Prologue
Gaul
532 AD
Deidre of the Languedoc leaned back against the sun-warmed
rocks on the bank of the river Garonne and closed the
ancient book, careful not to break the brittle velum pages.
Her fingertips traced the Latin letters tooled into the
smooth old leather. Locus Vocare Camulodunum: “A Place
Called Camelot”. Deidre’s cornflower eyes lit with
excitement. Unlike the never-ending squabbles of the
deceased King Clovis’ four sons, Camelot was apparently a
place of peace across the Narrow Channel where courtly
gentlemen honored and revered women as in the days when the
Goddess fully ruled. If only she could go there.
Deidre frowned, remembering how furious her mother, high
priestess to Isis, had been to find the book—or The Book—as
Deidre liked to call it, lying in place of the
Philosopher’s Stone in the grotto deep inside a hidden
cave. Her mother had accused the old magician that had
ensconced himself near the shrine of stealing it and
searched his goods, only to find nothing. But the next
morning he was gone. Deidre’s burgeoning gift of Sight had
not been able to find him. For the past two years, the
magician had cloaked himself and the Stone well.
The Stone was one of Solomon’s lost treasures: the symbols
of the Sacred Geometry that defined all life and the sum of
all wisdom were embedded in it. Deidre had not actually
seen it for she was too young at two-and-ten to be
initiated into the Ways, but it had been her mother’s duty
and honor to protect the Stone, as it had been with her
people since the Magdalen brought it with her when she fled
Judea with her daughter, Sarah. The holy family’s bloodline
traced through the Stone as well for in Goddess circles,
the Magdalen was believed to be descended from Isis herself.
Now the Stone was gone and so was her mother, who, in
despair that the Stone would remain hidden forever, had
jumped recently from a cliff high above the warm waters of
the Mediterranean, never to surface from those lapis
depths. And Deidre was being sent to her cousin,
Childebert, to the Christian king’s castle in Paris. She
wrinkled her nose and tossed back her long, blonde hair
defiantly. From what she had heard of the austere Christian
court, there would be no ritual mating at Beltane—and this
was to have been her first at four-and-ten—nor any other
festival that held true to the Goddess. Just her luck when
she was finally about to find out what all the young
priestesses in her mother’s care giggled about the morning
after such celebrations.
Deidre had always dreamed that when she came of age, she
would be allowed to choose her consort according to the Old
Ways as her mother had done with the Celtic-born Caw of
Pictland. The Book had filled her adolescent head with even
grander ideas. Her young man would be handsome and strong
and pledge his faith completely, like the knights of the
Round Table did.
Deidre hugged the volume to herself as she stood. She would
hide it well within her trunk and re-read the stories of
honorable Arthur, courteous Gawain, steadfast Bedwyr, and
the irresistible Lancelot. The book would be a symbol of
hope that one day, she, too, would find her true noble
knight.
Chapter One - Beltane
Scotland
Ten years later
Scents of sex and musk permeated the cool night air,
accompanied by deep grunts, soft moans, labored panting,
and sharp gasps. Cautiously, Deidre pushed back the bracken
and peered into the sheltered glade, canopied by a velvety
black sky sprinkled liberally with diamonds. It seemed
harmless enough, but she’d lost both her escort and coin
and barely managed to escape abduction the night before.
She wasn’t taking any chances. To her right, a banked fire
sent slow spirals of blue smoke curling lazily into the
air, interrupted only by an occasional crackle of yellow
flame when the breeze fanned unburned wood.
Deidre squinted beyond the light of the smoldering embers
and detected movement near a shrub. A giggle accosted her
from the left and she shifted her gaze. A naked young man,
his erection huge in the dim light, was coaxing the shirt
off a girl who lay writhing on the ground beneath him.
Well, maybe he wasn’t “coaxing” her clothes off. Tearing
them off might be a better description. Deidre blinked. In
her unfortunately still-virgin state, she’d never seen a
naked man before. She gasped a little as he lowered himself
over the girl and she heard the muffled shriek that told
her he had not been gentle. Apparently, though, the woman
was used to it for she was bucking enthusiastically,
begging him for more.
Deidre surveyed her surroundings. The remains of a huge
bonfire illuminated the shadows of trees near the glade. A
road or track led off around a bend. As her eyes grew
accustomed to the light, she could now see more squirming
couples beneath low bushes that spread toward the tree
line. Quite a Bacchanalian sight.
