“I’m sorry for your loss, Arthur.”
“I’m sure you are,” a female voice called from the entrance. Nay, not a female. His enemy. And she’d best learn to curb that wicked tongue of hers. It wasn’t the first time she had used that tone in his presence. But it would be the last.
4
He was sorry?
She shouldn’t provoke the man who held her life in his hands, but Catrina, as usual, spoke before thinking.
In a few long strides, Sir Bryce was standing as close to her as possible without actually touching her. She had to tilt her head back to look him in the eyes. Which wasn’t a very good idea.
“You will hold your tongue.” His voice was low, stern, for her ears only. And then she did it again.
“How so, Sir Bryce?”
He grabbed her arm, his grasp easily penetrating the thick fabric of her sleeve. She hadn’t dared ask for a riding gown, so there’d been no choice but to make do with one of the two gowns afforded to her on the second day of her captivity.
Tight but not overly so, his grip was actually less ominous than the way he looked at her. With his perfectly formed jaw locked into place, Sir Bryce’s expression was one she’d seen on her brothers’ faces many times.
He wanted to kill her.
But he wouldn’t. If he could control his anger when she spoke with such open disrespect, he was unlikely to strike her. Or worse. Best she not tempt fate.
“My apologies.”
His eyes narrowed. “I don’t believe you’re contrite.”
Well, of course she wasn’t, but he was a brute to point it out. Luckily Arthur interrupted, leading Davie to her. Lord knows what would have escaped her lips otherwise.
Sir Bryce released his grip, but apparently not his anger. He offered no assistance as he watched her mount the chestnut mare she’d brought from Brockburg. Which was just as well.
She didn’t need it.
Mounted, she followed his lead away from the stables and through the small courtyard.
“People are staring.” Catrina smiled, trying to appear calm and in control.
“Let them.” Sir Bryce didn’t bother to look at her but instead spoke as if she didn’t exist.
“Where are we going?”
No answer.
She glanced at his profile and swallowed. His surcoat ended just below his waist. Emblazoned with the Waryn family crest, the deep blue and black garment made him appear nobler than he had that first night. At the time, she never would have guessed he was the second son of a baron. Not just because of his casual dress—he was also more braw than most Englishmen. Or at least the ones she’d seen.
They rode in silence, and after a time, Catrina realized they were heading toward the village. What would people think when they saw them together? The former lord’s sister and the man who held her captive.
“I’d like to speak with you, Sir Bryce.”
She could not force herself to use her brother’s title. He was the rightful lord of Bristol Manor.
The man was proving stubborn, forcing her to change tactics. If he truly intended to keep her locked away without any contact with the outside world, save Elise, then drastic action was necessary. Which meant she would have to get to know the enemy.
“Then speak.”
This wasn’t going to be easy. And before she could stop herself, her mouth was once again moving.
“Why don’t you ever smile?”
He slowed his jet-black mount and turned to her, his lips pressed in a straight line, eyes expressionless.
“I ride alongside my enemy, Lady Catrina. The sister of the man who killed my parents.”
“My brother did not kill your parents.”
“His men, his hand. It matters naught.”
Catrina’s heart thudded in her chest. She wanted to defend her brother, her clan. But arguing a claim that had been debated for centuries would not help her cause. And both she and Toren were sorely sorry for the loss of his parents, but he would unlikely believe her if she said as much. She remained silent, concentrating instead on their surroundings. If not for the border separating their two countries, a less discerning eye wouldn’t be able to tell them apart.
With spring upon them, the wide-open moorlands burgeoned with life. The locals called the area between the manor house and village “whitelands” and the heather-topped moorland to the east “blacklands.” A visitor on this well-worn path would understand Bristol’s appeal at once. To the north of the manor and still within sight lay the Cheviot Hills, their rising slopes breathtaking from this distance. Even they couldn’t compete with Bristol Sprout, a rock-face waterfall just northwest of their current path.
A splash in the river that ran from north to south as far as the eye could see broke her reverie. She looked toward the water. Nothing seemed to be amiss. Except, of course, that she was the hostage of a brutish knight who rode stoically alongside her.
She wanted to rail against him, but to do so would be counterproductive to her goal. Get to know the man. Form a plan of escape.
“Why did you allow me on your ride?” Catrina chanced another glance at the Englishman. Her brothers were a fearsome lot, but none were as serious as this one.
He slowed his horse to a walk and finally looked at her. Lord have mercy, he could slay an army with that look.
“Your brother had the gall to issue a letter of slains this morning on behalf of his king. If anyone owes assythment, it’s him.” Sir Bryce turned away once again, staring fixedly ahead—just as he had since they’d left the manor.
“Did he make mention of me, perhaps?”
The most remarkable thing happened.
Was that a smile? Nay, it couldn’t be. His lips curved ever so slightly, and so briefly, Catrina was sure she must have imagined it.
“Nay, he did not.”
So he didn’t know she was here. Or Sir Bryce was deliberately being coy. How did this information affect her plan?
“He likely thinks you dead.”
Dead? Toren would be crushed. Which meant he might do something rash. If her brothers thought her dead, they would seek vengeance, not assythment. Unless Toren thought to lull Sir Bryce into believing the lives of his clansmen could be bought.
