Catriona’s Secret

by Madeline Martin

  The men didn’t bother to reply. Instead they rushed from the close sides of the forest toward Geordie’s retinue. Men kept coming from the brush until at least twenty surrounded them. Many wore the stained gambesons of poor soldiers, most likely land tenants forced into battle by their lord, and then cast aside when the king couldn’t afford to feed them anymore. It was a sorry state Geordie had seen many times.

  Geordie cut free the bag of food from his saddle and threw it to the men. “There’s food enough there for several men for a sennight.” One man darted forward and grabbed it to his chest. Three others followed his departure into the woods, as Geordie anticipated some might.

  Soldiers who turned to theft were either hungry or pillagers by nature. The lingering sixteen men were evidently the latter. God have mercy on their souls, for Geordie would show none to their earthly bodies.

  The first man charged, slicing toward Geordie’s horse.

  Geordie shifted Bentley, and placed his blade between man and beast, blocking the brigand first before punching the weapon through the man’s paltry armor and into his chest.

  Something darted through the air, and a man charging toward their party fell with a white fletched arrow jutting from his eye. Geordie grinned, admiring Cat’s skill, even as he expertly wielded his own weapon.

  He easily cut down the three men trying to take him down as he edged Bentley back toward Cat. She didn’t need his protection, of course, but he’d be there to ensure she remained unharmed, to give himself the peace of mind to better focus. As it was, he found his attentions divided between the need to fight and the constant desire to reassure himself of her safety.

  One by one, she pinched an arrow to her bowstring, and one by one, the men fell.

  That is, until a tall man with shaggy blonde hair leapt at her, grappling at her leg to pull her from Star. Geordie turned from the brigand he fought for only a fraction of a moment. A blade caught him on the left arm. The dull thud on his body told him there would be a wound bleeding there after battle.

  He blocked a second blow with his sword, his attention still shared with the man trying to pull Cat from her horse. In an instant, she snatched up the sword from where it hung on the saddle near her thigh and plunged it into the man’s neck. Only when the man sank to the ground with blood spurting from his mouth did Geordie turn his full focus on his opponent once more.

  The attacker jerked back and looked around wildly. His brethren lay around him, motionless in growing pools of blood. He was the only among them still standing. Slowly, he backed away toward the forest.

  “If you still fancy a fight, I can accommodate you.” Eldon gave him a leering grin.

  The man shook his head vigorously and continued to walk backward until he disappeared into the brush.

  Immediately, Geordie gave his full attention to Cat. “Are you ladies well?”

  Cat tossed him a saucy look, wiped the blood from her blade and slid it into the scabbard. Of course, she was well. She was a woman who knew battle. Freya, however, appeared ready to fall from her horse. Still, the lady’s maid lifted her pale face with determination. “I’m safe, with thanks to my lady for her protection.”

  Cat’s mouth fell open. “Geordie, you’re bleeding.”

  In that short time, he’d forgotten he’d been struck in battle. He glanced down at his left arm. There, on the bulk of his shoulder, was a great gash. Blood had seeped out, staining the sleeve of his yellow tunic. The sting of a new wound made its way to his awareness, a sensation he’d grown familiar with in these last four years.

  He lifted his good shoulder in an uncaring shrug. “’Tis only a scratch.”

  “It needs to be tended to.” Cat walked Star closer to Bentley and peered at Geordie’s shoulder. “If nothing else, we need to ensure it’s clean.”

  He shook his head stubbornly. “’Tis fine.” He clicked his tongue to lead his horse, and their party, away from the field of dead men.

  “As it was fine when you were with fever?” Cat persisted, appearing beside him.

  Geordie bit back a scoff. “It will take more than a fever, or a nick to the skin for that matter, to fell me.”

  Durham watched the entire exchange back and forth without ever moving his head, his eyes gliding between them. Geordie raised his brows to him in question, but the soldier simply smirked as if to silently lament the concern of ladies.

  “If it was me who had received an injury, what would you do?” Cat inclined her head toward Geordie.

