“Are ye alone, my lady?”
All that time spent working with Fergus had left a mark on the Englishwoman’s speech. Fergus, a Highlander, had found his way to Brockburg at the tender age of four and ten. The son of a freeman, a peasant farmer, he’d formed a quick friendship with Toren and had accompanied him to Bristol.
Toren had spent the better part of three years, since the day Catrina had arrived, urging her to return home. He’d always known the Waryn men would attempt to reclaim Bristol. It was only a matter of when. They’d established long ago that Fergus would remain, at least for a time, in the event of an attack.
“The new lord is at the forge.” She wrinkled her nose at the thought.
Mary wiped her hands on an apron that must have been white at some point.
“Come sit, a new batch is soaking.”
She’d love to reacquaint with her friend, but there was no time. Bryce could be along any moment. Catrina grasped Mary’s hands and implored her to understand.
“Mary, I need to speak to Fergus. Please tell me—”
“He’s helpin’ in the fields again today, mi’lady. Since the raid, they be shorthanded. They need crops even more than ale these days. The supply grows thin.”
Damnation to hell.
“I’ll get ‘em a message.”
She couldn’t tell Mary she needed his help to escape Bristol. While the alewife likely suspected as much, she would not endanger Mary by sharing her plan.
“Nay, I’ll speak to him another time.” But when? Every day she stayed here placed her family in more danger.
“Sit.”
She knew arguing with the woman was pointless. When Mary wanted her way, she got it. Catrina sat at the simple wooden table and accepted a mug of ale. Putting down her hood, she took a hearty sip of the best brew in Bristol. There were other brewhouses, but Mary supplied the manor and was a master of her craft.
“The lord be treatin’ you well?” Mary sat across from her, the welcoming smile on her plump face a relief from Bryce’s surliness.
“Aye. Well enough.”
“I told ye, my lady. I’ve known the Waryn boys since they—”
“I know, since they were babes suckling at their mother’s teat.” She added in a whisper, “Apologies, Father Simon.”
“Beggin’ yer pardon for saying so, but yer always begging that stodgy Father Simon’s pardon. If I’ve ever a mind to travel to Scotland, it will be to box the man’s ears.”
Catrina laughed. “Box the ears of a priest?”
A movement in the window caught her eye. “Speaking of men without mirth.”
Catrina had suspected he wouldn’t trust her for long, but his conversation with Bristol’s blacksmith must have been an especially short one. She’d only been in here for a moment.
As usual, Bryce did not look particularly happy.
The blacksmith must think him mad. Bryce didn’t know what he had been thinking to allow Catrina to visit Mary unescorted. He’d changed his mind almost immediately. After making short work of informing the man the forge would be moved to the manor, he’d immediately excused himself to the alewife’s house.
Blessedly, he could see through the small window as he approached. It was irrational to think she’d have gone far, which was why he’d agreed to her request before taking the time to consider it. But as he stood in the entranceway, he let out a deep breath and watched Catrina’s interaction with Mary.
She was his captive. His enemy. She should be afraid for her life. Instead, she smiled easily and laughed with the alewife, acting again as if she were the lady of Bristol Manor.
He entered without knocking, ducking into the entranceway. “It’s time to leave.”
The women looked at him, both of their smiles disappearing.
“Good day, my lord.” Mary scrambled to her feet and curtsied.
“Good day, Mary. It’s nice to see you.” And it was. He’d always liked the alewife. Both she and Evelyn had been widowed in the same raid many years ago, a bloody battle that had prompted the building of the wall that now surrounded Bristol Manor.
“And you, my lord.”
In the last two days, he had visited every home in the village, getting reacquainted with Bristol’s people. With the exception of a handful of Scots whom Thomas had spoken to more than once, all of the villagers were Bristol natives, born and raised. Although he and his family had always been well liked, it was only after speaking with them that he felt comfortable in his new position.
Oddly, it seemed his people had acclimated to Clan Kerr fairly easily. Including Catrina. That they welcomed their rightful lord was a relief.
“Lady Catrina,” he said.
The curious woman drank the remainder of her ale before following him out. He’d never met anyone quite like her. She had the manners of a lady but acted, at times, like a man. It intrigued him.
He wanted to comment on her relationship with Mary or her preference for ale, but he said nothing. She was a Kerr, and he’d do well to remember it.
Unfortunately, she had no such qualms about speaking to him.
“Did your meeting go well?”
He walked ahead so he wouldn’t have to look at her. His traitorous body stirred nearly every time he glanced her way.
“So we’re back to that?”
Aye, we are. Bryce had planned on a longer visit. He would do well to check with the miller about the discrepancies Thomas had found in the amount of banalities they were owed. But he needed to get away from Catrina. He didn’t like the familiarity that was growing between them. Or maybe it was the fact that he did like it that worried him.
“We’re leaving so soon?”
He grunted in response and helped the stable hand prepare their horses. He had no intention of interacting with her for the remainder of the day.
They rode back in silence, Catrina obviously realizing she would not get a response from him. By the time they returned, the sun had dipped below the horizon. Bryce took no chances—he escorted her to the manor and then walked her above stairs himself.
