Dreamer (Highland Treasure Trilogy) (10 page)

Catherine thought she shook her
head, but she wasn’t completely certain.

“Then come to my chamber.”

She smiled. “I told you before, I
am not who you want me to be. I’ve a dream of being a teacher, of sharing what
I know with...”

“One doesn’t need to sacrifice one
dream to pursue another.” His hand reached out and touched her face, the backs
of his fingers caressing the line of her jaw, the side of her neck. “Take your
mother. From all I’ve heard elsewhere--in addition to being a learned lady, she
was a fine wife and mother.”

“Aye, but...”

“I know, lass, you do not have to
say it--there are no men living who are as worthy as your father. But still, is it not a shame to lock away the passion that is a part of you? A part of us?”

“I express my passion through my
teaching.” She’d always thought that was true. And it
was
true! She was
certain of it--at least, until she’d met John Stewart. But she couldn’t let him
see through this weakness. Not when he was the cause. “The enthusiasm that I
feel--”

He silenced her with the gentle
touch of a finger on her lips. “Nay, Catherine. I’m talking of desire. Of the
hunger that men and women feel for each other. Of the heat that you felt when I
first came to your bed at the lodge.”

Her mind searched for a logical
reply, but her heart drummed in revolt, giving her away. “That was a...”

“I can see through you, lass. As
hard as you might try, this outer skin--that the rest of the world might
see--cannot hide from me who you really are. I see the real woman beneath, Catherine.”

“You
do not
know me.”

“Oh, but I do. Better than you think.” He leaned toward her. All she could see were his full lips as they
brushed against hers. “And I think it’s time you started learning about
yourself, as well.”

“But I know all there is to...” The
whisper died on her lips as his mouth took possession of hers. Her hands fisted
and then fluttered open against his chest. As he pulled her tighter into his
embrace, she felt herself melting, her lips parting, yielding to his, her body
molding to him. She didn’t know what boldness had taken control of her being,
but she found herself rising on tiptoe as her arms encircled his neck. She
felt, rather than heard, his groan of approval as her body pressed
instinctively against his.

He drew back only slightly. “There
can be no pretense between us.” He nipped at her lower lip and gazed again into
her eyes. “We have only passion.” 

She wanted to fight. This was
madness. It was sweet and wild, and she had no idea what would come of it. Aye,
it was madness, all right. Even during the most vivid encounters with her
dream-knight, Catherine never had felt what she was feeling now. Her senses
were so alive, so ready for his next touch. This time there was no sense of
panic when his tongue swept into her mouth, and she moved in his arms to
accommodate him.

Catherine was vaguely aware of her
own surprise and exhilaration at the rising need within her. And somehow, somewhere, she must have given him a sign, for suddenly she felt his hand beginning
to roam over her body. His fingers found their way inside her cloak, caressing
the sides of her breasts. When he pinned her against the door with his hips,
the feel of his hardening manhood elicited a gasp from her. No longer there was
any fear. Only  a sense of incredible wonder.

“I want you, Catherine,” he
murmured against her throat. “I want to bed my wife.”

“But...but you care nothing for
this wife. I’m nothing but a willing body, John Stewart, the same as the last
one...or the next.” Even to her own ears, her objection sounded weak, and her
body betrayed her by arching against him. A muscular thigh pushed between hers,
and she found herself gasping at the sweet pressure.

“Let me show you the ways of
passion,” he said and she closed her eyes as his hand boldly cupped her breast
through her dress. “Let us put aside the words and do what both of us wants so
much to do.”

He didn’t deny what she’d said. But for the life of her, she couldn’t move away.

“I want you to know the sweet
nectar of passion.” His one hand pulled up the weight of her skirt, and she
held her breath as it sought her waiting middle.

“Nectar or venom...it means my
ruin. I...” She gasped as his fingers found her womanhood. His lips pressed
against the skin of her neck, shocking her with their coolness.

“But to be ruined in such ecstasy.”
His voice was a breath in her ear. “Let go of it, Catherine. Get ready to take
flight.”

