Once Upon a Plaid (17 page)

“Over eight hundred yards with consistency on level ground. Less accurate at nine hundred.”

Ranulf twisted in his saddle and gazed back at Glengarry Castle. The folk who had situated the first keep on the banks of Loch Ness tens of lifetimes ago had committed a grave error. A steep incline rose to the north. If someone situated a trebuchet on those heights, the range of the weapon would be significantly increased. And the machine, and all the men who worked it and supplied it with its deadly projectiles, would be beyond the range of even the best-drawn longbow.

“Tell the friar I want him to devise a method to hurl flames. And I want him and the machine situated there by Twelfth Night, ready to go.” Ranulf pointed to an overlook above Glengarry Castle. “Or he’ll lose more than a finger.”

—From “The Twelve Days of Christmas”

 

 

—An observation from Nab,
fool to the Earl of Glengarry

Chapter Twenty

The hunt was an unqualified success. In addition to Lord Glengarry and William’s buck, other parties brought in several smaller red deer. Ranulf and his friends contributed so many coneys to boil in a cauldron of rabbit stew, it was enough to feed the entire assemblage that night.

However, MacNaught’s entourage was conspicuous by their absence at the earl’s board.

Even so, William almost failed to notice it at first because Katherine was seated next to him at the table on the raised dais, as a good wife should. They spoke softly together about nothing of importance, but the nothings felt normal. Good. So did her soft thigh brushing against his under the table.

“I dinna see my cousin,” Katherine said as she offered William a bite of her bannock. She’d slathered it with butter and it dripped honey, just as he liked it. “Is he not back from the hunt?”

William surveyed the great hall but saw no sign of Ranulf MacNaught or his friends. He leaned toward the earl at his other elbow. “Where’s your nephew?”

“Gone. Ranulf came to my chamber and made his farewells as twilight fell. Wouldna even stay for supper. Seems he received a message from my sister asking him to return home. Says she’s taken ill.”

“Oh?” Katherine leaned forward to peer at her father over William’s trencher.

“I dinna believe the sickness is serious. Most like ’tis a light case of catarrh. Now that she’s a widow, she doesna do well without her son close by, Ranulf says.” Lord Glengarry tucked into his stew with more gusto than William had seen in him for days. Fresh air and the exercise of the hunt had been good for him. “My sister always did want to be the center of attention. She may well be shamming. So farewell to Ranulf, and I canna say I’m sorry for it.”

“I am,” William admitted. “If there’s a snake in the middle of the hall, at least I know where it is. While Ranulf was here in the castle, we could keep an eye on him.”

It crossed his mind that MacNaught might have found the Scepter of Badenoch and slipped out of Glengarry with it. Then he dismissed that notion, because Ranulf wouldn’t have been able to resist claiming the right to sit in the laird’s thronelike chair.

“What are ye saying, Badenoch? Think ye I canna trust my own blood?” A vein popped out on Lord Glengarry’s forehead. “He’s my own sister’s boy. Ranulf may be rough about the edges, but he’s family. I’ll not hear a word against him.”

“Not even if he has designs on your holding?”

“Who dares say such a thing?” The earl’s voice rose to a roar and several diners’ spoons clattered to the trestle tables.

William started to rise, but Kat stopped him with a hand to his forearm.

“No one says that, Father,” Katherine said soothingly while shooting William a warning glance. “Nab, ’tis still Christmastide,” she called out gaily in an effort to forestall further argument. “Give us a story fit for the season, will ye?”

The fool rose to his feet and fiddled with the ends of his multitasseled hat. While he knew plenty of stories, Nab didn’t have a bard’s ease of delivery in the telling of them. He hemmed and hawed and had to be coaxed to get the tale out. This time, however, Nab glanced over at Dorcas, who was refilling drinking horns at a nearby table. The serving girl tossed the fool a shy smile, and he stood straighter, clearing his throat.

“Perhaps ye will have heard the tale of how the robin got his red breast?” he began.

This was met with nods and smiles all around the great hall. Just because the story was familiar didn’t mean they wouldn’t enjoy hearing it told again, provided it was well told.

“It came about like this, ye see, that on the night of Our Lord’s birth, his mother was fair concerned because of the bitter chill.” A puzzled look came over Nab’s face. “Makes a body wonder, does it not, why Our Lord chose to come to earth in the dead of winter when he might just as easily have been born on a soft spring night?”

