The Scotsman

by Juliana Garnett

  Again her eyes widened, seeming to fill her face as she stared up at him. “Ah. The egg. You think it poisoned.”

  “Do you still have it?”

  “Nay, I threw it down the garderobe.” She drew in a shaky breath. “Perhaps I suspected foul play, for normally I would not have noticed the strange taste. Everything in Scotland tastes strange to me.”

  He laughed and pulled her to him, unwilling to let her see the surge of affection that filled him at her calm acceptance of what had to be terrifying. He may be used to men trying to kill him, but even so he would dislike facing stealth instead of the blunt challenge of a sword. He preferred to see his enemies.

  A tremor rippled through her body, and after a moment he lifted her in his arms and moved with her to the wide bed. Brushing aside the hangings, he placed her on the mattress and sat beside her.

  “It will not be elegant, catkin, but there is a hamlet nearby the Bruce’s camp that will be safe enough. I will be close so that I can see you often, though we will be devoting our time to training those who are untutored or undisciplined in the ways of battle.” He looked away when she did not reply, recognizing the glimmer of fear in her eyes. In a taut growl, he said, “God knows, I should have returned you to your father by now, but I had hoped—”

  “Nay!” Her fierce denial startled him, and he lifted a brow at the intensity of her tone. “I do not want to go back to him, but if it will save your brother’s life, I will. Yet hear this, Alex Fraser, for I mean it truly—once ’tis done and he is safe with you, I will do all in my power to leave Warfield keep. Should you … want me … I will return. If not, I intend to spend my days in a nunnery, for I will not be at the mercy of my father ever again.”

  “Catkin….”He stared at her helplessly. Want her? He dreamed of long summer days spent with her, lying in sunlit fields amid the heather, having her near him and knowing they would always be together. But he was too pragmatic to believe in illusions, and that was what ’twould be to think they could ever live in happiness and peace. Even if the Bruce succeeded in wresting Scottish independence from King Edward, there would be years of strife to follow, with both sides struggling to regain or hold power. His life expectancy had already exceeded that of many in this war, and was not likely to extend much further. What could he give her? He had not even a tide or lands left to him, only the castle he had managed to wrest back from English hands with great loss and struggle. If not for the citizens of Kinnison who had risen to his defense with pitchforks and scythes, perhaps he would not have even that.

  A muffled sob caught in Catherine’s throat, and he bent to kiss her, anguished that he could not offer assurance and comfort, torn between what he wanted and what he knew would be. Her lips parted under his, and he tasted the salt of her tears on his tongue. It undid him. His resolve began to fray into tangled threads of apprehension that he would hurt her more by promising the impossible just to ease her sorrow.

  So he kissed her more fiercely, grinding his mouth on hers in a kind of desperation. He tried to convey to her the words he could not say, emotions that would likely never be uttered aloud but were so strong at times he felt unmanned by them. Perhaps, one day when he was gone and she thought of him, she would remember how he had touched her, how she had made him tremble with her caress, and she would think kindly of him. It was all he had to hope for in this uncertain, precarious world in which he lived.

  When she was trembling beneath him and her hands were moving restlessly from his shoulders to his arms and back, he sat back and gazed down at her. Her face was flushed, lips swollen from his kiss, her eyes fever-bright with passion. Gently, he removed the gold circlet that held the gauzy cloth to her head and pulled them both away to free her hair.

  “I love your hair … so soft, like silk … gold in the candlelight, yet red when the sun shines on it …” He drew in an unsteady breath, feeling awkward and clumsy as he undid her plaits to pull the strands free around her shoulders. It waved over the feather-stuffed pillow beneath her head and around her face, framing features like fine porcelain. She was so delicate and fragile in appearance, with a resilience that continually amazed him.

  He thought of her at the Jedburgh Abbey, the miles she had walked alone through deep forest and over rocky hills, determination and pure courage driving her on, and it humbled him. Christ. He would make himself crazy like this.

