Читать книгу Tamed by the Barbarian - June Francis, June Francis - Страница 10

‘Cissie, where are you going in such a rush?’ asked Jack, passing her on the stairs. ‘You’ll break your neck coming down at that speed.’

Thankfully diverted from the vision of the naked Mackillin, she placed the dirty garments behind her back and slowed to a halt, resting her free hand on a baluster. ‘Where’ve you been? I was concerned about you.’

A crack of laughter escaped him. ‘Why? What do you think could happen to me when we’re snowed in? I’m not such a dolt as to attempt with a damaged arm to ride ten leagues or more in deep snow and the heavens throwing more of it down.’

Alarm caused her to blurt out, ‘You’ve thought of doing so? You’re concerned about Matt?’

A wary expression flickered in his eyes. ‘Aren’t you?’

‘Do you sense he’s in danger?’

He hesitated. ‘I imagine he’s anxious and fearful, but that shouldn’t surprise either of us in the circumstances. Why don’t you sit by the fire with your embroidery and rest?’

‘What about the rest of the unpacking of the goods you brought home?’

‘They can wait. You’re always hurrying hither and thither. I’m sure the servants know well enough what to do about preparing our next meal without you overseeing them more than necessary.’

Cicely considered his words. Sitting quietly by the fire with her embroidery held a definite attraction. But what if Mackillin should come down and find her alone? She did not know how she was going to look him in the face. Her eyes would travel south. No! She must not harbour such a thought. If only he had not come here, she thought fretfully. If only her stepmother had not died, she felt certain her father would not have set out on his travels again. If he had allowed Jack to go abroad with one of his agents, he would still be alive and Mackillin would not have hotfooted it here for a reward. She must keep telling herself that was his only reason for being here. Although, perhaps it would be best not to think of him. Instead, she would consider how they were to get the news of her father’s murder to Diccon.

She went and placed Mackillin’s dirty clothing in the laundry room. Then she fetched her embroidery and thought to cover her hair with a black veil to complete her mourning attire before settling in front of the fire. She soon realised it was a waste of time trying to work out a way to get news to Diccon while they were snowed in. Instead she allowed her thoughts to drift to what it would be like to travel the seas on Mackillin’s ship and see those places that her father had visited. She regretted deeply that never would she be able to hear his voice describing Venice, Florence, Bruges and all the other cities she would have liked to have seen in his company; but she sensed that his lordship had her father’s gift for painting pictures with words.

Mackillin was thoughtful as he rubbed himself vigorously with the drying cloth. His skin glowed and a wry smile creased his face. At least Mistress Cicely should be satisfied that he no longer stank of honest sweat and horse. Had it been she who had thrown the soap? He had glimpsed a whisk of a black skirt vanishing when he opened his eyes and his soiled garments had disappeared. Hopefully she had not seen enough of him to frighten her away. He smiled wryly, remembering on his travels how pleasant it had been to have a wench wash his back and generally make herself useful. Vividly, a picture came into his mind of Cicely behaving in a similar fashion and he imagined the soft swell of her breasts beneath silk brushing his bare shoulder. Desire rushed through him and he shook his head as if to rid himself of such longings. She was not for him, whatever Nat Milburn had promised.

He must concentrate his thoughts on his intended bride. From what he remembered of her from their last meeting, Mary was as different in appearance to Cicely Milburn as could be, but then she had only been a child and would surely have improved. She had dark hair, not the colour of corn like Mistress Cicely. He had never felt it, but doubted it would be as silky as Jack’s sister’s was when he had seized a handful of it while he had kissed her. Hell and damnation, he must stop thinking of her! Marrying Mary Armstrong would provide him with all he needed. She was sturdy and strong and no doubt could produce healthy sons and pretty daughters. His elder half-brother had wed and sired children, but no offspring had lived beyond infancy. As for the younger one, Fergus, his wife had died in childbirth last year and the baby with her, poor lass.

