Dreamer (Highland Treasure Trilogy) (8 page)

Catherine’s eyes flashed. “If I may
be so bold as to correct you, m’lady. Contrary to what you just said, there are
many who believe I’ve been blessed with my mother’s talent for languages and
her patience for learning, in general. And in spite of the world’s overwrought
regard for things as trifling as someone’s looks, my mother’s claim to fame in England has been her great learning. And the desire to teach what we have learned is a
passion that we also share.”

Catherine paused, trying to decide
if she was being a bit snappish. Nay, she decided, just informative.

“Very well, my pert young mistress.
I see you do have something of her in you. But I know nothing of this
‘learning’ business. Your conduct appears to me to be  temper...and more than a
wee bit of willfulness.” She looked hard at Catherine’s face. “Come closer.”

Catherine stared, confused about
the nature of the order.

“Pick up that wick lamp and come
here beside me.”

Silently, Catherine did as she was
told.

“Sit.”

Carefully, Catherine lowered
herself onto the edge of the bed.

“Ah! I see it now,” the dowager
whispered, lifting her head with effort off the pillow and staring keenly into
Catherine’s face. “You have her eyes, lass. Those same eyes of midnight blue.”
She leaned back with a loud sigh. “Praise heaven for that, at least. There is
hope, after all.”

Catherine was now totally perplexed
by the old woman. Putting the wick lamp down on the small table beside the bed,
Catherine turned her attention back to the sickbed. Her voice sounded unsteady
even to her own ears. “Hope for what?”    

“For making you into a countess,
Catherine Percy. For getting John to abide by his vows as well as beget an...”
She abruptly stopped mid-sentence and looked into Catherine’s face. “Was there
a priest present when you two wed?”

“Aye, m’lady. But I was forced--”

“A priest, that’s good! Now, I know
there has been no four days of waiting, but did you two consummate the
marriage?”

“Nay, m’lady. And if I have my way...”

“Och, the devil take him! That’s no
good at all!”

The dowager coughed for the first
time since the two of them were left alone. Following Susan’s practice,
Catherine moved to the other side of the bed and brought a cup to the ailing
woman’s lips. The dowager took a sip and then pushed aside the foul smelling
brew. It occurred to Catherine that the old woman suddenly seemed to have no
time for being ill...never mind dying.

“Knowing my condition, my son will
not stay away for more than a few days at a time. So he’ll be back. And soon. I’ll have Susan move you into his chamber. And we must do something about the way
you...”

“I’m quite happy about where I’ve
been placed, m’lady.”

“Are you, mistress?” the dowager
said, one eyebrow shooting up in surprise.

“Aye,” Catherine replied, looking
intently at the woman. “I have no intention of moving.”

“Is that so? Well, that room was
intended as an insult when we thought you were that slattern, Ellen Crawford.
‘Twas never meant to be a sanctuary for Nichola Erskine’s daughter.”

“Still, m’lady. I can assure
you...”

“You can assure me of what?” Once
again the gray eyes flashed with intelligence and challenge. “The only thing I
want you to assure me of is a healthy bairn...a good, strong lad for the earl
to raise as an heir.”

“Really, Lady Anne...”

“D’ye really think you’d be happy
living in that drafty little mouse hole, while your husband lives in the grandest
of chambers, just across the keep? And will it make you happy to fast quietly
in your chamber while he brings mistresses from court to sit in your place
beside him in the Great Hall? To please him in his bed?” Lady Anne hitched an eyebrow at her. “Are you certain you’re Nichola Erskine’s daughter?”

Catherine’s back stiffened at her
words, but she chose not to respond to the final barb. “I have no intention of
becoming either a laughingstock or a martyr, m’lady. But I do intend to send a
letter to the Pope himself, requesting an annulment of this travesty of a
marriage. And I have grounds for such a request, since that priest and the
saints above were witnesses to the fact that I was forced to take my vows.
There were no contracts of betrothal...no reading of the banns...” She felt the
heat rise in her face. “And there was no consummation! That...”

“You are a silly lass, aren’t you? And a dreamer, at that!”

“Lady Anne, I have no wish to stay
wed to your son!”