“He came to share our hardships,” Katherine whispered to William. “Few things are harder than winter.”

Will could think of at least one—his wife’s stubborn head once she set her feet on a course. Well, he could be just as stubborn. If she thought he was going to spend his time in the chapel later praying himself into agreeing with her ridiculous scheme for an annulment, she was in for a grave disappointment.

“There was a small fire in the stable for warmth on that holy night, but it had nearly burned itself out and Blessed Mary fretted herself that the Holy Child would be cold.” Nab punctuated this with an exaggerated shiver. “So she looked about at the animals in the stable to see if they would help.”

Nab scratched his head. “This part of the story always makes me wonder where St. Joseph was, for surely he could have stoked up the fire.”

It was unusual for a storyteller to depart from the original and interject his own thoughts into the tale. Perhaps that was why, instead of listening in quiet expectation, Beathag, the midwife, felt moved to add her conjecture to Nab’s telling.

“No doubt he was seeing the shepherds who’d come visiting back out the door,” Beathag piped up. Margaret was doing so well, the midwife had allowed herself the luxury of dining in the hall for a change while one of the nursery maids sat with the lady. “The last thing ye need in a birthing room is a bunch of fellows who reek of sheep!”

The whole company laughed soundly.

“At any rate,” Nab continued with a pointed glare at Beathag for the interruption, “the Mother Mary asked the ox would he blow on the fire, but he’d already settled for the night on his bed of straw and was fast asleep.”

“I’m not surprised in the least,” Lord Glengarry said, waving an admonitory spoon at Nab for suggesting such a thing might be possible. “An ox is not the most biddable of creatures at the best of times. How much less so on a cold winter night?”

“Aye, I take yer point, my lord.” Nab tugged down his motley with exaggerated dignity. “However, may I remind ye that I didna make up the story? I’m merely telling the tale as I heard it told.”

“Fair enough, Nab.” Lord Glengarry raised his soup bowl to his lips and slurped noisily. “Pray, continue.”

“So then, Mary turned to the jackass that had borne her safe to Bethlehem. ‘Please, Master Donkey,’ quoth she, ‘will ye snort on the fire and bring it back to life?’”

“It appears to me that the donkey had already done its part,” William said, for the pleasure of watching Nab’s ears turn bright red. “As I understand it, ’tis a long, weary way from Nazareth to Bethlehem.”

“Aye, and bearing a woman near her time is no light matter,” came Margaret’s voice from the base of the stairs. When she appeared on the last step, a hand resting on her protruding abdomen, the entire hall erupted in cheers and applause, for they hadn’t seen the lady in several days.

Katherine leaped to her feet and scurried over to help Margaret to the empty place on the other side of Lord Glengarry. Margaret protested that she was fine and needed no special coddling, but her sweet smile said she was pleased by it nonetheless.

“I couldna bear to be missing out on Christmastide up in my chamber a moment longer. I’ll be fine. Truly, I will,” Margaret said to keep Katherine from fussing over her. “I’m sorry to have interrupted your tale, Nab.”

“Ye’re the only one,” he muttered. “Everyone else feels it their duty.”

Katherine settled next to William again. He slid his hand under the table and took hers. To his surprise, she didn’t tug it away.

“We’ll listen quiet now, Nab,” Katherine said. “Finish the tale, if ye please.”

“One by one, Mary asked the horse, the sheep, and the goat for help.” No one interrupted the fool this time, but some wag in the corner managed to get in a rather convincing “neigh,” “baa,” and “bleat” at appropriate times. “But none of them would tend the fire.”

“Disheartened, Mother Mary wrapped her baby and held him close. Then she heard a flutter of wings. A small brown bird flew up to the rafters and peered down at her. He cocked his head, like this.” Nab gave a fair imitation of a robin eyeing something it intended to have for breakfast. “Now back then, the robin didna look as he does today. He was just a plain mud-colored bird, but beneath those drab feathers, there beat a great heart. Without being asked, the bird flew down to the dying fire and began flapping his wings with all his puny might.”

Nab demonstrated by waving his arms before himself like a bellows. He made huffing and puffing sounds till he was quite red in the face.

“That’s enough, Nab. We can imagine the rest,” the earl said. “I dinna want my fool to fall down trying to imitate a bird.”

