The Scotsman

by Juliana Garnett

  It was true. He had been appalled to see the bleak, cold room where she languished, bereft of any comfort or activity to while away her time. If he had not ridden to counsel with Bruce so soon after bringing her here, he would already have ascertained that his commands were not followed.

  A faint smile played on her lips, and she lifted a book, hefting it in her hands a moment before looking up at him. “I wouldst be most intrigued to hear your definition of hostage, sir. It seems to differ from mine.”

  “’Tis simple enough. A hostage is a person held to fulfill a pledge, or until certain terms are met.”

  “And a prisoner?”

  His mouth hardened. “A captive, deprived of freedom, action, and expression. Sometimes—life.”

  “Then as a hostage, I am free to roam?”

  He scowled. “No. You must suffer my whims, I fear. Did you not sense the mood of the men in my hall tonight? To allow you freedom may endanger you.”

  “I thought you were master of this hall, the lord of the castle.”

  Her mockery was obvious, and his anger rose. “I can school men’s actions, but not their thoughts, milady. For that feat, you must look to your father.”

  “Odd, that you admit an Englishman can do what a Scot cannot.”

  “Not cannot—will not. In Scotland, there is not the great distinction between the classes that exists in England. Here, even the lowest man is free. He chooses to follow his heart and conscience, not who his overlord commands him to follow.”

  “That explains the rampant switching of loyalties, then.”

  He shrugged. “Men are free here to choose their leader, and that oft breeds ambivalence. ’Tis a two-edged sword.”

  She stepped close to him, looking up at him with shadowed eyes. “Then can you not change loyalties if ’twill free your brother?”

  “I could not change loyalties if it would save my own life,” he said softly, “and will not do so even for Jamie.”

  A brittle laugh escaped her, sounding hopeless. “Then we are all doomed, for neither will my father change his stand.”

  “You do not know that.”

  “Oh, yes.” She shivered as if chilled. “I know it to be the truth. I will die here ere he meets your demands.”

  In the thick silence that fell, a sudden gust of wind rattled the wooden shutters closed over the window and made the branch of candles dance. Alex studied her desolate face, frustration rising. This was no game she played, but her conviction. What if she was right? It was unbearable to think so … that Jamie would be delivered to Edward and a grisly, cruel fate. He thought of William Wallace and a dozen other supporters of Robert Bruce. All had died horribly, meant to be a lesson and discouragement to anyone who dared to defy the English king. That many of the condemned had never sworn to Edward and could not legally be viewed as traitors was ignored. They were hung, drawn, and quartered, their heads placed on pikes to warn those who would follow them.

  Yet Bruce still fought, still commanded men, still risked all to gain Scotland’s independence.

  Alex was still contemplating the grim reality of his position when Robbie appeared at the open door of the chamber. His eyes were alight, excitement sharpening his features. “We have word that English riders approach,” he said in Gaelic, and Alex’s hope renewed.

  His gaze swept back to Catherine, who had tensed as if understanding the import if not the meaning of Robbie’s announcement. “If you are still inclined to pray, my lady,” Alex said as he turned toward the door, “do so now.”

  7

  Catherine waited fretfully. She had pushed open the shutters over the window and peered out, but could see little in the dark rainy night but badly flickering torches in the bailey below. Riders had come, she thought, but she knew not how many. Her father? Her brother? Or only another Scot come with information from Robert Bruce? She paced the floor restlessly, knotting and unknotting her hands.

  Candles ht the chamber with steady light, good tapers that did not smoke or gutter easily, made of beeswax and not tallow, more expensive than even those her father used. A faint smile grazed her lips. She had found it touching that Alex Fraser had seen to her comfort. He was a complex man, with emotions she had not guessed he would possess.

  Her hand slid downward to the small eating dagger he had lent her. It had been forgotten, and she pulled it from the folds of her gown to gaze at it now. Sgian dhu. Tiny jewels adorned the hilt, and the blade was still sharp, though the tip of the dagger had been broken. His mother’s dagger, cherished and kept close, a prized memento of a woman gone from this world. Yea, a most complex man.

