Saints, he would spin her theSong of Rolandin its entirety if only she would continue to gentle her fingers over his flesh in such a bewitching manner.
“My tale is not a chivalrous one.” He had to warn her. “’Fore God, it is quite ugly. Will you still hear it?”
“Of course,” she said, her hands moving to his shoulders, kneading the muscles there. “She was your wife. I am most intrigued to hear of her. And how you came to pledge fealty to my sister’s husband.”
“Then so be it.”
Though each word would cost him, he knew a satisfaction deeper than the solace of her gifted fingers, for while her face still appeared a shade too pale, a spark of interest now replaced the dimness that had cloaked her beautiful eyes just moments ago.
“It is hard for you to remember.” She slid her hands down the outsides of his arms, massaging the tenseness. “You can tell me another time.”
“Nay.” Marmaduke closed his good eye for a moment, wished he didn’t feel as if he stood at the edge of a bottomless pit. “I would that we have no secrets between us.”
“If you are sure?”
“I am.”
And so he girded himself, stared at the hearth’s burning peat fire until its cheery reddish glow grew and surged, eventually becoming angry licking flames consuming the simple wattle-and-daub homes of the innocent.
Poor souls who happened to dwell on the wrong side of a border.
Bile rose in his throat and he almost swung away, breaking the spell of the past – and the magic of her hands – but then, to his amazement, a second pair of hands joined hers. Gentle and cool as Highland mist at dawn, they smoothed over him, helping her ease the knots in his shoulders, and his tongue.
A familiar touch, freeing him to tell her tale as well.
Releasing him to care for another.
A shudder tore down his spine, and then he began. “Many years ago, the summer I earned my spurs, I soon learned that shining symbol of knighthood was all I shared with my peers. That, and perhaps a too-generous dose of pride.”
One pair of the caressing hands, the warm ones, stilled a beat. “’Tis known English knights are proud.”
“That is so,” he agreed. “Proud of rank and heritage, the privileges granted to them, and their hope of enough victories to dine off gold and silver.”
He said no more, drew a deep, soul-cleansing breath, needing a moment to push aside the nightmare of his memories.
He just hoped the sharing of them wouldn’t raise the darkness he sensed lurking deep in his new lady’s soul.
Chapter 21
“Did you not hope for victories?” Lady Caterine turned aside, dipped her fingers into the jar of healing salve. “Did you not crave fame and riches?”
“To be sure, I desired such things,” Marmaduke admitted, looking deep into her eyes when she faced him again. “All young nobles dream of shining steel, white chargers, and the favor of their king. I was no different. Indeed, I might’ve held greater ambitions that most.”
“Your tone says otherwise.” She began smoothing salve on his ribs again. “I hear regret.”
“I have them, that is true.”
“You are a great champion.” She looked at him, her brow pleated. “Did knighthood not bring you enough glory?”
“Knighthood disappointed me.” He held her gaze, bile beginning to rise in his throat. He continued all the same, “My values conflicted with my fellow knights. I honored virtue, loyalty, and the high reputation I believed went along with being one of England’s finest. But on my first foray into Scotland I learned that, for many, being aFlower of English Chivalrymeant having a license to embark on career of outrages.”
“Outrages?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“I see,” she said, her tone and the look on her face saying everything.
Caterine of Dunlaidir knew exactly what he’d meant.
