One Snowy Knight (6 page)

Skena hurriedly snatched up a
plaide
and wrapped it about her naked body like a mantle. “Sweetling, you should be tucked up in bed, dreaming of Yuletide treats.” Skena took hold of the child’s frail shoulders and turned her toward the door, only to have the child willfully spin about.

“I want to see the warrior,
màthair.
I slept for a bit, but awoke, afraid he was ill and dying. He is ours now. You must not let him sicken,” she choked on a sob.

“He but sleeps, Annis,” Skena assured her daughter.

The child insisted with stubbornness, “I want to see.”

“Very well.” Skena exhaled in resignation. “But do not wake him. He needs his rest.”

Noel closed his eyes tight, as mother and child came toward the bed. The mattress gave a small shift as the child began to climb onto the bedside.

“Annis, I said you may see him. I did not mean for you to crawl onto the bed to do it,” Skena fussed at the child.

Ignoring her mother, she patted his shoulder with a small hand, and then she pushed against him to lean forward. The warm scent of child filled his nostrils as she placed her small mouth upon his cheek to plant a kiss. “Thank you, kind warrior, for coming to care for us. We need you. So very much. My
màthair
won’t eat—”

“Annis! Enough!” Skena grabbed her daughter about the waist and swung her off the bed. “Jenna, see this littlelin gets back to Nessa and this time she stays where she is put.”

“Mama, what is our warrior’s name?”

Noel again risked looking through half-closed eyes. The little girl was clearly dragging her feet. He had to fight against the smile threatening to spread across his lips. She was a smaller version of Skena, little more than five summers old.

Kneeling before her daughter, Skena kissed the child’s forehead. “Sir Noel de Servian is his name.”

“Noel?” The child’s face lit with a grin. “Does that not mean Christmas in the Norman, Mama? Father Malcolm said that was so in our lessons.”

Skena nodded. “I believe that is the meaning of the name.”

“Do you not see—he is our Christmas knight. See, Andrew is right. We wished for him, and he came to save us,” she insisted.

Rising, Skena gave the child a slight nudge, pushing Annis into the maid’s arms. “Off with you.” She stood watching until the door had closed on them.

“Why does everyone persist in placing faith in wishes? Wishes are naught but a bloody waste of breath. If wishes summoned warriors we would have a whole army at our beck and call,” Skena grumbled. “Of course, then we would have to feed them, but surely we could just wish for a banquet fit for a bloody king. And mayhap if I wish for my tears to turn to gold then I could buy more cows and sheep. Wishes are for fools and children. Not for Skena MacIain.” Dropping the blanket, she picked up the chemise from the bench and slid it over her head, then wrapped the
plaide
about her again.

After a long sigh, she walked back to the bed. Noel quickly feigned sleep again. The handle on the metal pot clanked, telling him she had pulled it closer to the bedside. There was a moment of silence, as if she hesitated, then she finally spoke. “I am no bloody coward.”

Noel held still as she smeared the cream across his upper chest. Her hand worked slowly, moving in languid circles, first one side, and then the other. His body shifted to betrayal, responding to her caress on his skin. There was no stopping his blood. His erection pounded with a growing intensity against the woolen blanket. Willing the insistent movement to cease proved futile.

Her touch was soothing. Gentle strokes across his shoulders and arms soon had him relaxing. But then the minx grew bolder. Her thumb pad swiped the salve over his flat male nipple, paused, and then applied a stronger pressure as she became aware of his body’s small changes.

Skena’s words came as a ghostly whisper,
“Duine brèagha.”

Beautiful man.
The corner of his mouth tugged up. She called him beautiful after she had scolded him for using the word too much, by doing so diminishing its worth. Noel had a feeling Skena was careful with her words, which only made the spoken sentiment all the more intoxicating.

Then the vexing woman dragged her hand down the middle of his chest, over his belly, and showed no sign of slowing. Oh, he did not want her to stop! He craved for her to keep on snaking that strong hand down his body, lower and lower. Howbeit, if she knew he was awake she would never risk being so bold.

With the quickness of an adder, he opened his eyes as his hand shot out and locked hard about her wrist. “Stop.”

