Catriona’s Secret

by Madeline Martin

  He muttered her name again and sighed softly. She ground her teeth in frustration, hating that there was nothing more she could do for him than put her hands to his face.

  Her thoughts raced, combing through the many herbs she’d helped Leila string together. She’d mainly learned to care for them, which ones ought to be hung up, which were best for drying in the sun, and which were for putting into tinctures or pressing for their oils. But Leila often spoke of their healing properties as well.

  Cat closed her eyes and focused on the many she had sorted through, and how very many of them helped to reduce fever. Some of them incredibly common, like…like…

  Cat’s eyes flew open. Meadowsweet. She leapt to her feet to summon Freya. There had been some growing in patches just outside the monastery.

  She knew exactly what to do to help Geordie, and she would not leave his side until she made certain it would work.

  Geordie tried to swallow and found his mouth impossibly dry. His throat stuck against itself and made him choke into a cough. Cool hands pressed to the back of his neck, lifting his head as a cup was settled against his mouth.

  He drank greedily. Ale, sweet and crisp, washing over his tongue and down his parched throat. Gentle hands removed the cup, while Geordie lay his head back down. He opened his eyes and found Cat sitting beside his bed.

  He blinked in confusion. What was Cat doing in his room?

  “Geordie?” She sat forward. Her fingers moved over his face. “I think your fever is breaking.”

  Fever. The word conjured heat in his mind. His entire body was hot. He shoved the blanket from his body.

  Her eyes were bright with concern. “Geordie, I’ve been so worried. You’ve been so ill.”

  Had he? Geordie frowned. “Where are we?” He looked around, noticing for the first time all the beds around them, some of them filled with people. A monk hovered over a prone form several beds over.

  “We’re in a monastery,” she replied. “We’ve been here for two days.”

  Geordie shook his head. “I never get ill.” His thoughts were muddy in his mind, too thick.

  “Everyone does.” She smiled and took his hand. “Even brave knights.”

  He gazed down at their joined hands. “You stayed by my side.”

  “I did.”

  He raised his brows. “For two days and nights.”

  “I couldn’t leave you.” She squeezed his fingers with hers.

  Geordie wrapped his mind around her confession. She had sat by his bedside for two days tending to him. And yet, she insisted on wanting to marry Lord Loughton’s son.

  Did she not understand what she meant to him?

  He pulled himself to sitting despite her protests. The room spun around in a wild tilt. He focused on Cat while his world settled back into place once more. But then, Cat had always grounded him. When he was lonely. When his heart ached for home. Even in the charge of battle, when excitement melded with the metallic taste of fear.

  It had always been Cat, strengthening his heart and focusing his mind.

  His thoughts were like gritty sludge churning within his skull. “I don’t understand.”

  “You had a terrible fever,” Cat replied. “I believe from the rain—”

  Geordie put up a hand to stop her. “I don’t understand why you want to wed the baron’s son.”

  She tilted her head, and he knew his statement had been unexpectedly abrupt. He also knew now was not the time to discuss this, but somehow, he could not make himself stop.

  “You care about me, Cat.” He braced himself on the bed.

  “I always have.” There was a hesitance to her reply.

  “Yet you’ll marry another.”

  Cat drew a deep breath. “Geordie, I—”

  “I love you, Cat.” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. Not that he wanted to. He’d wanted to tell Cat those words since they were children. Since she’d saved his life and his soul all at once.

  She was the reason he grew up wanting to be a better man, rather than wanting to give into the hole in his heart that his parents had left.

  He knew she cared for him; he always had known. But after the absence of four years and her determination to wed another, his trust in her affection had been shaken. Staying with him the two days of his illness, however, was proof enough to embolden him.

  Except now, she was shaking her head. “Don’t say that,” she whispered.

  “But it’s true, Cat. I’ve always loved you. I’d do anything for you.”

