By Grace Possessed (17 page)

She shook her head, warmed, unaccountably, by his touch and the look of concern on his hard features. “As you say, the blood of others.”

He glanced behind her to Marguerite, who shook her head though she breathed heavily through her mouth, holding her palfrey’s mane. Gwynne sobbed against the back of the man-at-arms who had her up behind him, but
seemed to have suffered only a minor cut down one leg and a fair-size rent in the back of her mantle.

Others among their escort were not so lucky. One reeled from a blow that had dented his helmet, and two more had slashes to arms and legs that needed immediate attention. That seemed forthcoming, for the man at the gate was ringing an alarm. Men in the plain brown garb of their calling poured from the lighted room at one side of the court. They surrounded the wounded, assisting them from their saddles with care. In no time, they were borne away inside.

Ross swung from his destrier and came to help Cate down. She clung to his arms while she shook with tremors. It was not fear, she thought, but glad relief and the awakening from some strange, cold savagery.

“You are certain you are unhurt?” Ross asked, bracing his feet as he held her, his cloak blowing around them both.

“Yes, but…I wish I’d had a sword out there. I was so… I wanted to run them through for what they did, to kill every one.”

A laugh shook him. “And would have, I expect. It’s just battle madness, my apple, my sweeting. It will pass.”

“I would that I might have aided you.” She rather liked those curious endearments spoken in his quiet Scots burr.

“You did, by staying behind me.”

She grimaced. “Hardly a brave showing.”

“But a wise one that proved your trust, for which I am grateful.” He glanced over his shoulder in the direction the injured had been taken. “And now…”

“And now you must see to your men,” she said, straight
ening her shoulders. “Go. Marguerite and I must look after Gwynne, as well.”

“Later, then,” he answered, and swung away.

She did not ask what he meant, though she watched him until he passed into the doorway of what must be the infirmary, and was lost to sight.

Gwynne’s cut was not deep, but it was long and painful. Marguerite dosed the serving woman with several cups of new wine while Cate bound the wound. Afterward, they left her, snoring from the libation and exhaustion, in the small cell with its two benchlike beds of stone that Marguerite was to share with her.

The chamber allotted to Cate and Ross was no larger, nor was it more luxurious. The stone bed was softened only by a thin mattress stuffed with straw, and had a single wool blanket for cover. The room had no window, no fireplace or fire pit, not even a brazier. A few rushes scented with rosemary served to ward off the chill of the stone floor. A tallow candle illuminated the three-legged stool, narrow table holding a wooden basin and crude prie-dieu that completed the meager furnishings. In short, there was nothing to encourage overstaying their welcome with the good brothers of the order.

Cate and Marguerite, being female, were forbidden the communal hall, so were served their evening meal in this small chamber. The repast was no more sumptuous than the accommodations, being watered wine, cold bread and a few bits of meat drowned in lukewarm broth. It was brought by a monk so elderly he was past all chance of sensual temptation, though he had a singularly gentle and pleasant smile.

“Well?” Marguerite asked, when the stooped brother had shuffled away with the front hem of his robe dragging in the dust that coated the stone floor.

“Well, what?” Cate, cold to the marrow of her bones, warmed one hand on the pottery bowl that held the broth, while dipping her bread into it with the other.

“You know very well what I mean! What is it like to be a wedded wife?”

“It is well enough.”

“You seem all right, but you barely moved when I looked in at dawn before sending Gwynne to you.”

“How should I look?”

“As if you had been properly bedded by a loving spouse?”

“Really, Marguerite,” she said, without quite meeting her eyes. “It’s not as if it was the first time, after all.”

Her sister watched her with an intrigued air. “So what passed between you? How did—”

“Never mind!” Cate interrupted in haste. “It’s enough to know that all is as it should be.”

“Yes, but did your Scotsman say nothing concerning the curse? Has he sworn to love you forever, that he’s still able to walk among us?”

“Ross has no belief in curses.” Cate huddled on one end of the hard bed, as she had allowed Marguerite the stool. Why her husband’s lack of belief in the curse should make her feel colder than she was already was more than she could say.

