Teresa Medeiros (15 page)

A weighted look passed between the two men.

“Who’s the MacDuff?” Tabitha asked.

When Colin busied himself with pouring a mug of mead instead of answering, Arjon said, “MacDuff is the
laird who fostered Colin when he was but a lowly page. His lands border Ravenshaw to the north.”

“Will he help you?” she asked, addressing Colin directly.

“Aye,” he said shortly. “He’s been like a second father to me.”

He didn’t seem inclined to elaborate and before she could press, a flock of merrymakers led by Magwyn descended on them. Ignoring Arjon’s reproachful sneeze, Tabitha plopped Lucy into her lap to keep the cat from being trampled. A ring of curious children soon surrounded her.

“Will the wee kitty bite?” asked one earnest little fellow.

“Not if you’re very gentle with her.”

“Does she eat mouses?” a freckled girl asked, her green eyes shining with delight as Tabitha allowed her to stroke the kitten’s soft fur.

“I don’t know. She’s never seen a real mouse.”

As the children clucked and cooed over the preening cat, Tabitha became aware of another child lurking on the fringes of the torchlight. The same ragged little girl who had huddled beneath the table. Her enormous eyes didn’t seem quite so hollow when touched by yearning.

Tabitha cupped the kitten in her hands and held it out. “Would you like to pet her, sweetheart?”

The little girl jumped guiltily, then darted away, melting into the shadows like a wraith.

As Tabitha entrusted the kitten to the little boy and his delighted cohorts, Magwyn shook her head sadly. “Me Jenny ain’t spoke a word since Brisbane’s men took after her. She won’t bathe or let me comb her hair. She’s turned skittish like a wild creature, always runnin’ away before I can lay hands on her.” A wistful smile touched the woman’s lips, giving her gaunt face a rawboned
beauty. “You should have seen her before—always chatterin’, beggin’ me to tuck some flowers in her bonny curls or stitch her a new dress.”

Tabitha gazed into the darkness where the child had disappeared. She couldn’t have been any more than eight or nine years old. “How do you bear it?”

Jenny’s mother shrugged, the gesture more weary than bitter. “Women have always been the spoils of battle.”

“But Jenny isn’t a woman. She’s a child.”

Magwyn rose from the bench, slanting Tabitha a pitying glance. “Not no more, she ain’t.”

Tabitha’s throat tightened with rage at the terrible injustice that had been done to the little girl. She shifted her burning gaze to Colin, realizing that despite his casual posture, he had been eavesdropping on the entire exchange.

“Is that what you believe?” she snapped, relieved to have found a masculine target for her wrath. “That women are nothing more than the spoils of battle? You just returned from six years of war, didn’t you? Did you consider raping your enemies’ wives and daughters a regrettable, if agreeable, duty?”

“No. But I did find it my regrettable, if agreeable, duty to execute any man who did.”

The tension seeped out of her. She should have known Colin would appoint himself the avenging angel of the Holy Crusade. Before she could make amends, he turned his face away in a cool rebuff. She could almost believe she’d insulted him.

A cheer went up from the opposite table. “To Auld Nana!”

“Auld Nana!” the others shouted, lifting their mugs in tribute.

“Nana,” Colin echoed softly, following suit.

“Who’s Nana?” Tabitha whispered to Arjon.

“Auld Nana was Colin’s nurse and his father’s nurse before him.”

She nearly giggled aloud at the thought of a fierce warrior like Colin having a “Nana.”

“You would’ve been proud of her, master,” said Iselda, the plump matron who had first thought Colin a ghost. “Nana fought like a Valkyrie to protect your stepmother’s babe after our dear lady perished. She knew what that child meant to her, comin’ so late in life after so many years of strugglin’ to give your father a bairn. When it appeared the battle was lost, Nana carried the child up to the chapel and barricaded the door against those murderin’ English.” Her righteous zeal faded on a sigh. “She had no way of knowin’ the siege would go on for more than a fortnight after that. No one saw either of them alive again.”

“I trust you gave her dear old bones a proper burial,” Colin said.

The revelry lapsed into an uncomfortable silence, broken only by the distant squeal of a frolicking child. Arjon arched an inquisitive eyebrow at the amorous blonde, but she avoided his gaze by burying her face in the crook of his neck.

“Iselda?” Colin prodded. “You did lay my sister’s bones in the family crypt, did you not?”