“See that she is fed,” he said to the guard who followed them.
He turned toward the stairs.
“Wait! My lord, please.”
He knew he should walk away, but his body didn’t heed his mind. It turned toward her instead.
“Can I take supper in the hall?”
“Leave us,” Bryce said to the guard.
The armored knight walked away as promptly as he had appeared. The moment they were left alone, Bryce knew this was another mistake.
“I don’t trust you, Catrina. You have every reason to attempt escape and none to remain here as my prisoner.”
She swallowed hard. He could sense her nervousness.
“Please, Bryce.”
Every damn time she said his name, his cock stirred. She was so beautiful. And obviously an innocent. He had never expected his enemy to have a body made to be touched. Skin so smooth he ached to feel it under his hands.
Aye, being alone with her was a terrible idea.
“For supper. And only when I’m in attendance. Otherwise, you will remain in your chamber.”
She blinked, her dark lashes a bold contrast to the creamy white skin of her cheeks.
“Do you understand?”
She was so close he could reach out and touch her.
“Aye.”
And then she smiled. Perfect white teeth, a mouth so sensual she’d no doubt instinctively know how to use it.
Unless she’s already practiced with her betrothed?
“Have you kissed a man before, Catrina?”
She was clearly puzzled by his question. As was he. He hadn’t intended to speak the words out loud.
“Aye.”
Aye?
“Your betrothed?”
“Nay, never.”
He wasn’t thinking straight. His loins ached, and his hands itched to grab her around the waist and pull her toward him so she could compare
his kiss to that of this unnamed man and find it superior.
But he wasn’t some untried lad who couldn’t control his impulses. He was lord of Bristol Manor, a man whose sole purpose was to keep his brother’s…his…inheritance safe. From her family.
He walked away and called back to her. “Don’t be late.”
A short time later, Bryce entered the hall, which smelled of roasted duck. A full staff, or as close to one as could be expected, prepared for the evening meal. Rich tapestries now hung on the walls, telling tales of English military battles and hunts. They had arrived yesterday in a wagonload of supplies courtesy of Lady Sara. The roaring fire in the massive hearth at the southernmost corner of the hall made the interior of Bristol Manor more intimate than the one at Kenshire, but just as inviting.
And now it was his home again. This time for good.
“Kind of you to change for supper, my lord.” His new steward approached, freshly washed. A rarity. And he wore a new surcoat.
He had not bothered changing for the meal. “Who am I to impress. You?”
“Your people, my lord.”
Bryce rolled his eyes. “You know my name. Use it.”
“Lady Sara would not approve of your attire.”
“Another reason not to take a wife.” He changed the topic. “Have your eye on a maid then, Thomas?”
The steward immediately glanced at a serving girl placing mugs and iron spoons on each of the trestle tables.
“Not sure what you mean, ol’ man,” he said. His grin told another story.
“Good for you, Thomas. After the hell I’ve put you through, you deserve a bit of fun.”
“And what about you, Bryce? Don’t you deserve the same?”
Without thinking, he looked toward the stairs, and damned if she didn’t materialize before his eyes.
Catrina wore the same gown as earlier, but her hair was unbound. It was neither braided nor covered and cascaded over her shoulders in waves of reddish brown.
Lady Catrina Kerr, the sister of a man he would either ruin or kill. Maybe both. He had lied to her about the contents of her brother’s message. Her family knew she was safe at Bristol and the answer he’d sent back had included a ransom note. There was a good chance Toren Kerr would pay to see his sister returned, but an even better one he’d choose to fight instead.
Bryce welcomed either.
“What is she doing, Bryce?”
A fair question. “Dining in the hall.”
Thomas stroked his beard, clearly wanting to say more but keeping his mouth closed. His forbearance was a welcome surprise. Bryce couldn’t understand his own reasons for inviting her, which meant he certainly couldn’t explain them to Thomas.
“Good eve, my lord. Sir Thomas.”
Her smooth, velvety voice greeted them so prettily. But in the day they’d spent together, Bryce had learned one thing about the lady. She was clever. She had an ulterior motive for every word, and giving her any freedom was likely a mistake. And yet here she was, in his hall, greeting his steward as politely as a gentle-bred Englishwoman. Something about Catrina made him act much more impulsively.
“I shall seat myself at— ”
“The lord’s table,” Thomas finished.
Bryce gave him a sharp glance. He may have invited her to dine in the hall, but she was still his captive.
Thomas frowned at him until he finally nodded to Catrina. She glided toward the head table.
“What the hell were you—”
“Me? You question my motives?” Thomas answered him in an undertone. “Bryce, you can scowl at me all you like. But you invited her to dine with us. And while she may be a Kerr, she’s also a lady. You can see for yourself, the woman is respected. Admired. It serves no purpose to publicly humiliate her.”
“Thomas, she’s a goddamn prisoner.”
“Aye, and one who likely gave the orders in this very hall just a few days past. You asked her here, not I.”
His friend was insolent, but as usual, he was also right.
“Fine, she dines with us. But her privileges end there.”
“Whatever you say, my lord.”
“You can wipe that grin from your face, Thomas.”
