The Scotsman (33 page)

As he reached the top of the stairs, he saw a faint
shadow flicker and disappear in the corridor, and he paused. All his warrior’s instincts sensed danger, and he moved quietly around the corner, keeping to the wall. The echo of footsteps faded, and below, he heard the distant slamming of a door. Too late. He frowned. Why would anyone feel the need to slink about unseen? Yet there had been an air of stealth that raised his suspicions and his hackles.

When he entered the chamber he shared with Catherine he did not see her. Candles eased the gloom and cast light into the shadows. He stopped in the center of the room. She had not left the chamber since Siusan had confronted her, but remained here closed into herself like a hermit. Ah, she had even talked of going into a nunnery, but he had immediately disabused her of that notion. She had not argued with him, only smiled and turned away.

That she was not here now worried him, and he called for her. She answered at once, coming from behind the wall that hid the garderobe, her face a little pale.

“I fear me, sir, that the egg you sent me was bad. It had a vile taste that—”

“What egg?”

Her brow furrowed. “The lovely decorated egg that you just sent for my—”

“I sent no egg. Who brought it to you?”

“It was just a servant … I did not know him, nor have I seen him before, I think … Alex. Why?”

He strode to her and gripped her by the jaw, his fingers prising open her mouth. There was a faint aroma of bitter almonds, and he swore softly. “Did you eat it? Ah, Holy Christ—tell me!”

“No … I told you, it tasted vile. I spit it out.” Crossly, she knocked his hand away from her face. “If you did not send it, who did?”

Relief swept through him, and he did not answer for a moment. Yea, he was making the right decision to take her with him, for it was apparent that she was in graver danger than he had thought. If he were not leaving in the morn, he would have routed the entire castle and village to find the culprit, though there would be many to suspect.

Instead, he pulled her to him and insisted that she wash out her mouth with wine, then took the cup when she was through. He cradled her chin in his palm and lifted her face so that he could gaze into her eyes. Lovely catkin, with beautiful eyes like violets, fresh ivory skin, and such trembling innocence despite all. So sweet and young … yet so much older than her tender years. This lovely English maid gazed up at him with the wisdom of the ages in her soft eyes. Grievous, that life should be so deuced full of hard lessons that aged the soul.

A coppery curl strayed from beneath the gauzy cloth covering her hair, bound by a thinly wrought circlet of gold around her forehead. He brushed her cheek with his thumb and smiled.

“Sweet catkin, I made a vow to protect you.”

“Yea, so I am aware.” She covered his hand with hers and held it against her cheek. “And I am well and whole.”

“Despite your best efforts.”

His jest made her laugh. “Yea, lord, despite my best efforts. Do you now regret being so diligent?”

“Nay. You must know I do not.” He frowned slightly, then said with blunt resolution, “You will go with us when we leave at cock crow on the morrow.”

Her eyes widened, reflecting light from the branch of candles that burned on the table behind him. “Go—to war?”

An unwilling smile tugged at his mouth and he shook his head. “I am not issuing you a sword and ax, no. But you are to go with us to meet the Bruce. I find myself reluctant to leave you here where my protection may be lessened by those who seek vengeance.”

Again her eyes widened, seeming to fill her face as she stared up at him. “Ah. The egg. You think it poisoned.”

“Do you still have it?”

“Nay, I threw it down the garderobe.” She drew in a shaky breath. “Perhaps I suspected foul play, for normally I would not have noticed the strange taste. Everything in Scotland tastes strange to me.”

He laughed and pulled her to him, unwilling to let her see the surge of affection that filled him at her calm acceptance of what had to be terrifying. He may be used to men trying to kill him, but even so he would dislike facing stealth instead of the blunt challenge of a sword. He preferred to see his enemies.

A tremor rippled through her body, and after a moment he lifted her in his arms and moved with her to the wide bed. Brushing aside the hangings, he placed her on the mattress and sat beside her.