His lips tightened as he relived Fergus’s teasing and bullying, the challenges and hard-fought tussles on the battlements of their grandfather’s castle in the south-west of Scotland and his father’s keep in the Border country. The scar beneath his collarbone throbbed as if experiencing afresh the plunge of Fergus’s blade. Mackillin would never forget the hatred in his eyes for the son of the English woman who had replaced their mother. Now the three men were dead, killed in an ambush. His mother did not seem to know who was responsible. Due to his half-brothers leaving no heirs, Mackillin had inherited Killin Keep and its lands.

He was reminded again of Cicely, wondering if she would change her mind about his being a barbarian if she knew he was half-English. At least his altered appearance might convince her that he was no savage. He ran a hand over his freshly shaven jaw as he strolled into the bedchamber with the drying cloth slung about his lean hips.

Mackillin reached for his drawers and hose and pulled them on. He then put on a petticote beneath a linen shirt and donned a green woollen doublet, embroidered at neck, cuffs and hem. Over this he pulled on a sleeveless brown velvet surcoat that reached to his hose-covered calves before placing a vellum-backed book inside a concealed pocket. He combed his hair, which had been cut to just below his ears. Now he felt fit to be in a woman’s company.

Thinking of Cicely again brought a lift to his heart, but a frown to his face as he slipped on a pair of leather shoes that laced up the sides. He took the lantern from the table and left the bedchamber, locking the door behind him. He placed the key in his pocket and strolled down the passage. As he went downstairs, he spotted Cicely sitting by the fire and scowled. She had covered her hair with a black veil; with her black gown and surcoat, this gave her a nun-like appearance. Was it deliberate? Was she saying, Do not touch?

As he approached, the dogs lifted their heads and she glanced up from her sewing. He saw her eyes widen and knew he had achieved the effect he had aimed for. His mood lightened. She half rose in her chair, but he told her not to disturb herself, so she resumed her seat and bent her head over her embroidery.

Mackillin settled himself in a chair close to the fire and took out his book. It was one that an elderly Percy relative had left him in his will and was over fifty years old. Fortunately the handwriting was still legible. As he carefully turned the pages, he was aware that Cicely was watching him.

‘Whenever I take up this book, I think of the copyist working for months on end, writing out thousands of words,’ he said.

‘What book is it?’ asked Cicely, impressed not only by his appearance but that he should produce a book and to all purposes seem intent on reading it. She was relieved that he appeared to have no idea that she had seen him in his skin and yet felt vexed with herself for wanting to touch his shaven cheek and run her fingers through the chestnut hair that curled about his ears. What would her father have thought of her for having such desires? How could she be grieving for him, be in love with Diccon and yet still be attracted to this man?

‘The Canterbury Tales—have you heard of it?’ asked Mackillin.

‘Aye. But I’ve never seen a copy before.’ She was surprised that her voice sounded normal.

‘Perhaps you’d like me to read some to you?’ He had found the place where he had left off and, without waiting for her answer, added, ‘This is part of “The Monk’s Tale”, a piece written about Count Ugolino of Pisa.’

‘Who was this Count, my lord?’

‘Mackillin,’ he said automatically, reading in silence for a few moments before lifting his head and grimacing. ‘Perhaps not.’

‘Why—why not?’ She stared at him and their eyes met and held for several quickened heartbeats.

‘Because it is a tragedy and you have enough sadness to deal with at the moment,’ he said brusquely, lowering his gaze and turning pages. ‘“The Miller’s Tale” is amusing and brings tears to the eyes, but it is not suitable for a maid’s ears. Perhaps “The Second Nun’s Tale” would be best. There’s an “Invocation to Mary”, daughter and mother of our Saviour in its pages.’

‘Daughter and mother?’

‘Aye, such is what the writer has written here…maid and mother, daughter of thy son.’

‘I have never thought of our Lady being both daughter and mother to our Saviour before….’ She stumbled over the words, but added, ‘Of course, if He is part of the Trinity—Father, Son and Holy Ghost, three in one—then it must be so. And yet…’

‘It is a mystery, I agree. Do you wish me to read on? Or would you rather I read…what have we here?’ He smiled. ‘An “Interpretatio Nominis Ceciliae”. Did you know that the name Cecilia in the English tongue means Lily of Heaven?’

