Rose of the Mists (15 page)

Meghan lay back down with many unanswerable questions occupying her mind. She was staring up at the pale splash of the Milky Way when John and the woman came back into the camp, and when dawn tinted the sky with pale blue light she was still lying wide-eyed.

*

The next morning, Meghan squatted on a boulder, her arms wrapped about her knees and her hair swung forward to shield her face, and watched Revelin’s strange morning ritual. With soap foam swathing the lower half of his face, he stood before a small tin mirror nailed to a tree and scraped the bristly growth from his chin with a blade.

“Does it hurt?” she asked when he suddenly jumped and swore.

“Shaving doesn’t hurt,” Revelin answered. “Cutting oneself does.”

Meghan cocked her head. “Now why would ye want to be cutting yerself ?”

Controlling his temper, Revelin passed his tongue over his lips and got a mouthful of soap suds for effort. He swallowed, coughed, and wished she would simply go away. But she would not, and he did not have the heart to hurt her feelings by chasing her off. He glanced at her and saw her head nod forward onto her knees. “Meghan, are you sleeping well?”

Meghan lifted her head slightly, her eyes half-closed. “Aye. ’Tis only me laziness,” she answered as her hand moved up to shield a huge yawn.

Unconvinced, Revelin studied her for a moment longer. There were purple shadows beneath her eyes and her skin was pasty. She was not thriving under his care. Some guardian he was. The sooner he found her a home, the better. “Are you too cold at night, or do the night sounds disturb you?”

Meghan lowered her eyes. She would die before she told him of the night sounds that had so disturbed her that she could not sleep. “’Tis nothing.”

Revelin sighed and went back to shaving. Obviously she would not confide in him.

“Why do ye do that?” Meghan asked when he was finished.

Revelin rubbed his clean cheeks with a length of linen. “Why do I shave? I admit to a certain vanity which makes me prefer my face to be seen.”

“Aye. Ye’re lovely to look at,” Meghan answered readily. To her surprise, Revelin’s cheeks reddened. “Do ye suppose ’tis why Fionn wore his face bare?”

Revelin scowled; he did not like to hear her speak of another man. “Who is this Fionn? A brother?”

Meghan’s eyes grew round. “Do ye not know? Ye should, ye being a Leinsterman and Fionn one of yer own. Fionn MacCumail, the leader of the Fian.”

Revelin grinned. “The fairy tale, you mean. Yes, I have heard of it.”

Meghan straightened up and slid off the rock, her face a study of offense. “’Tis no fairy tale. ’Tis the truth! Ye speak the Irish; aren’t ye such?”

Pleased that her pique over his lack of belief in local folklore made her unusually vocal, he crossed his arms and smiled at her. “Tell me more.”

“Ye would not be making fun of me?” Meghan regarded him squarely. For the first time in days she had forgotten her discomfort at meeting his eyes. All she felt now was the faint knocking of her heart as she was enveloped by his gaze of tender green. “Fionn was a great warrior of the ancients, which ye’d be knowing if ye were a true Irishman. He dressed in the pelts of wild beasts, with a boar’s tusk as his mantle pin.”

She gazed at his hair, the thick, amber mane feathered by the wind over his ears and brow. “They say his hair was like spun gold. The same as yers.”

Her gaze slipped over his body, stirring her memory of his naked beauty beside the pool, and the wind of desire, though she did not recognize it as such, gusted through her. “He was tall, like ye, and strong, too.

“’Tis said his beauty made women weep and men proud to serve under him. Do ye think ’twas vanity that made Fionn scrape his cheeks?—for they say his face was as smooth as a boy’s.” When her gaze came back to his face, she nearly reached out to touch him. Always she wanted to touch him. There was a pleasure in touching she had never known until she met him. But she locked her fingers together. He would not want her touch, and she did not want to see rejection in his eyes.

Her voice lowered to a whisper by the ache of wanting she knew not what, she said, “If he were as wondrous fair as ye, I think he had reason to be proud.”

