Chapter Eighteen

When he reached out, she felt no hesitation, moving toward him readily. He was so broad shouldered and tall, seated at the lower end of the bed, that she stumbled, stepping over his large booted foot, though he pulled back. Grasping her hand, he guided her down. "Sit, do. Yet another trying day for Lady Tamsin, I suspect."

"And for Sir William."

"Och, the lad is fine, do not think about it. You should rest."

"Despite lavender and all-heal, I am a bit dithery still. I do not think I can rest."

"So much truth, hey. You need time to think. Lie down and relax. I will sit here, away from you. See," he said, holding up his hands. "A courteous harper-knight will not advance upon his betrothed unless invited."

"Is that chivalric code?"

"We will make it so. Settle there now." She stretched on her side, facing out, laying her head on the thin pillow and tucking her knees under her gray skirts. He leaned back, pressed his shoulders to the wall. "Close your eyes, lass. Rest."

"But we have more that must be said—" She yawned again.

"Later." He patted her booted foot beside his hip. "I will keep my distance."

"Unless you are invited," she said, and her foot in its simple boot wiggled a bit against his thigh.

"Well," he said, "sleep. We can sort it all out, now we know what to do."

She half-closed her eyes. "When I was betrothed before, there was a wee ceremony. A solemn promise, a vow to keep and honor, and the priest was careful to phrase it all for the future. Fixing it in the present would make a marriage."

"I did the same with—my betrothed, years back."

That marriage had never come about for him, she realized. "We were wed a few weeks later, but the keeping and honoring was scant at best. Ignoring was more the nature of my marriage." An offering of sorts, letting him know she had not felt happy or cared for in those years, when she did not want to say it aloud.

"I see." He rested his hand on her boot, a finger warm on her ankle. She let it stay. "I do not think I could ever ignore you in my household."

"I would make sure of it. But we are only betrothed. No promise beyond the moment. No—"

"No future. No agreement. I know," he said. "Rest. Hush."

"Could we betroth for a month, do you think? A few months?"

"Magpie," he said softly, "rest, you."

"A year and a day?"

"That is more for a handfast, and different altogether."

"Ah, a handfast is a sort of marriage." She closed her eyes gently. His hand warmed her ankle just where the air felt cool, and she sighed into the pillow. "A betrothal that is consummated can become a handfasting or a marriage."

"A handfasting can also be agreed from the start for a year and a day." His fingers felt hotter now through the thin wool of her hose. "If there is a child, the agreement converts to marriage. Without a child, at the end of the year and day, the couple can agree to make it permanent, or dissolve it."

"Aye, dissolved," she repeated sleepily.

"But a year and a day with you—now that would be a lovely thing," he murmured, his thumb tracing the bone and curve of her ankle.

"Wherever would we live for a year and a day?"

"In the woodland. Deep in the forest, in the green and the lush, in the quiet, with the larks and the deer, ferns and fronds and great tall trees. There we would be."

"That would be lovely, aye. Away from all," she whispered.

"Not found unless we wanted to be," he agreed, fingers soothing. She shivered. "Do you not want to be found?"

"Sometimes. Would you bring your harp?" she asked after a moment.

"Too noisy. Besides, I lost my harp."

"I have it. Sir Davey's men found it. It is broken, but I kept it. At Dalrinnie."

"Did you! Now I have another reason to claim my castle."

"More than me?"

He laughed. "Hush and rest."

She sighed, quieted, then closed her eyes. Just for a moment, she told herself.

Then he began to sing, the sound of his voice low, creamy deep, yet with a graveled edge that sent delicious shivers through her.

Hey oh, hey oh,

My darling, my fair one, my soul and my delight,

My darling, my dear one, my candle at night

Hey, my treasure, oh my treasure . . .

His voice thrummed through her like honeyed fire. "You sing beautifully."

"Did you forget? I am not just a knight." He smiled, teasing and gentle.

"I did not forget. When I heard you sing in Lochmaben's hall, I thought you good, but it was noisy there, and I did not hear how true your voice is. What is the song? It is lovely."

"An old lullaby my mother used to sing. Old as the Highlands, she said it was."

"I thought you were just a poor harper and carper, as my grandda would say."

"It is a good guise, to be a middling harper no one notices."

"I noticed you. Will you sing again?"

He drew breath.

Flower of hawthorn, branch of oak,

My silk and my satin, my silver and gold,

Swan on the river, wee fairy woman,

Hey, my treasure . . .

The mellow sound warmed through her like a dram of uisge beatha. She stirred. "Do you play the harp half as well as you sing?"

"I hope better than you heard at Lochmaben, when a string broke."

"I want to hear you play again. You do a grand thing with a simple song."

"My lass," he murmured, "you have no idea what grand things I can do."