‘Aye! My father told me so. Cecilia was a highborn Roman woman and my name derives from hers.’ Cicely was amazed that they were having such a conversation and not only because she was reneging on her decision to distance herself from him.

‘You know her story?’

She nodded, filling in a flower petal with blue thread and thinking of the Cecilia who had converted her pagan husband to Christianity. ‘If you have not read it before, then I do not mind hearing it again,’ she murmured.

‘It is of no matter. I know the story.’

He closed the book and, excusing himself, rose and went over to where some of the baggage was still piled in a heap. Silence reigned but for the crackling of the fire. He wondered if she was tired after their disturbed night and that was why no more inroads had been made on exploring the contents of the goods here. Perhaps it would be wiser to leave her alone to her embroidery and her grief. Yet he found himself wondering if this was the only leisure pastime she occupied herself with to help pass the winter days when the weather kept her indoors. Even when Nat was alive it must have been a lonely life for her after her stepmother died and with the males of the family busy elsewhere.

He recalled the moment when a courier had arrived at his kinsman’s manor in France. His mother had pleaded with him to return to the keep in the Border country, which had never felt like a home; rather he had considered his own house in the port of Kirkcudbright with its busy harbour as home. As his eyes roamed the tapestry-covered walls, he realised why he felt relaxed here. ‘This hall reminds me of my house in Kir’ coo-bri.’ He pronounced the name in the dialect of that area of Scotland. ‘It was to that port I used to escape when life became unbearable when we stayed at my grandfather’s castle—and there I discovered a love of ships and a longing to travel.’

‘In what way does this hall remind you of your house?’ asked Cicely, wondering why he had found his grandfather’s castle unbearable.

‘Its size and…’ He went over to a wall and fingered a tapestry of The Chase. ‘This tapestry. I wager your father bought this in Angers.’

‘I cannot say for sure. France certainly.’ She gazed openly at his back, her eyes lingering on the hair at the nape of his strong neck, his broad shoulders and the firm muscles of his calves.

He turned suddenly and she lowered her eyes swiftly, feeling her cheeks burn with embarrassment because he had caught her looking at him…and looking in a way that was unseemly. She cleared her throat and rushed into speech. ‘Father had one of his agents purchase several for my stepmother soon after we moved here. The walls were unadorned and filthy after the smoke from the winter’s fires…as they are now. But you being a lord, surely you will live in a castle with a great hall when you return home to Scotland?’

Frowning, he glanced over his shoulder. ‘No. My father’s elder brother inherited the castle. Have you ever visited the Scottish Borders, Mistress Cicely? The place I return to is not like the great edifices of England, such as my kinsman Northumberland’s at Alnwick. The building that I have inherited is a keep in a wild lonely place. At the moment my mother is Killin’s chatelaine, which is within a day’s journey of Berwick-on-Tweed.’

She dug her needle into the linen and murmured, ‘My father used to speak of Berwick-on-Tweed. Is it not on the Eastern seaboard and has changed hands several times—as did the border during the wars between our countries?’ she asked.

‘You are well informed,’ he said approvingly, returning to the fireplace.

She flushed. ‘I am a merchant’s daughter and as such am interested in the places my father visited. He has estranged kin up near the border, but we have naught to do with them.’

There was a silence before he said carefully, ‘Then they have never visited this manor?’

‘Not while I’ve lived here. Probably they might have visited during my great-uncle’s time.’ She looked up at him. ‘Why do you ask? Are you acquainted with them?’

He hesitated. ‘Not at all, but I suspect they could have been behind your father’s murder.’

She started and stared at him from dismayed blue eyes. ‘Why should you think that?’

He was unsure whether to burden her further but, remembering the way she had threatened him with her dagger, decided she was strong enough to know the truth so as to be forewarned. ‘Robbie recognised a man he killed in Bruges as a Milburn he had seen in the Border country.’

She was astounded. ‘You have spoken to Jack of this?’

He shook his head. ‘Perhaps I should have, but at the time I thought he had enough to worry about, having seen his father die and fretting over how he was going to break the tragic news of Nat’s death to you and his twin.’

