Resting her knee on one of the window embrasure’s padded benches, she took another breath of the cold night air, hoping to banish her sleepiness.
“I tell you, Maili”—she stretched, resisting the urge to sink down onto the bench—“if he doesn’t come on the morrow, I’ll have the guards bar the gate to him, whatever Alasdair says.”
No, you won’t, for you love him. Maili spoke from right behind her, the soft words breathing shivers down Catriona’s spine.
She spun around, ready to deny any such feelings for the scoundrel, but the words lodged in her throat.
Maili hadn’t left the bed.
And staring across the room at her, it was clear to see why she’d gone so silent.
Maili slept.
Catriona’s two favorite dogs, Birkie and Beadle, were curled in tight balls close to her side, though all Catriona could see of them was one small black nose peeking out from the rumpled bed coverings. And—she almost overlooked it—a tiny white paw that was just visible beneath a mound of plush, embroidered cushions.
As Beadle and Birkie were litter mates and looked very much alike, she couldn’t tell which dog’s nose or paw revealed their sleeping presence.
Not that it mattered.
What did was that the three of them took up most of Catriona’s large four-postered bed. Maili lay sprawled diagonally across the bed’s high mattress. And the two under-the-covers lumps that were Birkie and Beadle occupied the remaining space.
And—Catriona frowned when Maili began to snore—she didn’t have the heart to disturb any of them, even if they’d claimed her bed.
I loved him so…
Again, the softly spoken words came from behind Catriona. But this time the only thing behind her was the embrasure’s open window.
And now she recognized the voice.
Heart thumping wildly, she swung back around, her breath catching to see Scandia standing at the window, luminescent and shimmering.
Catriona stared at her, frozen, unable to move. She tried to say something—she felt such sympathy for the ghost—but her lips wouldn’t form the words.
The glowing raven-haired beauty didn’t acknowledge Catriona, her gaze fixed on the darkness beyond the window arch. But she did drift closer to the broad stone splay, her lovely face lighting up, a wondrous smile curving her lips as she gripped the ledge.
Only…
Catriona’s eyes rounded. The window splay was now a merlon. Scandia was gripping the solid part of a crenellated parapet that now stood where the tapestried wall of Catriona’s bedchamber had been only moments before.
The dark, blustery night was also gone, replaced by a sun-washed blue sky stretching above an endless swath of deep purple heather and bog myrtle. Thick piney woods and great rolling hills, some with narrow gorges gushing with cold, sparkling cataracts, loomed where Loch Moidart’s far shore should have been.
And—Catriona pressed a hand to her breast, her pulse racing—she recognized the magnificent stretch of glen, even though it’d been long since she’d seen the land around Castle Haven in summer.
It was summer, because the wind was warm. And the air no longer smelled of cold rain and smoldering peat ash, but of whin, bracken, and wild thyme.
As if she relished the day, the sights and scents, Scandia touched a hand to her own shimmering breast and closed her eyes, breathing deep.
When she looked again, she gave a little cry, leaning forward in excitement.
Catriona edged nearer, too. She took only a step, for she was too awed to disturb Scandia and risk her vanishing, the glorious summer day with her.
The day and—Catriona’s jaw slipped—the shining young Viking warrior who’d just emerged from the piney woods.
Tall, powerfully muscled, and with long fair hair and a curling golden beard, he was colorfully dressed in a brilliant blue tunic and sweeping red cloak. An enormous silver-and-gold brooch held the cloak fastened, and countless twisted gold rings adorned his arms. A golden hammer amulet hung from his neck, proclaiming his trust in Thor. And when he looked up at Scandia, flashing a smile, the love that shone in his eyes made Catriona’s heart seize.
Donar!
Scandia cried his name when she saw him, leaning forward to wave both arms in the air, greeting him enthusiastically. Donar, my love!
Her smile was as dazzling as the young Norseman’s.
Tears of joy glittered on her eyelashes, a few trickling down her happy, blushing cheeks. She cried and waved, jumping in her excitement, gripping the edge of the merlon with one hand so she could lean into the notched crenel space between and wave some more.
