Mary Reed McCall (20 page)

To anyone else observing, she appeared to be in complete control of herself, but Aidan knew better. She blinked twice, a faint pink staining her cheeks, and her lower lip quavered. But when her tongue darted out to moisten that rosy flesh, a jolt of raw desire shot through him, devastating in its power.

Oh, God, he wanted to kiss her right now. And she wanted it, too, try as she would to deny it. Every inch of her seemed to strain toward him, her mouth full, and moist, and inviting…

But he wasn’t supposed to be seducing her, damn it. He was only supposed to be trying to help her remember.

Forcing himself to lower his hand from the silky curve of her jaw, Aidan inclined his head in a little bow before
taking a step back. “You are right, of course. There is really no need for us to engage in training to satisfy the agreement.”

“I am glad you see the wisdom of that,” Gwynne murmured, turning away stiffly, looking drained, somehow, by their encounter. She cleared her throat. “And now I’m afraid I’ve tarried too long. I should see to my men. If you’ll excuse me…”

“Wait—I didn’t say that our agreement needn’t be satisfied at
all
.” He feigned surprise at her attempt to leave.

“I’m sure that there are several other interesting ways that we might conclude this bargain between us.”

After a stunned silence, Gwynne muttered, “By the Rood, I don’t think I can endure it.” She cast a baleful look at him. “What’s it to be, then—more berry picking? A new kind of dancing perhaps?” Jamming her arms into place across her chest, she added, “Do me a courtesy, will you, Aidan? The next time I’m foolish enough to think about entering into one of your so-called wagers with you, remind me to run in the other direction.”

He smothered a smile. “You make it sound so unpleasant. And here I thought I was providing you with some peaceful diversion from the life of a warrior.”

“I’ll take battle and mayhem any day.”

“Mayhem, hmmmm…?” he echoed, rubbing a finger across his upper lip as if considering the possibility. “Unfortunately, I was thinking of something less violent—like an offering of music, perhaps.” He raised his brows and wiggled them at her. “I’ve been known to play the lute on occasion. If you agreed to let me play some tunes for you…” He nodded, acting pleased with himself. “Aye, it might just be enough to satisfy my end of our bargain. What say you to the idea?”

“I’d say you’re as unbalanced as ever,” Gwynne mumbled, shaking her head at him, though he noticed that she
couldn’t completely suppress the glint of humor in her eyes at his outlandish suggestion.

“Come—’twill be painless, I assure you.” Flashing her a grin, he cocked his head, giving an exaggerated glance to the ceiling. “At least, I think it will. I admit, it has been years since I played, but I’m sure I couldn’t have completely lost my skill in that space of time…”

She shook her head, a smile flirting over her lips. Then she sighed, giving him a look that, though he knew she didn’t intend it, still set his blood afire. “God help me for saying this, but I suppose it sounds harmless enough. All right. If it makes you happy and will satisfy that damned
honor
of yours, then I have no objection to going along with your plan.”

“I’m afraid ’twould take far more from you than that to make me truly happy,” he answered, giving her a teasing look. “But it will do for a start.”

She flushed again, this time walking away from him, toward the door. “Just tell me where and when I should expect to receive this boon, Aidan—because I believe I’ll need to fortify myself for it.”

“Tonight, I think,” he called after her retreating form.

She flashed him a sideways look the instant before she disappeared out the door, a glance filled with an array of emotions—caution, yearning, and humor all mixed together—that made his heart flop in his chest. And then she was gone.

He ached to hold her again, to caress away her fears. ’Twas a feeling he’d experienced countless times with her, both in their early years together and since he’d found her again—an urge to comfort her and share the burdens of life in a way that he’d never known with any other woman. Whether or not she was a legendary warrior now, she still inspired that same instinct in him.

Shaking his head at his own foolish musings, he slowly
walked over to the large chest tucked into the corner of the chamber. He’d been contemplating whether or not he should use its contents all morning; kneeling down now, he rested his hand on the clasp, hesitant. It had been a long time since he’d last steeled himself against the surge of emotions that came from daring to peer inside it. But perhaps ’twould be different this time, he thought. Before, he’d believed that Gwynne was dead. Now that he’d found her again, it might finally be different.