Listening to gasps and groans of pleasure was really more
than a reluctant virgin of four-and-twenty could take. She
should have lost her accursed maidenhood and been wed long
ago were it not for her gift of Sight that kept her
practically a prisoner at Childebert’s court. Her cousin
needed her talent, he said, even though his Christian
mother, Clotilde, frowned on anything pagan. Sometimes
Deidre thought the only reason Clotilde tolerated her was
for the large dowry she’d inherited from her mother which
Childebert had access to as long as she remained a maid.
Between her cousin and his mother, they’d managed to
discourage any and all suitors.
Suddenly, Deidre became aware of other sounds. Boots. Male
voices. Laughter. Drunken laughter from the sound of it.
Quickly she stepped back, intending to seek shelter in the
trees. Too late. She had been seen.
“Begorra! There’s a fine lass,” someone shouted. “Doona let
her get away!”
Deidre tripped and picked up her long skirt. Dratted thing.
Traveling clothes were always heavy. The skirt alone had to
weight near a half-stone. Deidre hiccupped hysterically,
stifling a scream. She ripped the headdress off; the
ungainly thing was hindering her sight as she raced toward
the trees.
A big burly arm caught her roughly around the waist,
expelling the air from her lungs. She gasped as she fought
to free herself, kicking and scratching.
“Och, a feisty lass. I like that kind.” The man laughed,
and with one huge paw on her shoulder, spun her around.
He wore a kilt and sash and his breath reeked of liquor
although he was not drunk. Barrel-chested, big and bulky
with gray hair and a bushy bread, his eyes glinted like
steel in the moonlight. He grabbed her face in one beefy
fist and leaned close, his mouth slack and drooling. As
much as she resented her virginity, she was not about to
lose it to this lecher. The thankful young stable lads
she’d slipped forbidden sweetmeats to at Childebert’s court
had taught her a few things. Deidre bought her knee up hard
to meet the lout’s groin.
A surprised look crossed his face as he doubled-over. She
lost no time in pushing back and sprinting away, but the
man lurched for her and she landed on the ground with a
hard thud. He rolled her over, his considerable weight
pressing her down, leaving no room for air in her lungs.
“Ye’ll pay for that, lassie, but I like it rough,” he said,
fisting her long, flaxen hair and pulling her head back
painfully. He pushed her skirts up and thrust a knee
between her thighs, the wayward kilt obligingly out of the
way.
Deidre struggled, but her arms were pinned. She fought to
keep her knees together, but he only laughed and spread her
legs further. All those years spent dreaming of giving
herself willingly to one of the gallant knights from The
Book were about to disintegrate into her worst nightmare.
Desperately, she snapped at him with her teeth, drawing
blood from his chin.
He raised a fist and she turned her head, bracing herself
for the blow. Perhaps being knocked unconscious would be
the best thing that could happen to her. As if he read her
thoughts, he brought his hand down and roughly flipped her
over.
“Ye can’t do much damage like this,” he said, “and I can go
deeper.”
Deidre tried to push against him, and then realized she was
probably helping him more than herself. She gritted her
teeth. Bâtard. Then, suddenly the weight was lifted and she
could breathe. She rolled to a sitting position, hands
protecting her face, and gulped for air.
“I’m thinking the lass might not be wantin’ to play yer
game, Niall.”
The voice of an angel. It had to be. A soft, rich Scottish
burr, not menacing, but authoritative still the same.
Deidre opened one eye and peered up. By the saints. It
could have been the archangel Michael himself, complete
with flaming sword. Righteous indignation flashed across
his face as he towered over her abductor, claymore at the
ready. Relief flooded her and she couldn’t help but notice
the muscular, leather-clad thighs that were at nose-level.
She forced herself to look up past a flat belly and narrow
waist. Firelight reflected off a finely-chiseled face with
high cheekbones, a straight nose and a sinfully sensual
full mouth. The wind rippled through her rescuer’s shoulder-
length dark hair and caused the flowing white shirt he wore
to flatten against a broad chest and powerful arms. A
whimper escaped her. No angel should look like this. If
they did, she was definitely going to start attending more
of those boring Masses she hated.
“It’s Beltane, mon!” Niall said churlishly. “What’s she
doing out, if she doesn’t want to be taken?”
