Carolyne Cathey (7 page)

Then Eleanor saw
his mouth drop open in embarrassment.  With flushed face, his gaze took in Lord
Kyle's almost naked figure, then flashed to her.  She glanced down at her
robe.  A wet imprint stained the front and betrayed the embrace.  Heat stung
her cheeks.

John cleared his
throat.  "Fergive me, milord.  Nurse Kincaid bade me to rush this up to ye
afore yer food cooled."

"'Twas not
the cooling of food that concerned Nurse."  Lord Kyle stepped back and
gestured for John and the other lads to enter.

Although she
studied the flames, Lord Kyle's movements filtered into her vision.  He lifted
the lid on a chest that rested beside the hearth and removed a robe the same
color of his eyes when he had leaned down to kiss her---a passionate blue.

Eleanor vowed to
thank Nurse Kincaid for the timely interruption.  She also swore not to allow
Lord Kyle to kiss her again, for whenever his lips touched hers, she lost the
will to withstand his seduction.

Servants scurried
into the fire's glow and hauled the tub from the chamber, while others placed
two carved chairs and a wooden table in front of the hearth.

John set the food
atop the planks, then backed to the door as if anxious to leave.

"John?"

Eleanor tensed at
Lord Kyle's too-controlled tone.

"I'm not to
be disturbed again.  Not even if Nurse Kincaid says otherwise.  Do I make
myself clear?"

The boy's face
blushed the red of a pale beet.  "Aye, milord."  He turned and bolted
from the room.

Brigham strode
past the lad and halted in the doorway, a rolled parchment in his hand. 
"I must see you, Kyle."

"Not now,
Brigham."

Eleanor's flesh
crawled as if covered with lice.  The man scented foul.  Brigham dressed like
nobility, reeked of depravity, and strutted as if more than mere steward.  But
not for long.  After she informed Lord Kyle of Brigham's brutal reputation that
frightened even distant villagers, her master would surely replace the man.

Brigham glanced
at her, then at Lord Kyle's near nudity.  His eyes narrowed and she sensed his
hatred.  Had he perceived her intention?  He moved toward the hearth, slapping
the parchment against his palm as if in conniving thought.

Lord Kyle dropped
the towel from his waist and slipped the robe over his glorious nakedness. 
"What, Brigham?  What cannot wait until the morrow?"

The steward held
out the missive.  "A messenger delivered this, last eve.  Since 'tis from
the king I knew the contents must be of great import."

Lord Kyle sighed
and reached for the scroll.

The instant his
fingers touched the missive, a sudden darkness swirled in Eleanor's mind. 

An arrow
pierced a white cross.  Blood spattered like stars against the midnight sky
until all dripped red.  A dragon rose from the flames of hell.  The stench of
burnt flesh.  Screams.  Death.
 

Hers?  Lord
Kyle's?

The blackness
faded to the sight of Brigham and Lord Kyle, the scrolled parchment in both of
their hands as the missive passed from one to the other.  Willing her raging
pulse to slow before her heart burst, she wiped her shaky fingers across her
eyes to clear her gaze and to still her dizziness. 

A dragon rose
from the flames of hell
.

Earlier, Sir
Jerrod had mentioned that a dragon haunted Lord Kyle's nightmares.  Might the
dragon be Brigham?  Or the king?  An icy sliver of fear sliced up her spine.

Lord Kyle stood,
a silhouette against the flames, his head tilted downward while he concentrated
on the scroll, his face stiff, stone-like, as if he, too, sensed the evil. 
Then he tossed the missive atop a chest beside the hearth.

"Later,
Brigham."

"Kyle, what
is the matter with you?  'Tis from the king.  Do you have so little control
that you can't part from this wench for even a moment?"

"We'll
discuss this on the morrow."

"She blinds
you to your duty.  This witch has cast a spell on you."

The accusation
shook her from her silence.  "I am not a witch, Sirrah!"

Brigham spun to
face her.  "I see your eyes.  Witch's eyes."  He took Lord Kyle by
his arm.  "Come with me to the solar."

"Leave,
Brigham.  My food grows cold."

"Then
dispense with this Satan's tool.  I'll sit with you while you eat."

Despite the risk
to her life, she burned with an urgency to warn Lord Kyle of certain danger,
but she must wait until Brigham departed.  He already believed her touched by
the devil.  If he knew of her revelations---and worse, if he knew she would do
her utmost to see him ousted---he would not rest until he had her tied to a
stake, with a torch to the brush.

"And yet,
the dragon . . ."

 Eleanor caught a
breath.  Had she spoken her thought?  Fear that she had, paralyzed her body.

Lord Kyle jerked
his gaze to hers.  His face became as pale as chalk.  In one long stride he
stood before her, then gripped her arms and pulled her to her feet. 