Leaning back on his heels, he unfastened the lid; it creaked open, the hinges groaning from disuse, revealing a tumble of creamy fabric that he’d long ago placed over the objects inside to protect them from dust and damp. He lifted the cloth aside, and the movement sent up a whisper of fragrance. ’Twas the perfumed scent of springtime leaves, a hint of mountain breeze…

Her
scent…

Closing his eyes, Aidan paused, swept back to that other place, that other time. His heart thundered; he felt every beat course through his body, each throb bringing back another moment, another sweet memory of Gwynne. He opened his eyes again, clenching his fist to still the trembling before pushing aside the fabric to reach the items beneath. His touch first brushed over his old tunic, still bearing the bloodied, ragged-edged hole ripped by the Welsh arrow. He’d kept the ruined garment as evidence of Gwynne’s sacrifice—a tangible reminder of why ’twas his duty to be relentless in battle against the rebels. Of why he must continue to be the Scourge of Wales.

A half dozen other objects rested at the bottom of the chest as well, all gleaned from the scene of the attack; he’d dragged himself back there the day after, sneaking from his chambers, hunched over and wracked with pain in order to do it. Old Alana had tried to begin nursing him back to health, but he’d resisted, needing to go back, to see
the destruction left in the wake of the ambush—to touch the gouts of dirt that had been dug from the ground during their struggle, and hear the wind whistle through the empty shell of the cottage Gwynne had shared with her mother.

Aye, he’d combed the area, desperate to find any scrap, anything to tell him that she had been there—that his Gwynne had been alive and real, and that their time together hadn’t been just a dream, crushed under the onslaught of those blue-faced devils.

That day he’d gathered all he could find and then stumbled back to Dunston, swathing them lovingly in cloth and placing them into this chest, to be opened and thought about as often as his brutalized heart could bear. It had been more than a year before he’d been able to look into the trunk for the first time. Each time after, the emotions and memories had ripped through him anew, making him feel raw inside. But he’d kept scraping the wound, reliving every moment. He’d felt he owed Gwynne that, at least.

This time was different; he could sense it. He could look at these things with fresh eyes—feel new emotions that might banish the others for good.

Next to his bloodstained tunic lay a wreath of wildflowers that Gwynne had worn in her hair that day—a circlet of woodland blooms he’d fashioned for her—crumpled in the attack and dried now from age. He set it carefully aside, seeking the other items…a shawl of Gwynne’s, taken from the cottage…a feather from one of the crows she’d healed…the old, scratched up lute, broken now, that he used to play for her during their secret trysts…a few of the acorns she’d playfully thrown at him that last morning…

And then finally he saw it: their rumpled, silken betrothal cloth, cradling the braided lock of her hair.

These two things he touched last, as always. Gingerly,
he took them out of the shadowy protection of the chest, holding them up to the light. Remembering.

His heart swelled as he held them, but not with an unbearable ache, as before. This time there was a fullness of feeling he was at a loss to explain. Lifting them up, he pressed them to his face, breathing in their scent, so delicate after all these years; he felt the smooth quality of the cloth, and the even more silken texture of her braided tresses, soft against his cheek. Aidan closed his eyes again, his throat tightening. He sat that way for a long time, his pulse beating shallow and uneven, a burning sensation gathering behind his eyelids.

Finally, he exhaled and swallowed, opening his eyes to lay everything except the lute back into the trunk; then he arranged the cloth atop them once more, and closed the chest.

Rising to his feet, he picked up the old instrument and carried it to the window, still caught up in his thoughts. His fingers absently stroked its roughened wooden surface as he peered out the open shutter to the courtyard below.

The bustle of the day was already well under way, with villagers and castle folk going about their business. In the far distance, near the castle gate, he caught a glimpse of Gwynne; she’d changed once again into her feminine garb, and it seemed that she was readying to see her men off on their journey. When Owin and Dafydd rode their mounts through the open portcullis, she turned to disappear back into the maze of buildings near the old stables.

Aidan held the lute tightly in his grip, rocking back on his heels as his gaze trained on the spot where she’d last been.

“Ah, Gwynne,” he murmured, “it seems that you and I have our work cut out for us in the weeks ahead.”

In a few short hours, Helene and her father would leave for home; then he would be free to begin his part of the
work in earnest. He’d never planned to use the precious items in the trunk in his efforts to jar Gwynne’s memory; they were too personal, too dear to him. If she didn’t remember their meaning, or, worse yet, did and scoffed at them anyway, he wasn’t sure that he could bear the pain of it.

