Dreamer (Highland Treasure Trilogy) (9 page)

He should have known immediately
that she wasn’t the perpetually overeager Ellen Crawford. Nay, he admitted
silently, from the first moment he’d climbed in that bed, he’d sensed something
different there. Something infinitely better. But he’d been away from Ellen for
so many months, and he’d never expected someone else to be in his bed.
Certainly not this woman. And from the moment he’d stretched out beside her,
he’d had only one thing on his mind.

He saw her take another step
forward and her hand accidentally tipped a bowl sitting beside the ewer on the
next table. She grabbed for it swiftly, and the thing made no noise. It must
have had a few drops of ale in the bottom, for he watched her raise her hand to
her lips. Athol felt a tingling surge in his loins as her delicate tongue
licked the drops from her finger.

Perhaps he hadn’t made such a bad
choice, after all, he thought, His eyes fixed on her, his brain conjuring
images of all that he would like to do with that mouth.

*****

Finally, she thought. The drops of
ale were bitter on her tongue, and Catherine moved carefully toward the next
table. It was the closest to the wall, and she could see that there was indeed
food on the trencher.

Her eyes flicked over to the
motionless warrior slouched on the bench behind the table. He was leaning back
against the dark, paneled wall. From what she could see, he must have fallen asleep
with his supper still before him. She dared herself to take the last step that
would put her within reach. All she needed to do was take the food and run.

 She clenched her jaw, trying to
build enough courage to act. His face was hidden in the shadows--his broad
chest crossed by the same red and green tartan worn by nearly all of Athol’s
warriors.

Her stomach made a loud,
complaining sound, and suddenly Catherine knew that her decision had been made
for her. She reached out with both hands and grabbed for the trencher.

With an incredible speed, the
warrior’s hands shot out and clamped on her wrists. A strangled gasp of panic
escaped her lips, and Catherine found herself being tugged toward the table.

“Stop! I...I thought you were
finished.”

He stopped pulling her but did not
release her, and Catherine found her throat clamp shut as the face moved out of
the shadows and into the light.

“So you’ve decided at last to leave
your self-imposed confinement and join me down here for some supper.”

“I...” She couldn’t think straight.
His gray eyes were dark in the firelight, but she could feel them piercing her
soul.

“I know. You didn’t want to bother
with the folk who would be naturally inquisitive about their new mistress. You
only wished for my attentions, is that right?”

She simply could not find her
voice. The nearness of him--his hands holding her fast-- was the most
unsettling. Her face was burning, and yet there were chills running down her
spine. It was like some raging fever, but not like any fever she’d ever endured
before.

“You locked yourself away.”

The odd hint of regret in his voice
surprised her. She tore her gaze away, and stared at his mouth. His lips were
full and sensuous. She had felt the press of those lips, and she forced back
the memory as the heat flooded into her belly.

“I didn’t...I thought...you...”

He let go of her wrists, and
Catherine straightened immediately. Despite all her strong words to Lady Anne, just one moment in his presence was all it took for her to melt, to become soft and
willing right before his eyes. What was wrong with her!

“‘Tis a relief to know that you had
enough sense to decide against starvation.” He leaned forward and pushed the
trencher of food across the table. “Why not sit down and eat?”

She didn’t stir. She couldn’t. Not
until she could control her own unexplainable response to him.

“No longer hungry? Or is it,
perhaps, that you do not trust me!” As she continued to remain silent, he
cocked an eyebrow and studied her. She felt the heat about to burst through the
skin of her cheek. “You are blushing!”

“Nay,” she managed to whisper.
“‘Tis anger that you see.”

She saw his eyes soften a bit.
“This is better than I hoped. You are angry with me because I left you on our
wedding night. Before we had a chance to consummate our union.” He paused just
long enough for Catherine to feel another rush of heat flood her cheeks. “‘Tis
a Highland custom to wait half a week, but I promise to make up for any slight
you may have felt. In fact, why not carry this food back to my bedchamber. We
can start--”

“I’ll eat here.” She sat down
quickly, pulling the trencher and the goblet toward her. She lifted the cup to
her lips. The wine was heavenly compared to the bit of water she’d had over the
past two days. She drank again.

