The Night Side (19 page)

“You shall awaken to a new life, my sweet dreamer—and in it shall be sweetness and beauty. I swear this.” He would have promised her anything on this, their wedding night, but awakening passion added to his compulsion to reassure her that she would know happiness with him.

And someday, there will be love, too,
he promised silently.

“Then I shall try once more to believe,” she said softly. Finally, she smiled. It was only then that Colin realized his heart was pounding, his body pulsating with a mixture of desires. His blood felt heavy and heated where it throbbed in his loins, and he realized he was about to have the answer to the question that had intrigued them from their first meeting: what would she be like?

He lowered his head and her lips parted for him, inviting him to taste. He smoothed her night rail aside and slid into the cradle of her legs, then accepted the sweet, unspoken invitation.

He touched her breasts through the sheer cloth and felt her nipples harden. They deserved kisses, too, and he eased down her body, sampling soft skin on the way. The damp of new desire dewed her skin.

Frances shivered and her legs tightened their hold. Colin was delighted. He had hoped she would be able to experience and enjoy passion. Not all women did, and union between man and woman was nothing unless both went into the fire and burned there.

Colin sat up and cast his nightshirt away. It was flattering to his esteem that her eyes went wide when she beheld him naked.

“
Etonnant,
” she breathed.

“Nay, ‘tis you who are amazing,” Colin answered truthfully, returning to her outstretched arms.

He ran a hand along her thigh and then ghosted toward the heat of her, the last secret. A gentle touch told him she was ready. Truly, she was amazing.

“Look at me, love,” he murmured. “I want to see your eyes.”

He waited, poised above her, to see if there was any uncertainty, any fear. But her beautiful eyes were clear and unfrightened. Her breath came in tatters, made ragged by desire. Colin found himself shaking. It was time.

He made his possession slow, aware that, though his slide into her heat was exquisite for him, there could be pain for her. But she did not flinch or cry out. Once inside, he again waited to see if there was any shying away. But nothing marred her face.

“Colin,
mon cher,”
she breathed, her hands reaching for his chest.

He moved then, and she with him. They were a bit wild in their coupling. He was made especially frantic with long-suppressed need and new emotion, and Colin suspected it was the same with his bride. It made him want to push at the boundaries of desire to see if there were actually any limits—could he actually be
completely lost in the heat?—but he told himself that such desire must wait. It had to be ignored until he felt her take flight beneath him and saw her lovely eyes close at last, as ecstasy consumed her.

Frances’s back arched, her fingers digging into his skin. Satisfied, Colin at last followed her into passion’s sweet and all-consuming fire, and there he was reborn into his new life as a husband.

Frances dropped her face onto her knees and giggled. Bright moonlight had entered the chamber, almost overwhelming the light from the hearth.

“You laugh? At such a moment? Heartless wench! Consider my feelings.”

“
Je regrette.
It is just that I have had a thing most strange revealed to me,” she said, peeping at him.

“I reveal myself and it makes you laugh?” His offended tone brought another giggle.

“It is just that
it
is different.”

“
It
?”

She waved a hand at his nether regions.

Truly startled, he demanded: “Different how?”

“It is different now because it is
mine.
I have never had a…a…”

“What do you mean, it’s yours?” His astonishment caused her to release another peal of laughter, a sound sufficiently contagious that Colin found himself smiling. In retaliation, he grabbed her ankle and spilled her onto her back. “By your logic, then, this is mine,” he said, sliding a hand up her exposed leg.

“
Oui
! But of course.”

“And you are not sorry that we enjoy this from the marriage bed? I was concerned that forbidden fruit
would be more enjoyable if eaten in secrecy, for it somehow seems to increase the sin and therefore the pleasure,” he teased.

“
Non
! I am not so—
impudicite
?”

“Immodest? No, you are not immodest. But I have hopes of turning you into a bit of a voluptuary.”

“It is possible. I am, after all, half French. We enjoy nice things.”

“A fact for which I am most thankful. I don’t think I could marry a woman who would not enthusiastically wear silk or perfume, or who could not enjoy a certain social exuberance. In England we are most fond of music and dancing.”

