“Do I? Do I really?” I growl. “You are in London so often that you do not see what he does here, father. Worse than that is the fact that when his actions are reported, you refuse to believe them. You embolden him by refusing to believe what he is capable of.”
“And perhaps you demonize him unfairly,” he says. “There are a great many things you do not understand.”
“I understand that your brother is a butcher,” I hiss. “That he takes pleasure in killing innocent people.”
“And what would you have me do, daughter?” he asks. “Who will protect these lands − our lands − when I am gone?”
“Protect them from whom, father?” I fire back. “The Scots just want to live their lives in peace. They make no provocative moves. They have not attempted to overrun Caldryn House. The only violence in these lands begins with James.”
“Again I ask, what would you have me do?” he presses. “I cannot leave your brother in command of the garrison. What a disaster that would be.”
“Then appoint a regent,” I offer. “Somebody to serve as an administrator while you are away.”
He sighs, and we ride in silence for a long moment. My father looks weary. He looks vexed, and I feel badly for causing him such grief and consternation. But I am right about this, and I am hoping that somewhere, deep down inside of him, he knows this.
“Family is all we truly have in this life, Catherine. It is the most important thing,” he finally says. “I must believe in my brother.”
His tone is sharper than the edge of a blade, and although he looks like he immediately regrets it, the flush of anger is already warming my face. I straighten my back, sitting up straighter in my saddle and lift my chin.
“And sometimes family can be our greatest downfall,” I respond. “Some count on that blind allegiance to do some of the most heinous things.”
As we crest a small rise, I see Caldryn House just ahead. Saying nothing more, I gently nudge the flanks of my horse, willing him to run fast and spirit me away from this madness. I hear my father calling to me, but by the time I reach the gates, it has faded away behind me.
And my longing to return to the north and to Malcolm, grows more powerful by the moment.
Chapter Twenty-One
Catherine
“I’m so happy to see you’re alive and well,” Maggie says as she pulls me into a tight embrace. “I’ve been so worried about you.”
“Well, I am alive at any rate,” I respond wryly.
After throwing my horse’s reins to one of the stable hands in the bailey, I dashed upstairs to my chambers, not wishing to see my father or anybody else until I have calmed down − which might be a while. The one exception, of course, being Maggie.
Maggie’s family emigrated from Ireland and has served mine since well before I was even born. She and I grew up together, and though she serves as my handmaiden, we are more like the sisters we never had. She is my most trusted friend and confidant. She and I share everything, and she is my sounding board when I need to talk − she never fails to offer sage advice. Maggie has a natural wisdom that I never fail to wonder at or rely upon.
Maggie immediately orders the chambermaids to bring buckets of heated water to my room, and it’s not long before I am sitting up to my chin in a large basin of warm water. I lean back, letting the warmth soak into my bones and let out a small, satisfied sigh. If there is one thing I missed while at Malcolm’s home, it was a warm bath.
Maggie uses a cloth to wash me, and I inhale the sweet aroma of my perfumed soap, relishing the scent of it. She uses a small cup to pour water over my hair, running her fingers through it before she starts to wash it. I close my eyes and enjoy the decadent sensation, letting myself luxuriate in it.
“So, what was it like? Being held prisoner by those bloody savages?” Maggie finally asks, her Irish brogue reminding me of Malcolm’s accent, sending a white-hot bolt of pain through the center of me.
Maggie says it without any malice in her voice. Her exposure to the Scots is limited to her trips to the market in Weykirk. Even then, she is usually with my father’s men, so she does not have much time to socialize or get to know them. And even I have to admit that some of the rural Scots who frequent the market are a bit − rough around the edges.
She is not like my uncle, who hates them simply for being Scottish. She is merely ignorant of them. All she truly knows, even after all these years, is what she picks up from the men around here, none of whom have much love for the Scots.
“Malcolm is not a savage, I assure you,” I tell her. “And I wasn’t his prisoner. Not exactly.”
She arches an eyebrow at me. “Oh no? What were you then?”
I shake my head. “He’s quite articulate and very well educated,” I tell her. “He is a genuinely intelligent man. And he wanted me to think of myself as his − guest.”
She giggles, her dark eyes sparkling in the light of the candles that have been set up in my chamber. Outside, the world is sliding toward darkness with the dim, fading gloom of dusk casting shadows all around us.
“His guest?” she asks.
I nod. “He was very kind to me,” I explain. “He went out of his way to care for me.”
Maggie looks at me with a mischievous gleam in her eye and a smile curling her lips upward. I can tell what she’s thinking, and I already feel my cheeks coloring.
“You sound like you fancy him,” she says.
I look down at the water, already cooling around me. I take the cup from Maggie and finish rinsing my hair. The entire time she is staring at me, the smile on her face growing wider. If only the heat of embarrassment that’s warming my insides could heat the water I am sitting in − the basin would be boiling by now.
“You do. You fancy this man,” she whispers, clapping her hands over her mouth.