Skena jumped.

She had believed Lord de Servian to be sleeping peacefully, lulled by the worts of the tansy. She learnt differently. In a move so quick she had no time to blink let alone react, his left hand shot out and wrapped around her wrist. His strength was terrifying. The grip was not hurtful, just blocked her from shifting her arm in any direction. She gave a small tug. Useless. The man was not letting go of her.

The soft firelight cast flickering shadows across his handsome face, and illuminated those unearthly eyes. Their force, their magical ascendancy wove a spell, leaving her unable to move. All she could do was stare at his virile perfection and swallow back the desires clamoring inside her.

Her cheeks burned bright, though she doubted he could see her embarrassment with her standing in half shadows. And did she burn with shame! She had given in to her foolish longing to touch him and caressed his strong body as she wanted, enjoyed stroking his warrior hard muscles. Now she stood caught like a child filching a tart from the kitchen.

Her tongue swiped her lips to moisten them to speak. To cover for her brazen behavior she offered, “I merely wanted to apply the salve on your side, my lord. The worts will ease the distress you feel in the sore spot.”

“Is that what you were doing?” Challenge flashed in de Servian’s eyes. He did not believe her, gave no polite pretense otherwise. Lifting her arm, he placed her hand next to the red patch and then released it. “You mayhap forgot where the said
spot
was?”

She cautiously applied the ointment to the darker patch of skin. Not admitting any misdoing, she said, “’Tis hard to see in these long shadows.”

A brash smile spread over his lips as his brows lifted. “Really? To the contrary, I found it quite easy to see.”

Skena paused as her heart did a small roll, and then she sharply sucked in air. “You were never asleep? I…I…would not have bathed…. I thought the potion would see you resting deeply.” Her eyes skimmed over his body from head to toes and then back. “There
is
a lot of you. You are taller than most men I ken. Mayhap I should have mixed the tansy stronger.”

“Could be. Could be something more potent hit my blood, overpowering its effect.”

His direct stare bore into her, leaving her to feel like a timid hare caught in the hunter’s snare. Her heart dropped to the pit of her belly, slowing to a hard pagan throb. It was playing with fire, but she had to ask, “What is more potent?”

The corner of his mouth quirked up smugly. Instead of giving her an answer, he came back with a question of his own. “Why do you not eat, Skena?”

She glanced to the food growing cold on the table. “I…I was not hungry.”

“Sometimes we are too tired to eat. When we have many responsibilities in our lives weighing down upon our shoulders, we must force ourselves to partake some nourishment in spite of our wishes. Oft, when I was tired from battle, I did not want food. Same as when I was recovering from my wound. The will to eat was just not present. Even so, I forced myself. It was the only way to regain my strength.” His gaze traveled over her, making her glad she had the
plaide
about her, a shield against his hungry eyes. “You are not sick, are you, Skena?”

“Nay. There is naught wrong with me.”

“Except that you refuse to eat. Even your child frets over that,” de Servian pressed, not dropping the line of talk.

“Annis thinks she kens the way of things. But she is only a wee bairn. She does not understand….” Skena allowed her words to trail off. She could think of no reason to give this man for her reticence to eat. “Do you feel like eating?”

The crooked half smile came again. “Aye, I find I am…
hungry
.”

Skena started to turn, but paused as she was once again caught by the power of his stare. The way he had stressed the word
hungry
caused her to wonder if he used it with another meaning. She was unsure how to deal with this commanding man. Giving a shrug, she went to the table and placed a bowl on the tray.

De Servian scooted up in the bed and pushed the pillow behind his back. He watched her with that disarming predator’s intensity as she carefully placed the wooden tray across his lap, and then sat upon the bed next to him. Instead of picking up the spoon, he simply looked at her.

Feeling as if she were missing something, she asked, “Is aught wrong, my lord? I am sorry ’tis only small fare, but we are a poor holding.”

“I find I tire. Would you mind feeding me? Please?”

Skena glared at this Norman warrior. He did not appear too weak to feed himself. His grip upon her wrist had been amazingly strong. She brooded if he were trying to trick her for some reason, yet failed to see a why for it. Mayhap he was suddenly feeling the toll upon his body from being out in the cold.