She answered with a soft giggle, too sleepy to keep her eyes open. Snuggling down, she kicked off one boot, then the other, vying for comfort. His fingers tugged to help, and then his hand rubbed her stockinged ankle again, rounded her foot, her toes. When it slid beneath the hem of her skirt, the center of her body throbbed suddenly and she caught her breath. His fingers stilled, the weight of his hand warm and sure, blending into her as if he belonged.

He sang again, low and deep, the sound thrumming through her, and she slept.

The bell wokeher, chiming deep. She opened her eyes a little, seeing it was still dark. Lying on her side, she realized that a blanket was pulled over her, and the bed felt soft, comfortable and warm. She felt more relaxed than she had in a long while.

Listening to the steady clang of the bell, she counted. Lauds—the middle of the night, not morning. No need to rise. Rolling a little, she started to feel a warm body behind her. Liam! She put out a hand, found his side, his thigh, his woolen tunic. He lay above the blanket that wrapped her. She turned her head.

He was deep asleep, breath slow over her cheek. A nuance of moonlight through the window revealed his face. Not wanting to stir and wake him, she lay watching.

How was he here? She recalled lying on her side while he sang soft and low; then she had dozed. He must have fallen asleep too, seated on the bed with his shoulders against the wall, then had stretched out beside her, perhaps too tired to realize it.

She should have been alarmed to find him, might have leaped away, but she pressed close, comfortable in the warmth and quiet as his breath stirred her hair, as his hand slid, heavy with sleep, to rest at her waist.

Somehow, despite all that had happened between them—truth and falsity, doubts and fears—she felt perfect ease, as if he belonged beside her, in her bed.

Married by October—suddenly the phrase came back to her. Because she thought it meant Malise, the premonition had frightened her. But perhaps all along that promise, brought by the Sight, had meant Liam.

She studied his face, its planes and shadows balanced in beauty, dark brows, long-lidded eyes, tender mouth, the bristles of dark beard, a sweep of dark shining hair—and felt a sense of the true man. Suddenly she did not doubt that she could trust him, knew she had been foolish to resist him. The thought of a betrothal felt good and right now.

All will be well,he had assured her once. She wanted to believe it—believe in him.

Lifting a hand, she brushed back the dark hair that waved over his brow, let her fingers curve along his cheekbone, trace over the dark bristles along his jaw, textured like warm dark sand. Trust and truth were hers now, she thought. With him.

Stretching a little in the dark, she kissed his jaw, feeling the slight prickle against her lips, her breath mingling with his. Then she shifted and turned to snuggle her back against him, closing her eyes, flowing toward sleep again.

Then she felt him move, his fingers sliding to cup her shoulder. Felt his lips in her hair, pressing gently at her temple. She turned a little, her shoulder beneath his cupping hand, and his fingers spread over her throat, along her jaw, tilting her toward him. He kissed her, tentatively at first, his lips seeking, questioning, a movement almost drunken with sleep. She smiled against him, answering with a tilt of her head to welcome his mouth fully over hers.

Heartbeat quickening, body surging, she spun in his arms, drinking in the next kiss and the ones that followed. The silence felt seductive, almost holy in this sanctuary of peace and safety. Betrothal or none, vows or none, she felt nothing amiss. All was well. Whatever she had doubted faded in an instant under his lips, his touch; whatever loneliness she had felt melted in the warm circle of his arms like ice on a hearth.

As his hands roamed downward, his touch rounding, discovering, she arched against him, letting him know silently that here in the cocoon between them, she wanted this. Her heartbeat quickened with desire, with hope. His hand slid over her breasts, over wool and linen, while her body tingled beneath, aching. When his fingers rounded over her hip, she rucked up her skirts, wanting—without thought, without judging if this should happen—to feel his fingers on her skin, sighing, pressing toward him.

She could feel him against her now, hard where she was soft, muscled where she curved, the fit natural, the heat of his body, through the wool of their garments, driving her to seek more. Darkness, silence, touch and kiss and caress, all of it at once surged through her, delicious, mysterious, alluring.

Looping her arms around his neck, she shifted, wanting him to cover her if he wanted it too, if he was ready—wanting to let him know, without a word, that she wanted this too, more desperately with each kiss. Each heated, tender exploration of his fingers as they slipped upward, finding her breast and bringing it to pearling, sent a spike of desire through her. She gasped, a vibrant sound in the room's thick silence. They were sealed in privacy here by stone walls, thatched roof, a warm and intimate space for secrets, for the passionate affinity growing between them. As he traced fingertips down and then over her abdomen, her body fluttered, desire rising. His hands soothed over, down, upward and under her clothing, his fingers heated and rich with sensation. She leaped a little with his touch, curving against him, shifting to allow. Then, opened, aching, she pulled him toward her. His lips were on her cheek, on her throat, kisses tracing there, his breath as ragged as hers now.

"Are you sure?" The barest whisper, a deep and mellow thrum. "My lass, sure?"