  As her life had been spent listening to scraps of information about these primitive barbarians to the north, she had not expected to find civilized emotions in any of them. It was surprising and disturbing to realize that not everything she had learned was true. Her first impression of the Scotsman who held her hostage had undeniably altered, and that in itself was cause for alarm.

  That first day he had been every bit the savage she had long feared, the embodiment of the lullabies of her childhood that promised a terrible fate to the child who wandered from home … yet tonight he had been garbed as the finest gentleman, a man who would be welcomed into any English manor. His clean white linen sherte, dark trews, and high boots of a country gentleman were casual yet elegant. A supple leather weskit snugly fit his broad chest, belted by an ornate strip of leather studded with brass and adorned with the jeweled dagger she now held. Beautiful and lethal, tall and lean, more like a weapon than a man, Alex Fraser was a contradiction to all her preconceived knowledge about the Scots.

  Frowning, she toyed with the dagger. Was it his courtly manner that she had not expected, ingrained behind the stringent demands he imposed upon himself as well as those around him? She had taken note of the way he held himself in check, betrayed by an occasional tension in his jaw or flash in his eyes. Yet he had not relinquished control of his temper as her father would have done, no matter how she had pricked him.

  Except for that first day, in the face of her frightened contempt, when he had held her hard against him and forced a kiss on her. His attempt to subdue and humiliate her had been more effective than she would ever acknowledge to him. And yet he had been affected by her as well, for she had seen it in his eyes, the same glitter that she had seen in the eyes of courtiers in her father’s home, young men smitten by the earl’s daughter but too wary to betray it. Only one young man had ever been reckless enough to attempt wooing her, and his fate had been swift and harsh when her father discovered it.

  Catherine’s hands quivered slightly on the dagger’s hilt, and she closed her eyes. She had been young, barely thirteen and still discovering her maturing femininity, still foolish enough to cast soft glances at a fair face and think a flirtation innocent. Young David’s admiration had been heady, his poems and songs flattering, and the fragrant blossoms proffered to her tucked away in her carved chest as keepsakes. Perhaps the flirtation would have faded of its own accord in time, but David had made the fatal mistake of kissing her cheek, an act seen by a servant who swiftly reported it to the earl.

  Retribution had been horrifyingly complete. A public flogging in the center of the bailey had near crippled the young man, and only his kinship to a powerful family saved his life. As it was, he had been sent from Warfield broken in body, a warning to any who would attempt the same.

  Since David, no man had been dauntless enough to court her with even a casual word. It was strange to think that her first real kiss had been given her by the man who took her hostage, a kiss given out of anger instead of affection.

  The memory of that kiss had haunted her dreams, intruding into her slumber to leave her restless and yearning for answers to the unfamiliar sensations that invaded her body. It was not that she was ignorant of what happened between a man and a woman, for life in a castle was hardly private. Couplings were oft glimpsed in shadowed alcoves and beneath stairwells, the rough intercourse between knights and
serving wenches commonplace. More than once she had stumbled across one of her brothers in just such a situation, incidents both embarrassing and amusing. For men, it was expected. Yet for a daughter of the earl, even a simple flirtation was disastrous. No, she was not ignorant, only inexperienced.

  Perhaps that was why her heartbeat quickened when the Scot came near her, watching her through his black lashes, a half smile on his face as if he were remembering what she looked like without her shift. And that particular memory had the power to scald her, to bring a hot flush to her cheeks and leave her teeming with vague emotions. Pride had been all that kept her upright then, kept her from sinking to her knees at his feet and pleading for mercy! Had he not been so detached, perhaps she would have cowered, but his cool acceptance of her nakedness had saved her some humiliation.