“‘Tis not becoming to see Nichola’s
daughter play the fool!”

It was getting more difficult by
the moment just to stand there and take the dowager’s insults. But walking out on an ailing woman would serve no purpose. Lady Anne had some prior connection
with her mother, and Catherine could use at least one ally here at Balvenie Castle. “Lady Anne, I understand you are concerned about your son, and the future
of your family, but...”

“Are you so simple? So naive? Are
you a fool, after all, lass?”

“Is there some purpose in calling
me names?”

“Aye, there is! And if you’ll give me a few more moments, I’ll come up with more.”

Catherine’s hands were fisted at
her sides, but she forced them open, laying them flat on the bedclothes as she
tried to calm her temper. “M’lady, I still...”

“‘Tis you, child! Don’t you understand?
You are the one I’m thinking of, now!” Lady Anne untangled one hand from her
rosary and reached over, placing it on Catherine’s. “You! The one with no
dowry. The one whose home now belongs to that baboon, Henry of England. You,
lass, the one with a price on her head!”

Lady Anne motioned toward the cup,
and Catherine brought it again to her lips.  The old woman began to take a sip,
then curled up her lip in distaste and pushed the cup away.

“I want you to tell me what
cardinal, what bishop...what lowly curate even...will go for you to the pope?
None that I know. I’m telling you, Catherine, you wouldn’t be able to get even
a poor-mouthed friar, his bony arse showing through a threadbare robe, to take
such a frivolous document to Rome.”

“Everything you say, about my
family, my worth...‘tis true for one who is in search of a husband.” Catherine
heard the sound of her voice rising in the stuffy room, but she had no desire
to restrain it. She would get her point across, if she had to shout it from the
towers. “But the truth is that I have no need for one and never wanted one. I
have always desired a life of study, and I would be quite prepared to retire to
some convent if I cannot open a school, as my mother wrote to you and the earl.
So even if what you say is true--about no one being willing to carry my request
to Rome--I shall still defy your son’s wishes. I shall
never
be a wife.
If I have to lock myself in that chamber that you’ve assigned me until the Lord
sees fit to take my spirit, I’ll stay there until the earl of Athol forgets he
even made that horrible mistake.”

There was that rasping, airless
sound again. That mortifying croak of a laugh no doubt intended to make
Catherine feel a bit insecure in her position.

“Well, my dear. You are in for a lesson,
and it won’t be in Greek, I’m quite certain. But it will surely prove more
useful to you than anything the Ancients have to teach you.”

“And may I ask what this lesson
might be?”

As Catherine stared at the dowager,
the older woman’s eyes glistened with a light that suddenly made her look much
younger in age. “Nay, lass, you may not ask anything more. Now be on your way,
and send those useless women back.”

Lady Anne closed her eyes,
dismissing Catherine, who turned away from the bed. As she crossed the chamber,
she considered the dowager’s last words. She was almost to the door when the
raspy voice again cut through the darkness.

“Catherine!”

“Aye, m’lady?”

“I take back what I said before.
You may do, after all!”

He knew it. It was just a matter of
perseverance.

John Stewart watched his bride slip
quietly into the darkened Great Hall. She would not see him sitting in the
shadows by the wall, he was quite certain of that. Only the flickering light of
the dying fire behind the dais illuminated the Hall, and he smiled as she
directed a quick and somewhat nervous glance toward the empty laird’s seat. 
Two dozen men were sleeping on the benches, but none even stirred when one of
the dogs lifted his head and growled at the intruder before yawning and laying
his head down again.

She turned and hurried into the
passage leading toward the kitchens.

Well, she would find little to
sustain her there, Athol thought. He’d made certain of that earlier, directing
the cook and the steward to lock away everything after the meal was cleared
from the long trestle tables. And she was not to be fed. That had been his
command. If she did not find his company--or for that matter, the company of
his people--good enough to join them down in the Hall for meals, then she could
damn well starve.

He’d arrived at Balvenie Castle before midday yesterday, and this was the first time she had stepped out of her
bedchamber, ignoring all invitations.  

