Forbidden (33 page)

Saints! How had Ranald entered the room
without her hearing his footsteps? He looked as surprised as
she.

“Catalin, I thought ye would be asleep and
snoring by now.” Ranald looked hesitant, his hands resting on the
belt holding his scabbard. He glanced around, his eyes widening
when he spied the tub and steaming buckets of water.

Was that a look of pleasure? Had she for once
done something to please him?

“I thought it likely you would be tired from
your travels. Too, you spent a deal of time with your father
planning the siege.” For truth, any time spent with Chief Broccin
would tire the strongest of men.

Could he hear her heart pounding when she
moved close to him? Hopefully not. Why did his mere presence make
her blood race, her nose flare to catch the familiar scent of
juniper and spice mingled with leather?

She waited as he carefully placed his sword
beside the bed and draped his belt on a chair back. “Let me.”
Catalin held up her hands when he grasped the hem of his tunic and
started to pull it off. He hesitated before he let her grasp the
black linen. He bent forward, his arms outstretched, for her to
pull it over his head.

The neck opening was ample enough it did not
interfere with his mask. What would he do if she snatched it from
his face and threw it into the fire? Her fingers itched to do so.
Let them itch. She was no fool. She did not want to unleash that
anger she had seen when his father provoked him. Would Ranald ever
trust her enough to let her gaze upon his face?

“Do ye read minds, wife?”

“Read minds?” Catalin looked over her
shoulder at him as she hung his tunic on a wall peg.

“Aye. Ye looked like ye try to see into my
skull.”

“That would be an interesting gift to have.
Elyne mentioned once that she thought mayhap Raik could.”

“Hm. More likely he studies people and knows
what they will do.”

She shivered watching Ranald remove the rest
of his clothing while they talked. He was as nakit as any man could
get. In this light, he reminded her of a sleek animal, his hair
falling beside his face and down to his shoulders. Black hair
furred his chest and narrowed down the lean slab of his belly,
where his slender hips framed loins nested in a bed of thick, black
hair. With wolfish grace and the soundless padding of his feet, he
moved to fetch the hot water. Firm buttocks above massive legs drew
her gaze. She swallowed again.

The fire’s glow molded his form in light;
darkness hid his scarred back.

She startled, for he hesitated, his hands
holding a bucket over the tub, his eyes studying her face.
Questioning her. She tried to hold his gaze, tried to pretend she
was unaffected by his body. Could he see her flushed face?

“Would ye wash my back, wife?” Ranald dumped
the hot water in the tub and walked to fetch another bucket.

For answer, she walked over to wait beside
the stool where she had placed the soap. It’s aroma of Scot’s pine
and spices reminded her of his scent. As he stepped into the tub,
she tried not to stare. Heaven help her, she was no saint! Her
breath caught in her throat when he lifted his left leg and put his
foot into the tub. It was only natural that his sex was even more
obvious. After all, it hung there betwixt his legs with the soft
glow from the embers behind him.

How could she plan to flee from him at the
first chance she found, yet all she could think about was how she
wanted him? Mayhap she was sex-crazed. Ha! That had to be it.

“Ahem.”

She near jumped across the tub. Ranald’s hand
holding a wet cloth flashed up, spraying water over the side,
reminding her why he was in the water and she was kneeling beside
the tub.

“Lean back.” She gathered his black hair to
the sides and guided his head to avoid the rim of the wooden tub.
She hesitated.

“Uh, Ranald?” She peered down to see he had
shut his eyes.

“Aye?”

She tapped his forehead on the right, where
leather covered it. His eyes flew open and stared into hers.

“Move to my left.” He waited until she went
to stand between the tub and the fireplace.

Looking down, she saw his shoulders were in
shadows. Still, a brace of candles stood but a few paces away,
between the table and the bed. He stared at them. Why was he so
still?

“What are you thinking?” Was he deciding he
did not want her help with his bath?

“A soft breeze.” Not a muscle twitched.

