Night Visitor (18 page)

The great man paused for a moment as his men faded back into the stunted wood. His gaze was thoughtful as it passed over them for a final time.

“You’ll not come with us? Though you are a piper, a man of war, and we have need of you?”

“Nay,” Malcolm answered. “I was a piper, but my calling has changed. There are others wi’ greater need than yers. Our path now lies south.”

MacColla nodded.

“You still have plans to
travel,
piper?”

“They were never
my
plans,” Malcolm answered. He smiled suddenly. “My wife thinks otherwise. We’ll see shortly who has the greater will. Any road, tell them in Glen Noe that in spite of the stories,
Malcolm the Pipes
died in Duntrune. Let him rest in peace.”

MacColla’s eyes flicked over Taffy. She knew that he could not see much in the dark, but she still had the impression that he had catalogued every aspect of her face, bearing, and dress.

“Your own battle will be an interesting one, piper. Good luck to you both, for you shall need it in the lands you plan to see.”

Malcolm nodded.

“And to you, Colkitto,” Taffy said softly. She found herself adding some hurried advice. “Stay away from Lord Inchiquin. In fact, don’t go back to Ireland at all next year.”

The MacColla’s expression turned quizzical.

“I think I shall still have plenty of Covenanters to kill for the king in the year to come. They are still all about, as are the Campbells. And, piper, though I do not approve of what you do—or even
what
I suspect you
are
—I still thank you for your message. It saved the lives of many of my men.” The Irishman smiled briefly before turning away.

“He doesn’t believe me,” Taffy said sadly, as the legend’s footsteps retreated into the increasingly restless dark.

“It’s his destiny, lass. There’s no escapin’ it.”

“Oh, hogwash!” she said irritatedly. “You Celts are all too damned mystical for your own good.”

Malcolm laughed softly and pulled her into his arms. His eyes blazed with sudden joy.

“I do believe that the reason ye were sent tae me is that the burden o’ life was too heavy without some laughter tae lighten the load.”

“And you find me amusing?” she asked, a little disappointed that he didn’t declare his love for her, and a lot breathless because she was always short of breath when Malcolm was near.

“Aye. And bonnie.” Malcolm’s warm gaze seemed to cover her like a cloak, warming her clear to the soul. Down came his mouth to cover her lips and a tide of sweet fire swept over her. Leaning into him, she gave herself over to the warming flames, which purged all doubt and fear.

“Ah, wife!” he said, turning his face into her hair. “Ye tempt me past all reason. But we must away.”

“Wife,” she repeated, the fact still an alien one. How could one speak of being a wife when there had as yet been no talk of love?

In the distance, thunder crackled in warning. Taffy groaned and leaned her head against his chest.

“Again?”

“One would think the Campbells would have tired o’ chasin’ us through the rain.” He laughed
shortly. “But nobody said they were keen o’ wit, just bloody stubborn.”

Disappointed, Taffy nevertheless accepted that there was no time for sweet words or deeds between them. Indeed, the notion of sharing their love in the defiled glen was repellent.

“So we go south?” she asked, in a voice made steady by effort. The growing roar of thunder told of the storm marching swiftly overland. Smokey whined once and then barked sharply. “Soon. But first we go west a bittock.” “You don’t trust anyone,” she said, thinking of the lie he had told the MacColla.

“Untrue, Taffy lass! After all, I trust ye.” The praise was nearly as warming as the most romantic declaration of love.
Nearly.

Taffy sighed as she spied the now familiar opening in the mountain stones. The mouth in the hill was only a narrow shadow of darker hue cracked a shoulder’s-breadth wide in the black wetness around them. It didn’t look like the entrance of a cave, but she was coming to recognize the faeries’ resting places.

“Ye should no listen tae yer weariness, lass. It will tell ye tae despair,” Malcolm told her as he set a hand on her shoulder.