Glancing in the direction that
she’d disappeared, he told himself that she’d be back. He was certain of that. But as the moments passed, the earl became a bit uneasy. Though the cook and the serving folk
who slept in the kitchens were, for the most part, an amiable lot, Athol
couldn’t imagine they were, as a whole, very fond of this haughty, reclusive
newcomer. Nay, he thought, sitting back and waiting. None would lay a hand on
her.

John Stewart had, at first, been
surprised that his ailing mother had placed his bride in the drafty old east
section of the keep. This western section of the castle, where he had his own
Great Chamber, had been rebuilt by his grandfather, and though a bit
old-fashioned, it was far more comfortable than the crumbling buildings where
Catherine had been deposited. In fact, he was even more surprised that the
newcomer hadn’t been chained to his bed, knowing his mother’s obsession with
him begetting an heir.

Well, it was time to do just that. By next summer, he could have a bairn bouncing on his knee.

The movement by the door drew his
eyes. As he knew she would, Catherine entered the Hall again, bending to pat a dog’s head before moving quietly from table to table, looking for food. 

*****

Catherine pressed the heel of her
hand against her growling belly. She’d thought Balvenie Castle would hold much
worse torment than an empty stomach, but this was bad enough.

Jean had been very apologetic when
she’d come to Catherine’s chamber with no supper last night, but she simply
couldn’t defy the earl’s wishes. Catherine knew that he had come. How could she
not? With all the ruckus he and his men had raised in the courtyard earlier,
there was no ignoring him. And knowing he was here had stiffened her will to
rebel. He wanted a wife? Well, let him get one elsewhere. He wouldn’t have her.
Just as she’d told Lady Anne, she would stay locked away as long as she
must--until such time as he forgot that she even existed.

But she still needed to survive. So
now, with the castle silent and sleeping, she had decided to venture out and
collect water and food. And if there were an opportunity for escape, she would
take it.

But nay, the woven iron bands of
the portcullis cut off any chance of disappearing beyond the curtain wall into
the Scottish night.

 And her foray into the kitchen had
been fruitless, as well. The expansive room, dominated by a huge double-arched
hearth, had been crowded with sleeping bodies. Feeling her way back through the
dark to the Great Hall, she had been very careful not to step on any sleeping
dogs, nor on any tartan-wrapped warriors, either.

Catherine moved stealthily along
the trestle tables. From the fading light of the fireplace, she could see only
a half dozen bowls and a ewer or two remaining out. Remnants of the night’s
drinking, she realized, picking up an empty bowl and sniffing it. And there was nothing of dinner itself, as far as she could tell.  

Anxiety joining with the hunger
already gnawing at her stomach, Catherine took a deep breath and tried to stop
her knees from trembling. She wiped her wet palms on her dress beneath her
cloak and reminded herself that she was no thief.

Even the dogs had a right to search
for food.

*****

John watched her reach for a ewer
sitting beside the ear of the warrior lying on the next trestle table. The
container was empty; he’d made sure of that himself. And her disappointment
with that discovery showed up as she pushed back the cloak’s hood from her head
and brought a hand to her brow.

This was the closest she’d gotten
to him, and the fireplace nearby cast her face in a soft, amber glow. From
where he sat in the shadow against the wall, his legs sprawled beneath the
table before him, John knew she could not see his eyes watching her. She had a
fine profile, he thought: the straight nose, the full lips, the high cheekbones
that had flushed crimson at his inconsiderate words when he’d first met her in
the hunting lodge at Corgarff.

And then she turned fully in his
direction. Athol ceased to breathe. Those eyes. How could he have forgotten
those eyes, so dark in this light, but so beautiful. She was staring at him--or
rather, at the food on the bread trencher in front of him. Come a bit closer,
he thought. Let me see the blue of those eyes.

Catherine took a hesitant step
toward him and stopped again. She pushed her cloak back over her shoulders, and
his eyes wandered over the ample curves of her shapely body. Suddenly, his mind
became engulfed with memories of her in his bed. His hand on the silky skin of
her hip. The way she’d moaned against his lips. The perfect fit of her breast
in his palm. The way she had risen to the touch of his fingertips on her belly.