But the alternative was worse, he knew, and he had only one short month left to make this work. He needed to use every method at his disposal to bring back her memory in that time, even if it meant wrenching his own heart from his chest and laying it bloodied at her feet to do it.

Clenching his jaw in resolution of his plan, he stepped back from the open shutter and tucked the lute under one arm, jabbing his other hand through his hair as he braced himself to begin the painful process ahead of him.

“Aye, Gwynne, you will remember me,” he repeated softly. “You will remember
us
, and the love we once shared…” Pausing, he reached out to brush his palm over the cool, grainy lid of the closed chest once more, thinking, planning how to use the objects nestled within, no matter the pain it caused him. Then, raising his hand, he touched his fingers to his lips in a kiss to seal his vow.

“I do so swear it.”

G
wynne slumped in her chair in the corner of the great hall, uncertain whether she wanted to scream, laugh, cry, or shout. ’Twas a feeling she’d been struggling with for more than two days already, ever since Owin and Dafydd had departed for Wales—the same day Helene and her father had left for their own estate; if she couldn’t get rid of the unsettling urge soon, she knew she would snap. Perhaps she’d rip the tapestries from the walls or throw a few chairs from atop Dunston’s crenellated towers; whatever she did, she knew that she needed to take some kind of action to dispel her edginess, or there would be disastrous results. ’Twas but a matter of time.

People bustled around her, everyone busy doing something to prepare for the morning meal. Only Diana was conspicuously absent, having kept mostly to her chambers since the day after the celebration. It was just as well they hadn’t faced each other, Gwynne thought. ’Twould be uncomfortable at best, now that the woman knew the
truth about her. Besides, she’d have gone into conniptions over her brother’s actions lately, if she’d witnessed them.

Curling her fingers so that her nails dug into her palms, Gwynne breathed in deeply; she tried closing her eyes to ease the burning there, but ’twas no use. What happened whenever she did that was exactly why she hadn’t slept for the past two nights; images of Aidan blended with those awful, nagging sensations she’d experienced when she’d first come to Dunston, leaving her no rest.

And then there was the nightmare. It had returned with a vengeance, though, as with the last time, the dream woman looked healed and pristine compared to her earlier condition in the visions.

“Did you enjoy Lord Sutcliffe’s performance last night?”

Gwynne swung her gaze to Alana, who was sitting nearby, sorting through a bowl of fruits that sat perched on her lap. The old woman flicked a sideways gaze at her and smiled as she spoke; Gwynne scowled in response, the question having sent another burning image of Aidan through her, unbalancing her emotions the way it had every time he’d insisted on playing that old, scarred lute for her—the way it had last night, when, just before his performance in the hall, he’d gifted her with a circlet of fresh wildflowers from the fields beyond Dunston.

“Nay. I don’t recall much of it,” she lied, hoping to end the conversation before it began. “I was too tired to pay attention.”

“Ah,” Alana murmured, nodding. “How unfortunate. Those old songs—it seemed his heart was bleeding into the words he sang…” She shook her head, still smiling as she clucked her tongue. “Why, it made me long for my younger years, it did. He used to play so when he was a lad, in love for the first time. ’Twas a good deal of time ago, but I remember it well.”

Gwynne shifted uncomfortably, the nagging sensation swelling anew at the back of her brain. Damn the old woman and her chatter. She’d thought it safe to spend her time this morn in the great hall, away from any possibility of finding herself alone with Aidan.

She’d been unable to stop the yearning that overwhelmed her every time he was near, most especially when no one else was around. Even though he hadn’t made an effort to kiss or hold her again since the night of the celebration, his very presence continued to send waves of longing spooling through her, a yearning for the kind of closeness she would never—
could
never—have with him. ’Twas becoming too painful to bear. She’d thought that by coming here, where activity reigned and the people of Dunston could serve as a buffer between them, she might find some peace.

But she hadn’t taken Old Alana into account when she’d made her decision.

Humming a few bars of one of the tunes Aidan had played last night, Alana continued sorting through the berries, only glancing up to murmur, “So…having trouble sleeping again, are you?”

Gwynne squirmed even more under her knowing stare; she answered in a mumble, “A bit. I—I must be coming down with something, is all.”

