The Scotsman (13 page)

“’Tis typical English that would think the worst vengeance I could inflict would be to put a Scots bairn in her belly before giving her back to you. Yet nothing is thought of dangling a Scottish noblewoman from English walls to be displayed as if in a menagerie.”

“Answer me.” Rising fury sickened him, and it was all he could do not to spring at the taunting Scot and plunge his dagger into that black heart. “Has my sister been disgraced?”

Fraser’s lip curled. “Not unless you consider her father’s actions her own disgrace. Nay, I have not taken her to my bed if that is what you ask. But I offer no promise as to the morrow should my terms be refused. Even were she as plain as a wattle fence, ’twould be vengeance indeed
to return her to you with my babe inside her. Think on’t before you relate my terms to the earl—my brother and de Brus in exchange for an unspoiled English flower.”

“Should one hair on her head be harmed—”

“Do not make threats you are in no position to enforce, my lord Devlin. Your men are under guard and you are unarmed. Go, and inform Warfield that I await his answer within a sennight.”

“Too soon.” Nicholas played for time, knowing his father’s mood and now this cursed Scot’s intent. “We must have a month, as the earl will needs consult the king before he acts.”

“A fortnight. No more.”

“Do you give safe conduct to any envoy we send to Castle Rock?”

“Yea, as long as my envoys are guaranteed the same surety. And, Devlin—” Fraser put out a hand to indicate the opened casket and spill of blue velvet. “Advise your father that I am not a patient man, and as the winter days grow shorter, I find his daughter more comely with each passing hour.”

There was nothing Nicholas wanted to reply to that taunt that would not end in violence, and he turned hard on his heel and stalked from the antechamber. Hatred burned as hot and high in him as a lightning bolt, and when he reached the bailey he bellowed for his men to saddle their horses. His mood was savage, his temper raw, and he pushed past the Scottish sentries with unnecessary force. Angry mutters rumbled after him, but one of the Scots quieted the others with a few short words in Gaelic as Nicholas strode toward the stables.

Miles looked pained as he met him in the driving rain that pelted the ground into thick mud. “Are we not to linger the night in dry shelter, my lord?”

“I will not dwell a night under the roof of so base an enemy, not if I am able to spend it in good English rain.” Ignoring the grumbling from his men, he began to saddle his horse. Steam rose from the cooling hide that was still damp from the weight of the saddle. But he did not intend to spend a single night in Scotland, and certainly not in the reluctant hospitality of the man who held his sister.

No man dared protest, but led their weary horses from the dry comfort of the stables and mounted them. At the gatehouse, their weapons were returned as the creaking of winch chains heralded the rising portcullis. Hoofbeats were muffled by mud and rain as they rode toward the lowered drawbridge and out into the dark, wet night. Yet the chill did nothing to cool Nicholas’s temper, and the desire for vengeance burned hot in his throat. Worse, was the nagging fear that his father would yet refuse Fraser’s demands. And God only knew what would befall Catherine then.…

“Change, as I see, is ever the world’s way—Loud windy weather turning warm and soft, And even the great moon changing day by day, And humblest things thrown by degrees aloft; Hideous War, with all his armor doffed, Grown Peace: unchanging, though, Love’s cautious pride And willful cold. And so I am denied.”

Catherine marked the page and closed the book, placing it atop the table, too restless to be comforted by words that somehow echoed her own fears. She moved again to the window, unsurprised by the rivulets of rain streaking the ledge and shutters. It was always this way during the gray days of winter. The calends of December was not so distant, and she thought then of Warfield, and the celebrations of Christmas. It was the one time of year that the castle was festive, for then even her grim father relaxed enough to allow merriment to reign. There were feasting and games, dances and minstrels, and the halls were festooned with greenery that spiced the air with the scent of pine and fir.

