The Scotsman (11 page)

Obvious surprise lit her eyes, but she nodded her acceptance. “I grow weary of my chamber, and would welcome company for my evening meal.”

Aware of Robbie’s sidelong glance, Alex ignored him as he took the books from her and gave them to a servant along with instructions in Gaelic. Then he held out his arm, and after only the briefest of hesitations, she tucked her slender finggers into the crook of his elbow, the pressure light but firm as she accompanied him.

The hall was filled with soldiers and servants, loud and raucous as they entered. As they crossed the rushes to the high table, Catherine’s clasp on his arm tightened as if for protection. The hostile glances had not gone unnoticed, but Alex steered her to the table without acknowledging them. If there were any who had objection to her presence, they could voice complaint to him. None, of course, would do so openly.

Still, constraint was apparent as they took their seats, and several glanced away uneasily when he bent a cold stare in their direction. He would not be rebuked in his own hall, by God, no matter the sentiment against his English hostage.

Catherine leaned close to murmur, “Mayhap your kind invitation is an ill-favored idea, sir. There are those here who seem to take my presence amiss.”

“Do you fear them?”

Her delicate brows dipped over her nose. “No, of course I do not.”

“Then pay them no heed. These people sup in my hall at my sufferance, and if they are displeased by my choice of company, they are at liberty to seek sustenance at another lodging.”

He had deliberately made his words loud enough to be heard at the other tables, and after a moment, several men rose and quit the hall. Others exchanged glances, then resumed eating, and very shortly it was as if there had been no interruption. Alex beckoned a page forward with a platter of meats, and another quickly followed with a large tray of breads such as manchet and wastel, baked with fine white flour. Cheese and dried fruits were brought to the table, pitchers of ale and wine were refilled, and jellies and comfits were added to the repast.

Alex watched Lady Catherine, noting her hesitation. He leaned close. “Do you fear illness if you sample our fare? ’Tis not what you are accustomed to, no doubt, but ’tis filling.”

A faint smile curved her lips. “As ’tis much better than the fare I am usually served here, I have no complaint. Neither do I have a dining knife or spoon.”

“Ah. An oversight.” He held out his eating dagger, a small implement with a jeweled hilt, fit for the table and little else. “You may use
sgian dhu
if you like.”

She stared at him. “Skawn—”

“Sgian dhu—skean du
, if you will. My dirk, or dagger. It once belonged to a lady, and should easily fit your small hand.”

Accepting it, she looked at him curiously. “You do not seem the land of man prone to using feminine cutlery.”

He shrugged. “You may find this hard to believe, but ’tis for sentiment’s sake that I use it. It was my mother’s once, and I cherish it for that reason.”

Her brows lifted slightly, and color flushed her cheeks with a rosy glow. Alex regarded her more closely. Aye, she was a true beauty, even garbed in the plain wool gown of a housewife. The leather girdle was laced snugly beneath her bosom, accenting her small waist and the swell of her breasts. The gown’s faded color was flattering, a soft yellow that somehow complemented her skin and hair. Gleaming red-gold curls softened aristocratic features: a high forehead and elegant cheekbones, the straight line of her nose, full mouth that always looked as if it had just been kissed, with a sultry tumble of lower Up that was inviting and seductive. Yet it was her eyes that intrigued him most, violet-blue and large beneath a luxuriant sweep of dark lashes, filled with mystery and shadows, bewitching and aloof at the same time, leaving him with the feeling that she held the key to all the secrets of life.

A little nonplussed by the direction of his thoughts, Alex nodded curtly when she smiled at him and murmured her gratitude. “I am most honored that thou wouldst share such a treasure with me, sir.”

“You must eat. I want it back when you are done.” He sounded churlish and he knew it, and was not surprised when her smile faded and she retreated into silence again.

He ate without speaking to her, directing his comments
in Gaelic to Robbie on his other side. Yet he was all too aware of the maid, of her dainty motions as she speared her meat with his mother’s dagger, her open mouth and graceful sips of wine from a pewter goblet. Her slender fingers delicately stripped the meat from a chicken leg, tucked chunks of thick white bread into her mouth, and sopped up gravy from her trencher.

