by Lily Baldwin
Nerves twisted Catarina’s stomach. She felt Quinn’s hand rest on her back through the blanket. “Ye can come out now. ‘Tis safe.”
She gasped, instantly wanting to swoop the covers back over her head. Never had she seen men so wild looking. She was surrounded by them. They leaned forward in their saddles, eyeing her.
“She’s a pretty lass to be sure,” one of the men said.
Catarina sat up and stiffened her back. She opened her mouth to tell the beastly looking man that it was unkind to stare, but Quinn reached out his hand to her, cutting off her speech. “Come, lass. Let me help ye ashore, and then I can properly introduce ye to my friend.”
Catarina did her best to smile graciously as she placed her hand in Quinn’s.
Once on dry land, he wrapped his arm around her waist and presented her to the Hamish. “This is Katie, my bride.”
She jerked around, looking at Quinn with eyes wide. “But—” Before she could finish, Quinn smothered her protest with a kiss. Cheers erupted from the men. She opened her eyes as Quinn’s soft, full lips lifted from hers. “Trust me,” he whispered.
Hamish slapped Quinn on the back, a smile stretched his rugged features wide. “’Tis sorry I am to hear she’s spoken for—sorry for myself that is,” Hamish said, winking at Catarina. “Had ye been free, I would have claimed ye here and now.”
She did not bother concealing her surprise as she stared up at the large, hairy man. Stepping closer to Quinn, she placed her hand in his. “I told ye,” he said, smiling down at her. Then he wrapped his arm around her waist.
“We’ve had a long journey, Hamish. Do ye think we could rest a bit and have something hot to eat.”
“Aye, my friend. Come along. We’ll get ye feeling fresh as the new heather.”
Catarina watched the Highland village unfold with fascination. It was nearing the end of June. The fields were lush and ripe with honey colored wheat and bright yellow flax. The periphery of the village was enclosed within a stonewall. It did not have the defensive height of a castle or fortress outer wall, but when they passed through the gate Catarina noticed that the ground on the other side of the gate was elevated, giving the advantage of height to those on the inside. Small, stone cottages with thatched roofs dotted the interior. Chickens, cattle and goats all moved freely, just like the children—most of whom wore naught but smiles on their faces as they played in the early summer sun. They passed through yet another wall, which again was not impressive in height, but the ground on the other side was once more elevated. Still, more cottages came into view and longer huts made of peat and thatch, which she assumed were used as stores or for gatherings. And then they crossed through yet another stonewall, stepping onto higher ground where she spied the only two-story dwelling.
“First, I’ll present ye to my father,” Hamish said to Quinn. “And then I will show ye where ye can bed down.”
His words made Catarina’s spirit soar. To sleep on a bed would be such a welcome respite from weeks sleeping on the hard earth. They passed through what she deemed the equivalent of a small courtyard where a large skinned cow was roasting on a spit. The scent made her stomach growl. They walked on and spotted more animals roasting and more people milling about with purpose.
“What is the day?” she whispered to Quinn
“I would guess the twenty-second of June,” Quinn said.
Her spirits lifted. “They must be preparing for St. John’s Eve?”
Quinn nodded.
“Then what I was told about Highlanders is false.”
“What is it ye were told?” Quinn asked
Catarina leaned close and whispered, “That they were savages and heathens.”
Quinn threw his head back and laughed.
“Hush,” she said, looking pointedly at Hamish in the lead.
Quinn smiled. “Ye’ll never meet finer folk than Highlanders,” he whispered. “Ye’ll enjoy the festivities. Ye’ll find ‘tis a blending of the old and the new.”
“You always seem to have all the answers,” she said, smiling up at him. “How is it that a fisherman and a peasant knows so much?”
He took her hand in his. “Captain Bellerose taught me how to read and write and how to navigate with the stars.” He shrugged. “I’ve a curious nature, I suppose.”
They walked into the large, rustic dwelling. A great room stretched out before them with a massive hearth filling one side, and in front of that Catarina glimpsed the high dais where an older couple sat.
She felt Quinn’s lips brush her ear. “Remember yerself. Yer Katie, a common lass. Show the laird every due respect. Be humble and…”
“And what?” she whispered when he hesitated.
