Seize The Dawn (17 page)

"I still hate you. Absolutely. Completely. You are a monster. A Scot." "You have made the words synonymous." "And so they are." "Such might be, and has been, said of the English." "I loathe you." "Shall I really leave?" "No." "Because it is my turn, you see. I want tonight. I want you. I will remain a Scot. An outlaw. A monster. But Paris is close. Too close. So tonight ..." He lowered his head. Found her lips. They were sweet, tasting of soft mint. Warm, wet, seductive. He was a fool. No matter. Might as well burn in hell for this as well as his other sins. He cradled her chin, tasting her ;lips first, savoring the breath of sweetness, then ravaging her mouth with the evocative weapon of his tongue, hungering to the depths of his soul. He could not drink enough of her to fill himself. He was intoxicated by the scent, the feel, the taste. His fingers feathered over her neck; his lips followed them there. Her clothing seemed the greatest barrier, a bastion like a stone wall, and he fumbled with the multitude of ties that held her tunic at her side. The gown she wore beneath was laced at the back and he swore inwardly, praying that he didn't push too hard as he twirled her about, fumbling again with linen ties that seemed hopelessly entangled in the length of her hair. Seconds seemed like eons, but the ties were freed, and she was again in his arms, and she rose on her toes to meet him this time, the length of her pressed hard against him, the fullness of her breasts and anguish of seduction against his chest, her hips against his groin, creating an eruption of hunger, raw longing, anticipation. His fingers stroked the sleek nakedness of her back, entangled into the unbound web of her hair. His kiss seared her lips again, her throat, the hollow there, fixed upon the firmness of her breast, focusing upon the hardened peak of her nipple, drawing, sucking, tasting, until she cast her head back, crying out.

He lifted her then; set her upon the bed, his eyes never leaving hers. He would not forget this. For she stared up at him with no inhibition, leaned up as he caught each of her fine shoes and cast them aside, then looked away at last, showing her ankles, her calves, and then the soft inner flesh of her thighs as he drew away the finely knitted hose she wore. He looked at her then, and her eyes met his, and her heart seemed to flutter like a bird's. He pressed his advantage, parting her thighs, burying himself within her intimately, with strokes of the tongue that teased and seduced, drawing her forth, giving no quarter and no mercy, until she called his name. His name. He rose atop her, barely able to deal with the closures of his own apparel, and not at all able to pull it all from himself and cast it aside. He was within her, moving with a speed he fought to control, obsessed, desperate, longing to be forever where he was, gloved within the woman, yet all too aware that his own seduction of her had sent him spiraling toward a fierce and violent climax. He struggled; he fought. To have more, to give more. But she came with him. Flew where he flew. Touched the raw earth, sweated, panted, writhed. And again ... cried out.

He gritted his teeth, jackknifed his body. Erupted. The relief that filled his body was blinding, the warmth engulfing. He'd known his share of women—such was a warrior's fate, and perhaps his reward. And sometimes, his death. He'd known women. None like this. Men would rut where men would rut, so was the philosophy, often, of those on the run. Like food, sustenance, breathing. All were alike in the dark. But not her. Not this woman he would return to, a moral, ethical, noble, and ancient noble at that, but one he admired, and worse. Liked. He fell by her side, but not away from her. Never away, when the time ticked so quickly by. She breathed deeply, breasts rising and falling quickly, flesh damp and glimmering in the glow of firelight. She turned into him, burrowing against his chest. "Perhaps I don't hate you. Just who you are, and what you stand for." He stroked her hair. "You can hate a man for standing for freedom?" he asked her quietly.

"Why do you think that the king's men are not free? Why don't you do as many a Scotsman has done; swear allegiance to Edward, serve him, receive his benefits as Englishmen do—" His hand froze, then his fingers threaded into her hair, forcing her face upward, that he might meet her eyes. "Because I am not an Englishman." "But half of your country—" "My country is afraid." "I'm so afraid that you will die!" she whispered, and he lost the spiral of anger that had been building within him, and he realized he held her hair too tightly. "So shall we all," he said. "But—" "How can you have seen what you have in these days gone by, talked with Wallace, a man willing to risk far more than death,
for nothing but freedom,
and not understand?" "As you have said, one man's freedom is not another's. I saw what was done to my people. I smelled the horrid, pathetic scent of human flesh—roasting. What, sir, have you to say to that?"

