Until the Knight Comes (13 page)

“Tchach, my lady, you err if you think there is aught wrong with me finding pleasure as I can.” Nessa slid a glance at Mariota as they made their way to the burnt mound recently discovered during the clearing of underbrush from near Cuidrach’s curtain walls.

“Aye,” she added, brushing aside a low-hanging pine bough, “mayhap a good long soak in blissfully heated water will banish the cold from your bones and—”

“My bones are just fine,” Mariota snapped, irritation swirling in her breast.

What troubled her was being so . . . confused.

Puzzled by the immensity of her attraction to the Keeper. Why his voice melted her, its deep smoothness pure seduction to her senses. Or why even the most fleeting glance at him made her feel all soft and warm inside, rousing feelings in her that didn’t bear examination.

Not when he persisted in wanting to rid himself of her—see her whisked away to wed some paragon named Sir Duncan Strongbow!

Her pulse jerking at the notion, she blew out an aggravated breath. “Och, nay, Nessa, you err, not me. I am most assuredly not . . . cold.”

Nessa sniffed. “Then a bit stiff-necked, mayhap? For truth, Lachlan says—”

“So now he is Lachlan?” Mariota stepped around a patch of nettles, swishing her skirts to avoid a clump of bracken. “Since when did you stop calling him
sir
?”

“O-o-oh, perhaps since he brought me out here the other night.” Nessa sighed, beamed a knowing smile. “He bathed me by moonlight, my lady—made me feel more a woman than I’ve e’er done!”

Mariota stared straight ahead at the track through the black pinewood, setting her jaw against the softness in her friend’s voice, a
tenderness
that sent sharp little pangs ripping through her.

Faith, but she missed feeling like a woman.

Knowing the joys of a man.

Total, absorbing intimacy and . . . love.

Not that a man had ever truly loved her—as she now knew.

Intimacy, she’d experienced. The kind that made a woman’s heart pound and stole her breath, made her ache all over and fear she’d never ever be sated. And, saints help her, but that sweetness, too, she missed.

Especially since
his
arrival at Cuidrach.

She bit her lip, her heart swelling just thinking about him.

Already she knew the potency of his kisses. Slow, deep kisses she’d come to crave. Kisses, and other . . . intimacies. Deep, dark longings that stunned her. Desires he’d wakened in her that burned to be slaked—as the prickling rush of tingles across her most tender parts proved.

Ignoring those tingles as best she could, she hastened to catch up with Nessa, touching a hand to the other woman’s sleeve. “Are you certain no one will be using the burnt mound?”

“Hah!” Nessa hooted. “Are you hoping
he
might be there? Bathing, perhaps?”

“I didn’t mean him,” Mariota denied. “I wouldn’t want to surprise . . . anyone.”

“We won’t.” Nessa grabbed her arm and pulled her through the thick-growing pines. “Lachlan says the men are working on the gaps in the curtain wall today, and on the other side of the castle. We’ll have the burnt mound to ourselves. Lachlan—”

“Oh!” Mariota stumbled over a root, snatched her arm from Nessa’s grasp. “Have done dragging me along! And if you say ‘Lachlan says’ one more time, you can sink yourself into the heated water without my company.”

“Och, my goodness me!” Nessa froze, her face running scarlet. “We already have company, and he’s—I believe he’s . . .”

“Nay, he can’t be!” Mariota stared through the trees at the naked man standing in the middle of the burnt mound.

Young James Macpherson it was, for, in that moment only a fool would call him Jamie
the Small.

“Oh-dear-saints,” Mariota gasped. “He truly is!”

Unable to look away, she gaped as he lightly stroked his incredible length, fingered and squeezed the swollen, plum-sized head.

Her heart thundering, she glanced at Nessa. “Mayhap he is about to . . . take care of
necessities
?”

“O-o-oh, aye, to be sure and he is, my lady, but not the kind you mean.”

And another look at him proved it.

