by Barbara Bard
“What the blazes does he want?” Henry grumbled. “I have never liked that wretch. Even if Henry found his company and his friendship enjoyable.”
“I suppose you must talk to him to find out,” Sir Alban replied, his tone dry.
Henry glanced at him sidelong. “Do not push me, Alban. I am not in the mood.”
“Of course not, Your Grace. Forgive me.”
To the servant, Henry snapped, “Send him along to my library and serve him whatever he wants. I suppose his rank entitles him to that much. I will be along shortly.”
“At once, Your Grace.”
After bowing, the servant hurried out. Henry watched him depart, cursing under his breath. “What do you think he wants, Alban?”
“While I do not know the man save by reputation,” the knight replied as they continued on, walking slowly. “That is not to the good. It is said he is hardly one step above being a cutthroat himself, and stays ahead of the headsman by sheer luck.”
“I have heard similar things,” Henry admitted. “That may be why I dislike him so, but the very sight of him makes me wish he would crawl into the hole in the ground he came out of and stay there.”
“That makes his friendship with your son even more puzzling.”
“I know. But Henry was fond of him.”
It took them a long time to reach the castle’s library, and Henry arrived feeling exhausted and grumpy. “Only out of honor for his rank did I agree to this,” he complained. “I should have made him meet me where I was.”
“No matter his reputation, Your Grace,” Sir Alban said. “He is a powerful Earl. You are doing right by seeing him here.”
In front of the closed door to the library, Henry breathed deep, willing some of his weariness from him. Sir Alban withdrew his arm, and stood by, waiting until Henry felt ready to walk inside under his own power. At last, the Duke nodded. Sir Alban swung the door open.
With feigned strength, Henry strode inside, and found Gilbert, the Earl of Hargrove, standing by the shelves and perusing a book. The Earl closed it as Henry and Sir Alban entered, then bowed to Henry’s greater rank.
“Your Grace,” he said, “thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”
Henry gestured toward the chairs. “Please. Let us sit and talk like gentlemen.”
Seating himself as Hargrove did the same, Henry glanced at Sir Alban. “Will you pour for us, my friend?”
Bowing slightly, the knight went to the nearby table and poured wine into cups, Gilbert of Hargrove watching him. Henry knew what his first request would be. “Might we speak alone, Your Grace?” Hargrove asked, accepting the cup from Sir Alban.
“Sir Alban is my advisor as well as friend and companion,” Henry replied, drinking the sweet red from his cup. “He will remain.”
“Very well.” Hargrove also drank.
Henry observed half healed bruising and swelling on Hargrove’s face, the crusty remains of a split lip. “You have been fighting, Hargrove?”
The stocky Earl nodded. “With Ranulf Thorburn. I was trying to rescue Lady Catrin from his clutches.”
Henry sucked in his breath. “Tell me what happened.”
“Near the border,” Hargrove said, sipping his wine as he spoke, “I came across Ranulf and a band of about fifteen clansmen riding north. They set upon me and killed two of my men. Lady Catrin was with them.”
“Was she hurt? Did that bastard hurt her?”
“Not that I saw,” Hargrove said. “She looked weary, and had her hands tied, but appeared in good health.”
Henry breathed deeply in relief. “That is good. What else?”
“I warned him that by kidnapping her, he could start a war,” the Earl went on. “Naturally, he laughed at me. He knocked me out cold and crossed the border. I followed the next day, believing Lady Catrin’s life to be in danger, and watched his castle. I hoped to bring her home to you, Your Grace. After all, her brother was my good friend.”
“But you did not find her.” Henry tried to still his bitter disappointment. “So, you returned to England?”
Hargrove smiled, shaking his head. “Not exactly. Lady Catrin found a way to escape. She was in our hands, Your Grace. But Thorburn chased after her with too many men.”
“Dammit!”
“I agree, Your Grace.” Hargrove sipped from his cup, watching Henry over the rim of his cup. “She saved my life.”
“Oh?” Henry’s brows lifted. “If she escaped, and saved your life even as you were caught, then he had not harmed her. All this time I feared he busied himself torturing her.”
“No,” Hargrove replied. “She is in good health. She promised Thorburn she would not try to escape if he let me live.”
Chuckling, Henry nodded, drinking his wine. “Now that is my Catrin. Always putting others first.”
“She is a fine girl,” Hargrove said, smiling a little. “Which brings me to another reason to pay a call on you, Your Grace.”
“So, you did not come just to tell me my daughter is well, despite being a hostage?”
“That and a request.”
Suspicious, Henry schooled his features into something pleasant, and graciously gestured for Hargrove to continue. “Then ask.”
“I will bring Lady Catrin out of Scotland,” Hargrove said, leaning forward slightly, his eyes intent. “If you agree to our betrothal.”
Henry drank from his cup, giving himself a moment to think. “That is an interesting proposal, Hargrove.”
“By bringing her home to you,” the Earl went on. “I thus prove my worthiness of her hand in marriage.”
