By Grace Possessed

by Jennifer Blake

  “No,” she whispered.

  “Aye,” he said, his gaze on her mouth while his body hardened like tempered steel.

  Wild rose color suffused her features as she searched his eyes. “You can’t.”

  “I can. I will.”

  Her mouth, as he set his own to it, was as sweet as it looked. He tasted it in full, plundering its warmth and moisture with ravening force. He set his feet and shifted his grasp, sliding his hand under her arm to cup the soft resilience of her breast. The nipple nudged his palm, a tight bud of provocation. He brushed over it, drew in her soft moan of response as if it offered perfect sustenance. Mayhap it did, for he deepened the kiss with mindless hunger. Twining his tongue with hers, he abraded its silken surface, sought the tender recess underneath, intruded deeper and withdrew in a parody of his most urgent need. His breath burned in his chest. His brain simmered in the cauldron of his skull. He ached with such throbbing pain that the back of his neck seemed to scorch his shirt and red-hot coals burn his boot soles.

  Cate shuddered, drawing a breath that sobbed in her throat. The sound vibrated through him, found a touch spring of strained reason.

  He released her with abrupt, muscle-wrenching reluctance. Stepping back, he turned so fast that his plaid flared around his knees, billowed behind his shoulder. He stalked away then, leaving her standing behind him.

  It was either that or take her there in that drafty corridor with all the ungentle force that Trilborn had intended when he set upon her in nearly the same place. And Ross was not sure which stunned him most, that desperate need or the fact that he managed to subdue it.

  Was she to be bedded to spite an old foe, or in payment for the loss of patrimony?

  Neither alternative appealed to Cate, though her toes curled in her slippers at the mere thought of them as she watched the Scotsman stalk away from her. Soon he would be her husband, with all the rights and privileges that entailed. He could do whatever he liked to her, and none would gainsay him. And what might he not do, if he came to hate her for all he had lost?

  She didn’t want to think of it, nor did she care to envision the raw, physical act, how it would feel or how she would endure it. She had seen firsthand the hostility visited upon her mother by her stepfather. That Cate might have to abide with the same violent treatment, the slurs, insults, blows and worse that took place behind closed doors, was a horror in the mind. Better that the curse intervene than to suffer it.

  Still, she could not picture Ross Dunbar as such a malignant husband. Her vision of him was quite otherwise.

  She should not think of him at all in that guise; this she knew well. Yet how could she not? Nothing else was quite so important in a woman’s life. And if the intimations of future pleasure brought by his kiss were more vivid than her memories of childhood fears, if she wished mightily in her weaker moments that he could be immune to the curse, what did that say of her?

  Arrogant, shortsighted, thickheaded man! She had no desire to be the cause of a rift between him and his father. Nor did she wish to curtail Ross’s freedom or tie him to England. She wanted only to save his life, if the fool would but let her.

  Her hands trembled as she touched her veil to be sure it was in place, ran her hands down the front of her gown to remove any wrinkles. How very off balance she felt, as if she had come safely through some unexpected storm but could not be sure it was over. Moving with deliberate steps to allow her breathing to return to normal, she followed in the direction Ross had disappeared.

  The entrance to the great hall was in sight when she heard someone approaching from behind her. A quick glance over her shoulder confirmed what she feared already. Her defenses closed in like window shutters slamming into place.

  “I give you good day, Lady Catherine,” Trilborn said, his voice even, as if nothing untoward had ever passed between them.

  She sent him a cutting glance, but made no reply.

  “You’ve just come from the king, I think. I heard you had been summoned, saw you and Dunbar pass through just now as I stood with friends.”

  “How convenient for you.” He had been loitering, waiting to follow her again, she was sure. Regardless, he had delayed until she was alone. Had he seen what passed between her and Ross? She didn’t care if he had. In fact, she hoped for it, if it would discourage him.

  “You appear less than overjoyed at the tidings received from our good King Henry,” he went on.

