Until the Knight Comes (5 page)

Before his searing gaze could fluster her into forgetting who she was supposed to be.

In especial, when that all-knowing gaze seemed so wont to settle on things she’d rather he’d not notice.

Like her mouth.

Her damp braids.

And worse, the chill-tightened nipples she knew were thrusting hard against the soft drape of her cloak.

Things that might reveal the lusty, hearty woman she’d once been. The stranger who now slept inside her and best not be wakened. Not even in the familiar guise of a well-loved laird’s daughter, accustomed from birth to give a warm welcome to the weary traveler.

Any weary traveler.

However disturbing.

Tensing, she touched a finger to the fine silver brooch fastened at the neck of her cloak. Norse in design, the exquisitely wrought piece was one of the few remembrances she had of her once-doting sire.

Her privileged existence as Mariota of Dunach.

Her life before Hugh Alesone.

Taking strength from that past now, she straightened her shoulders and held the knight’s stare. “Do you not have a name?” she demanded, one hand on her hip as she eyed him, all verve and feminine spirit. “Or is it your style to seek shelter from the rain without the courtesy of an introduction?”

“Och, I am well-used to the rain,” Kenneth evaded, his tone more arched than he would have liked. “Such a mischance is not why I am here.”

She raised doubting brows. “Then why are you—if you will not reveal your style?”

I do not have a style,
he almost blurted, so off-balanced by the proud toss of her head and her flashing-eyed stare he failed to recall that he now did bear a title, and one he’d sworn to carry with dignity and pride.

He would have done, too.

Could he not still see her silhouetted in the tower window, her full, rounded breasts bared and beckoning, their generous swells luminous in the candle glow. Even now, her nipples taunted him, jutting prominently beneath the soft folds of her cloak.

A once-but-no-more-fine excuse for a mantle that clung to her womanliness, its threadbare wool revealing as much as it concealed, and, saints save him, carrying the scent of her recent ablutions.

An enticing scent, dark and alluring, its musky warmth all too distracting.

Frowning, he scooped his hands through his hair and stared at her, almost wishing her pock-faced and crooked of limb. “I am Sir Kenneth . . .” he began only to break off, near choking on the strangeness of putting
sir
before his name.

Rightfully bestowed or no, he still felt out of place in the world of such niceties—all manners and good graces.

The beauty before him exhibited no such discomfiture, every assured and vehement inch of her proclaiming her a lady. Indeed, he’d wager the morrow on her lineage.

Truth be told, if blood counted for aught, this woman’s was rich—despite her intriguing state of dishabille and her unexpected presence at Cuidrach.

In
his
hall.

Irritation knifing through him, he folded his arms, drew a deep breath and tried again. “I am Sir Kenneth MacK—”

“’Tis
her
name, I’d be keen to hear,” Jamie proclaimed then, striding forward, his beaming smile and shining-eyed exuberance making it impossible to be wroth at his thoughtless intrusion. “Hers, and her friend’s.”

“I am Nessa,” the dark one said, a dimple deepening her cheek as she smiled at Jamie. “Tiring woman to my lady.”

“No mere serving maid—that I vow!” Clearly drawn by their voluptuous sensuality, all damp-haired and musky-scented as they were, Kenneth’s youngest knight swept the two women a deep bow. “I am Jamie the Small,” he announced, straightening. “Of Clan Macpherson, but—”

“Too young to ken when to hold his flapping tongue,” the stout-bellied man declared, joining them. Relieved of the strongbox, he clapped a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “Jamie’s nine older brothers ne’er gave him leave to say his mind. A slight the lad now addresses by filling
our
ears every blessed hour o’ the day and night.”

To Kenneth’s surprise, a wistful look touched the beauty’s eyes and some of the reserve slipped from her face. “I know something of older brothers,” she said, holding out her hand to Jamie. “And younger ones.”

“And those brothers have nary a concern that you dwell here alone?” Kenneth shot an annoyed look at Jamie as that one took her hand and raised it to his lips. “Brothers are known to be protective.”

“Some of mine are dead,” she said, her tone flat. “And others who may have cared are no more.”

Kenneth lifted a brow, more disturbed by the revelation than was good for him. “There is no one?”

Mariota drew a deep breath. “Of those who remain, suffice it to say, they are not . . . troubled.”

A few of the men glanced askance at her. The dark knight,
Sir Kenneth,
simply locked his gaze on hers, the look in his eyes intensifying until she almost feared he could see straight into her heart.

That he could sense her pain.

Mayhap even sympathize with her.

A possibility that struck a much too dangerous nerve as her father’s ne’er forgotten words tore through her, spiraling back to rip open her wounds and remind her of how poorly she’d judged.

How easily she’d succumbed.

Any man who professes to love you for naught but the sweetness of your smile and the bliss of your arms, is about to lead you down a sorrow-fraught path—straight to where’er he suspects your well-filled coffers!

Anger pulsing through her, Mariota pushed the prophetic observation from her mind and welcomed the cold numbness she knew would soon sweep her.

“I am Lady Mariota,” she said then, uncaring if the chill in her voice made her appear shrewish. “As lady of this castle, I can offer little hot food, nor even ale to quench your thirst, but you are welcome to what comforts are here.”

Something flashed in the knight’s eyes, a glint of annoyance or perhaps dark bemusement. “You are kind,” he said, his features disturbingly handsome in the torchlight. “
Lady
of Cuidrach.”

Well aware of the flush in her cheeks, Mariota gestured to the hearth where tendrils of steam still rose from the great iron cauldron suspended above the fire.

“Some heated water yet remains,” she offered, her voice firm. “Mayhap attending your ablutions will compensate for our other lackings.”