“Perfume?” Frances repeated. Then, with measurable excitement: “From Santa Maria Novella, perhaps?”

Colin began to laugh, enjoying the happiness he heard in his wife’s voice. He had wondered for a while if Anne and Angus MacBride had killed that joy forever.

“Aye. We’ll procure some heavenly elixir from the holy brothers for your sybarite christening.”

“I’ve never visited Sybaris, but I should like to,” Frances said seriously, making Colin laugh even harder.

“Nor have I, my sweet. Perhaps we’ll journey there together.”

“
Ma mere
would not approve if I became
chronique scandaleuse,
” she said, with sudden concern.

“Mothers rarely do approve of anything that is fun,” Colin agreed, and then kissed her. He did not want her thoughts returning to the complexities and obliquities of her relationships with either her parents
or him. “And in any event, I hardly think it likely. Intelligent people can almost always see the lines they should not cross, and I believe you have the will to do anything you desire.”

“
Oui
?”

“
Oui.
”

Those who have arrived at any very eminent
degree of excellence in the practice of an art or
profession have commonly been actuated by a
species of enthusiasm in their pursuit of it.
They have kept one object in view amidst
all the vicissitudes of time and torture.

—
John Knox

The following day saw MacJannet’s return to a still slightly unsettled Noltland. To Tearlach’s credit, though he was irritated by Sine’s sharp instructions to make haste with the yett and wishing to pay her back somehow for this officiousness, he did not keep the heavily cloaked traveler lingering at the gate while demanding that he identify himself or answer silly questions about his business at the castle.

Thomas MacJannet was travel-stained and a bit white about the mouth, but he smiled anyway, because he brought the happy news that the Balfour men would be returned to their home in a matter of mere days, bringing supplies and arms with them. This made him the most beautiful and welcome being Noltland had seen in many a year, and he was given a hero’s reception by the grateful women.

Some of those who heard the joyous tidings that their loved ones yet lived wept and then hurried to find the others and share the news. Still others fluttered
about MacJannet, patting him and offering refreshment until Colin appeared and thrust them gently aside.

“He’ll tell us all more later. Come, my friend,” Colin said, speaking both to MacJannet and to the bishop’s men lingering uneasily nearby. “You must give me a round account of your adventures while you break your fast. You will also wish to pay your respects to my wife and young George before you rest.”

“Your wife? Well! It’s sorry I am to have missed the nuptials. I had hoped to return in time to see them.” MacJannet was sincere.

“I wish that you might have been here.” Colin was also sincere.

He and MacJannet shared a long look.

“By all means, I should indeed like to greet your lady wife. She is within?”

“Aye, she and George both are.”

The two men started for the keep, talking of desultory matters until they were within the castle’s walls and had a measure of privacy.

“Let us seek out my wife and do the obligatory offerings that duty claims. We mustn’t violate the tenets of order unless absolutely necessary,” Colin murmured. “I’ve already set them on their ear with this hasty marriage and having the bishop’s men in their midst.”

As though hearing his summons, Frances appeared at the top of the stairs and hurried down to them. To Colin’s eye she looked a bit flushed and disheveled—which was how she should be after a night given to passion.

Greetings were exchanged, with MacJannet kneeling
slowly to his new mistress and pledging an oddly formal oath of loyalty.

“You are hurt, MacJannet?” she asked, her concern clear as she urged him to rise.

“Nay, lady. I am just a bit stiff from sleeping upon the ground, which hasn’t softened any since I last rested there. The flexibility of youth left me long ago, but the stones are as strong as ever.”

“Come. I shall brew you a tisane. Or Sine shall. Mine are not so useful and taste hideous,” Frances admitted confidentially. “But Sine’s are very good.”

“Thank you, lady, but I am perfectly well,” MacJannet reassured her again, yet somehow failed to meet her eyes as he repeated his words.

“So tell me now all the news that you have held back from the others,” Colin commanded, urging them toward one of the small antechambers. “I’d like it before Lucien arrives back from hunting—if that is what he is truly doing.”

