Dreamer (Highland Treasure Trilogy) (17 page)

Urging her own mule forward, she
tried to think ahead to all that needed to be done. In the past, when the three
sisters had been together, it had been so much easier to work through their
designs. Among the three, Catherine had always been the dreamer--the one with
the vision of what they could and should do. Laura, on the other hand, had been
their voice of reason. She and her logical mind had saved them many a time when
they could have brought themselves serious trouble.  But Adrianne, the
youngest, was a true troublemaker--borne to torment any who preached
tranquillity. Though in public Catherine and Laura had to restrain their
sister’s behavior, in private they were her greatest admirers. Her unbridled
energy and daring served as an inspiration to them. 

The path broadened out a bit and
she rode up next to the portly monk. The sun was no longer directly overhead,
and she gazed ahead at the next series of hills. Catherine knew that if she
wanted to open this school, she would need to perform the tasks her two sisters
would normally have done. She frowned and then sighed, missing them more than
ever.

One thing that she had not dared to
mention to her husband yet was that once she had the school open and
functioning smoothly, she hoped to bring her sisters to Balvenie to stay. Laura
and Adrianne were as accomplished in their studies as she was, herself. There
was no reason why Catherine couldn’t put them to work as tutors in the school.
John Stewart surely could not have any objection to that...she hoped.   

First things first, though. She had
to open the school. Catherine had received her husband’s approval to do it.
Now, the most crucial step lay in getting the bishop’s aid, as well. This, she
knew, was something she had to achieve in all haste. Something told her that if
she were to leave it to her husband, it would be many months and the birth of
an heir before he might feel inclined to speak on her behalf.

“To the bishop...” she murmured,
more to herself than to her companion.

Brother Bartholomew turned and
peered at her a moment before speaking. “Now, mistress, I hope that you
understand that I’ve never met Patrick Hepburn, the new bishop here.”

Catherine nodded. “I know that, Bartholomew. But do not worry. Without divulging my intentions to a certain young woman whom I
accompanied north, I did learn a few things on my own about him. I believe he
will be agreeable to our cause.”

“I know that he was the son of the
first earl of Bothwell, mistress. You don’t know him through your mother?”

She smiled at him. It amused her
once again that every English monk she’d ever met had been so captivated with
the scope of her mother’s connections. As far as they were concerned, Nichola
Percy must be known to every nobleman in Europe.

“I don’t know if my mother has met
him or not. Lady Nichola is an Erskine and not a Bothwell, Bartholomew. But from what I’ve been able to gather, a distant cousin of mine was at St. Andrew’s at the same time as Bishop Hepburn was the Prior there. So anyway, using that
connection, my mother has notified him of our desire to open the school...and
our need for his assistance.”

“We would have been much better off
bringing Brother Egbert and Brother Paul with us, mistress,” the monk
admonished. “‘Tis one thing for a man in his position to react affably to a
letter, but faced with a woman of your tender years, he might simply hesitate.
It would not be unreasonable for him to question your ability to undertake such
a large task.”

“Unreasonable?” Catherine could
hear the sharpness in her tone. “If that is the case, Bartholomew, the presence
of two more English monks will do little to put his mind at ease. Nay, you and
the good brothers came to the Highlands at my request. I believe it must be my
qualifications and beliefs that convince him in the end.”

Brother Bartholomew gazed at her
reflectively and then nodded. If he was going to cast his lot in with her, she
thought, then he and the other two monks would have to recognize that she would
be treated as an equal in teaching their prospective students.

“Aye, mistress. You’re right, of
course. And this dream of yours will become a reality, I’ve no doubt of it.”

Thank the lord, she thought. At
least someone was reading her mind at the proper moment. And she was certain
that this monk, at least, believed in her.

“...And having the earl of Athol,
not simply as your patron but as your husband,  adds so much to your support
and your qualifications. Why, to have a husband as wealthy and powerful...”

