by Lily Baldwin
“Bannock?” Thomas said skeptically. “Katie, ye can’t lie. That’s cheating.”
Catarina laughed. “You had best not insult my cooking.”
Thomas grabbed a bannock and took a large bite. “I wouldn’t dare,” he muttered while chewing the dry cake. Catarina continued to laugh as she passed him a costrel of water to help him wash down his mouthful. “I still don’t believe ye, and so I get another question.”
Catarina crossed her arms over her chest. “Fine,” she said. After all, she had lied.
“’Tis hot. Why do ye keep that plaid over yer head?”
Catarina adjusted the plaid, pulling it tightly beneath her chin. “I prefer to have my head covered. It is a custom in my family.”
“It looks uncomfortable,” he said.
She smiled. “I suppose it would, but it is very comforting to me. I am simply too tired to deal with feeling self-conscious right now. I would rather just remain covered.” That was the honest truth. When she and Quinn were alone, it felt wondrous to have her hair loose, but it was just too hard when others were near. “Now you must answer my question,” she said. “How old are you?”
He swallowed the last of the bannock and smiled. “Two and twenty.”
It was her turn to cock a skeptical brow. “You just scolded me for lying.”
He flattened his hand over his heart. “If I’ve lied, may the Lord strike me dead.”
“Then forgive me,” she said. “I hope I did not offend.”
He shrugged. “I ken I’m a wee scrawny. I always have been on account of my clan’s stores. They’ve not been full since before I was born.”
Frowning, Catarina squeezed his hand encouragingly. She hated to think of him suffering.
His eyes grew distant, and he pulled his hand away. “These last five years have been the hardest. My father saved what little he could for years and years. Finally, he amounted enough coin to buy fresh cattle from the MacLeod.” A shadow passed over Thomas’s features, and a hard glint narrowed his eyes. “But the MacLeod cheated him. The cattle were diseased and did not survive the winter.”
She gasped. “That is awful. Surely this chieftain was brought to task.”
Thomas shook his head. “How? We could not retaliate. They would’ve crushed us.” His shoulders sagged. “After that, my father was not the same.” But with his next breath, Thomas straightened. “And so the task of raising our clan out of poverty has fallen on my shoulders.” Catarina watched as he shrugged away his sober thoughts. Then he turned to her, his green eyes once more bright and playful. “I believe it is my turn.” He cleared his throat and leaned forward. “I led ye away from the dogs. It could be argued that I saved ye.” He jerked his head at Quinn who was watching Thomas very closely. “Is he ever going to stop glaring at me?” he whispered.
Her hand flew to cover her mouth, smothering her laughter. She shook her head. “He simply does not trust you.”
Thomas pressed his hand to his heart and winced as though her words had caused him mortal pain. “Then the ceaseless tension over the past two days has been all my doing.”
“Precisely,” she said, flashing a smile. “But do not fret. He will come around.” She looked at Quinn. Immediately, his face softened for her. She wished he would allow himself to relax and rest, but she also understood why he refused to take his eyes off Thomas. He loved her. Her safety would always come first. On the other hand, she could not have adored Thomas more. He reminded her so much of Stephen. It lifted her spirits to jest and play games. “Now, it is my turn again,” she said.
“Wait,” Quinn said, rising. “I have a question. Thomas, why were ye out here on yer own?”
Thomas cleared his throat. “I go to the Village of Mathas every fortnight. It is beyond that hill ground,” he said, pointing to distant purple slopes. “I do whatever work I can find to pocket money away with the hope of buying some healthy cattle in a few years.”
Quinn stared at him for several moments before he retreated back to his watchful post.
“’Tis my turn,” Thomas said, turning back to Catarina.
She scoffed. “I do believe you are mistaken. It is my turn.”
Thomas smiled ruefully and jerked a thumb at Quinn. “He snaked yer question right out from under ye. Anyway, my question is very important.” He stared her hard in the eye while it looked as though he tried not to smile. “What is it that ye wish for above all else?”
Catarina did not have to think about that. The answer was right on her tongue. “To see my son again.”
Thomas’s brows drew together. “Ye’ve been separated from yer son?”
