Forbidden

by Sophia Johnson

  She waited as he carefully placed his sword beside the bed and draped his belt on a chair back. “Let me.” Catalin held up her hands when he grasped the hem of his tunic and started to pull it off. He hesitated before he let her grasp the black linen. He bent forward, his arms outstretched, for her to pull it over his head.

  The neck opening was ample enough it did not interfere with his mask. What would he do if she snatched it from his face and threw it into the fire? Her fingers itched to do so. Let them itch. She was no fool. She did not want to unleash that anger she had seen when his father provoked him. Would Ranald ever trust her enough to let her gaze upon his face?

  “Do ye read minds, wife?”

  “Read minds?” Catalin looked over her shoulder at him as she hung his tunic on a wall peg.

  “Aye. Ye looked like ye try to see into my skull.”

  “That would be an interesting gift to have. Elyne mentioned once that she thought mayhap Raik could.”

  “Hm. More likely he studies people and knows what they will do.”

  She shivered watching Ranald remove the rest of his clothing while they talked. He was as nakit as any man could get. In this light, he reminded her of a sleek animal, his hair falling beside his face and down to his shoulders. Black hair furred his chest and narrowed down the lean slab of his belly, where his slender hips framed loins nested in a bed of thick, black hair. With wolfish grace and the soundless padding of his feet, he moved to fetch the hot water. Firm buttocks above massive legs drew her gaze. She swallowed again.

  The fire’s glow molded his form in light; darkness hid his scarred back.

  She startled, for he hesitated, his hands holding a bucket over the tub, his eyes studying her face. Questioning her. She tried to hold his gaze, tried to pretend she was unaffected by his body. Could he see her flushed face?

  “Would ye wash my back, wife?” Ranald dumped the hot water in the tub and walked to fetch another bucket.

  For answer, she walked over to wait beside the stool where she had placed the soap. It’s aroma of Scot’s pine and spices reminded her of his scent. As he stepped into the tub, she tried not to stare. Heaven help her, she was no saint! Her breath caught in her throat when he lifted his left leg and put his foot into the tub. It was only natural that his sex was even more obvious. After all, it hung there betwixt his legs with the soft glow from the embers behind him.

  How could she plan to flee from him at the first chance she found, yet all she could think about was how she wanted him? Mayhap she was sex-crazed. Ha! That had to be it.

  “Ahem.”

  She near jumped across the tub. Ranald’s hand holding a wet cloth flashed up, spraying water over the side, reminding her why he was in the water and she was kneeling beside the tub.

  “Lean back.” She gathered his black hair to the sides and guided his head to avoid the rim of the wooden tub. She hesitated.

  “Uh, Ranald?” She peered down to see he had shut his eyes.

  “Aye?”

  She tapped his forehead on the right, where leather covered it. His eyes flew open and stared into hers.

  “Move to my left.” He waited until she went to stand between the tub and the fireplace.

  Looking down, she saw his shoulders were in shadows. Still, a brace of candles stood but a few paces away, between the table and the bed. He stared at them. Why was he so still?

  “What are you thinking?” Was he deciding he did not want her help with his bath?

  “A soft breeze.” Not a muscle twitched.

  He stared, looking fascinated, at the candles. Why had she not noticed their flames stirring? Had she left a shutter unlatched? She started to rise to go over to it. Without taking his eyes from the candles, his wet hand reached out to clasp her wrist. The flames leaned, almost level, and then there were no flames at all. The room was near dark

  He reached up, slid off his mask and placed it on the stool beside the bowl of soap. With a sigh of pleasure, he propped his feet on the foot of the tub. Sliding forward, he leaned back and dunked his head beneath the water then lifted it. He reached for another cloth and wiped his eyes. Huh. It was just to fool her, though. She noted he did not put it down but clutched it in his right fist.

  She enjoyed lathering his hair and running her fingers through the thick, healthy strands. She scrubbed then massaged his taut scalp, savoring the feel of his strong skull beneath her fingertips.

  “You were at Kelso?” She near whispered the question, her fingers still.