It was then that she fell.
The joy on her beautiful young face turned to horror when she realized she’d leaned out too far. She lost her balance, hurtling over the battlements.
Donaaaaaar…! Her cry ended abruptly.
Scandia… no-o-o! The young Viking’s went on and on and on, unending.
Until Catriona felt a bump against her leg and then a small paw tapping at her knee. She came awake at once and looked down to see Birkie peering up at her, his round eyes filled with concern.
She understood why, for she lay slumped on one of the embrasure benches where she’d clearly fallen asleep. And the dampness on her cheeks proved what she already knew: she’d been crying in her dream.
If it’d even been a dream.
It’d felt so real.
Her heart still hurt. And her lungs pained her as if she’d screamed along with Scandia and Donar. Their cries did echo in her ears, horribly.
“Oh, Birkie…” She scooped the little brown-and-white dog into her arms, cradling him against her breast, grateful for his soft, warm weight. The sloppy wet kisses he gave her as he snuggled closer. “What am I going to do?”
She wasn’t sure.
But she did know one thing.
Lady Scandia wasn’t the Doom of the Camerons. She’d loved her betrothed with all her heart, and he’d loved her as passionately.
She hadn’t taken her own life, she’d lost it.
And Catriona would set things right for her as soon as James arrived at Blackshore.
If he didn’t come, she’d go to him.
But a short while later, just as pale gray light began to smudge the eastern horizon, sounds came to her from the loch shore, waking her again.
Someone was moving across the shingled strand, the crunch of stone unmistakable in the predawn stillness.
Careful not to disturb Birkie, Catriona slipped off the bench and peered out the window, her heart filling to see a small party of men just coming into view on the far side of the loch, near to the beached galleys.
James was coming at last.
And she couldn’t wait to see him.
A short while later, though it may have been an hour, possibly two, James paced up and down Alasdair’s lovely painted solar at Blackshore and wondered why he hadn’t sent someone else to return Catriona’s amber necklace.
The knocks and slams he’d taken in the battle had surely had a more lasting effect on him than he’d realized, for they’d addled his wits.
And here, in Alasdair’s sumptuous solar—the well-appointed room was pleasingly warm with a crackling fire burning in the hearth—whatever might’ve remained of his good sense had flown out the window.
Catriona was to blame.
She had yet to show herself, and he knew she’d seen him arrive.
She’d waited for him on the little boat strand near Blackshore’s postern gate where, so many weeks before, they’d exchanged such heated words. She’d stood at the water’s edge, clutching both hands to her breast as she’d watched his approach, her heart in her eyes.
At least he’d thought so.
But he’d lost sight of her when he neared the curving wall of Blackshore’s gatehouse. And it was then that her amber necklace started to pulse and burn, scorching his hip even through the leather of his belt pouch and the thick wool of his plaid.
Or so it
’d seemed.
He’d credited the strangeness to his own nerves, for it wasn’t every day he rode to an enemy keep to bare his heart before a female who might well slap his face for the effort. If her brother didn’t first have him hauled from the castle and thrown onto his presumptuous arse.
Yet Alasdair had greeted him as courteously as ever, ushering him, as before, into his fit-for-a-king solar and ordering a fine repast of belly-filling victuals and jugs of good morning ale.
Only Catriona seemed determined to grind his nerves.
It wouldn’t surprise him if she’d secreted herself in some hidey-hole in the thickness of the walling and now peered through a squint, watching him pace and fume.
And fume he did, for he wasn’t a patient man.
But he was a prudent one—most times, anyway—and he wasn’t going to shock Alasdair by professing his desire to wed Catriona until he’d seen her face-to-face. Only then could he assure himself that she’d greet such a union.
So he held his tongue and bided his time, content—or trying to be—that he’d had other important tidings to share with her brother.
Alasdair turned back to him then, dusting his hands, for he’d just thrown another log on the fire. “You’re certain about this?” His face didn’t show a muscle twitch of doubt, but his words were insulting. “I didn’t see any MacNaughtons watching the battle.”
