"I trust you gave her dear old bones a proper burial," Colin said.
The revelry lapsed into an uncomfortable silence, broken only by the distant squeal of a frolicking child. Arjon arched an inquisitive eyebrow at the amorous blonde, but she avoided his gaze by burying her face in the crook of his neck.
"Iselda?" Colin prodded. "You did lay my sister's bones in the family crypt, did you not?"
The woman's broad face flushed. She twisted her skirt between her florid hands. "Well, me laird, not exactly…"
It was Magwyn who came charging to her rescue. "We ain't been back. When Brisbane called off his dogs, we dragged out all the food stores from the cellars and all the valuables we could carry from the solar – trunks filled with clothes like those you're wearin', silver plate, salt, spices – but not one of us has set foot in the castle since."
Colin rose to his feet. "Why in God's name not? Your cottages aren't fit for habitation. Did you fear I would punish you for seeking shelter in the castle?"
" 'Tweren't you we was afraid of." She signed a cross on her breast as her gaze drifted to the ruin brooding against the night sky. " 'Twas whatever dwells within those walls."
"Restless spirits, me laird," Iselda blurted out. "Flickering lights in the black o' night. A murdered babe wailin' for vengeance. We've all heard it, we have, every last one of us."
Iselda's confession was greeted by frightened murmurs and timid nods. As Tabitha followed Colin's haunted gaze to the tower at the peak of the castle, she shivered despite herself.
She half expected the fearless warrior to mock their alarm, but instead he nodded gravely. " Tis pleasant enough to camp beneath the stars in summer, but it won't do for winter. I'll fetch a priest from MacDuff to sprinkle holy water around the tower and pray for the unshriven souls of the dead."
The women nodded to one another, looking pleased if not precisely comforted by his promise. Their murmurs were interrupted by a bearded old man who came trotting up to bob an awkward bow in Colin's direction.
"Sir…?" The man scratched his bald pate, as if suddenly remembering his master's recent promotion. "Um, me laird, if you and your lady are ready to retire, your pavilion is prepared."
"Well done, Ewan. My lady?" Colin extended his hand, his eyes glittering with unmistakable challenge.
Tabitha wondered what would happen if she refused his invitation. But then she became aware of the shy, sidelong glances directed their way. Arjon winked at her before bestowing a wet, openmouthed kiss on his clinging companion. Tabitha's cheeks heated, but she discovered she couldn't stand to embarrass Colin in front of his people.
"My laird," she murmured, deliberately mocking his burr as she trusted her hand to his. " 'Twould be an honor."
Tabitha had always considered herself as bigboned as an ox, but Colin's broad palm swallowed her hand. She'd meant to pull her hand away as soon as they were out of sight of the others, but as they climbed the steep hill, he laced his fingers through hers, making her his reluctant captive.
"Do you believe in ghosts?" he asked as the shadow of the castle darkened their path.
She edged nearer to him. "No. Do you?"
"I once did. But I fear 'twas naught but wishful thinking. My stepmother always said that the dead punish us with their absence, not their presence."
"You loved her, didn't you?"
Affection warmed his gruff voice. "Aye. My own mother died young. Blythe was the only mother I ever knew."
"And your father?"
"He loved her, too."
Tabitha wondered if Colin had deliberately misunderstood her question, but as a shaft of moonlight struck his shuttered face, she didn't dare ask. A welcoming oasis of light loomed out of the darkness. Her steps faltered.
Colin tugged her gently, but inexorably, toward the round pavilion perched at the edge of the wood. As Tabitha ducked into the tent's interior, her uneasiness bloomed into full-blown apprehension.
Ewan had made every effort to see to his laird's comfort. The torchlight's lambent glow bathed a nest of colorful pillows and a small table occupied by a narrow pitcher and two silver chalices. Thanks to Colin's earlier boast, his man must have assumed they would be sharing the narrow cot draped with furs. The sandalwood perfume of incense wafted from a tiny brass burner, making Tabitha nervously wonder what other exotic tastes Colin might have acquired in the Holy Land.