“Weel,” Nab said as he caught his breath, “I wasna done just yet. Ye see, according to the story, the robin sang the whole time too, so I thought I’d—”

“In that case, we definitely want ye to stop!” Lord Glengarry roared with laughter. Nab’s singing more nearly resembled a bullfrog’s than a songbird’s. “Skip over the song for now and end your tale.”

“Verra well, but the song adds a great deal to the telling, I’ve been told,” Nab said with a sniff. “So then the robin picked up a beakful of straw—I’ll not be doing the imitation of that since ’tis clear yer lordship wishes me to finish!—and the bird tossed the kindling onto the glowing ash. The kindling burst into flames.”

Nab threw his arms into the air, setting the bells at the ends of his cap ajingle. Then he clutched his chest awkwardly.

“The fire flared up and burned the robin’s breast as red as a cherry. Did that stop him from fanning the flames? No, it did not. There was an Infant King what needed warming and that little bird didna quit tending the fire till the whole stable was toasty warm and filled with light.”

The entire assembly went quiet, caught in the mood of the peaceful cattle byre—the sweet breath of the animals, the homely scent of fresh straw, a young mother’s soothing lullaby, and a Child born into darkness who would become the Light of the World.

For a few heartbeats, William wished he still believed it.

“The Baby Jesus slept sweet that night and Mary rewarded the robin. ‘Because ye have loved much,’ quoth she—people were always quothing back then, ye ken. Sounds a good deal more holy than ‘said,’ aye?”

“On with it, Nab,” the earl ordered.

The fool’s head bobbed. “Och, where was I? Aye, now I mind it. The Blessed Mother said to the robin, ‘Ye shall wear the symbol of yer sacrifice on the breast, that all generations may know ye thereby. May yer great heart be covered with a red shield from this day forth.’”

Nab smiled, turning his head this way and that so that all could see his beatific expression. William doubted such a look had ever been found on a robin’s face.

“And so it is even now that the robin’s breast is red,” Nab said. Then he brought his hand to his chin and gave it a thoughtful stroke. “But I’m thinking there’s yet another meaning to this story.”

“Never trust a jackass to do a birdwit’s work?” someone called out.

Laughter greeted this all around. Since the hunt that afternoon had been so successful, Dorcas had doled out the ale and beer with a free hand.

“No, that’s not it,” Nab said in all seriousness. “I think the story means we ought not discount the small things, the seemingly unimportant. Those who are weak, those whose gifts are not so obvious may, in a time of great distress, prove to be far stronger than we suppose.” He turned his gaze downward to study the curled-up tips of his own shoes. “Or than even they suppose.”

Lord Glengarry rose and leaned his heavy knuckles on the table. “Thank ye, Nab. ’Twas a story well told, but now I’m in the mood for some music. Let’s have that piper. Push back the tables and clear some space. I am moved to dance!”

The earl left the dais as the piper began his tune. Lord Glengarry bowed before Lady Dinglewood, requesting the honor of a reel. William noted that Sir Ellar’s face turned an unhealthy shade of puce.

Katherine squeezed Will’s hand under the table and he noticed she was tapping her toes.

“Would ye care to dance, wife?”

“Aye, my lord.” She didn’t call him husband, but at least she smiled at him. “Though if ye’d waited but another moment, I’d have had to ask ye.”

—From “The Twelve Days of Christmas”

 

 

—An observation from Nab,
fool to the Earl of Glengarry

Chapter Twenty-One

Katherine danced till her feet ached. She grew dizzy when William twirled her, but she didn’t cry off or ask to sit out any of the tunes. She couldn’t bear to cut their time together short. Who knew when or if she’d ever dance with Will again.

At the end of the last reel, he led her out of the great hall without a stop and through the door to the solar. There was no one else in the room, though they could hear the low rumble of the crowd in the great hall and the flourish of the pipes as the tune drew to a close. They made a swinging turn of the dimly lit chamber, and as they passed by the door the second time, Will kicked it shut without missing a step. He gave her a final turn and then released her to finish the dance with a bow.

Breathing hard from exertion, she dropped a deep curtsey and came up grinning. “That was fun, Will.”