A furrow appeared between her finely etched brows. ‘I deem you’ve told me to put me on my guard?’

Mackillin nodded. ‘The man might have been acting on his own account, but we don’t know for sure.’

Her concern deepened. ‘How did this kinsman know where to find Father?’

Mackillin shrugged. ‘If he wanted to find Nat and knew enough about his business, then it would be easy enough for him to make enquiries.’

‘Of course. But why?’ she asked of him, realising she trusted him enough to believe that he would give her an honest and sensible answer.

‘Money, power? Perhaps your northern kinsman thought he should have inherited this manor instead of your father.’

She bit her lower lip, thinking about what he said. ‘That would make sense despite my great-uncle and grandfather having quarrelled with their brother up north. It was my great-uncle’s wish that Father inherit this manor and he made it legal by stating so in his will.’

‘Even so, speak to your brothers when Matt comes home about this matter. It could be that it is not finished.’

She nodded. ‘I will do so.’

His frown deepened and he thought again of his half-brothers and how they would have hated his inheriting in their place. There could be that there would be others on the Borders who would not approve of his doing so. He rose from his chair and began to pace the floor, thinking of the times he had had to ride for his life, not only from his half-brothers but his Scottish cousins, as well. So much hatred in a family, which he had to admit had sometimes been fuelled by his mother’s disdain of their simple way of life. Another reason perhaps why he had turned down Nat’s offer of his daughter. She was accustomed to the luxuries that money could buy and might prove to be another like his mother. Perhaps that was the reason why he, himself, had been determined to make his fortune.

Cicely wondered what was on Mackillin’s mind—the way he could not keep still suggested his control over his emotions was uncertain. He was obviously desperate to be up in his wild country dealing with what needed to be done for his future in that land. Well, the sooner he could leave the better it would be. She would be able to get on with all that needed doing in the wake of her father’s death.

The door opened and Martha appeared. Her jaw dropped as she stared at Mackillin. Amused by the serving woman’s expression, Cicely said, ‘You may well look surprised—Mackillin looks like a nobleman now, doesn’t he?’

Martha nodded and bobbed a curtsy in his direction. He raised an eyebrow and a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. ‘I’m glad you approve, Mistress Cicely.’

She blushed and turned to Martha. ‘Is supper ready to be served?’

‘Aye, mistress.’

‘Then I’ll fetch my brother.’ She folded her sewing and hurried upstairs, needing to escape Mackillin’s charismatic presence for a while.

Over the meal, Cicely spoke little but she was intensely aware of Mackillin sitting across from her. Their earlier conversation had been fascinating and frightening in equal measure. She appreciated that he had not talked to her in that condescending manner some men adopted when speaking to a woman. He had given her a problem, though—did she wait until Matt returned home as he had suggested, or tell Jack before then what Mackillin had said about their northern kin?

She pondered the matter on and off for the rest of the evening, as they unpacked some of the items Nat had bought in Europe. Amongst the goods he had purchased on behalf of his regular customers, she discovered a great gift from her father. Tears filled her eyes as she turned the pages of The Book of Hours, a layperson’s book of devotion that Jack told her was Nat’s belated extra birthday present for her. She was tempted to wander over to the fire and delve further into it, but at that moment Mackillin produced a lute from wrappings of thickly woven cloth.

‘Who’s that for?’ she asked, clutching her precious book to her breast.

Jack paused in the act of opening a box containing jars of pepper that had also been purchased in Venice, the city controlling a large part in the market of that commodity. ‘Owain asked Father to have one specially made for Anna in Venice. Gareth accidentally dropped hers down the stairs—unfortunately it was smashed beyond repair.’

‘Who are Anna and Gareth?’ asked Mackillin absently, inspecting the inlaid mother-of-pearl patterning on the musical instrument.

‘Anna is Owain’s much younger half-sister and Gareth is his son,’ answered Cicely.

‘It’s a wonderful gift,’ said Mackillin, carefully plucking a couple of the strings.