  “Do I?” The heavy door to the hall lay ahead of her. She measured the distance with her eyes while increasing her pace a fraction.

  “Shall I guess what has you in such upset? Henry the Grim has seen fit to end your maidenly shrinking. He has commanded you to the altar.”

  Maidenly shrinking, indeed! “If you must have it, yes. Ross and I are to be wed.”

  “My disappointment knows no bounds.”

  “You should be delighted,” she snapped. “You have escaped the curse.”

  Ahead of her, the heavy door into the great hall swung open and two gentlemen emerged. Seeing her, the one in the lead held it while inclining his head. She almost ran the few steps that would allow her to pass through, escaping the private exchange with Trilborn.

  He sprang after her with a muttered oath, sliding through the opening just before the door closed again. Cate did not look back as she paused to seek Ross among those scattered over the vast, echoing space. He was not there. The benighted man must have walked straight through the hall on his way out of the palace. Nor was her sister to be seen.

  “Ross, is it?” Trilborn asked, frowning as he arrived at her side. “You use his given name?”

  “We are to be wed, after all.”

  “Or not,” he answered, his voice silken with menace.

  She met his gaze then, while a small headache began to pulse at her temples, throbbing with each beat of her heart. She feared to probe his meaning, but was equally afraid to refrain. “What are you saying?”

  “If his death is now decreed by this curse of the Graces, the thing can be arranged.”

  A cold tremor moved down her back like river ice sliding out to sea. “Don’t!”

  “But I had the impression you would be glad to be free.”

  “Well, but…”

  “Have no fear. It shall be as you desire.”

  He set a fist on his hip as he bowed, then swung away with his short cape draped over his bent arm like a wing, flapping as he walked away. He thrust his legs forward in long steps, his head up, staring around. It was hard to say whether it was vanity that moved him, or if he watched to see those he would avoid before they saw him.

  It shall be as you desire…?.

  And how was that, pray? What did she want? What would she ask if she could have her desire?

  Cate wanted to know what it was to be loved, wanted that above all else. If it must be denied her, then she longed to know what took place between a man and a woman in the dark of night, that upheaval of feeling that could make the more daring ladies of the court smile and toss their heads, and the serving women sigh. Was it too much to ask?

  Ross could give her that much, at least. He was ready to bed her, for he’d said so in plain words. The betrothal contracts they had signed had all the legality of marriage. Few would say a word if she gave birth to his child nine month hence, and the babe would be his heir. If the curse killed him before a priest could hear their vows, he would not die without issue.

  It was three weeks before the wedding could be solemnized. That length of time was required for the banns to be read, for news to travel near and far, so the old laird or anyone else could object to the wedding. The wedding feast must be prepared, her trousseau aired and made ready, and preparations made for traveling northward to take up the lands provided by the king. Three weeks were left during which Trilborn and the curse might vie to rid Ross of life.

  What did she really want?

  She had a mere three weeks to make up her mind.

  10

  The king
removed from Greenwich to Shene Palace before the first of January. The shift in residence was, in part, to allow a different segment of his subjects access to the king’s justice, but also to allow the vacated palace to recover from housing several hundred courtiers, their servants and animals.

  Henry presented fine new raiment to his household in token of the New Year, a fresh beginning. Cate, not being a designated lady-in-waiting to the queen, was left out of that largesse. She received, instead, a fine costume of different fabric and design in honor of her coming marriage, and was assured Ross received the same.

  The gift was no great surprise. Henry stood as guardian to her and her sisters, and Isabel had received something similar on her marriage to Braesford. Still, the richness of it startled Cate. The gown was of lustrous silk-velvet in an evergreen hue, as befitted the winter season, with slashed sleeves that exposed the gold-embroidered cream silk sleeves of the under shift. More gold lace edged the neckline and the inverted wedge of the split skirt that swept back to reveal the embroidered underskirt. The girdle that accompanied the gown was of gold mesh set with hundreds of small emerald beads, while larger gems dangled at the ends of its cords, hanging nearly to the floor. A fine cloak in white velvet was supplied to ward off the winter chill. Its attached capelet was of ermine, with a hood to cover her hair, which would be worn loose on her special day.

