Son of the Morning

He had either dunked his head in a barrel of water or taken time to bathe, for his long hair was wet and sleeked back. His simple linen shirt was clean, his plaid belted about his lean waist. A knife was thrust into his belt, and another into his right boot. The huge claymore was slung in a scabbard over his back; he removed that, hanging it on the back of his chair. Even here, in his own hall, he kept his fearsome weapons to hand.

Looking around, Grace saw that all the men did. Niall had called them broken men and outlaws; they were hard men who had lived hard lives, yet they chose to be governed by Niall. They were the castoffs of clans alloverScotland , but here they had formed their own clan, with Niall the unelected but undisputed chieftain, and he had transformed them into a prime fighting unit with pride and discipline. These men would willingly die for him.

A smaller chair had been placed beside Niall’s. Those were the only two chairs there; everyone else sat on benches. Grace was burningly aware of all the curious glances coming her way, especially from the men. The women of the household had gotten accustomed to her during the day; some oftheir glances were hostile.

Niall cupped her elbow as he seated her, his hand very warm on her bare arm. "Ye askedAlice about the escape tunnel," he said, his tone mild, his eyes sharp.

Grace blinked in amazement. She had been byAlice ‘s side almost every minute of the day; she was certain Niall had had no opportunity to speak to her since the morning. "Yes, I did, " she admitted without pause. "But how did you know?"

"I was displeased that ye managed to enter Creag Dhu on false pretenses, and no one questioned ye or even saw ye for the rest of the day. Nothing ye do now goes unobserved." He leaned back in his chair as the meal was set before him, roasted pork, turnips, fresh bread, cheese, and stewed apples. Taking the knife from his belt, he carved several slices of tender ham from the haunch and placed them on the trencher set on the table between him and Grace.

"Have ye a knife?" he asked Grace. She thought of the Swiss Army knife in the bag she had hidden, and shook her head. Niall drew the smaller daggerfrom his boot and surveyed it, then thrust it back into his boot. "I dinna think I trust ye with something so wicked sharp. I’ll cut your meat for ye."

"I wouldn’t stab you," she said, shocked.

One eyebrow lifted. "No? When first I met ye, ye were with the Hays."

"You know I was captured! You could hear what they were saying."

"It could have been arranged, aye? I was half smothered with plaids, as ye remember; I couldna see anything. Ye might have been captured, or ye might have been with them from the start. Ye released me from the dungeon, then followed me here to Creag Dhu, knowing I wouldna cast ye out. Now ye’ve asked about the tunnel. Do ye plan to tell the Hays, and let them into my castle to murder us in our beds?"

Furious, Grace turned on him. "Huwe already had you at his mercy. Why would he scheme to help you escape, when he could kill you and be done with it?"

"As to why, if Huwe wanted only to kill me then, aye, he could ha’ done it then. But he wants Creag Dhu as well, and he kens well he couldna take it from without. To take the castle, he must find a way inside." Expertly he cut a small piece of meat and offered it to her.

She ignored it. "I only asked about a tunnel because I was curious. I didn’t even ask where it is, as you should know since you’ve obviously had my every word reported to you!"

Niall eyed her flushed face, and saw that her eyes had gone as dark as a stormy sea. "And will continue to do so," he said. He offered the meat again. "Eat, lass. A good wind would blow ye away."

Grace took the meat with her fingers and neatly popped it into her mouth, then deliberately turned her head from him to watch the others. He paid no attention to her ire or her efforts to ignore him. He fed himself and her, alternating between the two of them, and patiently holding each bite until she took it. She could see people watching them, and good manners prompted her not to make a public scene.

His consideration undermined her efforts to remain angry. He didn’t try to force her to talk, didn’t belabor his point; having made it, he was content. She knew now how closely she was watched, which had been his intention.

His leg pressed against hers. Instantly she moved away, then glanced at him to see if the contact had been deliberate. It was. He was watching her, his gaze steady. He took a drink of spiced wine, then put the cup in her hand so she too could drink. "Do ye remember a time," he said in a low voice, "when I was sitting on a stool, and ye came to me, and I lifted ye astride-"

Her hand shook, and she hastily set the cup down before she spilled the wine. She didn’t reply, but the hot color in her cheeks gave him his answer.

"How can it be?" he wondered. She shook her head, and whispered, "I don’t know." "At times I wasna asleep, and still I could feel ye watching me." He lifted her hand, holding it in his palm and tracing his fingertip over the slender bones that fanned in the back of her hand.

"Sometimes when I was awake, I thought I heard you speaking." She couldn’t look at him as she made the confession. The words felt tom out of her, a reluctant acknowledgment of the awareness between them that had tormented her for months, and tempted her now. It would be so easy to turn her hand in his, lace their fingers together. He would know what she wanted. He wouldn’t ask any questions, simply lead her up the stairs to his chamber.

She stared at the saltcellar. She had once had this unspoken intimacy with Ford; they had known each other, so well that a lot of times words hadn’t been needed. When he died, she thought that wonder, that sense of belonging, had died with him and she would never know it again. How could it be duplicated? They had forged that mutual knowledge during years of dating and marriage, of making love, of quiet talks in the darkness as they lay together, of working and laughing and worrying, ofliving together.