Chapter Twenty-One
Several hours after Nicholas left Catrin to her solitary slumber, she went in search of him. She slept after he left, and awakened in a more calm frame of mind. But she still felt too susceptible, too weak to think clearly. With rest, good food and time, she didn’t doubt she’d regain her usual spirits. Until then, she wished she could avoid Nicholas, but that wasn’t her way.
Nor was it possible while she remained at Ashby.
With Tildy’s help she dressed, each garment she donned another layer of armor to protect her from Nicholas—and from herself. Earlier she’d forgotten how to be strong.
Permitting herself to care about Nicholas, to grow close to him, had made her far too vulnerable. She needed to leave, now. If he didn’t arrange for her to go to l’Eau Clair, she’d take care of it herself, a course of action she’d rather avoid. Her impatience had gotten her into this situation in the first place.
After sending a servant to look for Nicholas, she settled into the hall in a chair near the fire. Some effort had been made to clean the chamber. While she couldn’t say the room met her standards, she could see an improvement.
She heard Nicholas’s footsteps as he crossed the large room, but she continued to stare into the fire until he sat down on a bench near her chair.
“So obedient, Catrin,” he said, his voice tinged with weariness. Turning, she saw how he slumped on the bench, his whisker-stubbled face exhausted. “I expected you to have run off by now.”
Shame broke over her like a wave. While she sulked in her chamber, concerned only with her worries and fears, evidently he had toiled like a slave. She could have helped him, if she hadn’t been behaving like a spoiled child.
She could help him now. She rose and poured a mug of ale from the pitcher on the table. “When did you last eat?” she asked, handing him the cup.
“This morning after I left you.” He drank down the ale in one long swallow, then held out the mug for more. “’Tis dusty work, shoveling out this midden.”
After refilling the mug, she went to the door leading out to the scullery. She gave orders for food to be brought, then returned to Nicholas.
“I never asked last night if you met with everyone after supper, as I told them you would.” She toyed with the stack of wooden trenchers on the table, unwilling to meet his eyes.
“We didn’t discuss that, did we? I think perhaps we were too busy.” She looked up at his teasing tone. The veil of weariness had lifted from his eyes, leaving them a beautiful dark violet A wry smile lifted one corner of his mouth and his expression taunted her, challenged her, dared her to come closer.
When he held out his hand, she couldn’t resist.
No sooner did she step closer than he stood and swept her into his arms. Lifting her until her feet left the floor and her eyes were level with his, he took her mouth in a demanding kiss.
By the time his lips abandoned hers they were both short of breath. “I’ve hungered for you all day,” he whispered. He slid her down his body, nudging her gently with the proof of his desire before her feet touched the floor. “But it seems I’ll be satisfying a different hunger for the moment,” he said with a nod toward the servant placing a tray of food on the table.
His attention on them instead of his task, the man bumped the pitcher of ale and set it wobbling. And she didn’t care for the smirk on his face.
Evidently Nicholas didn’t, either. “You’d do well to attend to your duties,” he snarled. He grabbed the pitcher before it could topple over. “And you’ll show respect to the lady, else you’ll be dredging out the garderobe pits.”
Face pale, the servant bowed low. “Aye, milord. Beg pardon, milady.” Snatching up the tray, he hurried back to the kitchen.
“Insolent knave,” Nicholas growled, pulling the bench up to the table. He met her gaze before he sat down. “I apologize for his discourtesy. They know little of manners here, but it won’t happen again, I promise you.”
Perhaps the servants knew now that she wasn’t his wife—and where he’d spent the night.
Or mayhap they simply had no idea how to comport themselves in a noble household.
Whatever the reason, she was grateful for his consideration. She nodded, then silently prepared a plate of food for him before joining him on the bench. “The fare is simple, but tasty.” She poured him more ale. “Tildy said they’ve depended upon the siege stores the last few months. Scarcely any land has been readied for crops.”
She let him eat, saving her questions until he pushed the remains of the meal away.