“Fun is something we’ve been lacking of late.” He gathered her back into his arms. The banked fire in the grate threw only enough light to allow her to see half of his face, but that half was beaming down at her. “’Tis something we’ll have to rectify once we get home. Every day, no matter what else is commanding our attention, we must have some fun together.”

She didn’t want to spoil the moment by reminding him that she wouldn’t be returning to Badenoch with him, not if they were moving forward with an annulment. His body felt so good flush against hers, she couldn’t bring herself to pull away from him either.

She settled for reminding him that not every day was a holiday and they couldn’t expect the frivolity of Christmastide all year.

“No, but even the most ordinary of days can be extraordinary if ye’re with the one ye love,” he countered.

“No matter what happens, ye must believe that I do—” She stopped herself. What good could come of admitting she loved him if she still intended to separate from him?

“’Tis all right. Ye can say ye love me. I willna hold it against ye. However, I’m enjoying holding something else against ye verra much.”

Katherine felt his hardness through the layers of clothing separating them and rocked her pelvis once. His grin carved a deep dimple in the cheek turned toward the fireplace. She couldn’t help putting her fingertips to the sweet spot.

“Even if ye dinna admit it,” he said, “I see love shining in your eyes.”

“Love always seeks what’s best for the beloved,” she reminded him.

“For me, that’s you.”

“But, Will—”

“No buts, woman. I know what I want.”

“But not what ye need.”

“That’s a ‘but.’ I’ll have none of it.” His hands roamed lower, cupping her bum and pulling her close.

“Bu—”

“Ye’re forcing me to drastic measures, Kat.” He covered her lips with his in a quick claiming. Then he released her mouth and looked down at her, his dark eyes searching, his face strong and determined. And full of love.

Oh, Lord, why wasn’t that enough?

Perhaps it was. For now, at least. She tipped up her chin. It was all the invitation he needed. His mouth descended on hers again, firm and hungry this time.

The chamber seemed to go shadowy around them and the boisterousness of the great hall faded. There was no yesterday. No tomorrow. Only the eternal now. Only his mouth, his hands, his hardened groin against her softness.

And so for now, she yielded, parting soft lips and letting his tongue sweep in. She suckled him. He was her Will, her soft summer night, her warm cloak in winter. His love hedged her round about to keep the world at bay.

His kiss went on and on, drawing her deeper into the fantasy that somehow everything would be all right.

Her mother used to kiss her scraped knees and “make them better.” She knew that for childish nonsense now. Cuts left scars. Heartbreak left wounds that never stopped weeping. But if kisses
could
heal, Will’s would surely bind up the broken bits of her and make her new.

But she couldn’t keep from hoping it as William deepened their kiss. For now, she put aside all else—Stephan’s death, her plans to free her husband, her desire for a child that was so intense she sometimes couldn’t breathe.

She willed herself not to remember. Not to think. She would only feel.

His chest was a hardened breastplate, heavy muscles under the fine lawn of his shirt. She slid her arms around his waist to hug him closer as her tongue chased his back into his mouth.

Oh, the smell of him, all leather and warm wool and that crisp male tang that was uniquely William.

Longing shivered over her, leaving her slightly light-headed. If his arms hadn’t been around her, if she weren’t clinging to him, she might have gone down in a wobble-kneed swoon.

Somehow, he’d backed her to the tapestry-covered wall. The ancient cloth depicted one of the battles William Wallace had won against the English years ago. With her spine pressed against the venerable fabric, she tried not to imagine the wide eyes of the defenders of Stirling Bridge in 1297 looking on as her husband lifted her skirt.

His hands slid over her thighs. She ached for him to hold her, to take her most secret self in his hot palm, but he only teased his fingers close without claiming that part of her. When she groaned into his mouth, he relented and took her in his hand.

She was wet. Praise be.

She hadn’t had to force it or concentrate or anything. When she stopped thinking so hard, her body roused to William as it should.

This time when he stroked her special little spot, she didn’t try to keep her climax at bay. She let it come and it rushed toward her with the force of a gale.

Bliss took her, lifted her, shook her.

She chanted incoherent things all tangled up with Will’s name as her release went on. And then suddenly William hitched one of her knees up at his hip and between one contraction and the next, he raised his kilt and slid inside her, sheathed to the hilt, as her inner walls continued to pound around him. He stood motionless, soaking up her pleasure, letting it abate slowly.