She’s flirting with me.
The thought came as a distinct shock
to Revelin and yet he rejected it out of hand. She could know nothing of the idle chatter of men and women. She found him handsome, and he was not above being flattered by that. It did not follow that she saw him as anything other than an oddity, like a new flower or a pretty pebble she had found. Yet, he hoped he was more interesting than a pebble.

“I see my learning is sorely lacking, Meghan. Perhaps you will be kind enough to address the lack while we ride.”

Meghan bit her lip and hung her head. “Must we go?”

Sighing, Revelin slipped his razor and mirror back into his saddlebag. “I’m sorry, lass, for dragging you over this desolate ground. I promise to find a horse for you as soon as I can. Then, at least, you won’t need ride with me.”

Immediately Meghan regretted her words. Riding double with him had been the only pleasure of the journey. She had never been astride a horse before, but riding behind this man and holding on to his waist was worth the soreness that had plagued her from the first. Well, almost. Unconsciously she reached back to rub her aching bottom. “I do not mind so much the riding. I do not—” She paused and shrugged. “The others do not like me.”

Distracted by the action of her hands, Revelin did not answer at once. She had arched her spine as she reached back, and in doing so her breasts had lifted, becoming two soft mounds straining against her clothing. Her hands worked a pattern of slow circles over her hips, each outward arc stretching the material of her
leine
over the graceful swell of her bottom.

He tried to look away. What had she said? Lord! He could not remember a single word. “Where in hell is the cloak I gave you?”

Startled, Meghan looked up, her actions halted.

Revelin swallowed. He had not known he spoke aloud until she reacted, but he was committed now. “You should be wrapped against the morning chill. And, saints above, you should be properly dressed!”

Meghan looked down at her shapeless gown and then at her bare legs and feet. “’Tis all I have.”

“Well, it’s not enough,” Revelin grumbled.
Lord love us, not nearly enough!
“You should be dressed like Flora. That’s another matter to be mended as soon as possible.”

He turned abruptly and walked way.
Stays, the girl needs stays and petticoats and yards of skirts and lace to hide what is too tempting a feminine form by half!

He forced his breathing to slow and changed the direction of his thoughts by calling to mind each and every part of Lady Allison Burke’s face. He began with her brow, its smooth, round, alabaster expanse framed by rows of marigold ringlets. He sketched in her nose, a trifle short for perfection but small and neat. He added her mouth; the short upper lip and the sliver of her lower lip. It was a soft mouth, reminding him of rose petals.

When first she had allowed him to kiss her he had thought it a moment of triumph. What matter that she pursed her lips like a five-year-old and offered her closed rosebud mouth for but a moment? It proved her innocent of the common gossip that circulated about most ladies at court. In time, he would teach her everything she needed to know to please him. She was lovely, irreproachable, a maidenly study in shades of rose and lily with gold filigree.

Desire drifted lazily down through him as he considered the prospect of undressing his bride on their wedding night. By the time he reached his horse, he had forgotten the momentary madness that had slicked his palms with the guilty sweat of lust. Meghan was a trial, albeit a pretty one. When he returned to Alison he would feel doubly pleased to have resisted a considerable temptation. He ignored the corner of his mind that called him a liar and a hypocrite.

Hours later, Revelin rode with Meghan clinging to his jerkin as their horse picked its way through the high grass of a glen. As usual, Reade led the way, followed by Sir Richard and Sir
Robin apace. Flora rode just behind them, prodding and cursing her donkey so that she would not fall in with Meghan and Revelin.

Revelin watched her urge the donkey without much success. Flora, too, was caught up in the fear caused by Meghan’s mark. She refused to speak to the girl and would not even fill her plate, fearing what she called the evil eye. If it were not for Reade, he doubted that she would remain with the party.

Reade’s taste in women was sadly lacking, Revelin thought. When the slattern had rubbed herself against him the first day, he had turned away in disgust. If only desire were so easily spurned in other quarters, he reflected wryly.

