Worth Dying For (The Bruce Trilogy) (7 page)

Christiana’s fingers stroked my arm. I slumped against her to keep from swaying, barely aware now of the brewing quarrel. Her head drifted to my shoulder, the scent of lavender oil wafting to my nose. I reached over and wound my finger in a rebellious curl at her temple.

“Shall I put a stop to it,” I asked, even though I could barely have stood solidly, let alone stopped a fight, “before they actually do kill each other this time?”

“Who?” She lifted her head to look at me, blinking quizzically. Her gaze swept the hall until it found the brawling pair surrounded by whooping onlookers. “Oh, them? Don’t bother with them. They’ve fought before.”

“I thought you said they were old friends? That their son and daughter were betrothed?” My words were slurring, I could tell, but her nearness coaxed them freely from me. I traced my finger over her cheekbone, around the curve of her ear.

“Must friends always agree? Do allies not differ, lovers not quarrel?” She turned her gaze on me and I thought, for a moment, that in the depths of her pupils I could see the softness of the woman behind the strong façade.

I took her hand then, turned it over, and brought it to my lips to lay a kiss, light as a whisper, in her palm. “You’ll show me your lands, tomorrow? Alone? I’ve a proposition for you.”

On the other side of the hall, MacLeod jabbed his sword tauntingly at Macruarie. The mob pressed closer, hooting and stomping.

“You wish to go someplace quieter? More... private?” She brought her mouth close to mine, her breath tickling my chin. “
Now?
”

Crawford slammed his cup down.

Air hissed between Christiana’s teeth. She drew herself up rod-straight, glaring sideways at him. “Lord Crawford, you will expel those two from the hall this moment – from the grounds entirely if they refuse to make peace. They still owe me for damages from the last time.”

Fists clenched bloodless, jaw twitching, Crawford rose. Angrily, he whirled away and strode to the far end of the hall. He grabbed Macruarie by the forearm and yanked him to the floor. Macruarie landed with splayed legs, his sword skittering over the planks and clanging against the leg of a bench.

“Causing trouble again, Macruarie?” Crawford twisted a hand in the back of his shirt and dragged him kicking across the floor. “Best leave now or I’ll cleave your bollocks from between your stumpy legs with your own axe.”

When Crawford reached the outer door, two servants flung it open. With one brutal heave, he hurled Sioltaich Macruarie down the steps. The man’s screams of fury were squelched by the slamming door.

I pushed my empty cup away. “I’ve no wish to intrude if Crawford and you are –”

“No,” she said tersely, “we’re nothing. We never were.”

But her fingernails curled deeply into my arm told me that wasn’t so. Jealousy between lovers is a vile thing and I had no wish to become the object of Crawford’s spite. I realized, however, that she had thought that by ‘proposition’ I meant something more.

And I had not corrected her.

The sun concealed behind high clouds, we set out on horse late the next morning, just the two of us, although Crawford had led her palfrey from the stables for her and made sure the cinch was tight before he helped her up into the saddle, neither of them saying a word.

Over undulating moors, we rode side by side. The horses’ hooves crunched softly over dry, yellowed grass and occasionally clacked on lichen-covered rock. Our breaths blew billows of steam into the crisp air. Snow, freshly fallen, rippled in low drifts between sparse clumps of winter-dead heather. Not wholly impervious to the December cold, Christiana wore a long, woolen cloak edged in fox fur, but with her hood swept back so that her flame-red hair fanned outward from her face.

She led us to a promontory, overlooking the endless water. Below, seabirds huddled against the cliff-face on tiny ledges. Only the tireless among them dared to battle the wind and glide above the white-capped waves. I slid from my saddle and locked my hands about her waist to help her down.

“Out there,” I said, indicating a point of rock that thrust up from the water far out, “that is your island?”

“Hmm, yes, that one and the one beyond it. Those three specks to the left. The hills beyond Tirrim. Great swaths of forest and moor to the east and north. The dirt beneath your boots. Everything you see – and much that you don’t.” Chin lofted proudly, Christiana gathered her cloak across her to ward off the cold fingers of the wind. As she walked along the cliff edge, her mare followed her, its reins trailing in the snow. It nuzzled her.

She stopped to stroke its velvety nose and turned around to face me. “Am I different from her – your queen?”