  Just as unnerving were the other occasional wanderings of her thoughts, the recollection of the press of his lips against hers and the water rushing around them, the power of his embrace as he had held her so tightly against him, the evidence of his desire a hard pressure against her wet thighs. Oh, yes, she had known of his need, had been terrified by it. And yet now, in the chaste bower of her prison, she could not help but wonder how it would feel to have him hold her with tenderness instead of anger, his strong hands gentle on her bare skin, his mouth a heady invitation instead of harsh punishment. And perhaps that was the greatest shame of all, that she even considered allowing the touch of the enemy.

  Dragging in a deep breath that smelled of rain through the open shutters, Catherine moved again to the window ledge and peered out. The rain had eased a bit, but still the torches below sputtered and flickered, giving off scant light in the shadowed bailey. Across the broad yard she could see lamps lit in the stables, and knew that the horses were being tended. Who were the visitors? Oh, God, let it be her brother who had come for her, for she was certain there would be no rescue from any other quarter.

  Pressing her flushed cheek against the cold stone of the window facing, Catherine delved into her meager reserves of patience and waited.

  Nicholas, Lord Devlin, waited tensely for the Scots bastard to arrive in the antechamber to which he had been escorted. His men were without, under guard in the bailey but promised safe conduct from Castle Rock once his interview with Fraser was done. Anger simmered beneath his carefully blank expression as he was kept waiting much longer than he deemed necessary. A familiar tactic, and one he had oft employed himself, but irritating nonetheless.

  At last Fraser arrived, pausing in the arched doorway to survey Nicholas with a cool gaze. “My negotiation is with the earl, not a rank upstart.”

  Despite his awareness that the taunt was another method of putting him on the defensive, Nicholas flushed angrily. “Did you really expect the earl himself to deal with a paltry Scot?”

  “Yea, if he wishes to see his daughter again.” Fraser entered the chamber calmly, and it did not escape Devlin’s notice that he wore a sword at his side, though his own weapons had been taken at the gatehouse. The Scot moved to stand at the grate where a fire burned smartly. Smoke curled upward into a chimney that looked to be new, an addition to the original structure. Nicholas waited, and after a pause, Fraser indicated a chair with a wave of one hand. “Be seated and state your terms for the exchange of hostages, Lord Devlin.”

  It was the moment he had dreaded, coming more quickly than he’d hoped, not giving him time to gauge his opponent. He took a deep breath, stalling as he slowly seated himself in the proffered chair and leaned against the high back to regard Fraser with hooded eyes.

  “Before I state our terms, I would see for myself that my sister is alive and unharmed.”

  “You will have to accept my assurances.”

  The cool reply provoked a hot retort: “Not if you wish to see your brother alive again.”

  “Did you bring him with you?” A cocked brow indicated that he already knew the answer to that question. “I thought not. Why should I give you further proof when I have none? ’Tis more than possible that Jamie is already dead, or delivered up to Edward for execution.”

  “He is alive and in Warfield’s cellar. How long he remains alive, depends upon your actions. Release my sister and I can promise the earl will not kill him.”

  A sardonic smile curved the Scot’s mouth. “If I were to be foolish enough to release my hostage, Jamie would be swinging from the king’s gallows before nightfall. I am not so foolish to believe English promises.”

  Nicholas rose to his feet. “Then we have nothing more to discuss. I came for my sister, and cannot return to Warfield without proof that she is yet alive. If you wish to barter for your brother’s life, you will provide me with evidence that you have her, and that she is unharmed.”

  A log in the fire popped loudly, and sparks spit onto the stone hearth at the Scot’s feet. He returned Devlin’s gaze for a long moment, then called a servant to him and gave instructions in Gaelic.

  Turning back to Nicholas, he said softly, “You will have your proof that I have her, since a lock of her hair is not enough to convince you.”

  Nicholas shrugged. “There are many with hair that bright hue, though none as beauteous as Catherine.”

  Fraser returned the cold stare, animosity in his face and rigid stance—the way he stood with his feet apart and legs braced, his hands at his side as if ready at any moment to draw his weapon. Nicholas wished fervently he had his own sword at his side instead of only the small eating dagger that would be of little help should the Scot renege on his promise of safe conduct.