If there is one person in this world I can trust, it is Maggie. But even still, I hesitate to say anything. Not because I think she will tell my father or uncle. I know she would never betray me like that. It is because admitting it out loud makes it real. And because I will likely never get to see Malcolm again, it would feel like opening a fresh wound in my heart all over again. But not talking about it will be like letting a poison seep into my very soul, and I know it would consume me, turning me cold and bitter.
I turn to Maggie and give her a smile that feels as hollow and empty as I do right now. She takes my hand and gives it a gentle squeeze, favoring me with a sympathetic smile like she already knows what is in my heart.
“I do not know what I feel for him,” I admit. “But I feel something. And knowing I will never see him again fills me with a pain I am finding difficult to endure.”
She nods and leans down, pressing a soft kiss to the back of my hand. I stand up and watch as the water pours from my body, splashing into the basin around me. Maggie grabs a cloth and begins to dry my body before I wrap it around myself and step out of the basin. She grabs a robe, and I slip it on before settling into a chair where she brushes out my hair for me.
“What makes you think you’ll never see him again?” Maggie finally asks.
“I have no doubt that after all of this, my father will insist on sending me back to Carlisle,” I tell her. “And once there, he will redouble his efforts to find me a suitable match and marry me off. At this point, with choices so few, I am quite certain he will be far less selective.”
“So you’re just giving up then?”
I shrug. “What choice do I have?”
“You could fight,” she says. “You could tell your father you wish to stay here rather than go back to Carlisle.”
A wry smile touches my lips. “You sound like him. Like Malcolm.”
“Then he sees in you what I do − a woman who will never stop fighting for what she wants,” she declares. “And you know your father will do anything to make you happy.”
“If only that were true.”
“It is. He favors you − even above the waste of flesh that is your b
rother,” she states. “If women were allowed to inherit title, I have no doubt you would be next in line.”
I give her a wan smile. “But women are not allowed to inherit. And so I have no choice but to accept my fate.”
Maggie’s expression is cross, and she looks at me as if I am the most lowly, despicable creature she has ever encountered. I look away, ashamed of what I see in her eyes − the judgment.
“This doesn’t sound like the woman I know, Catherine. The woman I love so fiercely,” she chides me. “That woman takes nothing lying down. That woman is willing to fight to her dying breath. Where has that woman gone?”
I open my mouth to respond, but the words die in my throat. The truth is, I do not know where that woman has gone. Right now, I do not feel anything remotely like myself. Knowing that no matter what I do, I will never have Malcolm in my life again, all of my fire and fight seems to have been spent. And all that seems left is the cold certainty that my life is not my own, and I will essentially be sold to the highest bidder like a prized horse or a piece of land.
“Forgive me if I’m speaking out of turn Catherine, but you need to stop feeling sorry for yourself,” she states, the Irish lilt in her voice always grows thicker when she’s angry.
“Is that what I am doing?”
“Damn right you are,” she replies. “You’re just wallowing in your own self-pity like a pig wallows in its own filth.”
My laugh is bitter and mirthless, but I take her critique and say nothing for a moment. Maggie is one of the few people in this world who is not afraid to speak her mind to me. She never has been. She doesn’t try to ingratiate herself to me. She does not seek to curry favor with false platitudes or insincere words. Maggie simply offers me her own, unabashed point of view. It is one of the things I value and appreciate about her the most − her honesty.
“I suppose I am,” I reply softly.
“Good. Then I expect you to figure out what it is you want and then bloody well fight for it.”
The first genuine smile in what feels like forever spreads across my face as I feel those fires within me being rekindled. Maggie is right, of course. I am wallowing in my own self-pity, and that is very unlike me. I may not get what I want, and my father’s opinion may very well − will very likely − go against me. But I will not allow that to happen without having my say. I will not remain silent and let my life simply happen to me. I will exercise as much control over my own agency as I am able to.
Maggie apparently likes what she sees in my eyes and gives me a firm nod. “There’s me girl again,” she chirps and pulls me into a tight embrace.
“Thank you, Maggie,” I tell her. “I − I guess I lost my way for a bit.”
“We all do,” she says. “It’s being able to find our way back that’s important.”
She continues brushing the knots out of my hair, and she asks me about Malcolm. After she’s done brushing, she dresses me in one of my gowns − a fine, soft silk − and I tell her about him. I tell her that he was the boy in the market all those years ago − the one I had told her about back them. I tell her about being in his home and what I found. I tell her everything I remember about him, right up to the moment I left him in that clearing after he came to terms with my father.
I explain, as best as I can, about my feelings. They are convoluted, and as I speak, I realize that I am trying to make some sense of them even to myself. But Maggie seems to understand. She listens to my story without judgment − or even comment − until I have spoken myself out. And when I am finished, she still carries that mischievous glint in her eye and a knowing smile upon her face.
“You gave yourself to him,” she says softly, not a question.
“Why would you possibly think that?” I ask. “I have not mentioned −”
“You didn’t need to,” she crows. “I can see it in your face. Not to mention the fact that you didn’t try to deny it just now.”
“I did. We − did,” I whisper.
“Do you love him?”