It grew increasingly difficult to keep his mind on the direction of Robbie’s conversation, a fact he could not long hide. “Your mind is elsewhere,” Robbie said in Gaelic. His brows lifted with amusement. “Shall I hazard a guess to the direction?”

“Devil take you.” Alex took a long draught of ale. His trencher was still full of roast pork and partridge. “It has been a long day and a long ride, ’tis all.”

Robbie’s gaze strayed to the maid, then back to Alex. “You did not send her garments with the message to the earl. Is there a reason?”

Shrugging, Alex toyed with the sculpted stem of his pewter goblet. “I did not wish to use all my weapons in one blow. A lock of her hair should suffice to convince them we have her.”

“Ah, and her shift will be further proof of what may happen should they refuse our offer.” Robbie nodded slowly. “Canny enough.”

Alex did not respond. It would sound foolish to say that he had found himself reluctant to imply violation of her. It would be a last resort, one used only if all else failed. Somehow, even the pretense of violation would seem all too real—too close to his true desires.

Silence fell between them, and he was uncomfortably aware of Robbie’s considering gaze as he toyed with his trencher of food. The arrival of musicians was a relief, welcomed with an approving nod and a promise of a full purse. Pipes and flutes were presented, and the ready
melody of a rousing ballad swirled over the hum of casual conversation. Slyly, Robbie translated the lyrics into English.

Alex listened politely, the words of the Battle of Stirling Bridge well known to him. At his side, he felt Lady Catherine shift, and slanted her a quick glance.

“Does the song distress you, milady?”

She cast him a burning look from beneath her lashes. “It would be impolite to disagree with my … host … on his choice of entertainment.”

“Yea, but you will humor me this time.”

Her mouth thinned, and she lifted her shoulders. “As it is rather one-sided in favor of the Scots, you must know I find the ballad disagreeable.”

“Aye, but ’tis true that King Edward was defeated at Stirling Bridge. Or were you told otherwise?”

“I am aware of Stirling Bridge. And also Falkirk, in case you have forgotten that outcome.”

Her stiff reminder of Scottish defeat amused him, and he signaled to the musicians. The minstrel gave him an appalled stare when he suggested they play another tune.

“Another tune, my lord? Do you have a preference?”

“Aye. Sing of the Battle of Largs. In English.”

“The Battle of Largs….” The minstrel drew in a deep breath and bowed slightly. “Aye, my lord. As you wish.”

Beside him, Robbie laughed softly. “A prudent choice.”

Alex shifted his attention back to the lady. “As the Battle of Largs involved Norway and Scotland, I trust this meets with your approval.”

“If they must sing of battles, it will suffice.”

“And what would you have them sing? Love songs?”

Her beautiful eyes met and held his gaze. “Is that so
very bad? Can there not be more love and less hate in this world?”

“You ask the wrong person, my lady. ’Twas not my father who created this situation.”

Her slender shoulders lifted in another shrug. “I meant the war between Scotland and England, not this dispute you have with my father.”

“Dispute is a rather mild term for what he has caused by taking my brother prisoner without hope of ransom.”

For a long moment she searched his face with shadowed eyes, then shook her head sadly. “It does no good to argue the point. Sing what you will. Say what you will. I am at your mercy, as you so readily informed me earlier.”

“But you have opinions, my lady.”

“None you respect.” Her mouth twisted wryly. “If I voice them, you counter with your own view of the same, and we end in debate. If I must remain here, I prefer peace, or what passes for peace in this land.”

As Alex stared at her with a frown, the pipes wheezed loudly, and the first strains of the ballad rose into the air.
“Stately stepp’d he east the wall. And stately stepp’d he west; Full seventy years he now had seen; With scarce seven years of rest
….”

Leaning forward, he said softly, “Peace reigned in Scotland for near two score years, until Longshanks grew greedy and coveted the Scottish crown as well as English….”

“He lived when Britons’ breach of faith Wrought Scotland meikle woe; And aye his sword tauld, to their cost, He was their deadly fae
….”

“Perhaps because Scotland has shown itself incapable of ruling its own people,” she shot back, her voice rising to be heard over the pipes and minstrel. “It is a country
divided against itself, and though Bruce may call himself leader and king, only a handful of Scots acknowledge him.”