Standing in profile, his auburn-maned head thrown back like some ancient Gaelic war-god, his magnificent body glistening with water droplets, young Jamie was just sliding his fingers around the thickness of his engorged shaft.

Tight, tight, he curled those fingers . . . and stroked.

Furiously.

Until Nessa sneezed.

At once, Jamie’s hand stilled and he whirled toward them, his fingers still wrapped around his jutting manhood, his eyes wide with horror as he scanned the trees.

“That will be yourself and too many hours spent frolicking beneath the moon!” Mariota charged Nessa as they backed away. “And that on cold Highland nights.”

“He did not see us,” Nessa insisted as they slipped deeper into the trees. “Anyone could have sneezed. A garrison man. One of the glen folk, out gathering nuts for winter. Mayhap searching for containers of bog butter, forgotten in the peat hereabouts?”

Nut-gathering glen folk searching for bog butter!

Mariota bit her tongue, sorely doubting it.

Young Jamie had seen them, and there’d be consequences to pay.

Hours later and still convinced of it, embarrassment sent her on another march around the little anteroom off Cuidrach’s great hall—the one room that seemed too tiny and dark to attract the attention of knights used to castles of much greater pomp and grandeur.

Nor those who would seek nuts or, worse, centuries-old wooden containers of rancid yellow butter left buried in peat bogs by a folk that was no more.

Here she felt safe.

No one would come looking for her, asking why she’d been peeking at a self-pleasuring young lad tending his own personal needs deep in Cuidrach’s most remote pinewood.

Truth tell, she’d never seen anyone set foot in the little room—save Cuillin and he’d followed her here now.

Not that his somewhat smelly presence bothered her.

And judging by his snores, he slept much too soundly to fret about her cares.

Or where she’d been that e’en.

What she’d seen.

As well, what she’d . . . learned.

The revelation that the tingling heat that had swept her upon seeing the young knight
tend
himself, were tingles caused by
him.

Not strapping young Jamie with his shock of bronze-colored hair and oh-so-impressive man-goods.

Nor even intimate memories of the late Bastard of Drumodyn, the great stirk of a Highland lout whose once-cherished face grew more dim by the day.

Nay, she’d thought of
him.

The Keeper of Cuidrach in all his deep, dark sensuality. His smoldering, soul-searing gaze and the languid yearning he roused in her. Unexpected feelings that burned with such bright-edged intensity, she’d almost swear she wouldn’t be able to breathe much longer unless he soon touched her again.

Really touched her.

And everywhere.

Let her feel the hardness of his body, so hot and masculine, pressing against hers. Gave her deep-slaking kisses, one for every hour she’d hungered. Long, slow kisses, full of soft, warm breath and sensuously sliding tongues.

The kind of kisses that would set off a firestorm inside her and send rivers of molten, throbbing heat spinning to her core.

Kisses that would make him forget a man named Sir Duncan Strongbow.

And any others that might cross his mind!

Frowning, she bit back a frustrated little cry and fussed at her skirts, dug her hands into its folds to still her trembling fingers.

Truth tell, all of her trembled—not just her fingers!

Even her breath hitched, came shallow and unsteady.

Night after night, she’d seen every garrison man beneath Cuidrach’s roof in some state of nakedness, many fully unclothed. They paraded about the hall, unashamed of their well-trained physiques, as they saw to their evening ablutions or dressed of a morn. Some, perhaps, even took a mite of pleasure in having two sets of feminine eyes assess and appreciate their . . . grandeur.

Aye, she’d glimpsed the lot of them.

All save one.

And of those she
had
seen, nary a man had been roused.

Until tonight.

Her palms damping, she closed her eyes, but the image of Jamie’s jutting manhood remained. The sight stood branded on her memory in vivid detail, would likely invade her dreams. Unsettling and tormenting her—but not for reasons a lady ought admit!

