By Grace Possessed (5 page)

“I fear I may have to do more, though not at the moment.” He smiled down at her, his eyes heavy lidded, almost sleepy. “Try a bemused and adoring look, Lady Catherine, if you can manage it. It may be helpful just now, since Trilborn seems to be panting to know what passes between us.”

It was an instant before she caught the meaning of his last, softly murmured phrase, and glimpsed Trilborn scowling at them from where he leaned on a support post. Her reaction then had more to do with instinct than conscious thought. With the lift of her chin, she stepped closer and laid her hand upon the daring Scotsman’s wrist.

“Yes, I do see what you mean,” she murmured. “Shall we walk again? If we do not, I may be forced to sing, after all, and I promise you won’t like it.”

To act a part went against the grain, Ross thought, as he stared out over the snow-covered town and the chalk hills beyond, watching as the king’s falconer set his charge to coursing after hares in the open fields beyond the castle walls. He liked matters to be simple, preferred to state his views and intentions and stand by them come what may. That he could not do that in the matter of Lady Catherine was unsettling.

He had remained with her through the noon meal. They had enjoyed a place near the king’s table, and been
honored by choice dishes sent down to them. The mark of Henry’s favor had not gone unnoticed. Only a blind man could have failed to guess that a betrothal was in the offing, particularly with the tale of their night spent together in the New Forest spreading through the room like a bad odor.

Lady Catherine had smiled and played the blushing bride-to-be to perfection. Her hands had been like ice, however, and she ate almost nothing. Ross pressed tid-bits upon her while seeing that her wineglass was kept filled. Afterward, he’d accepted her excuse of a headache and escorted her to the door of the hall, where her sister awaited her.

God knew she had reason enough to make an escape; he felt the strong need of solitude himself. That his strongest inclination was to take her away to a place where they could be alone again together was maddening in its lack of logic.

Worse still was the welter of emotions that beset him whenever he looked at her. She fired his blood beyond imagining; the need to have her made his body ache until his eyes watered. Her grace and courage, the way she smiled, moved, tilted her bright head—everything about her fascinated him. Yet he was the son of a contentious laird who despised everything English, and she the ward of an English king. To tie himself to her, to act the part of pawn in the game Henry played, would cut Ross off from his family and his homeland. He had sworn he would not wed her, and she depended on him to keep his word.

Trilborn wanted her and her dowry; that much was
clear. Ross resented the simplicity of the Englishman’s desire, and was determined he should not gain it. Ross wanted to think this was for Lady Catherine’s sake, because she intended to remain forever a maiden, but feared it was purest dog-in-the-manger spite. To see Trilborn gratified in any manner was anathema, but particularly when it involved so lovely a prize.

Ross had sworn not to wed Lady Catherine, but had not foresworn bedding her. He had sworn not to bow to an English king’s will, yet had said nothing of combating his own will in the matter. These facts had reared their ugly heads in those first moments after their audience with the king. They troubled him still.

Did Lady Catherine realize the self-serving distinctions a man could make in order to satisfy his desires? She was an intriguing blend of innocence and sophistication, no doubt the result of her months at court, where she was free to enjoy the licentious atmosphere while under strict royal protection. She recognized the base motives of those around her, but was somehow above them.

“Dunbar!”

Ross pushed away from the battlement’s crenellated wall. He turned without surprise to see his old enemy bearing down on him with his cloak flapping at his heels and a petulant glare on his smooth, aristocratic face.

“Trilborn,” he said with scant politeness. Dealing with the arrogant fool was the last thing he needed. The sight of him, still wearing the black and silver he’d had on early that morning, set Ross’s teeth on edge.

“Who would dream you’d be up here? I’d think you’d have had your fill of cold wind.”

“What do you want?”

If the bluntness of the question registered with Trilborn, there was no sign of it. “Precisely what you’d expect, I’m sure. I want to know how matters stand between you and Lady Catherine. Is there to be a wedding?”

