Worth Dying For (The Bruce Trilogy) by N. Gemini Sasson

straightened, a rope of loosely plaited red hair swung from her shoulder, the end of it hanging to the inviting curve of her hip. Tall and imposing in presence, I was one of few men above whom she did not tower. She tilted her head and smiled pleasantly at me, ignoring Torquil and the dozen men huddled close and shivering at the lip of the cliff.
    “A thousand welcomes to Tirrim, my lord king,” Lady Christiana greeted. “I have watched for you from my window for weeks now.”
    “You couldn’t have known I was coming, my lady.” I took her hand, cold-wet with rain, and kissed her fingers just below the glittering facets of her emerald ring. “I sent no word. I dared not. Scotland is as thick with my enemies as there are pines in the forest. I must keep my comings and goings a secret, as much as I can.”
    She laid her other hand over mine. “There are some things a woman knows, even without being told.” With a gentle tug she drew me close, her lips grazing my cheek with a kiss, her breath cupping my ear like a puff of steam as she whispered my name, “ Robert .”
    With every breath she drew, her bosom swelled against my chest. Fine droplets of rain on my face warmed, like a perspiration that has sprung to the brow with gentle exertion.
    “Has it been ten years, truly? Not a day gone, judging by your beauty, I vow.” I bestowed a brief kiss in return. “And you’ve still not found another husband? How can that be?”
    When Christiana had barely been of marriageable age, her father, Alan Macruarie, had betrothed her to Duncan of Mar. Perpetually drunk and quarrelsome, she could hardly tolerate him and leapt at any distraction. I had been one of them. It did not matter to her that it was her wedding I had come to attend. But barely in my first full beard then, I was mad for Duncan’s sister, Isabella.
    “I’ll not have just any.” She poked a finger at my chest playfully. “You don’t know how despondent I was when I heard you had married again. Did you not think of me? Cruel of you, it was. My heart has yet to mend.”
    The black-bearded lord cleared his throat. As I cast a glance at him, he raised his jaw. Finally, he dipped his head in acknowledgment.
    “Reginald Crawford of Kyle... my lord.” His hand drifted downward from his sword, indicating he would unsheathe it in a breath if given cause.
    Christiana snaked a hand beneath my cloak and up my arm to cling seductively to me. “Come, my lord. Let me show you to a warm bed. But first, a fire, a full meal and a flagon of wine to bring you back to life, aye?”
    As she led us over the rock-strewn path to the gate, her hip swayed against mine. I had come duly armed with my honor, but already it was proving a challenge. It would have been easier to leave altogether, than to stay and deny such an enchantress.
     
     
    Years of soot had blackened the knotty beams overhead. Along the walls, sconces blazed to throw a dancing yellow glow across Tirrim’s broad hall. In the room’s center, a great fire roared, heating the flesh, and the tempers, of the over-drunk. Platters of beef and mutton were emptied, bones flung to the floor where lank, grizzled hounds gnawed at them, growling. The skirl of pipes reeled through the boisterous throng to stomping feet and clapping hands. In the furthest corner, a girl of fifteen or sixteen with honey-colored hair danced atop a table, her slender body swaying rhythmically to the song, her hands caressing the air in wide sweeps and gentle dips, as if they were following the contours of her lover’s body. At her feet, a young man reached out and ran his hand from her slim ankle to the curve of her calf. A dreamy smile spread across her lips and she sank to her knees to kneel above him. For a moment, her mouth hovered teasingly close to his. Impatient, he curved a hand around her waist and pulled her down into his lap. She swung a leg around to straddle him, his mouth devouring hers in a feast of passionate kisses. Cheers of