Even now, in this dank little anteroom and with the cold night air streaming through the arrow slit, a floodtide of hot and shivery excitement spilled through her at the thought of
him
.

How the Keeper would have looked standing there full naked and aroused, raw hunger pouring off him, desire racing through her as his engorged length filled and stretched even more beneath her heated gaze.

He
was the one she ached to see.

Faith, more than that, she could already feel him inside her!

So much so, her entire body tensed and her heart knocked wildly against her ribs. She bit her lip at the liquid heat pooling low by her thighs, stifling a gasp at the exquisite pulsing.

But the gasp escaped anyway, and with its release, she frowned, frustration damping the pleasurable sensations whirling inside her.

Truth was, she ought not be
whirling
at all.

Not for a man determined to see her gone.

And lest she wished to melt into a puddle of quivering female heat when he next turned his piercing gaze on her, she’d best learn to subdue more than gasps!

Imagining such deliciousness was as close to the sensually attractive Keeper of Cuidrach as she ought to allow herself.

True and intimate closeness would prove far too heady.

Exceedingly dangerous.

Hot and achy all the same, she resumed her pacing, shot a glance at Cuillin, not surprised to find the old dog watching her with his milky, all-seeing eyes.

As if he knew exactly how torn she was . . . how deeply she yearned, yet how much she feared.

“Ach, laddie.” She went over to him and scratched behind his scruffy, tattered ears. “Did you e’er burn with such impossible need? Such unquenched desires?”

But he only looked at her, one scraggly brow raised.

Indeed, he soon lost interest in her, his rheumy gaze latching on to a tiny shadow flitting about near the wine casks stored in one corner of the anteroom.

A mouse.

And a most industrious one, for he darted hither and thither, even scrambling onto one of the wine barrels only to leap down again—almost as if he sought to attract attention.

“’Tis only a bittie mouse,” Mariota assured Cuillin, thinking he couldn’t see aught but the wee beastie’s fast-moving shadow.

To her surprise, Cuillin proved her wrong.

His cloudy eyes narrowing with stealthy purpose, he stretched to his feet, only to hunker down and slink forward, his now-sharp gaze fixed on his tiny, gray-coated prey.

But the mouse had other ideas, shooting with great speed to the far wall where he spun around to stare with tiny, black-beaded eyes at the stiff-legged dog, almost taunting him to catch him.

A feat the aged beast attempted with vigor, even if his awkward gait didn’t match the strength of his hunting-dog heart.

He still moved faster than Mariota could bear, for, away from the pile of wine casks, the mouse had nowhere to go.

Indeed, the little creature streaked along the base of the wall, his panic giving Cuillin fresh heart. His eyes lighting, the dog made a great lunge, slip-sliding to a halt mere inches from the mouse.

Or, from the looks of it, right on top of him.

Mariota rushed forward. “Cuillin! Dinna touch that mouse!”

But rather than devouring his hoped-for treat, the old dog nosed the base of the wall, snuffling the damp stones and whining, his prize nowhere in sight.

The mouse was gone.

“Mercy—you didn’t eat him, did you?” She eyed the dog, but he only slid her a perplexed look and sank back on his bony haunches.

Flummoxed as well, Mariota spun round to stare at the wine casks. But there, too, nothing moved.

Instead, a thick silence descended, broken only by Cuillin’s whines and the sound of his paw scrabbling at the stone wall.

Comprehension—and relief—flooded her.

Cuillin might be aged, but his mind wasn’t dimmed. Ne’er would he scratch at a wall—without reason.

She wheeled back around, expecting to see the dog fussing at a mouse hole, but the only irregularity in the wall proved a barely-there crack.

And far too narrow for even a mouse to wriggle through.

Or was it?

Dropping to her knees, she peered at the vertical line seaming the stone masonry. An ordinary-looking crack, though Cuillin’s pawings seemed to have loosened the mortar and a smallish black gap peeked at her from between the stones, perhaps just wide enough for a thin mouse.