Inwardly cringing at how foolish she sounded, Gwynne suddenly curled to sit forward, balancing her forearms on her knees. She picked at her skirts before lacing her fingers loosely, tapping them together and fidgeting in her seat. Curse it, but she felt unsettled. And it was all thanks to Alana’s pestering, she told herself. ’Twas the only thing it could be.

It had nothing to do with Aidan’s imminent arrival to the hall, for example. Nothing at all.

“Do you feel ill otherwise?”

“What?” Gwynne asked, pulled from her brooding.

“You said you were coming down with something,” the old woman persisted, her expression inscrutable.

“Aside from your sleeplessness, do you have any other complaints—aching muscles, sore eyes—anything?”

“Nay—” Gwynne frowned, before remembering that she needed to sound convincing in her complaints. “—I mean, aye. I’ve some aching in my back and neck.”

“That’s as like from all the training you’ve been doing as anything else,” Alana cackled, fixing her with that sidelong gaze again. “Are you planning to burn off your troubles with more of the same again today?”

“I suppose I am,” Gwynne growled, her black mood rising as she glared at the old woman. Alana’s amused expression did nothing to ease her chagrin. “’Tis my duty to maintain my skills while I’m held captive here,” she added, even knowing that it sounded defensive.

“I see,” Alana murmured, looking suspiciously like she was about to smile. “Of course, Lord Sutcliffe allowing you unlimited time for your pursuits must help a great deal; ’tis very kind of him, considering your…
captive
status.”

“’Twas part of our bargain, is all,” Gwynne retorted. “I hardly think he deserves congratulations for it.”

Alana nodded wordlessly, making a noncommittal sound while that same smile toyed with her lips. “So, are you beginning your exercises for the day soon?”

Gwynne gaped at her. If she didn’t know better, she’d think Alana was trying to get rid of her. With a snort, she pushed herself to her feet, reaching down to swipe up her discarded veil in one hand. “To be honest, I wasn’t planning to go until after the noon meal, but somehow the idea suddenly seems more appealing right now.” She headed toward the door that led to the upper chambers, where her training gear was stored while her men were away, but be
fore she’d reached halfway to the portal, it swung open, and Aidan walked in.

Pausing for but an instant, Gwynne braced herself for the torrent of feeling that she knew would follow next. His gaze locked with hers and yearning, swirled together with regret for what could never be, swept through her in waves. Gritting her teeth against it, she dragged her stare from his, ignoring his cheerful “Good morn!” as she veered around him to go out the door.

Curse it, but she couldn’t go on like this much longer. She covered the length of the corridor outside the great hall in a few strides. Bunching her skirts around her knees, she took the steps to the upper chambers two at a time, lurching into her room to yank her training garments and cloak from her clothing trunk. Then she stalked to the corner of the chamber and pushed aside the tapestry, revealing the little niche where she’d been concealing her sword, its sheath, and her practice shield while her men were away and unable to hold them for her. But what she saw struck her like a blow to the chest.

Her sword was gone.

In the next instant, prickles of stunned disbelief shot to the ends of her fingers and up her spine to encase her skull in a tingling web.

Someone had stolen her sword
.

The culprit must have sneaked into her chamber without notice sometime this morn, between the time she’d gone to break her fast and now, because she’d checked on her weapons before she’d descended to the great hall.

It had to be someone who knew about who she really was and what she was doing here—and other than her own men and Aidan’s friend Kevyn, who never came above stairs, that left only three possibilities. And she’d bet her boots she knew just exactly who it was.

Damn the shrew to everlasting hell
…

“Diana!” Gwynne roared, tossing her masculine clothing and cape onto her bed as she slammed out of her room and into the hall. “Get out here and show your face if you dare! For once and all, you and I are going to—”

“She’s not in the castle at the moment, I’m afraid. She’s been out all morn.”

Gwynne slid to a halt; whirling around, she saw Old Alana standing near the top of the stairway, hunched over as always, her sparkling gaze both kind and penetrating.

“Tell me where she went,” Gwynne managed to say, still breathing heavily through her rage. “Because I’m going to hunt her down. She’s taken my sword, and—” Her voice drifted off at the sight of Alana shaking her head. Soft clicking sounds came from the old woman’s lips, and she was smiling.

“’Tis unwise, child, to leap to conclusions as you do.”

Gwynne scowled. “What—are you saying that she didn’t take it?”