“As you command, my lord. But she dines with you, not us. I’ve an errand to run with Hugh, if you’ll remember. That is, after I arrange a late night meeting with a certain serving wench.”
He watched Thomas walk away and glanced toward the dais. Catrina looked very comfortable in the seat next to his. She obviously did command respect despite the fact that she was Scottish. And an outsider.
He should never have allowed a visit with Mary.
So why did you? And why is she drinking ale at the lord’s table and not locked away, alone?
The only answer he could summon was appalling.
6
She did it!
Thank you, St. Clare. If not for the storm this morning, she and Bryce would never have been forced to sit alone together for so long. They would not have been forced to talk, and she’d likely be sitting in her room right now.
Wait…was it wrong to thank the saint for bad weather? Catrina’s tutor at Brockburg, a monk who’d educated an entire generation of Kerrs, had a long-standing argument with Father Simon about the notion of praying to a saint for personal gain. Nevertheless, their priest made it a common practice. When the Feast of St. Martin arrived each year, he fervently prayed to St. Clare for good weather.
Who would have thought she’d miss the man so much?
God, please help me get back home. I’ll do my best to think before I talk and curb my “wee foul tongue,” as your servant Father Simon is fond of saying.
“Thank you,” she said to the servant who filled her mug.
She may have convinced Bryce to give her some freedom, but if the look he gave her as he approached the dais was any indication, she may have celebrated too soon.
“You’ll ask permission to speak to anyone but me.”
“The hell I will!”
That was not well said.
Bryce’s eyes widened. Clearly he wasn’t used to being spoken to in such a way. Why did she insist on angering him when she should be endearing him to her instead?
She may despise him. Hate everything about him. His arrogance especially. But unless this man began to trust her, she could count this day as the first and last she’d be allowed outside her chamber.
“What I mean to say, my lord, is that your request seems rather extreme.”
Bryce didn’t bother to answer. Although he sat next to her, he faced the crowd of knights and retainers in front of them.
Typical.
“Where would I go?” She accepted a linen towel from a male servant whom she didn’t recognize and wiped her hands. “Shall I try to walk back home and wait for your men to recapture me? Or perhaps I’ll ask the groom very sweetly to borrow Davie for a quick jaunt back to Scotland? Or maybe request assistance from the brigands I’m sure to meet along the way—”
“That’s enough.”
If any of her brothers ever spoke to her with that tone, she’d have more than a few choice words for them. But if she wanted get back home to actually see her brothers, Catrina would need to hold her tongue.
It was the hardest thing she’d ever done in her life.
Well, with the exception of traveling to Bristol to beg her stubborn brother to allow her to marry Graeme. Toren had been spitting mad, but she’d made it clear she intended to hold her ground. And she was still here.
A trencher of roasted duck and quince pie was placed before them. She was expected to share with him?
“Is your steward joining us?”
“Nay. He and my uncle Hugh left for…” His voice trailed off.
Of course. He didn’t trust her with any information. She didn’t blame him.
Bryce nodded for her to eat.
Catrina broke off a piece of choice meat and placed it in her mouth. She tried to be delicate but was ravenous. It wa
s only when she realized Bryce was watching her rather than eating himself that she paused.
“I’m hungry.”
“I can see that.”
And there it was again. The faintest of smiles.
A shiver started in her gut and made its way down to her core. It was the strangest sensation. She swallowed, in awe of Bryce’s transformation.
The smile had relaxed the hard lines of his jawbone and softened his blue eyes. Though he was still fierce-looking, the slight smile made him seem more approachable somehow. She suddenly had the strangest desire to touch him. To see if he was indeed human.
The smile slipped away, but it wasn’t replaced with his usual scowl. He looked as if he wanted to devour her as readily as she had the duck.
“Your hair is as black as the earl of Hell’s waistcoat,” Catrina said.
Bryce threw his head back and laughed. Honest to God, the man actually laughed.
Catrina wasn’t the only one surprised by such a sound. Nearly every head turned toward them, some gaping openly at the deep sound of their lord’s pleasure.
She couldn’t help but smile as well.
“Where did you acquire such an expression?”
He wouldn’t like the answer. Instead, she silently asked forgiveness and promptly lied. “Father Simon. Brockburg’s priest.”
It was near enough to the truth. Toren and Father Simon were extremely close, after all.
“He must be an unconventional man, this Father Simon, to speak thusly?”
Bryce finally began to eat as Catrina took a healthy swig of ale.
“You could say that. He tries his best to “tame” us.”
“Us?”
“My brothers and I. Father Simon says he took up permanent residence at Brockburg to save our souls.”
That much was true.
Movement in the back of the hall caught their attention. Two men stood and faced each other, poised to fight.
Bryce stood.
“Never—” Every person in the hall turned toward his raised voice. Though loud enough for all to hear, it wasn’t quite a shout. “—raise a hand in my hall. Violence has no place here. Either sit, take your quarrel outside, or remove yourself permanently from Bristol Manor.”
From their dress, Catrina could tell the men were both knights. Big men whose sword arms would likely be missed if they chose to leave. But there was no mistaking Bryce’s tone. His threat was not an idle one.
The Lord's Captive (Border Series Book 2) Page 6
