Not Mine to Give (10 page)

“Like how?”

“Like you’re ready to slay some unseen enemy.”

He dropped his hands to his side and stepped in front of her. “What is it you fear, Kate?”

“Nothing. It’s nothing.”

She lowered her face to her hands. How could she explain it to him? He would think her such a fool. “I only wish to sleep out of doors tonight.”

“But it would be warmer—”

“I cannot go back in there.” She wrapped her arms closer around her middle.

“
Verra well. I will move the blankets and the fire out here under a tree. We will find shelter beneath the stars.”

Katherine watched as he moved everything from the cave to the open. He laid the wool blanket atop the branches for their bed and started a new fire, then placed the food he’d wrapped in a cloth nearby. Finally, she had calmed enough to help.

She opened the cloth and laid out the cheese and bread, then poured ale into the only cup that was there.

“Are you
aright now?”

She lowered her head.

He silently knelt beside her and waited while she cut a slab of the dark cheese with the dagger that hung from the belt at her side. Their gazes met when she handed him the cheese and a hunk of bread, but he brooked no further questions. They ate in silence, making a meal of what he’d brought, and sharing ale from the same cup.

When they finished, Katherine packed the leftover food and wrapped it in the cloth, and Duncan placed more wood on the fire.

“We will sleep now,” he said, placing his scabbard on the ground beside where he intended to sleep. “It’s been a long day.”

Katherine looked at the bed of thick branches and the blanket he’d spread out on the ground. A lump caught in her throat. This was to be her marriage bed.

“Duncan, I—”

“Go to sleep, wife. Tomorrow will be a long day for us both.”

He walked toward his men, leaving her in the flickering shadows of the glowing fire. She watched his retreating back, following him until he was just an outline.

Her chest tightened painfully. He didn’t want her.

She knelt beside the bed of branches and said her prayers. When she finished she crossed herself, then lay down.

By the saints, she was cold. Cold, and alone, and — lonely.

With a violent shudder, she curled into a tight ball atop her bed and pulled the woolen blankets under her chin. She stared ahead, watching as her Scot sat on a fallen log beside a blazing fire, talking with Angus and two other men she didn’t recognize. With a snap of his powerful fingers, he broke off small bits of a thin branch and threw them, piece by piece, into the fire. There was an unmistakable meaning to his actions. Every snap of the twig an echo of what she saw clearly.

He would not come to her tonight.

Duncan folded the blanket from what was to have been their marriage bed the night before while Katherine washed in the stream. He wasn’t proud of the relief he felt when his wife had been unable to spend their wedding night in the cave and they were forced to sleep out of doors. How could he take the lass’s virginity with his men sleeping so nearby? Except, that wasn’t the only reason he hadn’t made her his wife.

Duncan tossed the last of their belongings into a pile and kicked at the dirt around the fire. God’s blood, he hadn’t sealed their union because—

He swallowed past the bile rising in his throat. He hadn’t been able to seal their union because she was English.

A hard knot fisted in his gut. His father’s tall, powerful image flashed before him — strong of character, noble from birth, proud of his Scottish heritage. Would his father have understood his reasons for taking an English as his bride?

Surely the answer was yes. Surely his father would have done the same.

He threw more dirt onto the smoldering logs, trying to forget the way his bride had refused to look him in the eyes when she’d awakened. Trying to stamp down the anger that simmered just below the surface. Wondering whether she was hurt because he’d been unable to sleep at her side last night. Or relieved.

He looked up as she came toward him. By the saints, she was a sight. She’d bound her hair in a netting of glimmering silver. He remembered how the golden tresses had cascaded
to her waist last night in the moonlight. The silver trim on her white gown shimmered in the sunlight, and he couldn’t stop his body from reacting to her.

He’d taken her as his bride to protect her from Bolton. Because she’d returned his medallion. And because she had the crown. He owed her. And he wanted what she had.

“How long will it take us to get to your home?” she asked, standing before him, that familiar look of regal confidence in her bearing. He doubted she knew the meaning of the word submission.

“We’ll reach
our
home soon. I’ve sent someone ahead so they will know we’re coming.”

They walked to where his men waited, and one of his young cousins, Conan by name, came forward to take their bundles. Duncan noticed that Conan’s disapproving gaze lingered a mite longer than he deemed necessary. It bothered him that the look on his cousin’s face was not friendly, but he told himself it was to be expected. Once they got used to her, they would not see her only as English.

Angus came forward with their horses, his steel gray eyes as focused and serious as always. “All is ready, Duncan. We should be home ere they set the midday meal on the trestle.”

