The Scotsman

by Juliana Garnett

  It should, he thought, be a most entertaining contest.

  10

  Lord Warfield drummed his fingers against the table’s surface with obvious irritation. Nicholas was unmoved. He stared at his father coldly.

  “If you refuse, Catherine’s fate is sealed. She is your daughter, for Christ’s holy sake!”

  “Do not blaspheme, Nicholas. You are not too grown a man to escape my fist.”

  “Nay, but I am too grown a man to allow my sister to be raped while I debate her value in coin.” He surged to his feet, his frustration spilling over. “Are two villainous Scots worth more to you than your only daughter?”

  “Nay, but one of them is Bruce’s cousin, and he is worth all to the king. Edward’s favor I do value above all else.”

  “Curse you!” Nicholas did not try to avoid it when his father rose sharply from his chair and drew back his fist, nor did he flinch when the blow fell. He was rocked back on his feet by it, and felt blood spurt from a cut lip.

  “Curse me, do you!” The earl glared at him, his height and broad shoulders blocking out a view of the antechamber behind him. “You would curse me for certain were you to be spending your days in a dark cell instead of walking free. Do you think I have not given up much to be where I am? To have the king’s ear and vast tribute?” He held up his hands, scarred and coarse from years spent on the battlefield. “These hands have wrested gold and lands from those too weak to keep them, and these hands have been clasped by kings in gratitude for my service. Nay, you would not be so quick to lay blame were you to know what it has cost me to rise to this position, you arrogant young whelp. Do not speak to me of value, for you do not know the meaning of the word.”

  Nicholas glared at him, not bothering to wipe the blood away from his mouth. His hands clenched furiously at his sides. “Yet Catherine is not gold or land, but flesh and blood. Your flesh and blood.”

  “Yea, and she chose to flout my authority by leaving the safety of Warfield to roam the woods unattended by guard or even a handmaiden.” The earl’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I was told you saw her go and did not stop her.”

  He drew in a deep breath. “’Tis true.”

  “And yet you blame me for not rushing to her rescue.” He gave a sharp bark of laughter. “If you had your wits about you, she would even now be safely here instead of in the Scotsman’s lair. Should harm come to her, you might look no further than yourself to lay blame. Now go, and do not belabor me further about my decision.”

  Nicholas did not move. “I would know what you intend.”

  “Would you.” His lip curled. “I intend to petition the king to hang those murderous Scots on a gallows along the road to Dundee. That should be a good enough answer for Sir Alex Fraser.”

  “You condemn Catherine.”

  “She made the choice when she left my protection to go wandering in the fields like a common harlot. Now you know my intentions. Go and be content that you have had your say in the matter.”

  When the earl moved to a side table and poured wine into a goblet, Nicholas spun on his heels and left the chamber, pushing past his brother Geoffrey in the doorway. His brother scowled, but after a single glance at his expression, did not attempt to delay him.

  He was before the doors of the guardroom when he heard his mother call him. He paused, waiting for her. A muscle flexed in his cheek as he turned, and he prayed his mother would not scour his already raw temper.

  Lady Warfield drew near, beckoning to him to follow her, and he did so reluctantly. She went to an alcove hung with heavy draperies that shifted slightly in a draft. For a moment she said nothing, but stood where the light came through oiled skins stretching over the window to play across her face. Her skin was still unlined, smooth and pale as new-fallen snow. She wore her usual barbette atop her head, the headdress securing the woven crispinette of gilt and semiprecious stones that held her hair. Her gown was encrusted with rich embroidery, and bore a long train.

  “You have spoken with your father,” she said after a moment, her French soft and precise.

  “Yes.”

  “He has reached a decision.”

  Again, her precise words were a statement instead of a question. Nicholas nodded.

  “I see.” Her hands twisted together in the only indication that she was gravely disturbed. A ring of keys jingled from a strap on her wrist. “I presume that he has decided against yielding up his prisoners to retrieve Catherine.”

