“Oooh, you are maddening!” Catherine stared into Duncan’s eyes. His never wavered. Suddenly she wanted to believe he cared.
So her husband wanted to play games. Well, she could do that. She’d turn the tables on him and play his game—only play it better. Rising from her chair, she decided to kiss him and risk the consequences. For once she’d be brave enough to take the risk. She walked toward him. She touched his face with her hand, her fingers trembling.
Catherine brushed his lips with hers. She whispered, “Now would be a really good time to show me you love me.”
“I do not need a second invitation.” Wrapping his arm around her waist, he guided her toward the stairway.
Meghan came out of her bedchamber and appeared at the head of the staircase. She held her Christmas rag doll in her hand, but dropped it. Collapsing to the stone floor, her small body was as limp as the dollie.
Catherine screamed and ran over to the staircase and knelt beside her, Duncan at her heels. She placed her hand on the young girl’s forehead.
“She burns with fever.”
Duncan scooped the tiny girl into his arms and rushed to her room. Catherine stripped off the child’s clothes while instructing, “Moisten cloths. We have to cool her down. Duncan, please go outside to gather snow. Once it melts, I can use it to sponge her.”
Despite their efforts, by evening Meghan was delirious. Duncan paced his daughter’s room and despaired, “I feel inadequate. Give me a sword and an enemy. A sick daughter I cannot control.”
A thought struck him. Surely his father hadn’t felt the same when he’d been sick. Could that possibly be why...? Nay!
Hours turned into days and half the Hall’s occupants fell to the spreading illness. With so many clansmen brought low by fever and excruciating stomach pains, Catherine set up a communal sick room below stairs, trying to contain the illness. Concerned for his people, Duncan tore himself away from his daughter’s bedside vigil to help her set up more pallets.
Shortly after returning to Meggie’s room, Angus knocked on the door. “I needs must speak with Duncan.”
The two men stepped into the hallway and spoke in hushed tones. When Duncan returned, he crossed to the arrow slits. Catherine followed. “Duncan?”
“Sad news. Elderly people from the village succumbed to the fever and three of Father’s villeins died.” He rubbed his hand up her arm and looked as if he would say something.
When Cat saw his bloodshot eyes, she ordered, “To bed with you, husband.”
Duncan grumbled, “Nay, I am fine. Just tired.” Even as he said the words, he doubled over in pain, holding fast to his stomach. “Och, it feels like someone tosses a caber into my belly.”
“Oh, aye. Fine as a newborn lamb,” she huffed, fighting the edge of panic. “Off with you, before you collapse like our Meggie.”
Duncan smiled despite the pains. Was that a burr he heard in his lovely wife’s words? But what warmed his heart even more was her calling Meggie theirs. “Nay, my shrew wife, I cannot leave our daughter. She needs me.”
His beautiful wife exhaled her frustration. “Then there is only one thing to do.” Turning, she called out, “Angus, Alex, please help me move Meggie into our chamber. I shall tend stubborn father and daughter together.” She wrapped her arms around her husband to help him upstairs and Duncan thought some of the warmth running through his fevered body might actually be pleasure. If she wished him well, she must no longer wish to be rid of him.
Perhaps he made progress.
Days and nights ran together as Catherine numbly ran up and down the stairs tending people, pushing herself far beyond endurance. Exhausted, Catherine sat, half leaning on the bed as she bathed Duncan with ice water, fearful she’d get chilblains from the icy liquid used to try and break the fever.
“May I have a drink?” Meghan croaked.
“Meggie!” Catherine cried with delight, feeling the child’s head, now cool to the touch. “Praise the saints. You are better.”
She fetched Meghan some water, relieved color returned to the child’s pale cheeks. Returning to her husband, she placed the back of her hand to his forehead, lingering to stroke his cheek. “What I would not give to feel you cool as well.” Instead, his body ravaged with fever.
Deep into the night, Catherine sat beside him and moistened his brow while others slept. Her heart broke when he hallucinated.
“I love you,” he said, then moaned once again in pain.