The woman’s broad face flushed. She twisted her skirt between her florid hands. “Well, me laird, not exactly …”

It was Magwyn who came charging to her rescue. “We ain’t been back. When Brisbane called off his dogs, we dragged out all the food stores from the cellars and all the valuables we could carry from the solar—trunks filled with clothes like those you’re wearin’, silver plate,
salt, spices—but not one of us has set foot in the castle since.”

Colin rose to his feet. “Why in God’s name not? Your cottages aren’t fit for habitation. Did you fear I would punish you for seeking shelter in the castle?”

“ ’Tweren’t you we was afraid of.” She signed a cross on her breast as her gaze drifted to the ruin brooding against the night sky. “ ’Twas whatever dwells within those walls.”

“Restless spirits, me laird,” Iselda blurted out. “Flickering lights in the black o’ night. A murdered babe wailin’ for vengeance. We’ve all heard it, we have, every last one of us.”

Iselda’s confession was greeted by frightened murmurs and timid nods. As Tabitha followed Colin’s haunted gaze to the tower at the peak of the castle, she shivered despite herself.

She half expected the fearless warrior to mock their alarm, but instead he nodded gravely. “ ’Tis pleasant enough to camp beneath the stars in summer, but it won’t do for winter. I’ll fetch a priest from MacDuff to sprinkle holy water around the tower and pray for the unshriven souls of the dead.”

The women nodded to one another, looking pleased if not precisely comforted by his promise. Their murmurs were interrupted by a bearded old man who came trotting up to bob an awkward bow in Colin’s direction.

“Sir …?” The man scratched his bald pate, as if suddenly remembering his master’s recent promotion. “Um, me laird, if you and your lady are ready to retire, your pavilion is prepared.”

“Well done, Ewan. My lady?” Colin extended his hand, his eyes glittering with unmistakable challenge.

Tabitha wondered what would happen if she refused
his invitation. But then she became aware of the shy, sidelong glances directed their way. Arjon winked at her before bestowing a wet, openmouthed kiss on his clinging companion. Tabitha’s cheeks heated, but she discovered she couldn’t stand to embarrass Colin in front of his people.

“My laird,” she murmured, deliberately mocking his burr as she trusted her hand to his. “ ’Twould be an honor.”

Tabitha had always considered herself as big-boned as an ox, but Colin’s broad palm swallowed her hand. She’d meant to pull her hand away as soon as they were out of sight of the others, but as they climbed the steep hill, he laced his fingers through hers, making her his reluctant captive.

“Do you believe in ghosts?” he asked as the shadow of the castle darkened their path.

She edged nearer to him. “No. Do you?”

“I once did. But I fear ’twas naught but wishful thinking. My stepmother always said that the dead punish us with their absence, not their presence.”

“You loved her, didn’t you?”

Affection warmed his gruff voice. “Aye. My own mother died young. Blythe was the only mother I ever knew.”

“And your father?”

“He loved her, too.”

Tabitha wondered if Colin had deliberately misunderstood her question, but as a shaft of moonlight struck his shuttered face, she didn’t dare ask. A welcoming oasis of light loomed out of the darkness. Her steps faltered.

Colin tugged her gently, but inexorably, toward the
round pavilion perched at the edge of the wood. As Tabitha ducked into the tent’s interior, her uneasiness bloomed into full-blown apprehension.

Ewan had made every effort to see to his laird’s comfort. The torchlight’s lambent glow bathed a nest of colorful pillows and a small table occupied by a narrow pitcher and two silver chalices. Thanks to Colin’s earlier boast, his man must have assumed they would be sharing the narrow cot draped with furs. The sandalwood perfume of incense wafted from a tiny brass burner, making Tabitha nervously wonder what other exotic tastes Colin might have acquired in the Holy Land.

The knight seemed infuriatingly at ease in this den of sensual iniquity. After sealing the tent’s flap behind them, he poured himself a chalice of something burgundy and reclined on the pillows like a smug sultan. Tabitha stood stiffly by the table, biting her bottom lip to keep from wishing for an iron chastity belt. Without a key.

“What ails you, lass? Lucy got your tongue?” When that dig failed to provoke a response, he sighed. “Are you still sulking because I took your precious bauble into my care?” Setting aside the chalice, he canted his arms behind his head like a
Playgirl
centerfold and cocked an eyebrow at her. “Did it never occur to you that there might be a way for you to earn it back?”