He stared, looking fascinated, at the
candles. Why had she not noticed their flames stirring? Had she
left a shutter unlatched? She started to rise to go over to it.
Without taking his eyes from the candles, his wet hand reached out
to clasp her wrist. The flames leaned, almost level, and then there
were no flames at all. The room was near dark

He reached up, slid off his mask and placed
it on the stool beside the bowl of soap. With a sigh of pleasure,
he propped his feet on the foot of the tub. Sliding forward, he
leaned back and dunked his head beneath the water then lifted it.
He reached for another cloth and wiped his eyes. Huh. It was just
to fool her, though. She noted he did not put it down but clutched
it in his right fist.

She enjoyed lathering his hair and running
her fingers through the thick, healthy strands. She scrubbed then
massaged his taut scalp, savoring the feel of his strong skull
beneath her fingertips.

“You were at Kelso?” She near whispered the
question, her fingers still.

“Aye.”

Ranald pressed his head into her hands like a
small dog would nudge her palm. He was so many men piled into one.
The teasing lad who had chased her around the bailey with an ugly
toad. The gentle monk in the garden. The grim husband learning she
had deceived him. The man filled with such fury that Chief Broccin
stepped back. The shadowy image of that man who could maim and
disfigure an enemy then turn and prepare a savaged man for burial,
making him look like he slept peacefully.

Ranald’s many contrasts made her head
spin.

“Your friend, the abbot. He is well?”

“As well as any man his age can be.”

At her urging, he leaned back again and
waited until she swished his hair in the water, then used a wooden
cup to complete the rinsing. He reached up and swiped the water
from his hair, then soaped his face and rinsed it.

“I have noted warriors come and go, but
hesitated to ask Chief Broccin about them.”

She soaped the cloth and washed his shoulders
and back, kneading the muscles as she worked. Unconsciously, she
eased her touch over each scar as she encountered them. Why, there
were too many to count, for they crossed over each other.

“The men you noted were watching Hunter
Castle and the surrounding countryside.” He rolled his shoulders,
relaxing.

“Have you heard anything about Uncle Hamon?
Is there a chance he will flee the castle when he sees your army?”
Catalin hoped that somehow no one would be injured because of the
hateful man.

“Nay. Greed makes a man hang onto what he
covets till his fingers are pried from it.”

She patted his shoulder. He reached to take
the cloth, ready to finish bathing on his own, but she held on to
it and shook her head. He relaxed and rested back against the tub’s
rim. Without looking above his chin, she washed his neck and
arms.

“Catalin, are ye familiar with the whole of
Hunter Castle? Not just the keep?”

She loved the dark, smooth sound of his
voice. He looked quickly upward when she didn’t answer, and sighed.
His breath ruffled an unruly lock falling onto her forehead.

“The whole? Hm. The baileys and land within
the walls?” Her soapy hands ventured around his collarbone and
smoothed down over his furred chest, her fingers combed through the
hair, exploring his flesh. Every now and again, his hot skin
quivered so lightly she wondered if she imagined it.

“Aye.” His voice was little above a
murmur.

“Hunter is a formidable castle. My
great-great-grandfather built it on flat ground near woodlands
where wild pigs, deer and grouse are abundant. The hunters will
find plentiful game to supplement your supplies.” She stopped and
grinned. “When Uncle Hamon learns you hunt what he considers his,
he will screech loud as a cat with its tail beneath your boot till
he has no voice at all.”

With a soft giggle, she resumed her task of
cleaning his body with her soapy hands. Would now be a good time to
petition him about staying with Letia? How should she start? She
could not say she wished to flee from him, so please be so kind as
to take her to Letia’s where she would beg for an escort to King
Stephen.

He was very quiet. In the dim light, she
noted his left eye squeezed shut. His jaw was rock hard, too.
Saints! Was he in pain? She relaxed her labors. Not until then did
she realize where she scrubbed. She gave a startled squeak and
jerked her hands back.

Ranald had noticed sooner. It was his groin
she attacked with such vigor, his erect manhood that bobbed against
her hands. She dared to breathe again when he cleared his throat.
His voice was husky and dark, but he made no mention of her
activity.

“Are there any weak spots in the curtain
wall’s defenses? Mayhap crumbling stone that needs tending, or an
area guarded with only a handful of men?”

