The Thistle and the Rose Page 10

“Thank you, m'lady,” the woman responded politely. “But ‘tis simple work, really.”

  “Could you show me how?” Celia looked into the woman's surprised eyes.

  “You, m'lady?” The tittering around her made Celia very self-conscious, but she wanted to see this through.

  “Aye. If you've the patience.”

  “Sit, m'lady,” the older woman said, standing and glancing up at the laird for approval.

  Colin watched as Celia took her seat at the wheel. The other women stared in silence as their fellow worker explained the process to Celia. Celia started, working slowly, hesitatingly, but in spite of her caution, or perhaps because of it, the work began to tangle within a few seconds. With an explosion of voices, the other women leapt from their places, flooding the giggling Celia with instructions and advice.

  It occurred to Colin as he watched that even he could have done better at the spinning than Celia was doing. Then he realized that she knew exactly what she was doing. In one stroke, Celia had moved inside their circle. Everyone was enjoying herself, Celia most of all.

  It took Colin a while to extract her from her new-found friends. As he led Celia out of the building, he could still see the flush of excitement in her face. He watched as her face suddenly grew serious.

  “You never said how you've managed to produce wool of this quality,” she asked, stopping and giving him a direct, questioning look.

  “Aye,” he said, faking a hard look at her. “And how do I know you will not be selling our secrets to the enemy?”

  “You're not going to let me fall into enemy hands, now, are you?” Celia asked, a pretense of fear showing on her face.

  “Let?” Colin repeated mischievously. “Nay, lass. I might turn you over to them.”

  Celia made her look so pathetically pitiful that Colin couldn't keep up the play. He smiled outright.

  “All right, I'll tell you,” he said, growing serious. “We've been enclosing the land for sheep grazing as some of the larger barons are doing in England, but we are not throwing the farm folk off to become beggars. These people that you see working here are those that were struggling on the small farms. We've taught them the crafts. Here, they can earn a better life for themselves.”

  “For themselves? or for the Campbells?” Celia asked, tossing her head in sudden defiance. How was this life better for those workers? Was it just another way to make the lairds richer?

  “The Campbell lairds have been accumulating wealth for centuries,” Colin flashed defensively. “If it was just wealth we were after, we would not be spending money and bringing in outside tradesmen to build a school, to improve the village, to house these folk, and to teach them new trades. Our village has attracted some of the finest craftsmen in all Scotland.”

  “You're doing all that?” she asked in a conciliatory tone. “That is not the way I've ever seen landowners behave. The custom seems to be to bleed the people of everything they have.”

  Colin knew that what he was doing here was, in a way, revolutionary. And Celia was right about bleeding the people. But he was surprised to hear a court lady voice such concern for those beneath her.

  “Aye, we're doing all those things, except the bleeding part,” Colin responded, lightening the exchange. “In fact, we still operate the spinning school, which I may have to enroll you in.”

  “You think there is hope for me?”

  “Absolutely.” He smiled. “If you’re planning on staying a while.”

  “I might like that,” Celia returned. “But you still haven't told me why your wool is so fine.”

  “The trick was getting the folk that have been left to tend the sheep to stop greasing the animals with the tar. There's no need, now, because we've built shelters—sheepcotes—to keep the livestock in during the coldest weather. Then, we use Spanish shearing techniques and sort the finest wool out for our own weavers to use.”

  Taking a hold of her hand, he pointed to the third building.

  “That building is where we do the sorting, washing, and carding for the spinners, but that's off limits to you...for today, at least. You've disrupted the works enough already,” he stated with an exaggerated frown. “Besides, I've other things I want to show you, as well.”

  “You said you're building a school,” Celia anticipated, “is that what you want to show me?”

  “Maybe,” Colin continued, patting the satchel strapped to his waist and whistling to his dog. “But first, you have to share this food Agnes packed for me. And I know a good spot.”

  Still holding Celia's hand, Colin led her up past the warehouses and the docks until the paved road ended.