Alana just kept shaking her head and smiling, until Gwynne thought that she’d go mad with the repetition of motion. With another growl of rage, she spun away from the old woman and stalked down the hall. Flinging open the door to Aidan’s chamber, Gwynne swung around, seeking a likely hiding place. Why he’d take her weapon and hide it on her now, she had no idea, but he’d been doing so many strange things lately that nothing would surprise her.

Her gaze lit on the massive bed that dominated the room, her rage ebbing just a bit as the realization that she was intruding on his personal domain took hold. The place where he was most vulnerable each night as he slept. But in the next instant she pushed aside her guilt, and all her softer thoughts of Aidan with it; she needed to concentrate. ’Twas his fault she’d been forced to barge in
here. His alone. He had no right to take anything of hers, especially her weapon, and if she invaded his privacy by being here to search for it, then so be it.

Swallowing hard, she yanked her gaze from the bed to peruse the rest of the chamber. Other than a standing closet, there was nothing in the room large enough to conceal her sword. Walking over to the closet, she pulled the door open, ignoring the heat that filled her cheeks anew at rifling through Aidan’s most personal belongings. She found some garments and a cape or two, but aside from that the closet was bare. She spun to face the center of the room again.

There was nothing. Not even a tapestry on the wall with which to hide her blade.

Of course
. Aidan wouldn’t keep her sword or any weapon in his bedchamber. He’d store the bulk of his equipment in his armor room—though she doubted he’d bring her sword there, even in an effort to tease her, as all the weaponry he possessed would be carefully inventoried and kept in good order by his chief armorer. He’d not want the man to question the sudden appearance of a strange blade among the supply; ’twould raise the possibility of further discovery, which would only endanger them all.

Nay, he’d have taken her sword somewhere else. Somewhere where he alone would have it, without interference of maidservants, squires, or other castle-dwellers.

His solar…

Aye…

Crossing Aidan’s bedchamber in three strides, Gwynne threw open the door and stomped into the hallway, her gaze focused on the stairs that led to the lower floor and Aidan’s solar. As she passed by, she could just see Old Alana from the side of her vision, still standing where she’d left her moments ago; the old woman absently
rubbed her gnarled, wrinkled hands together atop her walking cane.

“The trunk in the corner,” Alana called out softly, as Gwynne began to descend the stairwell. “Check the old trunk in the corner…”

Her words hardly sank in until Gwynne gained entrance to Aidan’s solar chamber. Her fury had swelled with each action taken to regain her weapon, until now her vision seemed blinded by the hot, surging emotion engulfing her. ’Twas as much a build-up of the other confusing feelings that had been tormenting her of late, her conscious mind knew, but her body reacted only to the moment. By the time she closed the door of Aidan’s quiet haven, her muscles felt strung tight enough to snap.

Heat burned the backs of her eyelids, and she clenched her fists, chest heaving as she took in the burnished wooden surfaces of this tasteful room, the chiseled stone hearth and polished metalwork, paralyzed from moving, for a moment, thanks to the force of her rage.

How dare he mock her so with this latest prank? ’Twas bad enough when he’d teased her with the dancing lessons, the picnic, the sweetly sung tunes, the circlet of flowers—treating her as if she were some Court lovely and he an enamored swain. But
this
, she thought, dumping out the basket of metal rods and pokers that perched near the hearth, in quest of her sword—this crossed over into
her
realm,
her
life, scoffed at what had always meant most to her and had served as her salvation when all else seemed lost.

She lurched forward, rifling through the stack of parchments on the massive table in order to look beneath them, and then stomped to the center of the chamber for a better vantage point.

Curse his eyes, but this time he’d…

Suddenly, she stopped, her gaze fixed to one corner of the room. There it was. The old, battered trunk that Alana had spoken of in those last moments above stairs. Perhaps the old woman knew something more than she’d wanted to admit, after all. Stalking over to the chest with jerky steps, Gwynne dropped to one knee and examined the latch. It didn’t seem to be locked. She rattled the metal clasp and then lifted the piece that jutted below the rest; it made a popping sound and the clasp released.

Without hesitation, she raised the lid and pushed away the soft covering inside, looking for her weapon. The gentle whisper of a familiar scent floated up to her, sending a tingle through her brain, and she stiffened as her gaze fell on what had been resting just below the protection of the fabric.

A dried-up circlet of flowers, aged almost to dust.

Wildflowers,
her mind somehow supplied.
From the meadow beyond Dunston
….