“And inherit my wealth and titles once I am gone.”
Hargrove made a yea-nay gesture. “That is the law of our realm.”
“Hmmm, yes.”
Tapping his fingers on his cup, Henry studied the Earl. “I must think on this, Hargrove,” he said at last. “Catrin is all that remains to me now, and her hand in marriage is not something to be taken lightly.”
“Nor is her life. Should you cross into Scotland with your men at arms, the King Robert can view the invasion as tantamount to war. King Edward would have no choice but to respond.”
“Just as you are an English subject, Hargrove,” Henry replied, “your presence can trigger the same.”
“I will go in with only a handful of men.”
Henry snorted. “Against Thorburn’s hundreds? You are mad.”
Gilbert of Hargrove offered Henry a curled lip and a nasty smile. “I will succeed, Your Grace, and bring you your daughter. And Thorburn’s head.”
Chapter 13
With Ranulf now healing rapidly, Catrin returned to her own chambers to sleep. With her oath to not try to escape, she was given the freedom to ride out on the moors on a daily basis, and often did so. As frequently as she rode her own grey gelding, she also rode the chestnut stallion. Of course, a band of Ranulf’s clansmen followed to guard her, nor with outlaws about did she make any objections.
After a week had passed since the attack, Catrin rode into the bailey to find Ranulf practicing his swordsmanship. Reining in to watch, she sat in the saddle as he, shirtless and sweating, swung his heavy two-handed weapon against one of his clansmen. She knew by his movements he was hardly ready to be fighting, as his strokes were slow and evidently painful.
Catching a glimpse of her, Ranulf signaled a halt to his opponent. Breathing hard, he leaned on his sword and grinned at Catrin as she walked the chestnut over to him. “Do not stop on my account,” she said.
“Need a breather,” he replied, using his free hand to wipe sweat from his eyes.
“Should you be working like that?” She asked, eyeing the not fully healed wound on his bare shoulder.
“I must exercise it, lass,” he said, flexing his left arm. “Else it grow weak and be useless when I need it.”
“I suppose you might be right about that.”
Catrin eyed his bare chest and shoulders, feeling a faint trill of lust course through her. She seld
om had opportunities to see men in a state of near undress, and Ranulf’s body filled her sight. His muscles rippled when he moved, and the scars crisscrossing his chest and belly hardly dented his attractiveness. His leather trousers slung low over his narrow hips, with the belt holding his blade’s sheath preventing them from sliding down into full nakedness.
Trying to conceal her admiration for him, Catrin shunted her eyes away, yet not fast enough to not witness his knowing grin. “How is your father?” she asked. “I have not been in to see him of late.”
Ranulf grimaced, rubbing his injured shoulder. “The same, lass. Still believes me brother away on a voyage. Cannae accept his death.”
“I still find it hard to believe Henry is gone.”
“Aye, grief dae linger.”
Stepping closer, Ranulf held out his hand to help her down from the stallion’s saddle. A groom seized his bridle and led him away to the stables as Ranulf, keeping his hand in hers, walked with her across the bailey. “Wi’ ye nae watch me sword play a while?”
“Why not?”
Catrin permitted him to seize her about her slender waist and lift her up to sit on a low stone wall. “But should you open your wound again, you can sew it closed again.”
Grinning, Ranulf tossed her a mocking bow, and gestured for his opponent to renew their sparring. Though Catrin was no expert on swordsmanship, she recognized the master in Ranulf just the same. Despite his handicap, his movements were fluid and graceful, like a dancer, and his clansman could not get past his guard. It also seemed clear he pushed himself harder than earlier – most probably because of her presence.
He disarmed the man by catching his hilt’s cross piece, and twisting his arm sharply, and Catrin watched the sword fly several feet away to land, with a ringing clang, to the stone cobbles. Ranulf, grinning and panting, called the match off. “I do thank ye for nae lettin’ me win, Neal. ‘Twas a fair fight.”
Saluting, just as exhausted as his laird, Neal went to pick up his blade. “Ye be the best, Ranulf, and that do be a fact.”
Catrin smiled and applauded. “Nicely done, Ranulf,” she said as he sheathed his sword and walked toward her. “I am no judge, but to defeat a man when you are still healing is incredible.”
“Tch, lass,” he said, accepting a damp cloth from a servant and wiping his face and chest with it. “I practice me sword fightin’ the way you practice yer archery.”
“Which,” she said, pert, “I will start practicing again now that I am no longer your nursemaid.”
Ranulf came closer, edging into her personal space, his hazel-green eyes gazing into hers. “I wi’ watch yer shootin’ with enjoyment.”
Perhaps because he was half naked and sweaty, Catrin let him stand with his hips pressing against her knees. That strange lustful tingling returned, spreading into her lower belly, lighting feelings she had never encountered before. Uncertain of herself, she tried not to let it show as she met his eyes squarely.
“I suppose since you let me watch you,” she said, tilting her nose upward, “I will consent to let you watch me.”