Catherine sighed and urged her mule
on ahead. It was her own fault. If she’d not been quite so hasty in departing
this morning, asking the early riser, Brother Bartholomew, to escort her, she
might have had Brother Egbert or even Brother Paul to accompany her, and then
she wouldn’t be listening to the portly monk’s old-fashioned ideas. Although
the man had been true to his promise to their father when it came to teaching
Catherine and her sisters so many years back, the monk still held onto a bag
full of ancient notions about the place of women in a man’s world.

Well, so be it, Catherine thought,
again nudging her mount faster along the path. He was here, and she was going
to put him to work in the school as much as she possibly could. She’d known
from the start that she couldn’t manage a school single-handedly.

This train of thought ended
abruptly, and she reined her mare to a halt. Ahead in the distance, a stand of
trees edged over the ridge of the hill. There, along the line of undergrowth
that spilled downward into the glen, something had flashed in the midday sun.

As the vulnerability of their
position struck home, Catherine yanked the head of her mule around and spurred
the beast back in the direction they had come. Seeing a wooded hollow down the
hill, away from the glen, she gestured for Brother Bartholomew to follow in
silence. In a moment they were hidden in the shadows of the trees.

She didn’t know what danger--if
any--lay ahead, but she was no fool. She was not about to walk blindly into any
trap.

******

John Stewart had been understanding
when his wife had missed the morning meal. More than likely she was still abed,
he’d decided with a satisfied smile, trying to catch up on the sleep that he’d
deprived her of for most of the night. But when she failed to join him for the
noon meal as well, he found himself becoming a bit worried about her health.

Hell, he thought, ignoring the
surprised looks on his men’s faces as he abruptly left the Great Hall. Waving
off Tosh, the earl stalked toward the stairwell.

As he moved up the dark stairs, he
scowled at his own foolishness. Nay, it wasn’t foolishness. He could at least
be honest enough to admit that he’d missed her this morning, he told himself.
So what if--during the entire time he’d spent listening to the troubles and
resolving the disputes of his crofters--his mind had continued to wander to
thoughts of Catherine. So what if--even later, when he’d been training with his
men--her face, her eyes, her smile had continued to flash before his mind’s
eye. 

Hell, there was nothing wrong with
a man being infatuated with his own wife! Of course not! By the devil, the
newness of marriage alone was better entertainment than any he’d ever had.

A moment later, Athol paused upon
reaching her chamber door. Lifting his hand to knock, he frowned, suddenly
feeling like a fool to be knocking at a door in his own keep. He should just go
right in, he thought, still hesitating. But then, what if she were still
sleeping? A smile tugged at the edges of his mouth. Wouldn’t it be much more
pleasant just to slip quietly in and awaken her using some alternative method?
The thought of making love to her now sent his hand immediately to the door
handle.

“She’s not in there, m’lord.”

Athol immediately turned and faced
the approaching serving woman. “Nay? Then where is she? Is she with my mother?”

Jean shook her head. “I just came
from the dowager’s bedchamber. She hasn’t been seen there all morning!”

“With Susan, then?”

The serving woman ran her fingers
over the bolts of wool cloth she was carrying. “The last I saw of her, m’lord,
was last night. When I helped her dress to join ye in the Great Hall.” The
woman stared at the cloth. “She...she didn’t appear to be needing me later. But this morning, when I came to see if Lady Catherine wanted help in dressing, all I could find
were the clothes she wore last night.”

Athol felt the knot of worry forming
in his gut. “Have you checked everywhere? The courtyard...the garden...the
chapel?”

“Aye, m’lord.”

“And you never thought to let me
know?”

Jean flashed a defiant look at him.
“When she wasn’t anywhere else. I thought she’d simply chosen to return to your
chamber, m’lord.”

“Of all the...” Athol pushed into
the chamber and scanned the room. By the bed, he stood still. Her presence hung
in the air like a sweet mist. His concern suddenly grew tenfold.

Jean stood in the doorway. “If
she’s not in your chamber, m’lord, then I do not think she’s still in the
castle.”

He shot her a killing look. “What
do you mean by that?” he snapped.

“Her traveling clothes...her
cloak...they’re missing, m’lord.”

