Morning's Journey (11 page)

His words made startling sense. Lack of reinforcement in her old beliefs had influenced her conversion. She reached out to pat Dafydd’s hand. “I will do my best to heed what you say.”

“I can help, too.”

Up came Gyan’s head to swivel toward the sound. Arthur descended the stairs, grinning like the hound standing over its bone trove. With an answering grin, she couldn’t propel herself into his arms fast enough. The chair clattered to the floor from the force of her exit.

His arms clamped about her and his lips latched to hers with satisfying urgency. Reveling in the solid feel of his body against hers, the sharp leathery tang of his tunic and leggings, and the moist heat of his devouring lips and questing tongue, she quite forgot about Dafydd’s presence.

Too long!
Their separation had been much too long, as Arthur’s body agreed in its own language.

She disengaged from her consort. “He lied to me!”

“Dafydd?” Arthur cocked an eyebrow at the abbot.

“No, Merlin. He told me you were too busy to come to Maun.”

“He should have said that I was too busy with legion duties to attend the ceremony.”

“Yes, that was it.” She laughed as the subtle wording sank in. “What duties, then, Lord Pendragon?”

“Raising morale, of course, Commander.” He kissed her again. “My favorite task.”

“Beathach!” She cast a glance at Dafydd. “And you knew all along.” When Dafydd merely grinned, she said with mock asperity, “I don’t know whether to slap you or kiss you both!”

“I think our good abbot’s wife would take exception to that, but I won’t.” Arthur kissed her with a tenderness that sent desire coursing through her. She closed her eyes, reveling in sensations her mind had nearly forgotten but her body most certainly had not.

“If my lord and lady will pardon me,” she heard Dafydd murmur, “I shall leave you two alone. You are welcome to join us when you’re ready. The feast should continue for quite some time.”

She pulled away from Arthur long enough to thank Dafydd, which he acknowledged with a smile and a nod. He sketched a blessing and reached for the door, pulling it firmly shut behind him as he left.

Arthur lifted her off the floor to carry her up the stairs.

She laughed, wrapping her arms about his neck. “I think I can make it by myself, Artyr.”

Passion smoldered in the steely depths of his eyes. “The abbot had his plans for this reunion, and I have mine.” He kicked open the bedchamber door, laid her on the bed, bolted the door, and joined her.

“But the other guests—”

“Are staying at Port Dhoo-Glass, where they’ll board their ships on the morrow.”

“Part of the plan?”

“A well-received suggestion.”

She bit her lip and frowned, hating her next question. “Will you be leaving in the morning, too?”

“Only if my lady so commands it.”

She buried her fingers in his hair, guiding his head closer. “I think you know your lady won’t be doing any such thing.” Before he could reply, she pressed her lips to his.

He untied the laces of her gown. She had not bothered using a breastband, since the bodice performed the same function. Now, she was doubly thankful for that decision. He worked the gown off her shoulders, kissing each newly bared patch of flesh. Tingles scurried through her body. Easing her arms free of the gown, she murmured her pleasure as his fingers reacquainted themselves with her breasts, and her nipples reacquainted themselves with the discipline of standing at attention under his gentle but commanding touch. The crackling flames of desire made it difficult to think rationally, but before she could yield, she needed to learn one thing more.

“What about my cohort? They will think something has happened to me if I don’t return as expected.”

“Your brother is in command at Dhoo-Glass. He sends his love.”

“What! Per knew, too?”

Arthur’s widening grin gave the only confirmation she needed.

Per’s repayment would have to wait. Arthur’s didn’t. She reached behind her head, freed the pillow, and swatted her consort. Laughing, he snatched another pillow to retaliate, and they battled like children until feathers burst free and flew everywhere. Still chuckling, he called for a truce.

“The great Pendragon surrenders so quickly?” she teased, brushing feathers from his hair.

“Only to the worthiest of his adversaries.” Although light, his tone held no trace of mockery.

“You haven’t heard my terms.”

“Which are?”

“That you never leave my side.” She held her fingers to his lips to hush his inevitable protest. “I know we both have duties and”—she tried her best not to think of the man who kept wedging between them—“other reasons that render the fulfillment of these terms impossible. For now. So here is what I propose.” She tugged off his leather tunic and linen undertunic, and lay back onto the feather-strewn coverlet, drawing him down beside her and delighting in the feel of his chest muscles rippling beneath her fingertips. “That we make the best possible use of the time we’ve been given.”

“Fair enough.” He removed his leggings and, with her help, worked her gown the rest of the way off. Grinning, he started caressing her inner thigh in that soft, circling pattern she enjoyed, especially when his fingertips strayed over her tingling banasròn. She hitched her hips to convince him to linger in that spot. “More than fair,” he whispered. As he leaned over to kiss her, his touch quickened and deepened, setting her upon the journey toward ultimate ecstasy. “And if we have a child?”

With one hand, she reached behind his head to lower his mouth to hers. She tugged at his loincloth’s knot with the other. He pulled back to regard her expectantly. “I will deal with having a child when I must, Artyr.”

