Susan King - [Celtic Nights 02] (29 page)

He glanced at her. "Tell me your secrets, and you may learn some of mine."

Her heart pounded. She looked away quickly, regretting her impulsive tongue. If she pursued her keen curiosity about his secrets and his past, she would put hers to equal scrutiny—and that would endanger her friends. She could not ask any more about Gawain until he was ready to offer his story to her.

"You are fortunate I speak to you at all, Sassenach." She said it lightly, and he chuckled a little.

"Well," he said, "true. My lady, will you come inside?"

She turned and stepped past him through the doorway.

* * *

He fallowed Juliana across the narrow foyer and looked with her into the great hall, a large, plain chamber with white-washed walls, a timber ceiling, and planked floor. Tables, benches and a few chairs furnished it, but no colorful hangings or cushions warmed its starkness.

She said nothing, and turned away to go up the turning stairs. Gawain paused with her at each level to glance into the rooms that opened off the landings. They walked together through rooms that were sparsely furnished and obviously used as military quarters. Juliana made no comment, and climbed the stairs again.

The uppermost level was divided into a bedchamber, solar, and garderobe. Juliana stepped into the main room and turned, the bedraggled hem of her white gown pooling on the wooden floor.

"'Tis all so different," she murmured. "I recognize little of it—the rooms or the furniture." She walked to the window. "Even the shape of this window has changed. The view is the same, over the loch to the mountains," she added softly.

Gawain surveyed the austere chamber. A bed filled one corner, enclosed by a green canopy and long curtain suspended from iron rods attached to the ceiling. The few pieces of furniture—a wooden chest, a table, stools, and a heavy chair beside the stone fireplace—were solid and unadorned. The floor still bore traces of swept-out rushes.

"Did you think 'twould be the same?" he asked. "Naught could have survived that fire, Juliana." He walked toward her.

"There were mural paintings on the walls in the rooms below this, where my parents slept," she said, staring out of the window, "They are whitewashed over. In the great hall, there were embroidered French tapestries on the walls that my mother was proud to own—gone, too. Likely burned," she added.

"Aye," he agreed. "It must have been a lovely home, but 'tis a garrison now—not cozy, but practical."

"This floor had four chambers—two for my brothers, one for me, one for servants. I... jumped from this window on the night of the fire. 'Twas a tall lancet then."

"I remember," he murmured. He saw a moist gleam in her eyes as she looked out. A fierce need to touch her, hold her, welled in him. He doubted she wanted that from him, an English knight.

"I wanted to come back," she said. "I hoped one day my family would be reunited here. Foolish of me." She shrugged. "But I am home now, and I thank you for it. What next?"

"You need some rest. I need to find out about food and sleeping arrangements. We will have a garrison here soon, I think, from what De Soulis said. I suspect Laurie has already seen to himself."

"And what of you?" she asked.

"I am not overly tired. There is much to be done here."

"I mean—where will you sleep?" she half whispered.

He glanced at the bed curtained in green, and looked through the side door into the solar, which contained a bench in a wide window niche. A man could sleep there if he had to, he thought.

He sighed and leaned against the window frame, and thought of their nights together. Sweet secrets and unspoken truces. He wanted more of that with her. He hoped she did, too.

"Where do you want me to sleep?" he asked quietly.

She blushed. "Do we pretend the happy marriage here too?"

"Do you object?"

She shook her head. "Nay. But... 'twas necessary at Avenel. Here—here 'tis different. You are to tame me and make me loyal to your king, and show the Scots the proper direction for their own loyalties."

"Ah. Shall we begin, then?"

"The proper direction for the English," she said, as if reciting, "is to go south."

He laughed. "Ah, there is the Swan Maiden I know. 'Twas apprehension that subdued you today—not surrender."

She scowled. "I will not surrender, nor will I tame."

"I do not expect it of you," he murmured.

"Am I to be treated as a prisoner, or as a wife?"

"How would you be treated?"

"Courteously," she answered. "Without chaining."

"May I remind you that I no longer have the golden chains."

"De Soulis has those chains. If he insists that I am to be kept that way again, what will you do?"

"You are my wife, and in my safekeeping now. Do you think I will chain you?" He tilted his head. "Do you think that disobeying De Soulis would disturb my conscience?"

Her cheeks tinted rose as she shook her head. "But if I must act the constable's happy wife, then I want the privileges his lady would have—freedom to do what I like, and go where I choose. I am at home now, with no reason to run."

"You will have freedom, but you must cooperate. You may go anywhere between here and the abbey, and anywhere else within sight of Laurie."

"Cooperate with what?" she asked carefully.

"There is an oath of obedience and fealty to learn, so that you can say it nicely for the king."

"That," she said, folding her arms, "I cannot do."

He inclined his head to acknowledge her stubbornness, but he would not give in to it. "The oath will be taken, sooner or later. Also, I must have your promise that you will always return to me at the end of the day."

Her eyes seemed to search his. "Aye," she whispered.

"One thing more—do not involve yourself with rebels."

"There are no rebels at Elladoune." Her eyes grew wide and ingenuous, startling blue in the light from the window.

She was good at ruses, he thought. "Do I have your promise in these matters?"