She nodded and felt the sting of tears.
“I am so very sorry,” he said. Then he jumped to his feet and offered her his hand. “There is only one thing to do. Ye must make a river wish.”
“A river wish?” she said, glancing at Quinn. He nodded, giving her permission to take Thomas’s hand. She stood and followed Thomas to the bank of the river where he dropped her hand and started to root around in his sporran.
“You have managed to fit an abundance in such a small case,” she observed.
Thomas smiled. “I like to be prepared.” He withdrew a small candle stub. Hastening back to the fire, he pulled out a stick and lit the wick. Then he returned to her side and instructed her to find a good, sturdy piece of tree bark. She eyed the ground and found a piece, which measured two hands long and a hand wide.
“Will this do?” she asked, holding up the bark for Thomas to see.
“’Tis yer wish. ‘Tis up to ye to decide.”
She looked back down at the bark and decided it was as good as any she’d seen. She strode back to Thomas and handed it to him.
“Thank ye,” he said. Then he dripped a little wax onto the smooth underside of the bark and pressed the stub of the candle into the wax. At length, he smiled. “That should hold it in place. Now, what ye do next is ye place the candle boat on the river and make yer wish. If it stays afloat and the flame remains lit until it is out of sight, then yer wish is sure to come true.”
She took hold of the boat and looked at Quinn who had remained on a felled log some feet away. He smiled at her, but the smile did not quite reach his eyes.
“Are ye certain he isn’t just a bit surly?” Thomas whispered, jerking his head toward Quinn.
“Not in the least,” she replied with a smile.
Thomas playfully hit himself upside the head. “Och, I forgot. ‘Tis me he doesn’t like.”
“Do not take it personally,” she said. “Now then, shall I position my candle boat?”
“First make yer wish.”
She nodded and closed her eyes, wishing with all her heart to be reunited with Nicholas. When she opened her eyes, Quinn was at her side.
“We used to do this when I was a lad,” he said, his lips curved in a gentle smile. His black eyes shone with love. He pressed a soft kiss to her cheek. “Regardless of whether yer candle makes it around the bend, ye know ye’ll be reunited with Nicholas.”
She nodded, grasping his hand with her free one. “I do know that. I believe with all my heart.” She released his hand and squatted down beside the river. “Still,” she said. “A wish is like a prayer, and prayer will only ever help.”
Holding her breath, she released the boat. Swept away by the current, the candle was out of reach in seconds. For a moment, her heart panged with loss as if once more she was witnessing her son being swept from her arms. But then her spirits lifted as she watched the boat tilt and rock but never overturn. And as it rounded the bend out of sight, the flame intensified, stretching higher. She jumped to her feet, her heart brimming with hope, and she threw her arms around Quinn’s neck. “It made it,” she exclaimed.
He cupped her cheeks. “Just as we will.” Dipping his head, he pressed his full lips to hers.
“I know ye will, too,” Thomas said.
Quinn looked over Catarina’s head and locked eyes with Thomas. The boy appeared earnes
t enough. His affection for Catarina seemed entirely genuine. Still, Quinn simply could not trust him and refused to take even one eye off of the lad, not for a moment, no matter how well Catarina liked him.
He did have to admit that he enjoyed listening to Catarina’s laughter. She and Thomas jested together as though brother and sister, and it pleased him to see her so lighthearted.
“My lady, the next question is yers t—” The rest of Thomas’s words remained lodged in his throat as Quinn seized his tunic and hoisted him into the air.
“What did ye say?” Quinn snarled, shaking Thomas.
Catarina yanked on his arm. “What has come over you, Quinn. Put him down. You’re hurting him.”
Quinn glared at Thomas but spoke to Catarina. “The two of ye have not been out of ear shot. I’ve been listening to yer every word. Not once have ye slipped about who ye really are, and yet this rodent calls ye ‘my lady’.”
He put Thomas back on his feet but continued to grip the front of his tunic while he waited for Catarina to understand the truth. Her eyes grew wide before she narrowed them on Thomas, but her friend would now not meet her gaze.
“Look at me,” Catarina hissed.
Slowly, Thomas lifted his head.
