by Blair, Willa
Her heart leapt. He couldn’t avoid her here. As he drew within a pace of her hiding place, she stepped out into his path.
“Who…!” His soft exclamation was accompanied by the movement of his hand clutching at his side, as if reaching for the sword or dirk he had worn there his entire adult life.
But of course, as he was not an honored guest of the bishop of St. Andrews at the feast, he was not permitted a weapon. How naked he must feel! “Kenneth, ’tis I,” Catherine whispered.
“Ach, Cat,” he breathed her name, then took her arm and dragged her roughly behind the column. “I can see that, ye daft lass.” He stood for a moment, his gaze fierce as he searched her face. Then he released her as if touching her hurt him.
No more than it hurt her. She was sure his grip would leave marks.
“What are ye doing here, Cat?” He lifted a finger toward her cheek, then dropped it, his expression wistful. Then it hardened. “Ye canna be seen with me!”
“Why no’?” Cat glanced at the finger he’d nearly used to stroke her cheek. He wanted to touch her, and she wanted his touch. She breathed in his scent. He was as potent a temptation as he’d ever been, despite their time apart. She put a hand on his arm, hoping to encourage him. “What happened to ye? Why are ye here, and what kind of trouble are ye in?” Her arm no longer hurt, but she burned with the heat of his hand where he’d touched her. She wanted more. His hands holding her face. His arms around her. His lips on hers.
“I’m no’ in trouble…”
“Ye canna deny it, Kenneth. Let me help.”
He shook his head and cast wary glances past her, then quickly behind him. He picked her hand from his arm, but held it, warm in his callused grip. “Get ye back inside. I mean it—ye canna be seen with me, or even to be gone from the feast at the same time.” Then he released her hand and ran his through his hair. “God’s teeth, lass, ye dinna ken what ye risk.” He took her arm again and turned her around, then gave her a gentle shove. “Go. Tell Iain I am here.”
She spun back, not willing to give up so easily. His last words lodged her heart in her throat. His clan did not know where he was? He was in trouble and alone. She had to know. Had to do something. “Kenneth!” She reached out to him again, but he stepped back. “When can we talk? If no’ now, when?”
He shook his head, a grimace tensing the muscles of his face. “Perhaps never….nay, lass, dinna cry out.” With a groan, he pulled her into his arms.
Catherine’s knees went weak. Here is where she belonged. With her cheek resting on Kenneth’s shoulder, his heartbeat under her palm. All too soon, he let her go. Catherine wanted to step back into his embrace, to breathe in the scent of him, and press her lips to his mouth.
But he read the intention in her eyes and shook his head. “If I can, I will find ye. I hope someday to be able to explain. But no’ if ye are seen with me. It will mean yer freedom.” Footsteps echoed in the far cross-corridor. “Now go!”
Kenneth faded into the hiding place Catherine had recently left. She spun and hurried back to the doorway she’d left from, heart pounding. What did he mean, it would mean her freedom? Had he said that to frighten her? Pausing on the threshold, she glanced back, but saw only a servant coming up the hall. Kenneth had disappeared as completely as if he was made of the shadows where he hid.
She gulped a deep breath, smoothed her skirts, and forced her expression into one of nonchalance before she reentered the room. A full ten minutes later, out of the corner of her eye, she saw him finally reappear, lean forward to whisper something in the priest’s ear, and then take his place standing behind the man, never glancing her way. As much as she wanted to drink in the sight of him, she kept her gaze averted and her attention on the conversations taking place near her. She still wanted him, even more than she had two years ago. And his words proved he still cared for her.
Kenneth had promised he would explain someday—if he could. And the Kenneth Brodie she knew, or at least the lad she used to know, kept his promises.
* * *
The next morning, Catherine woke early to Abi knocking on her door, then entering.
“Get dressed. I’m going to the harbor, and you’re coming with me.”