Would her family celebrate without her? Or would she be home for Advent, as she hoped.…

Nay, she thought bitterly, she doubted she would be home even for Saint Stephen’s Day, for no word had yet come that her father had agreed to terms that would release her from her prison. Poor Nicholas. Even from her high tower, she had recognized the fury in his voice as he shouted for his men to mount, had watched in dismay as the gates were opened and they rode over the lowered wooden bridge in a clatter of hooves to disappear into the night.

Despair had briefly convulsed her, before she reasoned that of course there would be details to concede, terms to set and negotiations for an exchange. That Nicholas had come at all was heartening. So she strengthened her spirits with the self-made assurances that all would be well, that at least her father was considering rescuing her. It was more than she had expected.

And apparently, insufficient for the Scotsman.

His footfall was easily discerned as he approached her chamber, and as he swung open the door, his expression was unreadable. Rising to meet him, Catherine felt the familiar hammer of her heart, the tension in her stomach a hard knot as he ducked to enter the doorway.

He repeated no details of their meeting, only a dry recital of her brother’s request for a delay. Watching her, he added flatly, “You had best pray he does not play me false, my lady, for I am in no mood to haggle the finer points of a truce. Time runs swiftly, and my patience lags far behind.”

It did not seem the time to disagree, and she made no comment. After a short sizzling silence, he left, shutting the door behind him with a decisive snap.

But later, thinking on his veiled threat, she grew incensed. It was bad enough that she was being held hostage,
a mere pawn in this struggle between two powerful men involved in their own schemes, but to be made to suffer terror and apprehension through no fault of her own added insult to the injury. Yea, he had best think again if he thought to cow her with vague threats of dreadful fates, for she was too near the breaking point to endure much more.

As if he sensed how close she was to rampant defiance, he did not come to her chamber again, leaving her to stew in her misery for an entire fortnight. Only Mairi came, her dour presence blessedly short as she confined herself to bringing meals or supervising the delivery of a tub and water for baths, often muttering what Catherine was sure were vile imprecations in Gaelic so she could not understand them. Other times, she would have preferred Mairi did not speak English, for the older woman was most provoking.

“Daft notion, tae sit in a bucket o’ hot water as if a hen in th’ soup pot,” the older woman muttered after Catherine first insisted on a bath. “Next ye’ll be demandin’ silks an’ satins in place o’ gude warm wool gowns.”

“Not as long as I must remain in this drafty hole,” Catherine retorted, and Mairi stomped away.

But the round wooden tub was brought up, and buckets of hot water were poured into it until she deemed it enough. A rather threadbare towel accompanied a small jar of soap, and Catherine placed them on a stool by the tub, then dismissed the gawky young servant who had lugged the heavy buckets of water up several flights of stairs.

“Thank you, Thomas.”

He scooped his bonnet from his head and flushed. “Tarn, milady,” he said in clumsy English. “Thomas wa’ me da’.”

“Excuse me. I misunderstood.” When he did not
move to the door, she said, “I wish I had coin for you, but you must know I do not.”

A rather shy grin squared his mouth. “Och, ’tis no’ expected, milady. We are tae tak’ care o’ ye, his lordship said, an’ see tha’ ye ha’ all ye need.”

“Except my freedom of course.” She smiled when his grin broadened and he nodded.

“Aye, I darena think o’ th’ skelpin’ I wa’d get were I tae let ye escape.”

“Unless you have a rope ladder in your sherte, there is no fear of that. I am here at your master’s sufference, and will remain so until an agreement is reached. But it is not so bad, for I have books to read that pass the time.”

His gaze strayed to the tall stack of volumes atop the table. A thatch of unruly black hair covered his head and hung down his neck; his garments were patched in places, the gathered tunic around his waist threadbare, but his eyes were lively and bright, and intelligence shone in his features. “Me mam taught me some letters, but tha’ wa’ long ago. I can put down me name, but no’ much else.”

“If it is allowed, I would be glad to help you with your letters. Once learned, it is easy enough to read.”

Blue eyes gleamed at her brightly. “I wa’d laik tha’, I wa’d, milady. Shall I ask?”

