Chapter 18
She was standing beside the Witch’s Well, attired in a diaphanous white garment. Her hair, for once not unruly, fell straight down her back to end at her waist. Although she could not see her reflection, she felt beautiful, attuned to herself in a way that was oddly strange and yet fitting.
Her skin was ivory, her lips full and red, her eyes sparkling. Her body felt different, aware somehow.
The world around her was hushed and expectant.
Suddenly, James was there, striding out of the strange and eerie fog that obscured the ground.
He stretched out his arms, and she walked toward him, before realizing that the well separated them.
She circled it slowly, one hand trailing on the rough stone ledge, the other at her side.
There were no birds chirping in the silence, no sound of water dripping from the bucket. No leaves fell, no flowers bloomed. The air was warm, yet chilled at the same time, as if her dreaming mind refused to label a season or mark a time.
James was dressed as a Roman soldier in crimson wool tunic and leather armor. As she watched, he removed his helm, revealing his black hair and perfectly formed face. His pale blue gaze was intent on her as she neared.
Slowly, he reached out and touched her cheek with his fingers. Until that instant she’d no idea how cold she was. She turned her face into his hand, feeling the curve of his palm as he bent to kiss her. Her lips warmed, her breath quickened even as her body readied for him.
She placed her hands flat on his chest, feeling his heart beating strong beneath her palms as if to mock her dreaming state.
His smile warmed her. Softly chiding, it made light of all her worries and all her fears. As she stood there expectant, he lowered his head and kissed her again. She sighed into the embrace, entwining her arms around his neck and holding on as he deepened the kiss.
She tasted tears at the back of her throat. A moment of unexpected grief, as if she’d been afraid this moment would never come and now wept in gratitude. As happened often in dreams, the moment faded too quickly, becoming another scene.
Harold McDougal stood at the entrance to the garden. “Come,” he said. “Maureen needs you. She is weeping and I cannot get her to stop.” A moment later the dream changed again, just as his face altered. Gone was his surface amiability, and in its place a saturnine mask.
Her mind, still in the throes of a dream, summoned James to her. Like an avenging angel, he appeared between the two of them. With a word, he banished Harold before turning to her. Suddenly, he was kissing her again and she was losing herself once more.
Then she was in the library, seated on the desk, her feet placed on the chair. Between them, cradling her ankles, sat James, his smile wicked as he grinned up at her.
Her nightgown was virginal with rows of buttons marching from a staid collar down across her breasts to her waist.
His fingers slipped between the buttons of her nightgown, reaching in as far as the material would allow, stroking the upward slope of one breast. Halfway to a nipple, and no farther.
Her indrawn sigh was nearly a gasp, and he reached up and silenced it with two fingers against her lips.
Gently, he unfastened one button, smoothing his fingers over the base of her neck. But he didn’t speak, and the silence was almost a living thing.
Her hand bunched into knuckles and the hard ridge of them brushed against his shirt. He didn’t hurry, however, only smiled at her as if amused at her impatience.
Opening the second button, he slipped three fingers inside, touching the edge of her collarbone, then down the curve of her breast. Teasingly, he withdrew, smoothing his hand over her nightgown as if to soothe her.
Her nipples were hard points beneath the material.
In her sleep, Riona moaned.
Another button undone.
She clasped her hands together in the middle of her chest while he stood, bending his head to lay his lips against one nipple and then another.
He speared one hand in her hair, pulled her head up for another kiss. He murmured something, a caution, a warning, an order. She obeyed, quiescent, obedient, trapped by his charm and her need.
That was how she awoke, with the touch of James’s lips on hers and his whispers in her ears.
For the longest time, Riona lay there clutching her pillow, her eyes clenched shut as if to hold the remnants of the dream tight to her.
A drumbeat still echoed in her body, and her breath felt constricted.
Finally, she sighed deeply, regretfully, while blinking open her eyes.
Sunlight filtering through the trees outside created lacy patterns on the ceiling.
Sunlight?
One quick look at the window verified it. The golden glow of the sky indicated that dawn had already come and gone.
She scurried out of bed and peeked into the hallway. Maureen was just leaving her room.
“What time is it?” she asked, horrified. Was she too late?
“What’s wrong?”
“The Lethson cake,” she said, looking back wildly into the room. Where were her clothes? Dear God, the cake. “I have to gather the dew for the elders’ cake!”
She slammed the door shut and dressed in a flurry of clothes and mumbling.
James stood at the window, his attention caught by a movement to his left. Riona was racing to the glen, her skirts above her calves, her hair unbraided and askew. His smile widened as she stopped and, with a large bowl in her hand, twirled in a circle, gathering dew from the top of the grasses.
The elders had given her a bedeviling task.
She selected another spot and did the same dipping and swirling. With any luck, she’d be able to collect some moisture for her cake, but he had his misgivings.
Riona began twirling once more, her skirts billowing around her like a summer flower. On her face was a look of concentration mixed with panic.
Smiling, he went to join her.
“Are you having any success?” James asked, coming up behind her. She whirled, and shaded her eyes with a hand.
Glancing down into the bowl, she ruefully said, “I’ve only a smattering of droplets. Not nearly enough to add to a batter.”
He held up a flask he’d hidden behind his back, poured a few tablespoons into the bowl. The pungent smell of whiskey wafted upward.
“Who’s to say what dew tastes like?” he asked with a grin.
“I shall tell the elders that a wicked brownie appeared with a bottle of elixir and forced me to make a cake of it.”
“I’ve no doubt they’ll enjoy the taste of it more than simple dew.”
She turned and walked with him back to the house, cradling the bowl in her arms.
“What other duties do you have for this day?” he asked.
