The Angel Knight, page 23
“My God, Christian,” he said, and sat up. His gaze was deep enough to hold her soul in its measure.
She glanced down, unable to look at him. “My uncle was an English sympathizer. He took me back to Kilglassie and forced me to pledge my oath to King Edward, so that I would have a home, and some value as an heiress. And he made me wed Henry for my own protection. My brothers often came here to visit in secret. Henry did not know, or he would have killed them, for they were rebels. My brothers always cheered me. I think I survived those days because I had them, and Michaelmas, and Fergus and Moira.”
“You survived because you are strong,” Gavin said quietly. “How long did you live here with Henry?”
“Eight years,” she said. “Last summer, my brothers died. They fought with Robert Bruce at Methven, a disastrous defeat for Scotland. One was killed on the field, and the other was taken to Berwick and executed.” She paused for several moments to master the grief that welled inside. “After I heard that word of them, I left Kilglassie. I burned it, and I left.”
She touched his chin and Gavin leaned back, silent. The knife scraped softly, and rain sheeted against the window shutters. His head was a warm weight against her body, his hair damp and soft. The peacefulness of the music seemed to linger in the air. But her contentment had been ripped apart by the memories she had exposed.
Sliding the blade over the lean planes of his face, she blinked back tears. She would not allow them to be shed. Pausing, sniffing, she wiped the knife on the towel.
“You have lost much at English hands.” His voice was soft and husky. “I did not know how much.”
“And you wonder that I resent English.” Her voice trembled. She laughed hollowly and brought the blade to his other cheek. “Be still, now. I would not care to cut you, though you are a Sasunnach.”
“Christian,” he said, “what happened to Henry?”
“Hush.” She traced the steel edge along his cheek and over his well-defined chin. “I bare all of my hurts to you, but you tell me little of your past. You will listen to me and say to yourself, ah, there is a Scot for you, see, she cannot be trusted. This, that, she did to her own husband.”
“I want to know what has hurt you in the past, Christian,” he said softly.
She lifted the blade away and looked down at him. “Much has hurt me, all of it caused by English. I am tired of hurting.”
“As I am,” he said. “But I want to know yours.”
She watched him for a long moment. “Then tell me yours.”
“Mayhap I will.” He settled his head back, and touched her hand. “Finish the task, my lady.”
She drew a breath and angled the blade over his chin, scraping slowly. “Henry told me about my brothers,” she said. “He was pleased to hear of the defeat of the rebels at Methven, and of Bruce’s flight into the heather. He taunted me that he would be rid of me at last.” She drew a shaky breath, remembering. “The English assumed that Robert Bruce would come to a quick end last summer.” She sighed, as tired of the burden as she was of the hurt. Relieving it now felt right, and she continued.
“There were many tenants and knights living near Kilglassie who supported my cousin’s cause. When Henry and his garrison rode out on King Edward’s orders to fight a skirmish, I sent for the rebels. I allowed them to take Kilglassie in Henry’s absence.”
His eyelids flew open. “You took this castle?”
“The rebels did, but I fought with them. I sent Michaelmas to Moira and stayed here to wield a weapon as best I could. When Henry and his men returned, the Scots fought them, though there were twice as many English. The Scots won—I do not know how.” She paused to close her eyes against the turbulent, awful images that she remembered. “Many men died that day. Henry was among them. He had a Scottish arrow in his heart.”
Gavin pushed her hand away, sitting up and taking the cloth from her to rub his clean-shaven face. He was silent. She could not tell by his intense frown if he was angry with her or if he was deep within his own thoughts.
“So, Sasunnach,” she said, “you cannot trust me. And I cannot learn to love the English.”
Gavin dropped the linen and lifted her hand, which still gripped the dagger. He touched the blade tip to his own throat. “You hold the weapon, lady,” he said, low, fiercely. “If you hate me, if you cannot love any English knight, then cut my throat now, and be done with it.”
