“The debt will be paid.” The laird spoke with a conviction that stilled Catriona’s heart, then he eyed her anew. “All the same, I know what it is to find oneself powerless and at the mercy of others bent on violence.”
Catriona nodded understanding, her gaze clinging to his. Maybe this was why he was kind to her. Again, she felt that strange comfort in his presence, a surety that he would reply to her queries. She chose to ask the one that troubled her most. “Why did you sell your blade, sir?”
Amusement glinted in his eyes. “Should I be flattered that you believe I had a choice?”
“Your family is affluent. You have a holding.” Catriona swallowed as she chose her words. “You seem to be a man with a nature unsuited for such labor.”
To her relief, he was not insulted.
In fact, he turned and she watched him survey his holding. When he spoke, his voice was bleak. “My keep was ruined, my treasury bare, my responsibilities such that I had no means to fulfill them.” He looked back at her with a grim expression, one that hinted at the cost to him of his choice. “To sell my blade was but the best of an array of poor choices.”
“I gather that your brother does not understand that.”
“My brother has never been in such a situation, and I pray that he never is.”
“Why? Does he not fight well?”
The laird’s lips tightened as he thought. “Alexander has not the steel in his spine to do what must be done to secure the greater good.”
Catriona understood perfectly. “To choose the lesser evil from a poor array of possibilities.”
“It is an uncommon talent.”
“I agree.”
The admiration in the laird’s eyes made Catriona catch her breath. “Yet I believe that you and I share that trait, Catriona.”
Perhaps that was what drew her to him. Perhaps that was why she felt she could talk to him, for surely their status was nigh as far apart as could be.
Perhaps that was why he spoke to her.
The notion was thrilling and frightening.
Catriona could not hold the laird’s gaze, not with her heart pounding so. There was no denying that she felt an understanding with this man, and she had to wonder if he was right about its reasons. She asked what she must of him, no longer so fearful of his reaction. “I would beg you not to tell my lady of my child’s origins, sir. She might think it shameful, or her husband might, and they might dismiss me from their hearth.”
“I doubt they would do as much,” he said with a confidence Catriona wished she could share. “But I pledge it to you.”
Again, her heart skipped that a man such as this would make such a vow to her. “Why?”
“Because it is of such import to you. I am enough of my father’s son to find a lady’s entreaty irresistible.”
Catriona found herself blushing, fearing that he mocked her. “I am no lady, sir.”
“Are you not?” The laird put his fingertips beneath her elbow, urging her toward the keep. “Though you might not have been born to a nobleman, Catriona, you are as bold and stalwart as a warrior queen, and such a woman will always be noble in my eyes.”
Her cheeks burned at his casual tone, and she hoped he meant the praise. Either way, she would hold such words close.
“Come,” he urged, his tone gentle but tinged with command all the same. “The hour is late, and my sister is not the only one with a child’s welfare to consider.”
The confidence in his protection, the solid strength of him alongside her in the darkness of the night, felt both strange and right. The height of his keep’s walls and the vigor of its defenses made Catriona feel safer than she had in years.
Here at Ravensmuir, this night, she would be safe. The wind had lifted and gusted around them as they walked, flicking at her skirts. She could smell the sea and the rain that would begin soon, the brooding moisture in the clouds overhead.
Perhaps exhaustion had its part, perhaps it was the companionable silence between them, but Catriona found a confession falling from her lips that she would have bitten back, given the chance. “I fear that something is amiss with the babe, sir.”
He halted and turned to face her, his hand still beneath her elbow and his attention bent upon her. Catriona looked up to find the sky churning with storm clouds and his eyes alight with concern. “Beyond the whimsy of it showing the mark of its conception?” She nodded and his voice dropped lower. “Why, Catriona?”
She found herself hesitant to burden him with her fears.
“You will be gone from my keep on the morrow, Catriona, likely never to see me again.” He arched a brow. “I can bear the weight of one small fear.”
She could well believe it. “It is not so small as that, sir.” She frowned and looked past him to the dark tempest of the sea. “It kicked most savagely these past months, stealing my breath with its vigor. I might have thought it a demon seeking release from its prison, and truly, I tired of its actions. Before we left Blackleith, I wished with all my heart and soul that it would be still.”
It sounded foolish, simply saying the words aloud, but Catriona could not evade her sense of responsibility.
“And?” the laird prompted.
“The babe has been as still as rock in my belly ever since,” Catriona admitted.
“You cannot believe something so frail as a wish for peace could be at fault,” he asked and the way he said it made Catriona see the folly of her reasoning.
“You speak good sense, sir,” she said. “I do not know why I worry so much about it…”
“Because you are alone and have no one in whom you can confide,” he interrupted quietly. “Because you labor more than you should and have need of rest. Sleep in my hall in safety, and all will look better in the morn.” His voice softened to a rough growl, one that sent a strange thrill through her. “I swear it to you, Catriona.”
That he strove to reassure her softened Catriona’s resistance yet more. Indeed, she felt her tears rise at his kindness.