Marguerite lifted a brow. “Pray, what has that to do with it? Come, Cate, he must know how he escaped the fate that removed all your suitors who came before him.
He has had full many an opportunity to die, you know. He might even have done so this day.”

“Don’t, please don’t say such a thing,” Cate begged her with a shudder.

Her sister sat back, staring at her. She lifted a corner of her veil of plain linen, nibbling on it. After a moment, she lowered it. “So that’s it.”

Disquiet assailed Cate at something she saw in her sister’s penetrating gaze. She returned her attention to her broth. “
You’re
in love with
him.
”

“Don’t be foolish.” It could not be. She was too sensible, too wary. Surely it was impossible?

“Wouldn’t it be interesting if that is also a key to vanquishing the curse—if our love for a man worked as well as his for us?”

“You would like to think so, I’m sure,” Cate said. “Then all you need do is persuade Henry to choose a man you can adore.”

Marguerite shrugged. “Oh, Henry. As I’ve said before, I shall not heed his command to wed.”

“I should like to know how you will avoid it,” Cate said in sisterly annoyance. “But I’ve no idea why Ross still lives. Mayhap it’s because he was born Scots.”

“Instead of English? Being foreign born didn’t save your betrothed from Bruges.” Marguerite put a corner of her veil between her teeth for an instant, her gaze intent. “But we could ask Isabel. She may know, being eldest.”

“I suppose,” Cate said, though she could not see how having a husband some few months longer gave their older sister any additional expertise.

“She may also know if the curse can carry off a man once we are wed.”

“Marguerite!” The very idea gave Cate a choking sensation, as if her leaping heart had clogged her throat.

“It must be considered.” Her sister reached for her bowl of broth.

Cate didn’t want to consider it. That very reluctance made her wonder if her younger sister could be right, at least in part. Cate might be somewhat attached to the Scotsman who was her husband.

Oh, but that wasn’t love. Was it?

No, of course it wasn’t, she thought, wrapping an arm about her waist under her mantle. Love was more than admiring a handsome face and manly form, more than being awed by his prowess with a sword. It had nothing to do with the pleasure she enjoyed in his arms. Love was warm affection that grew from years of living side by side, of sharing the joy of bearing children and the sadness at the inevitable loss of a few. It was respect and appreciation for a man’s protection. It was working together to build a life.

No, she wasn’t in love with Ross. How could she be in love with a man who thought she just might have tried to have him killed?

Marguerite went away to check on Gwynne and retire for the night in the bed next to her. Cate wrapped her mantle and the threadbare wool blanket around her shoulders, and braced her back in the corner where the bed was placed in the angles of two walls. She was still there when Ross finally made his way to the chamber.

The candle had burned down to a flickering, malodor
ous stub. Her husband was hardly more than a shadow as he stepped inside and pushed the door shut behind him.

“Still awake?” he asked. “I thought you would be abed long since.”

“I am abed, but…” She shook her head.

He glanced around, located his sword which he had sent to the chamber earlier, as he could not appear with it in the hall. Assured it was near, he swept off his cloak, removed his jerkin and began to loosen the belt that held his plaid. “You are troubled by the deaths this day?”

“I…suppose so.”

“Your teeth are chattering. You’re cold.”

She tried to control the small sound to little avail. “Who…would not be?”

He tossed the plaid onto the bed, where it fell across her feet. Even through the blanket that covered them, she could feel the body heat that lingered in its folds.

“You were cold that first night, there in the forest,” he said with gravel in his voice. Nimble of finger, he freed the points that held his shirt to his hose.

Her glance was exasperated. “It was snowing.”

“I could hear your teeth chattering then, too.” He shook his head before ducking to pull his shirt off over it.

“You built up the fire.” She almost lost track of what she was saying as the dying candlelight gilded the hard ridges of muscle that wrapped his chest and upper arms.

“It wasn’t what I wanted to do.” He sat on the opposite bench to strip away his boots and the hose he was not used to wearing, though he watched her instead of what he was doing.

“No?” The single word came out in breathless anticipation as he rose and came toward her in hard and naked splendor.

“No,” he answered. Kneeling on the thin, narrow mattress, he began to unwrap her blanket with ruthless efficiency.