Tabitha gasped. He was actually trying to coerce her into sex.

Unable to bear the sight of his mischievous grin, she spun around and gripped the edge of the table.

“You drive a steep bargain,
sir,”
she said softly, her voice laced with bitterness.

“ ’Tis your own fault for enticing me, my lady. What you bestowed upon me in the cavern must surely be only a sample of your talents.”

Tabitha swung around to face him. She didn’t know what outraged her more—that he blamed her for inciting his crude lust as men had been doing to innocent women for centuries or that he’d spoiled her memory of the tender kiss they’d shared.

She dug her fingernails into her palms. “I hate to disappoint you, but my ‘talents’ don’t extend much beyond what you’ve already ‘sampled.’ ”

He took a sip of the wine. “Oh, come now. You must have learned something while you were traveling with the mummers. Another trick like the one you showed me or a song perhaps?” His expression was almost boyishly hopeful.

“A song?”

“Aye. A
chanson de geste
or a ballad of courtly love.”

“Courtney Love?” she echoed, even more baffled by his mention of the infamous alternative rock singer who’d dominated the pages of the
Global Inquirer
at the end of the twentieth century.

“Courtly
love. The tragic tale of a noble knight pining for the unrequited affection of his lady.”

Tabitha sank down on the edge of the cot. Colin didn’t want her. He wanted a lullaby. He’d been more impressed by her poorly executed magic trick than her kiss. Well, that was a relief … wasn’t it?

She hummed a few experimental notes of the song welling up from her subconscious.

Colin sat up straight, his eagerness betraying what it must be like to live in a time without video or audio discs, a time when even books were a rare and costly luxury. “What melody is that? I’ve not heard it before.”

She hummed another bar. “ ‘Camelot,’ ” she admitted, almost as startled by the realization as he was.

Although Tabitha had always hated the maudlin musical, her mother had forced her to sit through endless
revivals. Against her will, her methodical mind had memorized the entire score, every sentimental note. With all this talk of knights and castles and holy quests, it was hardly surprising Lerner and Loewe’s winsome melody was the first to come to mind.

“Sing some more,” Colin commanded, settling back on the pillows and waving a regal hand at her.

Amused by his exalted manner, Tabitha complied, her airy soprano pleasant, if not spectacular. Each time she stopped, Colin would order or cajole her to continue, relenting only long enough to press a chalice into her hand so she could moisten her throat with wine.

She was secretly flattered by the attention. Although he’d been stripped of his chain mail at Brisbane’s castle, she couldn’t shake the feeling that this was the first time she’d actually seen the knight without his armor.

He nodded sagely at Lancelot’s boastful declarations in “C’est Moi” and chuckled at the naughty puns in “The Lusty Month of May.” His expression became strangely pensive during the wistful strains of “If Ever I Would Leave You” and he visibly tensed when Guenevere faced death at the stake as punishment for her adulterous affair.

By the time Tabitha sang the final reprise, her voice was hoarse with strain. The last tremulous note seemed to hang in the air long after it was done. She glanced over to find Colin sprawled on the pillows, his dark lashes flush against his cheeks, his breathing hushed and even. Lucy had slipped into the tent while Tabitha sang and curled up at his side. His hand was cupped protectively around the little cat.

“Ever the lady’s champion,” Tabitha murmured, caught off guard by a surge of wry tenderness.

She knelt at his side, planning to throw one of the furs over him. But instead her hand crept toward his face,
freeing a few rebellious tendrils from his plaits. He didn’t stir at her touch.

Hearing the ancient legend through Colin’s ears had been like hearing it for the first time. Although she pitied Lancelot and Guenevere, torn between their devotion to their king and their passion for each other, it was Arthur who stirred her heart. Arthur with his eternal innocence, his unwavering commitment to an impossible dream, his rare ability to cherish the moment, even knowing it could never last.

As she threaded her fingers through the midnight silk of Colin’s hair, she couldn’t help but wonder how he had lost his innocence and what dreams he’d been forced to sacrifice along the way.

A baby’s plaintive wail froze Tabitha’s hand. Goose-flesh broke out on her arms. Holding her breath, she tilted her head in the direction of the castle. But the unearthly cry had been hushed as abruptly as it had sounded. It did not come again.