“I would slow down on that, if I
were you. I wouldn’t want you blaming the wine when you end up in my bed this
night.”

As she placed the cup on the table,
though, he produced a pitcher of wine from the bench beside him.  Without
hesitation, he filled the goblet to the top.

“On second thought, since this is
your first time, perhaps it might help you to...”

“Could you please stop talking this
way?” The wine must have gone to her head, she thought, since she no longer
felt any fear of the man sitting before her. But, looking into those eyes,
sparkling with amusement, she wondered if she’d ever truly feared him.

“Talking what way?”

“Talking nonsense. Talking
matrimony and consummation! We both know that the vows we took meant nothing.
So why pretend? Why carry on with this farce?”

She’d expected him to argue--or
even lose his temper as she’d seen him do before. At least, she’d hoped for him
to say something--anything. But he said nothing. Instead, he looked at her with
a charming gleam emanating from the depths of his eyes. Catherine knew for
certain then that she was in trouble.

And then her stomach growled. It
was not even one of those small sounds that one can overlook. Nay, this was the
kind of growl that can be heard above the din of a London fish market. The kind
that would wake one’s sisters from a sound sleep. The kind that allows one no
opportunity for salvaging her dignity.

So she simply smiled sheepishly,
shrugged her shoulders, dropped her gaze, and reached for the cheese on the
trencher before her.

“The mutton is particularly good, I
believe.”

Catherine did not look up, certain
that he would be leering at her suggestively, ready to remind her of what this
food might cost her later, but he again proved her wrong in her assumptions
about him. He was quiet for a while, and when she glanced up at him, Athol
smiled and leaned back against the wall.

Moments later, she surveyed the
empty trencher before her. The mutton
had
been particularly good. As was
the bannock bread, and the capon, and the cheese.  She sipped the wine and
looked over the rim of the goblet at his handsome face. She wished he would say
something, engage her in conversation. As if reading her mind, John Stewart
began to speak, talking about Balvenie Castle, about its colorful past. He
spoke of how his family came into possession of the castle after the Black Douglases fell from grace after losing to the king’s forces at Arkinholm.

Listening to the resonant tones of
his deep voice and sipping the wine, Catherine became swept up in the history.
His knowledge was vast and his tales vividly detailed, and Catherine soon found
herself in a world of chivalric knights and ignoble villains, of beautiful
heroines and unending love affairs.

“...So after the wedding of my
great grandsire John Stewart, the first earl of Athol, to Margaret of the
fallen Douglas clan, a condition was set that one red rose would be rendered
each year on St. John the Baptist’s Day...”

Catherine found herself drifting
into the realm of her dreams. She could see her knight stepping into a large
and empty hall. And her, waiting for him there in the middle, the rays of sun
slanting in through the high windows, the golden light pooling around her. In
his hand, he held a rose. A rose the color of blood, the color of life.  Her
knight, stepping closer, offering her the token. A token of love. She smiled,
raising her hand to him...

 Catherine drifted out of her
dreams as John Stewart’s voice stopped. Her eyes took in the chiseled features
of his face--the high forehead, the small web of wrinkles etched into the
corners of his eyes, the thin line of a scar along his left cheekbone. She let
her gaze wander along the strong line of his jaw, to the cleft in his chin, and
finally to the full lips. There was a gentleness now in his face that warmed
her, lulled her. She looked into his gray eyes and was suddenly lost in a world
far more real and sensuous than any she’d found in her dreams. She lowered her
gaze again to his mouth and found it as inviting as any forbidden fruit.  

Catherine started as the cup
slipped in her fingers, and she put it down. She must have had too much wine.

 “I thank you...for sharing
your...” She pushed herself shakily to her feet, and gestured vaguely at the
table. “Your food...your company. I...”