MacJannet glanced once at Frances and then back at Colin, clearly troubled by the intelligence he bore, and obviously reluctant to share his less happy news with Frances present.

“It is all right. Speak your mind. She has a surprising capacity for dispassionate reasoning,” Colin promised. “She is strong enough to bear the truth. Especially when there is no other choice.”

Frances flashed him an appreciative smile, clearly grateful for this vote of trust. There was still some tension between them from the previous night, which their lovemaking had failed to ease. Colin knew it might be a long while before she trusted him completely. He was content to wait.

She said, “I promise that sentiment shall not move me to hysteria, MacJannet. I am always most calm. And if it concerns my family, then of course I must know of it.”

“As you like, lady. There is a new complication that must be assessed,” MacJannet answered at last, his tone even. He turned to Colin. “It seems that the reports of Balfour obliteration were premature. Gilbert Balfour yet lives.”

“My uncle is yet alive?” Frances asked.

“Aye, and the magnitude of his battlefield renown is growing.”

“But this is a thing most wondrous! Gilbert shall know how to defend the keep. He is a most fearsome soldier.” She turned to Colin, smiling without strain for the first time in days. “We need fear no longer. Why did you not tell everyone of this news at once?”

“The second rule of the intelligencer, my sweet, is that information loses its value when traded openly,” Colin answered absently.

His reply caused MacJannet to grunt an agreement. “Aye. And though wondrous it is that he is not in his grave, we must yet ask ourselves some questions. The first being: what of young George?”

Frances blinked, as though encountering a gust of cold wind. “Oh. I suppose he cannot be the heir if Gilbert lives.” She thought for a moment, dismay and gratitude at war on her face. Then she said hopefully: “But George does not like being the laird. I do not think he shall mind having my uncle here instead.”

“That isn’t the only difficulty,” Colin said. “Consider your neighbors. What shall their reaction be when one
of the bishop’s men moves into their vicinity? You’ve avoided open political conflict until now, but it will all change if Gilbert takes up residence.”

“Is he for the bishop?” Frances asked. “But how can that be? Is he not a brother to my father? Were they not allied?”

“Loyalty can be twisted by sentiment and made unreliable.” Colin spread his hands. “Usually such a change of allegiance is a slow and imperceptible process. But at times it can be precipitated by one great event, or a strong personality. It is as I explained last night. A leader with enough will or charm can cause the grossest unreason in his followers. Whatever he was in the past to your father, Gilbert is the bishop’s man now. And as such, your neighbors shall hardly embrace him. They are likely disturbed enough with the small party of bishop’s men already here…I wonder if Lucien heard rumor of this?” Colin murmured, as his brow furrowed.

Frances shook her head, as though trying to clear it of the ringing the verbal buffet had caused. “Must everything be so difficult?” she whispered, scowling a bit as she sank into a chair and propped an elbow on the small table.

“There is more,” MacJannet added in a sepulchral tone. “There are everywhere in higher circles whispers about Gilbert Balfour, which go unanswered except by more rumor. It is said that though he still lives he is very ill, both wounded and attacked by fever. This concern over where he resides may be a moot point if he dies. There is also talk of him forging an alliance with the English. You know what happens when rumors become large enough.”

Frances looked quickly at Colin, plainly disturbed by the gossip.

He shrugged. “Then we are certainly best advised to mention this to no one until we have some facts. We don’t want the tribes uniting in anticipation of deflecting the renowned warrior, Gilbert Balfour, if no army of liberation is to actually appear.” Colin leaned back in his chair. “And what say the Balfour men you found? Their freedom was procured?”

“Aye, not easily or inexpensively, but their freedom they have. Unfortunately, they know nothing certain of Gilbert—or knew nothing when I last spoke to them. But the story isn’t something that shall remain a secret for long, now that the army is disbanding and men are returning home. And if the bishop did not know of Gilbert’s survival before, he shall shortly.”