“Then I vow you weren’t looking in their direction.” James stopped pacing to stand before the brightly painted mural of the sea god, Manannan Mac Lir, flying across the foam in Wave Sweeper, the blue-robed deity’s self-sailing boat.
He glanced at Manannan’s flowing beard, half wondering if he’d sprout such long whiskers before Alasdair believed what James had told him.
“They were there.” James spoke as patiently as he could. “They stood near the royal loge one moment, and”—he lifted a hand, snapping his fingers—“they were gone the next. Vanished, as if I’d imagined them.”
“Perhaps you did?” Alasdair looked at him, his reasonable tone more than irksome.
“I’ll own that’s possible, given the day.” The admission cost James. “Men do see strange things on a field of battle. But”—he started pacing again, careful not to stride too near the table where Catriona’s necklace lay in a shaft of pale morning sunlight—“even if I only thought I saw the buggers at the field, their missing plaids bode ill.
“I ne’er thought I’d defend a MacNaughton, but I’m leaning toward taking their chief on his word.” James rubbed the back of his neck as he circled the room. “He swears none of his men were at the battle. He told my cousin six of their plaids had gone missing.”
Alasdair frowned. “Your cousin believed him?”
“He did.”
“Mundy MacNaughton is a known weasel.” Alasdair poured himself a cup of morning ale, his calm grating. “He bends the truth every which way. I’d sooner have heard your own opinion of his words than—”
“I sent Colin to question Mundy, because even when the lies reek worse than a week-old barrel of fish, Colin can find the truth better than any.”
“Your cousin strikes me as a man too intent on his pleasures to spend time pressing truths from a wriggly scoundrel like Mundy.”
Alasdair took a swig of his ale. “Belike Colin spent more time tumbling MacNaughton’s serving wenches than badgering Mundy.”
For the first time since arriving at Blackshore, James felt a grin tug at his lips. “He enjoyed three of the lasses, aye. And each one sang the same tale as Mundy, claiming a creel of soiled plaids disappeared from right beside the wash kettles. The maids were laundresses and would know. Colin has a way with women, so I’m sure they told him true.”
“H’mmm…” Alasdair set down his ale cup. “You think the missing plaids have something to do with the tall, dark-cloaked man we’ve all seen?”
“I do.” James was sure of it. “When I saw the MacNaughtons at the battle, I wondered if they’d come to gloat at us. Later, it struck me that they might’ve sent one of their men among us to stir trouble. Poking holes in your galleys and shooting arrows at Kendrew Mackintosh. Because—”
“If we’d let ourselves be riled and caused more dissent, Sir Walter would have his grounds to urge the King to cancel the trial by combat and ship us all to the Isle of Lewis.” Alasdair nodded grimly, speaking James’s mind.
“So I thought, aye.” James shot a glance at Catriona’s ambers, her absence making him edgy. “I wondered if Sir Walter might’ve offered Mundy coin, bribing him to do his dirty work so Walter and his henchmen appeared blameless.”
“And now?” Alasdair frowned again, blackly this time.
“Now…” James glanced at the door, willing Catriona’s footsteps. “I cannae say. But I no longer think Mundy had a hand in any of it. No’ after hearing about the six stolen plaids.”
“The laundresses could’ve misplaced them.” Alasdair’s reason made James’ head hurt.
“I considered that.” James’ hadn’t, but he’d not have Alasdair think him less astute. “Until”—he looked at Alasdair directly—“I discovered several of my own spare plaids had also vanished.”
Alasdair’s brows lifted. “God’s eyes! Someone must want to use the plaids as a guise.”
“That could be the way of it.” The thought chilled James to the marrow. “It’s the reason I waited until now to return Catriona’s necklace. Colin came back from Mundy’s keep only late last night. I wanted to hear Colin’s account of his meeting with Mundy before I rode to speak with you.”
He kept silent about his other reasons.