Catherine thought her heart would break. ‘Twas only his fevered state that made him mumble words she wanted to believe with all her heart. To do so would be folly. If only he meant those words. She’d not let herself believe them, even knowing she loved him. Especially knowing she loved him.
These past weeks he seemed happy. Oh, why hadn’t he given their marriage a chance when first they met? She knew the answer only too well. She was English, and he hated everything English. No matter how much she wanted the words to be true, a man didn’t fight a foe and suddenly forget the woman he married is of their blood.
Sobbing like a child, he said, “Da, do not leave me here. Come back.”
Catherine soothed his brow, but he continued to weep.
“Da, I am sorry I have been sick. Take me home.”
He tossed and turned, unable to rest.
“Athair, please do not leave me!”
Catherine lay beside him and wrapped her arms around his heated body. How can I stop his torment? She closed her eyes to plead with God.
Quieted by Catherine’s ministrations, Duncan calmed, only to begin thrashing about again. “Laird MacGhillechearr, please do not beat me. Nay! I promise I shall ne’er drop the saddle again. I but felt weak from my illness. I will not... Nay!”
This must be what Tamara intimated when they’d met at Castle Glenshee. Her strong, brave husband vividly remembered being abandoned and abused. No wonder he hated his father. Could she chase away shadows of his past? As she lay beside him, holding him to her body to still his shivers, she determined to try.
“Shh, Duncan. Naught can harm you now. Rest.”
For hours she held him, whispering soothing words into his ear and placing moist cloths on his brow. She wept relief when Duncan, too, grew better. Being such a strong man, always pushing himself in the lists, he fought the illness off faster than most.
She mentioned nothing of his fever dreams. He’d be shamed if he thought he’d revealed something he perceived as a weakness. Her husband was too proud to let that happen. Ne’ertheless, she’d set her mind to ridding him of ghosts of his past and she had every intention of seeing that through, no matter how long or how hard the task proved.
Catherine concentrated her efforts on the room downstairs as people continued to fall ill. To her relief, a similar amount recovered. God blessed them and they’d lost no one in the Hall, although too many people had died in the village and at the castle.
What seemed like endless days later, Angus entered the sick room to see if any were well enough to partake of broth Cook just finished preparing. Catherine reached for the cup, but it dropped from her grasp. She sat with a small thud as if her legs wouldn’t hold her.
“My Lady!” he gasped. “The fever is upon you.” Angus spun on his heel, calling from the hallway, “Duncan! Lady Catherine is ill.”
Duncan rushed into the room. He paused at the doorway, his eyes taking in his sick wife. Moving to her, he knelt on one knee. Running his hand over her cheek to brush the hair from her face, he nearly flinched from how hot she felt. “How long have you been ill?”
Her eyes glazed. She tried to answer, but couldn’t speak.
Sweeping her into his arms, a chilling fear filled his heart, as cold as Catherine’s fever was hot.
He headed upstairs to place her on the very bed where she’d tended him. Fighting tears, he said, “Angus, have snow brought and melted. I feared this might happen. She pushed herself too hard caring for the rest of us.”
Now it was his turn to ca
re for her.
She tossed and turned for days.
No matter what herbs people gave Duncan to try, her fever didn’t break. Reaching the point of desperation, he mumbled, “Woman if you even think to die, I vow I shall kill you myself.” He couldn’t lose her. He knew she didn’t believe him when he told her he cared, but he did. That thought scared him to death.
The following days found clansmen mourning as they buried loved ones on the outskirts of the village. Duncan came inside from helping them, then headed upstairs to his bedchamber and sat on the edge of the bed.
Would his beautiful young wife die? Nay, he’d not let her. “Fight, Catherine,” he pleaded in a broken voice. He simply couldn’t lose this stubborn woman. He needed her far more than he’d thought possible—far more than he cared to admit.
“Please fight. I need you to stay with me.”
