little son while the child drifted to sleep, but he was no bard, and had no desire to display that lack of ability.
"The gifts of the Scottish storytellers are well known," he finally said. "I would rather hear an authentic Scottish tale told by a true bard."
"It is Highland custom for a guest to tell a tale the first night of his visit," Alainna said in English. She stood beside her great-uncle's chair. "We would like to hear something that is told at hearth-sides in your country."
Sebastien watched her as she spoke, half distracted. Firelight slid over her body, enhancing its supple curves and sheening her long braids to rippling bronze. He had been aware, ever since he had recognized her out on the snowy hill, that she was to become his wife by order of the king. No matter what conflicts he had concerning the marriage, she was a rich prize for a man's bed. His body reacted to the sight of her, and to the sultry sound of her voice.
Soon he would have to tell her why he had come to Kinlochan. He did not relish the moment. None of the Highlanders, he was sure, wanted this marriage.
Nor did he relish explaining that he would leave Kinlochan as soon as possible. Knights with different lords to serve and various holdings to oversee often left their wives and families for months and years at a time. He knew that too well, yet had no choice now but to repeat that again.
He glanced around at a rainbow of smiles, small and large, bright and dim, toothless and full. His own men plainly grinned as if to dare him to accept Lome's request, while the Highlanders looked eagerly toward him. Clearly he had no choice but to oblige.
"Come to the hearth." Alainna stepped before him, the hem of her simple gray tunic swinging around her ankles. Over it she wore a plaid mantle of brown and blue, belted at her waist, its upper drape fallen back in folds behind her. Her braids were bright and glossy. He wanted to slide his fingers over that fascinating silkenness.
"Tell one of the stories you heard in Brittany as a child," she said.
"I did not hear many tales as a lad. Outside of scripture, that is." He paused. "But I can recite one of the Breton tales that troubadours tell in the court of the duke of Brittany."
"That will do." She held out her hand as if touch was natural and common between them. Her fingers closed over his, smooth, graceful, and pale. Warmth sprang between them, and something fine and hot leaped within him from groin to heart. She tugged on his hand, and he rose to his feet.
He felt awkward, preferring to be on the outskirts of a group where he could observe and learn. He liked his back to the wall, his thoughts to himself, and the advantage his.
Alainna looked up at him with a quick, sparkling smile. His heart seemed to turn within him. The chatter and the faces and the firelight faded, and only her smile, meant for him alone, existed.
Beside the hearth, Lorne gestured toward an empty stool. "Please," he said, "sit by our fire."
Sebastien let go of Alainna's hand and sat. The central fire gave off much heat, and he was glad that he wore only a tunic of brown serge, hose, and boots. He had shed his heavy armor, padding, surcoat, and fur-lined winter cloak, as had his fellow knights. They had left their belongings in a corner of the raftered hall, where sleeping pallets had been stacked for their use later.
Someone handed him a cup filled to the brim with ale, foaming and slightly flowery in taste and scent. He sipped and looked into the fire. The room grew quiet around him. Alainna settled on the floor at his feet, her back close to his knee.
"Long ago," he began in English for the benefit of the Normans, "there was a knight of Brittany named Sir Lanval, who visited the court of the great King Arthur. Sir Lanval rode out in the forest and came upon some beautiful ladies dressed in green, bedecked with flowers, dancing. They were the handmaidens of the Queen of Faery, who stepped forward, the most beautiful woman