"What know
you of this dragon?"

Brigham appeared
startled.  "I warned you she's a witch, Kyle.  You should have let me tend
to her at the green."

Lord Kyle's fingers
dug into her arms, his eyes filled with confusion and fear.  "What of the
dragon?"

Whenever had she
been so dull-witted?  How to correct the damage and yet tell the truth? 
Fearful she had doomed herself to the fiery death that had just flared in her
mind, she only stared at Lord Kyle as he shook her like doomed prey within
falcon's claws.

"Speak,
woman!"

Eleanor swallowed
to ease the dryness.  "When . . . when Brigham handed you the message, a
dragon rose from the flames of hell---"

Brigham shoved
between her and Lord Kyle.  "You are the dragon with your green eyes and
witch's tongue."

"Nay,
Sirrah!  You're but angered that Lord Kyle took me before you could cut off my
hand."

"The
insolence!" 

Her cheek stung
from a slap, then she stumbled against her chair.

Lord Kyle yanked
Brigham and slung him against the stone wall.  "You touch her again and
I'll kill you."

"She's
naught but a whoring witch!"

"Out,
Brigham!"

"I only
protect you, Kyle.  Find another wench to bed.  I care for you too much
to---"

"I said,
out!"

The man glared
hatred at Eleanor as he pushed away from the wall.  Then something dangerous
turned over behind his eyes, a danger assuring such sadistic revenge that she
already felt dragged, screaming into oblivion.

He straightened,
nodded, then strode from the chamber.

Lord Kyle shut
the door and slid the bar into place.  He turned, leaned his back against the
wood, arms crossed, the image of suspicion.

"Who are
you?  And what in Satan's den is that cursed dream?"

"
Y
ou know who I am, Sire."

"I'm not
certain I do." 

Lord Kyle
strolled toward her with animalistic grace, halting an embrace away.

Eleanor's pulse
quickened.  Did he mean to kiss her again?  Or throw her out?  Oddly disturbed
by the thought of leaving, she focused on his magnificent chest now shamefully
hidden by the blue cote.  Eleanor clenched her hands at her sides to keep from
touching him, in wonder if any male would affect her thus, or only Lord Kyle. 

He lifted his
hands as if he, too, ached for contact, then he released a frustrated sigh and
gestured toward a chair.  "You will explain about the dream as we
sup."

After assisting
her, he sat on the opposite side of the square table and gripped the handle of
the clay ewer, then paused, his gaze piercing, intense. 

"You are an
enigma, woman.  You have an effect on me; I cannot explain the feeling, but you
draw an emotion from out of me I have never felt with any other female, not
even Cathryn."

Stunned by his
admission, Eleanor watched him pour ale into her tankard, then his, her senses
heightened to memorize the moment.  The gurgle of amber liquid blended with the
hisses and pops of the fire, the patter of rain, the whine of the wind.  A
yeasty fragrance mingled with the smoke, rosemary, and lavender. 

Scrutinizing her
as if for a solution, Lord Kyle replaced the container and picked up a morsel
of meat from the trencher, the drippings glistening on his fingers like oil in
sunshine.  He nudged her lips with the food. 

"Open."

Praying he
wouldn't hear the wild palpitation of her heart, she parted her lips and Lord
Kyle placed the bite on her tongue.  She tasted partridge, succulent, juicy,
and as with his kiss, she hungered for more.

"When first I
saw you as you stood there all proud and defiant, I mistook you for a lady of
nobility who had fallen upon difficult times.  Your air, your demeanor, showed
a sense of pride not seen among peasants, and not even witnessed that often
among women in general.  You displayed no cowed image, no obeisance, and that
pleased me.  Ah, I see your surprise at that confession, but 'tis true.  I
admire your spirit . . . when you don't carry the defiance too far." 

Eleanor opened
her mouth to speak, but he slipped in another morsel.  His rough fingers
brushed her lips and a peculiar sensation spiraled through her chest.

"You are a
laborer.  Yet, you speak well, carry yourself as a lady, and hint of a
knowledge beyond that of a serf.  You talk of dreams.  And dragons.  Matters of
which you should know naught."  He watched her over the top of his tankard
as he took a gulp of ale, then wiped his mouth.  "You are steeped in
mystery." 

She forced down
the bite of game bird, then spilled the audacious truth from her soul.  "At
the convent, I grew up around ladies of good breeding.  I have observed their
speech, their manner, and have tried to imitate.  I learned to read and to
cipher by paying heed to lessons while pretending to clean the chambers.  In
truth, I learned more than most ladies at the convent, yet, as you reminded me,
nobility comes not from knowledge and skills but from fortune of birth." 

