Read Online Until the Knight Comes by Sue-Ellen Welfonder - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sue-Ellen Welfonder
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predicament.
But now, with candlelight flickering on tapestried walls and a certain dashing knight’s newly assembled bed winking at her from the shadows, she only found herself . . . trapped. And yearning for the simplicity enjoyed by those who slept on pallets, sheltered by roofs thatched with bracken.
The freedom of choice allowed to women who called themselves herring wives and not . . . ladies.
A world without heartache, lies, and unwise longings.
A bliss that seemed about as attainable as believing the old fireside tale that Cailleach Mhor, the great Hag of the Ridges, created Scotland by dropping a creel of peat and rock into sea!
Or that the silhouette she suddenly caught a glimpse of in the doorway was not a deeper shadow, but
him.
She blinked, supposing the splatter of rain and the wind must’ve kept her from hearing his approach. Or his stealth had been deliberate. But he was there now, there could be no denying.
The Keeper of Cuidrach in all his solemn magnificence, the power of his presence palpable and unsettling, and stealing around her like a swirled cloak that both warmed and engulfed.
“Oh!” Mariota gasped, her heart thumping slow and hard.
She stared at him, as keenly aware of his dark sensuality as if their bodies touched, full naked, their breath already mingling.
He didn’t move.
He simply stood there, filling the doorway, his plaid slung over one shoulder, his richly tooled knight’s belt low on his hips, his expression unreadable.
And, saints help her, the intensity of him unleashed a trickling anticipation that spilled all through her, making her blood run thick and rich.
Hot.
And in ways she’d never thought to experience again.
“I did not hear you. How long have you been standing there?” She placed a hand on her breast, amazed she could speak past the dryness in her throat. “Surely not . . . overlong?”
“Shall we just say that I did not come to claim the comforts of this chamber, but rather to ask of yours?” He took a step forward, the very shadows seeming to draw back from him. “I am indeed content sleeping below, on a pallet of heather, aye.”
Heat scalded Mariota’s cheeks. “You mistake,” she said, embarrassment tightening her chest. “I did not mean—”
“Come, my lady.” He stepped closer, pausing near a slanting moonbeam. “Do not demean your spirit by unsaying your words. Or what you wished them to reveal.”
“Then . . .” Mariota cleared her throat and met his gaze. “What I said was not meant as a slur to you—only that I wish to be left alone. I made my own fate, see you. And much of it . . . soured, if you would know the truth of it.”
“Say no more, lady. I suspected as much, and”—he took her hand and kissed her fingers—“I would not see you distressed.”
She pulled away, moving to the window. “Nay, my pardon. ’Tis I who ought apologize—for being here, and for intruding on your peace.”
“Peace?” He made a sound that could have passed for a laugh. “Would you know me better, you’d know that true peace has e’er been as remote as the moon for me,” he said, watching her. “But I do not mind waiting a while longer for its arrival. So long as it comes at all, I shall be content.”
She looked at him, her eyes doubtful. “And you have faith that it will?”
“One must always have faith, my lady. And there is much to rejoice in . . . meantime.” He joined her at the window, looked out at the wet darkness. “See you, these very hills bring me solace. And joy. They are my home. The place I yearned to return to through more years than you would wish to know.”
He paused, thinking not of distant sea cliffs, cold and inhospitable, their treacherous heights teeming with screaming seabirds, but of fine, sun-chased days, washed with summer green and scented with broom. And the deep glens, so sweet and quiet, that had e’er been the saving of him.
Savored bliss that even now filled him with a warm
But now, with candlelight flickering on tapestried walls and a certain dashing knight’s newly assembled bed winking at her from the shadows, she only found herself . . . trapped. And yearning for the simplicity enjoyed by those who slept on pallets, sheltered by roofs thatched with bracken.
The freedom of choice allowed to women who called themselves herring wives and not . . . ladies.
A world without heartache, lies, and unwise longings.
A bliss that seemed about as attainable as believing the old fireside tale that Cailleach Mhor, the great Hag of the Ridges, created Scotland by dropping a creel of peat and rock into sea!
Or that the silhouette she suddenly caught a glimpse of in the doorway was not a deeper shadow, but
him.
She blinked, supposing the splatter of rain and the wind must’ve kept her from hearing his approach. Or his stealth had been deliberate. But he was there now, there could be no denying.
The Keeper of Cuidrach in all his solemn magnificence, the power of his presence palpable and unsettling, and stealing around her like a swirled cloak that both warmed and engulfed.
“Oh!” Mariota gasped, her heart thumping slow and hard.
She stared at him, as keenly aware of his dark sensuality as if their bodies touched, full naked, their breath already mingling.
He didn’t move.
He simply stood there, filling the doorway, his plaid slung over one shoulder, his richly tooled knight’s belt low on his hips, his expression unreadable.
And, saints help her, the intensity of him unleashed a trickling anticipation that spilled all through her, making her blood run thick and rich.
Hot.
And in ways she’d never thought to experience again.
“I did not hear you. How long have you been standing there?” She placed a hand on her breast, amazed she could speak past the dryness in her throat. “Surely not . . . overlong?”
“Shall we just say that I did not come to claim the comforts of this chamber, but rather to ask of yours?” He took a step forward, the very shadows seeming to draw back from him. “I am indeed content sleeping below, on a pallet of heather, aye.”
Heat scalded Mariota’s cheeks. “You mistake,” she said, embarrassment tightening her chest. “I did not mean—”
“Come, my lady.” He stepped closer, pausing near a slanting moonbeam. “Do not demean your spirit by unsaying your words. Or what you wished them to reveal.”
“Then . . .” Mariota cleared her throat and met his gaze. “What I said was not meant as a slur to you—only that I wish to be left alone. I made my own fate, see you. And much of it . . . soured, if you would know the truth of it.”
“Say no more, lady. I suspected as much, and”—he took her hand and kissed her fingers—“I would not see you distressed.”
She pulled away, moving to the window. “Nay, my pardon. ’Tis I who ought apologize—for being here, and for intruding on your peace.”
“Peace?” He made a sound that could have passed for a laugh. “Would you know me better, you’d know that true peace has e’er been as remote as the moon for me,” he said, watching her. “But I do not mind waiting a while longer for its arrival. So long as it comes at all, I shall be content.”
She looked at him, her eyes doubtful. “And you have faith that it will?”
“One must always have faith, my lady. And there is much to rejoice in . . . meantime.” He joined her at the window, looked out at the wet darkness. “See you, these very hills bring me solace. And joy. They are my home. The place I yearned to return to through more years than you would wish to know.”
He paused, thinking not of distant sea cliffs, cold and inhospitable, their treacherous heights teeming with screaming seabirds, but of fine, sun-chased days, washed with summer green and scented with broom. And the deep glens, so sweet and quiet, that had e’er been the saving of him.
Savored bliss that even now filled him with a warm
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