“Yea, so I have.” He grinned. “I would sooner face our father, I think. Now here, cut your meat before you eat, for it is a large piece. Where is your dagger?”
“It … was not mine. I gave it away, for it had too many memories with it.”
Sobering, he nodded. “Poor kitten. You have suffered. I hope that you will soon be eased.”
“Yea, so do I.” A little sob caught in her throat, and she swallowed it. Why must he be so sweet and understanding now, when she had marked her course? He would never forgive her for what she had done, but she prayed that it would work even if he hated her for it. “Nicky … you know how I love you, do you not?”
“Yea, kitten, I do. Though you have a strange way of showing that love at times, I do know your sweet nature and gentle heart.” He slanted her a glance, and reached to cut her meat with his own dagger. “Are you well?”
She looked down, watching as he sliced off a portion of meat with his dagger, a swift, clean stroke as if he were cutting butter. “Nay. Oh, not anything terrible, but … but I find I weary easily. Would you be distressed if I left early to go to my chamber? I will stay if you prefer—”
Instantly solicitous, he shook his head. “Of course I will not be distressed. Percy will escort—”
“No!” She drew in a deep breath at his narrowed glance. “Not Percy. Another man, but not Percy.” Not the man who held a hot iron to Alex.…
She felt his eyes linger on her a moment, but then he shrugged. “Morgan will do, then. He is Welsh and a little rough, but stout. Shall I come to see you before I retire?”
“Yea, if you like.” What else could she say? If she refused, it would arouse his suspicion, but she prayed that he would decide not to, or find feminine company to fill his hours. There was a flaxen-haired maid who had been flirting with Nicholas since their arrival, and she had seen him smiling at her as well. Yea, that would be perfect, if only he would be diverted.
It was quiet in the chamber she had been given, and she was grateful. All were below in the hall, attending the May Eve festivities. Since her arrival, she had had no privacy, not even for a moment. When one of the male guards was not following her every move, one of the female attendants or ladies of the castle was set to watch her.
The man tonight was a new guard, and she wished fretfully that Saunders had been given the post again. He was Sir Walter’s man and more lenient than the others, or she would never have been able to convince him to allow her into the dungeon. That it was managed at all was no doubt due to the fact that Sir Walter was Scottish himself, though he avowed loyalty to the English. Perhaps his men felt sympathy for Alex Fraser.
Her heart lurched. Alex … he had watched her with his beautiful eyes veiled by his lashes at first, but when he looked up, she had seen in them something of her own heart. It had near undone her. Worse, seeing close evidence of his grievous injuries had made her forget what she needed to convey to him, so that she had stumbled about and put it so badly he may not have grasped her meaning. Would he? Had he been able to free himself from those hideous chains and flee the cell?
There had been no alarm raised, and she prayed it was because his escape had not yet been discovered. The grim alternative was insupportable. Oh, it was so faulty a plan, but she was desperate. Nicholas may love her, but he was not a blind fool, and she knew he did not trust her.
Twisting her hands together, she paced the floor, moving from the fire to the window, then back. It was dark outside, the curfew keeping all quiet. But Bothwell was very well guarded, and what if she had misread the message? Or the messenger? Though she had recognized John Elliot as one of the men who had ridden with them from Castle Rock, he had not appeared to trust her. Indeed, he had stood stiff and tense when she saw him carrying a load of faggots in the bailey, and she knew he thought she would betray him.
Instead, she had managed to convey her relief that he was there, and signal that she was willing to converse. It had been understandably brief under the watchful eyes of her guard, a passing comment that Alex was in the dungeon and needed their help. Elliot had swept a low bow as if in obeisance to her station, and murmured that he would leave her a message beneath the garden bench the next morn.
That was all, but it was enough to give her hope. She had plucked the crudely lettered message from beneath the stone bench in the bailey garden the next morn, and taken it to the garderobe to read in privacy. Tears filled her eyes when she saw the clumsy, familiar lettering in English: Robie wil hav a hors at est gate midnit of the morrow. Tam.