  “Aye.”

  Ranald pressed his head into her hands like a small dog would nudge her palm. He was so many men piled into one. The teasing lad who had chased her around the bailey with an ugly toad. The gentle monk in the garden. The grim husband learning she had deceived him. The man filled with such fury that Chief Broccin stepped back. The shadowy image of that man who could maim and disfigure an enemy then turn and prepare a savaged man for burial, making him look like he slept peacefully.

  Ranald’s many contrasts made her head spin.

  “Your friend, the abbot. He is well?”

  “As well as any man his age can be.”

  At her urging, he leaned back again and waited until she swished his hair in the water, then used a wooden cup to complete the rinsing. He reached up and swiped the water from his hair, then soaped his face and rinsed it.

  “I have noted warriors come and go, but hesitated to ask Chief Broccin about them.”

  She soaped the cloth and washed his shoulders and back, kneading the muscles as she worked. Unconsciously, she eased her touch over each scar as she encountered them. Why, there were too many to count, for they crossed over each other.

  “The men you noted were watching Hunter Castle and the surrounding countryside.” He rolled his shoulders, relaxing.

  “Have you heard anything about Uncle Hamon? Is there a chance he will flee the castle when he sees your army?” Catalin hoped that somehow no one would be injured because of the hateful man.

  “Nay. Greed makes a man hang onto what he covets till his fingers are pried from it.”

  She patted his shoulder. He reached to take the cloth, ready to finish bathing on his own, but she held on to it and shook her head. He relaxed and rested back against the tub’s rim. Without looking above his chin, she washed his neck and arms.

  “Catalin, are ye familiar with the whole of Hunter Castle? Not just the keep?”

  She loved the dark, smooth sound of his voice. He looked quickly upward when she didn’t answer, and sighed. His breath ruffled an unruly lock falling onto her forehead.

  “The whole? Hm. The baileys and land within the walls?” Her soapy hands ventured around his collarbone and smoothed down over his furred chest, her fingers combed through the hair, exploring his flesh. Every now and again, his hot skin quivered so lightly she wondered if she imagined it.

  “Aye.” His voice was little above a murmur.

  “Hunter is a formidable castle. My great-great-grandfather built it on flat ground near woodlands where wild pigs, deer and grouse are abundant. The hunters will find plentiful game to supplement your supplies.” She stopped and grinned. “When Uncle Hamon learns you hunt what he considers his, he will screech loud as a cat with its tail beneath your boot till he has no voice at all.”

  With a soft giggle, she resumed her task of cleaning his body with her soapy hands. Would now be a good time to petition him about staying with Letia? How should she start? She could not say she wished to flee from him, so please be so kind as to take her to Letia’s where she would beg for an escort to King Stephen.

  He was very quiet. In the dim light, she noted his left eye squeezed shut. His jaw was rock hard, too. Saints! Was he in pain? She relaxed her labors. Not until then did she realize where she scrubbed. She gave a startled squeak and jerked her hands back.

  Ranald had noticed sooner. It was his groin she attacked with such vigor, his erect manhood that bobbed against her hands. She dared to breathe again when he cleared
his throat. His voice was husky and dark, but he made no mention of her activity.

  “Are there any weak spots in the curtain wall’s defenses? Mayhap crumbling stone that needs tending, or an area guarded with only a handful of men?”

  “Nay...not that comes to mind.”

  Catalin moved to the end of the tub, thinking about it while she soaped a foot propped against the wood. She had never noticed what strong feet he had or what handsome toes. Straight and narrow, without a crooked one on either foot. Seeing that slight distance between each toe reminded her of something that caused her to caress them fondly. Her brows drew together, trying to recollect what it was.

  “Elyne and I talked about what would be best for us while you are busy ousting Uncle Hamon.”

  “Oh? What might that be?”

  She saw his left brow arch, but he did not open his eyes.

  “Ranald, I fear your father. Should the bairn come before you defeat my uncle, Chief Broccin could wrest the babe from me and even throw me outside the castle grounds.”

