A Knight and White Satin. Jackie Ivie

her eyes from where he’d been standing. She didn’t think she could.

      Bronwyn fought her way through them then, her arms loaded with what had once been Dallis’s canopy of pristine white material. It looked heaven-sent. It was exactly that. She realized it as the maid wound it about her, covering over her nakedness, his blood, and the proof that she was no longer a member of the Caruth clan.

      She was the bride of Dunn-Fadden. And that’s how she came to be the outcast known as White Satin.

      Death wasn’t what he’d expected. Neither was heaven. Or maybe it was hell. Either way, there was too much yelling and cursing and shouting for it to be heaven, and way too much softness, filling drinks and cool, soothing linens for it to be the other.

      A fire ate away at his side until it took over his entire frame. That had put him in hell. Then the cool cloth upon him had tempered it. There had also been the soothing sounds of lovely singing and words of crooning…sounds like his mother had once made when he was a small lad. It wasn’t his mother, though. That would have made it heaven, since he was certain that’s where she’d gone. So, if it wasn’t heaven—he wasn’t dead. And it wasn’t his mother.

      Payton opened his eyes. It was his bed, his room, and his walls. It was the clan healer, Josephine, doing the singing. Nobody had told him she had the voice of an angel. He rather thought she’d be treated differently if anyone knew she could sing as beautifully as she did. He opened his mouth to speak it, but she shoved another spoonful of broth in, stopping him.

      “You gave us quite a fright, lad,” she said as he swallowed. And then she smiled. “What with trying to swim Caruth loch with a wound such as you had.”

      “Wound?” Payton asked, and frowned.

      “The hole in your side, draining your life’s blood away. I did the best I could. It’s still an ugly scar. You should ha’ taken the wench’s sewing needles away a-fore you took her.”

      “Where?” Payton tried to sit, but coughing racked his chest, weakness took over his limbs, and all he really managed to do was make her cackle. She should have stuck to her singing. It was more melodious, he decided, once the cough had settled to a whiff of sound and he could breathe and think again.

      “You were in luck the lass didn’t have a bigger weapon. You’d have probably lost your manhood.” She gave another cackle after her words. Payton sucked for a bit of breath to answer. It felt like it was burning a hole right through his chest. He let it go.

      “I’ve kept it secret, lad, but you should ha’ put a rein on the other lads’ tongues. They’ve been regaling all who’d listen with your exploits. Not without encouragement, either. All and sundry wish to hear.”

      “What…are you speaking of?” Payton gasped through the entire sentence, and even had to stop for breath midway. She waited. That was another good thing about her. She had so little company most of the time that she always showed courtesy and listened carefully when she had it. Then again, she probably wanted to know all of it so she could add words meant to belittle him.

      “Your little foray onto Caruth land. Your wedding of the heiress. Your taking of the keep. All wonderful exploits. All making your da strut about like he’s sired the most manly fellow to set foot on the earth.” She bent closer, gifting him with a foul odor from her gap-toothed mouth. Payton winced. “You should na’ have turned tail and run. You might have been able to keep the tower once you gained it…if you’d have told anyone what you were planning, that is.”

      They hadn’t told anyone they were planning on attacking the White Tower. It was a lark while the lairds were at court, undertaken without much thought, no cunning, and after an eve of drinking whiskey. They’d expected to take a chunk of the white rock used to construct the structure as proof that they’d braved it. Maybe steal a kiss or two—if the wenches weren’t too ungodly ugly or unwilling. Never did they expect the earth to heave up and assist them the moment they rammed the gate. It was as if God had decided to open the door for them and had even given them the key.

      The Caruths within the walls had fought hard, deathly hard, as was their creed. They’d been battle-prepared and hadn’t waited to engage in one. There’d been so much blood. His vision was stained with it. That was regrettable. As was Ian’s death. Payton closed his eyes. Nobody was supposed to die.

      “The king’s given you a goodly portion of Caruth kirk, as well.”

      “He…has? Why?”

      “Well, only if you can seize it and hold it. ’Tis what your da petitioned for.”

      “Da…petitioned The Stewart?”

      She grinned. More of her foul breath touched him. Payton was grateful he couldn’t take great, lung-expanding gulps of air at the moment. “Aye. The moment he heard. He’s had a blood-lust for the earl of Kilchurning that nothing can stanch. They’ve been feuding ever since the earl’s great-aunt left your great-grandfather standing at the wedding altar whilst she eloped with that Irishman some generations back. You know the story.”

      Payton groaned.

      “Why…to ken that his own son filched Kilchurning’s betrothed right from beneath the man’s nose was beyond great! The laird was crowing. Strutting. Saw his chance and took it. He turned his mount about the moment he learned and went right back to Edinburgh. I dinna’ ken if he even stopped for a change of horseflesh. That’s how pleased he was at your exploits.”

      “Da…did that?”

      “Aye. And all exclaimed over the tale. Why…the king’s entire court’s been a-buzz at what you did. It’s highly chivalrous. They’re bandying it about as a sonnet. You might hear it once you’ve healed enough.”

      “Nae,” Payton whispered.

      “Oh, aye. With minstrels. They sing of your attack of the Caruth tower with but a band of ten clansmen. Your taking of the castle…splitting the roof wide open and fighting your way in. ’Twas most heroic. And then filching the heiress right from beneath their noses? Na’ only that…but wedding and bedding with her, too? And all a-fore clan alarm could be given? ’Tis said you’ve the strength of a demon and the speed of a griffin. Why, they’re even saying you’re immortal, since nae mortal could have done it.”

      Payton breathed out slowly and a curse went with it.

      “Little do they ken the wench stuck a sewing needle in your side, putting you on your back worse than any whore.” She was cackling and chortling, and he couldn’t decide which was worse, her words or her laughter.

      “You need to learn that about women, Payton Dunn-Fadden.”

      “Learn…what?”

      “Na’ all folk tremor at your passage, young one, although you’ve done so much to gain yourself that reputation, it will probably be truth now. Na’ all men run in fear from you, nor do all the women swoon in ecstasy even a-fore you touch them.”

      “I’m really tired,” he said, more to shut her up than because it was true. He didn’t want to hear another word.

      “Women. Mark my words, Payton Dunn-Fadden. The women will be falling over themselves to get your attention. Even worse than a-fore. You’ve a reputation now. You’re a dangerous man. A conqueror. Taking no quarter and expecting none.”

      Payton groaned again. There wasn’t any way to stop her words. She wouldn’t cease them until she said everything and made it worse. The Caruth wench hadn’t betrayed him. She hadn’t said a word about it. He wondered why. He couldn’t even remember her name. Or her face. She hadn’t been remarkable except for the size of her bosom once he’d had it displayed, and even that vision was tempered by a haze of pink-washed pain he’d been looking through. She had brown hair. He thought it was brown. It had been tightly braided about her head, but a few strands had come loose in her struggle to keep from being wed. It looked to be a brown color, interspersed with red; an autumn red, tinged with a bit of orange. Her eyes had been a hazel color, more brown