“What did you prefer?” She helped him, the saints forgive her. At least she stripped off her mantle and allowed him to unlace her bodice.

“To lie with you, to warm you, hold you.”

“I wish you had,” she said, her voice not quite even.

“To be warmed by you.” He pushed up her gown and shift, and then drew her up to kneel with him so he could rid her of them.

His hands were cold, as was his nose, his forehead and everywhere else that had not been covered. Shivering, she twined her arms around him, drawing him to her as she pressed her body with its rash of goose bumps to the wondrous heat and strength of his torso and what was below. “Lie with me now,” she whispered against his neck, “and we will warm each other.”

G
od’s toes, but this monk’s bed was hard, doubtless the better to mortify the flesh and therefore the soul. Ross swore silently, certain he’d slept on rocky ground more comfortable. He would give thought to getting up and joining the men-at-arms in the stable, except Cate had finally fallen asleep. She seemed to have discovered a mattress to her liking, as she was lying more on him than on the miserable excuse for a bed.

Not that he minded. Her weight and soft curves satisfied him in some curious way. Odd, that, when she might be a murderess.

The attack this evening was no random incident by a roving outlaw band. The men had been disciplined, well mounted and protected by chain mail. They had chosen their trap well, and waited for the perfect time to spring it. He’d wager his firstborn son that Trilborn was behind it. Ross’s only question was whether Cate had known it was coming.

Conceited though it might be, he found it difficult to believe she would prefer Trilborn to him. Still, who knew the mind of a woman? It was possible she felt an
Englishman would be easier to understand, less difficult to manage.

Even with his doubts, Ross could not resist coming to her, bedding her. He must be bewitched. Could be there was something to this curse, after all. Could be it made fools of the men it did not kill.

He had not told her they would be leaving on the morn after their wedding night. It was no oversight, but a deliberate ploy. How could she have known to send a message then, and when could she have sent it, when he had taken her straight to their chamber? The chance that she had slipped from their bed afterward was minuscule. He had kept her too busy, had left her too wearied for it. That was more desperate need than plan, but the results were surely the same.

Her wild concern as she sought his location during the skirmish, her wifely dread that he might be injured, had seemed real enough. Her need of him just now had been extreme, her generosity marked, almost humbling. What was he to think of that, except that she wanted him? It could be feigned, a woman’s ruse to cloud his judgment. If so, it had been successful. He was more ready to make excuses for her now than he had been the night before.

Most men would not dare. Fearful for their life and immortal soul against such magic, they would repudiate her forthwith. What man wanted a wife who might smile and open herself to him one moment and attempt to see him dead the next? Ross did.

Against all caution and common sense, he desired this woman and no other. The last thing he could allow
was for her to know it, however. That was a weakness he could not afford.

She felt his lack of trust, he thought. She was more reserved, more closed against him. She might give her body to him, might take pleasure in his caresses and give pleasure in return, but she allowed nothing else. It annoyed him, that determined self-possession. For all his suspicion, he wanted to see once more the acceptance he had glimpsed once or twice in the heaven’s blue of her eyes, back before they were commanded to wed.

As if sensing the disturbance of his thoughts, Cate murmured in her sleep, settling closer against him, drawing up one knee across his thigh. He reached to tuck the blanket, his plaid and her mantle closer around her. Sighing, he closed his eyes. Here in this safe place, with Cate in his arms, sleep came with the sudden force of a headsman’s ax.

“Is it safe, going on with fewer men-at-arms?”

Cate asked the question of her husband where he lounged on the bed, watching while Gwynne, favoring the cut leg, braided Cate’s hair. She could not imagine what Ross found so entrancing in the sight, yet he sat with his back to the stone wall and one wrist resting on his bent knee, hardly looking away. Surely he had more important tasks, such as checking on the injured men they would be leaving behind, and seeing all was ready for their departure. Of course, he might have done that already, as he had left their small chamber while it was still dark, and was only just returned to it.

“We have to go,” he answered, “or risk being trapped here.”

“What if those who set upon us are waiting outside, or somewhere farther along the road?”

“The reason we leave at once, before Trilborn can gather a larger complement around him.”

