Harlequin Historical May 2014 - Bundle 1 of 2: Notorious in the West\Yield to the Highlander\Return of the Viking Warrior (29 page)

‘—A mistake, my lady. Gowan was at one of your holdings, training some men. Munro said he is on his way here...to...' She stopped, noticing the way the lady's gaze slid away from hers for a moment, acknowledging the shameful incident without saying a word.

‘He will arrive in a day or so,' she said, deciding she needed to look out the door to see if her husband approached even now.

But the lady's grasp on her hand tightened, not allowing her to rise. When she glanced at the face of the woman who'd tamed the Beast of the
Highlands, she read the truth of it—Gowan was dead.

Gowan was dead.

‘I've brought a few things you might need over the next days and will send some of the servants to help you when his body arrives. My husband said to expect that to be later this day.'

Cat could not find words to speak. Gowan dying was simply not possible. He was older than her, but as strong a man as any around. He never lingered abed and was never ill. He could not be dead. She shook her head, denying the lady's claim.

‘Here now,' she said, putting her arm around Cat's shoulders. ‘'Tis hard to think of anything at this time. The news is such a shock to my husband as well. Gowan always served him well. But you must gather your wits and do what is expected. We must do what is expected of us at times like this.'

‘Aye, my lady,' she mumbled, unsure of exactly what she should be doing now.

All she wanted to do was curl up on the floor and die with him. He'd saved her life and had asked for little or nothing in return. Now...now...all was black before her. Lady MacLerie helped her to her feet and pushed open the door.

‘Some fresh air will help clear your head,' she advised. ‘Do you have kin here? Or some friend I can summon?' As they stepped out of the door, Cat dragged in a breath and felt her vision clear a bit.

‘Muireall,' she whispered.

‘Gair's sister?'

‘Aye, my lady.'

‘Peggy, go and seek out Gair's sister. Bring her here,' she said to the waiting maid. ‘Know you the way?'

With a nod, the girl ran off. After a few minutes in the cold air, she let go of Lady MacLerie and stood on her own. Looking around, she saw some of the villagers were noticing them now. Shivering from the shock of the news, Cat went back inside and wrapped a shawl around her shoulders.

If Gowan was dead, she should....

Glancing around the small cottage that had been her world for two years since they'd moved to Lairig Dubh, Cat realised that none of this was hers. It was Gowan's. She stood in the centre of the small world and knew nothing could be the same again. Gowan was dead.

‘Cat?'

She looked up, surprised to find Muireall standing before her now. She'd not heard her friend arrive or noticed the lady's departure, but both had happened.

‘Cat, we must get ready now,' her friend advised. She just could not work out what the words meant. ‘Come, we need to put water on to heat.'

She must have followed her friend's directions, but she later had no memory of it. Soon, she watched the large cauldron heating over the fire. A pile of cloths sat alongside a large jar of soap. A clean shirt and a length of tartan. A large, plain burial cloth that would wrap around his body.

Gowan was dead.

The tears came then, the sorrow poured out of her. Muireall sat with her, holding her and rocking her, and Cat held on to the only person other than Gowan to ever be her friend. Her grief stabbed deep, worse now for knowing that he thought her unfaithful in his moment of death.

* * *

By the time the commotion outside her door told her of his body's arrival and need for preparation for burial, Cat knew that she could not fail him in his death as she had in his life. She pushed all the pain and grief aside and stood to receive his body back into the cottage they'd shared here.

Her only glimpse of Munro was just then, as the men carried Gowan inside and placed him on a large, flat piece of wood. His friends stood beside and behind him, watching. And the earl was there as well, for both father and son served him.

Muireall and two servants from the keep stayed with her, but only she cleaned and washed him, preparing him for burial in the morning. The strange thing was that he looked as though he slept. No marks marred his body to tell her how he had died. No signs of recent injuries. Cat stared at his face, willing him to open his eyes and tell her this was all just a mistake.

But he did not.

As she touched the cloth to his jaw, she remembered the first time this lumbering giant of a man stood before her. The scar that ran in a jagged line down his cheek had terrified her, but not more than facing the fate her father had planned for her. She smiled now, cleaning that mark of a previous battle as she thought on how he staged another battle that day—this time for her.

Married once against her will to a brutal man who had died the way he'd lived, she ended up back in her father's control and faced whatever fate could help to fulfil her father's ambitions. Still recovering from the beatings that ended not only a pregnancy, but also her ability to bear children, her father auctioned her to the highest bidder though not for a marriage this time. This time she would simply be whored out to pay for her father's whims and wishes.

Lifting up his hand, she washed between his fingers and up his arm. His sword arm. The tears flowed freely now as she went about this intimate task.

He'd been travelling through the edges of MacKenzie lands, where the chief's power thinned and waned, and witnessed some of it, He learned more by questioning her neighbours and kin. Then he walked into the middle of the haggling, tossed a sack of coins at her father and drew his sword and dagger, daring anyone to stop him from taking her.