“I am too tired to despair,” she answered, stepping boldly into the cavern, confident from past experience that it would be uninhabited. A small frisson passed over her skin, but after the uncleanliness of the place where they’d intended to
maim Father Feehan, the magicked cave seemed to her almost wholesome.

“Too weary are ye then for being a wife?” he asked, stepping close behind her and putting comforting arms about her waist.

Taffy leaned back into his heat and sighed with pleasure.

“I could probably be persuaded to do my duty,” she replied. This time, there was no blush.

“I’d not have duty doing desire’s work,” he answered, bestowing a kiss on her ear. “For desire should live between man and wife rather than duty.”

“I agree. I just wish that for once it could pass between sheets on a bed,” she said wistfully. “It would be so novel.”

He squeezed her quickly, and then with a show of the strength that always left her amazed, he lifted her onto a stony ledge.

“We’ve a bed. ‘Tis just made of rock instead of hide. I’ll build a fire so our linens may dry.” He picked up her heavy skirts, testing the fabric for dampness. The worst of the rain had passed them by, but she was still more wet than dry. “Ye’ll regret it else, for ye’ll chap yer tender skin on this cloth. ‘Tis tough as sail canvas.”

“I might regret it anyway. This rock is cold.” But she didn’t believe her words. She might dislike the hard ground, which would leave bruises, but better that than to lament a lost opportunity
to be in Malcolm’s arms. It was only there that the horrors of this world were completely cleansed and she forgot that time was closing in upon them.

Too, she knew from experience that making love would give her the energy—and probably provide ample discomfort—to remain awake while she kept her lonely vigil. It was Malcolm’s turn to rest and she had every intention that he should have some sleep this night.

Perhaps she was being over-cautious by setting a watch. The still-folk were apparently continuing to act as their friends. But what had passed in the stone corrie was still fresh in her mind and likely in theirs as well. She would take no chances on their trying to steal her away from Malcolm while they slept.

As Malcolm lit their small fire, Taffy slid from her perch and went to stand beside an uneasy Smokey. The hound was squinting at the dawn sun rising up through the rain and sighing morosely.

She sympathized. The light, though muted by silvery showers, still hurt her eyes, and she wondered if she would forever more love only the moon, and always shun the sun’s harsher light in its gentler favor.

“It is bright, isn’t, boy?” she said, laying a hand atop his brindled head, and trying not to see Lady Dunstaffnage’s cleric clasped in the powerful
jaws, which were but inches from her own body.

Smokey sighed again and closed his eyes on the fire in the sky. For a moment, the beast leaned against her.

Taffy sighed, too. The dawn also meant that another night had passed, bringing them to another faerie shelter and ever closer to their destination—the barrow—and the time when she would have to return to her world.

Close in pursuit of that thought came the inevitable worry that perhaps—in spite of her threats—the faeries would not find the way to return Malcolm with her, and that he might be lost forever as dust on the low road that they would have to travel to her home.

“No. It won’t happen,” she muttered.

For how would she bear it if he was taken from her? No matter what conventional wisdom said about the healing properties of time, she knew that there would be no forgetfulness for her heart or mind. Separation of their bodies there might be, but division of the heart and mind and soul was not possible as long as she had her memories of him. The rational mind might recognize the passage of hours, days, months—even the long years—that were supposed to bring healing indifference, but her heart would never be whole again if he was taken from her. It would not forget that once it had been completed—no, not
even in an eon would it fail to recall that once it had been joined to its other half.

The apprehension of this fell chance was a heaviness in her breast that threatened to crowd out this time of peace and rest. Taking Malcolm’s advice not to pay heed to weariness or despair, she resolutely turned her stinging eyes and thoughts away from the harsh red brilliance of the new day.

“Ah!” There was a wealth of satisfaction in Malcolm’s voice. “We’ve been forgiven, Taffy lass.”

He turned and in his hands was a wooden tray, which held a loaf of bread, a small ball of cheese—and her flask!

“Is it—?”

“Aye. There’s water in the cave as well. Cold for drinking and a bit in there is a hot spring for bathing.”