She didn’t know what he meant, but
the way his palm was cupping her--the maddening pressure that was building
within her as he continued stroking her with his fingers--her own breaths were
now coming in gasps.

“Aye, lass. If this is ruin, let it
be a heavenly wreck.”

More! More! her mind screamed.
Every bit of her body cried to be touched. An insatiable need was rising,
pulsing through her body, forcing her hands around his neck, and drawing him
tightly against him.  In the midst of this frenzy, she felt his hips press more
intimately against her middle. There was a shifting of her weight in his arms.

“This would all be so much easier
if you’d let me take you inside.”

She shook her head. That would mean
surrender. Not only in body, but in soul, as well. But still, she didn’t want
him to stop. Placing her lips against the side of his throat, she hoped that
he’d understand.

“This is madness, Catherine. And you are not helping me in any way that you should.”

“I know.” She felt him pull back
slightly and glance down the corridor. They were standing in a dark and empty
hall. Only the flickering of the taper in the sconce beside her door shed any
light. The household had been asleep long before she’d dared to leave her room.
But still, the inappropriateness of what she was letting him do to her started
creeping into her head.

But then, as if reading her mind,
he lowered his head and kissed her again. As if he could read her desire, the
magical touch of his fingers against her flesh began anew.

She gasped and stifled a cry
against his neck as she suddenly found herself lifted effortlessly and carried
across to the opposite wall. There he lowered her onto the ledge that ran
beneath the windows.

“Not exactly a window seat, lass,
but it’ll have to do!” 

She tightened her hold around his
neck. “I’ll fall!”

“Aye. Right into the courtyard.” He
pushed her skirts up, and she shuddered as he slid his hands along her thighs
and over her hips. Stepping forward, he pressed himself between her knees. “But you won’t fall. I won’t let that happen, Cat.”

She’d never done this. She’d never
dreamed of really doing this. But still, as he pressed his hard body ever closer,
she knew that she wanted this to happen. She knew that she trusted him.

“Wrap your legs around me, Cat.”

She did what he asked as he reached
between their bodies, pulling up his kilt.

There would be pain. She knew there
would be pain. But when he touched her so gently with his fingertips--first
probing and parting the folds of her womanhood--she lost the last shred of her
control. Her release was sudden and explosive, and she buried her cries against
his shoulder.

Her mind had not yet cleared when he
entered her. Vaguely, she felt the tearing, but the pain was dulled by the
waves of pleasure that continued to roll through her. He was deep within her,
and she began to feel him. Slowly, at first, and then with gathering speed, he
began to move. Catherine’s mind began to take flight once again. To have him
fit so perfectly inside her body. To feel his breaths so warm on her neck, in
her ear. To hear his heart drumming so solidly in his chest. His thrusts were
long and powerful, driving both of them to near madness. This was indeed
rapture, she thought, as the bliss once again enveloped her.

Catherine held on. His shirt grew
damp beneath her palm. She kissed his cheek, and tasted the sweat there.

Ever higher they rose, Catherine
matching the driving beat of his body with her own, until once again, as
ecstasy obliterated all thought within her, she felt his straining body go
suddenly rigid, and she knew, somehow, that they soared in the same brilliant
sky.

Moments later, as he placed his
forehead against her cheek and softly kissed her damp skin, Catherine felt the
first flicker of hope brighten her spirit.

Perhaps marriage to John Stewart
would not be so bad, after all.

Standing motionless against the
wall, Susan wished that she could cease breathing altogether. The two of them
had no suspicion of her presence, and that was just the way she wanted to keep
it. She was simply a lost soul, hidden and desperate amid the shadows of an
ancient keep. And she would remain silent.

What she had come upon had shocked
her; that was true enough. In fact, Susan’s surprise had quickly turned to envy
as her understanding of what she was witnessing became clear. Now, to see the
two of them gathered so peacefully in each other’s arms after the wild abandon
of their lovemaking, made her all the more resentful of the two.