He should concede nothing, Ross knew. The temptation to tweak his enemy’s pointed beard, at least in a manner of speaking, was just impossible to resist. “The king sends to discover if the laird of the Clan Dunbar can be persuaded.”

Trilborn eyed him with disfavor. “And you are overjoyed.”

“Why not, given so lovely a lady?”

“So wealthy, too, though there is always the curse to consider. Come, Dunbar. You can’t mean to accept this arrangement. What will you do about it?”

Ross allowed a small smile to curl one corner of his mouth. “What would you? I wait on my father.”

“You could take a horse and ride out of Winchester. No one is likely to stop you. They’ll scarce even notice you’ve gone.”

“I make no doubt you would supply mount and escort.”

The man’s eyes narrowed to conceal their glint of triumph. “Why, yes, if you like.”

“It grieves me to disappoint you, but I must decline. I gave my parole, and cannot go back on my sworn word.”

“What do you care, when it was given to an English king?”

In that was an echo of his thoughts about his father’s
word, Ross saw with an internal grimace. “What matters is that I gave it of my will.”

“At the behest of others, for matters of state that would not touch you otherwise.”

“The reasons make not a whit of difference.” That was also true of his betrothal to Lady Catherine, he saw with inescapable clarity. He had vowed not to marry her, and must now abide by that promise.

If simplicity was what he craved, he should be well pleased. Odd, how little that was so.

“So you would take a Sassenach wife, no matter what your father answers.”

Ross turned his head to study Trilborn. “Instead of leaving her to you, you mean? You think with me gone, Henry may give her to you?”

The Englishman fastened upon him a look of purest detestation. “It was discussed between us. He would have agreed to it soon enough, but for your interference.”

“If you think Henry is swayed by anything other than what may benefit the crown, you don’t know him.”

“So you think he’ll push Cate—that is, Lady Catherine—into your arms for the sake of a tie with Scotland? The conceit of it beggars the imagination.”

Cate.
Ross tested the shortened name in his mind. It suited her. Even as the thought occurred, however, another arrived full blown in his mind.

“My interference?” he inquired without inflection.

“The honor of rescuing her should have been mine!” Trilborn said in savage indignation.

He was not talking about his arrival this morning, for that was scarce a rescue at all. Was it possible Trilborn
had known Lady Catherine would fall behind the hunt? Had his old enemy, just possibly, intended an abduction, followed by a night in his company and a wedding shortly thereafter?

It was feasible. Everyone knew she was reluctant to be present at the kill.

So what had prevented him from carrying out his intent?

The boar. Yes, of course. Trilborn had not counted on the beast sending Lady Catherine’s palfrey careening into the deeper forest. Neither could he have guessed she would stumble upon the ambuscade built by forest outlaws to catch wayward members of the king’s hunt.

“Except that I happened to gain the honor,” Ross said quietly. “Your loss, I fear.”

“Or not,” Trilborn answered, his black eyes hard with promise. “You are unlikely to live long enough to take Lady Catherine to wife.”

He swung away with a jerk that sent his cloak flapping like the wings of a bird of prey. His strides were long and powered by rage as he took himself out of sight.

Ross watched him go, listened to his footsteps echoing on stone, listened to the hollow echo of his threat as it bounced back and forth in Ross’s head. And he marveled that he was more fraught at the idea of never having Lady Catherine than he was at meeting his promised death.

“H
ave you not heard? Henry intends that we leave here tomorrow morn, making our way to Greenwich Palace. ’Tis time, else Christmas will be a sad affair.”

Marguerite’s breath fogged in the air as she spoke, drifting behind her in the frigid corridor as she and Cate made their way from the great hall to their small chamber. Cate thought her sister’s voice had a disgruntled edge as she trudged along with her hands burrowed into her wide sleeves for warmth. The glance she gave from under straight dark brows was also less than pleased.

“You are anxious to go?” Cate asked with the lift of a brow.