Edging nearer, she picked up the bread and broke the chunks into smaller pieces. Using the spoon, she pushed them down into the stew and allowed them to soak up the liquid. “’Tis a bit hard and crusty. I offer apologies.”

He smiled. “None needed. It shan’t be the first time I have eaten stale bread. The stomach does not seem to mind these things.”

Skena scooped up a spoonful and carried it to his mouth. He opened and then closed around it. His eyebrows lifted in surprise as he chewed.

“Delicious. Your cook knows the secret to seasoning well.”

Skena smiled. “I will tell him. He is a prideful man and will enjoy the praise.” As she carried another spoonful to his mouth he shook his head no.

“You first,” he insisted.

Vexed, she refused. “I am not hungry.”

A stubborn look crossed de Servian’s face. “Then I shan’t eat either.”

“But your body requires nourishment to fight the sickness, which still might try to claim you,” she insisted.

His frowned deepened. “Why do you starve yourself, Skena?”

She inhaled slowly to control her spiraling temper. “Not that ’tis any of your concern, but I do not starve myself. I eat when I am hungry.”

“Do you?”

The arrogant man saw too much. There was no screen for her against de Servian. She hated that he could so easily scry her thoughts in her eyes. Surely, with all the lying that she had been reduced to of late, she should have acquired the necessary skills to protect herself from a mere stranger. Clearly, he had fixed on the detail that she was too thin, and like a dog with a bone was going to worry it to the marrow. After a short exhale, she captured a spoonful of the stew and shoved it in her mouth.

The bloody man grinned over his victory, but wisely refrained from saying anything, aware he had pushed her as far as he could without angering her. He opened his mouth to the offer of more stew when she nearly shoved it at him, then impishly, refused another until she had eaten one, too.

“Some of the bread, please,” he requested.

The broth had softened it, so she picked up a chunk and held it up for him, hesitating at the last instant as their eyes locked. When she remained unmoving, he leaned forward and closed his lips around the bread and her fingers holding it. Shocked by his boldness, she had not meant for him to do that. She pulled them back, but his tongue swiped her first finger and then he sucked on it, as though he intended to capture every morsel.

An odd sensation hit the back of her neck and then slammed downward with a blazing heat, causing a strange cramping at the base of her belly. It twisted like a knife, burned to where it was agonizing. The reaction doubled as he picked up another chunk of bread with the purpose of feeding it to her.

Eyes wide, she shook her head no. Her refusal set an obstinate look upon his face. She pleaded, “Please, my lord, I am too full. If I eat more I will feel ill.”

“Eat. You feel pressure in your belly because you fail to eat enough. This bite, then I shall let you be,” he insisted.

Skena was not lying. She did feel too full. And he was right—her going without food had caused her belly to draw up.

“Shall I pin you down and feed it to you? I shan’t need a lad of barely ten and two and an old man to help me.” He wiggled it before her mouth.

“I am not sure I like you Noel de Servian.”

He shrugged as if he failed to believe her. “Very well. Methinks I shall enjoy pinning you to the bed, Skena MacIain,” he said as he started to tilt toward her.

Giving a small yelp, she ate the bread piece from his fingers. As he removed them, he swiped a drop from her lower lip with his thumb pad. Skena had to fight herself from opening and sucking that wicked thumb back into her mouth. The wild reactions within her said these gestures had a meaning beyond merely feeding each other, which he understood only too well.

But she must not lose herself to these dark lures. Too much was at stake here. This man was naught but a foreigner. Worse—an Englishman. Until his purpose for coming to Glen Shane was unriddled, she had to keep hold of her reason.

Full of himself, de Servian leaned back. When she only sat there, he prompted, “More please.”

She nearly threw the spoon at him. “If you can feed me, Lord de Servian, then you can bloody well feed yourself.”

“True, but then we would miss the dance.” He chuckled.

Skena blinked in confusion. “Dance? Does the fever rise?” She put the back of her hand to his forehead. “You burn to the touch. I fear you may still take lung sickness before the night wanes.”

“I burn, but my mind does not wander. The dance I speak of is the dance of seduction. Surely, you know about seduction, Skena?” His voice was low, husky.