The knight seemed infuriatingly at ease in this den of sensual iniquity. After sealing the tent's flap behind them, he poured himself a chalice of something burgundy and reclined on the pillows like a smug sultan. Tabitha stood stiffly by the table, biting her bottom lip to keep from wishing for an iron chastity belt. Without a key.
"What ails you, lass? Lucy got your tongue?" When that dig failed to provoke a response, he sighed. "Are you still sulking because I took your precious bauble into my care?" Setting aside the chalice, he canted his arms behind his head like a Playgirl centerfold and cocked an eyebrow at her. "Did it never occur to you that there might be a way for you to earn it back?"
Tabitha gasped. He was actually trying to coerce her into sex.
Unable to bear the sight of his mischievous grin, she spun around and gripped the edge of the table.
"You drive a steep bargain, sir," she said softly, her voice laced with bitterness.
" 'Tis your own fault for enticing me, my lady. What you bestowed upon me in the cavern must surely be only a sample of your talents."
Tabitha swung around to face him. She didn't know what outraged her more – that he blamed her for inciting his crude lust as men had been doing to innocent women for centuries or that he'd spoiled her memory of the tender kiss they'd shared.
She dug her fingernails into her palms. "I hate to disappoint you, but my 'talents' don't extend much beyond what you've already 'sampled.' "
He took a sip of the wine. "Oh, come now. You must have learned something while you were traveling with the mummers. Another trick like the one you showed me or a song perhaps?" His expression was almost boyishly hopeful.
"A song?"
"Aye. A chanson de geste or a ballad of courtly love."
"Courtney Love?" she echoed, even more baffled by his mention of the infamous alternative rock singer who'd dominated the pages of the Global Inquirer at the end of the twentieth century.
"Courtly love. The tragic tale of a noble knight pining for the unrequited affection of his lady."
Tabitha sank down on the edge of the cot. Colin didn't want her. He wanted a lullaby. He'd been more impressed by her poorly executed magic trick than her kiss. Well, that was a relief… wasn't it?
She hummed a few experimental notes of the song welling up from her subconscious.
Colin sat up straight, his eagerness betraying what it must be like to live in a time without video or audio discs, a time when even books were a rare and costly luxury. "What melody is that? I've not heard it before."
She hummed another bar. " 'Camelot,' " she admitted, almost as startled by the realization as he was.
Although Tabitha had always hated the maudlin musical, her mother had forced her to sit through endless revivals. Against her will, her methodical mind had memorized the entire score, every sentimental note. With all this talk of knights and castles and holy quests, it was hardly surprising Lerner and Loewe's winsome melody was the first to come to mind.
"Sing some more," Colin commanded, settling back on the pillows and waving a regal hand at her.
Amused by his exalted manner, Tabitha complied, her airy soprano pleasant, if not spectacular. Each time she stopped, Colin would order or cajole her to continue, relenting only long enough to press a chalice into her hand so she could moisten her throat with wine.
She was secretly flattered by the attention. Although he'd been stripped of his chain mail at Brisbane's castle, she couldn't shake the feeling that this was the first time she'd actually seen the knight without his armor.
He nodded sagely at Lancelot's boastful declarations in "C'
est Moi" and chuckled at the naughty puns in "The Lusty Month of May." His expression became strangely pensive during the wistful strains of "If Ever I Would Leave You" and he visibly tensed when Guenevere faced death at the stake as punishment for her adulterous affair.
By the time Tabitha sang the final reprise, her voice was hoarse with strain. The last tremulous note seemed to hang in the air long after it was done. She glanced over to find Colin sprawled on the pillows, his dark lashes flush against his cheeks, his breathing hushed and even. Lucy had slipped into the tent while Tabitha sang and curled up at his side. His hand was cupped protectively around the little cat.
"Ever the lady's champion," Tabitha murmured, caught off guard by a surge of wry tenderness.
She knelt at his side, planning to throw one of the furs over him. But instead her hand crept toward his face, freeing a few rebellious tendrils from his plaits. He didn't stir at her touch.
