Knight In My Bed (13 page)

"Evelina will do," the joy woman said in her soft, throaty voice, then set the bowl of milk on the hard-packed earth before her doorstep. Straightening, she wiped her palms on the skirt of her near transparent camise and gave Isolde another of her gentle, oddly knowing smiles. "What brings you here so early in the day?"

Isolde opened her mouth to reply, but her tongue seemed affixed to the roof of her mouth. And it seemed to swell larger the longer she stood gaping at Evelina's near naked state. Though simply robed, the older woman, with her silk gauze attire and easy charm of manner, oozed sensuality.

Blatant, uninhibited carnality.

Yet she appeared somehow ... dignified, as well.

She would have Donall the Bold eating comfits from her hand with one worldly-wise glance from her dark, sultry eyes.

Isolde swallowed again, but die response she meant to tender the other woman still lodged firmly in her throat. Much to her discomfiture, for she knew she was gawking, she couldn't tear her gaze away. The neckline of Evelina's camise dipped so low it scarce covered the dusky tips of her full bosom, while a long slit up the front of its skirt revealed her shapely legs almost to ...

Embarrassment tore through Isolde.

Merciful saints, if she wasn't mistaken, the gown's sheerness revealed a thin gold chain slung low around Evelina's hips.

A chain with a large, sparking bauble dangling from it.

A precious gemstone of a brilliant green, nestled against the abundant-looking triangle of dark curls at the apex of the joy woman's thighs!

Lifting her chin, Isolde met Evelina's unruffled gaze. Keenly aware that her cheeks glowed, she blurted, "Were you expecting a... er ... a friend?"

"Aye, indeed I am," Evelina affirmed. "But my lord is a well-occupied man. He will not come for some hours yet." She peered down at the wooden bowl of milk. "Other than him, I await none save Mab."

"Mab?" Isolde asked before she realized the other woman could only mean the crone's multicolored feline.

"Old Devorgilla's cat," Evelina confirmed Isolde's guess. "Mab often visits me. She welcomes a bowl of fresh, sweet milk and cares not from whose hand it is poured."

Isolde winced at the flicker of regret in the older woman's eyes. "I did not mean ---"

"I know you did not, my lady. 'Tis most high in esteem I hold you for your trust in me." Evelina made a dismissive motion with her hand when Isolde tried to interrupt her. "You did not come here to exchange niceties. Will you not come inside and tell me what troubles you?"

She stepped aside so Isolde could duck beneath the door's low-set lintel. Though yet early, a small stone hearth glowed with a freshly laid and kindled turf fire. Its scent, smoky sweet and earthy, lent the spotlessly clean cottage a welcoming air of warmth, peace, and contentment.

Isolde followed her across the stone-flagged floor to a smallish wooden table and two exceptionally fine high-backed chairs. Gratefully, for her legs suddenly felt quite wobbly, she took a seat on the chair Evelina pulled out for her.

Her back a mite too straight and her hands clasped tightly in her lap, she watched the joy woman slide a tall screen of woven willow branches in front of a low, open archway cut into the opposite wall.

Evelina's bedchamber.

Despite her fervent desire not to offend the older woman by showing any form of judgmental behavior, Isolde couldn't hinder the dampness beading her forehead and palms, nor relax the wooden manner with which she perched on the edge of her chair.

And her nerves didn't fail her because the tiny bedchamber held a bed and naught else, but because she'd had the audacity to peer into it on her last visit. Quite boldly, she glanced behind the screen when Evelina had busied herself fetching them both a cup of her self-brewed redcurrant wine.

This time, too, she caught a quick glimpse of the bed before Evelina could shove the screen into place. A simple oaken four-poster, un-curtained, but graced with exquisitely embroidered coverings and pillows.

For a long, uncomfortable moment Isolde kept her gaze on the well-swept floor rather than watch the joy woman hovering so near the place where surely countless passions had been indulged and spent.