  Celia felt happy and alive as she nearly ran to keep pace with the tall man's strides.

  They followed a stony path up the hill that overlooked the village and the harbor. As they neared the top, Celia could see that only the castle was higher, and its view dominated the entire area. From here, she could see the building that was going on in the village. On the far side of the Marketcross, behind the church, there was considerable activity around a partially built structure of timber and stone.

  “Is that the school?” she asked eagerly, letting go of his hand and pointing across the rooftops.

  Colin could see in Celia the same thrill that he felt each time he looked at the ongoing changes in the village. He was surprised and touched by this woman's humane interest. This was no pretense. And Colin was finding himself attracted to her even more. If only he knew more about her.

  “Aye, it is. You seem to be very interested in that school.” Colin took Celia's arm, and they continued over the crest of the hill as they talked. Bear began to wander, his nose to the ground, through the low, windswept grasses. Occasionally he lifted his head, looking back as if to check on his master.

  “I am. Will the school be for all the children in the village?” Celia asked this tentatively, almost afraid that his answer would ruin her developing image of him.

  “Aye, all the children will attend,” he responded matter-of-factly.

  “The girls as well?”

  “Aye, the girls, as well.”

  “That is quite progressive,” Celia said, knowing that education for women was a rarity, even in the privileged classes.

  Colin stopped and turned her toward him. He knew he had to explain.

  “My mother read to me as a child,” he said softly. “Agnes reads and writes, as do all the women in the household. The Campbells do not hold with those who believe that education damns a woman's soul. We believe it makes her more valuable.”

  Celia was amazed. She'd never heard such things from a man of Colin's stature before. She herself had learned many things growing up, matters of the arts of war, of sailing, of commerce and finance, of the mechanics of things, but not reading.

  “I wish I'd had that opportunity as a child. I never learned until I arrived at court. My friend Father William was the one who taught me.”

  No sooner had the words left Celia's lips than Colin shook his hand free of her arm and picked up his pace. His parting glance looked angry to her, but what reason had she given him for such a response. She had felt drawn by everything about this man. Now, on the heels of her admission, his unexplained anger cut her like the slashing tear of a Highland dirk.

  Colin reached an outcropping of stone and threw down the satchel containing their lunch at the base of the rock and stormed a few paces off.

  “Those must have been happy days at court,” Colin snapped, turning to face her.

  Celia paused for a moment at the realization that Lady Caithness's reputation was the cause of his anger. If only she could tell him the truth.

  “No, I hated court,” Celia said softly. She fought the tears that were beginning to well up in her eyes. “The happier days went before.”

  “Before?” Colin was confused. He saw the hurt look in her face. He changed his tone, asking more soothingly, “Where were you before?”

  Celia paused before answering. “Everywhere and no
where. I lived with my father and Edmund.”

  “What does that mean, `everywhere and nowhere'?” Colin pressed, fighting successfully to keep the irritation out of his voice. He was genuinely interested, but he hated riddles.

  “I grew up on my father's ships. He was a merchant and he took me everywhere.”

  “That was a dangerous way to raise a child.”

  “He knew it was dangerous, but he couldn't bear to have me be away from him. I was all he had left.” Celia unconsciously unfastened her cloak, spread it on the ground before the boulder, and sat looking out at the blue of the sea. Across the water Celia saw islands that were a bluer shade than either sea or sky. She had always felt so safe beside her father out on those treacherous waters.

  “What about your mother, the rest of your family?” Colin crouched beside her on the cloak, watching the expression of her profile. This was the first glimpse of her past that she had shared with him. So openly. So honestly.

  “My mother died when I was very young. Edmund has been the only other family I've known. My father's English family never accepted his marriage to a Scottish woman. They never acknowledged me at all.”

  “Clearly, that was their loss. But it must have been difficult for you.” Colin's hatred of English arrogance flared at the thought of any child being made to feel unwanted, particularly this one.

