Chapter Twenty-Five

His deep wince, as she tugged on his hauberk, startled her. "Liam, what is it? What happened?" She touched his face, ran her hands over his shoulders.

"It is naught. I am just glad to be here." He shut the door and bolted it.

"Jesu," she whispered, seeing the broken stump of the shaft jutting out below his shoulder, nearly under his arm. "You were arrowshot!"

"It will be fine. I will need some help to tend it, though. Ah, a bath. Good." His voice was graveled, weary.

"Come here." She took his other arm. "First we will get your things off." She pulled at his wide leather belt as he worked at the fastening, then let it fall to the floor. She pulled at the sleeveless leather hauberk and the tunic sleeve beneath.

"Careful," he said, sounding wooden and exhausted. Reaching up, he pushed back the chain mail hood, wincing.

"Sit, you are so tall. Let me help," she insisted. Piece by piece, his things came away in her hands, though he protested at first. "You do not like being weak, do you? But let me do this."

He allowed her to lift away the chain mail hood and capelet, then the quilted cap beneath, freeing his hair, damp and tousled. The heavy iron-studded leather hauberk came next, nearly tipping her balance as she set that aside with the other things. Then she helped him tug off his brown woolen tunic. When he sat in his long linen shirt and trews, the candlelight illuminated the blood, the torn fabric, the clump of leaves around the base of the ugly broken bolt.

"Is that yarrow? Good, it will help. Who shot at you? Tell me. Please."

"Knights went after me over the moor, eastward. My fault—I stayed too long on open ground. One had a bow, thankfully not a crossbow, or I might not be here. But I made it to a patch of forest and lost them there. I waited until they were gone. I am sorry to have left you so long."

"Hush, I was fine." How simple an untruth could become truth. She had been worried, but she endured, she had been fine. And now he was here. "Awful men! Did Malise send them?"

"Likely so. But they were after me, Tamsin. Not you."

"Why do you think so?"

"An old matter, I believe. Malise still burns over it. We do as well, my kin and I, but we left it behind. No wonder Edward favors him, seeing fury that matches his own."

"Will you tell me what it was?"

"Someday, aye. Ow," he said, as she leaned to examine his wound. She winced as he did, but summoned her courage and wished her sister Rowena was there, calm and knowledgeable, her very spirit soothing. Tamsin did not have that knack. But when she felt sure the bolt could be removed, she stood back.

"Boots," she said. He bent to undo the lacings and the lower legs of his trews, then slid off the boots. His bare feet were long, knobby, strong, beautiful. "Stand," she directed, and he obeyed. "Into the bath with you."

"My wee commander," he murmured. "Will you join me there?"

"Not for this. Besides, I bathed earlier, and that tub is not very big. But it will be easier to tend your wound if you are in there." She pulled at his shirt.

"I can manage," he said, teeth gritted. With one arm, he stripped off the linen shirt, and Tamsin helped ease it off, sucking in a breath when she saw the whole wound. He stood in trews and bare torso, skin gleaming in the yellow light of the tallow candles, the broken shaft an alarming sight. She reached for the waist of his trews.

"I will do it," he said, half turning away as he undid the cord that snugged the waist, shrugged the leggings down to pool on the floor, then stepped free.

She caught her breath, could not help it, seeing the full beauty of his body. His legs were long, lean, back and buttocks powerful, body taut with muscle. His skin gleamed in candlelight. A few scars revealed old wounds well-healed. An arrow puncture, a long, sealed gash, a puckered divot in his side. He had been through much. She frowned. But this wound would heal too, she told herself in relief.

"Into the tub," she ordered briskly. With a soft chuckle, he stepped in.

Though his body, his nudity, the promise and intimacy of it, quickened her breath, the sight of the wound pushed all else from her mind. He sank down, knees up, the barrel-like tub a snug fit for a tall man. His shoulders and arms were burly and well-developed, his chest matted with dark hair, dark as the beard that shadowed his jaw and cheeks, dark as the glossy chestnut sweep of hair that swung over his brow. Sluicing handfuls of water over his hair and face, he looked at her.

"Still warm," he said. "Feels good."

