The Firebrand (35 page)

There were other images, far more carnal ones. Henry, buried deep inside her, holding her on his lap as he suckled her breast. She remembered her own moans and felt the heat in her own belly stirring again. Over and over again, he had sent her into a realm of quivering rapture, driving her ever higher into a world she had never before experienced…even in the arms of the man she had loved and cherished for so many years.

Finally, they had risen together on a joyous wave, riding a crest of bliss until she was sure she would go mad. Even now, Nichola could hear their cries in the night. Even now, she could feel him driving into her again and again until the two of them had burst in a flood of ecstasy, melting finally in each other’s arms.

And then, they had simply begun again.

Nichola covered her face with her hands and shook her head. What was wrong with her? Moving again to the window, she once more filled her chest with the icy air, trying to cool the madness that was rising within her. Where had this need come from? How had this man so easily seen it in her…and known how to answer it so passionately?

Nichola turned and leaned her back against the sill. How could she go on living with this? The marriage was not the problem, but the intimacy was unfathomable. The innocent faces of her daughters moved before her eyes. What disapproval they each would feel—and rightly so—for her betrayal of their father! Why, she had sold herself—body and soul—in a marriage to another man.

There was a gentle knock on the door, and Nichola jumped, hurriedly closing the shutters. She had sent a word to Henry this morning, after waking up and finding he had already left their bed. She wished to see a priest. She wished to confess her sins and shed some of the weight that was now beating her to the ground.

There was another knock, and this time she called the person to enter. The creaking of the door on its ancient hinges drew Nichola’s gaze to the face of her visitor.

She gasped with delight at seeing the familiar face.

“Benedict!”

****

Vivid memories of three days sitting off the coast of Africa came back to Wyntoun now. It was four years ago. He and Alan had just taken a cargo of gold from a Portuguese treasure ship too badly damaged to take as well. As they’d turned for home, he remembered his cousin saying that if Wyntoun’s luck held, the new university in Glasgow would be one of the finest—or did he say richest—in Europe. That was when the wind died.

For three days they had baked in that sweltering heat. No breath of wind stirred. Not a ripple could be seen on the water from horizon to horizon. Never, never had three days dragged on so slowly.

Until now.

The three days since Adrianne had walked out of that tanner’s cottage had easily been the longest of Wyntoun’s life.

She had gone out of the hut and climbed the rocky bluff without so much as a look back. She’d returned to the castle without any assistance from him.

And he had stood there like a stone. Like some witless fool, he had said nothing, simply watching her as she walked away. Why had he not been man enough to tell her that he was moved by her words? He was a knave, a villain to the core for not cutting into her speech, making her understand that their pact was finished, though not as she thought. They had consummated their marriage, so there would be no walking away.

Wyntoun MacLean realized now that he had never known what the word
frustration
meant until he was forced to deal with his wife’s resolve.

She’d deserted their bed. Why, she’d shunned him entirely. The only time he saw her was when she was in the Great Hall, breaking bread with the rest of the household. Once, she had rushed past him out the castle gates. He’d watched her move across the hills toward Auld Jean’s cottage.

And damn him if he hadn’t tried to break through the wall between them. Damn him if he hadn’t gone to extremes to win back even a shred of her affection. He’d brought back enough leather with him to make ten outfits for Gillie. He’d made a point to send Bess, the seamstress, up to Adrianne. He’d directed Coll to start training the lad to fight and to sail. Why, he’d even assigned Gillie to serve as his own page.

When he’d seen her in the Great Hall, he’d been his most congenial, chatting and grinning at her like a jackanapes until his jaws ached. But other than a damned letter that she had written to him—the thing was more formal than a papal bull—she’d not spared him so much as a blasted smile.

Wyntoun MacLean was a cursed man. He missed his wife…desperately.

“Are you going to stand there for the rest of the evening, staring into that fire? Or are you going to look at these maps?”

He turned and glanced at the three sections of the map sitting on the table in front of Alan. The other two sections of the map had arrived that morning. The two sisters had sent them from Balvenie Castle without any qualms, at all.