  Cate was delighted with the costume, though she’d have selected a more blue-green shade of velvet, given a choice. There was no chance of that, of course. White and green were the colors designated by Henry for his Tudor reign, so were a mark of his favor. She must be content.

  Watching Gwynne brush the velvet, fluff the fur and twitch at the wrinkles in the silk, Cate felt a sinking sensation in her chest. The ceremonial presentation of the attire the evening before made the wedding seem more real. The days were slipping past one by one. Soon they would be gone.

  She had not slept for the past three nights. A part of her waited, staring into the darkness, listening for the thud of feet, the whisper of another serving woman outside or tromp of a sentry come to tell her that Ross was dead. The dawning of every day was a reprieve. The first sight of him in the great hall, breaking his fast with other men downing their beef, bread and ale, lifted her spirits like the rising of the sun.

  The two of them had exchanged New Year’s gifts, more because it was expected, she thought, than from sentiment. She had sewn a pair of gloves for him of the softest deerskin, embroidered with the thistle of Scotland. He had presented her with a silver pomander filled with the dried and spiced leaves of Saracen roses.

  It was the only time in these past few days that they had spoken to each other with civility. The strain of their forced marriage, and the exchange between them after the documents were signed, left them uncomfortable in one another’s company.

  The thought of Ross’s face as he’d proclaimed his right to bed her seldom left Cate. She could not erase from her mind the possessive promise in the depths of his eyes. Every time she brought it to mind, a tremor streaked through her, straight to the lower part of her belly.

  She had half feared he would take Henry’s edict as permission to be as intimate as he pleased with her. She also feared he would not.

  Her mind was in such turmoil during these days, so awash in dread and longing, shrinking and anticipation, that she hardly knew what she was about. Eating was impossible, sleep uncertain. She was such poor company that Marguerite deserted her for whatever companionship she could find in the great hall. Left alone, Cate sat gazing at nothing, with her embroidery lying untouched in her lap, or else stared out some high window at the passing horsemen, searching for a familiar figure in plaid.

  She should have more pride, she told herself. She was no serving maid, sighing after a pair of broad shoulders. No, she was Lady Catherine Milton, a lady of independent thought and considered decisions. What she should be doing was persuading the stubborn Scotsman to fly for the border while he was still able. Failing that, she should be petitioning the king’s mother for her aid in entering a nunnery, just as she had threatened.

  Cate could not make up her mind which action was best. Both were so very final.

  They had been ensconced at Shene some days when a messenger arrived from Braesford Hall. He brought with him a bundle of New Year’s gifts that had been long delayed due to a series of snowstorms. He also delivered a letter from Cate’s sister Isabel.

  As pleased as she was by gifts she had given up seeing until Braesford and Isabel next came to court, Cate valued the letter more. She waited until she was alone to read it, unwrapping it, breaking the seal and unrolling it with care.

  Isabel’s contentment was written into every word. She was growing huge with the child inside her, she wrote, so suspected it was a boy. She prayed it was, as she was certain that would please Braesford, though he assured her in divers satisfactory ways that he cared not at all. Little Madeleine, Henry’s babe, was teething, though thriving otherwise. She was quite the chatelaine of the manse, betimes, providing for landholders, villeins and a full complement of men-at-arms, seeing to their needs like a ewe with her lambs. All that was lacking for her to be completely happy was to have her dear sisters with her. And that brought her to a message she had received from Marguerite. According to their youngest sister, a marriage had been arranged for Cate. Isabel would be pleased beyond words to hear of it, if only she knew her middle sister was pleased, as well.