  “So he says, madam.”

  She drew in a deep breath and looked away. The un-lined surface of her face seemed to crumple slightly, but when she turned to face him again, there was no sign of distress. “You are bleeding, Nicholas.”

  He scrubbed the back of his hand over his cut lip. “A token of displeasure from my father.”

  “Why do you torment yourself by disagreeing with him? You must know you cannot win.”

  Again that flat, calm tone, unemotional and serene. He cocked a brow at her. “I beg your pardon, madam, but that is not the truth.”

  “Oh?” Her eyes widened slightly, the only reaction she allowed to show on features chiseled as if from marble. “Am I to understand that your wishes have swayed him to your view, then.”

  “No. But that was not my goal. I am no longer a child to be commanded to think as he does. I am a man now, with my own convictions.”

  “Yet you are as dependent upon his whims as are we.”

  “I have my own lands.”

  “At his sufferance.”

  “Again, madam, I must disagree. My lands are my own, to hold as I see fit, part of the dowry you brought with your marriage. If my father disinherits me, he still cannot take back what was not his to give. And if he should try,” he added softly, “I will fight him to the death.”

  She stared at him for a long moment, while a slight draft rustled the heavy draperies and dust motes rode the scattered shafts of light. “You speak boldly, Nicholas. It is easy for a man to be defiant. But not so easy for a woman.”

  “Perhaps not.” He felt a twinge of pity for his mother for the first time. Despite her closed expression, she seemed suddenly vulnerable. “Madam, are you worried about Catherine?”

  “She is my daughter. Her fate concerns me.”

  Again, no emotion colored her words. He frowned. “If it is any consolation to you, I do not intend to allow her to languish at the mercy of a man like Alex Fraser.”

  “I do not see what you can possibly do to alleviate her situation.”

  “Frankly, madam, neither do I at the moment. But I will find a way.”

  Silence fell again, in which Lady Warfield studied her eldest son gravely. A faint jingle accompanied her movement as she turned away—the household keys on her wrist clinking softly on their metal ring. “I shall pray for your success, Nicholas.”

  And then she was gone, gliding away like some fey forest creature, elusive and enigmatic as always. He stood in the alcove a moment longer. His mother was right. What could he do to rescue Catherine? Even had he enough men to mount a sizable army, Castle Rock was near impregnable. A siege could last months. And during that time, anything could happen to Catherine.

  If it had not already.…

  Catherine smoothed the page of the book and started reading again, trying to make sense of the printed words that danced crazily in front of her eyes like chicken tracks in snow. Her valiant effort ended with the slamming shut of the book and its return to the esteemed place of honor on the table. It was no use. She could not keep her mind on the lengthy French poem long enough to grasp the gist of it.

  Her own fault.

  Now that she had descended into venial sin, it seemed she had a taste for it. How many times since she had lain naked on that cot with Alex Fraser had she relived it in her mind? Too many to count, and each memory summoned fresh details and shivering reactions.

  Yet she felt no regret. She should. It went against everything she had been taught. There should be better reasons for yielding to�
�nay, encouraging—a man’s illicit touch. But she had none. Vengeance, perhaps. A blow against her father. Pitiful excuses. And yet … and yet, there had been a sweet triumph in the act, a glorious feeling of power when Alex Fraser had trembled beneath her exploring hand. An expression of near pain had darkened his handsome features at her light touch, his ragged breathing harsh and labored when she slid her fingers over the taut, heated ridge of muscles on his flat belly. Each time her hand had grazed the swollen wool that hid his arousal, he’d groaned. Yea, ’twas a most powerful feeling, knowing that she could make him shudder just by caressing him.

  Now, oddly, she no longer felt quite so helpless. There was a sense of control that she could affect a man with so paltry a device as her touch. And though Alex had not relinquished command of the moment, she knew that her acts had defined his. If she had resisted, pushed him away and rejected him, his sense of honor would not have allowed him to persist. He was a contradiction, a Scottish barbarian with principles. An enigma.