A voice inside her refused to quiet. One that reminded her the lives of the Englishmen, and of Sir Bryce’s parents, had also been taken.
There was no doubt Toren was planning a counterattack. Oh God, brother, don’t do it!
From what she could tell, the Englishmen wasted no time repairing the damage done when they had attacked. There were four times as many men guarding Bristol Manor than her brother kept. Without allies, and the Kerrs had precious few thanks to her brother’s stubbornness and more than one blood feud, they would be defeated.
She must get back to him. She must convince him not to take such a foolish risk.
“It matters naught.” She had to convince Sir Bryce that Toren wanted nothing more than compensation for his clansmen. Maybe then he would relax his guard enough for her to escape.
“Toren holds no special place in his heart for a sister who causes him nothing but trouble.” At least the latter part of that statement was true, and her tone had sounded convincing enough to her own ears. “He cares more for his clan than for a woman, even his sister. He’d never put them at risk for me.”
She peeked out of the corner of her eye. Was that skepticism she read on his face? His expression never changed, so it was hard to tell.
“I find that hard to believe.”
Perhaps a dose of the truth might help her cause. “‘Tis true. Our mother is English, you see.”
There, she had said it.
“I remind him too much of the woman who abandoned us. Abandoned our family.”
Finally, a reaction! He stopped his horse and turned to look at her. She stopped as well. Davie danced under her, impatient to move.
“Ask Evelyn if you don’t believe me.”
Evelyn could indee
d support her story. She was the only person Catrina had told about her mother. But belatedly, Catrina realized Evelyn would disprove her tall tale about Toren’s feelings toward her. That Catrina was coddled, revered by her older brothers, was not a secret. Even if Evelyn didn’t tell him the truth, there were plenty of other people who would. Damn it to hell, why hadn’t she thought of that sooner?
Catrina tried not to squirm under the intense scrutiny that was Sir Bryce’s stare. She had nothing to lose by keeping up the pretense. “Did I ruin your plans? Toren isn’t stupid. He must know I’m your prisoner. He just doesn’t care. And now you’re saddled with the enemy’s sister, as you so kindly put it.”
Before he could react, a loud crack in the sky made them both look up. The bright blue that had been dotted with clouds just moments earlier darkened before their eyes. A storm was coming, and they could not outrun it.
Goddammit, they were about to get wet, or worse. Bryce might have welcomed the rain had he been alone. He’d never thought much of a good drenching until the day after he arrived at Huntington Castle. Proud to be serving such an important man—an arrangement his father had worked hard to facilitate—Bryce had found himself assisting the earl himself on a deer hunt. But a flash of lightning had found them without warning. Or had found one of Huntington’s men, to be precise. The young man had died on the spot, and the incident had left Bryce uneasy about thunderstorms for years afterward. He would put himself at risk in this wide-open moorland, but he’d not endanger Lady Catrina.
She was too valuable, whatever ruse she thought to play.
“Follow me,” he shouted and guided her to a nearby patch of trees as the sky opened above them. Bryce pointed to a rock formation which he knew enclosed a space large enough for them both. Lady Catrina dismounted, slipped from her mount, and nearly fell to the uneven ground below. Bryce reached out to steady her, but she caught herself. He took her horse’s reins as she fled into the makeshift shelter.
He found a flat patch of land and tied their horses to two sturdy trees jutting high into the sky, too high to see the tops of their leaves. The sound of rain was drowned out by Bristol Sprout, a waterfall more than twenty feet high just steps from where he had sent Lady Catrina.
He and his siblings had spent many days in the pool beneath the waterfall half hidden by the surrounding heather and bracken. In all his travels, only the North Sea had offered as magnificent a sight as Bristol Sprout. After this rainfall, it would be an impressive sight indeed.
Almost as impressive as the woman who sat with her knees pulled up to her body, the bodice of her bright lavender dress, its neckline and sleeves lined in gold brocade, drenched and clinging to every inch of her body.
Bryce knew a beautiful woman when he saw one, and there was no doubt Catrina Kerr was extraordinarily pretty. As he watched, she pulled errant strands of hair to the side, braiding the long, wet locks. With just enough room for her to stand, the wet rocks offered shelter but was too small for him to avoid looking anywhere but at his companion.
Bryce laid down his sword and began to discard his wet leather boots. It was damned uncomfortable to undress without being able to fully stand.
With his belt and boots finally off, he grabbed the collar of his short overtunic and pulled it over his head. He only wore the garment because Hugh and Thomas had insisted he look the part of the new lord. He was proud of the Waryn crest inlay but despised unnecessary layers. During the five years of their forced exile, Bryce had become accustomed to the simpler garb worn by his extended family. Thomas nagged like an old woman about the dangers of traveling without more protection, but the only time he covered his loose linen shirt was in battle.
“You can’t be serious?”
Bryce stopped, his hand on the hem of his tunic. He’d been about to lift it over his head when Lady Catrina finally broke her silence.
“You’ll disrobe in front of a lady?”
“A lady? Where?” It wasn’t like him to jest. But the expression on her face almost made him want to laugh.