He came to his feet, as well, and
suddenly her head was spinning with thoughts of his earlier suggestions. She started
to gather up the trencher and the cup on the table. “I’ll...I’ll just take
these to the kitch...”

“No need.” The weight of his large
hand on hers checked the flurry of movement. His hand was so warm, so strong.
“We have serving folk with little enough to do. But I believe Jean would be
offended if she knew I let you wait on yourself.”

Letting go of the cup and the
trencher, Catherine pulled her hands out of his grip. “Then, I’ll retire to my
chamber.”

“I hope I haven’t bored you.”

“Hardly, m’lord. ‘Tis late.”

“Very well. I’ll walk you to your
door.”

She studied him for another moment,
trying to calm her beating heart. What had she to complain about? He could be
dragging her to his chamber--ravishing her. He was simply being courteous. She
felt her face burn as a realization emerged from the turmoil in her brain.
Disappointment. There, lurking in some shadowy recess, disappointment that he
was not taking her burning body. Why shouldn’t he want her?

By the saints, she argued silently,
perhaps she
should
have wed when she was sixteen. This craziness, this
eagerness she felt for the man was far, far too unsettling.

“Can I not walk my own wife to her
chamber door?”

“Aye, you...I do not...” She
faltered and then gathered herself. “Aye, of course!”

John Stewart came around the table,
lighting a taper at the remnants of the fire in the hearth. Wordlessly, the two
worked their way out of the hall and up the dark, circular stairwell. Her mind
was racing as they passed through the same dismal corridors she’d traveled
earlier, and Catherine saw nothing of them. His presence beside her was
terrifying and thrilling, and her heart was hammering so loudly that she was
sure she could hear it echoing off the walls as they walked.

“And why is it, Catherine, that you
were not wed when you were younger?”

His elbow brushed against her arm,
and she felt the fires spread from the point of contact up through her shoulder
and into her chest.

“I...I’ve always been keen on
learning.”

“And your suitors objected to so
much knowledge in a potential wife?”

“
You
did! I mean,
you
do.” She paused an instant, hoping that he would correct her, but he ignored
her answer. She glanced hesitantly at his direction and found his eyes roaming
lazily over her face. His gaze fixed on her lips, and she forced herself to
breathe. “As...as you already know, I am not the type of woman that one seeks
as a wife. Even aside from my learning, which is for some reason enough to
frighten off most men, I am also opinionated...and willful...and...well, I
think you understand.”

“Nay, I do not. Do you have more
that is wrong with you?”

The passage narrowed at the turn,
and Catherine brushed against his chest as they moved into the section of the
castle where her chamber was located. She stumbled a bit and he reached out for
her arm. His hand lingered a moment longer than it needed to, and her mind
reeled at the effect of his touch.

“Nay! I...I have other qualities as
well?”

“Do you?”

She gave him a sidelong glance and
found a smile softening the weathered features of his face.

“Well! I suppose I am not beautiful
or desirable the way some other women are.”

“Is that so?”

“Of course. A man might even look
at me as something of a burden. As a woman suitable for some convent, where
they do not have to look upon her face.”

“And what blind fool planted that
seed in your head?”

“You yourself called me an old
crone.”

“That’s not true.” They stopped at
her door. “If I remember correctly, I accused you of talking like one. I
never... By the devil! So you are trying to rile me, are you?”

She leaned against the doorjamb and
lifted her chin in challenge. “As I said before, being beneath of attentions of
men, I have been able to hone other abilities, such as...”

“Other qualities, you mean, such as
stubbornness, and willfulness...and the desire to teach?”

He actually did understand, so she
rewarded him with a smile. But his response made her forget to breathe. He took
a step toward her and gently ran the tips of his fingers across her lips.

“You have the most enchanting
smile. A bewitching one.” She waited, shivering with anticipation of what could come next. The memory of his lips against her own suddenly flooded her
senses. She’d thought it was a dream, then, and there was something dreamlike
in this moment, as well. “Take me inside your room.”