Susan King - [Celtic Nights 02] (20 page)

The kitten lay curled in the middle of the bed. Gawain remembered that Philippa had rushed out of the room to return with a bundle that must have been the cat.

He came forward. Juliana watched him in silence, her eyes the only part of her that moved. Instead of going to the bed, he bent to open the saddle pack on the floor. The jangling of the chains inside sounded clearly in the quiet.

He intended to extract a clean shirt, but first he picked up the chains and bands, wondering what to do. The king's orders were clear. He had already disobeyed them by bringing her to Avenel unbound. But her escape was a strong possibility once he went to sleep. Much as he loathed the idea, he might have to restrain her again.

"Ah," she said, watching him. "Now I must bare my neck for the golden collar. Is that the secret of our nights at Avenel?"

He glanced over his shoulder. "I cannot risk the Swan Maiden's flight."

"So you think you must chain me like a bird in your fine cage." She waved a hand at the curtains and the canopy of richly embroidered cloth above her head.

"I do not like this any more than you do."

"You could trust me," she said, "to sleep and not to flee."

He almost laughed. "This close to Scotland? I know you better than that, I think."

"And I thought I knew you. I thought you would treat me with better courtesy here. Your family has been muckle kind to me. What about you?"

"You have utterly charmed my family."

"You asked me to do so!" She sounded indignant.

"So I did. But you could not help it, I think." He stood. "You are like that kitten. 'Tis in your nature to be gentle and charming... yet both of you have claws."

"And I have wings, or so you think, and would pinion me."

"If I let you spread those wings, you would be gone."

"You could trust me," she said again.

He sifted the chains from one hand to the other. "I wish I could," he said thoughtfully. "I want to." He felt her gaze upon him as he watched the glitter and fall of the chains.

He hated them. The last thing he wanted was to lock them around her again. But he could not risk losing her. Too much depended on keeping her safely in his care.

As if she were a bird poised on a windowsill, he knew that she would fly if she had the chance. That was her nature, he thought, to seek freedom. He had seen the urge in her already.

"The chains are heavy," she said. "They hurt me."

He had seen the bruises, the red marks. "I know."

She sighed. "Will you fetch that for me, there?" she asked, pointing across the room to the neatly folded pile of clothing that Philippa had left on the flat top of the great wooden chest. "I cannot get out of the bed," she explained, blushing modestly, and raising a hand to her chest. "Would you fetch me the silk?"

Puzzled, he nodded, and crossed the room to pick up the silk chemise and the veil and ribbons—not knowing which piece she meant—and brought them to her. The chains swung in his hands.

She motioned for him to turn away, and he did, while she slipped the heavy cream silk chemise over her head and pulled it down. That, he thought, did not bode well for a woman who claimed to be content to stay in one place for the night.

He turned to see her sliding the veil through her hands. She rolled its length and wrapped an end around her left wrist, knotting it. Then she looked up and held the other end toward him.

"If you cannot believe I will stay here the night, let me prove it. You may tie this end to the bedpost. I will not go anywhere. I promise."

He watched her silently, brows drawn together, stunned by what she offered—her own fledgling trust.

"If you please," she murmured, "the chains are horrible to wear. The silk will allow me to sleep, and yet keep me here."

Still he did not speak. He frowned, hoping her opinion of him was not so low that she believed he cared nothing for her welfare.

After a moment, he flung the mass of links toward the pack, where they jangled out of sight. Then he stripped off his surcoat and tunic, and tossed them over the end of the bed. Kicking off his shoes, he strode to the bed in his braies and climbed in. The feather mattress bounded beneath his weight. He was careful not to disturb the snowy puddle of sleeping kitten as he pulled the covers up.

Snatching the end of the veil, he tied it around his right wrist, closest to her, and held up his forearm. Juliana gaped at him all the while.

"There," he said. "We will bear it together. And should you feel some urge to slip out in the middle of the night, you will have to wake me, or carry me over your shoulder."

She continued to stare at him.

He folded his hands, silk pulling slightly between her arm and his, and looked at her. "Silent again, Swan Maiden?"

"You... you would bind yourself, for my sake?" she asked hoarsely. Her eyes looked overlarge, as if she were about to cry. For love of God, he could not think of a reason for it.

"This solves some of our problem, does it not?" He settled in the bed, putting his hands up behind his head. Her arm went up. "Ah. Sorry." He lowered his right arm, keeping his left up behind his head. A moment later, he leaned over and blew out the candle that flickered on a small table at his bedside. Then he lay back again.

"Good night, my lady," he said softly. "Sweet dreams."

Silence lingered for a few moments. "Gabhan," she said. He had not heard his name on her lips before. Whispered in the dark, her Gaelic accent lent it an intimate, wonderful sound.
Gav-vahn.
Unknowing, she had used his original name. No one had called him Gabhan since his boyhood in Scotland.

He pulled in a breath. "Aye?"

"I must ask a favor of you." Her voice sounded wary.

"Ask it." He expected a lecture regarding the straying of hands in the middle of the night. But he had agreed, when they had been together at Newcastle, that he would not force himself upon her. If she was to become his true wife, she would have to want lovemaking between them as much as he had begun to want it.

Judging by her behavior toward him so far—excepting the pretense they played for his mother's sake—the chances of that were scant enough, he told himself. He raised his knee and looked up at the shadowed canopy, hoping to seem nonchalant about lying in bed with her. He waited.

"I want you to take me safe to Scotland yourself," she said. "Do not leave me in the care of De Soulis."

As at other times, he was surprised. The girl was never predictable. "When Walter de Soulis concludes his meeting with Aymer de Valence, we will resume our journey together, by king's order," he said. "In a few more days—by week's end, at least—you will be in Scotland. What does it matter how you get there?"