“I thank you, sir,” she said, her voice husky with emotion. He glanced down at her, as if surprised by that new note in her voice, and Catriona impulsively stretched up to touch her lips to his cheek. She felt him stiffen, as if he feared to frighten her by so much as taking a breath, and she felt her old boldness blossom within her.
There was much about the Laird of Ravensmuir that tempted her. He did not speak to her belly or her breasts. He did not talk to her as if she were a slave or a slow child. He met her like an equal, and—thus far—he had done as he had vowed. Indeed, he had surprised her more than once, and she was more intrigued than likely was wise.
His patience in this moment fed Catriona’s confidence. She did not want to spend her life alone and afraid of men, due to one experience. She believed that he had tried to halt an act of violence against a woman and trusted that he would not so assault her.
It was time to put the past aside.
This was a chance to change her own future, to choose.
Before she could reconsider her impulse, Catriona rose to the tips of her toes and pressed her lips fully against his. He waited but a moment, perhaps to see whether she retreated, then she watched his dark lashes sweep down as he closed his eyes.
In the same moment, he slanted his mouth over hers and deepened the kiss, sending a flood of sensation through her. His hand slid over her arm and shoulder, then slipped into her hair. Those strong fingers cupped her nape—tenderly, though he could have crushed her—his fingertips piercing her braid. His grip was gentle but firm, his strength tempered as if she were a precious gem.
And such pleasure in that kiss! Catriona would never have imagined it possible. The laird cajoled her response, kindling her passion with that same patience and power. Heat surged through her, leaving her atingle and afire. She felt thrilled and treasured and more aroused than she might have thought possible.
She felt alive. She understood the allure of a man’s touch for the first time and wanted to
know all that could be learned about it.
In that moment, the babe kicked with a vigor that stole Catriona’s breath away. She gasped and the laird tore his mouth from hers, his eyes glittering with concern. “What is amiss?” he demanded, his words hoarse.
Her hand fell to her ripe belly. “The babe,” she whispered, her hand dropping to her belly as she smiled. “It kicks.”
His smile was too quickly banished for the pleasure it gave her. “And so your fears are proven groundless,” he said, his voice a low rumble that made Catriona shiver.
She caressed her belly, so relieved that she thought she might weep.
And she could not help but think that the laird had awakened not just her, but her unborn child. He had thawed something frozen within her and renewed her faith in the future and its possibilities.
He watched her closely, his hand lingering in her hair, the touch of his fingers sending tingles through her body. She might have kissed him again, just to learn more, but he touched his lips to her brow, a chaste kiss far less than the one she now hungered to have.
“Go now, Catriona,” he said, his voice taut with restraint. He held out the pail of milk, his gaze locked upon her. “Go now.”
Catriona looked into the blaze of his eyes and knew she was not the only one so aroused. If the laird did not trust himself, then she would heed his counsel. Indeed, he protected her even from himself, which made her smile anew.
He was a man of honor, indeed, and such a man to his very marrow.
She took the milk from his outstretched hand, the brush of their fingers filling her with newfound delight. Aware that he watched her every step, she hastened to the keep, her lips burning and her blood humming.
God in heaven, but the Laird of Ravensmuir could undermine all Catriona knew to be true.
And thanks to one beguiling kiss, she would welcome the lesson.
* * *
Malcolm had never anticipated that Catriona would touch him of her own volition.
Never mind that her kiss would be so sweet.
He had never thought her kiss would be sufficiently potent to tempt him to take more than she offered. When she started, he feared she had tasted the magnitude of the desire she fed within him.
Instead it was the child, much to his relief.
She looked so pleased and relieved then that he had been tempted to draw her back into his embrace. She looked like a woman well kissed, although Malcolm yearned to kiss her yet more—and more than that. He could have spent the night pleasuring her, and would have welcomed the opportunity, but knew it would be too much too soon for this intriguing woman.
He had to win her trust in steady increments.
He kissed her brow and bade her leave, savoring how she hesitated for a heartbeat.
Could it be that her fear of men diminished?
And then Catriona was gone, the pail swinging from her hands, her figure silhouetted in the doorway of the keep. She did not look back at him, but hastened inside, leaving Malcolm alone with the wind and the sound of the sea.
Those laborers had disappeared, doubtless having retired for the night. Perhaps they thought the laird had claimed the servant for his own pleasure, and that might ensure Catriona remained untouched while at Ravensmuir.
Malcolm did not want her to leave in the morning. Could he follow to Kinfairlie to learn the gender of her child? Surely it would be born soon, and he would know if his mad scheme had merit.
He watched her go and wished with all his heart that he was not fated to die in but a few days time. For there was no doubt that Catriona could intrigue him for a long while, if not forever. With every glimpse of the doubts she hid away, he wanted only to know more. He felt a common ground with her that he had never felt with a woman before. She had faced at least one ordeal and had lost much, but still she stood tall and determined.
She might not be nobly born, but she was a warrior to her marrow. Indeed, they had much in common, this serving woman and he. Malcolm had time to savor that conviction before he heard the Fae music again.
