“It happens, but not often.”
“You have no expectation of it when you are wed, care nothing for how your lady may look or what she may feel for you or you for her?”
He twisted his neck as if easing its tightness. “My father will consult with me, I make no doubt, or I with him, and the lady will be comely enough. But the deed will unite our holdings with those of some neighbor or distant kinsman.”
“And this will content you.”
“It’s the way of the world.”
“I see,” she said, disappointed in some manner she could not name. “You will get a quiverful of sons on this comely female, while buying ribbons and other frippery for…for milkmaids.”
He laughed, a deep, rich sound. “A quiverful, is it? Your faith in my prowess flatters me.”
“No such thing!” She refused to meet his gaze. “I meant only to say that you would look elsewhere for love.”
“I don’t know that I’d call it by such a name, though you may be right. It is, as I said…”
“The way of our world. Yes, I know.”
“You would marry for love, and to the devil with property, security, and a father for your children who has your same rank?”
“Yes.”
One brow rose until it almost touched the bonnet he had donned again as he left the king. “You seem very sure.”
“It can be no other way, being ordained so by the curse. Any man who attempts to wed me or my two sisters without love will surely die.”
“But there is that caveat, the one way to avoid the curse’s dire consequences.”
“If you care to call it so.”
“I am to accept that this dread fate awaiting your betrothed is the only reason Henry is being so generous with the marriage settlement.”
Cate gave the Scot a cool stare, affronted by some small change she heard in his voice. “What other purpose could there be?”
“I don’t know,” he answered, his concentrated gaze scanning the crowded hall much as he had scanned the forest around them last night. “Mayhap you’ll enlighten me.”
Shock surged over her, only to be routed by anger. “You think that I… No, and no again! I must tell you that however gently reared females may behave in Scotland, sir, they do not play at dalliance in England!”
He turned his gray-blue eyes upon her in heated assessment. “Not even with a king?”
Dunbar’s audacity robbed her of speech. Lifting her train out of the way with a hand that trembled with the need to strike him, she swung about to leave him.
“Hold.” His voice was low yet firm as he reached out to catch her arm in a loose clasp. “I was wrong to speak so. It’s just that Henry seems uncommonly concerned for your welfare.”
Her arm burned where he touched, setting off a melting feeling inside her. She drew it swiftly away, holding it against her side. “If he is concerned, it’s from gratitude and obligation, because my older sister helped prevent injury to his heir and his queen not long ago, as well as to Henry himself. There is nothing personal in it whatever.”
“I did hear whispers of an attempt on his life during the summer,” Ross allowed.
“You may have done, though the details are known to few. I was not there myself, and Isabel refuses to speak of it.”
“Isabel is your sister married to this Braesford that Henry mentioned?”
Cate tipped her head a fraction. “A fine knight and great favorite. Know you of him?”
“The name is familiar, though I don’t believe he’s among the border lords my father counts as enemies.”
“You may thank God for it, as he is a dangerous foe. He has not had time to make many enemies, however, as he received his lands from Henry after Bosworth.”
“That would explain it.” The Scotsman paused, and then went on in quite a different tone. “Shall I make my amends now or later?”
“Amends?”
“For my insult.”
“Later would be…”
Cate stopped, unable to go on for the hard knot that formed in her throat. That he accepted her word without further explanation was so unexpected that she knew not what to say or where to look. Her late stepbrother, who had been guardian to her and her two sisters until his death, had never been particularly reasonable.
“Later it is,” he said quietly. “Meanwhile, on the subject of what we should do now, I have another suggestion.”
“Yes?”
“We could dance.”
“Dance,” she repeated, not quite certain she had heard him correctly. Though someone played on a lute, it was not a tune suitable for such exercise. Moreover, a shadow of amusement lay in his eyes despite the gravity of his features.
“During the coming evening. If we lift our feet to music, it may appear we are light of heart and obedient to Henry’s commands for the time being.”
“Surely there is something else.”
“Or we could sing.”
“I am more inclined to wait.” She laughed a little as she spoke, in spite of herself. She had no real wish to forget his suspicion or be distracted from it by his nonsense.
“As you will. We may sing while making merry at the approach of Christmas. We can hum with the monks in their chorals, whistle with the serving maids and trill with the jongleurs. No one will ever suspect we are plotting treason.”
“Treason?” she exclaimed. “Not I!”
“Aye, you, as flaunting the will of a king can be a hanging offense.”
“Be serious, please! Are we to pretend to happiness at this betrothal, then, as if we long for the wedding date? Must we act as if it is real?”
“Have I not just said so?” He reached to take her hand, lifting it to his mouth, brushing his smooth, warm lips across the backs of her fingers while holding her gaze with the dark blue of his own.
Cate drew a swift breath as the muscles of her arm jerked in uncontrollable spasm. “Don’t!”
“I fear I may have to do more, though not at the moment.” He smiled down at her, his eyes heavy lidded, almost sleepy. “Try a bemused and adoring look, Lady Catherine, if you can manage it. It may be helpful just now, since Trilborn seems to be panting to know what passes between us.”