  Cate frowned as she wondered how the news had reached the far north so quickly. A moment later, she realized Isabel must refer to the first time Henry had suggested a betrothal, that she could not know of his latest royal command. Cate began to read again:

  Marguerite believes you may think to escape this marriage by appealing to the archbishop, possibly through the duchess, for permission to take the veil. I know not your mind in this matter, but would caution you to think carefully upon it. A life of prayer and good works may not suffice for you, sweet Cate. I fear you are too volatile for such a vocation, that it may chafe you beyond bearing. I would also have you understand the sacrifice you would make. I can summon no words to describe how precious the closeness between husband and wife can be, how very powerful the moments when they are alone behind the bed curtains. These times are magical, the very essence of life, leading to this most glorious of states that I now embrace, the creation of a child. Moreover, to stand at a man’s side as his helpmate, friend and lover, one whom he will protect with his very life, is a boon beyond compare. Do not deprive yourself of these things, I pray you, dear Cate. Or if you must, be certain you have excellent reason.

  I am, ever and always, your loving sister,

  Isabel

  Cate sat staring into the fire with the piece of vellum clutched in her hand for an endless time. Her thoughts and impulses leaped and danced like the flames, flaring and subsiding, only to flare up again. They crackled and spat and spiraled into smoke, but in their center was a glowing red heat that did not die.

  How weary she was of other people deciding her life for her.

  She must do something.

  Yes, she must do something, but what?

  Life in a nunnery had little appeal. In all truth, she had no real vocation. Regardless, she could not continue at court if she refused to accede to the king’s wishes.

  She might go to Isabel and Braesford, but it would be unfair to force them to defend her, and unkind to set them at odds with Henry on her account.

  It was impossible for her to take up residence at any of the properties received as her share of her father’s estate. As a woman alone, unprotected by father, brother or husband, she would be besieged, subject to abduction and exactly the sort of forced marriage she wished to avoid. That, or else kept as a prisoner under Henry’s guard until such time as she felt dutiful.

  She could not allow Ross to die from the effect of the curse. Nor could she bear to let him risk it

  All in all, it seemed the nunnery was the only sensible
choice.

  If she must give up her freedom, her fortune and all joy of the flesh to become a bride of Christ, so be it, but first she would have at least a taste of the closeness to a man that Isabel described. Surely God would not begrudge her that much.

  When the afternoon was far gone, and evening drawing in, Cate got to her feet and crossed the chamber to step into the hall. Stopping a scurrying maidservant, she sent for Gwynne. When her serving woman arrived, Cate bade her arrange water for bathing, and also a light meal of wine, meat pie and fruit to be served in her room. Shutting herself inside, then, she began to remove the veil from her hair.

  In the midnight hour, when the palace had settled for the night, Cate left her chamber. She stole like a wraith through the vast, high-ceiling chambers, once more wearing Gwynne’s plain cloak of gray furze and wool servant’s slippers that whispered over the flooring. A faint trembling seemed to come from deep inside her, and she clenched her teeth to prevent their chattering. She was doing what she most desired, yet it felt as if she watched from a great distance as some other woman moved in and out of the shadows cast by lanterns in niches, paused to allow the patrolling palace guards to pass, swept noiselessly away behind their backs.

  Her pulse was hammering in her ears, her heart battering her rib cage, by the time she reached Ross’s chamber. She lifted a hand to scratch upon the door, but barely touched it. To tarry, waiting for an answer, might mean being seen. In any case, she was in no mood to be denied. With a hand on the latch, she pushed her way inside.

  The faint, whispering rustle of a footstep on floor rushes was her only warning. Hard upon it, a tall, black shape swooped down upon her. She was thrust backward against the door so fast her breath left her in a rush. Before she could get it back, something rigid and straight compressed her throat. A body as hard and warm as sun-heated armor pressed against her from shoulders to ankles.

  For an instant, there was only stunned silence.