“Truly?” Some of the apprehension melted away. The still-folk surely would not have made them so comfortable if they were enraged by her demands.

“It is. And there’s some dried grass tae make up a bed, so ye’ll no’ be resting on the hard stone. Which is well, so delicate as ye are,” he added, a betraying gleam in his eye.

“It is very well,” she agreed, taking a seat near the tiny fire. “Especially as I have decided that it is high time that you
rested
on the floor instead.”

“Aye? Well, then, if ye mean to pin me down, best ye have a meal and regain some strength.”

Taffy accepted the offered bread, smiling smugly at the challenge laid before her.

“I don’t think I shall need any particular strength to overcome you. You haven’t slept in a long while and it is a simple fact that women are the more cunning sex.”

“Cunning, are ye? In what manner?”

“Well, to begin with, I shall ply you with drink,” she said lightly, taking the flask and uncapping it. She passed it beneath his nose as if wielding a bottle of smelling salts. “Not enough to leave you sotted. Just pliant.”

Getting no reaction from her ploy, Taffy dipped a finger into the flask and then drew the wetted tip across Malcolm’s lips.

She was warned by a twitch beneath the sensitive finger pad, but she had no time to escape before finding herself captured in his teeth and his tongue laving her into shivers.

The fey eyes watched her involuntary shudder with undisguised pleasure and his mouth curved into a wicked grin. He released her finger.

“Ye needs must be quicker, Taffy lass, if ye are tae take me unawares.”

“I think that perhaps a bit more whisky is needed,” she said, setting the bottle to her own lips. She was careful not to swallow, for it would make her sleepy, but she sheened her mouth with
the potent drink. “And I never said that I wanted you unaware.”

Being careful of the fire, she crawled over to Malcolm. Her hand at his chest urged him to lie back, and when he obliged, she stretched herself over him as a blanket. Her body was taut and balanced and she did not worry about crushing Malcolm beneath her weight. She had learned from experience that she would not bruise his agile body on the hard floor.

She set her mouth lightly to his, moving over him with feigned leisure, ignoring her racing heart as she raised herself slightly with her lower arms so that she might arch fully into him.

Malcolm made a sound that was midway between a groan and laughter, and clasped her about the waist, urging her to find her seat.

The task was greatly hampered by the folds of her wet skirt, which had them tangled like a winding sheet.

“Bloody hell,” she muttered, frustrated by her trapped legs.

“ ’Tis not enough tae be bold, Taffy lass. One must also use a wee bit of strategy,” he said, rolling to one side and reaching for her blouse’s buttons with dexterous fingers. He grinned at her.

Taffy smiled back, pleased with his playfulness, and charmed as ever by the sight before her. His hair was drying and the dark locks fell in waves about his face. His sark was plastered
as close as skin to his broad chest, and its lacing conveniently at hand. He was more beautiful than she had ever seen him.

“What are ye thinking, Taffy lass?”

“That firelight becomes you.”

His eyes widened slightly.

“How plain ye have become, wife. How bright yer spirit. It fair dazzles me that ye can speak so clearly of what ye like.”

“You told me not to hide,” she reminded him.

“So I did! And good advice it was.”

He touched his lips to hers, tasting carefully of the last traces of whisky upon them. Like her, he kissed without haste, allowing them to enjoy the sensations of building lust.

His fingers were unhurried as he undressed her, removing first her blouse and then unfastening the ties of her chemise. He took his mouth from hers long enough for his eyes to follow his hand’s path as he pushed her damp skirts from her legs. The journey from thigh to ankle was a lingering one as he enjoyed the exquisite feel of her bared skin, calves to thighs, over the curve of waist to the softer pillows of breasts.

Beneath his hands, her nipples tightened, bringing another smile to his lips as he read the signs of desire that changed her body. Taffy did not mind either the scrutiny or his outward pleasure for she, too, felt the familiar joy that came from a complete joining. Malcolm was her first
and only love, and now husband in fact as well as in spirit. It was right to celebrate the union and wash away the ugly memories of what had passed the night before.