  “I’d have you seen by a healer immediately.” He looked behind them to ensure no brigands followed. “But as I told you, I am fine, and don’t need a healer.”

  “Then let me look at it,” she said softly. “It was I who found the meadowsweet to treat your fever when you were ill.”

  He nearly declined yet again, except he caught the furrow of concern at her brows and it nipped at his heart. She had not wanted him to say he loved her, but she obviously still cared for him. He could not turn down such affection when he wanted it so ferociously.

  Finally, he nodded. “Aye, you may see to it.”

  Cat’s face split into a smile and it was like the sun finally emerged from behind a stormy sky. He wanted to turn his face to its warmth, to revel in its beauty. But she was already urging Star in another direction. “I saw a cottage earlier on the trail, not far from here. Come, Freya. You look about ready to faint.”

  The lady’s maid did indeed look ready to slide to the ground. She gave a weak groan. “Forgive me. The sight of blood always makes me rather weak.”

  “You may rest at the cottage,” Cat pressed.

  Freya gripped her reins and swayed. “Please, my lady. If his wound needs to be sewn…” Her mouth pursed as though she was ready to be relieved of her last meal.

  “We’ll go on ahead with the cart,” Eldon suggested. “And you can join us when you’re done. It’ll be faster with you on your horses to reach us than if we all wait and resume together.”

  It was a good plan. Geordie nodded. “Aye, that is a fine idea. See to Freya to ensure she doesn’t fall from her horse.”

  “It will be done,” Durham said in a firm tone. “Peter will never care for my steed again if I let anything happen to her.”

  Color touched Freya’s pale cheeks at Durham’s claim as he passed a wineskin to Cat. He gave it a regretful stare. “Ye can use this for washing the wound.”

  This time when Cat led the way back to the main path, Geordie did not protest. If she wished to see to the wound, so be it. And mayhap he could speak with her while she did so–to learn what it was that troubled her.

  Cat forced a slow pace as she led the way to the small cottage she had seen. The others of their group returned to the main road, going the opposite direction of she and Geordie. She knew he wished to be left alone rather than tended to, but she couldn’t leave the wound gaping and bleeding so.

  Smaller injuries had taken down larger warriors than Geordie. It was nearly impossible to fight off infection, even for the strongest of men.

  Cat found the house again quickly and dismounted from Star. Perhaps the occupants had basic herbs inside, garlic to clean out Geordie’s wounds properly, or even chamomile to aid with the pain. Not that he appeared to be in pain. But at least something to safeguard against infection.

  He came to her side to wait patiently for someone to answer her frantic knock on the roughhewn door.

  No one came.

  “There’s no smoke rising from the chimney.” Geordie indicated the sky.

  Cat took a step back and gazed up beyond the roof. He was right. No smoke billowed out against the clear blue sky. In her eagerness to see to his wound, she’d failed to notice the obvious absence of people within the hut.

  The sooner the injury was treated, the less likelihood there was of infection, or so Isla said. Considering all the lives the older woman had saved, Cat was not inclined to take her word lightly.

  “This isn’t necessary, Cat.” Geordie backed
away from the cottage. “’Tis a simple wound that can be addressed at the next inn.”

  “And you suspect a gaping wound will stop bleeding on its own?” She nodded toward his shoulder where blood continued to trickle freely. “You forget I’ve been involved in battles as well and have aided Isla and Leila in their ministrations of the injured.” She tried the door latch. It clicked open. “That wound needs to be cleaned and stitched closed, or you’ll likely suffer another fever.”

  She didn’t wait to see if he followed as she pushed into the abandoned home. Though she called out a pleasant greeting, she kept her hand on the hilt of her dagger. One never knew what to expect in a lone building, even one that held no furnishings and smelled musty with disuse and fires burned out long ago. Sunshine shone in like patches of gold from the damaged thatch roof.

  “It appears there was a fire here.” Geordie’s voice sounded from across the open space, making Cat nearly leap from her skin. He had entered the hut with the silence of a stable cat, his footsteps muted on the earthen floor.