“You are certain he was behind it then.” She risked a glance in Ross’s direction, but his set features told her nothing. It was beyond her understanding how a man could hold her so tenderly, touch her with such magic, then look at her as if nothing had happened between them.

“Who else?”

The words were so short and laden with scorn that she frowned. “How am I to know? He is your enemy.”

“So he is.”

“Bend your head, milady.” Gwynne, done with braiding, stood ready to add her veil.

Cate did not make the mistake of thinking the serving woman paid no attention because she kept her gaze lowered. Cate gave her an ironic glance as she allowed her to set in place a flat cap to which the square of linen was attached, tying it under her braid.

“At least we survived the attack,” Cate said. “That must mean something.”

“Oh, aye. It means a close watch was kept for trouble and, all praise to Henry, we had a larger escort than might have been expected.”

“Agreed, on both counts. Still, you allow nothing for the terms of the curse?”

He snorted. “Nay, but I’ve a question about this curse of yours.”

“Yes?” She stood still while Gwynne put her into a padded tunic that fastened under each arm.

“Is there no provision for
your
feelings? Can you not reverse the effects if you fall in love with the man chosen as your husband?”

That was the same question that had troubled her since Marguerite had hinted at it earlier. It had never occurred to Cate before, because she and her sisters had never known their previous grooms in advance of the betrothals.

“I have no idea,” she said with a small shake of her head.

“When you decide,” he said, pushing himself to his feet and striding toward the door, “you might let me know.”

Infuriating man, to leave in the middle of such a discussion. Her first impulse was to stride after him to continue.

No, it might be better left alone. If he cared only for his skin, she did not want to know it. And if he wished to inquire if she loved him, she would not have him think the question held any particular importance to her. Not that it did, of course. How could it, when it was quite clear that Ross Dunbar might enjoy having her in his bed, but had little care for her outside it?

He didn’t love her.

Why, then, was he still alive? Why?

They rode out long before dawn, covering considerable ground before the sunrise tinted the snow-white
world with pink and rose-red, lavender and gold. Every tangled briar and tree branch sparkled with diamond fire. The air was like some icy elixir. The sun, in its climb heavenward, touched them with vagrant warmth.

They made good time, pushed by threat and Ross’s exhortations. A dozen times during that long day, he rode ahead to scan the countryside and then galloped back to harry their column from the rear. They rested less often and kindled no fires. On edge, watchful and weary of the endless, jarring ride, they endured in silence. By day’s end, they were glad beyond words to reach a priory, even though the prioress required men and women coming under her jurisdiction to sleep apart, in separate buildings.

It rained during the night, a solid downpour that was still falling when they set out again the next morning. The mood among them was as grim as the weather. Ross seemed particularly ill-tempered, his commands sharp-edged. Only part of it was caused by the wet ride and quagmire of a road they were following, at least according to Gwynne. The rest, she said, could be laid to his being forced to sleep alone. Cate wished she could believe her.

Nothing was seen of Trilborn or any other danger on this third day. All they encountered were a covey of wool merchants with their wares, pilgrims traveling together for protection, a troupe of players in a gaily painted wagon and a Scots messenger riding along with a ragtag company of knights bound for a tourney.

The last wore a plaid Ross seemed to recognize, for he hailed him in sharp query. On closer viewing, even
Cate could see that the swath of wool cloth the man had around him had a weave in colors very similar to Ross’s blue, gray and red. The two of them drew aside, speaking in the rapid burr of Scots Gaelic. The man handed Ross a leather pouch he carried. Almost immediately, Ross ordered a halt in the protection of a copse of beech trees, and allowed fires to be lit.

While a meal was prepared, Ross remained in conversation with his countryman, standing at some small distance from both the women and the men-at-arms. Cate did her best to ignore them, though she and Marguerite waited with scant patience to learn what this chance meeting portended. That it signified something seemed plain from the grim lines of her husband’s face.

The newly met Scotsman warmed himself and shared their meal of bread and beef, drinking from the wineskin that was passed from one man to another. When done, he and Ross clasped each other’s arms above the wrist in the double grip of kinship. The messenger mounted up then, and made ready to join their column until he must split away back toward Scotland.