"Aye." She handed him a cup from the supper tray, and he dumped more water over his head. "What should I do now?"

"Take it out." He braced his arms along the tub. "Pull. Carefully," he added.

"It does not look too deep. The arrowhead is not fully under the muscle, I think."

"Good. Use a damp cloth, press against the wound, and pull. Wait! Is there wine or something stronger here?"

She rose and went to the supper tray, which held a jug of ale, and one of wine. "Will a dark wine do?"

"Aye. Pour some over the wound. And give me a bit, do, love."

She filled a cup and handed it to him. Then she took a linen towel and yanked hard to rip through and create strips. Dipping one cloth into the water, she gently bathed his shoulder and peered closely at the wound.

"Bend forward a wee bit. Just there," she murmured. Pressing the wadded cloth to his shoulder, just where muscle wrapped under his arm, she grasped the stub of the shaft in her other hand and pulled hard.

Liam hissed in a breath. The compact point slid out, leaving a small hole that bled freely. She poured a dose of wine over it from the jug, and Liam hissed again. Quickly she pressed the damp cloth against it.

As she held the wad in place, she rested her brow lightly on his arm. He sat with his head forward, silent. Then he lifted a hand out of the water and touched her hair. They sat curled together, Tamsin pressing against the wound.

"Lass," he whispered after a while, "thank you."

"Wine," she whispered, handing him the jug this time. With a rueful laugh, he drank, throat shifting with long swallows, and gave it back.

"Take some yourself." His voice was hoarse. She drank, set the jug aside.

"I must bandage the wound, but it should be dry first."

"Let me bathe, then I will get out." Taking the gooey ball of soap, he rubbed it over his chest, torso, down under the water, washing, rinsing. After he lathered soap in his hair, she took the cup to pour a waterfall over his head as if he were a boy, not a brawny, gleaming, powerful man tucked in a too-small tub.

Clean, dripping, he looked at her, eyes sparkling, the candlelight turning pale blue to jewel-like sapphire. He smiled. "The water is getting cold."

"You should get out."

"I should." He leaned toward her, his voice gruff, honeyed.

"You should," she whispered, leaning too.

His hand came out of the water to delicately tilt her chin up before he kissed her. The touch of his lips was heated, his mouth wet, lips deliciously tender, and the heavy liquid feeling that sank through her so suddenly made her gasp. She curved her fingers around his bristled jaw, her other hand keeping the folded cloth tight against his wound, and she leaned in for another kiss. Raising an arm to pull her closer, he slid his fingers through her hair, kissing her, and she opened her mouth to him, tasting him, letting him taste her, and the tang of the wine shared between them.

"I want to pull you into this water," he growled, "but the tub is too small."

"Then get out, sirrah," she murmured, "and we can find another space to share."

"Mmm," he answered, kissing her again, his tongue sweeping gently over hers.

Breathing quickly, passion rising in her like she had never felt before, she shifted on her knees and suddenly tipped, her arm plunging into the water. Gasping, she straightened.

"By the very saints, if you can fit in here with me, do so now," he growled.

"You are wounded—"

"My wife fixed it for me."

"It needs bandaging."

"I can hardly feel it. There are other feelings now—"

"Come out," she said, laughing. "And to think I worried so about you."

"Did you?" Bracing a hand on the tub's edge, he rose in one swift motion, water dripping, his body rich and hard in the candlelight. Her own desire whirled and pooled deep within her. She threw a folded towel at him that he caught in one hand.

"Over there. Sit." She pointed at the chair.

"A moment and my dignity, madam, if you please," he said as he toweled himself and wrapped it around his waist.

"I like your dignity. But we must bandage that quickly or it will bleed again."

He sat on the wooden chair, his shoulders rising well above the back of it, giving her access to the task at hand. Taking up the cloths, she toweled him off gently, dabbing the bunched cloth over his shoulders, his back, his hair where water dripped down his neck. Liam sat with the toweling scarcely around him, hands folded.

"Dear God, woman," he said.

"I am glad you feel healthy," she murmured, taking up a dry cloth.

"Very healthy," he muttered.