Hearing the ancient legend through Colin's ears had been like hearing it for the first time. Although she pitied Lancelot and Guenevere, torn between their devotion to their king and their passion for each other, it was Arthur who stirred her heart. Arthur with his eternal innocence, his unwavering commitment to an impossible dream, his rare ability to cherish the moment, even knowing it could never last.
As she threaded her fingers through the midnight silk of Colin's hair, she couldn't help but wonder how he had lost his innocence and what dreams he'd been forced to sacrifice along the way.
A baby's plaintive wail froze Tabitha's hand. Gooseflesh broke out on her arms. Holding her breath, she tilted her head in the direction of the castle. But the unearthly cry had been hushed as abruptly as it had sounded. It did not come again.
After several minutes of eyeing the narrow cot and waiting in vain for her heart to slow to its normal rhythm, Tabitha dragged the furs onto the floor and curled up at Colin's side with Lucy nestled between them.
Chapter 13
Colin awoke the next morning to find the woman gone and the sheath on his belt empty. He sprang to his feet, his outraged gaze sweeping the deserted tent. "That miserable little thief!"
He examined the hem of his tunic to find the emerald necklace still nestled within its secret pocket. Apparently, Tabitha's devotion to the stolen trinket hadn't been sufficient to keep her by his side. She had sung for him as sweetly as any troubadour, luring him into a deep and dreamless sleep, then fled.
The sight of the pelts lying in a rumpled nest on the floor did little to improve his temper. He snatched them up in his fist, bringing them to his nose. The fur was warm, her scent still fresh.
He hurled them to the floor, determined to hunt her down before she reached the sanctuary of some shepherd's croft or kirk. He wasn't sure what he'd do with her once he caught her, but several diabolical possibilities were already circling through his mind.
He ducked out of the tent, trusting that Ewan would have tethered his stallion within easy reach. The beast laid his ears back and pranced in place, sensing his master's agitation. He should be thankful the wench hadn't stolen his horse as well. He felt naked without a blade, but he would have felt doubly so deprived of his mount.
He had the horse untethered and one foot in the stirrups when he heard it. He cocked his head to the side, frowning in bewilderment. At first he thought it only a haunting echo from the previous night, but then it came again – a faint ribbon of melody unfurling on the morning breeze. Leaving the horse with a reassuring pat, he stole through the underbrush, drawn by that elusive thread as if it were a siren's song and he a spellbound sailor rushing willingly to his doom.
Brushing aside a pine bough, he emerged from the shadowy copse, seeking the source of that beguiling melody.
A shaft of morning sunlight struck him between the eyes like a mace. He blinked to restore his vision, then wished he hadn't as the sight before him wrung a bellow of mingled rage and horror from his throat.
Tabitha had never dreamed that warbling a mocking rendition of "Someday My Prince Will Come" would bring an enraged Scotsman charging to her side. Her first instinct was to cover her breasts with her hands. But that was before she remembered she was fully clothed. She'd simply looped the gown's cumbersome skirts through her legs to reveal a pale calf lathered with the coarse brown soap she'd borrowed from Magwyn that morning. A thin trickle of blood was inching through the soapy froth toward her ankle.
She might have run from Colin's furious approach if she hadn't been standing in the middle of a pool, the hilt of Colin's dagger in her hand, one foot braced on the flat rock where Lucy sat grooming her furry little tummy.
He charged right into the pool, sending a cascade of waves splashing over the rock. Lucy jumped up and shook herself, shooting him a chiding glance.
He spread his arms in a desperate appeal. "Good God, woman, have you pudding for brains? What in the holy name of St. Andrew do you think you're doing?"
Tabitha glanced down at her exposed calf, then at the dagger in her hand. "I'm shaving my legs."
"Och!" Colin's wail couldn't have been any more heartrending had she plunged the dagger into his heart. He shook his head, looking even more reproachful than the bedraggled kitten. "Have you no respect for a man's blade, lass? I suppose I'll wake tomorrow to find you pruning your toenails with it or chopping onions for haggis. Tis a pity Brisbane took my best sword. You could have used it to plow a field or dig for grubworms.
