Moonstone (26 page)

“You were not too late,” she said. “He lied.”

“Tell me the truth,
mo leannan
.”

“I am.” Tears rained from her soaked lashes. “He lied to you. You were not too late.”

The sigh that escaped him seemed to fill the room. He struggled to gather her into him, his sword in the way. She clung to his side.

Alec
appeared in the doorway, his breath short and his sword bloody. He saw Geoffrey, then strode forward and picked his sword up off the floor. Alec looked around the chamber. His eyes widened when he took in Rhiannon’s tears and her discarded gown.

Alec pointed his sword at Geoffrey.

“He has gone mad,” Rhiannon said. “Can you kill a man who has lost his mind?”

“I can kill the man who raped my sister.”

William felt her stiffen against him. She took a breath. “What he did to me is in the past.”

Alec’s gaze wavered, then hardened again. William recognized the
bleak look in his eyes. Alec took a step closer to Geoffrey. “Stand,” he commanded, his tone black.

“
He’s mine, Alec,” William said, letting go of Rhiannon and lifting his sword. He’d killed before, but never out of revenge. Looking at Geoffrey, curled into a ball on the floor, he knew he had it in him to plunge his sword hilt deep without one iota of compassion.

“This is not an honorable death
,” Rhiannon said.

“Why should he die honorably?”

Rhiannon wrapped her fingers around William’s hand. “You and Alec are the honorable ones. Geoffrey cannot duel you, and you cannot murder him.”

“Step aside, Rhiannon.”

She shook her head. “I won’t let you. I know this isn’t you.”

“What happened
last year?” Alec asked, looking from between them.

“Many things.”

Geoffrey began to wail like a
bairn
. He looked at William and cringed back in fear, crowding into the corner. “Dinna hurt me, Father. I will be a good lad. I will. I promise.”

William
pulled free of Rhiannon, still meaning to kill Geoffrey.

“William, please.”

“We can lock him up,” Alec said. “It will be a worse fate than death.”

“Remember when I asked you to run away?
” she said. “Remember how it was the last thing you wanted to do. But you did it anyway, because I asked you to.”

His sword felt heavy. He lowered it to his side.

“Do this for me. It is better. Let him rot in a cell here at Hanover. Alec will make sure he never sees the light of day.”

William felt himself giving in. What was it about her that made him cave?

“You have my word on that,” Alec said. He came forward, dragging Geoffrey to his feet.

William nodded finally, sheathing his sword.

“Reginald is dead, by the way,” Alec told them.

“
Then it’s done,” Rhiannon said, walking into William’s chest. He held her, letting it slowly bleed the pain and fear from his muscles.

“No more getting dragged off in the middle of the night,” he
told her.

He wanted to promise that he would be watching her like a hawk for the rest of their lives, but had no idea if Rhiannon would want to return to Scotland with him after the way he had let her down.

“Why do you stink?” she asked, looking up at him.

“We came in through the garbage shoot.”

Rhiannon hesitated, her nose scrunched, then she came back into his arms anyway. “I do not care what you smell like. Just hold me.”

He did, unsure of  how  much  longer  he  would have her to hold.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Rhiannon stood in the entrance of the stables at Hanover, watching William brush his horse. He hadn’t noticed her. Yet. She opened her hand and stared at the fat ring in her palm. Her father’s moonstone. Rhiannon had found it tucked away inside a chest in her parent’s bedchamber. The more valuable jewels had been removed already, but the ring, being set with what some would consider a lesser jewel, had been left behind.

Just because something was different, didn’t make it less valuable. Not in her eyes.

Rhiannon watched the way William’s plaid fell in even folds around his legs, listened to him speak in Gaelic to his horse. Triona and Ronan had been right when they told her that she had come home.  

But home wasn’t Scotland.

She moved toward William, but the closer she got, the more she felt her heart come under guard.

He
was still distancing himself from her. She had hoped things would be better between them now that Reginald was dead and Geoffrey locked away, but they weren’t.

William looked up, saw her, and straightened. He lowered his hand to his side.

She came around the stallion to face him. “I have something for you.”

He set the brush aside. She watched his shoulders rise and fall in a sigh. He turned to face her, but refused to make eye contact.

Rhiannon had had about enough of his hard, outer shell. How dare he continue to close her out of his heart after all they had been through.

She shoved her hand toward him. “’Tis my father’s ring, you idiot, and I want you to have it. It reminds me of the color of your eyes.”

Wincing, William took the ring from her palm.

“Will you wear it or not?”

His head was bowed, the ring between his thumb and forefinger. “I will wear it.” He slipped it over his finger. It was tight. He moved it to his smallest finger.

“You are a wee bit bigger than my father.”

“Aye.”

“And just as arrogant.”

He looked up.

Rhiannon took a deep breath. “I am tired of your cold looks, and I tire of your attempts to avoid me, and I am tired of your grouchy unloving-self.”

His eyes widened. “Unloving?”

She tipped her chin to him. “Aye.”

He shifted. “I tire of being used by you.”

“Used? What are you talking about?”

He stepped in, closing the gap between them. Her breath seeped out of her lungs and her pulse raced. Not in fear, never in fear, but with longing. 