It was an instant before she caught the meaning of his last, softly murmured phrase, and glimpsed Trilborn scowling at them from where he leaned on a support post. Her reaction then had more to do with instinct than conscious thought. With the lift of her chin, she stepped closer and laid her hand upon the daring Scotsman’s wrist.
“Yes, I do see what you mean,” she murmured. “Shall we walk again? If we do not, I may be forced to sing, after all, and I promise you won’t like it.”
To act a part went against the grain, Ross thought, as he stared out over the snow-covered town and the chalk hills beyond, watching as the king’s falconer set his charge to coursing after hares in the open fields beyond the castle walls. He liked matters to be simple, preferred to state his views and intentions and stand by them come what may. That he could not do that in the matter of Lady Catherine was unsettling.
He had remained with her through the noon meal. They had enjoyed a place near the king’s table, and been honored by choice dishes sent down to them. The mark of Henry’s favor had not gone unnoticed. Only a blind man could have failed to guess that a betrothal was in the offing, particularly with the tale of their night spent together in the New Forest spreading through the room like a bad odor.
Lady Catherine had smiled and played the blushing bride-to-be to perfection. Her hands had been like ice, however, and she ate almost nothing. Ross pressed tid-bits upon her while seeing that her wineglass was kept filled. Afterward, he’d accepted her excuse of a headache and escorted her to the door of the hall, where her sister awaited her.
God knew she had reason enough to make an escape; he felt the strong need of solitude himself. That his strongest inclination was to take her away to a place where they could be alone again together was maddening in its lack
of logic.
Worse still was the welter of emotions that beset him whenever he looked at her. She fired his blood beyond imagining; the need to have her made his body ache until his eyes watered. Her grace and courage, the way she smiled, moved, tilted her bright head—everything about her fascinated him. Yet he was the son of a contentious laird who despised everything English, and she the ward of an English king. To tie himself to her, to act the part of pawn in the game Henry played, would cut Ross off from his family and his homeland. He had sworn he would not wed her, and she depended on him to keep his word.
Trilborn wanted her and her dowry; that much was clear. Ross resented the simplicity of the Englishman’s desire, and was determined he should not gain it. Ross wanted to think this was for Lady Catherine’s sake, because she intended to remain forever a maiden, but feared it was purest dog-in-the-manger spite. To see Trilborn gratified in any manner was anathema, but particularly when it involved so lovely a prize.
Ross had sworn not to wed Lady Catherine, but had not foresworn bedding her. He had sworn not to bow to an English king’s will, yet had said nothing of combating his own will in the matter. These facts had reared their ugly heads in those first moments after their audience with the king. They troubled him still.
Did Lady Catherine realize the self-serving distinctions a man could make in order to satisfy his desires? She was an intriguing blend of innocence and sophistication, no doubt the result of her months at court, where she was free to enjoy the licentious atmosphere while under strict royal protection. She recognized the base motives of those around her, but was somehow above them.
“Dunbar!”
Ross pushed away from the battlement’s crenellated wall. He turned without surprise to see his old enemy bearing down on him with his cloak flapping at his heels and a petulant glare on his smooth, aristocratic face.
“Trilborn,” he said with scant politeness. Dealing with the arrogant fool was the last thing he needed. The sight of him, still wearing the black and silver he’d had on early that morning, set Ross’s teeth on edge.
“Who would dream you’d be up here? I’d think you’d have had your fill of cold wind.”
“What do you want?”
If the bluntness of the question registered with Trilborn, there was no sign of it. “Precisely what you’d expect, I’m sure. I want to know how matters stand between you and Lady Catherine. Is there to be a wedding?”
He should concede nothing, Ross knew. The temptation to tweak his enemy’s pointed beard, at least in a manner of speaking, was just impossible to resist. “The king sends to discover if the laird of the Clan Dunbar can be persuaded.”
Trilborn eyed him with disfavor. “And you are overjoyed.”
“Why not, given so lovely a lady?”
“So wealthy, too, though there is always the curse to consider. Come, Dunbar. You can’t mean to accept this arrangement. What will you do about it?”
Ross allowed a small smile to curl one corner of his mouth. “What would you? I wait on my father.”
“You could take a horse and ride out of Winchester. No one is likely to stop you. They’ll scarce even notice you’ve gone.”
“I make no doubt you would supply mount and escort.”
The man’s eyes narrowed to conceal their glint of triumph. “Why, yes, if you like.”
“It grieves me to disappoint you, but I must decline. I gave my parole, and cannot go back on my sworn word.”
“What do you care, when it was given to an English king?”
In that was an echo of his thoughts about his father’s word, Ross saw with an internal grimace. “What matters is that I gave it of my will.”
“At the behest of others, for matters of state that would not touch you otherwise.”
“The reasons make not a whit of difference.” That was also true of his betrothal to Lady Catherine, he saw with inescapable clarity. He had vowed not to marry her, and must now abide by that promise.
If simplicity was what he craved, he should be well pleased. Odd, how little that was so.