“Nay...not that comes to mind.”

Catalin moved to the end of the tub, thinking
about it while she soaped a foot propped against the wood. She had
never noticed what strong feet he had or what handsome toes.
Straight and narrow, without a crooked one on either foot. Seeing
that slight distance between each toe reminded her of something
that caused her to caress them fondly. Her brows drew together,
trying to recollect what it was.

“Elyne and I talked about what would be best
for us while you are busy ousting Uncle Hamon.”

“Oh? What might that be?”

She saw his left brow arch, but he did not
open his eyes.

“Ranald, I fear your father. Should the bairn
come before you defeat my uncle, Chief Broccin could wrest the babe
from me and even throw me outside the castle grounds.”

Her back quivered with the thought of him
snatching the babe from her arms and telling her she had fulfilled
her usefulness to him.

“And? What scheme did ye and Elyne dream
up?”

She had his attention. She saw the faint
gleam of his eyes.

“You should take me to Letia and Warin’s for
safety. It is about fifteen leagues south of Hunter Castle. If you
could not take me there, mayhap once we get near Hunter, one of
your men would be good enough to escort me the rest of the way.”
She surprised herself saying such a jumble of words all in one
breath.

“Nay.” He ended it with a healthy snort.

“Nay? But you have not even thought about it.
I think it an excellent plan.”

Catalin stopped playing with his feet long
enough to dart a look at him. He stared her in the eye. She about
decided he was not going to answer when he finally sighed.

“I have thought about it at some length.
Abbot Aymer suggested I bring ye to Kelso. He could house ye with
the women for protection.”

“Kelso? What if no women are there at the
time? Do they not stop but overnight in their travels?” Saints! She
had never seen inside an abbey, but she pictured their cold, barren
cells with hard pallets and scant furnishing.

“Aye. I mentioned the chance to the abbot.
The nearest convent is the Sisters of Mary Magdalen southeast of
Kelso. It lies slightly north between Douglas Castle and de Burgh’s
Seton.”

“Mayhap you should take me there instead? I
would fare better amongst women at a convent.” If she was at the
good sisters, she could make her way on her own to Seton.

“Nay. Baron Rupert’s lands are close-by. I
have decided on another plan.” Ranald dropped his head back against
the rim and closed his eyes.

She squeezed water from the bathing cloth to
keep from pinching him. In the years their parents met to work out
the terms for her betrothal to Moridac, Ranald used to torment her
with this sort of dominant behavior. It was his way of letting her
know he considered a woman’s opinion less wise than the twisted
rambling of a man long in his cups.

What if he took her where Sir Giric could not
help her? Waiting for him to speak stoked her anger. She counted
each heartbeat thudding in her ears, trying to hold tight to her
temper. Her count lasted until five.

“Drats, Ranald! Must I pull every word from
your lips? You drain my patience.”

“As ye do mine.”

Ranald’s relaxed stance disappeared when he
surged to sit upright. Water flowed from his massive shoulders down
his arms and chest.

“Ye will come with me. I have ordered a large
tent and commissioned the carpenter to build a bed frame. Ye will
have every comfort I can secure.”

“I will not spend months in a battle camp
with naught but dust, noise and smelly warriors tromping about.”
Mayhap her voice was commanding enough he would bow to her wishes,
for he sighed. She waited for his nod, but his lips set in a
determined line.

“Elyne and Lady Muriele will accompany ye, as
will Hannah and Ada.” He gave her a ye-should-be-grateful look.

Catalin, her mouth agape, dropped the cloth
in the water. Was the man dafty? He may as well scream Lady Muriele
was his leman, if he thought to take her along with his wife. She
took several astonished breaths. Why, the randy blockhead shrugged
and swiped water from his arms as he talked, his voice slow and
patient, like he was reassuring a silly, timid woman.

“‘Tis not uncommon. Many a Scotsman keeps his
wife close for fear of her being abducted whilst he is gone.” He
leaned back in the tub and sighed. “Even some of yer dainty English
kings have taken their wives on campaign.”