Beltane. The ancient pagan fertility festival held on May
1. She’d forgotten after last night’s narrow escape.
Her personal god turned a discerning gaze on her. “I don’t
know why she’s here, but I’ll make sure the lass gets back
to where she needs to go.” Niall gave him a challenging
look. “Safe and unmolested,” he added as he met the older
man’s gaze.
Niall stared at him sullenly and then gestured to his men
that they were leaving. He looked down at Deidre
ominously. “Ye haven’t seen the last of me, lass. No woman
gets the best of me.”
She shuddered slightly as he strode off straightening his
sash. And then, her divine savior was offering her his hand.
She slipped hers into his. Strong, warm fingers closed over
her hand, sending tiny tingles coursing up her arm. He put
a steadying arm around her waist as she stood and those
sparks ignited into full flames that shot deeply through
her belly. She wanted nothing more than to press her
suddenly achy breasts against that hard chest. Even her
wildest flights of fancy with Camelot’s knights hadn’t
evoked such passion.
“I’m Gilead. Are ye all right? He didn’t hurt ye?”
Gilead. Perhaps the comparison to the arch-angel Michael
hadn’t been such a wild flight of fancy after all. Gilead
was one of the names of the Bloodline that traced through
Kings Solomon and David all the way back to Abraham. The
original Gilead’s father had been named Michael. Did this
Gilead have aught to do with the Stone that she had come to
find? Sometimes the Sight worked in strange ways. She
wished her gift were more reliable.
For certes, he had the most brilliant blue eyes she had
ever seen. Even in the near darkness, she could see they
were fringed with thick, black lashes that any female would
kill for. His clean soap and leather scent seared her
brain; the man was intoxicating. He might have stepped
right off the pages of The Book, even if he wasn’t wearing
shining armor. He DID have a sword. Here he was, all six
foot plus of solid, muscular, good-looking male—exactly the
kind of man Childebert had kept away from her—and all she
could do was stare at him like a dimwit.
“I’m Deidre. Yes. I’m fine.” Éclatant entretien! Brilliant
conversation, that!
“Dee? Of Dundee?” He looked puzzled that her name sounded
like a town.
Dee. She liked the Gaelic pronunciation, or maybe because
it was coming from HIM. He really could make Adonis weep in
envy. “No. My name is Deidre, but you may call me Dee if
you wish.” She added, hoping he’d respond in true knightly
fashion, “Thank you for rescuing a damsel in distress.”
Even with all the personal defense skills she’d covertly
learned, she HAD been in need of rescuing this eve. Like it
or not.
He nodded curtly. “I’d best be getting ye to the hall
then.” He turned abruptly and headed back up the path.
Not quite the answer she wanted, but… “Wait!” She ran to
the bush where she’d dropped the satchel that held The Book
and a few other necessities. “I’ll need this.”
He gave the small bag a curious look, but said nothing as
he began to walk.
Deidre started after him and tripped again on her heavy
skirt. Merde! Did her celestial deity have to take such
long strides? She was a lot shorter than he was, barely
coming to his shoulder. AND, he seemed annoyed with her.
Hurt swept over her and then she raised her chin defiantly.
It wasn’t HER fault she’d nearly been raped by some brute.
She inhaled quickly as realization hit her. Certainement.
It was Beltane. Her fabulous man had probably been on the
way to rendezvous with some wench and she’d ruined his
plans. She felt a ping of jealousy at her unknown
competitor. He was HER knight, right from The Book. Mon
Dieu, to feel Gilead’s full sensual lips on hers…
Her fantasy paused. “Are ye coming?”
Her mother, rest her soul, always told her she was a
dreamer but just looking at him and hearing that delicious
brogue…hmmm. The partial scowl on his face brought her
fanciful notions back to reality. Really, he didn’t have to
spoil the moment and be rude. Swains who rescued damsels
were supposed to pledge faith or something. That’s what it
said in The Book.
She stuck out her chin, picked up the skirt, and hurried to
catch up. “I’m sorry if I’m keeping you from an…
appointment.”
His glance swept down to her bared legs and she thought she
saw his mouth twitch. “Ye are a Sassenach, an outlander.
It’s a strange accent ye have.”