25
“Thou art a fine man, milord,” the flaxen-haired beauty whispered close to his ear, and Nicholas smiled slowly at her over the rim of his wine cup. They were alone beneath a shadowed alcove, heavy draperies hiding them from the sight of those who passed, but the muffled sound of revelry from the hall was easily heard. A stone seat was cushioned with bolsters, and the narrow window was open to allow in the night air. Light filtered through cracks in shifting slices as the draperies moved in the soft currents of breeze.
Heat from the wine and desire swept through him, and he dipped a finger into his cup and spread a wine path over the maid’s mouth. Her little pink tongue flicked out to smooth the drops over her lips, and his blood quickened.
Leaning forward, he tasted the wine from her mouth with his tongue, and hers came out to meet it. A bolt of desire shot through him at the contact. His breath came swift and harsh, and he grew impatient. She had been flirting with him since he had arrived at Bothwell, and his need had grown apace with the denial of it.
“Sweet Mary,” he murmured, and she smiled at him with open invitation.
He set the wine cup on the window ledge and leaned over her, using his weight to press her back on the cushions. Mary sighed softly as he kissed her again, and arched into him so that her breasts grazed his chest. He looked down where her bodice gaped, perusing the luscious swells and valley that beckoned with erotic invitation. Then he leaned away from her, and put his hands on her breasts with bold intent. She did not protest, but smiled up at him, and he knew then she did not coyly tease, but would yield all.
Curling his fingers into the scooped edge of her bodice he pulled it down to bare the full, firm mounds. Her skin was tawny, and the nipples were large and brown. She gasped a little when he scraped his thumbs across the peaks, and they tightened instantly. He smiled. Gathering both large breasts in his palms, he pushed them together and bent his head to take the beaded nipples into his mouth. Another moan emanated from her, and she arched upward as he suckled her with strong pulls that increased his desire. Her soft little cries in his ear encouraged him to greater effort, and she began to writhe beneath him with almost frantic motions.
Finally he paused, flicking a glance up to her flushed face and open mouth as his hands moved to the laces of his breeches. “Mary, are you untried?”
“Milord …?”
She sounded confused and breathless, but he would not be caught in a tender trap by a virgin who would later claim he had violated her and demand recompense.
“Are you virgin, girl? I would know now….”
An indecisive expression flickered over her face, and when she whispered, “Yea, m’lord,” he slid his hand beneath her gown and up her thigh to test for himself. Supping his fingers into her damp, heated recess, he met no barrier, and smiled at her lie. She whimpered as he moved his hand and raked his thumb over the source of pleasure that always brought female ecstasy. Gasping, she pressed into his hand.
Freeing himself from the tight constraint of his breeches, he began to kiss Mary again, coaxing her from passive acceptance to eager participation. She reached between them to curl her hand around him, and he groaned. Inspired by his response, she flexed her hand in the age-old motions that brought him to full erection.
Muttering encouragement against her mouth, her eyes, then her throat, Nicholas felt everything slip away but the driving need for release, for the petit mort that would, for one delicious moment, take him to the realm
of oblivion and shuddering bliss. It hovered just out of his reach, until finally he moved aside her hand and slid into the welcoming heat of her body. She closed around him in damp fervor, and he felt the world go dim with each contraction.
Her thighs clamped around his waist, her feet dug into the bolsters for leverage, and she arched into his thrusts with eager response; the exquisite friction brought her quickly to panting release and female cries of pleasure that he smothered with his mouth. When she calmed, he began again the slow ascension to that pinnacle he sought, this time with a mounting ferocity that escalated with each driving stab of his body into hers. Enclosed by her damp heat and the musky scent that emanated from her, he lost himself to the motion and the seeking until he was aware only of her moans and his, the rhythmic slap of flesh against flesh, and the approach of his own release.
Sobs of fervor grew louder in his ear as she clung to him with her arms around his neck, drowning out the faint roar of tumult beyond, and everything was a haze of sound and smell and sensation that abruptly coalesced into wave after wave of climactic finality. Panting, his lungs working for air as the blood still pounded through his body, he hung over her braced on his arms, suspended still between that ecstasy and the slow dissipation of the haze that enveloped him.
