Chapter Eight
’TWAS THE SMELL THAT AWAKENED HIM.
“Saints of glory!” The imprecation burst from Magnus’s lips, the stench’s bite watering his eyes.
Rank and penetrating, the foul miasma weighted the air and invaded his nostrils with each indrawn breath. Too sleep-fogged to think clearly, he cracked his eyes to merest slits, half-expecting to find himself adrift in the cesspit.
Blessedly, the dull gleam of his discarded hauberk and the pointedly closed bed hangings of the huge four-poster, outlined in shadow across the room, swiftly dispelled that particular concern.
Not quite first light, a damp, blustery wind poured through the opened windows, rippling the wall hangings and causing the hanging cresset lamp to sway on its chain. A light drizzle still fell, and its soft splatter on the stone window ledges heralded the start of another wet, gray day.
Blinking, he rubbed at the crick in his neck. That pain, and the acute throbbing at his temples, attested to a poor night’s sleep . . . a chaste one spent on his pallet of rumpled furs.
Much as he’d rather it’d been otherwise.
In especial, he could have done without the firm press of Boiny’s shaggy back against his side. Or even more vexing, the dog’s noxious emissions poisoning his lungs.
Wincing, he pushed up on an elbow and glowered menace at the sleeping dog. “You chose an inopportune moment to rekindle our affection, old lad,” he grumbled, reaching to tousle the beast’s floppy ears nonetheless.
Stench cloud or nay.
Who was to say what less than appetizing habits he’d develop upon achieving his own gray-bearded years?
So he settled for a grimace and his wince, and saved any further harsh words for a soul more deserving of them.
Another sidelong look at Boiny, and he stood. Stiff and sore from the too-short night, and trying not to breathe too deeply, he moved about, snatching up his scattered clothes.
He tugged on his braies, eager to be gone, and Boiny seized the moment to claim the pallet’s warmth. Making it his own, the dog sprawled full-length across the mounded skins and borrowed blankets, seemingly content to wallow in his wicked, odorous fumes.
Indeed, Magnus scarce had time to don his boots before another sharp wave of offensiveness rose up to taint the chill morning air.
Pulling a face that would have sent the Devil running, he thrust his arms a bit more roughly than need be into the sleeves of his under-tunic and yanked it over his head. He swiped his sword belt off the table, girding it about his hips as he hastened for the door.
But as he slid back the drawbar, his frown deepened. Had he truly been dreaming of the sweet press of his lady’s warm, well-rounded bosom? The imagined thrust of hardened nipples against his naked, slumbering flesh?
And, most stirring of all, the curling squeeze of inquisitive fingers stroking up and down his eager, sleep-swollen shaft.
He paused on the threshold, the notion sending liquid fire through his veins. Aye, he had enjoyed such dreams and the vivid images were yet fresh in his mind, still potent enough to rouse and enflame him.
Especially the one with the full shapeliness of her lush body rubbing against his as, skin to damp skin, heat to lower heat, she’d begged him to take her.
And how, in his dream, at least, he’d gladly acquiesced.
His senses storming, he opened the door. His raven-haired bride would never know how swiftly he would relent now, this very moment, if she would but throw open the bed curtains and crook just one finger in sensual invitation.
But a last glance over his shoulder proved the futility of any such possibility. The heavily embroidered hangings remained closed and naught but thick silence came from within.
An impenetrable barrier best left intact . . . just as any rises beneath his braies were better ignored—at least for the nonce.
Too many other duties called him.
Important issues he meant to attend alone. And well before the castle stirred and his long-nosed kinsmen could question his purpose.
No one need know he’d been sneaking to the isle’s sandy, windswept dunes of a morn. Or that, once there, he’d crouch amongst the thick-growing machair and bracken and cast surreptitious glances at the boat strand.
That he’d look on with heart-lancing pride as men rushed about on the damp, glistening sand, his bride’s mountain of siller being put to good effect as they painstakingly rebuilt the MacKinnon fleet—one fine galley at a time.
Nor would it be wise to let anyone guess he’d made a few visits of his own to the Beldam’s Chair. That he hoped its supposed powers might lessen some of the cold, heavy weight on his heart and perhaps mend a tear or two in his sore-battered spirit.
Aye, too much of the puissant Reginald’s blood flowed in his veins for him to risk looking a fool.
So he slipped from the room on quiet feet. But the moment the door latch dropped into place, he abandoned his caution and thundered down the draughty corridor, his mood as dark as the poorly lit passage.