Chapter Nineteen
When Catherine finally opened her eyes, Duncan felt as if an anvil had been lifted from his chest. The footprint in the ashes had been correct and many clansmen and women had died, but it hadn’t taken his precious Catherine or Meghan. God had graced him with a second chance with them both.
He spent Catherine’s recovery regaling her about the Auld Ways, reveling in her reaction to his lore. When well enough to begin rebuilding her strength, he took her hand and drew her toward the outside doorway. “Our people believe a cloud in the shape of a bull shall cross the sky this morn, the direction it travels foretells our clan’s fortune.”
Catherine laughed. “Recently people were on their knees thanking God for allowing them to survive the malaise, now they scry the sky to see what direction a cloud travels? I misdoubt I shall ever understand the workings of the mind of a Scot.”
Duncan smiled, pleased she felt well enough to jest, the sound of her laughter music to his ears. “Mayhap, woman, but outside with you now so we may see these ancient auguries.” He patted her on her bottom as he moved her gently outside.
“See what?”
“Divinings,” he clarified.
In the bailey, elderly men craned their necks to peer at the heavens. Catherine turned to Duncan. “What do they think they see?”
Duncan drew her close, pressed her back to his chest. “See that cloud? It travels East, so we shall have a verra good year.”
Catherine was in front of him so he couldn’t see her face, but he knew exactly what she’d do—roll her eyes, pull her mouth to the right side and sigh. Och, his bonnie wife was so predictable, so precious.
He took her hand. “Let us walk. You need to rebuild your strength. Candlemas is our Festival of Lights, so I hope you feel well enough to go with me later this eve to our torchlight processional around our fields.”
“Why?” Puzzlement crossed her face.
“Why do I want you with me?”
She pulled her face again. “Why have a procession?”
“To purify the ground for spring planting.”
“Everything is covered with snow,” she said in surprise.
Duncan conceded, “We bless the fields for later. I keep forgetting you were reared in a large town. It seems you have been here forever.” He pressed his lips to the back of her neck. “You belong at Cray Hall, mo chride.”
Hope flared in her eyes, but died just as quickly. She jerked her head away to hide her longing.
But he’d seen.
He pretended he hadn’t. “February second is St. Brìghde’s feast day, the Celtic goddess of fire and hearth. Heard you of her?” The quirk of her brow told him she thought it a daft subject. “The list she’s known for goes on and on, but the main thing is blessings she gives women set to marry. Women bear her name on their wedding day.”
Catherine cocked her head in question.
“They are called brides.”
A bewildered expression crossed her face. “Is that a true story, Duncan MacThomas, or do you spin tales?”
“‘Tis true—and speaking of brides...” His expression sobered as he stared into her beautiful face. “I am late telling you this, but you were a beautiful bride on our wedding day.”
Before Catherine could utter a word, he drew her into his arms. He kissed her in hopes of making her knees go wobbly, kissed her in hopes of reaching her heart.
He didn’t want to be married to his English wife, yet he continually chose to be close to her. Would she ever know his true feelings? When he held her and deepened his kiss, she didn’t care if she understood or not. She wanted to feel his strength.
Duncan brushed the lock of hair from her brow, a gesture he’d made a hundred times, but she pressed back against him, needing that physical bond. Why should a simple kiss overwhelm her, make her feel so much? He made her want—need—him so much, the force was bedeviling.
Duncan reined back, breathing heavily. He grabbed Catherine’s hand and pulled her behind him. “If we see the sun this day, winter is over, but if it stays hidden behind clouds, more winter comes.”
How could he do that? ‘Twas most disconcerting. He continued on with his lore as if naught passed between them. Only his labored breaths belied the fact he’d been as affected as she.
Well, if the blasted man could do it, she could be just as nonchalant. “This is how you decide spring is upon us?”
“‘Tis an honorable way to foretell the weather. You would rather we trust some small animal?” Catherine shivered and he wrapped his arm around her shoulder. “Let us be away to the Hall. I do not want you chilled. Whilst you were fevered, you hallucinated about being in the maze. I do not wish that to happen again.” He hesitated. “I hate mazes. Something bad happened to me in one once, too. I almost...” He stopped, unable to continue.