“You share my bed, but not
my home,” he said. “You are using me, like every other woman has.”

Her jaw fell open. “You think I am using you for . . . for
your . . .”

He backed off. “
And I have used you, have I not? All you ever wanted was your freedom. So take it. I willna stop you.”

It took Rhiannon a moment to pull her thoughts together.

William, you braw, arrogant, barbarian of a man!

He left the stable and she went after him.

“Wait!”

He h
alted, his fingers flexing before he turned to face her.

“
Tha
gràdh agam ort
.” I love you.
“Now, answer me, William MacAlastair, where is my home?”

“Hanover
.”

She shook her head.

“The Highlands?”

“Nay.”

He frowned. “I do not know.”

Rhiannon
stepped up to him and wound her arms around his shoulders. “William MacAlastair.”

His brow furrowed. Either he didn’t understand, or he refused to accept her answer.

“You,” she said. “You are my home. Wherever you go. Whatever you do. Wherever you are.”

“But your
freedom?”

“
This is freedom. You are my heart. Will you stop me from following it?”

His arms came slowly around her, then he smiled, as if her words had finally sunk in. William scooped her up off the ground
. Rhiannon found herself wondering what it would be like to make love in a bed of straw.

“I love you, Rhiannon. Today, tomorrow
, and for all the days thereafter.”

“Then I am
free.” Rhiannon kissed his scratchy jaw. “Now take me into a stall and show me just how much you love me.”

He eyed her
as if he wasn’t sure if she was serious.

Rhiannon laughed and nodded.

There was something she’d recently learned about their
bairn
, or
bairns
, rather, that she still needed to tell him.

He carried her off. 

She decided to break it to him later.

* * *

MacAlastair Hall, 1609

Mora backed away, a familiar knowing smile on her face.

“Nay,” Rhiannon said.

“Aye.”

Rhiannon sat up, straightening her chemise. “It cannot be.” She blew out a breath. “Well, yes, it can be.”

Singing to herself, Mora went to her bag and began rummaging around. Rhiannon knew she was looking for the satchel that contained certain herbs. “But what will I do with the twins?”

“You have time, six months yet. Plenty of opportunity to acclimate them to goat’s milk. They are old enough now, anyway.”

Rhiannon stood, her hand over her lower stomach. She had not had her courses once since she’d met William.

Blast him
!

Mora handed her a satchel of herbs. “You know what to do with these.” She turned and tightened the cords that held closed the mouth of her leather sack. “I have spoken with my daughters, and my youngest, Christie, has agreed to move here.” Mora lifted her brows. “I canna keep making the trip between you and Triona. Christie will take good care of ye, and is willing to remain
on.” Mora took up her sack. “Be gentle with William. Although I suspect he will survive.” Laughing, she left the chamber.

After forcing his way into their bedchamber to witness the birth of their twins, William had decided that Rhiannon was, in fact, more than capable of having his children.

He’d faced his fears. Rhiannon wondered if he was ready for a home full of children though.

She padded across the floor, then pushed the door open. William was standing across the way, leaning back against the stone wall of the corridor, a chubby-cheeked teething lad in one
arm, and a chubby-cheeked teething lass in the other.

She held up the satchel of herbs. “I am to take these.”

He lifted his brows.

“And we will need to
acclimate the twins to goat’s milk.”

William rearranged his children into one arm and moved across the corridor toward her. Oh yes, he still made her breath catch and her insides warm. He always would. Rhiannon came up on her toes and kissed him. She heard the twins giggle, their slimy hands in their mouths as they chewed on their fingers.

William cupped her face in his free hand, his thumb caressing her cheekbone. “How long?” he asked.

“Six months.”

“We better expand the nursery.”

“That might be wise.”

He regarded her in her chemise, eyes thoughtful. “How many this time? Three?”

“If there are, I am blaming it entirely on you.”

He tucked his arm around her, his hand at her tailbone. “I shall gladly take the blame,” he breathed. “
Mo leannan
.”  

THE END

Enduringly Yours

By

Olivia Stocum

Prologue

(excerpt)

England
, 1192

Zipporah hated Peter.

She hated the way he teased her. And the way he
looked so sure of himself. She hated it when he told her how to ride her horse.

And most of all, she hated that he was leaving.

Because in reality, she didn’t hate him at all.

It was Peter’s fault,
for making her fall in love with him in the first place.

Zipporah
cantered her white gelding down the road, a three quarter moon lighting her path. She knew all the best ways out of her father’s castle, so getting away tonight was easy. She thought about the times she and Peter had sneaked away together. They used to ride their horses in the forest, or fish at the lake. It was all done in innocence, or at least it had been, until things started to change between them.

He’d surprised her when he kissed her in
the rose garden with the autumn leaves pouring down around them. There had been just enough chill in the air that day to make his arms oh so inviting.

One
kiss had led to more kisses. Kisses led to touching. She touched him and he touched her. And touching only served to heighten her curiosity.

When she
first came of age, her mother told her what she needed to know about being a wife. It was her duty, her mother had said, even when she didn’t feel like performing it.

But she did feel like it.

With Peter.