In one heavy thump of my heart, the serenity of the past day was smashed by old, familiar sorrows. A pang of guilt followed quickly, as I realized I had not even thought of Elizabeth since arriving at Tirrim. Christiana’s charms had ensnared me, allowed me to exist in the moment: carefree, comfortable, complacent even – until now. Now, I ached. Ached for some fleeting pleasure to displace my loss, make me forget...

Christiana moved within my reach, her cloak clutched tight to full breasts. I looked her over. There was nothing subtle about her. She flaunted her sensuality, invited playful courtship and teased unfortunate suitors to madness. If Elizabeth was the delicate flower sprung from melting snows, Christiana was the sprawling oak, deeply rooted and broadly crowned, unbroken by frost or flood. I opened my arms, inviting her into my embrace. “As the sun differs from the moon.”

“And which am I?” she asked, fitting herself to me. As she lifted her face to mine, wind pulled at her hair, tossing it over her bewitching eyes. “Sun... or moon?”

“Sun.”

She smiled. “Warm, bright?”

“Hot, blinding. Overpowering, perhaps.”

“I could give you so much, Robert: a fleet of galleys, fighting men, arms, supplies.” Her deerskin gloved fingers slid up my arms, went round my neck and locked together. “Give me what I crave – and I will give you anything you need.
Anything.
”

“And you crave... what?”

“You, Robert. As I always have. As Eve must have craved Adam’s touch. Guinevere – Lancelot. And Delilah – Sampson. So I desire you. Madly. From the first time I saw you. It was my wedding day and it was you I wanted to be with. I have never stopped wanting that.” She laid her head on my shoulder, pouting lips brushing the crook of my neck. Her hands drifted downward, wandered beneath my cloak, fingertips making loose swirls over my shirt. “If you leave this time without coming to my bed, Robert, I vow I shall throw myself into the sea from this very place as you sail away.”

Mother of God, she was tempting. What man, but one already cold in his grave, could have looked at her and not
wanted
her? I was no exception, but this threat – to kill herself – was preposterous.

“You will do no such thing.” I caught her hand as it brushed across my chest. She gasped, stiffening in my arms. “Rather, you’ll console your unrequited lust on some other man from your hall, like Crawford whose protection you seem to need... or some eager, trembling, fuzz-faced lad who creeps beneath your sheets by night, pleases you to perfection and is gone at first light. Aye, you are clever, Christiana. Clever and undeniably beautiful. You play all those men against each other, telling each one in turn that you love him and no other. Your gifts serve you now, but one day when what remains of your youth fades away, they will fail you.”

Wrenching her hand away, she tried to pull free and flung her palm at my cheek, but I caught it before she marked my face with her temper and left it to sting.

“What I do,” I said, wringing her wrist between thumb and forefinger, “is not to sate some fleeting desire. It is to secure a kingdom.”

She snarled at me. “To secure your own crown.”

“Ah, indeed. But better on my head that it should rest than on the puddle of character called John Balliol.” I let go of her wrists, slid both hands down her waist and pulled her firmly against me. “If you would rather not have Norwegian longships invading your shores, then you –”

“Longships? From Norway?” Her large eyes suddenly became very, very small. For the first time, I noticed the crinkles at the corners of her eyes and the lines that finely etched her forehead, reminding me we had both grown shrewder with the years. Testing me, she provoked, “Are you king of that country now, too?”

“My sister is Queen Dowager of Norway, I remind you, and if you do not agree to my offer, then I will call upon her to send her ships to raid at will.”

“If you have such powers, why not use them against England?” Arching an eyebrow, she lifted her chin triumphantly. “Hah, you don’t and thus you cannot. Besides, if you dared to attack my lands, every clan from Kintyre to Orkney would come to my defense.”

Laughter rumbled from my throat. “Oh, I doubt that, but if it comforts you to think it, then have your fantasies, dear Christiana. Truth is, you have as many enemies as I do in those lands. So hear my offer.”

Waves crashed on the rocks below, filling the pause as she considered it. As if sensing an opportunity, she melted against me. “Then offer.”

Cold wind nipped sharply at the rims of my ears. Even under the layers of clothing, I could feel the heat of her body and her hip bones digging against my thighs. Sweet Jesus, she was like a cat in constant season. Did she never tire of herself? “As long as I am king, no man shall take from you what is yours. Your men and galleys for my protection.”

“And have I need of your protection? With what army shall you defend me, oh king? I think I liked my offer better.”