Catherine looked at him expectantly. “What happened?”
He shook his head. “I do not wish to talk about it. I wish you to set your mind to getting well.” He urged her toward their home, forestalling her questions.
~ * ~
Nearing the end of March, Duncan received a summons to Castle Glenshee. There was nothing to do but go. With foreboding, he told the courier, “I shall be there on the morrow.”
He found himself impatient with these continual interferences. Why did his father desire contact with him now? What did he expect after having ignored him all those years? Did he think Duncan would forget?
The next morn Alexander and he entered Glenshee’s Great Hall unannounced. He wanted the interview over with quickly and had no intention of staying. Now that Meggie was home where she belonged, there was no reason to tarry in the abode that held so many painful memories, so many regrets.
MacThomaidh entered the Hall. He walked slowly, seeming to age every time Duncan saw him.
“Good,” the old man announced without preamble. “Ye came.”
“I had a choice?” Duncan grumbled.
“One always has choices in life, son,” MacThomaidh responded sadly. He turned away and sat at the nearest table. “Longshanks’ forces are headed to Stirling. A messenger arrived with the news yestermorn. I would go myself, but we both know that would be folly. I am too auld. It pains me to admit that. I am a proud man.”
Duncan’s eyes closed as he accepted the inevitable, knowing his father’s request—demand—before he voiced it.
“Ye must lead our clansmen.”
Just when Duncan wanted to remain home, needed to be home, Edward again challenged Scotland. How many summers must they endure his coming?
“You swore fealty to Longshanks, ordered me to a wed a woman he chose, yet now you demand I fight him?”
“Figured ye would ask that.” MacThomaidh’s lips quirked in a half smile but quickly sobered. “Stirling must not fall. The castle’s location is too important to Scotland. Situated as it is between the Highlands and Lowlands, whoever holds Stirling holds the country. We must hold it.”
As much as it irked him, he had to admit his father was right. Stirling must not fall.
Duty would play havoc with the relationship he so tentatively
tried to forge with his beautiful wife. On the ride home, he pondered how to break the tides to her. At times she seemed to accept their life, others she stubbornly clung to his foolish actions at their wedding. He’d never considered how deeply those actions would hurt her.
Catherine sat, finishing a new shift for Meghan. The instant she saw his face, she jumped up from her chair, the raiment forgotten at her feet.
“Duncan, what is wrong? You have the pallor of a ghost.”
“Naught is wrong.” He headed to the ale barrel.
Catherine followed. “Do not naysay me. And why must you drink that horrid stuff? Surely God would not…”
Taking a drink, Duncan put down his tankard. As she placed a hand on his upper arm, he admitted, “I have been summoned to fight, lass.”
Catherine barely caught her breath. “Fight?”
“Longshanks plans to lay siege to Stirling. We cannot let it fall to the English. Positioned as it is, if it falls, all of Scotland falls.”
“Why must you fight?” She backed out of his arms and walked to the hearth, wrung her hands. “Please do not go.”
He walked to where she stood by the fire. She tried to turn away, hide tears streaming down her face. He stopped her by putting his finger beneath her chin.
“Do not turn away, Cat. Tell me what is wrong.”
“I cannot. You would think me silly.”
Duncan drew her to him. He wrapped his arms around her, rubbing his right hand down her back, waiting for her to tell him what bothered her.
Looking into his eyes, Catherine blurted, “I had a dream.”
When she didn’t elaborate, Duncan urged. “And?”
She threw herself back into his arms and sobbed, “A foreshadowing of the future. I didn’t tell you because I knew you would laugh.”
He nuzzled his nose in her hair. “I am not laughing.”
“A castle falls. Some strange monster, almost as tall as the castle throws boulders at it. I have never seen the likes of it before. Men scream in pain, trying to crawl to safety, trying to flee the stones crashing down around them. Blood...oh, so much blood. Everywhere.” Eyes wide, she met his stare.
Her Highland Destiny Page 15