She stared at him, breath heaving. Then she uttered a soft Gaelic oath and threw the knife down to clatter away on the hearthstone.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“I knew I could trust you.” He gazed at her evenly.
Christian drew a long breath. “I could not hurt you. Ever. And I did not kill Henry, though the English say I did.” She laughed, a bitter huff. “I cannot even shoot a bow.”
Gavin nodded, knowing that she was innocent of all but rebellion. And that impulse he understood well enough. He noticed that the heavy mood, the anger and challenge of the past few moments, was changing as she relaxed. Her temperament was like lightning, striking one instant, calm the next. He saw some of that in himself when he was with her. And crossed lightning could do the most damage.
He reached out a hand, thinking, and idly touched the harp, tracing a finger along the decorative carving on the upper curve.
“It is beautiful, your harp,” he said. “Oak and pine?”
“Willow,” she said. “But oak is used here, in the forepillar, which is called the male part of the harp.”
“Why willow and oak?”
“Willow wood is flexible and light, and it is thought to have feminine power. So willow is used for the female part of the harp, the belly—here, where the sound swells.” She stroked her hand along the box of the harp. She clearly loved the instrument, and loved talking of it. And Gavin wanted to know more of what she cherished.
“And this top piece?” he asked, tracing a finger along the elaborate interlacing. “These are birds carved here?”
She nodded. “Birds usually decorate the upper curve because that piece represents spirit. Here, on the forepillar, this brass-studded carving is a double-headed eel. Water, air, earth are all present in the harp, in decoration or in meaning. Each piece has its own purpose, and its own power.”
“Water, air, earth—where is the fire?” he asked.
She stroked her fingertips over the brass wires. “The fire is in the music,” she said softly.
The fire is in your fine-tuned soul, he thought, watching her bowed head, her slender, strong hands. He saw how lovingly she touched the wires and the decorated wood. “That harp is special to you,” he said. “You touch it like a friend.”
She nodded. “A harp is a living thing to its harper, not just a tool for music. It must be respected and treated kindly. My father had this harp made for me when I was twelve. I thought of her then, and still do, as a kind of a sister of my soul.”
“Twelve? Not so long ago, then,” he said.
“Long enough,” she said. “I have had her eleven years now. A harp will last less than its harper’s lifetime. They burst,” she said, touching the polished oak of the forepillar. “The wood splits, the strings pull too tightly after a while. It is almost as if their hearts break with the music they make. There is great sadness in some of this music, and great, deep joy.”
“I have heard you play both on this harp.” His hand, on the pillar, met and covered hers. He knew, now, how deeply she had been hurt. His thumb traced a gentle caress over her slender wrist. “And we could both use some of your healing music, I think,” he added wryly.
She nodded. “Gavin—what happened to your wife?”
He drew a breath and looked away, dreading the question and yet knowing he should answer. “She was ill for a long time, an ailment of the lungs. The physicians could do little for her. I even hired Saracen physicians, the most knowledgeable in the world.” He shrugged; he would not tell her more than that, now.
“I think you loved her very much,” she murmured.
“Aye,” he said. “But I loved her like a child loves a child, like a brother loves a sister. There was little fire between us. Friendship, but little fire.” He reached out and lifted the tip of her chin. “Unlike the heat and spark between us, lady.” Christian glanced up at him, her eyes a deep green, intense and vibrant.
“You have endured a great deal,” she said. “Your mother died in the raid, and your wife—I did not know, Gavin. But you do not seem bitter, or angry for these tragedies.”
“I have learned that hearts are too strong to break,” he said, his gaze steady.
She smiled ruefully. “My heart feels like an old harp at times, ready to burst.”
He shook his head, his hand gentle over hers, resting on the harp. “It will not break. Just trust, and be strong. You are a survivor, Christian. I have seen the fierce strength of your spirit.”