She took a sip of
tart ale to help her swallow the sinful pride and useless remorse.  Hoping he
didn't notice how she trembled, Eleanor chose a cut of partridge and held it
for him to take.

 He grasped her
wrist, placed his mouth over the meat and sucked the food from her fingers,
slow and steady, searing her icy fingertips with his mouth, burning her chilled
flesh with the hot circle of his hand.  Merciful heavens.  The sensual motion
reminded her of when he had suckled at her lips with his kiss.

His gaze heated. 
Then as if unsatisfied with mere surface heat, he suckled on her fingertips,
one at a time, and each tug of his moist mouth pulled molten ribbons from her
womanhood to his tongue. 

Confused by the
sensations, Eleanor jerked her hand to her lap, her mind urging her to flee his
seduction, her body luring her to remain.

Smugness twitched
one corner of his lips as he broke off a hunk of bread.  He contemplated his
trencher, head down, a wayward curl on his forehead.  She longed to brush the
gold from his face, but she dare not. 

He lifted his
gaze and her heart skipped a beat, for his eyes shimmered like blue pools, deep
and clear.

"Now,
Eleanor, confide to me how you have survived with your proud spirit intact, for
you have a sense of self-worth that is unusual for one of your lot.  Why have
the nuns not beaten your defiance out of you?"

"They
pursued various means to humble me, my lord.  I've gone without food, slept on
wintry stone floors without pallet or cover, been forbidden to speak, to rest. 
Then as time passed they accepted my manner as a test given them by God.  ''Tis
only Eleanor,' they would say.  'The devil's spawn in the Lord's house.'  Until
the last.  And then . . ."

Remembrance still
too fearful ceased her speech.  She picked up another cut of meat.  "I
don't understand the defiance myself.  But within, a voice cries out to be
honored as a child of God, not as a mindless beast."  She met his
scrutiny.  "I don't believe mortals are meant to be treated as dregs upon
the refuse of life, no matter their status at birth."

His eyes
widened.  When he opened his mouth to protest, she popped the bite past his
lips, then withdrew before he could snatch her wrist.

"And what
about this dream of yours?"  He mumbled his question around his food. 
"Is this the first, or have you had others?"

Apprehension
stiffened her lungs.  Would he react as had the nuns?  Or worse, declare her a
witch and burn her at the stake?  She could barely shove the words from her
throat.

"Only this
one, my lord, but repeatedly, taunting my labors, haunting my sleep, like a . .
. " ‘
Madness’
clung to her tongue.  She swallowed.  "Seeking
understanding, I revealed the dream to the nuns."

"And then .
. . they burned your feet?"

Her heart tumbled
inside her chest.  "Aye.  To purify my soul and to remind me of the
torture for witches should I persist in what they called, ‘Satanic
revelations’.  Then they threw me into an underground pit without light and
food until I felt certain I would die, forgotten.  A lifetime passed before
they released me."  Her tone dropped, weighted with unbidden memories. 
"Fearful of further punishment as well pushed by an urgency I didn't
understand, I escaped."

She sighed,
unable to meet the certain censure in his eyes, praying he wouldn't force her
to return.  "'Tis a strange curse to be given messages but be unable to
act upon them.  Why bother to reveal them to me?  And in truth, I knew not whom
the dream indicated."  Her gaze drifted to his tossed-aside black surcote
with the white cross.  "Until you appeared.  And then I knew."  She
looked into his eyes.  "'Tis you." 

Wind moaned. 
Shutters banged.  Smoke clouded into the room from a downdraft and choked her
lungs.  She gasped for air, then coughed and reached for her tankard.

Lord Kyle
stiffened and sat back in his chair.  "Nature's timing.  How
providential.  We speak of prophetic dreams and then are accosted with the devil's
breath."  He waved his hand in front of his face to clear the air. 
"Do you practice witchcraft?"

Eleanor dropped
her tankard and the clay cracked.  Ale gurgled over the tabletop and onto the
rushes.

"Nay, my
lord!  I swear!  I seek not these revelations.  They have been a curse to me
and only bring me pain and retribution.  Even Brigham named me a witch, and
only because of the color of my eyes.  I wondered if I would even have the
courage to reveal the vision."

Lord Kyle set the
ewer on the floor, lifted his tankard and tilted the table with his other hand
until the food, liquid and broken shards of pottery spilled onto the rushes. 
He then righted the surface, stood, and kicked the refuse into the fire. The blaze
flared. 

He turned to face
her, hands on hips, his body a silhouette of consternation against the flames. 

"Reveal to
me this message you deem of such importance.  Then I will judge for myself the
meaning, if there is one.  For all I know, you may be touched in the head, not
a prophet."

"I never
claimed to be a prophet, Sire.  I only repeat what I've been shown."  She
rubbed her fingers across her forehead to soothe away the hint of a headache,
then shivered, aching, cold.