“It will
na be soon enough, friend. It seems I’ve been away from my home a lifetime, and yet, I can na stay long this time either. We’ll make our plans to go after Brenna in two weeks’ time, whether the Kerrs have returned from Dumfries or nay.”

“Your men are ready. Soon we’ll have our Brenna back with us.” With that, Angus turned to Katherine. “Is your back causing you pain?”

“No, Angus. You are the perfect healer. I could not have asked for better.”

The old Scot smoothed a hand over his bushy white beard, a deepening blush darkening his ruddy complexion. The smile on Kate’s face could have competed with that of an angel, so consuming was its effect, and Duncan saw a softening to the old man’s crusty nature he’d never seen before.

“Take care, lass,” Angus said, pointing a crooked finger in her direction. “You can na be too careful,” he said, mounting his horse.

“Thank you, Angus. I will remember.”

Duncan watched the man who’d been like a second father to him ride away. He couldn’t remember ever seeing such a softness in the aging warrior’s character before. “You seem to have found a soft side to Angus’ nature,” Duncan said, fastening the last of their blankets behind the saddle. “He’s usually not so amiable.”

“As compared to what, my lord? The rest of the Fergusons I’ve met?”

“You don’t feel safe among my men?”

Katherine smiled a cynical grin. “Safety is not my concern, my lord. I’ve learned that your weather is not all that contains a chill.”

“It will take them time, Kate. They do na know you, yet.”

“They know enough. They know I’m English.”

…

Katherine rode at the Ferguson’s side as they neared
Lochmore castle. Her new home.

She held her back straight, refusing to let thoughts of facing Duncan’s people for the first time intimidate her. She took in huge breaths of the clean Scottish air, pretending it smelled of England. She looked at the trees, and the glens, and the hillsides of heather, and convinced herself it did not look so different from home. She closed her eyes and listened to the sounds of the countryside; the birds in the sky, the wind rustling through the leaves, and told herself it was the same breeze that would soon reach her home in England.

For a long time, they rode in silence, up one rolling hill, then another. Through meadows and glades, and across bubbling streams rushing noisily past them, then up a hill even steeper than the ones before. Without warning, Duncan stopped, his eyes riveted on a spot straight ahead. Katherine followed his gaze and stared in awe at the imposing fortress that sat high atop a ridge far in the distance.

Unlike many of the castles she’d seen on her way from England,
Lochmore was made of stone rather than wood. It was also bigger than most, daunting in size and design. Its formidable towers and walls seemed impregnable. It was Duncan’s home.

Her home.

Two round towers built along the curtain wall with two three-story towers on either side of the gate boasted both dominance and strength. It was also the first castle she’d seen with a barbican to defend its entrance.

A small group of Ferguson warriors rode from the lowered drawbridge down the steep hill toward them. They were but small figures in the distance, yet Katherine could tell they were all big men. Especially the man in front.

She lifted her chin high. She would not cower before the Scots.

“Your warriors are coming to escort you safely home, my lord.” She was glad her voice sounded calm. That was far from how she felt.

“My warriors have been keeping us safe for hours already.”

Katherine looked around but saw nothing but trees and craggy hills and rolling meadows. “I do not see them.”

“Nay, you can na. They do na wish to be seen.”

Katherine looked around again then turned her attention to her husband. The breath caught in her throat. His steady gaze remained riveted on her, his dark look unreadable. Was he watching to study her reaction to his home? Or did the hooded expression on his face conceal a more soul-searching dilemma? “Regrets, husband? Has your rash decision to take an English wife finally come to haunt you?”

He stiffened, and Katherine tried not to let the darkened look in his eyes affect her. It did though. It made his shadowed glare a little more foreboding.

She kept her voice low, her tone casual, so none of the men beside them could hear her words. “Perhaps you can steal me into your castle under the cloak of darkness. I am sure there’s a secret chamber where you can hide me where no Ferguson will ever see me. I wouldn’t want to be a constant reminder to you or them that their laird sacrificed his honor or the Ferguson name to take an English bride.”

His ebony eyes darkened even more, and Katherine thought perhaps she’d spoken out loud his secret thoughts.

“A sharp tongue does
na do you credit, Kate. I’ve seen your bright wit and keen intelligence often, but never have you stooped to play the shrew.”

She turned her face away from him and closed her eyes. He was right. She was no good at shrewish behavior.

Her uneasiness wrapped around her like a cloak. It was just that she felt so… alone.