Then the tumult began to penetrate his satiated mist, and he lifted his head. Through the open window, he heard the unmistakable sounds of battle, of swords clashing and men shouting, and he jerked away from Mary with a curse.
Dazed, she stared up at him with frightened eyes as he leaned to the window to confirm his suspicions, then she reached for him. He pushed her hand aside. “Hide yourself, Mary. We are attacked.”
He rolled from the bolsters in a swift motion, cursing himself for being distracted as he tied his breeches, then yanked open the heavy draperies and bolted from the alcove.
He met Beakin at the far end of the corridor. “Give me your sword. Ah, Christ Almighty, who dares assault us?”
“There is no identifying pennant, milord, and ’tis too dark to see. Scots, of course.” Beakin slid his sword free of the sheath and held it out.
“Of course.” Nicholas slanted a swift glance at him and wished that Miles were here instead. His grizzled captain of the guards was better in a hand-to-hand fight than any man he knew, though Beakin was adept at the kind of fighting the Scots used, the strike and flee method that had visited such devastation upon the land. “Arm yourself, and meet me in the bailey. Where do they strike?”
“The west gate … Milord—to my mind, ’tis unusual for the Scots to be so foolish as to storm a locked gate with such noise. They prefer stealth and cutthroat tactics. Do you think it could be a diversion for something else?”
Nicholas paused, and his mind went immediately to his sister. “Oh, God—Catherine!” He broke into a run, not toward the west gate, but toward Catherine’s chamber.
Catherine was standing at the window when the noise erupted. Exultation was immediately mixed with panic. They had planned a diversion to aid Alex—but had he been able to free himself? Oh, God, what if he had not? She whirled around to look at the closed door. On the other side was the Welsh guard, a brutish man with little English and a sullen expression at missing the feast.
Had she not dealt for the past seven months with suspicious Scots whose language she did not speak? Yea, and yet she had somehow managed to communicate. Now, when it was so important, surely she could manage it again.
When she opened the door, the Welshman immediately snapped to attention, turning to look at her with a hand upon the hilt of his sword. She gave him an inquiring glance to disguise her swift assessment, and saw that he was tense and nervous. For some reason, she thought of Bess, and the Welsh maidservant’s unreasonable fear of fairies and spirits in the night. Was it not Beltane eve? Yea, and she could well recall Bess’s terror of the spirit night when ’twas said dark spirits freely roamed.…
Lowering her voice, a hand to her throat, she said softly, “ ’Tis the Tylwyth Teg that howls tonight? Is it not Vsbrydnos, the spirit night, and the witching hour when ’tis most dangerous?”
If the Welshman understood little, he definitely recognized the Welsh words for the Dark Ones, and crossed himself quickly, muttering in Welsh. His eyes darted to the window visible through the open door. The din drifted in through shutters left ajar. To Catherine, it was the unmistakable sound of battle. But to the Welsh soldier, although he must have heard it often enough, her suggestion and too much wine overrode his perception and plunged him into abject fear of the otherworldly spirits that were more fearsome than even armed Scots.
She stepped toward him, and saw the whites of his eyes roll in terror. He smelled strongly of the wine he had imbibed earlier, and she played upon his weakness without shame. “What is that? Do you hear it?”
He stared at her blankly, his hands clenched tight around the hilt of his sword, more unnerved by the sepulchre tone of her voice than words he did not fully comprehend, and she knew it. She moved even closer, and suddenly clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a scream as she pointed down the hall as if seeing a wraith.
Drawing his sword, the Welshman whirled around to face the invisible enemy, and Catherine began to pray in Latin, words he would know and understand as she beseeched God for mercy on her soul.
“In nomine Patris …”
The soldier took a faltering step forward, gripped by fear yet mindful of his duty as he stared hard down the empty corridor. She took a step backward, easing along the wall.
“Confiteor Deo omnipoténti….”
