Page 50 of The Scottish Bride
“Did it,” he said, his voice gruff, low. He leaned in, his breath meeting hers. This time when his lips touched hers, it was for her alone, with no pretense about it. Her mouth softened under his, and her gentle sound of need surged through him.
She slipped her arms around his neck, and he turned to pull her close, enveloping her, the next kiss deeper, each one renewing with a power, a hunger, that was the very soul of enchantment—unexpected, irresistible, inexorable, dreamlike.
Then he pulled back, stunned in the moment, not sure what had come over him—or her. She was gossamer indeed, this girl. “We should not—”
She spoke in the same moment. “You must think me—so lonely. All turned about.”
He soothed his hand over her hair. “I think you are tired. And lovely,” he murmured. “I am the one all turned about.”
“Samhain is a magical time, I swear to you. Watch what happens in the next weeks. I feel it already.”
“I suppose that could explain—is that a knock at the door?” He rose from the cot, and in two long strides, crossed the small room to pull the iron latch. Seeing Brother Allan, he stepped back to allow the monk to enter.
“Pardon me, pardon please,” Allan said. He looked from the knight to the lady, and must have sensed something, for a fiery blush spread from his neck to the roots of his red-gold tonsure. “I brought soup for the lady. And ale. And sir, your kinsmen want me to tell you that they are in the rectory and waiting for you to join them for a meal. Gilchrist message is ‘where in hell are you?’ Forgive me, I would not have said that myself, but he told me to say so.”
“Thank you,” Liam said, smothering a laugh. “Food is just the thing for the lady, I am thinking. Lady Tamsin,” he added in farewell, as she went pink from her graceful neck to the pale curls spiraling along her brow.
“Sir William,” she managed, as he closed the door behind him.
Wiping the emptybowl with a cloth, stacking it with the spoon and cup on the tray, Tamsin heard a quick knock on the door. Hoping that might be Liam returning, she opened the door quickly. Allan her his widest smile.
“I came to collect the dishes, if I may?”
“Of course. Come in.” She stepped aside.
He set down a jug and a small packet wrapped in cloth. “Oatcakes, fresh from the griddle, in case you need something more. And watered heather ale. It is mild, good before sleeping. Is there aught else I can bring you, my lady?”
“I have all I need, I believe. Thank you.”
“Brother Gideon says in a few days, he may be able to take you to Selkirk.”
“That is good of him.” Just Gideon? While she would be glad of his company, she felt a quick sting of disappointment that Liam Seton was not mentioned. Perhaps he had changed his mind about going with her. Perhaps she had misjudged his interest earlier. Even so, if she did end up in a convent, she would treasure those kisses, always. “But I will not inconvenience anyone. Perhaps I can make my way there if I could borrow a horse and cart.”
“The abbot would not allow it, my lady. He insists you stay for a few days and leave only with an escort. Until then, he has instructed that no one be admitted at the gate unless we know them as friends. He is concerned for your welfare.”
“And I am grateful, and I hope I can thank him in person soon.” Dare she tell the abbot about her vision and reveal that protected part of her life? He might simply think her mad and dismiss it. Besides, she remembered little of what came to her, as often happened. Something about fire. Perhaps she should take it to Gideon, her trusted friend, although she had never mentioned her ability to him either.
As much as she cherished truth, she hesitated to share what came through her. But now William Seton had witnessed it. Would he tell his kinsmen? She frowned.
“My lady?” Allan brought her back. “The abbot wants to see you, but he has not been well and is taking his time.”
“Of course. So Abbot Murdoch is kin to Brother Gideon and the rest?”
“Their uncle, aye. A sister is abbess at Lincluden. Another uncle, a Macnab like Finley—their mother’s family—is a priest who follows the old Scottish church, as some do. Father Fergus has a wife and a large family and tends a parish in the remote hills.”
“Truly! I thought the old ways of the Scottish Church were all but gone.”
“Some still keep it, and some Scottish bishops turn a blind eye to country priests practicing the old ways, because they serve the people in the hills well, celebrating the sacraments and teaching them the lessons of the Church. Abbot Murdoch began as a priest of the old ways, then joined the Benedictines. He has been abbot here for years.”
“How long have you been here, Allan? I have seen you about, though we never had a chance to talk.”
“Since I was eleven, madam. I will be a full monk someday.” He beamed.
“Brother Gideon will soon become one too, I imagine. I never knew he had brothers, though we chatted often.” She smiled. “Will you have an oatcake? There are too many here for me.” The lad, tall and rangy, looked like he had a good appetite.
“Thank you, if you do not mind, my lady.” He accepted one and took a great bite. “So good,” he mumbled. “Brother Richard is an excellent cook. Aye, having his uncle here was a help to Gideon,” he said, chewing. “When he first came here, he was sorely wounded in the head and leg. They sent me running for cloths, hot water, and spirits that day and I was glad to help. He stayed, and felt drawn to the peace of our brotherhood and the good work we do here.”
“To be so wounded, how awful. Was Brother Gideon a knight like his brothers? Forgive me,” she said, realizing she waspeppering him with questions. “I am curious about the Setons. They have been kind to me.”