“We need to set up the tables for the refreshments tomorrow night. And load the peat and wood on the wagons that will come this afternoon.” At his quizzical look, she explained.
“The lads from the village gather peat from all the farms for a week before Lethson. Tonight is our turn. The biggest Lethson fires will be lit at Tyemorn since we have all the highest hills in the area.”
“Why the fires? Signal beacons?”
“No, they’re to entice the dragons.”
“The dragons?” he asked, holding the door open for her.
“A very long time ago, people believed that dragons lived in the fields and must be convinced to leave in order for there to be a good harvest. At Lethson, each farmer still takes a torch and runs around the perimeter of his land, chasing away any lurking dragons.”
“And who will do that for Tyemorn?” he asked.
“You, of course,” she said easily. “Since Ned’s arm is broken. Do you mind?”
“Not at all,” he said. “I’d consider it an honor.”
He stood in the doorway and watched her, intent on her chore. Cook was not in attendance, which was strange. Twice Polly entered the room, glancing at them, and twice she’d left, pulling Abigail after her. As if, he thought, the household conspired to keep them together.
“You cannot fail in this task,” Riona said, so much consternation in her voice that at first James thought she was admonishing him. Instead, she was giving herself a good scolding. “After all, it is only a cake. Anyone can bake a cake if they set their minds to it.”
She peered into the bowl and frowned.
“I can’t,” he said, smiling at her.
“You haven’t been given the duty by the elders, either,” she said, transferring her frown to him. She handed him a basket, and pointed to the doorway with her chin.
“I need eggs. At least six of them.”
“And I’m to fetch them?”
“If you will.” Her smile was dusted by worry, her eyes narrowed by concentration.
“Only if I can claim a payment in turn, Riona,” he said easily.
“A payment?” she asked, distracted.
“A kiss.”
Her head jerked up. Neither of them said a word.
After the other day, he should have been wiser. But he was surfeited with wisdom, awash in it. He wanted to touch her, kiss her. Love her.
“A kiss,” he repeated, leaving the room.
James nodded to a few of the workers as he entered the chicken yard, dipping his head inside the coop to collect a few eggs.
Returning to the kitchen with his bounty, he found Riona mumbling to herself again. “A splash of milk, enough sugar to equal the dew.” She looked up at his entrance, put down the flask she’d taken from the tabletop where he left it, smiling unrepentantly at him.
“I didn’t think a few more drops would matter,” she said, corking the bottle again.
He only grinned at her in response.
After adding the eggs he’d gathered and several other ingredients, she began to stir the mixture with the large wooden spoon, cradling the bowl between elbow and breast. If a creation had ever been commanded to rise or to be sublime in its existence, this cake surely was.
She cajoled and convinced and prayed more than once.
And all the time, James leaned against the doorframe watching her, amused and fascinated.
He had claimed her from the instant their gazes had locked and their smiles had been exchanged. Riona was his, even if she did not yet know it.
She rounded the table, still beating vigorously, but halted at the sight of him.
“I did tell you what a terrible cook I am, didn’t I?”
“You did,” he said, smiling and hoping to ease her.
She still looked worried, and the batter was being beaten nearly to death.
“I am better at growing things than I am at cooking them.” She halted, finally, pouring the batter into a pan.
“Without one you couldn’t have the other. Perhaps growing things is the better talent to have.”
“I suppose you’re right,” she said, as if considering the matter. “It does seem a shame to spend all that time and energy trying to grow something, only to burn it in the end.”
His laughter startled him as much as her. But he was, except for a few minor inconveniences, truly happy at this moment.
“It’s my impatience. I want everything to be done immediately without having to stand over it. I haven’t the time to watch the custard, or endlessly wait for the rolls to bake. I would simply like to place everything in a big pot and come back later when I’m hungry to find it done.”
She carried the precious cake to the stove, and carefully opened it. Before inserting the pan, however, she dropped a spoonful of water on the top of the iron surface. The droplets bounced like tiny balls before evaporating; leaving him to guess that by such a gesture the correct heat was gauged.
“I could teach you how to make a fish stew our cook aboard ship concocted. But I believe he used heads and tails, and even seaweed.”
She made a face as she closed the stove. The heat had reddened her cheeks, and her hair was a mess, strewn around her shoulders as if he’d threaded his fingers through it. The thought captivated him.
“That doesn’t sound appetizing at all.” She turned and smiled at him. “I’m quite good at darning socks. And I embroider quite well. Maybe I should be content with those skills.”
Cook peered into the kitchen at that moment. “Can I have my kitchen back yet?” she asked. “I’ve the noon meal to prepare.”
Riona nodded. “Thank you for your patience, Cook. And for giving up your kitchen.”
The other woman bustled into the room, tying her apron as she surveyed the kitchen, nodding in approval as Riona tidied up. “I was once a young cook myself,” she replied. “I know how it feels to have someone looking over your shoulder.” She sent a curious glance toward James.
He only smiled and left the kitchen, intent on his investigations and chores.
Thomas’s side was throbbing, each spearing ache reminding him of the MacRae.
The damnable horse wouldn’t move above a trot, and he feared he’d never make it there.
Sweat poured from his forehead, stinging his eyes.
Occasionally, he was so dizzy that he wanted to stop his mount and rest beneath a tree.
Time was running out, but that was one lesson the English had taught him—he could tolerate great pain.
He was going to kill the MacRae. He wouldn’t use a musket this time. He’d tried twice with the weapon and missed on both occasions.
The sight of the manor house was a lodestone, taking his mind from how sick he felt. Death was staring him in the face, but he refused to die until MacRae joined him.
Leaving the horse tied to a tree, Thomas made his way slowly toward the house. He would wait until MacRae emerged from the building and stab him with the last of his strength. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and waited.