"I was not there. Nor was Wallace. To condemn any people for the cruelty wrought in a war of defense—'' "You would do so!" He clenched his teeth, aware that she rose over him, stared down at him, eyes luminous, hair a fan over her breasts that was far more a tease than a shield." I would have peace for the moment." "But—" "Even France and England have called a truce!" He rolled her over suddenly. "Are you capable of peace?" "Of course. But—" "Are you capable of quiet?" he demanded. Before she could answer, he halted her comments with the fierce pressure of his lips, the assault of his tongue. Soft, muffled sounds escaped her. He lifted himself from her. "Well, not exactly quiet!" she told him.

"Your mouth—" "Can be occupied in other ways!" she assured him. And then she showed him. Oh ... ' She showed him. The soft flick of her tongue was a liquid aphrodisiac, saturating his flesh, rendering his muscle to tar, then to steel. She moved over him, moved ever so slightly hesitant, then bolder, and bolder. She teased with her lips and tongue, her touch, the stroke of her hair. Here, there ... still, teasing, until the blood in him threatened to boil. She teased. He prayed. She settled down lower; her sudden aggression rang a hoarse cry from his lips. He thanked God for the simple moments in life. He forgot there was a God. Then he lost what control he had, reaching her, lifting her, bringing her down upon him ... Thundering into the night. There was no thought then. Not until later, much later. And then his thought was,
God, I cannot bear this.
But the reply could not change.
God, I must.

And curled against him, later still, she whispered, "You know that I do not hate you, nor do I even hate Wallace. But you are still my enemy." Enemy, monster, outlaw, Scot. He rolled her back to him. "Not tonight, my lady. Not tonight." She opened her mouth. But for once ... She did not argue.

Chapter 9

With Helene supervising, the servants had created a veritable feast. Though it was winter, there were preserved vegetables. There were many kinds of fish, dried meats, wines. Theirs was a simple house on the outskirts of the city by the docks, but when they chose, they could create a meal to vie with that of the greatest manor. Eleanor had not yet come down. Brendan sat at the table between William and Eric, unaware that he had been brooding until Eric elbowed him roughly. "Brendan. More wine?" "Aye, that I will," he responded, smiling at H61£ne who had been waiting for his reply. More wine was poured into his cup. Then he realized that William was watching him, and had probably been doing so for some time. "The escort comes tomorrow," William said. "I am aware of that." "Are you? Do you remember that we are outlaws?" Brendan tried not to scowl. "I am aware of that as well." "Are you?" "Indisputably." Wallace watched him still. "We face swords and arrows and therein great danger, but that is to the flesh. I would not see you hurt, lost within your soul."

"Hurt?" he inquired, staring hard at Wallace in return. He shook his head. "I am aware that I am a commoner, knighted on the field of battle, but a commoner still. An outlaw in the eyes of the English king. And I never forget the cause, William." "Really?" William said, smiling slightly. "I do at times. I think of how I would love a home, land to till, children to watch, scold, train, raise into manhood. Sometimes ... sometimes I want life more than any quest." "You could have all those things. You are welcome here; Philip would gladly give you land and a house. The Norse king would just as gladly welcome you there and give you land—" "But they could not give me a home, for their land is not my land," William said. "And the children I would raise would not have the father I would wish to be." "You said—"

"I said that I am human. I have lost a woman I loved with all my heart, but there are still times now when I see a certain face, hear the softness of a woman's voice, and think of what might have been. The moments come—and the moments pass. That's not to say a man should not accept anything from life. Or that I will not marry again. But you, young friend, have strayed into dangerous territory." Brendan lifted his wine, and leaned close to Wallace. "It is you who said that the prisoner was mine." "Aye. But then, she is no longer our prisoner, is she?" "I am aware of that." "By tomorrow, perhaps, we will ride for Paris." "And that is tomorrow, isn't it?" Wallace studied him gravely, then agreed with a shrug. "Aye. That is tomorrow."

Eleanor chose that moment to come down. She was elegant in soft ochre and gold, a gown with long flowing sleeves. She moved with grace and fluidity, but despite her noble bearing, there was an easy smile on her lips when H61&ne greeted her at the foot of the stairs, and when she entered the hall, he was surprised to see that she even had a pleasant nod for Wallace as he rose to greet her. "My lady," he said, bowing to her. "Sir William," she returned, politely inclining her head as well. He moved his hand with a flourish, inviting her to sit. "You're aware that an escort is coming, and that we'll be traveling to Paris." "I am." "Then you'll be pleased to realize that you need make no more deadly attempts to escape our company." "Aye." "The accommodations may not have been what you are accustomed to, but this house is our best offering."