Her lips muffled his words. "Now, love," she breathed, knowing the word was true, and she surged to meet him, accept his solidity, his thrust and his spirit with all that bloomed and burst within her. His hands buttressed her, carried her onward, his body rocking hers, breaths hard and fast and rising, a soft cry streaming from her, echoing his deep groan, his voice beautiful, soul beautiful rising through her—

Finally, there was a kiss and a separating, cooler air, and she missed him, wanted more. His arms came around her as he pulled her close.

"Jesu," he said, "dear lass, what have I done?"

"What have we done," she said.

"I am sorry"—he pressed his cheek to her head—I was half asleep, or would have stopped myself. I thought it was a dream. Beautiful dream. Forgive me."

"Do not." She pressed fingers to his lips. "I wanted this too, so—"

Bong.The bell startled her like thunder. Bonnnng.

"The prime bell. Dawn already." He shoved a hand through his hair. Then he drew her to him and kissed her, the motion loosening what was left of the plaiting in her hair, soft gold spilling over her, over him. He sat up.

"Now we have something else to sort out between us, lass."

"Aye, but what we did, sirrah, was neither harmful nor wrong. Though—did we make a promise of marriage when we talked last night? I was so tired, I am not all that sure. It may be binding, that agreement."

"We agreed to betroth, and that is binding in some circumstances." He tilted a brow. "Like this circumstance. At least in Scotland it is binding. What would you like to do about that?"

As she began to answer, the bells pealed again. Liam combed her hair back with his fingers, waiting for quiet. Shivers went through her, and she drew a breath.

"If we promised to marry, we—confirmed that promise just now."

"And that, my lass, is binding. Consummation is regarded as marriage by Church and Scots law both—providing they learn of it." He stroked her hair. "So it seems we have just married ourselves by law and Church, following our agreement to betroth."

"You know a good deal about Scots law."

"Before the troubles, I studied it." He lifted a shoulder. "My uncle asked if I wanted to go for the clergy, but I am not suited to that life. Though I did think to become a scholar at one point. I was young," he added with a half-laugh.

"You!" She felt unaccountably delighted. "Wearing a robe and cap, a scholar! Harper knight, I did not see that in you. Horse and harp suit you best."

"And sword. I realized it soon enough. What do you want to do, Tamsin?" His voice went low and somber.

"Well." Bringing her thumb to her lips, she pondered. "We could tell your uncle we agreed to handfast. A year and a day."

"You resist marriage. Why?"

She was silent, savoring the stillness, his closeness in the rumpled narrow bed. She did not want to disturb this island of peace. But he had been honest with her, and she must be the same with him.

"When I was married before," she said, "I did not catch, you see, when we... So my husband left me alone and went back to his mistress. He gave her a little house in the village outside Dalrinnie."

"Heatherstane? I know it."

"She was English, and he had been with her for years, even with his first wife. He was much older than I, you see. And though he had no children with her or others—or me—he said that he was without an heir because of his cheap Scottish bride."

"He was a fool."

"I did not mind being left alone in that way, with him. I looked after the household, did as a wife was expected otherwise. And he left me to myself."

"Some wives would count that a fortunate arrangement."

"I did. But I learned to dislike marriage. I was so lonely. I thought that would be my fate. But—he died."

"Were you ever mistreated, living in a garrison?"

"Ignored," she said. "Isolated. I wanted to be with my family at Kincraig. With my books, my work. With my sisters. We had such joyful times, we three, and Henry too, and I missed them so. I still do. And I wanted to complete the work I had promised my great-grandfather I would do."

"I promise you will not be lonely. I swear it."

"I think I have been wrong about you," she whispered after a moment.

"Not entirely." He gave a wry huff. "But if we—married, you would be a helpmeet, not a servant to run the household, or the bookish wee scribe in the corner, or the Scottish bride, disdained in an enemy compound. Never that."

He did not say she would be loved, nor did she expect that of him. Unsure herself what this was, she felt swept along when she needed time to think.

"You tried to tell me before, I think. I did not listen. I am listening now."

"Then listen well," he said. "You can trust this. Me." He tapped his chest.

Her throat tightened, and for a moment, she could not speak.

"Madam, the bells. We must see the abbot. What is your decision?"

She looked into his eyes, the blue of the sea, of a summer sky, the ice blue of some Viking ancestor who gave him height and strength and that commanding bright gaze. "Handfasting. Until next October, a year from tomorrow, if we fix the vows today. That should satisfy whatever Sir Malise might bring against it. Almost anything," she murmured, knowing full well the danger left unsaid.

"If that is what you want, that is what we will do. Tamsin, I did not mean to—"

"Hush you." The bells clamored again.

"I must hurry. The lads want to ride out this morning." Sliding away, he stood, straightening his tunic and trews. "First, you and I must see my uncle. Ah, here are my boots." Pulling them on, he held out a hand to her.

She stood. "Go ahead. I must change my gown and braid my hair for our handfasting."

"Lass," he said, "you could not look lovelier."