Susan King - [Celtic Nights 02] (24 page)

A tumult of thunder, like stones rolling down a slope, made her shiver. "It sounds as if the storm is cracking the world apart. All will be different tomorrow."

"This place cannot be destroyed by a storm."

"I do not mean the castle. I mean... this peace between us." She drew up her knees and rested her arm there. "Avenel is like a sojourn in faery land, lovely but false. 'Twill end soon."

"When we return to the grim world," he finished. "You are safe with me. I swear it."

"But you owe your fealty to Edward. I am never truly safe with you, nor can I trust you, no matter how—" She stopped.

"Go on."

"No matter how good I feel when I am with you," she blurted.

Lost in the sounds of the storm, he uttered something low and fierce, and turned her toward him. The heat of his hands on her shoulders triggered a wave of desire that flashed through her body like an inner storm.

She tilted back her head, her heart pounding, her body throbbing with anticipation. The force that pulsed between them was strong and vibrant, and impossible to ignore any longer. She wanted him to ease its tension.

"None of this is false, I swear it," he growled, looking into her eyes. "And I swear you will be safely kept."

"But you want me to obey your king," she said breathlessly. "Mayhap that is why you are so kind to me here, why we pretend this marriage. You want to convince me to follow your will, and earn you favor at court."

"That is absurd. Obey or not. But the king wants his way, and we are caught by that."

She stared into his dark eyes. "Caught fast."

"Aye," he growled. He slipped his palm to cup her cheek then, and kissed her. She moaned, for it brought sheer relief. As she leaned back to accept the slant of his mouth over hers, he slid his hand along her jaw, his fingers weaving into her hair.

Falling into the kiss as if she dropped through air or plunged underwater, she protested on a whisper when he pulled away. On a silent plea, she tipped her face toward him.

He kissed her again, his fingers cradling her head. Resting her hand on his chest, she felt smooth, heated skin, a pounding heart. Pulled close to him, she slipped her hand over his shoulders, seeking his strength, seeking something she could not name or define, but yearned to discover.

Bound by silk, his hand entwined with hers, while his other hand soothed over her back and hip. Lush and hungry, his mouth met hers again. When he tipped her back and stretched out beside her, she turned toward the hard pressure of his body.

The silence and the enclosed bed created a haven of privacy, erasing outside boundaries and creating new ones. She felt an honest, fervent desire between them, obvious within this sanctum. Here, she trusted him. He would give her pleasure and comfort, and she would offer the same, wordlessly, eagerly. In that, at least, she felt safe with him.

His hand gentled over her breasts, and his fingers lingered, coaxing. When he settled his mouth on her nipple, hardening her there, shivers cascaded through her. She writhed, gasped out. The silk twisted between them as she gripped his hand and wrapped her fingers tightly in his.

The day had started with a dream of exquisite loving, and now had come full circle. She sighed and rolled to allow him greater freedom with her body, and she traced her fingers along the hard, sleek contours of his back, sliding lower. Her body craved his fiercely; desire flowered in her, powerful and new.

When a tiny moan escaped her lips, his mouth captured it from her. The kiss deepened, and she melted further as his hand soothed over her breasts again. She moaned again, turning.

He paused and drew back. Cool air filled the space between them. Suddenly he rolled away, moving so quickly that she turned with him, dragged by the tug of the silken bond. She stared at his back, her heart slamming, her body keen and lonely.

The center of her being, somehow, ached. "What," she said breathlessly, "was that?"

"Male weakness," he replied hoarsely.

"It did not seem weak to me."

"Go to sleep."

"I cannot sleep. The storm." That, and her wildly beating heart that would not calm.

"I can. And must, or ravish you here and now in this bed. Or is that what you want?"

"I do not want... ravishing, exactly," she said plaintively. A moment ago she would have pursued it boldly, but now she could not. He had closed himself off from her, and the outside world had somehow come galloping into the gap.

"So be it. No ravishment," he said, his voice low. "You swore you would be mine on the day that hell turns icy, and faeries serve the king of England—or whatever the devil you said. I will not dishonor you, or my own word."

"What if I changed my mind?" she asked faintly.

He punched his pillow. "I crossed a border with you just now, and I did not mean to do it. I would not want you to think poorly of English knighthood," he added sourly.

Regret rushed through her like icy water. But he was wise to end this now, she told herself. The surprising haven of their shared bed, for all its potential and wonder, could not alter what separated them outside of it.

"Gabhan—" She said his name in Gaelic without thinking.

"Good night to you," he snapped.

She sighed, angry, hurt, and confused. Her body told her to do one thing, her mind told her another. Her heart was ensnared in the middle. He struggled, apparently, with something similar.

The Church had taught her that lust was a trap, and now she knew how sweet a trap it was. Clarity of insight told her that passion, within a truly loving union, was a bridge to something beautiful. She wanted to cross the bridge with Gawain, but he did not want that.

Thunder crashed again. She inched closer to him and tucked her fist against his back. He did not turn to take her into his arms as she wished, but he did not move away. She drifted to sleep again behind the battlement of his back, while the storm raged outside.

Chapter 17

The morning clouds were leaden gray through the open window of Lady Clarice's chamber, and the air was cool. Gawain turned to latch the window shutters, and stopped. There was gloom enough here already, he thought.

