Dreamer (Highland Treasure Trilogy) (5 page)

Rummaging through the contents as
quickly as she could, Catherine guessed that the bag belonged to David Hume.
She pulled out a linen shirt, yanking it over her head. It was a good thing he
was a small man, she thought. The heavens were clearly smiling on her,
Catherine decided, when she spotted the warrior’s discarded tartan and kilt
beside the bed.

She knew exactly what she had to
do. Dumping out the rest of David’s things, she hastily stuffed what she could
of her own belongings into the bag. Though clumsy in her attempt to fasten the
kilt around her slender hips, with the use of a cord, she managed to dress
herself in the Highland gear in just a few moments. Realizing that his boots
would never stay on her feet, she quickly donned her own and then pulled
David’s knee length boots over them. The combination was unbelievably heavy,
but it would have to do. Making a quick knot of her hair, she shoved the black
mass into David’s cap.

Then, taking a deep breath,
Catherine hoisted the bag onto her shoulder and slipped out through the
anteroom onto the landing beyond.

Peering through the darkness, she
moved silently down the narrow set of stairs. A few steps down, though, she
tripped in the oversized leather boots. Cursing silently as she caught herself,
she pulled them up as well as she could, and continued on. Reaching an arched
doorway at the bottom, she saw a door that she thought must lead outside. As
she mustered her courage to run for it, though, she leaped back, flattening
herself in the shadows. A portly servant, carrying a basket heaped with
steaming bread, shouldered his way in through the door.

Catherine shot a glance through the
door. In the gray light of dawn, she could see the courtyard, and a part of the
outbuilding where the kitchens must be located. 

And she could see a sprightly
gelding standing with a little donkey beside a stone watering trough. They were
both saddled, and--more important--they were unattended. The heavens were
indeed smiling on her.

Putting her head down, Catherine
moved swiftly through the open door and across the rain-softened ground of the
courtyard. Looking neither right nor left, she strode quickly to the gelding
and tossed the reins over its head. All she needed to do was to climb up onto
this horse, and make the dash across the courtyard and through the arched
passageway to freedom.

Taking one quick look around as she
threw the leather bag across the steed’s neck, she could see that the only
people between her and that open arch were a half dozen men and boys working on
horses by the stables. She could make it, she thought joyfully. By the saints, she
would
make it!

Stepping onto a stone mounting
block, Catherine had both hands on the saddle when she found herself being pulled
backwards by two meaty pairs of hands.

“I do not think we’ll be going,
just yet,” one growled.

“Get the bag,” a voice commanded.

Trying to keep her feet under her
as they hauled her across the courtyard, Catherine struggled against their
hold, but she didn’t dare make a sound. From their rough handling, she had a
sudden thought that perhaps they hadn’t discovered her identity. Perhaps they
were simply taking her off to a dungeon. After all, she’d been caught trying to
steal a horse. Her hopes continued to rise as she was dragged into the lodge
through a door she hadn’t seen before.

Her eyes were slow to adjust to the
dark, but to calm her fears, she kept reminding herself that she was shrewd,
she was fierce, she had a purpose. She would find a way to escape any prison
John Stewart might build. At least, she was not being forced to marry the man
against her will.

“Just as I expected.”

Catherine’s head snapped up at the
sound of his voice, and she found Athol’s fierce eyes staring down at her. It
took all her strength to keep her knees from buckling beneath her weight as she
felt the steely hands release her.

“Begin, priest.”

What the hell had he done?

Glancing at the backs of his two
men as they trailed the obstinate woman out of the Great Hall, John Stewart’s
brow creased into a deep frown. By St. Andrew, what madness had overtaken him
to force this poor lass to go through with such a wedding?

Rudely dressed in the borrowed
tartan, Catherine Percy had been surly but silent throughout the ceremony--until
the priest addressed her. But then, like a she-devil, she’d come to life,
caterwauling like some eldritch creature over the infamy of such a wedding. At
that point, however, Athol’s patience had crumbled like dried parchment. His
grip on her arm had been strong enough to break a bone, though she’d hardly
acknowledged it at all. She’d simply glared fearlessly at him, her midnight
blue eyes blazing with reproach.

