Chapter 22
What was he doing to her after declaring their feelings last night? Tempting her? Aye. Teasing? Aye, aye. Naughty with charm – above all else!
How could her heart race with both her and her knight fully clothed while only his hands tugged on hers?
Simple. The blindfold. MacCade has done brilliantly at placement – black as pitch.
It was already dimmer outside even without the cloth strip tied over her closed gaze; the time had become almost twilight after supper, so why bother?
A surprise! Once her surprise was revealed, he promised he’d take her to the waterfall from her night-glance upon the royal hunting grounds.
So here they were, striding across the cobblestones with her blindfold in place at his insistence.
Hhhhmmm – MacCade smelled yummy. Good gracious, calm down, he is a Scotsman, not a honey cake.
And she was a fate-seer who was unable to see. How ironic. A smile tilted her lips. “Oh!” she gasped when her foot hit an uneven stone on the pathway and her gracelessness popped up.
The hands grasping hers tightened, holding her steady. “I have you, Keirah,” the deep brogue promised. He had all of her. Would she ever forget the moment he told her last night he loved her? Never-ever.
Holding steady, she stepped once more. “Aye, this you most certainly do, my knight.” Always.
His voice broke into her thoughts. “Almost there,” he promised, his breath pressing her cheek at the closeness he held to her. “Tell me what you hear, my Cluaran.”
Shuffling carefully, she lifted her chin.
“Umm, the sounds from the great hall grow dim as the sun overhead. I believe we are headed toward the east, given the clank from swords and scuffle of allies entering the portcullis are directly behind us,” she offered.
“Scotsmen coughing or jesting, feeling the aftereffects of wine with supper, linger over my left shoulder. This is mixed with the sound of Lady Maise’s twinkle in laughter from being by Sir Brayden’s side, who I am fiercely proud of for taking lead after we introduced them formally at supper.
They are all perhaps residing near the kitchen’s outer building? Aye, we head east.”
“Very good, my lady.”
She smiled. “MacCade, you are grinning.”
“What betrayed the expression?” His voice sounded curious.
“The tone you speak; it holds a wee bit of upper edge to it.” Her smile widened. “’Tis very charming.”
“Yours as well,” he whispered; she paused at how close he was to her. “Any other noises garner your attention now, my lady?”
She pursed her lips. “Huh, an owl in the distance readying for the eve to come. My voice echoes differently now, as if we have entered an enclosure,” she relayed, softly. “Crunching.”
“Crunching?”
“Aye,” she confirmed at the odd grinding, “same as giants eating a field of barley for supper.”
He gave a chuckle. “What do you feel?” The words sounded of sin on his lips.
She held nothing back. “Everything. My heart beats with the pace same as a fleeting bird at your touch, strong and sure and caring, with my hands in yours. The cobblestones beneath my soles feel hard; however there is perhaps a soft brush from hay? I guess it to be what is touching my ankles when I step just right. The wind has died against my cheeks, leading to the belief we are within walls with a roof overhead.”
“Aye.” She felt his fingers quiver a bit; was it from excitement?
“Scent, Lady Keirah MacCade?”
She sighed affectionately. “You, my knight – a unique heady mixture belonging to sweat, pine, and the honey mead from supper.” My honey cake of a Scotsman.
Her brows furrowed seriously to add, “Definitely the hay has grown stronger. Dust, wee bit of dung, and a lingering from elements belonging to animals. We are in the stables?”
“Aye,” he confirmed and asked, “Do not carry fright at the next feel.”
“With you by my side, Sir Aonghus MacCade, never,” she vowed. Wait, did he just sigh too at her sentiment?
“Hold steady, my lady,” he said gently. She did as requested, but her fingers jerked back slightly when a faint prickling feel touched her palm like she had run her hand over a wheat stalk field.
“A beastie?” she wondered, enamored.
“Aye.”
A giggle erupted from her lips when a tongue soft as fine moss caressed her palm, possessing a heat like the moss had baked in the midday sun. Aonghus took her wrist gently to raise it, then guided her hand across a pelt. “Velvet,” she purred at the feel.
In one swift, seamless motion from him, the blindfold fell away.
She found herself staring directly up into a set of bulbous eyes looking the same as the sky before the dawn in an ebony color.
The pelt her hand rested upon with Aonghus’s over hers was soft as velvet and gleamed like a rich dark night.