Catherine waved her away. She had slept poorly, her dreams filled with the sensation of Kenneth’s hand on her arm, his palms pressing into her shoulders as he pushed her away from the cage that held him. Then in her dream, she’d freed him somehow, and Kenneth caught her arms and pulled her back against the hard, hot length of his body. Vowing he would never let her go, his hands traced her neck and smoothed over her breasts to wrap around her waist, imprisoning her against the evidence of his desire for her. In her dream, he was even longer and thicker than he’d been as a lad, branding the small of her back with his need. While his lips burned a path from her shoulder along her throat, she turned her head and her lips met his kiss.
She’d rather stay in bed, reliving her dreams, but Abi was insistent, opening the shutters so early sunlight spilled across her face. She winced and sat up. Abi would not leave her in peace. She might as well give in and go with her. Perhaps at the harbor she could find a way to get word to Iain.
She missed the Kenneth she once loved, younger and infatuated with her. Not the Kenneth she’d met in the castle’s hallway, pulling her to him one minute and gruffly determined to push her away from him the next. If she could only bring the lad she’d loved back to life. But that looked less likely in the harsh light of morning than ever it had while she waited and longed for Kenneth’s return. He was in some kind of trouble, and determined to keep her out of it. A future with him was an old dream. A hopeless one, too. She should forget him—if she could—which was not likely, not especially if he needed help.
Soon thereafter, dressed and still yawning, she made her way with Abi past the cathedral and down the hill to the St. Andrews harbor.
Catherine was always amazed at the activity there. Nothing she was used to in the Highlands compared to it. Even Abi seemed surprised at just how busy and crowded the quay was this morning. They passed knots of sailors at work preparing to go out or just coming in from fishing overnight. Other men appeared to loiter, their hands on the hilts of their weapons, more blades visible tucked into boots or belts. What business did they pursue that required them to be so heavily armed?
She kept an eye on the men as she and Abi made their way along the quay. They were here on a simple errand, to buy fish for the evening meal, not to get into trouble. Abi had one boat in mind, a sailor she’d dealt with before whose catch was always fresh.
“He doesn’t hold over…” Abi said, then paused long enough for them to dodge a wagon loaded with casks of ale, “to the next day fish he couldn’t sell, as some fishmongers do. Ye must have a care when buying from some of these boats, or up in the market square, but Henke is trustworthy and his price is fair.”
How much simpler at home in the Highlands to catch whatever they needed, from a burn or from the firth. Here, one had to go to the port to buy many things, including fish for supper.
As Abi haggled with Henke, Catherine let her gaze rove over the boats tied up nearby. One interested her—a birlinn belonging to a clan she knew—Murray. Could Kenneth find a way to get to the port before that ship sailed? If he knew it was here, he might find a way. But how could she get the word to him? She’d hoped to find him at the port today, with or without an escort, but there was no sign of him.
She left Abi to her negotiation and wandered closer to the birlinn. She didn’t see any movement on board, so she went closer and finally stopped at the plank used to board it. At first, she thought no one was about. How could she ask when they planned to sail if they’d left no one aboard? Just as she was about to give up and turn back to Abi, she heard a loud snort followed by a grumble and then soft snoring. The sound gave away the man sleeping on a pile of nets on the side away from the dock. He’d sunk into them far enough to make him difficult to see.
“Good morrow,”
she called to him, but got no response. “I said, good morrow to ye,” she repeated, louder this time. “Can ye no’ hear me?”
Another snort and grumble gave her hope.
She put one foot on the plank. It rocked a bit, side to side, as it flexed under her weight. Dare she try to go aboard? What if she fell into the water? Or what if the man objected to her presence on board and threw her into the harbor?
Oh, for God’s sake, she could swim. And she needed to know how long they would be here.
For Kenneth’s sake.
“Are ye awake, then?” she continued. Just as she took the first hesitant step onto the plank, the man snorted and sat up, rubbing his face with more vigor than she thought he’d possess.
“I am now, damn ye, lass.” He turned and saw her on the plank. “What do ye think ye are doing? Get ye back on the dock.”
“I’m trying to discover how long ye will be here. When do ye sail?”