Deidre thought quickly. Her cousin was powerful and the
Franks always a threat to the Isle. If Gilead found out
she’d escaped from Childebert’s clutches, no doubt she’d be
returned for a ransom and incur not only king’s wrath, but
his dungeon as well. She couldn’t take that chance, not now
when the mists surrounding the hidden Stone were finally
lifting. If the Stone were found by the wrong person… Well,
the fewer people who knew about her mission, the better.
Her erratic “gift” really was a curse, she thought again.
Had the rumor not reached Paris that Bishop Dubricius of
Britain claimed to have had a vision of a spectacular
golden jeweled cup from which the Christos had drunk at his
last supper—and had not that greedy holy man issued a
reward for its discovery—Childebert would probably never
have remembered the stolen Philosopher’s Stone.
But he had and he’d called Deidre in to question her about
it. The familiar light-headedness that heralded a Sighting
had engulfed her immediately. After more than a decade of
the Stone being hidden from her Sight, her senses stirred.
An image of the sea and craggy hills spotted with heather
had told her the Stone was no longer in Gaul, but if
Childebert sent men to Scotland and he found the Stone, he
would turn it over to the ever-needy hands of the Roman
church in exchange for Rome’s powerful backing. The wisdom
of the Goddess would be lost to history. When found, the
Stone must be returned to its grotto in the Languedoc and
the priestesses recalled. It was her duty to see that it
was done.
She couldn’t deny the Sighting, but she had misdirected her
cousin’s men toward Rome instead, while she made plans to
visit the father in Pictland that she’d never met. When
Childebert traced her escape—and he would—to a fishing
vessel that left from Calais, he’d assume she had gone to
the closest port in Londinium. He’d not, she hoped, look
for her this far north.
But what to tell the darkly brooding Eros standing in front
of her?
“I come from Armorica, across the sea.”
He frowned. “Ye’re a long way from home then. How came ye
here?”
What to say? Twenty to thirty red-cloaked cavalry, looking
for all the world like a turma from the old Roman legions,
had surrounded her small escort and taken them away last
night. Dion, the sturdy captain of her loyal guard, had
rallied their defense, but he had been wounded badly, slung
over a horse and taken along with the rest of the men. If
Deidre hadn’t wandered a little too far into the cover of
the trees to ensure privacy for her personal ministrations,
she would have been abducted too. She clutched her satchel
with The Book inside; thank goodness it had contained items
she’d needed to use and she’d taken it with her. It was all
she had. She hated having to lie, but she had no idea whose
troops those were…perhaps even her hero’s. Until she
reached her father’s lands, her identity would have to
remain a secret.
“I...uh…was traveling and our coach was accosted by
highwaymen. I just barely managed to escape.”
He raised a dark eyebrow. “My da willna be pleased to hear
that. Were ye coming to Culross? Do ye have family near?”
Culross on the Firth of Forth was close to her destination.
Or at least where she thought Caw’s lands would be. “Yes.”
Gilead stopped and was apparently waiting for her to
continue. “My mother is dead.” No need to tell him how long
ago or that she thought her father’s holdings would be a
good place to search from. “I am kin to Caw of Pictland,”
she said. “I was hoping he’d take me in. Do you know him?”
“Aye. His wife is a distant relative of my mother’s.” His
face softened momentarily. “But lass, Caw was long banished
to the West. He was killed in battle not long ago.”
Deidre drew her breath in sharply. Since her visions of the
Stone had begun again, her goal had been to reach Caw.
Childebert did not know who her father had been and she
would have been safe. She swallowed hard to keep the threat
of hysteria from bubbling up. She’d need food and lodging
now that she was on her own and somewhere to start finding
out what happened to her escort. “I guess I’ll need to find
employment.”
He looked skeptical as he turned back to the path. They
continued to walk even more briskly. Deidre hiked her
skirts up farther to match his stride and again his glance
swooped down. A small smile flitted briefly across his
face. Enough to get that delicious tingle started again.
His voice was gentler when he spoke. “My mother will find
ye something. Mayhap as a lady’s maid.”
“A maid?” Deidre nearly bumped into him as they turned a
sharp corner and he abruptly stopped. They had left the
trees behind and the path they were on converged with a
wider road that led up a steep hill to a stone castle.
Well, perhaps more of a fort, she realized, as she studied
it. She saw how earthwork banks were laid out defensively
as they climbed the incline. It was steeper than she
thought and she saved her breath for exertion, for Gilead
had quickened the pace, not slowed it. Did that devastating
bulk of muscle never get winded? Apparently not.
