Chapter Ten

Tansy stared at the grim edifice before which she and Sir Malcolm stood. Constructed of cold gray stone, its color matched the day, which had dawned with a sharp wind and the threat of rain.

She glanced at the man beside her. Following their conversation last night while she’d tended his wounds, they’d tried to sleep. She knew he had not succeeded—she’d heard him moving restlessly and guessed at the thoughts in his mind. It could not be pain from his hurts keeping him awake; she’d woven a wee spell to take that away—just a tiny one and certainly no harm in it.

As for her, she’d fallen into sleep at last only to experience a series of dreams, ones which she now understood: fire, darkness, and pain. A terrible place sharp with cold, flaring bright with agony. Before, she’d supposed she anticipated what awaited her at the hands of the Commission. Now she understood she must share Sir Malcolm’s memories.

But how? And why? Was it because she’d woven that desperate spell at the crossroads, reached out and ensnared him? Did the threads of enchantment linger and somehow link them?

If they did, it seemed they would not keep him from abandoning her here in this terrible place with his friend, Cunningham.

How could she bear it?

Touching him last night had been agony of a different kind. She’d felt desire, aye, for Ossian, especially when she sought to influence him, and pleasure in his bonny appearance. Nothing like this.

And was she to watch this man ride out of her life?

She should have taken full advantage last night when she had the chance, insisted he remove his kilt and leggings, beneath which she knew very well he’d grown hard for her. His injuries extended there also—she had the excuse of needing to tend them. Something in his eyes had kept her from it.

Now she knew naught but regret.

Baldly she said, “I will never endure life in such a place as this.”

He gave her a look of surprise. “But you ha’ no’ even seen inside…”

“I have no need to. I can feel it.”

“Do no’ be foolish, lass. I can afford to spend no more time on you.”

“You maun go back to that place, in order to save your brother.” She stared at him, and saw the flames and darkness of last night’s dream. “What if you are captured once again?”

“’Tis naught to you, my fate.”

“Is it no’?” She continued to gaze at him, wishing she could explain the connection between them. She might have snared him with a wee spell; it had caught her as well.

“Nay. Come.”

A servant answered his rap at the door, a young girl in a neat gown and apron. Another—a lad—ran out to tend their horses. Before they gained the hall, a big, bluff man emerged from an inner room and greeted Sir Malcolm heartily.

“Malcolm! How wonderful to see you. And an unexpected surprise! The last I heard, you and Mercien were still in France.”

“Davey.” Malcolm clasped Cunningham’s hand heartily, and the man smiled.

“What brings you to us, my friend?”

Malcolm stole a look at Tansy. “Davey, I have a terrible great favor to ask.”

****

“Will I see you again?” Tansy pushed the hair out of her eyes and gazed at the man who stood in front of her. All clad for leaving he was, with his leather armor covering all those sore wounds. He looked grave and purposeful; she could feel he’d gathered himself up with a stern hand, focused on what lay before him.

Not on her.

Suddenly she could not bear it. Not so much that he should dismiss her from his mind—for once she did not need to be the center of attention, and she’d glimpsed, now, that which rode him—but for him to leave her for weeks, or perhaps months, not knowing what might befall him. For her to imagine the worst, lurid scenes akin to those dreams of fire and darkness.

His gaze rested on her at last; the corners of his mouth, so tight, eased a bit.

“Perhaps, lass. Perhaps not.”

She did not like the answer. Were she to accompany him, she might be able to help him in his quest, and ease his way, though he would never believe it so. She would at least know whether he lived or died.

“You will do well enough here, Tansy Bellrose Gant, if you keep obedient. Master Cunningham’s wife is a verra kind lady.”

“She does seem so.” Plain-faced and gentle-voiced, Mistress Cunningham did not appear the sort to shout at her servants. Ironically, she’d assigned Tansy the same duty poor wee Noreen had performed back at Crag Corvan—that of rising betimes to light the fires. Tansy would also help round the place where needed, scrubbing, fetching and carrying, and polishing Master Cunningham’s boots to a high shine.

In return she would receive her keep and half a day off every fortnight.

