Chapter 35
For God’s sake hold your
tongue and let me love.
—“The Canonization”
John Donne (1572?–1631)
English metaphysical poet and clergyman
Alysandir was sucked into the violent circulation of a waterspout that drenched the castle, sent a flood of water gushing down the gargoyles, and nearly drowned him in a puddle with the cocks in the courtyard below.
He awoke with a start and sat up in bed. His heart pounded. He looked around the room, breathing with rapid pants, but at least he was breathing. A dream, he thought, and he fell back in bed. And what a dream. He hadn’t been this shaken by a nightmare since boyhood.
For some time, he lay there thinking…
His life had been a lot like a waterspout since the day he met Isobella, for it had become a tumultuous rush of confusion toward an unknown ending. Things were not going well. He wanted to change that. He did not know how. How could he end this stalemate between them and come out with both of them getting what they wanted?
His passion for her was now raging at its highest peak, and during his convalescence, his pent-up anger with himself had time to gather like rain in a Highland tarn. He realized that he was a man with a heart as hard as a grape stone and that he had, as she had once told him, the brains of a bowl of oatmeal. He smiled.
He knew now that he would do whatever it took. To win her favor, he would face a volley of arrows, a shower of stones, and a hailstorm of cudgel blows, but inwardly, he knew it would not be as simple as that.
With a curse, he left the bed, dressed, and went to find Drust. He wanted to saddle Gallagher and ride away from the castle for a while. A deer hunt would get him out in the open, and he could leave the Mackinnon chief behind and be Alysandir for a while.
The problem was that even out in the open, he could not stop thinking about her. He knew what Isobella wanted. All he had to do was to get over his fear of giving it to her. He had confessed that he wanted her in his life, but he stopped short there. He could barely force himself to think of the word, and he certainly could not say it. Not to her. Not to anyone. And therein lay the problem, for if he did not say it, and soon, he feared he would wake up one morning and find her gone.
“Are ye trying to find answers to a question you keep avoiding?” Drust asked as he rode up beside Alysandir. “She loves ye. Ye love her. ’Tis simple, no?”
“Aye. And for all yer nosey prying, ye can see to the deer carcass,” he said, handing Drust the reins to the packhorse.
With a laugh, Alysandir tuned to watch Bradan’s horse ambling along behind him. “What say ye that we race back to Màrrach and leave Drust and Colin to see who wins?”
Bradan’s eyes lit up. “Aye,” he said, and kicked his horse into a gallop. Alysandir watched him go, feeling pride in his heart at the fearlessness his son possessed. He remembered having thought the boy was soft, but now he knew that one day Bradan would be a man of dauntless courage. And he would have never known that had it not been for Isobella.
Finding her wasn’t as easy as he had thought, for after searching and asking about the castle, he decided she must be in that place he was growing rather jealous of. The cave. He invited Bradan to go with him, and the two of them rode down the beach.
He knew they had found her when he saw Artair and Margaret playing in the sand near the cave. They called out to him, and Bradan dismounted and led his horse over to where they sat. Alysandir rode on, listening to Bradan telling his young aunt and uncle about the hunt.
After bumping his head on the entrance, Alysandir followed the glow of light until he found her. Along the way, he noted that the rock-paved floor was strewn with bits of charred firewood, limpet shells, animal bones, and the skeletons of three infants near a crude altar at the back of the cave.
He stood for a moment without announcing his arrival, content to look around at the cave walls marked with signs of fire, ashes still adhering to one side. Her back was turned toward him as he walked close enough to see she had a plaid stretched out on the floor, on which she had arranged tools of stone, flint, and bone. There also were a few seashell ornaments and a bronze torc.
He shook his head. Any other woman would want silks and jewels, but not Isobella. Just give her a little dirt to dig in, and she was happy. He would never find another woman like her.
“I thought I would find ye here.”
She gasped and turned around quickly. He noticed a knife in her hand and saw the belt and the scabbard around her waist. “Ye were not thinking of stabbing me with that, were ye?”
“No, of course not. Why are you here? I was about to finish up and return to Màrrach.”
“I came to see ye.”
“Why?”
“Mayhap I enjoy seeing ye standing amongst ancient burial urns, digging in the graves of those who spoke deceased languages. Your face is dirty.”
She smiled hesitantly and wiped at the smudges. He stepped closer. “Ye only made it worse,” he said, and wiped the dirt away with his thumb. “It will be dark soon. I will ride back with ye.”
Elisabeth walked out of the shadows. “Hello, Alysandir. Here to drag us out, are you?”
Isobella glanced toward the entrance to the cave, where long shadows stretched like returning spirits across the stone floor. She caught a stray wisp of hair and tucked it behind her ear as she glanced around the cave. “I suppose I should stop now, but there is so much to do here.”
“Aye, there is much history in this place.” He picked up the bronze torc. The metal had been twisted to fashion a woman’s necklace that fit like a collar. He placed it around her neck. “This dates back to the times of the Norse. The Celts were exceptional metal craftsmen. It has been waiting a long time for ye to find it, but it is safe to return home now, for it will still be here on the morrow.”
As they left the cave, Alysandir called out to Bradan, Artair, and Margaret that it was time to go. He felt a surge of pride followed by a bubble of humor, as he watched Bradan mount his horse and jovially hoist the other two upon the bare back. “They line up like peas in a pod.”
“You are proud of him,” she said.
