Heat flashed across Cecily’s face; astonished, she stared at Lachlan, mind reeling. Her hand flew to her throat, then her neat chin, fluttering undecidedly, her fingers finally settling around her jaw. What in heaven’s name was Lachlan thinking? Was he out of his mind? And yet a tiny kernel of hope flickered, deep in her belly. She touched her bottom lip, slowly, remembering his mouth upon hers. Maybe he thought more of her than she had imagined.
A dull ruddy colour touched the top of Henry’s gaunt cheeks; he cleared his throat several times, before gulping down some wine. The red liquid dribbled down his chin; he wiped it away angrily with his sleeve. ‘My God, Lachlan, you don’t have to do this! I wasn’t asking you to marry this...’ He sneered at Cecily. ‘Why saddle yourself with her when you could do so much better? Let her go to one of my lesser nobles.’
Cecily laid her palms flat upon the white tablecloth; her fingers shook and she tried to steady them Yes, she thought, come on, Lachlan; I want to hear what you have to say. Why would you saddle yourself with me? She searched his face for clues, but the lean angles of his face remained irritatingly bland, impassive.
Lachlan shrugged, hitching his eyebrow as if the matter was of no consequence. ‘I need a wife,’ he said. He leaned back in his chair, his arm stretched out over the linen tablecloth, his fingers playing with the stem of his pewter goblet. ‘And as you wish Lady Cecily to have a husband, then it may as well be me.’ And I can protect her with my name, he thought, even if I cannot give her my love.
Henry nodded. ‘I see. You need someone to produce some heirs, to carry on the family name after...’ His voice died away and he clamped his lips tight shut as if to prevent any further words emerging. Lachlan tipped his head to one side, acknowledging the fact that Henry was not going to talk about what happened in his past.
Cecily stared down at her plate, heaped high with food. Her mouth was dry; she had failed to eat even a single morsel. She had no idea why Lachlan had offered to marry her; she hadn’t envisaged such a thing before they had approached the King. Biting her lip, she sought out his bright blue eyes along the table. ‘Are you sure about this?’ She spoke directly to him, ignoring the King in between them. ‘It’s a big commitment.’ Beneath the fizzing nervous energy, beneath the anxiety that came from being in the King’s presence, something shifted within her heart. Was it hope?
The King rose between them suddenly, blocking her view of Lachlan. He was incredibly tall, taller than Lachlan, and his bony frame loomed over her. He leered down at her; his hawk-like nose, his face twisting with ferocious intent. ‘No one asked you to speak, Lady Cecily. You have no choice in this matter, after what you have done. You should be grateful that Lord Lachlan offered for your hand.’
At the King’s harsh words, she slumped back in her seat, clamping her lips together to hold back the tears. What a fool she had been; she should have learned to hold her tongue by now, especially in front of the King. This was a good outcome for her and she would do better for herself if she did not question it. If Lachlan was set on marrying her, then so be it.
‘If you’re sure you want to tie yourself to her, Lachlan, then I will not stand in your way.’ Henry swallowed the last dregs of wine from his goblet and wiped his beard with the back of his sleeve. ‘You’ve been a loyal supporter to me for all these years. But...’ Henry lifted his shoulders in an exaggerated gesture, then let them fall again with a deep sigh ‘...you know you can do much better than that chit.’
‘I know,’ said Lachlan.
But she’s the one I want.
The words popped into his head, unbidden; he blinked in surprise at the thought, his lashes flicking upwards, startled.
‘So be it.’ The King threw himself back into his chair, throwing his stained napkin into the middle of the table. ‘You can be married in the morning, in the chapel here. I will witness the marriage before the lords and barons start arriving here for the monthly parliament.’ He snapped his fingers impatiently towards an unseen servant. ‘Hester! Take Lady Cecily to the guest chamber and make sure she’s comfortable for the night. Lord Lachlan and I have a wedding to plan.’
Flanked by a pair of castle guards, Cecily made her way along the high dais. A weakness invaded her knees, Lachlan’s proposal driving all strength from her body. She resisted the urge to grip on to the chair backs as she moved along the top table, but she stumbled on the wooden steps and was forced to seize the banister. Smoke hazed the lower part of the great hall, belching out from an enormous stone fireplace. The air was thick with the smell of roasting meat and honeyed mead, mingling with the sour note of sweat that lifted from the crowds of people crammed together along the trestle tables, peasants and knights eating and drinking hungrily as the roar of their voices rose to the high rafters.
