Chapter Eleven
Yellow-purple rays of sunrise spilled over the mountains in the distance as Catarine followed Lord Grey down the treacherous cliffs. On her next step, dizziness washed over her. She grabbed for the weathered tip of stone and struggled to steady herself.
“Catarine?” Trálin called.
Head pounding, she rubbed her brow and she glanced down.
Deep lines wrinkled Lord Grey’s brow as he watched her. “What is wrong?”
Tenderness sifted through her at his caring. “A wee bit tired, but I am fine.” His mouth tightened. “Last night you were half frozen. Now you have—”
“Recovered with the warmth of a fire and food,” she interrupted, refusing to debate the issue. Their reaching Loch Leven Castle and bringing the king and queen to safety was of the utmost importance. “We need to keep moving.”
“We do,” he replied, his voice firm, “but you
will
tell me if you need to stop to rest.”
Tempted to assure him she would do no such thing, ’twould do naught but rile his temper further. Nor could she hide her exhaustion. She nodded.
Catarine focused, stepped over a raised clutter of rock, and moved down.
In the lead as he navigated the dangerous cliffs, Atair paused before two half-fallen boulders. He looked back. “We will rest beyond the stones. You must crawl to enter.” His gaze caught hers, then narrowed with worry. Frustration flashed in his eyes, then he knelt and moved inside.
Catarine grimaced. ’Twould seem Trálin had yet another thing in common with Atair. Both worried about her too much. Her legs trembling from fatigue, she stepped down to the flat rock, then crawled beneath the overhang. On the opposite side, she stood. As she surveyed her surroundings, a peculiar tremor of angst swept her. For a moment the view before her blurred.
“Catarine, are you coming?” Atair asked.
Startled, she glanced around. The others were gathering near the center, except Atair, who was striding toward her, eyes dark with worry.
“How did you find this place?” she asked.
Atair gave her a hard look, then exhaled. “Last eve while we were searching for a safe place to hide, Kuircc discovered it.”
“Discovered it?” Her disquiet grew. “How, when ’tis all but hidden?”
Atair shrugged. “I do nae know. Fate mayhap?”
“I . . . Nae, ’tis magic,” she whispered. Uneasy, she scanned the sweep of protective rock. “A foolish notion. We are many leagues away from the stone circle.” She took in the shadows and light of the surrounding stone. Or, was the magic from an unwanted source?
“What is it?” Atair asked.
Images of her uncle murdered flashed in her mind. Their chase when they’d seen the guard. The man’s tracks disappearing once they’d entered Scotland and departed the stone circle.
She swallowed hard. “I believe our finding this hideaway is nay accident.”
Atair’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
A chill swept through her, and she rubbed her arms. “I sense magic here. And, I am unsure if it is good.”
Atair closed his eyes for a long moment, swore as he opened them. “Bedamned, you are right. Why did I nae sense this before?”
“Tired mayhap? Worried?” She shook her head. “I am unsure why I picked it up now, but I will be happy when we are gone from this place.”
Her lead fey warrior grimaced. “On that I agree.”
“Is something wrong?” Trálin asked as he strode over, his gaze intense.
She caught Atair’s warning look. “I was asking Atair how they’d found this hideout.” Catarine forced a smile. “I agree with him, ’tis indeed fate.”
Trálin shot Atair a curious look, then focused on her. “Is it?”
She nodded. “Aye.” To consider otherwise invited unpleasant thoughts she’d prefer nae to ponder.
“But you are nae sure?” Trálin asked.
Catarine hesitated, then shook her head. To head off further questions, she turned and walked to join the others. As she moved, she surveyed their temporary hideout. Caught in the murky morning light, a massive slab of stone jutted from the cliffs. Beneath an almost hidden opening lay a wide cavern. As she neared, the sense of magic lingered, but nae strong enough to indicate anyone was near. Had one of the fey stayed here? Had whoever killed her uncle rested here? Why else would they detect one of the fey’s presence or the unsettling notions the discovery brought?
Trálin moved to her side as the others gathered, then looked at Atair. “The shelter will do nicely.”