‘You play?’ asked Cicely, her eyes suddenly alight. ‘Matt plays the guitar and Jack makes a noise on the drums. Sometimes they create sounds that cause me to cover my ears and yet at others—’

‘At others,’ interrupted Jack with a grin, ‘you were wont to sing and dance. I remember Father—’ He stopped abruptly and his lips quivered.

Mackillin placed the lute on a table. ‘I am certain Nat would not want the music in this house to end with his death,’ he said firmly. ‘I remember meeting him in Marseilles a while ago and he would insist on singing after we’d downed enough wine and brandy to float a ship.’

Cicely and Jack groaned in unison. ‘Father loved music, but he always sang off key,’ said the latter.

‘Yet right now I’d give anything to hear him sing,’ said Cicely, a catch in her voice.

Jack nodded and Mackillin noticed that his eyes were shiny with tears. The youth left the box he’d been unpacking and walked over to the fireplace. Cicely followed him, putting an arm around him as her brother gazed into the fire. Mackillin cursed himself for telling that tale and racked his brains for something to do to take the youth’s mind off his sorrow. Then he remembered the chessboard he had seen set up on a side table and suggested to Jack that they could make a match of it.

‘I’ve never played,’ he admitted, looking slightly shamefaced. ‘It was Father and Cissie who enjoyed testing the other’s wits.’

‘I could teach you,’ suggested Mackillin.

Jack hesitated and then nodded.

Cicely left them to it and sat down and opened The Book of Hours.

Now the only sounds to be heard were the occasional murmur of voices, the turning of pages, the crackling of the fire and the roar of the wind in the chimney. Even so Cicely found it difficult to keep her mind on the pages of her book. Her attention kept wandering to the table where their guest was instructing her brother. He had surprised her again in more ways than one. He was extremely patient with Jack and she wondered where such a man as he had developed such a gift. Several times she caught him glancing her way and she lowered her eyes instantly. Suppressing her attraction to this man was essential if she was to maintain a distance between them until he left.

Two days later when Cicely threw back the shutters, the sun poured in. The air might be bitterly cold, but the brightness of the day lifted her spirits. She wanted to be outside, and after washing and dressing, hurried downstairs. On entering the hall, she found Tabitha shovelling ashes from the fire into a pail.

‘We’ll be needing those ashes,’ said Mackillin, appearing in the main entrance. ‘I’ve been outside, and the steps and yard where the snow has been cleared are slippery.’

Cicely’s pulses leapt. ‘Have you measured the deepness of the snow?’ she asked.

His hazel eyes creased at the corners as his gaze rested on her heart-shaped face. ‘I have been no further than the stables. You have it in mind to go somewhere?’

Had she? ‘I would like to go to the village. It is but half a mile away. I need to speak to the priest.’ She paused and felt a lump in her throat. ‘I deem he needs to know what has happened to Father as soon as possible so prayers can be said for his soul in church.’

He looked thoughtful. ‘I am willing to attempt a ride that far with you. If the snow proves too deep, then we will return.’ He picked up the pail of ashes.

Before Cicely could protest at his doing such a menial task, he had gone. She presumed they would break their fast before attempting to reach the village and went with Tabitha to speak to Cook.

It was just over an hour later that Mackillin and Cicely left the confines of the yard. The surface of the snow was frozen and crunched beneath the horses’ hooves as they picked their way gingerly towards the track of beaten earth. It was only recognisable as such by the stark outline of the leafless trees that grew on one side of it; on the other was a ditch. Cicely noticed that Mackillin had a staff and a coiled rope attached to his saddle and wondered what use he would make of them. Her cheeks and the tip of her nose were pink with cold and her breath misted in the icy air; even so she was glad to be out of the house. For extra warmth she had wound a length of thick woollen material over her head and round her neck and her legs were encased in her lamb’s-wool bags beneath her skirts.

