Forbidden (7 page)

Using a back entrance, they entered the keep
unnoticed. He still mused over what he would do if Catalin bolted
at the altar. Once they entered the bedchamber, his brows raised so
fast they near dislodged his new mask, for beside the right wall
stood a flowered chest. Surely Catalin’s, for it had not been there
before.

It struck him like a cold dousing, this sign
that he would no longer sleep alone. That he would share the room
this night with his brother’s intended. A strangled sound escaped
his lips before he could stop it.

Raik’s head tilted. He peered thoughtfully at
him before speaking.

“Ah, Ranald. I can near hear yer thoughts. Ye
are troubled about the night to come?”

“Aye.” Raik cleared his throat. “I have not
tupped a woman since Moridac’s betrothal. Trying to outdo each
other, we had a wild night of it, drinking and bedding every
willing lass.” He looked down, frowned then shifted. How could he
ask what nagged and bit at the base of his thoughts?

“What if I canna, uh, perform my husbandly
duties?” he blurted.

“Huh? What would hinder ye? Ye dinna find
Catalin comely?”

“Oh, nay, ‘tis not that. She has grown to a
beautiful woman.” His face heated. “Once I healed at Kelso, I was
oft troubled with, um, a rampant tarse when I thought of women.
‘Twas the same time I learned my injuries had left me with the
strange happenings when my temper roiled.”

“Did ye frighten the monks overmuch? Did they
think ye bewitched?”

“Nay. The first time my temper raged was in
private with Abbot Aymer. He showed me a missive from father that
day in answer to learning I was well enough to return home. I read
Father’s answer. He declared I was of no use to him, that I was to
become a monk and never to leave the monastery. He sent a pouch of
gold coins to ensure it.”

“The man rivals Satan for meanness.” Raik’s
jaw jutted, his brows near met in the middle.

“Aye. Every chair in the abbot’s office
crashed against the far wall except the ones we used. The missive
flew off his desk and landed against the door.”

“Did he think ye a tool of the devil?”

“He put his hands on my head and began to
pray. We knelt there long into the night.” Ranald spied a pitcher
of ale setting on the table, went over and poured a portion into
two black leather goblets. He handed Raik one then sipped from his
own as they each took a seat.

“The bells for Vigils at midnight rang. The
abbot quieted and looked into my eyes. I thought he meant to tell
me I was doomed. Instead, he declared God had spared me when all
expected me to die. He believes my injuries and high fevers caused
my strange abilities. But I must learn to control my temper so no
harm would come because of it. Until Broccin arrived at Kelso,
‘twas easy enough. Life was tranquil there.”

“The abbot was an unusual man. Mayhap he had
heard before about the strange “gifts” that sometimes runs through
our family? Though ye, Elyne and I are the only ones affected in
this generation?”

“Elyne!” Ranald shot to his feet.

“Aye. Though ‘tis strange with her.”

“Is she like me? Does it happen only when she
is angered? Or is she like ye, able to charm someone into doing
things even against their will? When did she start?”

“I believe it must have been about the time
she, uh, started her monthly courses. She often walks in her sleep
at night. To see her, one would think her awake. She isna. She
confided in me that when she does, ‘tis then she dreams of a future
happening.”

“Do these things come to pass?”

Raik chuckled, his face merry. “She hasn’t
been right so far. Often what does occur is the opposite of her
vision. Yer father has laughed and made sport of her warnings until
now she keeps her dreams secret.”

“I have not seen her this day. But then, I
have kept away from everyone.”

He startled when a servant called seeking
entrance. Opening the door, he found two men carrying a wooden
bathing tub, followed by a line of servants with buckets of water.
Hearing the drone of people milling about below, he realized it was
time he prepared for his wedding.

At first he was surprised at the heated water
then remembered only monks denied themselves such pleasure. He
looked down at his cassock and strode over to the big clothing
chest. Everything there seemed too colorful, too unlike what he was
used to wearing. Finally, ignoring Raik’s raised brows, he took out
the clothing he would be comfortable donning.

Never had he been so slow to remove his robe.
Knowing it was for the last time, he folded it with care. Kneeling
before the chest, he placed the monk’s clothing inside.

