Читать книгу A Knight and White Satin - Jackie Ivie - Страница 7

AD 1540

The spoils went to the victor. Always. It was one truth of life that the Caruths embraced and flexed at will. That was before spoils included her.

For members of the warrior clan of Caruth, claiming victory, taking riches, and wreaking vengeance was right and just and exercised without warning, empathy, or delay. To have it turned so completely was causing bitterness to flood her breast until it was rooted in disgust as she watched them.

It was Dunn-Fadden clan. Beggars. Wanderers. Fools. The entire clan was a mass of disjointed factions with none claiming leadership until this surprise. A dark shadow filled the space in front of her, taking her unseeing vision from the few gleeful Dunn-Fadden men ripping apart her home. She focused on their leader and frowned deeper.

“Come.” He had his hand out, the one still encased in the falconer glove. The bitterness moved, filling her throat with the acrid taste. “Nae,” she told him.

A half-smile played about his lips for a moment and in the next Dallis was atop his shoulder, blinking on the blood-coated, split tiles of the great hall floor, and hating the fact that she hadn’t even seen him move.

“You can struggle. I’d like that.”

The portion of her anatomy that he was fondling had never felt what it was now. Dallis choked back any reaction as his free hand caressed her buttocks that he’d put on display for the act. And then he was moving, taking sure steps that had her bouncing with each one.

“Dinna’ do this!”

He’d reached the steps leading to her tower, as if he knew where her bedchambers were. If she could have stopped the sobbed words, she would have. Dallis sucked her lower lip into her mouth and bit down, holding it in place to keep any further emotion from sounding. She’d been taught better. You never showed weakness and suffering. And pain? There was nothing more painful than the sting of clan censure and hatred. Dallis held her lessons close, started going through them in a prayerlike chant, and still she couldn’t stop the shivers. All she could hope was he didn’t note them.

He chuckled. He had broad shoulders she’d noted earlier and they shuddered with what was probably his amusement.

“Do what? You’re my wife. Taken this night. In wedlock.”

“A pagan ceremony, given without clergy!”

He had to have heard her even if he was taking each step like they were level and not steeply assembled. The angle had to be steep. The spiral stairs were a tight and rapid ascent. That’s what came of having such a tall, square keep; one that was impenetrable and had never been taken…could never be taken.

Until now.

He didn’t say anything to her outburst. He didn’t have to. She knew the toll she was paying. She just wished all the teachings meant something when butted up against reality. Not fear the solid mass of man that was carrying her? How was she to do that? Mayhap her clan shouldn’t have saved the altar of her maidenhead until she was plum-ripe and almost too old. Maybe they shouldn’t have dangled the castle, glens, and lochs that came with her hand. Mayhap they should have wed her off to her betrothed, one of the king’s most powerful earls, the moment she’d come of an age for it. Any of that they should have done.

In her mind’s eye, she could still see the shine of spilt blood below, and how it was being washed by the drip of rain through the roof that had been ripped open when the Dunn-Faddens had first used their battering ram. Dallis had never known the like, never even experienced it. The moment the tree they’d felled hit the doors, the most horrendous roll of the earth had happened, making the floors sway and crack, her mother’s prized leaded glass windows warp and then fall inward—creating shards that were difficult to fight amongst and even harder to dodge when wearing slippers—and their blow had even caused the roof above the great hall to split.

They’d reached her chamber, and he didn’t have to use a handle to open the door since it was gaping wide from the jamb. The force he’d somehow summoned had affected even here, three stories up the square tower that had been the sign of Caruth power for over a century. He swung wide giving Dallis a sweeping vision of what had been a lady’s chamber, decorated with material in a white hue she demanded, but was now little more than hanging strips marking where her canopy had been, an open window where the leaded glass hung in chunks, and chests that contained absolutely nothing.

Then there was her serf, Bronwyn. The girl appeared from the antechamber to stand, wringing her hands and sobbing tears that Dallis didn’t have the luxury of crying.

“Get out.”

The man holding her ordered Bronwyn out, but the maid did little more than burst into louder sobs.