Even Mackillin had made a concession to the freezing weather by wearing a russet felt hat with a rolled-up brim. Neither of them spoke, although each were extremely aware of the other. Mackillin was questioning his reason for offering to accompany her when Tom could have easily done so. It would have been wiser to spend less time in her company, not more. Yet he was glad to have her at his side. She was a delight to look upon and surprisingly she rode astride her mount. He wondered if she had had cause to ride like the wind to escape an enemy at any time or because she enjoyed a good gallop and was more likely to remain in the saddle that way. He thought of last evening and of her reading the book her father had bought her. He mentioned the fact that she was able to read now.

She glanced at him. ‘Sometimes Father would be away for months on end and Mother never learnt to read or write, so he had the priest teach me along with my brothers. They were skills she seemed unable to grasp, so I kept the housekeeping accounts and she dictated messages to me to send to him.’ She hesitated. ‘I would like to read the gospel in English some day. Father told me once that his grandfather was imprisoned because he had read one of John Wycliffe’s translations. He was a follower of the Lollards. Have you heard of these men?’

Mackillin nodded. ‘Because they read the gospels in their own tongue, they began to question not only the Church’s interpretation of God’s word, but also the structure of society itself. They stirred up the common people to revolt and were ruthlessly put down at the instigation of the Church.’

She nodded, thinking he had surprised her again by being so well informed. ‘Some believe the movement has died out, but others have spoken of it having gone underground.’

His gaze washed over her face. ‘That wouldn’t surprise me. Dissatisfaction with the Church’s teaching is growing in some quarters in Europe too. There are men in the Low Countries determined to print copies of the gospels in their own tongue on the new printing presses. I do not doubt they will find a market and sell in their hundreds.’

Cicely’s eyes widened. ‘Is this possible?’

‘Aye. Although, no doubt, the Church will try to prevent it.’

‘Then there must be some truth in what the Lollards taught,’ she said firmly, ‘if the Church is so determined to prevent men reading God’s word for themselves.’

‘Men doing so could turn the world upside down.’

She did not say so, but she agreed with him. The Church had such power that it would surely fight any challenge to its authority.

Mackillin said, ‘Does Master Fletcher share your interest in reading the gospels in English?’

‘It is a matter we’ve not touched upon,’ she said in a stilted voice.

Mackillin frowned. ‘Yet you want to marry him. Do you have a day in mind?’

She flushed, sensing a criticism of either herself or Diccon in his comment. ‘Eastertide,’ she muttered. ‘If the quarrels between the houses of York and Lancaster do not spoil my plans and Master Husthwaite keeps his nose out of my affairs.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Master Husthwaite! You speak of that lantern-jawed cur who claimed to be your father’s new man of business?’

‘The very same! I do not trust him.’

‘You show sense. In my experience, it is not unknown for such men to act inappropriately with their clients’ funds. You would do well—’ He broke off as his mount lurched to the right and, steadying it with a firm hand, he looked down to where the wind had blown the snow into a drift that blocked the path. Their conversation was forgotten as he dismounted.

Cicely watched as he unfastened the straps that held the staff to his saddle. She hazarded a guess that he intended to test the depth of the drift. His booted foot sank into the snow past his knee as he plunged the staff into the snow a few inches in front of him. The staff disappeared from sight and he lost his balance, toppling face down in the snow. She bit back a laugh.

He lifted his head. ‘Don’t you dare!’

She giggled.

He glanced at her over his shoulder. ‘Stop your cackling, woman. It’s not helpful.’

‘I’m not cackling,’ she said indignantly. ‘I was about to dismount and offer you my hand. Now I’ve a good mind to leave you to your fate and ride back. Perhaps someone will find you after the thaw.’

He groaned. ‘You have to be jesting. I’ve a plan.’

‘So have I. I’ll fetch Robbie.’

‘And have him laugh his boots off? That’s not kind, Cissie.’

He had called her Cissie! ‘I don’t see why it isn’t,’ she teased. ‘Laughter is good for the soul.’

‘Cissie, if you dare fetch him, I’ll…’

He had called her Cissie again and his doing so gave her an odd feeling, as if a barrier had been removed. ‘You’ll what?’ she said sweetly. ‘You’re in no position to threaten me, Mackillin.’

He twisted his head and sighed. ‘That is no way to speak to a lord. You’ll have to help me, but don’t make a move until I say so.’