“Fair lady, I see no lackings save an honest explanation for your presence,” he returned, his stare darker, more probing than ever.

“An honest explanation?” Her face flaming, Mariota indicated the hall’s hard-packed earth floor, its bare-swept coldness yet showing remnants of ash and lye.

An unavoidable annoyance to be endured until she and Nessa could gather and strew a new layer of fresh rushes and sweet-smelling herbs—a necessity she hoped might now lend substance to the lies already spilling from her lips.

“You think yourself deceived, good sir?” She hardened her face as best she could, tried to breathe past the tightness in her chest. “Then know that we would not have troubled ourselves sweeping out the old floor rushes and tossing them onto the dung heap did we not desire to ready the hall for my lord’s imminent arrival.”

To her surprise, a faint gleam of amusement sparked in his eyes again. “Then I ought thank you, to be sure,” he said, nodding approval when an as-yet-unseen companion strode past with a large dog basket and a clutch of tatty, moth-eaten plaids.

“Thank me?” Mariota blinked, her mind whirling.

“Indeed,” the knight concurred, stepping aside to allow the passage of an ancient-looking hound. “For ensuring—”

“Nay, do not say it.” She lifted a hand and took a deep breath, a sinking feeling spreading through her.

“See you, in all my years functioning as lady-of-the-keep for my father, I saw to the needs of quite a few knightly guests, making certain their bellies were filled and their throats adequately quenched. I spent hours assuring the lordly ones received orderly lodgings, their beds kept warmed and their bathing water hot.

But ne’er once have I seen a wayfaring knight escort a lame-hipped, aging dog across my hall and then settle the beast in his own bed beside the hearth fire.”

She paused, drew a breath. “Until now.”

And the implication made her shudder.

She shot a glance at Nessa, but that one was already threading her way toward the hall’s main door arch, her purposeful stride showing that she, too, had guessed their visitors’ intent.

Leaving
him
to follow her or nay, Mariota hastened after Nessa only to discover chaos in Cuidrach’s rain-splattered bailey.

The courtyard hummed with activity, its broken cobbles wet and gleaming in the spluttering torchlight, restless horses and weary-looking, pannier-burdened pack ponies . . . everywhere.

And baggage carts, a good half dozen.

Sturdy contrivances piled high with household goods. The personal possessions and pride of a well-pursed and landed knight.

Including, she noted with a jolt, the unmistakable framework of his dismantled bed!

Suspicion biting deep, she spun around, not at all surprised to find him already upon her. He loomed tall before her, his piercing stare pinning her in place, shattering her composure.

I should have told you straight away . . .
she thought she heard him say, but the words hung in the crackling air between them, their meaning lost in the sharp patter of the rain, the thudding of her heart.

And whate’er he’d held back, plague take her,
she
ought not lie.

Already, she’d told too many.

But her palms were damping and his tight, wry smile lamed her tongue.

She flashed a look at the most incriminating of his baggage carts—the one groaning beneath the weight of his massive, ill-winded bed frame.

He stood motionless, watching the slant of her gaze, a slight twitch beneath his left eye the only visible indication of his own perturbation.

That, and the faint whitening of the three thread-like scars seaming his cheek.

Her nerves fraying, Mariota did her best to ignore how her world seemed to spin and contract around her, the whole of it narrowing until little remained save the intensity of his stare and the heat pulsing up and down the back of her neck.

Ill ease compounded by the two knights hefting parts of the dismantled bed onto their shoulders. Their air of purpose as they strode past her, into the hall, sent an odd giddiness coiling through her belly.

And with the giddiness came knowledge.

She turned a sharp look on
him,
the dark-eyed knight watching her so closely. “Good sir, you do not mean to make this your home?”

“With surety, nay,” he returned, his deep voice devilish. “This holding already
is
my home. See you, I am Sir Kenneth MacKenzie.”

Mariota blinked at him, her heart sinking. “Sir Kenneth MacKenzie?”

“Indeed, fair lady.” He sketched her a bow. “The new Keeper of Cuidrach.”

Chapter Four

T
he new Keeper of Cuidrach.

Mariota flinched but kept her chin lifted, her gaze steady on the darkly handsome knight watching her so intently. A sinuous, deep-seeing look that made her tingle and burn, his intense perusal sparking flames she’d thought forever extinguished. Far from it, he stoked feelings that stunned her. Especially when his midnight eyes deepened in hue and he stepped closer. Almost as if he meant to reach for her, pull her skin-to-skin close, nuzzle his face against her neck, then stroke her hair and kiss her, whisper love words in her ear.

Beguile and woo her, pay court to her heart.

Win her trust as her body melted against him.

Instead, he merely reached to adjust her cloak when it caught and flapped in the wind.

But he’d come so near that his warmth and clean, manly scent engulfed her, the masculine headiness of him teasing her senses and weakening her knees.

Much to her embarrassment for the heat in his eyes came from irritation, not passion.

“Your plight is regrettable, lady, but I came here to live quietly,” he said, proving it. “Quietly and . . . alone.”

Her face flaming, Mariota swallowed, the intensity of him and her own guilt beating through her. Hot waves of mortification that robbed her wits and struck at every vulnerability she possessed.

“You have nothing to say?” His voice was low and dark, might even have been seductive if not for his skeptically arched brow. “You needn’t fear me—I assure you.”

“Fear you?” Something inside Mariota twisted. Shame, she was sure, for he unsettled her in ways that could only be called unseemly. And, too, because until very recently, she’d never told a falsehood in her life.

But rather than take them back, she found herself peering at him, the next lie already on her lips. “I am not plagued by some regrettable plight,” she denied, clutching her cloak against the cold. “And, for certes, I am not afraid of you.”