“Take the wench and get her from the chamber. Take her below. Use her for sport. Keep an eye out for Caruth clan. They’ll have sent a cry.”

Bronwyn shrieked louder and there wasn’t even anyone near her. Dallis knew the girl wasn’t adverse to a romp, and made certain she had a bed to share for her nights. That should have helped contain Dallis’s own fear.

“There’ll be none to witness the consummation, my laird.”

“It won’t be an issue. Take her. Now.”

The man holding her spoke to three men at his heels that Dallis hadn’t known were following them. She gulped, sent the streak of emotion deep, and turned her head sideways, away from them. It was better to arouse anger. That was her lesson. It helped temper everything else. She heard Bronwyn’s screams all the way down the hall, and couldn’t summon anything except fright.

The door wasn’t shutting properly. Dallis hung to his waist as he fussed with it, pushing and shoving and then cursing while she swayed with each movement. The fit had been perfect before God betrayed them and sent the earth heaving. Or maybe it was this Dunn-Fadden and his heathen gods that had the power to make the very earth move with but one hit of a battering ram.

“Now.” He had the door bowed, but he’d managed to bolt it, and then he had her on her feet. He backed several steps off and then he just stood there, waiting. He didn’t even look to be breathing hard. “What was that said about clergy?”

“Without benefit.”

“Unions are held with less.” He was unfastening the falcon glove as he spoke, undoing the leather tyrrits that his peregrine had been attached to. She knew he’d own a peregrine without asking. Such a falcon befitted his station.

“And without my troth!” She hadn’t agreed to being his wife. She couldn’t have. They’d put a bond across her lips, keeping her from saying anything.

He looked across at her, spearing her with an ice-blue gaze that had caught her attention when he’d first pulled off his helm and shown her the color of them. They still did. Dallis had to force her heart to calm, cease the fluttering that was making her ribs feel tight, and then she had to gulp around an obstruction in her throat.

“Your clan had the choice put to them. They should na’ have declined.”

He had the glove off, and then he was starting to work at the linkage of his thigh-length hauberk. He was wearing Norse battle attire. It was strange, but difficult to fault. It was also difficult to pierce. She had to wait. The dirk hidden in the back of her girdle would be enough. She just had to be patient until he was vulnerable, and that meant until he had the chain-crafted tunic off.

“And it was na’ agreed! Never! I’m trothed already!”

“Get undressed,” he said.

Dallis’s eyes widened. “I’m na’ helping you,” she managed a reply, and it was evenly said and without inflection. She was very proud of that.

“I dinna’ request it,” he replied.

He pulled the hauberk from his body, showing he wore a tunic of gray that was plastered to muscles with sweat. And little else. It was going to be easy to pierce flesh. She just had to keep him occupied—and not with bedding her.

“Why do you wear…mail?” she asked, with the slightest touch of snideness. “’Tis na’ verra manly.”

“Protection. In battle. My father has but one son. Me. There are some that think me a large target. Easiest to see and easiest to hit.”

“You are a large target,” she replied.

He looked across at her again, stopping her breath for the barest moment with eyes that looked so striking against swarthy skin and midnight-black hair. Then he was frowning at her. She assumed it was from lack of motion, as she wasn’t obeying anything he’d said. His hands stopped fussing with the kilt knot at his hip.

“True,” he replied finally. “I dinna’ like to wear it. I’m forced to.”

Dallis eyed his arms, bare now and thick with strength. There was an obvious sign of muscle on the stomach his tunic was barely shielding, as well. To think him forced to do anything was a lie. It had to be.

“How?” she asked.

“We’ve nae time for talk. You ken it. I ken it. Now, take your wedding dress off or I’ll be forced to tear it from your body.”

Her eyes widened. Nothing else on her entire frame betrayed anything. “This is na’ my wedding dress.”

He smiled, not enough to show teeth, but enough to show his amusement. “It is now,” he replied finally. “And I’d na’ like ripping it.”