Another step back, then two, and the Welsh soldier still advanced on an enemy he did not see but believed was there.
“… beátae María semper Vírgini….”
And she was gone, turning to flee down the hallway to the spiral steps that led below, desperate to find Alex.
The bailey was in chaos. Men scurried back and forth, buckling on swords and armor, some still half-dressed, some reeling from the effects of too much drink and celebration. She stood in indecision for a moment. The east gate … in the dark lit only by sputtering torches, she could not get her bearings. Beyond the bailey at the far end, she saw soldiers clustered on the walls and at the gates, some firing arrows, others readying pots of hot water to pour down on the heads of the invaders. If the diversion was at one end, then the east gate must be at the other.…
Turning, she moved quickly toward the opposite side of the bailey and the gate manned by only a few guards. She kept to the shadows, heart pounding furiously as she made her way over rough stone paths and hard ground. No one seemed to notice her, and she was almost to the gate when a dark figure suddenly loomed before her to block her path.
Startled, she let out a rush of air, and the man laughed softly. “Where do you go so quickly, milady? Does your lord brother know you are fleeing him?”
Percy…., Hatred for this man welled in her, this man who had so enjoyed torturing Alex, but she kept her voice cool. “You are a fool, sir, if you think I flee from him. I seek shelter, and you bar my progress. Move aside.”
“Nay, milady.” He stepped adroitly in front of her as she again tried to pass. “We are well fortified here, and there is little danger from Scots. I will escort you.”
Frustrated, and worried more for Alex than herself, she tried to evade his grasp, but Percy clamped a hand down on her arm and jerked her harshly to him. To her horror, he put a rough hand on her breast and squeezed painfully.
“Ah, do not look so outraged, milady, for any leman of a Scot’s should not mind the touch of a real man.”
Repulsed, and truly frightened now, Catherine twisted in an effort to free herself but he held her cruelly. White-hot pain shot through her as he gripped her breast in his huge hand. Gasping, she went still to ease the agony.
“Fool … my brother will kill you for this!”
“Nay, milady, he will thank me for halting your flight from him. Do you think he will believe you once I tell him ho
w you sought to escape him yet again? Nay, he will not.”
Though she struggled, Percy dragged her into the deepest shadows along the wall, ignoring her threats and cries that seemed to mingle with the general tumult to be swallowed unheard. She fought him, scratching his face with her nails, clawing at him in mindless desperation as he bore her down, slamming her hard against the dirt. As he leaned over her, fumbling under his jerkin to untie his laces, she jerked her knee upward, but he caught her leg and shoved it roughly to the side, then cuffed her a blow that rattled her teeth.
“Vicious bint … ’tis what you deserve … Devlin must be blind not to see what a whore you are … rutting with Scots and then weeping for their fate … be still, bitch!”
Salty tears streamed from her eyes to wet her ears and the hair at her temples as he curved a hand over her throat to hold her. One of her arms was bent behind and beneath her, and he ignored the flailing blows of her free hand. She whimpered, a helpless sound of futility that only made him laugh. There was the rending sound of tearing cloth, and night air chilled her breasts. Hoarsely, he made a wordless noise of admiration and lust, his fingers rasping over the tender skin of her breasts in a painful scour. He kneaded them in his rough hand, leaving marks that would bruise. He moved to lift her skirts, his hand snatching at the velvet to toss it up, and she clenched her legs together tightly.
“Aye, you will spread your thighs for a Scot, but not an honest Englishman….”
His fierce mutter was heard as if from a distance as Catherine felt his hand pry her legs apart. She beat at him, but he shifted to wedge his body between her knees, and she managed a despairing cry like the wail of a tortured spirit. It only excited him.
“Aye, scream for me, my beauty. I like it best when they scream….”
Gathering all her strength, Catherine gave voice to pain, terror, and sorrow as everything around her seemed to dissolve in a blur. She screamed again and again until her throat was raw, all the past days of fear and anguish injected into the lingering appeal for justice and deliverance.
The Scotsman Page 29