“Aye, I fear you are right.” Colin sighed and turned to look at Frances. He brushed back a stray lock of her mussed hair and attempted a smile before turning again to MacJannet. “MacJannet, I hate to set you to another journey when you have only just returned, but I am afraid you must be off again tomorrow.”

“The boy goes with me, too?” the other asked quietly.

“Aye, for I have still not discovered for certain who has been orchestrating events here at the castle.”

“You are sending George away?” Frances asked, looking from Colin to MacJannet. “But he shall not want to go. He is much attached to me and this is his home now.”

“I do not propose separating you,
cherie.
You shall go, too.”

“
Qu’est-ce que
?”

“Aye, you must.”

“But no! I cannot.” Frances jumped to her feet. Her voice was slightly desperate. “We cannot go and leave my family here when there is danger. You are my husband—you must stay.”

“
We
aren’t leaving,” Colin answered evenly. “You and George are. I shall stay until the men arrive and we have some definite word of Gilbert Balfour.”

“You think to put me from you?” Frances demanded, dismay being replaced with wrath. “You propose that I should run away while you face danger in my stead? No! No and no and no! I shall not have it.”

“I appreciate your feeling, my dear, but you are allowing emotion to entwist your reason. This is not a battle you can fight, and having you and George here as potential hostages hampers my own efforts. The traitor must be found before Gilbert returns, if he actually lives long enough to come to Noltland.”

“You think I have no honor,” she accused. “You are like all men who think that women cannot have courage or intelligence in troubled times.”

“Hogwash!” Colin answered forcefully, as MacJannet wisely retreated from the room, closing the door softly behind him. More than ever he wished there had been time for Frances’s affections to animate fully before their marriage, so there was a reciprocal bond of love between them. “I’ll grant that there has been little inducement for either courage or intelligence to flourish in your sex—since both are usually suppressed from the cradle. But we both know you have honor and courage aplenty, so do stop speaking as an hysteric when I know you do not suffer from such an inveterately low intellect.”

Frances stared hard at Colin. “I do not know this word
inveterately.
But I do know that you look very
cross when you say it, so perhaps you should not use it.”

“I look cross because I am cross,” he answered. But already the frown was lifting from his brow. It was impossible to remain angry when staring into her flushed face. The high color all too vividly recalled him to the previous night’s passions. He added feelingly: “This entire situation is bloody annoying. Here we are, married one day and already fighting.”

“It
is
bloody annoying,” she agreed, pleased with the expression. “But we must accommodate facts. In any event, I do not think MacJannet can leave immediately, whatever your wishes.”

“No?” Colin thought about this for a moment and then asked: “Why?”

“He tried to conceal it from me, but I believe he has been wounded. Perhaps merely bruised and strained, but he did not move so stiffly before he left, nor did he favor his left leg. You cannot send George and me into danger if he is not fit. And you do not trust the bishop’s men entirely, do you?”

“Well, bloody hell,” Colin muttered again. “Clearly I am not at my best today. And it is you who has distracted me with your disarrayed hair. Did you not comb it after leaving our bed?”

Frances smiled triumphantly, the last of her outrage leaving her as she decided that she had indeed made her point. Reaching up a small hand, she carelessly flipped a straying tress over her shoulder.

“I’d best go speak with him and discover whom he has been brawling with,” Colin muttered. “It isn’t like MacJannet to engage in physical warfare.”

“
Oui.
And I shall send Sine with a tisane and some food. Both shall aid him in recovery, so he may assist
you in discovering the villain who has tried to kill George,” she answered.

Turning about, she headed for the door. A ghost who had been eavesdropping floated to one side. Colin stared at his wife’s retreating back, finally realizing that he had not just engaged in his first marital skirmish, but that he had also lost it. “Bloody hell.”

The pale shade hanging in the corner stared at him sympathetically.

“If you wished to be helpful,” Colin snapped to the specter, “you would show me who has been conspiring to kill the young laird.”

The ghost did not answer. He merely faded into the darkness between the castle’s stones. Either he didn’t know, or he didn’t care who would kill the young Balfour.