The thought of
being with another man in that way scared her. Maybe that was why she’d gotten so angry with Peter this afternoon, when he told her he’d decided to go on crusade with his brother, John. Her brother, Edward, was eager to agree, and now all three of them were going to war. 

W
hen she reached the secret cove at the lake Zipporah slowed her horse to a walk. She slipped from the saddle, brushing her long hair out of her face. She’d unbraided it for bed, then realized she couldn’t sleep until she’d spoken with Peter, and left the castle with her hair down.

She tied her gelding reins on a tree branch
with nervous hands and tightened her cloak around her. She wasn’t sure if Peter would be at the lake. But this was their secret place, and she hoped he would, because she needed to apologize to him for all the horrible things she’d said.

T
angled underbrush stood between her and the narrow, pebbled beach. She worked her way over gnarled willow roots in the dark, night birds scolding her. Zipporah’s hair snagged on a branch. Wincing, she freed it.

Finally, the moon was visible
again, now bathing the lake. Silver ripples lapped the shore. She lifted the hem of her cloak and stepped over a log.

Scanning the beach, she saw him.
Peter was sitting with his knees bent and his head down. His strong shoulders looked withered.

She’d wounded him with her words.

Zipporah
thought about what she should say. How could she repair the damage?

She
froze in place when he turned. Peter came to his feet. His surcoat had been discarded, and lay on the ground next to him. The summer breeze toyed with his sandy-brown hair and the edges of his flaxen tunic. He didn’t say a word, just stood there, his lean, hard body silhouetted against the shoreline.

Zipporah
took a breath. “I was wrong,” she said, the words slipping from her mouth without hesitation.

“
You have every right to be angry with me.”

“
Do I?”

“A
ye.”

Sh
e wanted to tell him why she’d been so angry. How did a lady go about admitting to her knight that she would die before letting another man touch her?

“I would ask you not to leave tomorrow,
” she began. “But I think you have to anyway.”

“I have no choice.
Not now.”

Na
y, not now.
He had already given his word to king and country. Sir Peter had no choice but to crusade the Holy Land.

T
ears stung Zipporah’s eyes, and she did nothing to stop them as they began to run down her cheeks. She hoped Peter would take pity on her, but when he didn’t move, she turned around and walked back down the shore, losing her nerve entirely.

“Where are you going?”
he called.

“I am going home.”

Peter caught up with her.

“Come
here,” he said, his familiar voice making her breath hitch. He turned her into him, wrapping his arms around her like she’d belonged there all along. She pressed her check against his warm shoulder and breathed in his scent of leather and pine.

“I have n
ever seen your hair unbound before,” he said, trailing his fingers through her dark waves.

“
I was saving it for my husband.”

“Zipporah . . .”

“I could not sleep. Not after what I said, not with your leaving, not with . . . Kiss me goodbye?”

“
I cannot.” He said the words, but his arm tightened around her waist anyway, digging into her. She lifted her chin toward his face in response. “Not like this,” he said. “No man has
that
much self-control.”

She opened her mouth to tell him that she didn’t care
if he lost control, but he cut her off.

“
I spoke to your father about us.”

“You did?”

“He said I was too young to marry. He is right. You need a husband who has proven himself, one with land of his own, not a knight who has only just earned his spurs.”

“I do not want another man. I want you.”

He winced, and she felt ashamed. Maybe he wasn’t ready for what she felt. Then he bent and kissed her temple, her face, and her neck. She hated that her cloak was between them and stepped out of his arms to remove it. Zipporah fumbled with the clasp on her broach then tossed the garment aside. It landed next to his surcoat.

She
stood before him in her pale blue kyrtle. It was the same gown she had worn hours ago when they had argued. Now it felt like a ball gown, and Peter her perfect white knight.

He looked her over, and she noticed the way his
muscles tensed.

Peter
shook his head. She’d expected his reluctance. He was that kind of man. “Do not do this to me,” he said.

T
he breeze fit the fabric of her gown into her body. “Don’t you want me too?”

“I want you.
”

“Then why won’t you touch me?”

“What if your father marries you to another man, and you’ve no proof that you’re pure.”

“I . . . will think of something.”

He picked up her cloak, draping it over her shoulders. “Nay.”

She caught his hand. “I’m afraid. What if my husband doesn’t love me? What if he hurts me?”

He bent closer. “I cannot be sure I will not hurt you.”

Nay, he could not be sure, because neither of them knew what they were doing. She
leaned in, her nose brushing his. “I rather be with you.”

Peter cupp
ed her face, his fingers calloused against her skin. Zipporah closed her eyes.

“You are cold,” he said, then he kissed her
mouth. Usually, when he kissed her, he was very careful, always stopping before he ventured too far. This time he was different, cradling her head in his hands while he devoured her mouth like a dying man.

Or one who was soon leaving for war.

She tugged at his tunic until he peeled it off. The plains of his chest beckoned her. Slowly, she reached out, laying both palms against him. His skin was warm and his muscles unyielding. He was like rock compared to her softer body.

“Zipporah,” he whispered
, bending to nuzzle her shoulder. “No matter what happens, I will always love you.”

Enduringly Yours

Coming October 2014