“You know who I am?” she said, fear and anger forming a knot in her throat.
Thomas’s brows came together the instant before he shifted his gaze back to the ground. She knew his answer when he could not look her in the eye.
She clenched her fists. “How could you?”
“What were ye going to do?” Quinn gritted, jerking Thomas even closer. Still, Thomas kept his eyes trained on the ground. “Wait for an opportunity to snatch her away and deliver her up to the very devils who destroyed her life, those who would see her hang or worse?” He shook Thomas again.
“Answer me,” Quinn shouted.
“It started out that way,” Thomas said quickly.
“What were ye planning on doing with me then,” Quinn said, his voice deadly soft. “Were ye waiting for the opportunity to slit my throat?”
“I wouldn’t have killed ye,” Thomas muttered. “I was just waiting until ye left her alone.” He looked up then and locked eyes with Quinn. “But ye never leave her alone.”
A sob rose in Catarina’s throat, drawing Quinn’s gaze. She pressed her fist to her lips to choke back her tears.
Thomas reached out his hands. “My lady, I swear I wasn’t going to hurt ye. It was not long after we met that I knew ye couldn’t have done what that man accused ye of. I knew ye were innocent. I swear I wasn’t going—”
A rumbling bloodhound bark echoed through the forest, twisting the pit of Catarina’s stomach.
“They’ve fastened on her scent again,” Thomas said, his voice rising in pitch. “Run!”
Catarina dropped to her knees and started to shove their skillet in her satchel.
“Leave it, Catarina. ‘Tis too late,” Quinn urged, grabbing her forearm and pulling to her feet. “To the river,” he said.
Catarina gripped the plaid beneath her chin and raced behind Quinn, her heart thundering in her ears. Fear choked the air from her lungs. Dogs with sharp teeth and powerful jaws knew her smell and wanted to find her. A whimper fled her lips. She feared the beasts were upon her.
~ * ~
Sun slanted through the canopy of tall Scots pines while Stephen trailed behind his party. He had awoken that morning feeling more anxious than he had since first setting out. Rupert was becoming increasingly unpredictable and violent. He talked to himself, sometimes shouting obscenities but at no one—just an empty space in a room or an open road. He abused his men over the slightest provocation. The night before, he again refused to feed Jasper or the dogs. Stephen had to slip Jasper coin when Rupert wasn’t looking. Edgar, Jarrett, and Aldwin had grown quiet around Rupert, avoiding eye contact, and more recently around Stephen as well, clearly fearful that Stephen might repeat something overheard to his brother.
Stephen’s knuckles whitened as he gripped his reins. He knew not the best course of action, but what he did know and for certain was that Rupert was going mad. His eyes settled on his older brother who rode in front of the knights just behind Jasper who was jogging with the dogs, their leashes slack in his hand to give them lead. Stephen’s chest tightened. He was struck by how narrow Rupert’s shoulders appeared. And it was no wonder—he hardly ate. He barely slept. In fact, just the night before Stephen and the soldiers slept in the common room of an inn on threadbare pallets while Rupert took the one room available upstairs. For hours, Stephen lay awake, listening to Rupert’s pacing above their heads, broken up by intermittent banging or cursing so loud that it could be heard through the floor boards. His brother’s health was failing. This Stephen did not doubt. Even at that moment, Rupert looked as if he was slipping from his saddle. Stephen pressed his lips together and nudged his horse faster. He would catch up to Rupert and suggest they rest for a spell.
“Good girl, Molly,” Jasper called out. The dogs howled and quickened their pace.
“Damn it,” Stephen cursed under his breath. Molly had once more fastened on Catarina’s scent.
Rupert glanced back at him, an eager glint in his eye. “Hurry, Stephen.”
A knot formed in the pit of Stephen’s stomach as he drove his heels into his horse’s flanks and rode up alongside his brother.
“Scan the trees,” Rupert said. “This time I am certain we’ve got her.”
