Not Mine to Give (13 page)

Duncan’s soft, deadly voice shattered the silence. Her heart skipped a beat. “It’s too late, milady. Your laird has already found out you’ve disobeyed him.”

Katherine lifted her gaze. The angry gleam in his eyes turned murderous. The way he gritted his teeth and fisted his hands at his side was also not a healthy sign.

“I needed to talk to Angus,” she said, surprised that her voice sounded as controlled and steady as it did.

“Did not Brandon order you to go back to the keep?”

“Is that the young man I talked with at the drawbridge?”

“Aye. That is his name. If you have need to speak with him further, you will find him cleaning out the castle
garderobes from now until next spring.”

Katherine squelched a rising surge of guilt. “But it was not his fault, Duncan. I didn’t give him a choice.”

“He had a sword. He had a choice.”

Katherine stared at him in open-mouthed disbelief. She could see Brandon’s golden hair and smiling blue eyes. Those eyes would now contain the same hatred as she’d seen on every other Ferguson today.

Duncan slammed his tankard of ale on the table and shoved back his chair with such force it crashed to the floor. He’d put off going to his chamber until all save a few of the younger warriors in the great hall had gone to sleep. He’d hoped the ale he’d consumed and Malcolm’s company would make him forget how angry he was with her. It hadn’t.

Duncan crossed the rushes, ignoring the warning lift of Malcolm’s brows, and climbed the stairs to his chambers. He thought of Kate waiting there for him. By the saints, she was a frustration. She was the most obstinate, singleminded, stubborn woman he’d ever met. Was there nothing she feared? Was there nothing she did not rush headlong into because she thought it was for the best?

He strode down the long
hall to his chamber, each thud of his boots pounding off another reason she’d angered him today. The closer he came, the hotter his blood boiled in his veins. By the time he reached his door, he was even angrier than he’d been when Brandon ran through the great hall to tell him his mistress had left the safety of the castle without an escort.

By the saints. He’d had Fergusons lined up before him all afternoon complaining about something their mistress had done. First Anne and Margaret from the kitchen; then Kevin, the carpenter; then
Morgana; and finally Brandon. Didn’t she realize the turmoil her ideas caused? The danger in which she put herself?

Duncan shoved at the latch and stormed through the door with the same fervor he felt riding into battle. He expected to
find her asleep and anticipated waking her just to give her the scolding she deserved. One she would never forget.

She was not asleep. Far from it.

His wife sat on the edge of the bed. Waiting. The dozen candles she’d lit to brighten the chamber cast her long, loosely woven plait in a golden glow, making her seem soft, contrite. He knew she was not.

She was defiant and rebellious. He’d come to know her too well. The sight of her sitting so demurely was not the Kate he’d married. His Kate had issued orders and made decisions today with clear, calculated thoughtlessness. She intended to create chaos in his life and had done a good job of it. He could not let her rebelliousness go unchecked.

He crossed the room, fighting the ominous foreboding that gnawed deep in his gut, the feeling of impending doom that rumbled like a roiling thundercloud building over Scotland. How could he win her over when her actions were a constant irritant? How could he win her trust when he couldn’t even win her obedience? It was only a matter of time until someone came for the crown. He prayed it would be the English. He could fight them to the death as his father had. But how could he slay his fellow Scots to protect the crown his English wife wouldn’t give him?

He stood before her, feet braced, arms clasped behind his back. She lifted her deep blue eyes and studied him, as if she had resigned herself to accept his wrath without complaint or argument. She didn’t move except to clench her hands tighter in her lap and lift her shoulders in readiness to receive his reprimand.

“Do you have any idea the problems you caused today, wife?”

She lowered her eyes submissively.

“You argued with me in front of my men. Gave orders to rebuild my kitchens without first consulting me. Went outside the castle walls without a guard when you were told you could not. Then, you went to Angus to have him teach you his potions, even though I forbade you to do so. And this is only your first day here!” Duncan slapped his fist against his thigh in frustration.

She opened her mouth as if to say something, then wisely closed it again.