She was silent, watching his thumb circle along her hand on the harp. Rain formed a steady pattern of sound overhead.
“Do you trust me?” he asked softly.
“I want to,” she said slowly. “I did, once, in the abbey. There, I—” she stopped and bit her lower lip.
“What?” he asked.
“I loved you there, I think,” she whispered.
His heart thudded heavily in his chest. But he stayed still and calm. “Did you?”
She nodded. “But I thought you were an angel.”
“Ah,” he said. “Others have made that mistake.”
She glanced up. “What do you mean?”
He laughed wryly. “When I was a youthful knight, and new to the court, Queen Eleanor called me the Angel Knight. The name stayed with me for years.”
She smiled. “It suits you. I thought you were Saint Michael.” He smiled with her. “And then I took you for a Scottish knight. But when I found out who you were, and why you came to Kilglassie, I could not trust you. Even when I wanted to.”
“And what does your heart tell you now?”
She looked at him steadily, her eyes forest deep. “My heart isna reliable. And my mind tells me you are English.” She slipped her hand out from under his.
He blew out a fast, exasperated breath. The vibration sent a hum through the sensitive harpstrings. “Sweet saints in heaven,” he said, folding his arms over his chest. “You are the most stubborn woman I have ever known. Do you still insist on placing all your distrust of English knights on my head?” He leaned toward her. “Aye, lady, I am English. My father was an English knight. But my mother was a Scotswoman, as Celtic as you are. I have that in me, too.”
She looked up at him, eyes wide. “Gavin—I want to trust you,” she said. “But you owe your fealty to King Edward. And I have broken my pledge to him, and will not make another.”
“You and I are alike,” he said. “More than you know.”
“I am a rebel,” she said. “A traitor, so say the English.”
“Lady, you should know that I was accused of treason ten years ago at Berwick.”
She gasped. “Berwick!”
“I spoke out against what happened there when no one else dared utter a word to King Edward. Twelve thousand Scottish people—women, children, merchants, not only soldiers—were slaughtered in the streets over three days. And I spoke out, and was named a traitor for it.”
“Hastings called you such in the courtyard today,” she said, frowning. “But I thought he said it in anger because you hold Kilglassie and he does not.”
“He freely calls me a traitor, no matter how much time has passed since Berwick. There is much anger between us for other reasons.” He shook his head. “I paid a heavy price for the rebellious words I spoke to King Edward. I lost my inheritance, my right to live in England, all but my life. I was exiled to France.”
“Then you will be very careful to do whatever your king asks of you now.”
“King Edward kept me in France as long as he could. He made me ambassador to hold me there. He will never fully trust me again.”
“And does he have good reason for that?” she asked.
“He does,” he said. “Where the Scots are concerned, Edward knows I may not follow his orders. That, Christian”—he looked intently at her—“is the only matter in which I choose to be untrustworthy.”
“But why would the king send you here to Scotland?”
He shrugged. “In part, because his greed for Kilglassie’s gold is so strong. He wants to possess it because of the legend and its tie to the Scots throne. He told me to charm you into telling the truth of the treasure.”
Christian burst into a harsh laugh. “He sent you because Hastings had failed at that task.” She frowned. “But I do not know the truth of the gold.”
“I believe you,” he said. “But I think King Edward wants to know for certain where I stand. He has set his watchdogs Hastings and Ormesby on me. They wait to see what I will do.”
“And what will that be?” she asked quietly.
He plucked at a string, listening to its pure tone. “I do not know,” he said. “But I do know that Kilglassie is my home now. And I have wanted a home for longer than you can imagine.”
“You have a castle in France.”
He shook his head. “The property belongs to my first wife’s family. Kilglassie is the only true home I have, Christian, and I mean to hold it. King Edward acted out of his own pride and anger when he gave me this place. His ambitions differ greatly from mine. And I have never been a man to obey orders blindly.”