What would be Catalin’s expression when she
saw him in the light of day, a short time hence?

Worse yet, would she fight him when darkness
fell and he took her to his bed?

“If you don’t calm yourself and eat
something, you’ll not have the strength to walk to the church.”
Hannah clucked her tongue and pushed a bowl of gruel in front of
Catalin.

It was well past the noon hour when a heavy
fist banged on the door of Catalin’s chamber, startling them both.
Before Hannah could reach it, Chief Broccin shoved it wide, nearly
toppling her and little caring if his son’s bride was with or
without her clothing. Fortunately, Catalin had finished
dressing.

“If ‘tis not too much to ask for yer
appearance, the priest waits at the church to speak the vows.”
Broccin near bellowed with impatience.

“Begone, Broccin. ‘Tis a bride’s right to
tarry.” Lady Joneta flapped her hands at her brother to shoo him
out. “You are quarrelsome because your guts are growling. Quit
hollering and get you to the church. We will be down afore you know
it.”

Broccin, his mouth gaping down to his chin,
turned like a testy lad, his boots ringing on the floor as he
stomped away. Seeing Letia and Elyne sitting on the bed, their
hands making poor work of containing the giggles that escaped
between their fingers uplifted Catalin’s spirits.

His stomping footsteps faded while they
checked one last time to assure everything was aright. Catalin’s
sky-blue smock peeked between the slits in the sleeves of a peacock
blue kirtle that heightened the color of her eyes. Moridac had
purchased the rare, dark silk and bade her sew a gown of it. She
swallowed. It was to have been for wedding him that she had made
it.

A woven circlet of violets and rose buds kept
her hair from her eyes, though there was naught they could do about
her unruly reddish-blond curls. A gold-plated girdle rode low on
her hips, the ends near touching her shoes when she walked. She
wished she were as tall and lithe as Letia, or even Elyne’s height.
She, too, was slender while Catalin felt plump as a fattened goose
bedecked in bright feathers, ready to be the main course at a
feast.

Ugh. ‘Twas too apt a description, for Chief
Broccin hungered to add Hunter Castle and her bulging coffers to
his own. Why would he not wait a sennight? She swallowed, not able
to shake the feeling she was marrying a specter, for Ranald had
been dead to the world half her life. She shuddered. Her hands
began to sweat. Her skin crawled. She rubbed her arms then wrapped
them around beneath her breast, hugging herself.

Was Ranald the same height his twin had been?
She had not even come as high as Moridac’s nose...she blinked. Why
had he not come to see her this day? Worst yet, why did he not come
when his twin lay dying? Moridac had called for him. Ranald’s name
was the last word from his lips. Had Moridac known his twin was not
dead, but hiding away at Kelso, waited upon by the monks there?
Anger straightened her shoulders.

The sun kissed her forehead with a warm beam.
How came they to be outside the keep? When had they left her room?
Here she was at the foot of the stairway into the inner bailey.
Baron de Burgh smiled at her and offered his wrist. His skin felt
comfortingly warm to her cold fingers.

“Thank you, my lord. You are most kind to act
for my father this day.” Thank heavens her voice was firm and
without a quaver.

“My old friend would have been most happy for
you. And ‘tis my pleasure to escort such a lovely bride to her
vows.” His voice held warmth; his smile was gentle.

She glanced behind her. Letia and Elyne
followed, with Joneta and Hannah behind them. She took a deep
breath and pasted a smile on her face. Hopefully, no one would note
she fought the urge to bolt and escape across the drawbridge.

God help her. Could a man tell when a woman
had lain with another man? Why had she not asked Hannah? What would
Ranald do when he bedded her and found she was not intact? Would he
cast her out, disgraced and shamed? Oh my. She wanted to spew.
Trying to swallow bile back, she gurgled.

“Have no fear, Catalin. Ranald will be a
kindly husband to you.” De Burgh looked down at her and patted her
hand.

Oh, for shame! Was her fear so easy to
see?

Two of Broccin’s squires held the church
doors wide for them to step through. They would hold the ceremony
inside. Not all the guests that had come for her wedding to Moridac
three sennights ago had the means to return. When her eyes adjusted
to the dimness, she saw rows of people stood, craning their necks
to look at her.