“Methinks, my lord, the fever addles your wits.”

“Noel,” he corrected.

“My lord will do just fine,” she refused to do as he bid, holding on to that last small defense against him.

“If you will not feed me, you may take the rest away.” He crossed his arms and closed his eyes in dismissal. Skena picked up the tray, but nearly dropped it as he spoke again. “Then you may finish applying the ointment.”

The bowl rattled, but she managed to keep it from falling to the stone floor. “I ought to pick up the stew and dump it on his bloody head,” she grumbled under her breath.

Placing the tray on the table, she set about to mix him another tansy. Despite his playful disposition, she feared he was not as well as he thought. A person who experienced a deep chill often failed to show any signs of a sore throat or lung congestion until hours after exposure. The rising fever was the first hint of coming sickness. His forehead was flushed to the touch, a clear signal all was not well. Measuring out pinches of the worts, she paused, glanced back to him, still sitting up in the bed, and added a bit more. She ground them and then dissolved them in the cider Jenna had fetched with the supper.

When she held the cup out to him, he took it. He tilted it to look inside. “More mud and stump water? Take this foul witch’s potion away.”

“Drink it. You may yet show illness in the hours of dawning. I have taken chills before and only later did my throat begin to ache and I had a hard time swallowing.”

Arching a brow, he eyed the cup again and then her. “What do you give me in return for choking down this vile stuff?”

Skena chuckled at his question. “You sound like Andrew pandering for a treat for doing something I asked of him.”

“And do you give Andrew a treat?”

“Lord de Servian, please drink the tansy so I may seek my bed. It has been a very long day for me.”

“Seek your bed—” He patted the mattress beside his hip. “—which happens to be
my bed
at present.”

Skena folded her arms across her middle, in a manner to protect herself from the emotions he caused her to feel. “My lord, methinks you are used to charming women with your smiles and a wiggle of your eyebrows. I assure you such contrivances are wasted upon me.”

“’Tis good to know such things.” His lips pursed as if he were keeping a laugh within.

“So if you will drink the potion…”

“Only if you give me something to rid my mouth of the taste afterward. I mean it, Skena, if you want me to down this sludge and twigs, I want a bribe.” He lifted his brows and awaited her response. When she stood tongue-tied, he added, “You barter with an unwell man. Delay in giving me care and mayhap I shall sicken. You wish that sin upon your soul?”

“I delay in naught. You hold the bloody brew in your hand.” Skena stomped her foot.

He shrugged and leaned to set the cup on the stand by the bed. “Upon your head…”

She slowly approached the bedside. “Very well, what is it you crave for a bribe, my lord?”

“First, call me Noel.”

Skena stood locked in a staring contest, her inner voice telling her to keep her distance from this man, that he posed a threat to her, to Craigendan. But she was pulled toward him as a summer moth was to a balefire. “Foolish little moth,” she whispered.

“Call me Noel,” he insisted with a sterner tone.

Skena nearly growled, “You enjoy giving orders too much, Lord de Servian.”

“Noel.”

Skena threw up her hands in defeat. “Noel.”

“That was not too hard, eh? Now I shall drink this—if you give me a reward.” A shudder suddenly racked his body, draining the color from his face.

Skena nearly jumped to his side. “Please, you must drink the tansy, then lie down and rest.”

“A kiss,” he whispered.

She wondered if she heard him wrong. “A kiss?”

“Aye. I shall drink this dreadful stuff if you give me a kiss. Otherwise…” His shoulders lifted in a weak shrug.

The man was beyond vexing. Trying the voice she used on the children, she ordered, “Drink.”

He lifted the cup to his mouth, and then paused to wink at her. The bloody man winked! “I’m drinking, but I expect a kiss.” With that he tipped up the cup.

Skena watched the long column of his throat work, never having thought a man’s neck was so…well…
beautiful.
She frowned at the word. Since de Servian had come into her life she found it applied too often to the annoying man. As she watched, she could envision crawling upon the bed, kissing the strong muscles of his throat, running her tongue over him. She shook her head, trying to rid it of the image that seemed only too real.