It emanated from the ground beneath his feet, winding into his ears and unlocking secrets in his memory that he would have preferred to have forgotten. He frowned as images unfurled in his mind, as scents assailed him and choices haunted him. He saw the battlefield once again, the day that Franz had been lost, and felt sickened anew at all he had done.
Never mind all that he had left undone.
He knew that he would have nightmares this night, if he could not compel himself to remain awake. His soul would be the Fae’s tithe to Hell, gathered at the Midsummer Eve for the tribute they paid every seven years.
And the Fae music ensured that he recalled all his deeds, convincing Malcolm that Hell was precisely where his sorry soul belonged.
To remain awake, he would go to the one place where he found solace, the place where he felt closest to his uncle Tynan.
* * *
Why had she done such a thing?
To kiss the laird had been folly, yet she could not regret it.
Catriona lay sleepless long after her lady had fallen asleep, wondering at her impulsiveness. She had never encouraged the eye or the touch of a man before, and truly, her state was evidence of the danger in attracting any man’s attention. She might have guessed that her impulse would be seen as an invitation by a man accustomed to claiming whatsoever he desired.
And yet, and yet, the Laird of Ravensmuir had been the one to step away. He had more restraint than she had expected, perhaps even more than she herself when faced with such temptation as his kiss. She could never have guessed that any embrace would leave her longing for more.
Let alone one from a mercenary laird.
One who called her a warrior queen.
That recollection gave Catriona more pleasure than any compliment she had ever been granted. She held his words as closely as the memory of his kiss. It had been the first she had been granted by a man, distinctive for that, as well as its combination of tenderness and desire, and a far better thing than any tentative kisses shared with boys in her past. The laird’s kiss had been passionate, to be sure, but not inflicted so much as coaxed. She licked her lips and tasted him again, closed her eyes and recalled the hard strength of his body so close to her own. His power made his tenderness all the more seductive.
In the darkness of the solar, as her lady and her children slept, Catriona admitted to herself that she had been tempted to surrender more than a kiss to the Laird of Ravensmuir. She surely would have regretted such a choice, but Catriona found herself surprised to imagine that there might be much of merit in a night spent in his bed.
He had been beaten in an attempt to defend a woman assaulted as she had been.
He had awakened her child with his kiss.
He knew the misery of having only poor choices from which to select. The lesser of available evils, indeed. Would that she had never been compelled to learn what he meant.
Would that neither of them had been.
But then, she and the Laird of Ravensmuir would not have understood each other so well, and Catriona could never wish for that.
Not now.
She stared at the ceiling of his solar, listening to the rhythm of slumber. Her babe, now awakened, was active indeed, its stirrings not the only reason she did not sleep. Lady Vivienne and the children shared the thickest pallet nearest the brazier, while Catriona rolled herself in a blanket near the summit of the stairs.
She heard snoring from the hall below and wondered if the laird of the manor slept or if she heard his companion. She wondered whether he dreamed of their kiss, no less whether he wondered about her as much as she wondered about him.
Some impulse drove her to rise and look out the window at the rhythm of the sea. She saw the man on the cliff immediately and knew he should not be there. Catriona studied his figure, silhouetted against the sea, wanting to prove to herself that it could not be the laird himself.
But it was. She was sure of it.
There was no man so broad and so tall in this holding, no less none who strode with such purpose. He walked toward the ruins piled upon the cliff, even as the rain began to fall in large drops.
He did not hesitate but stepped into a gap between the stones.
Did he take refuge from the storm? Catriona held her breath, but the laird did not reappear. Thunder boomed and lightning cracked, the rain falling in a torrent upon the keep.
Catriona stood at the window and waited, watching for the laird’s return and fearful of his fate. Was it safe in those ruins? She could not imagine as much. Why would he go there? Was he injured? There was no sound but the crash of the waves upon the cliff and the pounding of the rain on the roof. Water ran down the outside of the walls and the wind whistled through the chinks.
The laird had not cried for help, and no one sought him. Should she rouse his companion?
Catriona could not do that. Yet, she could not sleep either, not without knowing that the laird was hale. Her feet chilled as she stood at the window. Her babe tumbled and kicked in her belly as the onslaught of the storm slowed.
To her relief, the laird appeared in that darkened opening, but he did not return to the hall. He stood there, watching the sea then surveying the keep, his glance making her draw back into the shadows.
What did he do in the ruins?
If she asked him this question, would he answer?
There, after all, was only one way to discover that.
Knowing he was hale, at least, Catriona curled on her pallet, tucking her feet beneath the hem of her cloak, closed her eyes and slept.
* * *
Catriona fought against her dream. She was in the cottage again, though, the fire stamped to cold ashes, the violence of the night carrying through the walls. She held Ian close and covered his ears, for he was too young to hear the words that were being screamed in the streets.
She clutched the cross that hung from a chain around her neck and prayed for their survival. Catriona had barred the door when the armies had arrived in the city, determined to defend Ian with her life. She listened for Hamish’s return, hoping that he would remember his family but knowing he would not. It was falling dark when the men had begun to pillage in the streets.
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