Driven by his most persistent demons, he did not slow his steps until he’d hastened through a little-used passage around the great hall and strode out into the thin drizzle of the inner bailey.
And the moment he did, a diminutive cloaked figure emerged from the deep shadow along the tower wall and hurried forward across the rain-damp cobbles.
“Magnus!” Janet cried, rushing him, her arms extended in greeting.
“Ho, lass, before you slip and crack that pretty head of yours,” he warned, reaching for her when she would have launched herself at him.
She clutched at his arms, panting. “Praise God you are out and about,” she said, the words echoing in the empty courtyard. “I would—”
“And I would ken what you are about at this hour? Traipsing around in the rainy dark . . . alone.” Magnus took gentle hold of her, set her from him. “Did you not hear my orders that none of the womenfolk are to venture out on their own? There are dangers about, lass. I would know you safe.”
She looked down, fidgeted with the heavy, rain-misted braid hanging over her shoulder. “I did not think you meant me. I was in the kitchens, helping, and only stepped out to get away from the cook-smoke for a few moments.”
Magnus captured her chin, turned her face back to his. “But there is more, is there not?”
“I”—her voice faltering, she indicated a cloth-covered basket resting in a sheltered corner of the bailey wall—“I was returning to the hall with some of Cook’s fresh-baked custard pasties.”
The slightest of smiles flickered across her lips. “Your friend Colin favors them.”
“That great lout is a man of hearty appetite.”
Magnus angled his head, just now catching the faint kitchen smells drifting on the damp morning air—the tantalizing aromas of woodsmoke and roasting meats, fresh-baked breads and frying dough.
Rich fare for a household that would suffer a diet of dry oatcakes and watered ale were his coin stocking the kitchens.
With the morning going rapidly sour, he leveled a piercing gaze on his cousin. “Be advised that Colin favors all manner of . . . delicacies,” he told her. “The daintier the sweetmeat set before him, the more the knave’s mouth waters.”
Janet began winding her single flaxen braid around her fingers. “I have noticed he seems to have a taste for . . . such,” she said, a bit flat-voiced, her expression wistful. “Some of the kitchen lasses are wagering who will claim the first kiss from him. A kiss and . . . more.”
“Something tells me they will still be wagering when my firstborn son grows a beard.” Magnus reached to give her arm a light, encouraging squeeze. “But have a care, I beg you, lass. I would not see my friend take a false bite—would not see either of you take to your bed with a turned belly.”
“Never you worry. I cannot foresee him making such an error,” she said, smoothing her sleeve when he released her. “But I will heed your words and assure he does not receive anything that might ill become him.”
She looked down again, fussed with her cloak. “For myself, I am ever cautious.”
“I am glad to hear it.” Magnus folded his arms. “And now I would know the rest. You are troubled—I see it all over you.”
Janet shifted. “Your father has been ranting about the ghost galley again. He swears he saw it heading for our shores, hell’s own fiends at the oars, only to vanish into the mists right before his eyes.”
“Did anyone else see this devilish craft?”
“Your brothers were with him at the time, but neither saw anything.”
Magnus let out a long sigh. “My father’s wits are waning by the day.” He turned his head, stared at the dark bulk of Coldstone’s keep. “Even so, I do not think my da and his ravings have much to do with what is eating at you.”
He looked back at her. “Now tell me what it is.”
Janet blinked, a spark of some indefinable emotion flaring in her eyes. “Very well, but do not think I disesteem your . . . your lady. I but bear grim tidings about her. To my sorrow!”
“Ill tidings?” Magnus arched a brow. “Then have out with them, for my patience has already run mighty thin this morn.”
“You had a . . . tedious night?” she probed, looking almost as if she wished he had.
Nay, I had a wondrous night spent lusting after the tight-puckered flesh of my wife’s deliciously large, hard-budded nipples.
Then I ran hard as a jousting lance trying to decide if her lower hair will spring as sleek and lush as I am hoping!
Half-afraid his frustration had shouted the words, Magnus sharpened his gaze on Janet, but far from looking shocked or vexed, she appeared to be preening like a cat before a bowl of cream.
Suspecting the reason for the look, Magnus took a step backward, putting ample space between them.
“I had a trying night and a less than pleasant morning,” he said, swiping at a few rain droplets that had settled on his brow.
“But my dark humor has naught to do with my wife—should the thought cross your mind.”