Cat traced the cloth down the length of his leg, washing off the dirt and then drying his skin. The other women stood silent witness to her ablutions and none tried to speak as she moved around her husband's body. They handed her a clean, hot cloth when she needed one and she continued this task. She washed his other leg and dried it.

His long strides had covered the distance between them and she half-expected her life to end when she glimpsed the fury in his gaze. He dragged and carried her out of the clearing and back to his horse. They did not stop until they'd reached the rest of his group of MacLerie warriors. There he'd offered her a meal and a choice—marriage to him or she could go wherever she wanted.

Finished with washing him, she began to dress him in the plain shirt and tartan. When he was clean and dressed, Cat took her place, sitting at his side, and the door was open for those who wished to pay a call—though with the recent accusations against her, she doubted anyone would want to enter the cottage while she was there.

The earl and lady visited first, greeting Munro, who remained outside, and then entering to speak about Gowan with her. They were brief, but their presence honoured his memory. Though she heard many people speak to Munro, only some of the men entered and said a word or two to her.

* * *

The rest of the evening passed in a blur. Muireall handed her food and drink, she thought. A few people even spoke directly to her, she thought. Nothing else sank through the wall of grief that surrounded her. Though Muireall saw her to bed before leaving, Cat could not sleep. For the first time since...since... She could not think on that now, but Munro slept elsewhere and only appeared at dawn.

* * *

Men from the earl's warriors, the keep and the village carried Gowan to the cemetery. The thick fog that morning swirled around them, their steps leaving eddies in the mist. Cat knew the priest prayed for his immortal soul, she knew the earl said some words of praise and knew that Munro tossed the first handful of dirt into the grave on his father.

But her thoughts were as opaque as the fog that morning, so she drifted along, doing what she was told to do until she found herself walking the road back into the village. She had almost reached the path leading to her door, Gowan's door, when it happened.

An older man, someone who'd fought with Gowan and drank with him, too, spat in the dirt at her feet as he passed her by. Only when another and then another repeated the insult did she realise it was aimed at her. Then the whispered words and curses followed. Loud enough for her to hear, but not so that they could be heard by others walking ahead of her.

But the stone that struck her in the back frightened her into crying out. Standing there, seeing the frank disgust in the gazes of those around her. Those who did not stare, turned away, not willing to intervene or be for her.

As she hurried back to the cottage, Cat understood that they had waited only for Gowan's burial to treat her the way they thought she deserved. Out of breath, she slammed the door behind her and leaned against it and only one thought filled her mind.

Gowan had returned to Lairig Dubh and he could not save her again.

Chapter Eight

C
atriona curled her body up and pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders. With little between her and the packed dirt floor beneath her, she shivered there, just waiting for dawn to arrive so she could rise without disturbing the others sleeping in the small cottage. As the coldness seeped deeper into her bones and in spite of it, she offered up a prayer of thanks that she, at least, was sleeping inside and not out in the relentless storms that blew through Lairig Dubh as the seasons changed here in the Highlands.

The small pallet in the corner held four small bodies, all lying askew, arms and legs in a jumbled mass, in the way of children. They slept with no regard for yesterday nor the morrows that yet waited for them. If only she had that luxury. From the sound of the echoing snores that filled the chamber, they would be asleep for a while. If only she could fall into the sleep of the innocents.

Turning once more, smoothing the blankets beneath her and tugging the one above back into place, Cat knew she actually should be able to slumber like an innocent. But everyone in the village, and most regrettably Gowan before his death, believed she served the earl's son as his leman and that woman would never be innocent again.

Munro had left the funeral and did not return to the cottage for three days. Coming back from the keep with Muireall, she'd found him and all of her meagre belongings and clothing in front of his father's house. Strewn across the path in the dirt, it was everything she called hers and he'd flung it all out of what was now his.

The worst—after tossing a few coins he had called her widow's portion at her, he'd told her not to return.

Standing mute as the meaning of his words struck her, Catriona searched her thoughts for a plan, a thing to do in reaction, and could find nothing. Munro had every right to do this and she doubted even the earl would force him to do otherwise if she appealed to him. As others began to gather, pointing and whispering at her and the humiliating debacle they witnessed, she gathered up what dignity she had left, picked up her clothing and things and walked away.

The first few minutes of complete confusion and disbelief faded as the reality of it hit her. She was an outcast, not only an outsider, now. With no home, no family, she turned around searching for a place to go. Muireall's was not a choice, not now that Munro had taken such a public stance on her. So, she hugged everything she had to her chest and dragged herself over to the only place of respite she knew—the church.