  Her back quivered with the thought of him snatching the babe from her arms and telling her she had fulfilled her usefulness to him.

  “And? What scheme did ye and Elyne dream up?”

  She had his attention. She saw the faint gleam of his eyes.

  “You should take me to Letia and Warin’s for safety. It is about fifteen leagues south of Hunter Castle. If you could not take me there, mayhap once we get near Hunter, one of your men would be good enough to escort me the rest of the way.” She surprised herself saying such a jumble of words all in one breath.

  “Nay.” He ended it with a healthy snort.

  “Nay? But you have not even thought about it. I think it an excellent plan.”

  Catalin stopped playing with his feet long enough to dart a look at him. He stared her in the eye. She about decided he was not going to answer when he finally sighed.

  “I have thought about it at some length. Abbot Aymer suggested I bring ye to Kelso. He could house ye with the women for protection.”

  “Kelso? What if no women are there at the time? Do they not stop but overnight in their travels?” Saints! She had never seen inside an abbey, but she pictured their cold, barren cells with hard pallets and scant furnishing.

  “Aye. I mentioned the chance to the abbot. The nearest convent is the Sisters of Mary Magdalen southeast of Kelso. It lies slightly north between Douglas Castle and de Burgh’s Seton.”

  “Mayhap you should take me there instead? I would fare better amongst women at a convent.” If she was at the good sisters, she could make her way on her own to Seton.

  “Nay. Baron Rupert’s lands are close-by. I have decided on another plan.” Ranald dropped his head back against the rim and closed his eyes.

  She squeezed water from the bathing cloth to keep from pinching him. In the years their parents met to work out the terms for her betrothal to Moridac, Ranald used to torment her with this sort of dominant behavior. It was his way of letting her know he considered a woman’s opinion less wise than the twisted rambling of a man long in his cups.

  What if he took her where Sir Giric could not help her? Waiting for him to speak stoked her anger. She counted each heartbeat thudding in her ears, trying to hold tight to her temper. Her count lasted until five.

  “Drats, Ranald! Must I pull every word from your lips? You drain my patience.”

  “As ye do mine.”

  Ranald’s relaxed stance disappeared when he surged to sit upright. Water flowed from his massive shoulders down his arms and chest.

  “Ye will come with me. I have ordered a large tent and commissioned the carpenter to build a bed frame. Ye will have every comfort I can secure.”

  “I will not spend months in a battle camp with naught but dust, noise and smelly warriors tromping about.” Mayhap her voice was commanding enough he would bow to her wishes, for he sighed. She waited for his nod, but his lips set in a determined line.

  “Elyne and Lady Muriele will accompany ye, as will Hannah and Ada.” He gave her a ye-should-be-grateful look.

  Catalin, her mouth agape, dropped the cloth in the water. Was the man dafty? He may as well scream Lady Muriele was his leman, if he thought to take her along with his wife. She took several astonished breaths. Why, the randy blockhead shrugged and swiped water from his arms as he talked, his voice slow and patient, like he was reassuring a silly, timid woman.

  “‘Tis not uncommon. Many a Scotsman keeps his wife close for fear of her being abducted whilst he is gone.” He leaned back in the tub and sighed. “Even some of yer dainty English kings have taken their wives on campaign.”

  Huh. More than likely, he feared his father would attack his lovely Lady Muriele whilst he was gone! Her breath came in angry spurts. Her nostrils flared so wide she noted them when she looked down at her soapy cloth.

  Ranald wriggled his toes against her hand inviting her to massage them again. She nodded and lifted the cloth.

  Splat!

  Her aim was accurate.

  CHAPTER 26

  “Jesu!”

  Ranald grabbed the cloth and slung it across the room. Blinded by the soapy water, he swiped at his eyes and spat so hard bubbles floated from his lips. She had no time to admire it, for she likened his rising out of the tub to descriptions of how Nessie surfaced in Loch Ness. The violent shake of his head sprayed water so far it sizzled on the hot peat.

  “Are ye daft?” His voice crashed against her ears.

  “Daft? ‘Tis you who have lost your mind.”