“Oh, Aonghus,” she murmured in awe at the magnificent stallion who stood before them within the stable. The dusted wood surrounding and gnawed boards between the standing row of pens only seemed to greaten the regality belonging to the steed, who stood heads above her.
“You care for him, my lady?” The grin she heard in his voice was now visible and directed toward her.
“Gracious!” She expounded a rush of words: “What is not to savor? I have heard of the chargers that were arriving from Spain for the sieges against King H?konsson, but never would I have imagined them to be so flawless. He is to be yours?”
Aonghus’s fingers pressed slightly upon hers over the stallion’s granite-like neck to say passionately, “Ours.” Then he explained, “A wedding gift from King Alexander. What you speak is true – our lord king wanted the knights well readied with these fine beasts. However, he chose this particular steed for your knight in the battles to come.”
Her fingers graced over the mop of mane, thick and coarse and beautiful. “He is perfection,” she murmured, her voice catching from emotion.
“Not quite.” Aonghus paused her, and she raised her brows at him. “He lacks a title. I charge you with finding the one which will suit him best.”
A weight bore onto her at the challenge. “He is a laoch.” She gave the Gaelic word for warrior and hero, her eyes darting between the pair. The stallion seemed to approve of her consideration and licked her palm once more. How sweet!
Aonghus ruffled the forelock hairs, a massive wavy thatch all the way down to the stallion’s muzzle. “Laoch he shall be known as,” he replied, thoughtful, and asked, “This is your wish?”
A smile touched her lips. “Laoch, aye, ’tis wonderful,” she agreed and eagerly asked, “May we travel and feel the fields under his hooves this eve?”
Laoch knickered with a forceful strength, blowing her wimple’s veil back. Such spirit!
“Believe that was an….aye.” Aonghus grinned and went to fetch the saddle off the far rack. “I had considered he would take us to the waterfall from your night-glance.” Aye.
***
If only the ride could have been longer. Lord Kollungr still loomed, being a threat over her. He would be a damned Scotsman before any harm came to his Cluaran.
The breeze upon her cheeks, she had said to him, was as refreshing as if she had a splash from the River Forth over her features, but a forlorn air hung after walking the grounds near the waterfall.
“Nae, Aonghus, this is the place, but I harbor nae other details regarding the unseen archer from the night-glance – ugh!”
Removing the saddle from Laoch, who was enjoying fluffy hay in the wooden manger at the front of his pen, Aonghus saw her eyes looking over all the tails belonging to the Spanish steeds, whose muzzles were facing the opposite way from the walkway on the barn’s left side.
At least a bright moonbeam flowed in at the right angle through an open upper widow near the hay loft.
It would offer the necessary light for his lady to find her footing toward him while he hung his saddle and sword with scabbard upon a rough timber peg at a concealed nook behind the stall’s end opposite from the main entryway.
Almost time for another surprise. His blood quickened.
“They are so lovely, Aonghus.”
“Aye, they were bred by Spanish Carthusian monks, I heard a Lowlander state,” he explained and turned back to face her while she fussed to remove the wimple’s layers of linen off her head and neck.
“Truly lovely, unlike, ugh, this wretched wimple! You must endeavor to sneak me back into our chambers,” she murmured, playful. “I cannot be seen in such a lack of propriety at court, but the wimple feels a tormentor at times.”
At his pause, her eyes met his while she laid the linen over a nearby beam, her glorious mane streaming down her narrow back. Completely stunning. He could drop them to the floor right now and bury himself in her…
“Sir Aonghus MacCade,” she interrupted his desireful thoughts, raising her left brow up, “you harbor the look.” Was his passionate want for her so easy to read?
He tucked her gift quickly behind his back; he had left it on the saddle peg for after their ride. “Which ‘look’ would this be?” he questioned, mischievously. She also seemed to bring this trait out in him, and how he savored it.
She took a step toward him. “’Tis the same as earlier before the unveiling of Laoch.”
“You are your namesake, my Cluaran – sharp,” he grinned.
How he loved her mind behind those thistle-colored eyes!
Aye, telling her his feelings brought a rapture all its own.
He yearned to give her a pleasure the same as she had him last eve at her touch.
An inward dark grin had appeared earlier when he figured a possible way to accomplish the feat; he only needed the right moment to strike.
“What are you seekin’ to hide behind that broad back, Sir Aonghus?” This was the moment.
“A gift,” he answered, “my lady,” and he bowed to bring his fingers from behind his back, showing her the surprise.
“Daggers?” Her voice sounded confused at the sight of two blades encased by matching leather scabbards.