For a few moments Cicely had forgotten both that he was a lord and her decision to keep him at a distance because she had so enjoyed mocking him. ‘I beg your pardon, Lord Mackillin. Sing loud when you want my help.’

She dismounted, waiting for his command. It was obvious that he could not get up unaided. The snow might be hard on the surface, but it was soft underneath. If he tried to push himself up, then his arms would plunge beneath the snow and he would sink deeper into it.

‘Take the rope from my saddle and tie one end to the pommel and throw the other end to me where I can reach it.’

Instantly she realised what his plan was and wasted no time obeying him, reminded of a day on the fells when she had come upon a sheep that had wandered into a mire. She had wanted to help the poor creature, but couldn’t, and it had vanished beneath the surface. Mackillin’s situation was fortunately different because she was able to help him.

Having fastened the rope to the pommel, she watched Mackillin ease the other end of it round his chest and back and knot it beneath an armpit. He signalled to her to urge his horse along the path the way they had come. She did so and Mackillin spun round slowly and slid along the surface of the snow. In no time at all, he was free of the snowdrift and standing upright. She approached him, reaching out a hand, thinking only to help him unfasten the rope and brush the snow from his clothing.

But he seized her wrist and drew her towards him, a glint in his green-coppery hued eyes. ‘I should punish you for laughing at me,’ he said in a teasing voice.

She was breathlessly indignant. ‘I rescued you! I deserve a reward.’

‘Then you decide which it is to be.’ Smiling, he lowered his head and brushed his lips against hers in a tantalising fashion. It was so pleasant that instinctively his arms went round her and he brought her against him so that her head rested in the crook of his shoulder.

With a heavily beating heart Cicely gazed up at him, knowing she felt his kiss had been no punishment. Perhaps he saw her answer in her eyes and that was why he followed it up with another kiss that was longer, deeper and intensely satisfying. She should have struggled, but she had no desire to resist him. Her lips parted beneath the insistent pressure of his mouth and she felt a further thrill as the tip of his tongue danced along the inside of her lip. It felt so sensual that her own tongue flickered against the side of his. Instantly she was aware of the quiver that passed through him and knew she should pull away, but her insides seemed to be melting like butter on hot bread and she didn’t want the moment to end.

Then a horse whinnied and attempted to thrust its head between them. Instantly Mackillin released her and his expression was so thunderous that Cicely was shocked and hastily turned away from him and went to her own horse, fumbling at the beast’s accoutrements with shaking hands. She dragged herself up into the saddle. Did he blame her for what had just happened between them? What was happening to her? What were these unfamiliar urges she felt towards him? It had been such fun and satisfying when they had worked together to free him from the snowdrift. If only she and Diccon could share such moments of being in harmony. She needed Mackillin to go far away so that she could concentrate her thoughts on praying for Diccon’s return. She needed inner peace instead of the tumultuous feelings that gripped her now. She must hold steadfast to her decision to keep her distance from Mackillin for the remainder of his stay at Milburn Manor.

‘We must go back.’ The harshness in his voice was enough to make her school her features before looking at him.

‘It would be foolish to continue,’ she said, sensing the tension in him as he held himself erect in the saddle.

He clenched his jaw and dug his heels into his horse’s flanks. There were words he would have liked to say to her, but it would indeed be folly to speak them. He was shocked that a kiss he had intended as part of the fun they had shared had turned into something far deeper. What did he think he was playing at? He had made up his mind to marry Mary Armstrong, knowing it was sensible. He did not expect to reach the heights in his alliance with her, knowing that the love that the poets and minstrels raved about scarcely existed between man and wife. Yet just now he had felt such an explosion of feeling inside him that a certain part of his body still throbbed with arousal. He could not help wondering whether Cicely was attracted to him, as he was to her, against her better judgement. He certainly could not allow it to interfere with his plans. After years of travelling and adventure it was time to settle down and raise a family. For that he needed allies to make his position more secure. For the remainder of his stay he would make sure not to be alone with Cicely.

Having made their decisions, both prayed that God would be kind to them and send a thaw.