  Bending, he kissed her again, softly this time, his mouth moving lightly over hers in the barest of brushes across her lips as he unlaced the side fastenings of her gown. He undressed her slowly, savoring each new revelation of her body as the garments were peeled away, then sat back on his bent legs to gaze at her with admiration and anguish. She lay quietly, her arms bent and her hands nesting in the wealth of hair spread over the pillow beneath her head.

  Almost reverently, he drew a hand over the pale mound of her breast, fingers tracing a feathery pattern on her soft skin that made her inhale so sharply her breast quivered. It shuddered beneath his touch, cream and rose beauty beckoning to him, and he bent to rake his tongue over the taut nipple in a slow, heated glide that earned him another gasp of appreciation. Cupping both her breasts in his palms, he lavished first one and then the other with attention until her nipples were tightly beaded and her skin was flushed. Tiny blue veins marbled the lucent flesh with delicate tracery, and he sketched each one with his finger as if trying to memorize them. Perhaps he was.

  Her lips parted and the tip of her tongue wet them; a pang of desire bolted through him with riveting intensity. “Alex….”

  Soft, wistful, his name on her lips was sweet agony to him, and he kissed her again. Then he stood up beside the bed and shed his garments, not bothering with laces but ripping them free, tossing jerkin, sherte, trews, and boots carelessly to the floor. He throbbed, and the crisp air on his bare skin did nothing to cool his ardor.

  The mattress cushioned his weight as he moved over her and into her uplifted arms. Her hands stroked his bare shoulders, the muscles in his arms as he braced himself with a hand pressing into the bed on each side of her, and he slowly lowered to kiss her again. He straddled her body with a knee on each side of her, her pale thighs pressing against his inner legs with arousing contact. As he kissed her, she moved her hands between them to slide over his belly, and his muscles contracted involuntarily at her touch. With light, teasing caresses, she explored the ridge of his ribs and then his belly again, palms slipping over his skin with flagrant eroticism that grazed his tumescent sex and sent a shock wave through him. He groaned against her lips and she circled him with cool fingers that tightened, then relaxed again in erratic convulsions that made him shudder.

  “God … catkin….” His murmured fervor faded into a wordless groan.

  It was quiet in the chamber, where the noise from the bailey outside could be heard only dimly, the faint clatter of horses and clang of weapons, an occasional shout that rose and then receded, a fusion of sounds that meant nothing and everything, the ramifications unspoken and indisputable: life is fragile and uncertain.

  Catherine shivered under the renewed contact of Alex’s body against hers as he pressed himself into the welcoming embrace of her thighs. Her hand fell away when he pushed into her body with a fierce thrust. She arched to meet him. His breath was harsh and swift, rasping into the close air between them as he took her with long shuddering strokes that made her cry out. Braced with his hands on each side of her, his arms trembled with the strain as he rocked against her in unbridled turbulence.

  On a half sob, Catherine whispered, “I love you….” Then her words were swallowed by the rising emotion that filled her heart and throat as she clung to him, shivering under the raw, almost violent friction of their bodies, striving for the release that seemed to hover just out of her reach … it felt as if she were in the midst of a storm, buffeted by emotion and the hard, driving rhythm of his body as he filled her with deep thrusts that brought her ever closer to the edge.

  Yet still she did not f
eel close enough to him, even with his weight a tangible pressure and his hard body inside her … she yearned for the evidence that he cared, something that would truly fill the emptiness inside her. It eluded her, leaving her despairing and famished for the words that would ease her soul.

  So, too, did physical release evade her, lost in the-torment of her fears and the ache in her heart, so that when he reached his own pleasure she just clung to him with her face pressed tight against his damp skin. He held her, his breath a harsh rasp against her ear, then rolled to his side and pulled her with him, his hand on her hip. Slowly, his breathing returned to normal. She could feel him staring at her in the murky gloom of candle glow and shadows, but would not look up.

  “Catkin….” When she pressed her face harder against him, he hooked a finger beneath her chin and tilted her face up to him. “What is it?”

  How could she tell him? How could she say that she had hoped he would say he loved her too when she had finally drummed up the courage to say it first? Was her conviction that he loved her wrong? Had she only deceived herself?

  So to hide her disappointment, she swallowed hard and murmured a lie. “I am afraid to go with you.”