  “Don’t say that either.” She got to her feet. “You need more ale. I should—”

  “Why do you want to wed Lord Loughton’s son so badly?” Geordie looked up at her and the room began to tilt again. The dizzying sensation jiggled at his ragged nerves. “Why do you want to be a baron’s wife? Is the thought of a title and riches so tempting that you would forgo love?”

  “I enjoy life at court,” she said in a thin voice. “You know how it is. You said you’ve been once before.”

  Geordie gripped the bed. He shouldn’t have started this now, but the words had already been said. Once in battle, there was only going forward. Retreat was never an option. “Court is a cesspool of sin and debauchery.” Bitterness seeped into his voice. “Filled with gambling, married men and women betraying the sanctity of their vows at every turn. Men mindlessly determined to deflower maidens, and the empty-headed women who foolishly fall prey to their charms. I don’t understand why anyone would want to ever return.”

  The room had stopped spinning somewhat. He gazed up at her to find her eyes had gone wide, her face pale, and he realized the harshness of what he’d said in his frustration.

  He softened his tone. “Especially you. You’re too smart, too talented for such a life. The Cat I knew would never have wanted to give up her bow and arrow in place of new gowns and elaborate headwear.”

  Cat pressed her lips together and looked down at the floor before finally speaking. “Then mayhap you do not know me anymore, Geordie.”

  With that, she spun from him and strode away, leaving him with only a hollow sensation and the realization of everything he’d said, and how very wrong it had all been.

  11

  Cat ran from the monastery cottage into the sunshine, where she proceeded to be sick in the grass. She clutched her stomach, her heart slamming in her chest like a drumbeat.

  Men mindlessly determined to deflower maidens, and the empty-headed women who foolishly fall prey to their charms.

  Was that what she was, then? An empty-headed woman who had foolishly fallen prey to a man’s charms? Tears came to her eyes, but she ground them away with the heels of her palms. She wouldn’t do this here. Not now, even when she knew the answer to her own question.

  She had been an empty-headed woman. She had been so dazzled by court, so overly flattered by the attention. It had all seduced her. It left infatuated with court life…and with Sir Gawain. That night she’d had far too much to drink. She knew that. Even now she could taste the heaviness of the rich wine clinging to the back of her throat, recalled the muddled sensation of having to focus on her words to keep them from slurring.

  Even as Cat pushed herself upright and strode to the women’s quarters of the monastery, that night at court came rushing back to her. The slurring of her speech from so much wine, allowing Sir Gawain to lead her outside and how her legs had clumsily tripped and staggered through uneven grass in the moonlit garden. Sir Gawain held her upright, his voice like silk in her ears.

  There had been a bench beneath an alcove. His mouth fell to hers in an instant. Her head had swum dizzily and even the simple act of closing her eyes made her feel as though she were aboard a small ship in rough seas.

  His hand was at her breast first, but she’d pushed him away, only to have it return with relentless intent. He kissed away her protests, murmuring as he did so of her beauty, of his desire for her. She’d been so very tired, wanting only to go to sleep, her mind too we
ary to keep up with his constant persuasions. By the time his hot hand slid up her thighs under her skirt, she barely had the energy to object, let alone try to push him away.

  She’d attempted to tell him to stop, but his kisses had become too amorous, his tongue filling her mouth. Suddenly it wasn’t his fingers, but something else pressing against her. In the private, delicate place between her legs that no one but a husband ought to have access.

  Even now her pulse ticked too quickly at the helpless memory. The air was suddenly too thin to breathe. She’d tried to stop him, but he’d quieted her with his words with the claim she had played the wanton and couldn’t now retract her affections when they had come so far. His statement had so taken her aback, she had gone still with shock.

  And then it was too late.

  She should have fought him off. She was strong enough. She could have screamed, punched, kicked, whipped out her dagger. But she had been made immobile by pain and confusion and bitter, ugly shame.

