‘If you wish to repay me then you will get well and make your sister much happier.’
Ban found nothing to say for he could not put into words what was in his heart. The dark gaze met his and held it for a moment.
‘Get well, Ban.’ Iain moved to the door and paused just long enough to bestow one last smile. Then he was gone.
* * *
Ashlynn closed the storeroom door and took a leisurely look around. When Iain had first shown her around Dark Mount it had been one of many chambers they had visited. This was the first time she had been back. Her gaze passed over a stack of empty wicker baskets and a pile of old sacks and moved on, coming to rest on several large chests. Initially they had rated no more than a casual glance but curiosity was roused now and there was time to indulge it.
The chests were heavy and banded with iron, the bolts stiff with disuse, but with perseverance she managed to slide them back and lift the dusty lids. A pleasant scent drifted out to greet her and she realised then that the box was lined with cedar. The reason quickly became apparent. Inside were heavy folds of thick-woven cloth. She ran her hand over the surface, tracing the outline of a colourful embroidered bird. It was beautiful and in spite of herself she gave a gasp of delight. Two other chests revealed similar tapestries, all perfectly preserved by the cedar lining.
Ashlynn’s appetite was whetted now. A further search revealed a large and slightly moth-eaten bearskin rug, a mirror of polished metal with an ornate frame, a wooden screen finely carved in the likeness of fruit and leaves and an elegant silver flagon with half-a-dozen matching goblets. Open-mouthed with delight she ran her fingers over the curved handle, marvelling at the workmanship and wondering where they had come from. Such things were made to be enjoyed, not hidden away and forgotten. Her own spartan chamber would benefit greatly by the addition of some attractive furnishings. That would involve asking Iain, of course. She bit her lip and closed the chest lid carefully.
* * *
For two days she had hesitated over the matter before deciding that cowardice was never going to solve the problem. Having made up her mind she went in search of Iain. Knowing he was unlikely to be in his chamber she tried the hall but it was empty of all save servants so she made her way downstairs. She was only halfway down when she heard the din of what sounded like fighting. For one dreadful second her mind was filled with Normans in helmets and chain mail. Then common sense returned. A swift glance out of the lower door revealed the truth: the courtyard was full of men locked in close physical combat or paired off for sword practice. The air rang with the sound of clashing steel and shouts of derision or encouragement. Her startled gaze moved quickly from the wrestlers to the swordsmen, seeking her husband out. Then she saw him and her breath caught in her throat.
Like the rest of the men he had stripped to the waist, apparently unconcerned by the cold air, but the rest were an irrelevance now. Her attention was riveted on Iain. She had not thought before that a man’s body could be beautiful, but that had been quite wrong. His arms and torso might have been sculpted so clearly delineated was the heavy musculature beneath his skin. Dark hair tapered from the broad chest and led the eye to a narrow waist and hips and thence to long, muscled legs.
Even though she already knew something of his ability, Ashlynn was still drawn to watch, held by the lithe power of the man and the skill and control with which he fought. He moved tirelessly, testing his opponent’s ability, looking for a weakness and when he found it exploiting it ruthlessly. Recalling her lessons with Ban she smiled ruefully. Against such skills, her own were puny. All at once the incident with the robbers returned and she knew without a doubt that she had been lucky. But for the element of surprise she would have been skewered. Given a fair fight she had no doubt Iain could have accounted for his attackers single handed. Even Ban, whose skill she respected, would have been hard pressed to hold his own against him. With that knowledge came the first stirring of pride, as unexpected as it was genuine.
At the end of the bout Iain sheathed the sword and donned his shirt and tunic again. She watched Dougal stroll across to join him. They exchanged a few words and then were joined in turn by one or two others. In a short time the group was engaged in animated discussion. From the accompanying gestures it seemed to be about the finer points of sword play. Once she saw Iain look round, his eyes scanning the spectators. They saw her at once and she felt again the power of that casual regard. Would he disapprove of her presence here? His expression gave no hint of annoyance but then it was often hard to tell what he was thinking. Her pulse quickened. Would he come over now? She hoped he might. His men already had a low opinion of her and, if she went to join him, they might take such an interruption ill.