“Aye.” He frowned at her before continuing. “As ye said, ’twas a place of sanctuary, a holy place. Howbeit, there was no way I could stop them. So Dugald and I took all we could set our hands on. At least we willnae drink and whore the booty away. Then I found you.” He traced the delicate shape of her face with one finger. “There was such sweetness in your face, whilst ye busied yourself with women’s work. I soon discovered there was spirit and spice beneath that sweetness, and they only added to the wanting. I ached for you from the very first.”
“Because I was sewing a wimple?” She found most of his speech highly flattering, but thought it puzzling that a man of war would be so moved by such a common sight.
“Mayhaps I have been from home too long,” he murmured, and began to brush kisses over her cheeks. “Ye made me think on Dubheilrig ere it was taken from us. ’Tis as good a reason to make love as yours.”
“Is it? I must think on that.” She was not sure she would be able to do much thinking at all if he continued to kiss and stroke her. “Should we not return to camp and the others?”
“We shall be with the others soon enough. Aye, and with them more than we may wish. Let us savor this time alone, this moment of stolen privacy.”
“Are ye sure we are private?”
“Aye, my sweet plunder. Verra private. Dugald stands twixt us and any intruders.” Once again he cupped her face in his hands and brushed his lips across hers. “Are ye sore, loving? Has your first taste of passion left ye hurting much?”
Realizing why he asked such questions again, she quickly decided she was more than able to savor a second taste of lovemaking. “Nay. ’Tis but a wee pain, like a stinging itch.” She slipped her arms about his neck. “I believe ye can make me forget it, my braw Scottish knight.”
“As I make ye forget the war?” He stroked her breast, lightly brushing his thumb over the tip.
It took a moment for Jennet to catch her breath. She was surprised at how swiftly her desire returned, how easily he could rekindle the fires within her.
“Aye, make me forget the war, the death, the weeping of grief stricken lasses and bairns. Aye, even the hunger that has gnawed at my innards for two long years. Steal all thought and black memory from my mind with your loving. Do ye think ill of me for seeking that?”
“Nay, lassie, though ’tis not the reason I wished ye to have. Howbieit, ’twill serve for now. Aye, ’twill serve. I am a patient mon.”
She opened her mouth to ask him what he meant, but he kissed her instead. Soon she was lost in the sweet oblivion of desire, her question forgotten.
Chapter 9
Jennet huddled by the goats behind a snarled hedgerow of holly bushes, struggling to ignore the vicious plundering of Skipton that was going on only yards away. The townspeople and serfs were no match for the Bruce’s battle-hardened men. Those who were able had fled to the nearby hilltop castle, which the Scots had wisely bypassed.
The morning after she and Hacon had made love, Douglas had turned the army west toward Otley and expressed the intention of marching back to Scotland soon. She had been delighted, certain that the killing would shortly end. Now, only a week later, she knew it had been a foolish hope. Instead of being nearer to Scotland, they were but twenty miles north-west of Leeds, and the destruction continued, unrelenting.
She prayed the battle would end soon, then cursed herself for bothering. She had done little else but pray, yet the looting, the burning, and the killing continued. Glancing down at Murdoc, who slept peacefully on the ground beside her, she thanked God that the child was too young to understand what raged about him.
Memories, painful and horrifying, assaulted her, stirred to life by this new blood being shed. It was all too similar to the day her mother had died. Her old hatred of the Bruce’s forces burned within her. She struggled to fight it, if only because it was a treasonous feeling, one that could easily cost her her life.
“Jennet?”
Quickly stifling a screech of surprise, Jennet placed her hand over her heart and glared at Elizabeth. “Ye just stole ten years of my life,” she complained as the woman scrambled to sit on the other side of Murdoc.
“I beg your pardon. I did not mean to afright you, yet I could not approach too boldly. Others might have seen me. Where is your faithful guard Ranald?”
“But a few yards away, on the other side of these bushes.”
“Good. ’Tis one reason I sought you out instead of cowering with the other women. I knew you would be protected.”
“Aye. We are too close to the fighting this time.”
Elizabeth nodded. “Much too close.” She regarded Jennet with concern. “Are ye ailing? You look very pale.”
“I am always verra pale,” Jennet murmured.
“Not like this. ’Tis a sickly cast. Are you fevered?” She reached out to feel Jennet’s forehead and cheeks.
“Nay. ’Tis that my mother died in such a raid by Bruce’s men. Being so close has brought back those memories.”
“Poor child. Yet you stay with these men. Why? They fight for the same man, for the Bruce.”
“Where would I go, Elizabeth? Aye, I could set out for Liddesdale and my mother’s kinsmen, but I dinnae think I would get there alive. We are nearly two hundred miles inside of England. And most times I dinnae blame the Scots or the English, the Bruce or Edward. ’Tis war that killed my mother and mayhaps my father. War and men, with their mad lust for battle.”