He watched his mother murmur to Juliana, who wore the white satin gown beneath a blue cloak, a gift from Lady Clarice. Juliana leaned down to kiss his mother's cheek, holding the white kitten tucked in her arm.

"Aye, I promise," she responded to Lady Clarice's quiet question. "We will return to Avenel as soon as we can." She embraced his mother.

Watching, Gawain felt a tug on his heart and blinked in astonishment at the sheer strength of his feelings. He loved his mother and family deeply, and knew it. Now, as he looked at Juliana, something similar stirred within him.

But the feeling had more layers, more texture: affection wrapped with passion and bright hope.

Last night he had wanted her intensely. He had turned away to quell his desire, aware that the boundary he had inadvertently crossed was more than physical desire. The depth of his feelings for her had amazed him, even frightened him.

Love,
an inner voice whispered. He answered it—
Nay, it cannot be.
How could he have come to love her so quickly? Yet it was strong and undeniable. And he did not know what to do.

Juliana held out the snowy kitten to Eleanor and Catherine. "Please keep Pippa for me," she told them. "She is too young for a long journey. Mayhap I can claim her when she is older and we... are settled in our home." She glanced at Gawain, her eyes filled with doubts that only he understood.

He wished he could reassure her. "Juliana, we must go."

She kissed the kitten's head and handed her to Eleanor. "Keep her safe for me," she said, her voice breaking. She embraced the twins and walked to the door, dashing her hand over her eyes.

Gawain folded Lady Clarice into his arms, careful of her frailty. The tears in her eyes disturbed him, but he smiled and said he would see her soon, though he wondered if this might be the last time. He hugged his sisters and turned away.

Juliana led the way out of the chamber and toward the stairs. They descended the stairs in silence, the hem of her blue cloak sweeping each stone step. He watched its brightness in the shadows, and fought grief and regret.

He was leaving Avenel too soon, but he had no choice. Riding beside Juliana beneath the portcullis and over the drawbridge, he turned and waved farewell to Robin, who stood in the courtyard, framed by the stone arch.

Juliana rode silently, fair and perfect beside him. As sad as he felt to leave Avenel, he was aware of the comfort of her gentle strength. And he felt a burgeoning hope: soon he would find Glenshie at last, and claim it.

He urged Gringolet ahead. The palfrey, Galienne, hastened to keep up as they took the road that stretched over the moors.

Just as Juliana had said, their days at Avenel did indeed seem like time spent in faeryland—beautiful and unreal, and flown with the light.

He led her along the road toward the Scottish border not far away, where De Soulis and the escort would be waiting. After an hour, the horses cantered through a stand of trees. Recognizing the area near Kelso, he slowed his horse, and Juliana guided hers to a halt.

He dismounted and reached up, and she skimmed to the ground in his arms, watching him warily. He turned to take the golden chains and bands from the pack behind his saddle.

He did not speak, nor did she, for he did not know what to say. Should he apologize or beg forgiveness? Should he explain that their marriage, and his assignment to Elladoune, might gain him a long-cherished dream? Should he tell her he loved her?

Husky and quiet, he asked her to remove the veil so he could put the chains on her once again. He felt like a coward.

Juliana unwrapped the veil. Her hair was coiled over her ears, and she pulled the ivory pins free so that the golden sheen spilled over her shoulders. The white silk veil drifted down like a wisp of cloud.

He caught the veil and stuffed it in his pocket, never taking his gaze from hers. He did not want to do this. But the escort had ridden into sight over the rim of the hill. He heard the horses' hooves and saw the men from the corner of his vision.

Juliana lifted her chin, gazing past him. Her eyes were dull, their blue spark turned to smoke. He slipped the collar around her throat and closed it, then lifted the wrist manacles.

She held up her hands passively while he closed the bracelets and attached the chains. She was as cool and delicate and as still as marble under his touch.

Anger at himself, at his king, made his fingers tremble. If he was ever to defy his orders again, he ought to do it now.

Yet he was manacled even more securely than she was. If he broke faith with the king again, his family would suffer. And he would never find Glenshie.

His fingers brushed her slim throat as he checked the collar. "Does it pinch?" he asked.

She did not answer. Chains chiming, she reached inside her sleeve. Drawing out the white feathered cap, she set it upon her head. She acted as if he were not there.

Once again, she was the silent, beautiful Swan Maiden.

She turned and waited. Gawain boosted her into the saddle, then mounted the bay. He took Galienne's lead and rode on. In the distance, he saw the escort heading for the inn tucked at the base of a hill, just over the border of Scotland.

When he reached the yard, the party waited there. Gawain tethered Juliana's horse to a tree and turned to see De Soulis and Laurence Kirkpatrick coming toward them.

All the while, he avoided her glance. He felt too ashamed of himself, and the whole of English knighthood, to look in those beautiful eyes.

* * *

"She is tired," Gawain said to himself, watching Juliana, who sat her horse out in the yard. He studied the drooping lines of her shoulders and her bowed head, and saw fatigue there, and something sad and poignant. He felt as if he had caused it.

"Some of the goodwife's fresh ale and that excellent cheese will revive her," Laurie said, standing beside him. "You speak of her more like a husband than a guard. Is it so?"