  Restless with her thoughts, she paced the floor of her chamber, then moved to the small slitted window to peer out. A cold wind blew, howling around the tower at times, keening wails like a doomed soul that made her shiver. She closed the shutters again and lit another candle to brighten the gloom, then sat in a chair by the table.

  She was still a prisoner, of course, despite what had passed two nights before. Not that she had expected anything different. Her situation as Alex Fraser’s hostage was achingly similar to her position as Warfield’s only daughter—a pawn in a game between powerful men.

  And what of Alex Fraser? He was no earl, yet he wielded great influence with the Scots king. Enough, perhaps, to affect her release? It was a thought. If Robert Bruce brought his mighty force to bear upon Warfield keep, it was yet possible that she would be returned to her father. In light of recent events, a most unpleasant prospect. There were few options for her, though it had at last come to her in the dark hours of the night that there was still a way she might gain freedom without losing all. If she pled violation, she could achieve entrance to a nunnery. It would be a twofold vengeance, for the earl would be bereft of a marriageable daughter as well as the lands that were her dowry, all in a single stroke.

  And she would gain independence.…

  The now-familiar rattle of a key in the lock of her door drew her attention, and she sat up straight in the chair, heart pounding with a mixture of hope and dread. What would she say when she saw him again? What would he say? It would be so awkward, after their intimacy.

  Yet her visitor was not Alex Fraser, but a man she knew only as Robbie. He paused in the doorway as if reluctant to enter. His burr was so thick, the English words sounded strange to her ears. “Ye are wanted downstairs, milady. I am tae escort ye.”

  She stood up, smoothing the skirt of her plain wool gown with nervous gestures. “Why am I needed so early in the day? Has word come from my father?”

  He shrugged. “’Tis more likely ye are tae get those answers frae the laird.”

  With trepidation, she accompanied Robbie from her chamber and down the winding, narrow stairs to the entrance of the hall. Smoke curled upward from a huge fire, and there were several men gathered around it. Her heart thumped erratically. An envoy from the earl?

  As she entered the crowded chamber at Robbie’s side, she felt people turn to look at her. She could not stop the heated flush on her cheeks, but kept her head held high. They probably knew, of course. Servants gossiped, and there would be at least one who had noted that their lord lingered overlong in the tower with his hostage. Main hated her, and was probably relishing the fact that the English maiden had yielded to their lord. It took great strength of will to cross that vast hall without betraying by word or gesture that she noticed the stares.

  Alex detached from the group of men and strode toward her. Her heart hammered painfully against her ribs as he approached. Must he affect her so? Perhaps he was not the most beautiful knight she had seen, but the burnished black of his hair was striking in contrast with his dark skin and smoky eyes, almost exotic. Not even the wicked scar on his cheek detracted from his appeal.

  He wore a plaid wound round his waist, the vivid scarlet and blue wool bright against the duller colors around him. His long white sherte was full-sleeved, blousing at his wrists, and he wore a dirk tucked into the wide belt that bound his plaid. An impressive sight, with his lean height and graceful stride, a man who projected assurance and power.

  And yet when she looked at him she thought of the man who had lain next to her on a mattress of heather, the man who had held her naked body in his arms and caressed her intimately, and felt the heat rise anew in her face.

  When he paused in front of her, a faint smile touched the corners of his mouth as he held out his arm for her to take. “I trust you slept well last night, milady.”

  She drew in a deep breath and nodded. “Yea, sir, I slept as well as possible under the circumstances.”

  His eyes glittered with laughter, but his expression was solemn. “I am most pleased to hear it, milady.”

  She curled her fingers over his proffered arm and walked with him to the high table set up beyond the center fire. Cushions bolstered her chair, and a dainty spoon with a carved handle was placed on the table. He pulled out her chair for her and waited. She looked up at him, baffled by this unexpected display of courtesy in front of all.

  “Am I to be executed, sir?”

