Sassenach and a warrior, but he was no killer.
“You’re very…beautiful,” he whispered and bent his head toward her, blocking the ray of light as he did so.
Aislynn’s eyes shut, pulled by something beyond her control as her lips pursed. She knew he was going to kiss her. She was going to receive her first one! She’d listened of them from her sister, Meghan. She dreamed of receiving one. She’d been so far off the reality it was amazing.
The man’s lips were warmth and comfort, joy and delight, and then even more. Aislynn experienced each emotion as he kept his mouth against hers, breathed onto her nose, and then nuzzled her own lips apart with his. She felt, rather than heard, the warble of sound put into existence by his moan. She nearly joined him.
The entire morning’s experience passed in the moments he kissed her, and Aislynn recollected each bit, with every heartbeat and every conjoined breath. She not only believed in love at first sight, she was well onto scripting her own faery tale when he pulled back, separating them.
Aislynn didn’t open her eyes. To do so would make it too real. Too unavoidable. Too wrong.
“You’re a…special lass. That’s a shame,” he said finally, and his voice had an edge to it, defying his inebriated sound.
Her breath halted. That was far different from his. The chest she was held against was moving her up and back down with the force and depth of his own breathing.
“Special is…bad. Very bad.”
Her eyes opened wide. “It is?”
He nodded. “Makes everything that happens…worse.”
If Aislynn had thought her eyes wide, she’d been mistaken, as they opened to such an extent the morning air felt like punishment.
“I tell you this, so you’ll know the why of what I do. Don’t…take offense. I want…more. I want…you. But I…won’t. I…cannot. I shouldn’t have kissed you. Not…like that. ’Twas unfair.”
He wasn’t smiling now, and the lines his expression brought out were going to be the ones carving his face when he was an old man. They wouldn’t detract from his features. In fact, he was going to grow more intriguing and handsome as he aged.
“You must rise,” he said. “You must leave…and not look back.”
“I ken that,” she said with a voice that rasped.
“I won’t take…you. I can’t. I will not do that to a special woman. I would force myself only onto wenches paid…for the chore.”
Aislynn blinked. I thought him capable of ravishment?
“I’ll…think of another way to pay. Stealing a kiss…was not it.”
“It…wasn’t stolen,” she replied.
His smile was sad and it was devastating at such a close range. Aislynn blinked again since moisture was making his image swim again. She didn’t know what was wrong with her. She didn’t like it. She felt, rather than saw him push her away, lifting her to her feet where she swayed on knees that felt as insubstantial as water.
“Who—what are you?” she stammered.
“I’m a troubadour,” he replied. “And that’s all…you need…know.” And then he hiccoughed. Loudly.
Chapter Three
He thought of her all day, especially when trying to bring the remembered pain back. For two days every step of his horse had brought torment, now there was nothing save numbed relief. He’d been foolish to drink the mead, let his emotions rule him, and most especially to claim a kiss from her.
Rhoenne winced against the throb in his head, ignoring the men about him. The girl may be a virgin, but she had an innate gift at kissing, he decided, as he repositioned himself again atop his saddle. Such thoughts were a waste of time and energy. They weren’t gaining him a thing. He shifted against the leather. He would welcome his hall, his bath, and a used woman; one that was barren and wouldn’t lose her life birthing another Ramhurst.
“Your hall appears unwelcoming, My Lord.”
Rhoenne lifted his hand, stopping the columns of men behind him. His senior vassal, Sir Harold Montvale, spoke the truth. There was no vivid blue banner with an emblem known as a griffon passant, waving from the tower, and no smoke rose from amidst the gray rock, either.
“’Tis early, still. Brent must be lazing.”
“You wish as much.”
Rhoenne flashed a look at the man speaking. Harold had his confidence, guarded his back, and shared his sense of humor. Or—as Rhoenne had often been accused—his lack of humor. His frown deepened. His only choice was to leave Brent Ramhurst at the head of Tyneburn Hall during his absences. His half-brother by less than five months had the right of liege lord as his heir. Unfortunately, he also had the power.
“Come. We delay. Such an action could be costly to my coffers.”
“Fine his coffers instead. Or take it from his knight portion this time,” Harold advised.
“Why? He’s yet to pay back last quarter’s penalty.”
“True.” The like-sized knight shrugged, moving the chainmail with the motion. “He’s also cost countless portions that you just forgave and tore up. He’s too great a penalty. Gift the king with his service and save your fief from his influence.”
“The king already has knights. And I never lost my fief.”
“That’s also true. I would hazard a guess that you never owned it, either. King David doesn’t have a Ramhurst at his side anymore. Send Brent. His Majesty will be appreciative. He may lord you beyond this earldom of yours. You need more of these abrasive heathens to call your own.”
Rhoenne turned back in the saddle. “Come. The ride wearies on me as much as your words. I’ve a sup to eat.”
“You’ve a sup to see prepared first,” Harold answered.
Rhoenne ignored him and the vague twinge of unease that settled between his shoulder blades. The Lady of the Brook could probably help with that, too. She had small, aristocratic-looking hands. More than once when she’d placed them on him, the spot had warmed; rapidly and markedly. The lass also had the ability to see right into a person with those eyes of hers. She was the most lovely thing Rhoenne had seen, and she hailed from one of these heathen villages? Incredible. Especially if he factored in his brother. Brent was a danger to lovely maidens. He had an eye for beauty and a taste for taking vulnerability. The lass had shown sense to keep both hidden. She just hadn’t hidden it well enough. Rhoenne nearly groaned at his incessant thoughts of her.
Tyneburn Hall was a motte and bailey castle, rising from the spit of land it straddled to lord over the countryside at its fore and the loch at its back. Rhoenne gave the signal and the men started down and then across the valley that Tyneburn’s presence protected. Brent had better be in charge of the hall, or he’d feel Rhoenne’s fist this time.
At the moat, he knew the truth. The castle wasn’t