  Afterward, when she was left hollow and reeling, he’d kissed her and sworn the next time would be more enjoyable. There hadn’t been a next time. She made certain she did not see him again before leaving court.

  Heavy with the burden of memories, she climbed the stairs to the women’s quarters in the monastery. The room was empty within, as it was midday. Cat found the bed Freya had prepared for her and lay upon it without bothering to pull down the covers. The bedding was rough against her skin, uncomfortable enough for any monk.

  Not that it mattered. Even if she had the finest sheets in Christendom, she knew she would not be able to rest. Not with such an ache in her breast. Instead, she lay there with her haunted memories and Geordie’s words replaying in her mind.

  Empty-headed women who foolishly fall prey to their charms.

  Tears slipped silent from her eyes and melted into the sheets. She deserved every bit of pain from those words as they slid like splinters into her heart. If only she had not allowed herself to be swayed by Sir Gawain. If only she had stopped him from pouring wine into her goblet. If only she had protested going outside alone at night, and not feared him thinking her unsophisticated.

  But time could not make good on “if onlys.” And in this case, time would not be enough to heal her mistake.

  She settled a hand to her lower stomach where the skin had begun to swell, unmistakable evidence of a life growing within her. They were over a third of the way to London and would arrive in a fortnight. She would have to confront Sir Gawain then.

  Her breath quickened with anxiety. What would she say? How would he respond? Would he agree to take the baby?

  Her fingers moved over her stomach. Would she care? More tears leaked from her eyes, hot with hurt and shame. Right now, the babe was just a small bump in her lower stomach, but eventually, it would be a baby, a child. Like Ella’s Blanche or Anice’s Gavin.

  Wouldn’t she care then?

  A harsh sob rose up in her throat and the silent tears gave way to weeping. She was ruining a child’s life as well as her own, and Geordie might possibly hate her. All for being an empty-headed fool.

  Geordie had made a grave mistake. A sennight had passed and still Cat was despondent. She did not fill the stretches of time on the road with her cheerful chatter, and the brilliance of her smile had dimmed to nonexistence.

  He’d tried to apologize time and again since that terrible day in the monastery. Each time she had shaken her head and told him there was no need. But truly there had been need, or his words would have eased her worries.

  Now, he stood by the hearth with a mug of ale for himself and a fine goblet of wine for her. She usually took her ale watered down, but he knew she used to enjoy wine when they were younger and hoped to bring some color to her cheeks again.

  Her preparations for supper after their journeys were taking longer and longer, as though it was hard to bring herself downstairs. At last, he saw her on the stairs, her face impassive, revealing nothing of her thoughts. Men still stared as she passed. She would always be the type of woman to turn a man’s eye, no matter how muted her spirit.

  Her mouth flicked upward in a small smile when she saw him, and his heart lifted a little. He offered her the goblet. “They had a fine Noirien wine in their cellars I thought you might enjoy. That was your favorite, if I recall correctly.”

  She cast a glance to the wine, opened her mouth, and her forehead crinkled.

  Geordie’s confidence flagged. “You don’t like it anymore.” He nodded in understanding. “’Tis fine.”

  “Forgive me, I–I do not drink wine any longer.” She regarded her lady’s maid, who had taken a seat beside Durham. “I believe Freya might enjoy it, however.”

  Freya’s gaze slid to the goblet. “My lady, ’tis too fine.”

  Before Cat could press her insistently, Geordie put the goblet in front of the maid.

  “If you don’t drink it, I will.” Durham grinned and moved his hand closer to the wine.

  Freya caught the cup in her palm and drew it toward her. “Not unless ye want a sound beating.”

  Durham waggled his brows. “I do like a woman with a feisty side.”

  Eldon snorted. “So say you, until Peter finds out you’ve been flirting with his lass.”

  Cat laughed then, a ghost of what her joyous tinkling used to be, but it was a laugh all the same. And it was the first Geordie had heard from her in a sennight.