Realization was beginning to dawn. Although she'd never been exposed to the consequences of such intimacy, Tabitha had read on-line articles in Cosmo about husbands throwing tantrums when their wives borrowed their face razors to shave their legs. It was rather reassuring to learn that men had evolved so little in seven centuries. She might have laughed had Colin's expression not been so appalled.
She decided to test her theory. "Didn't you use this very dagger to shave your face yesterday?"
He stroked the morning stubble on his jaw indignantly. "Aye, but I'll not use it again. You've ruined the blade. Twould probably slip and cut my throat."
Tabitha rolled her eyes. "Just as I thought." She swished the dagger in the water before handing it to him, hilt first. "I'm sorry. I should have asked before I borrowed it."
He tested the blade against his thumb, glowering at her when it failed to prick his skin.
She wagged a finger at him. "Don't glare at me like that. Your dagger did more damage to me than I did to it."
He looked concerned. "Are you wounded, lass?"
She splashed away the soap, wincing at the sting of the icy water. "The way you came charging out of the woods at me, I'm lucky I didn't amputate my foot. I thought you were a bear."
She'd barely taken one limping step toward shore before he tucked the dagger into his belt and swept her up in his arms. Tabitha gasped, afraid he was going to drop her. But he easily handled her gangly form, reminding her that there were far more differences between men and women than simply height. Such as the well-defined slabs of muscle in Colin's shoulders, back, and arms.
As he lowered her to a weathered tree stump, she untangled her arms from his neck, annoyed at the feeling she was clinging to him like a child. "There's no need to call 911. I just nicked myself shaving. If I only had a pinch of toilet paper to stick on it…"
He dropped to one knee and dabbed at the shallow cut with a clump of moss. Even after the bleeding was stanched, his warm palm lingered against her calf.
"Why would you do such a thing?" he asked softly as he studied the results of her handiwork.
Tabitha felt nearly as bewildered as he sounded. "I told you I was sorry. I shouldn't have borrowed your dagger without consulting – "
" 'Tis not the dagger that troubles me." His hand began a slow ascent, his inquisitive touch raising goose-flesh on her freshly denuded skin. " Tis your legs. Why would you wish to shear the down from them?"
She was reluctant to admit that she'd always been somewhat vain about her legs. Even though she kept them sheathed in Dockers or tweed
most of the time, they were still her best feature – long, supple, and slender. They'd never seemed longer than they did at that moment, with Colin stroking his way toward her thigh with mesmerizing thoroughness. She almost came off the rock when his callused fingertips grazed the sensitive skin behind her knee.
"It's a custom where I'm from," she blurted out. "All the women do it."
His fingers tarried at her knee, but his gaze rose to her face, making her wonder if he had felt the violent throb of her pulse.
"There were women in Egypt," he said, his voice disarmingly husky, "who honored such customs. Most of them had migrated to the brothels from the Sultan's harem. Some had been slaves, others cherished wives. They scented the hair on their heads with jasmine, but kept every other inch of their flesh as smooth as silk and oiled with sandalwood so a man would know no hindrance to his touch and a woman no hindrance to her pleasure."
His golden gaze mesmerized her. She tried to draw in a breath, but it stalled in her throat, stymied by the glimpse of sensual decadence his hoarse revelation afforded her. A sensual decadence he couldn't have learned from an X-rated web site or the dog-eared pages of some men's magazine.
She had a vivid vision of Colin sweeping across the desert on his stallion, his white robes billowing behind him, the sun caressing his swarthy skin. He swung down off the horse and ducked into a perfumed bower where a bevy of sultry-eyed Playboy centerfolds awaited him on a bed of silk pillows, their flawless skin glistening with oil, their gold bracelets jingling a melodic welcome as they drew him into their embrace.
Disgruntled, she brushed his hand away and jerked down her skirt. "I can assure you, sir, that I didn't use your precious dagger on anything but my legs. I'm sorry if you don't approve."