“It would be best. And now, perhaps I should make good use of this water before it cools.”

His gaze flicked to the water, then to her bare feet, and his pale cheeks reddened again as he backed toward the door. “If ye need more, send for me an’ I will bring it tae ye.”

“I will, Tarn.”

When he had gone, Catherine moved the table in front of the door, a flimsy barrier, but enough to give her time to cover herself should someone come. Quickly, she
removed the rough wool dress and leather girdle, and stepped into the tub. The heat of the water against her legs was luxurious, and she slid down as far as possible in the rather shallow bath. Hot water rose to barely cover the tips of her breasts, flushing her pale skin a deep rose. Her legs were bent at the knees, ivory islands thrust up from the water and gleaming in the light of fire and candles. Tilting back her head, she rested it against the edge of the tub and reached for the soap.

Though it did not lather well, it was fragrant, spiced with musky scents that were more masculine than feminine. Yet it was deliciously sumptuous, a banquet for the senses, a lavish delight as she soaped her arms, then her legs. She wiggled her toes, then scrubbed between them.

Sighing, she sank lower in the tub, bending her knees more so that she could wet her hair. It floated around her in dark tendrils, tickling her face and breasts, absorbing the water until it grew heavy. Now the water covered her ears, and she could hear the pulsing flow of blood as her heart beat, pushing through her veins in a rhythmic melody, a mysteriously soothing sound. The wash of warm water on her bare skin, the spicy scent of the soap, the beat of her heart, had a curious effect on her. Her body felt suddenly weighted, alien to her, oddly vulnerable and powerful at the same time. Slowly, as if drawn by invisible cords, her hands moved to touch herself, to slide her fingers over the wet warm flesh of her breasts, stomach, and thighs. The pulse of life beat stronger now, pooling between her legs with a searing excitement that made her breath come faster. She pressed her thighs tightly together to stem the surge of sensation, but it only made it worse.

Flushed with distress, she curled her fingers into fists atop her thighs. Sinful, to caress herself there, to even acknowledge that sensitive, unfamiliar part of her body—
she had been taught to ignore any strange urgings she may have, to pray for forgiveness should she accidentally and unwillingly touch the part of her that God had declared sacred. Yet if it was sacred, why did her mother allow her father to violate that sacrosanct part of her body? Was it sacred only until marriage? Those were questions that had earned her sharp rebukes and severe punishments when she was younger, and had never been answered to her satisfaction.

But was it a sin? Was it so wicked?

Softly, with her eyes half-closed, Catherine scrubbed her palms over her thighs, then back up over her belly to her breasts. Her nipples were hard like small pebbles from the river, puckered against the cool air. She covered them with her hands, feeling wicked and carnal, yet unable to stop. The peculiar throbbing was between her legs again; it reminded her of the way she had felt when Alex Fraser had kissed her, and again when she was forced to disrobe for him. She pressed her thighs more tightly together, but that only intensified the aching pulse. Tentatively, she raked her palms over her nipples, and was startled by the piercing tremor that rippled through the center of her. The ache grew sharp, contracting the muscles of her stomach and igniting a fire between her legs, and she sat up with a jerk, her breath coming in harsh little gasps for air as she grabbed at the sides of the tub.

She felt so flushed, her entire body aflame with quivering sensation and shame. What was the matter with her? Never had she done such a thing, the strictures she had been taught so deeply ingrained that it had not occurred to her to flout them. Yet now, here, with thoughts of the gray-eyed Scot in her mind, she had touched herself in impure ways. It was said that Scotland was a heathen land, and she was certain it was true. A
heathen land with a heathen host, and she was falling prey to its influence.

Shaking, her hair a heavy wet cloak dripping down her back, molded to her spine, she stepped from the tub and reached for the towel. Her hands were trembling as she wrapped it around her. Puddles of water pooled on the stones at her feet, spreading wider when she did not move.