No one paid Cecily any attention as she slipped by them, following the diminutive maidservant, and for that she was grateful. The maid pulled at the heavy brocade curtain that hung across the open archway at the end of the hall and held it aside, indicating that Cecily and her guards should go through. The entrance hall was much cooler, lit by a single torch, slung into an iron bracket by the main door. In the shadows, Cecily made out the stone steps on the left that disappeared up through an arch to the upper floors.
A group of knights stood in the entrance hall, talking in low voices as they pushed back their gleaming chainmail hoods, and handed their gauntlets and shields to their young squires. Jewelled sword hilts sparkled in the gloom as they crowded into the small area, blocking the route to the stairs. A guard gripped Cecily’s upper arm, shoving her over to the left, towards the stone staircase so that the knights could enter the great hall.
A rope banister threaded up the steps, hung between iron rings; Cecily clawed at it, her stomach roiling with nerves. The maidservant, Hester, preceded her, lighting the shallow stone steps with a candle in a wooden cup. The guttering flame dipped and swayed along walls that sparkled with damp. Her mind clouded with staggered disbelief at what had just happened in the great hall. Her life had been spared by the King, but only if she married. And Lachlan was to be her husband.
Reaching the first-floor landing, Hester lifted the iron latch on the first door she came to and pushed it open, standing aside so that Cecily could enter. ‘In here, my lady. I will come and make the bed up for you.’ She cast a steely gaze at one of the guards. ‘Make yourself useful. Run downstairs and tell the kitchens to send up hot water for a bath. Now, if you please.’
The other guard dangled an elaborate key from his gauntleted finger, swinging the heavy iron from side to side. ‘They won’t escape while you’re gone, Geraint,’ he reassured his friend. ‘I will lock them in.’ The other man nodded and disappeared back down the stairs.
The chamber was dim. A small charcoal brazier threw out a flickering heat in one corner. Hester shut the chamber door, pressing her hips firmly back against the planks, before walking swiftly around the room, touching her little candle flame to the rush torches set at intervals around the stone walls, before fitting the candle into a iron holder beside the four-poster bed. A glowing, ambient light filled the chamber.
‘You must be tired, my lady, after your journey.’ Over by the window was a bucket of charcoal pieces. She picked up a couple of lumps and threw them into the hot, molten centre of the brazier. ‘They were saying in the kitchens that you have travelled in from the moor.’
Cecily stood by the door. The edges of her cloak, below the row of buttons at the neck, had fallen aside. She wound the ties from the girdle around her gowns round and round her middle finger, pinching the skin. Her head jerked up. ‘Yes, I did.’ A great shiver passed through her. Questions clamoured in her brain, gnawed at her, making her feel exhausted with the effort of thinking about it all.
Hester glanced at her shyly, clasping her hands in front of her simply cut gown. She was a short, buxom girl of about twenty winters. ‘The King has posted guards outside your door,’ she whispered. ‘What have you done, my lady? They’re saying in the kitchens that you murdered two men.’
The arrival at the castle of the dead knights slung over the back of her horse would not have gone unnoticed. The rumours and gossip must have travelled around the castle like wildfire. ‘It’s a long story,’ Cecily sighed. ‘I have committed a crime, but I haven’t killed anyone. I’m not a danger to you, if that’s what you’re worried about.’
Hester grinned and shook her head, her soft brown eyes gleaming. ‘I know, my lady. I am a good judge of character; I know you’re not a bad person.’
Hot tears, sudden and unbidden, sprang to Cecily’s eyes. A trembling wave of gratitude flooded through her: a vast relief. How could a few simple words from a maidservant overwhelm her so? Cecily stuck her chin into the air, trying to keep the tears from falling. ‘Thank you, Hester. It means a lot to me to hear you say that.’
The girl threw her a quick smile. ‘Do you wish to sit while I make up the bed?’ She pointed to a plain oak chair, the tall laddered back pushed back against the white-plastered wall. ‘I shall not be long.’
Cecily moved to the chair as if in a dream, almost falling into the seat. Hester snapped out the bottom sheet, a fine-woven linen, tucking the fabric neatly in and around the straw-stuffed mattress. She laid another sheet and woven woollen blankets on top, plumping up a couple of feather pillows and placing them carefully against the vast carved headboard. Rummaging about in a large oak chest, she produced a sable fur which she threw across the whole bed.
‘There,’ Hester said, stepping back, surveying the bed with a satisfied air. ‘Now...’ she turned to Cecily and clapped her hands together ‘...now I shall prepare a bath for you. Where are those lazy louts from downstairs?’
