Forbidden (20 page)

Catalin stared at her, trying not to let her
jaw drop open.

“Do ye think I am crazed?” Elyne’s voice was
hesitant. She ran a finger over her full lips and flashed Catalin a
fearful look.

“Nay, you are far from being brainsick,
Elyne.” Catalin sat beside her on the bed, pulled her legs
crosswise and settled her skirts around them. “When did you say you
had this dream?”

“A sennight afore ye came to Raptor.” She ran
her fingers through her hair and started twisting a hank beside her
ear as much as she had her poor tortured girdle.

“Have you had other dreams that came true?”
Catalin voice was wobbly, and she cleared her throat to cover it
up.

“It has always been a joke, for I will dream
of events, but they dinna happen as I expect. Like seeing kits
being born and running to the cow byre to find there were no new
mousers, but the pig had birthed piglets.” Elyne frowned and tugged
her hair harder. “Aye, it does happen, but not the way I had
envisioned. The event, that is, not the thing in the dream. The
best way to explain it is the first dream long ago. ‘Twas the night
Father injured Ranald.”

“Saints above! You were naught but a
youngling then.”

“Aye. In my dream, Ranald and Moridac were
behind the cow byre. Ranald laughed and jumped atop a sleek, black
cow, but a bull charged out of the dark and chased the cow. Ranald
fell off right at the bull’s hooves, and it ripped at him with his
horns and stomped him till the ground turned red with blood.”

Catalin squeezed Elyne’s hand in sympathy.
“What a horrid dream.”

“Aye. I awoke screaming about cows smashing
my Ray.” She wrinkled her nose. “I couldna say his name. Strange as
it may seem, from that night on, I have held a fear, and a, um,
disgust for Father. I was always happiest when he was away on
Crusades.” She grimaced, shaking her head. “Years later, Hannah
told me he fought in the battle of Azaz and had recently returned.
In the fighting, the Turks killed his favorite warhorse. When
Father captured a Seljuk Turk riding a magnificent, black mount, he
killed the man and took the horse for his own. He named it Goliath
and forbade anyone but the stable master or his squire to touch the
beast.”

“Mayhap he feared Goliath would injure
another?”

“Nay. ‘Twas because Father canna stand anyone
touching something that is his.”

Not even a whisper of sound floated to
Catalin, but her body tingled with sharp pricks over her skin. A
voice taut with menace sounded from the doorway.

“As I will allow no other to touch that which
is mine!”

Ranald’s presence filled the room, though he
stood but a step inside the bedchamber doorway. He moved with a
stiff, angry gait toward Catalin. Like a man about to pounce.

Chills crept down her spine. She had not
expected a man who had been a monk for so many years to say such or
to feel the need to say it.

Her face grew hot, her lips clamped together
and her nostrils flared. How could he insult her by even a thought
that she would be unfaithful? Forgetting caution and the need to
protect herself, her voice rose with bitter resentment.

“Until we wed, you had naught to call your
own. Now you claim all that was mine. My manors, my wealth, my
castle! Which of these do you speak of?”

“Ye forgot one thing else, wife. Though not
as valuable as yer castle or yer other honors, yer body belongs to
me.”

Ranald’s lips twitched in that lethal way,
reminding Catalin of a hungry predator.

“Out!” He jerked a finger toward the
door.

Though Catalin knew he did not mean the
command for her, she glared at him and jumped up, ready to leave
with Elyne. Not because she was affrighted. She was too angry for
that. It would be best to leave, for she feared if she struck
Ranald with the water pitcher, God would never forgive her.

“Humph! Did the monks teach ye to be so
ill-mannered, brother?” Elyne stuck her tongue out at him on her
way out of the room.

Catalin got as far as a step from the doorway
before his grip on her shoulder jolted her to a halt. She waited
until Elyne pulled the door to before she spoke again.

“You do not own me like the cow in the byre
or a horse in the pasture. Let go of me.” She turned and jerked her
shoulder, trying to dislodge his grip.

“Aye, but I do.” His fingers tightened for a
heartbeat, then released her.

“It is not the same! I am your wife, not some
dumb animal who cannot think and talk. I belong to you because we
are wed the same as you belong to me.

