and she threw herself down, and lay dead among Naoise and his brothers, the thread of her soul braided to the thread of his, and theirs, for eternity...."

Sebastien swallowed hard, and sipped at his wine. Alainna finished her translation and rose. She glided through the crowded room toward Sebastien's bench beneath the rafters.

Finan stood, where he had been curled at her feet by the fire, and followed her. Sebastien roughed his fingers over the dog's head and patted his shoulders. Finan circled and then lay at Sebastien's feet, his tail thumping on the toe of his boot.

Alainna sat beside Sebastien. The reddish light in her hair was muted by the shadows in the raftered aisle, and he could not see her face as clearly as he had when she had sat near the fire.

She took his hand in silence, and he was glad. The sadness of Lome's tale rested upon him like a mantle. He wrapped his fingers about hers, hands cradled between them.

Lorne picked up his harp and began a song with a quiet, steady rhythm and melody that was exquisite and heartbreaking. Alainna leaned toward Sebastien to be heard above the music.

"They say that there are three kinds of music from a
clarsach,
a Celtic harp," she said. "There is the strain for weeping, the strain for sleeping, and the strain for joy. All harp music, they say, is one or another of those, and all harp music has the power to stir the soul."

"This one must be the strain for weeping." He felt it pull as he had never felt music stir him before. Just the blend of Lome's story and the wine, he thought, and the sadness he bore in his own heart at the thought of leaving Alainna, this place, these people.

"Lorne ends his tale of Deirdre of the Sorrows this way, but he will lift our hearts again with a strain for joy, and then give us a more relaxing tune for sleeping."

He nodded, listening to the harp strings, her hand warm in his own. After a while, Lome began another song, light and quick. Alainna glanced at Sebastien.

"I want you to stay," she whispered.

He sighed and looked away. Then he lifted her hand, clasped in his, to his lips. He kissed the smooth mound of her knuckles. Even that small contact between them swirled like luscious fire through his body. He said nothing, but his silence was an eloquent refusal.

She slipped her hand from his.

After a while he leaned toward her. "Alainna, I must seek out Cormac MacNechtan soon. I must speak with him about the king's orders, and make some determination of his loyalty. The king awaits word from me."

"Must you ride out to Turroch so soon? Christmas is scarcely past."

"The weather is unpredictable, and this cannot wait much longer. We have accomplished what we wanted, my lady," he said. "We are handfasted without Cormac hearing of it, and the marriage contract has been written out and signed. Father Padruig has promised me a copy so that I can send it to the king by messenger. I must also send a report explaining what I have found at Kinlochan, and what I know of Cormac MacNechtan's loyalties."

"Who will go with you?" she asked.

"My men," he said. "Giric has agreed, and Lulach as well. The rest of your kinsmen will stay here. In two or three days I will seek him out."

"He will want only battle."

"We will be prepared to fight."

She opened her mouth to speak, then subsided. He saw the glint of tears in her eyes. She stood, murmured a quick good night, and walked away.

Finan lifted his head, looking curious, and stood to follow her. Instead of going to her workshop, as she so often did late in the evening, she climbed the slatted wooden steps to her bedchamber above the hall. The dog went with her, padding silently upward where they both disappeared.

Sebastien watched the empty steps for a long while. The temptation to take her now, tonight, rushed so strong over him that he tensed with the urge. As desperately as he wanted to be with her, he knew he must distance himself for now.

He tightened his hand on his thigh and swallowed the rest of his wine in one long gulp. He sat unmoving.

Lome played a soothing harp melody, and began another. Sebastien felt his tension gradually mellow. The elders began to seek their beds, one by one, and some of the knights had gone to the other end of the long chamber to set out their pallets; the three young squires had long since retired, their tousled heads peeking above their blankets.

He sat alone on the bench while Lome played. Finally he stood and nodded to those who watched him, and climbed the stairs to the upper floor.

He eased open the door to her bedchamber. Her steady breathing emanated from the shelter of the bed that was hung with curtains of dark plaid. The small room was over the main part of the hall, so it was warm and close, and the harp was muted but clear. In one corner, the iron brazier gave off enough reddish light to reveal the pallet of plaids that she had left for him.

Her own comment, he saw; her thoughts agreed with his. A distancing was better.

Finan slept curled close to the brazier on a straw pallet. He lifted his head with scant interest when Sebastien walked past, and settled back to sleep with a lazy thump of his tail.

Sebastien went to the bed and parted the curtain silently. She was a cluster of shadows in the darkness, her breathing a susurration. He could smell the lavender-sweet, womanly warmth of her. His body surged like a fire. He reached out to touch the cloud of her loosened hair, drifted his fingers down to her shoulder beneath the fur coverlet.

She turned and the fur slid, and his fingertips grazed the bare skin of her upper chest. She writhed in sleep and made a kittenish sound. He felt his groin contract, fill, ache.

He drew his hand back, flared his nostrils, and cursed his pride and every goal he had ever had. He shut the curtain abruptly and turned away.

Removing only his boots and his woolen hose, he lay down on the wooden floor, scarcely cushioned by plaids. When he gave out a resounding sigh, he heard its gentle echo from the bed. Turning on his side, he went to sleep listening to the harp.

* * *

She waited by the Maiden while snowflakes whirled, light and fast, around her. Finan stood beside her, every so often circling her impatiently, his long face and wide brown eyes questioning and begging. He clearly did not want to be outside on such a day.

The gates of Kinlochan had been opened early, and when she had run out, with the dog in tow, few had taken notice of her. The men in the yard were busy with necessary tasks as the knights prepared to ride out, while the women were in the hall and the kitchen, no doubt sure that Alainna was busy in her workshop.

She saw them gather inside the gate, Sebastien on his creamy stallion, the others mounted on their own steeds, Giric and Lulach on dark garrons. Chain mail and weaponry gleamed gray in the pale light.

Alainna glanced up. The sky was powdery white with a snowfall that might thicken or vanish. When she looked toward Kinlochan again, she saw the riders moving out through the open gate, a host of horses and armed men, a grim vision of might.

She spared a glance for the island. Ruari still hid there, though in the few days since Christmas he spent less time in the broch, where he had managed to keep snug despite the weather. His arm had strengthened quickly, and she knew he now rowed himself to and from the shore, sometimes going out before dawn, or returning after dark, when Giric rowed Esa out secretly to stay the night with her husband.

The loch had not iced as yet, but when it did, he would have to find another hiding place. She suspected, although Esa had not said, that he and Esa would return soon to their house in the hills. Likely Esa would announce to her kinfolk that she was done with company and ready for solitude no matter the weather.

Now Alainna fully understood the depth and passion of the devotion between Esa and Ruari. She sighed, and watched the knights canter around the end of the loch, Sebastien and Giric in the lead.

Through the veil of falling snow she saw the faery warrior of her dream riding toward her once again. Her heart surged within her, and she closed her eyes briefly, savoring the memory of the passion that had flared between them like a need-fire. If he left her, she would have that memory of him always. If he left her, she prayed she would have his child within her, too, to carry on the blood of her clan. And to give her a part of him.