“In case you were wondering, Idris is in the stables,” he said, smiling. “He reduced the maids—and at least half the men—to hysterics in no time. I judged it best to keep him out of their sight for the moment. Of course, you may bring him to your chamber, if you wish.”
“He’ll be fine in the stables. Besides, we’ll be leaving for l’Eau Clair soon. No sense in upsetting your servants.”
Nicholas sent her a quizzical smile. “Leaving so soon?”
She frowned at his tone. “You know I must get to l’Eau Clair as soon as I can. And you have business with Llywelyn, do you not?” She pushed at her end of the bench, but Nicholas braced his feet and held the seat—and her—in place.
“Calm down. I vow I’ve never met a woman as easy to provoke as you.”
The look Catrin sent him would have brought most men to their knees, begging for mercy.
But not Nicholas. “Messengers went out to Gwal Draig and l’Eau Clair at first light.” He picked up her hand and toyed with her fingers. “Once you’ve had another day or so to rest, I’ll take you to your cousin. We’ll go well guarded, since we still don’t know who attacked you.”
“Whoever it was likely believes I’m dead. I’ll be perfectly safe,” she said, regarding it as the truth. “Surely you’ve more important duties to attend to. You needn’t escort me.”
“I cannot send you off without seeing to your safety myself. I’ll do what I can to set things right here before we leave, and I’ll return once my business with Llywelyn is complete. In truth, ’twill be a relief to stay here, instead of trailing along after the king. And I look forward to the challenge of rebuilding Ashby.”
“I’ll do what I can to direct the household servants, if you like.” The rest of what she planned to say flew out of her brain when he stroked his fingertip along the sensitive flesh of her wrist, sending a shiver of reaction down her spine. An intimate, knowing smile and the warm glow in his eyes were his only response.
“I can travel into Wales just as easily from there as here. ’Twill take no time at all, so long as I don’t encounter another damsel in distress.” He raised her hand to his lips and kissed her fingertips one by one. “Although there’s no one I’d rather rescue than you.”
She hadn’t objected to his affectionate display; in truth, she had no wish to stop him. He made her feel as if she were the focus of his attention, her opinions and her person valued and desired. It was easy to forget the realities of life, away from the rest of the world.
Would it be wrong to enjoy this, if only for a little while longer? The admiration in his eyes cast a powerful lure. Throwing caution to the wind, she made her decision.
For as long as it lasted, she would savor—cherish—his attentions. She felt like a rose, unfurling petal by petal.
Surely something so rare, so wonderful should be treasured.
She twined her fingers with his and pulled his hand toward her. Her gaze holding his, she drew his thumb into her mouth, gently biting it, then soothing his flesh with her tongue. His indrawn breath told her of his pleasure; abandoning his thumb, she moved on, slipping her tongue along the sensitive skin between his fingers.
Her attention focused on Nicholas, Catrin wasn’t aware anyone had approached them until his hand jerked. “What is it?” he asked, his voice hoarse. He clasped Catrin’s hand when she would have pulled it away.
She lowered her gaze, refusing to look a
t the man. Doubtless her desire for Nicholas was written on her face.
And right now, her face felt as hot as her blood.
“Beg pardon, milord, but you’re needed in the bailey,” the servant mumbled, bowing slightly. Some of the people here knew their place.
Perhaps there was hope for Ashby yet.
“I’ll be along directly,” he said, dismissing the man. Nicholas waited until the servant reached the door before he stood. “You have a powerful effect on me, love.” He cast a rueful glance at his body.
Her flush deepened when she followed his gaze. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be—I’m not.” He captured her chin in his hand, bent and brushed his lips across hers. “I’m only sorry we weren’t alone.”
He released her. “You should have Anna take a look at your back, then get some rest. If she says you’re well enough, we’ll leave for l’Eau Clair the day after tomorrow.” He grasped her about the waist and lifted her from the bench. “Likely I’ll be too busy to see you until we leave, so this will have to last us.” Clasping her tightly to his still-aroused body, Nicholas ravished her mouth with his. When he’d reduced her to mindless confusion, he set her back on the bench and hastened from the room.