“I would go if I had to crawl,” Marguerite declared. “I weary of this progress of Henry’s that makes little progress. I despise being cold and am sick unto death of hunting. Why Henry could not abide in London with Elizabeth and his heir is more than I can see.”

“I believe he removed to allow the queen to recover in peace from her coronation.”

“I daresay, or because he was galled by it.” Cate’s younger sister, just sixteen, gave a brief shake of her
head. “Men have such egos, do they not? So the cheers for Elizabeth, a princess of the house of York, were louder than those raised for him when he was crowned last year, what of it? She has lived among these people all her life, while he has spent fifteen of his near thirty years in exile, but he must be more lauded because nature put him above her.”

Cate waited to speak until a trio of serving women, coming toward them with baskets of linens to be loaded for the move, had passed. “Take care, my dear. We are dependent on his goodwill and needs must keep it.”

Her sister’s glance was sharp with ill humor. “Yes, well, it was ridiculous of him to leave Elizabeth to rest while Christmas preparations for upward of two thousand must be made at Greenwich. Fine rest that will be for her!”

“He is at least thinking of the holiday, my dear,” Cate said. “We are to transport a Yule log from the New Forest, along with enough holly, bay and mistletoe to deck a dozen castles.”

“Which only means more work for Elizabeth and her ladies. I’d like to tell him a thing or two.”

“Are you sure it isn’t me you would take to task?” Cate said with warm irony. “If you want to know what occurred with Ross Dunbar last night and the king this morning, you have only to ask.”

“What occurred?”

The look that went with that question was stolid, as if her sister thought the answer must be unpleasant. It was all Cate could do not to smile. “Nothing happened.”

Marguerite gave a tired sigh. “I knew you wouldn’t tell me.”

“It’s the truth, or at least in so far as my time with the Scotsman is concerned.” Cate went on to explain, making as light of her rescue as possible.

“By all the saints, Cate, how can you be so calm? To be mauled and threatened with rapine, rescued by a northern barbarian and then forced to spend the night in his company while surviving a blizzard? You should be laid up in bed with a hot posset instead of strolling about the great hall just now with your…your—”

“My betrothed?”

“Oh, Cate! No!”

“Yes, at Henry’s behest, though it is not yet official.”

Marguerite shook her hands free of her sleeves, then slid an arm around Cate for a quick hug. “And I am being disagreeable because you didn’t come at once to confide in me. You must be so dazed that you can barely think, or else ready to weep with vexation.”

“A little of both, I suppose.”

“Ah, well. Your Scotsman seems too hardy for a fever to take him off, and there is little prospect of a battle where he may fall, yet some disaster will put an end to him. A pity, but he brought it on himself.”

An odd numbness seized Cate’s chest. “No, no, surely it won’t come to that!”

Marguerite lifted her head from where she’d rested it on Cate’s shoulder. Her brows almost met above her nose as she scowled. “It sounds as if you might care what happens to him.”

“Of course I care. He is a decent man who went to
great ends to save me, Marguerite, and did nothing untoward afterward. We have made it up between us to avoid the king’s command, and so we shall.”

“You did what?” her sister asked, her eyes widening with shock.

It was necessary to present every detail. By the time Cate was done, she and Marguerite had reached their chamber, kicked off their slippers and settled in comfort upon the featherbed. Gwynne, the serving woman who attended to their needs, was absent upon some task, so they need not watch their words.

Her sister stared at her in frowning concentration where she rested her back against one of the bedposts. “You think intentions matter where the curse is concerned? You believe your Scotsman will be safe as long as he doesn’t agree to marry you?”

“Something like that, though I wish you would cease calling him my Scotsman.”

Marguerite waved that objection away. “But, Cate, that’s wonderful. You may enjoy Dunbar’s company without troubling over whether he’s courting death as he courts you.”

“May I, indeed?”