“What does it matter to a lass such as ye? Ye canna travel alone…”
“I ask for a friend,” she interjected. “One who desires to return home to the Highlands. There’s trouble…”
“Here? Aye. There, too. No sense going anywhere to avoid it—trouble will follow.” He put his hands on his knees and pushed to his feet, then crossed the deck to stand by the plank. “What did yer friend do?”
“Do? Why, naught.”
“Naught, eh? What clan?”
“Brodie.”
“I ken it. Murray has no feud with Brodie.”
“Exactly. So ye could take him. He kens his way around a craft such as this so he could work for his passage. When do ye sail?”
“’Tis up to Malcolm, no’ me, whether to take on more crew—and when to sail.”
Catherine clenched a fist and glanced aside. Abi was still talking to the man, Henke, so she turned back to the Murray sailor. “Where do I find Malcolm?”
“Nowhere a lass like ye should be found, and that’s a fact.”
Catherine huffed out a breath, fighting the sudden urge to stomp a foot. “Will he be back soon?” She could give the captain Kenneth’s message to Iain. She didn’t trust this rough sailor would recall it. He was either half asleep or still drunk enough to be unreliable in her eyes.
The Murray glanced at the sun, then around the dock. “As early as ye roused me, I misdoubt it. Likely he and a lass will be busy for hours yet.”
“I’ll come back.”
“Or ye could stay. Since ye woke me. ’Twould be the…friendly…thing to do.”
“Ach, nay…I have to go.”
“I’d be more inclined to argue for Malcolm to help yer Brodie…”
Catherine shook her head and stepped away. “I’ll come back and ask him myself.”
The man’s laughter followed her back to Abi, who finished her transaction and turned to Catherine with an expectant smile—and a fish.
“Ready to go?”
Catherine glanced over her shoulder at the Murray birlinn. The man stood at the plank, hands on his hips, grinning. She was a fool to think about returning, but for Kenneth’s sake, she must. “Aye, let’s go.” For now.
* * *
The next morning, Catherine stared at the empty spot on the quay, bitter disappointment filling her. The Murray birlinn was gone. Abi’s father had been ill, so she hadn’t been able to recruit Abi to leave him and go back to the harbor with her the previous afternoon. She had even searched the market square for a familiar face, such as Cameron Sutherland, who might accompany her, but to no avail. She had considered but hadn’t been foolish enough to go on her own. Except for early in the morning when the fresh catch came in and other vendors opened their stalls, the harbor was no place for a respectable woman alone.
If only she’d been able to talk to Malcolm Murray, they might have delayed until she could get word to Kenneth and he could find his way to them. Or at least they could have carried Kenneth’s message to Iain. She consoled herself with the expectation there would soon be more Highland ships in port, and more chances to sail for home.
She’d been brave enough to speak to the crewman on the Murray birlinn. She could do it again. Another boat. Another crew. Another chance.
Abi finished the errand that had brought them to the harbor, and they walked back up the hill toward the cathedral.
“Colin is speaking to Father Phillippe today. We want to elope tomorrow,” Abi confided leaning close to Catherine and lowering her voice. “No’ in there,” she added with a nod at the massive cathedral, “but in the small chapel, I think.”
“You’ve made the arrangements at last? Where ye will live? What ye will do?”
“Aye. We cannot wait any longer,” Abi answered, with no response for the practicalities.
She giggled and Catherine understood what they could not wait for. The marriage bed. “Ye havena yet…”
“Nay!” Abi laid a hand on her chest and shook her head. “’Twould be a sin.”
“Ah…but ye have…”
“Done much else, aye. I have seen…all of him. And touched him. As he has touched me. Oh, Catherine, ye canna imagine how good lying in a man’s arms can make ye feel.”
Catherine swallowed, unable to speak past the lump in her throat. In the throes of their infatuation, she and Kenneth had dared much the same, but left so much undone. And unsaid.
“Ah, but it can no’ be any man,” Abi continued, apparently oblivious to Catherine’s reaction. “It must be the right man. And Colin is the right man for me.” She paused, her wistful expression turning to a frown. “But my stepfather refuses to care how I feel. Why do fathers always think they ken better than their daughters? ’Tis my heart, after all. My body. My future.”