Where, within a few short hours, Evelina would no doubt tryst with her secret amour.

Isolde squirmed on the chair.

Her palms grew clammier.

And the unobtrusive popping sounds of the peat fire crackling in the hearth swelled to a great roar in her ears until she recognized the noise as the loud thudding of her own heart.

She cleared her throat. 'Tour champion sounds brave and valiant, a man any maid would rejoice to have. Do you not wish to wed him?"

No sooner had the words spilled from her tongue, than she realized the hurt they could inflict. "Pray forgive me, lady. I ---"

"We cannot marry," Evelina began, taking a richly bordered mantle of heavy silk off a peg on the wall and draping it discreetly over her see-through camise. "Because, as you know, I am not a lady."

"But "

Evelina stopped Isolde's protestation with a raised hand. "But I have quit my wicked trade?" Fastening the mantle's girdle around her still-slender waist, she gave Isolde a half-amused smile.

Isolde's heart wrenched at the sadness hiding behind it.

Coming forward, Evelina took one of Isolde's hands between her own. "Think you it matters I've . . .
reformed
?"

"I vow it should."

"But it does not." Evelina released her hand. "Some stains ne'er wash out, my lady. The people of these isles have long memories."

Taking two earthen cups off a shelf, she poured them each a portion of her famed redcurrant wine. "I have a reputation for evil living." She placed a cup in front of Isolde. "Many are they who would chase after me with sticks, their faces a-glow with zeal whilst they wish all the terrors of hellfire upon me."

Her voice was firm, her expression placid, but the telltale glitter of moisture swimming in her dark eyes made Isolde forget her own woes.

And the reason she'd come.

"Tell me on whom you've hung your heart, and I shall intervene." Isolde clutched at Evelina's arm when she made to move away, but her fingers grasped at air as the joy woman slipped past her to stand at the opened door, her back to the room.

"Is he a MacInnes?" Isolde probed. "A MacLean?"

Evelina turned around. "As I will not betray your trust, nor can I violate my lord's. Not even to you."

"He can be naught but one or the other," Isolde reasoned, undaunted by Evelina's refusal to reveal the man's name. "If he is of my blood, I shall speak to the elders on your behalf. If he is a MacLean," she hesitated, then rushed on, "mayhap there, too, I can soon wield some small influence."

With a quiet sigh, Evelina gestured to the row of wooden pegs lining the far wall. For the first time, Isolde noticed a faded
arisaid
hanging there.

MacInnes colors.

Her heart began to thump, but then she recognized a MacLean plaid dangling from the next peg. And there were others.

The implication blossomed on Isolde's cheeks.

"I see you understand." Evelina took the seat across from Isolde and lifted her cup. "He could fare from any of these isles, my lady. Be glad I will not allow to befall you the havoc that would erupt should you attempt to champion someone like me."

"But "

"You are too kind, Isolde of Dunmuir." Evelina took a sip of her redcurrant wine. "Would that all were as pure-hearted as you. But they are not, so it must suffice you to know your generosity is much appreciated."

Isolde curled her hands around her own cup and stared at the tabletop. "Of late I feel anything but generous, and certainly not pure-hearted."

“Your intentions are noble."

Isolde looked up. "And the means?"

"The means?" Evelina smiled. A wide smile that lit her face and made her appear years younger. "Did you know, once when I yet lived in Glasgow and was the ... er, guest of a great and noble lord, I heard the bards sing Donall the Bold's praises?"

A mischievous light danced in her eyes.
"Aye, 'tis true.
There wasn't a storyteller worth his salt who couldn't recite a rousing tale about Donall MacLean's valorous deeds."

Isolde took a healthy swallow of her wine.

Evelina leaned forward. "'Twas also claimed he is fired with enough romantic ardor to please ten women at once."

The wine cup near slipped from Isolde's fingers. "I find him boorish and rude."