“Aye, he is a good lad.” He laughed. “And Margaret as well, for she rides like a lad, and I am sure my mother must be frowning.”
Elisabeth mounted her horse. “I’ll ride with the bairns,” she said with a laugh as she rode off.
Alysandir mounted Gallagher and grinned down at Isobella. “’Twill require me putting my arms around ye, if ye can bear the insult.”
“I have managed so far, and your touch is preferred over blisters.”
“’Tis good to know where I stand in the order of pestiferous things.” He leaned from the saddle and gathered her into his arms, lifting her with such ease that she could have been as weightless as a feather. He placed her on the saddle before him as he guided Gallagher into a wide turn toward Màrrach.
They rode a while before he broke the silence. “Since ye carry on yer work with great attention and care, if it interests ye, I will show ye some artifacts of another kind. There are musty and sometimes nearly illegible charters in my library—manuscripts, rolls, maps, records, letters, two very old scrolls, and other written documents that have gathered there over the centuries.”
“Well, by chance, I have nothing to do when we return,” she said so quickly that Alysandir laughed heartily.
It was turning cooler, and a fine mist was falling by the time they reached Màrrach. He dismounted and lifted her to the stones of the courtyard. “If ye still have an interest in seeing the things I spoke of, wash off the sand and dry the mist from yer hair, and join me in the library.”
Her face seemed to light up from the inside. “Oh, I shall look forward to it,” she said, and hurried off, as if she was late for an appointment with a ewer of water and a comb.
I look forward to it as well.
***
When Isobella arrived an hour later, he took note of the fact that she looked fresh in a low-cut gown of deep burgundy, a fierce and passionate color of desire and warm pulses of the heart.
He was sitting by a blazing fire, a goblet of wine dangling from his hand. Her gaze went to the small table between two chairs, where a round of cheese, a small plate of fruit, and a few slices of crusty bread waited near a bottle of wine and an empty goblet. Her brows rose in question as she looked from the gourmet display to Alysandir for an explanation.
“Doubt is perfectly companionable with supper. ’Tis simple enough fare, and it will allow ye ample time to riffle through my collection at yer leisure, but be careful that ye dinna riffle them.”
She smiled at his use of the two meanings of the word ‘riffle.’ “I promise to look and withstand any temptation to steal.”
“Fair enough,” he said, and poured her a goblet of wine. “Join me,” he said, and she sat down warily.
They spent the next several hours pulling out relics. Then he sat back in his chair with his wine and his dog, watching the myriad of expressions upon her face as she reverently handled each thing she touched. Around her, the thick scrolls and books of papyrus and parchment looked terribly fragile on the library table surrounded by other relics—quill pens, silver ink pots, a letter opener carved from horn, and a silver crucible that burned oil.
He poured her another goblet of wine and continued to watch her, wondering if it would be possible to bewitch her or cast a spell upon her that would make her do his bidding. But he did not want that. He wanted her passion and her fire, yes, but only if she wanted him.
For some time, he watched her practically worshipping an illuminated medieval manuscript that was richly decorated with vivid colors and gilded with gold. Without speaking, he finished off the last of his wine and went to stand behind her. He put his hands on her shoulders and began to knead the muscles of her neck.
“Mmmmm… that feels so good.” She relaxed back against him, and he could see the soft, white mounds of her breasts rising and falling with each breath. Something deep and instinctive stirred within him: primeval, arousing desire. His hands moved over her shoulders, and he made love to her neck while his hands slipped further down to dip into the bodice of her gown. There he cupped her breasts in his hands, his thumbs teasing her until her breathing increased and little moans escaped from her lips.
Once, she made a move to turn toward him, but he held her in place. “Not yet,” he whispered, as he began to undo the buttons down the front of her gown, kissing her neck and shoulders. After he had the buttons undone, he peeled the gown away from her. When she tried to turn to him a second time, he said again, “Not yet.”
Her undergarments came next, until she was wearing only a chemise. His hands moved downward over the curve of her hip and the softness of her belly, calm and coaxing. He knew the stir of her body awakening beneath his hands, and he whispered warm, provocative words in her ear.
She was like butter melting against him, and each time she moaned, it made him want her all the more. She was ensnared in the web of passion as tightly as he. There was no escape for either of them, save satisfying the very urge that drove them. He dropped down and began to make love to her with his mouth. She protested. “No, I can’t do this anymore.”
“Aye, ye can,” he said, and he proved it with his mouth, which gently persuaded her until her body convulsed. She was too weak to stand, so he gathered her in his arms and carried her to his chair. He pulled a plaid over her and held her close. He never took his gaze off her lovely face until she fell asleep. Then he followed her into the arms of Hypnos, the god of sleep, and his brother Morpheus, the god of dreams…
And Alysandir dreamt of children.
It was still dark when he awakened, but Isobella remained sleeping in his arms. He wondered if that was because of the lovemaking or the wine, or both.
He thought of the children in the dream and found that something strange had occurred during his sleep, for he suddenly felt he truly wanted children, lots of them, scampering about.
And he wanted them with Isobella.
It was that simple. He vowed then to give her what she wanted. He would persuade her with charm, kindness, flowery praise, and good deeds. He had seduced her before and torn down her defenses, but this time it would be different. He had been a fool to think he could win her by force or skill. It would take gentleness to turn the current of her strong will. He would caress her with words, for a woman wooed was a woman won.