Metal ratcheted wheels clacked and chains rattled as the
massive, heavy oak gates slowly opened at their approach.
Gilead looked down at her as they waited and a corner of
his full mouth quirked up, giving him more the look of a
fallen angel.
“Ye might be putting yer skirts down now. It’d be best if
the men dinna think ye a wanton.”
She felt herself flush crimson. She knew that. Modesty had
been drilled into her at the Frankish court under the
strict tutelage of her prudish aunt Clotilde. Most of it
hadn’t stuck, to her aunt’s frustration, but it was HIS
fault she’d had to hike her skirt to her knees anyway.
Furiously, she shook it out only to have the hem in back
tangle itself. “If you’d adjusted your pace like a proper
courtier to meet mine…”
The quirk widened to a slow, lopsided grin as he bent over
to smooth the lower folds, his fingers just barely brushing
her calf. The movement had been so light, Deidre wasn’t
sure if he did it intentionally or it was an accident.
Either way, the unfamiliar warmth zapped right up her leg
to pulse at the juncture of her thighs, setting her active
imagination into spirals. What would a real caress from him
feel like? But his face was passive when he straightened
and gestured her through the arch.
Deidre stared up at the bowmen standing on the battlements
as they passed through the thick curtain wall. The palisade
had to be at least fifty feet high. Armed warriors stood
five paces apart on the battlements. The place was
impressively fortified. Ahead of them, across the bailey,
sat the Great Hall.
“What does your mother do here?” she asked tentatively when
Gilead stopped at the solid wooden door and knocked.
For a moment, he looked puzzled. “She’s the lairdess,” he
answered, “of Cenel Oengus.” When Deidre frowned, he
sighed. “Cenel—a clan—my father is Angus Mac Oengus. Ye
Bretons would call him a king.”
“You’re a king’s son?” Deidre began and then stopped when
the door swung open and a maid bobbed a greeting. She
didn’t have time to ask any more questions, for Gilead
quickly explained that she was to be given a room for the
night and his mother would see her in the morning. He gave
her a slight bow and turned away.
Deidre stared after his broad, retreating back. Was he
still so eager to meet his liaison? Her shoulders drooped.
She had just met her knight—rightly a prince he was—and he
thought she was a maid. Even worse, she couldn’t tell him
that she, too, had royal blood, her lineage going back
through the Merovingians to the Sicambrians and Arcadians
and eventually to the Magdalen herself. Still another
reason Childebert discouraged suitors. He didn’t want her
to bear an heir more royal than himself.
Gilead dripped sensuality, in that charming, unaffected way
of acting honorably and seemingly not knowing he was the
most erotic fantasy that ever trod through her fertile
mind, thanks in part to the escapades The Book gave of
Lancelot and Gwenhwyfar. Had Gilead shown any interest at
all? Her emerging libido conjured up the image of her sex
god in a kilt. Those strong, well-muscled thighs exposed…
she wondered what a “mon” wore under a kilt anyway.
Clotilde would need more than smelling salts if she ever
knew that all of her Bible-thumping chastity only served to
whet Deidre’s appetite for the forbidden pleasures a man
might give. Now that she had broken loose from her aunt and
cousin’s restraints, Deidre was more than ready to find out
exactly what those pleasures were.
Deidre giggled and then sobered. She’d have to show some
decorum and act like a lady or she’d end up as a scullery
maid instead. As she had seen this evening, those women
were commonly tumbled. Somewhere on this side of the
Channel was a land where knights abided by a code of honor
and respected women. They were supposed to pledge
themselves to a lady. Did Gilead already a lady? She
panicked a moment and then released her breath in a whoosh.
Probably not, if he were out rutting like everyone else.
How could she get him to notice her without behaving like
the wanton that he would not respect? She sighed. Judging
from Gilead’s hasty departure, she doubted she’d impressed
the laird’s son at all.
*
Gilead cursed softly as he quickly made his way down the
road from the fort. For
certes, his father’s trail would be cold now. He’d lost him
taking the lass back to the hall, but what else could he
have done? Clearly, Niall Mac Douglas was bent on raping
her. He gritted his teeth. Their neighbor was a ruthless
laird, but his lands were strategically located between
Culross and the infernal, war-mongering Fergus of Cenel
Loairn to the northwest. His father needed Niall as an
ally, not an enemy.