Though Father Micheil seemed more accepting and forgiving than the younger priest who'd begun his duties here, she did not expect a welcoming from either of them. Cat just wanted to sit in the quiet of the church and think on what to do. Placing her things on the narrow wooden bench in the back of the small chapel, she sat there and waited for some idea to happen.

Instead it was a some one who happened.

Though she should have known, she would not have expected Muireall to come to her aid in this now. Her husband had made his feelings known and Cat understood his reasons—he did not want his wife in the middle of such a matter as this, which could not end well.

‘You must go,' she whispered to her friend. ‘You cannot be involved.' And yet Muireall walked up to her, gathered Cat's belongings in her arms and nodded with her head at the doorway.

‘Come now, Catriona,' she whispered back. ‘Hugh's mother sits with wee Donald and she is not happy about it. Come now.'

Cat began to take back her things, shaking her head. ‘You must not do this. Hugh would not allow you to...help me now.' Muireall dropped her arms to her side and glared at her then.

‘Hugh was convinced to offer a bit of simple Christian charity,' her friend whispered with a glimmer inappropriate for a house of God there in her eye. ‘Come. I will tell you the rest when we are home.'

So, she'd followed Muireall and that had been a fortnight ago. Since then, she'd done whatever her friend needed while fending off all sorts of disgusting proposals from various men in the village. And some honourable ones, too. Now, laying on the cold, hard floor and grappling with the facts in her life that would not change, Cat thought she might have to accept one offer or another.

Two men, widower friends of Muireall's husband and at his urging no doubt, needed wives to manage their motherless children. Another man needed help with his bedridden wife and offered her a place to live in exchange for caring for her. It seemed a fair offer, at least until the leering wink and the pinching grab of her breast as he left told her that much more was expected of her than washing and feeding a sick woman. Her stomach churned now thinking about it. She lay on her back and threw her arm across her forehead with a sigh.

This time there would be no hero to stride in and save her from the dire straits in which she found herself. Not like the last time when Gowan saved her.

This morning continued its sluggish march forward with the storms of last night moving on, leaving the ground wet and the trees dripping reminders of the heavy rains on all who walked the paths and lanes of Lairig Dubh. The wee inhabitants of the cottage woke as slowly as the day had and broke their fast in dozing silence, which suited Cat more than their usual childish enthusiasm. Hugh and Muireall came in from their chamber and sat down to eat the porridge she'd made, kissing each of the small faces as they passed them. Just as everyone settled at the table, a soft knock broke into the silence.

Hugh tugged the door open a bit and nodded to whoever stood there. A few whispered words were exchanged and then Hugh stood back and looked at her.

‘Catriona. Someone to speak to you.'

Hugh would say nothing more, so she went to the door and waited as he opened it. Had Munro had a change of heart? Would he allow her back into Gowan's...his house to live? Instead, her heart beat faster as she saw Aidan MacLerie standing there. As grim-faced as Hugh when she glanced at him, the earl's son stood, arms crossed over his chest and not a hint of his purpose there. She would have just refused, but she would make no more trouble for Muireall's husband. Cat stepped outside into the foggy morning, closed the door and waited for him to speak.

‘Good morrow to you,' he said, nodding at her. ‘My thanks for speaking to me.'

Confused by his presence and more by his ill-at-ease manner, Cat could not imagine what this was about. Would he finally speak out and tell the truth of it? Could he convince Munro and the others that nothing existed between them?

‘My lord,' she pressed. ‘Why did you want to speak to me?'

He met her gaze and then looked away, as though searching for someone or something down the lane. His face had the hard angles of masculine beauty that seemed to run in his family. She'd seen the earl close by and the expression then and now in his son were the same.

Intense. Fierce, even. Handsome in a rugged way. Growing into the model his father was even now.

‘I have done you wrong, Catriona. My behavior has led to your disgrace. I tried to speak to Munro,' he began.

He'd
tried
? That meant he'd failed.

‘But, he would not hear me out.'

So he had tried to make things better and had stood up for her. Munro was young and had a fiery temper. That temper had led him to attack the earl's son when he first thought he'd taken Cat as his lover, dishonouring her husband.

‘I cannot change what has happened, but I want to help you through this,' he said. His arms dropped to his sides and she could not take her attention from the way his hands fisted and relaxed, over and over, until she could almost feel it on her skin. ‘Do you know my cousin? Ciara Robertson?'

Cat blinked several times, not following this conversation.

‘What do you mean? I know who Ciara Robertson is, everyone in Lairig Dubh does.'

Ciara Robertson, stepdaughter to the MacLerie peacemaker, served as his assistant and did what no woman ever had before—carried out negotiations on behalf of the earl and conducted his business at her stepfather's side.

‘She has asked that you meet her at her house at noon this day. Can you, will you, do that?'

Dozens of questions swirled in her thoughts and when she chose one to ask, he shook his head, cutting off her words.

