Page 111 of Come the Morning

“Duty,” he reminded her dryly.

Soft fur lay beneath her; the light was simply a glow of the blaze. She opened her mouth to protest again, but his kiss consumed her ardent and demanding, and his fingers were deft as he dealt with the lacing of her gown. Her heart ached, she couldn’t submit, and she tried to twist upon the soft fur, escape his touch. Her gown came free, and even as she turned, her very movement bared her shoulders and back. His arms came around her, and she bowed her head as she felt the liquid flame of his caress against her nape, down her spine, lower and lower. His palms moved over her breasts. In a tangle of clothing, she was turned within his arms, meeting his kiss once again. His fingers stroked between her legs, slid deeply into her. Caressed. Enticed …

His tartan needed little effort to cast aside.

In seconds, he was within her himself, and she closed her eyes, clung, and felt the fire cast gold and crimson upon her, and rage with its fierce, all-encompassing flame. She swallowed down the cry that would have escaped her when it was over. It seemed impossible that she could feel such acute physical pleasure one minute, then such a wave of abject misery the next. She had known that she must never want him, need him. She hadknown…

Then she heard his whisper.

“Since you are my wife, lady, there is the solution that you ride with me.”

“What?” she gasped.

He rolled her to him. “Ride with me. Be with me. Sleep with me.”

“You want me to come?” she said, amazed and skeptical.

“Aye, lady. Did you think me happy with the thought of leaving you behind when I know that your mind is ever busy?”

“Meaning?”

“God knows, you disappear far too easily.”

She had no idea, searching his eyes in the fire glow, if he teased her or spoke with serious intensity. She only knew that she could think of nothing she wanted more.

“Well?”

“Aye, sir, if you wish it, I will ride with you,” she said primly.

“Aye then, we will ride together,” he said, drawing her into his arms. She leaned back against his chest. They lay upon the furs in the fire-shadow, watching the lure of the flame. Then she closed her eyes, setting her fingers upon his arm as he held her, and she was afraid to be so happy.

Igraina stood just outside her home, seeing that her grandfather’s shaggy cows had come into the enclosure for thenight. And as she did so, a strange sense of fear, of unease, swept through her. She turned, and there was a man.

Tall, burly, yet with a middle just beginning to run to fat. He had the size and stature of a Viking, yet something about him seemed not quite right. He was clean-shaven, as a Norman might have been. His hair was clipped, yet …

He’d been sleeping in the woods. His neatly cut hair was laden with grass and twigs. His clothing was torn, and he looked hungry. And he was coming toward her, smiling …

“Lass, ’tis been a rotten time I’ve spent in the woods, but with the boats gone, and me cut off from my fellows, well it seemed there was nothing other to do. But all is calm, now, eh? The guards sleep, for the master is in his house. I’ll have food and plenty tonight, eh? A fire to feed me, a woman to warm me, and more …” he said. He spoke to her in Norman French, and she thought that perhaps he didn’t realize she could understand his words.

A massive sword hung from a scabbard at his waist.

His grin deepened as he stared at her. He switched to the Gaelic tongue, accented as if he had learned the language farther to the southeast. “You. I will have you. I am hungry, you will sate me. We’ll be warm and full, and if you please me, I will spare the old Norseman and his aging bride. Come now, come to me.”

She stared at him, thinking that hunger and living in the wild had given him an edge of insanity. She backed away from him, and a scream tore from her lips.

Instantly, Ewan was outside. He saw the man, and ran to her, casting her behind him. “What’s this?” the burly man demanded. “A farmboy turned warrior, a shepherd in his master’s clothes? Come, come on, lad … you may feel my kiss as well, ah, boy, the kiss of my sword, the kiss of death. Or, you may step aside, and I’ll take the woman, and maybe you’ll live with the old folks.”

“Who are you? Why did you come?” Ewan demanded.

“Who am I? A man who lives by the sword, willing to die by the sword, to sit in Valhalla, heaven, or hell.”

“A Norman? A Norseman?”

“Norman, Norseman … a hungry warrior. Maddened by the smell of the meat within. The old woman cooks well. I’ve learned to eat the meat of a beast with the blood of a man on my hands, so move aside, farm lad, or I’ll slice you gullet to groin.”

“I am the—”

“The MacKinny, eh?”