All she could spy at the end of the aisle
were flowers decorating the railing before the altar and Father
Martin who waited there. Raik stood to the right. Was that Ranald
between him and Father Martin? The nearer they approached, the
better she could see him.

Saints! She moved three steps closer. The
guests swarmed around, jostled each other, their murmurs loud. So
many eyes inspected her face. What did they hope to see?

She caught glimpses of Ranald again. Why had
he dressed in black? His hair was cut short. Why did he not turn to
greet her?

Three more steps. That was all that remained.
Those standing in the first two rows of benches swayed back,
allowing her eyes better access to her husband-to-be.

He must have noted them stirring about, for
he started to turn. She took another step. Outside, the clouds
shifted from the sun, sending a shaft of light through the window
beside him.

Her right foot lifted to step forward then
jerked to a halt. The tall man awaiting there, his back to her, had
hair as black as Moridac’s, aye, but it surrounded a tonsure! ‘Twas
not her groom but the monk from the garden. It had to be. Was he to
be part of the ceremony? Did he stand in for Ranald? Was it to be a
wedding by proxy?

She tugged on the baron’s sleeve until he
leaned close enough she could whisper in his ear.

“My lord, why is Ranald not here?”

“Catalin, Ranald stands afore you.” De Burgh
nodded and patted her shoulder.

Her eyes felt near to bursting from their
sockets. God in heaven! They could not mean it. The man standing
there was a monk. Were they daft? She caught her breath as he
stated to turn. She jerked hard on de Burgh’s tunic. He leaned down
again.

“That is not Ranald. Can you not see a monk
stands there? Though he looks like Moridac, he cannot be. This is a
man of the cloth. I saw him last eve, and he wore the cassock of
the brotherhood.” Catalin forgot to whisper.

Snickers filled the air, floated clean to the
rafters. Catalin turned to scowl around her. Were they in her
shoes, she’d like to see how they would react!

“‘Tis all right, my dear. Truly, Ranald
stands there. Though he has been a monk, he is one no longer.”

“Nay, nay.” She shook her head. This was not
Ranald, but the monk she had spoken to not many hours before. “I
talked to him. They would not toss him from the abbey because he
committed a sin against,” she rose high on tiptoes, her lips near
brushing de Burgh’s ear as she gulped and whispered,
“celibacy.”

“Nay, Catalin. He committed no sin. The Pope
has forgiven him his vows. ‘Tis why he is free to come here to wed
you.”

The man in black had turned to face her. Her
first full sight of him held her speechless. How could this happen?
He had to be Ranald, for the left side was the same as Moridac. A
black mask covered the right.

She swallowed, remembering last eve. As she
had approached him, graceful, long fingers had tugged his hood low
to cover his face.

Saints! It
was
Ranald.

What secret lay beneath the black leather? A
terrible one, of course. Else, why would he need to hide it? Oh my.
Was she going to faint like some spineless ninny? She feared so.
Spots swam in front of her eyes. The floor shifted. Her knees
started to buckle. De Burgh slipped an arm around her waist. Kept
her from splattering to the unyielding oak floor like an overripe
pear.

“Give her to me.”

A deep voice, the tone rich and dark. Strong
arms closed around her. A warm, large hand pressed her head against
a solid chest. How strange. She felt safe. His chin brushed across
the top of her head, his cheek came to rest against hers. She took
a deep breath. His was a remembered scent.

“Catalin, ye have naught to fear by wedding
me,” he whispered. “I am no longer a monk. I will explain all when
we have privacy.”

She gurgled. Ha. Little did he know of what
she had to fear from him.

“Get hold of yerself, lass. Speak yer vows so
we can get on with the feast.”

Broccin’s booming voice nearby brought her
attention back to the man whose arms surrounded her. His head
jerked up.

“Enough!”

She felt as much as she heard it, for the
word vibrated from the firm muscled chest beneath her cheek.

“Dinna dare order...” Broccin began.

“Hold…yer…tongue.” Each word slowly and
coldly given. A sharp, inflexible order.

Anger churned in Ranald as he spat out the
words, for his body tightened against her. Chief Broccin remained
silent.