"Did you bring any yarrow back with you?"

"In the pouch on my belt."

She retrieved it, then crushed the leaves and added them to the pad she placed over the clean wound. She wrapped a long strip of cloth over his shoulder and under his arm, then knotted another to run across his chest and back again, tugging it, securing it with knots. Coming around, she stood in front of him to make sure it was taut.

Opening his thighs for her to stand close while she worked, he took her by the hips and drew her toward him. "That feels good, my dear. You did well. Thank you."

"As long as you are comfortable."

"Better than expected, I might say." As he spoke, he slipped his hands up, tracing her hips, snugging in at her waist, his thumbs slipping up her arms to graze the sides of her breasts—up further to her shoulders to draw her forward into another kiss.

Even seated, he was tall, and she was not, and as she bent toward him, her hair, loosely braided, fell in damp golden curtain around them. As Liam kissed her, she sensed his hunger clear and growing, and her own meeting his. She leaned closer, pressing against him, and he lowered his head to kiss the tops of her breasts above the loose bodice, for all she wore was a simple tunic gown, unbelted, over a shift. As his breath soothed, warm and moist, through the cloth, her body spun, melted.

He tugged at the gown, its side lacing already loose, its ties at the back within easy reach. Within moments, he pulled the dark blue woolen fabric upward with one hand in a long sweep and tossed it away to fall with his hauberk, tunic, and torn shirt, leaving her standing there in her shift, breasts suddenly aching for his touch. He seemed to know that as she leaned in to kiss him again. He ran his hands up the gauzy shift, fingers shaping her breasts as they pearled quickly under his fingers. Her body tightened, pulsed, her knees nearly sinking.

He pushed her shift higher, cloth bunching at her hips, his hands spreading warmth, like the heat from the brazier, caressing her skin. "Aye then?"

"Oh aye," she breathed, knowing what he wanted, what she wanted. She would not wait and knew he could not for long. Widening her stance, she sat over his lap, legs spread, and shifted closer. "Oh aye," she whispered against his mouth.

"Ah, there now," he murmured, tilting his body to support her, to meet her, taking her hips in his large, warm hands. As he moved, she went with him, and then found him in the very moment he found her, velvet and hard, warm and honeyed sliding together all at once, so that she caught her breath with a little moan. Kissing her, tugging at her lip, he lowered his head to circle his tongue over her breast making her arch and cry out, then plunge down over him, rocking, rocking as he did. He extended his long legs, knees strong, to brace them both, his hands gliding over her skin.

As he set the motion, she joined him, her breath matching his, her hair draping over both. As she rose and sank, she felt a change within her, within the depth of her heart, as if her very soul was there, within reach, giving, taking, with more to give—

Easing out a long, soft breath, she sank into his arms, laid her head on his shoulder and felt his cheek press against her head. Silently, secretly, she wept a little, realizing somehow that her life was changing. She felt such love, such joy—such trust—that she closed her eyes and just held him, as he held her.

*

"This book," hesaid much later, as he sat dressed only in trews, his feet bare. The wooden chair, a bit worse for the use of it, creaked as he leaned to take a bite of the meat pie. "Tell me about it. I noticed," he said, pausing to sip wine, "this is not the book Edward seems to expect."

"I told you it was not."

"You did," he admitted, licking his fingers. "I was hungrier than I thought. These verses are poetic, but there are no prophecies here."

She nibbled an oatcake and took a sip of wine from his cup. "It is an epic poem that he worked on for a long time—the story of Tristan and Iseult—a warrior who fell in love with the young queen of the king he served, his own uncle. And she fell in love with him. It is a tragedy, beautifully told. Thomas put heart and soul into it, I think, for it is deeply told, his version of the story."

"So this is not a collection of his prophecies about Scotland. And nothing to do with our struggle with England."

"It is a beautiful, heartbreaking love story. Edward would have no patience for it."

"He might," he said, surprising her. "He loved his queen, Isabella, very much. He was inconsolable when she died. They say that was when he began to change for the worse."

"Then I feel for him. But he does not need to take out his grief on the Scots."