When Meghan had finally fallen quiet, he was pleased. He could not have cared less about the trials of Conn the Hundred Fighter or of Allen the Enchanter, who dwelt in the mountains of Slieve Gullion, but he found himself fascinated by the girl herself. There was nothing calculated about her or the manner in which her words poured out. It was plain to see that she was lonely after a lifetime of suffering from the ignorance and superstition of others. The signs were there, too, that she looked to him as a replacement for her aunt, and that boded ill for them both. If he was not careful she would be badly hurt, and he did not want that.

Meghan hunched her shoulders, trying to adjust the long fur-collared cloak Revelin had draped about her. Its generous folds covered her legs, bared by her leine as she rode astride, and the hem dragged over the grasses. They in turn tugged at it. The cloak slipped farther and Meghan grabbed for it as it slid away.

Unaccustomed to the whipping of cloth about its flanks, the horse shied violently and its two riders nearly lost their seats.

“Have a care!” Revelin called roughly as he brought his mount under control. “You’ll tumble us both if you don’t sit still.”

Meghan jerked the cloak clear of the grass and tucked it
under her thighs. He was angry with her and she did not know why. Since answering her questions about shaving, he had scarcely spoken to her, and what words he had directed to her were terse orders to amend some fault. Perhaps he had not liked being compared to Fionn. No, that did not make sense. Who would not like being compared to a great man?

Her hands flexed on his jerkin as the horse misstepped, and her chest collided with his back. At once Revelin straightened to hold himself away from her and Meghan followed suit. She must not touch him, she told herself, but that was not an easy command to follow. Nothing before in her life had encouraged her to consider the matter between men and women, but the events of the night had stirred old memories and raised a thousand questions. What would it be like to couple with a man? Would it be as fiercely sweet as this man’s kiss?

Perhaps he would show her if she asked, Meghan mused sleepily. Yes, she would like that. She would never marry. She was ugly…and cursed. She would not expect any man to want her as his bride, but perhaps this man, as a kindness, would show her the way of matters between men and women.

After a few minutes Meghan closed her eyes and leaned her brow against Revelin’s back, too weary to realize that she was trespassing once more. The walking gait of the animal lulled her, inviting her to slip silently into the restful arms of sleep.

Revelin felt her grip relaxing on his waist, and his first reaction was one of relief. She was pressed against him and with every step her body rubbed his. For the past hour, in vivid detail his mind had been feeding him images of her breasts pressed nearly flat by the contact and the slow massage of those luscious globes by the muscles of his back. The more he fought, the more unbearable his fantasies became. The small hands clutching his waist seemed to knead his flesh, tormenting him until he wanted to slip to the ground and be free of her.

Now her forehead found the valley between his shoulder blades and her grip fell away. The comfort of freedom was
short-lived. The uneven ground made her lurch suddenly and grab him again. Revelin waited for her embrace to drop away. When it did not, he looked down to find her fingers laced together across his stomach. After an interminable minute during which he held himself stiffly, her fingers began to loosen, the inching apart an excruciating process that required him to hold his temper. He had scolded her enough. Soon, he told himself, she would free him, and he would have to manage his discomfort as best he could.

But her fingers did not loosen entirely, and after a battle of conscience he reached down and pried her fingers apart. “You’re squeezing me too tight,” he said hoarsely, and the words sounded as petty and false as they were.

Meghan drew her hands away, too dulled by exhaustion to realize what she had done. Reluctantly, she gripped his jerkin once more. “Beg yer pardon, m’lord.”

Revelin’s head lifted. In the five days they had been together he had never told her his name! “I’m not a lord, Meghan. My name’s Revelin Butler.”

His name wandered through her drowsy thoughts.
Revelin.
An O’Conner name. Butler was not. “’Tis not a name I’ve heard, this Butler,” she murmured.

“’Tis English,” he offered.

“English!” Meghan’s eyes popped open. “
That,
for the English!” she cried and spat over her shoulder.