Sitting back, Evelina lifted an elegant brow and peered across the table at her. "Can you blame him?"

Isolde glanced away.

The joy woman's raised brow and penetrating scrutiny reminded her too much of the looks he gave her. And her words sounded disconcertingly similar to those of the
cailleach.

Agitation began to bubble in Isolde's belly. She studied the other woman's face but couldn't discern what she wanted to know. "Who holds your loyalty?" she finally blurted.

"Why, you both do, of course," Evelina said as if her answer made perfect sense.

"Impossible." Puzzlement joined the irritation churning inside her. "It was you who feigned a twisted ankle to trap him!"

"A weak moment, my lady." For a fleeting instant, a wistful look crossed Evelina's face again. "And I pray God the head-veil I wore hid my face. One such as myself should e'er traverse the path between and ne'er take sides."

A sharp jolt of something inexplicable shot through Isolde, zeroing in on only half of what the joy woman had said.
I pray God the head-veil I wore hid my face.
"Donall the Bold would have recognized you?" she asked, ashamed for the question but unable to stay her tongue.

To her astonishment, rather than appearing offended, Evelina reached across the table and squeezed Isolde's hand, another beaming smile lighting her face. "Nay, he never darkened my door, though I will not deny there was a time I would have welcomed his attentions."

"Then why would you worry about him glimpsing your face?"

Still smiling, Evelina shook her head. "I meant Gavin MacFie."

"Oh." A floodtide of relief replaced the tight, burning sensation that had plagued Isolde a moment before.

A wash of shame quickly followed.

She'd forgotten all about Gavin MacFie.

"I see," she said to cover her embarrassment.

"No, I do not think you do," Evelina told her. "'Tis Sir Gavin's widowed father with whom I was once quite, shall we say, friendly? Now, years later, I vow we are indeed true friends. The elder MacFie has grown too ill to plow the sea routes as he once did, but his son is most faithful in keeping me supplied with whatever provisions I might need."

"Oh," Isolde said again, wishing she could sink into the floor.

"Gavin is a man of good repute."

Isolde set her jaw and tightened her grip on the wine cup. "A man well born and not given to frivolous leisure or vile deeds." Her gaze locked on Isolde's.

"I cannot release him."

"You can speak with him," Evelina said, unblinking. "Sometimes simply talking with someone can reveal much more than the words that are spoken."

"Such as?" The devil made Isolde ask.

The merry sparkle returned to the other woman's eyes. "Such as how our talk has revealed the reason of your visit."

"I came to seek advice because I find it difficult to proceed with the ... ah ...
instructions
you gave me," Isolde lied and pushed her chair back. "No other reason."

Evelina brought her steepled fingers to her chin. "Indeed?"

"Aye," Isolde fibbed again and stood. "And now I must return to Dunmuir before I am missed."

The joy woman stood, too. "Then I will not ask you to linger," she said, and accompanied Isolde to the door. "Perhaps the next time you visit, we can discuss what is truly troubling you?"

Halfway out the door, Isolde froze. "What is truly troubling me?" she echoed before she recognized the trap.

"Aye, my lady," Evelina said with an air of angelic innocence. “Your attraction to Donall MacLean."

Donall the Bold's ill humor had simmered for hours.

The echoing tread of many pairs of feet tromping down a distant stairwell made it boil over. Especially when a small dog's high-pitched yaps joined the muted thump, thump, thump of the trudging feet.

So she deigned to pay him another visit.

Here, in the devil's own kitchen where her two favorite minions had dumped him.

A great murky chamber, enclosed on three sides by rough-hewn stone walls, but fully open to the sea on the side they'd entered through. And save the jumbled mound of fallen masonry rubble at the extreme rear of the cavernous dungeon, wholly vulnerable to the whims of the running tides.

The dank walls bore the flood-marks to prove it.

A telltale dark stain high enough to freeze a lesser man's blood.

As were the grisly tools of torment scattered about and hung from the walls.