Barbara Leigh Read online

  She closed her eyes against the assailing memories and reveled in the gentle pressure of his hand, still warm over hers. When she opened her eyes Drojan was staring in her direction. Was the seer reading her mind? It was said seers could do such things. Could he possibly know of the turmoil in her soul?

  She glared back at him, challenging his deep stare with one of her own. He did not move, nor did he flinch under her gaze. In truth, he seemed not to be aware of her presence, though he was but a short distance away. She looked more closely and realized that his concentrated stare was not for her, but for the woman who sat at her shoulder. It was Old Ethyl on whom the man directed his attention, and a surreptitious glance told Serine that Ethyl returned it in kind.

  For a moment Serine wondered if they might be giving each other the evil eye, so great was their concentration, for it was beyond even Serine’s imagination to recognize the fact that Drojan and Old Ethyl found themselves in the first throes of love.

  A shout from the field brought Serine back from her musings and Hendrick jumped to his feet in front of her as he cheered on his particular hero.

  He turned to Rory, open appeal on his face. “Why will you not allow me to join in the games?”

  “You have not lived in Corvus Croft long enough to learn the tricks of the Celt’s fighting games. You would be beaten soundly.” He placed his hand on the boy’s arm. “When the next games come around you will be allowed to participate.”

  “How will I learn the wondrous secrets of your games?” Hendrick persisted.

  “I shall teach you myself,” Rory said magnanimously.

  “I think you will find that the boy knows more than you suspect, brother,” Guthrie interjected. “I have shown him how to use the staff and sparred with him several times.”

  Hope flared in Hendrick’s eyes. Perhaps Guthrie would be able to convince his brother to let him compete.

  “You?” Rory clapped his hand to his head in mock horror. “Then I will have to make him unlearn everything he knows.”

  Guthrie was on his feet. “Are you saying you can best me with the staff?” It was an old challenge, and for the most part a harmless one. Both men longed to participate in the competition but neither truly dared, for Guthrie was headman and by Celtic law did not compete unless there was a serious challenge, and Rory was in a weakened condition.

  “Even with the stiffness from my wound I can best you,” Rory boasted.

  “The challenge is taken.” Guthrie could hardly suppress a smile as he stood and, with a bow to the ladies, started toward the field.

  Even Serine’s restraining hand and soft plea did nothing to deflect Rory from following his brother. She turned troubled eyes to Damask, who answered her with a smile.

  “Do not concern yourself for Rory,” the young woman said. “Guthrie will not harm him. They will put on a good exhibition, nothing more. It is good sport for all.”

  Damask settled back in her seat, secure in her assessment of the situation. But Serine did not feel comfortable in having Rory participate in a fight of any kind. The concern on her face was plainly visible, and even Guthrie remarked on Serine’s demeanor.

  “It looks as though your erstwhile nurse will surely pin your ears back if I do not manage to do so.”

  “Serine cares only for her son. Her feelings for me are secondary.” Rory shrugged off his brother’s words.

  “Nonetheless, the woman who cares so little for you looks as though she is about to cry.”

  Rory glanced over his shoulder and saw that his brother’s words were true. “She probably believes that if I die of overexertion she will lose any chance of returning to Sheffield with her son.”

  “Do you want her to take the boy and go?” Guthrie asked bluntly.

  “Yes! No! Hellfire! I don’t know what I want.” He shook his head as though to shake off the thought. But he did know. Rory wanted Serine. He wanted her sleek, luscious body. He wanted her quick, inquiring mind. He wanted her love. Wanted to be first and foremost in her mind and in her heart.

  How he missed the touch of her hand. The sweet, clean scent of her as she bent over him during his illness. He reached for her a thousand times a night, searching in vain for the comfort of her small, capable hand, reliving over and over again the moments when their lips had touched and when his body had known the nearness of hers. Even the pain had been worthwhile in having her close, in reaching out and feeling her silken hair against the bedclothes. He wanted to become entangled in the limbs of her body as his fingers had tangled in her hair. He wanted to draw her to him and see the awakening of love, as he had seen her awaken from her slumbers.

  He wanted...he wanted...he wanted...

  He grasped the staff and strode onto the field, leaving his brother to follow in his wake. At the center of the field he turned, his staff already coming about to meet Guthrie’s, and the match was met.

  It was only when Guthrie’s blow forced him to his knees that Rory realized how his pain could be eased, at least for a short, blissful moment, and to the horror of the crowd and the amazement of the headman, Rory allowed the next blow to fall unchallenged as he dropped unceremoniously to the ground.

  Rory was carried to his room. Not the room he had taken after Serine had claimed the one he usually used, but the room in which Serine had spent the previous night. Ensconced in the bed with the scent of the woman he loved permeating his senses, Rory savored his success. A success that was climaxed when Serine herself rushed into the room.

  “You fool! How could you endanger yourself in such manner? You’re nothing more than a headstrong child and should be treated as such.” She whipped back the blanket and ran her hands over his chest. “Now, where does it hurt the most?”

  It didn’t hurt. It felt wonderful! Rory could do nothing more than moan with pleasure closely akin to pain.