Stephen could not share Rupert’s enthusiasm. He wanted justice for his brother’s death, and more than anything, he wanted to know the whereabouts of Nicholas. Nothing mattered more than finding Ravensworth’s heir. And although he longed for the blasted hunt to end so that he could go home, he had no wish to see Catarina hurt. The idea alone broke his heart. Praying silently that she was nowhere in that thick forest, he did as he was bade and scanned the trees. And then his heart sank. Ahead of them was a figure fully cloaked in plaid. The billowing fabric obscured the person’s shape, but judging from the height alone, he knew it could, indeed, be Catarina.
“It is she,” Rupert shouted as his horse jumped out in front of Stephen’s, passing Jasper and the dogs.
Stephen charged after him, never taking his eyes off Catarina.
In moments, Rupert was upon her.
“No, Rupert,” Stephen shouted as Rupert leaned in his saddle, reaching out to grab her, his fingers splayed wide, seizing a hungry fist-full of plaid. The tartan soared through the air, leaving its owner bereft of cover.
Stephen’s breath rushed from his lips the instant before Rupert released a pained bellow to the sky.
A young man lay in a heap on the ground, covering his sandy blond head with his arms.
Stephen pulled on his reins and slid from his horse, determined to reach the boy before Rupert who still seethed in his saddle, staring up at the sky with his hands closed in tight fists.
Stephen knelt beside him. “Speak quickly, boy, if you value your life. Who are you?”
The boy lifted his head, revealing a face with a smattering of bright freckles. “My name is Thomas Munroe of the clan Munroe. This is my father’s land. I am on my way home.”
Stephen grabbed the back of Thomas’s head and leaned close. “Listen to me. Get on your feet and run. Run faster than you’ve ever run before.”
Thomas’s green eyes widened. He nodded furiously, then jumped to his feet and bolted through the trees.
“Stop him, you fool,” Rupert snarled.
“Let him go, Rupert. He’s a boy. He is nothing to us.”
Rupert shifted in his saddle. “Crossbows,” he bellowed to his men. “Bring him down!”
No one reached for their weapons.
Rupert released a vicious snarl before he drove his heels into his horse’s flanks and charged at Sir Edgar.
“No,” Stephen choked out, his heart lodged in his throat as Rupert drew his sword and swung. Edgar’s head dropped to the ground. An instant later, his body slid from his hor
se. Stephen squeezed his eyes shut but winced when he heard the thud. The forest began to spin. His mind reeled. Then the thud of hooves forced Stephen’s eyes open just as Rupert pulled his horse near. “Do not blame me, Stephen. If you hadn’t let the boy go, Edgar would still be alive,” he hissed. “His death is on your head, not mine.”
Shock forced Stephen’s mouth agape, but any reply he had was trapped beneath horror and disbelief.
Rupert shook his head as he sneered at Stephen’s cowardice. “You bring shame to the Ravensworth name.” Then he whirled around and stormed toward Jasper. “What are your dogs playing at? Are you trying to make a fool of me?” Grabbing fistfuls of Jasper’s tunic, he jerked him close. Jasper’s pale blue eyes betrayed nothing, his face as impassive as stone. Rupert snarled at the commoner’s indifference. “Fail me again, and I will skin your dogs alive, starting with Molly.”
A low, thick growl sounded. Rupert looked down. Molly’s jowls rippled as she bared her teeth at him.
“At least someone here has courage,” he shouted for all to hear. Rupert glared at his men. Stephen was staring at him as though he were some kind of monster. Jarret and Aldwin and his other knights had begun to dig a grave for Edgar, using their shields to scoop away the earth. Rupert’s eyes narrowed. He knew they all despised him. Every single one of them wanted to see him fail. He could trust no one. He locked eyes with Stephen. “Least of all you,” he snarled.
“I know not of which you speak,” Stephen said, his voice cracking before he turned away.
Again Molly growled. Rupert kicked her in the belly. She cried out and circled behind Jasper, her tail between her legs.
“I am your master’s master,” Rupert shouted at the dogs. Then he spun on his heel and stormed toward his mount. “Leave Edgar. He does not deserve the honor of a proper burial.”
Stephen whirled around. “No, Rupert. You cannot mean that.”
Rupert ignored Stephen’s protest. He swung up into his saddle. “Jasper,” he snapped. “Cast your mutts. Find her scent again.”