Ross walked apart, opened the messenger bag and took a leather-wrapped bundle from it. Opening it, he stood perfectly still as he read the contents. The wind, damp with the rain and mist, tossed his plaid about his knees, ruffled his hair and swung the sporran dangling below his waist. He appeared not to notice. After a moment, he crammed the message back inside, turned and shouted the order to mount up.

Cate made no move to obey. Instead, she walked to
where he stood with the messenger bag trailing from its strap in his hand.

“What is it?” she asked in quiet concern.

“Nothing.”

“Has someone died? Is it your father?”

“Nay, he’s well enough.”

“And the rest of your family?”

“Lost to me.”

An odd ache settled in her heart for the pain she saw behind the hard mask of his face. “You are disowned. It’s official then.”

“Banished, denied, no longer of the Dunbar clan nor welcome on Dunbar lands. You, my lady, are married to a man without kith or kin, or prospects beyond those conferred by an English king he should not despise.”

She caught her bottom lip between her teeth, hesitating before she spoke. “It isn’t unexpected.”

“No. What I didn’t expect was that Henry would send to my father, saying that my days as a hostage were done and I was free to return home.”

“Is that not a good thing?”

Ross turned his dark blue gaze upon her. “Not when the old laird declares that Henry might as well have killed me and been done with it, since I am dead to him and all who ever knew me, and have been since the banns were first read.”

“You expected no less,” she said, placing her fingers on his arm in a gesture of compassion.

“That isn’t the same as receiving the notice.” He shook his head. “Dead to him. Mayhap there is something to your curse, after all.”

She gained no satisfaction from hearing Ross admit it. His loss, and his pain because of it, were too much her fault. Because of her, so many had turned against him. Like some strong and noble stag with the dogs on his heels, he seemed too close to defeat. She could not bear it.

“You have a family,” she said through the tightness in her throat. “You have me, my sisters and all who make Braesford their home. You have land, and can build a home and a clan of your own.”

His brief smile held recognition for her attempt at comfort, but little more. “It isn’t the same.”

“I’m so sorry.” The words were a whisper in the wind, a cry of the heart.

“So am I,” he answered, “so am I.”

In due course, they reached journey’s end. Topping a hill, they saw before them the manse known as Braesford Hall upon its high eminence, its battlemented pele tower topped by a straining blue-and-white pennant, and the straggling village like mud on the hem of its skirting of high stone walls.

There was no need to hail the gate. They had been seen long before, so it stood open to their arrival with the portcullis raised, showing a hint of mellow red brick in the manse walls beyond. A chorus of trumpets sounded, echoing away over the hills. Hounds poured out of the doorway in the base of the tower. And there was Braesford and Isabel following after them, the baron cradling small Madeleine who chewed happily on her thumb, coming forward to welcome them to their home.

What followed was a confusion of laughter and tears
as sisters embraced, exclaimed and cooed over baby Madeleine’s fine red-gold curls, talking so fast they tripped over their words, holding on to each other as if they had been parted for years instead of mere months. Cate and Marguerite made much over Isabel’s condition, which showed as a nicely rounded hump under her accommodating gown. A little shorter than Cate, more blonde than Marguerite, Isabel bloomed in her prospective motherhood. Rand, tall and forbidding in repose, with his hair shining like a raven’s wing in the sun, grinned as they teased him about being a father. His gaze seldom strayed from Isabel for long, however, and his gray eyes shone silver with love as they rested on his wife.

The curse had tested the two of them, Cate told herself as she looked from one to the other. Yet it had finally allowed them to be together. Might it not do the same again?

Through it all, Ross stood apart, his gaze watchful. That was until Cate turned to him, drawing him forward. She was astonished at the sudden swell of pride inside her as she began, “Allow me to present my husband.”

Rand, Baron Braesford, took charge then, directing the men-at-arms to where they would be billeted, also assigning men to help Gwynne see to their female baggage. Immediately afterward, he swept them from the public court where laundry women and kitchen maids, blacksmiths, cobblers and lounging men-at-arms were being entertained by the reunion. With unconscious command, he ushered them up the tower’s curving stair and into the vast comfort of his great hall.