"Curse,
woman.  Do you have a chill?"

In truth, she did
feel ill.  From fear?  "Most likely 'tis only my wet hair, Sire."

"Ah." 
He moved into the shadows.  Wood thumped against wood as he closed the
shutters, then wood thumped at the chest.  When he stood again at her side he
handed her a lute.  "You are educated in other areas.  Do you also know
music?"

Surprised, she
drew in her breath and nodded.  "Sister Mary taught me the
instrument."  She caressed the smooth wood.  "'Tis beautiful, my
lord.  Did this belong to your wife?"

"Aye.  Now,
sit on this stool."  He propped his feet on another stool and gestured for
her to turn her back to him, then he grasped her shoulders and urged her to
recline against his shins.  Eleanor held her breath and stared into the black
of the room, uncertain as to his intentions. 

He lifted her
hair and draped it over his thighs, then she felt him run a comb through her
wet strands.

"'Tis been
forever since I did this for Cathryn."

She didn't know
what to think of this man, her knight.  No other man in the world would have
bathed her feet, combed her hair and not taken her against her will.  He made
her feel insecure, yet protected, threatened, yet cherished.  And the thought
that he could never be hers as husband dragged her spirit to its knees.

"Now, Eleanor,
tell your tale."

She strummed the
lute, adjusted the tone---chastised her cowardice.  "After finishing my
labors at the convent, Richard, the old gardener, and I, engaged in a diversion
of putting thoughts to rhyme.  With your permission, Sire, I will reveal the
dream with music." 
And perhaps distract you from thoughts of
witches.  

"Proceed."

She ran
possibilities through her mind, then, uncertain of Lord Kyle's response, she
stared beyond the fire's halo into the dark void, much like her future, and
sang.

"Crost a midnight sky a knight did fly

Upon a steed as black as sin.

Stars strew like sparks from fiery flames

That burn and scorch our souls within.

He grasped a cross that pulsed white-hot

Against the inky firmament,

And held it high for all to see

To tell the world of his intent.

And then he gazed upon me there

And faced me, bold and brave and straight.

He stretched his arm toward my face

And bade me his bare hand to take.

Stars dissolved to peasants’ faces

Who wiped their eyes and shone so bright.

Their knight had come to change their grief,

To change their ills from wrong to right."

The last note
echoed, trembling into nothingness. 

The vision of
fire, dragons, death she could not reveal with music.  How best to word the
coming hell?  And yet, what if she had misunderstood and revealed only
nonsense?  And yet, what if others died when they might have been saved?

She listened to
the wind howl in protest of the stone structure that stood in its path. 
Thunder grumbled it’s near arrival and rain pattered with more intensity.  Yet,
she sensed the full power of the storm hesitated, as if in wait for something. 

Lord Kyle had
ceased to comb her hair.  He sat in silence.  Then his fingers lifted and
dropped her strands as if to dry them in the fire's heat.  Lift and drop.  Lift
and drop. 

"My lord,
there is more---"

"Your hair
glints of copper in the flames' light.  And your voice, 'tis clear, melodic,
like a nightingale at midnight."

Eleanor's heart
sank.  He hadn't listened.  He hadn't understood.

"I knew from
the first that you belonged to me, Eleanor.  Yet to hear that confirmed from
your own lips, from your own vision, almost leaves me speechless."

Eleanor turned to
face him.  Her hair slid from his knees and tumbled down her back.  "We
belong to each other, to right the wrongs in the village."

"'Tis only
your interpretation.  A woman's interpretation.  Did I not hold out my hand to
you?  You said as much."

"Aye, but
was that all you heard?"

"In your
heart did you come to me?  Did you take my offered hand?"

"'Tis my
belief.  But---"

"Did we
plight a troth?"

"Not to my
knowledge.  The message usually comes out in bits and pieces.  Not all is
revealed at once but at odd moments.  The second came only minutes ago, and
although all is not yet apparent---"

"Do you
agree the message meant you are mine?"

"You twist
the meaning, my lord."

Lord Kyle set the
comb on the floor, placing his hands on his thighs.  "Do I?  Or, do
you?"

"I am to be
your helper, your advisor."

"You?  A
peasant?  A woman?"  His voice stayed calm, in control.  "I am lord
of this estate.  I wield the power to do what must be done.  You go too far
with your assumption.  You have no power except what you wield over my
passion.  Your power lies between your legs, to comfort me and bring me solace
and pleasure.  That is your destiny.  You are wrong to fight me.  You are
mine.  And now that I know why you are here, I am determined to have you."

Eleanor
stiffened.  "As in, you could seduce the crown from the Queen herself if
ye are but determined?"  Her voice sounded her impatience of his
insolence.