"I want you to take me there," she said. "He will not harm me if you are there. I—I will feel safer with you."

He glanced at her sharply. "Has he laid a hand on you?"

She shook her head. "He has not touched me. But I fear that he will kill me one day, even so. Please do not leave me with him on the journey, or at Elladoune, when we are there."

"Kill you? Juliana, you are letting fancy and fear run with your thoughts." He wanted to take her hand, but knew that was not wise, no matter how closely the silk joined them.

"'Tis not fear or fancy," she said softly.

Although he made less of her feelings to reassure her, she seemed to feel real apprehension. "He is not a pleasant man, but he is a loyal king's man, a sheriff and now Master of Swans in Scotland. He will come often to Elladoune. If he disturbs you, stay out of his way."

"I do not trust him. If you must guard me at all, I want to be guarded against him."

He frowned. "Very well."

"Thank you. And in return"—-her gaze swung toward him, a sober gleam—"I will stay in your cage."

* * *

Saints and martyrs, he thought, sleeping with her proved a mighty challenge. Those luscious little sighs, the light bounce of the bed, the gentle pull of the length of silk between his wrist and hers, created sweet, prolonged torture. His awareness of her was keen and constant, though she had scarcely moved. While he had hardly slept, he knew she did, and quite deeply.

The temptation to pull her into his arms was strong. He tried to turn his back to her, but could not, without rolling her with him. He stayed on his back and stared at the curtains, which he had earlier pulled shut, enclosing him and Juliana in a warm and intimate nest. Flexing his hands, he resisted the recurrent, teasing, delicious thought of touching her.

Earlier, he had laughed with her, and had tasted her mouth more than once. The memory of that sweetness drew him to her now like a bee to a flower. He wanted her fiercely, his body aching with an astonishing need, strong and vibrant and immediate.

Perhaps he struggled only against the common exaggeration of dreams and sensations in the darkness. Perhaps it was merely the natural urge that came upon a man at night. In the morning, he told himself, he would forget this. He would scarcely remember how much he wanted her, how he throbbed for her. This would seem like a dream.

But he could not convince himself of that. He sucked in a breath and shifted his arm, feeling the tug on the silk.

Honor alone kept him from pulling her into his arms and kissing her, caressing her as he yearned. Honor kept him still, and weighed upon him as heavily as desire.

She turned on her side, facing him, and sighed long and low. He sensed, in the utter quiet, that she was awake. On his foot, through the covers, he felt the tiny pricks of the kitten's claws as it flexed its toes in sleep.

"Must we have the cat in our bed?" he asked irritably.

"Aye," she said, her voice thick with sleep.

"Why so? She will hardly protect you against me, if 'tis what you think. I fear I will smash the little beastie, all unknowing, in my sleep."

"If you cannot be husband to me," she murmured, "which you cannot, for 'twould be ill-done to take me in my body as England wishes to take Scotland...." Her pause signaled that she expected his reply on that point.

"Aye, it was ill-done. We agree on that. Go on."

"Then I will have the kitten in the bed at night. I want some comfort. I am a prisoner, after all."

"I hope I suffer so, if I ever fall into prison again," he muttered, reshaping his pillow.

"You will, if you do not tame me."

"Thank you for the reminder," he growled.

After a moment, she turned her head. He saw the silvery gleam of her hair and the oval curve of her face in the darkness. "In prison again? What did you mean?"

"I spent two months in the king's dungeon in the Tower of London. I was released but six weeks ago. 'Tis why my mother still thinks me too thin," he added.

"What was your crime?"

"The crown called it transgression," he answered. He did not want to offer more, not then, for there was far too much else to explain regarding that incident. But Juliana leaned closer in the dark, her curiosity clearly raised.

"Transgression? But you are the perfect courteous English knight. Surely there was something serious to warrant prison."

"There was." He lay unmoving, silent, considering. His hand was beside hers, the band of silk gentle between them.

"What was it?" she prompted.

"Betrayal," he said quietly, and turned his head away, presenting his shoulder to her.

* * *

Caught in a dream, yet riding the edge of wakefulness, she summoned back the vanishing images and thoughts, drawing them over her like a cloak woven of stars and darkness. That world seemed more real now than reality, a place of safety and love and joy. A sparkling strand of murmurings and laughter and a beloved face streamed past, and she went toward it. She did not want to rise up into the light of dawn, and another day of captivity.

Snuggling down, keeping her eyes closed, she felt lush and warm and relaxed as she sought and found her dream world again. Caresses, whispers, someone whom she adored, who loved her-—

There he was—just there. She smiled and slipped into his arms when he appeared. They floated together somewhere, in a meadow, in an ocean, in a bed, in heaven—she did not know. Neither did she know his name. But she knew him nonetheless, understood him deeply, as if he were the twin half of her soul.

His slow, gentle fingers skimmed her back, her arm, her hip. She lay against him, breast to chest, her knee drawn over his firm thigh, his breath easing over her hair.

So peaceful, so warm. A wondrous feeling, unlike anything she had ever known before. She could not tell where she ended and he began. She only knew how much she loved him.

Smiling, sinking into his comfort and strength, she slid her hand over the smooth contour of his chest, feeling the circlet of his nipple harden. She explored him, sighing as he sought her as well, his hand gliding over the roundness of her breast, his thumb flicking over the nipple, creating a burst of starlight in her body, in her heart.

Breath soft in her hair, lips warm and gentle on her brow, he seemed to meld with her. She tilted toward him, and his mouth captured hers, her lips opening to him. If only she could float here forever, loved and loving, cherishing, a part of his flesh and spirit, as he seemed part of hers. Only joy existed between them, only the urge to touch, the desire to please.