And they’d continued. She’d been
left with no options. She’d been given no choice.

Ignoring the priest who was edging
along the wall toward the door, Athol sank into his chair at the dais. So much
for the trust that her family had placed in his hands! So much for the
protection he’d promised to give. He ran a weary hand over his face. Well, she
was safe, and she would continue to be--that was all he’d agreed to. What’s
done is done!

Staring into the fire crackling in
the huge open hearth, John Stewart cursed his foolish temper. He’d been so
riled after discovering Ellen with that thieving escort of his ward--his wife,
he corrected himself--that he’d been about to burst with the need to strike
out. But with the two vile creatures already gone, Catherine Percy had been the
only one left. God knows, obstinate as she appeared to be, she probably didn’t
deserve marriage to him.

John Stewart had never been fool
enough to think the imminent union between him and Ellen was a love match.
She’d been his mistress in recent years, and as far as he could surmise, she’d
had a healthy appetite for other men before they’d met. But what he’d never
suspected was that she would be discontented with his generous offer of marriage.
She was from a good family, true. But as far as her prospects for marriage, his
name and his wealth were certainly superior to anything she would have ever
hoped for elsewhere.

He stretched his legs toward the
fire and squeezed his eyes shut. But what had he been thinking tonight? This
was all a mistake, that he was certain of! And wasn’t it just his luck? Nay, he
thought, cursing his temper. It wasn’t just Fortune’s wheel that had married
him to Catherine Percy, a woman with the same scrupulous virtues as his cousin,
Susan MacIntyre.

When the dowager brought Susan up
to the Highlands more than six months ago with the intention of marrying the
lass to him, he’d been appalled at his mother’s choice. The fact that she was a
dour-faced prude had not been Athol’s only objection to the young woman. She
had no life in her, no interest with anything beyond her damned needlework. By the devil, she didn’t even like to hunt! He’d known old nuns with more blood in their veins.
Nay, she was not the woman for him.

So he’d erred a bit in judgment.
Asking for the hand of Ellen Crawford hadn’t been the best of choices, either. But if the time had come that he was to be pressured into taking a wife, at least it could be
someone that he would enjoy in bed.

Athol rose abruptly to his feet and
strode to the fire. But that was all, he thought, before he’d known the truth
about Adam of the Glen.

The devil take the man! A bastard
brother! So much for the ideal marriage he’d thought his parents had been
blessed with. But what was most amazing was the fact that the dowager had
somehow kept the secret for all these years. That, in itself, gave Athol a
completely different view of his mother’s power.

But why had she withheld the truth
from him? He knew of dozens of bastard children being raised in the households
of their noble fathers. So why was this Adam treated as an exception? But more important, what claim was this devil trying to establish by raiding his lands?

There was a great deal that his
mother had left to explain. Using her frail health as an excuse, the dowager
had refused to say any more, simply closing her eyes. But Athol had drawn his
own conclusions. As little as it was that she had told him, at least he now had
a trail to follow.

The sound of his warrior’s footsteps
at the doorway of the hall drew Athol’s attention. Thomas, the captain of his
warriors, wasn’t trying to hide the pleased expression as he crossed to the
fireplace.

“Aye, Tosh.” Athol growled. “Did
you swallow the yellow bird whole, or did you chew it a few times?”

“Well, m’lord, to be truthful, I
think we’ve only just got a glimpse of the bird, but the men are ready to move
anytime you are. Davie’s just come back from that wee spit of a village they
call Knockandhu.”

“And what word does he bring?”

“He says he found a few of the old
folk there whose memories might be jogged...if you yourself were to put the
questions to them.”

Athol nodded his approval, but then
stared at the blackened ceiling--where he knew, in a chamber above, a terrified
woman sat waiting. Tosh stood and watched him, patiently awaiting his
instructions.

“First,” the earl said finally, “send
one of the men to Balvenie with news of my marriage. My mother should know.”

