Chapter 21 #5
But he was glad of the orders to ride north, and anxious to return to Blue Isle.
There was new rumor of a planned English attack, but where it would take place, no one seemed to know.
To reach Stirling from Tyne, they traveled northward on the western trail.
He would come very close to his home, and it was possible that he might be able to ride there and collect his wife before riding on to Stirling.
The last messenger to come from Blue Isle to Tyne had brought the news that Ewan lived, that he appeared to be gaining strength.
Waryk was glad. Ewan had proven himself a decent man.
But Waryk still haunted himself with doubts.
Would she feel such gratitude and relief that Ewan had lived that she might find herself alone with him, by his side?
Where he lay in bed, naked, regaining his strength?
He’d taught her himself the simple ecstasy to be had between a man and a woman.
Had she learned that lesson far too well, and now, knowing what it all meant, with Ewan simply there …
Despite the tortures he cast against his own mind, the ride was not unpleasant since they moved slowly.
Eleanora, anxious to see the Scottish court, had decided to accompany her brother.
She had also decided to haunt him as well, he realized.
She was always with him. She needed a hand up on her horse, a hand down.
She sat with him at meals, shared his cup, laughed pleasantly.
She never chastised him, she simply remained close, teasing his senses, if not his heart.
He wondered if he hadn’t gone completely insane.
He was tormenting himself, sleeping with anguished dreams, and Eleanora was always so near, and so available.
It would be easy to forget, easy to reach out and touch this woman who had given years of companionship and pleasure, and who asked nothing in return. So easy …
But he did not. And it was baffling at times to admit that the golden vixen who had fought him with the dogged determination of a berserker could have brought him to this point.
And when memories of the things she had done, the things she had said, would taunt him to no end, he would recall the night when he’d told her he must leave, and the way that she had touched him, the look in her endlessly blue eyes …
She had brought him his father’s sword. And prayed that he would return.
Still, he didn’t want to hurt Eleanora more than he had done; he spent time with her, and allowed her to know that she did tempt him, that she was beautiful still, and that he suffered the tortures of the damned, staying away from her.
At night, as they camped along the way, he took his place between her and Peter at the table they would erect in the woods. He shared his chalice with her, broke bread with her, enjoyed what entertainment came along.
On the night when they neared Blue Isle, he sat next to Eleanora, laughing as she told him a story about her brother’s horsemanship.
There had been good game and fishing along the way, and they dined well on pheasant and fish cooked over open fires.
They had just passed a small village in the valley, and an old man there had come to him earlier, offering entertainment for their evening meal.
A sennachie came, and told a rousing tale about King David, then a harpist played, and acrobats performed.
Then, the harpist came out again, and in his wake, a masked dancer.
She began to tell a tale as well, about a great warlord with a mysterious past, the Gaelic bride he married, and the son they produced.
A king’s champion, a laird to right all wrongs, who, even as a youth, roused himself from a sea of the dead to avenge his king, to fight for his country, his family’s honor, his king.
She moved with a curious grace. Her voice was crystalline, enchanting.
When she had begun her story, the group had been chattering.
As she continued, all voices fell silent.
She was lithe, and shapely, and when she danced, she seduced.
And of course, as she continued, he realized that she was telling his story—enhancing it all very nicely.
He had grown several inches and had muscles to rival those of the Greek gods.
What was she doing here?
He didn’t know whether to be angry, amused, or pleased.
“Dear Lord!” Peter breathed at his side. “The lass is pure temptation! I must know who she is. I’ll marry her. My God, I’ve never felt such pure … lust.”
“Peter, you cannot wed the lass,” Waryk murmured.
“Because she’s a village lass? Aye, I would marry her. I’m not a greedy man, I need no great dowry. Lust is reason enough for me!”
“Peter, you’ve had way too much wine,” Eleanora said, amused, then she leaned over to Waryk. “Tell me, truthfully, Waryk. Is lust so strong among all men? Would the golden sprite before us tempt you from your loyalty to your wife?”
A broad smile touched his face as he whispered back to her. “Eleanora, the blond sprite before us is my wife,” he told her. “And Peter, you cannot marry her, for she’s already wed, and if she brings about any more lusting here and now, she’s going to be seriously sorry!”