Steffan clutched a goblet of unwatered wine in his hand and paced the confines of his private quarters. Plots and plans whirled through his brain, fueled by anger at remembered slights to form a roiling stew of rage.
He paused by the window, but the cessation of movement did nothing to halt the frantic activity in his head. Would he ever know quiet—peace—again? The buzz of disembodied voices gave him no respite. Even in sleep the confusing babble droned on, barely audible snippets of command and demand jostling to be heard.
What did he have to do to silence them? Slamming the goblet onto the stone window ledge, Steffan stared as the dregs of his wine flew up, spattering the wall and his hand. The liquid dripped slowly down his fingers, deep red and viscous, like blood.
A throbbing grew in the palm of his hand, beating in rhythm with the pounding in his head. He released the battered remains of the goblet from his grip, then turned his hand over and watched as blood crept with a dreamlike indolence from the cut across his palm to mingle with the wine.
Surprisingly it didn’t hurt, he noted, tilting his hand this way and that. How odd.
Hammering at the door drew his attention. “Come.”
Huw slipped into the room. “There’s a man here from Gwal Draig, milord. He says he’s got news about your cousin.”
A surge of excitement pulsed through Steffan’s body. “Catrin?”
Huw nodded.
“Send him in.”
He flopped into his favorite chair, sprawling there while he pondered what the information could be. His lips twisted in a smile.
Huw ushered the man in, then left them, closing the door behind him. “Your name?” Steffan asked, resting his elbows on the carved arms of the chair and steepling his fingers in front of his face.
“Owen, milord.” He snatched off his cap and crumpled it in his hands, bobbing his head in a belated show of respect. “I live in the village ’tween here and Gwal Draig.”
He scrutinized the man in a leisurely fashion, enjoying his obvious discomfort and waiting until the filthy, scrawny varlet began to shift his feet and squirm. “Huw said you’ve news of Lady Catrin.”
“I might know somethin’,” Owen said. “I heard ye’d pay well to learn what happened to her.”
“I’m sure something can be arranged,” he said with a languid wave of his hand. “Please, tell me what you heard.”
“A messenger rode into Gwal Draig yestereve, late. Came from someplace on the border called Ashby. The man told Lord Ian that his master had found Lady Catrin in the forest and brought her to his keep. Lord Ian and Lord Rannulf left for l’Eau Clair at first light, so that must be where she’s headed.”
Steffan leaned forward, the man standing before him fading away in the red-tinged mist of anger clouding his vision. “I knew it,” he muttered, pounding his fist on the arm of the chair. He stopped when blood seeped from between his fingers; no sense in getting bloodstains on the cushions. “I knew the bitch wasn’t dead.”
“What’s that, milord?”
“I wasn’t talking to you, fool,” he snarled. “Be silent. I need to think.”
Why did Ashby sound familiar? He couldn’t recall—
It didn’t matter. ’Twould come to him in time.
He never should have permitted Ralph to leave. The lying bastard had to have known Catrin still lived. And he’d had the gall to ask to be paid! Steffan complimented himself on having the sense to send the greedy son of a bitch away empty-handed.
But he shouldn’t have left Bryn Du at all, he thought, pounding his fist against the chair once more. To hell with the upholstery—
What did a few stains matter when all his plans had come to naught?
He struggled to separate his thoughts from the rising cacophony in his head. At least the crimson mists had cleared from his vision. His eyes darting about, he noticed the man Huw had brought in—Owen. Aye, that was his name. Owen still stood before him, looking ready to jump out of his skin, he noted with satisfaction.
“Huw,” he bellowed, knowing the soldier would be waiting just outside the door.
Huw stepped into the room. “Aye, milord?”
He gestured toward Owen. “Take him out and lock him in the cellars until I decide what to do with him.”