“Roughen up yer speech if ye can.”
Catarina nodded, although she had no idea how to ‘roughen up her speech’. Instead, she made up her mind to remain silent.
“Father, this here is Quinn MacVie. We sailed together on La Vierge under Captain Bellerose. And the pretty lass at his side is his wife, Katie. She hails from Berwick. Her father was an English sailor and her mother an Italian merchant’s daughter.”
Catarina squeezed Quinn’s hand. She had not realized that Quinn had given her a new family history. Glancing sidelong at Quinn, she saw he bowed to the laird. In turn, she dipped into a low curtsy, her eyes sweeping over Laird William Sinclair. She would guess he had more than fifty years to his credit. His eyes were a foggy blue color, but she imagined in his youth they would have been as vibrant as a summer’s sky. He had a thick, gray beard that fanned out from his chin, covering much of his chest. His shoulders, although still broad, stooped a little, and when he stood and walked toward them, he did so with a pronounced limp.
“MacVie is a name I hold dear,” the laird said, crossing to stand in front of Quinn. He gave Catarina a hard, sidelong look. “Normally, I’d no be inviting a Sassenach onto my land, but ye must have some sense for marrying this good man,” he said, slapping a hand on Quinn’s shoulder. “Indeed, ye’re both most welcome.” He let out a rumble of laughter before turning and motioning for the woman still seated at the high dais to join them. Laird Sinclair extended his hand for the older woman when she drew closer. Then he turned back to Quinn and Catarina, and presented her as, Lady Joan, his wife. Lady Joan had long, black hair, streaked with silver, which she wore unbound. And on her head, she wore a small, white head covering that several of the women in the village had also worn.
Joan dipped her head to Quinn and smiled warmly. “I’ve often wondered whether I would have the opportunity to thank the man who saved my son’s life.”
Catarina’s eyes widened in surprise, which had not gone unnoticed by Joan.
“Yer husband did not tell ye about his brave actions on board La Vierge?”
Catarina shook her head and smiled, choosing not to speak.
Joan stepped close to Quinn and pressed a kiss to his cheek. Then she smiled at Catarina. “A line broke, and the boom of one of their ship’s sails swung wide, hitting Hamish in the head and dragging him overboard. Quinn jumped in after him and held Hamish afloat until the rest of the crew could haul them both out of the water.” Joan smiled at her. “Ye’ve found yerself a good man.” She cupped Catarina’s cheek. “I can tell ye’re weary. Hamish will lead ye to where ye can rest and have a meal.”
Catarina smiled gratefully and once more dipped into a low curtsy, choosing still to remain silent.
When they had stepped out into the courtyard, Catarina shielded her eyes against the bright sunshine. Quinn held her hand, and she listened while Hamish pointed out various sights as they walked through the meandering village pathways before stopping in front of a small cottage.
“This used to be ol’ Dunner’s home, a widower without children. He was a good man, hardworking. Passed away over the winter, he did.” Hamish opened the door and motioned for Quinn to enter. “It should be clean. I’ll send along a lad with supplies and food.”
“What do ye think?” Quinn asked aft
er Hamish quitted the cottage, leaving the door open to provide them with light.
“It is a hovel,” Catarina said.
Quinn’s smiled faltered, but she laughed and grabbed his hands. “The most beautiful hovel I have ever seen. Look,” she said, pointing overhead. “It even has a roof.”
Quinn laughed and watched while she roamed the small room. Her fingers grazed the stones, dragging across the wall until she reached the window. Tying back the hide curtain, she peered outside. “I will not lie. I would prefer a warm bath and a four poster bed with down pillows and silk sheets, but this is most welcome.”
Quinn cleared his throat. “Well now, I can’t promise ye a warm bath, but a cold bath—that I am confident I can make happen.”
She cocked a wry brow at him. “Let me guess, you will lead me to some village bathing hole where I am required to share a chunk of soap and dry off out in the open for all to see.”
Quinn leaned his shoulder against the wall. “I had a more private affair in mind, yer own chunk of soap not to mention a warm plaid to wrap up in. But yer hair will have to dry unbound for only me to see.”
