He did. I reached to touch his hair and kiss his face. I smoothed my fingers in feather touches across his skin and his hair, as my mother used to do to me when I was a child, to calm me when I couldn’t sleep, to make me feel drowsy and loved with her gentle attention and her nearness.
His breathing became deeper and relaxed, and even then, I continued to savor the feel of him and the taste of him.
“I love you, warrior,”I whispered to him in his sleep, kissing his lips once more. I settled in against his warmth, laying as close to him as I could be in the fire-lit darkness, considering my fate and his.
But I could not sleep.
I rose, wrapping a fur around myself like a cape. I went to sit on the stone-bound window seat of Wilkie’s chambers, which had been draped with cushions and furs. Outside the window, the stars hung low in the clear night, and the harvest moon glowed yellow, casting a golden glow to the orchards and fields below.
Sometime later, I heard Wilkie stir and reach for me, patting the space where I had been. He sat up.
Seeing me at the window, he came to me, wrapping a fur around his waist. Then he sat with me, holding me against his chest. Together, we watched the night.
“What are you thinking of, lass?”
After a moment, I told him. “I have a memory, or perhaps it’s only a hazy dream, of my very earliest life. It comes to me now and then.”
“Tell it to me,” he said quietly.
“There’s a fair-haired woman. She’s very young. She’s crying. There are shiny tears in her green eyes. And she’s walking away.”
The silence that followed was soft and comforting and contemplative.
Wilkie’s deep, velvet voice had all the effect of a tonic, a cure, a remedy to every sadness. “It makes sense that whoever gave birth to you would have had fair hair and green eyes, love. I’m sure she was very beautiful, like you, although ’tis difficult to imagine anyone matching your loveliness.”
“Why do you think she would give me away?” I asked, knowing already that it was a question that would likely never find an answer.
“I imagine she must have been in danger of one sort or another,” he said. “’Tis the only explanation. Or not able to feed you, or care for you.”
I wished I could learn the truth.
“Tell me of your parents that raised you,” Wilkie said.
“They loved me as their own. My father’s name was Oliver. He had strong hands and a tireless work ethic. His whistling tunes run through many of my memories, though they became less and less frequent as his dislike for Laird Ogilvie began to take hold and grow.”
He was stroking my hair. “Why was that?”
“I think maybe he saw the future, just like I did.”
“Laird Ogilvie’s pursuit of you, you mean?” he asked.
“Aye, and my mother, too. She was so very kind, so very in love. Her face lit up whenever my father walked into our cabin. It was tiny but lovingly cared for, always neat and clean. It was a treasured childhood, mine. Until its decline.”
Except for that one long-reaching moment, involving a wizened old woman and a never-forgotten warning.
But I didn’t speak of that now.
I thought of the one possession of my parents’, now lost to me: my mother’s pin. I wished I could retrieve it.
“Retrieve what?”
I hadn’t realized I’d voiced my wish aloud. A fleeting thread of alarm quirked through me now as I wondered if I’d spoken the previous recollection aloud, as well. But then: I thought not. That was a secret too guarded, too buried. “A pin,” I said, “given to my mother by my father on their wedding day. ’Tis all I have left of them. I had it by the small pool at the cave. I think I may have left it there. One day I’ll have to go back, to see if I can find it.”
“I’ll have it retrieved for you,” he said, his fingers weaving themselves through my hair. “It will not be youwho ventures to the pool, lass. Not for a while. ’Tis too dangerous. You know that.”
I turned to him, leaning my head into the crook of his neck, and his arms closed more tightly around me. I did not feel confined by him, only grateful of his protection, only thankful of his nearness and all that he was. I could still taste him and feel the warmth and fullness of his essence inside me. “Tell me of your parents, warrior. What were they like?” I asked him shyly; the question felt wildly personal, and I knew these were details he kept close to his heart and rarely spoke of. I wondered if he would willingly talk about them. I was surprised when he answered my question openly, and with genuine emotion coloring his words.
“My mother died when I was ten years old,” he said. “She had difficulties when Christie was born. She died several days later. I remember her well. She was gentle like Ailie, and she had Christie’s exuberance but was somewhat quieter. She had dark hair—not quite black—and pale gray eyes, like Knox’s. She was often praised for her vibrant beauty.” He paused, remembering, his voice softened by affection. “She once called me her fiercest warrior son, when I won a swordsmanship contest when we were small children. Kade didn’t appreciate that comment and decided to arm himself to the teeth, making a point of equipping himself more heavily than either Knox or I. Our mother noticed this, and soon after she calledhimher fiercest warrior son. Kade was immensely pleased by this, and to this day he still makes sure to wear more weapons than we do.” He laughed softly at the memory.
