Page 38 of The Daughters of Avalon
His father’s broken heart had been evident in those stark blue eyes, and Malcom had turned away with a sting in his own, lifting his sword regardless.
It hadn’t mattered that he didn’t trade blows with his father that day. What mattered was that he’d turned his back to the man who’d raised him, raising his sword against men he’d once considered compatriots, and his own sire could have easily died that day.
All these years later, it still gave him a turn of the gut.
So, then, would he now defy his king for a woman he barely knew, when he so readily had turned his back on his father? And what was this burden he felt—this undeniable sense of responsibility for the woman lying in that bed?
It was a conundrum for certain—one he didn’t care to think about overmuch.
In the end, he must do what he was compelled to do, and damned be the consequences. Damned be everyone. Damned be himself.
Raking a hand through the growing stubble of his beard, he considered returning to the chair… but it was past time to seek Beauchamp. There would be time aplenty to sleep later… after he was dead.
He’d wake Elspeth once it was time for repast. As pleased as he was that she’d eaten a bit of the cheese and bread, he hoped she might be a good bit hungrier when she awoke. Certainly,Beauchamp would offer them a heartier meal belowstairs and the journey to Aldergh was bound to be long. He wanted to leave on the morrow with a belly full. Considering the situation with his father, he daren’t stop again at Drakewich, or anywhere else on the journey north. Already, he’d tarried long enough—and to that end, if indeed she meant to accompany him all the way to Aldergh, he should impress upon Beauchamp to sell him another horse. That way, she could ride more befitting a lady. And neither did he prefer forcing Merry Bells to carry the weight of two.
Sighing again, Malcom rubbed the back of his neck to relieve a bit of tension, thinking about Cael d’Lucy. Elspeth might have been well served by an alliance with that man, but Malcom found himself inexplicably pleased she did not aspire to be his wife. Admittedly, she was a woman he could covet for himself—if he allowed it—and for an instant, just an instant, as he stood watching Elspeth sleep, he imagined again this could be their bedchamber… at Aldergh… And he remembered the waking dream he’d had, and his body sprang to life.
Oh, how he longed to crawl into that bed beside her. But far more than simply igniting his ardor, the images accosting him again gave him an intense longing for more than mere pleasures of the flesh. He longed for sleepy embraces and good night kisses… wee bairns clinging to his knees.
Ach, but God, it had been far too long since he’d enjoyed any such familial sounds, and right now, he craved them with a part of his soul too long denied.
So, then, was this why that impossible proclamation burst from his lips?
Did he covet Elspeth to be his bride?
The answer to that was:aye.He did.
Inexplicably, Malcom found himself bonded with the girl. But he would not have her unless she desired him as well—andfor that matter, despite the morning’s considerations, he wouldneverhand her over to a man she did not wish to wed, no matter what Stephen decreed, and no matter whether she returned Malcom’s ardor or not. He was Stephen’s man in all things military, but he would no more hand this woman over against her will than he would betray his own mother… or a wee boy… as someone he’d once trusted had done to him.
No matter how old he might grow, Malcom would never forget that intense sense of betrayal and loss. And he would never forget the day when he’d found himself standing before Aldergh’s gates, knees trembling and tears pricking at his eyes over merely the anticipation of being reunited with his father. Six years old he’d been that day—a wee lad torn from the bosom of his kin.
So, then, unless Elspeth herself should decree it, he could never allow her to be used against her will. But now that the notion had wormed its way into his head, he wondered… would she welcome an alliance with a Scots born man from the hinterlands… whose station was little different from the lord of Blackwood’s? And even if she would agree to such a proposal… would Malcom, indeed, be willing to break his oath to keep her?
Crossing his arms, studying her face in slumber, he wondered… what was it about Elspeth that seemed so oddly familiar… could it be that he knew her mother?
Her father was dead, so she’d said; who was he?
At last, realizing there could be no better time to tend to his wound than now, whilst she slept, he removed hisgambeson, tossing it onto the bed, grateful that Beauchamp had not yet asked what he was doing in the vicinity. He lifted the hem of hissherte, shrugging it off as well.
Opting for lighter accoutrements, he’d packed the hauberk and coif into his saddlebag, knowing full well that they were riding into allied lands and he wouldn’t need them—not today.
It was only belatedly, as he tossed thesherteonto the bed that he realized his wound did not pain him. Surprised by the revelation, Malcom twisted to see what he could find… and found himself befuddled as he stared at the spot on his shoulder where his wound should have been… but wasn’t.It was gone.
Gone as ingone—not simply healed. There was no trace of blood, not even a scab, or a long-healed scar. By all that was holy, it was as though there had never been any wound at all. At least not on his shoulder. Right there, in that very spot, his skin remained entirely unblemished, with nary a scratch. But… it couldn’t be. Shaking his head in bewilderment, he retrieved hissherte,if only to inspect the integrity of the material, and sure enough, he found a rent as big as his fist.
Thegambeson, as well, bore a telltale rip.
Only his shoulder had evidence to the contrary:
Slowly, he turned to Elspeth, blinking down at the girl. He knew instinctively—inexplicably—that it must have been her. Only what had she done? Naught that he could remember.
Mentally, Malcom retraced their steps since last evening. She’d washed his wound with his rag. Then later, after supping, she’d rubbed a salve on him that she’d made from herbs she’d foraged. Already annoyed, and unwilling to suffer the scent of his own burning flesh, he’d denied her the opportunity to cauterize the wound, thinking it far too soon anyway, and hoping it would heal on its own, because, God knew, he already had too many hideous scars and didn’t relish another.
Of course, she had argued with him, only briefly, before setting about to making her salve, crushing herbs on the back of his shield with the hilt of his dagger. And then she’d also made him a strange tea, and whatever she’d given him put him straight to sleep…
Confused, he pressed his fingers into the flesh at his shoulder. But there was no soreness. Very simply, and mysteriously, the wound had… vanished.
Dumbfounded, Malcom tossed thesherteback down on the bed and went to retrieve a clean tunic from his bag—one last time, checking the ruined hauberk. Like thesherteandgambeson, the damage there remained. And now, again, he turned to study the girl sleeping on the bed…