Duncan paced before her stoic figure sitting on the edge of the bed. “Anna and Margaret are convinced you want to change everything to your English ways and have vowed to fight you every step of the way.”

“I only wanted to make their kitchen less oppressive in which to work.”

“Kevin said—”

“Who is Kevin?” she asked, frowning as she tried to recall the name.

“Our carpenter. He thinks you intend to occupy his time from now until next spring making your changes. He thinks you have no regard for the huts and cottages that must be repaired before the snow falls.”

“I only asked him to find time when the cottages were finished. Large windows in the kitchen are needed to take out the smoke and heat. It’s not that I want him to rebuild your castle.”

“I am laird here, Kate. You should have come to me first.”

“As laird, you should have already known your kitchens
were hotter than the pits of hell. I only want to improve an intolerable condition.”

He could see her struggle to hold her temper. He could tell she was trying with all her might to watch her tongue. It was a battle he knew she had no chance of winning. He had no intention of helping her. “Do you have to charge into places where you are
na yet welcome, Kate? Can you na give them a little while to become more accepting of you?”

“And when will that be, my lord?” She bolted from the bed and paced the room like a caged animal. “How long will it take for the people to accept me, when even their laird cannot? They all see that you do not trust me, and that I am guarded like a prisoner. How can I expect anyone to accept me when you have yet to cast an approving glance in my direction?”

“That is na true, Kate. I stood before a priest and took you as my wife. I brought you into my keep and announced to all that you had found a place with me.”

“Words,” she
spat back at him. “You are nothing but a firestorm of contradictions. Do you think I don’t know the battle raging inside your head, Duncan?”

“There is
na battle.”

“Oh, but there is. You thought you had no choice but to marry me because you think I have the crown. And because I gave you back your medallion. I stood up to Bolton in the dungeon and your misplaced Scottish pride won’t let you sacrifice me to such a man, knowing what he will do.”

“Do na lie to yourself, Kate. You were as fearful as I at the idea of spending your life with Bolton.”

“You’re right,” she admitted, pounding her fist against the
cold, stone wall. “But I don’t look at marriage to you as a betrayal of my heritage. Or a sin against God.”

Every muscle in Duncan’s taut body froze. “Nor do I,” he denied with blatant vehemence.

“Yes, you do, my lord. You look on our marriage as your greatest betrayal. Not only to your clan and to Scotland, but more than all else, to your father’s honor.”

“You know nothing about my father’s honor. He lived his whole life doing only what was noble. He would have found another way. He would never have married an English just because—”

Katherine turned her face away from him. When she spoke, her voice was soft, edged with a tinge of pain. “Just because she had the crown?”

“I did
na say that, wife.”

“You did not have to.” She leaned against the thick stone wall as if she needed its strength to hold her up. “I married you,” she said in a quiet voice, “because I was too great a coward to face the lonely life in a convent. Because I was not brave enough to face Bolton on my own, and because I…I couldn’t forget the kiss we shared in Ian’s dungeon.” She paused. “I would give anything to be able to undo my mistake and save you from your torment.”

“It was not a mistake, Kate. We are together because—”

She spun around to face him. There was anger back in her eyes. “Because I have the crown, and I was Bolton’s betrothed. The battle that rages inside you is because you cannot bring yourself to accept the fact that I am English.”

She turned and walked to the narrow arrow slit in the wall. A bright shaft of moonlight streamed through the opening, casting a golden glow to her shimmering hair. Damn her. How could this English wife understand him so well? How could she see what he refused to admit to himself?

“Will it always be impossible to want me, my lord?”

Her words slashed through him like a finely honed sword aimed at his heart. She thought he didn’t want her. Didn’t she know how hard it was for him to deny his desire to take her? Even though she was English.

With long, determined strides, Duncan crossed the room. He reached the place where she was, and turned her in his arms until she faced him. With uncontrolled urgency, he pulled her against him and lowered his mouth to hers. He would show her how little she knew of what went on inside him. He would show her how wrong she was.