“Only consider! When has any one of us had the freedom to walk with a man, talk with him or simply be with him without fearing he will seal his doom by deciding to take us to wife?”

“Why, never,” Cate said in dawning discovery.

“Dunbar has not only given you his word, but knows his father will never consent to a marriage.”

“Just so.”

“You need feel not a whit of guilt, no matter what may come to pass between you.”

Cate narrowed her eyes in sudden suspicion. “What are you saying?”

“Why, only that— Well, aren’t you curious, Cate? Do you never wonder what it might be like to meet a man in a garden as in the
Roman de la Rose,
to allow him the caresses that may lead to…to exploration of soft petals and warm centers? Love like that between Isabel and Braesford is so rare. If we are never to have husbands because love is denied, well then?”

“Marguerite!”

Her sister’s face turned mutinous. She took a corner of her veil, nibbling at its hem. “Don’t try to tell me you haven’t thought of it, for I won’t believe you.”

“Well, if I hadn’t, then I will now that you’ve put the idea into my head!”

“What is wrong with that, pray? Are we to be denied such joy of the flesh because of a stupid curse? Life is uncertain, Cate. We have so little time to gather memories before we dwindle into old age, like the forgotten women in nunneries.”

“Oh, Marguerite,” Cate whispered, leaning to put her hand on her sister’s bent knee. She had not known her younger sister felt so passionately about what the curse foretold for their futures. “We may be denied the boon of being wives and mothers, but we have also been saved from the grief of being wed to men twice our age, men who will get a babe upon us every year without the least care for whether we live or die. We have avoided brutal
men like our stepbrother, who would give us bruises rather than kisses or caresses.”

“So you suppose, but how can we be sure? Who can say we might not have found love among the men-at-arms who serve our husbands, once we had provided him a son or two to secure their lines? It happens to other women, Cate. It happens.”

“Yes, and young girls die from bearing that son or two while they are still children themselves. Meeting a man in a garden could lead to the same thing.”

“It would almost be worth it to have the mystery understood at last, to lie in a man’s arm, to feel the kisses and caresses.”

“Or it could be a vast disappointment.” Cate managed a wan smile. “But I do see what you are saying, Marguerite, and I have thought of it. Oh, yes, I’ve thought of it.”

“Well, then?”

“I don’t know,” she answered with strain in her voice. “I can hardly go to Ross Dunbar and say, ‘Please, kind sir, make love to me so I may know what it’s like just once in my life.’ What if he laughed? What if he refused because he thought it was a trap to make marriage necessary? What if he had no desire to take me into his arms, much less his bed?”

“What if he did?”

What if he did.

The thought was a fire in the blood, a mystery of mysteries, a rare and wild unicorn of the heart. Cate felt it settle inside her, within the small, tight fence of her mind. How she would be rid of it, she did not know, or
if that was even possible. She feared it might be with her until set free with the aid of the Scotsman.

The following morning brought a great hustle and bustle in the castle as the king’s retinue prepared to take to the road. Several carts laden with bedding, foodstuffs and other comforts left ahead of the rest, additions for whatever preparation might be made by the household of the nobleman they would descend upon come nightfall. Cold beef and bread would be their fare during the day’s ride, but they could expect more sumptuous viands at day’s end. The Feast of Saint Nicholas had passed while they tarried at Winchester, ushering in the Christmas season which would not end until Epiphany or even Candlemas. Doubtless there would be rich and warming stews and soups this evening, along with roast goose, bacon with lashings of mustard, venison, frumenty and a hundred other things.

Once the main column left the town of Winchester, Cate rode with Marguerite and one or two other heiresses ordered to attend upon Henry. They ambled along at a pace not much faster than the slowest cart, with Marguerite on a bay gelding and Cate on her palfrey. It was a pleasure to be mounted upon Rosie again, just as it had been a joy to discover her safe in her stall. The gray mare seemed none the worse for her run through the wood, beyond a few welts from limbs and a briar scratch on one fetlock. Cate leaned forward often to smooth her fingers over Rosie’s neck or run them through her mane.