When it was finally over, only then did he start to move. She met him stroke for stroke. It was like riding in perfect rhythm with her mount’s gait.

He lifted her other leg and she hooked her ankles at the small of his back.

“I love ye, Katherine,” he all but growled. “Ye’re mine, d’ye hear? Mine and I’ll not let ye go.”

She wasn’t in the mood to argue. He plunged in, hard and fast. She welcomed the claiming.

The ache that had been so lately relieved started building again in earnest. By the time Will threw back his head and arched his spine as his seed pumped into her in hot bursts, Katherine was ready to come again.

Her insides fisted around him, draining him dry.

“Aye, love,” she whispered. “Just like that.”

He made her greedy. She wanted all of him.

When the steady pulses stopped, William lowered his forehead to rest on hers. His breathing was ragged, but he kept his hold on her so their bodies could maintain their connection as long as possible. Kat didn’t know how long they hung there, suspended on a rack of pleasure, but she wouldn’t have moved for worlds.

Finally, William broke the silence. “Ye called me love.”

“Perhaps ye’ll allow it was a moment of weakness.”

When he slipped out of her, she unhooked her ankles and lowered her feet to the floor. She had to stand on tiptoe because he still had the twin globes of her bum in his palms and was lifting her slightly.

“Admit it.” He grinned down at her. “Ye love me.”

“I love . . . holding ye.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“For the now it is.”

“And for the morrow?” His smile faded.

“The morrow will care for itself. Please, Will. Dinna make me think beyond this moment. For now, we’re together and it feels . . .”

“Right?”

“Aye. It feels right
now
. But if ye make me take thought for next week or next month or the march of years ahead . . . ye willna like what I have to tell ye.”

William dropped his hands and stepped back from her. His kilt and her skirt fell back into place. “After what we just . . . I felt your pleasure and ye felt mine. We held each other’s hearts.” He looked down at her as if he didn’t recognize her. “Does nothing we do together mean a thing to ye?”

She didn’t trust her voice.

“I wouldna have thought it, but ye’re a coldhearted bitch, Katherine Douglas.”

No, she wasn’t. She burned for him as much as any woman had ever burned for a man. William was a dance of light in her heart. He was sun on the water, her moon in a clouded sky. Her heart beat as hot as a refiner’s furnace for this man.

But if she was bound to free him to do what was best for him, she couldn’t tell him how she adored him. She couldn’t tell him how she ached with love for him. He’d never let her go if he knew.

So she turned her face away. “Dinna ye have someplace to be?”

“Aye, Badenoch is missing its laird.” The anger in his voice turned it into a growl. “I’ve been gone too long.”

“No, I mean . . . did ye not promise me ye’d spend the night in the chapel? To pray about the path ahead for us.”

“I think ye’ve made our path abundantly clear. I dinna have to waste time on my knees about it.”

“Will, ye promised.”

“And so did ye, Katherine.” His voice rose to a roar as he paced the small chamber, trying to bridle the rage that roiled within him. “Ye promised to love, honor, and obey me. I could do without honor and I’ve no hope ye’ll obey me, but by God, woman, I expect my wife to love me.”

I do!
her heart cried, but she bit her lip to keep from voicing the words.

“So ye’re determined to take the veil, are ye?” His voice was lower now, but the softer he spoke, the more menacing he sounded.

She nodded miserably.

“I canna see ye making a good nun.” He stopped before her, hands fisted at his waist. Even though he was no longer shouting, she’d never seen him so angry. “Not when ye’ve such a hot mound. But only when it suits ye, aye? Maybe ye’d do better as a lightskirt. That way ye can choose your johns and send them on their way when ye’re done with them, lighter in the pockets but with a smile on their idiot faces. Lord knows, ye’ve played me for a fool.”

She lashed out. Almost before she knew she was going to do it, she struck him on the cheek.

Another man might have slapped her back. William simply stared down at her, his brows drawn together. “If ye’re done with me, m’lady, I’ll be taking my leave.”

Without waiting for her to speak, he strode from the room.

“Oh, Will.” Katherine’s knees gave way and she slid down the wall, sinking to the stone floor. Her thighs were still slick with his seed. She clutched at her chest. It hurt so, she was certain her heart was going to burst forth at any moment. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “I love ye, William Douglas. God help me, I’ll love ye till I die.”