  Tension between them mounted with the silence, and when the servant returned with a smallish casket in his hands, Nicholas felt a spurt of dread. Without thinking, his hand moved to the hilt of the small dagger on his belt, and he stared at the casket as the Scot placed it atop the table and opened the curved lid. At first he did not comprehend what he was shown, frowning at the length of blue velvet. Then he recalled Catherine as last he had seen her, garbed in a flowing blue velvet gown, a pearl-encrusted crispinette over her bright hair as she moved across the bailey toward the postern gate. ’Twas what pricked him most, that he had seen her flight and not stopped her. He should have, but he had known how raw she must feel after the cruel interview with their father. And so he had not prevented her escape, but thought instead that she needed some solitude.

  He moved to the table and lifted the length of blue velvet, twisting it between his fingers. “This could belong to any woman from your village. I have no assurance that ’tis my sister’s gown.”

  His ploy was for naught. Fraser reached under the folded velvet and drew out another garment. He held it up, and the firelight gleamed on a silken shift, reflecting in the glossy threads with a brilliant shimmer. In a quick flick of his wrist, he tossed it in the air.

  “Women of Kinnison village do not wear impractical silk instead of warm wool under their gowns.”

  Catching his sister’s shift, Nicholas strove hard to control his temper and his outrage. The silk was rent on one shoulder, evidence of a struggle, and his belly knotted at the thought of Catherine being mauled by this man. It took a moment, but when he at last spoke, his voice was calm.

  “If my sister has been violated, there will be no salvation for your brother, I can promise you that.” He looked up to meet the Scot’s flinty gaze. “And that is an English promise you can be certain will be kept.”

  “Dogs oft bay loudest before turning tail and fleeing. If my brother is harmed, ’tis doubtful you will e’er see your fair English flower again. In my grief and anger, I may yet do the worst.”

  Nicholas drew in a deep breath, and his hands knotted fiercely in the torn silk shift. “I must know if Lady Catherine is as unsoiled as the day you took her.”

  “’Tis typical English that would think the worst vengeance I could inflict would be to put a Scots bairn in her belly before giving her back to you. Yet nothing is thought of dangling a Scottish noblewoman from English walls to be displayed as if in a men
agerie.”

  “Answer me.” Rising fury sickened him, and it was all he could do not to spring at the taunting Scot and plunge his dagger into that black heart. “Has my sister been disgraced?”

  Fraser’s lip curled. “Not unless you consider her father’s actions her own disgrace. Nay, I have not taken her to my bed if that is what you ask. But I offer no promise as to the morrow should my terms be refused. Even were she as plain as a wattle fence, ’twould be vengeance indeed to return her to you with my babe inside her. Think on’t before you relate my terms to the earl—my brother and de Brus in exchange for an unspoiled English flower.”

  “Should one hair on her head be harmed—”

  “Do not make threats you are in no position to enforce, my lord Devlin. Your men are under guard and you are unarmed. Go, and inform Warfield that I await his answer within a sennight.”

  “Too soon.” Nicholas played for time, knowing his father’s mood and now this cursed Scot’s intent. “We must have a month, as the earl will needs consult the king before he acts.”

  “A fortnight. No more.”

  “Do you give safe conduct to any envoy we send to Castle Rock?”

  “Yea, as long as my envoys are guaranteed the same surety. And, Devlin—” Fraser put out a hand to indicate the opened casket and spill of blue velvet. “Advise your father that I am not a patient man, and as the winter days grow shorter, I find his daughter more comely with each passing hour.”

  There was nothing Nicholas wanted to reply to that taunt that would not end in violence, and he turned hard on his heel and stalked from the antechamber. Hatred burned as hot and high in him as a lightning bolt, and when he reached the bailey he bellowed for his men to saddle their horses. His mood was savage, his temper raw, and he pushed past the Scottish sentries with unnecessary force. Angry mutters rumbled after him, but one of the Scots quieted the others with a few short words in Gaelic as Nicholas strode toward the stables.