The king rode at the head of the winding procession for the most part, but coursed up and down its length every hour or so. He was a meticulous man who left little
to his minions, but seemed compelled to make certain all was well with the march.

Ross Dunbar rode with Henry, both while in the lead and for his inspections. Cate caught the gleam of his ebony hair under his tilted Scots bonnet, was able to compare the width of his shoulders to those of the king who, though a tall man, was less square and broad even with the aid of his flowing cloak. Still, the two were a fair sight in their mature strength, both being of an age. Cate’s gaze strayed in their direction more often than she liked.

It was a fine day, with the sun glistening in eye-stinging brightness on the melting snow, and a hint of something near warmth in the wind. Bird calls could be heard above the rattle of hooves and squeal of axles. Spirits mounted as the morning passed. After a while, someone began to sing. Others took up the old rondel about the holly and the ivy. Beneath its innocent verses lay an older paean to love in which the holly was a pagan man and the ivy his woman.

Cate, laughing with Marguerite over the suggestive lines, failed to notice Ross Dunbar’s approach until he thundered up beside her. She turned sharply, her heart battering against her breastbone as she controlled Rosie’s efforts to shy away.

“Good day to you, milady,” he said with a smile. “Your mare looks in fair trim after her adventure, as do you.”

“We both thank you,” she said with a wry smile, but could think of nothing at all to add.

“You gave me to understand that you could not sing, but I see it was mere modesty.”

“By no means!”

“I disagree. And we were to sing, you and I. Shall we?”

“This?” The verse that came next, she blushed to recall, was about the growing, swelling fervor of the holly caused by the ivy’s embrace. “What better?”

Merry challenge lay in the dark blue depths of his eyes. How was she to refuse it? With a smile and half despairing shake of her head, she took up the refrain.

Ross joined her in a baritone as deep and full as it was true. Their voices soared, rising above the rest. That was until Marguerite joined them in an alto that matched well in counterpoint, so they were not quite so conspicuous.

So they rode, the pacing of their horses well matched, Ross’s knee brushing Cate’s thigh now and then, sending shafts of tremulous awareness to the center of her being. And they sang as if nothing momentous pended between them, as though nothing mattered except the melody and Henry’s slow yet certain pace toward London.

It was on the third day of the progress, after a morning spent slogging through mud churned to the consistency of butter, that Ross was finally able to secure a few moments alone with Lady Catherine. She had left the cavalcade, riding to the top of a brown knoll. She sat her palfrey, watching the long procession wind past below her while a light wind stirred the mud-spattered hem of her habit and lifted the linen layers of her veiling like angel wings behind her. She appeared pensive and in
low spirits, he thought. Without conscious intention, he kicked his mount into a canter and rode out to join her.

“Weary?” he asked, circling her position to draw up at her side.

Her smile was slow in coming. “No more than anyone else.”

“A seat in one of the carts can be arranged, if you like.”

She shook her head. “I’d as soon ride horseback as have the teeth jarred from my head.”

He could hardly argue, as he felt the same. “We won’t be that much longer on the road. With luck and good weather, you’ll be back in some chamber at Greenwich by tomorrow night.”

She looked at him then, a curious glance. “And you, where will you sleep?”

“Oh, I’ll find a rat hole somewhere.” The words acknowledged his odd position at court, neither as high as the English nobles nor as low as their lackeys, neither courtier nor court fool. He had slept in high places and low in his months with Henry; not that it signified either way. He had endured worse in Scotland, as well as enjoying better.

“I expect the serving woman who travels with us can arrange something. Gwynne is a genius at finding the best of what’s available.”

“For you and your sister, doubtless. She’ll not be troubling herself for the likes of me.”

A smile flitted across Lady Catherine’s face. “Oh, I don’t know. Gwynne has an eye for a fine-looking man.”