Page 82 of The Falcon Laird
Gavin tore off tunic, boots, breeches, flinging them away. As he parted the tent entrance to climb into the tub, she saw the hard contours of his body, muscles gleaming as he hunkered down beside her, water sloshing, to render the small space cozy—and crowded.
The round wooden tub was large enough to accommodate two people if they sat snug together, knees up. The water softened the cloth lining the tub and billowed sensuously against her skin.
Gavin leaned back, rested an arm along the rim, drawing her close. Steam swirled, the heat was delicious, the herbs scenting the water relaxing. She leaned her head against his arm.
Rain pounded on the roof, the wind shuddered against the tower, and outside, the gale released its force. Within the steamy enclosure, Christian felt increasing calm. Fears vanished, muscleaches eased, and she rested her head on Gavin’s shoulder, her hip pressed to his.
She was sure he ached in every part of his body, after fighting with the strength of demons against the soldiers who had threatened her. She had seen murderous resolve and resounding courage in him, and knew he risked his life more than once in that time just to protect her. She felt humbled.
Since he had seen Bruce himself, she was tempted to tell him now of her meeting. But she sensed his deep fatigue, and knew it was not the time. Besides, both Fergus and Bruce had placed a burden of silence and loyalty on her shoulders. She could not.
“Gavin,” she said softly.
He leaned back his head, eyes closed. “Mmm?”
“You saved my life this day. Thank you.”
“Robert Bruce saved all of us,” he murmured.
“We owe him a true debt. I wonder what you thought when—”
With a soft splash, he touched a finger to her lips. “Hush. We promised, here in this chamber, to have no king or realm between us.”
“But he is my cousin.”
“And I agree we owe him a debt today. I hope we can repay him. But I do not wish to talk about what happened out there today. Not yet.”
She nodded, leaned against him. “Later.”
“Breathe in the steam. Relax. This will help your cough.”
“I do not have a cough,” she said, glad for his concern, glad to abandon troubling thoughts. He rested a hand on her thigh, fingers moving in slow circles.
“I rather like harp music while I enjoy a bath,” he said.
“I will not play for you just now,” she said, sighing.
“Then this might do,” he said, sliding his hand up her hip to caress her breast. He kissed her, warm and supple and deep, anda delicious tingle rushed through her body. She too moved her hand, exploring to find the silken, hard length of him swelling for her. With a growl, he pulled her across him, kissing her, his hands moving over her. Water sloshed and waved around them, calming as she settled in his lap, arms around his neck. He moaned low in his throat and kissed her, trailing his lips over her, the heat and moisture taking over until she felt him move, felt herself moving, rocking, as his fingers slipped downward, and she arched back as a flush of joy washed through her. Shifting, easing over him, she could not wait now.
But oh, it was hot—too hot to breathe suddenly. She reached up, grabbed the draped linen, pulled it down and away to collapsing half in the water, half out, covering their shoulders. He gave a husky groan, pushed the cloth aside, and grabbed her. Heat surrounded her, filled her, soothed and caressed her. Sultry steam, very warm water, his hands on her hips, his lips here, and there, all melded and blended as he pushed and she sank over him, surging toward each other. She wanted, suddenly and very desperately, to give herself to him utterly, to use silent, beautiful touch to express her love, to offer him what swelled through her. She felt as if she drew elemental strength from him, a healing kind of strength, and she wanted to give that back to him now, when he was tired, when he was aching and in need of ease and some healing, and so she rocked with him, gift and giver as one.
“Grandfather, father, son,”Christian told Michaelmas, plucking groups of harp strings as she spoke. “The lower strings, the male sounds. Daughter, mother, grandmother”—she plucked the corresponding notes—“are the higher, female sounds. Try it.” She shifted the harp toward her daughter.
Michaelmas rested her fingers on the strings and plucked the groups, making tight little faces as she did so. The wiresresonated faintly. The girl winced and sucked on a finger, sore from the work.
“Good,” Christian said. “Try again.”
“Grandfather, father, son,” Michaelmas repeated as she ran through the strings again, lower to upper. She plucked at the two center wires. “These sound alike.”
“They are tuned to the drone of a beehive, and to each other. They are like the heart of the harp. Some call them the Lovers, for they ring together always.” She drew a deep breath at the thought.
While Michaelmas practiced, Christian yawned behind her hand and stretched her shoulders. She had awoken to find Gavin gone. Now, well into the afternoon, she had not seen him, though she thought he spent the day discussing repairs with the mason and the blacksmith.
Fergus had arrived earlier with his younger sons, seeking her out to remind her to keep silent about Bruce. She had reassured him, and added that she did not know if Bruce and his men had used the lochside tunnel to seek shelter in the underground room. She did not want to venture down there, and reminded Fergus they must keep others away from that space for a while.
Rain continued, and she hoped her cousin had taken advantage of the snug hideout—and the supplies within. No English patrols would search for them there.
A light tapping on the door startled her. She rose and opened the door to John, Will, and Fergus again.