As if on cue, there was a tap at the door. Cecily watched hazily from the chair as servant after servant marched in to pour their brimming buckets into a bath that was hidden behind a tapestry screen. Hester chided the servants, scolding them for slopping too much water on the floor, pointing with an outstretched hand to the puddles on the polished elm floor. As the last boy left the chamber and the key turned once more in the lock from the outside, the diminutive, apple-cheeked maid turned to Cecily, rolling her sleeves up to her elbows.
‘The water is ready, my lady,’ she announced quietly. ‘Shall I help you with your clothes?’
Cecily rose unsteadily from the chair, a wave of nausea passing through her belly. Had she eaten too much or too little in the great hall? Her memory of the evening seemed obliterated, except for...except for the moment when Lachlan said he would marry her. Her head lolled, as if iron weights had been attached to the nape of her neck. She stared down ruefully at the hem of her filthy skirts.
‘I will take your clothes and have them washed, mistress. With all the fires going in the kitchen, they will be dry by morning. I can fetch a nightgown for you to wear now.’
‘I have a leather satchel with some possessions in,’ Cecily explained. ‘The bag is down in the great hall, with my cloak.’ She removed her circlet and veil and laid them on the end of the bed.
‘I will have them fetched for you,’ Hester said. ‘Now, shall I help you with your gown?’
Between them, they undid the side-lacings of Cecily’s over-gown, Hester lifting the gown over Cecily’s head. The fabric collapsed in a muddy purple heap on the floor, the spiralling silver embroidery twinkling in the candlelight. Hester worked on the tiny buttons securing the sleeves on Cecily’s lilac underdress. When, at last they flapped free, Cecily managed to pull the looser garment over her head without help.
‘Thank you, Hester,’ Cecily said as she stood before the maidservant in her chemise and stockings. She had already removed her wet leather boots and noticed that Hester had placed them beneath the charcoal brazier, in the hope that they would dry out overnight. ‘You can go now, if you like. Or has the King told you to stay?’
Hester dipped her head slightly. ‘The King gave me no orders, my lady, other than to help you, but...’ The smooth skin on her forehead puckered with worry.
‘Say what you want to say, please,’ Cecily encouraged her softly. She wiggled her feet in her damp stockings, watching the steam float out languidly from the edges of the tapestry screen.
‘Forgive me if I seem outspoken, my lady, but I would not like to leave you alone in this chamber while you take a bath. Not with those men outside in the corridor. You cannot secure the door from the inside and they are free to walk in at any time. They have the key...’
Cecily held up her hand. ‘Then stay, Hester. I would like you to.’
The woman beamed. ‘I shall sit by the door, my lady, and guard your privacy.’
Once behind the screen, Cecily quickly removed her chemise, undergarments and stockings and climbed into the wooden tub. She released her hair, unpinning her bun, and shaking out her plaits into long, curling tresses that brushed against the curve of her hips. As the hot water closed over her shoulders, she gasped at the sweet sensation, at the silky liquid caress that eased the tension in her aching limbs. She shuddered, a deep, rippling vibration that started at the tips of her freezing toes and worked its way up her body. Bringing her knees up, she sank even lower, her loosened hair floating out on the water, like silky seaweed.
Leaning her head back against the wooden brim, she traced the colourful images in the tapestry screen that shielded her from the main part of the chamber. The scene was of a forest, depicting trees and elaborate foliage, with wild mythical beasts roaming along in the foreground. The detail was exquisite, with every image, down to the last tiny acorn at the bottom of the screen executed in the finest needlework. She remembered her sister, her mother, with their heads bent over the tapestry frames at home, then in the solar chamber at Okeforde Castle. In her mind’s eyes, the scene appeared to be one of cosy domesticity, yet she knew she was lying to herself. Every day had been riven through with tension, her mother’s barbed comments and dark looks. How she wished it could have been otherwise. Maybe one day she would see them again. After she had married Lachlan.
After she had married Lachlan.
Closing her eyes, she sank down further into the water. In order to protect her skin from catching any splinters from the wooden sides, the bath was lined with a large piece of linen, and, as she leaned her head back against the brim, her neck was cushioned by the fabric. A deep frown furrowed her brow, a sense of loss and shame. Lachlan had offered to marry her, why, she had no idea, other than a misguided sense of responsibility, because she was a problem to be solved rather than the fact that she was someone he wanted to be with.
Yet she wanted to be with him.
Her eyes popped open. He had looked after her in this last few days, there was no denying that. He had chosen not to reveal her deception to Simon and had offered to escort her to the King so she had not been at the mercy of Lord Simon’s knights. She had grown used to that wonderful feeling of protection, of being cared for. She had forgotten what it was like to be alone.