  Catalin glared at him, her hands on her hips. No doubt, he had planned to have Lady Muriele with him all along. She had heard women saying that once they were with child, their spouse shunned their marital duties. They were even pleased when the men spent their lust on willing servants and the many widows at the castle.

  Huh! She was not pleased. She had near thumped a pitcher of ale against more than one sighing, curvaceous tart’s head after hearing them giggling about lustful bouts with the twins before Ranald left Raptor. Humph! They planned to lure him to their beds. What man could find a woman appealing when her belly looked like a round loaf of bread rising on the baker’s table?

  Water surged over the rim as he slowly stepped to the end of the tub and lifted one foot to the floor.

  “Ever ye were quick to pick a fight. Do ye not recall the last time ye riled my anger on purpose? In case yer memory is faulty, it was the day before yer betrothal.”

  Oh, blessed saints! The picture of the goose girl and Ranald behind the stable that sunny day flashed to her mind. The girl was on her hands and knees. Ranald, grasping her skirts hiked up around her waist, knelt behind her. As he had pumped away, his bare arse flashed in and out of the building’s shadows. His pale flesh gleamed when the sun hit it but faded when in the shadows. Catalin had scooped up a handful of horse droppings. Paying no mind to the stench or disgusting feel of it, she threw it as hard as she could. Her aim was good. His arse no longer gleamed in the sun.

  She had admired her handiwork for only a breath then ran for her life. Hearing his thudding footfalls behind her, she could still feel her heart racing. Suddenly, an arm snapped around her waist and jerked her off her feet. He’d carried her like a bag of wheat at his hip. For truth, the water in the horse trough was frosty cold. He dunked her beneath it then tugged her upright. Aye, she remembered his stony face, before he spun on his heels and stalked away.

  Water splashing her skirts as his left foot joined the other on the floor, brought her mind back to her present peril. In the darkened room, he looked like a dark predator taking measured steps toward her. She backed away. He followed. He slowly closed the distance. His raspy breathing charged the air between them. She spun and made a mad dash for the door. Just as she grasped the handle, his powerful hands slammed the wood on either side of her shoulders.

  “Going somewhere?”

  His husky voice caressed her nape like warm wool. She gulped. And lied.

 
“I thought a cup of hot milk would warm you after your bath.”

  She banged her forehead on the door. Ugh. How stupid. He was no youngling craving milk.

  He swept her up in his arms, cradling her like a child. She grabbed his shoulders as his purposeful tread took them back across the big room. Toward the bed? Nay. To the tub! Her hands slid off his still soapy shoulders when he bent close over the water and ever so gently dropped her.

  “Eeep!” Splash!

  Unlike before, he did not submerge her head. He stood back, arms folded across his chests, and scowled down at her.

  “Dinna think to question my plans to protect ye. Now, get out of that water.” He stood back, waiting for her to rise.

  She muttered curses and tried to gather her legs beneath her. She needed to get to her knees and use her hands on the tub’s sides to stand.

  “Blessed St. Michael. Why are ye so gawky?”

  Ranald leaned down and grasped under Catalin’s arms to haul her out onto the soaked floor. Feeling her shivers, he turned his gaze on the brace of candles behind her and stared, thinking all the while of flame leaping from the wick. His body heated. The water dripping from him dried in a heartbeat. A spark flickered on the wick. He stared all the harder. A candle flamed to life. The others rapidly followed.

  Catalin craned her head to look behind her when the room lightened. “When did you light the candles?”

  “While ye were paddling in the water.”

  Catalin’s form drew his gaze. The loose-fitting kirtle clung to her like another skin. He stared, entranced by her body’s changes. Where before her breasts were soft mounds and her stomach gently rounded, now there could be no hiding the growing bairn. These past weeks, he’d been occupied avoiding her and didn’t note the rapid changes.

  He grabbed the large drying towel set out for his use and wrapped it around her shoulders. Long, purposeful strides took him to the fireplace, where he added a block of peat to the embers. His back to her, it was not difficult to encourage it to flame with thoughts of heat and fire.