The mewing of a cat behind her, by
the entrance to the circular stairwell at the end of the corridor, startled
Susan. But it also attracted the attention of the Englishwoman. She watched as
Catherine Percy lifted her head off John’s shoulder and peered into the
darkness. Susan stepped back farther into the shadows when she realized the
other woman’s eyes had detected her there.

Expecting a cry of alarm at the
discovery, Susan was stunned when Catherine quickly pulled herself out of
John’s embrace. With only a murmur inaudible to Susan--and without so much as
another glance in her direction--the Percy woman went around him, quickly
disappearing inside her room.

Taking yet another step back toward
the stairwell, Susan watched the look of disappointment steal over the earl’s
face as he stared at his wife’s closed door.

Very well! she thought. Now perhaps
you will know how I feel!

******

The bright sunlight poured in
through the two windows of the earl’s Great Chamber. Sitting behind a large
work desk, John Stewart dismissed his warrior before turning his attention to
the three monks standing before him. Their gray robes were covered with the
evidence of long, hard miles.

“And you claim to know my wife,” he
said abruptly.

The clerics glanced confusedly at
each other before answering.

“Your wife? Perhaps there has been
some misunderstanding, m’lord.” The most heavyset of the three, Brother Bartholomew, appeared to speak for the other two. “We are here in search of Catherine
Percy. And we were told that Balvenie Castle...”

“By whom?” Athol put in sharply.
“Who told you the whereabouts of Catherine Percy?”

“She did herself, m’lord. Mistress
Catherine told us she was coming here!” The man dabbed at his sweating upper
lip with his filthy cuff. “As we told your men, m’lord, we are from Jervaulx
Abbey, in Yorkshire. About the same time as Mistress Catherine and her sisters
left the abbey, many of us fled, as well. We had word that the king’s men were
almost upon us. The king’s Deputy Lieutenant had already looted an abbey to the
south. We were next. We had no choice but to run, m’lord.”

“So you left with Mistress
Catherine and her sisters?”

“Aye, very nearly, m’lord. We have
only our feet to carry us, though. We couldn’t keep pace. But still she had insisted that we join her at Balvenie Castle. With her hopes of opening a
school--under your direction and close to Elgin Cathedral--she thought that the
three of us could prove a great advantage.”

Athol’s expression clearly conveyed
his doubt. “What do three English monks have that could possibly be of value to
us here?”

Again, Bartholomew spoke for the
others. “We have a long and traditional connection with the bishops at Elgin
Cathedral. Why, I was myself a pupil of Sir Andrew Forman--bless his soul--when
he was the Commendator of the Abbey of Cottingham in England. I also was
privileged to have known Bishop Schaw and Sir Alexander Stewart, too. Aye, we
were all greatly saddened to hear of his passing this summer.”

“Is that so? And your connections
to the Percys?”

“All three of us have served as
tutors to Mistress Catherine and her sisters, m’lord. Of course, teaching those
girls was something which we did out of respect to Lord Edmund Percy, their
father...a great patron to our abbey. Naturally, the rest of our pupils at the
abbey were the sons of our gentry.”

Athol sat back in his chair. “No
doubt a spoiled and undeserving throng of young jackals!”

“Ah...well...” The man obviously
growing more nervous, again wiped his lip and then his brow with his sleeve.

“And what marvelous secrets do you
three teach? That the Scots eat their young? That the heavens only smile on
English soil?”

“Nay, m’lord!” Bartholomew gasped, as the others shook their heads in support. “Nay, of course not. Well, out
with it! I care naught that you can throw the names of the Elgin bishops at me!
What are your special areas of expertise, and why should I allow you stay here,
living off of me and my people when I can use any priest from Elgin to do the
same damned thing?” 

  The heavyset man began to nod at
the man on his right. “Well, Brother Egbert here teaches elementary and
advanced arithmetic, m’lord.”

“This had better include map
drawing if you wish to spend so much as a night on my land. By the devil, now that I think of it, there are two tutors at least that I know of at the
cathedral quite proficient in arithmetic!”

Brother Bartholomew started to
address his concern, but Athol raised a hand to silence and glanced fiercely at
the pale, silent man half hiding behind his more corpulent companion.