Now, Wyntoun was even considering the possibility of taking them to Adrianne. To bask in the glow of her smile, of her renewed trust, would be a gift from heaven. But how long would that trust last, considering all that he’d held back from her? How long would that smile last when she found out that the Knights of the Veil had been the ones behind her mother’s capture? Or when she found out that Wyntoun himself had been the one who had directed the Brotherhood to take Nichola Percy?

He walked toward the desk. It would be best if he waited. Waited until he could set Nichola free and return Tiberius to the protection of the Knights of the Veil. Then he could return here and work diligently on winning back his wife.

If she would have him.

The door to the antechamber was shut and barred, the shutters closed as well. As Wyntoun bent over the worktable with Alan, he tried to be deaf to the sounds of the crowd in the Great Hall.

Adrianne had been arranging something for this night. Something with Mara. Whatever it was, she had been planning and working and planning some more. Wyntoun had been watching the preparations going forward, but had finally decided to turn a blind eye to it all. Whatever it was, he would have no part in it unless his wife told him about it herself. A number of messengers had come to him from Alexander and from Mara during the day, insisting that he join them in the Great Hall. But he could be stubborn, as well. If they wanted him, he’d told Mara finally, then they could send Adrianne to bring him.

And that, Wyntoun knew, was not about to happen.

Before him on the table the three portions of a map sat—the edges aligned to form a whole.

“The damned thing is so vague.”

“I would expect no less from Edmund Percy.” Wyntoun moved a burning candle closer and tried to focus only on the map. “The Treasure of Tiberius lies in Glasgow, of that we can be certain. The drawing of the salmon and the ring on Adrianne’s portion tells us that.”

“By the time we drop anchor in the Clyde, most of the others should have gathered there. With a wee bit of help from the older knights of the Brotherhood, you should be able to sort out some of these cryptic scratches.”

The green eyes of the Highlander remained riveted to the map. Solving it was not a problem. Keeping his mind clear and keeping his heart free of the growing ache—those were the more challenging problems.

Wyntoun and his men were sailing the next morning, going away for as long as it took to get the treasure and return Nichola Percy’s freedom.

By the devil! He was missing her already, and he hadn’t even gone away. He again tried to focus on the task on hand. He frowned at Alan.

“Have you heard anything, any rumor around the village or in the keep, that might give the true purpose of our trip away?”

Alan shook his head. “Nay, meeting the earl of Athol’s men in Oban worked very well, Wyn. No one on Mull knows that the men sent to Balvenie Castle have returned.”

Wyntoun glanced down at the map. “I want someone to tell Adrianne that our journey tomorrow shall take no more than a week…that we’ll be back before her sisters’ response arrives from the north.”

Alan’s gaze was thoughtful. “Why not tell her yourself?”

“I would if she would listen!” Wyntoun snapped, pushing himself away from the table. “I’ll have Alexander talk to her tonight. And after a week, he could speak to her again. Tell her about the tricks of the wind and the difficulties in predicting the length of a sea journey.”

If she would only talk to him tonight, Wyntoun thought. If she would only give him a chance to rephrase his harsh words. He hadn’t been wrong, by God, but he also hadn’t expressed himself very well.

Alan’s voice broke into his reverie. “I’ve been watching the lad, Gillie. I think he’ll be strong enough to come on this trip.”

Wyntoun nodded as he carefully folded the maps and put them in an oiled leather pouch on his desk. “He is my only source of redress with Adrianne. I’d make the lad king of Jerusalem if that would buy me her affection.”

Alan laughed. “A word of warning, though. The lad is no sailor yet.”

“I know, but he’ll do very well. He is healthy, and on our trip here from Barra, he handled the rough seas like an old salt.” Wyntoun asserted. “And I made no empty promise when I vowed to take Gillie on as my page. The lad needs all the advantage he can get in life.”

The knock on the door brought the two men’s heads around sharply. Wyntoun walked toward the door and lifted the bar. The big head of one of his sailors poked in.

“Ye’re needed in the Hall, master.”

“Who needs me, Bull?”

The man took the tam off and scratched his head. “The laird is going to be there soon, and there is Mistress Mara--”

“Who sent you after me, Bull?”

“I’m not supposed to be telling, master.”

“You have started thinking again, Bull.”