Owen immediately began to back away. “B-but you said you’d pay me, milord,” he sputtered. “I’ve done ye no harm—”
Huw grabbed Owen’s arms from behind. “Come along, now,” he said, nearly dragging the smaller man across the floor and hustling him out the door.
“Huw,” Steffan called after him, “come back after you tend to him. There are some things I want you to do.”
The moment the door closed behind Huw, Steffan bounded out of his chair and began to pace the confines of the chamber. He needed an outlet for his burst of energy, else his mind would race away from him.
He stopped in the middle of the room. He couldn’t think; he had to do something to clear his mind. Hands fisted and jaw clenched with frustration, Steffan tilted back his head and groaned.
His revenge could be so close now, if he made the right move. Returning to the chair, he made himself comfortable while he waited for Huw to return. They’d have to come up with a foolproof way to get Catrin. And this time he’d do it himself, so there’d be no mistakes.
He wanted Catrin, and this time he would have her. Listening to the thoughts rolling round his mind, Steffan began to shape his plan.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Nicholas glanced thankfully at the midday sun high overhead and brought his ragged troop to a halt near a stream along the boundary of l’Eau Clair lands. During his brief tenure as Gillian’s guardian last spring, he’d patrolled these woods often, seeking out the brigands who wreaked havoc on the outlying farms. Another league and they would reach the castle itself.
And none too soon. Catrin needed to rest.
Although she protested each time he asked if she wished to stop, he knew she kept going on willpower alone. And their guard…He shook his head.
Judging by the way they drooped and moaned, they needed the respite more than she did.
He rode to the rear of the straggling column and smacked the last man across the buttocks with the flat of his sword to hurry him along. “Come on, you laggards. If the Welsh come upon us now, they’ll be all over you like a pack of wolves on a lamb. Keep dawdling and you’ll be dead.”
Idris trotted out of the woods, tongue lolling from the side of his mouth in a canine smile. Nicholas joined in the dog’s amusement when he noticed how his men tried to edge away from Idris without appearing craven.
He could scarcely wait until he had the time to whip these lazy oafs into a respectable troop of fighting men. He’d do it, just as he’d shape Ashby into the fin
e keep it had been in his grandfather’s day. Anticipation lent a keen edge to his appreciation of life: not since his childhood had he looked forward to each day with such eagerness.
Turning his mount, he jogged toward the front of the line, slowing when he reached Catrin’s side. She rode the mare they’d found after they were attacked. A fine animal, possessed of an even temperament, the mare had already begun to fill out. Catrin had named her Rhosyn. When he protested that no one named a horse after a rose, she laughed and told him she never did anything the same as other people.
He found that easy to believe!
He rode so close to Catrin, his knee nudged against hers. “Your rose doesn’t smell too sweet,” he teased.
She smiled and met his gaze. “You’ll not convince me to change her name.” She patted the mare’s neck. “Besides, roses are beautiful, and so is Rhosyn.”
“My miserable troop needs to rest again, milady.” He’d noticed how her shoulders sagged with weariness despite her brave front. At least the men had served one purpose; their lack of stamina provided ample excuse for them to stop, to Catrin’s benefit.
If she hadn’t been along, Nicholas would have harried them unmercifully until they developed some backbone. As it was, he thanked God they hadn’t met up with any type of threat. Even a rampaging wild boar would likely have panicked them into a hasty retreat.. He and Catrin would probably have been trampled to death in the process, too, he thought wryly. Still, they presented the appearance of a guard, if he didn’t look at them very closely.
“Nicholas, we’re almost there. Surely they’re capable of walking the rest of the way without stopping again.”
He shrugged. “You’ve seen Ashby, Catrin. There wasn’t a person there who’d done an honest day’s work in months, ever since Clarence heard I was dead. I still don’t understand where that rumor came from. But if I’d paid more attention to Ashby, things never would have gotten so bad—and Clarence would have known the rumor was untrue.”
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