By the Dagda! His father courted more than enough trouble
by being besotted with the Briton King Turius’s wife. Ever
since Gilead had come of age, nigh five years ago, he’d
tried to keep them apart when the king and queen visited.
It wasn’t easy, for Angus and Queen Formorian were like two
long-drawn notes on a bagpipe melding with each other.
He groaned as he left the road and ducked into the forest,
following a deer path that led to a secluded clearing near
the Forth. Why did King Turius and that siren queen of his
have to arrive on Beltane? If they had waited just one more
day, Angus would have had to host a proper feast for them,
and Gilead could have made sure there was no opportunity
for his father to slip away with the vixen. But no. On
Beltane, men got drunk and whorishness ran amok. And Angus
had made sure Turius had plenty to drink, as well as the
company of several curvaceous wenches.
Gilead cursed again when he found the clearing empty. What
other niche could his father have taken her to? It would be
dawn soon, and he wasn’t sure either of them had enough
sense to be back in their own beds by then. It was why he
had tried to follow them. He shook his head. He would never
allow himself to become besotted over any woman—look what
it did to his otherwise intelligent father. Even though
Turius had fathered a son on a pagan priestess years ago,
Gilead doubted that he’d appreciate being cuckolded by his
Scotti friend and ally.
As he stepped out on the road, a hearty voice slurred at
him.
“Aye, Gil. Huntin’ yer da again?”
He turned to see his friend, Drustan, walking toward him,
an arm casually draped across the shoulders of a girl
Gilead recognized from the kitchen staff. She giggled
drunkenly as Drustan nuzzled her neck.
Gilead frowned. Did everyone know of this father’s
indiscretion? “Certes, not. I was checking the grounds.”
Drustan lifted an eyebrow and grinned. “Well, then.
There’re still plenty of lassies yonder that won’t mind a
wee bit of wooing from ye. Might even be a fresh one if ye
look hard.”
The thought of a woman with another man’s juices inside her
was not exactly arousing. Now the bonnie lass he’d escorted
to the hall and the sight of her well-turned, slender
ankle… He pushed the thought away. Unbelieving as he was of
her story, she was dressed as a high-born lady and her
honor needed to be protected, just like his poor mother who
pretended not to know what was going on. Still, he hadn’t
been able to resist that one brief brush against the
lassie’s flesh as he smoothed her skirt. Even now, he
remembered how the heat of that touch had pricked his hand.
Better not think about it.
“Not tonight, Drus.”
His friend shook his head as he pulled his willing wench
toward some gorse. “Beltane. Even ye’re allowed to lower
the barriers ye keep erected so high about ye.”
Gilead turned to make his way up the incline. Those walls
were in place for a reason. Relationships with women were
trouble. If they cared too much, like his mother, they got
hurt and he had no wish to bring misery to a woman. What
was worse, though, women used their wiles to befuddle a
mon’s brain and made him throw caution to the winds. Like
his da.
War with the powerful Briton king they didn’t need. Not
when Saxons were raiding the northeasterly shores, much too
close for comfort. Turius had managed to hold them to the
Fens of eastern Britain and was here now to help Angus
develop strategy for the North. Formorian could very well
ignite something more explosive than scrimmaging with Saxon
invaders. Bah. Better to stick to women who willingly took
silver coin for their services. Certes, he’d never let a
woman addle his wits.
Unbidden, Deidre drifted into his mind again. Dee. The lass
with the odd accent was most comely with her pert nose,
aquamarine eyes and long, moonlight-colored hair. He had to
admit, he liked the way her chin came up defiantly when
he’d pressured her to keep up the pace. Not to mention
having a glimpse of shapely legs…wee thing that she was he
could easily lift her and wrap those legs around his waist
as he pressed her against a wall... With some surprise, he
felt his member thicken and harden, jutting itself against
his trews. He had no right to be thinking such lecherous
thoughts about the poor lass. She was orphaned and alone
and—if her story were true—had been waylaid by bandits, not
to mention near-raped this eve. After what she’d been
through, the last thing she’d want is for yet another mon
to make unwelcome advances. No. He would not become his
father. His duty as the laird’s son was to be sure she was
safe from such things.
He sighed as he headed home. The thought of her lush lips,
softly pressing against his, did nothing to diminish the
bulge straining to be released.