“Say what ye will, master, but yer wife’s threats are far more frightening. So, begging yer pardon, I’ll not be telling.”

Wyntoun nodded thoughtfully. “Well, why don’t you go back to the Great Hall and tell her…whoever sent you after me…that your master is not coming.”

“But ye cannot, master! There’ll be all sorts of hell to pay, and I...”

“A better idea. What don’t you go and tell Mistress Adrianne that I am surrounded by my people in here and that I am planning to work here for the rest of the afternoon…and this evening, as well.”

Bull looked suspiciously around the chamber. “But there’s no one here but Master Alan.”

“You are thinking again, Bull.”

“Aye.” The man scratched his head again and stepped back.

“Tell her that I want no more messengers disturbing me again. Do you hear me, Bull? No more messengers!”

At the sailor’s quick nod, Wyntoun shut the door in the man’s face.

“I thought you
wanted
to see the lass.”

Wyntoun turned to his cousin. “Of course. Bull is the tenth person she’s sent after me today. I’m hoping she’ll come herself.”

“I can tell you what this is all about,” Alan offered. “That way, you can--"

“I don’t want to know,” Wyntoun warned. “Now, if we--”

There was another knock on the door. Softer than Bull’s huge knuckles were capable of delivering. The Highlander moved to the side of the door and motioned for Alan to open it.

“Just a moment,” the shipmaster called out, taking his ship’s charts in hand before lifting the bar to the door.

“Alan--” Adrianne’s voice was quiet. “I was hoping you would relay a message for me to--”

“I cannot, mistress. He is far too busy in there with all these people.” Alan swung open the door wide and stepped out into the corridor. “You can go in there yourself and do the asking.”

The moment she peered into the room, Wyntoun reached out and took a hold of her wrist, dragging her in. He swung her around behind him, at the same time kicking the door shut with his boot.

“What are you doing?” she asked breathlessly, trying to wrest her hand free. He let her go but stood with his back to the door, blocking her exit. She took a few steps back, her blue eyes stormy. “There is no one here.”

By God, her face was a balm to his aching heart. “I thought I was the only one that you wished to see.”

“I was...I needed to speak with you. But Bull said you were in here, surrounded by ‘a hundred folk, at least.’”

Her cheeks were flushed. Her eyes were avoiding his gaze. He wondered what she would do if he just took her in his arms and devoured her lips. If he just picked her up and carried her to their bed. He glanced at the small dagger that she’d taken to wearing at her belt. He’d probably feel the point of it between his ribs.

“A hundred people…?” she asked.

“They must have passed you in the corridor.”

She frowned at him as he barred the door.

“Adrianne,” he said, taking a step toward her, “we need to talk.”

Her frown disappeared, but as she looked steadily at him, Wyntoun could still see the hurt in the depths of those blue eyes.

“We have said all that needs to be said between us,” she said, backing away from him until she was against the desk. “Unless you want to send me away until…”

“You are not going anywhere.” He took another step and she went around the desk, making it a barrier between them. “You belong to me as I belong to you. We are joined for life—forever.”

“I refuse to belong to someone who does not want me.” Her voice caught, and Wyntoun could see the sheen of the tears in her eyes. “I’ll not stay with someone who finds me so riddled of faults. I’ll not be ‘tolerated.’”

“I was angry, and--” He stepped closer. “And I could not think straight. I have never felt as helpless as I felt looking for you. Not knowing where you had gone. Whether you were in danger. Visions of you hurt in some ditch…or set upon by outlaws on the moors…I…I…Adrianne, this is all so new to me. I have never cared for someone so much that it hurts me.”

He watched her chin drop to her chest. Tears, shimmering like tiny crystals, were rolling down on skin as smooth as silk. He went around the desk and forced himself to stop a step away.

“I knew you were in search of leather for Gillie. I even knew the reason. But you never asked me for help. You never found me worthy enough to tell me what you needed. And then when I found you missing...” Wyntoun’s fingers ached to touch her. “I want you, Adrianne. I need you. I was more than harsh in what I said in Dylan’s cottage. I said those words to hurt you—to make you suffer, too. But I have suffered far more since that day. I cannot live without you. It is as simple as that.”