  Serine went to her bag and took out an ointment, which she carefully rubbed into his skin. And while the medication took the last vestige of strain from his heretofore unused muscles, the touch of her hand brought on a certain amount of discomfort to a different portion of his person. He squirmed as he tried to change positions to keep her ignorant of his arousal.

  She had but to look at him to cause his blood to surge. The touch of her hands was more than he could abide without physical response, yet he knew she would neither understand nor approve. No more than would the one-eyed harpy who had appeared at the door with Drojan moving behind her like a shadow of doom.

  “I will take care of Lord Rory,” Drojan announced pompously. “You may return to the games.”

  In his attempt to put as much distance as possible between himself and Ethyl, Drojan did not see the look in Rory’s eyes.

  “There is no need,” Serine said quietly. “I have no wish to watch any more of your sport. I will stay here with Rory. You may take Ethyl and return.”

  But Drojan was not about to take orders from a woman, and a foreign woman at that.

  “I will stay!” he insisted, all but pushing Serine aside.

  “The Lady Serine will take care of me.” Rory almost growled the words as he saw the old man’s stubborn determination about to ruin his plans. “You may go and take Ethyl with you. I’m sure she wants to see the rest of the competition. In fact, she may even want to compete.”

  His comment sent Ethyl’s head up. Her eye pierced him and he felt as though she could see right through his ruse. He also knew that she didn’t give a damn. From the moment he had said she might be eligible for competition, Ethyl’s interest centered on his suggestion.

  “How could I compete?” she ventured. “I would hardly want to handle the sticks after what has befallen you at the hand of your own brother.”

  “You possess a different skill,” Rory reminded her. “Surely you’re aware that the women in my country are allowed to compete equally with the men.”

  Old Ethyl nodded her head. “That is true.”

  “Then Drojan must take you back to the field of games and
see that you are allowed to participate. I am not bad hurt and Serine can see to my needs.”

  Ethyl looked at Serine, who nodded in agreement. “Go ahead,” she affirmed. “The wound has not opened and I will have some of the house wenches bring up water for bathing. We will soak the pain away.”

  A knowing look passed between them, for each woman had taken it upon herself to ignore the potential danger and secretly smuggle a vial of the brew out of England, on the off chance that due to the unexpected exertion Rory might take a turn for the worse. Though no words were spoken, both women understood that Serine would be using the brew and the less said about its existence, the better.

  “That is a wise course,” Ethyl agreed. “Drojan will escort me to the field and I will show him what an archer is capable of doing.” Without further ado she took Drojan’s arm and steered him from the room, oblivious to his protests.

  * * *

  Through the milling crowds they went until they reached the archery field. Ethyl was delighted to see other women armed with bows, nocking their arrows.

  “Tell them I would shoot,” she urged Drojan.

  “You are not a woman of the Celt. You will be shamed, and myself with you for allowing such folly.” He grumbled out the words and held back.

  “Your worries are groundless, old man. I shall not shame myself.”

  It pleased her to think how surprised he would be when he realized just how great was her skill with the bow.

  Giving the reluctant Drojan a nudge, she allowed him to introduce her to the Marshal of the Field and took her place among the rest.

  A ripple of pure joy surged through her as she lifted the bow and nocked the arrow. Here she could excel. Here she could show Drojan that she was not just an ugly old woman. She let the arrows fly and they sailed unerringly to the target.

  She had qualified for the first round.

  One round after the other Ethyl took with her skill while Drojan stood in open-mouthed wonder.

  “Did not your Runes tell you of my skill?” Ethyl chided. “Did they not tell you I was a woman to be reckoned with?”

  “I do not cast the Runes for information about the skill or failings of a woman,” the man grumbled.

  Again she took her place, and again came out the winner. Now she was competing against the best women in the village.

  “You have been lucky, woman.” Drojan grasped her arm and jerked her toward him. “But now you will face Luccea, and she is the best on the isle. Withdraw with your laurels intact.”

  Ethyl looked into the man’s face. There was concern in his eyes. True concern for her feelings and her welfare.

  “Do not trouble yourself about my laurels, Drojan. Look into your soul and you will see that I can beat any woman, or man, for that matter, that you put against me.”

  Drojan’s hand slid up the smooth, sinewy flesh of her arm. It vibrated against his palm, and his body awakened and vibrated with it. “You do not realize the potential outcome of this match, Ethyl. For the love of Woden, come away...now.”

  But Ethyl’s blood was singing with success and throbbing with excitement over the attention given her by Drojan. She did not leave her position, and her arrows continued to fly true.

  * * *

  “I swear by the Druids, Ethyl outshot every woman in the vicinity and then took on the men. It was uncanny. The last man cast down his bow and walked away when he hit the bull’s-eye and she split his arrow. None other would come forth to meet her challenge. Guthrie was irritated, but Damask applauded Ethyl’s success.” Drojan had burst into the room and begun his accounting of the day’s events not even bothering to notice whether Serine and Rory were in any condition to appreciate or even care about Ethyl’s skill.

  “I could have told you that the old woman was an excellent shot. I’m living proof of her prowess,” Rory remarked.