“Abi, wheesht,” Catherine interrupted her cousin’s growing tirade. If Abi raised her voice any further, her words would echo across the town. “It will work out. Just be patient.” Not that patience had worked out for her, or her sister Mary. She couldn’t believe she’d uttered those words to Abi.
Abi put a hand on her arm and stopped. “Will you stand with me?”
Catherine swallowed again and nodded. “Of course, I will,” she promised, though the thought of being part of a wedding made her ache for Kenneth.
Chapter 6
In the weeks since he’d arrived in St. Andrews, Kenneth had developed the habit of retreating to the castle’s library when he wasn’t training the college’s students in weaponry, or with Phillippe at a local pub. Heavenly rewards being somewhat in doubt for both of them, Phillippe saw their pub visits as an earthly reward for Kenneth’s efforts for the bishop. Kenneth avoided asking the obvious question—what had Phillippe done to earn the same earthly reward?
Kenneth kept his eyes and ears open. Pubs were full of news—and speculation. So far, he’d learned nothing useful. Nothing that told him which clans had aligned with Domnhall, or whether it was time to leave St. Andrews. Nothing that eased his conscience about putting Iain in a difficult position when he did go. Apparently Domnhall lingered at Dingwall, consolidating his hold on the castle and town. An implied threat, but not yet an active one.
At the moment, Kenneth was confined to this castle, so besides relieving his boredom, being in the library had the added benefit of allowing him to stay out of Father Anselmo’s sight. Kenneth was in no way afraid of hard work, but the Roman seemed to take unholy delight in assigning him the most mundane or onerous tasks. To Kenneth’s chagrin, other than his priestly responsibilities to the kirk and the bishop, most of Anselmo’s dutiful attention fell on him. And according to this priestly pain in his arse, Anselmo intended to ensure Kenneth would carry a newfound humility back to his clan when—or if—the time ever came for Kenneth to return to the Highlands. Anselmo was determined to school him well in his own brand of wisdom.
Humility. Bollocks.
When the library door opened, Kenneth groaned, expecting Anselmo or one of the junior priests Anselmo would have sent to look for him. Instead, the swish of skirts reached his
ears and he looked up in surprise.
Cat!
She held a finger to her lips, signaling for silence while she closed the heavy oaken door behind her and looked for a way to lock it.
It had no lock, or Kenneth would have locked it against Anselmo weeks ago. At the moment, he was ridiculously glad it had none.
Cat gave up and turned to face him, her back against the door. “I canna believe ’tis ye.”
Kenneth shook off the stupor that had seized him when the woman of his dreams came through the door. He laid aside the book he’d been reading. “What are ye doing here, Cat?”
“Right now? I made a delivery for my cousin Abi’s stepfather. The tailor. Then I came looking for ye. And I found ye.”
Her words propelled him to his feet, aghast. “Ye asked for me? After I warned ye no’ to be seen with me?”
She shook her head. “I’m no’ a dafty. I merely wandered about then recalled your fascination with Da’s library. Every castle should have one, aye? So I asked after it.” She crossed her arms. “Where have ye been, Kenneth?” She pushed away from the door and approached.
Kenneth fought the urge to meet her halfway, and lost. He’d been desperate to take her in his arms since holding her briefly in the hallway outside the St. John’s feast. As her scent reached him, warm and spicy, all Cat, he gave in, despite knowing that showing any sign of affection was the worst thing he could do to her—or himself. She was married. He let her get right up to him, where she had to lean her head back to gaze into his eyes, then sanity prevailed. He sat down and pulled the book close. “Reading, of course.” He waved a hand. “This is a library.”
Her crestfallen expression nearly swayed him from his purpose, but her safety was more important than how much he wanted her. “What are ye doing here? Is yer husband with ye?” He kept his tone neutral, as though his question was only meant to be polite conversation, not to give voice to the desires of a man who hadn’t seen her in much too long.
She colored.