Duncan pressed his mouth against hers, drinking from her, taking from her, possessing her. His kiss was deep and thorough, and he was pleased with the way she conformed to him.

He would have her. She was his. He had taken her freely and willingly, and nothing, save death itself, would take her away from him.

Her body burned his flesh like hot tar poured onto cold metal. Nothing separated her from him but the thin material of her night shift, and that was not nearly enough to disguise his desire. He felt the firmness of her breasts through his shirt, touching him, pressing against him. Another surge of molten liquid raged deep into the pit of his gut.

Duncan slanted his mouth over her, deepening his kisses, covering her with a lusty need that overpowered him. He’d wanted her from the moment she’d kissed him in the
dungeon. Even when he thought she belonged to someone else, he could not deny the tangible bond that twined them together. He’d agonized over such desires then as they tortured him now.

He opened his mouth atop hers, his tongue skimming her kiss-swollen lips, forcing her to open to him. God’s blood, he wanted her. His tongue invaded her mouth, searching, seeking, finding. Raging heat plummeted deep in his belly and he pulled her up against him so she could feel how badly he needed her.

With a ragged sigh of unmistakable surrender, she wrapped her arms around his neck, returning his kisses with even greater fervor.

Duncan skimmed his hands along her sides; down to her narrow waist, lower to her rounded hips, then upwards again until the pads of his thumbs reached the undersides of her lush, firm breasts. He covered her, moving his fingers over the hardened peaks, while his tongue continued its assault on her mouth. She moaned loudly and raked her fingers through his hair, holding him tighter to her.

He wanted to touch every inch of her perfect body. Ached to be inside her. Even if she was English. Ached to plant his seed within her. Even if his heirs would forever be marked with English blood.

… forever marked with English blood.

His hands stopped moving over her breasts. The air froze in his chest. Holy mother of God.

He pulled away from her, staring into eyes glazed with passion, burning with confusion and hurt. He had given her his name, but he could not take her. He hated himself for
what he was doing to her. She deserved to be made his wife. But he could not take her.

The heated chamber echoed with the rasping gasps of their heavy breathing. Like a ragged gale in a stormy breeze, her breathing cut through the turmoil. Unsteady. Shuddering.

Duncan raked his fingers through his hair and stepped away from her. He didn’t want to see the hurt and confusion on her face. He turned to look out over the rolling Scottish hillsides, bathed brightly in the silvery moonlight. He loved every foot of this earth as dearly as he valued his life. He would die to keep it out of English hands.

“Go to bed, Kate. The room is beginning to chill.”

She did not move, but stood alone in the flickering candlelight.

“Go to bed. I will be here until you sleep.”

He did not go to her. He couldn’t bear to see the expression on her face. The emptiness in her gaze.

He heard her move to the bed, then heard a rustle as she climbed beneath the covers. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared up at the stars in the sky. “I will talk to Malcolm in the morning to make sure someone goes with you whenever you visit Angus.”

She did not give him an answer. He stood in the muted darkness as one after the other of her many candles flickered, then died. In the hazy blackness, the room echoed with only the crackling of the fire in the hearth and the steady beating of his heart.

…

Katherine lay beneath the covers and listened to each ragged breath he took. She clutched her arms around her trembling body and curled into a tight ball. She prayed he would go away but he did not. She prayed the tightening in her chest would go away, but it wouldn’t leave her either. She moved to the far side of the soft bed and huddled in the corner with her back to him.

He didn’t want her.

He’d married her for the crown, and because she was Bolton’s betrothed. But he couldn’t bring himself to take her as his wife because she was English.

Katherine pushed aside the memory of the passion in his kisses. She brought her fingers to her mouth, her lips still warm and tender. She would never yield to him again like she had tonight. She would never let herself want him like she had tonight.

She could not survive the debilitating pain she’d felt when he’d pulled away. A part of her had died from the hurt of knowing he did not want an English wife.

Katherine squeezed her eyes shut to stop the tears that wanted to come. He would not make her cry. Damn him. He would not make her cry.