Cecily shifted in the bath. The water sloshed against the sides, a soft gurgling sound. Exhaustion clogged her brain, making it sluggish, unresponsive. On the brink of sleep, her head rolled to one side and she nudged it upright again. Forcing her eyes open, she scrubbed her arms furiously with the linen flannel and white bar of honeyed soap left by Hester on a circular wooden stool by the tub. After she had rubbed every inch of her body with the flannel, rinsed all the dirt and sweat from her skin, she turned her attention to her hair, sinking down into the deep water to wet her long tresses. Bobbing up once more she lathered the sweet-smelling soap through her hair, then slid down again to rinse it.
‘My lady?’
Hester’s voice made her jump. Her fingers skittered across the rapidly cooling water, causing an eruption of little ripples across the surface. She twisted her head. Hester poked her head around the side of the tapestry screen. One end of her linen head-wrap had come loose; a bright strand of blonde hair curled down in front of her ear.
‘Shall I help you out, my lady? The water must be cold by now.’
‘Yes, thank you.’
With Hester holding on to her arm, Cecily stepped over the high-sided wooden tub and out on to the sheepskin rug that protected her bare feet from the cold wooden floorboards. Her naked skin gleamed in the candlelight, the water sluicing down her toned limbs. Hester wrapped a large linen towel around her and used another towel to dry Cecily’s hair, patting the long tresses gently to soak up most of the water.
‘If you sit on this stool near the brazier, my lady, then I can comb your hair for you.’
Cecily scooped up the towel around her naked skin and settled on to the low wooden stool. She wiggled her bare toes into the soft sheepskin. Lit by a couple of candles set into wall niches, the area behind the tapestry screen was warm and cosy, the charcoal brazier throwing off a delicious heat. She tipped her head back as Hester pulled a comb through her wet locks, her fingers deft and gentle.
‘I can braid it for you, mistress, when it is drier,’ Hester said. There was a sharp rap at the door. ‘That will be your satchel from the great hall, my lady. I sent someone to fetch it for you.’ She disappeared around the screen.
Cecily heard the click of the latch and Hester’s lilting tones, speaking to whoever was in the corridor. The words were muffled, difficult to decipher. Her wet hair was draped over her ears and the spitting coals in the brazier obscured most sound. All Cecily could hear were the high-pitched notes of Hester’s voice against the low rumble of a servant in the corridor. Then she heard the door close once more, and the heavy key clunk round noisily in the lock. She smiled, thinking of the maidservant ordering the guards outside to give her that key.
‘Was it my bag, Hester?’ she called, dabbing a trickle of water away from her cheek with a corner of the towel. Rising from the stool, Cecily flapped the towel open so that she could wrap it around herself more securely. She moved around the screen.
Hester was not there.
Lachlan stood by the door, clutching her leather satchel. The bag looked incongruous in his large, sinewy hands—too small, too feminine to be carried by such a man. He was a warrior and a fighter, not a carrier of bags. His eyes fell on her slim, scantily clad figure; roamed the luscious curves greedily: the concave belly, smooth with a pearl-like lustre, the enticing curve of her breast. She flipped the towel briskly across her naked flesh, angling her jaw up at him in question.
‘Why are you here?’ Cecily hung back, half-hidden by the screen.
‘I...’ Lachlan trawled his mind to find something, anything appropriate to say, but the words had vanished from his brain. His head was empty, bereft of coherent speech. He sucked in his breath; tried again. ‘I brought...your satchel,’ he croaked out. ‘I thought you might need it.’
Cecily stood poised, a startled deer about to run. Her eyes were huge, great shimmering discs of green dominating her face. The large towel draped over her; she gripped it fiercely to her throat, her knuckles white. And yet it was not enough. Further down, the fragile edges gaped dangerously, affording him tantalising glimpses of her soft, rounded thighs; the neat indent of her knee. The elegant bones of her ankle. Christ, she was perfect.
Heat thumped through him; sweat slicked the back of his neck, his scalp. His senses snapped, thrust him up to a stark, vivid awareness. The air changed, knife-sharp, a quivering tension. He wolfed down her beauty, a starving man, searching the shadows beneath her towel. Pinned to the spot, incapable of stopping himself. What had seemed in the great hall like a simple act of kindness, taking Cecily’s satchel upstairs because he thought she might need something, had now become a hazardous mission. Why had he not just handed the bag over to the maid at the door, instead of sending her and the guards downstairs for their supper? What a stupid mistake.
He should leave, he told himself. Get out, now.