The knot yielded, and she guided him toward fulfilling her most immediate and urgent need.

ASIDE FROM their frequent lovemaking, she and Arthur spent countless hours together talking, sometimes in the privacy of their chamber in the guest cottage but more often while strolling about the monastery’s compound or sitting in a reading room on the upper floor of the library.

In this latter retreat, he began honoring his promise to help nurture her faith.

“Battles? Campaigns?” She peered at the stack of bound parchment leaves illuminated by a splash of late-afternoon sunlight, not bothering to hide her incredulity. “What have those to do with faith in the One God?”

“For the ancient Hebrews, plenty. For us, too.” Arthur flipped through the stack. Finally, he tapped a Ròmanaiche passage. “Start here.”

The battle she read about seemed as improbable as the concept of men striding across deep water without a bridge: a battle against tens of thousands, won by three hundred men recruited because of the way they drank water. She squinted at the text, looking for places that had been rubbed out and copied over, different handwriting styles, large gaps, or letters too close together. She found nothing of the sort. Surely, someone at some time in the manuscript’s history had misrepresented the size of this force. Three thousand she could believe, not three hundred, and she said so.

“Unusual tactics,” Arthur agreed. “But a small, elite unit stands a much better chance of slipping past sentries, which may not have been very many, owing to the apparent overconfidence of the enemy. Gideon’s men attacked at night, when the enemy troops were no doubt sleeping the most soundly. They used sudden noise and light to create the illusion that far more Hebrews had infiltrated the camp. Perhaps the enemy troops were drunk, which would account for their turning against one another. The most important thing to remember”—Arthur looked up from the parchment to capture Gyan’s gaze—“is that Gideon trusted God to make good on His promise of victory. God didn’t fight Gideon’s battle for him but gave him and his men the strength and courage and wits and confidence they needed to defeat the enemy by themselves.”

She nodded slowly. “Explained like that, Gideon’s story makes a lot more sense.”

“Explained like that, one might believe that Gideon and his men had won under their own power, rather than by Almighty God’s sovereign decree.” Brother Stefan darkened the archway, leaning on his cane as a warrior might lean on his sword between bouts. “Did Bishop Dubricius teach you that interpretation, Lord Pendragon?”

Gyan felt her consort bristle, and she gripped his arm. “Please forgive Brother Stefan, Arthur. Being master of students—”

“Gives him no right to intrude upon a private conversation between those who are not his students.” Before Gyan could diffuse the situation, Arthur said, eyes narrowed, “Bishop Dubricius taught me how to think for myself.”

Stefan gave Arthur a conciliatory nod. “I’m sure that serves you well”—his eyes glinted like obsidian chips—“on the battlefield.”

The tendons of Arthur’s forearm writhed beneath her fingertips as he clenched and released his fist. “It serves me well everywhere.”

“Perhaps,” said the monk. “But I suggest you keep to your battlefields, Lord Pendragon, and leave divine matters to the theologians.”

Gyan said, with as much sweetness as she could muster, “Brother Stefan is right. Battles are what you and I excel at, my love.” She cocked an eyebrow at the monk. “But I believe we can all agree that Gideon’s God is a good ally to have, on or off the battlefield.”

“Aptly put, Chieftainess,” conceded Stefan with a slight bow.

He plowed through the knot of students that had gathered to witness the exchange, brandishing his cane to herd them back to their studies like a shepherd with a wayward flock. Only after Stefan and the others had gone did Arthur visibly relax.

She caressed his sword-side forearm. “Brother Stefan is always like that,” she whispered. “Pay him no mind.”

“I won’t.” Arthur laid his hand atop hers, a grin slowly dawning. “But if you ever lead a ridiculously high-risk operation like Gideon’s, you had best pray for divine help to explain it to me.”

Their laughter ended in the meeting of their lips.

GYAN AND Arthur were resting in the monastery’s orchard as the glowing afternoon retreated before the dusk. He lay with his head in her lap, eyes closed and looking peaceful. She sat with her back braced against an apple tree, facing west. A half-eaten apple nestled in her palm as she watched the cloud-shrouded sun stain the sky with vibrant reds, golds, and salmons as though igniting a wall of fire.

She glanced down and ran her fingers lightly through Arthur’s sunset-colored hair, wishing their idyll wouldn’t have to end.

The sound of a distant shout drew her attention.

“Ifrinn fuileachdach!” she whispered. It was the Caledonaiche version of an epithet her consort might have chosen: bloody hell.

A ship was closing fast upon the island. A warship.

Chapter 7

A
RTHUR SCRAMBLED TO his feet. He gave Gyan a hand up, and they scanned the western horizon.

“Scotti?” she asked. The vessel’s shape and direction of origin fit the guess, but she recalled that several Scáthinach-built vessels sailed in the Breatanach fleet, thanks to Bedwyr’s salvage efforts. Only by its sail could they be certain of the ship’s allegiance.

Arthur seemed to be having similar trouble. The sun had broken through the clouds, and he tilted his hand to shade his eyes, swearing under his breath.