Duncan didn’t want her, but wanted the crown. Bolton didn’t want her, but wanted the crown and her father’s strong ties to the King of England. Duncan’s people didn’t want her, but wanted a Scottish lass for their laird’s mistress.

Katherine tightened her fists around the reins and twisted until her horse skittered nervously beneath her. She would always be a reminder of the atrocities Bolton and his warriors had committed. In time, all would know she had been Bolton’s betrothed, and that Duncan had taken her as his wife to feed his revenge against his enemy.

She would not let the Scots defeat her. She was English, and not even Duncan and his clan of Scottish Fergusons could make her forget it. She would stand tall before his people and force them to look hard for a reason to hate her. A reason other than that she was English.

She loosened her clenched hands and watched the group of warriors climb the rise to come near them. “Your men have raised the portcullis and lowered the drawbridge to welcome their laird. It’s obvious they’re glad to have you back.”

“Aye. I’ve been gone a long time. It’s good to be home.”

He pushed his horse forward, and Katherine looked down a small slope, then up the second sharp incline to the crest of a high hill where the fortress stood. It seemed… unwelcoming.

She slapped the reins against her horse’s flanks and followed behind him. Scores of men stepped out from behind the trees and joined them on the hillside. By the time they reached the crest of the first small hill, there were several hundred Ferguson clansmen surrounding them. The presence of this large an army of Scots riding to greet their laird made the goose flesh rise on her arms.

Duncan reined his horse to a stop and waited for the small group of riders from Lochmore Castle to reach them. A Scot almost as big as her husband, but with hair a lighter shade of brown, and eyes a paler hue, stopped alongside Duncan. The warrior’s features were sharp, his nose as angular as Duncan’s, his forehead as high and dominant, his face equally as handsome, but in a different sort of way. That is where the similarities ended.

The cut of his cheekbones was not nearly as sharp, the slant of his jaw not nearly so rigid, and his features not nearly as rugged and defined. But there was still a distinct likeness to the undeniable strength that set Duncan apart as the laird of clan Ferguson, and that likeness made Katherine take note of his presence.

The Scot grasped his laird’s forearm in greeting. He raised his sword high in the air and a thunderous roar erupted from the warriors surrounding them.

“Malcolm, this is my wife, Katherine. Kate, this is Malcolm, my friend and right hand in all things.”

Katherine raised her shoulders and held her head high, refusing to bend before Malcolm’s narrowing gaze.

The Scot put his hand over his heart and bowed his head.
“Lady Katherine. Know always that I will guard and protect you with my very life. Just as I swore fealty to my laird when we returned to find his father slain, so do I now swear it to you, his wife and my mistress.”

Katherine nodded in acceptance, then curved her lips to a slight smile. Every Ferguson clansman watched with great interest. Not a sound could be heard. Malcolm bowed his head in servitude, but did not return the smile. The gesture did not go unnoticed.

Katherine ignored the warmth that infused her cheeks and nodded in understanding. The line had been drawn.

Duncan was the first to move. He turned to Malcolm. “Ian said that you had done well in my absence to repair the damage done by the English. Is the castle secured and the cottages ready for winter?”

“With the aid of the men the MacIntyre laird left behind, we’ve repaired the outer bailey wall and the damage done to the front wall of the keep. All the cottages save four are habitable and even those should be ready by week’s end.”
“What of the lives lost?”

“There were twenty-eight in all, counting Kenneth’s wee lass of two summers who was trampled by the English bastard’s horse.”

Katherine turned her head and tried to swallow past the lump in her throat.
A child.
A mother had lost her babe.

She focused on Duncan, expecting to see the black glare of revenge staring back at her. But he kept his eyes on Malcolm as if he’d forgotten she was there.

“What of food for winter and the weapons we’ll need to go after Bolton?”

“We will pray that we do
na have a harsh winter for food will na be plentiful this year, but we will have enough to survive. Bolton was in such a hurry to go after the crown that his men did na spend too much time plundering our supplies. They were more interested in searching for what was na here.”

Katherine’s stomach lurched and she noticed Duncan’s hands tighten on the edge of his saddle until his knuckles turned white.

“What of our weapons?”

“Orin has worked day and night since Bolton left to make and repair what our men will need when we leave. He told me just today that if we rode out tomorrow not one of our warriors would lack a weapon to defend himself.”

Katherine looked at the expression on her husband’s face. It was hard, unyielding. An expression that was familiar to her.

Twice she braved a look at the strange faces around her. If any felt contempt for their laird’s new wife, they hid it well. If any felt a warmth for her, they disguised that equally as well.