‘She will explain everything to you then. If you would prefer, ask your friend to accompany you.' His gaze softened then and he smiled, a sad one that lifted but one corner of his mouth. ‘Leave your questions for now—it will all be clear to you then.'

Cat could only nod at him, agreeing to this strange request and meeting with a woman she'd only seen, but had never spoken to before. He nodded and turned to leave, taking a step towards the lane before stopping. Looking over his shoulder as though he remembered something to say, he faced her in the eerie silence of the fog.

‘And I am sorry about Gowan's death. I did not...'

He paused then, and though he did not finish that thought and it seemed like he had more to say about it, he left without saying whatever it was.

Cat stood there, confused and unable to move. Within a dozen paces, he faded into the fog that surrounded the cottages and covered the village in its misty grip. She waited for some moments, standing in the silence and watching the patterns that the growing winds carved into the ghostly air. Then the sounds of children now roused for their day grew louder behind her so she opened the door and went back to the table. From the frown her friend wore on her brow, Cat knew Muireall was bursting to know what had conspired between her and the earl's son. She also knew Muireall would practise the patience of a mother until they could speak alone to find out what had happened.

Should she bring her along, as Aidan MacLerie suggested? What business did Ciara Robertson have with a person like Catriona?

* * *

Though she had expected the hours to crawl by as she considered all the possibilities in her thoughts, soon the noon hour approached and it was time to go. Muireall walked at her side, not chatting as was her usual custom to do, and in some way it made Cat more nervous than if she chattered away. As they approached the large house, larger than most in the village, the door opened and the young woman walked to greet them.

‘Welcome,' she said. Her smile was warm and genuine. ‘You must be Catriona MacKenzie?' The woman nodded at her and then glanced at Muireall.

‘This is my friend, Muireall, my lady.' For how else did you address someone so much higher in position than you were? Unsure of the woman's noble blood or not, but certain of her wealth and power, she waited for her reaction.

‘Not a lady,' she said on a laugh. ‘You may call me Ciara if you'd like? Or Mistress MacLerie if you prefer, though with so many MacLeries about, many will answer to that! And I am acquainted with Gair's sister. Good day to you both.'

A pretty, vibrant young woman, Ciara Robertson wore her long, blonde hair in a braid, not covered the way most married women did there, but with a veil and circlet instead. Her clothing was of a quality far above a simple ‘mistress', but she did not put on the attitude of those higher than Cat. Instead, she felt at ease with her immediately.

Before she could say a word or ask anything, a crunching sound on the ground behind her spoke of someone's approach. Cat prepared herself to face Aidan MacLerie and was surprised when it was, instead, Duncan MacLerie, Ciara's stepfather and the earl's peacemaker. She and Muireall sank in curtsies to him.

‘Father!' she said, as she rose up on her toes and accepted a kiss on the cheek from the tall MacLerie warrior turned peacemaker. ‘May I make known Catriona MacKenzie? I think that our kinswoman, Gair's sister Muireall, is known to you?'

Duncan MacLerie wore the same grim expression that seemed to be bred into men of the clan...and the same handsomeness. Still, this man had faced down the enemies of the MacLeries and brought most all of them to heel. His reputation was known and respected across the kingdom and it was rumoured that his skills had been used by even the king when needed. And now he stood before her. Why?

Cat found it difficult to breathe. Why had she been sent here? What could these two expect of her? Was she to be exiled now—thrown out of the village? That's when she felt Muireall slip her hand into hers and squeeze it, reminding and reassuring her in one slight gesture.

‘You must be wondering why you are here?' the woman asked her.

Trying to gather her wits for whatever was coming her way, Cat nodded and tried to take in a breath, steeling herself for the challenge ahead. These last weeks had worn heavily on her good nature and her confidence that she could find a way of dealing with anything she faced. But now, she must.

‘Aye, my la— Ciara,' she said, using the woman's given name.

‘Father?'

‘I am here to confirm that whatever Ciara agrees to in the...matter between you and Aidan MacLerie has the full backing and promise of the laird and she acts on behalf of both of them.' He stood behind his stepdaughter with his hands on her shoulders, conferring the power of which he spoke to her.

Now she trembled in earnest, her knees threatening to buckle. The laird, the earl, had taken an interest in the gossip, too? Muireall slid her arm under Cat's to support her just then. Then, after those terribly foreboding words, the peacemaker nodded to her, patted his stepdaughter on the shoulder and walked off, moving in long, lumbering strides back towards the keep.

‘Come now,' Ciara said, as she slipped her arm around Cat's other one and tugged. ‘Walk with me and I can ease your mind about our discussion.'

With their support on each side, Cat followed down the road, away from Ciara's large house, to a lane nearer the stream and away from the hustling noise and activity of the busy village that centred around the well. She'd not been down this way before, neither having errands that brought her here nor knowing anyone who lived in this section of cottages.