  “Aye, because I never really knew a home,” Celia said pensively, but then her expression brightened. “But growing up aboard ship was a magical experience. Exotic lands with people of every color, speaking languages I could almost understand. Waking up to the sound of the sea and the motion of the ship. The smells of the ports and the cargoes that we carried. Hiding in the holds among bales of Spanish wool and spices from the East.”

  Colin smiled tentatively at the image of the little girl playing happily while dangers lurked over every horizon.

  “How long did you live on his ships?”

  “My father died of a fever when I was fourteen. That's when everything changed.” Celia shook off her reverie, realizing that she had already said too much. She couldn't let Colin Campbell—or anyone—get close to her right now. She reached down and opened the satchel.

  “How so?” he asked, trying to quell her sudden flurry of activity by laying his hand over her long slender hands. Her nervous fingers fluttered like a bird under his for a moment, and then lay still. Celia looked directly into his eyes.

  “I'm not saying another word about myself until you feed me, Lord Campbell.” Celia tried to ignore his manly presence, the pressure of his enveloping hand, but she couldn't. She could feel her own quickening pulse.

  “If we're going back to that Lord Campbell form of address, then I'll just have to start giving commands again. And I will not let you off so easy...this time.” Colin leaned down until his mouth was just a breath away from hers.

  She tried to smile. She wanted to make some sharp remark. To tell him where he fell far short of courtesy's requirements, but his face was so close to hers now, his finely sculpted lips so attractive. She wondered if those lips tasted as wonderful as they looked. They were so full, so inviting.

  His one hand was pressing hers against her thigh, but suddenly his other reached to her chin, lifting it until she looked into his eyes. The hunger that she found there frightened her, yet somehow drew her on.

  Colin looked into Celia's direct gaze. For a moment—he didn't know how long—he was mesmerized, lost in the dark depths of her black eyes. Moving his hand slightly, he brushed her soft lips with his thumb, smiling at the tremor that she visibly experienced. She closed her eyes momentarily. Sliding his hand across her cheek, Colin brushed back the silky ringlets that hung teasingly against her face. Running his fingers through her hair, he traced a course around her petite ear and stroked the velvety skin beneath it.

  Responding to the soft moan that he felt rather than heard, Colin reached his hand around her neck and pulled her upturned lips to his own.

  “Kiss me,” he commanded softly, his voice as gentle as the warming sunlight.

  Celia's good intentions were overwhelmed the moment his soft hands traveled across the skin of her face and neck. She wanted to brush her lips across his, to feel his warm, strong body pressed against her own. She wanted to be so close to him that there could be no breath between them. Colin's lips awaited hers.

  Celia's lips touched his lightly, chastely. Then her hands came up to feel the chiseled features of his eyes, his cheekbones, the strong, clean cut of his jaw. Bringing her hands together like a sculptor shaping a masterpiece, Celia's thumbs caressed his full lips.

  She fought the urge to taste those lips, to reveal the fire that was raging within her, to feel herself melt into him.

  But she knew she had to stop now, or there would be no stopping.

  She stopped.

  “There you are, m'lord, I've done as you commanded. Now feed me.”

  In one quick, outward snap of her arm, Celia dislodged his hand from her neck, placed her hands firmly against his chest, and shoved the leaning laird back on his haunches.

  On her feet the next instant, Celia stepped back a safe distance and looked playfully at the surprised warrior. He looked so comical, his legs stretched out in front of him, his face openly perplexed. But she knew that he was just an instant away from being very, very dangerous.

  “You are teasing me, you imp,” he growled. Her speed and sureness in disengaging herself were impressive to the giant. But as he looked at her, he knew that they would someday bring great pleasure to each other. He'd seen that look of passion in her eyes. She desired him as much as he wanted her.

  “No, m'lord,” Celia said. “But you promised me lunch, and a promise is a promise.”

  At that moment, Colin moved deftly to his knees, and as he did, Celia took another two steps back, smiling.