She smiled. "Sir William, are you afraid of what I might say to the king?" "My lady, I'm afraid of the day that I may be torn limb from limb, and meet my maker. But as to what you choose to say ... that is entirely your own concern." Her smile deepened. "You mean that, don't you?" "Indeed." She raised the cup before her. "To you, sir. I shall be sorry on that day when they do tear you limb from limb." Wallace laughed, seeming to feel it was his turn. "You mean that, don't you?" he inquired. "Indeed, Sir William, I do." At that moment, composed, serene, so regal, she slipped. Her eyes moved down the table, and touched Brendan's. He was startled by the sudden depth of pain in them. And the innocence, the loss, the vulnerability. What you perceive as such!
he reminded himself.
Yet he smiled, slowly, returning her gaze. Wallace's words haunted him.
Hurt to the soul.
He did wish to give up his prisoner.

"My lady!" Margot, who had been seated at the side of Eric, rose, smiling with pleasure to see Eleanor again. Eleanor rose again as well. The two left the table to come together, meeting with an embrace. "So you are part of this treachery!" Eleanor scolded. "Only in that I feared you intended to jump from the ship, and gave warning," Margot told her. "When I knew that you were safe in our keeping. And all is well, is it not? Aye, Brendan decided on something of a trick, but... you could have gotten yourself into grave danger!"

"That from a woman who sails with the worst of the brigands!" Jacques said cheerfully. "Margot, Lady Eleanor, I beg you, don't forget the meal!" H61fcne chided. "My lady, you must sample the fish. Onward to Paris, mind you! You'll taste eels, fish, and birds, but they'll taste no finer than what we serve here. And our wine is the sweetest!" "Of that, I've no doubt," Eleanor murmured, as she smiled ruefully to Margot, and sat back down. She graciously thanked H61£ne as the tall blond woman served her.

here was talk about the food, which they all admired, and Wallace said that he wished he had Helene along on many a lonely trek. But then the tone grew serious as Jacques cleared his throat. "There has been further talk that Robert Bruce will indeed sign himself to King Edward." He sat at the far end of the table and spoke unhappily." It's been expected," Wallace said. "It remains a blow," Eric stated. "Too often his behavior becomes a blow," Brendan said. "I don't think there will be any surprises. Still, there will surely be more information when we reach Paris." "John Balliol will come to court, William," Jacques stated.

"That, too, is to be expected," William said. ' 'How long do we fight for a man with no stomach to manage his own throne? We don't even ask him to seize it! It's our necks we risk," Eric demanded. "It's his own he risks if he returns," Wallace said. "So we fight for a figurehead," Brendan murmured. "And freedom—of course." "The nobles will one day rise. I know it," Wallace assured them. "I swear it; the day will come. But I hadn't imagined to engage in such conversation this evening. We mustn't allow the countess to leave us believing that we are true savages, nothing on our minds but war. Jacques have you the lute?" "Aye, that I do." "Play us a tune."

Jacques rose, found the instrument, and handled it tenderly. A moment later, he strummed a melody, and the sounds of it were soft and sweet and poignant. Jacques had a fine voice, and he sang the ballad to go with it. It was an ancient ballad, about a maiden left behind, and a dying warrior, his blood enriching the earth and the legend and the myth of the land, and all that was to come. It was very beautiful, but when Jacques had ended, he looked up, and they were all still.

Brendan leaned toward. "Mon ami, that is beautiful. Too beautiful, perhaps, for the moment. Do you know something ..." "More cheerful," Eric burst in. He rose from the table, grabbing Margot's hand. "A dance, my fair beauty?" "Indeed, my fine sir!" Margot agreed, laughing. The two rose to the floor. The tune was fast, wild, light. Eric and Margot followed a very courtly manner of dancing for perhaps two minutes, but then they were spinning and laughing. "A pity we've no pipes!" Wallace said, then he turned to Eleanor. "My lady, dare I make the suggestion that ..." Eleanor rose. "Only, sir, if you can teach me that step."