Page 118 of Laird of Flint
So she did. He closed the door behind them. But the satchel of jars didn’t even make it onto a shelf. He managed to lower it gently to the floor as she rained kisses all over his face. Then he completely forgot about it as she scrabbled breathlessly at his clothes, slipping her hands under his leine and into his trews.
Never had he come to life so quickly. Never had he dived so deeply into the pool of desire. All sense left him except one urge—to couple with her.
She would have let him. He knew that.
He had to be the strong one. But it was so hard to be strong when he was…so hard.
Knowing that swiving wasn’t in their immediate future forced him to be creative.
He found an interesting use for one jar of Kildunan’s honey. It turned out the laird was right. Itdidtaste like ambrosia of the angels. Especially when licked off the breast of the woman he loved.
In the days and weeks after, they continued to play their love games. He visited at least once a sennight, and they reveled in each other’s company.
They trysted everywhere. In the stable. In the buttery. Behind a holly bush. Against a fir tree. Under the moon. In the fog.
They celebrated their newfound romantic diversion. Experimenting with feathers. Fur. Mirrors. Scented oils. And handfuls of snow.
Still, more than anything, he wanted to be able to take Carenza’s hand in marriage. To forge their futures together. To offer her his whole self—body and soul.
But despite all his best efforts, he continued to be stymied in his hunt for the church treasures. Unless he could locate them, there was no provable crime. He’d begun to wonder if the abbot had stolen the artifacts himself and only hired Hew as a foil to cover his tracks.
Then one midwinter day, when the snow had driven everyone indoors, and they were desperate to find a place to be alone, Carenza dug an old iron key out of a small wooden box.
She bade him follow her—at a safe distance—to the buttery.
But they weren’t going to the buttery. The key fit the lock of a storage room located beside the buttery.
“’Tis where my mother’s things are stored,” she whispered. “My father locked them away when she died. And no one e’er goes in.”
He frowned. Maybe there was a reason no one went in. “Isn’t it…sacred?”
“Maybe to my father. But my mother lives in heaven, not on earth. They’re just things.”
He nodded. His ancestors took their things with them and lived in Valhalla, which sounded like a lot more fun than heaven.
She slipped the key into the lock. It opened easily enough. Then she pushed open the door. He winced, half expecting a loud screech to issue forth. But the hinges seemed to be well oiled. He wondered if maybe the room was visited more often than she thought.
This was the first time Carenza had seen the inside of the storage room. It contained everything that had belonged to her mother, crammed into a room half the size of a bedchamber. To her surprise, there was very little dust. The furnishings appeared as fresh as the day the door had been sealed. A pair of oak chests were draped with ornate tapestries and piled high with gowns of silk and velvet. A floor sconce with half-burned candles leaned against the wall. A wooden tub was filled to the brim with linens. A woolen arisaid partially covered a carved wood table which was topped by books and vials, combs and scissors, straw dolls and several pieces of her mother’s jewelry.
Then she gasped as her eye caught on something of hers. Her childhood bed. Apparently, even that had triggered painful memories for her father. The day after her mother died, her father had ordered a new bed made for Carenza. The one she still slept in today.
She wondered…
She neared the bed and studied the coverlet. It was embroidered with wee animals. Hedgepigs. Hounds. Mice. Kittens. Sparrows. Piglets. She’d forgotten all about it.
“This bed was mine,” she breathed.
Picking up the bottom corner of the coverlet to examine the stitching, he chuckled. “Of course ’twas.”
But for Carenza, the presence of the bed represented more than just fond memories. She reached down and carefully peeled the coverlet back from the top. The linens were clean. And there were no fleas.
For weeks now, she’d prayed for patience. She’d waited for the monastery crime to be solved. For Hew’s residence at Kildunan to be over.
It wasn’t that she didn’t love their inventive rendezvous. Like sparrows spreading seeds, they’d consecrated every corner of Dunlop with their love.
But the investigation could take years. It might never be solved. And Carenza was afraid if they waited too long, Hew would begin to think of her as his concubine rather than his bride.
It wasn’t that he didn’t love her. He adored her. But in the end, because he had to do as the king willed, he might be forced to marry another out of duty, believing he could keep Carenza as his secret mistress.