"What will you promise me in return?"

"To trust you."

She studied him. "I need a guarantee."

"So do I." He drew closer. "Shall we seal it?"

She nodded slowly. He rested his lips upon hers, soft as a butterfly alighting. When her body curved toward him, his heart knocked like a drum. "There," he said, "'tis sealed."

She bit her lip and then slowly shook her head.

"What?" He almost laughed. "Not enough?"

She shook her head again, staring up at him.

He growled low and took her by the shoulders. As her head tipped back and her eyes closed, he kissed her profoundly, deeply, as he had wanted to do ever since he had woken beside her that morning in the heavenly quiet of Avenel.

Her hands rested on his waist. Desire poured through him. His mouth moving over hers satisfied only the edge of his hunger. He wanted to sweep her up and carry her to the curtained bed.

Heart pounding, he drew away. Her head stayed back, eyes still closed, simple ecstasy on her face. Her breasts were soft and firm against him. The sensation drove him closer to madness.

"Is that binding enough for you?" he asked hoarsely.

She nodded. "Better than chains." She sounded breathless.

"Some manacles," he said, cupping the side of her face, "are not made of gold or steel. Some chains are invisible, yet bind the heart firm."

"And what chains are those?" she whispered.

"If you do not know," he said, "'tis no use to tell you."

She stared up at him and did not answer.

"My dear wife," he murmured, taking his hands from her face, "you are tired. And I have duties as a constable that I cannot neglect longer."

Striding from the room, he closed the door behind him. The coolness of the stairwell and his forceful step subdued the heated throbbing in his body. But nothing diminished the tug he felt as he walked across the yard, as if a golden cord spun out, linking him with the girl in the tower room.

* * *

Late that night, Gawain stood in the small solar and looked through the window. Entranced by the view—a sweep of lavender sky above dark mountains and the sparkling indigo loch—he stood unmoving and thoughtful, his foot resting on the stone bench.

In the room behind him, Juliana slept deeply, as she had for hours. Earlier he had brought her some fresh ale the monks had supplied, and something to eat—a burned oatcake proudly produced by Laurie. She scarcely roused enough to swallow a little watered ale before sliding back into sleep. He had not disturbed her since, although he had looked in on her a few times, touching her head gently before closing the curtain again.

Though the hour was late, he could not sleep. Laurie had claimed the largest chamber on the floor below, declaring it his privilege as the second in command at Elladoune. The monks had returned to Inchfillan Abbey, after explaining to Gawain and Laurie the features of the castle, and showing them its stores and livestock. Laurie had prepared supper from garden vegetables and salted venison, found in the storeroom.

Gawain wrinkled his nose at the thought of that thin and unsavory pottage. A cook would have to be found, he told himself; Laurie was willing, but not up to the task. He wondered if the abbot could lend some of his monks to work in the kitchen, or if Juliana could find a local goodwife to come to the castle.

In the advancing darkness, the swans floated on the loch, tiny, pale blurs. He remembered that they had been out there on the water the night Elladoune had burned. But of course they would still swim and nest here. Swans were creatures of habit. The fire and the garrison had not frightened them away.

He thought of the legend of another disaster, long ago: a terrible storm, brought on by magic, had destroyed an island fortress in this very loch. Hundreds of people had died here. According to the tale, they had transformed into swans.

He frowned, musing about the legend and remembering the first time he had heard the tale from his grandfather. The ruins of Glenshie were not far from Elladoune, he knew—but where?

Across the loch, mountain slopes thrust upward. He studied each shape, searching for a certain contour, an image that he remembered from childhood: an old woman's face in a mountainside.

As a boy, he had called it
Beinn an Aodann
—mountain of the face—imagining that a giantess lived there. He could not recall the local name. He stood for a long while, searching the profiles of the hills.

He was not trying to avoid going to his wife's bed. Sooner or later, he knew that he would go there. An implicit agreement had occurred between them, although he was not sure when or how. But he felt it with conviction in his heart. He suspected that she did too. Time—and gentleness—would tell.

The lure of the enclosed bed, with Juliana inside its sanctuary, was strong. She slept, and needed sleep, but he hoped that she would at least turn to welcome his arms. He wanted no more than that just now. Being here, so close to Glenshie and yet so far from it, he desperately craved solace for his soul.

The only place he could find that was alone with Juliana. Yet he lingered, searching the skyline for the giantess's face.

Wherever that was, he would find Glenshie.

Chapter 21

They came as they always had, gliding in toward the shore when she appeared, their graceful white bodies reflected in the rippling mirror of the water. Leisurely they swam toward her, without greeting or flurry, as if no time had passed.

As if she had not changed to the core of her soul since the last time she had stood here.

She tossed grain from a small sack and watched the swans feed. Their heads dipped, their bodies spun as they sought the offerings. Life was simple and direct for them, peace amid wildness. They accepted the food, just as they accepted her presence or her absence.

Only a few weeks had passed since she had last been here, but she had changed. She felt wiser, deeper, more aware of her need for peace, and home—and love. The doors of her life had opened, and Gawain had walked in, like a torch in the darkness. And nothing would ever be the same again.