“And Davey Cunningham is a good man. Do no’ try him.” Sir Malcolm hesitated. “Give me your word, now, before I leave. I would prefer to leave easy in my mind and knowing you well settled.”

He cared. Because of the wee push she’d given him with her magic? Or another reason?

If he left her here, she’d never know, and it made her heart ache.

Tansy gazed into his eyes, searching. Deep as a moonless night they were, and nearly as fathomless.

“I promise I will no’ grieve Master Cunningham.” How could she, if she did not remain in his household? “Go with God and may the blessing of all the spirits, Sir Malcolm, keep you safe. And thank you. Thank you for saving my life. If I can ever repay that debt, I will.”

“You can best repay it by staying here, keeping safe and being obedient.”

So he might well say; she had her own ideas. Unlike any servant or much less a rescued waif, she reached up one hand and laid her fingers against his cheek. He blinked in surprise and froze like a hare before a fox.

She whispered words in the Gaelic, an old, old charm to bring him back again. And then, stretching on her toes, she replaced her fingers with her lips.

Delight—instant and forceful—made her dizzy, even as daring possessed her soul. He tasted just the way she’d imagined, felt as she’d imagined, too, the rough stubble on his face and the deep warmth. The threads of magic sleeping inside her stirred and unfurled without her volition.

Kiss me.

Did she think the command, or did he? No matter, for they moved together instinctively and at once. His gauntleted hands settled at her waist, hers crept around his neck, and their lips met.

It felt hot as fire, effortless as the magic inside her when it came, and sweeter than any spell. Och, no man should taste so good as this. ’Twas a woman’s downfall, her saving and her condemnation. For a woman would toss away the sure promise of heaven for this.

It should have been a fleeting caress—a salute, a farewell, a mere brush of lips on lips. Instead it turned into hunger, and Tansy readily opened her mouth to his, opening her soul as well.

Kiss me.

Their tongues tangled, a thing she’d never imagined. Ossian did not kiss like this. He slobbered, aye, and sucked at her mouth, but did not woo or give. This became a wild dance, tongue with tongue, and Malcolm’s flavor flooded into her, imparted itself, a thing she would never forget.

“Forgive me.” He broke the kiss and, breathing raggedly, rested his forehead against hers.

Forgive him? She wanted to present all of herself to him—on a platter if need be.

“There is naught to forgive.”

“That was far too bold of me, Tansy Bellrose Gant.”

“It was divine.”

He began to laugh softly. She’d never heard him laugh, and it delighted her to the bone.

“You know it was,” she insisted.

“Minx. But I canna’ deny it.”

Do not deny me. Do not leave me here. Do not pull my heart up by the roots and go away. I will suffer anything to be with you.

The thoughts shocked her. Everything about this shocked her—she, who would have claimed she could not be shocked.

“Something sweet to carry awa’ wi’ me.”

“Nay.” She trapped his face between her hands, forcing him to meet her gaze. She wanted to kiss him again, so much she could scarcely breathe. “Take me wi’ you.”

“Mistress, Tansy, I canna’. Not where I go.”

“Into danger.”

“Aye.”

“To this terrible, hard rescue.”

“’Tis a tortuous path. A risky one.”

“Let me come wi’ you. I care not what happens to me after.”

“Madness.”

“It is meant. Sir Malcolm, ha’ you never felt something is just meant?”

“I did no’ rescue you at that crossroad just so you might endanger yoursel’ again.” Very gently he disengaged from her grasp. “Let me go.”

Tansy stood gazing at him with rebellious eyes, her breath coming in gasps.

No, no, no.

He smiled sadly. “Take care, Mistress Gant. It will hearten me, thinking of you.”

“Tansy Bellrose Gant,” she corrected instinctively, but the words came only in a whisper and he heeded them not. Swiftly he strode away from her, away from the rear door of Master Cunningham’s house to the place where his horse waited.

For an instant the bright morning darkened all around Tansy. She saw blackness and death.

“Come back—”

But her cry dissipated in the clatter of hooves on stone, and he rode from the courtyard with nary a backward glance.