“Aye,” the king agreed. “Now to make our plan.”
A short while later with the meeting over and unable to sleep, Catarine walked into a shadowed crevice hidden from the others. She leaned against the timeworn stone and stared through the breaks to the valley below.
Smeared with snow, the roll of land descended to the winding river. Beyond, ragged mountains shoved toward the heavens in fierce defense.
“You should be resting.”
A smile curved her mouth at Trálin’s tender voice. She turned. Watchful eyes held hers as he stepped into the shadowed nook at her side.
“With Drax taking the first guard,” he said, “I should say the same about you.” Fatigue lined his face as he leaned against the smooth stone near her, winced.
“Your wounds are bothering you?”
He shrugged. “They will heal. And your bruise from the fall?”
“’Tis better,” she replied.
Silence fell between them, broken by the whip of wind. Tired and uneasy, she scanned the snow-laden landscape that at any other time that would bring her peace.
“Catarine, I caught Atair’s warning look at you earlier when I asked you if something was wrong about this hideout. Do you have concerns about our safety here?”
Frustration swept her. A topic she’d hoped to avoid. “I sensed remnants of magic here.”
He studied her a moment. “You think whomever you are chasing rested here?”
She shrugged. “It could be, more so as sensed it, I was uneasy.”
“God in heaven, with Stirling Castle nearby, do you think whoever murdered your uncle is in league with the Comyns?”
Shaken, she shook her head. “I had nae considered that. But, why would they?”
“I am nae sure,” he replied, “but an association would explain why the King of Scotland would be abducted at the same time as your uncle in the Otherworld is assassinated.”
Her mind raced with possibilities, none good. “You think whoever is behind this is making a play for power in both the Otherworld and Scotland?”
“Bloody hell. It sounds incredible.”
“Indeed, but it answers many questions.”
He rubbed his jaw. “We might be wrong.”
“We might be. Regardless, whoever is behind the magic is powerful, and their ultimate intent, frightening.” A shiver swept her. “We must find whoever it is.”
Lord Grey glanced toward where they fey warriors slept, then back to her. “What did Atair say when you told him about sensing magic here?”
“He is as concerned as I, and will be more so when I explain the possibilities our discussion raised.” Catarine closed her eyes, tried to pick up a clear picture of who or what the scent revealed. Naught. She glanced toward him. “Whatever the cause, I sense only a faint hint now, which leads me to believe whoever left it is far away.”
“Once we return to the stone circle,” Trálin said, “we may find that the trail leads back to Stirling Castle.”
A shiver ran through her. “I pray ’tis nae but one of the fey who was cast out of the Otherworld seeking me out for another purpose.”
“How would they know you were here?” Trálin asked.
“I . . . Mayhap they saw me and my fey warriors?” A weak reason, but one she prayed was true.
Silence fell between them.
A gust of wind howled overhead, and flakes of snow drifted from above to spill upon them in a soft caress.
Trálin reached over, lifted her chin with his thumb.
She stilled. “What are you doing?”
“This.” He pressed his mouth against hers in a gentle kiss, lingered.
Warmth oozed through her, a silky softness that erased her troubled thoughts.
He broke the kiss. “Ah, lass, you should push me away.”
Her heart ached at the feelings his touch ignited. “What if I want you to stay?”
A sharp hiss fell from his lips. “A dangerous decision, and one I do nae need to know.”
Emotions stormed her—want, need, sadness at what could never be. Her body trembling with awareness, she put much needed distance between them.
With a rough sigh, he peered through a crevice, then stiffened. “Catarine, between the opening in the stones, look toward the copse of trees.”
On edge, she peered through the fracture in the weathered stone. A large contingent of men rode across the snow-laden field.
“I can nae see their colors,” he said, “but I have no doubt they are Comyn’s men.”
Hope ignited. “What if they are nae?”
Trálin gave a rough laugh. “How can it be otherwise? None but my men fought Comyn’s knights when they attacked and abducted the king. Even if guards from Loch Leven Castle sent for reinforcements, with the snow erasing any sign of our passing, none would know who was behind the abduction or where the king was taken.”