“It will not be elegant, catkin, but there is a hamlet nearby the Bruce’s camp that will be safe enough. I will be close so that I can see you often, though we will be devoting our time to training those who are untutored or undisciplined in the ways of battle.” He looked away when she did not reply, recognizing the glimmer of fear in her eyes. In a taut growl, he said, “God knows, I should have returned you to your father by now, but I had hoped—”

“Nay!” Her fierce denial startled him, and he lifted a brow at the intensity of her tone. “I do not want to go back to him, but if it will save your brother’s life, I will. Yet hear this, Alex Fraser, for I mean it truly—once ’tis
done and he is safe with you, I will do all in my power to leave Warfield keep. Should you … want me … I will return. If not, I intend to spend my days in a nunnery, for I will not be at the mercy of my father ever again.”

“Catkin….”He stared at her helplessly. Want her? He dreamed of long summer days spent with her, lying in sunlit fields amid the heather, having her near him and knowing they would always be together. But he was too pragmatic to believe in illusions, and that was what ’twould be to think they could ever live in happiness and peace. Even if the Bruce succeeded in wresting Scottish independence from King Edward, there would be years of strife to follow, with both sides struggling to regain or hold power. His life expectancy had already exceeded that of many in this war, and was not likely to extend much further. What could he give her? He had not even a tide or lands left to him, only the castle he had managed to wrest back from English hands with great loss and struggle. If not for the citizens of Kinnison who had risen to his defense with pitchforks and scythes, perhaps he would not have even that.

A muffled sob caught in Catherine’s throat, and he bent to kiss her, anguished that he could not offer assurance and comfort, torn between what he wanted and what he knew would be. Her lips parted under his, and he tasted the salt of her tears on his tongue. It undid him. His resolve began to fray into tangled threads of apprehension that he would hurt her more by promising the impossible just to ease her sorrow.

So he kissed her more fiercely, grinding his mouth on hers in a kind of desperation. He tried to convey to her the words he could not say, emotions that would likely never be uttered aloud but were so strong at times he felt unmanned by them. Perhaps, one day when he was gone
and she thought of him, she would remember how he had touched her, how she had made him tremble with her caress, and she would think kindly of him. It was all he had to hope for in this uncertain, precarious world in which he lived.

When she was trembling beneath him and her hands were moving restlessly from his shoulders to his arms and back, he sat back and gazed down at her. Her face was flushed, lips swollen from his kiss, her eyes fever-bright with passion. Gently, he removed the gold circlet that held the gauzy cloth to her head and pulled them both away to free her hair.

“I love your hair … so soft, like silk … gold in the candlelight, yet red when the sun shines on it …” He drew in an unsteady breath, feeling awkward and clumsy as he undid her plaits to pull the strands free around her shoulders. It waved over the feather-stuffed pillow beneath her head and around her face, framing features like fine porcelain. She was so delicate and fragile in appearance, with a resilience that continually amazed him.

He thought of her at the Jedburgh Abbey, the miles she had walked alone through deep forest and over rocky hills, determination and pure courage driving her on, and it humbled him. Christ. He would make himself crazy like this.

Bending, he kissed her again, softly this time, his mouth moving lightly over hers in the barest of brushes across her lips as he unlaced the side fastenings of her gown. He undressed her slowly, savoring each new revelation of her body as the garments were peeled away, then sat back on his bent legs to gaze at her with admiration and anguish. She lay quietly, her arms bent and her hands nesting in the wealth of hair spread over the pillow beneath her head.

Almost reverently, he drew a hand over the pale mound of her breast, fingers tracing a feathery pattern on her soft skin that made her inhale so sharply her breast quivered. It shuddered beneath his touch, cream and rose beauty beckoning to him, and he bent to rake his tongue over the taut nipple in a slow, heated glide that earned him another gasp of appreciation. Cupping both her breasts in his palms, he lavished first one and then the other with attention until her nipples were tightly beaded and her skin was flushed. Tiny blue veins marbled the lucent flesh with delicate tracery, and he sketched each one with his finger as if trying to memorize them. Perhaps he was.

Her lips parted and the tip of her tongue wet them; a pang of desire bolted through him with riveting intensity. “Alex….”