“It doesna work both ways. A woman’s body
belongs to her husband. She must hold herself only for him. A man
shares his body with his wife, or with any woman he so
chooses.”

A vision of Muriele naked on a bed with
Ranald sprawled at her side, his leg across hers, flashed in
Catalin’s mind. It near made her gag.

“Do you tell me you keep a leman?”

“I said no such thing. It is ye who were
planning to lure a man to yer bed.” Ranald stalked over to rest his
sword against the bedside table. He turned slowly to stare at her.
“I would sample this bed sport ye planned to entice him with. Take
off yer clothes.”

“I will not. It is not yet dark.”

“Did ye plot with Elyne so long ye forgot to
note the day has passed?” He spread his legs wide in a hostile
manner and folded his arms across his chest. “I told ye to take of
yer clothes.”

“And I told
ye
I would not.”

Catalin’s chin jutted. Never had she felt as
riled as she did now with Ranald. And she did not know why. Nay,
she lied to herself. She did know why. ‘Twas because he near
accused her of taking a lover, while with her own eyes she had seen
more than once that he was enamored of Muriele.

“Take them off!”

The words bounced off the walls, as Ranald
moved to stand beside the window opening.

Catalin flinched. Shook her head.

The muscles in Ranald’s jaw twitched. Blazing
anger shot from his eyes. His gaze raked down her body to the hem
of the blue kirtle she had donned for the evening meal. A cold gust
of wind blew in from the window. It did not ruffle even a hair on
his head.

The cloth about Catalin’s ankles moved and
began to flap, cooling them. Faster and faster it moved. The kirtle
whipped about her calves, forcing the wind beneath the cloth until
it billowed and reached her knees.

She batted her skirts trying to control them,
but it was no use. Suddenly, linen swaddled her head. She fought
against it and thrust it off. It landed on the floor in a rumpled,
blue pile.

She gulped and eyed the window. All the wind
outside seemed aimed at that one small opening. Ranald did not seem
bothered, but ignored it.

His lips lifted in a thin smile, no doubt
sensing her fear as he slowly unbuckled his belt. She released her
breath when he let it drop to the floor. The end of his tartan
slipped down from his massive shoulder.

Fascinated, she watched. Freed, the folded
length around his waist clung to his flesh as it took its slow time
leaving his body to join his belt. The wind did not rustle even the
smallest part of his clothing.

Ranald was bare but for the scant braies worn
for battle practice. He had drawn the white linen around his waist,
up between his thighs to cover his sex, and joined it at his
belly.

It was the first time Catalin had seen him in
this scant garb. Somehow, it drew her gaze far more than his naked
flesh would, for it tempted her to envision what was beneath the
linen.

Moving to the foot of the bed, he sat on the
edge and drew off his boots. Not once did he shift his regard from
her. She felt rooted to the spot where she stood.

When he rose, his gaze fixed on her
shoulders. Catalin clutched her thin smock. Why did he not pull the
shutters closed? Wind could not untie the ribbons at her neck,
could it?

Soon, she felt as if warm, strong fingers
lingered there. Her lids flew wide when the thin strips of silk
began to slide and the bow came untied. She grasped for the ends,
but they eluded her. The smock slithered from her shoulders. She
wrapped her arms around her waist, trying to anchor it there. She
darted a look downward.

Saints! Her arms clasped around her waist
thrusting her breasts upward made it look as if she offered them to
him. She dared not move, for what little she had left on would join
that on the floor.

It would expose her body to his heated
eyes.

Every spot Ranald’s gaze touched felt like
warm hands caressing her flesh. Her body heated. She swallowed and
fidgeted when he studied her stomach beneath the sheer smock.

“Yer babe has grown much these past
fortnights.” He wet his lips and stared at her breasts.

Her nipples tightened and strained toward
him. Shamed, she moved her hands to cover them. Wisk! Her startled
gaze followed her smock as it near flew to the ground.

Saints! His bare toes near met her shoes.
When had he moved? She felt even more indecent standing there naked
with naught but her shoes and stockings to cover her. The thought
made her breasts swell.