"True. Tamsin," he murmured. "It is an old, old tale. I have heard it elsewhere. I even thought of it when I stood in King Edward's chamber, wondering if I would survive the day that he decided I should find you and get that book. He reminded me of King Mark in the story—wounded and lashing out. A king to beware."

She tipped her head. "And just like cruel King Mark, who sent out his nephew, the harper Tristan, to fetch the young queen to him—our bitter, cruel King Edward sent out a harper to fetch a lady to him."

He watched for a moment. "Exactly what I was thinking just now. The king pursues the young lovers in a rage. One challenge after another for those two."

"Their story ends tragically," she said quickly. "Our tale will not."

"It will not." He broke an oatcake, nibbled, took another swallow of wine. "May I see the book again?"

"Not with those hands," she laughed. He went to the bath, dipped his hands, rinsed, and dried. Then he turned, splaying clean hands.

Then, as he paged through the book, he returned to the first page and began to read in the voice she so loved, deep and delicious.

"‘I was at Ercildoune, and with Thomas spoke I there,'" he read, "‘and there I heard read in rhyme who Tristan was, and who was king with crown, and who, there, was as bold a baron as their elders—'"

He looked up. "An epic tale, and naught to do with prophecy." Closing the book, he gave it to Tamsin, who wrapped it and tied it with the ribbon. Setting it aside, she turned back to him and reached out to touch his jaw. He kissed her fingers.

"I would give the book to my family to keep," she said. "I can make another copy, perhaps more, to share with others. It could take years to copy those pages again and again, but I want to do it. But this is not a book to help a king wage war."

"It is a book for kings, my dear—and for knights and ladies, children and households. It is a tale to hear on a winter's night."

"A love story, aye. And I would love to hear you read it aloud—to a family one day, perhaps," she added, feeling shy suddenly.

His smile turned somber. "Tamsin—you know Edward ordered me to fetch the Rhymer's book, and promised me Dalrinnie if I obeyed. What I have not yet told you," he went on, "is that he threatened my family if I did not. The fire at Holyoak may have part of that. Edward may have ordered Malise to come after my kin there. If so, I fear that more may come from that quarter."

"I am so sorry. I did not realize the whole of it."

"I had not told you the whole of it, unpleasant as it is. My dear lass, you see the world as good and kind, as redeemable, even sorts like Malise and Edward. I admire that. And I wanted you to think the best of me."

"I do think the best of you." She came to him, slid her arms around his neck.

He laid his hand over hers. "Would you trust me now?"

"I would. I do. I love you, Liam Seton, more than you know." She tipped her head toward him and kissed him softly.

"Good, because I am whole in love with you, lass, and never saw it coming." He took her hands in his. "And if you trust me, then let me ask this. Do Thomas's prophecies exist as a book somewhere?"

She sighed. "Not quite. He gave me his notes, you see. I have been working on them for some time now, deciphering his scribbles. He wrote on parchment scraps, on cloth, even on oak leaves—wherever he could write something quickly, he did. I have been copying them, making multiple manuscripts, you see. One will not do, for it could be lost or destroyed. A good scribe makes a copy." She smiled. "I also want to include any of his verses that others might know—ballads, predictions, whatever people remember of him. Someday I mean to give all those pages to Master Bisset to make several copies of his work."

"A worthy idea. Where are your pages now?"

"Most are at Dalrinnie," she said. "Malise does not know, and pray God he never discovers them, locked away in a chest."

"Indeed," he said with a quick scowl.

"Some are at Holyoak, locked in a small iron chest in the library where Gideon allowed me to keep some things. Even if the place should burn—I am sorry that happened, Liam—the pages should survive."

"And neither Edward nor Bruce can get them, unless you decide to share."

He sighed. "Before I knew all this, before I knew you"—he lifted her hand to kiss it—"I thought Bruce should see the book, not Edward."

"I would rather finish the work before Bruce saw it. Never Edward. But we could decide together what is best," she added. A little thrill of hope rose in her.

"We could." He was quiet for a moment. "What of your own prophecies? You saw fire at Holyoak. Will you write that and others down?"