  He gestured to one scorched wall and the greatest piece of missing roof. Now that Cat was looking directly at the ceiling, she noted the bits of singed thatch where the fire had eaten through.

  “Then this is perfect.” Cat set her bag on the floor and began to sort through it, gathering everything she would need.

  She tried to keep her thoughts fixed on what needed to be done to have his wound cleaned and stitched, rather than their being alone together.

  Warmth swirled low in her stomach. It was all too easy to recall the gentleness of his kiss, and the way it made everything in her melt.

  She pushed aside those memories and drew out the flagon of wine Durham had given her. It wasn’t garlic or chamomile or any other herb that might help, not that Cat could remember most of them anyway, but it was better than nothing for cleaning a wound.

  She strode over to Geordie with purpose. “Let me have a look.”

  Obediently, he turned his bad arm toward her. She lifted the torn cloth of his tunic and carefully prodded the edge of the slice. Blood trickled from the gash. There was no indication of white bone beneath, so the cut had not gone that deep. It was nothing that would kill him immediately, but still wide enough that it would not close on its own. If left untended, that might make him lose consciousness before the sun set.

  “This will need to be stitched, or it will continue to bleed. You’ll need to remove your tunic so I can access the wound.” She rummaged through her bag again, seeking her needle case and some thread. The silk embroidery thread was not as sturdy as Isla’s catgut, but it would have to do in a pinch. “Do you still hold an affinity for blue?”

  She glanced up from her bag to find Geordie’s torso completely naked, as she’d requested. But she hadn’t expected…

  Her mouth went dry and she nearly dropped the materials she’d gathered.

  Nay, she certainly hadn’t expected him to be so very strong. She’d felt the raw power beneath his tunic when they’d kissed before; she’d even been able to make out the line of his shoulders with her eyes. But she hadn’t expected a narrow stomach banded with tight muscle, his broad chest and powerful arms all sculpted from countless hours of training.

  It wasn’t only his strength which caught her breath. Jagged scars lined and puckered his otherwise smooth skin–from his collarbones down to a nick of a line just over the muscular ridge of his hip.

  He was a man chiseled by war.

  “Are you going to sew me up like a tapestry?” Geordie chuckled, oblivious to her stupefied gawping.

  Cat blinked and carefully pulled the needle from her case to ensure she didn’t drop it to the ground. It was the only one she had.

  “I have red if you prefer,” Cat said in a weak voice.

  Mayhap it was how she said it, but he met her eyes and spoke suddenly. “Cat.”

  Heat blazed in her cheeks. She ducked her head, breaking the intensity of his gaze, and unspooled the blue thread from the bit of leather it was wound around. “You may wish to sit as this will hurt.”

  “I’ll be fine.” His voice was rich, lush, the same as it’d been when they’d kissed at the feast.

  Excited currents tickled through her stomach as she recalled how soft his lips had been. This man who had the body of a warrior, battle-scarred and powerful, was so tender with his touch.

  “I may not be as fine as you with this,” she confessed. “Will you sit, please?”

  At that, he immediately lowered himself to the ground. The action caused the muscles across his abdomen and chest to flex. Cat forced herself to avert her eyes from the magnificence of his body and focus instead on his injury.

  Nervousness swirled in her stomach. She could do this. She had to do this. And yet every part of her cringed at the idea of sewing Geordie’s shoulder, of causing him any more pain. She drew a deep breath and unstopped the wine.

  She would do this.

  13

  “First, the wine.” Cat gave Geordie a moment to prepare before splashing wine over the wound.

  His jaw flexed, but that was his only indication of discomfort for something no doubt very painful. The ruby liquid ran down his arm, mixing with his blood. The sharp scent of wine filled the air and stuck in the back of her throat, cloying. She shoved back at memories that tried to claw forefront.

  She would not think of Sir Gawain now. Her focus would not go to a man so undeserving of her thoughts when one far worthier needed her.