Athol fought to keep his anger from
boiling over. “Do you have
any
idea where she might have gone?”

The serving woman gave a small nod
but did not lift her eyes.

“
Where
?”

“She’s been talking about the
opening of the school...and asking...many questions about Elgin...about the
best route to travel to the cathedral. She said she had to get
there...sometime, m’lord...to see the bishop. I never thought, m’lord, she
would even consider doing it alone!”

Stifling an urge to bang either his
head or Jean’s against the wall, Athol strode from the room, glaring at the
serving woman as she scurried out of his path. Turning his steps toward the
Great Hall, the earl considered the stubbornness of the woman...of his wife.
His mind flooded with all the dangers she might already have encountered on
such a foolhardy jaunt. His shouts were fierce as he broke into the Hall. And of all things, it had been only yesterday that another crofter had spotted the bastard Adam
of the Glen roaming the hills around the Balvenie Castle.

He would kill him. With his own
bare hands, he would tear his throat out. If Adam ever dared harm his
wife--even touched a hair on her rock-hard head--the villain would suffer a
death that even Torquemada, the Grand Inquisitor, would blush at.

Charging out of the Hall and into
the bright sunlight, John Stewart cursed himself for allowing this weakness for
a woman to creep into his heart. Why couldn’t he just keep her at a safe
distance from him? Why did he have to become so damned attached to her? The
last thing in this world that he needed was entanglement with a headstrong
woman, particularly the woman he was married to!

The feelings that were bordering on
panic as he crossed the courtyard to the stables told him that it was too late
to question what was past. The fact was that he was indeed bewitched by his
wife, and he would get her back if he had to chase Adam of the Glen to the very
gates of Hell.

The last vestiges of the sun’s
light were being beaten back from the forest path, and darkness was pressing
its claim on the two weary travelers. Catherine, placing a hand under the
heavyset monk’s elbow, helped him to climb over a fallen tree. With a resolute
sigh, he halted.

“I cannot go any farther than this,
mistress. You’ll rob me of even my last breath if you force me to walk so much
as another stone’s throw.”

“We are almost there, Brother Bartholomew. At the top of the last hill, we could see the smoke from Elgin. In fact,
I’m certain I could see the very walls of the town.”

The man shook his head and planted
his wide arse on the tree trunk. “Nay, Catherine. I saw nothing. Let me rest
here.” The monk puffed out his rosy cheeks. “I say we are lost, and we are
never going to get there. In fact, since midday I have been asking myself how I
could let you talk me into leaving our mules behind in the hills. At least,
with those animals carrying us, we might have had a chance.”

“I told you before, Brother Bartholomew. They would have made far too much noise.”

“Ah! And bring down the wrath of
your imaginary thieves on our heads. I still think ‘twas nothing more than your
imagination that we were in danger. The things you have forced me to do!
Climbing those steep hills! I think Lucifer’s legions could not have devised a
more devilish punishment. And all the time, the gentle paths of the glen
below...beckoning...” He shook his head. “Nay, mistress. I have been all the
way to Rome, and an experienced pilgrim like myself should never have...”

“Hush!” Catherine’s sudden gesture
silenced the complaining monk. Taking the man quickly by the hand and dragging
him from the path, she pulled him behind a large tree trunk. “They are coming!
I heard a horse. Do you hear them?”

“Nay, but I’ll believe you. And when they come by, we can ask for help. Beg for a ride, perhaps. As good Christian men, they’ll be certain to pity us and...”

“Nay!” She adamantly shook her
head, and then peered through the trees in the direction they had come. “As an
experienced traveler, you surely know what robbers and cutthroats do to
wayfarers who fall into their bloody clutches! Good Christians, no doubt! These
must be the same good Christians who were waiting to pounce on us in the hills.
They are searching for us, Brother Pilgrim.”

“For us?” For the first time,
Catherine’s earlier warnings appeared to have sunk in. Clutching on to
Catherine’s cloak, Brother Bartholomew looked anxiously into her face. “But what should we do? Where can we hide?”