Of a sudden, his arms slid beneath her knees
and around her waist. He lifted her against his chest. A frizzle of
excitement built when the crisp hair on his chest scraped her
nipples. A gasp of pleasure slipped out before she could stifle
it.

His skin felt so warm. Hot, even. The feel of
his bunching shoulder muscles, the hard warmth of his chest, all
sent anticipation through her. Her hip pressed against the hard
slab of his belly, and when he bent to lay her on the bed, she
missed the intimate contact with his flesh.

She near clutched his arm when he slid it
from her. Her mouth went dry, for he straddled her, wearing his
braies still. His aroused flesh bulged against the clothing. She
dragged her gaze upward and saw he chuckled.

Drats!

Was he a sorcerer that he could inflame her
with one look? She had been furious at his high-handed remarks, and
what had she done? She had melted like butter on a hot iron grill
the minute his flesh touched hers.

Devil take it! She needed him. Had Moridac
turned her into a lust-crazed slattern? Nay, not Moridac. She had
not craved man-flesh after her time with him. ‘Twas only after the
first night with Ranald that she could not stop the feelings only
he had brought forth from her.

“Ye stare, wife. Ah. Ye are impatient? If ye
would sample what is beneath the braies, ye would do well to tempt
it with a display of this bed sport ye were planning.”

“I planned no bed sport. How oft must I say
it?”

His only response was to bend his knees and
lower himself to press against the bare flesh at her legs’ joining.
She tried hard not to look at him cuddled there. Her breathing
quickened, and when he wiggled his arse, the heat from his groin
against the red curls between her legs seared her. Her gaze flew to
his braies.

She could not mistake the hard pulse of his
full arousal beneath the scant cloth. His long, slender fingers
ever so slowly reached for the knot at his waist. Her breath
quickened, her fingers twitched, and her body flushed from the top
of her head to her smallest toes.

What took him so long? Why did he stop? She
shivered and raised her eyes to peer at him. His mask did not hide
his eyes or the animal lust there. Blazing black eyes flashed at
her. Were they green and not black, she would feel it was a hungry
wolf who kept her pinned.

He looked down. Her gaze followed. His
blatant, aggressive arousal stood free. She shamed herself with a
low moan, and arched her shoulders, thrusting her breasts upward in
invitation. He leaned forward and flicked her straining nipples
with the tip of his tongue, sending excitement flooding to her
moist, needy place.

He rubbed his face against her breast and
began to suckle. Using his knee, he spread her legs so he could
burrow his body there. After he aroused both breasts until she
found herself digging her fingers into his scarred shoulders, she
clamped her legs around his buttocks, urging him toward what she
needed.

“Aye, ye are needy, lass.” Ranald rubbed his
tarse against her, teasing her flesh. Catalin cried out and grasped
him tighter. He nudged the slick wet heat of her, entered slowly
and buried himself until the springy, black curls of his groin
mingled with the red at hers. Her sharp gasp of satisfaction heated
Ranald’s blood the way no practiced tricks of bed sport could.

She answered each thrust with her own.

If he lifted his chest and did not touch her,
she arched her body until her breasts brushed the hair on his
chest.

He teased her with subtle, circling movements
of his hips. She clamped him all the tighter.

Each rock of his buttocks she met and matched
with an answer, until she writhed beneath him and cried out,
begging for release. He arched his back up enough to slip his hand
between them. He teased her slick flesh around where he plunged,
until she thrashed and grabbed his hair. She pulled it, crying out
near senseless with passion. Feeling his mask slipping, he stroked
upward over her swollen nub.

Catalin’s scream drowned out his shout as
they convulsed together until both were limp.

Ranald buried his face against her neck,
inhaling her violet-scented flesh. His breathing finally slowed,
and sanity returned. With it came guilt.

He pushed away from her and fell over on his
back, the cold sheet dampening his ardor even more.

What manner of man was he? Surely the weakest
of kinds. He had resolved not to touch Catalin while she was
carrying his brother’s bairn. His will lasted little over a month.
He raked his fingers through thick, wavy hair that now covered his
head. He bit off a groan and dropped an arm over his eyes.