  Her hands shook so badly, she could barely get the thread through the eye of the needle. By some miracle, she finally succeeded, sliding the thread through and putting the iron needle to the edge of the wound. She flicked a glance up at him. “Are you ready?”

  He gave a resolute nod, his gaze locked across the room. Judging from the number of scars on his body, he’d likely been sewn a time or two. Most likely by a burly man who pulled the thread from his own dirty tunic. Cat shuddered to think.

  She pushed the needle to Geordie’s skin as she had seen Isla do, but it did not give easily. She had to shove at the needle with the pad of her thumb before the point pushed through his skin.

  Geordie did not so much as flinch. Cat, however, cried out as though it were she who had a needle jutting from a wound.

  He reached up and brushed her face with his fingertips. “’Tis fine, Cat. I scarcely feel it.”

  She sucked in a breath and nodded. Bolstered by his reassurance, she sewed the wound closed the way she’d seen Isla and Leila do countless times before. She kept her stitching loose enough on either side to account for future swelling and went far enough away from where the injury split to ensure the skin wouldn’t give way and tear.

  When at long last she was done, she tied off the thread and sat back to admire her work. She’d never made a more perfect line of sewing, if she did say so herself.

  “Finished?” He asked.

  Cat nodded weakly. Nausea rolled through her stomach at what she’d just done, at the agony he must have felt and that he hid so well.

  “I’m sorry to have hurt you, Geordie,” she whispered.

  He gave her an easy smile. “I’ve had much worse, I assure you.”

  She indicated his torso. “So I see.” Her heart flinched at how many injuries he’d endured on the battlefield. How many battles had he fought? How many times had his life nearly been cut short?

  Her throat went tight.

  How many times had she nearly lost him?

  Before she could even think at what she did, she reached out and gently brushed a small scar on his chest, silvery white beneath a sprinkling of dark hair. His skin was soft and warm. But the gentle caress wasn’t enough. She had to touch each one, as though to offer her comfort for every injury he had sustained that she had not been there to care for him.

  She brushed her fingers over a star-shaped wound on his ribs, still pink with having healed within the last year or so. He pulled in a sharp breath as though the wound still caused him pain. She
looked up at him and found his gaze fixed on her, his eyes glittering with something she couldn’t discern.

  “Did I hurt you?” she asked.

  His chest rose and fell with his steady breathing. “What are you doing, Cat?”

  “I’m…” She regarded his scarred body once more and swallowed. “I’m trying to heal the hurt of four long years.” She reached for him again, but this time he stopped her, catching her hand midair.

  “Tell me you care about me, Cat.”

  She dragged her attention to his earnest expression.

  “Be honest,” Geordie said. “But tell me how you feel about me. Do you care?”

  She knew what he was asking. She knew where the conversation would go. To her potential marriage with Lord Loughton’s son, to the reasons why she wanted to go to court, and inevitably the crushing weight of her shame at having ruined everything.

  Even still, she could not tell him she did not care.

  “I do care.” She pulled her fingers free and lightly grazed a crescent-shaped scar on his uninjured shoulder. “I did not realize you had seen so many battles as this.” Her voice trembled with emotion when she spoke. “You could have been killed.”

  “I wasn’t,” he said resolutely.

  Cat drew in a shaky breath. “But you could have been. How many battles did you fight?”

  Geordie exhaled heavily. “Several. Aye, I got struck occasionally. Every man does. But I was never reckless.” His heartbeat thudded hard beneath her fingertips where she touched a newer scar on his chest. “I knew I had to come home to you.”

  Cat pressed her lips together.

  He gently pulled her closer, so they were eye level. “It’s always been you. I thought of you so often on the battlefield. I read your letters until the creases went soft with use and started to split.”

  The knot in her throat hardened. He had always cared for her.

  Pennyroyal.

  The small vial was still in her bag. The very one she had in the cottage with her. It would be so easy to drink it down, the extract no doubt bitter. Not nearly as bitter as the decision. And yet, she would be free from her burden. To begin her life anew, to have everything she wanted with Geordie.