Her hands tugged his plaid loose and then moved over his skin, touching him as she wished, reveling in the feel of skin on skin, marveling at the difference that desire wrought upon them, his body becoming more hard and powerful, hers softer and yielding.

Malcolm watched her exploration, memorizing her expressions as he created a perfect memory, painting the moment with all its glorious emotional colors in the most personal corner of his mind. Her blushing skin, her golden hair spread in a wild halo, her eyes beckoning without shyness; all this went into memory’s portrait where it might be treasured in the days to come.

He cupped her chin and said softly: “Ye’ll never ken, lass, what delight ye have brought me. Ye’ve pulled me away from blackest despair.”

“I know what you mean to me,” she answered softly. “I think I can guess how you might feel.”

“I pray that I have brought ye joy in equal measure, wife, but doubt o’ it being possible.”

He kissed her then without circumspection, allowing need to overtake him and desire to ride him straight to its coveted end.

Taffy lifted her arms and wrapped him tight. Her legs she wound about him, too. She could
move but little, but she could feel—and did, with every bit of delicate flesh that touched Malcolm’s own. The friction made her squirm and arch. His lips upon her neck and then her ears were nearly scorching. The path of kisses sent her nerves dancing.

She squirmed and arched and even pleaded, but still Malcolm would not give her what she needed.

“Malcolm!” she groaned, beginning to tremble. Her body knew an actual ache and her loins yearned to clasp about him. “You are a heartless—”

Another kiss silenced her complaint. A last move of hips saw them finally joined. She gloried as he moved against her with telling urgency, the hard stone of their marriage bed completely forgotten.

Finally, there came the splintering of mind and body and the shower of sparks rained down upon her.

Malcolm went into the fire then, too. He released his own pleasure with a hoarse shout that was more elemental in tone than the music of his normal voice, and partially collapsed upon her.

“Sleep, love,” she said softly, touching his hair. “I will watch for us.”

Malcolm rolled to his side, and pulling his plaid over them, obeyed her command.

Taffy turned her face away from the growing
light and watched the shadows of wind-swept trees outside the cave dance upon the wall.

Nightfall saw them traversing the wildest tract of pathless moor. Malcolm had begun the evening in a cheerful mood, whistling a traditional
pibroch
while they bathed and he belted his plaid. But as they went into the world and the new moon wheeled overhead and began its descent into the day, he became quiet.

Taffy, too, felt uneasy. Small whispers of energy passed repeatedly over her skin, soft and unpleasant as dewy cobwebs on the face. But though she looked, she saw no sign that the still-folk were near. For once, no storm clouded the sky. There was no shadow stalking them. The plants behaved as they should, and they even disturbed a flock of doves who were nesting in a gnarled oak tree. Everything looked normal, peaceful even.

But Smokey and Malcolm were again moving like beasts of the hunt, quartering back and forth across the trail, so she did not attempt to lull herself into a tranquil, inattentive state.

Dawn brought them without mishap to yet another cave, but unlike the others where they had passed their days, Taffy felt a fierce aversion to entering the new shelter’s large interior.

“It isn’t a faerie cave, is it?” she whispered.

“It was. Something grievous has happened
within it.” He closed his eyes and began some inner communion. After a time, his eyes reopened and he shrugged. “I cannae feel that there is any present danger. Do ye wish tae go on a bit?”

Taffy considered the suggestion. A part of her wanted to do just that, but she was hungry and tired after her night of missed sleep. And a quick look inside the deep cavern did not suggest that there was anything physically threatening within its stone belly. There was simply an unpleasant atmosphere radiating from the cave’s black mouth, which could well be caused by her new sensitivity to some previous visitor’s upsetting the faerie spells that guarded it.

“No, let’s rest here. There is no guarantee that there will be better shelter and it is getting light.”