Free One Snowy Knight by Deborah MacGillivray Page A

hiding from yourself, lass,” the woman said in gentleness.
    “I hide from naught. Every bloody day I would like to lie in bed and ignore the situation facing us. And every damn bloody day I climb from the bed and stare harsh realities in the face. Let no one say I spurn aught,” Skena rebuked.
    “’Tis not what I speak of and you ken it.”
    The door opened again. Noel risked a peek through slitted eyes to see the girl child come in. Rubbing one eye with her fist, she made a sleepy face, and looked about for her mother. Spotting Skena, she rushed toward her.
    Skena hurriedly snatched up a plaide and wrapped it about her naked body like a mantle. “Sweetling, you should be tucked up in bed, dreaming of Yuletide treats.” Skena took hold of the child’s frail shoulders and turned her toward the door, only to have the child willfully spin about.
    “I want to see the warrior, màthair. I slept for a bit, but awoke, afraid he was ill and dying. He is ours now. You must not let him sicken,” she choked on a sob.
    “He but sleeps, Annis,” Skena assured her daughter.
    The child insisted with stubbornness, “I want to see.”
    “Very well.” Skena exhaled in resignation. “But do not wake him. He needs his rest.”
    Noel closed his eyes tight, as mother and child came toward the bed. The mattress gave a small shift as the child began to climb onto the bedside.
    “Annis, I said you may see him. I did not mean for you to crawl onto the bed to do it,” Skena fussed at the child.
    Ignoring her mother, she patted his shoulder with a small hand, and then she pushed against him to lean forward. The warm scent of child filled his nostrils as she placed her small mouth upon his cheek to plant a kiss. “Thank you, kind warrior, for coming to care for us. We need you. So very much. My màthair won’t eat—”
    “Annis! Enough!” Skena grabbed her daughter about the waist and swung her off the bed. “Jenna, see this littlelin gets back to Nessa and this time she stays where she is put.”
    “Mama, what is our warrior’s name?”
    Noel again risked looking through half-closed eyes. The little girl was clearly dragging her feet. He had to fight against the smile threatening to spread across his lips. She was a smaller version of Skena, little more than five summers old.
    Kneeling before her daughter, Skena kissed the child’s forehead. “Sir Noel de Servian is his name.”
    “Noel?” The child’s face lit with a grin. “Does that not mean Christmas in the Norman, Mama? Father Malcolm said that was so in our lessons.”
    Skena nodded. “I believe that is the meaning of the name.”
    “Do you not see—he is our Christmas knight. See, Andrew is right. We wished for him, and he came to save us,” she insisted.
    Rising, Skena gave the child a slight nudge, pushing Annis into the maid’s arms. “Off with you.” She stood watching until the door had closed on them.
    “Why does everyone persist in placing faith in wishes? Wishes are naught but a bloody waste of breath. If wishes summoned warriors we would have a whole army at our beck and call,” Skena grumbled. “Of course, then we would have to feed them, but surely we could just wish for a banquet fit for a bloody king. And mayhap if I wish for my tears to turn to gold then I could buy more cows and sheep. Wishes are for fools and children. Not for Skena MacIain.” Dropping the blanket, she picked up the chemise from the bench and slid it over her head, then wrapped the plaide about her again.
    After a long sigh, she walked back to the bed. Noel quickly feigned sleep again. The handle on the metal pot clanked, telling him she had pulled it closer to the bedside. There was a moment of silence, as if she hesitated, then she finally spoke. “I am no bloody coward.”
    Noel held still as she smeared the cream across his upper chest. Her hand worked slowly, moving in languid circles, first one side, and then the other. His body shifted to betrayal, responding to