  Curving his arm, he brought her against him so that her body welded to his from breast to thigh. “Is that what frets you? I will see that you are kept safe, catkin. If you like, I will escort you to Jedburgh Abbey, for the town is still held by the English. Perhaps that would be best, for if I cannot return for you …”

  She shuddered and shook her head. “Nay, it would be too dangerous. And it is too far out of your way.”

  He nodded, and stroked a hand through her hair, his fingers threading the loose strands like a comb. He held her in the muscular bend of his arm, idly caressing her, pressing an occasional kiss on her cheek or forehead, murmuring that he would keep her safe, until finally his hand stilled in her hair and on her hip, and his muscles relaxed as he drifted into slumber.

  Catherine lay awake long into the night, battling the demons of her soul that tormented her with doubts and fears. But like the legends that told of soldiers springing forth from dragon teeth sown in a fertile field, new doubts sprang up to plague her, so that she was still awake when the candle guttered and the fire died.

  21

  Torchlight stung her eyes, smelling strongly of pitch. Catherine blinked against it. Despite a lack of sleep, she was tense and wide-awake, her nerves thrumming as she perched atop her mount in the midst of the bailey. Around her was the tumult of men with weapons and fresh horses eager for the coming journey. It was still dark, though the days had grown longer. Soon it would be May, and then the weather would be soft and night would not long linger on the land.

  It should be a time to celebrate the passing of the bleak, cold days of winter, but instead it was a time of preparation. Fields lay fallow, the men who tilled them conscripted into the service of the Bruce. Husbands left wives behind, sons their mothers, and women stood weeping as they had done since time began and the first men had gone to war, some never to return.

  Her throat tightened, and Catherine looked away when a young woman clung weeping to a soldier. She felt very much like doing the same. Yet she could not, even if she had the right to weep for Alex, for the daughter of an earl did not betray such emotion before all. Despite her situation, she knew her station, and would not shame herself or Alex.

  He came to her, striding across the bailey with a reckless grin on his face, his eyes alight with pleasure, and she wanted to cry out with frustration. Did he not care that he may die in this war? Ah, God, what would she do if he did, for she did not think she could bear it.

  But she said none of that when he reached her, only nodded calmly when he said she would ride beside him.

  “Robbie leaves when the last of the men summoned join him here, and they will catch up to us on the road.” He glanced around him. “John Elliot has arrived with a score of men, and we take a score. Robbie will bring near two hundred when he comes. When we all arrive at Torwood Forest, there will be enough men under our standard to make the Bruce proud, and fulfill Douglas’s requirements.”

  “Sir James?” She was surprised, for she had not heard Alex mention that he was to fight with him. He looked back up at her with a slight frown.

  “Yea, Black Douglas himself. We will form a division under his command. He summons the men from Lanark, Renfrew, and the Borders to him, and our roll call should be great, though not as numerous as the English.”

  Every word had the ringing tones of a death knell to her, another reminder of the perils that faced them. Her hands tightened on the reins, her gloves slipping slightly on the leather. She looked down at the palfrey she had been given to ride, a burnished sorrel with a gentle nature.

  “It will be good to see him again,” she said for lack of any other coherent comment that would hide her fears, and Alex put a hand upon her knee.

  “Yea, milady, so it will.” He drew in a harsh breath between his teeth and curled his mailed fist into the cloak covering her. “If aught should happen to me, ’tis to Douglas that you should go. He will see you safely away from danger and Scotland,” He looked up at her then from beneath his lashes, a strangely intense gaze that reflected torchlight in the smoky gleam of his eyes as he said softly, “I demand a promise from you, Catherine.”

  He sounded so serious, and her heart jumped a little at the low significance of his tone. “Demand, sir?” she said with a shaky little laugh. “Tþs not oft you make demands of me.”