Her olive cheeks turned pink, the instant before she looked back out the window. “My hair?” she said. “I did not know you were curious about my hair.”
He drew a slow, deep breath while he continued to study her. His eyes journeyed from her bound hair, over her slim shoulders and gentle curves. Her shape was full and womanly. And despite her humble clothing and meager surroundings, her stance was as regal as a queen’s.
“There is nothing about ye that doesn’t pique my curiosity,” he said softly. “Do ye know what I am also curious about?”
She turned away from the window, meeting his gaze. “What is that?”
He closed the distance between them and took hold of her hand. His thumb grazed her smooth, flawless palm. “How we are going to pass ye off as Katie?”
Her hands flew to grip her head, and she groaned. “Saints above, but you are right. I am Katie. Quinn, what am I to do? You have been made quite aware of my talents. I will never pass for a common lass.”
“Ye can sew.”
“Tapestries, needlework. I am not a seamstress.”
“No matter. Ye’ve grown quite apt at building fires and making oatcakes. Yer lack of skills is not at the center of my concern. ‘Tis yer bearing, the tilt of yer head, how ye walk.” He reached again for her pampered hand. “Yer soft skin.”
Her lips parted, drawing his gaze. More than anything, he longed to taste those lips again. His eyes moved higher to her neck where her pulse visibly raced. He drew closer. Her breath caught when the back of his fingertips grazed both cheeks.
“Quinn,” she breathed, closing her eyes.
He wrapped his arm around her waist and pressed her flush against him. A soft moan fled her parted lips. His hand closed around the back of her neck.
“Yes,” she whispered.
His other hand tightened around her waist. He could feel her racing heart. His own beat to the same erratic rhythm. Slowly, so slowly, he lowered his lips until they grazed hers. She trembled in his arms.
“Please, Quinn,” she breathed.
He cupped her cheeks and—
A knock sounded at the door.
“Damn it,” he cursed.
Her eyes flew open, and she jerked away.
“Come in,” Quinn bit out.
A lad of around twelve summers entered, carrying a large basket made of sea grass. “Good morrow,” he said, smiling. His hair was so light a blond, it almost appeared white, and his bright green eyes widened when they settled on Catarina.
“Good morrow,” Catarina mumbled, her eyes trained on the ground.
“We appreciate the laird’s generosity,” Quinn said. “Please give him our thanks.”
Still staring at Catarina with unconcealed admiration, the lad said, “Ye can do so yerself. He’s expecting ye in the great hall. Yer to join the hunting party.”
Catarina looked up then and met his gaze. Her eyes were a mirror of his own unfulfilled longing. Quinn cleared his throat. “I’ve no wish to leave my wife on her first day in a new place.”
The boy shrugged. “Suit yerself, but ye don’t say no to the laird.”
Quinn expelled a long breath. Then he turned to the lad. “Can a bath be brought here for Katie.”
The lad nodded. “That is easy enough.” Then he turned to Catarina. ‘Do not fash yerself, Katie. Yer man will be home before sunrise tomorrow.”
“That long?” Catarina said, unable to hide her surprise.
Quinn crossed to her side and took her hands in his. “Have a bath and rest. I will be back before too long. I promise ye.”
She stepped closer, a mischievous smile curved her lips. Rising up on her toes, she pressed a kiss to his lips. “I trust your word...husband.”
Chapter Sixteen
Catarina’s eyes opened. She felt Quinn’s arms around her. Sometime during the night, he must have returned and crawled beneath the covers with her. She smiled and snuggled close to his warmth.
“Katie,” she heard someone whisper from outside. She sat up with a start.
“Quinn,” she whispered, shaking him awake. “Someone is outside.”
Eyes still glazed with sleep, Quinn jumped to his feet and grabbed his sword just as someone rapped softly on their door.
Quinn crossed the room, wearing naught but his black hose. Catarina eyed his strong back and shifting thigh muscles through the fitted fabric before Quinn swung the door wide. Still, stars dotted the sky, but despite the early hour, several women peered inside.