That reply created shock akin to an ice bath, and her heart was hammering so loudly, she could barely hear over it. “What difference…will that make?” She stumbled once through the question, and was amazed her voice didn’t warble.

He’d given off untying his kilt and it helped gain her breath. And then he made it immeasurably worse by pulling the gray wool shirt over his head, moving an array of muscle and baring an expanse of flesh that made her gape. She’d also slighted him. He wasn’t just the largest target. He was the largest, most fit male she’d ever seen. Anywhere. Even on the castle list.

One thing was certain. He was in much better condition, much younger in age, and much more handsome than her intended husband, who was well-known for two of those things. Admitting that much to herself was a huge mistake. She realized it as her mouth filled with spittle and her eyes widened. She couldn’t do a thing about the increase in her pulse. Someone should have put that in her lessons. He was affecting her too much to think.

“We haven’t this much time. I’ll na’ speak it again. Take off your kirtle, or face having it torn off and going without.”

“The king shall hear of this!”

He gave her another smile, wider this time, revealing teeth that probably owed their whiteness to his tanned appearance, and not any care. “The king canna’ put asunder a union that’s been consummated. I’ve given off the warnings, lass. I’ve na’ this much patience.”

Then he was striding toward her, making her tower room seem small and insignificant and more stark than usual. Dallis backed up, stumbling on long skirts she didn’t lift. She couldn’t. Her hands were behind her back, fumbling for the dirk with fingers numbed by something she wouldn’t label as fear. They were cold. Her fingers were that. The handle of her knife was slender, jewel encrusted, and fit for a lady’s hand. It looked the size of a needle when she had it out and held in front of her.

“Stay away from me!” Dallis hissed, waving the small blade in front of her.

He didn’t break stride. Not even when he reached her and she had it buried in his left side. There wasn’t the sign of anything on his face as she pierced flesh, although Dallis was gagging with the feel of it. The spurt of blood doused her, staining the white with crimson. He had her pushed against the wall with his left hand, and with his right he grabbed the neckline of her serviceable bliant and tore it completely down the middle. Nothing on his features betrayed the slightest bit of pain, or anger, or anything, although the light blue color of his eyes seemed darker. Or maybe it was the shadow cast by heavy lashes in the same shade as his hair.

There was a loud pounding in her ears, and then she realized it was the door. She couldn’t think. His weight was stifling her as he used it, shoving his body at her, and making her knees tremble and her back clench. She felt him move, smearing his palm with his own blood before jamming it between her legs. Dallis’s jaw dropped, her features flooded with heat and everything on her entire body felt locked into place as he fondled, putting fingers where no man had ever been and forcing a reaction she didn’t know anything about.

“Deny that,” he growled.

“Nae! I—” Her voice stopped.

She saw the door opening from behind him, the hall behind filled with Caruth clan colors. Dunn-Fadden was at the window, the little jewel hilt sticking from his side since her hand had lost grip with it some time earlier, and she was too caught up in stifling all the tremors overtaking her to care. She hoped it killed him.

“Payton Dunn-Fadden! You crazed whelp of a she-wolf!”

Someone called his name and the slur with it. He ignored it. He was piercing her with those eyes…fathomless blue eyes, making everything else disappear. She knew it was going to be imprinted on her mind forever; the sight of him silhouetted in a window that was crafted large to let light in, but protected from enemy attack by the sheer height of it. That same light molded him for her, turning solid flesh into a statue of memory and making her absorb it. And then he turned and launched right out her window.

The room was filling with Caruth clan, all yelling and shoving, drowning out any sound of the splash his body would make as it hit the loch. Some even commented on it at her window. After a glance, anyone else was studiously avoiding looking at her; at the ripped gown, the nakedness, and the blood pointing toward…what he’d done. Dallis didn’t move her eyes from where he’d been standing. She didn’t think she could.

Bronwyn fought her way through them then, her arms loaded with what had once been Dallis’s canopy of pristine white material. It looked heaven-sent. It was exactly that. She realized it as the maid wound it about her, covering over her nakedness, his blood, and the proof that she was no longer a member of the Caruth clan.