He laughed low in his throat, his face and upper body leaning in toward her. Resting his hands against the low wall upon which she sat, his face came within an inch of hers. “Jist try to stop me, beautiful archer.”
Before she could draw away, Ranulf kissed her full on the mouth. Caught between surprise and pleasure, Catrin froze, unable to decide or understand what to do. She had never been kissed before, and discovered it made the tingling in her lower body flare up into fire. His lips moved over hers, his tongue penetrating her mouth. It shocked her, forcing her to pull back.
She gazed into his eyes, wide, his pupils enlarged, and discovered she liked what he did. But when laughter rang out across the bailey, the sound broke the spell. Humiliation filled her, blocking the pleasant tingling sensations. Lifting her hand, Catrin slapped him hard across the cheek.
Ranulf merely grinned and rubbed his face, as though having expected to be smacked for his boldness. “Ach, ye break me heart, lass,” he said. “I knew ye liked it.”
“You embarrassed me,” she snapped, her voice low and forceful. “You intended to make me a laughingstock of your clansmen.”
Ranulf’s grin faded. “Nay, I wid ne’er dae that. I kissed ye coz ye be a lovely lass and I like ye.”
“Then why did your men laugh?”
Shunting her eyes around the bailey, her face flaming hotter than his from her slap, Catrin searched for the source of the amusement. She saw no one staring in their direction and laughing nor grinning, nor pointing toward her as the butt of a joke. In fact, it appeared no one paid them any heed at all. People went about their business as they always did, as work did not cease just because their laird was present.
Straightening, Ranulf also gazed around. “I dinnae, Catrin,” he said, his voice earnest. “I cannae think me men wid laugh at ye. They like ye, respect ye.”
Hopping down from the wall, Catrin folded her arms over her bosom, unable to meet his eyes. “You still should not have kissed me like that.”
“Why nae? As I said, I like ye, I find ye beautiful. I wanted tae kiss ye so I did. Noo ye cannae say ye dinnae like it, as I ken ye did.”
“That does not matter.” Staring at the cobbles beneath her feet, Catrin felt foolish, utterly stupid, for having overreacted to something as simple as a kiss. Nor could she look him in the eye and tell him, no, she did not like him kissing her. Yet, her body remembered how it did indeed like his mouth on hers.
His finger under her chin lifted her face up to his. Tenderly, as though he planned to rest his lips on a butterfly, Ranulf kissed her again. This time, knowing a little more about what to expect, she was neither startled nor shocked. Her body responded without her permission, her mouth opening under his before she could order it not to.
The sweet sparking ache spread from her loins to her belly. Catrin leaned into him, into his mouth, breathing in the odor of his sweat, his masculine smell. He did not probe her mouth with his tongue, but released her before she wanted the kiss to end. Opening her eyes, she stared into his, those hazel-green depths filled with an emotion she could put no name to.
“See?” he husked. “Nae laughin’ at ye.”
Bending to her again, he kissed the tip of her nose and each cheek. “I dae like ye, Catrin,” he breathed.
Unable to halt the silly smile that crossed her face, Catrin ducked her face away from his finger. “As much as I hate to admit it,” she murmured. “I like you, too.”
“Guid. I hate tae like a lass who wishes tae plant a knife between me ribs.”
That broke Catrin into laughter. “I think that moment passed.”
Ranulf chuckled as he rubbed his nose against hers. “Come, Me Lady. I must clean meself. I dae stink like a wet mongrel.”
He took her hand in his as he walked across the bailey toward the castle proper, taking her with him. “I do not know,” she said. “Sweat on a hardworking man is natural, not truly stinky. But a sweaty man who never washes, well, that is nasty.”
“I wi’ try to ne’er offend yer sensibilities.”
“Please do. They are so very particular.”
Ranulf laughed. “I dae like yer quick wit.”
“Good. It is nice when a man likes a woman for more than a body to bear his children.”
“Aye. Many a man cannae truly appreciate the delights a woman can bring.” He winked at her. “Ootside dae bedroom.”
Catrin smirked up into his face. “They seldom realize a woman can have a good mind as well as a nice body.”
“And ye dae hae both, me sweet lass.”
“I suppose the reverse can also be true,” Catrin said, thoughtful. “A woman can, or perhaps, should, appreciate a man who has wisdom as well as courage. Of course, she wants her man to take care of her and her children, be a good provider, and protect her from enemies. But I think, were I in a position to choose, I would choose a man with brains as well as brawn.”
/> “Pity,” he mused. “Tae often neither the man nor the women get tae make a choice in their forever mates.”
“I know. Women are chattel, to be bought and sold like a sheep.”
“Dinnae ferget, lass, men cannae always make their own choices in the world.”
“The world is not always fair, is it?”
“Nay, lass. But it be the only one we got.”
Passing a servant, Ranulf stopped him and gave orders for a hot bath to be prepared in his private chambers. After the man ran off to obey him, he rubbed his half-healed arm and winced. “Me thinks me did overdo it. This pains me like a bastard.”