“D’ye want him to spread the news
as he goes, m’lord?”

“Nay! I want to make sure the
Englishwoman is a wee bit more settled to her newly acquired station before we
give her a chance to insult her people. Oh, and have someone speak to the
priest. I want the marriage recorded properly, but he is to keep mum about the
whole affair until I decide to make things known.”

Despite his hasty action, Athol
wasn’t about to announce his marriage. Until his new wife was safely and snugly
ensconced behind the walls of Balvenie Castle, he wasn’t going to risk her life
unnecessarily. Nay, he decided, his mother’s inference that the outlaw would
end his mayhem as soon as Athol had a wife and an heir to succeed him made no
sense.

But it didn’t really matter. The
truth was, Athol didn’t want the man to back off. He wanted him out there,
roaming the fields where he could be caught.

A bastard brother he might be, but
as far as John Stewart was concerned, Adam of the Glen could grace a gallows as
prettily as any lowborn thief.

****

Balvenie Castle, grim and
forbidding, was a formidable-looking prison.

Catherine stared through the mist
and the rain at the ominous, gray structure. Suddenly, her mount reared its
head, jerking the reins in her hands, and the young woman felt a swift, hot
bolt of anger shoot through her.

A forced marriage! A madman for a
husband! Welcome to the far side of civilization. No wonder her mother had left
these lands so long ago and never looked back!

Well! The earl of Athol was in for
an unpleasant surprise. Catherine Percy had no intention of ever becoming a
willing bride. She felt her spirits lighten a bit as they neared the arched
opening into the castle’s courtyard. The man didn’t have a clue about her
strength--about her perseverance. It would actually be pleasurable to dream of
ways to torment the earl of Athol. She would get him for what he’d done and
more. And she would get free of him. But first, she needed to focus on and
assess the nature of her prison.

Near the front of the line of
warriors Athol had assigned to escort her to the castle, a horse slipped on the
muddy, narrow track. Knocking the legs from under the next horse, the beast
started an avalanche of man and horseflesh down the slick incline. Catherine
peered through the sheets of rain at the angry men and the terrified horses
struggling to their feet at the base of the hill. It was the third time since
leaving the hunting lodge this morning that such an incident had occurred. For
the third time, no one appeared to have been hurt.

Amid the men’s shouting and the
slow efforts to bring the wild-eyed steeds and their surly riders up from the
gully, Catherine sat quietly and stared at the crenellated walls and the corner
towers. The great iron portcullis had been drawn up, and a handful of stable
workers were trudging down through the rain and the mud toward the party.

The great stone castle stood on a
hill at the junction of two long glens. The high curtain wall was surrounded by
sloping stone walls and a deep ditch that bristled with ancient pointed stakes.
Catherine was certain it must be a formidable looking place on the best of
days. But today, with the gusts of wind and rain stinging her face and the
horses slipping and balking with every step, she thought it was easily the
bleakest, most forbidding place she’d ever seen. 

The line of warriors began to move
again up the narrow path. As she crossed the plank bridge that spanned the
ditch, she passed the first of the stable men. One lad peered up at her, dark
red hair plastered on a dirty, freckled forehead, but said nothing and took
hold of her mare’s bridle, clucking and encouraging the animal up the last few
yards of the incline.

The passage into the inner yard was
dark, but in a moment Catherine joined the crowd of jostling men and horses in
the stone-cobbled courtyard.

Across from the thatch-roofed stables
that huddled along one of the castle walls, servants stood peering out of the
smoking doorways of what were certainly kitchens and a brew house. The well
crouched in the center of the cobbled yard, and at the far end, a three-story
stone building dominated the courtyard, looking as ancient and as solid as any
of the Highland’s craggy peaks.

Catherine drew in a deep breath and
waved off the proffered hand of the red haired stable lad. Dismounting, she
tried to wipe away some of the mud and rain that she knew covered her face. Her
travel clothes were a mess, and she was soaked through to the skin. She stood
motionless as the horses were taken off to the stables.