“So you would take a Sassenach wife, no matter what your father answers.”
Ross turned his head to study Trilborn. “Instead of leaving her to you, you mean? You think with me gone, Henry may give her to you?”
The Englishman fastened upon him a look of purest detestation. “It was discussed between us. He would have agreed to it soon enough, but for your interference.”
“If you think Henry is swayed by anything other than what may benefit the crown, you don’t know him.”
“So you think he’ll push Cate—that is, Lady Catherine—into your arms for the sake of a tie with Scotland? The conceit of it beggars the imagination.”
Cate. Ross tested the shortened name in his mind. It suited her. Even as the thought occurred, however, another arrived full blown in his mind.
“My interference?” he inquired without inflection.
“The honor of rescuing her should have been mine!” Trilborn said in savage indignation.
He was not talking about his arrival this morning, for that was scarce a rescue at all. Was it possible Trilborn had known Lady Catherine would fall behind the hunt? Had his old enemy, just possibly, intended an abduction, followed by a night in his company and a wedding shortly thereafter?
It was feasible. Everyone knew she was reluctant to be present at the kill.
So what had prevented him from carrying out his intent?
The boar. Yes, of course. Trilborn had not counted on the beast sending Lady Catherine’s palfrey careening into the deeper forest. Neither could he have guessed she would stumble upon the ambuscade built by forest outlaws to catch wayward members of the king’s hunt.
“Except that I happened to gain the honor,” Ross said quietly. “Your loss, I fear.”
“Or not,” Trilborn answered, his black eyes hard with promise. “You are unlikely to live long enough to take Lady Catherine to wife.”
He swung away with a jerk that sent his cloak flapping like the wings of a bird of prey. His strides were long and powered by rage as he took himself out of sight.
Ross watched him go, listened to his footsteps echoing on stone, listened to the hollow echo of his threat as it bounced back and forth in Ross’s head. And he marveled that he was more fraught at the idea of never having Lady Catherine than he was at meeting his promised death.
5
“Have you not heard? Henry intends that we leave here tomorrow morn, making our way to Greenwich Palace. ’Tis time, else Christmas will be a sad affair.”
Marguerite’s breath fogged in the air as she spoke, drifting behind her in the frigid corridor as she and Cate made their way from the great hall to their small chamber. Cate thought her sister’s voice had a disgruntled edge as she trudged along with her hands burrowed into her wide sleeves for warmth. The glance she gave from under straight dark brows was also less than pleased.
“You are anxious to go?” Cate asked with the lift of a brow.
“I would go if I had to crawl,” Marguerite declared. “I weary of this progress of Henry’s that makes little progress. I despise being cold and am sick unto death of hunting. Why Henry could not abide in London with Elizabeth and his heir is more than I can see.”
“I believe he removed to allow the queen to recover in peace from her coronation.”
“I daresay, or because he was galled by it.” Cate’s younger sister, just sixteen, gave a brief shake of her head. “Men have such egos, do they not? So the cheers for Elizabeth, a princess of the house of York, were louder than those raised for him when he was crowned last year, what of it? She has lived among these people all her life, while he has spent fifteen of his near thirty years in exile, but he must be more lauded because nature put him above her.”
Cate waited to speak until a trio of serving women, coming toward them with baskets of linens to be loaded for the move, had passed. “Take care, my dear. We are dependent on his goodwill and needs must ke
ep it.”
Her sister’s glance was sharp with ill humor. “Yes, well, it was ridiculous of him to leave Elizabeth to rest while Christmas preparations for upward of two thousand must be made at Greenwich. Fine rest that will be for her!”
“He is at least thinking of the holiday, my dear,” Cate said. “We are to transport a Yule log from the New Forest, along with enough holly, bay and mistletoe to deck a dozen castles.”
“Which only means more work for Elizabeth and her ladies. I’d like to tell him a thing or two.”
“Are you sure it isn’t me you would take to task?” Cate said with warm irony. “If you want to know what occurred with Ross Dunbar last night and the king this morning, you have only to ask.”
“What occurred?”
The look that went with that question was stolid, as if her sister thought the answer must be unpleasant. It was all Cate could do not to smile. “Nothing happened.”
Marguerite gave a tired sigh. “I knew you wouldn’t tell me.”
“It’s the truth, or at least in so far as my time with the Scotsman is concerned.” Cate went on to explain, making as light of her rescue as possible.
“By all the saints, Cate, how can you be so calm? To be mauled and threatened with rapine, rescued by a northern barbarian and then forced to spend the night in his company while surviving a blizzard? You should be laid up in bed with a hot posset instead of strolling about the great hall just now with your…your—”
“My betrothed?”
“Oh, Cate! No!”
“Yes, at Henry’s behest, though it is not yet official.”
Marguerite shook her hands free of her sleeves, then slid an arm around Cate for a quick hug. “And I am being disagreeable because you didn’t come at once to confide in me. You must be so dazed that you can barely think, or else ready to weep with vexation.”
By Grace Possessed Page 6