Soft, wistful, his name on her lips was sweet agony to him, and he kissed her again. Then he stood up beside the bed and shed his garments, not bothering with laces but ripping them free, tossing jerkin, sherte, trews, and boots carelessly to the floor. He throbbed, and the crisp air on his bare skin did nothing to cool his ardor.

The mattress cushioned his weight as he moved over her and into her uplifted arms. Her hands stroked his bare shoulders, the muscles in his arms as he braced himself with a hand pressing into the bed on each side of her, and he slowly lowered to kiss her again. He straddled her body with a knee on each side of her, her pale thighs pressing against his inner legs with arousing contact. As he kissed her, she moved her hands between them to slide over his belly, and his muscles contracted involuntarily at her touch. With light, teasing caresses, she explored the ridge of his ribs and then his belly again, palms slipping over his skin with flagrant eroticism that
grazed his tumescent sex and sent a shock wave through him. He groaned against her lips and she circled him with cool fingers that tightened, then relaxed again in erratic convulsions that made him shudder.

“God … catkin….” His murmured fervor faded into a wordless groan.

It was quiet in the chamber, where the noise from the bailey outside could be heard only dimly, the faint clatter of horses and clang of weapons, an occasional shout that rose and then receded, a fusion of sounds that meant nothing and everything, the ramifications unspoken and indisputable: life is fragile and uncertain.

Catherine shivered under the renewed contact of Alex’s body against hers as he pressed himself into the welcoming embrace of her thighs. Her hand fell away when he pushed into her body with a fierce thrust. She arched to meet him. His breath was harsh and swift, rasping into the close air between them as he took her with long shuddering strokes that made her cry out. Braced with his hands on each side of her, his arms trembled with the strain as he rocked against her in unbridled turbulence.

On a half sob, Catherine whispered, “I love you….” Then her words were swallowed by the rising emotion that filled her heart and throat as she clung to him, shivering under the raw, almost violent friction of their bodies, striving for the release that seemed to hover just out of her reach … it felt as if she were in the midst of a storm, buffeted by emotion and the hard, driving rhythm of his body as he filled her with deep thrusts that brought her ever closer to the edge.

Yet still she did not feel close enough to him, even with his weight a tangible pressure and his hard body inside her … she yearned for the evidence that he
cared, something that would truly fill the emptiness inside her. It eluded her, leaving her despairing and famished for the words that would ease her soul.

So, too, did physical release evade her, lost in the-torment of her fears and the ache in her heart, so that when he reached his own pleasure she just clung to him with her face pressed tight against his damp skin. He held her, his breath a harsh rasp against her ear, then rolled to his side and pulled her with him, his hand on her hip. Slowly, his breathing returned to normal. She could feel him staring at her in the murky gloom of candle glow and shadows, but would not look up.

“Catkin….” When she pressed her face harder against him, he hooked a finger beneath her chin and tilted her face up to him. “What is it?”

How could she tell him? How could she say that she had hoped he would say he loved her too when she had finally drummed up the courage to say it first? Was her conviction that he loved her wrong? Had she only deceived herself?

So to hide her disappointment, she swallowed hard and murmured a lie. “I am afraid to go with you.”

Curving his arm, he brought her against him so that her body welded to his from breast to thigh. “Is that what frets you? I will see that you are kept safe, catkin. If you like, I will escort you to Jedburgh Abbey, for the town is still held by the English. Perhaps that would be best, for if I cannot return for you …”

She shuddered and shook her head. “Nay, it would be too dangerous. And it is too far out of your way.”

He nodded, and stroked a hand through her hair, his fingers threading the loose strands like a comb. He held her in the muscular bend of his arm, idly caressing her, pressing an occasional kiss on her cheek or forehead, murmuring that he would keep her safe, until finally his
hand stilled in her hair and on her hip, and his muscles relaxed as he drifted into slumber.

Catherine lay awake long into the night, battling the demons of her soul that tormented her with doubts and fears. But like the legends that told of soldiers springing forth from dragon teeth sown in a fertile field, new doubts sprang up to plague her, so that she was still awake when the candle guttered and the fire died.