  “Aye. But this is one I expect you to obey. If it should happen that we are attacked before we reach the Bruce, you will obey me instantly and hide yourself. Should I be the victor, all will be well. But should I fall—nay, do not argue,” he cut in harshly when she began to protest, “for I will not be gainsaid in this. Should I fall, you are to throw yourself on the mercy of the English and say that you have been my hostage. Once they learn your father is the Earl of Warfield, they will know the rest of it quick enough and see that you are returned to him. Do not try to aid me, or show yourself, but remain hidden where I put you, or so help me, if I still live, I will take great pleasure in treating you as a husband treats his errant wife and beat you until you are unable to sit or he in comfort. Now swear to me that you will obey.”

  Irate, she glared at him. “I was not in the habit of obeying my father, sir, so I see no reason why you wouldst think I will obey you. But”—she put up a hand to ward off his angry interruption—“as it will no doubt distract you in a fight to think I might come to harm if I do not remain hidden, I will do so—at your request.”

  Outrage was reflected in his eyes and his mouth thinned into a taut slash. “By all that is holy, Lady Catherine, if you do not swear to me that—”

  “Hold.” She tightened the reins and her palfrey gave a skittish jump that removed Alex’s hand from her knee. She stared down at him coolly. “Do not make idle threats, Alex Fraser, for I do not stomach them well.” Pent-up anger and frustration burned her, and she returned hot stare for hot stare until he swore softly beneath his breath.

  “Christ above … if ’tis what ’twill take to wrest an oath from you, I will respectfully request that you swear to me you will do as I bid you do.”

  She smiled sweetly. “On my honor as Lady Catherine of Warfield and subject of King Edward, I do swear to you, sir, that I will obey your commands should we be attacked.”

  Resentment simmered in his eyes and tone. “If you find it that easy, I see no need for your delay.”

  “Sir, I see no need for your demand, when all that was required from you was courtesy.”

  He drew in another harsh breath, but an unwilling smile touched the corners of his mouth. “Check?”

  An answering smile curved her lips upward. “Aye, and checkmate, sir.”

  He laughed then, shaking his head. “You sorely try my patience, catkin, but I find it difficult to remain angry with your impertinence.”

  Their argument had relieved some of
her tension, and Catherine sat silently as Alex mounted his huge destrier and spoke to his men in Gaelic. They rode from Castle Rock just as the sun broke from beneath an outcropping of jagged rocks, splinters of light piercing the sky and staining it crimson and gold. A crisp breeze blew, carrying on the currents the scent of morning fires and fresh bread, and as they rode through the narrow, twisting streets of Kinnison, she wondered if she would ever see the village again.

  No doubt, many of the men with them wondered the same, for they rode quietly along the rutted track that led north to Torwood Forest, where the Bruce waited with a growing army. The clatter of hooves against hard-packed dirt and muck was constant, and the metallic clank of weapons and jangle of horse harness announced their progress through small villages and quiet wood. Sunlight flirted with clouds and shadows chased them over broad fields and steep rocky crags.

  When they forded the Esk River, Catherine’s horse shied at the rushing water, and Alex leaned from his huge destrier to grasp the bridle and tug the palfrey forward. The water was unexpectedly shallow, yet the gentle mare blew and snorted nervously as they crossed. Clambering up on the opposite bank, the horse stood trembling when Alex released the bridle. Then his destrier swung its great head, snapping at the mare savagely, and Alex jerked his reins to curb the beast.

  Catherine thought of Nicholas and his frequent warnings to be ware of a warhorse’s temper, and she pulled her mare away from the destrier’s reach. “I fear your horse is sadly lacking in proper manners with a lady, sir,” she said when Alex cast her a sidelong glance. “My beast is gentle and fearful.”

  “Unlike her rider.” Alex grinned when she lifted her brows at him. “I feared earlier that you would savage me if I did not heed your rebuke.”

  “I might have.” She nudged her palfrey into a trot and away from Alex, saying over her shoulder, “I still may.”

  He laughed, and she fought the sudden wave of love that overpowered her at times, making her yearn to tell him of her heart’s desire. There would be a time, if God and fate were kind, that she could say again what was in her heart. Next time, it would not be in the throes of passion, but with unfettered clarity, and he would have no choice but to listen—and to answer. It was the last thing that she both feared and yearned for, for any answer was better than uncertainty.