I threw back my head and laughed again. “Yours would have left you breathless for a night. Mine will keep you well and safe all the days of your life, until you are old and gray.”

“I shall never grow old and gray, my lord. When men will no longer have me I will hang myself in the stables. But, I
will
give consideration to your so-called ‘offer’.” She drew apart from me and called to her horse. It twitched its ears, tapped at the snow, then ambled slowly toward her, dragging its lips over the ground to nibble along the way.

I helped her mount, then took to my own saddle. We rode the distance back in silence. Every once in awhile she tossed me an appraising look. The wind gained force, making the day seem colder, despite that the clouds had raced off to the horizon. Finally, as we approached the castle gates, she said to me, “How many?”

“Of what?”

She reined her horse to a stop and looked at me with one eyebrow raised, as if I were ignorant of the obvious. “Galleys. How many do you need?”

“How many do you have?”

“That, my lord, would depend on whether or not you accept
my
offer. I can spare four, maybe five. More than that... You know where my chambers are?” With a cluck of her tongue, she signaled her mount forward.

I let her ride on ahead without answering. I knew.

The night was half gone when I rose from my bed, crept up the tower stairs in darkness and raised a fist to rap on the door. My heart raced, sending blood rushing through every vein of my being, urging me on. Before my knuckles touched the aged wood, it opened partway.

Christiana peeked through the crack. An aurora of candlelight burnished her hair in bronze. From her shoulders, a sea-blue brocaded robe hung carelessly loose. She ran bare fingers through the swirling mass of ringlets that draped over her right breast. As if perplexed by my appearance, she tilted her head. “You are in need of something, my lord? Shall I send for my chamberlain – or will a servant do?”

I wedged a hand through the narrow opening and pushed against the door. “If I may...”

The moment I stepped within, she curved around me, rubbing against my leg like a cat seeking attention. The bar clicked into place and I turned to see her leaning against the door. “You may have whatever you –”

I wrapped an arm about her waist and pulled her to me, my mouth seeking hers. She whipped her head aside with a murmur of protest. Lightly, I kissed her neck, flicked my tongue over her earlobe.

“Whatever you... want, but... I –” Her words faded with a shudder.

With a mere finger, I turned her chin. Full lips parted at the pressure of mine. Hungrily, my tongue darted in and out, exploring. The robe slipped from her shoulders. She stepped from me, pulling me gently across the floor. White as virginal snow, her chemise clung to every full curve of her body as she moved, pert nipples jutting against the constraints of crisp cloth. My fingers tugged at the laces at the front as I followed her, loosening it.

Then, as she stood before the massive bed, she peeled the chemise away. With a whisper, it fell to reveal the rapture that awaited me.

Ch. 6

Robert the Bruce – Rathlin, 1306

For a handful of galleys, a score of fighting men, I willingly took what was given to me. Christiana of the Isles granted me the use of twenty-five sleek galleys. From Mackenzie of Kintail I received ten more. With those we already had from Kintyre, I now commanded a large fleet that could move armed men and supplies swiftly around the coastline. English ships could carry more men, but they were too bulky to maneuver far within the lochs like our galleys could.

Crawford requested to accompany me to Rathlin. My first thought was that he’d murder me in a fit of jealousy one cold night and toss my body into the sea. But over a cask of wine, he confessed that it was Christiana he’d strangle if he spent another day in her presence. She released him without hesitation, no doubt ready to turn her attentions elsewhere the moment we were both gone from sight. In the few weeks I had been with her, she had gone from insatiable to insipid, her attentions wandering, her enthusiasm for mine dampened. Of late, she had been more irritable, prone to argue, and I sensed a pattern confirmed by Crawford’s confession. For Christiana, the thrill was in the hunt, not the having.

The weather proved fairer on our return voyage, but shrieking gulls assaulted us all the way, no doubt expecting fish, which we did not have. The moment Rathlin’s bleak, gray cliffs cut across the horizon, a knife of loathing sliced through my gut. Months ago, it had spared us from our enemies’ pursuit and saved us from wandering upon the winter sea. Now, I saw it for what it was: an isolated, frozen slab of bird droppings. Oh why I had ever abandoned the intemperance of Christiana’s hall and the transient pleasures of her bed – never mind her fickle mood – to come back to this purgatory of ice and stone? Surely a man who had known such hardships as I deserved some indulgences – and time enough to refresh both body and spirit?