She was the bride of Dunn-Fadden. And that’s how she came to be the outcast known as White Satin.

Death wasn’t what he’d expected. Neither was heaven. Or maybe it was hell. Either way, there was too much yelling and cursing and shouting for it to be heaven, and way too much softness, filling drinks and cool, soothing linens for it to be the other.

A fire ate away at his side until it took over his entire frame. That had put him in hell. Then the cool cloth upon him had tempered it. There had also been the soothing sounds of lovely singing and words of crooning…sounds like his mother had once made when he was a small lad. It wasn’t his mother, though. That would have made it heaven, since he was certain that’s where she’d gone. So, if it wasn’t heaven—he wasn’t dead. And it wasn’t his mother.

Payton opened his eyes. It was his bed, his room, and his walls. It was the clan healer, Josephine, doing the singing. Nobody had told him she had the voice of an angel. He rather thought she’d be treated differently if anyone knew she could sing as beautifully as she did. He opened his mouth to speak it, but she shoved another spoonful of broth in, stopping him.

“You gave us quite a fright, lad,” she said as he swallowed. And then she smiled. “What with trying to swim Caruth loch with a wound such as you had.”

“Wound?” Payton asked, and frowned.

“The hole in your side, draining your life’s blood away. I did the best I could. It’s still an ugly scar. You should ha’ taken the wench’s sewing needles away a-fore you took her.”

“Where?” Payton tried to sit, but coughing racked his chest, weakness took over his limbs, and all he really managed to do was make her cackle. She should have stuck to her singing. It was more melodious, he decided, once the cough had settled to a whiff of sound and he could breathe and think again.

“You were in luck the lass didn’t have a bigger weapon. You’d have probably lost your manhood.” She gave another cackle after her words. Payton sucked for a bit of breath to answer. It felt like it was burning a hole right through his chest. He let it go.

“I’ve kept it secret, lad, but you should ha’ put a rein on the other lads’ tongues. They’ve been regaling all who’d listen with your exploits. Not without encouragement, either. All and sundry wish to hear.”

“What…are you speaking of?” Payton gasped through the entire sentence, and even had to stop for breath midway. She waited. That was another good thing about her. She had so little company most of the time that she always showed courtesy and listened carefully when she had it. Then again, she probably wanted to know all of it so she could add words meant to belittle him.

“Your little foray onto Caruth land. Your wedding of the heiress. Your taking of the keep. All wonderful exploits. All making your da strut about like he’s sired the most manly fellow to set foot on the earth.” She bent closer, gifting him with a foul odor from her gap-toothed mouth. Payton winced. “You should na’ have turned tail and run. You might have been able to keep the tower once you gained it…if you’d have told anyone what you were planning, that is.”

They hadn’t told anyone they were planning on attacking the White Tower. It was a lark while the lairds were at court, undertaken without much thought, no cunning, and after an eve of drinking whiskey. They’d expected to take a chunk of the white rock used to construct the structure as proof that they’d braved it. Maybe steal a kiss or two—if the wenches weren’t too ungodly ugly or unwilling. Never did they expect the earth to heave up and assist them the moment they rammed the gate. It was as if God had decided to open the door for them and had even given them the key.

The Caruths within the walls had fought hard, deathly hard, as was their creed. They’d been battle-prepared and hadn’t waited to engage in one. There’d been so much blood. His vision was stained with it. That was regrettable. As was Ian’s death. Payton closed his eyes. Nobody was supposed to die.

“The king’s given you a goodly portion of Caruth kirk, as well.”

“He…has? Why?”

“Well, only if you can seize it and hold it. ’Tis what your da petitioned for.”

“Da…petitioned The Stewart?”

She grinned. More of her foul breath touched him. Payton was grateful he couldn’t take great, lung-expanding gulps of air at the moment. “Aye. The moment he heard. He’s had a blood-lust for the earl of Kilchurning that nothing can stanch. They’ve been feuding ever since the earl’s great-aunt left your great-grandfather standing at the wedding altar whilst she eloped with that Irishman some generations back. You know the story.”