Anger sparked her eyes and flushed her cheeks, and Alex was suddenly aware that the pipes had wheezed to a halt and silence had fallen. He looked down the length of the hall, recognizing animosity on the faces staring up at them, and decided it was best she retreated to the safety of her chamber. Even those who did not understand English could understand the contempt in her voice.

He rose to his feet and put out a hand. “My lady, it is time you retire for the evening.”

Rising gracefully, she said coolly, “I find the evening’s entertainment much too merry for my tastes, and will be glad to seek my peace.”

Without acknowledging the hostile glances directed toward her, she allowed him to lead her down the hall past the now silent tables, up the winding curve of stairs to the tower. She was silent, her back rigid, and Alex had the dark thought that he should never have yielded to the impulse to allow her in the hall. Even the most innocent of actions went awry with this maid.

When they reached the chamber she occupied, he swung open the door and stepped inside. His gaze flickered over the interior, noting that the changes he had commanded were now done. Tapestries hung on the cheerless walls, warming the cold stone and blocking some of the draft, and a generous supply of wood was stacked on the hearth. A new mattress stuffed with heather and feathers graced the rope bed, and a branch of candles flickered brightly in the center of the table, shedding rosy light over the stack of books she had chosen. Bolsters cushioned the chair, and a wooden frame and needlework stood near the window.

Lady Catherine made a small, inarticulate sound when
she saw the changes, then turned toward him with a strange expression. “Have you received word from my father?”

Startled, he shook his head. “I still wait. Why do you tarry until now to ask?”

Indicating the room with a sweep of her arm, she murmured, “Outfitting my prison after a fortnight, I thought you had received a refusal from him.”

“It was my understanding that this had already been done. I did not know until today that your comfort was so lacking. You are a hostage, not a prisoner.”

It was true. He had been appalled to see the bleak, cold room where she languished, bereft of any comfort or activity to while away her time. If he had not ridden to counsel with Bruce so soon after bringing her here, he would already have ascertained that his commands were not followed.

A faint smile played on her lips, and she lifted a book, hefting it in her hands a moment before looking up at him. “I wouldst be most intrigued to hear your definition of hostage, sir. It seems to differ from mine.”

“’Tis simple enough. A hostage is a person held to fulfill a pledge, or until certain terms are met.”

“And a prisoner?”

His mouth hardened. “A captive, deprived of freedom, action, and expression. Sometimes—life.”

“Then as a hostage, I am free to roam?”

He scowled. “No. You must suffer my whims, I fear. Did you not sense the mood of the men in my hall tonight? To allow you freedom may endanger you.”

“I thought you were master of this hall, the lord of the castle.”

Her mockery was obvious, and his anger rose. “I can school men’s actions, but not their thoughts, milady. For that feat, you must look to your father.”

“Odd, that you admit an Englishman can do what a Scot cannot.”

“Not cannot—will not. In Scotland, there is not the great distinction between the classes that exists in England. Here, even the lowest man is free. He chooses to follow his heart and conscience, not who his overlord commands him to follow.”

“That explains the rampant switching of loyalties, then.”

He shrugged. “Men are free here to choose their leader, and that oft breeds ambivalence. ’Tis a two-edged sword.”

She stepped close to him, looking up at him with shadowed eyes. “Then can you not change loyalties if ’twill free your brother?”

“I could not change loyalties if it would save my own life,” he said softly, “and will not do so even for Jamie.”

A brittle laugh escaped her, sounding hopeless. “Then we are all doomed, for neither will my father change his stand.”

“You do not know that.”

“Oh, yes.” She shivered as if chilled. “I know it to be the truth. I will die here ere he meets your demands.”

In the thick silence that fell, a sudden gust of wind rattled the wooden shutters closed over the window and made the branch of candles dance. Alex studied her desolate face, frustration rising. This was no game she played, but her conviction. What if she was right? It was unbearable to think so … that Jamie would be delivered to Edward and a grisly, cruel fate. He thought of William Wallace and a dozen other supporters of Robert Bruce. All had died horribly, meant to be a lesson and discouragement to anyone who dared to defy the English king. That many of the condemned had never sworn to Edward and could not legally be viewed as traitors was
ignored. They were hung, drawn, and quartered, their heads placed on pikes to warn those who would follow them.