Free One Snowy Knight by Deborah MacGillivray

inkling that Skena’s being thin was out of step. Such misgivings led him to ponder if mayhap, instead of being sick, she grieved for her dead husband. It would not be the first time a widow fell into decline after such a loss. Had not the sorrow driven his mother to madness, resulting in her taking her own life? He gnawed at the corner of his lip as concern, resentment, and jealousy flared bright in the pit of his belly.
    Noel had never known the Baron Craigendan, had not seen him at court, nor even heard his name until that fateful day that nearly cost Noel his life. Their first and only meeting had come in the bloody aftermath of Dunbar when Noel’s troops had taken the baron and his men prisoner. Bloody stupid fool. The man had surrendered his sword, even ordered his men to lay down their pikes. A ragged-looking lot they were, half-covered in blood of their countrymen, some of the last men left, flanking Sir Patrick Graham, who had stood and valiantly fought to the death. There had been little choice for Fadden. Surrender and live, or fight on and be slaughtered to a man. The baron had showed common sense and ordered his men to yield. Noel commanded them to stack their weapons in a pile and then line up to be marched back to the main host of the English forces.
    No, brave Skena should not waste sorrow on the knave who had slammed into Noel’s squire, wrenched the sword from the young man’s hands, and run the boy through. The crazed man had then attacked Noel, though he was still dismounting Brishen. That man had no shred of honor. That man had been unworthy of this Scottish lass. It was a shame if she were grieving so for Angus Fadden. That she possibly starved herself because of bereavement angered Noel.
    Picking up the pail, the maidservant slowly rinsed the soap from Skena’s long hair, the white foam sliding down her neck and then crawling over her breasts. Noel swallowed hard as desire thickened his blood. Part of the bedpost blocked his vision of Skena as she rose from the tub, water sluicing off her hard body in small streams. He fought the impulse to shift for a better view, having the feeling Skena would not have openly bathed with him in the room had she suspected he was awake. The wolf’s blood had pushed her to the desire to be shed of it. The other woman hurriedly held up a drying sheet, shielding Skena from his hungry gaze.
    “Who is the warrior, my lady? What was he doing in our glen? Why has he come?” Jenna, still holding up the linen sheet, moved with Skena to the fire.
    “Sir Noel de Servian, he said his name was. He was on his way to Glenrogha to pay visit to the Earl Challon, his foster brother,” Skena answered.
    The other woman sucked in a breath. “This lord is foster brother to the Black Dragon? Oh, Skena—”
    “Hush. No sense borrowing troubles, Jenna. We have plenty enough already. Fetch me a chemise, please,” she asked as she dried her arms.
    The woman did as bid, going to the tall wardrobe to take out the shift for Skena. “He was a long ways from Glenrogha. Out there alone in the storm. Where were his men? Surely he did not travel through Scotland with nary a vassal for support? Most odd, indeed.”
    “Do not go spinning silly tales of a Kelpie fetching him to Craigendan because of a child’s wish,” Skena reproached, and then began vigorously toweling her hair.
    Jenna came toward the bed, so Noel shut his eyes. He felt the corner of the blanket being partially lifted. Cool air touched his skin. “He is a braw and bonnie man, this one. Unharmed by the storm, I judge.” She clucked her tongue. “Did you coat him with Auld Bessa’s salve?”
    “I will.” A defensive tone filled Skena’s answer.
    “Methinks you are a coward, Skena MacIain.” With a chuckle, she dropped the cover. “Of course, if you would rather…I could force myself to do the chore in your stead.”
    “I said I will,” Skena snapped.
    “Someday, Skena, you will learn the way of things. Stop