Payton groaned.

“Why…to ken that his own son filched Kilchurning’s betrothed right from beneath the man’s nose was beyond great! The laird was crowing. Strutting. Saw his chance and took it. He turned his mount about the moment he learned and went right back to Edinburgh. I dinna’ ken if he even stopped for a change of horseflesh. That’s how pleased he was at your exploits.”

“Da…did that?”

“Aye. And all exclaimed over the tale. Why…the king’s entire court’s been a-buzz at what you did. It’s highly chivalrous. They’re bandying it about as a sonnet. You might hear it once you’ve healed enough.”

“Nae,” Payton whispered.

“Oh, aye. With minstrels. They sing of your attack of the Caruth tower with but a band of ten clansmen. Your taking of the castle…splitting the roof wide open and fighting your way in. ’Twas most heroic. And then filching the heiress right from beneath their noses? Na’ only that…but wedding and bedding with her, too? And all a-fore clan alarm could be given? ’Tis said you’ve the strength of a demon and the speed of a griffin. Why, they’re even saying you’re immortal, since nae mortal could have done it.”

Payton breathed out slowly and a curse went with it.

“Little do they ken the wench stuck a sewing needle in your side, putting you on your back worse than any whore.” She was cackling and chortling, and he couldn’t decide which was worse, her words or her laughter.

“You need to learn that about women, Payton Dunn-Fadden.”

“Learn…what?”

“Na’ all folk tremor at your passage, young one, although you’ve done so much to gain yourself that reputation, it will probably be truth now. Na’ all men run in fear from you, nor do all the women swoon in ecstasy even a-fore you touch them.”

“I’m really tired,” he said, more to shut her up than because it was true. He didn’t want to hear another word.

“Women. Mark my words, Payton Dunn-Fadden. The women will be falling over themselves to get your attention. Even worse than a-fore. You’ve a reputation now. You’re a dangerous man. A conqueror. Taking no quarter and expecting none.”

Payton groaned again. There wasn’t any way to stop her words. She wouldn’t cease them until she said everything and made it worse. The Caruth wench hadn’t betrayed him. She hadn’t said a word about it. He wondered why. He couldn’t even remember her name. Or her face. She hadn’t been remarkable except for the size of her bosom once he’d had it displayed, and even that vision was tempered by a haze of pink-washed pain he’d been looking through. She had brown hair. He thought it was brown. It had been tightly braided about her head, but a few strands had come loose in her struggle to keep from being wed. It looked to be a brown color, interspersed with red; an autumn red, tinged with a bit of orange. Her eyes had been a hazel color, more brown than green. Unremarkable. That’s what she was. No great beauty. And she might even be older than his twenty-two years. Maybe. He didn’t really know. She hadn’t been young. That, he knew.

“We’ll start your new lessons with the basics.”

“Lessons?” Payton asked. He didn’t bother opening his eyes. He didn’t care. The entire episode was dreamlike and approaching nightmarish. It was better not to see it.

“About women. And wenches. And what a man’s to do with them.”

“I dinna’ need any help with that, crone.”

She laughed again. He ignored her. His mind wandered back to the Caruth lass in that pristine, bare room…the white dress she’d worn; the pale, almost translucent beauty of her skin against the large, red ripeness of her lips.

He couldn’t fathom why she hadn’t spoken the farce, saving both of them from his foolishness. Unless she needed the news that he’d taken a maiden wall, because she no longer owned one. Payton pulled in as much breath as he could and wondered at the insanity he’d made of his life. He’d wed the Caruth heiress, gained himself a reputation and land, and he couldn’t even recollect what she looked like? He couldn’t truly call it wed, actually. Hand-fasted, maybe. That, they were. But…wed?

“Just mark these words, Payton Dunn-Fadden. Mark them well. Some wenches truly dinna’ wish your attentions. You must make certain they’ve no weapon next time, a-fore you mount them. You might na’ survive the next prick.” She put back her head and hooted even louder.

That was when the lie began.