Almost.
“No one will remove another garment.”
She had gall, that much was evident.
“Or else?”
If she wasn’t the sister of his enemy, Bryce would take pity on the sorry sight in front of him. With water dripping from the sleeves of her gown, her hair, darker now that it was wet, Lady Catrina was…breathtaking.
“You’ve gold specks in your eyes.”
He said it without thinking.
“Aye, what of it?”
Bryce sat, resigned to remain in his wet clothes. Lucky for her, it was an unusually warm spring day, otherwise the lady’s maidenly sensibilities would matter little. Had it been any colder, both of them would have needed to strip.
The silence stretched.
“I know this place,” said Catrina. “‘Tis lovely.”
He was going to have a hard time ignoring her in such tight quarters. He could look out to watch the sheets of water fall from the high rock above, but his gaze kept returning to the Kerr girl.
The waterfall had indeed begun to roar, just as he’d known it would. When they were young, he and Geoffrey used to spend more time here than his father would have liked. A quick wash after training would turn into hours of tossing rocks into the pool of water below. He and his brothers used to talk about jumping the waterfall cliff, but it hadn’t gone any further than talk. The jump would have seen them killed. They had little sense as boys, but enough to keep them alive.
Their sister had come here the least. She’d always been afraid to get “stuck” behind the curtain of water. They only persuaded her to swim a handful of times, always with one of them right by her side.
He found himself reaching into his pocket for Emma’s ribbon. Without quite planning to, he said, “Five years ago, the day your brother attacked Bristol, my siblings and I were at a fair with my uncle. My sister, Emma, begged for a new ribbon. She tied one in her hair nearly every day. She was obsessed with their colors, the bold blues and bright reds that peddlers brought to the village.” He paused, not planning to say any more. But something compelled him to do so. “The fair was my idea.”
He rushed on, guilt consuming him as it did whenever he thought of that day. “When we received word the Scots had taken our home, killed my parents, Emma dropped the new yellow ribbon my uncle had bought her.” He took out the small, ragged strand from his pocket and turned to the woman whose proximity was making the shelter distinctively uncomfortable.
Eyes wide, Lady Catrina looked almost innocent.
“I picked it up and carry it still. A reminder of what happened that day. As if I need one.”
Catrina looked at the tattered strip of ribbon. Was it really once yellow? The hand beneath it was large and battle-worn. She looked up at the man who held the slip of decaying ribbon in his hand as gently as if it were a wee robin. She imagined herself reaching out to touch him. But that was ridiculous, of course. He neither grimaced nor smiled, but his eyes were still locked with hers. Did he expect a response?
No words came. They sat so close their legs were nearly touching, the waterfall so loud it almost drowned out his words.
How had she gotten here?
Hostage to a man who was her enemy. One who never smiled and wanted her and her brothers dead.
The most handsome man she’d ever laid eyes on.
“I’m sorry.”
It took her a moment to realize the words had come from her lips. The second apology in one day. Father Simon would be shocked. Of course, she hadn’t meant it the first time.
“That your parents were killed, that is.”
He closed his hand into a fist so tight it trembled ever so slightly. She couldn’t look at him any longer. Toren had told her to always look a man in the eyes, but his were filled with such anger and sorrow that Catrina was afraid she’d say something she would regret. Lord knows she did that often enough.
“Not as sorry as I.” Sir Bryce put the
ribbon back into his pocket.
They sat in silence, watching the heavy rainfall. This was one thing her country had in common with its southern neighbor, a very wet spring. Then again, the land on the border somehow belonged to both of them.
“How long will we stay here?” She readjusted her wet skirts, attempting to get more comfortable.
He turned to her once again. His eyes were so blue, even more so than his brother’s. This time she refused to look away. The anger and sadness were gone, replaced with…she wasn’t sure. Indifference?
She licked her lips. Catrina desperately wanted to turn away but was too stubborn to do so. A trait that got her into trouble often enough. Like when the man she loved, Graeme deSowlis, had first asked Toren for her hand in marriage back in Brockburg. Her brother had refused, and Catrina had declined to eat for three days. She still got hungry thinking about it.
“Not a minute longer than necessary.” His low, thick voice gave her the strangest sensation.
His animosity was understandable, but it was misguided of him to direct it at her.
She’d had enough.
“‘Tis clear you hate me—” his expression didn’t change, “—and you’re certainly not my favorite person for obvious reasons.”
She thought her brother Toren stoic at times. He was like a court jester compared to this Englishman.
“I was not present at the raid. And now, thanks to you, I’m the captive of my brother’s enemy, unsure if my family lives, with a betrothed . . .”
That was plenty. No need to get into that mess. But at least she finally got a reaction.
“You’re betrothed?”
With the rain coming down even harder now, Sir Bryce apparently decided to get comfortable. He shifted and leaned against the rock behind him, facing her with one elbow on his propped knee. If only his expression matched his demeanor. Catrina hated to admit it, but he made her nervous. She pretended to be as brave and strong as her brothers, but truth be told, she had to force her hands not to shake every time her captor was near.
The Lord's Captive (Border Series Book 2) Page 4