  His brow rose. “Do you deserve execution?”

  “That answer lies in one’s personal viewpoint, I would think.”

  “True.” He grinned. “Shall I ask Mairi for her opinion?”

  “Not unless you have the gallows already built.”

  “Too much effort, I fear. A block and sharp sword would be easier and more merciful. Do you be seated, milady. We have hungry guests who wait impatiently for their dinner to be served.”

  Were these guests the reason she had not seen him the night before? She glanced toward the men, then took her seat, feeling a little conspicuous at the head table. It was so confusing, that she would be treated as an honored guest when she was so obviously a prisoner. No noble’s daughter should publicly appear garbed in a rough wool gown and leather girdle instead of embroidered velvet or cloth of gold. No wimple or even crispinette covered her bare head. Now she wished she had taken special care with her hair instead of coiling it above her ears so carelessly that a few strands escaped to dangle against her cheeks.

  It was awkward, not knowing her position, but she would cheerfully bite her tongue before asking if she was to play hostess. Not that she was unsuited. After all, she had learned proper etiquette just out of swaddling; on occasion, she had substituted for her mother when the countess was ill. Surely, she could manage easily enough in a Scot’s crude hall.

  The men she had seen earlier were seated in places of honor at the high table. For the most part they were older men, with the cares of their years marking their faces. A few of the names she gleaned were known to her: Sir Robert Boyd, Sir Neil Campbell, and David Barclay—close adherents of Robert Bruce. The others she did not recognize, and one man’s name was not mentioned.

  Laughing easily with Robbie, he stood apart from the others, and it was his unusual appearance that caught her eye. Black hair framed a face of naturally pale hue, and he wore a dark green and blue plaid that made his skin look even paler. His eyes were intense and bright, his movements quick.

  When he glanced up suddenly, he caught her gaze and grinned, his mobile features taking on a mischievous expression. She found herself smiling back at him, taken with his boyish charm. Perhaps not all the Scots were dour, cheerless men.

  Alex took a seat beside her, and noticed the small play. Stretching out his long legs in front of him, he indicated the Scot with a nod of his head. “You have not been introduced to all our guests, milady.”

  “No, I have not, though I recognize some of the names in passing.”

  Alex laughed softly. “I im
agine you do. They are well known to those who fear justice. Sir Robert Boyd, for instance, a more doughty warrior you will not find in England or Scotland. ’Tis said that the Bruce depends as much upon his strong arm as his quick wit.”

  The man in question looked up with a smile. “You are too kind, Fraser,” he replied in the same English used by his host. “Do you expect compliments in return?”

  “Yea, if you can put down your cup long enough to voice them.”

  Sir Robert laughed, and lifted his cup. “In tribute to a worthy warrior and stout heart—who has shared his ale and meat with our empty bellies. May God smile on our cause and our king.”

  This was met with raised cups and a rousing cheer from the assemblage in the hall, and Catherine lifted her own cup but did not drink. She felt the gazes on her, but stubbornly refused to relent.

  Alex leaned closer to her. “Can you not drink the health of those who will be the victors, milady?”

  “I beg pardon for my error. I thought we were drinking the health of Robert Bruce, not King Edward.”

  He only laughed, but when she glanced up again, she felt the steady gaze of the tall, dark-haired Scot resting on her thoughtfully. He was the only man not seated; he still stood by the fire, one foot resting on a low bench.

  When he saw her watching him, he held his cup high. “If you will not drink to Robert Bruce, milady,” he said in a lisping burr, “then drink instead to the Black Douglas.”

  “I will not.” Her fingers tightened around the stem of her goblet. “’Tis said that he is the devil, even more so than Robert Bruce.”

  Laughter greeted her remark, and beside her, Alex said wryly, “Perhaps I should introduce you to our feckless friend, milady.”

  An awful suspicion ignited as Alex continued, “May I present Sir James Douglas, late of Castle Douglas, now lord of the realm—or destroyer of it, depending upon which view you believe.”