‘Lachlan...’ Cecily hesitated, as if unsure about moving from the relative safety of the screen. Her glorious hair, the colour of a fawn’s pelt, straggled around her in loose curling waves, dropping to her hips. Like the first day when he had met her, down by the river. Her skin was damp, gleaming from her bath, lit by the flickering candles. He traced the curve of her neck, the rapid pulse at her throat.
Lachlan cleared his throat, a wave of heat coursing through his muscular body. ‘Here,’ he said, holding out the bag towards her, unwilling to move from the door.
‘Thank you.’ Cecily’s voice was quiet, muted. His eye fell upon the hollow at her throat, the sparkling residue of water polishing her skin. She stepped forward to take the satchel.
No, no, go back! His belly clenched with desire, a burgeoning heat, slowly building. He retreated with a quick step, his shoulder hitting the door.
Cecily glanced at him, a rosy colour staining her cheeks. ‘Lachlan, I need to talk to you about...what happened down there. In the great hall.’
‘Now is not a good time.’ His eyes fell to the cleft on her chest and, sweet Jesu, the tantalising curve of one breast, peeking out from beneath the towel.
‘But you’ll want to hear this,’ Cecily said eagerly, stepping closer to him. His heels bumped against the locked door.
‘Later,’ he ground out. Shock ran through his body, a swift, zig-zagging jolt that whipped through him like wildfire. Cecily stood inches from him, her beautiful body clad only in the gauzy woven linen, her bare toes, like small pink shells, peeking out from the flowing sweep of fabric, magnificent hair snaking down in glossy rivulets, hair that he wanted to bury his...
‘So what do you think...?’
‘Wh-what...?’ he spluttered, dragging his eyes up to her face. Had she been speaking? ‘Christ, woman, will you please cover yourself!’ Exasperated, he lurched for the towel, intending to drag it across her naked flesh, in a desperate attempt to hide the shadowy delights that lay beneath.
His knuckle grazed her flesh. Her skin held the patina of velvet, smooth and cool. Sweetly seductive.
Cecily gasped beneath his touch, her mouth dropping open in surprise; he could see her small white teeth, neat and even, the silky roll of her tongue. Desire stabbed his heart, tore at his muscles, twisting them slowly, ever tighter. Her eyes shimmered, translucent emeralds fringed by dark lashes. She tipped her head to one side as if bemused by his behaviour.
Did she have no idea of the effect she was having on him? The candle shone out from the bedside, shining through the linen that she had wrapped around her, highlighting the soft curves of her body: the neat indent of her waist, the flaring curve of her hips.
He thought he would go mad. Air whistled from his lungs. He gritted his teeth, pivoting smartly to face the door, his fingers clawing desperately at the key to unlock it. He had taken the key from the guards and locked the chamber from the inside in order to maintain Cecily’s privacy. What a fool he had been.
She touched his arm, stalling him. ‘Why will you not talk to me?’
He heard the plaintive note in her voice, the rejection. The key slipped from his sweating fingers, spinning across the floor boards. ‘Hell’s teeth!’ Lachlan thumped on the door, leaning his forehead against the cool wood. He closed his eyes, breathing heavily. Where was his self-control, the restraint that he prided himself on? Where was it now, when he needed it the most?
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Cecily, her eye travelling across the breadth of his shoulders, his bent head. She gazed at the dried matted blood on his hair, marking the place where he had been hit. ‘Are you ill? Is your head paining you?’
‘Nay, Cecily, I’m not ill.’ Despair tugged at his voice.
‘Then why will you not talk to me?’ She knotted her fingers together in front of her stomach, shivering a little in the cooler air of the chamber; it had been warmer behind the tapestry screen with the brazier burning.
Lachlan turned back, bracing his spine, his legs against the solid oak door. ‘Do you really have no idea?’ His speech was weary, teetering on a precipice.
She shook her head.
‘I’m trying to protect you, Cecily.’
‘Protect me? From what?’
‘Oh, God in Heaven!’ Lachlan growled. ‘From me, Cecily. From me.’
A single drop of water trailed down from her ear to the hollow of her throat. He tracked the glistening orb with his eyes, instinct guiding his finger to stop its downward path. Lust flickered beneath the dark crust of his conscience, a banked-up fire that burst forth with ravening thirst. He moved his finger slowly upwards, savouring the satin lustre of her skin, up, up, until he reached the softest spot, beneath her chin. His fingers lifted away, wrapped around her jaw.
Her breath pulled in, swift and fierce. A keening sigh, heavy with need, with longing. Her head tilted, wanting his touch. Wanting more. She would not say a word. She would not stop him.
His jaw hardened. ‘Forgive me,’ he whispered, ‘for what is about to happen.’