She swallowed hard. “You are right.”
Trálin’s hand settled on her shoulder. “Come, ’tis time to rest. We will be moving with the oncoming night. If we stay here longer, I will be tempted to do something foolish and kiss you again.”
“And,” she said, “I might do something as irrational as kiss you back.”
Thoughts of Trálin incited feelings she’d never known before. It was more than being with a man who moved her, but being with a man who truly cared. A man who if she allowed, she could . . . fall in love with.
Fall in love with Trálin? Ridiculous. She’d known him but three days. They’d kissed, but little more. Yet, deny it as she might, her heart acknowledged what she refused to accept.
She loved him.
Stunned by the realization, Catarine glanced sideways. “I do nae know what to do with you, Trálin MacGruder.” Her words fell out thick with desire, betraying what she did nae wanted him to realize.
“I think you do. Giving into your desire canna be a choice either of us can make.”
“Indeed.” Tears burned her eyes as she took in the sun as it began its ascent over the horizon, spilling its orange-red light over the snow-covered mountains with blazing innocence. Except nothing about what Trálin made her feel was innocent. Nor could her desire for him matter. The Otherworld awaited her, complete with the prince she was to wed.
“What will you do once this is over?” she asked.
“Return to the king’s service.”
Aching at the thought of their time together coming to an end, Catarine cleared her throat. “You are right, ’tis time to sleep.” In silence she walked to the cavern where the others slept, Trálin at her side. She didn’t look over, ’twould hurt too much. She lay in the makeshift bed she’d prepared earlier, tugged up her cape.
Clothing rustled. “Sleep well,” Trálin said.
She remained silent. If she spoke now, she might say something she’d come to regret.
“I see nothing!” a man’s furious yell echoed from above.
Trálin watched from the shield of thick fir, thankful for the progress they’d made throughout the night. With clouds thickening overhead along with the falling snow to cover their tracks, it had allowed them to move from hiding and head toward Loch Leven Castle with minimal risk of being seen. However slow, they’d traveled farther over the past few hours than he’d hoped. Another day, two at most, and they’d arrive. As for the guards ahead, from the sound of their frustration, they would soon move on. He had not expected them to continue their search after the sunset—proof of Comyn’s determination to recapture the king and queen.
“I was sure that I saw some tracks,” a distant man’s voice said.
“You saw naught but that of an animal,” the other man grumbled.
“With the heavy snowfall, even if it was them, we could nay follow. Come, ’tis time to return to Stirling Castle, unless you would be wanting to freeze to death.”
“’Tis blasted cold,” the first man grumbled. “We will head back and meet with the others. Mayhap they have fared better.”
Wind gusted past, half-smothering the crunch of snow as they headed off.
Trálin sat back, the burn of cold air filling his lungs. “They are leaving.”
“Thank goodness,” Catarine replied. “The castle guards have searched nearby for the last several hours.”
“We could have taken them if we had chosen,” Atair said.
Trálin met the lead fey warrior’s gaze. “’Twas best to allow them to pass. If the men had nae returned, other knights would have come to search for them.”
“The Comyns will have the fight they are seeking, once I return with a full contingent of knights,” King Alexander stated. “Let us go.”
She slid a covert look toward King Alexander. “The Comyns have made a grave error in upsetting your king.”
“Aye.” Trálin fell into step beside her, the scent of fir, mixed with that of snow and a hint of cold earth, filling his every breath. Many loved the warmth of summer, but he preferred the fall, thick with the taste of winter and the first blanket of snow that covered the scars of the land.
“You never said where your father is from, Lady Catarine,” King Alexander stated as he walked a few paces ahead.
She glanced toward Trálin. “From far away, Your Grace,” she replied. “He was a man who enjoyed traveling.”
“Your Grace,” Trálin said, needing to shift the conversation to a safer topic, “how many men will be needed to retaliate against the Comyns?”
The king’s jaw hardened. “Given the force at Stirling Castle, at a minimum, five hundred. As soon as the knights are rallied, we will—”
In the weak slivers of moonlight, a blur moved a distance ahead.