  “I'm giving you fair warning, I'm a very fast runner.” Truly, it was not Colin that she was afraid of. He was being as chivalrous as one could imagine. Celia was afraid of her own reactions, of her own desire—not to run away, but to run to him—to give herself fully to this man. Never in her life had she felt that way.

  Colin laughed and sat back onto the cloak.

  “All right. Lunch. A promise is a promise. I only hope you do not choke on it, m'lady.” Colin began to pull the food from the satchel.

  Smiling, Celia moved back to the edge of the cloak and knelt down, keeping her eye on him. Colin broke up an oat bannock cake, handing her a small piece, and placing the rest on the cloak.

  As Celia ate the cake, Colin continued to empty the satchel, removing the stopper from the jug of ale and placing the bottle just off the cloak, but within Celia's reach. Breaking off another piece of the cake, Colin tossed a portion to Bear, who had just wandered back from his exploring.

  “Aren't you going to eat, Colin?” Celia asked, reaching for the small jug.

  Colin's head was turned toward the dog when Celia reached for the ale. But with the speed of lightning, his hand shot out, taking her wrist in a viselike grip. In an instant Celia found herself on her back, her wrists pinned to the ground, and the huge warrior leaning over her. He is faster than a man his size has a right to be, she thought.

  Suddenly she laughed out loud at the ridiculousness of such a thought at this moment, and her laugh brought a look of pleasure to Colin's face.

  “Well, did you get enough to eat, my speedy runner?” Colin asked with a wry look.

  “I think being so full slowed me down,” she responded, “but perhaps we're only as fast as we want to be.” As the words left her mouth, Celia regretted saying them. As much as she wanted him to kiss her, she knew that she couldn't let it go far beyond that. The consequences were too serious. But she did want to feel his lips against hers once more.

  Looking into her eyes, Colin saw that spark of desire glowing like an ember in a midnight fire. He knew that it only matched his own. Releasing her wrists, Colin slowly lowered himself beside her outstretched bo
dy. She could roll away from him, run if she wanted to, but he knew she wouldn't.

  Propping himself on one elbow, he cradled the side of her face gently with his other hand.

  “You are so beautiful,” he murmured, smiling at the blush that spread immediately from her face to her neck, disappearing under the collar of her dress. Celia returned his smile with the look of an angel. She looked so innocent.

  And yet, as Colin looked at her, he thought of all the metaphors of courtly love that she must have heard in her life. But still, she blushed at his simple words.

  “Never in my life,” he continued, “have I—”

  “Please do not speak,” she interrupted in a whisper, silencing him with a single finger pressed to his lips.

  Colin watched her lift her head from the cloak, and as she did, his lips descended to meet hers.

  At first, their lips tentatively brushed against the other's, creating a sensation of shock waves that shuddered through their bodies. Colin was surprised that such a harmless act could trigger such a response in him. There was a simplicity, an honesty, an openness in the act, and in the resulting pleasure, that he had not expected.

  Colin did not want the magic of this moment to pass. He pressed his lips to hers again, as a sense of urgency began to seize him. He wanted to kiss her deeply, to taste her, to delve into the mysteries of this woman.

  The pressure of his lips increased, and Celia's head sank against the cloak. Colin ran his tongue lightly across her lip.

  Celia's startled hands flew up, one clutching at his back and shoulder, the other gripping the back of his neck. Again his tongue darted across her full, sweet lips, seeking access. He moved his hand to her chin, lightly pressing downward. Her lips parted, and again his mouth descended upon hers, his tongue thrusting into the luscious opening—sampling, tasting, learning the texture of her soft mouth.

  Her tongue responded to his, tentatively at first. She had never experienced the kind of heat that was coursing through her veins. A raw desire was growing within her. What restraint she had in her was quickly slipping away. Her tongue became as bold as his, searching and rubbing against his in an exploration of discovery. She loved the taste of him, the scent of him, the pressure of his body against hers.