Christian looked up at him. “Your hurt for mine,” she said softly. “Now I understand you far better than I did before, Gavin Faulkener of Kilglassie.”
He smiled and held out his hand. She laid hers in his, palms flat together, heat stirring instantly there. “Once, when we were together in the underground chamber,” he said, “you asked that I be just a man and no English knight.” She nodded. “I ask the same of you now. Be a woman, and no Scot, here in this chamber. Here in my arms.”
She sucked in her breath, watching him, and touched her teeth to her lower lip.
“Promise me,” he said, his fingers gripping hers. “Say it.”
“I promise,” she whispered.
“Come here,” he said gruffly, and pulled on her hand. She came into his arms. He wrapped her in his embrace, as he had been wanting to do for so long. Laying his cheek beside hers, he traced his fingers along the curve of her back. She tucked her head into the hollow of his shoulder and clung to him.
Touching the back of her neck, he lifted the silky weight of her hair and sank his fingers into its thickness. She smelled clean and soft, like wildflowers after rain. He inhaled it in, and kissed her brow, then drew back and touched his forehead to hers.
“Listen to me,” he said, his voice husky. “I will not betray you. I will not leave you, or abandon you within the very home that we share. I know this was done to you before.”
“You were abandoned, too,” she whispered.
He nodded. “Aye,” he said, and knew it was true. He had felt abandoned, years ago, by his king and country, by his mother’s death, by Jehanne’s passing. He had never realized it before. “And I swear to you now that I will be with you always.”
With a soft cry, she circled her arms around his neck. She felt soft and giving, wholly trusting of him. Gavin closed his eyes tightly and thought he would melt in that moment, thought he would fall to his knees in gratitude that she was here, and in his arms, that she lived and was strong, and was his.
“I will always be with you,” he said again. His mouth covered hers, lifted, covered hers again. He placed his hands on either side of her small, pale face and looked into her wide eyes, their green as deep and verdant as summer. “Will you trust me?”
A somber frown folded between her black brows. “I will,” she said, her voice hushed and soft. “You will not betray me. You will not leave me when the English are done in Galloway.”
“Never,” he whispered, gliding the tip of his thumb over her lips. “Never.”
Pausing, he lifted the leather thong at her throat, sliding the pendant over her head and setting it aside. “Naught should remind us of realm or king in this chamber.” She nodded, gazing up at him.
He leaned forward and touched his lips to hers, gently, yet with an aching need. Her lips were warm and moist and insistent beneath his, and he tipped her chin and slid his hand along the side of her face.
Then he took her mouth with hungry force, parting her lips with his tongue. Moaning softly into his mouth, her small tongue warm and wet on his, she pushed her fingers through his hair. He felt the incredible softness of her breasts against his chest, felt her hips press against his swelling, filling need until he groaned and swayed with her.
He slid his hands down over her shoulders, smoothing his thumbs over warm skin and bare, hard collarbones, over the embroidered neck of the gown, toward the gentle swell of her upper breasts. He could sense her wildly beating heart beneath the woolen cloth, beneath the warm flesh. Kissing her, he opened his hands gently over her breasts, stroking his fingertips over the cushioning wool, over the peaks of her aroused nipples, feeling her soft gasp inside his mouth.
She moaned as he unfastened the little silver clasp at the front opening of her gown and laid back the flap of cloth. He pushed aside the soft inner layer of her undergown and caressed the sweet roundness of one breast. Touching his lips to hers, he felt the delicate tip of her tongue on his. A lightning charge surged through his body as his fingertips found her nipple and rolled it, ruched it, made it firm.
He lowered his head to kiss her breast, slipping his hand over the other breast, feeling that nipple peak between his fingerpads. She arched against him, clinging to his arms, offering herself to him as they stood together. He pulled aside the confining cloth of her shift to better touch his lips along one breast, taking its soft center bud between his lips, tugging at it, sensing its luscious warmth, its life as it grew firm beneath his tongue.
