Darkest Dreams (41 page)

Outside, he found fog blanketing pasture and knoll, the sun gilding the distant mountains. Their ride would prove comfortable, unlike his charge. Lady Greer, normally a chattering and laughing wench, had been uncharacteristically reticent since leaving her cottage.

Although he'd kept an eye on her in Edinburgh, he'd made no effort to form more than her passing acquaintance. Mayhap if he engaged her in conversation, she'd stop looking at him as if he were taking her to the gallows.

He caught a flash of bright blue and glanced left and found the king's normally gliding mistress charging with long, determined strides through reeds toward the babbling burn behind the croft like a ship plowing through high seas. How odd. He shook his head and turned his attention back to securing their possessions. The woman was a conundrum.

The next time he looked up, she was again gliding as she normally did, this time with their breakfast in hand. “Here,” she said, holding out a square slice of oat cake and a cup.

He looked in the cup. “Milk?”

She nodded, biting into her oat cake. “There's a lovely cow in yon paddock.”

“'Tis warm.”

She looked at him blankly as if not understanding his meaning, then blanched white as the cup's contents. “I…I found a bucket half full of milk by her side. A tenant must have begun milking her but been startled away by me. I took only a wee bit but… Oh dear, I've no coins…”

“I left enough coins.”

Nay, she could not have milked the cow. The queen's ladies-in-waiting were just that: ladies, the pampered daughters and sisters of landed men. He very much doubted any knew which end of a cow to approach for milk. He couldn't imagine any knowing how to hobble a cow, much less stooping beneath one and pulling on teats. Aye, she must have found the milk as she said.

His qualms settled, Britt tried to suppress his bone-breaking shudder as he drained the cup. Never let it be said that he lacked chivalry.

He dropped the cup on the croft stoop. “If you're ready, we should leave.”

She looked up at him, her bonnie blue eyes shimmering as if on the verge of tearing. “Aye, I'm quite ready.”

Nay, she was not, not in the least.

He placed his hands above the silver girdle she wore, marveling once again at how small her waist was. When her hands settled on his shoulder armor, he lifted her negligible weight, bringing them face-to-face. What was she thinking as she stared into his eyes so solemnly? Was she simply wary, or did she feel the same charge he felt when he held her so close? How easy it would be to capture her mouth with his, to taste the forbidden fruit he'd been thinking about since she'd cocked her head and smiled at him in her parlor.

Too easy and too dangerous for both of them.

He settled her on the gray, then leapt onto his patient destrier. Determined to put her at her ease, he said, “What new songs have you to entertain the court?”

“Uhmm…none. I've had no opportunity to learn any.”

He nodded. Of course she hadn't had time, what with her having to arrange her parents' funerals, then notifying the earl and her extended family of their passing.

They rode on in silence as the day grew warmer, he alert to danger and Lady Armstrong yawning in the saddle. When the sun reached its zenith, he stopped by a burn, and Lady Armstrong jerked upright, asking, “Why are we stopping?”

“Because I'm hungry, as are the horses.”

Helping her dismount, he again caught the scent of lavender and roses, his blood heated, and he quickly set her down and turned his attention to their mounts. He pulled free their wine skin and his saddle bag and handed them to her. “I'll water the horses if you would be so kind as to set out something for us to eat.”

She mustered a smile, her first since leaving the croft.

With their mounts tended, he settled on a sun-warmed boulder next to her and accepted the oatcake and dried fruit she'd packed. “How many years have you been in the king's service?” she asked.

Mesmerized by the halo of sunlight bouncing off her silver coronet and glossy braids, he murmured, “Near a decade.”

“Ah, you must enjoy it, then.”

He straightened and looked about. His remaining at the king's side had naught to do with enjoyment. “Duty and honor before pleasure, my lady.”

They finished their repast in silence. Dusting the crumbs from her kirtle, she said, “We should be going.”

In no hurry, he suggested, “Why not rest a bit. You must be tired.”

She rose. “Nay, we need be on our way.”

They rode on. And as he could have predicted by gloaming, Lady Armstrong was head down and eyes closed, weaving in her saddle. They were but a few hours' ride from the stronghold of Meade Mont, but fearing she'd topple and crown her lovely noggin, Britt steered his destrier to a grassy wee glen and dismounted. The gray followed without any assistance from their king's sleeping mistress.

Shaking his head at the woman's stubbornness, Britt secured his mount, gathered deadwood, then cleared a spot in the grass to lay a fire, all while Lady Armstrong slept. Accustomed to sleeping in the elements, he needed no fire, but from what he'd observed, Lady Armstrong enjoyed her creature comforts. And God forbid she should grow ill.

When the fire caught, he spread his
breachen feile
on the ground at a safe distance from it, then lifted Lady Armstrong from the gray. As she settled on his plaid, she mumbled something incoherent about love and castration—a decidedly unsettling thought—then, sighing, curled like an exhausted kitten before the fire.

He pulled his whetstone from his sporran, then freed his blades from their sheaths. As he ran a finger over his broadsword's edges, testing the sharpness, he watched her by the glow of the fire. Aye, his king was a lucky man but had no clue to what extent. His Majesty had been blessed first with a fertile and sensible wife, then been granted a second wife, one half his age, and still his eye wandered.

Shaking his head at the sad waste of blessings, he sheathed his broadsword and began honing his more oft used
sgian duhb.

And what on earth was this woman, now tossing in restless sleep, thinking? She'd been gifted with incredible beauty and a voice that could make songbirds weep with shame, yet she too squandered her gifts. Was she such a rustic, such an innocent, that she did not know she'd ruined all hope of her ever making a good match by acquiescing to Alexander?

She could just as easily have said, “Thank you, but no.” His Majesty was lusty—no denying that—but he was also chivalrous. Oh, he would have sulked and made everyone's life miserable for a day or so, but then he'd have shrugged it off and sought out one of his other paramours…or the queen.

Women. Be they fair or foul, royal or not, he would never understand them.

Lady Armstrong, brow furrowed, flipped onto her stomach and cocked a leg. Looking at her well-turned ankle and calf, at the lovely swell of her rump, he sighed. At least he well understood what his liege was thinking.

Darkest Dreams

 

 

 

Jennifer St. Giles

 

 

 

 

When you ride with the devil, the shadow of death isn't the only danger…

 

Killdaren, Book 2

Years of shielding herself amid historical artifacts has lulled Andromeda into thinking her mind-reading ability is merely a nuisance. Until her sister Cassie's marriage brings her out among people again. The renewed contact is excruciating…and so are her wildly improper thoughts about her brother-in-law's emerald-eyed twin, Lord Alexander Killdaren, Viscount Blackmoor.

Andrie has resolved to live as a hermit, but not before she sees to Cassie's happiness by clearing the suspicion hanging over the Killdaren name. In her soul she knows the brothers are innocent of murder. To prove it, she must get inside Alex's castle.
 

When she presents herself to begin cataloging his vast collection of artifacts, she realizes she is in over her head. His mind is closed to her gift, save for a single, breathlessly erotic image. His heated touch is like a dragon's fire against her skin; his emerald gaze strips her soul bare.

Even as she loses her heart to his dark passion, she uncovers secrets that expose a brutal killer and threatens everything she holds dear. Her life, her sisters…and her sanity.

 

Warning: Contains a dark hero with eclectic tastes, toe-curling sensuality and a spine-chilling murder mystery.

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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

 

Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

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Darkest Dreams

Copyright © 2011 by Jennifer St. Giles

ISBN: 978-1-60928-376-6

Edited by Tera Kleinfelter

Cover by Scott Carpenter

 

All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

 

First
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
electronic publication: August 2011

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