I shake my head. “I - I do not know what I feel. But whatever it is, it burns in my breast, Maggie,” I confide. “I have never felt this way before. Not with any of the suitors my father has brought around.”
Maggie gives me a knowing smile. “Do you want to see him again?”
“More than anything in this world.”
“Then I suppose we shall have to find a way to make that happen, won’t we?”
“I - I just don’t know how it could ever be.”
There is a mischievous twinkle in her eye that matches the smile upon her lips. Maggie is one of the most resourceful and crafty women I know. It’s how she has been able to carry on with the soldiers she’s − well, carried on with − and not been caught. If there is a way for me to see Malcolm again without being discovered, I want to know what it is.
“I do not know how it could be possible, but yes,” I press. “Yes, I want to see him.”
“Then leave it to me, eh?”
My face reddens, and I look away. I know I should feel ashamed for how I feel. I know I should probably feel guilt for giving my maidenhead to a man who is not my husband. But I do not. As I recall the time we shared and the intimacy of it all, I am filled with nothing but warmth, fond memories, and a surge of desire that fills me with a different sort of warmth − one that is centered between my thighs.
I clear my throat, but the smile on my face will not subside. “I know it is not proper and I should not have −”
“Oh bollocks to that. Who gives a damn what’s proper just because some old fool thought so?” Maggie interjects. “Marrying you off to some fat, ugly lord just because he’s got a fancy sounding title and a few coppers to shake together is what ain’t proper. You’re a warm blooded woman, not some bloody milking cow.”
I laugh and cover my mouth with my hand. Maggie is always blunt, or at least she is with me when we are away from those who would disapprove of our banter, but she seems to be in rare form tonight.
“We only have so much time in this life, Catherine,” she grips my hand tighter. “And we have to make the most of the time we have. It’s up to us to seize those moments of happiness and pleasure when we can − when they present themselves. And believe me, they don’t present themselves all that often.”
Her words resonate with me. Profoundly. But that does not change the fact that even if I wanted to be with Malcolm, it would never be allowed. It would never even be considered. So would it not be a frustrating and ultimately futile effort to remain in his life?
“So tell me − how was it?” she asks, her eyes alight with excitement.
I laugh and cannot meet her gaze for a moment. Maggie does not have to deal with the pressures a woman of my station does so she is free to enjoy herself − which she does quite regularly. I cannot lie and say I have not been intrigued by her stories. In fact, if I am being completely honest, her stories have been the basis of nearly all of my fantasies since I learned how to pleasure myself. And it was her stories I used to fumble my way through what I did when I lay with Malcolm.
“It was amazing,” I finally say. “It was painful at times, but even the pain somehow seemed to make the pleasure more vibrant.”
“Aye. Your first few times are apt to hurt a bit,” she confirms. “So was he − large?”
“Maggie!” I squeal.
I laugh, feeling my face growing impossibly warm. I never knew I could feel so embarrassed before. And yet, I feel that I am with somebody who understands and does not judge me for it.
“Was he more of a dagger, would you say?” she presses. “Or maybe a great sword?”
Peals of laughter erupt from my throat, and we fall together, the sound of our hysterics echoing off the stone walls of my chamber. Slowly, we calm down, and our laughter fades away. As much as I want to be with Malcolm right now, to be lying in his arms, I am glad to be here with Maggie. She makes me feel safe. Comfortable. I feel like I can be myself around her without the need for prete
nses. Which is how I felt around Malcolm.
“Definitely a sword,” I reply and then fall into a fit of giggles.
“I knew it,” she shrieks. “I knew the Scots had more in their sheaths than the English.”
I grab her hand and squeeze it tight, both of us falling into another fit of laughter. The sharp rap upon the door to my chamber is loud and echoes around the stone walls. Maggie and I sit up quickly, both of us looking guilty of something even though all we were doing was talking − although what we were talking about could have landed me in big trouble.
The door swings inward, and my uncle steps into my chambers. He looks from me to Maggie and back again, the disapproval on his face more than clear.
“What is going on in here?” he demands. “I can hear you two carrying on through the door and halfway down the corridor.”
It is a thick door, so I doubt he heard anything. My chambers are on the far side of the castle, and there are no other bedchambers around me. To hear anything, he would have had to listen at the door, and even then, all he would hear are muffled and muddled words. He would not have been able to make out a single word unless the door was open and he listened at the crack. He is simply trying to add to his illusion of dominance and make me believe the fiction that he sees and hears all.
“What do you want, Uncle?”
His perpetual scowl grows darker. He is without a doubt, the most joyless and humorless man I have ever known. He stares at me with open hostility, and I can see a gleam in his eye that says if my father was not here, he would murder me and make up a story about how I met my demise. However, he knows he runs a terrible risk of my father not believing any story he spins where I am concerned. And so, he has no choice but to tolerate me.
“Your father calls for you,” he tells me, his voice tight with barely controlled anger. “He wishes to dine with you this evening.”
“Fine. I will be along shortly,” I reply, turning away from him. “You may go now.”
The Highlander's Claim (Highland Romance) Page 16