But his heart did leap when the sound of light footsteps and a faint scratching noise came from behind the solar’s closed door.
“Ahhh…” Alasdair glanced at him. “My long-sleeping sister has risen.”
James didn’t tell him he’d already seen her, beaming at him from the boat strand.
He did swallow hard, his mouth suddenly ash dry.
When the door swung open, he’d drop to one knee, making his plea before his damty nerves left him. He’d practiced his reasons—a strengthening of the greater good in the glen, a demonstration that the King’s peace would be held, an end to long years of feuding—every mile of the way between Castle Haven and Blackshore.
It was a good, sound speech.
And now he couldn’t recall a single word.
But he would tell Catriona he wanted her, even that he loved her, if it would help his cause. The saints knew he did love her, and badly. He knew he had to have her. He’d never again have any peace if he didn’t. And making her his own was worth more than his pride.
Alasdair could laugh at him if he wished.
James would have her, and nothing else mattered to him.
Then the door opened a crack and Maili poked her dark head into the room, her bright smile fading when her gaze lit on James and Alasdair.
James stared at her, disappointment flooding him, hitting him like a steel-soled boot to the ribs.
“Where’s my lady?” Maili looked to Alasdair, her pretty brow furrowed. “I came to see how things”—her gaze flickered to James—“were going?”
“She isn’t abed?” Alasdair took a step toward the laundress.
Maili shook her head, her dark curls bouncing. “She left her room before sunrise. She saw you”—she glanced quickly at James—“riding in with your men and said she wanted to greet you at the gate.”
James’ heart stopped, all the blood draining from him. “I didn’t ride in with an escort.” He looked at Alasdair, seeing he’d blanched, too. “I came alone.”
“But we saw you.” Maili clapped a hand to her cheek. “I was sleeping, and my lady woke me. We watched you ride out onto the far shore, about six men. Then I helped Catriona dress and she hurried below stairs.
“I thought she’d be here.” She looked from James to Alasdair, then back at James. “She’d been waiting so long for you to come.”
And now she was gone.
“Damnation!” James flashed a look at Alasdair and then hurried from the room, unsheathing his sword as he ran. “She was outside the postern gate when I crossed the causeway,” he called over his shoulder, knowing Alasdair was hard on his heels. “If she’s no’ there now…”
He didn’t finish the sentence.
It was too horrible.
And when he and Alasdair raced through the great hall, then pounded across the bailey to the wooden door in the walling that was the postern gate, all the dread in the world descended on him when Alasdair flung the door wide and they burst out onto the empty boat strand.
Catriona wasn’t there.
Chapter Twenty
Spineless curs!”
Catriona glared at her captors, six of the most savage, rough-looking men she’d ever seen. Filthy, shaggy-haired, and with wild, unkempt beards, they stank of soured ale. And her disdain only earned their wrath as they scowled back at her, though several leered. The one who’d ran at her on Blackshore’s boat strand, throwing a cloak over her head before he’d pushed her into one of Alasdair’s smaller boats, gave her a forceful shove that sent her reeling backward onto the cold, peaty ground.
“You’re a worm, not a man.” She pinned him with a stare, knowing that was true.
In the boat, he’d stuffed a wad of rank cloth into her mouth. And after they’d rowed to the loch’s far shore, he’d bound her wrists behind her back before rudely yanking her from the boat and hurrying her along the strand to where one of their men waited with horses behind a cluster of thorn trees. She’d had a brief moment of mercy when he’d swung himself into his saddle, but then he’d grunted for one of the other men to hurl her across his lap.
He’d held her clamped facedown across his thighs, gripping her so fiercely against him that she was sure her ribs were bruised.
She knew her dignity was—not that she’d show it.
Letting her eyes blaze, she recalled one of Alasdair’s favorite slurs. “You’re goat droppings, all of you. Though I vow your stink is worse!”
“Call us what you will.” The man leaned close, crowding her against a large, lichen-speckled boulder. “While you still have a tongue in your head to use.”
Sins of a Highland Devil Page 29