"I have. I will put others in words too, aye. There might be some worth to them."

"It seems to be a family trait."

"Like hair and eyes and height?" She laughed. "They say Thomas got his powers from the Queen of Faery. He never admitted it, but he was very wise. I wish you could have known him."

"I hear he visited my grandfather, his friend, more than once. But I was a small boy. If I saw him, I do not recall it. But they say he made a prediction for Dalrinnie."

She straightened, taking his hand, remembering what her cousin had said. "Kirsty mentioned a Dalrinnie curse. Her father knew about it. Do you know the words?"

"Best I recall, it went like this." He began to recite in a low, resonant rumble that vibrated through her.

Dalrinnie, Dalrinnie,

Towers high, walls bold

Knight nor baron can hold

Nor good fortune unfold

When Dalrinnie falls

Three times and more

No king can restore, nor harp sing its lore

And Scotland will burn.

He let the last word fade. "That is what I learned."

Tamsin drew a long breath. A feeling tapped softly at her. "Holyoak and more has burned in Scotland. Dear God. You say this is a curse?"

"My father called it so. When I was a lad, I took up the harp, thinking I could change the luck of Dalrinnie myself if I could play the harp and sing the castle's lore. But it made no difference. My grandfather lost the castle. My father got it back, but I lost it again. Sir John Witton lost it too, by dying," he added, glancing at her.

"He did. Three times and more," she said. "Malise too, as the fourth?"

"With luck," he huffed. "I should have told you. But I thought of it as a curse, not a prophecy. Not something we are proud of, we Dalrinnie Setons."

"So you kept it to yourself. I understand. You have that way about you—that reserve, that need for secrets," she said gently.

"I do. But you are bringing them out of me somehow." He gave her a crooked smile in wry admission.

Her heart filled to hear that. "But Liam, Thomas did not lay curses. He did not claim to be a wizard in that way."

"All I know is the castle has had poor luck, and the verse spoke of ruin for Dalrinnie, and Scotland too."

"Wait—he wrote a curious line once—I wonder." Something forgotten tapped insistently as she found her leather bag and retrieved the narrow wooden box with the quill, stoppered ink bottle, and scraps of parchment wrapped in leather. She had left the larger pages safely boxed at Holyoak, but now, recalling that odd line, she searched.

"Ah! Here." She brought a small, curled scrap of parchment to Liam.

"She carries her books and writing always with her," he said, bemused.

"She does. It is her heart's work. Read this. Is it familiar? It was with Thomas's writings but did not fit with anything else. Some of it has been torn away."

"‘Until luck returns,'" he read, "‘when the lady of gold—'" He looked up. "‘Takes the harp to hold.'"

"I did not understand it until now. His writing is difficult to read, and I never knew—I thought it said harp, but perhaps it is harper. Not a lady playing a harp, but a lady with a harper."

He studied the scrap. "It could say ‘harper.'" He looked up. "Put it together with the verse. Listen." He recited the Dalrinnie verse again, adding the new line at the end.

And Scotland will burn until luck returns—when the lady of gold takes the harper to hold.

"It does fit the rhyme," she said.

His sky-blue eyes searched hers. "This could refer to us. Do you see it? The lady of gold." He touched her long, loose, thick braid.

"And the harper to hold—my harper-knight. Liam! Our meeting. Our marriage. Did Thomas see it all?"

"And predicted luck would return to Dalrinnie—and Scotland—when we found each other. By the saints!" He stood, wrapping her in his arms. "Pray God it is true. It means so much to Scotland—to Bruce!—if it is the truth foretold."

"Thomas always spoke true." When he kissed her then, the whirling within her felt tender, quieter, a fire banked and eager to grow. She drew back. "Please do not use that arm yet, sirrah. You must rest."

He laughed softly against her hair. "The hour is late, and we have not yet rested, not quite, in that cozy box bed. Come, love." Taking her hand, he drew her to the bed. "In the morning, we will depart. But before we head back to the forest tomorrow," he said as he pulled back the coverlet, "there is a place I want to show you."

She smiled. "Different than you might show me now?"

"You will see tomorrow. Come here."