*
“I think ye’ll find everything ye need,” the young maid
said as they climbed the stairs and she opened the door to
a small corner room off the main hallway. “There’s peat
laid in the brazier and the flint’s there.” She pointed to
a tinder box. “Chamber pot’s behind the screen.” She
paused, looking curiously at Deidre, as though she were not
sure if she were a real guest or not.
Deidre smiled pleasantly and nodded. The girl sighed,
apparently not ready to take the chance of insulting
someone who might be important. She picked up the
earthenware pitcher. “I’ll fetch ye some hot water for
washing then.”
When she had gone, Deidre looked around the room. Heavy
tapestries hung along the walls, blocking some of the damp
that seeped through thick, grey stone. A small window was
shuttered against the chilling breeze that came off the
water she could hear rushing over stones far below. Next to
the chest that held the Samian ware chamber set stood an
intricately carved wardrobe. A polished wooden table and
two chairs were along the opposite wall.
Deidre went over to the tinderbox tentatively. She had no
clue how to strike enough sparks to get the fire going
since her thin, waspish aunt was always cold and servants
kept the fires burning at the Frankish court.
The little maid returned with the water and a bar of
scented soap. Good. She thinks I’m an invited guest. She
smiled at the girl.
“Would you mind lighting the fire, please? I’m afraid I’ve
never had to learn…”
The maid bobbed her head and hurried to do her bidding.
Deidre’s smile faded as she remembered that Gilead thought
she was a maid too, and she’d probably be lighting these
very same fires herself soon. Mayhap it would behoove her
to pay attention.
“I know Gilead didn’t tell you this…” She stopped at the
way the maid’s eyes had widened. “What is it?”
“Well, mum, ye’re to call him Master Gilead…that is, unless
ye’re…ye’re…”
“I’m what?”
The girl colored deeply and looked away. “Unless ye’re his
leman.”
Leman? Mistress? Now there’s a thought. The idea of Gilead
coming to her chamber, baring those massive shoulders and
chest as he ripped off his tunic before taking her down on
the bed, his weight pinning her beneath him… “Yes, yes,
yes,” the eager rescued damsel whispered to her. “No, no,
no,” her aunt’s cold, authoritative voice rebuked her. The
reluctant virgin pouted as her practical side took over.
“Ah. Forgive me,” Deidre said to the maid. “Master Gilead
saved me from a boorish man this evening. My name is
Deidre. I was waylaid by bandits a day ago and have gotten
quite a bump on my head.” She forced a light laugh. “I seem
to have forgotten my manners.”
The maid looked her over, more curiously than before. “I’m
Anna. If it’s a bad bump ye have, ye should be seein’ our
healer in the morning.”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine by morning. I’m looking forward to
the pleasure of meeting the laird and his wife.”
A closed expression crossed the young girl’s face as she
walked to the door. “A pleasure?” she muttered as she
closed the door behind her.
Deidre stared at the door. What did that mean? She was too
tired to worry about it. She sat down on the coverlet,
sinking into surprisingly soft feather down. The bed swayed
slightly on its leather webbing.
She rubbed her temples, aware suddenly of how truly weary
she was. With the news that her father was dead, she needed
to find her escort and she needed to find the Stone before
her cousin did. But part of her tension came from the fact
that every nerve ending tingled in anticipation—of what
exactly she wasn’t sure—whenever she was near Gilead. The
air around them vibrated with the sharp, clear tang that
she had smelled once just as a bolt of lightening split a
mighty oak tree near her. Her hair had stood on end that
time, too.
She quivered with excitement, her energy suddenly renewed.
She was on the other side of the Narrow Channel now, where
Camelot should be. She pulled The Book from her satchel and
soothed herself with fingering the rich texture of the
soft, worn leather. Did Camelot exist? Was it here?
Tomorrow, would she find an idyllic place of peace and
prosperity, of courtly feasts complete with bards and
jesters? Unlike the drab dreariness and stark, cold walls
of the Frankish court, would here be colorful pageantry and
chivalrous knights sallying forth in tournaments to win
favors from their ladies? She had always thought her own
knight would be as noble and peerless as the legendary
Lancelot and love her as fiercely as he did Gwenhwyfar. She
wanted that with all her heart.
And she’d found him. Gilead was her knight. The only
problem was that he didn’t know it just yet.
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