One woman with plump, rosy cheeks and chestnut hair stepped forward. “Good morrow, my name is Mary, and this is Ruth,” she said, motioning to the woman standing just behind her. Ruth’s red hair was pulled tightly back away from her sharp features. “We are here to fetch Katie,” she said. Both women appeared to have as many as five and thirty years to their credit. Behind them, Catarina glimpsed at least two more women who appeared closer to her own age.
Quinn turned. “’Tis time to wake,” he said, smiling. He reached down to help her stand.
“What is happening?” Catarina whispered.
He smiled. “Do ye remember how I told ye that they celebrate St. John’s Eve mixing the old and the new?”
She nodded.
“I believe ye’re going to have yerself a wee taste of the old.”
Her eyes widened. “What does that mean?”
He winked. “Ye’ll see.”
“That ye will, lassie,” Mary said, swinging her wide hips into the cottage. “Now, let’s get ye dressed. We’ve little time.”
Catarina was accustomed to having servants dress her, but nothing could have prepared her for the whirlwind of Highland women that suddenly surrounded her. Mary’s daughter, Aileen, whose eyes danced as brightly as her mother’s, hugged her in greeting, and Daracha, who appeared to be the youngest of the group, started singing a cheerful tune while helping to pull the tunic over Catarina’s head. Before she knew what was happening, she was humming along with the other women and laughing with ease. After first one foot and then the other sunk into her worn slippers, they barreled out of Catarina’s beautiful hovel in a chatty cluster. Mary hooked arms with her, saying, “I wouldn’t be kicking the likes of yer husband from my bed, if ye ken my meaning.”
Ruth laughed. “She’s not daft. Of course she kens yer meaning.” But then the smile dropped away from her face, and she bristled her shoulders. “Alright, lassies, we’ve had our fun, but let us not forget ‘tis St. John’s Eve.” With a stern gesture, Ruth shooed them forward. “Enough nonsense. There’s too much to be done.”
Mist clung to the winding paths and over the sloping hills beyond the outskirts of the village. The sky blushed pink as the new morning began to stake it’s claim over the night, and yet stars still shone high in the sky.
“What are we doing?” Catarina whispered to Mary as they approached a circle of tall, slim
stones.
“Och, what a Sassenach ye are,” Mary laughed. “Do ye not ken we are blessing the eve?”
Catarina resisted saying that she did not ‘ken’ how to bless any day, eve or otherwise.
Catarina stiffened in surprise when suddenly Mary pulled a sheer surcote over Catarina’s head, leaving the thin material to billow around her in the slight breeze. As she stood there marveling at her strange surroundings, other ladies joined them in the circle, all clad in the same thin garment but also with flowered crowns on their heads. They flitted about, greeting each other, shimmering in gauzy white like ghostly spirits.
“I made ye one myself, knowing ye might not have one of yer own,” Mary said, producing a crown of wild flowers.
Catarina smiled, admiring the colorful weave. She thought of the ornate headdresses she used to love to wear on special occasions, made of stiffened silk, topped with polished rings of gold, and fitted with gems of every color, and then she looked around, considering the ethereal beauty of the stone circle, the distant purple mountains, and the sky above streaked rose from the rising sun. She decided the crown of wild flowers in her hand was as beautiful as any other she had worn. Smiling, she placed it on her head.
Mary laughed. “Nay, love. First, ye must let down yer hair.”
Catarina faltered. Already her hair was uncovered—something she was growing accustomed to—but truth be known, it still made her uncomfortable, especially amid the Highland men. She shook her head. “Forgive me, but I cannot.”
“Of course ye can,” Mary said, reaching for Catarina’s neatly quaffed hair.
Catarina stepped out of reach, touching hair. It still felt damp from her chilly bath the day before. She and Mary had gained the other ladies’ attention.
“What is it, lass?” Ruth asked.
Catarina felt relieved meeting Ruth’s sensible gaze. In fact, Ruth’s hair was still neatly tied back. But as she looked at Catarina with her sharp, questioning eyes, her hands reached behind her own head. Hair pins came out, one, two, and three—all going into her tunic pocket, and then she reached her hand back and uncoiled the reddest hair Catarina has ever seen. It shone so extravagantly it almost looked like a mistake—how could sensible Ruth have such flashy colored hair.