  While they ate supper, he could not help but notice how her nails had been shorn down to the quick once more. The once smooth edges were ragged from being torn at by her teeth. To make matters worse, she did not eat much of anything. The past several nights, he’d noticed the same. She nibbled at bread and pushed the pottage around in her bowl, but seldom ever took a bite.

  That night, a small trio of musicians were staying at the inn. As often happened with traveling troupes, they performed for their room and board. The hall filled with the gentle notes of the lute, pipe and harp. Eldon, Durham and Freya had all sat closer to better hear them play, while Geordie stayed back with Cat. It was a perfect opportunity to apologize. Again.

  “Cat,” he began. “Please forgive me.”

  “Geordie, you’ve done nothing wrong.”

  After his insistence in their conversation at the monastery, it had seemed wrong to press her into a conversation she clearly did not want to have. However, his apologies had done little good and whatever was causing her a considerable amount of distress continued to do so.

  “I should not have said what I did,” he said gently.

  “You were ill.” She put her hand on his forearm. “And I…I know it is confusing. I know I am…” She offered a shadow of a smile. “I know I am different than before.”

  “What is it that troubles you so?” He ran his finger lightly over her finger where raw, red skin showed beneath the torn nail.

  She curled her hand inward to hide her fingers and gave a stiff shrug.

  “You know you can tell me anything.” Geordie sat up straighter to regard her.

  Her head lowered. “It is nothing you have done,” she said softly. “And everything that I have.”

  “Tell me, Cat.”

  She shook her head slowly.

  “You used to tell me everything when we were children.” He brushed a stray lock of hair from her face and tucked it behind her ear. “If you tell me, I will try to make it right.”

  He’d always liked that he’d been able to do that when they were young, making her sorrow lighter with some silly game.

  “We aren’t children anymore, Geordie.” She slid him a sorrowful look. “Life is not so easily solved.”

  Something was indeed bothering her. “I could try.” The not knowing was driving him mad. To be aware that Cat was hurting, and yet he could do nothing to help her heal, was more than he could bear.

  “I don’t want you to.” She slid from her seat and rose to standing. “Please.”

  He stood as well.

  “I find I am qui
te tired and would like to retire early.” She raised her gaze to him, and he saw for the first time how deep the hollows under her eyes were. “Do excuse me.”

  “Of course.” He bowed low to her and watched her departing back as she made her way through the crowd. There was indeed something amiss with Cat, and he suspected it had something to do with Lord Loughton.

  12

  Geordie didn’t have the opportunity to speak with Cat alone again over the next several days. Mayhap it had been through her orders that Freya be at her side every time he might have otherwise spoken to her. Mayhap she did not wish him to learn what troubled her.

  But what could possibly be so terrible?

  He ought to let the matter go as she had asked, but, how could he? The unknowing rattled about in his brain like a loose stone, the clatter of it kept him from sleeping properly. Between worrying over her and cursing his own humiliation at admitting his love for her, there was room in his mind for little else.

  Geordie shifted in his saddle and glanced over to Cat, who stared blankly ahead, not noticing his attention on her. Eldon said something and pulled Geordie’s attention to the warrior.

  The man nodded to the road in front of them. “The grass.”

  Geordie’s attention lowered to the ground where lush, thick grass grew over the trail. Too lush for a path often traveled. Energy spiked through him. “Turn back.”

  He spoke so sharply, even Cat snapped from her haze to glance at him. But it was too late.

  Men were already rushing onto the road with weapons drawn, demanding valuables and coin. The waymarks on the road had been switched to lead Geordie and his party down this deserted road. It was an old trick–one Geordie knew to avoid.

  He'd been distracted and had led them all into danger. His foolish oversight might cost them their lives. He looked to Cat to warn her, but she’d already nocked an arrow and positioned Star in front of Freya.

  “I am Sir Geordie of the king’s army.” He slid his blade free of its scabbard. “Leave and we will allow you to go unharmed. Stay and you will suffer the consequences.”