  And although Drojan pressed for more information, Rory held his silence. It would do little good to admit he had been felled by the arrow of a woman, although it somehow seemed to soothe him to know that she was now the acclaimed champion of his own village. At least his pain had not been from the errant arrow of someone who relied on little more than luck.

  This time it was Serine who took the matter to hand. “Lord Rory needs to rest,” she said firmly. “I think it best that you return to the celebration and make certain Old Ethyl doesn’t get into her cups and decide to use her skill on some of your men.”

  Drojan was taken aback at her words until he saw the tiny smile she could not suppress. “Very well, if you have no need of me, I shall return to the festivities and hope you have recovered enough to rejoin us on the morrow, Rory.”

  The seer had almost reached the door when Rory’s voice stopped him. “Have you told our new champion what will be expected of her through her newly acquired honor?” he asked.

  Drojan shook his head. “I tried to talk to her while she still challenged the women, but there was no making her listen. She had the bit in her teeth and would have nothing less than complete victory. She was stubborn.... She was headstrong.... She was...” Drojan paused and bowed his head, but when he looked up, his eyes were shining. “She was magnificent!”

  And with that he strode out of the room without looking back.

  “How odd that he would leave without so much as a word of farewell,” Serine mused. “What do you make of it?”

  Rory stared at the closed door and then raised his eyebrow. “I would say that perhaps your Old Ethyl isn’t as old as you think her to be. And I would also say that Drojan has come to that same conclusion.”

  “Oh, but that simply cannot be,” Serine began. “Why, Old Ethyl has been in the village since I was a child. I cannot remember when I did not see her here and there. She’s probably almost twice my age. She must be...two score.”

  “And Drojan is most likely older than that. Apparently it matters little, for I have not heard of an age limit on loving.”

  “But surely, I mean, they couldn’t... That is, they wouldn’t want to...” She stopped in confusion as she realized what she had been about to say.

  “Do you mean that they couldn’t want to make love to each other the way I want to make love to you?” He reached out and traced the planes of her soft cheek. “They couldn’t relish the other’s touch, or long to feel their lips part, one against the other’s. They could not desire the completion of the joining of their bodies, hot and throbbing with love that is sometimes lost in the quick, scalding lust of the young. Oh, no, Serine, I think they can feel all those things. And I believe Drojan has just awakened to the fact that he wants Ethyl just as I want you.”

  “Rory... Don’t speak of things that cannot be. I am a woman wed. To betray my lord would be the basest of sins.”

  “And what is betrayal? How far must one go to betray?”

  “Why, to make love. The joining of a man and woman.”

  “But up to that point there is no major sin, is that correct?”

  “I did not say...”

  “If I kiss you, and your lips part under mine and I know the honey of your mouth, there is no joining. There is no sin.” And his lips found hers, and she opened to him as he searched her mouth, relishing the sweetness of his quest. “And if I bend to your neck and take pleasure in the way you squirm against me, again there is no joining...no sin.”

  He did not give her time to reply, for his mouth was sliding down her throat and across her shoulder as his hands deftly pulled aside her gown. But gowns are curious garments, made either to be worn a certain way or not at all. His hungry mouth was already seeking the delights of her body, and as he buried his face between her soft breasts his voice, muffled with passion, came to her.

  “If I were to discover pink blossoms amid the pale fields of pleasure would it be a sin to taste each one, or would the sin be to ignore such a delight?”

  Serine thought she would die if he did not fulfill his promise. Her mouth was dry. Her body was so filled with heat that she shivered agains
t his touch. “Taste it, my lord, my love, my Rory, for I swear before God, it is no sin.”

  He moaned with delight at her admission. Taking her blushing orbs into his hands, pressing his lips against them, he let his hot breath encircle them before his tongue followed.

  It wasn’t until her shift fell to her hips and his mouth slid down her body that she thought to object.

  “My love, we tread very close to the sins of which we were speaking,” she warned, reminding him that it wasn’t to be just as he wanted.

  “You have seen me unclothed, and looked long.”

  “I thought you asleep and almost unto death.”

  “How could a man sleep with your eyes touching his body, caressing him as surely as if you did so with your hands...or your lips...or your pink, moist mouth?” He almost choked on the words, so greatly did he wish his thought to become reality.

  “And would you allow me that?” Her mouth barely moved as the words formed and slipped from her lips.

  Rory thought his ears had betrayed him, but he read the question again in her eyes and his answer came without more thought. “With all my heart,” he managed to say as she slipped from the cocoon of her clothing and brushed aside the robe that had partially covered his body.

  All the weeks she had watched and yearned. All the new awakenings that had troubled her dreams and her soul were absorbed in the rush of pleasurable passion that flooded her desire-starved body and wiped away all thought save that for this time, for this special moment, this man was hers to love as she had dreamed of loving.... Loving him...only him.

  And it took but a few minutes for Rory to discover that Serine had meant exactly what she had said. For, in her mind, only the act of coupling itself was forbidden, and, saints forgive him, Rory would not have faulted her theory for all the world.

  Chapter Eight